An envelope for the second letter, white, cheap, bought also in London and touched only with gloves, lay by the machine already addressed. The inscription read: Sir Charles Medham, River Park. By Hand. Highly Confidential.

  Shoebridge typed on. The saker sat dozing on its perch. Outside it was daylight, a warm morning with March fast running out and the rooks in the elms behind the house long engaged at nest repairing and mating. When the letter was finished—copied from the draft that lay by the typewriter— Shoebridge read it without taking it from the machine.

  On receipt of this, you will at once telephone Colonel Grandison at, the Home Office and speak only to him. Any breach of this or the following instructions will put your guest’s life in jeopardy.

  Sir Charles Medham was an ex-diplomat. Reaching Grandison would present no problems to him, Shoebridge knew. He had to know. All planning was based on knowledge, success was a combination of time, place and people, all disposed to work for the advantage of the planner.

  Your distinguished guest has been taken from you for the same reasons that the Right Hon. James Archer and Richard Pakefield, M.P. were taken, and by the same person. At the moment he is safe and well.

  You will—for his safety and reputation—observe the following conditions:

  1. Make known to your household that he has been called back urgently to London.

  Sir Charles Medham had no wife to take into his confidence.

  2. Inform Grandison that no publicity whatever is to be given to this affair, and stress that any breach of this whatsoever will endanger your guest’s life. Inform Grandison also that some press story must be issued to cover your guest’s absence from official duties.

  3. Tell Grandison that as soon as he puts an announcement in the Personal column of the Daily Telegraph, reading—Felix. All fine at home. Please write. John—a letter giving further instructions will be sent to him.

  4. Inform Grandison that the ransom demanded is £500,000 to be paid as instructed later. The time period is eight days from your receipt of this. The same conditions as before apply to the return or elimination of your guest.

  On no account will you communicate with anyone else but Grandison. He will appreciate this.

  Having read it, Shoebridge took it out of the machine and sealed it in the envelope, wetting the gum with a paintbrush from a glass of water on the console. The letter was no literary composition and he had not meant it to be. Grandison would know exactly the form. The only real risk was that some hint of the abduction should leak to the public. Sir Charles Medham was not the sort of man to need this point over-stressed.

  He sat back in his chair, holding the letter in his gloved hand, looking at the saker. She was coming along fast. A desert bird, she was under training, beginning to lose her interest in ground prey, field mice, squirrels and rabbits. There were days now when she would wait on steadily while he flushed pigeon, rook and gull for her. When all this was finished there would be finer sport for her and the others . . . heron, grouse and partridge and a great range of land and lake and sky to give them all freedom. It was all there waiting, but although he longed for it there was no impatience in him. Impatience could breed mistakes. One small mistake and his dream could crumble.

  * * * *

  For that part of Somerset which lay in the area outlined by Bush the reports had come in quite promptly and had been analysed and processed into the computer by Sangwill. Among the hundreds of similar ones Shoebridge’s called no attention to itself. Edward Shoebridge, aged thirty-six, independent means, married, one son, aged fifteen, boarding school. Address, Highlands House, near Blagdon. House, red brick, built 1936, elevated position, no cellars. Shoebridge hobby, training and flying falcons.

  The details were fed into the computer along with hundreds of others for the Somerset areas . . . people who lived in brick and stone houses in elevated positions, people who kept ducks, domestic and ornamental, people who kept poultry commercially or for show purposes, breeders of game birds, and owners of game farms, small zoos, public pleasure grounds, and quite a few individuals whose interest in birds ran to the ownership of hawks, falcons, and aviaries full of foreign birds.

  The particulars of Shoebridge’s house were not accurate. Highlands had been built in 1936 on the site of an old stone house with a large cellar system under it. The house had become derelict and was pulled down by a Bristol builder who had sealed off the cellar system and built a new red-brick house over it. Edward Shoebridge had bought it in 1968 and some time after that had opened up the cellar system, but masking the entry to it so that its existence was not evident.

  Edward Shoebridge and the few facts about him and his house became part of a mass of electronically coded information.

  Bush, despite Grandison’s advice, offered up no prayers to the god of chance. There was no Micawberish optimism in him that something would turn up if you believed it would. He was concentrating, without any success so far, on his list of golf-club names, knowing that with each day that passed the moment for the third strike was growing closer. In effect Bush’s department and the whole of the police resources at his disposal had run into a dead end. It was a situation quite common with the police and they were used to dealing with it phlegmatically. However, although cases were pigeon-holed in dead files, the word ‘dead’ to the police implied that at any time the god of chance might bring the corpse to life. This was a philosophy foreign to Bush. For every problem there was a logic to solve it. Hard work and a strict analysis of detail meticulously collected was the only method which could bring success. The possible intervention of chance held no interest for Bush. He was an arrogant man.

  * * * *

  Thinking it over George had decided that he had nothing to lose by humouring Blanche. He was going to get his seven hundred and fifty pounds plus expenses anyway and for a little more effort he might get a thousand without interrupting his plans for setting up Lumley’s Sunshine Gardens.

  Mrs. Angers, he realised on reflection, had fairly thrown him. At any other time and in another mood he might have gone along with her. No good saying he wouldn’t, because he might have done. A minor bacchanalia made a change now and then, and she wasn’t all that far gone. Good figure in parts still, and they could have had a happy gin session to be topped off by a satisfying romp. Point was, he told himself, he’d still got nothing from her of any importance. She really didn’t know much about Shoebridge, nor had she known him well. All her stuff was second-hand from her husband. He was the chap to deal with. He knew the name of his firm in London. He was ready to bet that Mrs. Angers would have said nothing about his visit. She had probably gone back into the room, given a couple of curses at a flown opportunity, and then consoled herself with more gin and forgotten him. Anyway, if Angers did know about him, he’d done nothing wrong and he felt he could handle him.

  So George decided to go to London to see Angers. While he was there he could see a friend of his in the motor-trade and find out the form about a van.

  Two days after his visit to Mrs. Angers, George called at eleven-thirty in the morning to see Mr. Angers at the offices of Worth & Freen Ltd.—Shop Fittings and Hotel Services—in the Tottenham Court Road.

  It was a modern office block, full of glass and shiny pine wood. The girl at the desk said that Mr. Angers was in, but if he hadn’t an appointment would he mind filling in a memo to go up to him, stating his business.

  George pondered this one, then wrote on the slip his own name, adding the name and address of a real firm of solicitors in Salisbury (often used by him before, though they had no knowledge even of George’s existence) because he knew that shrewd types sometimes made a quick check through telephone directories. Under Business, he wrote—Legal matter re old friend of yours Edward Shoebridge—and to his advantage. He had no qualms about that. In a way he was trying to sort out an inheritance problem.

  He waited fifteen minutes and then he was shown up to Angers’ room. George put Angers at a little older than himself, and certainly much less fit. He’d had a plump look in some of the album photographs. Now he was fat, two chins and big paddle-like hands, dark-brown eyes and crisp, short black hair—which, George guessed, must be murder to comb.

  George said, “It’s good of you to spare me your time, Mr. Angers.”

  “Time you can have, Mr. Lumley. Money comes harder.” He gave a belly laugh which made the cloth of his waistcoat strain across his stomach. “Anyway, anything for an old friend. How’d you get on to me?”

  “Well . . . it’s a long story—but eventually through your wife. She was kind enough to give me your business address. Said you might help. It’s a matter of a legacy. Can’t say more than that, you’ll appreciate.”

  “Eddie won’t say no to money. I’ll tell you that.” He paused, eyed George quizzically for a while and then asked, “You the chap who went out of the window?”

  Momentarily George considered a lie, and then decided against it. “Well . . . Yes.”

  Angers laughed. “Don’t worry about it. Good old Lydia, tells me everything, and half the time I don’t want to know. Compulsive drinker, compulsive confessor. Just compulsive. Lovely girl when I married her. Still lovely in some ways. But a handful. Even if I weren’t a Roman Catholic I wouldn’t divorce her. Always stick to a bargain, even when it goes partly bad on you. That’s me. Thanks for going out of the window. A lot of ’em don’t. Now then—Eddie Shoebridge. But first let’s have a drink.”

  He got up and padded to a cupboard and came back with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. “Only drink that fits the morning. Clean on the palate, gentle on the head, and sharpens the appetite.”

  As Angers began to twist the wire from the cork, George said. “You were at school with Shoebridge.”

  “Eddie? Yes. Also worked with him and his old man at the Argenta—you know all about that? Must do to be here. Lost sight of him. Met up again in the South of France. Then got this job and bought the house his old man left him. He stayed abroad for a while. Hard worker, shrewd with money. Like his old man. The old boy must have been worth a bit when he died.” The cork flew and hit the far wall. “Here we are then, the stuff that makes girls giggle. Or used to. Knocking back the gin and whisky they are these days before lunch.”

  He filled their glasses and they drank.

  George said, “When did you last see him?”

  “God knows. Some years ago. Here in London. He’d been back from abroad for about a year. No job as far as I could tell. Fancy, too, he wasn’t quite as well heeled as he used to be. . . . Well, I suppose I’d better be honest. He’d had a lot of money from his old man, but he’d come a bit of a cropper speculating in hotel property and building. Mostly abroad. Majorca. Spain. Tricky places they were in those days. Still can be. Bang went his dream!”

  “Dream?”

  Angers chuckled. “Young men stuff. When we were working together. He was going to make a million before he was thirty-five and then clear out. He was mad, you know. Oh, pleasantly mad, but mad. Didn’t like people. Not individuals, but people in the mass. Everyone talks about conservation now and pollution of the environment, but he was at it when we were at school. Lydia show you some pictures?”

  “Some.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed. The old album on the settee has trapped plenty of weaker men than you. Anyway, you must have seen one or two of him and me with birds. Feathered of course. Kestrels, sparrow hawks, hobbies, merlins—spent all his money on them and trained them. Mad on animals—and madder still against the way the world was slowly making scores of ’em extinct.”

  “What would he have done with his million?”

  “Cleared out. Bought himself an island, or some great chunk of land in Ireland, Wales or Scotland, put a bloody great fence round it and kept people out of it—except for the few he could trust. Some dream, but he was going to make it real—that takes money.”

  “He probably never made it.”

  “Probably. What about your little bonus?”

  George shook his head. “Any man would be glad to have it, but it wouldn’t buy any paradise.”

  “Well, there it is. We all have dreams. No harm in that. But we’ve still got to get the eight-thirty in the morning.” He reached over and topped up George’s glass.

  George said, “Any idea how I could find him?”

  “None.”

  “He was married, wasn’t he?”

  “Was. She was killed in a car accident. Left him with a small boy. He could have married again, but he didn’t mention it when I last saw him.” Angers was silent for a moment. “If he did come a cropper and is kicking around somewhere, your little bit of bunce would be welcome. Tell you what I’ll do— I’ll make a few enquiries round the trade. Somebody might know something. I’d like to see old Eddie again. If I get anything I’ll phone your firm.”

  “It would be better if you phoned me direct. You see, I only work as a sort of freelance agent for them and I do most of it from home.”

  “Stick it down there, then.” Angers pushed across the memo form George had filled out. George wrote down his telephone number. Angers watching him, went on, “Must be interesting your job. Tracing people. Shouldn’t really be so difficult these days. We’re all down somewhere. Passports, National Insurance Cards. What about sticking an advertisement in the papers?”

  “We’ve done that,” lied George. “No good.”

  “You could go through all the telephone books. Not such a common name Shoebridge. He’d be on the phone for sure. You might end up with, say, five hundred names. Let’s see, at an average of tenpence a call that would be fifty quid. Take a long time of course.”

  The idea didn’t appeal to George. He finished his drink and rose. “Well, you’ve been very good to see me. Won’t take up more of your time.” Angers was a dead end. Still, it had been worth a try.

  “No trouble. Bit of a slack morning. Always nice to share a drink with someone. If I come up with anything I’ll give you a ring. I must say I’d like to see Eddie again. We let our friends go too easily. That’s business for you. All good pals, fat smiles and expense-account lunches and order books at the ready. All go. Like a lot of bloody ants. Build it up and pull it down. Make it bigger and better and a different shape so you can’t recognise where you are any more. Eddie was right. Give me a million and I’d put in a central heating system and live at the North Pole.”

  As George moved away down the passage outside, he could hear Angers laughing still. He’d liked him, but he had no real hope of ever hearing from him. Look up all the E. Shoebridges in all the telephone directories! Well, he could put it to Blanche. Up to her. She paid the expenses. But she’d have to find someone else to do that job. Say there were five hundred numbers (and none of them the Shoebridge you wanted), that would average something like five minutes a call, two thousand five hundred minutes; that was getting on for fifty hours. Fifty hours on the telephone! A man would be dead of frustration and nervous exhaustion!

  * * * *

  The report to the department on Edward Shoebridge had not given a telephone number. The police could have supplied it if asked, although the number was not listed in the book. It was ex-directory.

  * * * *

  From the County Library in Winchester Miss Rainbird borrowed three or four books on Spiritualism. For a couple of days she immersed herself in them with a great deal of interest. What is Spiritualism? Credulity and the ‘Will to Believe’; Trance States, Hypnosis and the Power of Suggestion: Paranormal Phenomena; Spiritual and Faith Healing—she read all the arguments and explanations and theories, being as fair-minded as she could, and eventually ended up, as a lot of people had done before her, with the conclusion that knowledge of these matters from a scientific standpoint was still elementary and that no positive verdict could be pronounced on them. She bought herself copies of the Psychic News and Two Worlds and wished she hadn’t. She found them all vulgar in tone and far too partisan and did not relish reading articles entitled ‘Survival is Not too Good to be True’, ‘Your World could be a Kingdom of Heaven’, ‘The Grave is not the End’, and ‘Seances Reveal a Brilliant Spirit Plan’. Nor did she care for headlines such as ‘Astral Visitor hears concert in Beyond’, ‘Spirit World has no Millionaires’, and ‘I was convinced by my Mother’s Spirit Message’.

  Reviewing the list of points and doubts which Madame Blanche’s seances had thrown up, she decided that so far it was possible to explain them all in non-spiritualistic terms. That Madame Blanche went into a trance and was a highly imaginative and intelligent woman she conceded. It was possible that Madame Blanche was, without knowing it, deceiving herself. And there was every possibility that Madame Blanche had some telepathic powers. There wasn’t any doubt at all that she had worldly sources of information. She was prepared to concede her healing powers, but here again the decision was paralleled by the possibility that she, herself, was subject to hetero-suggestion. If a child hurt its finger and you said you would kiss it to make it well, it often worked. In fact, in her reading and thinking about spiritualism she found many traces of childishness. But then again, she could hear Blanche—or more likely that old bore Henry—answering this by saying ‘Unless we can all revert to the pure white innocence of a child then there is no understanding, no way through the Gates of Higher Understanding.’ She had a little giggle to herself about that one. However, so far as the truth of spiritualism was concerned she would admit no more than that no positive verdict could be pronounced.

  This did not stop her, though, from making her own personal decision so far as further seances with Madame Blanche were concerned. At the lowest level the woman had been an entertainment. At a higher stage she had undoubtedly tided her over a bad patch of insomnia and the disturbing dreams about Harriet. That she had suffered this period, she told herself, must have been due to a general debility, the body’s and the mind’s lack of vigour at a dead season of the year. Now with spring on the doorstep, bright vanguard of the summer to come—she could do as well as Henry any day—she felt so much better suddenly that she could rebuke herself for what she now saw as a temporary weakness. Old she might be, but to be old, gullible and ready to lap up false comforts she would not be. So Henry had worked on the Clifton Suspension Bridge with Brunei in eighteen-thirty-when-ever-it-was. Well, it was all in the encyclopaedia or whatever book Madame Blanche had chosen to consult when she had decided to make Henry a railway engineer.