“The kidnapping?”
“Yes. Why, out of all the possible girls in London, did they take Sara? After all, her mother’s just a housekeeper who doesn’t earn very much and would, at first glance, have trouble raising even the two hundred pounds they’re asking as ransom.”
“That’s true. But what if they knew about mother and how she feels about Sara? She said she’d pay the two hundred pounds right off, and she’d probably pay a good deal more than that to get her back safely.”
“I think she would, too. But that’s just the point. If they didn’t know about your mother, why did they pick Sara as a mark when there are thousands of other girls who would be much more profitable targets? And if they did know about your mother, why didn’t they ask for more than two hundred pounds—which you said yourself your mother would have been glad to pay?”
Andrew whistled softly. “I see what you mean. I had a feeling there was something strange about the whole thing, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. Do you have any explanation for it?”
“Yes. At least, a possible one.”
“What is it?”
“That Sara was kidnapped by mistake.”
“By mistake?”
“Yes. Suppose that whoever took her didn’t know her and kidnapped her instead of some other girl?”
“But who was that other girl?”
“That was what I wanted to talk to you about. She was kidnapped on her way home from dancing school. Did she have any special friend there?”
“I don’t know. The only girl at dancing school whose name I remember her mentioning was one named Maria.”
“Maria what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, Miss Fizdale will know.” He got up. “Do you want to go there with me?” And when Andrew looked at him without answering, “All right. Sometimes even I ask silly or unnecessary questions.”
They went out and downstairs. As they passed the desk, the sergeant on duty called out to Wyatt and gave him an envelope that must have been delivered by hand, since there was no stamp on it.
“The Travellers Club,” said Wyatt, glancing at the address on the back. “Must be from my father. Excuse me.”
He opened the envelope, read the note it contained, then, his face expressionless, folded it and put it in his pocket.
“Is he all right?” asked Andrew.
“My father? Why shouldn’t he be?”
“He seemed pretty upset the other day when he came to our house looking for you.”
“Yes, he was. And still is. He’s worried about my sister-in-law, Harriet, who’s gone off some place, disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“Is there any connection between that, her disappearing, and what’s happened to Sara?”
“What?” Wyatt looked at him with surprise, then shook his head. “No. There’s no connection.”
He said it so flatly and with such finality that Andrew did not dare ask him how he knew.
They picked up a hansom on the Embankment, Wyatt gave the cabby the address of the school, and they were off, bobbing and swaying, over to Whitehall and then north and west. Wyatt was strangely quiet, and as they went up the Haymarket, he took his father’s note out of his pocket and read it again. Then, catching Andrew’s eye on him, he said, “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m not very good company at the moment.”
“Well, this isn’t exactly a tea fight. But can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Do you intend to tell Mrs. Wiggins and my mother what you told me—that you think Sara may have been kidnapped by mistake?”
“No. Your mother is an extremely intelligent woman and she may have a feeling, as you did, that there was something odd about it. But I think Mrs. Wiggins has been too upset for that to have occurred to her. In any case, I don’t intend to tell either of them of my suspicions.”
“Why?”
“Because, frightening as a kidnapping is, this is even more frightening. Ordinarily, a kidnapping is fairly straightforward. It’s purpose is to get money, and when the money is paid, the kidnapped person is returned.”
“Always?”
Wyatt looked at him and then away. “No, not always. That’s why kidnapping is one of the most terrifying crimes we have to deal with. But if an ordinary kidnapping is a chancey matter, then you can see how what we’re up against—a case where money isn’t the real issue—is even more uncertain.”
“But they did ask for money—two hundred pounds.”
“I think they did that so it would seem like an ordinary kidnapping. Don’t forget that they don’t know—at least I hope they don’t—that we, the police, are in on the case. If they ask for a reasonable ransom—which they’ve done—and tell Mrs. Wiggins not to get in touch with the police, there’s a good chance that she won’t. Not for a while, anyway. But if Sara disappears with no word from anyone, then her mother is bound to go to the police immediately. So what they’ve been doing is buying time.”
Andrew nodded. “I see.”
When the hansom drew up in front of the school, Wyatt told the cabby to wait. They could hear the pounding of the piano and the not entirely sylphlike sound of feet even before they crossed the garden to the front door, and the sounds continued even after Wyatt tugged on the bellpull. It was several minutes before the young maid opened the door, and when she did, it was clear from her expression that she recognized Wyatt.
“Good afternoon, sir,” she said.
“I’d like to speak to Miss Fizdale, please.”
“I’m afraid she’s busy, sir. With the afternoon class.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, sir. You were here the other day. You’re the inspector from Scotland Yard.”
“That’s right. And now I’m here again, and I want to see Miss Fizdale again, so get her for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Eyes on Wyatt and mouth slightly open, she backed up a few steps, then turned and hurried over to the large double doors of the parlor, knocked and went in. The piano broke off in the middle of a chord, the sound of shuffling feet stopped and after a moment Miss Fizdale came out, frowning slightly and with her lips compressed.
“Good afternoon, Inspector,” she said coldly. “I assume there’s some good reason for this interruption.”
“I believe there is.”
“You’ve found Sara Wiggins?”
“No. We’re still looking for her. I’m here today to see another girl in her class, a friend of Sara’s named Maria.”
“Maria Milanovitch?”
“Is she the only Maria in the class?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’d like to talk to her if I may.”
“I’m afraid she’s not here today.”
“She’s not?”
“No.”
“Were you expecting her?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I was. She’s usually very regular in her attendance, especially lately, since I started doing special work with her at her mother’s request.”
“Was she here yesterday?”
“Yes, she was. Of course, she may be indisposed …”
“Do you know her home address?”
“Yes. It’s Mornington Crescent. I’m not sure of the number, but … Just a second.” She went back into the large front room, returned with a register bound in red morocco. She opened it, ran a finger down one of the pages and said, “It’s number twelve Mornington Crescent.”
“Thank you,” said Wyatt, turning to leave.
“Excuse me, Inspector, but you’re not going there—to her house, are you?”
“Why?”
“Because her mother, the countess, is a very anxious woman, and …”
“I’ll do my best not to alarm her,” said Wyatt. “Come on, Andrew.” And he hurried across the garden to the waiting hansom. “Twelve Mornington Crescent,” he told the cabby. “And hurry!”
7
The Missing Friend
With its two rubber-tired wheels, the hansom was easily the most maneuverable vehicle in London. And whether the cabby knew who Wyatt was or not, his manner was such that when he said hurry the cabby did. Turning the hansom sharply, he put his horse into a fast trot over toward Abbey Road, then south and east toward Regents Park.
“Did she say Milanovitch?” said Andrew.
“Yes.”
“Sounds Middle European.”
“Yes. Slavic. Sara never said anything about it, the fact that she was foreign?”
“No. Do you think that the countess may not speak English?”
“If she’s been living here for any length of time, the chances are she does. In any case, there’s always French and German.”
Andrew nodded. Cutting in front of a brougham, the hansom swung into Prince Albert Road, went east around the park and, driving through Park Village East, turned left and drew up in front of 12 Mornington Crescent. While not as theatrical as Nash’s Park Crescent, Mornington Crescent had its own discreet elegance. Number 12 was a Georgian brick house with graceful iron railings in front of it. Again Wyatt told the cabby to wait, and he and Andrew went up the three low steps and rapped sharply with the polished brass knocker.
A butler opened the door almost at once.
“Is the countess in?” asked Wyatt.
“I will inquire,” said the butler. “Who shall I say is calling?”
Wyatt gave him his card. The butler bowed, picked up a silver salver and tapping diffidently on the ornate door to the left of the hall, went in. A moment later he came out again.
“The countess will see you, sir,” he said, holding the door open.
Wyatt and Andrew went in. The room was large and airy, and the Empire furniture made it seem light and feminine. The countess was sitting at a writing desk set against the far wall. Andrew was not quite certain what he expected, probably someone dark and Slavic, but the woman who turned and looked at them enquiringly was nothing like that. Wearing a lavender silk dress, she was fair and blue-eyed, and when she spoke, it was without a trace of an accent.
“Good afternoon, Inspector.”
“Good afternoon, Countess.” He hesitated. “You are the Countess Milanovitch?”
“Yes, I am,” she said smiling.
“I was going to compliment you on your English, but … You are English, aren’t you?”
“Born in Cheltenham,” she said, nodding. “Many people find it puzzling or disconcerting.”
“That a foreign countess speaks English so well?”
“Yes. But you solved the mystery very quickly. I was born and brought up here, met the count in Paris. We met again when he was posted to the embassy here, were married and have been living here ever since.”
“Which embassy was he posted to?”
“The Serbian embassy. The count is the first secretary. Now perhaps you will introduce your young friend and also tell me what I can do for you.”
“I’m sorry. This is Andrew Tillett. He’s a friend of a friend of your daughter, Maria, and actually it is she we would like to talk to.”
“Maria? This becomes more and more intriguing. I could not imagine why a police inspector should want to talk to me. But that you should want to talk to my daughter …”
“We’re hoping that she can give us some information about her friend and Andrew’s, Sara Wiggins.”
“Sara Wiggins. Yes, I believe I remember Maria’s mentioning her. Unfortunately she’s not here now. She’s at dancing school.”
“Miss Fizdale’s?”
“Why, yes.”
“I’m afraid she isn’t, Countess.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve just come from there, and Miss Fizdale told us that she was not there today.”
“But that’s impossible,” she said, frowning. Reaching up, she tugged at an embroidered bellpull. “Saunders,” she said when the butler entered,” did Burke take Miss Maria to dancing school this afternoon?”
“Yes, Countess. He did.”
“Will you send him here, please?”
“Yes, Countess.” He paused. “I did not wish to disturb you, but this just arrived.” He presented the silver salver with an envelope on it.
“Oh?” She picked it up and looked at it. “Who brought it?”
“I cannot say. It was pushed through the letter slot. But it is marked urgent.”
“Yes, I see that. Forgive me,” she said to Wyatt and Andrew, and frowning, she opened the envelope. They watched her as she read the enclosure. She had been a little uneasy before, then somewhat irritated. But now, reading the note on nondescript paper that looked familiar to them, the color drained from her face.
“Countess, what’s wrong?” asked Wyatt.
“What?” She looked up at him as if she had forgotten that he was there. “Nothing.”
“That’s not true. You’re frightened. No, more than frightened, terrified. What did that note say?”
“Nothing,” she said again, her voice unsteady. She got up. “I’m afraid I must ask you to forgive me. I …”
“Shall I tell you what it says? It says that whoever wrote the note has your daughter, Maria. That if you ever want to see her again, you must not go to the police or communicate with them in any way. And—”
“No!” she said, her voice rising. “That’s not true either. It … it’s a note from my husband. He wants me to come to the embassy immediately. Excuse me!” and she hurried from the room, the note crumpled in her hand.
“She’s lying, isn’t she?” said Andrew.
“Yes,” said Wyatt. “The note was on the same paper as the one Mrs. Wiggins got.”
“What does it mean?”
“That we’re too late. She won’t talk to us now. But it confirms what I thought—what I told you before.”
8
Maria
Sara pressed her ear to the door and listened. Something had been going on downstairs earlier; there had been a certain amount of talk and then someone or several people had left. But now all was quiet, and if her captors followed the previous day’s pattern, no one would be coming up to the attic again until Sergeant Zerko brought supper. Satisfied, she crossed the room and took a glass from under the chest of drawers. The liquid in it had darkened even more since she had hidden it and had become a very satisfactory black.
Now that she was about to take the next step in her plan, what she was doing seemed so obvious that she found it difficult to remember how the idea had come to her. It had probably begun during her first night there in the attic. It was one thing to tell herself that she was Sara Wiggins, a smart and resourceful girl, and that she wasn’t going to get dithery about what had happened to her. It was another to wake in the middle of the night and not know where she was or how she had gotten there. When she did remember, her heart skipped a beat and then began thudding, and she decided that while she didn’t have to get dithery, perhaps she should do some thinking about the predicament she was in.
On the positive side, she was not only smart—as she kept telling herself she was—she was also lucky. How many girls were there in London who had Scotland Yard’s best and most intelligent inspector as a friend? If anyone could find and rescue her, it would be he, especially with Andrew to help him—and Wyatt would be the first to admit that she, Sara, and Andrew had been a great help to him in previous cases.
That was quite a good deal to have on the positive side. On the other hand, London was very big, and both the lady with the red wig and Colonel Kosta seemed pretty smart too, so perhaps she’s better see what she herself could do about getting out of the pickle she was in. (Besides, when she did get out—and one way or another of course she would—it would make a lot better story if she had done something to save herself instead of just waiting to be rescued.) So the next morning, as soon as it was light, she would go over the attic carefully and see if there was any way she could escape from it.
; Her study of the attic was not particularly fruitful. The lock on the door was a good one and beyond her ability to pick, and the bars on the window were too sturdy to be removed by anything less than a hacksaw or a file. The only thing she came across that might be of use was a loose nail that she pulled out of the windowsill. And it was of use. For when she discovered that there was no way that she could escape, she decided that the next best thing would be to get a message out. The question then was what to write it on. There was little point in asking for pen and paper; her captors would not be foolish enough to give it to her. But they might give her something to read—and if they did, she had an idea of what she could do about it.
So when the sergeant brought up her breakfast, she told him she wanted to talk to the colonel; and when he finally came up, she told him she was going loopy not having anything to do and couldn’t she at least have something to read? He must have consulted the biddy with the red wig because she came up about a half-hour later and said the only book they had around was a Bible and how was that? Sara made a face and said she’d rather have something else, but after all there were stories in the Bible, so that was all right. The red-wigged lady watched her while they talked, seemed satisfied, and gave her the Bible and left.
Actually Sara was delighted, not just because there was a good deal of reading in the Bible, but for other reasons as well. Hoping that anyone who heard about it would understand her problem and forgive her, she pulled off the back cover of the Bible, tore it into small pieces and put them in a glass of water to steep. Then, with the sharp point of the nail she had salvaged, she cut out the blank page that was just inside the back cover.
In the twenty four hours since she had started steeping the fragments of the cover, the black dye had darkened the water nicely. Now, using it as ink and the nail as a stylus, she wrote the following note:
Help! My name is Sara Wiggins and I am being held a prisoner somewhere near here. Give this message to a constable and tell him to notify Inspector Peter Wyatt of Scotland Yard who is my friend and will find me. This is not a joke or a cod. It’s the truth. Please, please help me!
The Case of the Threatened King Page 5