The Affair of the Ellsworth Women

by Frank Knebel

Chapter 10

Sunday, 8 November, 4.00 PM

(From Major Bosworth’s narrative)

THE ELLSWORTHS' London house on Trevor Gardens was quieter now. Daphne, Melinda, and Maggie had left for the Cranmer Theatre escorted by a small army of police and WPCs under Detective Inspector McAuliffe. A sergeant and several more constables remained at the house to protect Julia and Valerie. Richard and the two women were seated round the jigsaw puzzle working at it in a desultory fashion, offering me whatever solace they could with their companionship. Peugeot was back at building card houses and exercising his grey matter. Mrs. Oliphant sat on the sofa, her legs tucked up beside her, writing in pencil on a small pad. The clock ticked on ominously. Richard got up, put another log on the fire and prodded it aimlessly with the poker.

     In my hands again was the book on the Sudan. But I had no concentration for keeping straight the various Egyptian place names, nor the campaign plans or names of the various British officers involved. Several times I turned two leaves at once and did not realize for half a page or so what a muddle I had created. Finally I shut the book in my lap and closed my eyes in an effort to ward off the dread that kept trying to steal over my brain like a London fog. Even the terror of the battlefield I had experienced in the War did not seem so bad by comparison. At least there the horror would end with one’s own death. Contemplating the possible loss of a beloved wife was magnified by the thought of living for many years without her. Madness was preferable to this uncertainty.

     The telephone rang. Randall’s measured tread seemed to be a bit quicker in answering this call. Everyone sat up and looked toward the hall and the sound of Randall’s voice. The sturdy butler appeared in the doorway.

     “Mr. Peugeot, it’s Chief Inspector Sapp on the line for you, sir.”

     Peugeot knocked over his card house and rose. He followed Randall into the hall and took the receiver from the butler’s hand.

     I rose from my chair and went to the doorway, the others following.

     “Yes, Chief Inspector,” Peugeot said into the mouthpiece. “I see… Elizabeth, but not Madame Bosworth?… Encore, c’est très curieux. C’est incongru, ça!…Where?… Incroyable!… Yes. We will come at once.”

     He hung up the receiver slowly. Even in the dark hallway one could see that his eyes were flashing green light.

     “A most remarkable event has transpired, my friends. Elizabeth has escaped from her abductors.”

     There was a shout of joy from everyone.

     “And Brenda?” asked Julia eagerly.

     “Elizabeth was ordered by her mistress to flee from the place they were being held and find help. She found a policeman who called for assistance and went back with her, along with several brave citizens, to aid Madame Bosworth. But when they returned she was gone, obviously taken away by the gang. And you would never be able to figure to yourselves where they were held.”

     He looked from face to face.

     “In the basement of the Cranmer Theatre!”

     The twilight was turning to dark around the car as it sped on its way north-west out of London. The driver had again removed the balaclava, though the wide-brimmed hat and camel-coloured overcoat remained. The unmasked gipsy in the passenger seat looked into the back seat at the motionless bundle of blankets there.

     “She’ll have a good sleep this time,” she said. “Probably won’t wake up until tomorrow.”

     “Are you sure you didn’t give her too much?” asked the driver fretfully.

     The gipsy’s Cockney accent returned briefly.

     “Oh, don’t yer worry, duckie. I knows jus’ ‘ow much ter give ‘em, I does.”

     They both laughed. The gypsy slid her hand over between the driver’s legs.

     “Too bad that after we’ve taken care of her for the night, we won’t have time for a little fun. We’ll have to have some now.”

     The driver smiled.

     We stood in the room where they had been held and listened to Elizabeth, wrapped in a WPC’s greatcoat, relate the story of their captivity. There were a few signs about: the coils of cut ropes that had held my wife to the post in the rear of the room, the cloth and sticking-plaster remains of both women’s discarded gags, and a few blankets. These I recognized as having been taken from one of our cupboards at home. Policemen were dusting for fingerprints and collecting other evidence all about us.

     Peugeot, swathed in his heaviest overcoat, his hat, and a long, thick muffler, looked about him, pointing with his stick at various places as Elizabeth spoke. When she had finished, he continued to search with his eyes for another minute. Finally, he spoke.

     “And what became of the ropes that bound you, Mademoiselle Elizabeth?”

     She pointed to several blankets spread to one side of the wooden box where Brenda had sat.

     “I was lying on those blankets, hog-tied as we call it. The gipsy woman said that she thought I was getting free, but I really wasn’t. I didn’t get loose until after she came over and tried to tighten the ropes around my wrists. It seemed easier to get out of them after that. When I got loose I just left them all there.”

     “The gang may have used them to rebind Mrs. Bosworth after they cut her free from the post,” suggested Sapp. “Either that or they took them along in case they needed them again.”

     “And they left these,” mused Peugeot, poking the cut ropes with the tip of his stick. He bent down and picked up a piece to study the cut end carefully.

     “Not much to go on there, Peugeot,” said Sapp. “Rope like that can be bought in any one of a thousand shops. It’s not generally used in sailing or for anything to do with boats, but other than that it’s no help to us.”

     “It has been cut very cleanly,” my friend noted thoughtfully, studying the end through his magnifying lens.

     “Is this a Sherlock Holmes touch, Peugeot?” Sapp asked with some sarcasm. “Are you going to tell us that when we arrest our man he’ll be carrying a sharp knife in his right-hand pocket?”

     Peugeot looked at him with cold intensity.

     “I am telling you that they came expecting to have to cut something, and cut it very quickly,” he said.

     “And what does that mean?”

     Peugeot looked at Sapp. He almost spoke but something stopped him. With a slight motion of his head he indicated Elizabeth to Sapp. The officer understood.

     “Constable Moore,” he said, turning to the WPC standing a few feet from Elizabeth. “Miss Keller looks as though she could do with a good warm up. Why don’t you take her up for some tea?”

     The WPC took Elizabeth up the stairs. When Peugeot was sure they were gone he continued:

     “I mean, Chief Inspector, that it is now obvious who the real target of these abductions was: Brenda Bosworth.”

     “How do you figure that?”

     “Six women are abducted, five are able to escape. The first escape is made possible by a broken champagne bottle. That looks suspicious, but we cannot be certain that it was not some kind of clumsy oversight. The second escape is aided by some sharp pieces of metal on the floor of a motor-garage. That is also possible. But this! One of the gang tries to tighten the bonds of one of the captives and only succeeds in loosening them. C’est enfantillage! And only one of the abducted women is secured in such a way that she is certain to be unable to escape. It is obvious who they really wish to abduct and keep!”

     “Brenda?” I cried. “But why, Peugeot? What is their reason?”

     “If I knew that, the case would be solved, my friend,” he said gently. “I have some little notions about that, but no proofs as yet.”

     Sapp rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

     “I don’t know, Peugeot. You could be right, I suppose. But isn’t it also just possible that they only thought of using handcuffs after the first two jobs went bad when the women were able to cut themselves free?”

     “Then why did they not also use the manacles on Mademoiselle Elizabeth? No, Chief Inspector! Mais non! One might as well insist that Monsieur Darrowby and Mademoiselle Noble were in this room moving Madame Bosworth even while they were in the custody of the police!”

     “I suppose I’ll have to release them, all right,” he said ruefully. “It’s a pity too. Their prints were the only ones on that typewriter. And we tracked down the constable on patrol in this area. He was the one who told Jessup and Aubrey about Miss Riddle being one of the women abducted yesterday. They were here at the theatre last night, the Gordon woman was having dinner with that American, and Miss Frobisher and Landon were in Greenhampton. So who could have done it?”

     He looked at Peugeot curiously and continued:

     “You don’t suppose that this is another one of those cases like you had on the train stuck in the snow and that they all done it? I mean, could they have all taken their turns being the couple that did the kidnapping?”

     Peugeot smiled enigmatically.

     “That is the explanation most ingenious, Chief Inspector. I do not say that it is so, for I need one more link to complete my chain. When I know that, I will know all.”

     “How do we go about finding that last link?” I asked, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. “Remember that Elizabeth said that the gang intended to move much more quickly in disposing of their victims this time.”

     “Calmez vous, mon cher ami,” he said soothingly. “If my surmise is correct, I do not believe that Madame Bosworth is in any immediate danger.”

     “But what can we do?” I cried. “I feel so useless doing all this waiting to see what the gang will do next!”

     He stepped closer to me and laid his hand on my shoulder.

     “You are wise to care greatly for la belle madame,” he said. “But I know well your impatience. Sometimes I believe that you would dig up the flower every day to check its roots for signs of growth. Come. Let us return to the Ellsworth home. You are in need of some of your English poison.”

     “I should really take Elizabeth home,” I said. “That should cheer up Dickson. And if Miss Lime’s still there she’ll need a lift home as well.”

     “I’ll have Sergeant Wilson take you,” offered Sapp.

     “Bon,” said Peugeot approvingly. “It is all arranged. You shall return to the Ellsworth home when it is done.”

     Peugeot’s reassurances were a tonic to me. As we rode home with Sergeant Wilson I was able to pass the reassurance along to Elizabeth. Dickson was delighted to see Elizabeth returned safe and well. My powers of discreetly not noticing signs of affection between members of my staff were severely tried for a bit. They were all concerned over Brenda’s plight, but I repeated Peugeot’s comforting words to their great relief. I took Miss Lime home in my car and returned to the Ellsworth home at about seven-thirty. We had a bit of cold supper and even before Daphne and her police escort had returned home, I fell asleep over my book in the sitting room.

     The hulking figure in the camel-coloured overcoat laid Brenda on the bed. Though the actress was still deep in a drug-induced sleep both abductors had again covered their faces, he with the balaclava, she with the eyehole scarf. They removed the manacles from their prisoner’s wrists and immediately rebound them behind her with rope. There were already loops of cord about Brenda’s body at her upper arms and chest, and just below her breasts and above the elbows. They added two more sets of coils: one around her waist that pinned the woman’s bound wrists low against her back, and one halfway between this and the below the bustline ropes. Her ankles and knees remained bound, and the ankle ropes were now tethered to the waist tie by a short rope that effectively hog-tied the woman. The gag of cloth balled inside a scarf band covered by sticking-plaster remained in place. The banded scarf bound over the captive’s eyes was removed.

     “Remember, ducks,” said the now accentless gipsy, “the blindfold’s off. Keep your face covered when you’re up here.”

     The room referred to was a fairly large, cosy bedroom. The double bed was a canopy type with sheer curtains and an attractive coverlet and quilt. These had been turned down so that the bound woman now lay on soft sheets. Against one wall sat a dressing-table and chair and a wardrobe. On the wall opposite the foot of the bed was the door to the hallway, now closed, and a dresser with drawers. An armchair with its side-table and lamp sat near the wardrobe. The two windows, one giving light to the bed and the other to the dresser, were both heavily curtained.

     The big figure nodded then pointed to Brenda.

     “Oh, yes. A bit of fun now.”

     She went to the dressing-table and searched in one of the small drawers. When she straightened up, she had a small pair of scissors in her right hand.

     “Just what we need, eh?”

     He nodded.

     The gipsy went to the bed and pulled on the waistband of her unconscious captive’s knickers. When the material was stretched out far enough, she began cutting with the scissors. Within a minute, she had severed the panties on both legs. She pulled the material away. Their prisoner was now nude.

     “Quite a sight, isn’t it? And we know that her hair is really that colour now, don’t we?”

     She returned the scissors to the dressing-table and tossed the cut panties into the wastepaper basket. She turned to her companion and issued a Cockney warning:

     “No liberties now, mind! She’s a right special guest, yer know.”

     He put his gloved hands together on one side of his head and leaned his cheek against them, indicating sleep.

     “Not much fun when they’re asleep, I know. You understand what to do?”

     Her accomplice nodded.

     “All right. I’ll be off then.”

     As the gipsy left the room her partner looked at the cover of a book on the table beside the chair and began removing the camel-coloured overcoat.

     Miss Veracity Lime derived a certain satisfaction from being reliable in a crisis; therefore she did not mind that she was summoned to work early. She thought it a bit odd that Mr. Peugeot had had Mrs. Oliphant telephone her landlady and leave a message rather than calling her directly at Major Bosworth’s home or at her own flat last night. But a call from Mr. Peugeot saying that she was needed was enough for her. She also thought it odd that George had not answered the buzzer with his usual promptness. Perhaps he had been needed elsewhere this morning. She let herself in with her key.

     “George!” she called. “Are you here, George?”

     There was no answer. She looked in Peugeot’s study, the dining room, and the Major’s old room, but there was nothing. Peugeot’s bedroom had not been occupied the previous night, but she had expected that he would be staying with the Ellsworths while working on the case. George’s room was neatly made up. He had evidently arisen early and tidied up as he always did. At the end of the hall was the swinging door to the kitchen. She pushed the door open and gasped in horror at what she saw.

     George was slumped over the kitchen table, a pot of tea and a saucer before him, a cup still in his hand. Spilled tea on the table told her that he had been drugged--- or poisoned.

     She reached out a gloved hand to his shoulder and shook him gently.

     “George?” she called. “Can you hear me, George?”

     Something hard and round was pushed into her back.

     “No, luv,” the voice of a Cockney crone said behind her. ‘E can’t ‘ear yer right now. Don’t yer worry a bit though. ‘E’ll be right as rain when ‘e wakes up. ‘At is, if ‘e wakes up.”

     “Who are you, and what do you want?” Miss Lime said, trying to sound imperious despite her fear.

     “Oh, sorry, luv. We ain’t been introduced. I’ll bet yer knows me mate ‘ere though.” She gave the pistol a little extra push into Miss Lime’s back. “I got a feelin’ we’re goin’ ter be great pals, we are. Now, why don’ yer join George there in a cupper?”

     The woman reached around Miss Lime’s side and handed her a cup and saucer she had left on the counter.

     “Jus’ pour a bit in ‘ere an’ ‘ave a taste, darlin’. You’ll like it, I’m sure.”

     “I won’t do it.” Miss Lime asserted.

     The gun was pushed into her back again.

     “Oh, yes, yer will, luv. The option ain’t very appealin’.”

     Miss Lime clenched her teeth and poured a cup. The woman was not satisfied until she had drunk nearly all of it.

     “Okay, ducks. Now be a good girl, and stick this in yer mouf,” she said, handing Miss Lime a wad of dishtowel material.

     “It isn’t really necessary to do this you---“

     “Eiver yer do it yerself, or I’ll do it for yer,” warned the woman.

     Reluctantly, the secretary took the wad of material and placed it in her mouth.

     “’At’s right, darlin’,” said the woman approvingly. “Take it all now.”

     When Miss Lime had finished putting the wad in her mouth, the woman handed her a cloth band made of more of the same material.

     “Now tie this round yer ‘ead, so’s ‘at gag stays in. Be quick.”

     Miss Lime obeyed. As she finished with the knot, she swayed a bit on her feet.

     “Now let’s go up ter yer room.”

     The woman prodded Miss Lime in the back with the gun all the way down the hall. When they reached Miss Lime’s office, she was startled to see many coils of sashcord laid out.

     “Before we gets down ter business, let’s ‘ave a bit o’ fun, shall we? Let’s ‘ave yer clothes off, luv. Everyfin’ but yer knickers.”

     Miss Lime’s eyes grew wide over the gag.

     “Good morning, Allen,” said Julia Ellsworth. “Did you sleep well?”

     I put down the morning paper and gave Julia as brave a smile as I was able, under the circumstances.

     “I slept quite well until just after six,” I replied. “I’m afraid that once my eyes opened there was no getting them closed again.”

     She smiled sympathetically at me.

     “That’s to be understood. I do hope that something happens soon, for your sake almost as much as Brenda’s.”

     Randall entered the dining room with a fresh pot of tea. Julia poured herself a cup and sipped it carefully.

     “What does M. Peugeot say?” she asked.

     “He says that he needs only one more bit of information to complete his case. That one bit can’t come soon enough for me.”

     She crossed to me, laid a hand on my shoulder and kissed me gently on the cheek.

     “Try not to worry, Allen,” she said softly. “I’m sure that M. Peugeot is right and that Brenda is quite well.”

     I smiled wanly at her. She began to look tearful and hastily took a plate from the sideboard. She removed the cover from a dish of scrambled eggs and stood there staring at them as she strove to keep control of her emotions. As the sound of approaching voices came from the hallway, she busied herself with the serving spoon.

     Richard and Valerie appeared in the doorway followed by Peugeot, dapper as ever. Richard and Valerie attempted to be comforting, as Julia had, but the awkwardness of the situation got the better of them too. They lapsed into thoughtful silence as they sipped their tea. Randall brought Peugeot a pot of coffee.

     “I’m afraid that Mrs. Dailey doesn’t think she can do one of those tisanes you like so much, sir,” he said. “We remembered that you liked coffee, as Mrs. Bosworth does.”

     At the mention of my wife’s name, the butler turned slightly and involuntarily toward me, a look of great distress on his square features. He started to say something to me, but was unable to find the words.

     “That’s all right, Randall,” I said gently.

     “Thank you, Major,” he replied, his face showing much relief.

     “Well, what’s in the news today, Allen?” asked Julia with attempted breeziness.

     “Oh, the usual war rumours and local events,” I said, glad to speak of something else. “And then there’s a publicity item about Drusilla Gordon.”

     “What about Miss Gordon?” asked Valerie. “Is she doing a new play?”

     “No. It’s about her signing the contract with that chap from Wegener Brothers Pictures. The one in which Brenda had no interest.”

     “Drusilla’s going to do American pictures?” asked Julia with some excitement.

     “Wait until Daphne hears that,” said Valerie with a smile. “She’ll expect to be the next one signed.”

     Since becoming an actress, Daphne had also become a very late riser.

     “The article mentions Brenda as well,” I said, rather nettled. “And I asked that Clark chap not to do so. Brenda didn’t even want it hinted to Miss Gordon that she wasn’t interested in signing.”

     “Mentions her how?” asked Richard.

     “Oh, it merely lists her as one of the actresses who was also under consideration by the Wegener Brothers.” I read from the article. “ ‘The well-known Miss Gordon was the pick of a field of some the top stars on the London stage, including Ruth Danielson, Celia Robbins, Brenda Alexander, and Virginia Peters.’ It goes on to give well-wishing quotes from Miss Danielson and Miss Peters, and mentions that Brenda was away and unable to comment. I wish that the fellow had---“

     I was interrupted by a terrific bang and looked up to see that Peugeot had slammed both fists on the table. Everyone was looking at him with astonishment, including Randall who had re-emerged from the kitchen with a platter of brioches for him.

     “I am thirty-six times the imbecile!” shouted the little man. “Why did I not see it immediately? But no! It was cleverly done! Very cleverly done! Everything is explained!”

     He leaped to his feet, nearly upsetting Randall’s tray.

     “Do you have your car, mon ami?” he cried.

     “Of course. But what---?”

     “Bring it round tout de suite, s’il vous plait! I must call the Chief Inspector Sapp.”

     With no further explanation, he raced into the hallway. We could hear his voice from the hall, trying frantically to put through a call to Scotland Yard. Had he kept exclusively to either French or English the process probably would have gone faster, but his mixing of the two greatly impeded his progress.

     “What happened?” asked Julia in lively astonishment.

     “He must have found the last link,” I said, my own sense of excitement growing.

     I put down the paper and strode toward the hallway. Randall was waiting with my hat and coat. As I put them on Constable Neal, who had been on duty outside the front door, entered holding a note in his hand.

     “Sorry to bother you, Major,” he said, handing the note to me. “A messenger just brought this for Mister Peugeot.”

     I opened it and read.

 Monsieur Peugeot:

      Not having much luck, are we? One of our pretty birds got away, but we intend to replace her with another little bird. This one’s a cute little red bird.

      If you hurry maybe you can stop us this time.

Greenhampton Avenger

     “Get Mr. Peugeot’s hat and coat,” I told Randall. “As soon as her gets off the ‘phone, have him meet me outside. I’m bringing the car around.”

     “Good luck, sir,” he said as I grasped the doorknob.

     I hoped that we would have good luck indeed.

     Mrs. Andromeda Oliphant pressed Henri Peugeot’s door buzzer and waited for a response. The author was delighted to be allowed to see an actual criminal case from the inside, and for the chance to study the skills of detection with the remarkable Belgian. Perhaps she would learn something that could be transplanted to her Dane, Nels Nielsen. The reasons she had created him as a Dane some ten years ago now escaped her. She fervently wished that she had created an Englishman.

     The door swung open and Mrs. Oliphant entered with purposeful stride.

     “Good morning, Miss Lime,” she said as the door closed behind her with the rustle of a woman’s skirt.

     It was only when she felt the pistol pressed into her back that she realized that the woman was not Miss Lime.

     “Come in, come in, luv,” cooed her Cockney hostess. “Don’t turn ‘round though. I’m a bit shy today.”

     “Who are you?” asked Mrs. Oliphant. “Where is Miss Lime?”

     “She’s right ‘ere in ‘er office, darlin’. “Ave a look.”

     Mrs. Oliphant looked through the window into Miss Lime’s office and gave a little cry of horror. The secretary sat in the chair at her desk, but hardly looking ready to work. She was clothed only in her panties, a rather brief pair for such an apparently straight-laced woman over thirty-five. Her head lay fallen over on her right shoulder and strips of sticking-plaster covering her eyes and mouth made it appear that she had no features. Her arms were invisible, pulled behind her and, judging by the set of her shoulders, bound there. Loops and coils of sashcord were bound around her body, securing her arms against her body and her body to the backrest of the chair. Her legs were drawn primly together and lashed securely at the knees and ankles. A rope ran from her bound ankles to the front spreader of the chair.

     Mrs. Oliphant turned involuntarily toward her captor. The woman wore an outlandishly mismatched gipsy outfit, complete with a colourful headscarf that hid all but the ends of her grey ringlets. Another scarf covered her face, two holes cut for her eyes being the only openings in it.

     “What have you done to her?” demanded Mrs. Oliphant.

     “Oh, don’t worry ‘bout ‘er none. She’s all right. And I ‘appens ter know ‘at she’s been tied up afore, so never yer mind.”

     “What do you want?”

     “Not so very much, ducks,” said the woman, picking up a cup and saucer from Miss Lime’s desk. “Jus’ fer yer ter ’ave a couple sips o’ this. It’ll fix yer right up.”

     “Drugged, is it?” said the author picking it up gingerly.

     “Makes a good li’le mystery story, don’ it? Drink up, then let’s ‘ave yer clothes off. Same as ‘er.”

     Mrs. Oliphant drank slowly.

     “Sorry it ain’t so warm no more,” the woman said. “An’ I ‘opes yer don’t mind me callin’ this mornin’ an’ usin’ Miss Lime’s name wif yer maid. But wot’s goin’ on ‘ere today is one right good story, one ‘at needs a real writer like yerself.”

     She took a wad of cloth from the pocket of her skirt and forced it into the writer’s open mouth. As Mrs. Oliphant began to unbutton her coat, the gipsy gestured with her pistol in the direction of the filing cabinets.

     “In fact, yer might say this story’s a real killer.”

     Mrs. Oliphant looked at the files. On top of the cabinet was what appeared to be several sticks of dynamite and a small clock.

     “Peugeot,” I said as we made our way through the morning traffic on Oxford Street, “I understand that something that was said at breakfast has completed the chain for you. Forgive me for being dense, but I simply can’t see what it was. Can you enlighten me.”

     My friend’s eyes were burning with green fire as he sat next to me, to use his expressive phrase, ‘thinking furiously.’

     “I fell into a grievous error, my friend,” he said excitedly. “Of course. It was upon one point only, and it was so cleverly done that anyone, even the finest brain in England, should be excused for failing to see. But I now know!”

     I was becoming a bit exasperated.

     “Yes, but what is it that you know? What was the vital fact?”

     He turned to me, his face radiating triumph.

     “The signing of the contract was the entire issue here!” he cried. “Do you not see? How else can we explain the fact that the man never spoke?”

     Like a great flood of light it hit me. Of course! We had all wondered about that and offered many interesting theories about the meaning of it. As I recalled the voices of all the men of the case I knew that Peugeot must be right. Ben Darrowby had a slight inflection of his Yorkshire origins. Philip Aubrey had a pleasing, but not overly distinctive baritone. James Landon’s voice was pitched a tone or two higher than one might expect from a man of his size, but was, again, hardly arresting in character. Only Clark’s American accent and speech cadence would be a dead giveaway. What fools we had been not to realize it!

     But then new issues began to trouble me. If Mr. Clark favoured the signing of Drusilla Gordon to the contract why was it necessary to kidnap Brenda, and why had she not been released immediately when he found that she had no interest in the Wegener Brothers? Further, why had all the other women been abducted? And why were we meeting the police at the home of Drusilla Gordon? Was Miss Gordon an unwitting beneficiary of Clark’s plan or was she an accessory?

     Before I could answer any of these pertinent questions, we arrived at her home. Two police cars were waiting, and as I pulled to the kerb, Sapp, McAuliffe, Wilson, and several uniformed men stepped out to meet us.

     “Better talk fast if you want to talk to me,” Sapp said mournfully as we alighted from the car. “Inspector Naylor’s due back today, and the Assistant Commissioner will probably have him replace me at any moment.”

     “It will not come to that, my friend,” announced Peugeot. “But we must get in here and find Miss Gordon immediately.”

     “Another emergency, eh?” Sapp said with a grin. “All right. There’s little enough to lose at this point.”

     We went to the front door and Inspector McAuliffe rang the bell. There was no answer. He rang again. Sapp used the knocker as loudly as possible. McAuliffe turned to Wilson.

     “Go round back and see if there’s any sign of someone being at home.”

     “Hopkins and Wood. You two with me.” Wilson ordered. Two of the uniformed men followed him round to the back.

     Sapp kept up the ringing and pounding to no avail. Finally, Sergeant Wilson came trotting back.

     “There’s a big silver Daimler in the garage sir, and lights on in the kitchen, sir,” he reported.

     “Unfortunately, there’s no law against going away and leaving on lights,” said Sapp. “Without a warrant, I daren’t break it down.”

     “Perhaps it does not need the breaking down, Chief Inspector,” Peugeot suggested mildly. “Major Bosworth and I are not of the police so….”

     He took the doorknob in his hand and turned. It swung open.

     “Blimey!” Sapp said expressively. “How did you know?”

     Peugeot shrugged.

     “I did not know. It was worth trying.”

     We entered cautiously.

     “Miss Gordon!” called Sapp. “It’s the police, Miss Gordon. Is anyone here?”

     There was no answer. Inspector McAuliffe took the remaining uniformed constable and struck out to the left through the sitting room. Sapp and Sergeant Wilson went to the right into the dining room. Beckoning me to follow and remain silent, Peugeot slowly climbed the stairs. As we neared the top, some familiar sounds could be heard. Peugeot looked at me.

     “A woman gagged and bound?” I guessed in a whisper.

     He nodded and followed the sound. We passed two rooms. The mewing sounds were coming from the third, the door of which was partly open.

     I swung the door open. On the bed, amid the disordered sheets and blankets, lay the breathtaking nude form of Jane Savage, bound and gagged. She lay on her side facing the doorway, her dark sensual eyes wide and pleading over several strips of sticking-plaster that covered her mouth. We could see a band of white cloth tautly drawn from under both sides of the plaster around her head and obviously tied at the back of her neck. Her arms were invisible below her elbows, drawn back and tied so securely that the poor woman’s shoulders were also slightly pulled back. The tension on her arms and shoulders caused her to appear to be thrusting her magnificent breasts invitingly toward us. Ropes had also been wound around her arms and body to further render her arms useless. Her legs were tied both above and below the knees and at her ankles. A rope reinforcing the seize on her ankle bonds had also been run down to the foot of the bed and tied to one of the bedposts. And several ropes had been wrapped around the poor woman’s waist with a double line run between her legs in some sort of cruelly lascivious jest. When we rushed to free the poor woman, we found that several loops run between her elbows had been the cause of the forced prominence of her bosom. As Peugeot carefully peeled the plaster from her mouth, I attacked the elbow ropes with my pocket-knife. When the tension was released, the woman hummed gratefully into her gag. I soon had her hands and arms free, and had cut the rope from her ankles to the bedpost. With a surprisingly graceful movement for a woman whose legs were still bound together, she sat up and reached back under her mane of long brown hair to release the knotted scarf holding the gag in.

     “Thank you, gentlemen,” she breathed when she had removed the gag tie and wadding. “I’ve been bound there since quite early this morning. When the doorbell ringing and knocking stopped I was afraid that whoever it was would go away, and I’d have to suffer here for several more hours.”

     I knelt before her and began cutting through the ropes about her ankles. It was difficult to avoid looking at the rope that disappeared into the dark thatch of hair between her legs.

     Peugeot was shaking his head sympathetically.

     “You have been bound most knowingly and cruelly,” he lamented. “Please, if can arrange your thoughts, mademoiselle, tell us what happened.”

     I had finished releasing her legs and stepped over to fetch her frilly, pale pink dressing-gown that was hanging over the back of a nearby chair. She took the gown and dropped it beside her on the bed, showing no concern over her nakedness before two virtual strangers as she worked at the knot of the rope belt about her waist.

     “It was shortly after six this morning, I would estimate, when I awoke to find two people standing at my bedside. One was a rather large man in a tan or light-brown overcoat and the other a woman in some sort of gipsy clothing. Both were masked. The man held a pistol pointed at me. The woman had some ropes in her hand and had put a bag containing more rope on the chair there.”

     She indicated the chair near the foot of the bed where I had spotted the dressing-gown.

     “They warned me not to resist nor make any sounds to alert my mistress, then ordered me to get out of bed so that they might bind and gag me. I asked to be permitted to put on my dressing-gown first, since I sleep au naturel. The woman simply laughed and said that I would be all the better as I was. My hands were bound behind me first, then the woman said that she knew a way to make my breasts more attractive.”

     Miss Savage looked down for a moment in embarrassment, then back at us with resolution.

     “It was then that she ran those connecting ropes between my elbows. They were not made tight enough to do me serious injury, but forced me to thrust my chest out. She merely laughed and said that it would make any rescuers more eager to save me. They then circled my body with ropes, trapping my arms uselessly. After gagging me with some cloth and sticking-plaster they had brought, the woman looked at me very wickedly and said that she had another trick that I should find amusing. It was then that she made these loops about my waist and ran the ends through my private area. She seemed to take particular delight in this ‘little touch,’ as she called it. I was then forced to sit on the edge of the bed and my legs were bound. They pushed me over and secured my ankles to the foot of the bed. The man started to blindfold me, but the woman stopped him, saying that she wanted me to see what they were going to do. They took up their bag of ropes and left, leaving the door open.

     “Ten or fifteen minutes passed. I tried my best to free myself, but I was very knowingly bound, and being unable to get off the bed, I could use nothing in the room to free myself. Finally they returned, stopping outside the door. The man was carrying Miss Gordon, naked and bound very much as I was. The woman said something I did not understand about my mistress being a better prize than the one that got away. Then she told me, in quite a disgusting fashion, that the rope between my legs should make my struggles quite enjoyable. They then left. I think that they meant to close the door to my room, but that it caught on the rug before it shut completely.”

     She finished untying the rope around her waist and stood up to carefully remove it. Only then did she don the dressing-gown.

     “The man of this couple,” asked Peugeot. “He did not speak?”

     “No, sir. Never a word.”

     “And the woman?”

     “A rather older voice, sir, with a very strong Cockney inflection.”

     She regarded us with a tender and grateful gaze.

     “That creature meant to humiliate and torture me in ways only a woman would use on another,” she continued softly. “I want to thank you gentlemen properly for rescuing me.”

     Having said that, she bent over and kissed Peugeot on the cheek. She straightened up and raised her head slightly to do the same to me. I felt the lingering warmth of her lips on my cheek, and she brushed the other side of my face with fingers that seemed reluctant to break contact with my skin.

     The sounds of the policemen’s boots on the stairs told us that they were close at hand. I was glad that we had freed Miss Savage and given her time to dress before the police had happened upon her. Though she had showed remarkable self-possession about her nudity before us, I thought that four more pairs of male eyes gazing upon that exquisite body might have been too much for her. They had some difficulty keeping their eyes off her as it was. She repeated her story for Sapp as Sergeant Wilson recorded the details in his notebook. Peugeot strolled about the room looking at various items in a somewhat dissatisfied manner. Inspector McAuliffe, who had taken the other constable into Miss Gordon’s room reappeared in the doorway holding a piece of paper out to Peugeot.

     “It’s another note, sir,” he replied to Sapp’s inquisitive look. “Addressed to Mr. Peugeot again.”

     Peugeot took the note. I read over his shoulder.

Monsieur Smart Peugeot,

      Not in time to stop us, eh? And now we’ve got a much more important bird to play with. You’d better make more of an effort to catch us or this will become pretty dull.

      And you’d better get back to your office quick or part of this case may blow up in your face along with a couple more pretty birds.

Greenhampton Avenger

     “What can it mean, Peugeot?” I asked. “Is this some threat to Miss Lime?”

     “I fear so, mon ami,” he said grimly. “We must make haste!”

     Andromeda Oliphant opened her eyes again and peered sleepily at the clock on the file cabinet. It read ten o’clock. The woman had said time was up at ten thirty. Though it was a not easy, Mrs. Oliphant told herself to stay awake. She had never been asleep for very long, but the drug had made it easy for the woman to arrange her predicament.

     The demure writer was seated in a chair next to Miss Lime. Like her fellow prisoner, Mrs. Oliphant was wearing only her knickers. She was also thoroughly bound and gagged, though unlike Miss Lime she wore no blindfold. She gazed down at herself, too woozy and mentally befogged to be much embarrassed by the fact that her rather sizable breasts were completely bare. Her wrists were bound behind her, trapped between her own back and the wooden back of the chair. Many loops of cord pinioned her arms to her torso and her body to the chair. Like Miss Lime, her legs were tied together just above the knees and at the ankles, a mocking suggestion of a lady’s modesty that contrasted sharply with the display of the women’s nearly naked bodies. She was gagged with the wad of cloth the woman had forced in her mouth now held by a banded scarf about her head and between her jaws. The woman had added several strips of sticking–plaster to seal the gag and further muffle any sounds that she might make. Even the two chairs in which they sat had been bound together side by side. Now Mrs. Oliphant could also make out several lengths of string running from the chairs up to the clock and stick contraption on the cabinet. It was too far above her head to make out much detail, but the woman had made sure that her semiconscious prisoner had known what it was.

     “A nice li’le bomb, it is, luv,” she had said. “An’ seein’ as I’m a sportin’ type, I’m settin’ it fer ten-firty, so’s ter give Moosieur Pew-joe a chance ter get back an’ saves yer. An’ if he don’t…”

     She had shrugged expressively.

     It was now five past ten. Mrs. Oliphant strained at the ropes. As groggy as she was she knew that there was little chance of freeing herself. And Miss Lime was only now beginning to show signs of regaining consciousness. The two of them were quite helpless. And any rescuers from the outside had to arrive very soon.