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

by Robert Newman

“Quite a place,” said Tucker approvingly. “Balkan or not.”

  Wyatt nodded. The majordomo came out of the room to their left.

  “Will you come this way, gentlemen?” he said. “The colonel will see you.”

  He stood aside to let them in. It was a large room with books on two walls and looked more like a library or a study than an office. There were two men in it. The man sitting behind the desk had white hair, which he wore rather long and brushed straight back. He was a distinguished-looking man and could have been taken for a scholar if his eyes had been less cold and hard.

  “Good morning, inspector,” he said, getting up and offering Wyatt his hand. “I am Colonel Katarov and this is Captain Benesh.”

  Wyatt and Benesh nodded to one another. Benesh was shorter than Katarov, clean-shaven, stocky, and powerful looking with the carriage of a soldier.

  “And this is Sergeant Tucker,” said Wyatt. The colonel and the captain both nodded coolly. “I was very sorry to hear that the ambassador was not well. Has he been ill for very long?”

  “For about two weeks now,” said the colonel.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “One of the malarial fevers. Like me, he was a military man before he became a diplomat. But I do not think you came here to commiserate with us about his excellency’s health. That would be more in the province of your Foreign Office, would it not?”

  “It would. I have actually come to see if you could give me some information about an Englishman named George Vickery who seems to have disappeared in Bucharest about ten days ago.”

  “Vickery,” said the first secretary. “It sounds familiar.”

  “Mrs. Vickery, his wife, came here about five days ago,” said Benesh. “She claimed she had received a telegram saying that something had happened to her husband in Bucharest.”

  “She was here again yesterday,” said Wyatt. “But why do you say she claimed she had received a telegram? Didn’t she show it to you?”

  “As a matter of fact, she did. But we questioned our telegraph people in Bucharest, and they had no record of it, knew nothing about it.”

  “Well, I queried our people at the Post Office here, and they gave me a copy of the telegram, which they say was unquestionably sent from Bucharest and came by way of Paris. Here is it.” And he gave the first secretary the telegram.

  “I see. Yes,” said the first secretary examining it. Then, looking up, “May I ask why you are so interested in this man, Inspector? Is he of some particular importance?”

  “How long have you been here in England, Colonel?” Wyatt asked rather coldly.

  “Four years. Why?”

  “If you have been here for any time at all, you should know that every Englishman is important to us—whoever he is and no matter where he may be.”

  “Well, of course, we did look into the matter immediately after Mrs. Vickery was here, but Bucharest said that they knew nothing about such a man.”

  “Aren’t foreigners required to produce their passports when they arrive at a hotel in Rumania?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, were the hotels of Bucharest queried to see where Vickery was staying?”

  “I don’t know. We will inquire.”

  “May I point out that it is over a week now since Mrs. Vickery was first here? And that, as I said before, she was here again yesterday?”

  “Yes, yes. It has all been very unfortunate. But I can assure you that we will now give the matter our earnest attention. In fact, Captain Benesh will give it his personal attention.”

  “Yes, I will,” said Benesh.

  “Good. Because if there is no definite word about Vickery by tomorrow, I shall take the matter up with our Foreign Office.”

  “I have assured you that we will do our best,” said Katarov stiffly. “Now was there something else?”

  “Yes. You have a coachman here named Macy—Zachariah Macy?”

  “Yes, we do have a coachman,” said Katarov slowly. “Is his name Macy?” he asked Benesh.

  “I believe it is,” said Benesh.

  “Could I talk to him?”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Yes. I believe he can give me some information that might help me on another case. I’d like to ask him a few questions.”

  “Well, naturally we—and of course he—will be delighted to help you in any way we can. Will you get this Macy fellow for the inspector, Captain?”

  “Of course, Colonel. Immediately.” And he left the room.

  “You said the ambassador has been ill for about two weeks now?” said Wyatt.

  “About that long.”

  “Has a doctor seen him?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  I thought if you didn’t have a doctor you call on regularly, I might recommend one—someone who is familiar with military and tropical diseases.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but of course we do have our own doctor, someone who has been taking care of all of us for some time now.”

  “I see.”

  Wyatt made no attempt at further conversation but merely stood there, looking at Katarov and around the room, and Tucker did the same. Katarov folded his hands and sat there quietly, waiting. Finally the door opened and Benesh came in.

  “I’m very sorry, Inspector,” he said. “But Macy does not appear to be here.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you have any idea when he’ll be back?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Too bad.” He took out a card and a pencil and wrote something on the back of the card. “Will you give him this when he gets back and tell him that I must see him as soon as possible? I’m sure he knows where Scotland Yard is.”

  “I’m sure he does, too,” said Benesh, taking the card. “I’ll see that he gets this.”

  “Good. Thank you very much for the time you’ve given us, Colonel,” he said to Katarov. “I’ll be back tomorrow to see what information you have for me about George Vickery.”

  “What? Oh, yes.”

  Benesh opened the door for them, and they went out. As they reached the entrance hall, an elderly woman in what looked like a nurse’s uniform came out of a door that led to the rear of the embassy. She carried a tray on which there was a bowl of soup and some thin slices of toast.

  “The ambassador’s lunch?” said Tucker casually.

  “What? Yes, I imagine it is,” said Benesh.

  “Doesn’t have much of an appetite, does he?”

  “One doesn’t when one has been running a fever. Goodbye, Inspector. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  The majordomo bowed to Wyatt and Tucker, a footman opened the door, and they went out into Court Street.

  “Captain Benesh,” said Tucker. “If I was a betting man, I’d give you six quid to a cracked egg that that was Mr. Benson.”

  “He certainly fit the description we got from Coral Lumden.”

  “What about Zack Macy? Do you think he was there?”

  “It would be interesting to know. And even more interesting to see what happens when he hears we want to talk to him. Who’s watching the back of the embassy?”

  “Rickett. And of course young Andrew, Markham, and good old Fred.”

  “I see you’ve got Learning here,” he said, nodding to a uniformed constable who was leaning against a pillar-box and making no attempt to conceal the fact that he was watching the embassy.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. The Running Footman won’t be open yet,” he said, nodding to the pub that was just up the street, “but we can have some coffee in the lounge of the hotel.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Tucker. “I told all concerned that we’d be in one place or the other.”

  They took a window table that allowed them to look out at the street and ordered coffee and scones. Tucker had finished his second cup of coffee and his third scone when Wyatt, who was facing the embassy, said, “Don’t turn around, but someone just came out
of the embassy and is walking this way. I know him, but I can’t place him. See if you can.”

  “Tell me when he’s opposite us.”

  “Now,” said Wyatt a moment later.

  Tucker turned slightly and looked at the man who was coming down Court Street—a slight, pale man in a dark suit that didn’t fit too well and a rather battered bowler. He was nondescript and looked like a poorly paid clerk. The only thing about him that was at all unusual was the fact that he walked with a decided limp.

  “I know him, too,” said Tucker. “He’s done something to make himself look different, but … of course! It’s Stub Pollard!”

  “The cat burglar?”

  “The king of them until he broke his leg and had to give it up. He’s shaved off his mustache, lost some weight, and isn’t dressed as flash as he used to be. But it’s Pollard all right.”

  “I wonder where he’s going.”

  “Shall I tell Learning to follow him?”

  “No. He came out of the embassy and I suspect he may go back there. In fact, this may turn out to be very interesting.”

  It was about fifteen minutes after this that Rickett, walking back and forth in the mews behind the embassy, heard a carriage approaching and stepped into a doorway to let it go past. When it appeared, it turned out to be not a carriage but a growler, or four-wheeled cab. He moved closer to it when it stopped opposite the rear entrance of the embassy. His job was to follow anyone who left the embassy, not keep them from entering, but he felt he should look at anyone who was going in.

  The man who got out of the four-wheeler was slight and rather ordinary looking, but then if he were anyone of importance he would have gone to the embassy’s front entrance. He paid the cabdriver, and as he started into the rear service door, Rickett noticed that he walked with a limp. He also noticed that the man had left the door of the four-wheeler open. He was about to whistle to call this to the cabby’s attention when there were running footsteps; a crouching figure ran out of the embassy’s rear entrance and jumped into the four-wheeler. The door slammed, the cabdriver cracked his whip, and the cab started out of the mews.

  “Hoy there! Wait! Stop!” shouted Rickett, running after it. But the growler didn’t stop. In fact, it went even faster as the cabman cracked his whip again. And just as it reached the end of the mews and turned right toward Belgrave Road, the man who had jumped in, looked out of the small back window, grinning.

  For the last half hour, the Tillett brougham had been standing outside one of the neat brick houses on Eccleston Street, which crossed Court Street. Fred, the Tillett coachman, was standing next to it with his back to the mews when the four-wheeler drove into it. He didn’t turn around, but he didn’t have to, for he had carefully stopped the carriage so that he could see the mews reflected in the brougham’s side lamp.

  Spitting on the cloth in his hand, he bent down and continued polishing the already gleaming door panel.

  “Growler in the mews,” he said quietly.

  “I see it,” said Andrew, kneeling next to Markham in the back of the carriage.

  “Well, keep your head down,” said Fred, who enjoyed this sort of thing as much as he would riding a Derby winner. Then, in the distance a door slammed, a cabby cracked his whip, and the growler came out of the mews toward them. “Well?”

  “Yes!” said Andrew as the four-wheeler turned a sharp right past them and he caught a glimpse of the man in the back. “It’s Macy! After him!”

  Without seeming to hurry, Fred climbed onto the box, untied the reins, and sent the pair of bays trotting smartly after the cab. He kept his distance, even dropped back a little as the four-wheeler bowled down Belgrave Road and only closed in on it a bit as it turned left at Vauxhall Bridge, following the Thames by way of Milbank and the Victoria Embankment.

  “Can’t he go any faster?” asked Markham, who was now sitting on the edge of the brougham’s rear seat, trying to peer out of the window.

  “Afraid he’ll get away?” asked Andrew.

  “A little.”

  “Well, don’t be. There’s no better coachman in London than Fred.”

  “Just in London?” said Fred, guiding the horses around an omnibus and cutting in front of a hansom.

  “I didn’t want to say the best in England because I know how modest you are. Any idea where he’s going?”

  “Way east. Maybe as far as Limehouse.”

  It was a good guess. With the brougham following, the four-wheeler went past the Tower, turned into the world of warehouses and sheds that surrounded St. Katherine’s Docks and came out on Wapping High Street just before the river turned south again at Limehouse Beach.

  “I think he’s stopping,” said Fred, pulling up a little and dropping behind a huge brewer’s dray.

  Again his instincts were correct. The growler drew up in front of The Eight Bells, a riverside pub, and Macy got out.

  Paying the cabby and giving him an even larger tip than he’d promised, Macy went into the pub. He knew the landlord, who fenced goods on the side, and a short while later Macy was taking off his coat and stretching out on the bed in the not-too-clean room over the pub.

  “All right, me boyos, time!” called the landlord, rapping on the bar with a bung starter.

  Protesting from sheer force of habit, Macy pushed his glass away. He’d had more than enough to drink long before closing time, and he knew it. But that hadn’t stopped him. That, of course, had always been one of his problems. Whenever he started drinking, he found it very difficult to stop.

  He staggered a little as he got to his feet and blinked in surprise as someone took his arm, steadying him and saying, “Easy, me old brown son.”

  “Oh, it’s you, Stub. What are you doing here?”

  “Came to see you, Zack,” said Pollard. “Make sure you were all right.”

  “Oh, I’m right as rain, Stub, and even wetter.”

  “I can see that, Zack. How about a little fresh air? Might make you feel better.”

  “I wouldn’t mind that, Stub. Not at all.”

  Waving to the landlord, he went out of the pub with Pollard still holding his arm.

  “Which way?” he asked when they were standing in the cobbled street.

  “How about the river? I always like the river at night.”

  “The river it is,” said Macy, stumbling a little as he led the way down toward the docks. “That was a right slippy bit of work, getting me away like that. Right slippy.”

  “I’ll tell the captain that. He’ll be pleased. He’s been worried about you.”

  “Worried?”

  “Yes. He didn’t like it that them Scotland Yard rozzers has been coming around asking for you.”

  “Not afraid that I’ll talk, is he?”

  “Why would he be afraid of that?”

  “I dunno, but I think he is. That’s why he fixed it with you to get me out of there. Well, if he is afraid, maybe we could do something to ease his mind.”

  “Like what?”

  “Another twenty quid and I’d leave London, go north someplace.”

  “That’s a rorty idea. But the captain had a better one.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This.”

  Pulling a knife from under his jacket, he stabbed Macy in the left side of the chest with surgical deftness. Macy stood there for a moment, frowning—as if he didn’t know what had happened to him—then his knees gave way, and he collapsed on the wet stone paving. Whistling, Pollard wiped the knife on Macy’s jacket and put it away. Picking up bricks and small loose stones, he began putting them in Macy’s pockets so his body would sink when he tipped it into the river. He was reaching for more stone when he heard the sound of slow, heavy footsteps coming along Wapping High Street. He turned and saw a bulky shape topped with a constable’s helmet silhouetted against the light from the pub. He froze, waiting. Then, as the constable heard or saw something and started down toward him, Pollard slipped away into the darkness.

  10
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br />   The Colonel Is Outraged

  The same footman opened the door when Wyatt and Tucker arrived at the embassy the next morning, and the same imposing majordomo was standing by.

  “Good morning,” said Wyatt pleasantly. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

  “It’s Branza, Inspector,” said the majordomo with a bow. “You wished to see the first secretary?”

  “If he’s here.”

  “He is, and Captain Benesh is with him. I believe they are expecting you. I will inquire.”

  He knocked at the door of the first secretary’s office, went in and, a moment later, came out indicating that Wyatt and Tucker were to go in.

  The colonel was at his desk and, as Branza had indicated, Captain Benesh was there also, leaning against one of the bookcases and smoking a long, thin cigar.

  “Good morning, Inspector,” said Katarov. “We were not sure what time you would be here, but I am afraid we have bad news for you. Or rather, no news at all—which I fear you will take as bad news.”

  “You’re talking about George Vickery?”

  “Yes. We have been in touch with the Bucharest police, and they have no record of his having arrived there, of his having registered at any hotel, or of anything having happened to him. I am afraid that the telegram Mrs. Vickery received was a hoax.”

  “That’s a little hard to understand since, as I told you, our Post Office assures us it was sent from Bucharest.”

  “I’m not saying it was not sent from there. All I am saying is that no one in Bucharest seems to know anything about George Vickery.”

  “Well, let’s forget about that for a moment. What about your coachman, Zachariah Macy?”

  “We have not forgotten that you wished to talk to him, but for some reason he has not come in yet. As soon as he does, we will of course send him to see you.”

  “I’m afraid that’s going to be rather difficult. You see, he’s dead.”

  “He’s what?”

  “Dead. He was knifed sometime last night; his body was found on a dock near the Thames.” Then, speaking very quietly and pleasantly, “When we asked for him yesterday, you said he wasn’t here, but he was.”

  “What do you mean, he was?”

  “I mean he was here when we asked for him and when Captain Benesh supposedly went looking for him.”