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

by Robert Newman

  “I’m going to take Meg home,” she said in a clear, carrying voice. “But there’s no need for you to come too unless you want to.”

  “No, I think I’ll stay here with Cortland,” he said, understanding now how she planned to get Cortland out of the house and away without running the risk of having him captured. “Don’t forget that you want to be followed,” he said under his breath.

  “I know that,” she said in the same way. Then aloud, “Come on, Meg.”

  They went down the steps, Andrew opened the carriage door, and they got in.

  “Where to?” asked Fred.

  “The theatre,” said Sara from inside the carriage. “Start out slowly. Then, when I tell you, you can get cracking.”

  “Yes, m’lady,” said Fred, who may not have known what was going on, but was nevertheless enjoying the situation. He shook the reins, sent the carriage down the driveway and left on Rysdale Road.

  Sara had carefully placed Cortland next to the left hand window. As they made the turn into Rysdale Road, she glanced past him and saw that Matson had been right. Hodge was standing near the curb. He had been watching the house, but now he was studying the carriage with a puzzled frown. As they passed him and the yellow glow of a streetlight was full on the window, Sara adroitly knocked off Cortland’s bonnet, revealing his face. Hodge started, stared, then went running down the street toward the carriage that was waiting near the entrance to Three Oaks.

  “All right, Fred,” called Sara. “Now go!”

  Cracking his whip, Fred put the horses into a fast trot. As they went past the waiting carriage, Cortland said, “Why, that’s Dr. Thurlow’s carriage!”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The doctor who was taking care of my grandfather. And a friend of my stepmother’s.”

  “The yobbo that was acting as crow got in the brougham,” said Fred,” and it’s following us. Want me to give ’em the slip?”

  “No, Fred,” said Sara. “Act as if you’re trying to—pull away a bit—but let them keep us in sight.”

  “Hoicks, yoicks and tally-ho,” said Fred. Again he cracked his whip, but at the same time he kept a slight pressure on the reins to keep the horses at the same pace.

  The brougham was about two hundred yards behind them when they reached Prince Albert Road, and Fred kept them at that distance as they went south on Park Road and continued working his way south and east toward the Strand. They came down Regent Street and the Haymarket, and when they reached Trafalgar Square, Sara said, “All right, Fred. Now give us as much of a lead as you can.”

  Again Fred cracked his whip over the horses’ heads, but this time he shook out the reins and they went into an even faster trot. There was not much traffic on the Strand, and Fred worked his way skillfully through what there was. By the time he drew up in front of the theatre, he had gained another hundred yards on their pursuers.

  “Good work, Fred. Thanks!” said Sara, opening the carriage door and jumping out. “Come on, Benedict.” And taking him by the hand, she led him at a dead run up the alley toward the stage door.

  It was only then that it occurred to her that Burke, the watchman, might not be there. What would they do then? Where could they go? For she knew that in a minute or so, Hodge and whoever was in the carriage would be coming up the alley after them. She pounded on the heavy stage door, meanwhile looking back up the alley toward the Strand. When there was no answer, she tried the door. It wasn’t locked. She pulled it open, hurried in and closed it behind Cortland. A gaslight was burning in the corridor outside Burke’s cubbyhole, but he wasn’t there.

  “What do we do now?” asked Cortland.

  This was something else they hadn’t discussed, and Sara hadn’t really thought about.

  “I don’t know. I guess hide until Andrew gets here.”

  “Where can we hide?”

  “On the far side of the stage where the flats are stored. Come on.”

  And she led him down the corridor and across the large, dark, empty stage.

  Standing under the porte cochere, Andrew watched Fred go left on Rysdale Road past Hodge, saw Hodge run over to the waiting brougham and climb up onto the box and then saw the brougham make a sweeping turn and begin chasing the Tillett’s carriage. Then he ran across the garden, turned right and hurried up the street.

  There was a cab stand near the pub on the corner of Wellington Road, and he hoped he would find a cab there. He was in luck. A hansom was just drawing up when he got there. He jumped in and, taking out Mr. Dixon’s card, gave the cabby his address, which was on Woburn Square in Bloomsbury, and told him there’d be an extra shilling for him if he hurried. Delighted at the idea, the cabby turned the hansom, cracked his whip and went bowling down Wellington Road.

  At that hour there was even less traffic in that part of London than in the theatre district, and they made very good time. The address that Mr. Dixon had given him proved to be a dignified stucco house. Telling the cab to wait, Andrew jumped out, ran up the steps and rapped sharply with the knocker. A moment or two later a woman’s voice asked who was there.

  “I have an urgent message for Mr. Dixon,” he said.

  Apparently this was not an unusual occurrence, for the door was immediately unlocked and opened. A middle-aged woman in a wrapper and cap, apparently his housekeeper, stood there.

  “I believe he’s still up,” she said. “If you’ll wait a minute, I’ll see.”

  A door behind her opened.

  “I am up, Mrs. Hunter,” said Dixon. Then, looking at Andrew, “You’re young Tillett, Cortland’s friend, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. I met you when I came to the Admiralty with Inspector Wyatt. You gave me your card and told me that if Cortland ever needed you …”

  “I remember. Come in.” He ushered Andrew into a large and comfortable study and closed the door. “I was doing some work,” he said, nodding toward a desk that was covered with papers, “when I heard your knock. Now what’s this all about?”

  “It’s about Cortland, sir. I’m afraid he’s in danger.”

  “What sort of danger?”

  It wasn’t going to be easy to tell a coherent story while keeping Wyatt’s name and role out of it, but Andrew did the best he could. He told about the fire at the Cortland house and the fact that Cortland’s grandfather had been taken to St. Mary’s Hospital without mentioning Beasley’s participation either.

  “Cortland found this very upsetting,” he said, “and this morning he asked if he couldn’t come and stay with me rather than go home.”

  “Why did he want to do that? What was he afraid of?”

  “I believe of his stepmother, who—he seemed to think—had had something to do with what had happened to his grandfather. I said of course and took him home with me.”

  He went on to describe what had happened that evening; Hodge’s appearance and attempt to get Cortland to come home with him, his threats, his waiting outside in the street and finally about the other men Andrew had seen lurking outside in the bushes.

  Dixon, sitting on the edge of his desk, listened quietly and intently to everything Andrew said, his eyes never leaving his face.

  “Who were these other men?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, sir. I assumed that they had something to. do with Hodge.”

  “What did you do?”

  “My mother and our butler were both out, and I was afraid that Hodge and the other men might try to break into the house to get hold of Cortland, so my friend Sara Wiggins and I smuggled him out of the house and she took him off to the Windsor Theatre.”

  “Why did you do that? Why didn’t you get in touch with Inspector Wyatt?”

  “Because we didn’t know where he was,” said Andrew—which was certainly true as far as it went. “And we’re familiar with the theatre because my mother’s been rehearsing there, and Sara’s in the play too, and we knew it would be empty now and thought it would be a good place for Cortland to hide. The thing is, I’m afraid that
Hodge and whoever was with him may have followed them.”

  “I see,” said Dixon. “In that case, I think we’d better do something about it.”

  “You mean, you’ll come there with me?”

  “Of course.”

  “I hoped you might. I came here in a hansom, and I told him to wait.”

  “Well, well,” said Dixon approvingly. “I can see why Inspector Wyatt seemed so interested in what you had to say. You’ve behaved with an intelligence far beyond your years throughout.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Though he did not say so, it occurred to Andrew that he was having an opportunity to see why Sir Arthur had talked so glowingly about his secretary. For, having asked a minimum of questions and having made up his mind, Dixon moved with smooth efficiency and without a wasted motion. He took off his velvet smoking jacket, put on his frock coat and top hat. He paused for a moment in front of the umbrella stand in the corner, started to take out an umbrella, but instead plucked out a sturdy, silver-handled cane, which he tucked under his arm.

  “After you,” he said to Andrew, opening the door for him.

  13

  The Curtain Falls

  Mr. Dixon was silent during the ride from Woburn Square to the Strand, staring straight ahead with his crossed hands resting on the head of his cane. Respecting his mood and the gravity of the situation, Andrew did not say anything either, though he did glance occasionally at the stern face of his companion.

  Dixon roused himself when the hansom drew up in front of the theatre, got out and paid the cabby—giving him a handsome tip to judge by the cabby’s thanks. Then, turning to Andrew, “How do we get in?” he asked.

  “This way,” said Andrew, leading him down the alley.

  He knocked on the metal stage door as Sara had done a short while before and, when there was no response, tried it, found it open and went in followed by Dixon.

  “Isn’t there a watchman here?” asked Dixon.

  “There is usually. In there,” said Andrew, nodding toward Burke’s cubbyhole. “But he’s either making his rounds, looking over the theatre, or else he’s slipped out for a few minutes to get something to eat.”

  “If he was making his rounds, going through the theatre, wouldn’t he need that?” asked Dixon indicating a bull’s-eye lantern that stood on a shelf in the cubbyhole.

  “Yes, he would. It’s dark in the theatre. That means he’s gone out.”

  “Yes. I’m sure he won’t mind if I borrow this,” said Dixon, striking a match and lighting the lantern. Then, picking it up, “As I’m sure you’ve gathered, this is a very serious matter we have here, and there’s not much time, so I’ll be brief. Can I rely on you to do exactly what you’re told?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I want you to leave here immediately and go home. Don’t worry about your friend, Cortland, or the girl. I’ll take care of them, and I’ll be in touch with you later this evening. In the meantime, you’re not to talk to anyone about any of this. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Off you go, then.”

  Andrew walked back to the stage door, opened it and looked over his shoulder. Dixon had his back to him and was looking down the corridor toward the stage. Slamming the door as if he had gone out, Andrew slipped into the open closet, next to Burke’s cubbyhole, in which the stagehands and other theatre workers usually kept their coats. There were some aprons and coveralls hanging there now, and he hid behind them. Dixon might be with the Admiralty, but he wasn’t Wyatt. And though Andrew meant it when he said he could be relied on to do what he was told, it depended on who did the telling. In this case, he wasn’t about to go off and leave Sara and Cortland to the care of Dixon, no matter how efficient the man might be.

  A moment later he was glad he had done what he did, for Dixon came to the stage door and bolted it on the inside, which meant that neither Burke nor anyone else would be able to come in that way. Then, directing the beam of the bull’s-eye lantern ahead of him, he started down the corridor toward the stage.

  Andrew waited till Dixon was well along the corridor, past the single gaslight that burned high on the wall, then followed.

  Something was wrong, very wrong. Why had Dixon locked the outside door? Where were Sara and Cortland? And where were Hodge and whoever had been with him when he followed Sara and Cortland?

  Moving quietly along the corridor, Andrew was acutely aware of the huge, dark, quiet theatre. The still air smelled of dust, paint, glue sizing and greasepaint. Dixon’s footsteps, which he made no attempt to muffle, sounded loud in the heavy silence, and high up overhead in the grid where old backcloths hung, a draft shook one of the dozens of ropes that ran up there so that it tapped insistently against the canvas.

  Dixon paused in the centre of the dark stage, slowly swinging the beam of his lantern over the backstage area and over the wings opposite him.

  “All right,” he said. “Where are you?”

  Andrew was now in the right-hand wings, standing near the base of the proscenium arch. Beyond the unlit footlights he could just make out the shape of the auditorium, the curve of the balcony and the gilt scallops of the boxes.

  “I said, where are you?” repeated Dixon. “Didn’t you hear me, Helga, Thurlow?”

  “Who is it?” asked an uncertain female voice.

  “Who do you think it is?”

  There was the sound of footsteps, and Cortland’s stepmother and Dr. Thurlow appeared from behind some furniture that had been piled up backstage and came toward him.

  “How did you know we were here?” asked Dr. Thurlow.

  “What difference does it make? Where’s young Cortland?”

  “He’s here somewhere,” said Mrs. Cortland. “He was staying at the house of his friend in St. John’s Wood. We sent Hodge to get him, but he wouldn’t come. Later he sneaked out with a young girl and came here. We were just looking for him when we heard you come in.”

  “And where’s Hodge?”

  “Outside in the alley,” said Thurlow. “He’ll catch Cortland if he tries to get out that way, and he’ll warn us if the watchman or anyone else is coming in.”

  “No, he won’t. I locked the stagedoor.”

  Mrs. Cortland and Thurlow were close to him now. “I suppose you’re armed?” he said to Thurlow.

  “Yes.”

  “You would be. Give me the gun.”

  “What?”

  “I said, give me the gun.”

  He spoke quietly, but with so much authority that Thurlow could not oppose him. He took a revolver from his pocket and handed it to Dixon.

  “Thank you.” Dixon thrust it into the waistband of his trousers, set the bulls-eye lantern on the table the prompter used during rehearsals and stood there for a moment, leaning on his cane. “You fools!” he said suddenly, his voice icy with contempt. “You ridiculous, blundering fools!”

  “Please,” said Mrs. Cortland, her accent more pronounced than it had ever been before. “You must not blame us. You approved the plan. And just because the boy got away from us for a while …”

  “He did not just get away. He may have brought Scotland Yard into the affair. I said you were fools. You are worse than fools, for you have undone the work of years, made it impossible for me to continue where I am. And for that there is only one answer.”

  Twisting the silver handle of the cane, he pulled out the long slim swordblade it contained and, with a fencer’s lunge, stabbed Thurlow in the chest. Thurlow stood there for a moment, looking at him in astonishment, then his knees buckled, and he fell face down on the stage. Even as he fell, Dixon pulled out the blade and lunged again. This time Mrs. Cortland staggered back, tried to turn and flee, then collapsed and fell, looking upward with sightless eyes.

  “Drop that blade, Dixon!” said a voice from the darkened auditorium.

  “What? Who’s that?”

  “That’s not a serious question. You must know.”

  “Wyatt. So this was a tr
ap!”

  “It was. I have men outside in the street, in the alley, out in back and here in the theatre. Which leads me to ask: How in the name of sanity did you expect to kill two people and get away with it?”

  “I did not have much choice,” said Dixon calmly. “As for getting away, I still plan to do so.” With movements as swift and sure as when he had assassinated the two who lay on the stage, he picked up the lantern, directed its beam into the wings opposite Andrew and at the same time pulled out and leveled the revolver.

  “Cortland, you and the girl with you, come out here!”

  Looking past him, Andrew’s heart skipped a beat, and he went cold with fear. For the lantern’s beam picked out Sara and Cortland crouching down between two stacks of flats. Andrew didn’t know whether they had been there all the time or had started to come out when they heard Wyatt’s voice, but Dixon had either seen them or heard them moving, and now he had them pinned there with the lantern’s beam.

  “I said: Come out!” said Dixon, his voice sharper and more menacing. “Come out, or I’ll shoot!”

  “Sara! Cortland, do as he says!” said Wyatt, trying to keep his voice level.

  As Sara and Cortland stood up and came slowly out of the wings toward the stage, Andrew heard a faint noise behind him. Turning, he saw Burke standing near the rack to which all the overhead ropes were tied. If he had ever looked old, ill or ineffectual, he did not look that way now, and Andrew suddenly realized that of course he must be a policeman, too.

  “What are you up to, Dixon?” asked Wyatt, coming forward in the dark auditoriums so that he was just visible at the edge of the lantern light.

  “I’m sure you can guess,” said Dixon, putting the lantern down in the prompter’s table again, but holding the gun steadily on Sara and Cortland. “First of all, you must recognize the fact that I have nothing to lose. I have already killed two people, so I would have absolutely no hesitation about killing these two youngsters here.”