A cowboy had given an exhibition of roping: lassoing a steer, then a galloping horseman and finally three horsemen together. He was directly in front of them when he finished his turn, and as the arena was being cleared, he took out a small bag and a square of paper and shook some of the contents of the bag into the paper.
“What’s he doing?” asked Andrew.
“Making a cigarette,” said Wyatt. “It’s called rolling your own. Watch.” Licking one side of the paper so that it would stick, the cowboy rolled it deftly into a tube and lit it by flicking his thumbnail across the head of a match.
“How do you know so much about it?” asked Andrew.
“I spent well over a year in America before I joined the police, about half that time in the West. That was something else that Holmes liked to talk to me about because he spent quite a lot of time in America too.”
The arena had been cleared. A covered wagon, drawn by a pair of horses, came out of the double doors, followed by a second and a third. As they began a slow circuit of the amphitheatre, there were a series of shrill whoops and a war party of Indians came galloping out after them. Cracking their whips, the drivers swung the covered wagons around so that they formed a circle in the center of the arena. Using this as a barricade, they, the other men and women too, began firing at the Indians who were now circling the wagons at a full gallop, shooting over their horse’s heads and sometimes under their necks and even under their bellies. Andrew had never seen such horsemanship, for the Indians were riding bareback and without stirrups. Then, when the battle was at its peak, the circle of attacking Indians drawing closer and closer, there was a bugle call and out swept the cavalry, led by Buffalo Bill. There was a sharp exchange of gunfire in which many of the Indians fell, then the rest fled.
Sara sat silent and serious during the cheers and applause that followed.
“Does it always end like that?” she asked.
“I imagine so,” said Wyatt. “Why?”
“I don’t think it’s right,” she said. “I think the Indians should win sometimes.”
Andrew and Wyatt exchanged glances.
“I’m inclined to agree with you,” said Wyatt.
The crowd that was leaving the Olympia was so large that it took them some time to get a hansom, and it was well after five when they got back to St. John’s Wood. Andrew asked Wyatt if he wouldn’t like to come in for tea, but he said it was late and he should be getting along.
“Where?” asked Andrew. “We don’t know where you live.”
“At the moment I’m in the section-house next to the Wellington Road Police Station.”
“What’s a section-house?” asked Sara.
“A kind of dormitory for unmarried policemen. I have a cubicle, bed and locker there.” He caught the look on Andrew’s face. “It’s not bad. It’s something like army barracks.”
Andrew nodded. “When will we see you again?” he asked.
“Unless Finch needs me for something, I’ll be walking my beat around here again tomorrow. But if I hear anything from Beasley, I’ll let you know.”
“It was a wonderful day,” said Sara seriously. “I don’t think we’ll ever forget it. Thank you very much.”
“No,” said Wyatt, just as seriously. “Thank you.”
He waved to them, got into the hansom, and it moved off.
7
The Vanishing Corpse
One consequence of the afternoon at the Olympia was a quarrel between Andrew and Fred. After telling Verna about the show, naturally he wanted to go riding the next morning, and she agreed that she would go, too. When Fred came back from Three Oaks with the horse he had borrowed for Andrew, he found Andrew riding Verna’s hunter bareback around the yard and flew into a rage, saying that the place for naked savages who rode that way was America and not St. John’s Wood and that he had no intention of working for one. When Andrew tried to point out the lack of logic in this statement, Fred became angrier than ever, and it took Verna’s arrival and all her diplomacy to calm him down.
While they were riding, Andrew asked Verna when he and Sara were going to see her play, and she said that, if they wanted to, they could come that night. So that evening, after a certain amount of hectic female preparation—for Mrs. Wiggins had been invited to go with Sara and Andrew—Fred drove them to the theatre where Mr. Harrison, the manager, escorted them to one of the boxes.
Until that moment Andrew had found it difficult to understand Verna’s reluctance to let him see her perform. After all, if the critics liked her, what difference did it make what he thought? But at the theatre he was suddenly seized with anxiety. Suppose he had some reservations about her performance, found it awkward, shallow or false, what then? Should he say so, or lie about it? It was no easy decision to make because Verna was very sensitive and acute, and if he did lie she would undoubtedly know it and that would make things even worse.
He need not have worried. A few minutes after the curtain rose on the sunny parlor of the squire’s country house, Verna came in with an armful of flowers she had supposedly cut in the garden; and by the time she had put them in vases, she had completely captivated Andrew as she had the critics and everyone else. Later, looking back at the play, he realized how contrived it was; the story of a young woman who discovers that she is not only adopted but illegitimate and must decide whether to reject the mother who has just found her or to jeopardize her relationship with the young marquis who wants to marry her. But because of Verna’s artistry, he was completely unaware of the play’s shortcomings at the time and, while not weeping like Sara, Mrs. Wiggins and most of the women in the audience, at the final curtain he was so affected that it was several minutes before he was able to join the tumultuous applause.
Harrison took them backstage to Verna’s dressing room afterward and, uncertain as to just how he could tell her how he felt about her acting, Andrew found he did not have to say anything. For, taking one swift look at his face, she flushed with pleasure and became very busy trying to put Sara and Mrs. Wiggins at their ease.
They had decided earlier to have dinner at Bentley’s, one of Andrew’s favorite restaurants, and by the time Verna had changed and Fred had driven them there, Sara and her mother had both recovered and begun to behave normally.
They were shown to a corner table, ordered oysters, and were just finishing them when a tall, fair man and an older, grey-haired man with a military mustache came in. They were both in evening clothes, and as the head waiter was seating them with a good deal of deference, the fair man saw Verna, said something to his companion, and they both came towards her.
“Good evening, Miss Tillett,” he said, bowing. “I don’t know if you remember me, but we met at Mr. Sherlock Holmes’s.”
“Of course I remember. It’s Lord Lowther, isn’t it?”
“It is. In different ways and to different degrees we were both involved in the same case.”
“We were indeed,” said Verna smiling. “I believe you know Sara Wiggins, better known as Screamer, and my son, Andrew. And this is Mrs. Wiggins, Sara’s mother.”
“I certainly do know Sara and Andrew. They helped save my life. As for Mrs. Wiggins, I met her when I tried to show my appreciation for what Sara had done for me.”
“You didn’t just try,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “You were very generous—more than generous.”
“I don’t agree,” said Lord Lowther, “but we won’t discuss that now.” Then, turning back to Verna, “May I present an admirer of yours, Mr. Howard Wendell of Scotland Yard?”
“I’m always happy to meet an admirer,” said Verna, extending her hand to the grey-haired man. “Though I don’t know on what you base your admiration.”
“On several things,” said Wendell. “But mostly on your acting. We were at the theatre tonight, and when we saw you here, I asked Lord Lowther, who said he had met you, if he would introduce me so I could tell you that I thought your performance was one of the finest I’ve ever seen.”
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�You’re very kind,” said Verna. “It’s probably just as well that I didn’t know that you were in the audience. I had difficulty enough coping with the thought that Andrew, who had never seen me on the stage before, was there.”
“Oh?” said Wendell, turning to Andrew. “And were you as impressed as I was?”
“Yes, sir,” said Andrew. “Did Lord Lowther say you were at Scotland Yard?”
“Mr. Wendell is a divisional superintendent,” said Lowther. “One of the so-called Big Four.”
“I never did understand the reason for the adjective,” said Wendell. “We don’t call the commissioner ‘the Big One.’ But … Yes, I am at Scotland Yard. And another of the things I have admired you for, Miss Tillett, is the way you’ve been conducting yourself with the press and in general following the theft of the Denham diamonds.”
“I don’t feel I did anything unusual,” said Verna. “I just told the press that I had every confidence in the police. That I was certain that they would get to the bottom of the crimes.”
“Well, that was a very helpful statement. Not like some that have been made lately, which were very critical of us …”
“Have there been any new developments in any of the cases?” asked Verna in carefully neutral tones.
“Well, no,” said Wendell somewhat awkwardly. “But I’m sure there will be. Inspector Finch, who is heading the investigation, is one of our best men.”
“He is?” said Verna with just the faintest shadow of surprise.
“Why, yes. Have you any reason to be unhappy or dissatisfied with anything he’s done?”
“No,” said Verna. “Actually I haven’t had that much to do with him. But I must tell you that I’ve been extremely impressed by the intelligence and general behavior of someone who’s been working with him, Constable Wyatt.”
“Constable? Not a detective?”
“No. For some reason, he isn’t.”
“Oh? That’s very interesting. I’ll look into it.”
Wendell and Lord Lowther bowed and went back to their table, and Sara and Andrew both stared at Verna. She returned their look with such apparent innocence that Andrew choked and Sara had to muffle her laugh with her napkin.
“Did something go down the wrong way?” asked Verna.
“No, mother. On the contrary,” said Andrew. “Well done.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now what are we going to have next? The grilled turbot is excellent. But then so is the lobster.”
It was quite late, about twelve thirty, when they got home. After thanking Verna for a memorable evening, Mrs. Wiggins and Sara went to bed, but Andrew remained with her for a while, telling her some of the things he had not been able to tell her before; how much he had liked her performance and why. Then he said good night and went to bed also.
He woke as he had the night he came home from school with no idea of what time it was or what had awakened him. Had there been a whistle again? He wasn’t sure, but this time he did get up and go to the window. It was a dark night; slow-moving clouds obscured the half moon, and at first he could see nothing. Then further up the street, near the corner of the wall that surrounded Three Oaks, he saw a still figure: a man seemed to be standing there, waiting.
Andrew peered at him, trying to determine who he was and what he was doing there, but the distance was too great to see much. Did he have anything to do with the thefts of the Denham diamonds or of Mrs. Van Gelder’s jewels? It was possible. He was certainly not a casual passerby, for he did not seem to be moving, going anywhere.
Abruptly Andrew stepped into his slippers, put on a dressing gown and went out into the corridor. He glanced at the grandfather clock. It was three thirty. As he stood there at the top of of the stairs, the door of Sara’s room opened and she came out. Her hair was tied back with a ribbon, and she was wearing a wooly bathrobe.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“There’s someone outside, near the wall around Three Oaks. A man.”
“Oh. I thought I heard something, then I heard your door. Who is it?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t tell that or what he was doing, but I thought I’d go outside and see.”
“I’ll come with you.”
They went down the stairs, keeping close to the wall so that the treads would not creak. It took a little time to open the door since it was not only locked and bolted, but chained. They left it ajar, crossed the driveway and ran down alongside it, staying on the grass because it was quieter. When they reached the hedge that separated the garden from the street, Andrew held up his hand. They crouched down, spread the leaves of the hedge and looked through. The man was still there and now, with the street light behind him, they could see him more clearly. He was a big man, wearing a billycock hat, and he was looking at the wall of Three Oaks and tapping one foot impatiently.
“Can you tell who he is?” asked Sara in a whisper.
Andrew shook his head. He was fairly sure he didn’t know the man, hadn’t seen him before, but he couldn’t be certain because with the light behind him, he could not make out his features.
“Let’s go round,” whispered Sara, pointing to the street. “Then we can see.”
Andrew hesitated. If they went out to the street, they would be able to see the man more clearly, but, by the same token, if the man turned around, he would be able to see them.
“I’m not sure …” he began, but by that time Sara was gone. Frowning, he bent down, looked through the hedge again. The man was still there, still looking at the wall. As Andrew straightened up, out of the corner of his eye he saw something—a shadow—coming across Rysdale Road behind the man. He hurried after Sara and caught her at the edge of the driveway.
“Wait,” he whispered. “Be careful.”
“I know. We don’t want him to see us.”
“It’s not just that. I thought I saw someone—”
He broke off as they heard a curious noise that sounded like a sigh, followed by a thud. They looked at one another, then peered around the end of the hedge. The man was no longer standing. He was lying face down on the pavement, his head just a short distance from the wall.
Andrew gripped Sara’s shoulder, holding her there. They looked up the street, to the right and to the left. There was no sign of any movement, no sound.
Sara put her mouth close to his ear. “What happened to him?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. We’d better see.”
Slowly they went up the street, paused when they reached the man. His face was turned slightly sideways, and they could see one eye. It was open, staring. He was, as Andrew had thought, powerfully built. His hair grew low on his forehead, the visible ear was battered, misshapen, and what they could see of his face was brutal.
“Is he dead?” asked Sara, her voice unnaturally loud and clear.
Andrew knew he must be. That open eye was not merely staring and unblinking, something was gone from it. Besides, no one could lie that still if he were not dead. However … He bent down and looked more closely at the man. He was rather flashily dressed in a checked jacket, and there was a dark stain between his shoulder blades. Andrew touched it, then drew back and stood up. It was blood. Feeling a little sick, he thrust his hand into the pocket of his robe, wiping his fingers again and again.
“Yes,” he said. “He’s dead.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We’d better get the police.”
“We can wake Fred, send him to the police station the way your mother did after the robbery.”
He nodded. Then as they started back towards the house, “Wait a minute. There must be a policeman around here somewhere.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know, but there must be. And if we can find one, we can save a lot of time. Why don’t you go that way and I’ll go this. If either of us finds a policeman we’ll bring him back here. If we don’t find one, we’ll wake Fred.”
“All right,” said Sara. Turni
ng, her hair flying, she ran up Rysdale Road past their house. Circling wide around the still body, Andrew ran the other way, along the wall that surrounded Three Oaks. He still felt a little sick, and he suddenly realized that he had continued to wipe his hand on his robe. Did he just feel sick or was he frightened too? Of course he was frightened. It was one thing to play being a detective with Peter Wyatt, look for clues, speculate on how the several different robberies had been committed and by whom. But what had just happened had changed things completely, for whoever had killed the man in the checked jacket would not hesitate to kill again. And now Andrew knew, not just how suddenly death could come, but how final it was.
He glanced through the closed gates of Three Oaks as he ran by. There was no sign of a light in the big house. There were no lights in any of the widely separated houses on the other side of the road. He reached the corner, looked right and left, saw no policeman, and turned left so as to complete the circuit and end up back at their house again. He was still running when he came to the next corner, but not quite so fast for he was beginning to get a stitch in his side and his feet were starting to hurt. The thin soles of his slippers were not made for running on pavement. This time he stopped when he looked right and left. Had they been foolish to think that there would be a policeman walking his beat somewhere in the area at night? Perhaps. He went on at a trot, through the occasional yellow pools cast by the gaslights, but mostly through the darkness. That street ahead of him was Rysdale Road. When he reached it, he would walk the rest of the way and …
With sudden anxiety he wondered what had happened to Sara. Going in opposite directions around the same area, they should have met before this. In spite of the pain in his side, he began to run again. Reaching Rysdale Road, he looked right as he started to go around the corner—and there she was! Not only that, but there was a policeman with her.
Andrew stopped, waiting for them, and the intensity of his relief was the measure of how anxious he had been. That was why they had not met. When Sarah reached the corner she must have looked up Rysdale Road, seen the constable and, instead of making the circuit around Three Oaks as Andrew had done, had gone straight on.
The Case of the Vanishing Corpse Page 8