“Nothing,” said Polk. “Excuse me.” He got up and made his way toward the bar. A heavyset man in rather flashy clothes had just come in and apparently ordered a beer, for the landlord was handing him a tankard. His hair was dark and, perhaps because he wore it so long or perhaps because he was so swarthy, there was something gypsy-looking about him. He turned when Polk reached him, and Andrew saw that he had yellow eyes and a scar on his cheek that ran from the corner of his eye to his chin. It must have been fairly recent for it was still red and angry looking.
Polk said something to him, and he answered briefly, started to turn back to the bar but Polk took him by the arm and pulled him around again. Pushing away, he went into a slight crouch that was so menacing Andrew would not have been surprised to see him whip out a knife. Polk seemed to expect that too, for he stepped back and raised his fists, prepared to defend himself. But now the landlord hurried over, spoke forcefully to both men. They continued to confront one another for a moment, then the scar-faced man shrugged and turned back toward the bar, and Polk turned the other way and came back toward Andrew and Wyatt. He was still quietly furious when he reached them.
“Are you all right?” Wyatt asked him.
“Yes, sir.” He hesitated a moment. “What’s a blodger?”
“It’s Australian slang, not very complimentary.”
“That’s what I thought.” He looked toward the bar and the scar-faced man grinned at him, raising his tankard mockingly. Polk was still standing and as he started back toward the bar, Wyatt put his hand on his arm.
“Steady on, Sergeant. That’s a rum customer.”
“That he is—even more rum than you think.”
“Who is he?”
“Oh, just a chap I’ve had trouble with before.” He remained on his feet, watching, as the man drained his tankard and put it down on the bar. Then, as he left the pub, Polk relaxed a bit.
“Well, he’s gone now,” said Wyatt. “Sit down and finish your beer.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll be running along, too.”
“After him?”
Polk smiled a little crookedly. “No, Mr. Wyatt. He may be a troublemaker, but I’m not.” He held out his hand. “It was good to see you again, good to meet your young friend. Maybe next time we meet we’ll really be able to talk.”
“I hope so,” said Wyatt. He watched as Polk crossed the pub, waved to the landlord who was behind the bar and left also.
“All right, Andrew,” he said. “We’re on a case together and we’re comparing notes after an interview. What have you got to say about Polk?”
“Well, he didn’t want to tell you exactly what he’s doing or where he lives, but it’s probably somewhere around here.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He said if you want to get hold of him you can leave a message with the landlord here. That means they must know one another.”
“Right. But why didn’t he want me to know what he’s doing or where? Is he up to any hanky-panky?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t. The way he shook hands, looked you in the eye, talked … he could just be a good actor, but I think he’s straight, keeping quiet because he’s supposed to.”
“I agree. Unless he’s changed a great deal—and I don’t think he has—I believe him implicitly.” He drained his tankard and set it down. “More ginger beer for you?”
“No thanks.”
“Then perhaps we should trot along too. I’ll walk you home.”
This was one of London’s quiet times, particularly in almost suburban St. John’s Wood. The light of the setting sun was hazy and golden on the drawn blinds of the villas and neat brick houses, for this was tea time for all respectable people. And so the streets were deserted as Andrew and Wyatt left the pub and started walking toward Rysdale Road. No, not quite deserted, for a strange pair was coming toward them: a tall, cadaverous chimney sweep, and a small, thin boy. The man was wearing the uniform of his profession—a crooked, battered top hat and a long tailcoat—while the boy, his face smudged with soot, carried the brushes and a heavy bag of tools. The boy glanced at Andrew as he passed him, and it may have been because he was so small and his eyes were so large that he looked particularly lost and vulnerable.
Andrew looked back when he and Wyatt reached the corner. The chimney sweep had paused in front of the pub and was looking around. Then someone across the street waved to him. The chimney sweep waved back, started toward him. The man across the street—the man who had been waiting for him—was the scar-faced man with the yellow eyes whose appearance in the pub had so provoked Polk.
2
The Dead Dog
“You’re sure you don’t want to come with us, Mrs. Wiggins?”
“No, dear. I’ve got too much to do this morning. I’ll go to the afternoon performance. That’s at four, isn’t it?”
“I believe so.”
Andrew saw no point in arguing with Mrs. Wiggins. He knew how seriously she took her responsibilities as housekeeper, and if she preferred to wait until the afternoon to see her daughter perform, that was that. Besides, if he and Sara were alone, he might be able to get things straightened out with her—something he hadn’t been able to do so far.
Fred, the coachman, brought the landau around and stopped under the porte-cochere.
“Sara,” called Mrs. Wiggins.
“All right,” she said, coming slowly down the stairs. She had left her costume at the school, but she carried her dancing shoes in a blue velvet bag.
“I’m not supposed to wish you luck, am I?” said Mrs. Wiggins.
“No.”
“Then I won’t.” She kissed her. “I’ll see you later.”
“Yes, Mum.”
Andrew opened the door for Sara and followed her out. Fred, who seemed to know everything that was going on, not only in the house but everywhere in St. John’s Wood, glanced at her, then winked at Andrew. He waited till they were both seated in the rear of the landau, then chirruped to the horses and sent them down the driveway toward Rysdale Road.
Silence. The brooding silence of a temporarily quiescent volcano. Andrew glanced at Sara. She looked straight ahead at the silver buttons on the back of Fred’s coat. They weren’t just friends—he and Sara—they were good friends, but nothing like this had ever come up before and he did not know how to handle it. In his uncertainty, he approached it head on.
“Are you still angry?” he asked.
“Who says I’m angry?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Well, if I am, don’t you think I have good reason to be?”
“Why?”
“Inspector Wyatt’s just as much my friend as yours. You had no right to go see him without me!”
“I told you how that happened.”
“You didn’t.”
“Yes, I did. You just wouldn’t listen. I wrote to him, told him when I was coming in from school and said we’d like to see him.”
“We?”
“Yes, we. He wrote back saying we should come to the Yard the day after I got in. Well, when I got here I found you were going to be rehearsing then. I knew there was nothing you could do about that—you had to be at the school—so I thought I might as well keep the appointment.”
“Why couldn’t you have changed it so we could go together?”
“There wasn’t time. I suppose I could have sent him a telegram saying you couldn’t make it, but it seemed simpler to go and tell him. He was very sorry, said I should bring you there some other time.”
“Tomorrow?”
“It depends on how busy he is. If not tomorrow, then Thursday or Friday.”
“Is he busy? Is he on any cases?”
“He’s on several—none as big as the diamond robbery. But, as he said, you never know what one will turn into.”
“No. What was Scotland Yard like?”
“Big. Busy. Interesting.” She seemed enough l
ike herself now so that he dared ask, “Were you really angry at me for going there without you or are you worried about today?”
“A little of both.”
“Why are you worried?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I have two solo dances—a Scottish sword dance and a sailor’s hornpipe. I’m the only one who has two.”
“Well, Miss Fizdale wouldn’t have you doing two if she didn’t think you were good. You’re going to be fine.”
“We’ll see.” There was a small crowd gathered in front of a villa ahead of them. “What do you think’s going on there?”
“I don’t know.” As they drew abreast of the villa, Andrew saw that there was a policeman at the center of the crowd. And, frowning as he talked to him, was a soldierly-looking man with a closely cropped mustache. “Why, there’s Polk!”
“Who’s Polk?”
“Sergeant Major Polk—a friend of Wyatt’s. He’s the man talking to the policeman.”
“I know him,” said Fred. “The copper, I mean. Want me to find out what’s up?”
“Do we have time?”
“Won’t take more than a few minutes to get to the school from here.”
“Then … yes, we’d like to know.”
“Righto.”
Fred pulled up, tied the reins to a hitching post, then walked back to the small knot of people in front of the villa.
“Where’d you meet Polk?” asked Sara.
Andrew told her, told her how the sergeant had resisted telling Wyatt exactly what he did or where.
“This must be either where he lives or where he’s caretaker,” said Sara. “He’s in his shirt sleeves and the door’s open.”
Andrew nodded. The way Polk stood in front of the partly open door gave a strong impression that he belonged there. Andrew looked at the villa again. He had a feeling that there was something odd about it, but it took him a moment to decide what it was. The villa, which was modest in size, was built close to the street. That meant that its grounds were behind it and to the side rather than in front of it. In most cases where this was true, the grounds would be surrounded by a hedge or a low wall. But here they were surrounded by a wall that was not only higher than any that Andrew had ever seen, but had formidable iron spikes on top of it.
As Fred paused at the edge of the small crowd, Andrew saw someone else he had seen before; the tall chimney sweep in the top hat who had come looking for the scar-faced man at the pub. He was listening to what Polk had to say to the policeman, not just with casual interest, but with complete concentration.
Sara, sitting next to Andrew, stiffened.
“Look at that!” she said angrily.
Andrew turned and saw that she wasn’t looking at the villa, but further up the street. There, his back to the wall, was the small boy who had been with the chimney sweep the previous night. A group of street urchins and delivery boys, some Andrew’s age and some older, surrounded him. And though most of them were grinning, the grins were not friendly. As Sara and Andrew watched, the biggest of them, a boy carrying a butcher’s basket, put it down and took hold of the small boy’s broom. The boy tried to hold on to it, but the butcher boy pushed him back against the wall, pulled the broom away from him and threw it out into the street.
“The bullying sods!” said Sara. She jumped out of the carriage, a fury in white muslin, and ran up the street. “Stop that!” she said, her eyes blazing. “Leave him alone!”
“Eh?” said the butcher’s boy. “Wotcher mean?”
“I mean leave him alone! Why are you after him anyway?”
“’Cause he’s a bleeding Frog, that’s why! Can’t even speak English.”
“What of it?”
“I don’t like Frogs!”
“He probably doesn’t like you,” said Andrew who had joined Sara. “I don’t myself.”
“What?” The butcher’s boy stared at him. “Who the devil are you two anyway?”
“I know who they are,” said a hulking stable boy. “They live at twenty-three Rysdale Road. Her mum’s the housekeeper there and his is a actress.”
“So,” said the butcher’s boy, “just because you think your ma’s something …”
“My mother’s got nothing to do with it!” said Andrew angrily. “Sara told you to leave him alone. And now I’m telling you.
“Think you can make me?”
“I know I can,” said Andrew. He pulled off his jacket and handed it to Sara. “Hold this.”
“You mean you want to fight?” He laughed. “That’s a good one!”
“Bash him, Len!” said the stable boy. “Bash him proper!”
“I’ll bash him all right,” said the butcher’s boy as he advanced, grinning.
He was older than Andrew, probably around sixteen, taller and heavier, but from the way he put up his fists, Andrew did not think he was much of a boxer. Andrew, on the other hand, had learned old-style, bare-fisted fighting from a blacksmith in Cornwall and had continued at school.
The butcher’s boy feinted two or three jabs with his left, then swung a clumsy but powerful right to Andrew’s head. Andrew ducked. He knew he should fight defensively for a while, tire his opponent out, but he was too angry for caution and besides, with that wild swing, the butcher’s boy had left himself wide open. Stepping in close, Andrew hit him a hard one-two just under the rib cage, knocking the wind out of him. He staggered, went down on one knee.
“Why, you …” he gasped. He turned slightly, caught the stable boy’s eye and jerked his head.
“Righto, Len,” said the stable boy. But as he started forward to join his pal, the butt end of a whip dropped down in front of his face.
“Nah, nah,” said Fred. “Fair play’s a jewel. One at a time—either one of you—is sporting. But two to one, and I’ll take a hand.”
The two boys looked at Andrew, then at Fred. He had been a jockey and he was a small man, no taller than Andrew, but he seemed very sure of himself as he stood there in his shiny boots and top hat, and he held the whip short and reversed as if he was anxious to use the loaded butt.
“Yah!” said the butcher’s boy, getting to his feet. “Come on, Alf.”
He picked up his basket and went off up the street, and the other boys followed him.
“Thanks, Fred,” said Andrew.
“Nothing to thank me for. You were doing fine. But what was it about?”
“They were after him,” said Sara, nodding toward the small, dirty-faced boy who had run out into the street to retrieve his broom.
“Why?”
“I’m not sure,” said Andrew. He turned to the boy who had come back and was looking at him with large, dark eyes. “Êtes-vous Français?”
The boy’s face lit up. “Oui. Vous parlez Français?”
“Un petit peu.”
“Puis je vous remercie mille fois. Vous êtes mes chères amis!”
“What’s he saying?” asked Sara.
“He is French. That’s why they were going for him,” he explained to Fred. “They said he couldn’t speak English—as if that was a crime. He thanked us and said we were his friends.”
“Well, we are,” said Sara, looking at him with sympathy and interest. “What’s his name and what’s he doing here?”
“My name ees Pierre,” said the boy with a decided French accent.
“Then you do speak English,” said Andrew.
“A leetle. Not so much as you spik French. How I come here est vraiment une histoire.”
“A long story,” said Andrew.
“Oui. I come from Marseilles. You know Marseilles?”
“So there you are, ye limb,” said a harsh voice. “What were you trying to do, sneak off?”
They turned. It was the cadaverous chimney sweep in the battered top hat.
“No, m’sieu,” said Pierre anxiously. “No, no.”
“Well, you better not.” He looked suspiciously at Sara, Andrew and Fred. “Come on, now. We got work to do.”
“Oui
, m’sieu.” He picked up the large broom and the heavy bag with tools and brushes sticking out of it. “Vous demeurez à vingt-trois Rysdale Road?” he said under his breath to Andrew.
“Oui.”
“What are you saying, you little devil?” asked the sweep.
“Nothing, m’sieu.”
“You’re a liar, but come on.” And taking him by the neck, he pulled him away and started driving him up the street, a small, slight figure with the broom over his shoulder, stooping under the weight of the heavy bag.
“Now there’s someone I’d like to take the butt end of my whip to,” said Fred, looking after the sweep. “What did the little tyke say?”
“He wanted to know if we did live at twenty-three Rysdale Road, and I said yes.”
“He’d probably like to see us again,” said Sara. “And I’d like to see him, find out how he got here.”
“Well, there’s not much chance of that,” said Fred. “Not if that scabby sweep’s got anything to say about it. Now do you want to know what I found out or not?”
“Yes, of course,” said Andrew.
“Well, first of all, the house belongs to a real nob, Lord Somerville. He’s not here right now because he’s a Syri-something, a bloke who goes around digging up tombs and things.”
“An Egyptologist?” asked Andrew.
“I didn’t say Egypt. I said Syri-something. Anyway, like I said, he’s not here now. He’s somewhere in the East, like Bagdad.”
“But why was the copper there?” asked Sara.
“Because their dog was killed last night.”
“Whose dog?” asked Andrew.
“I guess Lord Somerville’s,” said Fred. “Your friend Polk said it had come from his country place in Ansley Cross.”
“Was it a valuable dog?” asked Sara.
“It must have been. The constable said that Polk and the housekeeper here were real upset about it.”
“How was it killed?” asked Andrew.
“The constable wasn’t sure, but he thinks it was poisoned. He only got a quick look at it, but he said it was a real brute—as big as a pony.”
“In other words, a watchdog,” said Andrew.
“I suppose. Now if you’re through protecting the weak and detecting crime, shall we proceed to the dancing school?”
The Case of the Vanishing Corpse Page 17