by Raymond John
“You already know what these are,” she said, taking out two small lock picks. “Mr. H. said these two working together would be capable of opening just about any lock in the world.”
“Very ingenious. Did he ever use the contents of the finger?”
“Many times. The most important was when he escaped from a Siberian Wagon in Russia. They were supposed to be escape-proof and were used to transport prisoners. No one had ever even tried to escape. Mr. H. cut through the floor of the wagon with the saw and walked to the nearest town. The secret police were absolutely furious. I think some of them are still convinced he had an accomplice.”
“Why did he give the false finger to you?”
“He was worried I might need it if one of the mediums got angry enough to want to do me harm. I’ve carried it with me ever since.”
“Thank you,” I said, putting the two pieces back together. “I’m sure it’ll come in handy.”
“I’m so sorry about your wife and Mr. Holmes. You know how much I hope they are all right.”
“Absolutely. Mr. Holmes can take care of himself, and I’d be very surprised if he isn’t planning some escape this very minute. Violet must be terribly frightened, and I’m very worried about her. But she’s much stronger than she might appear at first glance.”
“I gathered that. Actually, I don’t think Becker will want to harm either of them yet. He wants to punish us, too.”
“I agree, but I know how angry Becker was with Mr. Holmes. He might very well be trying to torture him right now. It won’t do any good, though. Mr. Holmes has studied eastern religions and knows how to suppress feeling pain. Violet isn’t as lucky.”
“There’s nothing we can do until we hear from them.”
Unable to sleep, I sat up on the sofa until sheer exhaustion took over. I awoke with a start to the sound of the telephone.
“Hello!”
Instead of an answer I heard the click of a telephone hanging up, and a dial tone.
Becker or an underling. Undoubtedly calling from the lobby to see if we were in our rooms. I glanced at my watch. Seven o’clock.
“We have to get out of here,” I said, taking Rose by the arm. “Leave everything.”
I swallowed hard and put the false finger and picks into my left pocket, but kept the saw wrapped in bathroom tissue in my right.
Where could we go? Down the stairway? I was sure our foe would be smart enough to make certain we couldn’t leave that way, and felt certain someone was already on the way up by elevator.
My blood ran cold. Becker knew he couldn’t force us out of the hotel at gunpoint, so this would have to be a tidy execution. Fortunately for us, he didn’t realize I’d have a weapon.
Certain the stairway up would still be safe, we climbed three flights. Even so, I still opened the door to the hallway with caution.
No one about. Now the elevator seemed our best escape route. Pulse racing and short of breath, I tiptoed to the tightly closed double doors. “Against the wall,” I whispered.
With finger shaking, I pushed the summons button.
One of the pairs of elevator doors opened. Anyone within ten feet should have been able to hear my heart pound.
Rose started to take a step forward, but I restrained her. The elevator door began to close, and I jumped out to catch it.
Schmidt, dressed as a gentleman and wide-eyed in surprise, stood inside holding a gun. I ducked back and heard a hollow “chuk.” A vase of flowers sitting in an alcove shattered as the elevator door closed. Rose and I fled willy-nilly back toward the fire escape. We would have bare seconds before the door reopened and he’d be on our backs.
In a flash I knew what to do.
I pulled out the picks and headed for the nearest hotel room door. With a prayer, I set them in place. Houdini was right about them. A few movements, and the tumblers moved. I turned the knob and the door opened.
“Go to the fire escape and hold the door open until you see him coming from the hallway. Then duck into the fire escape.”
She threw me a questioning look, but did as directed. I opened the hotel room door far enough to slip inside, leaving the door open a crack.
Almost immediately I heard the sound of rushing footsteps.
I took out the saw and grasped it tightly, listening for him to pass the door. When he did, I opened it and ducked into the hallway, two steps behind him. He heard me and tried to turn, but I was directly behind him and wrapped the gigli saw around his neck.
“Drop the gun or I’ll cut your head off.”
When he hesitated, I gave the saw a tiny pull to show I meant business. He screamed in pain, and the gun dropped to the floor.
Rose reappeared. I motioned at the gun with my foot. She picked it up.
With a twitch of the saw, I said, “Open the fire escape door.”
Quivering, Schmidt did as instructed.
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Max Hahn,” Schmidt choked out.
“Call him and tell him we’re dead and he should come up. If you say anything else, or if he doesn’t come, your head will end up in the basement.”
“I understand!” he gasped.
I eased the pressure enough to let him take a normal breath.
“Komst, Max,” Schmidt called in a normal voice. “Ils sind todt.”
Doublecross! I started to pull the gigli tighter, intent to carry out my threat.
Before I could, a voice from a lower level called back. “Sehr gut, Kamerade. Ich bin gleich da sein.”
It was just then I realized how close I had come to being hoisted by my own petard. It never occurred to me the assassins would speak to each other in German. Poor Schmidt had been so frightened he summoned his partner-in-crime as I told him to do. There was no telling what Max would do if he heard English.
I pulled Schmidt back and closed the door. “Bitte, bitte,” he gibbered. Rose stood beside the fire escape door, back against the wall, waiting.
The door opened. A man, taller than Schmidt but similarly dressed in suit and tie, came through. Catching sight of Schmidt and me, he turned on his heels.
Rose stepped out. “Don’t move.”
He stopped short and raised his hands.
“Is Becker with you?” I asked.
“Nein!” Schmidt cried.
“Are you sure?” I shouted, giving the saw another twitch.
An unmistakable outhouse odor filled the air. Poor Schmidt was almost foaming at the mouth. “Mein Gott, Max! Sagst ihm!”
“Herr Becker is at the farm,” Max said.
“Farm?”
“Yes. He’s waiting for us to bring you back.”
“Are the hostages with him?”
“Ja!” Schmidt blurted.
“Are they still alive?”
“Ja!!”
“Has Herr Becker hurt them?”
“Not yet. They don’t even know he’s there. He wanted to wait until he had all of you.”
The words surprised me. I had been certain they were on an assassination mission. “How did he expect you to get us out of the hotel without a struggle?”
Neither said a word. Then it occurred to me. “Check Max’s pockets.”
“Take your jacket off and lay it on the floor,” Rose said.
Max did. Holding the gun on him, she knelt and felt inside the side pockets. She held up a small black case in triumph.
“What do you suppose is in there?” I asked.
Rose handed it to Max. “Open it.”
When he did, I knew what their plan had been. It was a hypodermic syringe with needle in place nestled inside the case.
“Only one?” I said in a suspicious voice. “I bet you have one, too, don’t you, Herr Schmidt?�
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Before he could answer, I said, “I think we’d better move back into the hotel room where we can sort this out.”
Rose marched Max, and I followed with Schmidt walking on eggs in front of me.
We entered the room. I shut the door behind us. “We seem to have a slight problem. We’re understaffed. I need both of my hands, and Rose can’t do everything one-handed and keep our friend Max under control. However, if what I suspect is in that hypodermic, we may have a solution. Do you have any idea what it is, Herr Schmidt?”
As I said it, I twitched the saw.
“Phenobarbital,” Schmidt gasped.
“Then I suggest Max inject you. You were planning to do the same to us, right, so turnabout is fair play.”
Max didn’t move.
“If Rose shoots you, we won’t have a problem.”
Max reluctantly took the hypo out of the case.
“Hold out your left arm, Herr Schmidt. It’s unfortunate, but we’ll have to inject you through your jacket.”
“Nein,” Schmidt blubbered. “Bitte nein.”
Max seemed to realize he had no choice. Schmidt let out a cry of pain as the needle struck home. I bulldogged him to the bed and took the saw from his throat. The hapless man collapsed face down.
I nearly did, too. The tension had left me exhausted, and my hands shook from the nervous strain. Free of my burden, I walked to the desk and took out an envelope. With a sigh of relief, I dropped the saw inside it. Then I returned to Schmidt, unconscious or too frightened to move. His head lolled to the side when I rolled him over on his back and went through his pockets. I found the twin to Max’s black case in a jacket pocket.
I took the gun from Rose. “Get two pillow cases and tie his hands to the bedstead,” I said.
She removed the bed cover and dumped the pillows out of their cases. “Be a good boy, now, Jurgen, and slide back. I don’t want to have to shoot you.”
He did, though he could barely move. Rose folded the pillowcases in half and wrapped one half around a wrist, and the other around the post at the end of the headboard. I doubted she had ever had to be quite as active in an investigation, but she quickly had the nearly unconscious German with his arms stretched wide apart and lashed to the bedstead.
“Mr. H. would escape in in a second,” Rose said, “but I think it will hold Herr Schmidt just fine.”
“Now take the sheets and tie his ankles.”
Minutes later, Schmidt was spread-eagled on the bed. He lay without struggling.
“Now for you, Max. Take off your coat.”
As I said it, I opened the second kit and took out the unused hypodermic. When I held it up, Max cried out. “No. Don’t. You want to rescue your friends, don’t you? You’ll never find the farm without me.”
“Where is it?”
“Just a few miles from here. Near Framingham.”
Chapter 28
The kidnappers’ 1925 Pontiac hummed nicely on six cylinders as we motored along over Route 9. The snow of the preceding night lay melting on the roadway, water standing in the centers of slushy auto tracks. What ice there had been had melted to slush, so our breakneck fifty-mile-per-hour speed presented no hazard of driving off the road.
Mr. Holmes would be pleased with my plan.
“Turn left at the next road,” Max said. He had sat quietly next to Rose the entire trip. I didn’t doubt he was giving me good directions.
I reluctantly slowed. I loved the power of the six-cylinders. No other passenger car had more cylinders than the Pontiac. The difference in the ride compared to our four-cylinder Chevrolet amazed me.
I made the turn and immediately wished I’d been going slower. We hit a water-filled rut and bounced. I barely missed banging my head on the ceiling.
“Are you all right, Rose?”
“I’m fine. Do drive slower. No one’s going anywhere at the farm.”
“Sorry.” The automobile pulled to the right as I put on the brakes. “How much farther is it?”
“The next farmhouse on the left.”
In the distance I saw a stone wall, typical of New England farmsteads. My heart beat faster as we approached the breach in the wall. What would we find? Max swore Mr. Holmes and Rose were unharmed when he and Schmidt had left for Boston three hours before.
I slowed to a crawl, then stopped. Narrow tracks, undoubtedly from the Essex, led into the yard.
“What do we do now?” Rose asked.
Instead of answering, I got out and moved next to stone fence. When I got to the driveway, I peeked around.
The two-story wooden farmhouse, resting on the same type of stone used in the walls surrounding the farm, stood eerily quiet. The Essex, if anywhere around, was out of sight. A thin wisp of maple-scented smoke trickled out of the chimney.
One thought filled my mind. Was Becker waiting in the house?
I turned and stared Max in the eye. “Is anyone here?”
“Herr Becker was here when we left.”
“Was the Essex here, too?”
“Yes. It was parked beside the house.”
Taking another peek around the edge, I tip-toed inside the wall. Three large pine trees provided a modicum of cover, and I used them to scurry to the edge of the house. I pressed my ear against the side of the building and listened.
Nothing but the wind.
I followed the wall to the other end of the house. The Essex was nowhere to be seen.
Had Becker flown the coop?
I allowed my tension to ease and cautiously made my way to the door. Laying an ear against it, I listened for sounds of movement inside.
Silence.
Taking a deep breath, I fished the picks out my pocket and inserted them into the lock. The mechanism was rusty and wouldn’t move. But I knew how to fix that. I returned to the car and lifted the hood. I knew where to look for the oil cap and unscrewed it.
I opened the rear door next to Rose. “Do you have a handkerchief?”
She handed her purse to me, and I quickly found what I was looking for. Dipping it into the well, I covered the end with motor oil.
I set the purse next to her and headed for the house. Wiping each pick with oil, then daubing the rest into the mechanism through the keyhole, I went to work on the lock once more. The tumblers fought me valiantly, but the picks finally prevailed.
I cautiously opened the door. The house was dark, lit only by the light through the windows. Nothing stirred.
About to call out, I thought better of it. Someone could be lurking in the shadows.
Taking three soundless steps forward brought me into a kitchen. I paused. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw an upraised fireplace iron ready to crash into my skull.
I dropped to the floor and rolled to my back to kick.
“Wiggins?”
“Holmes! For God’s sake, what are you doing?”
Mr. Holmes bent over me. “I do apologize. I had no idea it was you.”
He gave me a hand to help me to my feet.
“How did you get free?” I asked.
“Herr Schmidt didn’t tie the ropes tight enough. You didn’t actually believe I’d calmly submit to my captors, did you?”
I got my first look at him. Even in the dim light I could see blood had congealed on the right side of his face, staining his collar and cheek a darker color, and leaving his pompadour plastered against the side of his head. And he was sporting what is popularly called a shiner. “Did Becker do that to you?”
“No. The one called Hahn did. I haven’t seen Herr Becker. My head’s a bit sore, but I don’t think anything’s scrambled inside. Otherwise, I’m in fine fettle, if a bit short of breath. I’m very pleased to see you escaped unscathed.”
“I am too. How is Viol
et?”
“Frightened, but otherwise unharmed.”
“Where is she?”
“In the bedroom. This way.”
Violet lay face down and gently snoring, her arms tied behind her back and her feet lashed together.
Near tears, I bent down, giving her shoulder a gentle shake as I kissed her neck.
She sighed, then her eyelids fluttered. Turning her head, her eyes opened wide. “Timothy? Is it really you?”
“Yes, my love. It’s me. Are you all right?”
“Yes, but my arms and shoulders are sore, and my feet are numb.”
Holmes handed me a long-bladed knife. It wasn’t sharp, but with some strenuous work I cut through the rope and freed her arms. She rolled to her back, reached up to encircle my head and pulled, nearly breaking my neck. “I knew you’d come to rescue me.”
“I could think of nothing else. Now let me untie your feet.”
“I’ll do that, Wiggins. Contact the Framingham police.”
“Good idea. Neither of you saw Becker?”
“No,” Holmes said. “I thought I heard his voice. He must have left while I was sleeping.”
The phone was the old-fashioned wooden-box-and-crank type hanging on a wall near the kitchen. Most of them had been replaced with the modern rotor dial models, but this was the second one I had seen in two days. I hadn’t seen any in Detroit for years, but I still remembered how to use one. Holding the receiver against my ear, I turned the crank.
“Operator,” a female voice squawked.
“Good morning. Please connect me with the Middlesex police.”
“Who are you? You’re not Isaac Bradford.”
“You’re right. This is an emergency.”
“I’ll get Sheriff Pibbidy for you.”
The sheriff answered on the second ring.
“Someone’s calling from Isaac’s house,” the operator said. “He says it’s an emergency.”
“Who is this, and what are you doing in Isaac Bradford’s house? He’s in England.”
“It’s too hard to explain over the phone. How does kidnapping sound to you.”
“I’ll be right over. You can hang up now, Bernice.”