“Yes,” he said. “But I don’t know what it is.” Then, shrugging, he went on again with Verna.
The music became louder, clearer, and the Samaritan band appeared out of one of the side streets and came down the Strand toward them, colorful in their uniforms, the trumpets triumphant and insistent and the plump little man twinkling as he pounded on the big brass drum. The ragged and dirty urchins who ran beside them or danced after them may not have been the same ones they had seen before, but the neat and well-dressed boy who walked alongside them certainly was.
Pedestrians and theatre-goers waiting for their carriages smiled at them and dropped coins in the tambourine of the earnest-looking woman who marched near the front; and a policeman on duty near the Savoy stopped traffic to let them go by.
When Verna and the others reached her carriage, Fred saluted Wyatt, then looked over his charges: Verna, Sara, Andrew and Cortland.
“All present and accounted for,” he said. “All well at your end?”
“Yes and no,” said Wyatt.
“Will you be back at the theatre again tomorrow,” Verna asked as he opened the carriage door for her.
“Probably,” he answered. “We’ll continue to use it as a base for as long as Mr. Harrison will allow us to. But I must confess—” He broke off, clapping his hand to his forehead. “Oh, my sainted aunt! Tucker, your whistle!”
With no change of expression, the imperturbable Tucker took his whistle out of his pocket and handed it to him. Stepping out into the street, Wyatt blew three shrill blasts on it.
Immediately several uniformed policemen appeared as if by magic from side streets and store entrances. A porter, a cab driver, a street hawker and a drunken French sailor—all plainclothes men in disguise—turned to look at Wyatt and wait for further instructions. He ignored them and waved to a policeman further up the Strand, almost at Villiers Street, pointing to the Samaritan band. The policeman gaped at him. Then, when Wyatt waved again, angrily and insistently, he stepped out into the street and, puzzled though he was, raised his hand, stopping the band in the middle of a spirited rendition of “Fling Out the Banner.”
“Come on, Tucker,” said Wyatt, and he went running up the Strand with the sergeant, Sara, Andrew and Cortland close behind him. The policeman turned to him with relief when he arrived, and the prim lady with the tambourine frowned at him.
“Would you be good enough to tell me what this is all about?” she asked.
“I’ll try,” said Wyatt, lifting his hat politely. “My name’s Wyatt, and I’m an inspector with the Metropolitan Police.”
“Well?”
“You, of course, are with the Samaritans.”
“I should think that’s fairly obvious.”
“Do you have any identification?”
She looked at him with astonishment. “Identification? Why on earth do I need any identification?”
“Well, you do hold meetings and collect money. I should think your organization would want you to carry some sort of document to prove that you’re legitimate.”
“I never heard such nonsense in all my life!” she said, her voice rising. “I shall take this up with our commander! Legitimate? How can you possibly question who or what we are?”
Alf and Liz, the two Cockney buskers, had arrived at the scene with Tucker and the three young people. Alf had been listening intently, his sharp eyes roving. Now he stepped into the street and walked behind the jolly little fat man with the big drum, who was looking incredulously at Wyatt. Alf’s move was so quick that Andrew couldn’t follow it, but the little fat man’s expression changed to one of fury as he cursed and clapped his hand to his pocket, but he was too late. By that time Alf had danced away from him and was holding aloft a man’s gold watch, a ladies purse and a pearl necklace.
Again the scene changed as suddenly as it had when Wyatt had blown the whistle. The ragged urchins disappeared into the crowd. The neat and well-dressed boy tried to run, but Liza tripped him as neatly as Alf had tripped Andrew, kept him down with a foot on his chest. The lady with the tambourine looked around desperately, started to run also, but gave up when the policeman who had originally stopped her stepped in front of her.
“All right,” said Wyatt. “Arrest them.”
“All of them?” asked the policeman.
“All of them!”
“I don’t understand,” said Cortland. “Aren’t they with the Samaritans?”
“Of course not,” said Sara. “They’re the gang of pickpockets that Peter’s been looking for. It was the kids, particularly little Goldilocks that Liz is standing on, who did the dipping. Then they passed what they got to the fat drummer who was their stall.”
“That’s it,” said Alf who had joined them. “The little beggars are good. I’ve never seen one of them actually fan anyone, and of course no copper ever got one with the goods. But what made you tumble, Inspector?”
“I’m not sure,” said Wyatt. “Though I’ve heard them and seen them dozens of times, something seemed wrong when I heard them a few minutes ago. It took me a little while to realize what it was. And it was the drum.”
“The drum?”
“They’re none of them really good musicians. The drummer—who’s probably their leader—least of all. He just kept up a steady pounding with no variation in rhythm. But what struck me as odd, though I didn’t realize it at the time, was that every once in a while, for no apparent reason, he’d stop.”
“When one of the dips passed him something to put in his pocket!” said Andrew.
“That’s it.”
“Well, you’ve done it again,” said Tucker gravely. “It just goes to show what kind of education you need to get ahead on the force. Why, you’ve even got to be a musician. All right, all right,” he said as Wyatt turned on him with mock ferocity. “After this you can shy all the coconuts you like at me, and I won’t even try to dodge.”
Turn the page to continue reading from the Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt series
1
The Telegram
Standing outside the door, Andrew made a last attempt to guess why the headmaster had sent for him. A summons from that most august person was a startling and anxious-making event at any time. And it was particularly surprising coming now, on the last day of school, just as they were about to go home for the Christmas holidays.
It wasn’t his work. As far as he knew, he had done quite well this term, even with the Latin that had given him a certain amount of trouble before this. The fight he had had with Rossiter because of the way he’d bullied the younger boys in the house? Unlikely. The headmaster never interfered in matters of that sort, and besides, that had taken place weeks ago.
Giving up, Andrew knocked at the heavy oak door and was invited to come in. The headmaster, in his familiar, worn gown, was at his desk.
“Ah, Andrew,” he said, looking at him over the top of his spectacles. “I hope my sending for you didn’t worry you.”
“No, sir. Though it did puzzle me.”
“You must have that most estimable of attributes then, a clear conscience. The fact is, a telegram came for you a short while ago.” Then, as Andrew looked at him, “I like our boys to read any telegram they may get here in my study. Then, if there’s bad news or a problem—if they need advice, help or comfort—I’m here to give it to them.”
“I understand, sir.”
The headmaster handed him a yellow envelope, and with some anxiety, Andrew tore it open.
“Imperative I see you soon as possible,” it read. “Meet me lunch noon tomorrow White Stag. Bring Sara, but tell no one else about this. Repeat, tell no one else!” It was signed Wyatt.
In one sense, the literal one, Andrew had no difficulty understanding this. Wyatt was his friend, Inspector Peter Wyatt of the London Metropolitan Police. The White Stag was a chophouse near Scotland Yard where Andrew had had lunch with Wyatt several times. And Sara was Sara Wiggins, daughter of his mother’s housekeeper and an even c
loser friend than Wyatt. But, in another sense, Andrew did not understand it at all. Why was it urgent that Wyatt see him so quickly? And when he said, ‘Tell no one else about this,’ did he mean that Andrew was not to tell his mother? Apparently he did. And if so, the question was: Why?
When Andrew raised his eyes, the headmaster was looking at him intently, seriously.
“I hope there’s nothing wrong at home, Andrew,” he said. “Is there?”
“No, sir. There’s nothing wrong. At least … No, nothing.”
It was a little after five when Andrew got to London. Since he had not been sure what train he would be taking, Fred, the Tillett coachman, was not waiting for him, and he took a four-wheeler from Paddington to the house in St. John’s Wood.
Matson, the butler, let him in, and Andrew had barely taken off his coat and hat before Mrs. Wiggins and Sara appeared. Mrs. Wiggins greeted him, as she always did, with an enthusiastic hug and wanted to know if he’d had tea. When he said he had, she went off to the kitchen to make sure that the cook knew he had arrived and that all was going as it should there.
“Is my mother home?” asked Andrew, noticing that Sara was wearing a new dress and looking prettier than ever.
“In her room writing a letter,” said Sara, her clipped and off-handed manner covering the shyness they both always felt when they hadn’t seen one another for some time.
“In that case, here. You’d better read this,” he said, giving her Wyatt’s telegram.
She read it and was looking at him with a puzzled frown that told him she didn’t know what it was about either when a door upstairs opened and Verna came hurrying down the stairs.
“Andrew, darling,” she said, embracing him. “I thought I heard a cab, but I was in the middle of something and I wasn’t sure. How are you?” she asked, holding him away from her and studying him.
“Fine.”
“I must say you look well. And of course you’ve grown again—which I know I’m not supposed to say. And I’m sure Mrs. Wiggins has asked you if you’ve had tea.”
“She has. And I told her I had it on the train, and she’s gone into the kitchen to chivvy Mrs. Simmonds who’s not going to like it one bit. So let’s go inside and sit down so you can tell me how you are.”
“Why, I’m fine too,” said Verna, leading the way into the parlor.
“No, you’re not. What’s wrong?”
About to sit down, Verna looked at Sara to see if she’d said anything to him and Sara shook her head.
“What makes you think something’s wrong?” she asked.
“I just do. You’re angry or upset about something.”
“I must say that playing detective with Sara and Peter Wyatt has made you very observant. Or have you become psychic, able to read minds and that sort of thing?”
“No. I just know you. Now what is it?”
Sighing, Verna sat down.
“It’s the play.”
No need to ask which one. Her last play, an adaptation of Jane Eyre, had closed a few weeks before. But long before that, Lawrence Harrison, the manager who was also her good friend, had come to her with a new comedy about which she had been quite excited.
“I thought you liked it.”
“I did and do like it. It’s not just funny, it’s witty. Lydia is just the kind of character I’ve been dying to play, especially after Jane Eyre. That’s why I’m annoyed at Harrison for postponing it.”
“Why is he postponing it?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know. We were supposed to start rehearsals last Wednesday, but I got a note from him saying he was holding off until he had talked to Duncan about some rewriting. It’s true that there are some things that can be improved, but nothing serious enough to delay going into rehearsal. There’s something very odd about the whole thing, and I don’t like it.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m having lunch with Harrison tomorrow, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”
Andrew and Sara exchanged glances. That took care of that very nicely. If Verna was having lunch with Harrison, there would be no awkward questions asked when they went off to have lunch with Peter Wyatt.
2
The Murdered Players
The White Stag was not yet crowded when Sara and Andrew arrived, and they were able to get the table in the bay window that Andrew knew Wyatt liked. The waiter remembered Andrew and nodded when he said they were waiting for someone. By ten minutes after twelve, Wyatt had still not appeared, and Sara and Andrew were beginning to wonder what had happened, when Sergeant Tucker, the large and deceptively mild-looking policeman who had been working with Wyatt for some time, entered, looked around and came over to them.
“Well,” he said. “The troublesome two.”
“Troublesome to whom?” asked Andrew.
“Us at the Yard. Though I’ll admit you’ve given a certain amount of trouble to a few yobbos, too.”
“I should say we have,” said Sara. “You wouldn’t have solved half the cases you have if it wasn’t for us. Where’s Wyatt?”
“He’ll be along. He was on his way here when the commissioner sent for him. So he sent me over to tell you why he was late and that he’d be here when he could.”
“Something up?” asked Andrew.
“There’s always something up at the Yard. What do you think we do all day, sit around figuring form for the races?”
“I know you do that most of the time. But I meant something important. There must be if the commissioner sent for Wyatt.”
“How do you know he didn’t want to ask him who his tailor is?”
“He probably asked him that a long time ago,” said Sara. “Come on, Sergeant. Tell us.”
“I will not. That’s how the trouble always starts. Someone tells you three words about a case, and the next thing we know you’re in it up to your sit-me-downs.”
“All right,” said Andrew. “Just tell us if it’s animal, vegetable or mineral.”
“I’ll tell you nothing. I’ll tell Frank here,” he said to the waiter who had reappeared, “what his nibs is having for lunch. And by the time it gets here, he’ll be here. A steak and kidney pie for the inspector, Frank.”
“And a pint of your best bitter, of course.”
“Of course.”
Sara and Andrew decided to have steak and kidney-pie, too, and Tucker proved to be as good a prophet in this as he was in most things, for about the time the waiter reappeared with their order, Wyatt came hurrying in.
“Sorry I’m late. You explained?” he asked Tucker.
“I did.”
“I left a note on your desk. Take care of it as soon as you can.”
“Aren’t you having lunch with us?” Sara asked Tucker.
“Someone has to hold the fort,” said the sergeant. “I’ll grab a bite at the pub, but I suspect I’ll be seeing the two of you again sometime soon.” And giving them an exaggerated salute, he left.
“How’s the commissioner?” asked Sara.
“Fine.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to take care of what he wanted to see you about?” asked Andrew.
“As always, I intend to do my best.”
“All right,” said Sara. “We give up. So you don’t intend to tell us what the commissioner wanted or about the case you’re on. What did you want to see us about?”
“It’s the holiday season. Andrew has just come back to London after several months away at school, and I haven’t seen you since he was last here. Isn’t that enough reason to want to see the two of you?”
“To send me a telegram making an appointment for my first day home?” said Andrew. “The answer is no.”
“Why do you think I wanted to see you?”
“I don’t mind guessing when it serves some useful purpose. But since you’re bound to tell us sooner or later, I’ll just wait until you do.”
“You get more difficult every time I see you,” said Wyatt.
“You say that every time we see you,” said Sara. “And then you give us that look.”
“What look is that?”
“The one that asks, ‘Can I trust them to do what I want and keep quiet about it?’ And the ridiculous part of it is that you must have decided that you could trust us or you never would have sent Andrew that telegram.”
“True. All right, I’ll tell you. Do you read the newspapers when you’re away at school, Andrew?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Even though you’re here, I don’t imagine you do either, Sara.”
“No. If something happens that Miss Tillett thinks I’ll be interested in, she tells me about it or shows it to me. But that’s all. Why? Has anything happened that we should know about?”
“Yes. Two weeks ago an actress, not too well known here in London but quite well known in the provinces, was found dead in her dressing room in the Adelphi Theatre. About a week ago another actress—I call her that though her most recent engagement was working with a magician at the Vaudeville Theatre—was found dead in the alley outside the stage door of the theatre. Both deaths were reported in the papers. But another one was not. That took place the day before yesterday. The victim was Meg Morrissey, who had a fairly important part in the musical, The Girl From Fiji, at the Garrick. Any comments or questions?”
“Questions,” said Andrew. “You say these actresses were found dead. Were they murdered?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“At the moment, that’s not important. There are other, more important things to discuss.”
“They were all actresses, and they were all playing in theatres around the same area,” said Sara. “Around the Strand.”
“Right.”
“You said that the first two deaths were reported in the newspapers, but the last one wasn’t,” said Andrew. “How did that happen?”
“I’ve been handling the cases, and I was able to keep the last one quiet.”
“That’s what I thought. Why did you do it? I mean, why was it important to keep it quiet?”
“To understand that, I’ll have to give you some history.” Wyatt cut a neat portion of steak and kidney pie, ate it and washed it down with a draught of beer. “Almost exactly ten years ago, at the beginning of the Christmas season, there was another series of strange deaths, all connected with the theatre. Four of them in all.”
The Case of the Frightened Friend (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 6) Page 12