‘Yes, why should he send it?’ asked Temple in turn. He, too, was puzzled. ‘By Timothy!’ he exclaimed after a moment or two. ‘By Timothy, Steve!’ He hesitated. ‘The gramophone!’
‘The gramophone…?’
‘That’s what he wants!’ said Paul Temple in excited tones. ‘That’s what he wants He wants you to use the gramophone. Tell me,’ he said sharply, ‘has it always been in this position?’
‘Yes, always, only—’ Steve hesitated.
‘Well?’
Steve Trent had now caught Paul Temple’s excitement. ‘It looks as if it might have been moved slightly,’ she said. ‘It’s further against the wall as a rule. Oh, and look at the gauze on the speaker, why—’
‘It’s been altered, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes!’
Paul Temple walked back to the radio set and looked at it very carefully. He inspected the switches and the other controls; finally he bent down to examine the grill on the speaker itself.
Suddenly he jumped up and his face was set and determined.
‘What is it, Paul?’
‘Stand on one side!’ commanded Paul Temple quietly; then after a little while: ‘Steve, when you want to put a record on, you stand in front of the loud speaker like this, don’t you?’ And he stood in front of the radiogram, his arm stretched over it so that his hand was just above the tone arm.
‘Yes,’ she agreed.
‘And you lift the arm up and bring it across to the record?’ he continued.
‘That’s right!’
‘I’m going to do exactly the same, only I’m going to stand on one side instead – you’ll see why in a minute.’
He stood to one side of the radiogram, making sure at the same time that Steve was well back on the other side of the instrument. Then, very gingerly, he picked up the tone arm. He swung it over, as if to start the motor, just before setting the needle down on the groove of the record.
During that fraction of a second the room was filled with a loud, deafening report. A wisp of acrid smoke began to issue from the loud speaker grill.
‘Paul—’ ejaculated Steve, with a little cry, in sudden alarm.
Temple took her by the arm.
‘There’s a small revolver hidden by the speaker,’ he explained. ‘It’s been wired up with the tone arm. Immediately the arm was moved, the revolver was fired.’ He paused. His next words were ominous. ‘Now you know why he sent you the gramophone record. Obliging little fellow, isn’t he?’
Steve Trent shuddered visibly as she thought of the narrow escape she had experienced.
‘Thank goodness you were here when it arrived. Why, I—’
Paul Temple interrupted her.
‘How many people know that your real name is Harvey…Louise Harvey?’ he said.
‘Yourself,’ she replied, ‘Lord Broadhedge, the proprietor of The Evening Post, and Sir Graham Forbes.’ She thought a moment. ‘That’s all.’
Paul Temple nodded. ‘And Merritt, Inspector Merritt,’ he added. ‘I told him myself.’
‘Inspector Merritt?’
‘Yes.’
For a long while neither of them spoke. Each was preoccupied with this new problem that confronted them.
‘What are you thinking of?’ asked Steve Trent at last.
Paul Temple hesitated. ‘I was just wondering how long Sir Graham had smoked Russian cigarettes!’ he said.
The door opened and Diana Thornley appeared.
‘Diana!’ There was amazement in Dr. Milton’s voice.
‘Has he been through here on the ’phone?’ asked Diana Thornley irritably, peeling off her gloves and throwing them on to the small oak bench.
The doctor looked up at her in surprise. ‘You mean the Chief?’
‘Yes,’ she replied impatiently. ‘Yes, of course.’
Dr. Milton seemed puzzled. ‘No, of course he hasn’t. I thought you went down to town to see him.’
‘I went to town, all right! I waited over three blasted hours in that tube station, and there wasn’t a sign of him.’
Surprise gave way to anxiety in Dr. Milton’s face. ‘I wonder why he didn’t turn up?’ he asked her.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied thoughtfully.
The two were sitting in the drawing-room of Dr. Milton’s house. It was three hours after the death of Skid Tyler at Scotland Yard.
For perhaps half an hour Dr. Milton had been alone in the room, pacing backwards and forwards, smoking innumerable cigarettes, continually looking at the clock.
When Diana Thornley came in, his eyes brightened for a moment, thinking that she might have news. Now both were sitting in front of the fireplace, equally dejected.
‘You haven’t heard anything further about Skid?’ asked Dr. Milton suddenly.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘They’re still holding him, as far as I know.’
‘I hope to God Skid doesn’t talk,’ he added anxiously. ‘That’s all I’m worried about.’
Just then the door opened, and a tall man moved slowly into sight. Snow Williams was a rather sinister individual in the late forties. He was wearing a drab, grey overcoat, and underneath it an equally drab grey suit with badly worn shoes. He was very thin, and the deathly pallor of his gaunt cheeks added to the unpleasantness of his appearance.
Even the hardened Diana Thornley felt uncomfortable in his presence.
Slowly, he came forward until he stood with his back to the fireplace. Then he took off his overcoat, hung it carefully over a chair, and lit one of Dr. Milton’s cigarettes. Only then did he speak.
‘Any news?’ he asked. His lips barely parted for the words to issue forth. It was a smooth, deep voice, that had, oddly enough, once known a public school, and even a university.
‘No,’ answered Diana abruptly.
‘Didn’t you see the Knave?’ he continued.
‘No,’ she replied again, this time even more impatiently.
Snow Williams seemed to share Dr. Milton’s nervousness. ‘Something’s in the wind!’ he said anxiously. ‘Something’s in the wind, if you ask me!’
‘Well, nobody’s asking you!’ said Diana, with obvious irritation in her voice.
Snow was in no way annoyed by her tone of voice.
‘It’s a devil of a time since the robbery, and we haven’t heard a word about Skid,’ he continued unperturbed. ‘I tell you, he’ll talk! He’ll talk!’
Dr. Milton looked as if he could scarcely restrain himself. ‘Shut up, Snow!’ he burst out angrily. Then after a little while he asked: ‘Have you seen Horace?’
‘Yes,’