The Case of the Watching Boy (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 9)

by Robert Newman

  “Mother’s going to try to find out where this Coral Lumden lives, and we’re going to go see her, see if she’s really Mrs. Grey. And if she is, see if we can get anything from her that will help us find the boy.”

  “When are you going to do that?”

  “Probably tomorrow.”

  “Then you may know something by the time I come home from school.”

  “We may.”

  “I’m not going to say don’t worry—I don’t see how you can help it—but I am going to say something that you particularly must know, Andrew. And that is that if there’s anyone in the world who can get the boy back safe and sound, it’s Wyatt.”

  It took very little time to locate Coral Lumden. Most theater managers keep the names and addresses of aspiring actors and actresses on file, and Verna’s manager and friend, Lawrence Harrison, was able to give it to her at once. And so, a little before eleven the next morning, Fred, the Tillett coachman, drove Verna, Wyatt, and the two boys to the address they’d been given in Holborn, just off Shaftesbury Avenue.

  Mrs. Vickery had wanted to come with them, but Wyatt had said that he didn’t think it was a good idea; that she might find it difficult to remain calm if she met the woman who had actually taken her son. And somewhat reluctantly, Mrs. Vickery had agreed.

  When the carriage drew up, they all studied the house, a rather drab brownstone that looked as if it might be a boarding house. Then Verna got out. They had agreed to let her talk to Coral alone before they appeared.

  “What are you going to say to her?” asked Wyatt.

  “I don’t know,” said Verna. “I’ll decide when I see her.”

  And looking very smart in a light shantung suit and a hat with a matching veil, she went up the steps and rang the bell. A maid in a cap and apron opened the door, Verna said something to her, the maid let her in, and the door closed.

  “I’m getting out now, too,” said Wyatt to the boys. “But I think you should wait here in the carriage for the time being. I don’t want her to see you if she should happen to look out the window. When Verna signals for me to come in, you can follow. But hang back a bit.”

  He got out of the carriage and began to walk casually up and down. After a few minutes the front door opened again and Verna appeared, beckoning to him. He went up the steps and, getting out of the carriage, Andrew and Markham followed him, arriving at the door just before it closed. They went in quickly and quietly. There was a small and rather cluttered sitting room to the right of the entrance hall. Standing in the middle of it and smiling a polite but puzzled smile, was a young woman in a dressing gown that was not too clean. The most striking thing about her was her hair, which was chestnut verging on auburn. It took Andrew several seconds to recognize the woman who had called herself Mrs. Grey.

  “And this,” Verna was saying, “is my husband, Inspector Wyatt of the Metropolitan Police.”

  The woman’s smile faded. “The police?”

  “Yes.” By now Andrew and Markham had reached the entrance to the room too. “And I believe you know these two young men.”

  Looking at them, the woman lost her color completely, went white.

  “No wonder you wouldn’t tell me what you wanted to talk to me about!” she said to Verna.

  “You know them?” said Wyatt.

  “Yes. How did you find me?”

  “We have our methods,” said Wyatt. “In this case, I had a good deal of help from my wife.”

  The woman, Coral, looked at Verna, then at Andrew. “Tillett,” she said. “The other boy said that his name was Tillett, but I never thought.… He’s your son?”

  “Yes,” said Verna.

  “What do you want?”

  “First of all, I think you should sit down,” said Wyatt. Coral hesitated a moment, then sat down slowly on the edge of a rather decrepit chair. “Next, I’d like to make sure you understand what a serious position you’re in.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because there are very few crimes on our books that are more serious than kidnapping.”

  “Kidnapping?” She shrank back, looking as if she were going to faint. “But I didn’t … Merciful Heavens!”

  “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know. If you mean what happened up there in Somerset, I thought it was all straight and aboveboard, just as I told the boys—except that I wasn’t the child’s mother. But by the time it was over … you mean it wasn’t true?”

  “I don’t know what you were told, what you believed, but the boy you helped steal from that house was living with his mother—his real mother—at the time.”

  “Heaven help me! I should have known there was something wrong! I think maybe I did!”

  “Very wrong indeed. Now will you help us get the boy back?”

  “Yes,” said Coral promptly. “As I said, by the time we got to the end, I had started to feel funny about it. How can I help you?”

  “You can begin by telling us how you became involved, who approached you, when, and where.”

  “All right. It began a little over two weeks ago at an audition for Cardew’s Castle. That’s a new play that Millerton is casting,” she said to Verna, who nodded. “The part I was trying out for was the second lead—the young sister—and I thought I was pretty good, but the director didn’t and said, ‘Thank you very much. Next please,’ so I left. But as I went out, a man who had been sitting in the back of the theater followed me out. He said he thought I’d been very good, and, while he wasn’t in the theater, he had a job for me and was I interested? I said I was as long as it wasn’t white slavery, so we went into a pub just up the street and he bought me a gin and It.”

  “Was this the man who got you to steal the boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about him—his name, what he looked like, who he said he was.”

  “Well, he said his name was Benson and he was a private detective. He was in his middle thirties, not much taller than I am, but he looked taller because he held himself very straight. Kind of like a soldier, know what I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “He had a little beard and dressed kind of sporting—a checked suit and a soft hat—but all very nice.”

  “He said he was a private detective?”

  “Yes, and that he needed help in a case he was handling for a client.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “The story that he told me was the same as the one I told the boys—that this woman’s husband had taken her child out of spite and she wanted to get the child back. The only difference was that he said she was so upset she was in a nursing home and he wanted me to act as the mother to help get the child back.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “I don’t know. Why not?”

  “Why did he need someone to pretend to be the mother? Why didn’t he just get someone to take the child?”

  “I don’t know that either. I suppose he thought it would be simpler to have someone tell the story I told and get someone else to take the child.”

  “Simpler and safer. And safest of all if he could get someone to help you who wouldn’t ask any questions. Someone like a young, romantic, trusting boy.”

  “Yes,” she said faintly.

  “Did he know about young Markham?”

  “Yes, he did. He’d been up there before, looking around. He went up there with me the first time, told me about this boy he’d seen. He said he wasn’t sure he’d be there and I’d be able to talk to him, but that if I could it might be very useful. Then when the boy was there and when I got him to agree, first to watch the place and later to help me, he was very pleased.”

  “Did he tell you how to dress, how to act, and all the rest?” asked Verna.

  “No. He said he’d leave that to me. I liked that, creating the character myself. I decided to wear a wig because my hair is too easy to remember. And of course I put on makeup to look worried and upset.”

  �
�How much did he pay you?” asked Wyatt.

  “Fifty quid.” She looked at him unhappily. “I needed the money. Needed it bad.”

  “Yes,” said Wyatt. “All right. Markham and Tillett got the boy, turned him over to you. The man who called himself Benson was in the brougham with you at the time?”

  “Yes. He and a woman—a kind of nurse. They had come up to Bath from London together. When we had the boy, we drove back to Bath, and they dropped me at the hotel where I had changed my clothes and made up. Benson paid me the money he’d promised me and told me to stay there overnight, not to come back to London with them.”

  “Did you?”

  “No, I was suddenly nervous, anxious. I changed my clothes and took the next train back to London—the one that they were on, as it happened.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “No. I saw them, waited till the last minute, and then got into a Second Class carriage at the back of the train.”

  “Did either Benson or the nurse give the boy anything when you handed him over?”

  She looked down unhappily. “Yes. The nurse gave him something she said was a sweet, and almost immediately after that he fell asleep.”

  Wyatt nodded. “They would have had to do that, give him something to make him sleep so he wouldn’t create a disturbance. All right. You arrived back in London. Then what?”

  “I hung back again, waited till they had left before I left myself.”

  “When you say ‘they,’ who do you mean?”

  “Benson, the nurse, and the man who hired the brougham in Bath and drove it.”

  “How did they leave Paddington?”

  “The coachman hurried out and got a cab—a four-wheeler—and they all got in it.”

  “You didn’t by any chance hear where they were going?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve been honest and have been trying to be helpful, and I appreciate it. Now is there anything you can tell us about any of them that might help us to find them and the boy?”

  She thought a moment. “Just this. I don’t think Benson was English. I’m quite sure the nurse wasn’t.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, it wasn’t that Benson had an accent, he didn’t. It was … well, as if English weren’t really his language. Know what I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “As for the nurse, after she gave the boy the sweet and he fell asleep, she said something to Benson in a language that wasn’t English.”

  “You don’t know what it was?”

  “No.”

  “What about the coachman?”

  “Oh, he was English, there’s no doubt about that. In fact, Cockney.”

  Wyatt, who had been making notes all the time Coral was talking, looked up at her.

  “As I said, you’ve been helpful—as helpful as you could be—and I won’t forget it. Now do you have any family or a friend outside of London you could stay with for a while?”

  “Well, I have an aunt who has a boardinghouse in Bournemouth. Why?”

  “I’d just feel better if you went away for a while.”

  “You mean I might be in danger here?”

  “You might be. I think we’re dealing with some quite professional and probably dangerous people. And if they should find out that you’ve talked to the police, they might be very angry about it.”

  “Oh. All right. I’ll go stay with my aunt. I’ll leave this afternoon.”

  “I’ll send a constable around to take you to the station,” said Wyatt, standing up. “Give him your address in Bournemouth, and as soon as I think it’s safe for you to come back, I’ll send you a telegram.”

  “And when you do come back,” said Verna, “come and see me. I might be able to help you find something in the theater.”

  “Oh, thank you,” said Coral, her eyes getting misty. “I feel awful about what happened. If there’s anything more I can do to help, I’ll do it. And I hope you get the boy back safely and very soon.”

  “So do I,” said Wyatt soberly.

  They were all quiet as they left the boardinghouse.

  “I’m glad she tried to help us,” said Markham. “It not only made me like her better, it made me feel a little better about myself—not like quite such a fool.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Andrew. “Though she didn’t tell us very much we didn’t know, did she?” he asked Wyatt.

  “No. She merely confirmed several things we suspected. But then it would have been too much to expect her to tell us the really important things.”

  “Like who that man Benson really is,” said Verna. “Why they took the boy, and where they’ve got him.”

  “Exactly.”

  “How do you find that out?” asked Markham.

  “The way we always do. It’s wonderful when you suddenly get an idea and solve a case with a flash of brilliance. But most of the time you solve it with plain, solid, patient police work. And that’s what we’re going to have to do here.”

  Fred had opened the carriage door, and Wyatt helped Verna in. “Good-bye, my dear,” he said. “Thank you for your help. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “You’re very welcome,” she said. “Not that I was all that helpful. And good luck!”

  8

  The Coachman

  Andrew and Markham were in the garden when Sara came home from school—Markham sitting on a bench and Andrew pacing impatiently up and down.

  “Where have you been?” Andrew asked, frowning.

  “You know where. At school.”

  “Well, you’re home late.”

  “I am not. If anything, I’m early. I slipped out a few minutes before music was over. But what’s the rush?”

  “I don’t know,” said Markham. “He’s been like this ever since we got home.”

  “Oh?” said Sara. She looked at Andrew. “What happened with Coral Lumden? Did you find her, talk to her?”

  “Tell her,” said Andrew, and Markham did, recounting everything that had happened during their visit to the Holborn boardinghouse.

  “But that’s good,” said Sara. “Isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so,” said Andrew. “That part anyway.”

  “What do you mean by that part? Did you think she was going to tell you everything you wanted to know? Or are you upset because it’s out of your hands now? Because Peter and Scotland Yard have taken over and there’s nothing more you can do.”

  “Of course not,” said Andrew, a little uncomfortably because there was some truth in what she said. “I am a little disappointed that she couldn’t tell us more than she did. But there’s something else. I’m worried about Mrs. Vickery.”

  “Why? Where is she?”

  “We don’t know,” said Markham. “We wanted to tell her what had happened when we got home, but Matson said she’d gone out—he didn’t know where.”

  “Does your mother know?” Sara asked Andrew.

  “I don’t think so. She didn’t come home with us. We dropped her off at Harrison’s office.”

  “Well, what if Mrs. Vickery did go out?” Sara said. “There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

  “It depends on where she went.”

  “I thought you didn’t know where.”

  “I don’t, but I’ve got some ideas about it.”

  “Well, if you’re worried and upset,” Sara said, looking at him thoughtfully, “she’s even more worried and more upset—not just about her boy, but about her husband, too.”

  “Go on,” said Andrew encouragingly.

  “There’s nothing more she can do about finding the boy—not at the moment—and anyway that’s what the police are trying to do. But there might be something she can do about finding her husband.”

  “What’s that?” asked Markham who had been following the exchange with interest.

  “Well, there are several odd things in this whole matter of her husband. But one of the oddest is that a grown man has disappeared and no one knows anything
about it.”

  “In other words, you think she went to the Rumanian embassy again,” said Markham.

  “It’s what I’d do if he were my husband,” said Sara.

  “Is that what you think too?” Markham asked Andrew.

  “Yes.”

  “But why should that worry you?”

  “If the people there were lying—and I’m sure they were—how do you think they’ll feel if she presses them, accuses them of lying?”

  “Oh,” said Markham, getting up. “What are we waiting for?”

  “We were waiting for Sara.”

  “Well, I’m here now,” said Sara, dropping her bag of school books on the bench. “Do you know where the embassy is?”

  “No,” said Andrew as they started up the street toward Wellington Road. “I thought we’d stop off at the post office and look it up in the directory.”

  Since Mrs. Vickery had been there before, she knew where the embassy was—on Court Street, near Eccleston, in Belgravia—but that was not of much help to her. The footman who let her in turned her over to the very imposing person in knee breeches and a velvet coat who wore a large seal on a silver chain around his neck, the embassy majordomo, or steward. She remembered him from her last visit, and he apparently remembered her, for he bowed to her very politely.

  “Good afternoon, madam,” he said.

  “Good afternoon. I am Mrs. George Vickery.” She gave him her card. “I would like to see the ambassador.”

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Vickery. When you were last here I told you that the ambassador was ill and could see no one. I am afraid he is no better and so is still unavailable.”

  “Oh. Whom did I see then?”

  “Colonel Katarov, the first secretary.”

  “That’s right. I was too upset to remember his name. Could I see him?”

  “I am afraid he is not here at the moment. If you will tell me where you can be reached, the colonel will get in touch with you and make an appointment to see you as soon as he can.”

  Mrs. Vickery shook her head stubbornly. “I’m sorry. I must see him today. I’ll wait.”

  “But, madam.…”

  “I said I must see him! May I wait?”

  “He may not return for some time, but … of course, madam. Will you come this way?”