I was about to turn and run when Basil said, “Don’t you recognize me, Jack? Why, I helped you just last week with a subway delivery.”
“Basil?” The man blinked as if he’d seen a ghost. “What’re you doin’ here? We thought you was dead in that explosion.” And with a coarse laugh, the sweaty giant gave Basil a thunderous slap on the back—a blow that seemed to rattle every bone in the butler’s body. But Basil managed to absorb it with a shy smile and a slight tremble.
“Jack, I need you to do my friend Thomas and me a favor,” Basil said, and for the first time the big man looked at me with a friendly eye. I would have been happy to remain unnoticed.
After Basil whispered in his ear for a moment, Jack nodded and said, “No problem. It’s right this way.” He eyed me quizzically for a moment, then stuck out his hand. “Good t’meet ya, Tom. Any pal o’ Basil’s is a pal o’ mine.” Then he engulfed my hand, and seemingly a major part of my lower arm, in a fierce grip. It was like shaking hands with a side of beef.
We followed him into the building, then Jack led us down a narrow flight of stairs and into a dank basement. Taking us past row upon row of racks containing bottles, both empty and full, he pointed to an oaken door in the side of a stone wall. “Here. Just go right in. There’s no lock on it.”
“Thanks, Jack,” Basil replied, and added with a chuckle, “I never would have found it on my own, you know. I’ve never seen it from this end.”
The big man gave a hearty laugh and a wink. Leaning toward Basil, he whispered (far more loudly than he apparently intended), “Your friend doesn’t talk much, does he?” Then he strolled away, whistling to himself.
Basil strode across the room and grasped the handle of the oaken door, swinging it open. A set of steps led down even deeper and faded into darkness. He led the way fearlessly, but not before reaching to his right and twisting a switch. The inky blackness at the bottom of the steps was only partially dispelled by a feeble light, coming from who knows where.
Down the steps we went, crouching at times to avoid overhead pipes and jagged outcroppings of cement or bedrock—I could not tell which. The steepness of the stairway, the sour, stagnant-pond smell that assailed our nostrils, and the still-poor visibility only added to my uneasiness. Why did I ever let Basil talk me into this? Where was he taking me?
A disquieting suggestion came to my mind: Could he really be the killer after all? Perhaps he was only leading me to a convenient place to get rid of me! No, impossible. I tried to purge the rebel thought from my mind, but it kept cropping up every few seconds.
We reached the bottom of the stairs and stood—or more accurately, due to the low ceiling and overhead plumbing, stooped—on level ground. I stepped to one side to get my feet out of a shallow puddle.
“Where are we going, Basil?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level. Dark, close spaces always make me nervous.
“You’ll see,” he replied mysteriously and gestured toward a long tunnel that opened before us, like the deep throat of some subterranean monster. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling about forty feet down its length, as a few puddles of brackish water on the floor reflected its light. Beyond was still more blackness.
“I know it’s not the most pleasant of pathways, but it’s not far.” Basil looked over his shoulder at me as he began walking down the tunnel and smiled, revealing a perfect row of white teeth—but the smile suddenly disappeared as his head came into contact with the rough ceiling.
“Not far to where?” I asked, but Basil was scrambling down the tunnel and never heard me. We passed the ceiling light, then followed our own grotesque shadows for a few dozen yards till we came to a set of stairs similar to those we had descended. At the top of them was a blank wall.
I began to breathe faster as I struggled to push down a claustrophobic panic. But Basil calmly pushed against the wall, and it swung open on hidden hinges. We stepped onto a hardwood floor, and Basil closed the wall, which oddly had a mirror and rows of bottles on shelves.
It took me a minute to adjust my eyes to the light, but then I realized we were standing behind the bar in the speakeasy.
CHAPTER 8
“Isn’t it ingenious?” Basil patted the hinged wall with pride, as if he had built it himself. “The bottling plant hides a brewery, and the beer is delivered right to the back of the bar. What could be more convenient?”
“What could be more illegal, Basil?” I had looked the other way when I had first met him, accepting that his employment in a speakeasy was a desperate necessity, not a preference. But now, seeing his apparent glee over the secret passageway, I felt it was time to assert a sense of morality. “Such lightheartedness over the flagrant violation of Prohibition laws is quite disappointing.” I sensed my stiff tone of voice, which reminded me of my father, the ever-proper, conventional Englishman.
“May I remind you, sir, that you asked me to help you get into my employer’s office and rifle through his personal papers? That is quite illegal as well.”
A hot blush of shame crept up my neck and face, because I knew he was right. Who was I to chastise the man, when I was asking him to do something just as wrong, even if it was for a noble cause? Frozen with shame, I avoided his gaze. Finally I said, “Well, we might as well get it over with.”
We passed through the barroom and stopped at the door of Ragan’s office. Here Basil fumbled once again with his keys, but he finally opened the door and flipped the light switch.
The room was incredibly small, and in the back of my mind I again felt the insistent hammering of panic that almost overwhelmed me back in the underground tunnel. I wondered how Ragan had squeezed the desk in there. It swallowed up the floor space. In fact, I wondered how he could have worked in there at all, with the piles of paper, boxes, bar napkins, and glassware lying about.
“Check the file cabinet,” Basil suggested, pointing to a mahogany monstrosity at my right shoulder.
“Well, I’ll try, but I doubt that there’s room in here to open the drawers. Besides,” I added, shoving aside a stack of papers, “are you sure he ever used it?”
“Master Thomas, need I remind you that I worked for the man? He may have been disorganized, but the more important papers were always filed away. I saw to that.” Basil used a patient, fatherly tone, which would have been a lot more convincing had he been more than just four or five years my senior. With a deft movement of his hand, he reached behind my head and yanked on the top drawer. It popped open with a squawk like a bird losing its pinfeathers, flicking my ear as it flew past my head.
Twisting my body around in the cramped space, I raised my right arm, rested my elbow on the end of the open drawer, and stood on tiptoe as I attempted to read the tabs on the files. I felt like a ballet dancer about to attempt a pirouette, and I wasn’t sure how long I could hold the position.
“I can’t—I can’t see what I’m doing here, Basil. Good Lord, how did you ever work under such ridiculous conditions?” The corner of the desk was digging painfully into my hip.
“Well, maybe I can—” Basil began, but he was interrupted by a bellowing shout.
“Watson! What the blazes are you and this waiter doing in here again?” The drawer was swiftly slammed shut, and I found myself nose-to-nose with Officer Feeney.
“Feeney, ol’ buddy,” I said in a quavering voice, with a ghastly attempt at casualness, “imagine seeing you here.” The patrolman took another step forward in the enclosed space, this time backing me against the front of Ragan’s desk. His left arm reached out and drew Basil in till we found ourselves standing shoulder to shoulder like men before a firing squad, with no way of escape—Feeney made sure of that. I was impressed, and not for the first time, at the sheer size of the man. He knew he could be intimidating, and he missed no opportunity to take advantage of that.
“Don’t you try to fool me, Watson. You’ve come snooping around here for a story
, no doubt—either that or you’re helping this waiter to destroy any evidence against him.”
“Now just a minute, Feeney—I resent that! You ought to know that I’d never try to destroy evidence. And don’t tell me you’re still seriously entertaining suspicions against Basil—that’s his name, you know, Basil.”
“And I’m not a waiter. I’m a butler,” Basil added in a withering tone.
“Yeah, sure,” said Feeney. “I suppose you were just looking in here for more of your belongings. Somehow I doubt that you own anything in this cabinet.” He laid a protective hand across the front of the file drawer, as if daring me to try and open it again. “Now how did you two get in here? If you’ve got another key, you need to give it to me now. And if you don’t have another key, you’d better explain how you managed to get past the locked doors. You may be slippery, Watson, but you’re no Harry Houdini! Now how did you do it?”
I looked at Basil, and he reluctantly described the tunnel and the false wall behind the bar. Basil pleaded with Feeney not to reveal the existence of the tunnel for at least a few days. “Otherwise,” he added, “the men at the bottling plant will know that I told you about it, and they will come after me.”
Feeney stared at Basil for a long time, his eyes boring into the waiter’s face, as he pondered this development. Finally he sighed and said, “Next week, the brass is planning an inspection of this place. I’m supposed to join them, since it’s on my beat. Perhaps I could manage to ‘discover’ the tunnel then.”
While Feeney and Basil were conspiring together, I covertly reached behind me and slid my hand along the top of the desk. Suddenly, my fingertips touched something wide and flat. Slowly and unobtrusively, I slipped it under my jacket. I wasn’t about to leave the room empty-handed.
Feeney took another deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Listen, you two—you’re puttin’ me in an awkward position. Don’t you realize—” He looked over his shoulder with bulging eyes and his mouth half-open, as if expecting his lieutenant to be standing there.
“Look, we can’t talk here,” he finally said after a long silence. I wanted to point out that he was the one doing most of the talking, but I thought better of it. Grabbing us each by an arm, he said, “Come with me” (as if we had much choice in the matter), and half-carried us out of the building—using the side door that Basil pointed out to him. He rushed down the alley at breakneck speed, practically dragging us with him all the way. I started to ask where he was taking us, but he bared his teeth at me and hissed, “Keep your trap shut till we’re out of earshot.”
Fear fluttered in my stomach. I’d never seen Feeney like this. I knew that a lot of the Philadelphia cops couldn’t be trusted; so many of them were on the take. But I thought Feeney was different. Now here he was, manhandling us and hauling us away to who-knows-where. All I knew was, it wasn’t in the direction of the police station.
Into an apartment building we went, pausing first so he could make sure we weren’t being followed. His pace slowed as he climbed the stairs. His grip on us relaxed, then released, as he stopped before a door. Throwing it open with flourish, he extended his arm. “Welcome to my home, gentlemen. Won’t you come in?”
We stepped into a small but cozily furnished living room. An ancient horsehair sofa sat across from two threadbare stuffed chairs. On the couch lay a wooden bowl containing knitting needles, two balls of yarn of contrasting colors, and a half-finished scarf. A side table of unknown origin with a reading lamp perched upon it completed the picture of consummate, if modest, homeyness.
“Mavis! We’ve got comp’ny!” Feeney called out in a singsong voice, in a way that indicated it was an often-used phrase.
A short, plump woman in a flowered apron, her hair drawn up in a bun and her face bright red and glistening (as I later learned, from working over a hot stove), came into the room to greet us. “Well, Rufus, what have we here? Two young men in for a cuppa tea?” She clasped her hands together and tilted her head to one side, smiling as if we were the most exciting things she’d seen all day—and maybe we were.
“Yes, dear, they’re here for some tea and your world-famous scones,” Feeney said in a gentle tone I’d never heard him use.
“Oh, Rufus, you will go on!” she giggled, swatting him on an oversized forearm with the dishtowel she held. “Come now, boys, come into the kitchen and take a seat. It may be a bit tight, but we can fit four around the table.”
The kitchen was small but neatly organized, with a huge spice rack on the wall (more spices than I had ever seen) across from the shining white porcelain sink. A small window above the sink was framed with a frilly set of pink curtains, and a bright pink geranium grew from a plain red-clay pot. Mrs. Feeney faced the stove with her back to us, busy with the teapot. Just above her head hung a framed needlepoint canvas: “God is our refuge and strength.” Looking the room over, I reflected on how much I had missed, growing up without a mother.
Once we settled down, each with a cup of tea and a scone, Feeney turned to me with a disarming smile and said, “Now, Watson, let’s take a look at what you lifted from Ragan’s office.”
He had sucker-punched me again—bringing me into his home and playing the gracious host, just to catch me off-guard as I was beginning to relax. The menacing tone—the one I was so familiar with—was back. This was the Feeney I knew—the adversary, the interrogator, the “bad” cop. And he had no “good” cop partner to offset him.
“Oh, Rufus,” his wife said, patting his hand, “must you always talk police business? Why, you haven’t even introduced me to Mr. Watson and his friend.” Perhaps Mrs. Feeney was going to play the “good” cop.
“Rufus” seemed to be a non-starter, so I took it upon myself to begin the introductions. “This is Basil Meridan, Mrs. Feeney. He is helping to take care of an older gentleman who is staying with me.”
“Don’t change the subject, Watson. Put the stuff on the table.”
Reluctantly, I slipped the object out from under my jacket and laid it on the table. It was an appointment calendar.
Feeney’s upper lip curled, and he let out a grunt of disbelief. “This is what you risked jail time for, Watson?”
“I’m just as surprised as you are, Feeney. When I saw that you were going to kick us out of there, I just grabbed the first thing I could get my hands on.”
The patrolman’s eyes grew dark with suspicion, until they looked like two black holes in his face. “Come on, you two. That can’t be all of it. Where’s the rest?”
I was about to protest, but Basil slowly pulled out another item from under his coat and set it on the table. It was a thin, leather-bound volume—an expense ledger.
“Well done, Basil!” I cried admiringly. “Guess I’m not the only fast thinker on this team!” Basil smiled conspiratorially, but the smile disappeared as Feeney slammed a fist on the table.
“Confound it, Watson! One of these days you’re going to get yourself in a jam, and I’m not going to be around to bail you out!”
Mrs. Feeney laid a hand on his arm. “Please, dear, watch your temper. These are our guests.” She stood up, wiped her hands on her apron, and picked up the teapot. “Now, boys, who needs a refill?”
Feeney looked at his wife, then hung his head and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. She seemed to know how to take the wind out of his sails. Finally, he turned to me with a weary face. “Now, look, Watson. I want to help you, but I can’t do it if you work outside of the law.”
“What do you mean, ‘outside of the law’? Basil had a key to Ragan’s office. We weren’t trespassing—and we weren’t really stealing, either. We were just trying to find some clues.”
“Okay, okay.” Feeney paused a moment, then his features relaxed and he shrugged his shoulders. “Well, since the department has concluded it was a mob hit, they aren’t likely to investigate this situation any further. They’ve roped off the b
uilding and, like I said before, they’re planning an inspection of the place, but it’s only for show—to impress the public.” He leaned back in his chair. “So I suppose it won’t make much difference if you keep these things. We’ll just consider them souvenirs of your adventure today. They ain’t good for much else!” And he let out a loud guffaw.
Then he grew serious. “But keep this under your hat, okay, Watson? You’ve got to understand—I’ll get in trouble with my sergeant if he finds out I’ve been helping you.”
“Aye,” his wife responded, her brogue coming out. “Sure ’n’ it’s an evil day when good men have to hide their light under a bushel.”
Feeney stood and ushered us to the door. “If it’s information on Ragan and his cronies you’re wantin’, talk with Captain Bill at the city mission. He seems to hear a lot of the scuttlebutt on the street. Now get out of here and stop givin’ me gray hairs.”
“Come and see us again, boys!” Mrs. Feeney called out from the kitchen.
CHAPTER 9
We tumbled into the apartment, laughing like schoolboys over the close call we had just had. The camaraderie of shared danger with a friend was invigorating, and though I had known Basil only a couple of days, I could call him a friend.
Now we were about to share another danger—the wrath of Mycroft. He sat in the same chair, in much the same position, but now his eyes were open and the snoring had ceased. Except for his pinched lips, jutting jaw, and the incessant drumming of his fingers on the arm of the chair, one could have thought that scarcely a moment had passed since we left. It had been closer to four hours.
“Where in heaven’s name were you?” he thundered.
I shrugged my shoulders and winced in surprise at the fire in his words. “Sorry we worried you, Mycroft.”
“Worried? I wasn’t worried. Just wondering when you were going to start dinner.” The nervous drumming of his fingers belied his words.
The Case of the Exploding Speakeasy Page 6
