The Affair of the Ellsworth Women

By Frank Knebel

Chapter 8

Sunday, 8 November, 9.15 AM

(Not from Major Bosworth’s narrative)

ELIZABETH KELLER, personal maid to Brenda Bosworth, carried the tray of breakfast things downstairs from her mistress’ room and toward the kitchen. Just as she was about to push the swinging door open with her hip it swung open toward her, nearly upsetting the tray.

     “Here now,” she called. “Have a care if you please, Mr. Dickson!”

     Elizabeth was quite a fetching, dark-haired woman about thirty years of age. Her face was a bit round, dominated by intelligent brown eyes, a pert nose, and a generous mouth that smiled easily and often. She was rather short, with a trim waist that set off her fine womanly bust and hips.

     “Sorry, love,” said Robert Dickson, struggling with several wastepaper baskets in his arms and one pressed between the others and his chin. “Next time you’re coming sound your foghorn when you reach the door.”

     Elizabeth smiled at his good-natured absurdity.

     “You shouldn’t try to carry so much at one time you know, Robert,” she chided gently.

     “How’s the mistress?” he asked despite his burden.

     “Rather tired, poor dear,” replied Elizabeth. “She didn’t get much sleep last night. I shouldn’t wonder at that, with all the worry she has about this Avenger terrorizing the Ellsworths.”

     “Well, Mrs. O’Connor’s taken Rosie to market to teach her a bit about shopping. The house should be fairly quiet for a while.”

     “Unless you drop all those cans you’re carrying,” teased Elizabeth, smiling again.

     The telephone rang.

     “I suppose I’ll have to set some of them down now,” he said.

     He went to the telephone table in the hall as Elizabeth pushed the kitchen door open with her hip and took her mistress’ tray into the kitchen. She set it on the table. With Major Bosworth, the cook, and the kitchen maid out, and Mrs. Bosworth napping the house was still except for Dickson’s pleasant baritone voice speaking on the phone. Elizabeth put the kettle on. It would be a good time for her to have a nice quiet cup of tea with Robert. She went back into the dining room to wait for the end of the call.

     “Yes,” he said into the mouthpiece. “I quite understand, Miss Lime, but I don’t know if I’ll recognize the right notes… Yes, I see… Very well. I’ll be there straightaway.”

     He put the receiver back into its cradle and gave Elizabeth a disappointed look.

     “Sorry, love,” he said. “That was Miss Lime, Mr. Peugeot’s secretary. They’re all putting their heads together on this Avenger case, and the Major wants me to bring over the notes he left on his desk. I was hoping we’d be able to have a cup o’ tea and a quiet chat for a bit.”

     He took Elizabeth’s rather pudgy hand in one of his and patted it with the other.

     “I know, Robert. Duty calls. Do you know which notes the Major wants?”

     “Not a clue. He’s always scribbling on something or other. Let’s have a look.”

     They went into the study and looked at the desk. There were several loose papers in the centre of the desk, a half-finished manuscript in a leather-covered portfolio in one corner, and an octavo-sized notebook on the left-hand side.

     Elizabeth pointed at the notebook.

     “Do you think that’s it?” she asked.

     “Got to be,” he said, picking it up. As they walked back toward the kitchen, he became more serious. “Look here, Liz, I want you to be very careful while I’m gone. Don’t open the door to any strangers, and call the Major at Mr. Peugeot’s if you need any help. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

     Elizabeth looked at him anxiously.

     “Do you think that Avenger’d try to get at Mrs. Bosworth? I mean, she was an Ellsworth once, but she’s not one any more. At least not a proper one.”

     “I don’t know, love,” he said. He smiled mischievously. “But from what you’ve told me, maybe she wouldn’t mind being kidnapped and tied up a bit.”

     “Robert!” she cried.

     He reached down and gave her a pat on her firm backside.

     “And neither would you, if the right man did the kidnappin’,” he added knowingly.

     She flushed bright red, but smiled at him.

     “You cheeky devil, you!” she scolded.

     “Maybe we can play a bit o’ kidnappin’ tonight.”

     Still smiling, she slapped him gently on the arm.

     “Cheeky devil,” she repeated softly.

     He took his coat and hat from their pegs by the back door, thrusting the notebook into one of its pockets.

     “Give us a kiss, love,” he said, taking her by the hand again.

     She kissed him on the cheek.

     “Hurry back, you great lummox. Better drop some bread crumbs so you can find your way home.”

     He bent down and kissed her on the lips.

     “I’ll not be long,” he promised.

     Elizabeth watched his broad back as he strode, with military straightness, out to the street.

Sunday, 8 November, 9.40 AM

(From Major Bosworth’s narrative)

     “We’ve all assumed that the man doesn’t speak because he fears his voice will be recognized,” Mrs. Oliphant went on. “Maybe there’s some other reason. Is there anyone associated with the case that’s a mute? Maybe he can’t speak.”

     The policemen looked at one another. McAuliffe and Wilson shook their heads.

     “There’s no one we’ve come across yet,” replied Sapp, “though I suppose we shouldn’t rule out the possibility.”

     “It seems to me, sir,” mused Sergeant Wilson, “that in each of our couples of suspects, the woman is in some ways the more dominant personality. I think that’s why the woman does all the talking. She may have simply told the man to keep his mouth shut.”

     “I might disagree in the case of the producers, Jessup and Aubrey,” said McAuliffe. “She speaks her mind all right, but he seems to be the one who makes the decisions. That would fit with him giving the orders even though he’s silent.”

     “But his voice isn’t particularly distinctive,” argued Wilson. “I don’t see any reason for him to keep quiet for fear of being recognized. And he has the weakest motivation for and grudge against the family. Why would he do this?”

     Peugeot’s eyes were now blazing with green light.

     “I think that you have said something very interesting there, my friend,” he said. Whether he was looking at McAuliffe or Wilson I could not quite tell. “The psychology is very important here. Which of the people here has the best reason for and is most capable of committing the acts of the Avenger? C’est très important.”

     “The Frobisher woman admitted that she could,” said Sapp.

     “I agree,” added Mrs. Oliphant. “She has an iron will and nerves to match.”

     “Miss Noble’s a hot-tempered sort,” said Wilson. “And she’s an actress who could be holding grudges against two members of the family.”

     “I think that the Gordon woman would be the most dangerous if her vanity was threatened,” said McAuliffe. “Major Bosworth appears to have seen a softer side to her, but I think she could be quite ruthless in the right circumstances.”

     “Round and round we go!” muttered Sapp. “Every one is capable of the crime and no one’s excluded by ironclad alibis. I hope Inspector Naylor enjoys this case as much as I have.”

     “And what have you learned of the whereabouts of our suspects?” queried Peugeot.

     Sapp sighed again.

     “Nothing that eliminates anyone,” he said. “No sooner had Lady Valerie and Miss Riddle escaped than we began finding everyone, either at their homes or where they said they would be. I’m having them all come to the Cranmer Theatre at noon today so we can find out a bit more about what they were all doing yesterday.”

     He looked at Mrs. Oliphant, Peugeot, and me.

     “If you’d like to be there as well, I’d appreciate any help you can give me,” he added.

     Mrs. Oliphant was clearly delighted to be included in the investigation of a real crime, and Peugeot accepted for us.

     Sapp stood up, McAuliffe and Wilson taking their cue from him.

     “We’ll meet again at noon then,” he said. “Things can’t go much more wrong between now and then, I don’t suppose.”

     Brenda Bosworth opened her eyes and looked at the bedroom ceiling. For a moment she was unable to recall if she had dozed off again or not. She pulled her arm from under the light blanket that she had thrown over herself when she lay down and looked at her wristwatch. She had not been asleep, but had rung for Elizabeth more than five minutes ago. If Elizabeth had been busy, surely Dickson would have answered by now. What was everyone doing, she wondered?

     Brenda threw the blanket off, sat up and slipped her feet into the low-heeled shoes she had left at the side of the bed. Feeling a bit of a chill, she stepped to her wardrobe and took a cardigan from its hanger. With the cardigan draped over her shoulders, she descended the stairs calling alternately to Elizabeth and Dickson. When there was still no answer, she continued toward the kitchen and pushed open the swinging door.

     Beside the kitchen table stood a tall, bulky male figure in a camel-coloured overcoat, the face and head covered by a scarf mask and a broad-brimmed hat. Directly in front of the hulking figure, seated in wooden kitchen chair was Elizabeth. Her arms were pulled behind her back and obviously tied there. More ropes, their whiteness starkly contrasting with her dark uniform and stockings, circled her arms and torso in several places, and her legs were bound at the ankles and just above the knees. The woman’s face below the nose was hidden by several strips of wide tightly pressed sticking-plaster, and a band of linen led behind from under the plaster on each side. Elizabeth’s eyes had opened wide at the sound of the opening door, but now her lids drooped, opened, and drooped again. A pot of tea and a cup and saucer sat on the table beside the helpless woman.

     Intending to go to Elizabeth’s aid, Brenda took a step into the room only to feel something hard pressed into her lower back. She froze.

     “That’s nice, Lady Ellsworf,” a crone’s Cockney voice said from behind. “If yer don’t make no sudden moves, yer’ll be foin.”

     “What do you want here?” demanded Brenda. “And what have you done to Elizabeth?”

     “Ooh, so many questions! Yer the inquisirtive type, ain’tcher? All’s we wants right now is fer yer t’come in and ‘ave a cup o’ tea.”

     A gloved hand behind her gestured toward the teapot.

     “So that I can be drugged as you did to Melinda and Valerie? I won’t do it.”

     The gun was pressed harder into her back.

     “Come now, Lady Ellsworf, don’t be a fool,” rasped the voice. “Eiver yer takes it on yer own or th’ boss and me holds yer down and pours it down yer froat. If yer tries anyfing, I pulls the trigger. Now, wot’ll it be?”

     The man leaned over and poured more tea from the pot into the cup. Elizabeth was having trouble keeping her eyes open now. Slowly, Brenda reached for the cup.

     “All right. I seem to have no choice. But you must know that I’m no longer an Ellsworth.”

     “You jus’ ‘ave a nice drink, duckie,” cooed the hag. “Once an Ellsworf allus one, I says. Drink it all down now. It’ll relieve yer mind.”

     Brenda drank more. Her eyes rapidly searched the area around her for something she could use to resist. But there was nothing. When the tea was gone she set the cup down on the saucer.

     “Nice blend, ain’t it? Now jus’ stand ‘ere nice and still and put yer ‘ands behind yer. This won’t take too long.”

     Brenda obeyed, wondering if she could possibly knock the pistol out of the woman’s hands as she was being tied. But her captor reached around Brenda’s right side and handed the pistol to the man. He immediately levelled it at her. There was a short pause, then Brenda felt the woman’s bare hands drawing ropes about her wrists. After making several loops, the rope was drawn between her hands to make a seize and tied in a tight knot. A rope was thrown over her head, allowed to fall just below her breasts, and drawn tautly about her. The woman made more loops by passing the rope about Brenda’s body.

     “When yer all snug, we’re goin’ t’ take yer fer a li’le trip.”

     The loops were tied securely. A lump of cloth appeared from over her right shoulder and searched for Brenda’s mouth. Reluctantly the actress opened, allowing her captor to press the wad in. A scarf drawn into a long band appeared next. It was passed between her teeth and the ends pulled behind her head.

     “Come now, dearie,” taunted the voice, as the woman tied the ends. “When yer were Lady Ellsworf, yer didn’t mind a bit o’ fun likes this. Yer an’ the major probably still do this, don’tcher?”

     “Maggie was right!” thought Brenda as the woman pressed a piece of sticking-plaster over the gag. “They know about the games we did. How is it possible?”

     She would have thought more about it, but she was suddenly sleepy. She wavered a bit. The woman drew another chair out from under the table.

     “Sit yerself down, luv,” said the woman. “It’s almost time ter go.”

     Brenda looked at Elizabeth. Her eyes were no longer opening. The man laid his free, gloved hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder to make sure that she did not fall out of the chair. In the next instant a banded scarf was drawn over Brenda’s eyes and tied behind her head.

     “Will I be able to see anything when I wake up?” wondered Brenda.

     A chilling thought occurred to her.

     “I wonder if I will wake up.”

     She was very sleepy now.

     “Peugeot,” I remarked, “it seems to me that you’re taking a rather passive approach to this case.”

     The three policemen had departed to complete various aspects of the inquiry necessary for the noon meeting of the suspects. I had poured another cup of tea for Mrs. Oliphant and myself. We sat on the sofa in his study watching the little man as he sat at his desk sipping his tisane. Peugeot delicately wiped his moustache with his handkerchief and considered what I had said for a moment before replying.

     “Always you are the man of action, Bosworth. You wish me to dash about with the magnifying lens in one hand and a revolver in the other. I grant that it is much more satisfying to see such activity than to watch me sit and think, but it is much easier to bring a criminal to justice after you have determined who he, or perhaps she, is.”

     “I wasn’t thinking so much of dashing about looking for evidence,” I said. “You seem to be letting Sapp do most of the investigating and questioning of the suspects.”

     Peugeot shrugged.

     “The examination of the physical evidence is exactly the kind of thing the police are much better equipped to do than I am. They have a laboratory and dozens of men skilled at the work. They have found little besides the fact that the typewritten notes were written on the same machine. How could I do better? And Chief Inspector Sapp has done some skilful questioning of the suspects. While it is not the line I would have chosen, he has managed to unnerve several of them with his manner of la casserole qui est morte.”

     “Deadpan?” I queried. “Yes, he’s managed to enrage some of them with his hints that we know of their quarrels with the Ellsworths, but none of them have become angry enough to give anything away.”

     “And it is unlikely that they would,” he replied placidly. “In my experience, outrage at being suspected of a crime is usually a sign of innocence. It is usually the cool and calculating who can bear the insinuations of guilt with the temper even.”

     “So you think that Zoë Frobisher is the most likely to be guilty?” I asked

     “She is perhaps more likely, but that does not mean she actually is guilty. Other factors must be considered. Let me test your knowledge, Bosworth. What is the most important question for a detective to ask himself while conducting a case?”

     “Who benefits from the crime?” I answered promptly. “That’s relatively easy when the object of the crime is a sum of money, or some precious item such as a jewel. But benefit can sometimes be measured negatively, such as the prevention of some revelation or the advancement of another. In a revenge case such as this, I’m not sure how we can define the benefit. There’s no way to measure feelings of getting back at someone.”

     Peugeot nodded at me approvingly.

     “You have learned some lessons well, mon ami. Now we must figure to ourselves who stands to benefit from this vendetta against the Ellsworth family.”

     “Well,” put in Mrs. Oliphant, “if these are attempts to do away with the entire Ellsworth family, we should look to who would inherit the family fortune if the family were wiped out.”

     I pondered this, searching my memory.

     “If I remember the story correctly, Sir Garrick Ellsworth had a brother who was killed in the War, dying childless and unmarried. There were two cousins named Ellsworth, a boy and a girl. The boy also died in the War, leaving no heirs. The girl married and moved to America, as I recall. I suppose she would be the heir if one were needed.”

     A sudden look of realization came over Mrs. Oliphant’s face.

     “Heavens! We’ve forgotten that only the Ellsworth women were mentioned as targets. Do you suppose that this Avenger might be trying to end the Ellsworth line so that someone in his family might inherit in the future? That would be a very clever way of keeping a step removed from obvious motive.”

     The door buzzer sounded.

     “That was not exactly what I had in mind when I brought the discussion back to gain. But certainly these are ingenious suggestions that you make, my friends. Let us---“

     Miss Lime appeared at the study door.

     “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Peugeot,” she said anxiously, “but Major Bosworth’s man Mr. Dickson is here. I’m afraid there’s something wrong.”

     Dickson, holding one of my notebooks under his arm, stepped from behind her into the room.

     “Dickson!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

     “Sorry, Major,” he said. “There was a telephone call about half an hour ago from a woman calling herself Miss Lime. She said I was to bring your notes of the case over here straightaway, only this Miss Lime says she never called.”

     “I never asked for my notes!” I said, completely perplexed.

     I turned to Peugeot who was rising from his chair and looking very grave.

     “Miss Lime,” he said firmly, “call Scotland Yard. If Chief Inspector Sapp is there, tell him to come to Major Bosworth’s home immediately. If he is not there, have him summoned there at once.”

     He looked at me intently.

     “I fear that it may be Madame Bosworth this time.”

     The car came slowly down the alley until it reached the double doors of the silent theatre. The two occupants looked up and down the alley to make sure that there were no witnesses.

     “Are you sure that this will work out all right?” asked the driver, now unmasked for the drive through London streets. “The sign in front said that there was a performance tonight.”

     The gipsy woman, also without her mask, nodded.

     “The performance is an evening one. Seven o’clock. We’ll be through here long before that.”

     “I think that this part of the plan’s pretty dangerous,” said her companion.

     “Not if we bind them correctly,” the gipsy replied. “It’ll go just fine. I’ll go check out the room. You stay here.”

     She opened the passenger’s door and, using a key, went through the big doors. The driver’s hands clasped and unclasped on the steering wheel all during the wait. The gipsy reappeared at the door.

     “All clear. Open the boot.”

     The driver got out and opened the boot. Two motionless figures swathed completely in blankets lay in the boot. The tall, bulky driver reached in and easily picked up one figure and passed it to the gipsy who slung it over her shoulder. When the driver had the other one over his shoulder and had slammed the boot shut, the gipsy grinned.

     “Let’s get them inside.”

     Her companion returned the grin.

     “And we can have some fun with them.”

     “I’m so sorry that I touched the note, Inspector,” said a tearful Mrs. O’Connor, as Inspector McAuliffe read the note. “I found it on table when Rosie and I got home from the market. I had no idea what it was until I opened and read it.”

     McAuliffe smiled gently at my distraught cook.

     “That’s all right, Mrs. O’Connor. There’s no way you could know it would be important evidence. And I doubt there’s any harm done. They haven’t left any fingerprints anywhere else, so why would they here?”

     Mrs. O’Connor had an arm around the weeping figure of Rosie, our eighteen-year-old kitchen-scullery maid in an attempt to comfort the girl. McAuliffe looked at them sympathetically.

     “Don’t you worry now, lass,” he said with a wink at Rosie. “We’ll find Mrs. Bosworth and Elizabeth sure as spring follows winter. Why don’t you two wait in the dining room until my men are through in here.”

     With several men engaged in dusting for fingerprints and searching for other physical evidence, the kitchen was very crowded. The two steered their way through the throng and into the dining room. I stood there, numbly watching them, and was somewhat surprised to hear the Inspector continue:

     “Perhaps you and Mr. Peugeot would be more comfortable in the sitting room, Major. As soon as we’re finished we’ll give you a report.”

     I nodded, still rather dazed by the extraordinary turn of events. Peugeot assisted me through the swinging door and the dining room. Mrs. O’Connor and Rosie watched us file past with sorrowful expressions. When we reached the sitting room, Peugeot guided me to a comfortable chair and sat in another at my side.

     “You tried to warn me, Peugeot,” I mumbled. “I thought that I had taken adequate precautions, but they slipped right through them. I feel such a fool.”

     Peugeot was examining the note they had left. One look had burned it into my memory.

Monsieur Peugeot,

      Better get the grey cells going a bit faster. We’ve got a real prize now, a

famous actress and a former Ellsworth all at once.

      If you don’t start improving, we’ll have to give you a better challenge.

     Isn’t this fun?

The Greenhampton Avenger

     “This note is of some interest,” he remarked.

     “What do you mean?” I asked.

     He looked at me rather curiously.

     “The object of our Avenger seems to have shifted in the last two days. The first message was delivered to Richard Ellsworth, threatening the women of his family. The last two notes have been to me, one being delivered to my rooms, the other left here but addressed to me.”

     “What are you suggesting?” I asked. “Do you think that the target was you all along? Were the women of the Ellsworth family chosen simply because they knew that you would become involved in the case?”

     He frowned and looked at the note again.

     “Such a thing is possible,” he said slowly. “Then again, someone may be taking advantage of an existing situation and committing similar crimes to achieve an entirely different end. I just do not know.”

     “I simply can’t imagine why they’d have abducted Brenda,” I murmured. “She’s only a friend of the Ellsworth family now. It couldn’t have anything to do with an inheritance, because she’s not in any line to inherit. And what good is poor Elizabeth to any gang like this?”

     “I do not know, mon ami. But rest assured that Peugeot will find the answer.”

     My friend’s boast was more than a bit hollow at this point, since now six women had been abducted despite his knowledge of the threat. I stilled the impulse to make a pointed remark to that effect. Despite my worry, it was not the time to lose one’s head. My long association with Peugeot had taught me the importance of remaining clear-headed in times of stress.

     Miss Lime entered the room through the doorway to the hall.

     “That poor Mr. Dickson,” she said pityingly. “He’s in just an awful state over this. He feels that he let you down, Major, as well as being worried to death about Elizabeth.”

     I started to rise.

     “I’d better go and see him,” I said.

     Miss Lime laid a hand on my arm and attempted to push me back into my seat.

     “I left Mrs. Oliphant with him, Major,” she said. “He’s lying on the settee in his room and she’ll take care of him. Just let him rest now. Would you like some tea or something?”

     I shook my head. As Miss Lime cast her worried glance from Peugeot to me and back, I heard the front door open and close and Chief Inspector Sapp entered.

     “I have a dozen men going round to all the neighbours,” he announced. “If anyone was seen coming or going, we’ll know about it soon enough.”

     There again were the words that had so troubled Richard Ellsworth: “soon enough.” I also wondered if we would, in fact, be soon enough.

     Once the pair of abductors had their prisoners in the basement, it had not taken long to remove Brenda Bosworth and her maid Elizabeth from their blanket wrappings. They were then untied completely, though the gags and blindfolds remained, so they could be stripped of everything except their knickers. This included their stockings, which were unfastened from their suspender belts and slipped off, and the suspender belts themselves, which were slipped from under their owners’ panties then removed. When the two unconscious women were ready, the rebinding began.

     First, a sturdy wooden crate was placed against an upright beam and covered with one of the blankets used to wrap up the prisoners. The two kidnappers, their masks again in place in case either of the women should revive, carried Brenda to the beam and sat her on the crate.

     The woman in the gipsy costume regarded her fair prisoner as her accomplice fastened the sleeping woman’s wrists behind the post.

     “My, my, what a loverly set the woman ‘as!” she exclaimed. “I thought ‘at the red-haired one t’other day was pretty foin, but ‘er ex-ladyship ‘ere is even better, she is. Lookit them beauties, will yer!”

     She ran her hands over Brenda’s breasts and upper body.

     “Such nice smooth skin she ‘as too, luv!” the woman exclaimed. “Yer gotter ‘ave a bit o’ this.”

     She knelt in front of the prisoner and pushed the unconscious Brenda’s legs together.

     “A real good set o’ pins too,” she added. “This li’le sweetie ‘as it all.”

     The woman picked up a couple pieces of rope and began binding Brenda’s knees and ankles as her accomplice ran his hands over the captive’s shapely body. After a minute or so, the hulking figure retrieved some long ropes, and the pair bound her to the beam against which her back rested. They ran sets of ropes around her in several different places: her torso, both above and below her breasts, her belly at the bottom of her ribs, and around her waist. When these four sets were completed, the gipsy woman took the actress by the hair and raised her head so she could look into her face, made almost featureless by the sticking-plaster over her mouth and the scarf bound over her eyes.

     “So ‘ere’s the great actress, eh! Well, act yer way outta this if yer can, luv!”

     Her companion tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to the motionless form of Elizabeth lying on several blankets on the floor nearby.

     “All right, all right, ducks,” the gipsy said. “Don’t be impatient. I just ‘ad ter admire th’ work we done ‘ere.”

     They went to work on Elizabeth next, binding her wrists palm-to-palm behind her back, circling her arms and torso with a number of coils, binding her legs at the knees and crossed ankles, and completing the job by connecting the ankle and wrist bonds in a secure hog-tie. The woman rolled Elizabeth on her side and regarded their prize. The man reached over and massaged the bound woman’s bare breasts.

     “She’s a bit o’ all right too, ain’t she, luv?” crowed the woman. “Too bad we can’t take th’ time for playin’ wif ‘em. They likes it too, yer know, bof of ‘em. Plays at bein’ the ‘elpless ‘eroine all the time they does. But we gotter keep a schedule wif ‘ese two.”

     Her accomplice continued his play with Elizabeth. The bound girl stirred slightly and moaned softly into her gag. The gipsy looked at her watch.

     “Come on, luv,” she said. “We gotter go. Mustn’t be late ter see the coppers.”

     Reluctantly, he released Elizabeth and rose. The gipsy stood looking at Brenda.

     “Go on, luv,” she urged. “I’ll just start the ‘eater. Wouldn’t want ‘em ter catch cold now, would we?”

     As the bulky man climbed the stairs, the gipsy took a small electric heater from behind some boxes where they had hidden it, plugged it into the wall, and started it.

     “There now,” she addressed her still unconscious prisoners. “That ought ter keep yer warm until it’s time ter go.”

     She stepped over to the post where Brenda was trussed. She bent over. With one hand she again took the woman by the hair and raised her face.

     “I sure do likes ‘aving a great lady o’ the theatre as my li’le guest,” she said softly. “An’ jus’ fink ‘ow all ‘ose men that watches yer would like ter see yer like this!”

     With her other hand she tweaked one of Brenda’s nipples. She reached the hand behind the post and gave a tug on Brenda’s bound hands.

     “And wot a surprise it’ll be when yer finds this,” she chuckled.

     She leaned over and kissed the helpless woman over the plaster on her mouth.

     “Wot a nice surprise!” she whispered.

     She gave one more tug on the actress’ hands. They were manacled with police-style handcuffs behind the post.