The Case of the Threatened King Read online

  There was the sound of voices from the back of the house, and footsteps came down the hall toward the parlor. Andrew turned, puzzled. They were a man’s footsteps, but they weren’t Matson’s; he walked much more quietly and diffidently. The door opened, and Wyatt came in followed by Sergeant Tucker.

  “Good morning,” he said. Andrew had a feeling that he had not had much sleep the night before, but he did not look it. He was freshly shaved and his clothes were unwrinkled.

  “Good morning,” said Verna.

  “How did you get in?” asked Andrew.

  “Back way,” said Tucker. “Through the mews and the stable.”

  “Why?”

  “We didn’t want anyone to know we were here,” said Wyatt. He looked at Andrew’s mother and then at Mrs. Wiggins. “Any word? Anything?”

  “No, Inspector,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “Nothing.”

  “Has the morning post been delivered?”

  “Yes. There was nothing there.”

  “Well, that doesn’t mean anything. It’s still pretty early.”

  “Have you had breakfast, Inspector?” asked Andrew’s mother.

  “Yes. The sergeant and I had it together some time ago. I assume you did.”

  “Andrew and I did, but not Mrs. Wiggins. She says she can’t eat anything.”

  “Oh.” Wyatt looked at the housekeeper. “You really should make yourself eat, Mrs. Wiggins,” he said gently. “I know what a bad time this is for you, but …” He broke off as a bell jangled in the kitchen. “Is that the front door?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Wiggins, her eyes widening.

  “Let Matson open the door,” said Wyatt to Tucker, who had already started out, “but stand by.”

  “Yes, Inspector,” said Tucker, going out.

  They waited, heard the front door open. There was a brief exchange between Matson and someone else, a perfunctory knock on the sitting room door, and Matson came in with an envelope on a silver tray.

  “A note for Mrs. Wiggins,” he said.

  “I’ll take it,” said Wyatt. He opened the envelope, took out a hair ribbon and a note, read the note and said, “Who brought it, Matson?”

  “A boy, sir.”

  “What kind of boy?”

  “A rather dirty one, sir. A street urchin.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He gave me the note, started to leave. The sergeant let him get almost to the street, then called to him. I think—” The front door closed, and Matson looked out into the hall. “Yes. Here they come.”

  He stepped aside, and Tucker and a boy came into the room. He was probably about ten years old, though if he was, he was small for his age. His hair, closely cropped, stood up in spikes on top of his head. His boots were cracked and full of holes, and his ragged trousers were held up by a piece of rope. But though his face was far from clean, it was bright and alert.

  “Did you deliver this note?” Wyatt asked him, holding it up.

  “Yus, guv’ner.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Harry.”

  “Can you tell me where you got the note, Harry? Who gave it to you?”

  “Yes, but it won’t do you much good.”

  “Why not?”

  “Are you a busy?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “You wouldn’t be asking me all those questions if you wasn’t. Besides, I think he is,” he said, nodding toward Sergeant Tucker, who was in plain clothes. “He used to be a copper.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Tucker.

  “Because I done your boots a couple of times when you was in uniform.”

  “Wait a minute. I thought you looked familiar. You used to black boots in front of the Underground station.”

  “I still do.”

  “Will you tell us where you got that note, Harry?”

  “Sure, guv’ner. It happened a little while ago. A carriage pulls up and the charley-boy inside asks me if I want to make two bob. I says sure and starts to look in, but he says, ‘Never mind that. Stay where you are.’ And he hands me the envelope and two bob and says, ‘Take this to Twenty-three Rysdale Road and no tricks because someone’ll be watching you and if you try anything on you’ll get your neck broke.’ So that’s what I done. I brung it here.”

  “And you never got a look at the man who gave it to you?”

  “No. He was sitting back in the corner, and when I sees he don’t want me to lamp him, I don’t try.”

  “You said he was in a carriage. Was it a private carriage or a cab?”

  “Neither. It wasn’t no cab because it didn’t have no number on it. And it wasn’t smart enough to be private. I think it was a livery carriage.”

  “What about the coachman? Did you get a look at him?”

  “Just from the back. He never turned around. But he was a big boyo.”

  “Can you tell me anything at all about the man in the carriage? Was he a toff, for instance?”

  “Nohow! He talked about like me.”

  “Well, that’s a help. Do you think you’d know the carriage if you saw it again?”

  “I might.”

  “All right. I’m Inspector Wyatt. If you see the carriage again and you can find out anything about it or the man who gave you the note, leave word for me at the Wellington Road police station. In the meantime, here.”

  The boy looked at the silver Wyatt had put in his hand and whistled softly.

  “Righty-ho, guv’ner. I’ll keep my best eye out.”

  “Good for you.”

  They watched him go, then Andrew asked, “Is the note about Sara?”

  “Yes,” said Wyatt. He gave the note to Mrs. Wiggins, who took it with hands that were not quite steady.

  “What does it say?” asked Verna.

  Mrs. Wiggins, who had been reading it, swallowed and read it out loud:

  “‘We got your daughter. Here’s her hair ribbon to prove it.’ ”

  “Is it her hair ribbon?” asked Wyatt.

  “Yes. ‘If you go to the police or try any tricks, you’ll never see her again. But if you do as you’re told, you’ll get her back safe and sound. We want two hundred pounds. Get it, and we’ll let you know how to get it to us in a day or so.’”

  “What are you going to do?” Verna asked Wyatt.

  “What would you do if I weren’t in on the case?”

  “Go to the bank and get the two hundred pounds.”

  “Fine. Take a bag with you and do that. Then, when you get back home here, take the money out and put it away somewhere. We’ll give you the money to give them.”

  “Why should you do that?”

  “Because what we’ll give you will look good, but it will be queer—counterfeit money. We’ll try to spot them when they pick it up, but if we can’t, we’ll have a second chance to trace them when they try to pass it.”

  “Clever.”

  “But isn’t this all dangerous?” asked Mrs. Wiggins. “I mean, can’t it be for Sara? The note said that if I went to the police …”

  “But you didn’t,” said Wyatt. “And since Tucker and I came in the back way, they can’t know that we were here already.”

  “Do you think they’re watching the place?” asked Andrew.

  “I think it’s very likely. It’s clear from everything they’ve done so far that they know what they’re doing.”

  “It’s too bad we couldn’t have had someone outside to spot whoever they had watching the house. That might have given us a lead.”

  “It might,” said Wyatt. “But I’m sure you know what the problem was. We had no assurance that a note would be delivered by hand rather than through the mail. And besides—” He broke off at a polite knock.

  “Yes? Come in,” said Verna.

  The door opened, and a rather nondescript man in stained overalls and an old cap came in. It was not until Andrew saw the trowel in his pocket that he recognized the mason who had been on the scaffold across the street.

&
nbsp; “Oh, hello, Dodson,” said Wyatt. “Came in the back way, I hope?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  “This is Constable Dodson, one of our very good men,” said Wyatt. Then, turning back to him, “Well?”

  “Was the note we’re interested in delivered by a boy—small, ragged, with spikey hair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, someone did follow him, watched to make sure he delivered the note, then left.”

  “Description?” said Tucker, his notebook out and pencil ready.

  “A rather short, slight man, about five foot three. A thin face with dark hair and dark eyes set close together. He was wearing a dark suit with a kingsman around his neck instead of a collar or tie.”

  “Any other characteristics or anything else that might help identify him?”

  “Yes. If you look at him quickly, he looks as if he’s smiling. But if you look at him more closely, you see he’s not. I’ve a feeling he’s dangerous.”

  “Thank you, Dodson.”

  “May I ask you something?” asked Andrew.

  Dodson glanced at Wyatt and when he nodded, said, “Yes?”

  “You were on the scaffold across the street, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Every time I looked at you, you were working and had your back to the house here. How could you have seen anyone who followed the boy?”

  With a slight smile, Dodson produced a small hand mirror, held it up so that Andrew could see how he had looked over his shoulder without turning around.

  “Oh. Of course,” said Andrew.

  “Will you go to central records at the Yard,” said Wyatt, “and see if you can find anything about him there?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  “Some day,” said Tucker, “we’ll have photographs of everyone who’s ever been convicted of a crime on file. Then, when you’re trying to identify someone, you’ll look through the file for his picture.”

  “Sir Francis Galton has come up with something even more interesting than that,” said Wyatt.

  “What’s that, Inspector?”

  “He’s been studying the prints that our fingers leave when we touch anything, and he’s proved conclusively that no two people have the same fingerprints. If he can get the department to adopt his system of analyzing and recording fingerprints, can you imagine what that would do for police work?”

  “It would make our job a lot easier,” said Dodson.

  “Yes, it would. But in the meantime, we have to do things the old way. If you find anything in central records, let me know, Dodson.”

  Dodson said he would and left.

  “Have you any questions, Mrs. Wiggins?” asked Wyatt. “Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

  “No, Inspector,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “I don’t understand everything that’s been going on, everything you’re doing, but … Do you still feel the way you did yesterday, that you’ll be able to get Sara back safe and sound?”

  “We’ve learned several things today,” said Wyatt. “The most important of which is that we’re dealing with some very cool and smart customers who know just what they’re doing. And frankly, I’d much rather deal with someone like that than with someone who’s frightened and might lose his head. So … Yes, I repeat what I said yesterday. We’re going to do everything in our power to get Sara back, and we’ve more reason than ever to expect we’ll be able to.”

  6

  The Second Note

  At about two-thirty the next afternoon, Andrew got off a light green Brixton omnibus just before it crossed Westminster Bridge and turned left on the Embankment on his way to Scotland Yard. There had been no further word from Sara’s kidnappers, and he knew that his mother had suggested that he report to Wyatt, not because she thought it was a useful bit of information, but because she could see what effect his anxiety was having on Mrs. Wiggins, and she wanted to get him away, out of the house.

  Knowing this, he still went gladly because it gave him something to do and because he hoped that Wyatt would have something to say that would lessen his fears and make him feel better about the situation. Because, with every hour that passed, he became more anxious and more depressed. Walking gloomily along, he was brought up short by a barrier around an excavation in the street. As he paused there, watching the navvies at work with their picks and shovels, he was struck by the complexity that lay beneath the streets of London, for besides the Underground and the sewers, there was a bewildering tangle of water and gas pipes and conduits carrying telegraph lines.

  Continuing around the edge of the excavation, he wondered how much of it would be left in, say, a thousand years, and what some Layard, Heinrich Schliemann or Flinders Petrie of the future would make of it. And thinking that, he thought again of what Wyatt had said about archeology and detective work.

  He went in through the archway that was the main entrance to the Yard, crossed the courtyard and entered the building. He gave his name to the desk sergeant, who passed it on to a constable; and a few minutes later, he was led upstairs and along a corridor to a numbered door. He knocked, was told to come in, and then he was in Wyatt’s bare office, which seemed even smaller than usual because Sergeant Tucker was there too, sitting against the wall and using a corner of Wyatt’s desk to copy something from his notebook onto an official form.

  “Hello, Andrew,” said Wyatt. “Well?”

  “Mother and Mrs. Wiggins are standing by at home,” he said, “but so far there’s no word. We haven’t heard anything.”

  “Is that what you came here to tell me?”

  “Well, yes. Mother thought you’d like to know and … Well, we—she, Mrs. Wiggins and I—wondered whether you’d heard anything, found out anything.”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “What about the small dark man who was watching to make sure that Harry delivered the note?”

  “Dodson spent all of yesterday and most of today down in central records, but so far he hasn’t been able to make an identification.”

  “I see.”

  “Don’t look so disappointed,” said Tucker. “A lot of police work calls for patience. As I said yesterday, maybe someday we’ll have pictures of criminals we can go through, and that’ll speed things up. But, at the moment, it’s a slow business.”

  “All right,” said Andrew. “But are you still hopeful about finding Sara?”

  “Of course we are,” said Wyatt firmly. “I know how difficult this is for all of you, but there are times when there’s nothing you can do but wait for more facts, new developments, something that will give you the lead you need.”

  “In the meantime, there’s all your other work that has to be done,” said Tucker. He gave Wyatt the material he’d been copying from his notebook. “Here are my notes on the Farnum case.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant. I’ll look at them later.”

  Tucker shook his head. “The commissioner wants a report this afternoon.”

  Wyatt looked at him, then at Andrew. “A slave driver, that’s what he is. Will you excuse me, Andrew? I’m afraid …”

  There was a knock, and Tucker opened the door. The constable who had brought Andrew up was standing there. He handed Tucker a note. Tucker glanced at it, raised an eyebrow and gave it to Wyatt.

  “It’s your mother, Andrew,” said Wyatt, reading it.

  “Here?”

  “Yes. Show her up, Diggs,” he said to the constable. Then, to Tucker, “Do you mind if Andrew waits till we find out why she came here?”

  “No,” said Tucker. “I don’t mind.”

  “She must have gotten some word about Sara,” said Andrew.

  “So I suspect.”

  A few minutes later there was another light tap on the door; Tucker opened it, and Verna came in.

  “Another note?” said Wyatt.

  “Yes.” She took it out of her handbag, gave it to him. “It came shortly after you left,” she said to Andrew.

  “What does it say?”

  “
It tells us what to do about the money. We’re to put it in a bag and leave it in a dustbin in Regent’s Park.”

  “Here, Sergeant,” said Wyatt, giving the note to Tucker. “You’d better read it and write down the details because you’re going to cover the delivery.” Then to Verna, “How did you come here?”

  “The way you came to the house. I went out the back way, through the stable and the mews and took a hansom.”

  “I knew I could count on you to do just what you should.”

  “Do you think someone’s watching the house?” asked Andrew.

  “I think it’s possible, but since they’ve no reason to think you’ve been in touch with the police, I suspect they’d only watch the front. You have the counterfeit money we gave you?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Go back home the way you came, get the money and have Fred drive you to the park and leave the money at the place the note tells you to.”

  “Should Mrs. Wiggins come with me?”

  “Yes. After all, the note was addressed to her. Have you any questions, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir,” said Tucker, giving the note back to Verna. “I’ll have three men cover the pickup, one of them Dodson so he can keep an eye out for the yob we’ve been looking for, the one who watched young Harry drop off the first note.”

  “Good idea. What will they be, park attendents?”

  “Something like that. And a soldier walking out with a nursemaid—whatever I can lay on at short notice. Which means I’d better get cracking.” Bowing to Verna, he hurried out.

  “I’d better go too,” said Verna. “Are you coming, Andrew?”

  “Would you mind if he stayed here for a while?” asked Wyatt. “There’s something I want to talk to him about.”

  Verna looked at him sharply, then nodded.

  “All right. I’ll see you later, Andrew. At home.” And she left too.

  Andrew looked closely at Wyatt.

  “You’re worried, aren’t you?” he said.

  “Yes, a bit.”

  “Because of this second note.”

  “No. I’m glad we got it. It’s when you lose contact with a kidnapper or blackmailer that you have reason to be concerned. There’s something else I’m worried about—or perhaps I should say that’s been puzzling me—from the beginning. Has it occurred to you that there’s something very odd about it?”