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

by Robert Newman

  He led her to a small anteroom, seated her in a straight-backed chair, bowed, and left her. An hour went by. There was a good deal of coming and going; she heard the front door open and close several times, but apparently the first secretary had not returned for the steward did not come to get her.

  The three young people stood in front of the Court Street Hotel, a small hotel next to a pub, and looked at the four-story marble-and-limestone building across the street. A wrought-iron fence surrounded the area way; there was a bronze plaque with a seal on it next to the door and a flag over it.

  “Is that it?” asked Markham.

  “It must be,” said Andrew. “The number’s right.”

  “Of course it is,” said Sara. “The question is, who goes in?”

  “Couldn’t we all go in?” asked Markham.

  “I suppose we could,” said Andrew. “But it would seem a little odd, as if we were a delegation.”

  “I don’t see anything wrong with that,” said Sara. “In a way, we are a delegation, and—” She broke off as Andrew stiffened. A brougham with yellow wheels and a crest on the door had come up the street and stopped in front of the embassy door. Putting his hand in his pocket, Andrew pulled out some coins and apparently, in his haste, dropped several.

  “Help me pick them up, Markham,” he said urgently, turning his back to the street and bending down. “Sara, move over and stand in front of us.”

  Markham glanced at Andrew, at the carriage, then going pale, he bent over also and began helping to pick up the coins. Sara, moving over so that she was standing between them and the carriage, turned and watched as the coachman, a thin-faced man in a uniform and a top hat with a cockade on the side, jumped down off the box and opened the carriage door.

  “Is it the coachman?” she asked under her breath.

  “Yes,” said Andrew, still bending down. “He’s the one that drove the coach that the Vickery boy was taken away in. What’s he doing?”

  “The man who just got out is talking to him. Now the coachman is touching his hat and getting back onto the box. His passenger’s going into the embassy. The embassy people must know him because they’re bowing. Now the coachman’s shaking the reins, and the carriage is going up the street.”

  “Do you think he has anything to do with the embassy?” asked Markham. He and Andrew had both stood up as the carriage moved off and were watching as it approached Eccleston Street.

  “It’s possible,” said Andrew as it turned the corner. “There’s one way to find out. Sara.…” He didn’t have to finish the sentence.

  “I’m off,” she said, hurrying down the street in the opposite direction from the coach. She turned left at the corner, walked to the mews that ran behind the row of houses, and stood there, looking up the narrow, cobbled alley. Sure enough, the carriage came into the mews from the other end, drove up some forty or fifty feet, then turned into a stable. She waited until the coachman had closed the stable doors, then walked through the mews, counting the stables. The coachman had gone into the fourth one from Eccleston Street. She went back to Court Street by way of Eccleston, counting the houses. The embassy was the fourth building.

  “He went into the embassy stable,” she announced to Andrew and Markham, who were waiting where she had left them.

  “Oh, well done!” said Markham. “That means he has something to do with the embassy. He’s probably their coachman.”

  “Yes,” said Andrew.

  “What do we do now?”

  “See if Mrs. Vickery’s there. And if she is, go to the Yard and report,” said Andrew.

  “I’ll go,” said Sara. Then, as Andrew hesitated, “Don’t be dim. It’s got to be me in case the coachman is around somewhere. After all, he knows the two of you.”

  “That’s true,” said Andrew. “All right, go ahead. But if you’re not out in five minutes, we’re coming in after you.”

  Sara walked across to the embassy and used the knocker. A footman in knee breeches and a clawhammer coat opened the door and looked at her with some surprise.

  “Good afternoon,” said Sara. “I’m looking for Mrs. Vickery. Is she here?”

  The footman looked at an older man with closely cropped white hair who wore a seal on a silver chain around his neck.

  “Mrs. Vickery?” he said with a slight accent. “Yes, she is. Come this way.”

  He led her to a small anteroom where Mrs. Vickery, her eyes dark and her brow furrowed, sat stiffly in a straight-backed chair.

  “Why, Sara,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you.”

  “How did you know where I was?”

  “Guessed it. Andrew and Christopher Markham are outside. We’d like you to come with us.”

  “I can’t, Sara. I’m waiting to see the first secretary. I’ve got to see him to find out whether he has any word about my husband.”

  “I know. But it’s important that you come with us.” She jerked her head slightly, indicating that she couldn’t talk in front of the white-haired steward, who stood behind her, waiting.

  In spite of her distress, Mrs. Vickery understood.

  “I see. In that case, of course I’ll come.” She rose. “Will you tell the first secretary that I was here and that I will be coming back again, probably tomorrow?” she said to the steward.

  “I will, madam,” he said, bowing.

  It was shortly before this that Wyatt got the first results from his police work. There was a knock on the door of his Scotland Yard office, and Tucker, the large and deceptively quiet sergeant who had worked with him since he became an inspector, opened it, spoke to whoever was out in the corridor, and came back in.

  “It’s Rickett,” he said.

  “Oh, yes.” Rickett was a young constable who had just been assigned to the Detective Division. Wyatt glanced at the schedule on his desk. “He was covering Padding-ton, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir. With Walker and Flynn.”

  “Send him in.”

  “He’s got two men with him, sir.”

  Wyatt sat up even straighter.

  “Then by all means send him in.”

  Tucker opened the door again, and Rickett came in, followed by two men who wore battered billycock hats and could not have been more obviously cabdrivers unless they had carried whips. One was short and red-haired and looked like a wise old fox. The other was tall and as lugubrious-looking as a bloodhound.

  “Sir!” said Rickett, saluting.

  “Hello, Rickett,” said Wyatt. “What’s the good word?”

  “Well, it’s not quite as good as I’d like it to be, sir. But it’s something. I don’t know if you remember what my assignment was.”

  “To cover Paddington, see if you could find anyone who had seen the three people we were interested in.”

  “Right, sir. I’ve got two men who did.”

  “Two?”

  “Yes, sir. I suggest you start with Burke here.” He indicated the shorter, red-haired man.

  “Full name?” asked Tucker, who had seated himself and opened his notebook.

  “Nappy Burke. Christened Napoleon, but Nappy’s what they calls me. Now I understands you’re interested in Zack Macy, guv’ner,” he said to Wyatt. “Is that right?”

  “I don’t know,” said Wyatt. “Who’s Zack Macy?”

  “Well, that’s what the orficer told me. Said you wanted information about a party—a woman carrying a child and two men—who came off the Bristol and Bath train at a little after seven two days ago.”

  “We do,” said Wyatt. “You saw them?”

  “Why else would I be here?”

  “To make sure there’s no mistake, would you describe them?”

  “The woman was a nanny. At least, she was wearing a nanny’s duds. She was carrying the child.”

  “How old?”

  “Oh, I’d say three or four years old. A boy. He was asleep.”

  “And the others?”

  “One of them was a to
ff—little beard, checked suit, and a soft hat. The other was Zack.”

  “Would you describe him, too?”

  “Still not sure, eh? Right, he’s kind of mean and ratty looking—narrow face and dark eyes. And he was dressed like he usually is when he’s not working—brown bowler, cord jacket and breeches, and Newmarket boots.”

  “Yes,” said Wyatt, letting his breath out with a sigh. “What can you tell us about him?”

  “Old Zack? I can tell you plenty. Used to be a jockey, steeplechase as well as flat racing. Used to be pretty good, too, till he got barred from the tracks.”

  “Why was he barred?”

  “Lots of reasons—riding off, interfering with other horses, roughing up other jockeys. But mostly for throwing races.”

  “Ah? Then what?”

  “Became a cabby for a while. That’s when I knew him. Then he got sent up for robbery and assault and lost his cabman’s license. He dropped out of sight for a while, and the next I heard he was swanking around and saying he had a cushy job as a coachman.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “All right. They got off the Bristol train—Zack, the other man, and the nurse carrying the child—then what?”

  “I was first on the cab rank. They came out with Zack leading. He takes one look at me, walks by me, and takes the next cab in the line, the one behind me.”

  “In other words, he knew you, knew you knew him, and didn’t want you to know where he was going.”

  “That’s what I’d suss.”

  “All right. They got into the next cab. Who was driving it?”

  “Moseby, sir,” said Rickett, indicating the other cab-driver. “That’s why I brought him.”

  “Full name?” asked Tucker.

  “What? Oh, ’Orace. But mostly they just calls me Mose.”

  “Right,” said Wyatt. “Do you remember the party that Burke, here, has been talking about?”

  “Well, yus. I didn’t at first. But then, when Burke reminded me about it, I did.”

  “And do you remember where you took them?”

  “I do. Sackville Hotel on Sackville Street.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Sure as herring’s fish—because there was something very rum about it.”

  “What was that?”

  “I pulls up in front of the hotel. They gets out. The toff pays me, gives me a tanner tip. Then, ’stead of going into the hotel, they gets into another cab and goes off again.”

  Wyatt whistled softly. “It sounds as if they wanted to make absolutely sure no one knew where they were going.”

  “Of course,” said Nappy Burke. “He’s a wido cove, that Zack Macy.”

  “He seems to be. Well, thank you both for coming in. If either of you see Macy again—or if you even get a clue as to where we can find them—let us know.”

  The cabmen assured him that they would do that and left.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Rickett, who had remained behind. “I know you hoped for more than we got, but I thought I’d better bring them in and let you talk to them just the same.”

  “Of course. It wasn’t your fault that we ended up out of the money. And I guess it was too much to expect that we’d pick up the trail this quickly.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Rickett. He opened the door, started to go out, and hesitated. “There are some people out here, sir. I think they want you.”

  “See who they are, will you, Tucker?”

  Tucker went to the door.

  “It’s our two young friends, a friend of theirs, and a lady, sir.”

  “Oh? Well, have them come in. This is a bit of a surprise,” Wyatt said as he introduced Tucker to Mrs. Vickery and Markham. “Though I shouldn’t be surprised at anything you two do,” he said to Andrew and Sara.

  “I hope you don’t mind, sir,” said Andrew, “but we found out something we thought would interest you.”

  “Well, we’re in the market for it—though we did come up with a little something ourselves.”

  “What was that?” asked Sara.

  “We’ve identified the coachman who drove the carriage that took your son to Bath, Mrs. Vickery. His name is Zachariah Macy. He’s an ex-jockey and ex-cabdriver with a criminal record. We traced him to Paddington. Unfortunately we haven’t been able to pick up his trail after that.”

  “Well, we did,” said Sara. “That’s why we’re here.”

  Wyatt stiffened.

  “Let’s hear it,” he said. He listened intently to their report. “I said I shouldn’t be surprised at anything you two came up with, but I must say you seem to have outdone yourselves.”

  “Hear, hear!” said Tucker.

  9

  The Embassy

  “I was rather busy after you left the Yard yesterday,” Wyatt said at breakfast the next morning. “But I was able to make some arrangements I thought necessary, and I’m sure you can guess what our next move will be.”

  “You’re going to the embassy,” said Sara.

  “I am. I’m meeting Tucker in front of the Court Street Hotel in half an hour. But before I go, I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Vickery.”

  “Of course. Anything!”

  “We’ve checked with the Post Office and, unlike the telegram from the London solicitor, which was false, the telegram that you received from Bucharest about your husband was actually sent from there. However, I’d like to know a little more about this man named Vadja who sent it. First of all, what’s his last name?”

  “I don’t know. Whenever my husband mentioned him, he’d just call him Vadja. I mean, he’d say, ‘I just got a letter from Vadja, and I have to meet him in Paris or Berlin or Vienna.’”

  “And you’re sure he’s connected with the family business?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Well, whenever the matter of money came up—whenever we needed a large sum for something like the house in Somerset—George would say, ‘I’ll write to Vadja and see what we can do about it.’”

  “But it was clear that it was your husband who was in charge and not Vadja.”

  “Yes, definitely.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that there might not be a Vadja? That he might be a convenient fiction to allow your husband to go to the Continent and meet someone else?”

  “You mean another woman? Of course it occurred to me. At least, I thought about it, wondered about it. But I’m sure—absolutely sure—that it’s not true. If a woman’s really honest with herself, I think she always knows when a man is being unfaithful to her. And I’m sure that George wasn’t. That he loved me and no one but me.”

  “Very well. I’m sorry, but I had to ask that. One last question. Were those letters from Vadja always routine or did they sometimes disturb your husband?”

  “It’s interesting that you should ask that. I’ve been thinking about it, and … well, in the beginning they were more or less routine. George would just shrug and smile when he got one. But lately he did seem to find them more and more disturbing.”

  “I see. Well, thank you, Mrs. Vickery,” he said, getting up. “I’m off now.”

  Andrew exchanged a quick glance with Markham.

  “Can we come too, sir?” he said. “I mean Markham and me. Sara has to go to school.”

  “Why?” said Wyatt, frowning.

  “Well, of course, we’d like to. But the chief reason is that I think we might be useful.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t know what you plan to do or say when you go into the embassy. And we’re not asking to be allowed to go in there with you—that would be ridiculous. But I suspect you’re going to ask about Macy. Well, if he gets scared and runs, wouldn’t it be a good idea to have someone outside who knows him and can follow him?”

  “What do you think the arrangements I talked about consisted of?”

  “I was fairly sure that that’s wha
t you meant. But the fact is that Markham and I do know him, while anyone else you station around there would only have a description to go on.”

  “That’s true. I don’t like the idea of your following him—even trying to follow him—at least, alone. But.…” He glanced at Verna and saw that she was willing to leave the decision to him. “All right. I know what we can do about it. Come along.”

  Wyatt and Tucker walked up Court Street and paused in front of the building.

  “Rumania,” said Tucker, looking at the bronze plaque next to the door. “Where’s that when it’s at home?”

  “On the Black Sea. One of the Balkans.”

  “Oh,” said Tucker as if that were just another way of saying trouble. “One of those, eh?”

  “Yes,” said Wyatt, going up the three low steps. “One of those.”

  He rapped sharply with the polished brass knocker, and the door was opened almost immediately. He nodded to the footman who had opened the door, glanced at the white-haired man who stood in the center of the entrance hall facing him. A steward, he thought. Or perhaps a majordomo, if there still are such things.

  “Good morning, sir,” said the man, bowing slightly. “How may I help you?” He had a deep, pleasant voice and only a trace of an accent.

  “Good morning. I’d like to see the ambassador.”

  “I regret, but that is impossible. The ambassador, Count Rozarin, is ill.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Who is in charge, then?”

  “Colonel Katarov, the first secretary.”

  “I would like to see him, then.”

  “Of course.” He had been studying Wyatt and it was clear that if he had not liked what he saw, he would not have said of course. “May I have your name?”

  “Inspector Peter Wyatt of the London Metropolitan Police.” He held out his warrant card as identification. “And this is Sergeant Tucker.”

  The majordomo glanced at Tucker, at the card, and returned it.

  “If you will wait a moment, sir, I will speak to the colonel.”

  He crossed the entrance hall, knocked at the door of a room just off it, and went in. Wyatt and Tucker looked around—at the marble floor, the crystal chandelier overhead, and the staircase just ahead of them that curved gracefully as it ascended.