Chapter Four
It was the faintest tinkling of glass, heard through the window open to let in the cool night air, which woke Phryne.
"Jack?" she whispered.
"Yes. Downstairs. Taking my gun," was the only shorthand needed for one who was equally instantly alert.
They rolled out of bed. Jack pulled on his canvas shoes and robe. Phryne made do with dragging her robe off its hanger on the way past, which meant she was out of the room and onto the stairs first, padding down in bare feet and slipping arms in as she descended. Jack cursed inwardly, and then admired her work. If only his men had the same ability to blend with the shadows.
At the foot of the stairs, they both paused; then Phryne touched the back of Jack's hand and he followed the line of her gesture in the moonlight reflecting through the fanlight over the front door.
The parlour door, closed when they retired for the night, was slightly ajar.
Jack took the lead this time, and moved to push it gently open, blessing Mr Butler's fastidiousness in keeping it well oiled (how else, after all, could he appear silently with more cocktails?).
A slight, black-clad figure was slowly working around the edge of the room. Jack pushed the door a little further, and edged through it.
They would both have been prepared to swear that he had made no sound in doing so; but the intruder's attention snapped to the door. Like lightning, he dove head first towards them over the couch, leaving Jack's revolver shot to pass harmlessly over him. He rolled, and in the process of regaining his feet, was dashing for the door. Phryne, spotting his approach, pushed it inwards towards him but found the assailant grasping his hand over hers on to the knob of the door itself, pivoting her helplessly into Jack, with a hand under her shoulder blade – the instant the assailant released his hand from hers, she stumbled and fell. Then the door slammed, and when Jack leaped to open it, he found it would not open, though the key was on the inside.
The front door was heard to open, and the gentle patter of plimsolled feet disappeared into the night.
They ran to the window, but nothing was to be seen. There was, however, plenty to be heard. The curses from both sleuths were colourful and violent, and interrupted only by the observance of a beam of light appearing under the sealed door.
"Inspector? Miss Fisher?" called Mr Butler.
"Thank you, Mr Butler, please lock the front door first, and then release us in whatever manner is required," called Jack.
After a short pause, the double doors opened.
"How on earth ….?" Jack muttered.
"Ingenious, sir, I have to say," commented Mr B. He was holding a thick leather lace, around eighteen inches long. At each end was a lead weight.
"It was wound around the two door knobs, sir. Must have taken less than a second to secure it." He demonstrated the rapidity of the swinging motion that wrapped his forearm tightly.
Phryne grimaced. "It wouldn't hold for long, but we weren't expecting it, so we didn't know what had happened. A few seconds was all he needed, and he got them." She held out her hand for the weapon that Mr Butler had unwound again. "You could use it on a person too. I do hate it when someone comes up with a weapon more elegant than the one I'm using."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "From where I'm standing, Miss Fisher, you're the most elegant weapon in the southern hemisphere, although Mr B might want to avert his eyes until you've retied your robe."
She did so hastily and asked Mr Butler where the vase was.
"I know he didn't get it, Mr B – but where have you put it?"
He led them through to the kitchen, where the door was showing the signs of a very neat forced entrance – one pane punched out of the glass, to land on a paper pushed under the door. Both Jack and Phryne thanked their stars that they had slept lightly enough to hear the slight noise that would have been created.
Mr Butler then led them on to the pantry, where the rows of jars were set out tidily. Flour, Sugar, Oatmeal, Rice, Currants, Ashes of Unknown Deceased Person, Dessicated Coconut.
"In plain sight has always worked best for me, Miss," he explained.
She thanked him, but they decided that the vase would spend the rest of the night in Jack and Phryne's room (Jack still called it her boudoir). Between them, Jack and Mr Butler secured the back door and the household retired for what remained of the night.
On her way back upstairs, Phryne suddenly thought of Jane, but her adoptive daughter's ability to sleep through anything possibly up to and including the Last Trump had once more been evidenced. A career in medicine, Phryne thought, was indicated strongly.
Jack, on the other hand, sighed for the previously quiet life City South had been expecting later that morning.