The Case of the Threatened King
Page 18
On Russell’s recommendation they had sauerbraten and red cabbage, with apple pancakes for dessert, and though they enjoyed the dinner, it was so much heavier than what they were used to, they were glad to have an opportunity to walk a bit afterward.
They thanked Wyatt and Russell for the afternoon and the dinner, told Russell they hoped they would see him again soon, and walked west on Fourteenth Street to Fifth Avenue and then down to the hotel.
Their friend, Jim McCann, was at the desk.
“Did either of you lose a quarter?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Andrew. “Where did you find it?”
“Here,” said McCann, taking it out of Sara’s ear.
They laughed as they always did when he did one of his tricks.
“Any messages?” asked Sara.
“Not for either of you or Miss Tillett, but there is one for Mr. Wyatt.”
“He won’t be back until quite late,” said Andrew.
“Maybe we should take it upstairs and put it in his room,” said Sara.
“No matter what time he gets back, there’ll be someone here,” said McCann. “But just as you like.” And taking an envelope out of Wyatt’s box, he gave it to Andrew.
“I wonder who it’s from?” said Sara as they started up the stairs.
“It could be anybody.”
“Not really. How many people know that he’s staying here at the Brevoort?”
“If the reporter who said he was coming to New York put that in his article—and he must have because the Times man knew it—then anyone who read the World would know it.”
“May I see the envelope?” asked Sara.
Andrew gave it to her, and they stopped under one of the gaslights in the corridor and examined it together. The envelope was ordinary and not very clean and the handwriting that addressed it to Mr. P. Wyatt was scratchy and irregular.
“It’s certainly not from Inspector Decker,” said Sara.
“Or from a university don. It’s from someone who doesn’t find writing easy and took great pains to make it legible.”
“It’s not sealed,” said Sara, turning it over.
“Let’s see,” said Andrew. Then, examining it, “I think it was sealed, but the paste wasn’t very good and when it dried it didn’t hold.”
“You know what I think? I think we should open it and read what’s in it.”
“Why?”
“Well, if it’s not important it’s not going to matter whether we read it or not. And if it is important, we know where to reach Peter. We can get him at the theatre.”
“I always did admire your logic. Somehow it always justifies what you want to do.”
“Does that mean you agree with me or not?”
“It means that I know better than to argue with you. Of course we’ll tell him that we read the note.”
“Of course,” said Sara opening the envelope and taking out the single sheet of paper that it contained. The message on it, in the same hand as the address, was quite short.
“If it’s worth a hundred bucks to you to find out who burned the investigation office and copped the file,” it said, “meet me at the fountain in Washington Square at midnight tonight. Be sure and bring the money.”
It was unsigned.
“Well,” said Sara, “I’d say it was important.”
“Why? Peter’s not interested in all that. He’s said so several times.”
“Do you remember what he said to those reporters and to us about whether he’d come over here on a case or not?”
“‘If I told you I wasn’t here on a case, would you believe me?’”
“That’s right. Well, I’m sure he is here on one.”
“This one?”
“I don’t know. Decker’s his friend and in spite of what he said he may want to help him out. Or else it may be something very different. But I think he should have a chance to follow this up if he wants to.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think we have to go to the theatre for him. He should be back by midnight.”
“Probably. We put it in his room then?”
“Yes. I’ll push it under his door.”
He put the note back in the envelope as they went on down the corridor. When they reached Wyatt’s room, he pushed the envelope under the door, leaving one corner partly out.
“Don’t you want to push it in all the way?” asked Sara.
“No. This way he’ll be more likely to see it. And if we want to know if he’s back later on, we’ll be able to tell.”
Sara looked at him approvingly. “Good,” she said.
They sat in the sitting room of the suite for a while playing checkers, then went to their bedrooms. Andrew took off his shoes, but did not get into his pajamas. He stretched out on his bed and began to read Stevenson’s New Arabian Nights. At some point he must have fallen asleep, for, when he woke up with a start and looked at his watch—a repeater his mother had given him for his birthday—it was twenty of twelve. Putting his shoes back on, he crossed the sitting room to his mother’s room and tapped softly on the door. When there was no answer, he opened it and looked in. It was empty. As he closed it, the door of Sara’s room opened and she came out. Like Andrew, she was fully dressed.
“She’s not there, is she?” she said.
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. I didn’t hear her come home. I wonder if Peter’s back.”
“It’s easy enough to find out.”
They went out into the corridor. The corner of the note was still sticking out under the edge of the door.
“I guess he’s not back yet,” said Sara.
“No.”
They looked at one another and each of them knew what the other was thinking, for they had both been thinking the same thing since they had read the note.
“If he’s not back in a couple of minutes, he won’t be able to meet whoever wrote the note,” said Sara.
“No.”
“And I think he would like to, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t you think perhaps we’d better go out there and tell whoever it is that he’s a bit late but that he’ll meet him later?”
“It’s what you planned all along, isn’t it?” said Andrew, grinning.
“I wouldn’t say I planned it. How could I when we both thought he’d be back by now? But I did think that if he wasn’t.…”
“Right. Let’s go.”
They went downstairs and paused just before they reached the lobby. Jim McCann had gone off duty and the night clerk, a man they did not really know, was just going into the office behind the desk. Walking quietly but quickly, they crossed the lobby, went out and down the few steps to Fifth Avenue. A hansom went by, going up toward Fourteenth Street. But though there was laughter and the sound of voices coming from the Brevoort Café, the streets were deserted.
Keeping to the shadows near the buildings, they walked south toward Washington Square. The fountain was in the center of the square, about halfway between the marble Washington Arch and the rather Spanish-looking Judson Memorial Church. They did not approach it directly, but circled around to the east, toward the Gothic facade of New York University, and approached it from that direction. Though it was a fairly dark night, the gaslights set here and there in the park gave enough light to see the fountain clearly, even see the spray that jetted up from its center. And there was no one there, either standing there or sitting on the stone curb that surrounded the fountain.
They paused behind the statue of Garibaldi, who stood drawing his sword just across the roadway from the fountain.
“What time is it now?” whispered Sara.
Andrew pressed the button on his repeater, and it began its faint, silvery chiming. When it had chimed five times, a church clock somewhere near them began striking the hour.
“It’s just midnight,” said Andrew.
“He’s late.”
“Yes. Let’s give him a few more minutes.”
>
They waited there, watching a lady and gentleman come out of one of the beautiful red brick houses on the north side of the square, get into a waiting carriage and drive off.
“Maybe he’s on the other side of the fountain,” said Sara finally.
“I doubt it. We’d see him.”
“Not necessarily. Not where the water’s shooting up.”
“Do you want to walk around and see?”
“Yes.”
“All right.”
Coming out from behind the statue, they crossed the roadway to the fountain, started around it.
“Well,” said Andrew when they were opposite the church, “are you satisfied? I told you he wasn’t there.”
“Yes. And I guess—” She clutched his arm. “Andrew, look!”
He turned, looking where she was looking, and there, floating face down in the softly splashing water of the fountain, was a man’s body.
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About the Author
Born in New York City, Robert Newman (1909–1988) was among the pioneers of early radio and was chief writer for the Inner Sanctum Mysteries and Murder at Midnight—forerunners of The Twilight Zone that remain cult favorites to this day. In 1944 Newman was put in charge of the radio campaign to reelect Franklin D. Roosevelt. He was also one of the founding members of the Radio Writers Guild, which became the Writers Guild of America.
In 1973 Newman began writing books for children, most notably the Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt mysteries. The series takes place in Victorian London and follows the adventures of two teenage amateur detectives who begin as Baker Street Irregulars. Newman has also written books of fantasy, among them Merlin’s Mistake and The Testing of Tertius. His books based on myths and folklore include Grettir the Strong, and he has published two adult novels.
Newman was married to the writer Dorothy Crayder. Their daughter, Hila Feil, has also published novels for children and young adults. Newman lived his last days in Stonington, Connecticut.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1982 by Robert Newman
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4976-8599-4
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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