The Case of the Vanishing Corpse

by Robert Newman

  Mrs. Stokey suddenly struck her husband a stinging slap in the face.

  “You!” she said. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to hang because you’re a fool!”

  Stokey reeled back, then leaped at her, took her by the throat and began choking her.

  “Now none of that,” said Wendell as Wyatt and Finch pulled the raging Stokey away from her. “Perhaps you’d better take them away, Inspector. Do you have enough men to handle them?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Finch. “We came here in a Black Maria and I had it wait. But before I go I’d like to ask Wyatt how he knew where that body was.”

  “Stokey told me.”

  “I take it that’s one of your varsity jokes.”

  “In a way. I suspected he had something in mind when he told us it was buried under that bush. He must have had it hidden somewhere nearby, probably in the compost pit. But after we had dug down and found nothing, that became the best place in all London to hide it. Because, having looked there once, who would think of looking there again?”

  “All right,” said Stokey with sudden decision. “I’ll grant you’ve been pretty smart about a lot of things. But there’s one thing you don’t know and that’s where the jewels are. Now I’ll make a deal with you. If you’ll go easy on me, and”—nodding at Wendell—“I’ll take his word for it that you will, I’ll tell you where they are.”

  “Poor Stokey,” said Wyatt. “I really feel quite bad about this, but of course we all know where the jewels are.”

  “What do you mean, we know?” said Finch. “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Why, all of us,” said Wyatt. “For instance, don’t you know, Sara?”

  Sara hesitated a moment, and Andrew sensed that she didn’t know, anymore than he did. But he also knew that if Wyatt felt that they should be able to guess, then they should. Then, suddenly it came to him. At the same time, Sara said, “Yes, I think I do. I couldn’t imagine why they took that coffin with them. At first I thought they had that body in it. But when we found they didn’t … Well, the only reason for taking it must have been because the jewels are hidden in it.”

  “Damn you!” said Stokey, his face dark with rage. “All of you! I—”

  His face just as flushed, Finch quick-marched him out of the room, and two constables followed, leading out the others.

  “Is that where the jewels are?” asked Verna.

  “From his reaction, I would suspect so,” said Wyatt. “If the marchioness will have someone bring us some tools, we’ll open it and see.”

  “While we’re waiting,” said Verna, “will you tell us how you collected all that information, especially about two Americans, when you were confined to your quarters during these last few days?”

  “Beasley got it for me. I spent over a year in the United States after I left Cambridge. While I was in New York I made a point of getting a letter of introduction to the police commissioner. I had Beasley send him a cable in my name asking about a confidence man with a tattooed chest. Back came a cable with a description of Stokey and his wife, saying they were wanted.”

  “Was that what was on the paper you threw out the section-house window?” asked Andrew.

  “Yes. That and some questions about a cat burglar and a missing prizefighter.”

  “Once I had their descriptions, finding out who they were was easy,” said Beasley. “It was what I had to do besides, play night watchman, that gave me the pip.”

  A footman came in with a box of tools and Wyatt and Beasley set to work on the coffin.

  “You don’t suppose there’s something really horrid in there, do you?” asked the marchioness in an unsteady voice.

  “No, ma’am. But of course that was part of Stokey’s strategy, the reason for the coffin. The tugboat captain had been told that it contained the body of Stokey’s brother who had died of cholera and wished to be buried at sea. Fear of contagion, added to respect for the dead, made it unlikely that anyone would wish to look into it. However …”

  The coffin lid creaked open. Wyatt lifted out some bulky objects wrapped in a blanket. When he unwrapped them, the marchioness gasped.

  “But that … that’s my silver! The Medford punch bowl, cups, candlesticks—”

  “They needed something to give weight to the coffin,” said Wyatt, “make it seem there was a body in it. So why not improve the shining hour with something valuable?”

  He reached into the coffin again, pulled up the cloth lining and brought out a chamois bag. The first thing they saw when he opened it were the Denham diamonds.

  “Well done!” said Wendell. “Though I must say that having Miss Sara here guess where they were when Finch clearly didn’t have a clue himself must have been a little hard for him to take.”

  “I suspect it was,” said Wyatt. “But, if you don’t mind, I won’t apologize for it. Because I’ve had to take a good deal from him. In fact, if it weren’t for Miss Tillett, Beasley and my two young friends here, I’d be off the force now. Though as far as that goes, I suppose …”

  “Now, now, you know better than that,” said Wendell. “I wouldn’t dream of letting you go—though we’ll have to think of some tactful way of arranging for your transfer to the C.I.D. But you’re right about your two young friends. What do you propose to do about them?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Take them out to dinner to celebrate, I suppose—along with Miss Tillett and Beasley here. Because I’ve got to make sure I can call on them for help if I need it in any future cases.”

  He smiled at them, and conscious of the emotion behind the smile, they smiled back.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt series

  1

  The Man with the Yellow Eyes

  “Will you be doing anything interesting over the holiday, Chadwick?”

  “Not really. I’m going to Paris.”

  “And you don’t consider that interesting?”

  “Well, I’ve been there before. My family’s there.”

  “Well, this is a nice time to go—chestnuts in blossom and all that. And it should be good for your French.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They were walking back to school after cricket; Andrew, Chadwick and Ferguson, the new language master who was coaching the house team.

  “What about you, Tillett? What will you be doing?”

  “Nothing very much, sir. Staying in London.”

  “Where he’ll solve a few crimes,” murmured Chadwick. “Possibly even some murders.”

  Ferguson started to laugh, then paused. “Wait a minute. Is your mother Verna Tillett, the actress?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It seems to me I read about something happening to her last summer. Wasn’t she robbed?”

  “Of a famous diamond necklace,” said Chadwick. “Tillett was in the middle of the whole thing, helped solve the mystery and was along on the chase when they got the jewels back.”

  “I wouldn’t say I helped solve the mystery.”

  “But you were involved?” asked Ferguson.

  “In a way, I suppose I was.”

  Andrew was thinking about that exchange now, several days later, as he walked up the Embankment toward Scotland Yard. He hadn’t told Chadwick, hadn’t told anyone at school, what had happened during the summer holiday, hadn’t realized that anyone knew about it. But it was clear that Chadwick not only knew, but was a little jealous of Andrew. Because, in spite of his offhand, half joking manner, there had been an undercurrent of envy in what he had said. And Andrew had to admit that he didn’t blame him for being envious. Because most of what Chadwick had said was true, making the time after the robbery one of the most exciting times of Andrew’s life. And of course it was because of what had happened then that he was now on his way to Scotland Yard to visit Peter Wyatt, who had been a constable in the Metropolitan Police then and was now an inspector in the C.I.D.

  Andrew had walked up the Thames side of the Embankment so he c
ould watch the boats in the river. Now, waiting to cross the road, he looked at the Yard. Even if he had not known it for what it was—the headquarters of the greatest police organization in the world—he would have found the large, baronial building impressive.

  A line from The Mikado, one of Gilbert and Sullivan’s recent operettas, came to him: “To make the punishment fit the crime.” He couldn’t imagine why, what that had to do with the Yard, until he remembered something that Wyatt had told him the last time he had seen him; that the stone used to build the Yard was Dartmoor granite, cut and dressed by the very convicts that the Yard had helped send to hard labor at Dartmoor.

  Too impatient to wait any longer for a break in the stream of traffic, he cut in behind a hansom cab, ducked under the noses of the horses drawing an omnibus, and reached the other side of the road. He went through the stone and brick archway that faced the Thames, crossed the courtyard and entered the building. After identifying himself to the desk sergeant, he was directed up a flight of stairs and along several corridors. He knocked at a numbered door, was told to come in, and then he was shaking hands with Wyatt in an office that was just big enough for a desk, a file cabinet and two chairs.

  “Where’s Sara?” asked Wyatt.

  “At dancing school.”

  “During the Easter holidays?”

  “They’re giving two performances tomorrow, and she had to rehearse.”

  “Did she know that you were coming here today?”

  “No. When I heard about the rehearsal, realized she couldn’t come, I decided not to say anything about it.”

  Wyatt looked at him thoughtfully. He knew what good friends Sara and Andrew were, but he also knew about Sara’s temper.

  “That was sensible,” he said. “But it might be dangerous. Won’t she be angry?”

  “She may be.”

  “Well, if she is, you can bring her here some other time. How’s your mother?”

  “Fine. At least she was when I last heard from her. She’s on tour, won’t be back for about ten days.”

  “Give her my regards when you write to her.”

  “I will.” He studied Wyatt for a moment, comparing the way he was dressed—the well-cut, dark suit and carefully knotted tie—with the costume of the only other member of Scotland Yard he had met. “I must say that you don’t look much like an inspector,” he said.

  “What is an inspector supposed to look like—an off-duty policeman with thick soles to his boots? Or perhaps like Finch with that horrible hat of his?”

  “You’re right. An inspector can look like anything. Are you on any cases now?”

  “Several.”

  “Any interesting ones?”

  “They’re all interesting. What you mean is, are any of them big or important? And the answer to that is, you never know. What may seem to be very minor—a few cases of shoplifting on Bond Street—may turn out to be very major indeed.” Then, as Andrew nodded, “Now I suppose you’d like me to show you around.”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Come along then.”

  During the next hour Wyatt gave him a quick tour of the Yard, showing him the laboratory, the central records office, the rear entrance where informers could come in to talk to police officers without being seen by anyone else and, most interesting of all, the Black Museum. Though Andrew had heard about it, he was not quite sure what it was. It turned out to be a collection of weapons used in famous murders, burglar’s tools, forgers equipment and anything else in the many categories of crime that it might be instructive for a detective to know about as part of his training. For, as Wyatt told him, there is very little new under the sun and the tricks or devices of criminals today are only variations of ones used in the past.

  Wyatt looked at his watch when they left the museum and said, “Ten after five. Are you going home?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll drop you.”

  “You needn’t bother. I’ll take the bus.”

  “It’s no bother. I’ve rooms on Gloucester Place now, so it’s on my way.”

  They went out the rear exit to Whitehall where Wyatt hailed a hansom, and a few minutes later they were bowling north and west toward Regent’s Park and St. John’s Wood.

  Sitting there in the swaying hansom, Andrew glanced at Wyatt and, noticing it, Wyatt said, “Why the look?”

  “No reason.”

  “None of that now. There’s a reason for everything.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s because I thought about you quite a lot while I was at school, wondered if I’d see you again.”

  “Why did you wonder? I told you to let me know when you were coming back to London.”

  “Yes, I know, but … I suppose I thought you might be too busy to see me.”

  There was more to it than that, of course. While there was no mystery about why he felt as he did about Wyatt—what boy, even someone like Chadwick, wouldn’t find him fascinating?—he was not sure he understood why Wyatt was interested in him.

  “Anyone who’s too busy to see his friends,” said Wyatt, “doesn’t deserve to have any.”

  He spoke, as he usually did, as directly as he would to an equal. And Andrew suddenly had the answer to his unspoken question. For while he, Andrew, might not have a father, Wyatt had been cut off—not only from his family, but from his friends too. For police work was not anything a gentleman went in for. And therefore Andrew—and Sara—did mean a good deal to him.

  Their eyes met. Then, looking away, Andrew asked about Baron Beasley, a dealer in antiques and oddities who had been very helpful to Wyatt when he was investigating the theft of the Denham diamonds, and Wyatt said he saw him fairly frequently. This led to a more detailed discussion of some of the cases he was on, and he was telling Andrew about one in particular when he suddenly sat up, rapped on the overhead trapdoor of the hansom and ordered the driver to pull up. Then, leaning forward, he called, “Polk! Sergeant Polk!”

  A square-shouldered man with a closely cropped mustache who was about to enter a pub turned sharply, glanced into the hansom and said, “Mr. Wyatt. It’s never you, sir!”

  “But it is. Going in there?” He nodded toward the pub.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll join you. At least …” He glanced at Andrew. “It’s just a short walk to your house. Would you like to come in with us? Or would you rather go home.”

  “I’d like to come with you.”

  “Good.” Opening the leather half-door of the hansom, he got out and Andrew followed him. As Wyatt paid the cabby, Andrew looked at Polk. Though he had on a bowler and was dressed like a butler or a valet on his afternoon off in a dark grey suit, there was something unmistakably military about the way he carried himself.

  “Now then,” said Wyatt as the cabby touched his hat, and drove off, “my young friend here is Andrew Tillett. And this, my not-quite-so-young-friend, is Sergeant Major Polk.”

  “Sergeant Major,” said Andrew.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Tillett,” said Polk. Andrew now saw that his hair was grey and realized that he must be well into his sixties. But his eyes were clear and his grip when they shook hands was firm.

  “As you’ve probably gathered,” said Wyatt to Andrew, “the sergeant major was with my father’s regiment; he taught me everything I know about riding and shooting.”

  “Not true,” said Polk. “Not with the general for a father and those two brothers of yours to take you in hand.”

  “Then let’s say you taught me things no one else did, things I’ll never forget. But let’s go in and celebrate this properly. A pint for you?” he asked as he ushered them into the pub.

  “Yes, Mr. Wyatt.”

  “Get a table, and I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Though the pub was starting to fill up, they found a table in the corner and sat down.

  “How long is it since you’ve seen Mr. Wyatt?” asked Andrew.

  “Let’s see,” said Polk. “It was just before he went up to
Cambridge. Must be six or seven years.”

  Wyatt returned with tankards of beer for Polk and himself and a bottle of ginger beer for Andrew.

  “Cheers,” said Wyatt, raising his tankard. “You look fit as ever, Polk.”

  “So do you, sir. Though I must say you don’t look quite the way I thought you would.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, I heard you were with the police—a constable.”

  “Oh, that. Who did you hear it from—my father?”

  “Yes. He was right upset about it.”

  “I know he was. A disgrace to the family. Well, I’m still with the police, but not in uniform. I’m an inspector in the C.I.D.”

  “Oh. Well, he must be pleased about that.”

  “I doubt it. I don’t think I could do anything that would please him once I refused to go to Sandhurst.”

  “That was a disappointment to him.”

  “When he already had two sons in the army? But let’s not go on about that. Tell me about yourself and what you’re up to.”

  “Well, as you’ve probably gathered, I’ve retired.”

  “Once father did, I suspected you would. He always said he couldn’t run the regiment without you, and I didn’t think you’d want to continue under anyone else.”

  “Well, I stayed on for another six months—Colonel Farnum asked me if I would. That took me to the end of my time—forty years in Her Majesty’s uniform.”

  “You certainly don’t look it. But what are you doing now?”

  For the first time, Polk hesitated. “I … Well, I guess I’m what you might call a caretaker.”

  “Of what?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Wyatt, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

  “Oh. Well, will you tell me where you’re living, then? How can I reach you if I want to get in touch with you?”

  “You can leave a message with Jem, the landlord here,” he said, nodding toward the crowded bar. “He’ll see that I get it.”

  “Righto. I’m sure you know I’m not trying to pry, Sergeant. It’s just …” He broke off as Polk stiffened, staring across the pub. “What is it, man?”