The Case of the Etruscan Treasure (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 5)

by Robert Newman

  “Yes. He was here, and he did talk about you.”

  “He told you that I was behind what happened down at the dock when you landed. That I arranged to have him scare you by dropping a slingful of cargo in front of you.”

  “He did say something like that. Is it true?”

  “Yes, it is. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to see you—to tell you how sorry I am about it. Particularly since the kids here might have gotten hurt. I didn’t know—no one knew—that they’d be around and might be in danger. You believe me, don’t you?” he said, turning to Sara and Andrew.

  They exchanged glances and shrugged.

  “Since you seem to be in a confessional mood,” said Wyatt, “perhaps you’ll tell me why you did it.”

  “I did tell you. To scare you off. There was a story in the World that you were coming over to help find one of the files that disappeared after the fire in the office of the state investigating committee. Is that true?”

  “That that’s why I was coming over here? Certainly not.”

  “But you do know about the file?”

  “I’ve heard about it. You say that one of the reasons you came here was to apologize for what happened down at the dock. Was that because you knew we’d been told you were responsible?”

  “Yes.”

  “In other words, you’re admitting it because you know we already know.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I must say you’re being refreshingly honest.” Then as Cady smiled, “What other reasons did you have for coming to see me?”

  “As you probably gathered, I’ve changed my mind about a couple of things. It was stupid of me to try to scare you off. I should have known you wouldn’t scare for two cents.”

  “That may or may not be true. But what’s that got to do with anything? I told you I’m not the least bit interested in that precious file of yours. As a matter of fact, I didn’t even know it existed until I came here.”

  “But now that you do know, how much would you want to find it for me?”

  “What? Why do you want it found?”

  “Oh, I always wanted it found. As a matter of fact, I’ve had my own detective working on it for some time now. I just didn’t want you to find it.”

  “Because there’s material incriminating to you in it?”

  “Of course. I’ve been in politics for a long time and you can’t stay in politics—in this town anyway—and stay as clean as a lily. But my man hasn’t been able to find it, and the police haven’t, and it’s important that it should be found.”

  “Because whoever does have it has been using the material in it for blackmail?”

  “Right. After thinking about it, I decided I’m not too worried about what they might have on me. I’ll be able to handle it. But I am worried about what’s happening to some of the really big men in this town—aldermen, contractors, even bankers. Whoever’s got the file has been putting the squeeze on them, and they’ve been coming to me and crying about it, so what do you say? Will you take on the job of trying to find it?”

  “What makes you think I could find it?”

  “I just do. Detectives from Scotland Yard are supposed to be the best there is.”

  “Nice of you to say so, but we’re not infallible. If you read the Times this morning you know that we got absolutely nowhere with the theft of the African Stars.”

  “So no one’s perfect. But from what I hear, your average is pretty high.”

  “Thanks. But I’m afraid it’s impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “Inspectors of the London Metropolitan Police don’t take on private cases.”

  “Who’d know it?”

  “I’d know it.”

  “That’s silly. You’re here on a holiday, aren’t you? I’ve been asking around and no one in our police department knows of any case you’re on, so … what if I said I’d pay you ten thousand dollars if you found that file for me?”

  “I’d still say no.”

  “Twenty-five thousand?”

  “Sorry,” said Wyatt, smiling faintly and shaking his head.

  “Hmm. Biggsy, looks as if we’ve got a real tough one here,” said Cady, getting, to his feet. “Well. …”

  “May I ask you a question, Mr. Cady?” asked Sara.

  “Of course, Sara. It is Sara, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Did you have anything to do with what happened to Benny the Monk?”

  “Who?”

  “Benny the Monk.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “You’d know him if you saw him,” said Biggs. “Small, rather funny-looking chap who used to hang around the club. He wasn’t very reliable—used to drink quite a bit-but he was all right on small jobs, running errands and that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, yes. I think I remember him. But why do you ask about him? What did happen to him?”

  “He’s dead,” said Sara. “Someone hit him on the head and threw him into the fountain in Washington Square.”

  “What?” Cady turned to his companion. “Did you know that?”

  “Yes,” said Biggs. “The police came around, wanting to know what I could tell them about him.”

  “What made you think I had anything to do with that?” Cady asked Sara.

  “I just thought I’d ask,” said Sara. “I was interested because Andrew and I were the ones who found him.”

  “Oh. Well, to answer your question, I didn’t have anything to do with that. I’ve done a lot of things my grandmother might not approve of, but that’s not the kind of thing I go in for.”

  Sara looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded, indicating that she believed him. And though Andrew had learned that chronic liars can be very plausible, he found himself believing Cady too. At least about this.

  “It was nice to talk to you,” said Cady, shaking hands with Wyatt, “even if I didn’t get anywhere with you. Speaking of which, will you at least think about the proposition I made you?”

  “I’ll undoubtedly think about it because it was quite flattering,” said Wyatt. “But I can assure you I won’t change my mind about it.”

  “That’s that then,” said Cady and, nodding to Sara and Andrew, he went out followed by Biggs.

  “Well, that was interesting,” said Andrew when the door had closed.

  “Quite,” said Wyatt.

  “What I’d like to know,” said Sara, “is how he knew that Manion had been here to see you.”

  “The same way he knew we were going to be having lunch with Sam Decker,” said Wyatt. “And where we were having it.”

  “You mean someone here told him?” said Sara. “Who?”

  “I think I know,” said Wyatt. “But if you want to make sure.…” He took out a notebook, wrote something in it, then tore out the page, folded it and gave it to Andrew. “Go out and walk over to Washington Square or along Eighth Street. Find a likely-looking boy—a newsboy or shoeshine boy—give him this note and a dime and tell him to deliver it to the desk here. Then hurry back yourself. Sara and I will be waiting on the stairs.”

  “Right,” said Andrew. He glanced at the note as he went down the stairs. Wyatt had addressed it to himself. He waved to Jim McCann, the desk clerk, as he went by, nodded to the doorman outside and walked down Fifth Avenue to Washington Square where he found a newsboy and followed Wyatt’s instructions. Then he hurried back to the hotel, going in the side entrance. He found Wyatt and Sara where Wyatt had said they would be: on the stairs where they could look into the lobby without being seen. Wyatt raised an inquiring eyebrow, and Andrew nodded. Then the newsboy came in, accompanied by the doorman, gave the note to McCann and went out again. McCann glanced at the note, and as he turned and put it in its proper box, Wyatt went down the stairs and over to the desk.

  “Good afternoon,” he said.

  “Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Wyatt,” said McCann, turning back again. For some reason he seemed a little awkward, uneasy.

  “Anything for me?”
/>   “Yes. As a matter of fact, something just came.”

  As he started to turn again, get the note in the box, Wyatt reached across the desk and took him by the arm.

  “No,” he said quietly. “Stay where you are.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said McCann, looking at him in surprise.

  “I said, stay where you are. Andrew, will you nip in there behind the desk and bring me the note from my box?”

  McCann went white. Andrew glanced at him, went around to the side of the desk where there was an opening, went in and took the note from the box and gave it to Wyatt. Wyatt unfolded it, and it was blank.

  “But that’s not the note you wrote,” said Sara. “Where’s that?”

  “I suspect in Mr. McCann’s sleeve,” said Wyatt, releasing him. “Right, Mr. McCann?”

  His face expressionless, McCann took a folded piece of paper from inside the cuff of his sleeve and dropped it on the desk.

  “But how?” said Sara. “Why?”

  “It’s a fairly old trick,” said Wyatt, “sometimes used in theatres or carnivals as part of a supposed mind-reading act. In this case, the real note was palmed and a blank piece of paper was put in the box. Then, when our friend here had a chance to read and perhaps copy the real note, the blank paper was removed and the actual note put in its place. As to why he did it, you’ll have to ask him that.”

  “It’s because of my wife,” said McCann in a husky, uncertain voice. “She’s sick, in the hospital, and I needed money. Someone offered me a lot of it if I’d let him know about any messages you got. I didn’t see that it would be doing any harm, so I said I would.”

  “Who was it?” asked Sara.

  “Please don’t ask me. That’s another reason I had to do it. He’s a very powerful man and if I told you who he was and he found out—”

  “Never mind then,” said Wyatt. “Don’t tell us.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked McCann. “You’d be right if you went to the manager and told him about it. But if you did, I’d be fired and …”

  “I’ve no intention of going to the manager about it,” said Wyatt. “Just don’t do it again.”

  “No, Mr. Wyatt. No, I won’t. And thank you. Thank you very much.”

  They went back upstairs quietly, soberly.

  “So that’s how Cady knew you were having lunch with Sam Decker and where,” said Sara.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you write in this note?”

  Wyatt handed it to her. She unfolded it and read:

  “Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice.

  That alone should encourage the crew.

  Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice.

  What I tell you three times is true.”

  “That’s not from Alice in Wonderland too is it?” asked Sara.

  “No. It’s by Lewis Carroll, but it’s from something else, The Hunting of the Snark. For some reason it seemed appropriate.”

  8

  The Real Treasure

  They made their postponed trip to the Statue of Liberty the following morning. Walking across Eighth Street to Sixth Avenue they took the El down to South Ferry, chugging along high over the streets behind the small, puffing engine. There were four Elevated lines in Manhattan, running from the Battery on the south to the Harlem River on the north. And, of the four, Sara and Andrew liked the Sixth Avenue one best because its route lay almost exactly in the middle of the island, and when you rode on it, you could see the whole width of Manhattan from the coach windows, from the East River on the east to the Hudson on the west.

  At the Battery they took the small boat out to Bedloe’s Island, site of the statue, and there they had the misfortune to run into a guard whose father had come from Notting Hill, not far from where Sara had grown up, and who was so excited about meeting three real Britons that he insisted on following them about and telling them more about the statue than they wanted to know. For instance, he told them that its correct name was Liberty Enlightening the World. Executed by the French sculptor, Bartholdi, it was the largest statue made in modern times and is one hundred and fifty one feet high. He was just telling them about her arms, hand, and head, in which forty people can stand, when a large group of tourists approached him with some questions and the three were able to escape, hurrying into the base of the statue and up the stairs inside. Not content with the view from the head, they went up an even narrower stair to the chamber in the torch itself. Here, over three hundred feet above the water, the view, which took in Manhattan, Brooklyn, Staten Island, New Jersey and the Lower Bay, was really breathtaking.

  The overfriendly guard was busy with a crying child, evidently separated from its parents, when they came down, and they waved their goodbye to him as they left the statue and walked over to get the boat back to Manhattan.

  “Hungry?” asked Wyatt as they got off at the Battery.

  “Yes,” said Andrew.

  “Anything special you’d like for lunch?”

  “If I know you,” said Sara, “you’ve already made up your mind about where we’re going and what we’re having.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. But I’m quite happy to leave it in your hands.”

  “In that case, let’s make use of our feet first.”

  He led them over to South Street and north along the East River docks. They walked under the bows and—since there were almost as many sailing vessels as steamers here—sometimes under the bowsprits of ships from a dozen ports and with a hundred different destinations. It was while they went past the many piers that Andrew suddenly realized there was another way in which New York differed from London. Though the Thames runs through London and many ocean-going vessels make the trip up it and dock there, there are few streets in New York that don’t end up in a river with access to the sea. He remembered Moby Dick by Herman Melville, who had died here in New York just the year before. It was a book he had liked enormously, and in it Melville had talked of “your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharfs as Indian isles by coral reefs.” It was true. And it was also true that the Battery, which they had just left, “was washed by waves and cooled by breezes which a few hours earlier were out of sight of land.”

  He had further proof of just how much of a seaport New York was as they approached the towering suspension bridge that connected Manhattan and Brooklyn, one of the world’s greatest engineering feats and one of the sights of New York. He sniffed, aware that Sara was sniffing too. Along with the salty smell of the sea there was another, stronger smell.

  “Fish!” said Sara.

  Smiling, Wyatt nodded. The large, green building with its gables and cupolas that stood at the river’s edge and partially overhung it was the Fulton Fish Market, much like London’s Billingsgate Market, he told them. Tied up at the piers behind it, they could see fishing schooners from all up and down the coast, discharging their cargoes of fish, lobster and shellfish.

  He led them up a flight of stairs to a restaurant on the second floor of an old brick building. It was noisy and quite crowded; almost all the scrubbed wood tables were taken, but they managed to find a small one near the window that overlooked the cobbled street where carts and wagons were being loaded and moved off to the clatter of horses’ hoofs and the grinding of iron rimmed wheels.

  “Do you know what you want?” asked Wyatt.

  “We’ll leave that to you too,” said Sara.

  “We can’t have oysters, unfortunately. They have more different kinds here than you’ve ever heard of, but they’re not in season. However, we can have clams. Have you ever had chowder?”

  “No,” said Andrew.

  “Three chowders,” he said to the shirt-sleeved waiter who had appeared at his elbow, “and three lobsters.”

  The chowder arrived, steaming bowls of it thick with clams, potatoes, onions and tomatoes and seasoned with thyme. As they ate it, Wyatt told them of the continuing battle that raged between those who in
sisted the only legitimate chowder was New England chowder made with milk and those who liked Manhattan chowder, the kind they were having, made without milk but with tomatoes.

  “I don’t dare say this above a whisper,” he said. “At least not here, but I’ve had both and they’re both delicious.”

  Andrew and Sara agreed that the Manhattan chowder certainly was and made mental notes to try the New England version when they joined Verna up in Boston.

  The lobsters were boiled, split and served with drawn butter and chips, which they had learned the Americans called French fried potatoes. And, loyal defenders of British sea food though they were, they had to admit that these lobsters were the best they had ever eaten, even better than the Cornish lobsters of Andrew’s childhood. When they had finished, they were so full that they reluctantly refused any dessert, even the ice cream that the waiter assured them was homemade.

  “Now what?” asked Sara when they were downstairs on South Street.

  “Haven’t you had enough of me and general activity?” asked Wyatt.

  “Of course not,” said Andrew. “But if you’ve had enough of us, say so.”

  “I haven’t. But I do have an appointment a bit later on, at three o’clock.”

  “With anyone we know?” asked Andrew.

  “Yes. Mark Russell. I’m taking him up to the Mowbray Galleries. I got in touch with Mowbray and he agreed to look at some of Mark’s paintings, see if he’d be interested in giving him a show.”

  “Can’t we come too?” asked Sara. “We like Mark Russell, and I also like Mr. Mowbray.”

  “Why?”

  “I just do. I think perhaps because he’s such a character, convinced that he’s the greatest art expert there is.”

  “Which he probably is. All right. If you’d like to come along, you can.”

  And that’s how it was that a few minutes before three they got out of a carriage at Thirty-Third Street and Fifth Avenue, Russell carrying several of his canvases and accompanied by Wyatt, Sara and Andrew.

  The Mowbray Galleries, quite new, were in a handsome marble building. A uniformed doorman opened the carriage door for them and tried to take the canvases, but seemed to understand when Russell told him he’d rather carry them himself. The young woman at the desk inside asked their names and told them that Mr. Mowbray was upstairs in the gallery proper and was expecting them. They went up the stairs to the gallery, which was large and well-lighted with skylights as well as windows set high on the north wall.