by Jim Eldridge
She made her way to the entrance and walked in. A young man wearing a uniform politely stopped her and, pointing towards the box office, said, ‘You need to buy a ticket first.’
‘I’m not here to see the waxworks,’ said Marion. ‘I’m here to see Mr Daniel Wilson. The one investigating the murders here. I’ve got a message for him.’
Even as she said it, her heart sank. Why had she said that last bit? She didn’t have a message for him. She’d have to make one up. Tell him that her aunt and uncle had told her to call and invite him to tea. But then she’d have to pretend to them that they’d said that to her.
I’ll tell them I thought they said it, she decided.
But then the young man dashed her hopes. ‘Mr Wilson isn’t here at the moment,’ he told her. ‘Nor Miss Fenton.’
I don’t care about Miss Fenton, she thought angrily. Aloud, she asked, ‘When will he be here? Later today?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if there are any plans for him to be here today. But I’ll give him a message if he comes in. Who shall I say was asking for him?’
‘There’s no need,’ she said, doing her best to hide her deep disappointment. ‘I’ll see him later at home.’
And she turned and walked out, thinking, Yes, I’ll see him at his home. And we can have tea together.
‘Are you all right, Mr Greville?’
Doris, the Greville’s museum box office attendant stood in the doorway of Maurice Greville’s office and regarded her employer with concern. He’d been looking worried these last two days, ever since that man had been found dead at the foot of Eros.
‘Of course I’m all right,’ Greville snapped back petulantly. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Well, it’s just that you haven’t seemed to be yourself these last couple of days. It’s like something’s on your mind, and I wondered if it was due to the man who was found dead just outside.’
‘Why should it be?’ he demanded angrily. ‘I didn’t know him!’
‘There’s no need to bite my head off,’ said Doris, offended. ‘I’m only saying it because I’m worried about you. Maybe it’s not that. Maybe you’re sickening for something.’
‘I’m not sickening for something,’ snapped Greville. Then his tone softened. ‘I’m sorry, Doris. I didn’t mean to snap. Maybe you’re right, perhaps I am coming down with something.’
‘You could always go home and rest. I’m all right looking after the box office. And Wally the attendant is here if needed. We can hold the fort.’
‘No. I’ll stay.’ He forced a smile he didn’t feel. ‘Sometimes work is the best medicine. If I go home I’ll only feel sorry for myself and get miserable.’
‘Perhaps you ought to get married again,’ suggested Doris. ‘I know you had bad luck last time, but there’s plenty of good women out there.’
Yes, and I know one who’d like to get her feet under my table, thought Greville. Aloud, he said, ‘Yes, what you say is true, Doris, and maybe I will one day.’ He forced a smile at her again. ‘You’ve always been very dear to me.’
He saw her blush and knew he’d said the right thing. Then he gave a heartfelt sigh and said apologetically, ‘But right now I think I’m better off alone, doing some work to take my mind off things.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘This Jack the Ripper display. I’d really hoped that Mr Wilson and Mr Abberline would be helpful, but they seem very reluctant.’
‘I’m sure they’ll agree given time,’ said Doris. ‘Not everyone likes the idea of being shown in wax. Policemen, especially. Wold you like me to get you anything? A cup of tea?’
‘No thanks, Doris. Thank you so much for the way you are to me. And I am sorry for the way I was before.’ He smiled again. ‘I don’t deserve you.’
She blushed again, and then left, pulling the door shut behind her.
I’m going to have to sort things out with her, he decided. But right now I’ve got bigger things to worry about. Doris had hit the nail right on the head: the dead man who’d been found at the bottom of Eros, staring directly at Greville’s museum. It had been a message, obviously aimed at him. Someone had killed Harry Michaels and left him staring at Greville’s place. Who had done it, and how much did they know? And just how much danger was he in right now?
Inspector Jarrett and Sergeant Pick had chosen to travel to Somers Town by hansom cab. After their previous experience, when they’d found Carr’s yard empty except for Foxy, Jarrett was taking no chances. Although he didn’t believe what Pick had suggested, that Carr had been given advance warning of the raid by Bill Harris, this time he’d told no one at Scotland Yard of his plans, except Superintendent Armstrong. But once again, as he and Pick made their way past the two tall wooden gates into the yard, he was bewildered to find it empty. Well, almost empty. As before, he spotted Foxy Wood inside one of the barns.
‘Foxy!’ he bellowed. ‘I can see you! Come here!’
Foxy shuffled his way out of the barn into the yard.
‘Back again, Inspector?’ he asked.
‘Where is everyone?’ demanded Jarrett.
‘Out,’ said Foxy.
‘Where’s Gerald Carr?’
‘He’s out as well. Just like last time.’
Jarrett looked at Foxy, a scowl on his face, but inside his head his mind was racing. What was going on? Carr never left the yard, yet twice now he’d been out. At least, that was what Foxy claimed. It was impossible. Something wasn’t right.
‘Right,’ he said determinedly. We’re going to search the whole place. Not just the barns but Carr’s private quarters as well.’
‘You can’t do that,’ said Foxy defiantly. ‘He’s got his personal things in there.’
Jarrett leant menacingly towards Foxy. ‘I am the police,’ he stated. ‘I am from Scotland Yard.’
‘Don’t you need a warrant?’ demanded Foxy.
Jarrett held his fist under Foxy’s nose. ‘This is my warrant.’ To Pick, he said, ‘Sergeant, take him into one of the barns and tie him to something. Wrists and ankles. I don’t want him interfering while we take a good look round.’
‘I’ll put in a complaint,’ warned Foxy.
‘You do that,’ said Jarrett. He gestured round the empty yard. ‘There’s no one here but us. It’ll be your word against two highly respected officers from Scotland Yard who’ll say you had to be restrained to stop you interfering with the proper process of a police investigation.’
Foxy hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Tie me up, them,’ he said. ‘Much good may it do you. You won’t find Mr Carr here. He’s out.’
‘Tie him up, Sergeant,’ growled Jarrett.
There was an envelope on the doormat waiting for Daniel and Abigail when they arrived home.
‘It’s from John Feather,’ announced Daniel. ‘We’ve been invited to a meeting this afternoon at Scotland Yard.’
‘Will we be allowed in?’ asked Abigail.
‘We will.’ Daniel nodded. ‘John says our meeting will be with him, Superintendent Armstrong and Inspector Jarrett.’
‘Something important must have happened to make Armstrong change his mind and allow us in.’
‘The tunnel we found at Tussauds,’ said Daniel.
‘The tunnel you found at Tussauds,’ Abigail corrected him.
He smiled. ‘I’d always thought I dislike people who say “I told you so”, but today I’m feeling more receptive to the thought.’
‘I think the word you’re looking for is “smug”,’ she said. She went to him and kissed him. ‘But I love you, you smug, brave man.’
‘How much?’ he asked with a grin.
‘If you carry me upstairs and undress me, very slowly, I’ll show you,’ she said.
Jarrett and Pick left the yard, watched by Foxy. There had been no sign of Carr, or anyone else, anywhere at the yard, not in the living area, nor in any of the other buildings.
‘I don’t understand it,’ Jarrett said as Foxy shut the t
all gates behind them. ‘That place is where Carr feels safe. He knows there are lots of people who’d like nothing better than to see him dead. And where are all his men? That place is usually buzzing with them. Today, there’s only Foxy there.’
‘Just like last time,’ said Pick.
Jarrett shook his head. ‘I know what you’re suggesting, Sergeant,’ he growled, ‘and to me this shows it can’t have been Bill Harris who tipped him off last time, because Harris didn’t know we were coming here now. So either someone else is giving Carr the wink about when the police are coming, or there’s something odd going on.’
‘Perhaps we need to try and find some of his men,’ suggested Pick. ‘Hopefully they might be more informative about Carr’s whereabouts than that bloke, Foxy.’
‘We will, but not today,’ said Jarrett. ‘Right now we’ve got to get back to the Yard. The superintendent wants me there for a meeting.’
‘Oh? Who with?’
‘Him and Inspector Feather, and that pair of so-called private investigators, Wilson and the Fenton woman.’
Pick looked at him, puzzled. ‘I thought they was barred, sir,’ he said.
‘So did I,’ said Jarrett sourly. ‘The trouble is you can’t trust anyone when it comes to orders from the top.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Superintendent Armstrong sat behind his desk and looked at the four sitting opposite him: Inspectors Feather and Jarrett, and Daniel and Abigail. He did not look particularly happy, but then, thought Daniel, the superintendent rarely did. There had been no mention of he and Abigail having been barred from Scotland Yard until this moment, and Daniel knew that if he and Abigail raised the matter, it would be denied. The important thing was that they were here, and included in the investigation.
‘I decided it was time for this meeting because, from information received, it appears that the two cases – the murders at Madame Tussauds and the recent bank robberies – may be connected, and solving one could lead to the arrest of the culprits perpetrating the other.
‘As you know, the bank robberies were carried out by the thieves knocking through to the bank vaults from the cellar of an adjoining shop at night, while the shop premises were empty. It’s now been discovered that a similar, though more elaborate version, of that same technique was being planned at Madam Tussauds. A partially-dug tunnel has been discovered in the cellar at the wax museum, aimed towards a branch of a bank just three shops distant. The tunnel was discovered by Mr Wilson when he made an examination of the cellar at the museum, and Inspector Feather, who’s in charge of the investigation into the bank robberies, has confirmed its presence.’
He looked towards Feather, who took up the story. ‘I got hold of a tunneller, a former miner. He confirmed it’s definitely man-made as shown by the wooden slats supporting the sides and the ceiling of the tunnel. According to him it goes about halfway beneath the shop next door. He estimates that if they dug that in two weeks, then it would have taken them another five weeks to get to the bank.’
‘Where did they get the lengths of wood from every night?’ asked Jarrett. ‘Surely someone would have noticed them bringing in that much wood.’
‘My guess is that they were kept in one of the crates stored in the cellar,’ said Daniel.
‘And getting rid of the spoil they dug out?’
‘There’s a patch of waste ground behind the museum. I expect it went there.’
‘So it looks as if these were the same people who did the bank jobs,’ said Armstrong.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Daniel.
Armstrong and Jarrett looked at him, puzzled.
‘It has to be,’ said Jarrett. ‘It’s the same method. Knock through into a bank vault from next door.’
‘But this wasn’t from next door,’ pointed out Daniel. ‘It was tunnelling, and taking much longer than an overnight job.’
‘But still the same people, surely,’ said Armstrong.
‘No,’ said Daniel. ‘I think we’re dealing with two different and rival gangs here. One does the bank jobs by breaking through a cellar wall, while the other aims to do it by tunnelling, this last being masterminded by Harry Michaels.’
‘But so far the only tunnel that was started never got finished,’ said Jarrett.
‘Exactly,’ said Daniel. ‘That’s why I said rival gangs. In some way, the gang who break through from cellars found out that another mob was planning to do the same, but using tunnellers.’
‘Why would they do that when it’s much harder than knocking through from a cellar and takes so much longer?’
‘I think Michaels reasoned that sooner or later the bank authorities would put in protection if there was a cellar adjacent to their vault. He decided to go one better and tunnel into bank vaults where the nearest cellar was just one or two shops’ distance away. Realising that tunnelling like this would take time, his plan was to install men as nightwatchmen at a suitable premises, and they would then tunnel through. It’s possible that Dudgeon and Bagshot were his first employees after he met them in a pub and heard about their exploits as engineers.’
‘And he was killed because …?’
‘Because he was treading into someone else’s territory, the bank robbers’. That’s who the message of the murders is aimed at: to anyone thinking of copying Michaels and tunnelling into banks, copying their method but going one step further. I think Dudgeon and Bagshot were killed for the same reason. To send a message to their rivals to stop.’
‘A bit more than a message,’ said Armstrong sourly. ‘By killing Dudgeon, Bagshot and Michaels, they’ve put a complete stop to it.’
‘Not if there’s someone behind Michaels,’ said Daniel. ‘Think about it, it will have cost quite a bit of money to pay Dudgeon and Bagshot for two weeks, to pay wages for non-existent work to Bruin and Patterson, to hire the barge on the Lee Navigation. I think, when we look into Michaels, or whatever his real name was, we’ll find he was a chancer with no big money of his own. He had a backer.’
‘Gerald Carr!’ said Jarrett.
‘Exactly,’ said Daniel. ‘The man who apparently got paid by Michaels to clear Bruin and Patterson’s debt.’
‘So Carr was behind this tunnelling business,’ said Armstrong.
‘I think Michaels had the idea, but I’m betting that it was Carr who put up the money.’
Armstrong looked at Jarrett. ‘Have you found Carr yet, Inspector?’ he asked.
Jarrett shook his head. ‘I called at his yard earlier and he seems to have done a runner.’
‘Miss Fenton and I were there this morning,’ said Daniel. ‘We saw what appeared to be the bodies of two men loaded onto a wagon in his yard, and then Carr appeared with two of his men – his bodyguards – got into a carriage and drove off.’
‘There were no bodies when myself and Sergeant Pick arrived,’ said Jarrett. ‘No wagon, either. Nor any of his men, except for the one they call Foxy.’
‘Bring him in, Inspector. We’ll put the squeeze on him and find out about these dead men, and where Carr went to.’ He turned to Daniel. ‘You’re sure about these dead men in the wagon?’
Daniel nodded.
Jarrett got up. ‘I’ll go and get Sergeant Pick to bring in Foxy.’
‘No, not yet. Wait till we’ve finished. Sit down, because I’m sure there’s more to come, and I want all of us to know what’s happening.’
Jarrett resumed his seat. Armstrong looked towards Feather. ‘You have more deaths to report as well, I believe, Inspector.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Feather. He told them about Arthur Crum and Derek Parminter. ‘I’m fairly sure they told the crooks when the bank vaults would be holding particularly large sums of money. It looks as if both men were bribed for the information, with possibly one of them being seduced by a woman into passing it on. Both men died, each apparently drowning accidentally in a canal, which is too much of a coincidence. We’re still trying to find out who they were in touch with.’
‘I’m
still not convinced that Carr isn’t behind the killings,’ said Armstrong. ‘We know what he’s like. Absolutely ruthless. He’s perfectly capable of killing people if he thought they were double-crossing him. Or just to shut them up about his involvement.’
‘If that was the case, Bruin and Patterson would be dead,’ pointed out Daniel. ‘They knew about Carr’s involvement with Michaels. But they didn’t know it was all part of a plan to rob banks. I still believe it’s this rival gang who’ve done the killings. And not just Michaels and the two watchmen, but the bank clerks.’ He looked at Feather. ‘You said both men seemed edgy, as if they might crack under pressure.’
‘That’s right,’ said Feather.
‘So, if you’re right, who’s this rival gang?’ asked Armstrong.
‘Whoever they are, I’m sure that someone in it is connected with the wax business.’
‘Just because one of the dead watchmen was covered in wax?’ asked Armstrong, obviously doubtful.
‘And Michaels was killed with plaster of Paris, which is also used by the wax modelling trade,’ added Daniel.
‘Louis Tussaud!’ exclaimed Jarrett with a note of triumph. He turned to Armstrong. ‘Remember, I said so, Superintendent.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Daniel. ‘Louis Tussaud doesn’t fit.’
‘Who does?’
Daniel hesitated, then said, ‘Caroline Dixon.’
Armstrong stared at him. ‘Caroline Dixon! The rich philanthropist? The one who’s bankrolling Florence Nightingale?’
‘Yes,’ said Daniel.
‘That’s insane!’ burst out Armstrong. ‘You’re suggesting that a woman like that bangs through to bank vaults from shop cellars?’