A Case of Dom Perignon: From the Victorian Carriage Mystery Series

by Alan M. Petrillo

  Bradnum heaved a sigh. “Which way?”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Bradnum winced as Sweeney jammed the revolver’s muzzle into his back.

  “Come on, Mate. Pick up the pace a bit. We want to get out of here before dark,” Sweeney said, pushing the muzzle deeper into his back.

  Bradnum took a deep breath and looked back over his shoulder. “You should know you won’t get away with this. You will be stopped. And probably hanged.”

  Sweeney laughed. “By who? You boyos haven’t been able to catch me so far and it’s only been bloody bad luck that you got this close to me today. Hold on now.” Sweeney clamped his hand on Bradnum’s shoulder and pulled him to a stop.

  Twenty feet away stood a thick iron fence, five feet high and topped by pointed spikes, discouraging anyone but the most motivated individual from climbing over it. Sweeney pushed Bradnum forward until they were close enough to touch the warm metal.

  “All right, Mate. Up and over you go,” Sweeney said, gesturing with the revolver.

  “How do you expect me to get over those spikes?”

  Sweeney shook his head as if he were dealing with a backward child. “There’s plenty o’ room between the spikes for you to get handholds and footholds if you’re careful. If you’re not, then I might have to find some other way to get through the cordon you’ve put around the estate.” He looked Bradnum up and down. “Let’s be at it, shall we? I haven’t got all bloody afternoon.”

  Bradnum looked from Sweeney to the top of the iron fence. Damn, he thought. The buggar was going to get away and there seemed to be nothing he could do about it. Unless…

  Bradnum grabbed a cross-piece on the fence and pulled himself up to the top, slipping his right foot in between two spikes. He slid his free hand in the slot between two other spikes and pushed himself over the top, landing awkwardly on the other side and sitting down hard on his butt.

  “Well done, Inspector,” Sweeney said with a laugh. “Now you sit right there and wait for me to get over. And no tricks, mind you.” He waved the revolver at Bradnum. With the quickness of a cat going after an unsuspecting bird, Sweeney hauled himself up and over the iron fence, landing feet first with a thud.

  “Let’s move, Mate. On your feet.”

  Bradnum rose slowly and headed west again, parting bushes and weeds as he passed through a dense section of scrub brush. He stole a glance behind him and saw that Sweeney was lagging behind. At a dip in the forest floor, Bradnum stumbled, seemingly by accident, and grabbed at his ankle, rolling around in the dirt.

  “What’s all this rubbish?” Sweeney said, moving close to Bradnum and peering close to where he held his ankle.

  As Sweeney leaned over him, Bradnum released his grip and kicked upward with all his strength. The toe of his boot caught Sweeney under the chin and sent him sprawling backwards, his arms outstretched and the revolver flying 15 feet away. He landed with a crunch on his back.

  Bradnum sprang forward, scrabbling on his hands and knees across the soft earth until he had the butt of the revolver in his hand. He turned and pointed it at Sweeney, but only saw Sweeney’s back disappearing through the thick brush. Bradnum aimed carefully, but then lowered the pistol. Damn. He didn’t have a shot.

  Think! Where did the road that bordered the woods go? Bradnum pictured the map on his office table and saw the looping belly of the woods jutting out from the edge of the estate toward the west. It bulged outward and was bordered a narrow dirt road. Sweeney would certainly head for the road, he thought. Bradnum pushed himself up from the dirt and began to dog-trot through the thinning underbrush, intent on intercepting Sweeney on the road.

  Five minutes later Bradnum burst through a particularly thick stand of bushes and stumbled into a shallow ditch alongside a dirt road. The trickle of water in the ditch’s bottom was cool on his hands and Bradnum scooped water into his mouth, slurping greedily. He lay hidden in the ditch for several minutes before he heard footsteps crunching on the gravel imbedded in the road. Could it be Sweeney? It must be, he thought. He couldn’t imagine anyone else traveling the estate road right now.

  Bradnum reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the revolver, leaving the hammer down for the moment. He tensed and waited for the sound of the footsteps to pass above him and then sprang through the light bushes and onto the road.

  Sweeney jumped back from Bradnum’s attack, grabbing Bradnum's shoulder and the muzzle of the revolver pointed at him. As Bradnum thumbed back the hammer, Sweeney twisted the revolver, forcing its muzzle toward the sky, where it discharged with a loud report and a puff of cordite smoke.

  Bradnum’s attention was fixed on the revolver at the moment of its firing and Sweeney used this distraction to knee him in the groin. Bradnum fell to the ground writhing, gripping on his private parts and dropping the revolver. He watched through tear-filled eyes as Sweeney picked up the heavy revolver and then flinched as Sweeny smashed it against the side of his head. The world went black.

  Bradnum opened his eyes to see cumulus clouds drifting above him, hinting at the rain that had seemed sure to come earlier in the day. He started to sit up, but his head buzzed and he fell back, bouncing his skull off the gravel roadway. He reached back and massaged his head. Damn, he thought. I’ve lost him again. He pushed himself into a sitting position and had to wait a full minute for the dizzy spell to subside. Bradnum looked up and down the road, but saw no sign of a living soul. Sweeney was gone.

  Forcing himself to his feet, he looked back at the forest he had come through earlier and shook his head. There was no way that he could negotiate the woods in his condition. He touched his temple and his hand came away stained with blood. He would have to walk the road to summon help and then organize a search party for Sweeney.

  Ten minutes later, Bradnum approached Elmfield House’s entry gate as two troopers snapped to attention.

  “I want assistance here,” Bradnum said, stumbling toward them.

  The younger sentry leaped forward and grabbed him under his arms, helping him into the gatehouse.

  “Here you are, sir. Sit here. Let me get you some water.”

  The sentry returned with a mug of cool water and handed it to Bradnum, who drank greedily, spilling rivulets down the side of his chin.

  “I must speak to the captain in charge of the detail,” he began, puffing to catch his breath. “The assassin has slipped away from me.”

  “Looks as if he got the better of you, sir,” the older sentry said.

  Bradnum fixed the sentry with a stare. “Get on to the captain and have him report to me with a dozen men. We have to put out a cordon to catch this man.”

  The sentry hesitated, but then saluted smartly. “Right away, sir.”

  Bradnum turned to the younger sentry. “I want you to help me to the main house. I must see the king and the president immediately.”

  The sentry’s eyes widened. “Sir, I am not to leave my post. The gate would be unguarded.”

  “That should not be your concern at the moment. First you must get me to the main house. Then return to your duties.”

  The young sentry seemed on the verge of refusing, but finally shrugged his shoulders. “Anything you say, sir. Let me help you up.”

  Inside Elmfield House’s entry hall, Bradnum straightened up and brushed specks of dirt and bits of leaves from his trouser legs and jacket. Within a few minutes, the king emerged down the hall and walked up to him.

  “You are unharmed, I am told.”

  “Yes, your majesty. But I’ve come to ascertain your safety and that of the president.”

  “We’re fine. I just left Theodore holding a losing hand at whist.” A wide smile split the king’s face and he leaned closer. “I must win back the cost of the case of Dom Perignon, eh?”

  “I must request that your majesty and President Roosevelt remain here tonight so my men can protect you. I understand the president leaves tomorrow for Africa.”

  “That is correct,” the king said, s
troking his beard. “I’ll finish him off at whist and then release him.”

  Bradnum bowed and turned to leave.

  “One more thing, Inspector. Be sure you catch this man. What’s his name?”

  Bradnum turned back to face the king. “Patrick Sweeney, your Majesty. And make no mistake; catching him is precisely what I plan on doing.”

  Bradnum snatched off his hat and sailed it across his office, bouncing it off an oak bookcase. He dropped into his desk chair and sighed loudly. “Damn it, Glew. Why can’t we lay our hands on this man? We’ve been so close.”

  Glew shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe we should try thinking more like he does.”

  Bradnum’s eyes popped widely and he sat forward bouncing his belly against the edge of the desk. “That’s a smashing idea. Do you have something specific in mind?” He indicated a chair at the side of the desk and Glew sat.

  “Well, sir, it’s like this. If I was this bloke trying to get away, I’d want to get away as fast as possible, like a train.”

  “That’s a solid assumption, Glew, but hardly news to us. And we have men posted at the main terminal and the goods depot.”

  “Yes sir, but I wasn’t finished.” At a nod from Bradnum, Glew continued. “As I was saying, Inspector, the man may want to get out of town quickly, but he’s not shown us the usual criminal stupidity so far. I thought he might be looking for a fast, but quieter way to leave.”

  Bradnum stared at Glew, practically willing him to hurry with his thoughts. “And that way might be what?”

  Glew stuck a finger in his collar and pulled the fabric away from his throat. “I was thinking he might slip away from us by taking a steamer from one of the wharves. There’s plenty of them available at the docks.”

  Bradnum continued staring at Glew for a full half-minute while the beginnings of an idea took shape. Suddenly, he slapped the desk with a loud smack and leaned back in his chair. “Of course, you’re right. And I think I know the steamer line where we can find Sweeney.”

  Glew blinked as if he had been blinded by a bright light. “You do?”

  “Yes, I do. I think that Sweeney will not give up. He’ll be at the wharf that the president will use to depart for Africa.” Bradnum leaned forward. “Now let me tell you what I want you to do.”

  Patrick Sweeney slowly opened the door to the dim room and locked it behind him. He looked around the small, rundown room and clucked his tongue. How far I’ve come, he thought. But it should be over by tomorrow. And then the cause will be taken up in America.

  He reached under the stained mattress and pulled a satchel from under the bed frame. Sweeney held each item up for inspection as he removed them: a longish, brown beard, a shapeless dark hat, a pair of spectacles with glass instead of lenses, a long black coat and a pair of false eyebrows that reminded him of wooly caterpillars. He smoothed down the hairs of the beard and smiled, then reached into the satchel and removed a map of Hull’s docks.

  Spreading the map out of the bed, Sweeney knelt at the bed’s edge and ran a finger along the wharfs, from west to east. First the Victoria dock, surrounded by timber yards and a half tide basin. Next was St. Andrew’s Dock and its extension, stretched out hard along the Humber.

  Sweeney rolled his shoulders to ease the tension and then bent back to the map. Warehouses and a graving dock surrounded the William Wright Dock, and finally his finger traced a line into the Albert Dock, with its Riverside Quay and steamship departure terminal at the far end of town where a spit of land thrust into the Humber.

  Sweeney pursed his lips and looked more closely at the warehouses surrounding the Albert Dock and the approaches to the Riverside Quay. He would have to be careful because there were only two exits from the quay. If the police had both of them guarded, it would be mighty difficult to get onto the quay and perhaps near impossible to get out. Sweeney stood and smiled. He’d beaten the police so far. No reason to doubt himself now.

  He spread open the leather satchel and reached inside, withdrawing a clump of six sticks of dynamite tied together, and set them alongside the false eyebrows. Next to the dynamite, he put the fuses and quick match. Sweeney stood back and put his hands on his hips, staring at the array of material on the bed. Roosevelt was as good as dead, he thought.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The two-story Riverside Quay Station could only be approached from two directions because the structure was sandwiched in between the wide expanse of the Albert Dock to the north and the Humber’s channel to the south. From the west, the station approach road dead-ended at a footbridge that stretched over a half-dozen railway sidings before dropping down along uncovered metal stairs to the concrete-decked quay. From the east, a carriage road ran along the seawall and terminated at the station.

  Riverside Quay Station itself had seen better days, Bradnum thought, as he stood on the quay surveying the building. To his far right were the ticketing agent’s office, a baggage room, a warren of small rooms serving as offices and private sitting rooms, and a large hall where passengers and visitors could await the departure of a ship. A storage area stood in the center of the structure, while a series of interconnected rooms took up the west side of the building, occupied by customs officials, baggage porters, stevedores, the stationmaster and the chief ticketing agent’s crew.

  Bradnum turned to Glew and scrutinized his appearance. Glew was dressed in a ticketing agent’s blue uniform jacket, blue trousers, white shirt and a billed cap that carried the silver badge of the North Star Steamship Line. Bradnum brushed a speck of lint from Glew’s shoulder.

  “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how important a job you have. You are the first line of defense against Sweeney and one of the few people who can identify the man. I’ve arranged to have you seemingly working alongside the managing ticket agent so you can raise the alarm when Sweeney shows up.”

  “Why do you think that he’ll come to the ticketing agent?”

  “Actually, it’s quite simple. If he wants to get close to the president, he will have to mingle in with the other passengers and appear as they do. That means he should visit the ticketing agent to get a ticket for his passage and then make himself scarce in the waiting hall or in one of the private rooms. That is how we shall nab him.”

  “What if he sees what we’re up to?”

  “He shouldn’t, even though he’s a crafty one. Besides a token number of uniformed police at strategic spots along the quay and in the station, I also have ten men in civilian clothes placed throughout the building and near the approaches. Once Sweeney walks into our trap, I can’t see how he can get out.”

  After he sent Glew to the ticket agent’s office, Bradnum cast a long look at the ends of the quay. Passengers had started to arrive from both directions and queue for tickets. Some had moved into the waiting hall, while porters pushed steel-wheeled carts laden with bags, leather luggage and trunks down the quay toward baggage storage. It was time to make himself scarce. He didn’t want Sweeney to see him and make a run for it.

  Sweeney squared his shoulders and then rolled them forward to approximate a stooped semblance. The black frock coat he wore hung midway down his calves, covering black trousers and boots. Atop his head he wore a battered black hat of the type favored by Jewish rabbis. His long beard, held in place with gum arabic, spread wildly across the front of his neck and chest, complimented by a pair of graying, bushy eyebrows. Perched on the end of his nose were a pair of brass-rimmed spectacles that only he knew contained nothing but clear glass in the eyepieces. He carried a black leather satchel with a large silver Star of David painted on it.

  Sweeney paid the carriage driver and shuffled along the station approach until he reached the end of the ticket queue. A porter approached him.

  “Do ye have any other luggage, rabbi?”

  Sweeney turned to the man and smiled. “It has already been delivered to your storeroom, my son. Thank you for your offer of assistance.”

  The porter moved down the line and Swee
ney shuffled forward, arriving at the head of the line a few minutes later. As the couple in front of him stepped forward, he caught a glimpse of a man in an agent’s uniform who was out of place. It was the policeman who chased him at the dedication ceremony.

  When his turn came, he approached the barred window and slid his money through the grating. His stoop was more pronounced now and his voice cracked with age. “Out to Le Havre,” he said. “No return.”

  He saw the policeman look him over and then turn away, obviously unconcerned. The ticket agent slid a long printed ticket toward him. “Stand ready, rabbi. We expect to begin boarding passengers within the hour.”

  Sweeney nodded and smiled, and shuffled away from the window, heading toward the center of the building. But instead of entering the station through the large swinging doors of the waiting hall, he bypassed them and strolled toward the west end of the station, looking into office windows as he passed. At the extreme end of the station, a policeman stood watching him approach.

  “May I help you, rabbi?”

  “No thank you. I am only getting a last feel of the land before the slipping and sliding of the ship.”

  “Ah, I know what you mean,” the policeman said. “The wife and me took a steamer across the channel last year in choppy water and I thought I’d never be the same again.”

  “Is something special happening here today?” Sweeney asked.

  “What makes you think so?”

  “There seem to be a number of policeman around,” Sweeney replied, stroking his beard.

  “Aye, it’s because of the president leaving for Africa. He’s due any time now. We’ve got a special room set aside for him so he won’t be bothered by the citizens.” The policeman inclined his head to the side toward the office behind him.

  “Where would be a good spot for me to stand to get a glimpse of him when he arrives? I wasn’t able to see him at his other appearances in town.”

  The policeman looked left and right before smiling at Sweeney. “Rabbi, anywhere along here will be fine. We’ll be secluding him in the customs officer’s office back there.” He cocked his head again. “The president will have to come right along here to get to the office.”