The Case of the Frightened Friend (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 6)

by Robert Newman

  “When you say strange deaths, do you mean that they were all murders, too?” asked Andrew.

  “They were never called murders,” said Wyatt. “In fact, in three of the cases no one was sure what the cause of death was. But I’m convinced now that they were murders. In the fourth case, the man died of a heart attack as a result of the deaths.”

  “And the reason you kept the last murder quiet,” said Sara, “is that you don’t want people to start remembering those earlier deaths and start thinking there may be more of them.”

  “Exactly. We don’t see any reason to frighten people unnecessarily.”

  “Because, of course, when they do get frightened,” said Sara, “they have a way of going after the police, wanting to know why they’re not doing something about it when you’re already doing everything you can.”

  “How well you understand us,” said Wyatt dryly.

  “What I don’t understand is why you’re telling us about it,” said Andrew. “I mean, it’s not as if—” He broke off. “My mother!”

  “Yes, Andrew.”

  “Is she in any danger?”

  “We don’t know, because we don’t know what’s behind these latest killings, what the motive is. All we know is that they all involved actresses.”

  “But she’s not actually in a play right now,” said Sara. “At least … Was that your doing too, getting Mr. Harrison to postpone rehearsals of the play?”

  “Yes. I told him why, but I didn’t tell her. I didn’t see any point in alarming her. But I thought I’d tell the two of you so that, if it’s necessary, you could help persuade her to stay off the stage for a while.”

  “Of course,” said Andrew. “Though I think you’d be better off telling her the truth than pretending there’s something wrong with the play as Mr. Harrison’s been doing. In fact … What is it?” he asked as Wyatt sat up, staring past him.

  “The chap who just came in,” said Wyatt.

  Turning, Andrew saw a sullen-looking man in rather flashy clothes who stood just inside the restaurant door.

  “What about him?”

  “His name’s Bolan, Nifty Bolan, and he’s a well known cracksman. Do you know what that is?”

  “A burglar who specializes in opening safes,” said Sara.

  “Right. He’s been in jail for over three years now, and I assume he’s just been released. But what is he doing here in the Yard’s backyard?” He smiled faintly as Sergeant Tucker came back into the restaurant and stood behind Bolan, looking from him to Wyatt. “Tucker must have seen him go by, and he’s wondering about it too, wants to make sure I know he’s here.”

  He nodded to Tucker, and the sergeant left. Immediately after the door closed, it was pushed open again and an interesting-looking man came in. He was in his late thirties or early forties, not quite as tall as Bolan, but sturdy and with a pleasant, open face. He was wearing a tweed overcoat and a soft felt hat, and he looked like a country squire in town for the day. He greeted Bolan and started to lead him to a table that Frank, the waiter, had evidently been saving for him. Then, seeing Wyatt, he paused, said something to Bolan and came over to the table.

  “This is a pleasant surprise, Inspector.”

  “It shouldn’t be too big a surprise. I frequently have lunch here. I’d like you to meet two young friends of mine, Sara Wiggins and Andrew Tillett. Nicholas Norwood.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Norwood, bowing politely. Then, to Wyatt, “I’d like you to meet the man I’m lunching with. In fact, I was planning to come over to the Yard later on and see if you could spare us a few minutes.”

  “Is the man you want me to meet Nifty Bolan?”

  “Why, yes. Do you know him?”

  “By name, sight and reputation. But since we’re well along with our lunch, why don’t you bring him over here when you’ve finished yours?”

  “Your young friends won’t mind?”

  “My young friends have another appointment and have to leave very soon.”

  “In that case, splendid. We’ll be along shortly.” And bowing again to Sara and Andrew, he left to join Bolan at a table on the far side of the restaurant.

  “What made you say we had another appointment?” asked Sara.

  “I just thought it might be better if you did have. I doubt if either Norwood or Bolan would talk as freely in front of you as they will to me alone.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Andrew. “Who is Norwood?”

  “Quite an interesting man. Did you ever hear of the Golden Rule Society?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he started it, runs it. Do you know what the Golden Rule is?”

  “From the Bible, isn’t it?”

  “Matthew. ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’”

  “What does it do?” asked Andrew. “The society. I mean.”

  “Works with old lags, criminals who have been released from prison. Helps them and their families by lending them money and helping them get legitimate jobs.”

  “Good show!” said Sara. “What made Mr. Norwood do it?”

  “That’s what I asked him the first time I met him,” said Wyatt. “It seems he comes of an old county family with an estate near Stanbury. His father was one of those hunting, fishing squires who wasn’t the least bit interested in his children, and Norwood’s best friend when he was growing up was a man who worked on the estate and taught young Norwood a great deal about animals, birds and fish. When Norwood went away to school, the man was caught poaching by the Norwood gamekeeper. They fought, he broke the gamekeeper’s arm and was sent to jail. When he was released, he couldn’t get work, and he had a family to take care of, so he started poaching again. He was sent to jail again, and this time he got jail fever and died there.”

  “But that’s awful!” said Andrew.

  “That’s what Norwood thought,” said Wyatt. “He was away at Oxford at the time, didn’t know anything about it until it was too late. When he found out about it, he had a terrible fight with his father, wouldn’t talk to him for several years. Then, when his father died and he inherited the estate, he started the Golden Rule Society to try to keep the same thing from happening again.”

  “Good for him!” said Sara.

  “I agree,” said Wyatt. “It’s something the government should be doing. No matter what it cost, in the long run it would save not only lives, but money—which is one of the few things the state seems to understand. You’ll forgive me for sending you off, then?”

  “Of course,” said Andrew. “As for the other thing we talked about, as I said, I think you should tell my mother the truth instead of having Mr. Harrison pretend there’s something wrong with the play. But, whatever you do, of course I’ll back you up, make sure she doesn’t appear on stage anywhere until you’re convinced she won’t be in danger.”

  “All right, Andrew. You may be right about the direct approach. Your mother’s not an easy person to fool. I’ll think about it. And I’m sure I’ll be seeing the two of you again soon.”

  The two young people left, and Wyatt ordered another pint of bitter and some Stilton cheese. He was just finishing both when Norwood appeared at the table with Bolan.

  “May we join you now?” he asked.

  “Please do. Can I offer you some bitter or cheese?”

  “Thank you, no. Bolan says that he knows a good deal about you, as you do about him, even though you’ve never met.”

  “Well, now that we’ve remedied that, why don’t the two of you sit down?”

  “Thanks, guv’nor,” said Bolan.

  “What are you up to these days, Nifty?” asked Wyatt.

  “That’s one of the things we’ve been talking about,” said Norwood. “Bolan thought that he’d like to work with a locksmith or a safe manufacturer. He knows a great deal about both, but I told him I didn’t think that was a good idea.”

  “I agree. I think his interest in safes and locks might be misunderstood.”

  “Exac
tly. But I was able to get him a job in a machine shop in Southwark, and he and his new employer seem happy about it. But that’s not what we wanted to talk to you about. Tell him, Bolan.”

  “All right. Do you remember old Harry Hopwood, Inspector?”

  “Of course. He was one of the first major arrests I made.”

  “Right. Nabbed him after that break-in on Greek Street you did. But there was a good deal of swag that was never recovered. Lot of old coins, for instance.”

  “Yes. There was a goodish reward offered for their return.”

  “Right. Well, old Harry’s dead, died about two months ago. We was pals in the clink, and knowing he was mortal sick and not likely to make it out the gate, he told me where he’d hid the stuff, and I thought I’d like to tell you.”

  “Oh? To collect the reward?”

  “No. I don’t want the reward. They can give it to Mr. Norwood here for that society of his. I’m just trying to prove to everyone that, from now on, I’m really going straight.”

  “Nifty, I won’t say I’m surprised,” said Wyatt, “because I’m not. I’m dumbfounded, dumb-foozled and just plain bowled over!”

  3

  A Startling Revelation

  It was getting dark when Sara and Andrew got off the bus and walked home up Rysdale Road. Just before they reached the house, they met the lamplighter, an elderly man with a grey mustache, who nodded to them and smiled. Remembering his first evening in London—the first time he had seen a lamplighter—Andrew paused and watched as he pushed his long pole up under the glass shade of the gaslight, turned on the gas and lit it, then went on, the yellow glow high up on the iron standards marking his progress.

  When they left The White Stag, Sara and Andrew had walked over to the Drury Lane Theatre near Covent Garden, where Andrew had bought tickets for the pantomime the next afternoon. Sara had protested rather feebly, not sure that Andrew really wanted to go and reluctant to have him spend the money, especially for good seats in the stalls, if he didn’t. But he had paid no attention to her, assuring her that he was as anxious to see the pantomime as she was. That, in fact, it wouldn’t seem like the Christmas season if he didn’t go.

  From the Drury Lane they walked over to Liberty’s, an architectural jumble of a store with balconies and enclosed courtyards strewn with all the colors and fabrics of the Arabian Nights; and there Sara helped Andrew pick out a shawl as a Christmas present for his mother, a cashmere with a muted paisley pattern. And as the shawl was being wrapped, he saw Sara looking at a silk scarf and was thus able to determine, as he had hoped he would, what he should get her for Christmas.

  Verna was already home when they got there, and Andrew barely had time to give his package to Matson and ask him to hide it before Verna came downstairs looking like a stormcloud sweeping down from the Alps. No, they told her, they hadn’t had tea and followed her into the sitting room while Matson went to inform the cook that they were home.

  “You don’t look as if you had a very good lunch,” said Andrew.

  “There was nothing wrong with the lunch, but there certainly is something wrong with Harrison,” said Verna. “I don’t know what’s come over him. Up to now I trusted him so completely that I kept saying I didn’t know why we bothered with contracts. That his word was good enough for me. But today I didn’t believe anything he said.”

  “You’re talking about the reasons he gave you for postponing the play?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?” asked Sara.

  “The same thing he said before. That the play needed more work. Well, I know that. I was the one who first said the second act could use another scene. But we agreed that it was a small thing and we should go into rehearsal while Duncan did something about it. But now Harrison says he doesn’t want to commit himself until he sees what Duncan does. Yes, Matson?” she said as the butler knocked discreetly at the door.

  “Inspector Wyatt is here and would like to see you.”

  “Show him in. And ask Annie to bring in another cup. I’m sure he’d like some tea also.”

  Matson bowed and left.

  “Good evening, Peter,” said Verna when Wyatt came in. “I won’t ask you how you are because it’s obvious you’re in a temper.”

  Wyatt would have been hard put to deny it, for if Verna looked like a stormcloud, he looked like a typhoon.

  “I take it you haven’t seen this afternoon’s Journal,” he said.

  “I never see it,” said Verna. “It’s a loathesome sheet.”

  “It is. But since someone is bound to show you a copy of today’s, I thought it had better be me.” And taking a folded copy of the newspaper from his pocket, he gave it to her, pointing to an article marked with red ink.

  “Meg Morrissey dead!” she said after she’d read a few lines. “Murdered! I knew her! Not well, but I did know her. And I liked her!”

  “I thought you knew her,” said Wyatt. “That’s why I was sure that someone would show you the article. It’s a story written by a reporter named Fulton,” he said to Sara and Andrew. “And he’s covered, not only this murder and the other two I told you about at lunch, but the ones that took place ten years ago.”

  “What’s that?” said Verna, looking up from the newspaper. “You had lunch together, you and Andrew?”

  “And Sara. Yes.”

  “Did you meet specifically to talk about these murders—Meg Morrissey’s and the others he mentions?”

  “We did.”

  “But why?”

  “Did you finish the article?”

  “You mean where he talks about the fact that this may just be the beginning? That … Wait a minute. Are you suggesting that I might be in danger?”

  “Isn’t that what he suggests—though he’s careful not to mention you or anyone else by name?”

  “Yes, but he’s just a Fleet Street faker, the worst kind of yellow journalist. Do you mean you think so too?”

  “I do.”

  “Well,” she said, and her voice was cold and cutting, “this is getting more and more interesting. You admit that you met with Andrew and Sara to discuss these deaths, the very farfetched possibility that I might be threatened. Did you, by any chance, discuss this with anyone else?”

  “If you mean Mr. Harrison, the answer is yes.”

  “I knew it! Knew there was something wrong there—that Harrison wasn’t telling me the truth. But it never occurred to me that it would be anything like this! That someone I had considered a friend would go behind my back, connive with my son and my manager…”

  “Connive?”

  “Isn’t that what you were doing?”

  “No!”

  “I don’t think you’re being fair, Mother,” said Andrew.

  There was something wrong here, something he did not understand. Because, from the time they had first met, Verna and Wyatt had seemed to admire one another greatly. But now here they were sparring with one another like a pair of hereditary enemies.

  “What do you call it if not conniving?” said Verna. “If you felt that there was reason to be anxious about my safety—grounds real enough to warrant my keeping off the stage for a while—why didn’t you come to me openly and tell me about it?”

  “Because I was afraid that you would do exactly what you’re doing—respond, not rationally, but emotionally!”

  “When you say emotionally, what you really mean is hysterically, don’t you?”

  “If I meant hysterically,” said Wyatt, his voice rising slightly as Verna’s had become colder, “I would say hysterically!”

  “I don’t know if I believe that. In fact, I’m not sure I believe anything you say! It seems to me that things must be very slow over at Scotland Yard for you to get this exercised over something as ridiculous as this!”

  “Mother, please …” said Andrew.

  “May I point out to you, Miss Tillett, that what we’re talking about—what you’re calling ridiculous—is a possible threat to your life?”

>   “And why is that of such cardinal importance to you?”

  “Because I’m a policeman. Because it’s my job to prevent crimes as well as capture those who commit them. And because the most heinous, the most abhorrent of all crimes are the ones in which someone’s life is threatened. Does that answer your question?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “I didn’t think it would. All right.” His voice dropped in register but became more intense. “While it would be my job to worry about anyone in the circumstances we’ve been discussing, no matter how difficult you’ve been—and you’ve been very difficult indeed—I worry more about you than I would about anyone else because …” He hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “Because I love you, dammit! I have from the first time I met you, and if you hadn’t become so completely impossible, I’d ask you to marry me!”

  “Oh,” said Verna quietly, even demurely, and without the slightest bit of surprise. “Well, of course, that’s different.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, that’s different.”

  Andrew jumped as Sara kicked him in the ankle. Closing his mouth, which had opened in astonishment, he looked at her. She got up, pulled him to his feet and led him from the room. It was only when they were outside and the door had closed behind them that the full significance of what had just happened dawned on him. That and something else. The fact that though he had been astonished, Sara had been as little surprised at what had been said as Verna.

  Buy The Case of the Murdered Players Now!

  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.