Wouldn't It Be Deadly

by D. E. Ireland

  “To Nepommuck’s apartment?”

  “Yes, Miss Doolittle. She’d gone to weep and worship at the altar of her lost love. I went after her, I did. And when I got there, she was on her knees, kissing his photograph like he was a bloody saint, and not some lying fat foreigner.”

  “How did she get into the apartment?” Eliza asked. “It must have been locked.”

  “He’d given her a key for their trysts. Only he never got a chance to ask for it back.”

  “That must have been a terrible scene between you two this morning.” Eliza shuddered.

  “No, no scene at all.” Finch stared down at his clasped hands. “I looked at her there on the floor, crying out his name, telling him how much she loved him, would always love him, how their child would know how wonderful he was. So I walked over to her and put my hands around her neck.” He paused, eyes still downcast. “And it was over.”

  Higgins and Eliza looked at each other. Neither of them wanted to be in this room any longer.

  “She deserved to die,” Finch added. “Both of them did.”

  Higgins waited for him to admit anything else about the Maestro’s murder.

  “But you didn’t kill Nepommuck.” Jack came to stand by the table.

  “No. I wish I had, though.”

  “You’re a rich man,” Eliza said. “You could have paid any number of lowlifes to do the job for you.”

  Finch shook his head. “I might have, but someone else got to him first. That’s why I wanted to see you, Professor Higgins.”

  Higgins sat back in disappointment. “Why?”

  “To thank you, of course.”

  “Whatever for, man?”

  “You’ve done a great thing, Professor.” He grabbed Higgins’s hand and shook it. “You killed Emil Nepommuck.”

  ELEVEN

  Higgins regarded himself as an ordinary man who only wished to lead a quiet bachelor life. So why was he skulking about the city chasing after murder suspects? Women, that’s why. As he feared, females brought only disorder into a scholar’s peaceful existence. And Eliza Doolittle had so far brought more trouble than a police wagon filled with suffragettes. She wasn’t the only woman currently complicating his life, of course, but she was at the top of his list.

  If not for her traipsing off to work for Nepommuck in the first place, he would never have been dragged into this bloody circus. Now instead of researching the dialects of a Devonshire farmer, he was stumbling over corpses, being hauled off by the police, and waiting like a messenger boy outside the home of that fraudulent Greek diplomat, Dmitri Kollas.

  He looked up from the newspaper he pretended to read. Directly across from where he sat was Kollas’s lodgings. When Higgins read the addresses of Nepommuck’s clients, he had been surprised to see that Kollas lived in such a prestigious neighborhood. What sort of income did this fellow have access to that he could afford an elegant mansion in Kensington? This was just a step or two down from the heady environs of the aristocracy in Mayfair.

  Of course, if the man posed as a retired diplomat, Higgins didn’t expect him to be living above a brewery in Lambeth. But it looked as though Kollas enjoyed a lifestyle that could only be termed posh. A steep ascent indeed for one secretly rumored to be a watchmaker’s son from Clerkenwell.

  “I’m back, guv’nor.”

  Higgins nodded at the boy who suddenly appeared next to the wrought iron bench he was seated on. “Where did the gentleman go, boy?”

  “I followed him to Holborn. St. Giles-in-the-Fields.”

  “He went to a church? Whatever for?”

  “Seeing how it’s Sunday, sir.” The twelve-year-old raised an eyebrow, and even Higgins felt the rebuke.

  “Yes, of course. He went to Sunday service. Anywhere he stopped along the way?”

  “Bought a griddle cake from the muffin man at Tottenham Court Road. He sells griddle cakes special on Sundays.”

  Higgins fished a pound note from his wallet and handed it over. The information he had just received was more helpful than anticipated. And how lovely to learn it was Sunday.

  “Would you like me to wait outside the church and follow him some more?”

  “No need for that.” Higgins rose to his feet. “He’s sure to be busy singing hymns for the better part of an hour, which is more than sufficient for my purposes.”

  The boy tucked the money into the lining of his cap. “If you ever need me to follow anyone else, guv, you’ll find me in the same place: making pretty pictures on the pavement in Piccadilly. Leastways on a sunny day. Otherwise, ask around for Toby Greene.”

  As the boy vanished into traffic, Higgins made his way to Kollas’s mansion. No better time to discover the sort of man one was dealing with than taking a look about his home, especially if he was absent. Higgins had met Kollas only once at the infamous Embassy Ball. Even during their short conversation, he had been struck by the man’s atrocious Greek accent. And he seemed a florid and overbearing poseur. But Higgins swore he heard a Cockney flavor in the few words Kollas spoke in his presence. For certain, he was no Greek. Then what was he?

  Higgins rang the mansion doorbell. The brass doorknob and address plate looked well polished, and the porch was swept as clean as the front stoop of a Dutch housewife. The door opened and a young maidservant peeked out at him.

  “Sir?”

  As he suspected, only a skeleton staff remained at the house on Sunday; most of the servants would be given permission to attend church. This was easier than he hoped, with no head housekeeper or butler to persuade. Higgins gazed upon a girl no older than sixteen.

  “Mr. Kollas, please.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Kollas is at church, sir.”

  “I see. I have an appointment with him at eleven. I realize I’m a bit early, but I was hoping to find him in.”

  “He’ll be back in time for luncheon. Cook has a roast in the oven.”

  Higgins handed his calling card to the girl, whom he guessed to be the under-house parlor maid. “No doubt you are aware that Mr. Kollas had engaged a gentleman to help him with his English. Sadly that individual is recently deceased. As you can see from my card, I am a language specialist as well. Mr. Kollas wished to speak with me about continuing his instruction.”

  The girl seemed impressed by his embossed card. “Since you have an appointment, Professor Higgins, you may wait inside.” She opened the door wider.

  He needed no further invitation. Within minutes Higgins was comfortably ensconced in Dmitri Kollas’s front parlor.

  “Can I bring you tea, Professor? Or coffee? Ambassador Kollas prefers Greek coffee.”

  Higgins settled back in a dark purple divan. “I will wait for Mr. Kollas to join me. Besides, I am sure you must have a great deal to do getting luncheon ready.”

  “Indeed yes, sir. There’s only me and the scullery maid here right now and a dozen things on the stove. If you need anything, just ring, sir.” She bobbed a small curtsey.

  As soon as the oak door swung shut behind her, Higgins sprang to his feet. It was a small room with overlarge furniture. He had to skirt carefully around the ottomans and polished tables. There were no family photos in evidence, although a portrait of King George I of Greece hung in a prominent spot above the fireplace.

  He examined the many paintings in the room. Each portrayed a scene in Greece: three were of the Acropolis alone. A pedestal near the window held a first-rate marble reproduction of a bust of Pericles. On a side table sat a brass tray with demitasse cups and several bottles of Greek wine. Nothing surprising about that. Only a fool would pretend to be a foreign diplomat and not have several objects related to their so-called mother country.

  There wasn’t a book to be seen, but the Sunday Times lay neatly folded on a cabinet by the door. Higgins sighed. He would have no further luck in here. Opening the door, he peeked out into the hallway. The aroma of roasting meat already wafted through the house. Higgins’s stomach gave an involuntary growl. He remembered he had not eaten breakfa
st.

  Stepping out farther, he heard two female voices below along with the sound of clattering pans. Through the open door across the hall, he spied what must be the library. Crossing the hallway as quietly as a house burglar, he ducked into the room and slid the pocket doors shut behind him. Due to the cloudy morning, Higgins swept the curtains open wide before turning to inspect the room. The oak writing desk was free from any clutter save an inkwell, blotter, and a neatly stacked pile of vellum stationery.

  He pulled open each desk drawer, but they held little of interest. Next he turned to the bookshelves filled with leather volumes; most appeared remarkably new. Several bore Greek titles on the spines. When Higgins pulled these out, they opened as if they had never been touched. Some had pages still uncut. Just so, Higgins thought. The books were as much a false front as the portrait of the Greek king and the bust of Pericles in the parlor.

  The bottom shelf held several medical journals and two thick volumes on tropical medicine. He flipped these open. All the spines were cracked, with pages repeatedly marked in the margins. Unfortunately, there were no bookplates or names scribbled on the flyleaf to identify the owner.

  Kollas would be home soon and he had discovered nothing except that the fellow wasn’t actually Greek. Yet who really believed that he was?

  Discouraged, Higgins returned to the hallway to think over his next move. He paused by the stairs. The library and parlor might hold no clues as to Kollas’s real identity, but the bedroom was where a man might feel safe enough to be careless.

  Without giving himself time to change his mind, Higgins ran up the carpeted stairs two at a time. He stood for a moment in the upper hallway. Only two bedrooms on this floor, and a quick glance at the narrow dark stairway to the third floor suggested it probably led to the servants’ quarters. Peeking into the nearest room, Higgins dismissed it as a rarely used guest bedroom, devoid of decoration or decor. They may as well have covered up the few pieces of furniture with a sheet.

  Higgins entered the remaining bedroom filled with well-polished mahogany furniture. It was an imposing masculine room with not a hint of the frivolous about it. If Higgins liked Kollas, he may have allowed himself a moment of appreciation for the fellow’s taste. But he had no time to admire the Oriental rug or the maroon bed coverings.

  He headed for the largest wardrobe and flung it open. Over a dozen neatly pressed suits hung inside. He glanced at the labels. All carried the mark of Savile Row tailors, except for three suits hidden in the back. After examining them, Higgins raised an eyebrow. The labels on the three jackets claimed they had been made by “HSM, Chicago, Illinois.”

  Next Higgins yanked open bureau drawers, not caring if he left the contents noticeably askew. In one drawer, he pulled out a silver cigarette case buried beneath expensive ascot ties. The case was empty, and its tarnished state indicated it had not been used for some time. However, the initials inscribed on the front of the case were “TR.” Inside was another inscription: “Congratulations, Dr. Richards. From your proud father.”

  Now he began to look in earnest, under the bed, beneath the plump pillows, even behind the potted ferns along the bay window. In a smaller bureau of drawers, Higgins discovered a book tucked away among a careless jumble of leather gloves and cashmere mufflers. The well-thumbed volume contained essays by Ralph Waldo Emerson.

  Higgins fluttered the pages and came upon one whose corner had been turned down. Someone had underlined the quote: “It was a high counsel that I once heard given to a young person, ‘Always do what you are afraid to do.’”

  Curious, Higgins fanned the other pages and stopped when he saw a folded piece of paper. Taking it from where it had been tucked away—or hidden—he quickly read what turned out to be a newspaper article. After reading it twice, he stepped over to the window to make out the date.

  “October 10, 1912,” he said aloud. “And a Chicago paper, too.”

  “What in hell do you think you’re doing?” Kollas stood glowering in the doorway.

  Damnation, how could he not have kept track of the time? Sensing the man’s fury, Higgins was grateful he had insisted that Eliza question the young Mr. Nottingham while he tackled the more intimidating Kollas. And although Higgins was a good four inches taller, Kollas had the physique of a boxer, and a temper he suspected easily turned violent. He’d have to proceed with care if he wanted to exit this room unbloodied.

  “I asked you a question, you barmy excuse for a man!”

  Higgins shuddered at the labored imitation of a Cockney accent. “Drop the dialect, sir. You obviously needed a few more lessons with Nepommuck to school you in how the people of Clerkenwell speak.”

  “Bollocks! I find you in the bedroom, handling me property, and you ’ave the piss to challenge me!” His expression grew more menacing when he saw the book and newspaper article in Higgins’s hands. “Give me that, or you’ll be wishing you were skagged on a rocky cliff.”

  Higgins folded the article and replaced it in the book. He tossed it at Kollas, who caught the volume.

  “I apologize for the intrusion, but I may be thrown into prison for a crime I did not commit. I need to discover if anyone else had a reason to murder the Hungarian.”

  “You’re a meddler, you are. And the sooner I call the police and tell them how you broke into my home—”

  “But I’ve done no such thing.” Higgins sat down on the bay window’s cushioned seat. “Your maid let me in. You may ask her if you like.”

  “I already have. She told me a Professor Higgins was waiting to have a word with me. Thought you’d done a runner when you weren’t downstairs.” Kollas shook his head. “Instead I catch you going through my things like the Artful Dodger ’imself. Yes, the police would like to get an earful about this.”

  Higgins gave a careless shrug. “Don’t know what they’d find so interesting about it. I needed to use the water closet. Not wanting to disturb the servants, I came upstairs in search of it. I’ve always been a bit too curious for my own good, so I couldn’t resist a little poke about your bedroom. Rude? Certainly. But hardly criminal.”

  “Liar.”

  “That’s a strange thing to hear from a man pretending to be both a Greek and an Englishman. By the way, if you insist on posing as a Greek diplomat, you should keep up to date on what is actually occurring in Greece. For example, the Greek king died in March. At some point, even the insular English will notice that you have never donned a black armband in mourning.”

  “You’ll regret this, you arrogant blighter.”

  “Like Nepommuck did?”

  Kollas narrowed his eyes. “Last I heard, the Yard was looking at you as the bloke who done him in.”

  “That may change when the police hear about your activities in America. You are American, aren’t you? I should have discerned the occasional flat vowels in your speech. And I am certain Inspector Shaw will be fascinated to learn about your colorful past. Or were the Chicago papers mistaken when they claimed that you killed your father?”

  After a long tense moment, Kollas closed the bedroom door. Higgins noticed with misgiving that he also locked it.

  “You are the man mentioned in the article,” Higgins went on. “Dr. Thaddeus Richards, renowned surgeon of Chicago. The journals and medical books downstairs were the first clue.”

  “Are you playing detective now? If so, it’s a poor imitation. Although in some respects, you are like all detectives in that you lack imagination.” He paused. “And compassion.”

  Struck by the abrupt change in Kollas’s speech, Higgins raised an eyebrow. Now that the man had dropped all pretense, it was clear that Kollas was a highly educated man from the American Midwest.

  “You expect compassion for doing in your own father?”

  “What do you know of it?”

  “I only know what I just read in that newspaper article. It stated that railroad magnate Ambrose Joseph Richards was found dead at his home of an overdose of morphine in October 1912. A dose administer
ed by his only son, a doctor.”

  “That is true.”

  Higgins didn’t know what to say to this. Had the fellow just confessed to murder? “So the papers were right, Dr. Richards?”

  He flinched. “Do not call me Dr. Richards. My old name and the life that went with it are as dead to me as my father. I am Dmitri Kollas, at least for now.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Kollas leaned back against the bedroom door. “Did I murder my father? No, I did not. I did, however, end his life.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “My father was a good man who deserved a more fitting end than the cancer that ravaged him for two years. He wanted only me to treat his illness, and why should he not? His son was a celebrated surgeon, a superb diagnostician, the recipient of numerous fellowships and honors. And through my work I had saved so many lives. Except I couldn’t save his.” Kollas grew silent for a moment. “I couldn’t.”

  Higgins felt uncomfortable and a little ashamed. He had trespassed on something private and deeply painful.

  “I had been giving my father morphine in increasingly stronger doses,” Kollas said in a voice so soft, Higgins strained to hear him. “But the pain was unrelenting, I could barely stave off even an hour of it. At the end, he begged me to set him free of the agony. Jesus only suffered for three hours upon the cross, Professor. My father and so many like him suffer for months, sometimes years. As a physician—as a son!—I did what my conscience dictated. I gave my father peace. I gave him eternal rest. Some may call it murder. I call it mercy.”

  Neither man spoke for a time. “How did you become involved with Nepommuck?” Higgins finally asked.

  “When my father died, his sister suspected I had given him a fatal dose of morphine. Aunt Hortense was his last surviving sibling, and I his only living child. A great fortune would be divided between us, but Hortense is as greedy as she is heartless. She wanted it all. So she went to the police with her suspicions. I was arrested within a week of his death.”