The Case of the Threatened King Page 7

  “It is.”

  “I remember now that my son said that Andrew had been involved in several of your cases.”

  “He was not just involved. He was very helpful.”

  “I congratulate him. And you too. Now what can I do for you?”

  “We’re going over to see someone at the Servian Embassy this afternoon and, before we go, there are a few things I would like to ask you about.”

  “It’s a country I’m particularly interested in, know a good deal about, and I’ll be glad to tell you anything you want to know. To begin with, don’t call it Servia. Call it Serbia.”

  “I wondered about that. The atlas calls it Servia.”

  “I know. I don’t know where that originated, but the Serbs resent it bitterly. They claim we’re the only people in Europe who call it that—which is true—and that we do it because we believe the name derives from servus, meaning slave.”

  “I see. I’ll be careful about it.”

  “Do. Would you care to tell me what you’re going to see about?” Then, as Wyatt hesitated, “Quite all right if you’d rather not talk about it. I just wondered if this was related to something I asked you about when we met at Lord’s.”

  “Whether the Yard ever operated outside the country.”

  “Yes. I told you that there’d been a shooting at our Embassy in Paris. What I didn’t tell you was that the man who was shot was the Serbian ambassador to France.”

  Wyatt’s eyebrows went up. “That’s interesting. Has the murderer been caught?”

  “Though the ambassador was badly wounded, fortunately he did not die and will recover. As to who did the shooting—or at least is responsible for it—anyone who knows anything about Serbia, its history and present status, could probably guess.”

  “That of course is one of the reasons we came to see you—to learn something about our relations with Serbia.”

  “I would say that they are not only warm and friendly, but protective. And for a very good reason. If there is going to be a major war—and there are many who feel that it is inevitable—it will undoubtedly start in the Balkans.”

  “The powder keg of Europe.”

  “Exactly. And if that’s true, then Serbia could well be the fuse—especially since young Alexander became king.”

  “That happened recently, didn’t it?”

  “About four months ago. Before that, ever since the late king’s death, Serbia was ruled by a regent, General Petroff. The reason the situation there is so unstable is that the general was not only reluctant to give up his power, but his bid for power was backed by several other countries that are not particularly friendly to us. The Serbian people, on the other hand, hated the general and love young Alexander—which is one of the reasons we support him, and which, in turn, is why he is coming here.”

  “He is coming?”

  “Yes. Either tomorrow or the next day. You didn’t know about it?”

  “No. There was some mention of it in the press, and then it was dropped.”

  “There’s been a certain amount of conflict about it between us here in the Foreign Office and your Special Branch, which is responsible for protecting the king. They would like to keep the whole thing as quiet as possible, whereas we want the whole country to know about it. The controversy has finally been settled in our favor, and since you seem particularly interested in Serbia, I think you should be apprised of the Special Branch’s plans.”

  “That might be helpful,” said Wyatt.

  “Good. Percy,” he said to his young assistant, “would you talk to Sir Roger and arrange it?”

  “Of course,” said Wyndham and left the room.

  “Now is there anything else I can tell you?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Wyatt. “I assume General Petroff was responsible for the shooting of the ambassador.”

  “I don’t think there’s any doubt about it. He’s been plotting against the king ever since he had to give up the regency. He probably tried to get the ambassador to join him and, when he refused, had him shot.”

  “I see. Is there anything else you think I should know?”

  “Well, I’ve prepared some background material you might want to look at, especially if you’re going to be talking to Sir Roger.”

  He took some papers from a portfolio on his desk and gave them to Wyatt. As Wyatt sat down and began going through them, Andrew went to one of the windows and looked out. To his left, through the huge elms that shaded this portion of the park, he could see the suspension bridge that crossed the lake. The last time he was in London, he and Sara had stood there, near the middle of the bridge, trying to identify the varieties of ducks and geese that were swimming there and watching the pelicans at the Horse Guards end of the lake through a pair of his mother’s opera glasses. Where was Sara now? Was she thinking of him as he was of her?

  There must have been something in Andrew’s expression that attracted Chadwick’s attention and either piqued his interest or prodded his memory, for he now asked, “How’s your friend?”

  “Friend?”

  “The girl who was at Lord’s with you—Sara Wiggins?”

  As Andrew hesitated, Wyatt looked up from the papers he was reading.

  “She’s fine,” he said firmly and unequivocally. Then, indicating the papers, “These are very interesting. May I take them along with me?”

  “Of course. They’re copies I had made for the Special Branch.”

  “Thank you very much for that and for your briefing. It’s been very helpful.”

  “I’m glad. Because I have a feeling that you’re going to be very helpful to us in this particular matter.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Chadwick nodded to them, and they left.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t answer when he asked about Sara,” said Andrew.

  “You’re not as used to the unexpected question as I am. Besides, I meant what I said.”

  “You really do think she’s all right?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Without a guide, they lost their way in the winding and confusing corridors, and so it took considerably longer to get back to Scotland Yard than it had to get to see Chadwick. Deep in thought, Wyatt pushed open the door of his office, then paused. Sergeant Tucker was still at Wyatt’s desk, but he was not alone. Sitting in the straight-backed chair in the corner, hands resting on the crook of a tightly furled umbrella, was General Wyatt.

  “Oh, good morning, sir. Have you been here long?”

  “No. Just a few minutes. I hope you don’t mind my stopping by, but I haven’t heard from you in several days and I wondered if you had any word for me.”

  “No, sir. I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  “Oh,” said the general, trying to conceal his disappointment. “Do you have any idea when you might have?”

  “No, sir. But if you’ll give me just a minute, we can talk about it.” He turned to Tucker. “Anything for me, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, Inspector. A telegram from the Bristol police.” He gave it to him. “They caught Keefe, dressed as an American minister, as he was about to board a steamer for the States.”

  “Smart work,” said Wyatt, reading the telegram. “Anything else?”

  “Dodson’s back. There was no word from the bootblack at the Wellington Road police station.”

  “That’s strange. Tell him to go look for the boy. If he’s not at the Underground station, maybe one of the other boys knows where he is. But I want him found.”

  “I already sent him off to do that.”

  “Good. Anything else?”

  “No, Inspector.”

  “Then, sir,” said Wyatt to his father, “I’m at your service. Would you like to—” He broke off at a knock. “Damnation! Yes?”

  The door opened, and Wyndham came in.

  “So you’re back, Inspector,” he said. “I was afraid I might have to leave a message for you. Sir Roger sends his compliments and would like you to accompany him to a meeting of
the Special Branch.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. I was to bring you if you were here.”

  “I see. I’m sorry, sir,” he said to the general.

  “Is that Sir Roger Brandon, the Foreign Secretary?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Well,” the general forced a smile, “I think his needs should take precedence over mine. Run along.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll get back to you in a day or so. Why don’t you stay and have lunch with the sergeant?” he said to Andrew. “Then, if I’m through in time, we can take care of our little matter.”

  “Right.”

  Wyndham opened the door, and with a final, apologetic glance at his father, Wyatt followed him out.

  “He seems rather busy,” said the general.

  “That he is, sir,” said Tucker. “And there’s good reason for it. There’s not a keener, more highly regarded inspector in the Yard.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, it is. Take this telegram we just got. For almost a year now we’ve been looking for a very clever counterfeiter. A few weeks ago they asked the inspector to take over the case. He not only discovered who the man was—a chap named Keefe—but when he disappeared, he told them to watch the ports, that he’d try to leave the country disguised as a minister. Which is just what he did.”

  “That is rather amazing. I feel guilty about troubling him with my affairs, which are not of empire-shaking importance.”

  “Anything that concerns you would be of great importance to him, General,” said Andrew. “I know that he has the highest regard for you, and I’m certain that he’ll solve your problem, whatever it is.”

  “You think so? I hope you’re right. But, in the meantime, I thank you for your words of encouragement.”

  10

  The Embassy

  The Serbian Embassy was on Claverton Street, just a short distance north of Gloucester Road and the river, but Andrew and Wyatt didn’t get there until late in the afternoon. As soon as the general left, Sergeant Tucker took Andrew to lunch at a pub on the corner of Whitehall Street, which was apparently a great favorite with the men of the Yard. It seemed that the sergeant had a passion for Scotch eggs, and unbelievable as it might seem to someone with an average appetite and normal digestion, he ate three of them along with a beef sandwich.

  While Andrew ate his sandwich, Tucker held forth on one of his favorite subjects: the general excellence of Wyatt’s character and his brilliance as a detective. It had been obvious to Andrew that Tucker admired Wyatt; and since he shared that admiration, he enjoyed listening to the sergeant’s encomiums. Though aware of Wyatt’s social background and education, Tucker was not at all impressed with them and seemed to think that the inspector was an outstanding police officer in spite of these rather than because of them. He felt that Wyatt’s greatest qualification, besides his native intelligence, was the fact that he had walked the streets of London as an ordinary constable and therefore knew the city, its geography, structure and moods, as only a bobby can.

  “But smart as he is,” he said as they walked back to the Yard,” he’s still fairly young, and it would never do to let him know how I feel about him. That’s why I give him the needle about things like being impatient and forever riding in hansoms like a toff.” At this point, suddenly remembering why Andrew was there, he said, “I know this is hard for you, but don’t you start getting impatient now. We’re as anxious to find Sara as you are, and find her we will!”

  It was after three when Wyatt returned to the office, explaining that the meeting with Sir Roger and the Special Branch had been a long one. After ascertaining that there had been no further word from Dodson and that nothing else required his immediate attention, he and Andrew left, taking a hansom to Claverton Street.

  The embassy was an imposing stone building with a black iron railing around it. Wyatt told the cabby to wait, and he and Andrew walked up the steps past an arrogant cat that stared at them as if questioning their right to exist, let alone be there. Wyatt used the brass door knocker, and the door was opened by a porter wearing a livery coat, red waistcoat and knee breeches. Wyatt asked for the first secretary and, when he was told that he was not there, presented his card and insisted on seeing the next ranking official. The porter left, somewhat reluctantly, and a few minutes later returned with a slim and rather effete man in his middle thirties. He wore the virtually required diplomatic uniform of frock-coat, grey waistcoat and striped trousers, but there was something a little outré about them, as if he were determined to give them his own continental stamp: the shoulders of his coat were too padded and square, his trousers too narrow and the carnation in his buttonhole too large.

  “I am Count Gradowsky,” he said with a slight Slavic accent. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Actually, we wanted to see Count Milanovitch,” said Wyatt.

  “Ah, yes. Unfortunately, he is not here. He has gone to Scotland.”

  “To Scotland?”

  “Yes. Am I incorrectly pronouncing it? Should it be Scotchland or Scottishland?”

  “No, no. Scotland’s correct. It’s just that I’m rather surprised. Why on earth did he go up to Scotland?”

  “My dear inspector, I would not dream of asking him. After all, he is my senior, the first secretary. I am only the second secretary.”

  “Of course. But what puzzles me is not only why he should have gone there, but why he should have gone there now. Aren’t you expecting your king?”

  “Yes, our young king Alexander, long may he reign. He is coming tomorrow.”

  “And he’ll be staying here, at the embassy?”

  “Yes. The ambassador’s quarters have been prepared for him.”

  “Where is the ambassador?”

  “There is no ambassador. He was recalled when the regency ended and Alexander became king. Milanovitch, who had been first secretary, became chargé d’affaires, and he will probably be appointed ambassador when His Majesty arrives.”

  “Which makes it all the more surprising that he should have left now. Who will be responsible for making all the diplomatic and social arrangements for the king?”

  “Most of that has already been done by Milanovitch and your Foreign Office. I am to see someone—Sir Roger Brandon?—about this tomorrow. And of course safety arrangements are in the hands of your Special Branch.”

  “Yes, I know. I was just at a meeting with Sir Roger and the people from the Special Branch.”

  “Then there is no reason to be puzzled or concerned, is it not true? In spite of Milanovitch’s absence—and is it not possible that he is on a mission for the king?—all will be well and secure.”

  “I sincerely hope so. Well, thank you very much, Count.”

  “Not at all, Inspector. It has been a pleasure to meet you.”

  He bowed, snapped his fingers to summon the porter and remained standing there while the porter opened the door and showed them out.

  “Well?” said Wyatt as they went down the steps.

  “In spite of what he said, I think there’s something strange about it,” said Andrew. “Why would Milanovitch go away now, just when the king is coming?”

  “Exactly what I was wondering, and of course did ask about. Though there is the possibility that the trip to Scotland—if that’s where he went—concerns, not the king, but Maria.”

  “That’s something I wondered about. Of course, Gradowsky never mentioned Maria …”

  “He might not know about her. That she’s gone, I mean. I think that’s something we should look into.”

  The arrogant cat was gone, but the hansom was waiting. Wyatt gave the cabby the Milanovitch address on Mornington Crescent, and they went bowling off, going north on Denbigh Street.

  “You’re very quiet,” said Wyatt as they went past Victoria Station on their way to Picadilly.

  “Sorry. I was thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “Several things. Your sister-in-law, for instance. You said
there was no connection between her disappearance and Sara’s.”

  “That’s right.”

  “For some reason you don’t seem terribly worried about finding her.”

  “I’m not.”

  “If you aren’t, it’s not because you don’t care about her, because you do care. Which means … Do you know where she is?”

  Wyatt looked at him sharply, then smiled.

  “I keep forgetting that you see further through a brick wall than most people. Let’s say, I think I may know.”

  “In other words, you think you’ll be able to find her.”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Sara?”

  Wyatt looked at him again, this time without smiling.

  “That, my young friend, is a trick I have often used myself, but haven’t often had used against me. You wanted to compare my response to your question about my sister-in-law to the one about Sara. What did you find out?”

  “That you’re not quite as sure about finding Sara as you are of finding your sister-in-law.”

  “True. But I’m just as determined to do so, perhaps even more so.”

  “Yes, I think you are.”

  “Then be patient, Andrew. I know this is very difficult for you, but there’s a rhythm in cases as there is in most things. So far everything that’s happened has been negative, but that’s bound to change very soon.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  When they drew up in front of the house on Mornington Crescent, Wyatt again told the cabby to wait, led the way to the door and rapped with the knocker. When the butler opened the door, this time Wyatt did not ask if the countess was in. He said, “I’d like to see the countess.”

  “I’m afraid, Inspector, that that’s impossible. The countess is indisposed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but I’d still like to see her.”

  The butler studied him for a moment, then bowed. He let them into the entrance hall, tapped on the closed door of the drawing room, went in and, a moment later, came out again and, without saying anything further, held the door open.

  The countess, wearing a dressing gown, was lying on a chaise longue. She was not just pale; she seemed to have aged in the short time since they had last seen her.