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Updated: May 18, 2025
One of a beautiful woman in the fashion of 25 years before; and one a snapshot of a girl in a modern costume, whom McNorton had no difficulty in recognizing as Oliva Cresswell. "Yes," he said, "they might be the same person." "That's the mother on the left," explained Kitson, "the resemblance is remarkable. When Jackson saw the girl he called her Mary that was his wife's name.
McNorton will execute the warrant just as soon as we can formulate a charge. In fact, he is waiting downstairs in the hope of seeing " he paused, "Miss Cresswell. What does the doctor say?" "She's sleeping now." "It's maddening, maddening," groaned Beale, "and yet if it weren't so horrible I could laugh. Yesterday I was waiting for a 'hobo' to come out of delirium tremens.
It is written in ink with the pawnbroker's own pen. The inkwell is open," he lifted up the pen, "the nib is still wet," he said. McNorton took the paper from his hands. It was a bill from a corn-chandler's at Horsham, the type of bill that was sent in days of war economy which folded over and constituted its own envelope. It was addressed to "J. B. Harden, Esq."
McNorton," he said, as he led the other back to his chair, "I won't disguise it. I am seriously alarmed by what you have said. It is not the thought of losing the money, oh dear, no. Punsonby's would not be ruined by ah a paltry £40,000. It is, if I may be allowed to say so, the sinister suggestion in your speech, inspector superintendent I mean.
The Assistant Chief of the P.V. Department came out of his room and drifted aimlessly into the uncomfortable bureau of Mr. McNorton. "There's a curious yarn through from Cracow," he said, "which might interest your friend Beale." "What is it?" asked McNorton, who invariably found the stories of the P.V. Department fascinating but profitless.
His voice seemed to arouse the Foreign Minister from the meditation into which he had fallen, and he started. "Beale," he said, "you have unlimited authority to act Mr. McNorton, you will go back to Scotland Yard and ask the Chief Commissioner to attend at the office of the Privy Seal. Mr. Beale will keep in touch with me all the time."
"It's no use your shouting for Bridgers because Bridgers is on the way to the jug," said McNorton. "I have a warrant for you, van Heerden." The doctor turned with a howl of rage, snatched up the pistol which lay on the table, and thumbed down the safety-catch. Beale and McNorton fired together, so that it seemed like a single shot that thundered through the room.
The church bells were chiming eleven o'clock when a car drew up before a gloomy corner shop, bearing the dingy sign of the pawnbroker's calling, and Beale and McNorton alighted. It was a main street and was almost deserted. Beale looked up at the windows. They were dark. He knocked at the side-entrance of the shop, and presently the two men were joined by a policeman.
Had a car waiting for him in Oxford Street and when he saw there were no taxi-cabs about, jumped in and was driven eastward." "Did you get the number of the car?" asked McNorton. Beale smiled. "That's not much use," he said, "he's probably got two or three number-plates." He looked at his watch. "I'll go along to Kingston," he said.
Then as the hideous figure slipped his arm about her and pressed a musty hand over her mouth she fainted. "Held up by a gunman?" asked James Kitson incredulously, "why, what do you mean?" "It doesn't sound right, does it?" smiled Beale, "especially after McNorton telling us the other day that there was no such thing as a gunman in England.
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