Bobby believed he would. He must know that, even if these strangers had listened to his wife’s fears, they had no evidence.
Also, he would believe that he had only Frankie to deal with. It was possible that he had suspected her from the first – his pertinent questioning as to her ‘accident’ seemed to point to that – but as Lady Frances’ chauffeur, Bobby did not believe that he himself was suspected of being anything other than he appeared to be.
Yes, Nicholson would act. Moira’s body would probably be found in some district far from Staverley. It might, perhaps, be washed up by the sea. Or it might be found at the foot of a cliff.
The thing would appear to be, Bobby was almost sure, an ‘accident’. Nicholson specialized in accidents.
Nevertheless, Bobby believed that the planning and carrying out of such an accident would need time – not much time, but a certain amount. Nicholson’s hand was being forced – he had to act quicker than he had anticipated. It seemed reasonable to suppose that twenty-four hours at least must elapse before he could put any plan into operation.
Before that interval had elapsed, Bobby meant to have found Moira if she were in the Grange.
After he had left Frankie in Brook Street, he started to put his plans into operation. He judged it wise to give the Mews a wide berth. For all he knew, a watch might be being kept on it.
As Hawkins, he believed himself to be still unsuspected. Now Hawkins in turn was about to disappear.
That evening, a young man with a moustache, dressed in a cheap dark-blue suit, arrived at the bustling little town of Ambledever. The young man put up at an hotel near the station, registering as George Parker. Having deposited his suitcase there he strolled out and entered into negotiations for hiring a motorcycle.
At ten o’clock that evening a motor-cyclist in cap and goggles passed through the village of Staverley, and came to a halt at a deserted part of the road not far from the Grange.
Hastily shoving the bicycle behind some convenient bushes, Bobby looked up and down the road. It was quite deserted.
Then he sauntered along the wall till he came to the little door. As before, it was unlocked. With another look up and down the road to make sure he was not observed, Bobby slipped quietly inside. He put his hand into the pocket of his coat where a bulge showed the presence of his service revolver.
The feel of it was reassuring.
Inside the grounds of the Grange everything seemed quiet.
Bobby grinned to himself as he recalled bloodcurdling stories where the villain of the piece kept a cheetah or some excited beast of prey about the place to deal with intruders.
Dr Nicholson seemed content with mere bolts and bars and even there he seemed to be somewhat remiss. Bobby felt certain that that little door should not have been left open. As the villain of the piece, Dr Nicholson seemed regrettably careless.
‘No tame pythons,’ thought Bobby. ‘No cheetahs, no electrically-charged wires – the man is shamefully behind the times.’ He made these reflections more to cheer himself up than for any other reason. Every time he thought of Moira a queer constriction seemed to tighten around his heart.
Her face rose in the air before him – the trembling lips – the wide, terrified eyes. It was just about here he had first seen her in the flesh. A little thrill ran through him as he remembered how he had put his arm round her to steady her.
Moira – where was she now? What had that sinister doctor done with her? If only she were still alive.
‘She must be,’ said Bobby grimly between set lips. ‘I’m not going to think anything else.’ He made a careful reconnaissance round the house. Some of the upstairs windows had lights in them and there was one lighted window on the ground floor.
Towards this window Bobby crept. The curtains were drawn across it, but there was a slight chink between them.
Bobby put a knee on the window-sill and hoisted himself noiselessly up. He peered through the slits.