The Case of the Frightened Friend (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 6)
Page 5
Burke was at his post just inside the stage door. He greeted Andrew, told him that his mother and Sara were both still there and that they had just taken a break in the rehearsal so that, if he wanted to see them, this was a good time for it.
Andrew thanked him and went along into the wings. Verna was standing on the far side of the stage talking to Richards, the director. She waved to him, and he waved back, crossed the stage and went down the steps into the darkened theatre.
“Back here,” called Sara. She was sitting near the back of the orchestra, and he went up the aisle and sat down next to her.
“How has it been going?” he asked.
“Pretty well. We’ve been working mostly on the second act today, and I have very little in it, so I haven’t been doing much. What have you been up to?”
“Various things.”
“Well, tell me. You said you would.”
He did tell her. And of course there was a good deal to tell: about Dr. Reeves’ feeling that there was something very strange about Cortland’s grandfather’s supposed stroke; about what they’d learned at the Admiralty; and about Andrew’s visit to Beasley.
“What do you think Peter wanted him to do?” asked Sara.
“He didn’t say. And, in any case, we’re not sure he’ll do it.”
“Of course he’ll do it. You know how he is. He always says he can’t or won’t do something, but in the end he always does.”
“You mean he has so far.”
“And I’m sure he will here. Because the more you’ve discovered about the case, the bigger and more important it seems.”
“That’s the way it looks to me, especially after what we learned at the Admiralty. I’m sure that Cortland’s father was murdered. But I don’t think Peter’s really working on it, giving it his full attention.”
“He probably isn’t. You know about him, just as you do about Beasley. He always works on several cases at once.”
“That’s true. He was working on something when I went to see him at the Yard the other day. I don’t suppose you know what it is.”
“Of course I know.”
“You mean he told you?”
“No. But he didn’t have to.”
“Why not?”
“Do you read the newspapers when you’re away at school?”
“No. Just when I’m at home here in London.”
“And then you read the Times, which hasn’t said a great deal about it, though they’ve mentioned it. But it’s been a really big story in all the other papers. And it’s going to get even bigger, since the police haven’t been able to do anything about it.”
“What’s ‘it’?”
“The rash of robberies that they’ve been having around here during the last month or so.”
“You don’t mean burglaries, do you?”
“No, no. Pickpocket. Mostly in the theatre district. According to the papers, there have been three or four times as many as they’ve ever had before. And they expect that when more theatres open—us in a few weeks and the new Gilbert and Sullivan at the Savoy—it’s going to get even worse.”
“And you think that’s what Peter’s working on?”
“Yes, I do. Maybe not in the beginning when the papers began asking how the Yard could solve real crimes like murders when they couldn’t round up a few pickpockets. But then a few M.P.’s began asking questions about it in the House, and finally, a little over a week ago, the Home Secretary got shirty about it and told the press they were making a fuss about nothing and the Yard would have the whole thing in hand in a few days.”
Andrew whistled softly. “That wasn’t very clever.”
“No. Then the papers started going after him.”
“And of course if things got really bad, that’s when they’d call Peter in.”
“It was right about then that I started seeing him around here, him and Sergeant Tucker. And he’s been around almost every day since.”
“Then you’re probably right and that is what he’s been working on. But why are they having so much trouble?”
“Do you know how pickpockets work?”
“Not really. I have an idea that they usually work in a crowd and bump into you to distract you while they pick your pocket.”
“In other words, you think they work alone.”
“Don’t they?”
“A few of them may, but the best, most professional ones work in gangs of three or four. The first stall goes ahead, picks out the mark—the person to be robbed—and indicates him or her to the dip, the pickpocket. A second stall, walking with the dip, does the jostling or whatever is done to distract the mark. The pickpocket, called the dip or the tooler, makes the dip and passes whatever he’s taken to a third stall, who immediately scarpers with it so that if the dip is collared, he’s clean.”
“How do you know so much about it?”
“How?” She went into her broadest Cockney. “Why do you think they used to call me Slippery Sara when I lived at Dingell’s Court?” Then, as he smiled appreciatively, “I did learn a good deal about it then. But I ran into Sergeant Tucker right after the first newspaper stories came out, and he told me the rest.”
“But I still can’t understand why the police haven’t been able to catch whoever’s doing it. I mean, if they know how it’s done …”
“They know how it’s generally been done before this. And they also know all the best-known London pickpockets. But none of them seem to be involved, and they claim that they don’t know what’s going on, how it’s being worked either.” She glanced sideways at Andrew. “I had an idea of something we could try if you’re game. Something that might give us a clue about who’s doing it.”
“What’s the idea?” She told him, and he thought about it for a minute. “I can see several reasons why it might not work. But I don’t see how it would hurt to try it.”
“You’re game, then?”
“Yes. When do you want to try it?”
“Peter’s having dinner with us tonight. Then your mother’s going to Mr. Harrison’s to meet some people, and Peter will be going somewhere too. How about then, after they both leave?”
“Sounds fine. We’ll do it then.”
7
Sara’s Dodge
Though they had to wait for Wyatt to join them, it was still light when they left the theatre. They had decided to eat at Simpson’s, and since it was so close, Verna told Fred they would walk and that he should get his own supper and meet her at the restaurant later.
They heard music, the wheezy strains of an accordion, as they walked up the alley, and when they reached the Strand, they saw a pair of buskers—a man and a woman—putting on a performance for the queue that was waiting to buy tickets at the theatre next door. The couple, clearly Cockneys, were both wearing their pearlies, clothes so covered with buttons you could barely see the cloth on which they were sewed. The woman, young and quite pretty, wore a large hat trimmed with ostrich feathers, and the man a flat cap. He was playing “After the Ball Was Over” on the accordion and singing the words in a pleasant baritone; the woman was doing a graceful dance.
Andrew thought there was something familiar about the man, and when they all stopped to watch the pair, he recognized him as Alf, whom he had met at Beasley’s shop. That meant that the woman was probably Liza.
With a last, drawn-out chord, Alf stopped playing and went into his patter.
“Would you believe I only weighed a pound and a half when I was born?” he asked.
“A pound and a half?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you live?”
“Live? You should see me now!”
He played a few deliberately squawking chords as the crowd laughed appreciatively; the two did a few dance steps together, and then he said, “Do you like riddles?”
“’Course I like riddles,” said Liza, if that’s who it was. “What’s the riddle?”
“Can you spell blind pig in two letters?”
“No, I can’t. How do you spell blind pig in two letters?”
“P G, ’cause if it’s got no I it must be blind.” Then, with another series of chords that echoed the groans of the crowd, he said, “Well, that’s enough of that. On with the consort.” And he launched into the strongly accented rhythm of “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!” dancing lightly with Liza at the same time.
“They’re good,” said Andrew as they went up the Strand toward Simpson’s.
“Yes, they are,” said Verna. “I used to do some busking when I was Sara’s age. But not around here. I didn’t have the nerve to work the West End.”
“Are they here every night?”
“They have been since I’ve been coming here,” said Sara.
“They’re getting to be as much a part of the scene as the old gaslight in front of the Savoy,” said Wyatt.
A constable who recognized him or Verna or both of them, raised a white-gloved hand and stopped the flow of hansoms, carriages and buses. And as they crossed to the southern side of the Strand, they heard another kind of music—the stirring strains of “Onward, Christian Soldiers”—and marching toward them from Waterloo Bridge came a small band in semi-military uniforms: dark blue with brass buttons, red shoulder tabs and red bands around their hats.
There were five of them in all, two women with earnest faces under their bonnets and three men wearing caps with shiny peaks. One woman carried a tambourine, which she shook and struck in time to the music and probably used to make collections. The other woman and one man played trumpets; a second man played a trombone; and bringing up the rear pounding a large bass drum was a plump, red-faced man who was so jolly-looking that he could have played Father Christmas without make-up.
Running along behind them, dancing and cavorting, were four or five ragged and dirty-faced urchins. And walking very sedately beside the band, pointedly ignoring the ragamuffins, was a nice-looking and very neat boy of about thirteen. His clothes, though not new, were clean and well-brushed, and from the possessive way he marched along beside the band, it was clear that he was related to one of the bandsmen.
“Salvation Army?” asked Andrew.
“No,” said Wyatt. “They’re Samaritans, very like the Salvation Army. In fact, there’s been talk of their merging. They’re around here a good deal, often stop and play in front of one of the theatres.”
Whether the constable had or hadn’t known Verna, she was certainly known at Simpson’s, as she was at most West End restaurants, and they were given a choice corner table. When they had ordered, one of the carvers wheeled his huge shining cart over to the table and performed with his usual dexterity, giving each of them exactly the cut of beef he or she fancied.
It was a little before eight when they left, full of beef, Yorkshire pudding and trifle. Fred was waiting, and though Verna suggested that Sara and Andrew come along so that Fred could take them home after he had dropped her, they said that they would go home on their own. Verna went off and, as they had expected he would, so did Wyatt. They watched him stride off down the Strand, frowning in concentration and wearing what Sara called his working face.
They waited till he had disappeared in the hurrying throng of theatre-goers, some on foot, some getting out of hansoms and carriages, then they crossed the street and started back up the Strand themselves.
The whole area was alive now and at its busiest. The streetlights had been lit, and there were yellow pools of light around each standard. Women in satin and silk, men in shiny top hats and black and white evening clothes crowded the pavements. Alf and Liza were still performing in front of the theatre just up the street from the Windsor. As Sara and Andrew went down the alley to the stage door, they heard Alf begin to play “Champagne Charley,” one of the current music hall favorites.
Burke was in his cubicle when they opened the door.
“Good evening, Miss Sara,” he said in his hoarse voice. “Good evening, Master Andrew. Forget something?”
“Yes, I did,” said Sara. “Do you want to wait here for me, Andrew? I won’t be long.”
Leaning against the door of the booth, Andrew talked to Burke. When he expressed surprise that the elderly doorkeeper was still there, Burke explained that when the play opened, he would have to be there until mid-night, when the night watchman would take over. In the meantime, however, he was staying there that late, even though there was no need for it, so as to accustom himself to the hours and the routine. They then talked about racing and had just gotten around to discussing who they liked for the Derby when Sara, going by quickly, called good night to Burke and went out the stage door. Andrew said good night also and followed more slowly. His task had been to keep the doorkeeper busy, not let him see Sara when she left, and he must have been successful for Burke never commented.
And there was a good deal to comment about as Andrew realized when he got outside in the alley. For, instead of the pretty, neat and well-dressed girl that had entered the theatre, there was now a dirty-faced, unkempt and ragged street urchin, as disreputable as any of the ragamuffins they had seen marching alongside the Samaritan Band. Not that this was any surprise to Andrew, for he had seen her make this same transformation before, changing herself into the poor Cockney girl she had been when he first met her, and doing it without the grease paint and other theatrical aids that were now available to her in the theatre dressing room.
“Got your eye full?” asked Sara aggressively as he looked at her, repeating the first words she had ever said to him.
“Yes, I have,” he said smiling.
“How do I look?”
“As if you haven’t had a decent meal in a week and no bath for at least a month. Where shall we start?”
“Right here’s as good as anyplace. I’ll go up the alley and turn left on the Strand. If nothing happens by the time we get to Wellington Street, we’ll call it off and try somewhere else.”
“All right. How much of a start do you want?”
“Oh, ten yards or so.”
“Right. Go ahead.”
She started up the alley. When she was almost at the end of it, she began to run and Andrew started running after her, shouting, “Stop her! Stop, thief!”
She whipped around the corner; and when he reached the street, he caught a glimpse of her running fleetly and dodging in and out of the pedestrians.
“Get her!” he shouted again. “Stop, thief!”
He caught another glimpse of her as she reached the buskers—Alf still playing and Liza dancing—then she seemed to disappear. Surprisingly few people turned around or paid any attention to his shouts, either because they were too busy with their own concerns, hurrying to theatre, or because the traffic was making too much noise for them to hear them.
Andrew had reached the buskers now, too, and, still shouting, was trying to see where Sara had gone when something caught his foot and he tripped and fell. He just managed to catch himself so that though he went down on his hands and knees he was not hurt.
“Whoops-a-daisy! Careful there, me old brown son,” said a nasal Cockney voice. “You’ve only got one neck, you know.”
“I know,” said Andrew. Someone helped him to his feet. Then, as he turned around,
“Well, blimey!” said Alf. “So it’s you.”
“Yes,” said Andrew, brushing off his knees.
“You know him?” said Liza, who was now standing off to one side near a building.
“Yus. He’s a friend of Beasley’s.” Then, as a thought struck him, “And Inspector Wyatt’s, too?”
“Yes. What happened to Sara, do you know?”
“You mean her?” asked Liza. She stepped aside, and there, behind her in the shadowy side door of a closed shop, was Sara.
“Are you all right?” Andrew asked her.
Sara nodded. And as Andrew realized what had happened—that Alf had tripped him and Liza had hidden S
ara to help her escape—what it meant became clear to Alf, too.
“Are you barmy?” he asked angrily. “What kind of giddy game are you up to?”
“We were trying to help him out,” said Sara in a subdued voice. “The inspector, I mean.”
“You’re not helping anyone sticking your sneezer into something that’s none of your business! Now get out of this!”
They walked slowly back to the alley and along it to the stage door. Sara couldn’t go home as she was, so Andrew went in first and told Burke he had fallen—which of course was true—and asked if he could clean himself up a bit. Burke couldn’t have been more sympathetic; and while he was helping Andrew brush off his clothes, Sara slipped past him and went to her dressing room. Andrew and Burke continued their discussion of their choices for the Derby, and Andrew had just finished explaining that while he wasn’t an expert, their coachman, Fred, was, when Sara, once more tidy, rejoined them.
They thanked Burke, went out and up the alley. When they reached the street, they paused, for there, looking like a thundercloud, was Wyatt.
“What the blazes have you two been up to?” he asked.
This time it was Andrew who responded, giving him the same answer that Sara had given Alf.
“We were trying to help,” he said. “We knew you were after the pickpockets who’ve been working around here.”
“Well?”
“Sara dressed like a street urchin and started running, and I ran after her yelling, ‘Stop, thief!’ as if she’d pinched my purse.”
“And exactly how was that supposed to help?”
“We thought,” said Sara, “if anyone from the gang was around and saw me, one of two things would happen. Either they’d ask me to join them, work with them, or they’d get mad and tell me this was their pitch and to clear out or they’d bash me.”
“I see. I gather you think you’re a little smarter than anyone on the Metropolitan Police force.”
“Not really.”
“No? Then perhaps you’re willing to admit that we’ve thought of everything you can think of to collar them and perhaps a few things you haven’t.”