The Case of the Threatened King Read online

  As Wyatt talked to the old tosher, Andrew bent down and, with only the slightest effort, wriggled through the partially blocked opening of the branch, dragging his pole behind him.

  “Hey, there! Hold on!” said Tucker when he noticed.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” said Wyatt angrily.

  “It’s done—I’m through—so stop fussing and tell me what you want me to do,” said Andrew.

  “I want you to come right back out here again!”

  “Well, I won’t!” said Andrew. “There’s something you wanted done over here or something you wanted to find out—something that has to do with Sara’s kidnapping. Now are you going to tell me what it is, what you want, or do I just have to go off on my own?”

  Wyatt bent down and looked at him through the small opening. The lantern cast shadows that made it difficult to read his expression, but it seemed to Andrew that his face was tense.

  “All right,” he said. “Turn around and tell me what you see.”

  “The sewer is smaller than the main one,” reported Andrew. “I’d say it’s about six feet high. There’s no walkway here, just a channel on the bottom that’s about a foot wide. The roof looks solid enough.”

  “How far can you see?”

  “About a hundred yards. Then the sewer curves to the left and I can’t see beyond that.”

  Wyatt looked down, thinking, then looked up again.

  “You say the roof looks solid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any sign of rats?”

  “No.”

  “Then, if you feel up to it, walk to the curve, see what you see on the far side of it, then come back and tell me what you saw.”

  Holding his pole across his chest as he had seen Abner hold his when he wasn’t toshing, Andrew started up the sewer. The water in the channel here was only a few inches deep and made only a faint trickling sound as opposed to the loud and steady rushing of the torrent in the main sewer. As a result, for the first time he could hear, not only the sound of his footsteps echoing in that confined space, but the distant rumble of traffic overhead. Somehow that made him aware of where he was—down under the city—and with that awareness came fear. For he was not only far down under the street, he was completely alone. Wyatt and Tucker might know where he was, but if he needed them, they couldn’t possibly get to him.

  One of his feet slipped, and he stepped into the filthy water of the channel, regained his balance and jumped out.

  This was silly! Why should he need anyone? He had told Wyatt that the roof looked solid, and it did. It seemed damper than the main sewer—water dripped from the overhead arch and it was blotched with dark discolorations and the horrid green of some kind of moss or mold—but there were no bricks missing as there were at the narrow place where he had crawled through. As for rats … Was that something moving ahead of him? No. It was just a shadow. The truth was that there was no reason for him to be afraid except that he was alone in a strange and unfamiliar place. And even if there were a good reason for it, he would still go on if there was even a possibility that it might bring Sara back.

  He reached the curve in the sewer, paused. About fifty yards past the bend, in the center of the sewer, was a large, dark mass. He looked at it, looked back toward the opening he had come through—the faint glow from the lanterns on the far side made it seem farther away than ever—then slowly went forward again.

  Whatever the dark thing was, it wasn’t alive because it hadn’t moved. And he didn’t think it could be anything dead—the body of a man or a large animal—because it was so square. When he got closer, he saw that it was a bundle—about two feet by three feet by a foot high—wrapped in oilskins and raised on pieces of wood so that it was well above the runnel in the center of the sewer. But that was not all. Two heavily coated wires came out of the top of the bundle and ran back down the sewer about twenty or thirty feet, then disappeared through a crack in the sewer’s left-hand wall.

  Andrew looked down at the bundle. The oilskin was torn in one place. Gripping the edges, he made the tear larger. The oilskin was wrapped around a wooden case. There was some lettering on top of the case. Adjusting his lantern, he bent down and read it, straightened up and hurried back along the sewer to where Wyatt and Tucker were waiting.

  “Well?” said Wyatt.

  “There’s something there—a big, square bundle wrapped in oilskin—about fifty yards past the bend in the sewer.”

  “Did you look at it closely? Can you tell me anything about it?”

  “Yes. I tore the oilskin so that I could see what was inside. There was a crate there, and the lettering on the lid said Nobel Explosives Company, N.G. seventy-five. But that’s not all. Two wires came out of the top of the crate and went through a crack in the left-hand wall.” He heard Wyatt draw in his breath sharply. “It’s dynamite, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s N.G. seventy-five?”

  “The strength—seventy-five percent nitroglycerine.”

  “Is that what you expected to find there?”

  “I thought it was likely.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Deactivate it.”

  “How?”

  “Get in there from the other end of the sewer and either cut or disconnect the wires.”

  “Can’t I do it?”

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want you to! I don’t want you to go near it again!”

  He could hear Tucker, on the other side of Wyatt, saying something about time.

  “If time is important, then you’ve got to let me do it,” said Andrew. “If you don’t, you’ve got to go to the Board of Works, find out where the manhole at the other end is, and come back down the sewer from who knows where. Besides, isn’t dynamite supposed to be fairly safe to handle?”

  “Dynamite is, but a detonator isn’t.” Wyatt paused. Andrew still couldn’t see his face clearly through the small opening, but he could see that his jaw was clamped shut and he could also see the gleam of sweat on his forehead. Then, abruptly,” All right,” he said. “Will you do exactly what I tell you to do? But exactly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a knife?”

  “No.”

  Again Tucker said something, and his hand came through the opening holding out a large pocket knife.

  “Careful with it,” he said. “It’s sharp.”

  Andrew nodded and took it.

  “The first thing I’d like you to do,” said Wyatt, “is pace off the distance to the bend in the sewer and then the distance to the place where the wires come out of the wall. Here’s a notebook and pencil.” He passed them through the opening. “Write the figures down.”

  “Right.”

  “About the dynamite, you’re not going to handle it, so there shouldn’t be any danger. You needn’t cut both wires. One will be enough. After you’ve cut it, twist the cut wire around the other one so that it doesn’t look as if it’s been disturbed. Got that?”

  “Yes. If anyone looks at it, you want them to think it’s the way it was.”

  “That’s it. All right. Go ahead.” His voice rose a little. “And hurry!”

  Andrew nodded. Though Wyatt had said that there was no danger in what he was going to do, he knew that the reason Wyatt had told him to hurry—and the reason his voice had gone up—was that he was worried.

  Turning, and trying to keep all his steps the same length, he began pacing off the distance to the bend in the sewer. He had thought it was about a hundred yards. It turned out to be ninety-two paces. He wrote the figure down in the notebook, then paced off the distance to where the wires came out of the sewer wall. Fifty six paces.

  He put the notebook and pencil in his pocket, took out Tucker’s knife and opened it. Wyatt had said that though dynamite was safe to handle, a detonator wasn’t. He knew that a lit fuse or an electric spark could set it off. What else could—hitt
ing or shaking it? He didn’t know, but he decided to be very careful.

  He separated the two wires, noting that though his mouth was dry, his hand was steady. Then, holding one wire against the wooden crate, he cut through it quickly and cleanly.

  He had not realized he had been holding his breath until his chest began to hurt and he let it out with a sigh. Twisting the cut wire around the other one, he pushed both of them inside the covering oilskin, then hurried back down the sewer at a pace that was almost a run.

  “All right,” he said when he reached the small opening that led into the main sewer.

  “Done?”

  “Yes.” Pushing his pole ahead of him, he bent down and started to crawl through the hole, but as soon as his head appeared, Wyatt took him by the shoulders and pulled him through—as if he couldn’t get him back to where he belonged soon enough.

  “Good show!” he said, his voice a little husky.

  “Yes, good as ever went endwise!” said Tucker, slapping him on the back. “Were you nervy?”

  “Yes, a little. I’m still not sure I understand what it’s all about.”

  “You will,” said Wyatt. He looked around. “Where’s Abner?”

  Tucker pointed to the old tosher, who had lost all interest in what they were doing and was continuing his scavenging up the sewer. Wyatt waved to him and, somewhat reluctantly he came back toward them.

  “We’re going,” said Wyatt.

  “Going where?”

  “Back. Out of the sewer.”

  Abner stared at him, puzzled. “But it’s still early. You just got here, and …” He suddenly remembered who they were, why they were there. “Did you find what you wanted?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it gonna help you find out who done Ernie in?”

  “It may.”

  “I want to see him scragged, whoever done it! Think you can find your way back to the manhole?”

  “I think so. Thanks, Abner.”

  He waved a disclaimer, turned and went back up the sewer, fishing in the drain as he went. They went the other way, walking quickly in single-file. They had no difficulty in finding the manhole. Tucker went up the ladder first and lifted the heavy metal cover. Andrew followed him, and Wyatt came last.

  Andrew looked around as Tucker replaced the manhole cover. They had been down in the sewer for less than an hour, but it seemed much longer than that. And though London has never been known for its salubrious air, after the reek of the sewer, the deep breaths they took seemed as fresh as a seaside breeze; and after the noise down there, the city seemed oddly quiet.

  “I don’t think we’ll need these anymore,” said Wyatt, untying his lantern and blowing it out, “but perhaps we’d better keep them just in case.”

  “Give it to me,” said Tucker, “and your pole. I’ll leave them at The Four Bells.” He took Andrew’s pole and lantern also. “Where will you be?”

  “Over that way,” said Wyatt, pointing. “I suspect on Claverton Street.”

  Tucker nodded and went off toward the pub. Wyatt took out the sewer plan, studied it for a moment, then said, “Have you got my notebook and the distances you paced off?”

  Andrew gave it to him and Wyatt opened the notebook.

  “The first distance from the beginning of the branch to the curve in the sewer was ninety-two paces?”

  “Yes.”

  Wyatt walked north to the first cross street.

  “All right. Count off ninety-two paces for me.”

  Andrew began walking east on the cross street, trying to keep his paces even and counting as he went. When he reached ninety-two, he stopped.

  “Here,” he said. He looked around. He was almost exactly in the center of Claverton Street, about a half-block north of the Serbian Embassy. “You knew that this was where it would take us, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Wyatt. “But I wanted to check your paces, make sure that they’re the same length now as they were down there. Now comes the important measurement.” He looked at the notebook. “The distance to where the wires went through the left-hand wall of the sewer was fifty-six paces?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come over here.” Wyatt led him to the curb, then lowered his voice. “Start pacing and counting from here, but don’t look down. Try to look as if we’re just walking up the street and talking.”

  Andrew nodded and began walking north on Claverton Street. Since it was a respectable, residential street, it was quiet at that hour of the morning. A brougham waited a short distance ahead of them. As they approached it, a top-hatted gentleman came out of the house, got into it, and the coachman drove off. A greengrocer’s delivery boy, carrying a basket of vegetables, came down the other side of the street whistling. Andrew had been counting to himself. When he got to number 56, he paused for a moment and said, “Here.”

  Wyatt glanced to his left across the street and Andrew followed his glance. The house that they were opposite, number 169, was Georgian—as were most of the houses on the street—but it wasn’t quite as well-kept as its neighbors. The pavement in front of it was swept, the brass doorknob and knocker were polished, and there were curtains in the windows of the parlor floor; but the bricks of the facade were discolored and could do with a scrubbing, the trim around the windows needed painting, and there were no curtains on the windows of the upper floors.

  “Keep walking,” said Wyatt.

  “That’s the house where the wire went, isn’t it?” asked Andrew.

  “If your measurements were correct, and I’m fairly sure they were.”

  “So am I.”

  “All right. We’ll turn around now and go back, but don’t look at the house as we go by. Look at me, and pretend I’m telling you something fascinating.”

  “I wouldn’t have to pretend if you told me what this is all about. It was easy to guess that that’s where the wire to the dynamite went, but I’m not sure I understand anything else.”

  “You will,” said Wyatt. They were almost at the cross-street now, and Tucker came hurrying around the corner, stopped when he saw them.

  “It’s number one sixty-nine,” said Wyatt quietly. “I want a watch kept on it, two plainclothes men—the best we’ve got—in front and two more in the back if there’s a rear exit. Clear?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  “If you’re going to the Yard to get them, take a cab. We’ve no time to waste.”

  Tucker nodded and hurried off toward the Embankment.

  “As for us,” said Wyatt to Andrew, “we’re going back to The Four Bells to get cleaned up a bit. Then we’re going to pay a call.”

  13

  The Young King

  “What day is today?” asked Maria.

  Sara, painstakingly writing another note, did not look up.

  “Wednesday.”

  “I don’t think so. I think it’s Thursday.”

  Finishing the note, Sara did look up. Maria was reading Raphael’s Almanac, the battered and torn Prophetic Messenger and Weather Guide that she had found in one of the bureau drawers.

  “I think it’s Wednesday, but what difference does it make?”

  “All the difference in the world,” said Maria. “If today’s Wednesday, then according to Raphael’s Everyday Guide, we should avoid letters and writing and keep quiet. But if it’s Thursday, then today is a most auspicious day and we will accomplish all that we’ve set our hearts on.”

  “I still say it doesn’t make any difference.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t believe any of that stuff, and even if I did, it wouldn’t matter because the book’s three years old.”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “No.”

  “I’m surprised at you. There are three or four pages of Raphael’s predictions here that came true.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, in the issue before this one he said that February was a dangerous time for travelling, and on February fourteenth there w
as a train wreck in New Jersey in the United States and seven people were killed and many injured.”

  “Oh, me! Oh, my!” said Sara ironically.

  “You don’t think that proves it?”

  “No. But even if I did think so, I ask you again what good it’ll do when the book’s three years old?”

  “Why should that make a difference?”

  “Because the stars are different each year, so that whatever they stand for will be different.”

  “Oh. Well, maybe. I was just looking for something to make us feel better.”

  “Well, maybe this will.” And she gave Maria the note she had written with her crude pen and homemade ink on another blank page from the Bible.

  “To whom it may concern,” it said. “Take this note to Count Michael Milanovitch at the Serbian Embassy, Claverton Street, and he will give you a handsome reward. Maria Milanovitch and Sara Wiggins.”

  “How much would you say was a handsome reward?” asked Maria. “Five pounds? Ten?”

  “I’ll leave that to your father. Outside of that do you think it’s all right?”

  “Oh, yes. Fine,” said Maria, giving it back to her.

  “All right, then,” said Sara. And wrapping the paper around a knob she had unscrewed from the chest of drawers, she tied it with another strip of cloth torn from her petticoat. Then, opening the west window this time and gauging the distance carefully, she threw it and had the satisfaction of seeing it clear the edge of the roof and drop down toward the wide street at the end of the alley.

  There were two constables stationed outside the door of the Serbian embassy when Andrew and Wyatt went there this time. One of them must have known Wyatt, for he saluted immediately, and after a whispered word, the other followed suit. Andrew glanced at Wyatt as he rang the bell. Though they had cleaned up and left their oilskin jackets at the pub, they still looked rather raffish, for they were both wearing old clothes and Wellingtons. However, since Wyatt didn’t seem the least bit disturbed about it, Andrew didn’t see why he should be.

  The door was opened by the same liveried porter they had seen on their last visit. Again Wyatt presented his card and asked to see Count Milanovitch. Possibly because of their appearance, the porter was even more reluctant to admit them than he had been the last time. But when Wyatt made it clear by his manner that he would not tolerate any delay or equivocation, the man took the card and disappeared through an ornate door to the left of the entrance hall.