Light-Fingers Read online

  ‘He could stay, with me in the car,’ said Steve. ‘I’ll keep an eye on him.’

  Late that night Paul Temple, Steve and young Dickson climbed into the detective’s car. They followed closely behind a police car, which carried three hefty constables, a sergeant and Inspector Eastman.

  They arrived at the top of the cliffs, from where the path led down to Falcon’s Cave, with about half an hour to spare, and they parked the cars about a hundred yards away in the midst of some undergrowth. When the cars were safely parked the inspector gave his instructions.

  The two men were to keep well under cover until the incoming boat had landed; after that they were to close in and enter the cave.

  Temple gave Steve a small torch.

  ‘You and Dickson keep a sharp lookout, and give us a signal if anything goes wrong. But remember only to flash the torch in an emergency, because it may be seen from the sea.’

  The men went off down the narrow path that led to the cave, while Steve and Dickson settled themselves in a tiny clearing surrounded by blackberry bushes. Steve spread an old mackintosh she had brought with her on the grass, and then turned to speak to Dickson. It was quite dark and she could see nothing. The boy had disappeared!

  ‘Dickson! Where are you?’ she called softly, but there was no reply.

  Steve stood quite still and listened intently, but could hear nothing but the distant roar of the waves. Then came the sound of a car engine purring softly. It grew louder until the car seemed to be only a few feet from her in the stillness of the night. Actually, it was thirty to forty yards away.

  Steve hoped that Dickson was keeping well hidden!

  The car doors opened and closed softly, and then there was silence once more.

  There was still no sign of Dickson, however, and Steve was just wondering whether to give the alarm signal when she felt a tug at her sleeve.

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs. Temple,’ said Dickson, looming out of the dark. ‘I saw the smugglers get out of that car – and what d’you think? One of ’em is that artist, Crowther!’

  ‘You shouldn’t have gone without telling me, Dickson,’ Steve reproved him. ‘I thought something terrible might have happened to you.’

  ‘Not me!’ declared Master Dickson boastfully. ‘Why I could go right up to anybody in the dark like…’ he stopped speaking.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Steve

  ‘Listen!’ said Dickson quietly. ‘There’s the motor-boat.’

  The boy was right.

  They could hear the throb of the engine. After a little while it stopped and for ten minutes or more Steve and the boy sat straining their ears.

  The roar of the sea on the rocks made it difficult to distinguish any sounds of human activity.

  ‘I don’t think I’d like to be a detective after all – too much waiting about,’ Dickson was just deciding, when they heard Temple’s agitated voice.

  ‘Steve! Are you there?’

  ‘I’m here, Paul. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Back to the car as quickly as you can. You too, Dickson!’

  ‘Have they got away?’ asked Dickson.

  ‘Yes, they’ve made another tunnel out of the cave – we didn’t know about that until young Walters told us about it. We found Walters all right – wrapped up in a blanket and fast asleep. He seems none the worse for his experience.’

  They hurried towards Temple’s car, moving rather too quickly for Dickson’s short legs.

  ‘How much start did they get, sir?’ he panted.

  ‘Two or three minutes, but they were carrying quite a lot of stuff which they landed from the boat.’

  ‘They’ve got a car here, just along the cliff,’ Steve told him, and just as she spoke, the engine roared into life, and the car in question moved off.

  ‘Hurry! We’ve got to get after them!’ snapped Temple. They were still over a hundred yards from their own car, and when they came up to it, the policemen were already waiting for them.

  ‘They’ve got away in a car – along the lower road,’ Temple told them. ‘No time to lose!’ He switched on the lights of his car.

  ‘I don’t think you need be in such a hurry,’ piped the voice of young Dickson.

  ‘Eh? What’s that?’ asked Temple, swinging round as he was about to help Steve into the car.

  ‘They won’t get very far,’ Dickson informed him, proudly displaying an enormous Scout knife and opening what appeared to be a large, pointed blade.

  ‘Both their back tyres are punctured,’ he announced simply. ‘This is the first time I’ve had a chance to use this thing – I think it’s really meant for taking stones out of horses’ hoofs!’

  The police car overtook the smugglers less than a quarter of a mile down the road. They capitulated without any struggle, and in the back of the car the police found a small crate containing over 9,000 watches.

  Temple drove two very excited boys back to St. Conrads. Walters was explaining at some length to his friend how he had been on the track of a super moth when he saw a boat land near Falcon’s Cave, had gone to investigate, and had been captured by the smugglers.

  ‘They were jolly decent, really;’ he told them, his mouth full of milk chocolate, which Steve had found in her handbag. ‘I got plenty to eat; it was a bit like a picnic. Of course, it began to get rather boring after a while.’

  ‘Better than school, anyhow,’ decided Dickson emphatically.

  ‘They let me roam around the tunnels – they have no end of stuff stowed away down there, Mr. Temple,’ continued WaIters.

  ‘So I gather,’ said Temple grimly. ‘I expect the police will look into that. And you are very lucky, young fellow, that things are no worse. I hope you aren’t going to make a habit of climbing out of the dormitory window in the small hours.’

  Walters looked worried.

  ‘You’ll catch it when the Head sees you,’ said his companion, with a hoarse chuckle. ‘I’ve had an hour’s deten just for holding the rope while you climbed down!’

  Paul Temple smiled.

  ‘As we’ve managed to break up a gang of smugglers who have been troubling the police for some time,’ he said, ‘I’ll have a talk to Dr. Raymond and see if I can’t persuade him to let you down lightly.’

  Long after the boys had gone to bed, Temple and Steve sat in front of the fire in the Head’s study, discussing the events of the day with Doctor Raymond.

  ‘What made you suspect that Walters’ disappearance had anything to do with smuggling?’ asked Raymond.

  Temple lit a cigarette and exhaled a stream of smoke.

  ‘I suppose it was young Dickson telling me about the artist giving the boy a wrist-watch. I had to find out just how genuine the artist was, and I soon came to the conclusion that he had only been painting young Walters’ portrait to keep that youngster from snooping around the cliffs at certain times when he might have discovered something.’

  ‘How did you discover that Crowther was not genuine?’

  ‘He gave himself away by mentioning Orpen’s picture, “Bubbles”. Any genuine artist would know that famous picture was the work of Millais. After, that, it was just a case of one thing leading to another.’

  ‘Anyhow, Dickson has enjoyed it all enormously,’ smiled Steve, who had taken a fancy to the mischievous youngster.

  ‘I doubt if it will have any salutary effect in his position in form,’ sniffed the Head. ‘He’s been bottom these past two terms.’

  ‘My guess is that he gets an interesting view of the quadrangle from that position,’ hazarded Temple with a smile.

  Dr. Raymond’s expression became thoughtful.

  ‘Now you come to mention it, Temple,’ he said, ‘I believe that is the case.’

  A week later, Dickson received a small registered parcel, which he opened just before morning prayers in the midst of a noisy group of curious juniors.

  ‘Must be something special,’ said his friend Walters, as several layers of packing were torn away to reveal a neat litt
le case.

  ‘It’s a gold wrist-watch!’ cried, one of the juniors.

  ‘Wizard! Look – there’s some writing on the back.’

  They crowded round and slowly read the inscription:

  ‘To Jeremy Dickson, my partner in the Downbeach case. From Paul Temple.’

  Light-Fingers

  Paul Temple, popular novelist and famous private detective, placed a red carnation in the buttonhole of his dinner jacket, flicked a fleck of dust from his trousers, and carefully adjusted his evening-dress bow. It was New Year’s Eve and both the novelist and Mrs. Temple – known affectionately as Steve – had been invited to a dinner party.

  The party was to be held at Nicholas Hall, a delightful old manor house on the Hog’s Back just outside Guildford. The Hall belonged to a friend of Paul Temple’s called Sir Stephen Peters. Every year Sir Stephen gave a New Year’s Eve party and both Paul and Steve were invited.

  It was just after six o’clock when Steve climbed into the driving-seat of her husband’s new sports car and turned the bonnet of the car southwards.

  ‘Now drive carefully, Steve,’ warned Temple. ‘Remember the roads are very treacherous at this time of the year.’

  Steve smiled, for in spite of the fact that she was a careful driver, they never started out on a journey without Temple administering a friendly warning. As the car glided away from the kerb and made for the open country, Steve glanced down at the illuminated clock on the dashboard.

  ‘How long should it take us to reach Guildford, Paul?’

  There was a twinkle in Temple’s eye as he said: ‘We may never reach there if you don’t keep your eyes on the road!’

  ‘If there are any more complaints about my driving, Mr. Temple, I shall insist that you get out and walk!’

  Temple glanced across at his wife and chuckled softly to himself. It was a funny thing about Steve, he reflected, although she was a very keen driver she never seemed to be completely relaxed. Even now she sat clutching the wheel with both hands, an expression of grim determination on her features.

  When the car came to a standstill at the last set of traffic lights, just before they reached the open country, Steve did manage to relax slightly and remove her hands from the steering-wheel.

  The lights changed from amber to green and the car moved forward.

  Temple glanced into the driving-mirror and suddenly sat bolt upright.

  ‘By Timothy,’ he said, ‘this fellow behind us seems to be in a hurry!’

  Steve turned her head and noticed a black saloon car bearing down all them.

  ‘You’ll have to pull into the side, Steve!’ exclaimed Temple. ‘Or he’ll force you into the hedge!’

  As Temple spoke the overtaking car lurched forward and Steve instinctively reached for the handbrake. There was a scraping of metal and a sudden bump as the back mudguard of the saloon caught the wing of Temple’s car. Steve skilfully manoeuvred the car into the side and as it came to a standstill switched on the headlights. In the distance they could see the saloon roaring its way down the country road. In a little while it was completely out of sight.

  Steve sat for a moment trying to regain her breath; she was obviously a little frightened.

  Temple said, very quietly: ‘That was excellent driving, my dear. If you’d lost your head we should have been involved in a very nasty accident.’

  ‘Did you notice the driver of the car?’

  Temple shook his head. ‘He was heavily muffled and he wore his hat right down over his eyes. I doubt very much whether I should recognise him again.’ He got out of the car and surveyed the damage. The wing was scratched and there was a dent near the offside lamp.

  ‘You’ve had a nasty shock, Steve. You’d better let me drive for the rest of the journey.’ As he climbed into the driving-seat Temple heard the sudden whir of a motor-horn and the sound of an approaching car. Steve was already staring out of the window unable to suppress her excitement.

  ‘Here’s a police car, Paul!’ she shouted. ‘I believe they’re chasing the man who bumped into us.’

  The police car came to a sudden halt and Temple recognised his old friend Chief-Inspector Brooks.

  Temple lowered the window.

  ‘What’s happened, Inspector?’

  The inspector was a thickset man with a jovial face and a weather-beaten countenance. He looked more like a farmer than a police inspector and because of this his enemies frequently underrated him. Brooks was in fact a shrewd north-countryman with an intimate knowledge of the London underworld.

  ‘There’s been a robbery at Malfrey’s the jewellers in New Bond Street. “Light-Fingers” Layman made a smash-and-grab. He got away with a diamond necklace worth £30,000.’

  Temple said: ‘A black saloon crashed into us. It was driven by a man in a dark overcoat and a muffler over his face – was that the notorious Layman?’

  The inspector nodded. ‘Yes, that was “Light-Fingers” all right. Which way did he go, Temple?’

  ‘He went straight down the road ahead,’ volunteered Steve. ‘The number of the car was UMX 829.’

  ‘We know the number of the car, Mrs. Temple,’ said Brooks, ‘but if he once makes a get-away, ten to one he’ll abandon the car or change the number plates.’ As the inspector spoke the police car shot forward and before Temple had even time to wave good-bye it was nearly out of sight.

  ‘Have you heard of “Light-Fingers” Layman?’ asked Steve.

  Temple changed gear and the sports car once again moved forward into the centre of the road.

  ‘I first heard of him two or three years ago when he broke into the North Midfield Bank at Exeter. “Light-Fingers” is what they call a lone operator – he works entirely on his own.’

  ‘Would you recognise him if you saw him?’

  ‘I very much doubt it,’ said Temple. ‘I’ve only seen photographs of him. If I remember rightly he has rather a nasty scar across the back of his left hand.’

  The car gathered speed and Paul Temple found himself thinking of ‘Light-Fingers’ Layman; although he had never actually encountered ‘Light-Fingers’, the novelist knew only too well, from the confidential reports he had seen on the Exeter Case at Scotland Yard, that he was a most dangerous criminal.

  After they had been driving for about a quarter of an hour Steve suddenly drew Temple’s attention to the police car. It was about a hundred yards ahead of them, parked by the side of the road under a huge tree.

  Temple took his foot off the accelerator.

  ‘What’s happened, Inspector?’ he called.

  There was a look of both annoyance and bitter disappointment on the inspector’s face. He nodded towards the uniformed sergeant who was busy working the radio transmitter. ‘We’ve got a cordon round the entire district but it looks as if “Light-Fingers” has given us the slip, Temple.’

  ‘We’ll keep our eyes open, Inspector. If we see anything suspicious I’ll phone Sergeant O’Hara at Guildford.’

  Ten minutes later Temple did see something suspicious and he was so surprised that he took his eyes off the road and grabbed Steve by the arm.

  ‘Look where you’re going, Paul!’ ejaculated Steve.

  Temple applied the brakes and the car came to a standstill.

  He switched on the headlights.

  ‘Do you see what I see, Steve?’

  Steve turned her head and then suddenly she realised what her husband was staring at. In a little clearing, about ten or twenty yards down from the main road, stood the black saloon car. It had obviously been forced off the road, or deliberately driven off, for the front wheels rested in a narrow ditch and the radiator was embedded in the bank.

  While they were watching the car a man came running up the bank and on to the road. He was a nervous, shrivelled-up little man with a clean-shaven face and long dark hair. He carried his overcoat over his left arm. The man hesitated for a moment, shielding his eyes from the glare of the headlights.

  Paul Temple took careful stock
of the stranger before dimming the lights. The man certainly didn’t look like the notorious ‘Light-Fingers’ although there was a nasty cut across the lower part of his face which added a sinister touch to his appearance. The stranger hurried across to Temple and introduced himself. He explained that his name was Professor Thompson and that he was on his way to Guildford.

  ‘I was driving along in my car when suddenly this car,’ he pointed to the black saloon, ‘overtook me and crashed into the ditch. I hurried down the bank to see if I could be of any assistance but to my astonishment…’

  ‘The driver of the other vehicle knocked you out and stole your car,’ said Temple.

  The little man nodded; he looked both surprised and relieved. ‘But that’s exactly what happened!’ he stammered. ‘How on earth did you know?’

  Temple told the professor about the robbery and about ‘Light-Fingers’ Layman, adding: ‘You’d better let us drive you into Guildford, Professor.’

  The professor was highly delighted at the suggestion and lost no time climbing into Temple’s car.

  ‘I should be extremely grateful if you would drive me into Guildford,’ he said. ‘I have a most important appointment at eight o’clock.’ The little man seemed far more concerned about keeping his appointment than about the arrest of ‘Light-Fingers’ and the recovery of the stolen car.

  ‘What sort of a car were you driving?’ asked Temple.

  ‘It’s a brand new Austin – this year’s model. It’s dark maroon and the registration number is EKL 974.’

  ‘Well, that shouldn’t be difficult to find,’ said Temple. ‘I’ll contact the police as soon as we come to the next ’phone box.’

  ‘Oh, dear!’ said the professor. ‘This is most disturbing. I do hope I shan’t be late for my appointment!’

  Paul Temple smiled, moved the gear into position and released the clutch. ‘Your appointment must be a very important one, Professor?’

  The professor nodded. ‘I’m an antique dealer and a collector of rare coins,’ he explained. ‘Earlier this evening a lady telephoned me from Guildford with the exciting news that she had discovered a Queen Elizabeth Bank of England note and that she was prepared to consider a reasonable offer for it.’