Around the corner in the police station, Mrs. Plank, peering up and down the lane, told herself it was too late for a runaway knock. Unless, she thought, it was that young Louis from around the corner who was allowed to wait up until all hours and was not a nice type of child. Then she noticed the envelope at her feet. She picked it up. Addressed to the Super and sealed. She shut the front door, went into the kitchen, and turned the envelope over and over in her hands.

There was no telling how late it might be when they returned, all of them. Joe had been very quiet when he came in but she knew he was gratified by the way the corners of his mouth twitched. He had told her they were going to search Syd Jones’s premises but it was not to be mentioned. He knew, thought Mrs. Plank, that he could trust her.

It had been a most irregular way of delivering the note, if it was a note. Suppose it was important? Suppose Mr. Alleyn should know of it at once and suppose that by leaving it until he came in, if he did come in and not drive straight back to Montjoy, some irreparable damage was done? On the other hand, Joe and Mr. Alleyn and Mr. Fox might be greatly displeased if she butted in at that place with a note that turned out to be some silly prank.

She worried it over, this way and that. She examined the envelope again and again, particularly the direction, written in capital letters with some sort of crayon, it looked like: “MR. ALLEN.” Someone who didn’t know how to spell his name.

The flap was not all that securely gummed down.

“Well I don’t care, I will,” she thought.

She maneuvered it open, and read the message.

ii

Before they set out for Syd’s Pad, Alleyn had held a short briefing at the station with Fox, Plank, and the two constables from Montjoy: Cribbage and Moss.

“We’re going into the place,” he had told them, “because I think we’ve sufficient grounds to justify a search for illicit drugs. It will have to be an exhaustive search and as always in these cases it may bring us no joy. The two men we’re interested in are known to have been in Saint Pierre yesterday and as far as we’ve been able to find out, haven’t returned to the island. Certainly not by air. There has been no official passage to the Cove by sea and your chaps”—he looked at the two constables—“checked the ferry at Montjoy. This doesn’t take in the possibility that they came back during the night in a French chum’s craft and were transshipped somewhere near the heads into Ferrant’s dinghy and brought ashore. We’ve no evidence—” he hesitated for a moment and caught Fox’s eye—“no evidence,” he repeated, “to support any such theory: it is pure speculation. If, however, it had so happened, it might mean that Ferrant as well as Jones is up at the Pad and they might turn naughty. Mr. Fox and Sergeant Plank are carrying handcuffs.” He looked around at the four impassive faces. “Well,” he said, “that’s it. Shall we push off? Got your lamps?”

Plank had produced two acetylene lamps in addition to five powerful hand torches because, as he said, they didn’t know but what the power might be off. He had also provided himself with a small torch with a blue light.

They had driven along the front, past the Cod-and-Bottle, and parked their car near Fisherman’s Steps.

Ricky had described his visit to Syd’s pad so vividly that Alleyn felt as if he himself had been there before. They didn’t say much to each other as they climbed the steps. Plank, who in the course of duty beats had become familiar with the ground, led the way and used his torch to show awkward patches.

“We don’t want to advertise ourselves,” Alleyn had said. “On the other hand, we’re making a routine search, not scaling the cliffs of Abraham in blackface. If there’s somebody at home who won’t answer the door we effect an entrance. If nobody’s there we still effect an entrance. And that’s it.”

They were about halfway up the steps and had passed the last of the cottages, when Plank said: “The place is up on the right, sir. If there was lights in the front windows we’d see them from here.”

“I can just make out the roof.”

“Somebody might be in a back room,” said Fox.

“Of course. We’ll take it quietly from here. Plank, you’re familiar with the lie of the land. When we get there you take a man with you and move round to the back door as quietly as you can. We three will go to the front door. If there’s anybody at home he might try a break. From now on, softly’s the word. Don’t rush it and don’t use your torch unless you’ve got to and then keep it close to the ground.”

They moved on slowly. The going became increasingly difficult, their feet slipped, they breathed hard, and once the larger of the Montjoy men fell heavily, swore, and said, “Pardon.” Plank administered a stern rebuke. They continued uphill still led by Plank who turned every now and then to make sure they were all together.

On the last of these occasions he put out his hand and touched Alleyn.

“Sir,” Plank breathed, “has someone fallen back?”

No, they were all there.

“What is it?”

“We’re being followed.”

Alleyn turned. Some way below them a torchlight darted momentarily about the steps, blacked out and reappeared, nearer.

“One of the locals? Coming home?” Fox speculated.

“Wait.”

No. It showed again for a fraction of a second and was much nearer. They could hear uneven footfalls and labored breathing. Whoever it was must be scrambling, almost running up the steps.

“Christ!” Plank broke out. “It’s the Missus.”

It was Mrs. Plank, so out of breath that she clung to Alleyn with one hand and with the other shoved the paper at him.

“Sh-sh!” she panted. “Don’t speak. Don’t say anything. Read it.”

Alleyn opened his jacket as a shield to her torch and read.

Fox, who was at his elbow, saw the paper quiver in his hand. The little group was very still. Voices of patrons leaving the Cod-and-Bottle broke the silence and even the slap of the incoming tide along the front. Alleyn motioned with his head. The others closed about him, bent over and formed a sort of massive huddle around the torchlit paper. Fox was the first to break the silence.

“Signed P.A.D.?” Fox said. “Why?”

“It’s his writing. Weak. But his. It’s a tip-off. ‘Pad.’ They didn’t drop to it or they’d have cut it out.”

“Practical,” said Fox unevenly. And then: “What do we do?”

Alleyn read the message again, folded it, and put it in his pocket. Mrs. Plank switched off her torch. The others waited.

“Mrs. Plank,” Alleyn said, “you don’t know how grateful I am to you. How did this reach you?”

She told him. “I got the notion,” she ended, “that it might be that young Louis Ferrant. I suppose because he’s a one for runaway knocks.”

“Is he, indeed? Now, please, you must go back. Go carefully and thank you.”

“Will it — they won’t? — will it be all right?”

“You cut along, Mother,” said her husband. “ ’Course it will.”

“Goodnight, then,” she said and was gone.

Fox said: “She’s not using her torch.”

“She’s good on her feet,” said Plank.

Throughout, they had spoken just above a whisper. When Alleyn talked now it was more slowly and unevenly than was his custom but in a level voice.

“It’s a question, I think, of whether we declare ourselves and talk to them from outside the house or risk an unheard approach and a break-in. I don’t think,” he stopped for a moment, “I don’t think I dare do that.”

“No,” said Fox. “No. Not that way. Too risky.”

“Yes. It seems clear that already they’ve… given him a bad time — the writing’s very shaky.”

“It does say ‘OK,’ though. Meaning he is.”

“It says that. There’s a third possibility. He says ‘till they’ve gone’ and I can’t think of them making a getaway by any means other than the way we discussed, Fox. If so they’ll come out at some time during the night, carrying their stuff. With Rick between them. They’ve worked it out that we won’t try anything because of the threat to Rick. We carry on now, with the old plan. We don’t know which door they’ll use so we’ll have two at the back and three at the front. And wait for them to emerge.”