The Case of the Murdered Players (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 7)

by Robert Newman

  “No, he didn’t. But it didn’t surprise me that he put it in the story. The fact that Madame Bernhardt is coming here has been known for some time.”

  “Yes. Well, apparently the fact that she might be in danger occurred to others beside Fulton. Here’s the real reason I came over to the Yard this afternoon—this note that was sent over to me this morning.” He handed Wyatt an official-looking white envelope that was date-lined Paris and had apparently been sent to the Foreign Office by diplomatic pouch.

  Wyatt read it and felt himself flush with anger. It was a letter from the First Secretary of the British Embassy to the head of the Foreign Office’s French Section. It began by saying that the ambassador had been too angry to write the letter himself, but nevertheless felt it had to be written. It concerned a communication the ambassador had just received from the French Bureau of Foreign Affairs, referring to the Sarah Bernhardt visit and expressing a certain amount of concern for her safety. While they had the greatest respect for the British police, the French had said, in conclusion, Madame Bernhardt was such an important citizen of France that they hoped their British colleagues would not hesitate to call on them for help in protecting her if they felt it was necessary.

  “No comment,” said Wyatt, handing the note back to Barnett.

  “You have better control of your temper than I have,” said the assistant commissioner. “I had several comments to make. The nerve of them even to suggest that we might need help to protect this divine Sarah of theirs!”

  “The gall of the Gauls?” said Wyatt.

  “Very good,” said Barnett. “Still, the matter is one that can’t be ignored. It’s much too serious and would be even if Madame Bernhardt were not coming over. That’s why I was lukewarm about this crime lord theory of yours. It’s very interesting, but the most important problem we face today is that of those theatrical killings. Famous as Bernhardt is, doesn’t Verna Tillett mean as much to us as Bernhardt does to the French?”

  “There’s no need for you to press that point,” said the assistant commissioner. “Not to Inspector Wyatt. He would of course be doing his best to solve the murders and protect Verna Tillett if she were a complete stranger. But, as I understand it, she happens to be a friend.”

  “Oh. I wasn’t aware of that,” said Barnett. “Is that true, Inspector?”

  Wyatt nodded, seeing no need to tell either of them just how good a friend she was.

  “Then I feel more reassured than ever about the matter,” said Barnett. “More certain that we have the right man in charge of the case. When is Madame Bernhardt due?”

  “She’s arriving tomorrow,” said Wyatt. “Staying at the Langham. But of course the first big moment—until she actually opens—will come the night after tomorrow when Henry Irving is giving a reception for her at the Lyceum.”

  “You’ll be there?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “And Verna Tillett?”

  “She’ll be there, too.”

  “Then I’m sure I need concern myself no further about the matter. That I can assure the Home Secretary that you have it well in hand.”

  Wyatt bowed. “Is there anything else?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Barnett. “Except … of course I’m going to see Bernhardt when she opens at the Gaiety. I saw her the last time she played here in London and it was a memorable experience. But I’ve never met her. Do you think I might come to the reception, too?”

  “I’m sure Henry Irving will be delighted to have you. I’ll mention it to him and arrange to have you meet both Madame Bernhardt and Verna Tillett.”

  “That’s very good of you. Thank you.”

  “Not at all.” And bowing again, Wyatt left.

  At about the time that Wyatt, doing his best to control his annoyance, was leaving the assistant commissioner’s office, Andrew was standing in front of a counter in a shop on Oxford Street, looking at a pair of ladies gloves.

  “Are you sure?” he asked Sara.

  She sighed. “You asked me what I thought she’d like, and I told you.”

  “And she’s your mother, so I guess you’d know. It’s just that a Christmas present should be something you’d never buy for yourself. And I’m sure she does buy herself gloves.”

  “Black, practical ones, not French ones like these. The only reason I hesitated was because they’re so expensive.”

  “Not for your mother they’re not. Very well,” he said to the elderly sales clerk. “We’ll take them.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, smiling, and wrapped them up.

  Andrew paid for the gloves, then he and Sara went out and stood there for a moment, looking at the crowds that thronged Oxford Street, going into the shops and bazaars and coming out with packages and bundles wrapped in colorful paper and tied with gold or colored ribbons.

  “What do you want to do now?” asked Andrew.

  “What time is it?”

  “Four thirty.”

  “Too early for tea.”

  “And too early to go home. Shall we walk around a bit?”

  “If you like. Though I must say I don’t really feel like it.”

  “Neither do I. And I don’t know why.”

  “Of course you do,” said Andrew. “All the people we see around here, going in and out of shops, are thinking of just one thing—Christmas and the presents they’re going to give and get. And while we’ve made ourselves think about that, most of the time we’ve been thinking about something else. At least, I have.”

  “Your mother. That note that came with the flowers and that story in the paper.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But it’s not as if nothing’s being done about it, Andrew. You know that Peter’s been thinking about it constantly and is doing everything he can to protect her and catch the killer.”

  “I know. And I’m sure that eventually he will catch him or her. But in the meantime … Well, I just wish there was something we could do.”

  “What can we do that the police haven’t done? They’ve been everywhere in the theatre district for days now, in uniform and in plain clothes, talking to everyone who might know anything about the killings or who might have seen or heard something suspicious. Unless we could find someone they haven’t talked to or who might not have told them things that he or she knows—” She broke off suddenly and turned to look at Andrew.

  “You’re thinking about Happy Jack.”

  “Yes. He’s around the theatres more often than anyone else. If the police talked to him—”

  “Sara, you’re right! If he were asked properly, he might know something—something he doesn’t even realize he knows! And, in any case, I think we should let him know what’s going on and get him to help us.”

  “To Foljamb’s then?”

  “To Foljamb’s.”

  With more enthusiasm than they had felt all day, they went east on Oxford Street, took a shortcut through Soho and crossed Charing Cross Road where, even at this time of year, there were browsers at the stalls in front of the booksellers. They went past the other St. Paul’s and there, ahead of them, was Covent Garden. The arcades were quiet now—they only came alive after midnight when the vans and lorries loaded with fruit and vegetables came in and made it the noisiest and most lively spot in London. But of course the smell persisted, the smell that was a heady blend of fruits and flowers.

  They stood there for a moment, frowning at Floral Hall, which, like all the other halls, was closed now.

  “It must be somewhere around here,” said Sara. They walked around the hall, and there it was on a side street, an unlikely place for such a well-known florist. The shop was quiet and empty. A large, red-faced man in a striped apron was helping a starched-looking, grey-haired lady pick over and cut the flowers that were left in the vases.

  “Yes, miss, young sir,” he said cheerfully. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’re looking for Happy Jack,” said Sara.

  “Not here. Gone for the day.
”

  “Oh. Isn’t it a bit early?”

  “Not a bit early—much too early,” said the woman. “But that’s Foljamb for you.”

  “The boy was sick,” said the red-faced man. “Wasn’t well to start with and had a wicked, sniffly cold. Besides, things were very slow. Nothing much to do.”

  “Nothing? We’re doing things, aren’t we?”

  “Well, I let him go and I’m not sorry and now shut up about it!” Then, turning to Sara and Andrew, “Want me to give him a message when he comes in tomorrow?”

  “Thank you, no,” said Andrew. “We know where he lives. We’ll go see him there.”

  “Suit yourself,” said the man. He picked up a rose. “Here,” he said, giving it to Sara. “Take this to go with your pink cheeks.”

  “Why, thank you,” said Sara, putting it into one of the buttonholes of her coat. “By the way, how long has he been with you?”

  “Happy Jack? About four months. One of our customers—a good customer—brought him around and said he needed a job. We weren’t too keen about it. He’s not what you call nimble, you know. But the boy who’d been with us took off and never came back, so we took Jack on. And I can’t say I’ve been sorry.”

  “Well, I have,” said the grey-haired woman. “He gets around, but he makes you feel like a slave-driver for sending him here and there. Besides, there’s something a little smarmy about him—always being so everlastingly grateful for this and that.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with being grateful?” said Foljamb, if that’s who it was. “You want him to be ungrateful?”

  “No. Just a little more middling about it.”

  “Middling! How can you be middling about something like that?”

  As the two continued their argument, which seemed to be an old one, Sara and Andrew left, went over to the Strand where they caught a bus, got off at Theobald’s Road and walked the rest of the way. Just before they reached Happy Jack’s corner, they passed a bake shop, and Sara said, “How would it be if we brought him a little something for his tea?”

  “You do get ideas, don’t you?” said Andrew. “Let’s.”

  They went in and, after some discussion, passed up the penny buns and jam tarts and ended up with a slice of lardy cake, all sugared and stuffed with raisins and heavy enough to sink a man-of-war.

  They went around the warehouse on the corner and up the alley into which Happy Jack had disappeared when they took him home. Andrew had lived in a place very much like this for a short while when he first came to London, but he had forgotten how vile an alley like this could smell. Slipping on garbage and filth and stumbling over bits of bricks and broken bottles, they made their way up the alley and out into a small courtyard surrounded by dilapidated houses. A young girl, younger than Sara, stood in the open doorway of one of them with a baby, a younger brother or sister, in her arms. She looked at Sara with wide, wondering eyes.

  “We’re looking for Happy Jack,” said Sara. “Do you know where we can find him?”

  The girl stepped aside and nodded toward a door at the rear of the dark hall. She and the baby, who was sucking on a rag, watched as Sara and Andrew went down the hall, past the rickety stairs and knocked on the door. There was a dragging sound, the tap of the crutch.

  “Get out of it now!” said an angry voice. “Off with you, or I’ll bash you proper!”

  “Jack,” said Sara.

  “What? Who’s that?”

  “Sara and Andrew.”

  “Who?”

  “Sara and Andrew.”

  A bolt was pulled, the door opened, and Happy Jack stood there, leaning on his crutch and staring at them with his mouth open.

  “Hello,” said Andrew. “We stopped at Foljamb’s to see you, but they said you were sick and had gone home, so we thought we’d come out here.”

  “We brought you a little something,” said Sara, giving him the lardy cake that was wrapped in brown paper. “For your tea.”

  “No,” said Jack. “I don’t believe it. I thought it was someone from across the court to pester me, but … You come all the way out here to see me, old Happy Jack?”

  “Why, yes,” said Sara. “Why should that surprise you?”

  “Surprise ain’t the word. Flabbergasted is more like it. Why should I expect anything like this from someone like you?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” said Andrew, a little sharply, “act like we’re something special and you’re not.”

  “But you are! You’re very special—as special a pair as I ever met.” Then, reacting to Andrew’s frown, “All right. I’ll say no more. This ain’t much of a place we got here, Gramps and me. Nothing like your place what I seen in St. John’s Wood. But come in. Come in.”

  They followed him into the room, a long, narrow one with a single window that faced the back of the warehouse. There was a bed in an alcove, a cot against the wall and a table with some chairs around it in the middle of the room. And in the far corner of the room, a workbench with some tools on it. The table and chairs were in good repair and looked as if they had been homemade. Though a fire smoldered in the grate, the room was cold.

  “Sit down. Please sit,” said Jack. “Them chairs is comfortable—Gramps made them hisself.” He unwrapped the package Sara had given him. “Lardy cake! Oh, I does love lardy cake! Would you like some? Wouldn’t take me long to boil up water for tea.”

  “Thank you, no,” said Sara. “We brought it for you.”

  “If you’re sure, I’ll have some now and save the rest for Gramps when he comes home.” He tore off a large piece and crammed it into his mouth.

  “We said we wanted to see you,” said Andrew. “And we did want to. But we also wanted to ask you something.”

  Chewing and swallowing, Jack waved a hand to indicate he was listening, but Andrew waited till he had swallowed what was in his mouth.

  “Go ahead and ask,” said Jack finally. “If there’s anything I can tell you or do for you, I’d be pleased and proud, I would.”

  “All right. You probably know about the deaths that have been taking place around the theatres lately—killings, actually.”

  “Killings?”

  “You must have heard about them,” said Sara. “Three actresses have been killed—murdered—at different times during the last few weeks.”

  “I heard something about it,” said Jack, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t think I knew there was three of them.”

  “Well, there were,” said Andrew. “The third one took place just the other day—Meg Morrissey near the Garrick where she was playing.”

  “Meg Morrissey!” said Jack, his mouth open and his eyes wide. “Why, I knew her! I took her flowers right after The Girl From Fiji opened!”

  “She was the last, killed just a few days ago. Now you know my mother’s an actress.”

  “Indeed I know. Verna Tillett. A great actress she is. A star!”

  “Well, we’re worried about her. We have reason to believe that someone might be wanting to hurt her.”

  “But why? Why would anyone want to hurt a wonderful actress like her?”

  “Why did anyone want to hurt any of the actresses who were killed? The police think it may be someone who’s off his chump—like Jack the Ripper, say. Now you’re around the theatres all the time. You know and talk to a lot of people, and what we wanted to ask you was: Is there anything you can tell us—anything you’ve seen or heard—that would help us find out who was doing the killings?”

  Slowly Jack shook his head. “No. I ain’t seen or heard nothing. Like I said, I just heard a little about it, didn’t even know that it was three actresses what had been killed.”

  “Well, if you do hear anything,” said Sara. “Hear or see anything, will you let us know? There are lots of people who don’t want to get mixed up with the police. But if you let us know, we’d take care of it. We’d get word to the police.”

  “Why, yes, Miss Sara. I certainly will let you know. I’d b
e happy and proud if I could help.”

  The door opened and old Mr. Collins—Dabby Dick—came in.

  “Well, what’s all this?” he said cheerfully. “Company?”

  “Yes, Gramps. You remember Master Andrew and Miss Sara what brought me home in Verna Tillett’s own carriage the other day. Well, they just come to see me again, and they brung us a big cut of lardy cake.”

  “Lardy cake, eh? We’ll have it for our tea. Blow up the fire, boy. Throw on a handful of coal and get that kettle boiling.”

  “Yes, Gramps. I’ll do that.” And taking some lumps of coal from a pail that was used as a scuttle, he dropped them on the fire and bent down to blow the ash-covered coals to a hotter flame.

  “You’ll stay and have some tea with us, won’t you?” said old Mr. Collins.

  “No, thank you,” said Sara. “We’d better be getting along home.”

  “Yes, we had,” said Andrew, moving toward the door. The carpet bag that Nifty Bolan had given Mr. Collins the night they brought Happy Jack home was on the floor near the door. Andrew had seen it as soon as they came in and had seen Sara looking at it. Now he deliberately tripped over it.

  “Ooh, ow!” he said, just barely keeping himself from falling.

  “That blinking bag of Nifty’s!” said Mr. Collins, walking over and picking it up. “Are you hurt?”

  “No,” said Andrew, rubbing his shin. “But whatever’s in the bag is very heavy and very hard.”

  “Tools,” said Mr. Collins, setting the bag down near the table and opening it.

  “Tools?”

  “Yes. Hammer and chisel,” he said, taking them out of the bag. “A jack that’ll force apart iron bars. Drills, specially hardened and sharpened. And this,” he said, holding up a particularly odd-looking drill, “is a petter cutter. It’ll go through iron like cheese, even steel, and cut a lock out like taking the eye out of a potato.”

  “What kind of tools are they?” asked Sara. “A locksmith’s?”

  “Why, yes,” said Collins, laughing and putting them back in the carpet bag. “I suppose you could call them that. A very special kind of locksmith, though. A cracksman. Know what that is?”

  “Yes,” said Andrew. “A man who breaks open safes. But why have you got them here?”