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

by Robert Newman

  “Yes. Very interesting production. I didn’t see him for a number of years, but several months ago he got in touch with me again and … I’m sorry,” he said, looking across the room. “Miss Terry seems to want me. Will you excuse me?”

  “Of course,” said Wyatt. He watched Irving walk over to Miss Terry, who was deep in conversation with Madame Bernhardt. Then he took a notebook out of his pocket, wrote something in it, tore out the page and, going over to the door, gave the note to Tucker. Tucker read it, nodded and went off to talk to one of the men, clearly a detective in plain clothes who was standing in the wings. A moment later Tucker was back and had resumed his post at the door where he could watch everything that was going on in the Beefsteak Room as well as in the whole backstage area.

  Verna was talking to Lawrence Harrison and his wife, and, though Andrew and Sara were with her, their eyes had been on Wyatt.

  “What are you looking at?” he asked, walking over to them.

  “Nothing,” said Andrew.

  “Since you were watching me, that’s not very flattering.”

  “Isn’t the fact that we were watching you and not Madame Bernhardt, Ellen Terry or Henry Irving flattery enough?” asked Sara.

  “Of course, I wasn’t serious.”

  “We know,” said Andrew. It was obvious that Wyatt was up to something and he was dying to ask what it was, but he knew better than to ask. Harrison, however, had no such scruples.

  “Any news?” he asked.

  “About what?”

  “Anything. With all due respects to our host and hostess, to the divine Sarah and, of course, Verna, you and your merry men are not here entirely because of your love and respect for the theatre.”

  “No, our primary job is to see that there not be any news. That nothing untoward happens.”

  “Of course. And so far, I must say you’ve done very well. Have you met our guest of honor?”

  “For a moment—briefly.”

  “We’ll have to see that you meet her again.”

  “I’d like that very much. What is it, Verna?” he asked as she shivered slightly.

  “A sudden chill. It’s not as warm back here as it might be.”

  “No, it’s not,” said Mrs. Harrison. “A door must be open somewhere. I feel a decided draft.”

  “Can I get you anything?” asked Andrew.

  “Yes, dear. I think I’d like my shawl. I left it in the cloak room with my wrap.”

  As Andrew went off, Tucker came in from the door and gave Wyatt a note.

  “Excuse me,” he said. He read the note, nodded to Tucker, then turned back to the others. “I’m afraid I must ask you to excuse me again. May I speak to you for a moment, Verna?”

  “Yes, of course, Peter.” She followed him out of the Beefsteak Room. “What is it?”

  “Something’s come up—something important—and I’ve got to leave here for a while. I’d like you to come with me.”

  “You mean now—right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s impossible!”

  “Why is it impossible?”

  “Because it is. You can’t leave a reception like this that way, without thanking your host and hostess, saying goodbye to the guest of honor. And even if you gave me the time to do that…”

  “I’m sorry,” said Wyatt, grimly. “I don’t have the time to argue with you about social graces or anything else.” And he picked her up.

  “Peter! What are you doing?”

  Tucker came hurrying out of the dressing room that was being used as a cloak room carrying Verna’s wrap and Wyatt’s coat and hat.

  “All right, Tucker. Forward!”

  Carrying the astonished Verna in his arms, he followed Tucker to the stage door. Tucker opened it. There was a four-wheeler in the alley, a policeman in plain clothes in the box. Tucker opened the carriage door, and Wyatt got in, still carrying Verna.

  “The upper end of Regent Street!” said Tucker. “And hurry!” Then throwing Verna’s wrap and Wyatt’s coat and hat into the carriage, he got in himself and slammed the door. The driver shook the reins, and the horse trotted up the alley, turned right on the Strand and, as the driver cracked his whip, went into a gallop.

  12

  The Caper

  Andrew had just found Verna’s things when Tucker hurried into the dressing room, grabbed them out of his hands and went hurrying out again. Taken aback, Andrew stood there for a moment, then went after him. He was in time to see Wyatt sweep Verna up in his arms, carry her out through the stage door and hear Tucker give his order to the plain clothes driver of the four-wheeler.

  He was standing there, watching the carriage go up the alley and turn on to the Strand when Sara came up behind him.

  “What was that about?” asked Andrew.

  “What was what about?”

  “What just happened. Tucker grabbed Mother’s things away from me, Peter picked Mother up, carried her out the stage door, got into a carriage with her and away they went.”

  “Oh. Well, right after you went to get her shawl, Tucker came in and gave Peter a note. When he read it, he said he had to speak to her, and she went outside with him.”

  “I see.” They looked at one another. “Something’s up.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know what it is, but I know where they’ve gone.”

  “Where?”

  “The upper end of Regent Street.”

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” asked Sara.

  They got their things from the dressing room, ran out on to the stage, down through the theatre and the lobby to the Strand. The constables and uniformed attendants watched them go, but did not say anything to them. It was only when they reached the street that they paused to put on their coats. Fred was up the street, talking to two other coachmen, and didn’t see them. Putting her fingers to her mouth, Sara whistled a shrill, street urchin’s whistle, and Fred turned. They waved urgently to him, and unknotting the reins, he jumped into the box and brought the brougham down the street toward them.

  “I assume you’re going after the Inspector and Miss Tillett,” said someone behind them.

  They turned. It was Mr. Barnett, his white shirt front gleaming, for he had not stopped to pick up his coat.

  “Yes, we are,” said Andrew.

  “Do you mind if I come with you?”

  “Not at all.” The brougham drew up, Andrew opened the door, motioned Sara and Mr. Barnett in and said to Fred, “This is the real thing, Fred. The inspector and Mother have just gone off to upper Regent Street, and we want to catch them. Can you do it?”

  “If I can’t, I won’t be far behind them. Get in.”

  The carriage was moving before the door closed, precipitating Andrew into the back seat next to Sara.

  “That was smartly done,” said Barnett. “Your carriage?”

  “Yes,” said Andrew.

  “Do either of you understand the purpose of this particular exercise?”

  “I think so,” said Sara. “The inspector just got a note. It probably told him that something he’s been expecting has happened, and he thought he should be there.”

  “That sounds logical. But why did he take Miss Tillett with him?”

  “Because he was worried about her,” said Andrew. “You know what’s happened to several actresses. He thought she might be in danger, and he wanted her with him so that he could watch over her, protect her.”

  “And that sounds logical, too. How did you know where they were going?”

  “I heard Sergeant Tucker tell the driver who, I suspect, is a policeman.”

  “Simple enough, once it’s been explained.” Barnett looked at them in turn. “Sara Wiggins and Andrew Tillett. It seems to me I’ve heard about the two of you before this. Was it from my friend Chadwick in the Foreign Office?”

  “It’s possible. Young Chadwick is at school with me.”

  “I see. And then there was something to do with the Admiralty. The Cortland c
ase.”

  “Cortland, Third, is a friend of mine, too.”

  “You seem to have some very interesting friends, including Inspector Wyatt. And”—looking out the window as they came into Trafalgar Square at a pelting gallop and turned north on Regent Street—“you also seem to have a very good coachman.”

  “He’s the best there is in London,” said Sara stoutly.

  “He is good,” said Andrew. “He used to be a jockey, and there aren’t many coachmen who know horses and can handle them as well as Fred. In fact …” He put out an arm to brace himself and clutched Sara to keep her from pitching forward as the brougham came to a sudden, abrupt stop. “What’s up, Fred?”

  “This is as far as we can go. But there’s the inspector.”

  Andrew opened the carriage door and jumped out, followed by Sara and Mr. Barnett. They were more than halfway up Regent Street, almost opposite Worthington’s, the jeweler’s. Directly in front of them, blocking the street, was a wooden barrier. A short distance beyond was the reason for the barrier—a roaring gas flame that burned furiously in a jet four to six feet high, lighting the whole of closed and shuttered Regent Street with its lurid, leaping light.

  Wyatt and Tucker had gotten out of their four-wheeler, which had been stopped also, and Wyatt was talking to a uniformed policeman who stood on the far side of the barrier.

  “What seems to be the trouble, Officer?” he asked.

  “As you can see, sir. Broken gas main.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Wyatt, looking at the burning jet. “Is there just the one break?”

  “No, sir. There’s another one further up Regent Street.”

  Looking up the street, Andrew and Sara could see another, similar flame burning at the upper end of Regent Street and effectively cutting it off from Oxford Street.

  “Any idea how it happened?” asked Tucker.

  “Some men were working here in the street—working after dark so as not to disrupt traffic—and they must have broken one of the mains.”

  “Is anything being done about it?” asked Barnett, going over to the barrier.

  “Yes, sir,” said the policeman, staring at his gleaming shirt front. “Inspectors from the gas company are down in one of the cellars looking for the valves that shut off the gas. But I must ask you to move on. You know how dangerous a gas leak is. There’s always the danger of an explosion.”

  “You know, he’s right, Wyatt,” said Barnett, drawing back a little. “I think we should decamp forthwith.”

  “I agree,” said Wyatt coolly and without turning around. “I think you should leave immediately. And take my young friends, who have no business here, along with you. Now then,” he said to the police constable, “may I ask where you’re attached?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I asked you where you’re attached. Are you with the Oxford Street Station or Piccadilly?”

  “Oxford Street, but—” He jumped as there was a muffled but decided explosion somewhere that rattled all the windows on Regent Street. “There! Did you hear that? I told you it was dangerous! Now will you get out of here?”

  “Oh, I will eventually,” said Wyatt. “But not quite yet.”

  “I must say I don’t understand this, Wyatt,” said Barnett uneasily. “If you’re not concerned about your own safety, you should be about Miss Tillett’s.”

  “But I am, Mr. Barnett. Very concerned. That’s why I have her with me. As for you, I told you to get along. If you’ll go back to the Lyceum, we’ll be returning there ourselves fairly soon, and … Ah! There we are,” he said as two men in the caps and uniforms of gas company inspectors came hurrying out of Worthington’s carrying lanterns and bags of tools. “Are these the men from the gas company, Officer?”

  “Yes, sir. They are.”

  “All right, Sergeant.”

  Whipping out his whistle, Tucker blew a shrill blast on it. Immediately ten to a dozen men, some in police uniform but most of them in plain clothes, appeared from the darkness of the side streets and from dark shops that had seemed to be closed.

  The two men in the gas company uniforms tried to run but were collared almost immediately. One of them lost his cap, and when he turned around to pick it up, Andrew saw that he was Nifty Bolan.

  “We’ll want the two fake cops as well as the gas inspectors,” said Wyatt. “And there’s somebody over there, hiding in that alley, that I’d like to take a look at.”

  Whistling again, Tucker pointed, and one of the uniformed policemen dived into a narrow alley between a chemist’s and a stationer’s and dragged out another figure who looked familiar.

  “Why, it’s Mr. Collins!” said Sara as the constable brought him out into the flaring yellow light of the gas jet.

  “Suppose it is,” said the old stage carpenter angrily. “Is it agin’ the law just to be out in the street at night?”

  “No, Mr. Collins,” said Wyatt.

  “Then why are you putting the nab on me? I ain’t done nothing!”

  “Are you saying you had nothing to do with this very interesting performance here—the supposedly broken gas mains?”

  “I ain’t saying nothing about nothing!”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope I can persuade you that it might be to your interest to say quite a good deal about several things. Bring him along too, Tucker.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m completely at a loss,” said Barnett. “You seem to know what’s going on, and I trust you’ll explain, but … May I ask where we’re going?”

  “Where I told you to go—back to the Lyceum. In the first place we left quite abruptly, without thanking our host and hostess or saying goodbye. And, in the second place, you did give me the responsibility for Madame Bernhardt’s safety as well as Miss Tillett’s.”

  13

  Flowers for a Leading Lady

  The porter of the Oxford and Cambridge Club sat up with a start. Then, when the night bell rang again, even more loudly and insistently, he went to the door and peered out toward Pall Mall. A cab waited there and a man in a bowler hat stood outside the door, tapping his foot impatiently. The porter didn’t know him, but he looked quite respectable so, when he raised his hand to ring for the third time, the porter opened the door a few inches.

  “Yes, sir?” he said. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” said the man. “You can let me in.”

  “I beg your pardon. Are you a member of the club, sir?”

  “No, I’m not. But I’m a member of the Metropolitan Police. Here’s my identification.” He held up his warrant card.

  “The police? Do you know where you are?”

  “Of course I know. And I also know what time it is, so let’s not go into that. Now are you going to let me in or not?”

  “What is it, Parker?” asked the club steward, coming down the corridor from the billiard room.

  “Someone from the police. He wants to come in, and…”

  “Sorry to bother you, sir,” said the man. “I know it’s late, but it’s very important. Here’s my card.”

  “Detective Sergeant Thatcher,” said the steward, looking at it.

  “Yes, sir. While I’m not a member of the club, I was sent here by Inspector Wyatt who is. He needs some information, which he thinks you can find in your library.”

  “Yes, I know Inspector Wyatt,” said the steward. “Let him in, Parker. Now what is this information he wants?”

  “It’s written out here, sir,” said the sergeant, handing him the note Wyatt had given Tucker.

  “Hmm,” said the steward, reading it. “Come along to the library with me, Sergeant, and I’ll see if I can find it for you.”

  Meanwhile, back at the theatre, things had not worked out quite the way Wyatt had expected. Anxious to cause as little comment—and as little disturbance—as possible, he had led the police in by way of the stage door. They found the Beefsteak Room almost completely empty. Only one or two guests remained there, having a last glass of champagne before they left.
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  Henry Irving, who had been on his way out, heard the stage door open and came back accompanied by Nicholas Norwood.

  “Oh, it’s you, Inspector. We were wondering where you’d gone.”

  “Something came up—something I had to look into—and I took the liberty of taking Miss Tillett with me.”

  “We thought it must be something like that. I’m afraid our festivities have more or less come to an end. Though of course you’re welcome to stay on here for as long as you like.”

  “Thank you. We may just do that until we get a few things sorted out. I take it Madame Bernhardt has gone then?”

  “She’s just leaving. Her people and Miss Terry are waiting outside for Norwood and me, and we’re all going to her hotel for a nightcap. Though I don’t see any need for it, three of your men have insisted on accompanying us.”

  “Quite right. Don’t you agree, Mr. Barnett?”

  “I do. Commissioner’s orders.”

  “Well, if you think it’s absolutely necessary … Coming, Norwood?”

  “I don’t know,” said Norwood, who had been looking past Wyatt at the small group of men—Bolan, Collins and the two fake policemen—who stood in the background, watched by Sergeant Tucker and several of his colleagues. “Is that Bolan there?”

  “It is.”

  “What’s he doing here? Is he under arrest?”

  “He is.”

  “Who’s Bolan?” asked Henry Irving.

  “A protégé of mine—or rather of the Society,” said Norwood. “Someone I tried to help. And if he’s gotten himself into trouble, I think I should stand by.”

  “Oh, absolutely. If he’s a protégé of yours, it must be a misunderstanding. We’ll run along, and you can join us at the hotel later on.”

  “Right. Do you mind if I stay, Inspector?”

  “Not at all. Glad to have you,” said Wyatt. He nodded to Tucker, who started bringing out chairs for Verna, Sara and Andrew, while one of the constables brought some out for Bolan, Collins and the others.

  “Why is he dressed that way?” asked Norwood, frowning at Bolan, who resolutely avoided his eyes. “And what’s he charged with?”

  “He’s dressed that way because he’s impersonating an inspector for the Metropolitan Gas Company,” said Wyatt. “As to the reason for it, that’s rather complicated. However, if you’ll be patient—” He broke off as the stage door opened and closed again. “See who that is, Sergeant,” he said to Tucker.