The Case of the Etruscan Treasure (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 5)

by Robert Newman

  “Very much the same as Andrew’s. Except that we have a lot of elocution.”

  “You mean making speeches?”

  “Either speaking or reciting.”

  “But why? Do they expect you to go into politics?”

  “Of course not. It’s not even for the theatre—which I’d like. It’s all for society—which is what American girls go to school to be finished for. The teachers are always giving us Shakespeare on how,”—eyelids drooping, her tone became consciously dulcet,—“‘her voice was ever soft, gentle and low, an excellent thing in woman.’”

  “Excellent indeed,” said Wyatt gravely.

  They got off at Grand Street and walked west to Mulberry. Police Headquarters was a four-story stone building with a green lamp on either side of the steps that led to to the large doors. They weren’t going there, however. They were meeting Inspector Decker at an Italian restaurant diagonally across the street.

  The restaurant was fairly crowded, but when they came in, a broad-shouldered man at a corner table got up and waved when he saw Wyatt, then looked startled when he saw Sara and Andrew.

  “Hello, Sam,” said Wyatt, going over to the table.

  “It’s been a long time, Peter,” said the man shaking his hand and looking again at Sara and Andrew.

  “Yes, it has,” said Wyatt. “These are two young English friends of mine, Sara Wiggins and Andrew Tillett. Inspector Decker of the New York Police Department.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” said Decker with somewhat strained politeness. “I probably didn’t make it clear in my note,” he said to Wyatt, “that I wanted to talk to you.”

  “You made it very clear.”

  “But then I don’t understand …” Again he glanced at Sara and Andrew, then looked more closely at Wyatt. “Are you annoyed about something?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “About what?”

  “We’ll go into it later. Right now I’m starving. I had breakfast at six o’clock.”

  “I’m sorry. Please sit down.” He pulled out and held a chair for Sara, called over a plump, smiling man with a large mustachio, who was apparently the restaurant’s owner, and had an animated exchange with him, partly in English and partly in Italian.

  “Guido tells me that today’s specialty is osso buco,” he said. “I don’t know if you know what that is.…”

  “I know,” said Wyatt. “We’ll all have it.”

  “Your young friends too? Are you sure they’ll like it?”

  “Yes. They eat and like everything.”

  “Well, good for them,” said Decker. He gave the order to Guido then, apparently trying to make amends and be a good host, he said to Andrew, “Tillett. Any relation to Verna Tillett?”

  “She’s my mother.”

  “Oh, well,” said Decker, his face lighting up. “I saw her the last time she played in New York. It was a comedy at the Lyceum and it was one of the best performances I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “It was probably one of Pinero’s plays,” said Andrew.

  “It was. But the new one she’s doing is a melodrama, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. A dramatization of Jane Eyre, opening in Boston in about two weeks.”

  “In Boston?”

  “It will play there a week before it opens here.”

  “Well, I’ve got to see it when it comes here, wouldn’t miss it for anything,” said Decker. It turned out that he was not just an admirer of Andrew’s mother, but a thoroughgoing theatre buff, and they talked about that—the theatre in London and New York—until their food arrived.

  When Sara and Andrew tasted the osso buco—veal shanks cooked with wine and herbs—they nodded to one another, agreeing silently that once again Wyatt had introduced them to something delicious. Wyatt and Decker shared a bottle of wine. Then they all had zabaglione, a rich, custardy dessert, the two men had espresso, strong, black Italian coffee, and Sara and Andrew had cappuchini, coffee made with milk and topped with whipped cream.

  “All right,” said Decker, putting down his cup. “Now tell me what you’re annoyed about.”

  “I’d like you to answer some questions first,” said Wyatt. “Did you tell anyone I was coming here?”

  “Well, yes,” said Decker, a bit awkwardly. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “Who did you tell?”

  “A reporter on the World.”

  “Did he do anything about it, say anything about it?”

  “Yes,” said Decker, even more awkwardly. “He wrote a column about it.”

  “Exactly what did he say?”

  “He said … well, it’s not going to make any sense unless I give you some background.”

  “Then pray do,” said Wyatt coldly.

  “Mark Twain once said, ‘This is a great country. It has some of the longest rivers in the world. And the rivers have more boats on them that travel faster and blow up more often and kill more people than anywhere else.’”

  They all smiled politely.

  “Well, there’s something else that we’ve got, especially here in New York City. We’ve got more graft, bribery and general corruption than anywhere else since Sodom and Gomorrah. You’ve heard of Boss Tweed?”

  They nodded.

  “Well, he’s gone, went to jail and died. And Dick Croker, another of the great political crooks, is gone, too. But the good work of robbing the public still goes on. The reason we know about it is that, besides having some good and honest men and some good and honest newspapers, New York City is usually run by the Democrats while the state legislature in Albany is usually Republican. And one of the ways the Republicans try to beat the Democrats is by launching investigations that will show just how crooked the Democrats are. Clear so far?”

  “Yes,” said Andrew who knew something about this and was following Decker with great interest.

  “Well, about a year ago the state senate initiated an investigation to end all investigations. It was going to cover everything—the Police Department, the Water, Sanitation and Highway Departments—everything. The investigators opened an office just up the street here, almost opposite Police Headquarters, and from all reports they were really doing a job, coming up with things that no one had ever gotten before. Then, a few months ago, there was a fire and the office was gutted and all the material that had been collected was destroyed.”

  “Obviously an accidental fire,” said Wyatt dryly.

  “What a cynic you are,” said Decker, smiling faintly. “And of course you’re right. There wasn’t much doubt but that it was arson; but there was no way of proving it or finding out who had done it. So the investigation was back to square one, and Albany had to decide whether to extend the life of the committee and start all over again or what. While they were arguing about it, something very odd happened. After the fire, quite a few of the men—not just politicians, but businessmen too—who had left the country supposedly for their ‘health,’ came back. And immediately after they did, some strange rumors started spreading—rumors that some of the targets of the investigation had been approached and told just how much it would cost them to keep their name clean and stay out of jail.”

  “In other words, someone had gotten hold of some of the material that the investigators had collected and was blackmailing them,” said Wyatt.

  “Exactly. What seems most likely is that before someone tossed in the torch, they stole one of the file cabinets, the one that had the most important evidence in it.”

  “But what’s that got to do with me and what you told the reporter from the World?”

  “Well, as you probably guessed, they handed the whole mess to me. Though I’m a good Democrat, I don’t like the way this city’s being run and I haven’t been afraid to say so. And so I’ve got this strange reputation of being an honest cop.”

  “Strange but deserved?”

  “I’m afraid so. I wasn’t brought up properly for the times in which we live and, as a result, I’ll probably always be poor.”<
br />
  “Like many others.”

  “Too many others. Well, I started on the case right after the fire, almost four months ago. And while I have some strong suspicions, I haven’t really gotten anything concrete. Everyone’s been stonewalling me, refusing to tell me things I want to know, and I don’t have the authority to make them talk. Then, a day or so after I got your letter saying you were coming, the reporter from the World came to see me as he’d been doing fairly regularly. He wanted to know how I was doing, whether I was getting anywhere. Of course I wasn’t, but I didn’t want to say so. Instead I told him that while there weren’t any really new developments at the moment, there would be very very soon. When he asked why I expected them, I told him I couldn’t say. But a minute or two later I said that you, a friend of mine from Scotland Yard, were coming over. He immediately put two and two together and asked if that was the new development I’d been talking about. I pretended to be upset and asked him why it should be, how that could have anything to do with the case. And he said what I thought he would.”

  “That detectives from Scotland Yard are the greatest in the world,” said Wyatt ironically. “All geniuses.”

  “You’re being sarcastic, but he did say something like that. But he said something else that was even more important. He said the reason I hadn’t gotten anywhere and never would was that too many big men were involved. If I did come up with anything, I could be busted—either fired from the force or transferred out to the sticks. But no one could do anything, use any leverage, on an outsider like you.”

  “But why did you do it, put things in such a way that he’d come up with a ridiculous idea like that?”

  Shamefaced, Decker shrugged. “I told you, I hadn’t gotten anywhere, so I thought I’d stir things up a little.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I lived in upstate New York until I was sixteen. We were pretty poor and I used to do a lot of hunting—not for fun, but for food. Sometimes, when I was out without a dog, I’d walk through a field and I’d know there was game around even though I couldn’t see any. So I’d throw a stick or stone into the bushes, and all of a sudden all sorts of things would break from cover.”

  “I see. And did your friend run the story in the World?”

  “Yes. He said I’d gotten very angry when he’d suggested that you were coming over here to help me out on the case and that I’d denied it absolutely. But the way he wrote it left the impression that that’s why you were coming.”

  Andrew realized now why he hadn’t known anything about what Decker had told them. Verna got the Times, and though they knew that the World was a very good paper, they almost never saw it.

  “And did anything happen as a result of the story?” asked Wyatt.

  “No. I’m sorry to say, nothing did.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to say you’re wrong,” said Wyatt coldly. “Tell him what happened at the dock,” he said to Andrew.

  “The dock?”

  “Yes. When you and Sara were coming to meet me.”

  “But that was an accident.”

  “Tell him!” repeated Wyatt firmly.

  Andrew looked at him for a moment, puzzled, then recounted the incident, describing how the loaded cargo net had crashed down between them and Wyatt.

  “But that’s terrible!” said Decker. “No wonder you’re upset. But after all, as Andrew said, it was an accident and—” Then, reacting to the grim expression on Wyatt’s face. “Are you saying it wasn’t an accident?”

  Wyatt took a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and handed it to him.

  “I found this in my cabin when I went down to get my hat and coat, just before we docked.”

  Decker unfolded the note, read it and lost some of his color.

  “What does it say?” said Andrew. “Can we see it?”

  Decker glanced at Wyatt and, when he nodded, gave the note to Andrew. He and Sara read it together. It was written in a strong, decisive handwriting on good note-paper.

  “We’re warning you to keep your nose out of things that are none of your business,” it said. “We mean this and we’ll prove it.” There was no signature.

  “What you mean is, dropping that load of cargo was supposed to prove it,” said Sara. “Prove that whoever wrote the note did mean business.”

  “So it would seem,” said Wyatt.

  “I’m sure that whoever did it didn’t mean to hurt them,” said Decker. “He probably didn’t even see them, but … is that why you brought them along with you?”

  “Since they had been endangered, I thought that was the least I could do. And since you were the one who, unintentionally, I know, put them in jeopardy, I thought you should meet them.”

  “Of course,” said Decker. “And I’m sorry, very sorry. I apologize to you and to them.”

  “And will you be careful what you say about me in the future?” said Wyatt. “Make sure I’m not linked in any way with the case you just told us about or any other you’re involved in?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What I can’t understand,” said Sara, “is who put the note in your cabin. Was it one of the crew?”

  “No,” said Wyatt. “Probably someone who came aboard with the pilot. Right?” he asked Decker, who nodded.

  “But if that’s so, couldn’t you find out who it was?” asked Andrew.

  “Probably,” said Wyatt. “But I don’t see the point. After all, I never was involved in this case of friend Decker’s, and I’m sure that whoever sent me that warning note will soon realize it.”

  “I hope so,” said Decker. He took out his watch and glanced at it. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I have to get back to headquarters,” he said. He signalled to Guido and asked for the bill.

  “No bill, Inspector,” said Guido.

  “Now wait a minute,” said Decker. “You know I’m not that kind of cop. I don’t accept free meals, don’t accept any kind of gift.”

  “This not gift from me,” said Guido. “Someone want you to be his guest, you and your friends.”

  “Who?”

  Guido nodded toward a corner of the crowded restaurant. Looking that way, Sara and Andrew saw Dandy Dan Cady, the large and imposing man they had last seen at the dock. Sitting at the table with him was the thin man in the dark grey suit who had gotten off the ship just behind Wyatt. Decker, who had to turn to see who Guido meant, whistled softly.

  “It’s Dandy Dan Cady,” he said.

  “Who’s that?” asked Wyatt.

  “The big man in the Tenth, Eleventh and Twelfth Wards, probably the most important political boss in New York.”

  “I tell him okay?” said Guido.

  Decker hesitated. “I don’t like it,” he said. “On the other hand, saying no is insulting, like refusing a drink in a bar.”

  “As I recall, men have been shot for that out west,” said Wyatt, smiling.

  “Well, I don’t think that Dandy Dan would go that far,” said Decker. “But there’s no point in antagonizing him. All right, Guido. Thank him for us.”

  Guido nodded and hurried off. They all got up, and as they started for the door, Decker made a slight detour that took him close to Cady’s table.

  “Thank you very much, Dan,” he said.

  “My pleasure,” said Cady, getting up. “I don’t believe I know your friend,” he said, looking at Wyatt.

  “Inspector Peter Wyatt of the London Metropolitan Police.”

  “Oh yes. The man from Scotland Yard.” He held out a carefully manicured hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” said Wyatt.

  “And these are two friends of the Inspector’s,” said Decker. “Sara Wiggins and Andrew Tillett.”

  “Hello,” said Cady. Then, indicating the man in grey who was with him. “You know Biggsy, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Decker. “How are you, Biggsy?”

  “Fine, Inspector,” said the man in a quiet, rather cultured voice.

&nb
sp; “That’s good. Well, thanks again, Dan.”

  “Like I said, my pleasure,” said Cady. “See you again sometime soon. And maybe I’ll be seeing you again too, Inspector,” he said to Wyatt.

  “I hope so,” said Wyatt politely.

  “Who was that other man, Biggsy?” asked Andrew when they were outside.

  “Si, short for Cyrus, Biggs,” said Decker. “But everyone calls him Biggsy. He works with Cady, does all sorts of odd jobs for him. Why?”

  Andrew glanced at Sara and she nodded.

  “Cady was down at the dock when the Inspector’s ship came in this morning,” he said. “And Biggsy was on the ship, came down the gangplank right behind him.”

  Decker looked at him, then at Sara.

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes,” said Sara.

  “That’s interesting,” said Wyatt. “But since I don’t think their showing up here was any more an accident than what happened at the dock, it would be even more interesting to know how they knew where we were going to have lunch.”

  3

  The Body in the Fountain

  “Do you have any plans for this afternoon?” asked Verna.

  It was shortly after lunch the following day, and they were in the sitting room of the suite, a large corner room with windows looking out on both Eighth Street and Fifth Avenue.

  “No, we don’t,” said Andrew.

  “I hope you don’t intend to spend it indoors. It’s much too nice a day.”

  “It’s lovely,” said Sara. “We were out all morning, over at the Farmer’s Market on Gansevoort Street. We just thought we’d wait here for a while, keep you company till you went back to the theatre.”

  Verna, filing her nails, looked up. “Very thoughtful of you,” she said. She glanced at Sara, then at Andrew. “Where’s Peter today?”

  “He’s having lunch with someone, a chap who came over on the ship with him,” said Andrew.

  “And the reason you haven’t made any plans is because you think he’ll come back here afterward and take you somewhere.”

  “I wouldn’t say we think that’s what will happen,” said Andrew. “But there’s nothing wrong with hoping that he may want to do something with us, is there?”