The Case of the Threatened King Page 14

  “Where are they?” asked Wyatt.

  “There,” said Andrew, pointing to a house several hundred yards farther up the street.

  “How do you know?”

  “Sara used a mirror to flash sun in my eyes.”

  It was typical of Andrew’s feelings about Sara that he never doubted for a moment that it was she. And it was typical of Wyatt’s attitude toward both of them, that he never asked Andrew how he knew it was Sara.

  The house, more dilapidated and rundown than any near it, was on the other side of the street, next to an alley. They crossed the street, ran up the steps and tried the door. It was locked. As Andrew threw himself futilely against it, the count looked down into the area and went even whiter than he had been.

  “Look!” he said, pointing down at the smoke that was beginning to puff out through the iron gate and from the cracks in the basement windows. “That woman! She said …”

  Though he was unquestionably the strongest man there, Tucker did not even try the door. After one glance at it, he took out his whistle and blew three shrill blasts. The two men in the coal dealer’s dray sat up, and when Tucker waved to them, the driver shook the reins and sent the dray rattling up the street toward them. Tucker went running down the steps to meet it.

  “Give me a pinch bar quick!” he shouted.

  Stopping in front of the house, one of the plain-clothesmen, dressed as a coal heaver, reached under the seat, brought out a short crowbar and threw it to Tucker. Then he took out an axe and a sledge hammer, and he and his mate started up the steps to join Tucker. But he needed no help. Driving the slightly bent chisel edge of the jemmy into the side of the door next to the knob, he surged against it. There was a splintering, snapping sound, and the door burst open. Smoke, curling up from below, was starting to fill the hallway, and not far off, they could hear the crackle of flames.

  “Do you know where they are?” asked Wyatt.

  “Yes. Attic. I’ll show you,” said Andrew, starting up the stairs.

  The other house, number 169, seemed to have been sparsely furnished, but there was no sign of any furniture at all in this one. Racing up the stairs, Andrew went past room after empty room. Even where the doors were closed, he had a feeling that the rooms behind them were bare and unfurnished. By the time he reached the last, uncarpeted flight of stairs that led to the servant’s quarters in the attic, his heart was pounding and he was panting. The stairs took him to a short, dusty corridor with one door opening off it. He turned the knob, threw himself against it, but the door did not open. He threw himself against it again, but it did not budge.

  “It’s locked!” he said to Wyatt, who had now joined him. “Did the sergeant bring up the pinch bar?”

  “No,” said Tucker, coming up the last flight of stairs with the count behind him. “But I don’t need it. Stand back.”

  Bracing himself against the wall, he drove the heel of his heavy boot against the door with tremendous force. Again there was a splintering noise, and the door opened as the one below had done.

  Andrew was the first one into the sparsely furnished attic room. A dark-haired girl whom he did not know was lying bound and gagged on one of the two cots. Sara, also bound and gagged, was lying in a heap on the floor. As he bent down, started to pick her up, she opened her eyes and looked at him.

  “I’ll take her,” said Wyatt, pushing Andrew aside. “Tucker, get the other one.”

  “Got her,” said the sergeant, picking up Maria. Then, as the count appeared in the doorway, “She’s all right, sir. Now go on back down and out of here before we’re all frizzled like kippers. Because this place is going up like a Guy Fawkes bonfire.”

  There was good reason for this exhortation, for the smoke was getting thicker and the crackling of flames louder. By the time they got downstairs they were all coughing, and Andrew’s eyes were watering so that he could barely see. But one of the detectives dressed as a coal heaver stood in the hallway with a bandanna tied over his mouth and guided them out.

  Tucker gave Maria to her father, who stood there hugging her, but Wyatt carried Sara across the street before he put her down. Andrew was trying to untie the cloth that was tied around her mouth when Tucker handed him his clasp knife. Andrew cut the cloth, cut the rope that tied her hands and feet and helped her sit up.

  “Well,” said Sara, spitting out her gag, “you sure took your blinking time finding me, didn’t you?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Andrew.

  “You should be! If you’d been copped and I’d been outside, I’ll bet I’d have found you days ago!”

  “I’m sure you would,” said Andrew.

  Then looking at his smoke-stained face, her eyes filled with tears, and as he put his arms around her, she buried her face against his chest.

  16

  The Two Recognitions

  Young King Alexander’s visit to Scotland Yard took place two days later, and it was, to begin with, fairly routine. He had asked if Sara and Maria, whom he had not yet met, could be there along with Andrew, and when they agreed, Count Milanovitch suggested that they all come to his house afterward to celebrate the king’s escape from jeopardy and Maria’s safe return. They all agreed to this too, though Wyatt was hesitant about it until the count assured him that though the king would be there also, it would all be very simple and informal.

  They met at the Yard at three o’clock, and though Sara had not been drilled as intensively as Maria, when she was presented to the king, she gave him a splendid royal curtsey, one that Miss Fizdale would have been proud of. She and Maria were both understandably shy at first, but the young king was so warm and unaffected, so obviously interested in everything that Wyatt showed him, that by the time they left the Black Museum they were all chattering as if they had known one another for years.

  Andrew’s first suspicion that something out of the ordinary was about to happen came as they were preparing to leave. When they had first arrived at the Yard, the two constables who had been assigned to guard the king and went with him everywhere had remained at the entrance to the courtyard. Now there were a score or more policemen standing there as if they were waiting for something. At the same time, a small group of men had gathered near the building’s main entrance. Andrew recognized at least two of them. One was Chadwick of the Foreign Office, and the other was someone he had not seen for some time.

  “Isn’t that Superintendent Wendell?” he asked Tucker, who was standing near him.

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s the grey-haired man with him?”

  “The commissioner.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  There was something so unconvincing about the way Tucker said this that Andrew turned to look at him and realized that Wyatt was staring at him too; but exhibiting a sudden absorption in a loose button on his coat sleeve, the sergeant avoided both their eyes. Looking again at the men who stood on the far side of the commissioner, the superintendent and Chadwick, Andrew saw that most of them had notebooks in their hands and realized that they must be reporters and that at least one of them was making a sketch of the Yard and all those in it.

  It was at this moment, as Wyatt, looking stricken, tried to slip back into the building, that the king stepped forward and addressed him.

  “Yes, Your Majesty?” said Wyatt.

  “I have thanked you before, you and all those others gathered here who helped unravel and prevent the atrocious plot on my life. But words are not enough. And so, in the presence of representatives of your government and mine, of officials of your splendid police department and of your colleagues, I would like to present you with the highest honor my country can bestow, the Order of St. Simeon.”

  He turned to Count Milanovitch, who had produced a velvet-covered case and was holding it out to him. The king took out the decoration, an enameled and jewelled Maltese cross strung on a gold and purple ribbon. Wyatt, his face pale, bent his head, and as the king slipped the
ribbon over it, all those in the courtyard, and particularly the constables, cheered.

  “It is an honor I will always treasure, Your Majesty,” said Wyatt. “Thank you.” Then, in a lower voice, “I don’t have to wear it now, do I?”

  “No,” said the king, smiling. “Give him the box, Michael. But I shall expect you to wear it when you come to dinner at the embassy and when you come to visit me in Serbia.”

  Then, as Chadwick, the commissioner and the superintendent came over to congratulate Wyatt and to talk to the king, Andrew said to Tucker, “You knew about it, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. They twigged he wouldn’t like it, so they told me not to say anything about it. But they said it was very important, not just for the inspector and the Yard, but for relations between us and the king’s country.”

  “It sounds like a Foreign Office do. And of course that’s why the press is here.”

  Tucker nodded. And it was then, as the journalists came forward to talk to Wyatt and the king, that Andrew and the sergeant saw someone else who had been standing behind them, General Wyatt.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” said Andrew. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t see you before. Have you been here long?”

  “About ten minutes.”

  “More of your work, Sergeant?” asked Andrew.

  “You mean, did he suggest that I come here?” said the general. “No. I came entirely by accident. It’s been several days since I was here last, and—”

  He broke off as Wyatt, hearing his voice, turned and saw him.

  “Father!”

  “Good afternoon, Peter.”

  Again Wyatt looked sharply at Tucker, glanced once more at his father, then made up his mind.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, “may I present my father, General Wyatt?”

  “Your father?” said the young king, turning to the erect, white-haired man. “I’m delighted to meet you, General.” Then, with great warmth, “You must be very proud of your son.”

  “I am,” said the general simply.

  “Of course, you know Commissioner Clyde of the Metropolitan Police.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Allow me the pleasure of presenting you,” said the king, and taking the general by the arm, he began introducing him to the commissioner, the superintendent and all the others who surrounded them.

  A third time Wyatt looked at Tucker, a dour, dire look.

  “He didn’t do it,” said Sara. “Tell your father about all this, I mean.”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “Yes. And he wouldn’t lie about it.”

  “Not even if he knew I was considering having him transferred to foot patrol on the Isle of Dogs?”

  “I might,” said Tucker. “But as it happens, I didn’t tell him about it. If you don’t believe me, you can ask the old gentleman himself.”

  Wyatt grunted, and as he glanced at the general, standing there next to the king, Count Milanovitch, who had been with them, approached them.

  “As you’ve no doubt noticed,” he said, “His Majesty is greatly taken with your father and has invited him to join us at my place. I’m sure you have no objection to that.”

  “No,” said Wyatt. “I’ve no objection.”

  The general’s hearing must have been very good or very discriminating, for in spite of the talk that was going on around him, he glanced at Wyatt.

  “Are you sure, Peter?” he asked,

  “Yes, father.”

  “Then … I don’t know how much longer you plan to stay here, but my carriage is waiting on the Embankment, and I’ll be glad to take you to the count’s house—you, your two young friends and Sergeant Tucker.”

  “I could do without Sergeant Tucker very nicely, but … Very well. I’ve had enough of the hooraw here. I’m ready to go now.”

  “Splendid.” And with military skill and diplomatic finesse, the general effected a disengagement and led his party out through the gate to the Embankment.

  “There’s just one thing,” said Wyatt as the coachman opened the carriage door and stood there at attention. “I’d like to stop for a moment on Dover Street.”

  “Just give Perkins the address,” said the general. “In you go, miss,” he said, helping Sara in.

  They were all silent for a few moments after the carriage started. Then, somewhat tentatively, the general said, “I hope you’ll forgive me, but I’m afraid I don’t know the details of the exploit that lies behind that ceremony at the Yard. I gather you did something quite remarkable, Peter.”

  “It wasn’t remarkable at all,” said Wyatt.

  “Of course not,” said Sara scornfully. “He does that sort of thing every day and twice on Sunday.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “Rescuing the count’s daughter and me from kidnappers and saving the king from being blown to kingdom come.”

  “That’s enough, Sara,” said Wyatt.

  “Not half, it’s not! After all, a lot of it happened to me, and I got a right to talk about it if I want to.” Then, as Wyatt half-rose, fumbling with the door handle, “Sergeant, you’re bigger than he is. Can’t you keep him quiet while I tell the general about it?”

  “I’ll try. After all, it is all going to be in the newspapers, sir.”

  “But I won’t have to listen to what they say,” said Wyatt.

  “Then don’t listen,” said Sara and launched into a graphic, but on the whole accurate, account of what had happened.

  “There’s just one thing I don’t understand,” said Andrew. “Why did they need two houses, one on Claverton Street and one just off it?”

  “Think!” said Wyatt. “I can tell you that Colonel Kosta leased the one off Claverton Street about a month ago, shortly after he came to London, and Addie took the other one just a few days ago.”

  “Of course,” said Andrew. “Kosta needed a place immediately in which to keep Maria and, as it happened, Sara. But it was only after they had gotten the count out of the way and learned what route the king was going to take to Buckingham Palace that they knew where to place the dynamite and therefore where the second house had to be.”

  “Exactly. Apparently Kosta had worked out the broad outline of the plot before he came here. But he needed someone with a specialized knowledge of London criminals and, as it happened, of sewer workers to establish the details. That’s why he got in touch with Addie Barnett.”

  “Well, I must say I think that what you did was remarkable. And when I say you, I mean all of you,” said the general, looking around the carriage. “And of course now I understand why you haven’t had a chance to do anything about the problem I presented you with, Peter.”

  “You mean finding Harriet.”

  “Yes. Why are we stopping?” he asked as the carriage drew up in front of a sober brownstone townhouse. “Oh. Is this the address you wanted?”

  Wyatt glanced at the bronze plaque next to the door, which identified the building as the Twelfth Night Club, and nodded.

  “I shouldn’t be more than a few minutes,” he said, opening the carriage door. “Would you like to come in with me, sir?”

  “Me? Why should I?”

  “You might find it interesting.”

  “If you say so,” said the general stepping out of the carriage after him. “What sort of club is it?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Wyatt. “I’ll enquire.”

  They entered the club, which seemed particularly quiet and sedate. Wyatt approached the uniformed porter at the desk and talked to him for a moment. The porter nodded and went off along the corridor that led to the club’s public rooms, and Wyatt returned to the general.

  “It’s a woman’s club,” he said.

  “I gather you didn’t know that.”

  “No. I suspected it, but didn’t know for sure.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of criticizing your methods if this is a police matter, Peter—not after the success you’ve just had—nor your manners, if it’s social, but
may I say that I find this rather odd? You come here, to a place you apparently don’t know, I assume to meet someone—”

  “Let’s say, rather, that I came here hoping to find someone.”

  “But who? And why did you think I might be interested? After all—”

  He broke off, staring, as the porter came back down the corridor, followed by a slim and attractive young woman.

  “Harriet!”

  “Hello, Father. Hello, Peter,” she said. “I must say it took you longer to find me than I thought it would.”

  “As it happens, I could have done so almost immediately,” said Wyatt, “but I’ve been rather busy. And besides, I saw no particular need to hurry.”

  She stared at him, startled and a little disconcerted.

  “No need?”

  “Just a second,” said the general. “Are you saying you knew where she was all along?”

  “It depends on what you mean by all along. Her letter told me a good deal, and the visit to her room told me everything else I needed to know.”

  “What? But you only saw the letter once. I’ve had it all along and read it many times, and I didn’t find anything in it …”

  “We don’t read things in quite the same way. Was there any mention of me in the letter?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you come to me?”

  “Well, we may not have been on good terms, but I knew you liked Harriet and finding people is part of your job.”

  “Which the letter went out of its way to remind you of when it spoke of Scotland Yard. It was fairly clear to me that what Harriet was saying was, ‘All of Scotland Yard might not be able to find me, but one person there might.’”

  “Bravo,” said Harriet. “That’s just what I meant.”

  “Once I decided that she wanted me involved, the rest was easy. Did you recognize the final quotation in which she talked of sitting like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief?”

  “I’m not sure. Shakespeare, isn’t it?”