“Yes, it is. I’ve been an admirer of Madame Bernhardt’s for a long time.”
“You are, of course, not alone there. Then I asked Mr. Irving if you had been friends for a long time, and he said you had been for quite a few years. Ever since you, Mr. Norwood, were at Oxford.”
“That’s true. I was with the Oxford Dramatic Society. Mr. Irving had just put on his memorable production of The Merchant of Venice, and as secretary of the society, I wrote and asked him if he would come down and supervise our production of the same play.”
“Yes. The only thing I did not know at the time—did not know, in fact, until I sent someone over to the Oxford and Cambridge Club to look the matter up—was that you yourself had been in that production of The Merchant of Venice—playing the part of Portia! More than that, that most of the roles you played at Oxford were women!”
There was dead silence for a moment.
“Are you suggesting … implying …” began Barnett.
“I am not implying or suggesting. I am saying flatly that Mr. Nicholas Norwood was the man who got that poor, misguided boy, Jack, to commit those murders—who planned the whole elaborate robbery attempt on Regent Street tonight and engaged both Bolan and Collins to take part in it!”
“And you base all this on the fact that I played some women’s roles while I was at Oxford?” said Norwood. “Really, Inspector…”
“No, Mr. Norwood. I base it on a lot more than that. But I see that an old friend of mine has just arrived. Did you want to see me, Mr. Beasley?”
“Yes, I did, Inspector,” said Beasley, taking off his bowler and speaking with great formality. “Something rather interesting happened a short while ago, and since you informed me that you’d be here, I thought I’d come by and tell you about it.”
“Tell me what, Mr. Beasley?”
“Well, I was walking through Carnaby Street in Soho when suddenly there was this kind of shlemozzle, not to say shindig, up ahead of me. Seems like someone had broken into an office somewhere around there, and a copper had come along and spotted it. The boyo that had done the breaking in scarpered, with the cop running after him and blowing on his whistle, and like a good citizen, I ran after them. Then suddenly the chap that was running dropped something, and I picked it up. It turned out to be a book.”
“What kind of a book?” asked Wyatt.
“A notebook,” said Beasley. “And since it was probably stolen, I thought maybe I should turn it over to you, and—”
“Let me see that!” said Norwood as Beasley handed Wyatt a small black notebook.
“Why?” asked Wyatt with apparent innocence. “Do you think it might be yours?”
“Well, as you know, the office of the Golden Rule Society is on Carnaby Street.”
“I know it is. And I think this probably is your notebook. It seems to be in code, and I suspect it’s the key to another book in your office: a book that lists all the criminals that your society has had dealings with. That one would tell you what their skills are and whether they’re amenable to doing a little work for a mysterious, unknown woman—like opening the safe at Worthington’s.”
“That’s ridiculous! You’ll never be able to prove that!”
“When we decipher the code in this little notebook, which I’m sure we’ll be able to do, I think we will be able to prove it.”
“What you’re saying, Inspector,” said Barnett,” is that while Mr. Norwood appeared to be helping to reform criminals by getting them legitimate employment, he was actually building up a secret roster of criminal talents.”
“That’s correct.”
“It’s certainly an ingenious idea. Though it may be, as Mr. Norwood insists, a little difficult to prove. On the other hand, there doesn’t seem to be any doubt that you discovered who was responsible for those frightful deaths or, as I said, that you kept the Ghazipur jewels from being stolen.”
“I did. But not quite in the way you think.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“They were never in any real danger because those jewels there, the ones that were taken from Worthington’s vault, are not the real jewels at all. They’re copies.”
“What? But how did you know that there would be an attempt to steal them?”
“I didn’t know that there would be, but I suspected that there might be and worked out the precautions with Worthington’s and another jeweler, informing the press that Worthington’s had them, while they were actually elsewhere. This was a necessary measure if we were to set the trap we did, pretending that we were so concerned about Madame Bernhardt and the other actresses here that we were forgetting about the jewels.”
“So he really did you in the eye, didn’t he, you sodding toff!” said Bolan to Norwood. “Even if we’d pulled it off, it wouldn’t have done us no good!”
“Are you admitting that you know him now, Bolan?” said Wyatt. “That you realize he was the woman who arranged for you to rob Worthington’s?”
“No, but I’m sure that he was—all that mealy-mouthed talk about going straight—”
“Shut up, you fool!” said Norwood furiously. “Don’t you know when to keep your mouth shut?”
“Well, well,” said Barnett. “What do they say happens when thieves fall out?” Then, looking more closely at Wyatt. “My dear fellow, are you all right? You’re suddenly looking very seedy!”
“I am feeling a bit rocky,” said Wyatt.
“I’m taking you to have that shoulder looked at!” said Verna firmly. “Sergeant Tucker, can you take over with whatever has to be done with these men?”
“I can and will,” said Tucker. “All right, boys. Off to the nick with them so we can book them proper.”
“We’re going to need Fred and the carriage,” said Verna to Beasley, as Tucker and his colleagues began leading off Norwood, Bolan and the others. “Could you see that Sara and Andrew get home safely?”
“I’ll be glad to do that,” said Mr. Barnett.
“No, sir,” said Beasley. “With all due respect, I’ve known them longer than you have, and I claim the privilege. Come on, young ’uns.”
“So, as usual, you were in the whole thing from the start, weren’t you?” said Sara as they left the Beefsteak Room.
“What makes you say that?” said Beasley.
“You must have been,” said Andrew. “You got Clipson to go see Norwood—I gather because Peter asked you to—which means that he must have been a little suspicious of Norwood for some time. And now that I think of it, I finally understand something that always puzzled me.”
“I’ll bet I know what it is,” said Sara. “Was it that business with the safe in Norwood’s office?”
“Yes. Of course there was nothing wrong with it. It was kind of a test Norwood had made up so he could be sure he was getting a really good cracksman for that Regent Street job.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Beasley.
“No?” said Sara. “Then let me ask you about something else. What were you doing on Carnaby Street?”
“What do you usually do there? I’d gone shopping with a friend.”
“At eleven o’clock at night?” said Andrew.
“Not an ideal time, I grant you, but I don’t have much choice. After all, I’ve got a shop of my own that I have to keep open.”
“Of course,” said Sara. “All right. Then who was the friend you went shopping with? Could it have been Keegee Clipson, who’d been to the Golden Rule Society office once already and can pick a lock as easy as kiss me?”
“Are you suggesting that Keegee broke into the Golden Rule office and stole that book?”
“Did he?”
“My dear Miss Wiggins, I’m shocked—absolutely shocked—that you could even think such a thing! Do you realize that it would be not only illegal but unethical?”
“I suppose it would be.”
“All right. Then may I urge you to stow your gob before someone who doesn’t know me as well as you do overhears you?”
Turn the page to continue reading from the Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt series
1
Beasley
As soon as he saw Sara, Andrew knew that something was wrong. Not because she was there at the station waiting for him. She had started her own spring vacation a few days before, so she was able to be there. And not because of the way she looked, which was quite composed—actually more composed than a girl her age had a right to look when Paddington was surging with boys of every size and shape, coming home from school as Andrew was.
How did he know then? He couldn’t have told you. All he would have said was that he had known Sara for some time, that they had been through a great many things together, and he did know. The only questions in his mind were exactly what was wrong and how serious it was.
Carrying his own bag so as not to have to wait for a porter, he worked his way through the crowd, surrendered his ticket at the barrier, and went on to where Sara and Fred, the Tillett coachman, were waiting.
“Hello, you two,” he said.
“Hello, yourself,” said Fred. “I’ll take your bag.”
“Thanks, Fred.” Then, turning to Sara, “All right. What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Coo!” said Fred. “He’s not just the original boy detective. He’s a blooming mind reader. How’d you know something was wrong?”
“You just guessed how. Because I’m a mind reader.” He didn’t mind Fred’s manner, for Fred was by no means an ordinary coachman, as Sara’s mother was by no means merely the Tilletts’ housekeeper. She and Sara were, as a matter of fact, virtually members of the family. “Just tell me if it has anything to do with my mother.”
“Why on earth should it have anything to do with your mother?”
“Well, after all, she is away.”
She was more than away. She had recently married Inspector Peter Wyatt of the Metropolitan Police, and the two were on the continent on their honeymoon. Sara realized that she should have expected that this would be very much on Andrew’s mind.
“No, Andrew,” she said. “As far as I know, she and Peter are fine. If there’s something wrong—and I’m not really sure there is—it’s with Beasley.”
Beasley was an old friend of theirs, a strange and interesting dealer in odds and ends with a shop on Portobello Road. They had originally met him through Wyatt.
“You must have some reason for thinking something’s wrong,” said Andrew reasonably.
“Well, yes. You remember Sean?”
“Who works with Beasley? Of course.”
“Well, he came to the house this morning and wanted to know when Peter would be back. I said by the end of the week, and he looked upset, as if that wasn’t soon enough, and asked if I was sure. When I said I was, he said he’d been to Scotland Yard and asked Sergeant Tucker, and Tucker either didn’t know when they’d be back or wouldn’t tell him.”
“Did you ask him why he wanted to know?”
“Of course. But he didn’t answer, just thanked me and left, still looking worried.”
“All right,” said Fred as they looked at one another. “I’m as much of a mind reader as anyone else. Let’s go.”
“Where?” asked Andrew.
“You know where—where you both want to go—Portobello Road.”
Exchanging smiles, they followed him out to Praed Street where the Tilletts’ landau waited between a hansom and a four-wheeler. Fred thanked the cabman who had been holding the horses for him, opened the door for Sara and Andrew, climbed up into the box and, shaking the reins, started south and west over toward Bayswater Road. Traffic was light—it was getting on to teatime—and it didn’t take long to get to Portobello Road.
It wasn’t one of the market days, so there were no carts lining the street or crowds moving up and down it, and they were able to stop directly in front of the shop.
“Looks closed,” said Fred as Sara and Andrew got out of the carriage and went over to it.
The shop did seem to be closed. They tried the door, and it was locked. The window contained most of the same oddments that had been there when they had first come to the shop and met Beasley: a brass samovar, some glass paperweights, a marble head of Napoleon, and a Turkish yataghan. They peered through the grimy glass, but there was no light or sign of movement inside.
The door of the adjoining shop opened and a wispy, gray-haired man came out.
“Looking for Beasley?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“He’s sick, hasn’t been here for a couple of days. But if you come around in the morning, you’ll likely catch Sean what works with him. He’ll tell you how he is and where you can find him.”
They thanked the man, and he went back into his shop.
“Well, there you are,” said Fred. “That should make you feel better. At least now you know why Sean was upset, what he was worrying about.”
“Do we?” said Sara.
“Well, of course. It’s because old Beasley’s sick.”
“I can see him calling in a doctor if that’s so,” said Andrew. “But what has being sick got to do with Scotland Yard and wanting to get hold of Peter?”
2
The Face of the Destroyer
They went back to Portobello Road the next morning. Fred would have been happy to take them—he had little enough to do with Andrew’s mother away—but Andrew and Sara preferred to go by themselves; so they left him grumbling about youngsters who think they know everything and can do anything they want and took a bus, a light-green Bayswater bus.
It was a raw, overcast day that so clearly meant rain or a heavy fog that Sara wore a cape and Andrew a mackintosh. But since at the moment it was merely threatening, they sat on top and up front, right over the horses. They got off at Notting Hill Gate and walked up Pembridge Road and over to the shop.
Saturdays and Sundays were Portobello’s big market days, so again there wasn’t much traffic along the street—no carts and only a few stalls in front of the shops. They peered in through the glass of Beasley’s shop and saw a light on in back. They tried the door, found it open, and went in.
Sean appeared as soon as he heard the door. Though he was as nicely dressed as usual, his suit was a little wrinkled, as if he had not had it off in some time, and his red hair was disheveled.
“Hello, Sara. Oh, hello, Andrew,” he said, shaking hands with him. “Nice to see you again.”
“How’s Beasley?” asked Andrew.
“How’d you know he was sick?”
They told him.
“Well, he’s no better. Not at all good, as a matter of fact.”
“How long has he been sick?” asked Sara.
“I’m not sure. I’d say about a week. I only noticed it four or five days ago. And it’s only three days now that I’ve been able to get him to stay home.”
“What’s wrong with him?” asked Andrew.
“I don’t really know. I just know he’s sick, won’t eat, can’t seem to sleep. I’ve been with him most of the time, taking care of him. That’s why I look this way.” He indicated his wrinkled suit with distaste. “I only came into the shop for a while this morning to make sure everything was all right here.”
“Have you had a doctor in?” asked Sara.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He didn’t want one, said there was nothing wrong with him.”
“But that’s ridiculous!” said Sara. “If he’s as sick as you say he is—sick enough to stay home … Can we see him?”
Sean hesitated a moment, then nodded.
“Yes. Why not? Actually the person I’d most like to have see him is Inspector Wyatt. But since he’s not here, you’re probably the next best thing. Let me just take care of a few items in back, and we’ll go.”
As he disappeared into the back of the shop, there was a light tapping on the window. Sara and Andrew turned. A dustman’s cart, heavily built and with high sides, stood at the curb, the horse waiting patient
ly, head down between the shafts. The dustman himself was peering inquiringly in at the window.
“There’s a dustman here who seems to want you, Sean,” called Andrew.
“Is it Willie?” asked Sean from the back room.
“Willie?”
“Whispering Willie.” He came out. “Yes, it is. Tell him I forgot about the bins yesterday, but they’re out in the alley now.”
Andrew went out and gave Sean’s message to the dustman, who wore the dustman’s usual costume of knee breeches with a smock and a coarse gray jacket over them. His leather fantail hat covered his head and a back flap hung down over his shoulders. He was so dusty with ashes that it was impossible to tell his age, but he was probably in his late thirties or early forties.
“Right, guv’ner,” he said in a rasping, whispering voice. “I hear old Beasley’s not well. True?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I know about that.” He touched his throat, which was wrapped from the chin down in a dirty bandage. “Had this quinsy for months now and can’t seem to shake it. Tell him Willie was asking for him, will you?”
“I’ll do that,” said Andrew.
He watched him take his basket from the cart and go down the alley. After pouring the ashes and rubbish from the bin into the basket, Willie lifted the basket to his shoulder, came back up the alley, and emptied it into the cart. Then, hanging the basket back on the cart, he sent the horse up the street. As he did, he raised a small horn that hung around his neck on a lanyard and blew a low, plaintive blast on it.
“Why the horn?” Andrew asked Sean, who had come out of the shop and was locking up.
“What?” Sean glanced after Willie. “Oh, because of his voice. Because he can’t sing out like other dustmen. If he didn’t have the horn—I think it’s a boat foghorn—no one would know he was there.”
That made sense to Andrew, and he nodded.
“Why did you say that if Peter Wyatt couldn’t see Beasley, we were the next best thing?” asked Sara, as Sean led the way up Portobello Road.
“Well, you’re friends of the inspector’s, aren’t you?”
The Case of the Murdered Players (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 7) Page 12