“That where I sleep,” said Ibrahim. Going over, he stepped into it and sat down with his legs crossed and arms folded.
“By why?” asked Sara.
Ibrahim shrugged. “To make remember. Have not you such a make remember in one of your prayers?” he asked Wyatt.
“‘In the midst of life we are in death,’” said Wyatt.
“Yes,” said Ibrahim. He stepped out of the coffin, gestured toward it. “You would like to try?” he asked politely. “One rests there most comfortably.”
“No, thank you,” said Andrew, and Wyatt shook his head. He looked around the room once more, then said, “I think that’s all. I’m sorry if we troubled you.”
“No trouble,” said Ibrahim. “A delight to have been of service.” He accompanied them to the cottage door and opened it. “May Horus watch over you and the peace of Isis be with you.”
“Thank you,” said Wyatt. He walked away from the cottage with Sara on one side of him and Andrew on the other. “Quel type, as the French would say.”
“Yes,” said Andrew. He had thought that Brother Ibrahim was rather odd the other day, and he was more convinced of it than ever now.
“Gave me the creeps, it did,” said Sara.
“He, the temple or the coffin?” asked Andrew.
“All of them, but mostly that temple with the starey eye. Is it very old?” she asked Wyatt.
“I don’t think so. The entrance was probably late eighteenth century. Landscape gardeners used to go in for follies and decorative grottoes about them. The rest of it, the temple proper, is probably quite recent. When did Brother Ibrahim come here, do you know?”
“Since Miss Tillett bought her place,” said Sara. “About six months ago.”
“I’d say the rest of it, the inside, was done about then.”
They were almost at the gate now, and Wyatt paused and looked back at the house.
“Do you think that whoever stole the Denham diamonds stole Mrs. Van Gelder’s jewels too?” asked Andrew.
“It would be very odd if it wasn’t the same person or persons—an almost unbelievable coincidence. On the other hand, I couldn’t find any signs of entry from the outside here, so the methods of robbery were apparently quite different.”
“You’ve no idea who could have done it then, how or what happened to the jewels?”
“Not really, no.”
“What do you do next?” asked Andrew.
“Tomorrow’s my day off. I think I’ll go see someone who might have some ideas about all those things.”
“Who’s that?” asked Andrew.
“The Baron,” said Wyatt. “Baron Beasley. He has a shop on Portobello Road.”
“Can we go with you?” asked Sara.
Wyatt looked down at her, hesitated a moment, then smiled.
“You’re both very involved in all this, aren’t you? All right. I’ll pick you up at about eleven o’clock.”
6
The Baron and the Wild West Show
Even Matson was impressed when Wyatt arrived the next morning. Verna was with Sara and Andrew in the front sitting room when he came in and said, “Constable Wyatt is here, madam.”
“Show him in, please.”
Matson stepped aside, holding the door open, and Wyatt came in. He was wearing a fawn-colored suit, clearly Saville Row, and carrying a straw boater with a club band. He looked like a typical well-dressed man about town, much younger and slimmer than he did in uniform. In fact, Andrew found it difficult to remember what he looked like when he was in uniform.
“Good morning, Miss Tillett,” he said, bowing.
“Good morning, Constable. Or shouldn’t I call you that when you’re in mufti?”
“It doesn’t matter. I hope there’s no difficulty about my appointment with Sara and Andrew.”
“No. Except that I wanted to make certain you really did want to take them with you.”
“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t.”
“When I questioned them, Sara admitted that she had suggested it, asked if they couldn’t go with you.”
“Then let’s say I thought it would be a good idea. I really would like their company—they’ve been very helpful on several occasions—and I assure you that they won’t be in any danger.”
“I’m certain of that. And in that case, I’ve no objection.”
“I told you it would be all right, didn’t I?” said Andrew as Sara sighed with relief.
“Yes,” said Sara.
“I take it that there have been no new developments on the robberies,” said Verna.
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Wyatt carefully. “However, while Inspector Finch may know things that I don’t, I don’t believe we’re any closer to a solution.”
“But what you’re doing today is related to the robberies, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Good luck, then.”
“Thank you. And thank you for letting me take Sara and Andrew. I’ll give them lunch, get them back sometime late this afternoon.”
Matson opened the outside door for them. There was a hansom under the porte-cochere.
“Is that yours?” asked Sara.
“Yes. I took it here, had him wait. In you go.” And he helped her in, got in himself and slid over so there was room for Andrew.
“Where to now, guv’ner?” asked the cabby, opening the small trapdoor over their heads.
“Pembridge and Portobello Roads.”
“Right you are.”
“I love hansoms,” said Sara as they went off down the driveway, rocking and swaying a little on the two rubber-tired wheels. “I think I like them even better than the landau.”
“Don’t let Fred hear you say that,” said Andrew. Then to Wyatt, “What’s the new development in the case?”
“What makes you think there is one?”
“You didn’t say there wasn’t when mother asked you about it. You just didn’t tell her what it was.”
“That’s right. Well, there was still another robbery. I heard about it just before I went off duty yesterday.”
“You mean a fourth one?”
“Yes. This was in Mayfair too, like Lady Damien’s. A Mrs. Hartley-Seymour on Grosevenor Square.”
“Jewelry?”
“Yes.”
“Any clues?”
“I don’t think so. The last two weren’t in my district, and the only reason I know about them is that Finch came back here to get my report on the Van Gelder robbery and I heard him talking to the sergeant. He was in a real stew about it.”
“I’m not surprised. Four of them in three days.”
“And one of them a friend of the commissioner.” He turned to Sara who was looking at him gravely. “Is anything the matter?”
“No. I was just wondering about something.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s true I did ask if we could come with you today, but I wondered why you said yes.”
“I told Andrew’s mother why.”
“And meant it?”
“Of course. It is a help to talk to someone about a case. And the way things are, I don’t have anyone else. I mean, I can’t talk to Finch. Or rather, he won’t talk to me.”
“Not that that would do much good.”
“No. I’m afraid we don’t think alike about anything.”
“I should hope not,” said Andrew. “Can I ask you something, sir?”
“If you drop the ‘sir.’ My friends call me Peter. Or did when I had friends.”
That was something Andrew had wondered about. He had seen how Wyatt’s family had felt about his becoming a policeman, and he wondered how the constable’s friends had taken it. Now he knew.
“Who is this Baron Beasley we’re going to see? You said he had a shop on Portobello Road.”
“Well, he’s not a fence, though I’m sure he sometimes buys and sells things that he knows have been stolen. And he’s not a nose or informer, because he doesn’t like th
e police and won’t even talk to them. But I did him a good turn once, and he has occasionally been very helpful.”
They went south and west, the cabby cutting skillfully in front of green Atlas buses and red ones bound for Westbourne Grove. He avoided the heavy traffic around Paddington by going over to the Bayswater Road and along that to Notting Hill Gate. Then, turning into Pembridge Road, he pulled up with a flourish.
“Here we are, sir.”
Wyatt picked up a square package wrapped in brown paper that had been on the floor of the hansom, got out and helped Sara out. He paid the cabby and must have tipped him well, for the cabby saluted him extravagantly with his whip and drove off whistling.
Portobello Road was narrow, noisy and crowded. Handcarts piled high with knickknacks, bric-a-brac and gewgaws lined the street, and there were open stands in front of the shops containing books, prints, paintings, china, silver, bronzes, clothes and almost anything else you could name. They walked up the street, past men and women shouting their wares, to a small shop that had the usual oddments in front of it. In the window was a brass samovar, some glass paperweights and a marble head of Napoleon. They went in, and sitting behind the counter was the largest man Andrew had ever seen. He wasn’t fat, he was huge, with a pink, smooth face, baby blue eyes and a small mouth. He wore a bottle green velvet jacket, a striped shirt and a large kingsman or brightly colored bandanna.
He grunted, looking coldly at Wyatt.
“So you’ve got a problem, eh?” he said, in a surprisingly thin voice and with only a slight Cockney accent.
“Have I?”
“Of course. You never come to see me any other time.” He looked at Sara and Andrew. “Who are your friends?”
Wyatt introduced them, and he shook hands gravely with each of them.
“Delighted to meet you. Can’t say I think much of your taste in companions, but then you’re still young and you’ll learn. Do you like pistachio nuts?”
“I don’t think I ever had any,” said Andrew.
“No? Deprived, that’s what you’ve been. Here,” and he held out a paper bag. Andrew and Sara each took some of the nuts. The shells were partly open, split apart easily, and the pistachios themselves were delicious. Beasley ate a few himself, then said to Sara, “Why are you staring at me that way? Didn’t you ever see a fat man before?”
“I don’t think you’re fat,” said Sara. “Just big. But I was wondering, are you really a baron?”
“A baron? I’m not a baron. I’m the baron. Baron Beasley of Portobello Road.”
“It’s not a title,” said Wyatt. “Though he’d like you to think it is. It’s his name. He was christened Baron.”
“It’s both a name and a title,” said Beasley. “Otherwise why do they call me—” He broke off, looking at the brown paper package that Wyatt had put on the counter. “What’s that?”
“What would you like it to be?” asked Wyatt.
“You know. Can I open it?”
“Go ahead. It’s for you.”
Beasley tore off the brown paper. Inside was a large tin labelled Pure Vermont Maple Syrup. Beasley looked at it, then sat back with a happy sigh.
“What’s maple syrup?” asked Sara.
“I said that Andrew had been deprived, but apparently you’ve been, too. It’s American, made from the sap of the sugar maple tree, and the best kind comes from Vermont.”
“But what do you do with it?” asked Sara.
“Why, you eat it. You use it the way you would treacle in puddings and such, but treacle isn’t in it with maple syrup. Wait.” He took out a large clasp knife, punched two holes in the top of the tin and poured some of the contents into a saucer. He dipped a finger into the golden liquid and licked it off, rolling his eyes rapturously. “Here,” he said to Sara and Andrew. “You try it.”
They each dipped a finger in the syrup and licked it off. It was good, not as thick as treacle and not as cloyingly sweet.
“All right,” said Beasley. “The answer is no.”
“The answer to what?” asked Wyatt.
“You came here to find out if I knew anything about the Denham sparklers, right?” And when Wyatt nodded, “I told you, the answer’s no.”
“You’re sure?”
Beasley scowled at him. “Would I say so if I wasn’t?” Then, looking out of the window, “Wait a bit. Lamps!” he called.
A thin man in a ragged coat and wearing very thick spectacles was passing by. He paused and came in.
“Wotcher, Baron,” he said in a hoarse voice. “How goes it?”
“Up and down like Tower Bridge,” said Beasley. “Anything?”
The spectacled man hesitated, looking at Wyatt.
“You needn’t worry about him,” said Beasley. “He’s just a copper on his day off.”
The spectacled man grinned at this new example of Beasley’s humor, then shook his head.
“Nothing,” he said. “I was just talking to the Dutchman. He’s been keeping a glim in the window late and early, but no one’s been near him.”
“What I thought,” said Beasley. “If anything shows, you’ll let me know?”
Lamps nodded and left.
“Who’s the Dutchman?” asked Wyatt.
“The biggest jewelry fence in London, specializes in diamonds. He’d take in the Kohinoor without turning a hair. Yes, and get rid of it overnight.”
“What about a string of Carrier pearls?”
“No sign of them either.”
“What do you think it means, Baron?”
Beasley shrugged. “Dunno. None of the regulars were in on them. They wish they were because they were a set of rorty jobs, but none of them had anything to do with them. They’re saying it’s a new gang, maybe foreign, that they’re holding the stuff, not going to pass it and they don’t like it.”
“Then they’ll keep their eyes open, too?”
“Sure to. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know. You’re still at the section-house?”
“Yes. Wellington Road. Come on, you two.”
Wyatt was frowning as they left, started down the street towards Pembridge Road.
“I’m not sure I understood him,” said Andrew. “Just what did he mean?”
“That none of the best known of the London burglars were involved in the thefts. Since that’s so, they think perhaps a foreign gang is responsible and of course they don’t like it. So if any of them hears anything, comes across any kind of a clue, they’ll let the Baron know.”
“Does that happen often, criminals helping the police?”
“Much more often than the public realizes. A great deal of police information comes from informers.” He glanced at Sara. “Is something puzzling you too?”
“Yes. Where did you get that maple syrup?”
“From an American sea captain I met when I first joined the force and walked a beat near the docks. Why?”
“I just wondered. I don’t think I ever met an American.”
“Well, I don’t know whether you’ll have a chance to meet one, but you’ll see quite a few after we have lunch.”
“Why?” asked Sara. “Where are we going?”
“To the Olympia.”
“What’s at the Olympia?” asked Andrew.
“I know,” said Sara, her eyes large. “At least, I think I do. Isn’t it Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show?”
“It is.”
“Coo! Lumme! I’d rather see that than anything in London! Except Miss Tillett’s play,” she added hastily. “But why are you taking us there? It doesn’t have anything to do with the robberies, does it?”
“No, but you know what they say about all work and no play. And the truth is that I’ve been anxious to see the show ever since it came here, but it’s no fun going alone.”
He smiled as he said it but, in spite of his light tone, Andrew suspected that he was telling the truth—that he hadn’t wanted to go alone—which gave Andrew a clearer picture than ever of Wyatt’s isolation and loneline
ss.
They took a four-wheeler to Kensington High Street, had lunch at a café and then crossed over to the Olympia. Andrew had never been there before, and, though he knew it was large—there had been ten thousand people there for a recent military show—he was surprised at its size. Wyatt had a bit of a discussion with the man at the ticket office and he must have been very specific for when they were shown to their seats they proved to be in the front row in the middle of the auditorium, so close to the performers that at times they could have reached out and touched them.
They had barely taken their seats when the band struck up a stirring march, the big double doors at the end of the auditorium swung open and Buffalo Bill—Colonel Cody—rode out into the amphitheatre. He looked exactly like his pictures on the posters outside the Olympia. He was very distinguished looking, with grey hair that hung down to his shoulders and a short, pointed beard and mustache. He wore a fringed buckskin jacket and leggings and a wide-brimmed felt hat, which he took off in response to the applause that greeted him. He was riding a magnificent chestnut horse, and when he bowed, the horse bowed too and to continued applause they made a circuit of the ring, the horse rearing, prancing and dancing.
There was considerable discussion later on as to what they liked best in the show. Wyatt’s choice was Annie Oakley, who was even more elegant than Buffalo Bill in her costume of white deerskin. Though she looked like a young girl, with her braids hanging down her back, she handled her rifle as no marksman in any army in the world could have done, breaking glass balls tossed in the air right and left and behind her, even when three were tossed up at once, and she ended her act by shooting the pips out of a playing card some fifty feet behind her back, shooting over her shoulder and using a mirror to sight with.
Much as Andrew admired Annie Oakley, what impressed him most was the riding: the whooping cowboys, who were able to stay in the saddle during the bucking bronco contests, when the horse was not only twisting and turning but bouncing up in the air with all four feet off the ground.
Sara’s favorites were the spectacles—of which there were several; a buffalo hunt, an Indian attack on Pony Express riders, and an attack on a covered wagon train. It was before the last of these, the act that closed the show, that Andrew saw something of no real importance but which intrigued him as much as the elaborate spectacles.
The Case of the Vanishing Corpse Page 7