The Complete Honey Huckleberry Box Set

by Margaret Moseley

  When I finished, they sat in a stupefied silence.

  Janie finally said, “I’ve never known anyone who was kidnapped before.”

  “Well,” I assured her, “it’s a little different experience than eating your first cucumber sandwich.”

  “They’re watching you? They’re watching us?” Minnie got up and did a long-legged walk to the windows and pulled aside the drapes. “I don’t see a soul who matches the description of those men, Honey. No, wait there’s a man in black pants and a white shirt on a bicycle. There’s another one walking a dog. Shit, they could be anyone.” She turned back to face the bed. “The driver said Harry killed his brother? Your Harry is a murderer?”

  “Now wait. The Harry I know couldn’t have killed anyone.”

  “It’s the Harry you don’t know who worries me,” she said.

  “Well, you two worry me. I have to find Harry. I have to warn him about the kidnappers, but you and Janie aren’t involved in this. I thought it would be fun — the three of us coming to London. And I thought Minnie could help us cut through the getting lost bit, but now I see that ya’ll are in as much danger as I am. Soon as I get a little sleep, I’m going to come up with a plan, but I can tell you already it involves you two going back to the States ASAP.”

  They ignored me with exasperated sighs and long glares.

  Minnie said, “Let’s sleep on it. You’re right about one thing. We are all suffering from jet lag. I’m beginning to see double. We’ve been up almost twenty-four hours now.”

  “Is that what it is? I thought my eyesight was going. I’m off to bed. The door is locked, isn’t it?” And Janie fell into the bed next to mine.

  Minnie stopped at the doorway leading to her room and ran her fingers through her chestnut hair. “You sure as hell better love this guy, Honey, or you’re going through a lot of grief for nothing.”

  I fell into such a deep sleep it was like being hypnotized. I was asleep and could hear my own exhausted breathing, but on the other hand, I was awake and staring at the ceiling. People walked in and looked at me. One reached over and touched my eyeball. In my dream, I called out for them to stop it. A dream Bondesky came in and said, “Well, you really done it this time, Huckleberry.”

  The waking dream deepened when Silas Sampson appeared and whipped out his notebook. “How many kidnappers were there, Honey?” Janie was behind him with her notebook; she asked, “And which one were you going to marry? The one in the front seat or the one in the back — the one with the switchblade?”

  My father came and took me by the hand. “Come, my Honey. There is a way out. Don’t be afraid.” And he handed me a telephone without any cord. My mother answered the call and said, “I told you not to slide down the banister, Honey.”

  Someone walked in and touched my eyeball, and it started all over again.

  TWENTY–SIX

  I woke up with the bedside telephone in my hand.

  So, with the help of the hotel operator, I called Evelyn Potter back in the States.

  When I told her about the kidnappers, she pawned the phone off to Kantor, who didn’t have a clue as to what to say. “Bailey is fine,” he reassured me. Well, of course Bailey was fine. It was me they were after, I thought.

  “Put that coward Evelyn back on the phone,” I demanded. “Please,” I added. Whoa, I was getting pushy as I got older. “Evelyn, this is it. The sticking point. I don’t care if you pledged allegiance to the President of the United States; I want to know what is going on. And I know you know something you’re not telling. Why is Bondesky in Mexico? And why won’t you admit Harry is Bondesky’s client? What’s all the mystery here?”

  “Honey, really, I didn’t know it was going to be dangerous. I would have told you before this. I thought it was some lover’s game. Mr. Armstead leaving you the clues and all.”

  “Clues to what?”

  “When he was here in the spring, he, Mr. Armstead, that is, met Mr. Bondesky and hired him. Oh, Mr. Bondesky said it wasn’t in his usual realm, but for you, he’d do anything. That was before he got sick.”

  “Harry’s sick?”

  “No, no. Mr. Bondesky is. Oh, I don’t think they call nervous breakdowns sick anymore, do they? He was disturbed. Yes, disturbed over Clover Medlock’s death. He couldn’t get over it. Like he could have prevented it or something. He really loved her, you know. He had all his life. That’s why he never married anyone else.”

  “He told you this?”

  “Yes, when I found him crying in his office one day. Right after the funeral. He couldn’t stop crying.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Oh, he was adamant about that. He didn’t want you to know he was what he called ‘weak.’ We worked it all out. We found this clinic in Mexico, a very good clinic, where he could go and rest for a while. He’s a lot better.”

  I remembered my hasty phone call from Bondesky while I was searching his office. “He sounded okay to me, a little disoriented; he didn’t know who he had called, but okay. All right, I’ll buy that. I’m sorry I didn’t know about his breakdown, though. But where does Harry fit in all this?”

  “For some reason, Mr. Armstead was apprehensive about his future. He wanted to make sure you were safe. I thought he meant financially, but I can see now I was wrong. He was afraid to leave you anything directly, so he had Mr. Bondesky set up this system.”

  “System?”

  “Yes, if anything happened to Mr. Armstead, you would both be notified, and when you asked Mr. Bondesky about it — he said you always came to him for advice — he would give you a key. It’s one he has in a special file at the office.”

  “I have the key,” I told her. “Keys,” I corrected.

  Evelyn didn’t ask how I got the key from the orange file in Bondesky’s office. I don’t even think she heard me. She was far too intent on telling me now what she should have a week ago. “The key is to Mr. Armstead’s flat in London. He left it to you. Like in a will. And Bailey. He wanted you to have Bailey.”

  “Is his flat on Wigmore Street?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. Did you say you have the key?”

  “Yes,” I replied absently. “Evelyn, does any of this have anything to do with my money?”

  “Oh, no. I don’t know anything about your money. Before he left for Mexico, Mr. Bondesky had some kind of security system put on his computer. All the financial records are in there. But, don’t worry, Honey, I’m sure Mr. Bondesky arranged to keep your money safe. He loves you like a daughter, you know.”

  “Does loving me like a daughter include hiring a private eye named Sledge Hamra? Maybe to be a bodyguard or something?”

  “Oh, no,” she said again. “I never heard of Mr. Hamra before you mentioned him. But I know one thing; he is not a client of Mr. Bondesky. And Kantor and I have been keeping an eye out. We haven’t seen hide nor hair of him.”

  “Well, he doesn’t have any hair, and I have seen him. That is, Janie has. Here in London. You don’t need to worry about him anymore.”

  “Honey? Honey, are you there?”

  It’s a bad habit of mine to stop and think while I am on the phone. “Yes, Evelyn. I appreciate the information. If you talk to Bondesky, give him my love. No, wait, that would be too much for him. Tell him I said to ask the old bastard when he was going to give me my money. He’ll understand that more.”

  “That sounds harsh, Honey. He’s been a very ill man.”

  “Nahh, it’s what he would expect from me. That’s the kind of father/daughter relationship we have. If I sent him my love, he would think he was dying.”

  “Speaking of dying . . . well, I hate to say this, but if you have the key to the Wigmore Street flat, does that mean that Mr. Armstead is dead?”

  “Not yet,” I told her. “And not if I can help it.”

  I hung up the phone, breaking the connection to the States.

  No wonder I couldn’t figure any of this out. Too many secrets. What a world this would be if
everyone and their dog didn’t have secrets.

  If Harry had told me he was hiding from someone or even if he mentioned that he had killed someone, I wouldn’t be in the spot I was in. And Evelyn: If she had told me about Bondesky’s breakdown or if he had . . .

  Did I have any secrets?

  Oops, yes, I did.

  I reached across the foot of floor that separated Janie’s bed from mine and shook her. “Janie, wake up. I want to tell you about this dead man in Padre. And while I’m at it, do you have any secrets you’re hiding from me?”

  Janie rolled over with a pillow-creased face and mumbled, “Secrets?” She held up a mashed mess of unidentifiable material. “I thought everyone saw me take this last cucumber sandwich.”

  TWENTY–SEVEN

  It was a beautiful plan. A one-of-a-kind plan. A foolproof plan.

  “It ain’t gonna work,” Minnie said.

  Janie was more diplomatic. “Why don’t we just wait till night and disappear into the fog? No one can follow us through London fog.”

  “Did you ever hear of the Clean Air Act?” I asked her. “There is no more London fog except on the label of American-made coats. You and Minnie said you were not leaving and that you wanted to help. Well, this is your chance.”

  We were standing by the hotel entrance with a group of students and teachers, waiting for the tour bus to pick us up for a day trip to Stratford. There were so many passengers that half were standing in the street. A big green bus with a Stratford Tour sign turned the corner.

  “This is it,” I declared. “Now, do your stuff.”

  Janie took the straw hats from Minnie and me and started circulating in the crowd, her mouth going as fast as it could. In just a few seconds, she had several women raise their hands. She chose a slender woman with short red hair and gave her a hat. Then she smiled and handed one to a taller woman. When the bus pulled alongside the crowd, all three of them climbed the steps, chatting and laughing.

  I pulled the dark blue scarf over my head and looked around. “I know if anyone is watching now, they are watching those hats,” I whispered to Minnie, who was hunkered down to a mere five foot four.

  “Fifty pounds apiece for a bogus public relations campaign is a bit steep I think,” said Minnie.

  “We had to be sure they would wear the hats. That was the deal, twenty-five pounds up front and twenty-five more when they reached Stratford. I figure if anyone is following the bus, they will figure it out by the time everyone gets off, but that will give us enough time to do some unrestricted snooping. Do you see anyone?”

  “Yes, two cars. There. They just came out of nowhere, but they are following the bus. I think.”

  I could barely contain my excitement. “That’s them. That’s them. In the blue car. Masud and the boys. Oh, wait. In the gray car? That’s Sledge Hamra. Oh, dear, what if I’ve made a mistake? What if Janie is in danger?”

  “I have a feeling that when the Arabic men meet Mr. Hamra, Janie Bridges will be the last person on their mind. Relax, it worked. Look.”

  The two cars were following patiently behind the tour bus as it turned onto the next street.

  I still had my doubts. “I don’t know. I don’t think it was such a good plan after all. I kind of forgot that where there was a boarding, there had to be a deboarding. Maybe we should find a taxi and go after them.”

  “That street the bus turned on? That’s Wigmore Street. We’re that close. Janie is having a lark, trust me. Besides, she gets to be a tourist for a day. You know she’ll love that.”

  Reluctantly, I nodded my head and glanced around me for any stray, remaining watchers. The coast looked clear to me. We quietly left the safe shadows of the hotel marquee and started strolling down the street toward Wigmore.

  At any other time of my life, being in London, walking down a London street would have been one of the highlights of my life. My family had come from England, albeit Liverpool, and I had always wanted to visit. Sneaking down the street while looking over my shoulder hadn’t been on my wish list of things to do in London.

  “Now, act casual, Honey. Just walk on down the street. We’ll walk on this side by the IBM building then cross over and go back right by Number Twenty. That’s it there, Number Twenty. The one with the glass door and the brass handrails up the stairs.”

  I looked across the narrow street and wondered, not for the first time in my life, how remarkable it was that given a number and a map, you could find anything anywhere. You just kept heading toward a destination and finally, there it was, right where it was supposed to be. Number Twenty had started out as part of an inked note taped on the bottom of a dog food bowl and, lo and behold, here was the real thing.

  Number Twenty Wigmore Street appeared to be a very respectable yellow brick building with a few people coming or going through the glass and brass door. Ordinary looking. A dentist proclaimed on a small discreet sign that he had an office on the ground floor. A barrister announced his presence with a similar brass sign.

  We walked by once on the Number Twenty side of the street. At the corner by the post office, we turned and retraced our steps. The third time by the door convinced us that if we didn’t do something, it was going to make for a boring adventure.

  “Let’s stop here for some coffee and see if anyone is following us,” suggested Minnie.

  The Breakfast Scene was a small café two buildings down from Harry’s. We had toasted breakfast tea cakes and coffee as we sat facing the window, carefully scrutinizing each passerby. “They all look like normal people to me. Well, the ladies in the saris would be kind of out of place in Sundance Square, but maybe not. The world is getting so mixed up nowadays. Seems half the world is moving to Fort Worth sometimes.”

  “Good economy, cheap flights,” said Minnie. “Want some more coffee? I’ll buy us another cup. They don’t know the meaning of the bottomless coffee cup over here. Every cup is a new adventure.” She got up to go to the counter. “More tea cakes?”

  “Just coffee, please.”

  We drank the coffee, and it was my turn to buy. “How does my eye look?”

  “Not bad, considering. The scarf helps. Does it hurt? And the knife cuts are already healing. You won’t have scars. You want some Advil or something?”

  “Not really. I’m fine. Really.”

  We sat there for a while longer. A long while.

  “You know, if we’re going to get something done before those goons get back from Stratford, we’d better get on the ball.”

  I said, “Yeah, I know. It’s just kind of scary, you know? I don’t know what we’ll find when we get there.”

  Minnie looked out the window for the hundredth time. “I swear I don’t see a soul who looks dangerous. Want to try to get in the building?”

  “Why not? It’s not like I don’t have a key.”

  TWENTY–EIGHT

  Armed with courage and sloshing with coffee, we finally entered the doors at Twenty Wigmore Street. The small foyer led off to hallways that included the dentist’s and barrister’s offices that we had seen advertised in front. A small dark counter at the rear of the foyer signaled a registration desk and attendant.

  “I don’t know the room number,” I whispered to Minnie.

  She smirked and said, “Watch this.” She took an envelope out of her model’s bag and folded it in half. She wrote Harry’s name on it and took it over to the desk. “I need to leave a note for Mr. Armstead. Will you see that he gets it?” And she included a five-pound note with the envelope.

  The appreciative clerk took the envelope and turned immediately to squirrel it away in a pigeonhole behind the desk. “Done,” he said.

  “Thanks awfully much,” Minnie replied with one of her best catalogue-shot smiles. She walked back to me and made like she was rummaging in her purse. It was large enough to hold half of Texas, and it could take hours to rifle through in a serious search. “Is he looking?”

  “He did for a minute. Now he’s doing some papers. Turning aro
und. He’s turning around.”

  “Good. Make a dash for the stairs.”

  We slipped out of sight of the clerk and through the door marked Stairs before he could complete his turn to the front again. As far as he knew, we had gone through the front door to the street.

  I was impressed and told Minnie so. “That was a cool trick. Do that often?”

  She smiled a self-satisfied answer and said, “Flat number three-oh-five. Means it’s on the fourth floor.”

  “Don’t you mean the third floor?”

  “No. The fourth floor. Here they call the first floor the ground floor and the second the first and so on.”

  There was no one on the fourth floor when we cautiously entered the hall from the stairs. Flat number 305 was the second door on the right.

  We took a deep breath, and I inserted the key I had ready in my hand. Before I could turn it in the lock, it swung open.

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “This doesn’t look good.”

  We tiptoed into the apartment, and I called out in a loud whisper, “Harry? Harry? Come out, come out, wherever you are?”

  “I think someone’s been eating my porridge,” said Minnie.

  “What? Oh, yes. Someone’s been here.”

  “Well, go on. Look around.”

  “I’m afraid of what I’ll find,” I confessed.

  “Pooh. I’ve lived in New York. Seen one ransacked apartment, you’ve seen them all. Honestly, Honey, there’s no one here. Shit, would you look at this mess? Or is Harry the normally messy type?” She gingerly toed scattered clothing away with her shoe as she entered the living room.

  I followed behind. I had found one dead body in a living room in my lifetime and wasn’t anxious to encounter a second. “No. I mean he’s not a neatnik, but this is definitely vandalism. Nothing under those clothes, is there?”

  “Just more clothes. I’ll check the bedroom.” She disappeared down a hall and shouted back to me, “Make that bedrooms, plural. Hey, I like this flat. Two bedrooms, kitchen, bath. Old Harry has pretty good taste. Wonder what a place like this would set you back?”