The Case of the Frightened Friend (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 6)

by Robert Newman

  “I’d appreciate your telling me anything you can about Captain Cortland and his father.”

  “I had Dixon bring me his file when I got your note. I’ve just been going over it, and while there are some things in it that are confidential—we’re very jealous of our security here—I believe I can tell you most of what you want to know. I assume that afterwards you’ll tell me why you’re interested in him.”

  “Of course.”

  “To begin with,” said Sir Arthur, opening a folder on his desk, “his active career in the navy was unexceptionable. He was one of the youngest captains we’ve ever had in the service and one of the best.”

  “If that’s so, why did he give up his active career and become a naval attaché?”

  “I am at least partly responsible for that. I knew his father slightly and admired him very much. Captain Cortland came to my attention when there was first talk of ceding Heligoland to Germany. The captain was violently opposed to this. He was, in fact, so outspoken that the Foreign Office took note of it and questions were asked about it in the House.”

  “When was this?”

  “About three years ago. I had him come in to see me and explained that an officer in Her Majesty’s Navy should not be making the kind of political statements he was making. He disagreed, saying the issue concerned not just the future of the navy but the future of Britain and, as such, was more important than his career. I could not help but admire his position. After talking further, I suggested that if he was as interested in broad policy matters as he seemed to be that he consider leaving active service and becoming a naval attaché where what he had to say would affect policy decisions. He thought about it and finally agreed with me.”

  “It was as a result of his talk with you, then, that he became a naval attaché.”

  “Yes. In Copenhagen. He did extremely well there, was highly respected at the embassy and married a Danish countess. And when there was an opening in Berlin, we had him transferred there.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “A year and a half or two years ago. He didn’t like or trust the Germans, but he was fairly discreet about it. Then he began investigating something on his own that he was reluctant to talk about.”

  “You have no idea what it was?”

  “It’s my impression that he was beginning to think that there was either someone here at the Admiralty, or someone with access to our material, who wasn’t entirely trustworthy and was passing on important information to the Germans.”

  “In other words, an enemy agent or spy.”

  “That’s correct. Do you agree, Dixon?”

  “I do. At least, that’s the way I interpreted it.”

  “About six months ago he went off to the Baltic on a short holiday with his wife. He went out sailing one morning, and he never came back. Alive, that is.”

  “An accident?”

  “We wondered about that too, because he was an extremely good swimmer and small boat sailor. But the Germans looked into it, and so did we, and everyone agreed that it had been a very stormy day and that the water was icy cold. Besides, when his body was recovered, there were no signs of foul play.”

  “I see. Now what about the captain’s father? Does he come into the story, too?”

  “He does indeed. He was in Africa at the time of the accident. He’s something of an explorer as well as a naturalist, and he was trying to find the source of the Niger. He got back about a month ago, and when he heard what had happened, he came to see me. We told him everything we’ve told you in perhaps even greater detail because he questioned us very closely. Didn’t he, Dixon?”

  “He certainly did. But it was understandable. After all, the captain was his only son.”

  “Yes. Apparently, like the rest of us, he had some doubts as to whether what had happened was an accident; he implied that he might go to Germany to conduct his own investigation. And he did go, because a few days ago he sent telegrams to us and to his son’s widow from Berlin saying that he’d discovered some very interesting things that he would tell us about when he got home. But something must have come up, because we haven’t heard from him since, don’t know where he is—”

  “He’s here,” said Wyatt.

  “Here in London?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long has he been here?”

  “Three or four days.”

  “But then why hasn’t he been in touch with us?”

  “Because he wasn’t able to do anything, get in touch with anyone. He apparently had a stroke—a very severe one—immediately after he got back to London, and he’s been paralyzed, unable to speak ever since.”

  “Oh, no!” said Sir Arthur, his face showing his shock and concern. “But that’s awful! Where is he?”

  “At home. I understand that he’s too ill to move. But an extremely good doctor has been attending him—Dr. Thurlow of Harley Street.”

  “Make a note of that, Dixon,” said Sir Arthur. “I’d like to talk to him, find out what he believes Cortland’s chances of recovery are.”

  “I’ve already done so,” said Dixon, writing in a pocket notebook. “Would you now tell us why you’re interested in all this, Inspector?”

  “Of course. I’ve already told you that Andrew here is a friend of young Cortland’s. They’re at school together, came down to London together—Andrew a few days early because of illness in his house and Cortland because he was summoned home by a telegram. Andrew stopped by to see Cortland the next day, heard about the old gentleman’s stroke and told me about it at lunch. His grandfather’s illness, coming so soon after his father’s death, upset young Cortland very much, and this in turn upset Andrew—upset him enough so that he asked me if I thought there could be more to what happened than met the eye.”

  “And do you think that?” asked Sir Arthur.

  “I don’t know how there could be. A stroke is a stroke, and I suspect that Cortland Senior’s was brought on by distress when he began looking into his son’s death. You might ask Dr. Thurlow if that’s not possible when you speak to him.”

  “I certainly will. What about you, Andrew? Do you still feel there’s something wrong here?”

  “If Inspector Wyatt doesn’t, then of course I don’t.”

  “And do you intend to pass on what you’ve heard—and what the inspector believes—to young Cortland?”

  “If you’ve no objection to it.”

  “On the contrary. I think he needs all the reassurance he can get after everything that’s happened. I’ll get in touch with Dr. Thurlow, find out if I can see the old gentleman. But in the meantime, I’d like to meet young Cortland. Will you tell him that? Tell him to stop by here?”

  “You won’t be here, Sir Arthur,” said Dixon. “Not if it’s within the next week or so.”

  “What? Oh, you’re right. I’ll be going to Portsmouth for a very important meeting. But you’ll be here, won’t you, Dixon?”

  “I will.” He took a card from a case and wrote something on the back of it. “Here’s my card, which you can give to young Cortland. If he presents it downstairs, they’ll bring him right up here. And if he should want to see or should need me for any reason when I’m not here, I’ve written my home address on the back of the card.”

  “Thank you,” said Andrew. “I think he’d like to meet you, talk to you both.”

  “And I thank you also,” said Wyatt, getting up. “Both of you. I found everything you told us very interesting.”

  “You’ll get in touch with Dr. Thurlow, let us know if there’s any change in Cortland Senior’s condition, won’t you, Dixon?”

  “I will indeed, Sir Arthur,” said Dixon emphatically. “And I would like the Inspector to know how very important this matter is to us. Captain Cortland was one of our people. And if you have the slightest suspicion about what happened to him or to Cortland Senior—if you should change your mind and decide that you’re going to look further into the matter—I urge you to let us know at once
so that we can do anything we can to help you.”

  “I understand how you feel, Mr. Dixon,” said Wyatt. “And those feelings do you credit.”

  He was clearly impressed by Dixon’s vehemence, and Andrew was also—though that was not the whole story. They left, and neither of them said anything until they were outside, walking up Whitehall.

  “Well?” said Andrew. “Are you going to look further into the whole thing?”

  “Do you think I should?”

  “Are you having me on? Don’t you think there’s something very rum about the whole thing? Cortland’s father starts suspecting that there may be a spy either at the Admiralty or the embassy in Berlin and he dies mysteriously. And when Cortland’s grandfather starts looking into his death, he has a stroke. A stroke that may not be a stroke according to Dr. Reeves.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I notice that you didn’t say anything about that, what Dr. Reeves said about his condition. Nor did you tell them what he said to me when he communicated with me by blinking.”

  “No.”

  Andrew knew better than to continue this line of questioning, but he did ask something else.

  “Dr. Reeves asked if you could get him to St. Mary’s Hospital for a proper examination and better care than he’s getting at home. And you said you’d see.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think I can do anything I want, don’t you?”

  “Almost anything.”

  “Well, I can’t. When you get older, you’ll learn that the more authority you have, the more that authority is likely to be hedged round with restrictions.”

  “Are you saying you can’t do anything about it?”

  “What are you suggesting I do? Tell Mrs. Cortland that we don’t approve of the way her father-in-law is being cared for and insist that she take him to a hospital?”

  “No. I don’t suppose you could do that.”

  “We certainly couldn’t. Now be quiet and let me think.”

  They continued up Whitehall and reached the corner of Downing Street before Wyatt paused. Taking a notebook out of his pocket and leaning against a pillar box, he wrote something, tore out the page and folded it carefully.

  “You haven’t seen old Beasley since you got back to town, have you?”

  “No.”

  “I think you should go see him. And when you do, tell him what happened when you saw Cortland’s grandfather, how you feel about it and why.”

  “Tell him everything, including what Dr. Reeves said?”

  “Yes. And when you’ve done that, give him this note.” And he gave Andrew the folded note he had just written.

  “All right,” said Andrew. “I’ll go see him right away.”

  “I would. If you hurry, he might take you to lunch. And that, as you know, is usually an experience.”

  6

  Beasley

  Andrew caught a red Westminster bus at Bridge Street, changed at Marble Arch, got off at Pembridge Road and walked to Beasley’s shop on Portobello Road. It had changed little since Wyatt had taken him and Sara there for the first time. The same brass samovar was in the window, surrounded by glass paperweights and decorated china doorknobs. The marble head of Napoleon still frowned out at the world through the grimy glass. Beasley was there, sitting behind the counter, wearing the bottle green velvet jacket he usually wore in the shop. He was deep in conversation with a sturdy, sharp-featured man who wore an oversized flat cap and had a brightly colored neckerchief tied around his neck.

  “Well, spring’s early this year,” said Beasley. “How goes, old chum?”

  “Up and down like Tower Bridge,” said Andrew, giving him the accepted response. “You’re looking well.”

  “What else have I got to do?” Then, nodding to the man with the cap and the neckerchief, “Alf, my friend, Andrew. Andrew, my friend, Alf.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” said Alf, taking stock of him with a quick, sweeping glance.

  “And I’m happy to meet you,” said Andrew.

  “You do run to toffs, don’t you?” said Alf, turning back to Beasley.

  “I’ve never been proud,” said Beasley. “If I was, what would I be doing with you.”

  “All right,” said Alf. “No offense,” he said to Andrew.

  “Of course not.”

  “I’ll be toddling, Baron. If I come across anything, I’ll pass the word.”

  “Good-o. Kiss Liza for me.”

  “I’ll do that.” And nodding goodbye to Andrew, he left.

  “Sorry if I interrupted anything,” said Andrew.

  “If you had, I’d have told you. Why aren’t you at school?”

  “Measles.”

  “You mean you’ve got ’em?”

  “No.” He explained. “But by now holidays will have started for everyone.”

  “How’s Sara, and why isn’t she with you?”

  Andrew told him, and he whistled.

  “Sara in a West End play—and with your mum at that! She must be proud as a monkey in mink!”

  “She’s very pleased. She didn’t know I was coming here or she would have sent her love. And when she finds out I did come, she’ll have forty fits.”

  “Aha! So you’re here on some of old Wyatt’s business!”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I can’t see you having something so important to talk to me about that it couldn’t wait till she could come with you.”

  “Well, you’re only partly right. The whole thing started as my problem. But Wyatt got interested in it and finally he told me to come and talk to you about it.”

  “I’m listening,” said Beasley. Then, as Andrew glanced past him toward the back of the shop, “There’s no one there but Sean doing some packing, and you know you can trust him like you do me.”

  So Andrew told him everything that had happened—told him much more, in fact, than Wyatt had told Sir Arthur and Dixon at the Admiralty. For, since he had not been instructed not to, he not only told Beasley about the way he had managed to communicate with Cortland’s grandfather, but about Dr. Reeves’ belief that the illness was not really a stroke.

  Beasley, huge, pink and impassive as a Buddha, listened quietly.

  “What am I supposed to do about it?” he asked when Andrew had finished.

  “I don’t know. But after I told you about it, I was supposed to give you this.” And he gave him Wyatt’s note.

  Beasley read it with no more of a change of expression than he had exhibited while Andrew was talking.

  “Fine,” he said dryly when he had finished. “Lovely. In fact, enough to give your humble condumble the pip.” Then, looking up, “Do they teach you Latin at that fancy school you’re at?”

  “Yes.”

  Opening a drawer under the counter, Beasley took out a slip of paper.

  “Do you know what this means?” he asked, giving it to Andrew.

  The few words on it, written with a strong hand in very black ink, read, “Quid licet Jovis, non licet bovis.”

  “Yes. It means: That which is permitted to Jove, is not permitted to an ox. In other words, the god Jove can do things that an ox can’t.”

  “Humph,” said Beasley noncommittally. “Now turn it over.”

  On the other side, written in the same hand, was, “Quid licet bovis, non licet Jovis.”

  “This is just the opposite. It means: An ox can do things that Jove can’t.” He looked up at Beasley. “Who gave you this?”

  “Who do you think? His blinkin’ nibs, Wyatt. And why? Because I’m the ox.” He took the slip of paper back from Andrew. “Have you had lunch?”

  “No.”

  “You’re in luck. Neither have I.” He rose. “Going out to lunch, Sean,” he called. “Sell anything you like, but don’t buy anything. Have ’em come back when I’m here.”

  “Yes, Mr. Beasley.” He appeared from behind the curtain, a slim, redheaded young man in his early twenties. “Top of the morni
ng to you, Andrew,” he said.

  “And to you, Sean.”

  “Where will you be if I need you, Mr. Beasley?”

  “At the Russia’s. Come on, Andrew.”

  They went out and up the street to a restaurant called The Russian Bear that was down a flight of steps in a cellar. Here Beasley was greeted by a man who was even bigger than he was and who was bearded to the eyes. He hugged Beasley, shook hands with Andrew, and recommended the borscht with piroshki, so that’s what they had. Andrew knew that borscht was beet soup, but this turned out to have beef and cabbage in it as well. As for the piroshki, they were something like Cornish pasties—chopped meat in a light pastry crust—that you dipped into the borscht and ate along with it.

  After a large bowl of the borscht and several piroshki, Andrew was full. Beasley had two bowls and many more piroshki and would probably have gone on to something else if Andrew had not been there, looking at him accusingly.

  “What shall I tell Wyatt?” asked Andrew when they were outside.

  “Tell him that you saw me and gave me his note,” said Beasley.

  “And that’s all?”

  “What else is there? Give Sara a Turkey rug for me.”

  Andrew was halfway to Notting Hill Gate before he realized that a Turkey rug must be rhyming slang for some kind of a hug, probably a hearty one.

  Since he did not have anything to tell Wyatt, he decided not to go back to Scotland Yard. He was to meet his mother and Sara at the theatre and have dinner with them, but it was another nice day so he thought he’d walk. He went into Kensington Garden and strolled down the Broad Walk past Kensington Palace and the Round Pond, then walked east through Hyde Park, past the Serpentine, whose waters were becoming spring green after having been winter grey for so long. He left the park at Hyde Park Corner, walked down Picadilly, looking in the shop windows, and got to the theatre at a little before five.

  Wyatt, looking gloomy, was coming out of the alley as Andrew turned into it, and after a quick glance at his long face, Andrew decided not to ask him what he was doing there. Instead, he told him that he’d seen Beasley and what Beasley had said; that he was merely to tell Wyatt that he had seen him. Wyatt nodded as if that was just about what he had expected and went up the Strand toward the Hotel Savoy.