The Secret Tunnel

by Lear, James

  “What next, boss?”

  My usual answer to this question, when asked by a naked soldier with three naked subordinates leading a bound naked man, would be nonverbal. But the occasion called for action of a different nature.

  “Upstairs, I think. It’s time to turn the tables on Superintendent Dickinson and the whole gang.”

  “Have you cracked it, old chap?” asked Morgan, his face still wet from where he had been slobbering (rather enthusiastically, I thought) over Joseph’s cock. “Are you going to call the villains to account, and all that?”

  I wished I had the confidence in my outlandish theories to say “Yes” with more conviction. In reality, I was improvising wildly, hoping that my tissue of guesswork and suspicion would mesh into a net to catch a killer. Yes, my metaphors were as muddled as my reasoning.

  “Follow me,” I said, beckoning with the gun. “Langland, Morgan, upstairs. The rest of you, round up anyone else who’s still at large and lock ’em in with the others. We’ll call them as we need them.”

  McDonald, Ken, and the redhead disappeared as soon as we reached ground level on swift, silent feet. I led the way to the top of the house, followed by Langland, leading Joseph by his bound wrists, with Morgan bringing up the rear. The time had come to confront Dickinson—if he was still alive.

  He was just as we’d left him, his powerful legs strapped to the couch, his arms bound and held upward. I checked for vital signs: he was alive, drowsily conscious, and very cold. I took his pulse. It was sluggish, but steady. Whatever was in that syringe was not lethal, thank God. I did not want a death on my conscience.

  “Well, well,” he said, in a feeble, cracked voice, “how things change.”

  “You’ve got some questions to answer, Dickinson,” I said.

  He laughed. “Do you have any idea of the trouble you’re in? Assaulting a police officer is a serious business—”

  “Shut up and listen, Dickinson. We know all about you.”

  Morgan’s eyebrows shot up, and he was about to speak, but I silenced him with a look.

  “Oh, dear. I’m frightened,” said Dickinson, sounding anything but. “And who is this I see? Sergeant Langland, unless I’m much mistaken. Has he changed sides, Mitch? That must have been expensive.”

  Langland would have struck Dickinson across the face, but I stepped between them.

  “My hero,” said Dickinson, the sarcasm in his voice rather undermined by a violent coughing fit. His breath rattled; he had some congestion of the lungs. I’d felt that way myself when I woke. I suspected that he’d used some form of chloroform in that syringe—a dangerous form of anesthetic even in trained hands. Frankie, who had plunged the needle into Dickinson’s neck, was not only untrained, but furious. Nobody wants a furious anesthetist.

  “So now you’ve got me where you wanted me all along, Mitchell,” said Dickinson when he’d recovered sufficiently. “What are you going to do first? Suck my cock? Eat my arse? Fuck me?” He thrust his groin in the air, and indeed it was an appetizing prospect. But I had a different sort of probing in mind.

  “I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on earth, Dickinson,” I lied. “I just want some answers.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Why did you kill David Rhys?”

  Dickinson laughed. “Me? For Christ’s sake, you’re not going to try and pin that on me. What’s the matter? Trying to protect Andrews? That slag’s been riding for a fall for a long time. He had it coming.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” barked Langland, smacking Dickinson around the head. “Answer!”

  “I see, it’s the old good cop, bad cop act, is it? I’m familiar with the routine,” said Dickinson.

  “I’m sure you are,” I said. “But there’s a big difference here. We don’t have to play by the rules. As it is, I’m finding it very hard to prevent Sergeant Langland here from killing you. Don’t piss him off any further.”

  “Langland’s a mercenary, a fucking gun for hire—”

  Crack! Langland smacked Dickinson hard around the head with the flat of his hand. He coughed again, and lapsed into silence.

  “Now, I’ll ask you again. Why did you kill David Rhys?”

  “I did not kill David Rhys.”

  “Why did you try to kill Hugo Taylor?”

  “I did not try to kill Hugo Taylor.”

  This was getting us nowhere. I tried a different tack.

  “When did you start working for the British Fascists?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Langland drew back his arm to hit him again.

  “That’s enough, sergeant. Let’s not sink to his level. Tell me, Dickinson, how did you find out about British-American?”

  “Herbert Waits is a fool.”

  “Ah, at last we’re getting somewhere. And I agree with you. He’s a fool, and he’s made himself vulnerable. Is that where you saw your chance?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You wanted to get to Hugo Taylor, on the orders of the British Fascist Party. They would pay you a great deal of money to rid Prince George of his undesirable connections.”

  “This is a fairy story.”

  “And so you found a way into British-American by blackmailing Waits.”

  “No comment.”

  “And then you saw a chance to get Daisy Athenasy out of the way, off the payroll, so that Waits would be even more in your power.”

  “You read too many books, Mr. Mitchell.”

  He had a point; I was making this up as I went along, basing my claims on the kinds of things that happened in detective fiction. Well, if Miss Marple could draw her conclusions from her observations of village life, why shouldn’t I base my method on an equally implausible source?

  I paced the floor, stroking my chin.

  “So you had two sources of income, and you played one off against the other. Very convenient, very clever. With Hugo Taylor at the center, a member of the royal family on one side, a drug-addicted movie star on the other… Nobody wanted any of that to come to light, did they? And you made a very healthy profit. Tell me, Dickinson, what do they pay a detective superintendent in the Metropolitan Police? Isn’t it enough for you? Do you have such expensive tastes? What do you need the money for? Are you being blackmailed?”

  That struck a nerve. “Shut the fuck up, Mitchell.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. I wonder what for? I imagine you’re capable of almost any crime. I’m sure it will all come to light in due course.”

  “Any minute now,” said Dickinson, “my men will be swarming through this house. And then you and your friends are in big trouble.”

  It was my turn to be sarcastic. “Are the police in the habit of going to orgies?”

  He shut his eyes and seemed suddenly tired. Perhaps the chloroform had not quite worn off.

  There was a knock at the door, and McDonald stepped inside—still naked, I was pleased to see. He saluted.

  “What is it, McDonald?”

  “There’s a man outside, Sarge, says he needs to talk to Mr. Mitchell here.”

  “What’s his name.”

  “Thomas Simmonds.”

  Simmonds! At last! Just as I was running out of theories, here, I hoped, were reinforcements.

  “Send him in,” said Langland.

  Simmonds stepped into the room. “Mitch, thank God.” He saw Bertrand lying in the corner, wrapped in blankets, and stepped toward him.

  “He’s okay. Let him rest. I’ll tell you everything later. Now—what news?”

  “They’ve opened the tunnel.”

  At these words, Dickinson’s eyes snapped open.

  “And what did they find?”

  “I don’t know yet. Arthur is on his way to London now. I told him to come here.”

  “And what do you expect to find in there, Mitch?” asked Dickinson. “All the evidence you want, neatly laid out and labeled? We backed into the side tunnel to avoid accidents. That’s all.�
��

  “Is this the bastard who kidnapped Bertrand?” said Simmonds, stepping toward the couch to which Dickinson was strapped. “Just wait till I—”

  “That’s enough, Thomas. We’ll have no more violence.”

  “Oh, go on,” said Dickinson, “let him have his fun. How about it, Simmonds? You like picking on people who can’t fight back, don’t you?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Not so brave now you don’t have your uniform on. Come on, why don’t you knock me around a bit, big man? Like your little Belgian friend. You liked that, didn’t you?”

  He was goading Simmonds into a fury, hoping to provoke some kind of attack.

  “That’s enough, Tom. Go to Bertrand. He needs you.”

  Simmonds stood there with his great fists bunched up, his arms held out from his sides, ready to take on an army. He stepped toward Dickinson, and spat copiously between his open legs.

  “When Arthur gets here, he’ll tell us exactly what you hid in the tunnel,” I said. “Now I’m going to ask you again. Why did you kill David Rhys?”

  “Give it up, Mitchell. You have no case against me.”

  “Sergeant Langland—would you ask one of your men to fetch Hugo Taylor? You’ll find him downstairs.”

  Taylor looked superb in his evening dress, as sleek as a thoroughbred stallion, his thick dark hair swept off his forehead, his collar and cuffs as dazzlingly white as his perfect, regular teeth.

  “Well! Mr. Dickinson!” Taylor said sarcastically. “I rather wondered what had happened to you. British-American really is going to the dogs. Can’t keep the staff from one day to the next.”

  I said, “Perhaps you can tell us, Hugo, what happened in your carriage yesterday afternoon, when we were stuck in the tunnel.”

  “After I was biffed over the head, you mean?”

  “Just start at the beginning.”

  “I suppose you want the truth this time.”

  “That would be helpful.”

  “Careful, Taylor,” said Dickinson.

  “You don’t expect me to take advice from a man in your position, do you?” Taylor replied. “Now, let me see…” He held his hands behind his back and paced the room, turning every so often to emphasize a point, exactly as if he were delivering a speech on stage. “The porter brought our lunch—steak and mushrooms and potatoes, if I remember correctly. It was remarkably good, although Daisy didn’t eat a bite, poor thing. Only one thing she was interested in eating. Speaking of which, hello, Joe! You’ve been through the wars, old chap!”

  Joseph scowled and growled but could do nothing, bound as he was.

  “Now, something struck me as queer at the time; there was no steak knife. Usually, they’re very good at these things—it always amazes me how they manage to cook so well on a moving train. I mean, I can barely make a sandwich.”

  “The knife, Hugo?”

  “Ah, yes. The knife. I had to use my butter knife to cut the steak with. It didn’t matter, as it was very tender, but I must have mentioned something because Joseph said he’d go and give the steward a bollocking. He hadn’t been gone five minutes when, bang, the train stopped and the lights went out, and I thought poor Daisy was going to choke herself. Dickinson disappeared, and I went out looking for a lantern. That’s when some bugger bashed me over the head.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I was moving down the train, toward third class, hoping there might be lights down there. I couldn’t see a bloody thing. I was groping along and I bumped into someone and I said, ‘Oh, I’m frightfully sorry,’ or words to that effect. We do-si-doed our way past each other and then I got the most frightful crack on the bonce.”

  “Any idea who it was?”

  “None, I’m afraid. Couldn’t see a thing.”

  “Or what they hit you with?”

  “It made a bloody awful thud when it hit me, I can tell you. Nearly knocked me out. I put my hand up and felt blood. Somehow I managed to stagger back to our compartment, where someone had had the presence of mind to light a candle. Daisy was there, looking like a frightened rabbit, feverishly chopping out lines of cocaine by candlelight. I sat down and felt pretty bloody grim, if you must know. I took a swig of wine and I passed out for a while, I think. When I came to, I saw Dickinson moving around in the carriage, looking for something, I thought. I had the impression that there was someone with him—Joseph, I supposed—but I couldn’t really see. I asked him what the fuck was going on, and he said there had been an accident of some sort. I thought maybe that had something to do with what happened to me. I was confused.”

  I turned to Dickinson. “But it wasn’t Joseph, was it, Dickinson?”

  “Of course it was,” Dickinson sneered. “Nobody else was allowed in the compartment.”

  “I think it was David Rhys,” I said. “Was that where you killed him? While Hugo was semi-conscious, and Daisy was doped out of her mind? Murder by candlelight.”

  “Ridiculous,” said Dickinson.

  Taylor continued, “Now that you come to mention it, there was a struggle, and someone fell to the floor. I didn’t really know what was going on. When I came round, you were there, Mr. Mitchell, and the porter. I made up some yarn about how I’d hit my head on the bar.”

  “Why did you lie?”

  “Because I was frightened, if you must know. I had reason to believe that someone was out to get me.”

  “Had you received threats?”

  “I receive threats all the time.”

  “From whom?”

  “Well, they don’t sign them, dear boy. But I know who they’re from. Rotha Lintorn and her gang of thugs.”

  “And you knew that they were on the train?”

  “I’d seen Lady Antonia, yes. Not that I suspected her.”

  “Then who?”

  “Well, I hate to say this, old chap, but I did rather wonder about…you.”

  I was rather stung by this, as I’d taken great care over dressing Taylor’s wound.

  “Please don’t be offended. I quickly saw I was wrong. But you get into a habit of telling lies when you’re in my position.”

  “And you’re lying now,” said Dickinson. “You’d do anything to protect your meal ticket. You’re a fucking parasite.”

  “I don’t deny it.” Taylor replied. “But you must admit, I do it with a certain amount of style.”

  “You make me sick.”

  “Oh, Mr. Dickinson, in your position—and what an interesting position it is, really—I would be very careful about what I said. You wouldn’t want anyone to lose their temper, would you?”

  Behind his urbane façade, Taylor was reaching the boiling point.

  “Thank you, Hugo. You can return to the party if you want.”

  “What, and miss the fun? Not on your nelly.”

  “So, Dickinson—you murdered Rhys in the private compartment, and then dragged the body to the toilet, where it would be discovered. You cut his finger off and removed the ring to make it look like robbery. And then you planted the ring in Daisy Athenasy’s luggage, to throw suspicion on her, make it look like a conspiracy.”

  “Mitch…” It was Bertrand, his voice weak. “When we were in the toilet together… You know… In the dark…”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “We tried to get out. The door was stuck. Do you remember?”

  “Someone wanted to keep us out of the way, to make sure we didn’t see something. That would have been when the murder was taking place. Dickinson took Rhys into the private compartment. Someone else jammed the door.”

  “Joseph, I imagine,” said Taylor. “He wasn’t with us.”

  “Of course. Who else would be strong enough to hold a door against two people pushing from inside? And then, when the coast was clear, he let us out.”

  “That’s when I found you,” said Simmonds. “You were—”

  “Yes,” I interrupted. Nobody needed to be told what we’d been doing when Simmonds found us. “And the door was not l
ocked.”

  “No. It was open. I couldn’t understand why you thought you were trapped.”

  “So you didn’t need to use your key.”

  “No. He must have stolen it from me.”

  “Exactly. Dickinson needed the key so he could lock Rhys’s body in the toilet, make it look like a classic closed-room murder. You laid too many false trails, Dickinson. As murders go, this was not well planned.”

  “Still in the realms of fantasy, Mitchell. Now let me go.”

  “I thought your boys in blue would have arrived by now, Dickinson. I was rather looking forward to that.”

  He shut his mouth in a grim line.

  “It’s all starting to make sense, isn’t it, Dickinson? First of all, you blackmailed the engineer to stop the train in the tunnel. That was easy; you knew he had something to hide, and you were quick to take advantage of it. In the chaos and panic, it was easy to get Rhys into the compartment, with a little assistance from Joseph. You killed him—how, I wonder? Lethal injection? That seems to be your favorite method. You made sure we were well out of the way, and then you dumped the body, covering your tracks with a false scent.”

  “It’s an amusing theory, Mitchell, but you’re barking up the wrong tree. One thing you are right about, though. Rotha Lintorn, and her British Fascists. They were on the train, and they wanted to get rid of Mr. Taylor.”

  “Seems I’ve had a lucky escape,” Taylor said.

  “You’re not seriously suggesting that Lady Antonia and Mary Chivers were responsible?”

  “They attacked Taylor,” said Dickinson. “They would have killed him if they could. And they were after Rhys as well, but they got the wrong man.”

  “Andrews?”

  “Exactly. They found them together in the dark, and attacked.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “But they weren’t the killers, much as they’d like to have been. It was Andrews who did in David Rhys. Of that I am certain.”