The Baker Street Boys

by Brian Ball

  “I dream of it too,” she whispered. “I hear his voice, and I see something shining in those terrible dreams.”

  “He does it with your locket!” snarled Sparrow. “I saw him last night—and he’s not doing it anymore!”

  “Who’s not doing what?” called a deep voice.

  “Blimey!” gasped Sparrow. “It’s Marvin!”

  “What are you doing here?” growled the hypnotist suspiciously. “Are you spying on me, kid?”

  Sparrow protested his innocence, but it was Mary who saved him by telling Marvin that she had asked Sparrow to fetch her a drink.

  “OK, OK,” Marvin growled. “Just keep away from the kid, OK?”

  The evening seemed to drag by on leaden feet as Sparrow waited for the right moment; and eventually it came. He waited then for the explosion which must follow.

  Sparrow was in the wings on the far side of the stage from the artistes’ dressing-rooms when he heard the commotion. Voices called urgently—Mr. Trump, Marvin, Bert, and a couple of stage-hands, all of them calling increasingly loudly so that they could be heard above the sound of the orchestra.

  Mary had disappeared!

  “Gone?” said Sparrow innocently, as Mr. Trump crossed the stage towards him. “Who’s gone?”

  “Sparrow! Where is that confounded girl?” cried Mr. Trump, heedless of the calls from the audience, who were expecting the curtain to rise on the hypnotist’s act. “Where is she?”

  Marvin spotted Sparrow too.

  “Say, kid,” he called, joining the manager. “You were talking to Mary—where’s my daughter?”

  “Search me!” said Sparrow. “I ain’t seen her for a half-hour or more—not since you said I was to keep away from her.”

  “Damnation and blazes!” yelled Mr. Trump. “I’ve got a theatre full and no act! I’ve got to have Marvin’s act!”

  “And I’ve got a daughter that’s cut loose!” yelled Marvin. The orchestra leader poked his head through the curtains.

  “And there’s a restless audience out here, sir,” he called to Mr. Trump. “What shall I do?”

  “Don’t look at me,” said Marvin. “No kid, no act—she knows the routines! I’ll go and look around for her.”

  Mr. Trump looked around wildly.

  “Fetch Gorgeous Gertie back!” he called. “She’ll have to do another turn—tell her it’ll be another five guineas!” Then he turned to Sparrow. “Now, boy—”

  But Sparrow was not there anymore.

  * * * *

  “I can’t believe it!” Mary cried when Sparrow led her into the cellar of the derelict house. “I’m free!”

  Queenie and Rosie rushed to bring her to the warmth of the fire, whilst Sparrow grinned triumphantly. As for Wiggins, he simply looked smug.

  “And these are your friends—all orphans, like me?” said Mary, gazing around her curiously. “I’m so grateful to you all!”

  “It was Wiggins’ idea to use the magician’s chest to hide you,” said Sparrow. “And it worked a treat, didn’t it, Mary?”

  “Oh, I heard Mr. Trump yelling at them to look everywhere, and when they banged on the basket—” began Mary.

  “—and looked inside—” went on Sparrow.

  “—and got fooled though I was in there all the time—” gasped Mary, who managed to laugh now at the memory of her ordeal.

  “—and then we waited till everyone rushed outside, and here we are,” finished Sparrow, looking fondly around the cellar. “Home, sweet home.”

  “And I’m never going back,” said Mary. “Never!”

  “’Course you’re not,” agreed Wiggins. “Mind you, Marvin’s not going to give up the act, is he? Not when there’s royalty coming to see him. He’s going to keep on looking for you, Mary, but when he doesn’t find you, he’s going to want a new girl for the act.”

  Mary shuddered.

  “I wouldn’t wish that on any poor girl!” she said.

  “Yeh!” shivered Rosie. “What girl’d be fool enough to go on stage with Marvin?”

  Wiggins looked from Mary to Rosie; and then to Queenie.

  “But we’ve got to get to the bottom of this mystery,” he said. “Ain’t we—even if it does mean one of us working with Marvin?”

  Queenie let out a long gasp.

  “One of us?” she cried. “Working with Marvin—Arnold Wiggins, if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking—”

  “Queenie, this is our most important case!” declared Wiggins. “What’s a bit of danger for the Baker Street Boys? You wouldn’t mind being a star of the music-hall for a night or two would you?”

  “Yes!” cried Queenie. “I won’t do it! You can’t make me—anyway, I can’t do this Mentalism business—and I won’t be put in trances!”

  “Don’t let that worry you,” said Mary. “Marvin doesn’t put me in a trance on stage. It’s all a fake.”

  “I thought it was!” said Sparrow.

  “So you could teach Queenie here the routine?” asked Wiggins.

  “In five minutes,” said Mary. “But don’t let her do it! It’s too dangerous!”

  By now, though, Queenie was won over to the idea. She was an independent-minded girl with a strong character; and she had lived by her wits all her fifteen years.

  “Wiggins is right,” she said briskly. “I’ll be able to find out what your stepfather’s really up to once I’m his new assistant. Now, what about this here routine?”

  It was easier than any of them—except Sparrow—could have imagined. There was no hypnotism, and no trance—nor could Mary peep through a concealed hole in the blindfold.

  It was all done by means of code-words. Mary explained it all.

  Marvin would blindfold her after he pretended to hypnotise her. Then he would call on members of the audience to hold up some object. There wasn’t much variation in the objects they produced. It would be a watch, say, or a wallet, or a handkerchief, or a ring—and Marvin had a code for each item.

  If it was a watch, he’d say to Mary, “Now, Mary, think hard—take your time.…”

  “So ‘Time’ was the code-word for a watch,” said Mary. “It’s as easy as that.”

  “Elementary, my dear Mary, as Mr. Holmes would say,” agreed Wiggins. Mary smiled at him.

  “Of course it is,” she agreed. “For a ring, Marvin would say,

  “Concentrate, Mary, don’t let your thoughts wander around.…”

  “‘Around’!” said Sparrow, as Beaver frowned. “Get it—‘around’. Round! A ring’s round, ain’t it?”

  Queenie soon picked up the routine, and it was decided that Sparrow should introduce her to Marvin the next day at the music-hall. It could hardly have gone better, though at first Marvin had his doubts.

  “That brat of mine never makes a mistake,” he told Sparrow and Queenie when he had got used to the idea of using her as a substitute for Mary. “You say this kid’s worked in the music-halls before?”

  “You try her out, Mr. Marvin, sir,” said Sparrow. “She knows all the tricks, don’t you, Queenie?—here, put the blindfold on.”

  “OK, OK,” said Marvin. “We’ve got the cops looking for Mary, but so far she’s not shown up—I got to have an act for tonight, so let’s try something. You ready?”

  “I’m ready,” said Queenie:

  “I’m holding up an object,” said the hypnotist, holding up a silver cigarette case. “Come on now…concentrate hard…Queenie.…”

  “I know!” cried Queenie. “It’s a silver case—a silver cigarette case!” Marvin relaxed.

  “I guess that’s one problem solved,” he said, but he looked a desperately worried man. “OK, Queenie, we’ll go through the whole routine, and if you know it, we’ll play the show tonight. This is one performance I can’t miss—not when there could be royalty coming!”

  Sparrow bumped into Mr. Trump as he left Marvin’s dressing-room. “Well, boy,” he said anxiously. “How did it go?”

  “Smashing, sir!” Sparrow told him.
“Queenie’s on tonight.”

  “And no news of poor Mary?”

  “The bobbies haven’t found a trace of her, Mr. Trump,” Sparrow said, and as Mr. Trump turned away he muttered, “and they’re not going to!”

  Sparrow was kept busy until it was time for Marvin’s performance; and when he next saw Queenie, he could scarcely recognise her. She wore one of Mary’s red dresses, and her face was covered in stage makeup.

  “Blimey,” said Sparrow as she and Marvin passed him backstage. “What do you look like?”

  “Like a professional performer, Sparrow,” said Queenie, as the music struck up. “Now, shut up and let me concentrate—wish me luck!”

  Queenie hardly faltered.

  She identified watches, rings, wallets, and handkerchiefs; and her lively manner went down well with the audience. Sparrow was delighted for her, but he was watchful. Wiggins had emphasised that they were involved in a mysterious case, and that he and Queenie should be ready for any developments. But nothing out of the ordinary had happened so far.

  “Now, who will be the next to try the amazing powers of Mentalism?” boomed out Marvin’s deep voice. “You sir? You wish to request this blindfolded girl to identify something—will you pass it up?”

  Sparrow craned forward.

  “Is it a watch again?” hissed Madame Pompadour, who was watching the act with him.

  “No,” said Sparrow. “I can’t see—bit of paper, I think.”

  “Ah!” said Marvin, taking the paper.

  And then he seemed to stagger as he looked at the object.

  “What’s the matter with him?” said Madame Pompadour. “He’s gone as white as a sheet!”

  The audience noticed Marvin’s discomposure too: and the musicians craned forward to watch him. Seconds passed.

  “I am ready, Master,” said Queenie, who also realised that the silence had gone on too long.

  “Yes!” whispered Marvin, who recovered himself quickly. “It was a note—nothing to do with the act,” he said, raising his voice. “I’m sorry for this delay, ladies and gentlemen—another object, if you please? Yes—you, sir. Fine!”

  “Now what was all that about?” said Madame Pompadour.

  “Search me,” said Sparrow.

  “Was it that note?” she said.

  “I dunno,”’ he answered. “But it didn’t do him any good, did it?”

  Queenie knew that there had been a disturbance of some kind during the act, but she had no way of knowing how affected Marvin had been. “How did I do?” she whispered as the act came to an end amidst the applause and cheers of the audience. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, kid,” said Marvin, hustling her towards the dressing-room. “You did fine—now, keep out of my way!”

  He was so nervous and agitated that she became alarmed and edged towards the door. All Mary’s warnings came back to her; but Marvin paid her no attention. He rushed about throwing clothes into a suitcase, and looking out of the window every few seconds. And then he noticed Queenie at the door.

  “Don’t open that door!” he yelled.

  Queenie panicked and yanked at the handle, but Marvin had her by the neck and flung her across the room before she could escape. He bolted the door and turned to her.

  “Don’t move, kid—OK?” he snarled. “I gotta get out of here, fast!” He dashed to the window and used his strength against the frame, but the window wouldn’t budge.

  And then a crash came at the door.

  “Help!” screamed Queenie as she realised that Marvin was terrified of someone—someone who was breaking down the door!

  Marvin turned as the door burst free and a huge brutish form rushed in. Even in her terror, Queenie heard the loud blast of music from the stage that heralded Madame Pompadour’s act—no one would hear the commotion, she realised. But nevertheless she screamed again.

  A blow sent her reeling, and she knew little of what followed. She was aware of a struggle; of a desperate scrabbling sound; and then she felt herself seized roughly and raised. After that, a damp cloth blocked her breathing, and the last thing she could identify was a sickly, sweet smell—and that was all, for a long time.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I, Sergeant Hopkins, was in an excellent position to follow the exploits of the Baker Street Boys during the progress of the Case of the Captive Clairvoyant; for I was called to Trump’s Music-hall to assist my boss, Inspector Lestrade, in a murder investigation.

  Murder? Yes! Marvin lay on the floor of his dressing-room with a knife in his back, and as for Queenie, she had completely disappeared!

  “I never did hold with this hypnotism business,” Inspector Lestrade murmured to me as we inspected the corpse.

  “It didn’t do Mr. Marvin much good either, sir,” said one of the many onlookers who had crowded into the room.

  “What!” said the Inspector. “Who’s that boy?”

  I recognised him as Sparrow, one of the Baker Street Boys, but I merely said:

  “One of the theatre’s staff, sir—the buttons, I believe they’re called.”

  “Don’t trouble me with that now, Hopkins,” the Inspector told me.

  “Clear these people out and we can get on with our investigation. Get statements from them all, will you?”

  “That’s Signor Maccarelli’s knife in him!” called out one of the artistes, a large, stout lady.

  “Is someone accusing me?” cried an Italian.

  “Mr. Marvin wasn’t liked,” put in Mr. Trump. “He was a nasty piece of work.”

  “It’s my knife, yes!” Signor Maccarelli called above the hubbub. “But I kill nobody, ever!”

  “Hopkins, get them out!” Inspector Lestrade called to me. “And I want you all to know,” he said as the artistes were driven out, “that I believe I shall be able to solve this mystery only when the police are able to find the whereabouts of Mary Ashley, Marvin’s missing assistant!”

  Wiggins was in the corridor with Sparrow when Inspector Lestrade made this statement.

  “But Mary’s not involved in this here murder!” gasped Sparrow.

  “Shut up!” hissed Wiggins. “Listen!”

  “Yes!” Lestrade finished. “I think that young lady’s deeply involved! In fact, I intend to have a warrant issued for her arrest!”

  “On what charge, sir?” I asked him.

  “Murder—accomplice to murder, Hopkins! I suspect that young lady of being in league with whoever murdered her stepfather! From what I’ve heard, she had no reason to love him—and the man’s dead!”

  Sparrow couldn’t restrain himself. He rushed forward to the Inspector:

  “And what about Queenie—she’s gone! She’s been taken away and maybe murdered too—the window’s open! That’s how she was got out!”

  Inspector Lestrade took a closer look.

  “Now I recognise you!” he cried. “You’re one of Sherlock Holmes’s amateur detectives—and if I’m not much mistaken, Hopkins, there’s another one down the corridor—why, it’s Wiggins!”

  “So it is, sir,” I said to my boss.

  “I will not have amateur sleuths about me!” cried Inspector Lestrade. Then another thought struck him. “Hopkins—that girl, Queenie. Don’t tell me she’s also one of that gang of ragamuffins?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir. Do you think she has been seized? She could be in danger, Inspector.”

  “Not her!” said Lestrade. “No doubt she’s run off in all this commotion. And that’s just what these other ragamuffins can do. Get them out, or I’ll have them put in the cells for obstructing the course of this investigation!”

  Wiggins and Sparrow were soon evicted by a burly constable; and when they stood in the rain-swept street, Sparrow said dejectedly:

  “It wasn’t such a good idea, was it, Wiggins? The bobbies will be hunting for Mary, and Lestrade’s warned us off—there ain’t much we can do, is there?”

  Wiggins drew Sparrow under the light of a gas-lamp. He pulled a piece of paper from h
is pocket and showed it to Sparrow.

  “That’s the paper Marvin had on stage!” said Sparrow. “Where did you get it?”

  “Picked it up in the dressing-room as we was ordered out,” said Wiggins. “You told me what happened on stage when Marvin turned white, and I just saw it lying there when Lestrade gave us the push.”

  “Not much on it, is there?” said Sparrow.

  “Enough,” said Wiggins.

  “Just one spot—what is it, rust?”

  “Blood.”

  “Blood!” gasped Sparrow. “What’s it for, then?”

  “I’ve heard about it,” said Wiggins. “It’s the final warning from gangsters and such-like—it’s the death-spot from a gang.”

  Sparrow passed the slip of paper back. “So Marvin saw it and tried to run!”

  “Yeh,” said Wiggins. “But he wasn’t quick enough.”

  “Nor was Queenie,” said Sparrow. “We’ve got to find her!”

  “If she’s alive,” said Wiggins.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Queenie awoke to find herself tied hand and foot, and with a gag in her mouth. She tried to roll over and discovered that she was lying on some kind of couch; there was a little light from the door, and when her eyes got accustomed to the gloom, she discovered that she was in a small box-room.

  It was musty and cold, and she had never felt so alone or afraid. This was worse in a way than the sudden shock of Marvin’s violence, and then the brutal blow from the burly thug who had hit her and then chloroformed her—for she recognised now how she had been silenced.

  Thoughts tumbled endlessly through her mind. She struggled against the cords at her feet and wrists, but they would not give a fraction of an inch; she was trying to chew through the gag when a rough voice came to her from the next room.

  “Hello, sir. You all right?”

  “Of course! What about the girl?”

  Queenie concentrated: there was something about the voice that was familiar; but it was muffled by the door and it was very faint too; the other speaker stood much nearer to her.

  “The girl?” the rough voice said. “Sleeping still—tied hand and foot and gagged. Will you take a look, sir?”

  “And have her able to identify me? Certainly not! Now, get back and find what I told you to find!”