7

The African Stars

They were having lunch the next day—Sara, Andrew and Wyatt—sitting at a corner table in the Brevoort dining room when Inspector Decker appeared at the entrance, looked around and then came over.

“I thought I might find you here,” he said.

“One usually can,” said Wyatt. “Join us?”

“I’ve had lunch, but I’ll have some coffee,” said Decker, sitting.

Wyatt signalled their waiter, ordered a café filtre, then said, “All right. Tell us.”

“Tell you what?”

“I don’t know, but you seem pleased about something.”

“Pleased? Well, after the way things have been going with me it’s made me feel a little better to learn that Scotland Yard isn’t infallible.”

Wyatt sighed. “Et tu, Brute?”

“Who else has kidded you about it?”

“Sara and Andrew are the only two other members of the genus homo sapiens that I’ve talked to so far this morning. And while as loyal and law-abiding Britons they did not, as you put it, kid me about it, they gave me the New York Times with as much interest as reticence and distress.”

“You’ve seen it then?”

“The Times? Yes, of course.”

“How much of the story is true?”

“The Times is your paper, not ours.”

“I know. And it’s usually quite accurate. But I couldn’t help wondering. For instance—” he took the paper out of his jacket pocket, opened it to the story that was captioned Lloyd’s Settles Jewel Robbery Claim— “it says here that it was one of the largest settlements they ever made. True?”

“Lloyd’s has an office here. I imagine the Times checked with them.”

“Probably. They paid out a hundred thousand pounds. That’s about five hundred thousand bucks, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“What I don’t get is why Lloyd’s is so nasty about the Yard. I mean, things get stolen and sometimes you get the thief and sometimes you don’t. If you don’t, the insurance company pays up. But they seemed to imply that the Yard had a special responsibility here.”

“We did have. Because we were supposed to be watching the jewels at the time that they were stolen.”

“How come?”

“It’s a complicated story.”

He glanced at Sara and Andrew as if asking permission to go over it again and they nodded, glad he was going to. For, when they had first read about it, it occurred to them that it was exactly the kind of case Wyatt might be involved in. Except, as Andrew had pointed out, it seemed to be all over since Lloyd’s was paying up. And besides, neither of them could see how it could have brought Wyatt to New York.

“Do you know who Sir Harry Bachofer is?” Wyatt asked.

“Of course,” said Decker. “He’s the South African who owned the African Stars, the diamonds that were stolen, and is, I gather, rich.”

“Yes. Except that you left out an adjective, the one that modifies rich. We usually say filthy.”

“As in filthy rich? I thought that was understood. Even an averagely rich man doesn’t ordinarily own three diamonds like that. Where did he get them, by the way?”

“From a mine that he found, developed and later sold. That, of course, is how he became so rich.”

“And the Sir bit? How did he get to be a lord?”

“He’s not a lord. He moved to London and a year or so after that he was knighted for ‘services to the Crown.’”

“In the US that would mean he’d made a hefty contribution to the right political party.”

“I’m afraid the same thing is true in England.”

“How about the rest of the story—how the Yard got involved?”

“In gratitude for having been knighted, he gave the diamonds to the Crown. Not right away—they were to go to Her Majesty on her birthday. But since they were going to be Crown property, when Sir Harry and Lady Bachofer took the Stars to Italy to wear at the wedding of the Princess of Piedmont, Scotland Yard sent along a man to keep an eye on them.”

“And is that where they were stolen, in Italy?”

“We don’t know. The sergeant, a very reliable man, carried the diamonds from London, gave them to Lady Bachofer himself, accompanied her and Sir Harry to the wedding and the reception that followed, was given the diamonds afterwards by Sir Harry’s valet and returned with them to London where they were put in a bank vault. The loss was only discovered a month later when Lady Bachofer decided to wear them one last time before they went to the Crown. The bank manager himself brought them to her. When the case was opened, it was found to contain a paste copy of the Stars—such a good copy that only an expert would have known it, but a copy all the same.”

Decker whistled. “So there’s no telling when they were stolen. You say the sergeant was a very reliable man. Did anyone else get near them?”

“Only Sir Harry’s valet, who took them from Lady Bachofer and gave them to the sergeant. And if we thought the seregant was reliable, Sir Harry swore by the valet. He’d only been with him a year, but he’d been valet to the Duke of Denham for fourteen years before that. Naturally we talked to him and he told a very straight story. The poor fellow was so upset at what had happened that, shortly after he left the Yard, he walked in front of an omnibus, was run down and killed.”

“Rough luck.”

“Yes. And that, I think, is enough of that. Anything new on your case?”

“The missing file? No. That’s why I selfishly said I was glad to hear that you people don’t always come through. I’ve gotten absolutely nowhere with it—no new leads, nothing. I’m about ready to give up.”

“There are cases like that—more than the public realizes. On the other hand—” He broke off as their waiter came to the table with a yellow envelope in his hand.

“A telegram for you, sir,” he said.

“Oh, thank you.” Wyatt ripped open the envelope, took out the message and read it. “Well, this in interesting.”

“What is it?” asked Decker.

“It’s from Daniel Cady.”

“Dandy Dan?”

“Yes. And it says, ‘Urgent that I see you as soon as possible. Let me know where and when by return message.’”

“Well, well. Do you know what it’s about?”

“I think so.”

“Will you see him?” asked Sara.

“I suppose I should. And since he says it’s urgent, I’m afraid we’ll have to put off our trip to the Statue of Liberty,” he said to the two young people.

“That’s all right,” said Andrew.

Wyatt beckoned to the Western Union messenger, a boy of about fourteen, who was waiting just outside the dining room. “Do you have a reply form?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” said the boy, taking a pad and pencil out of his pocket.

Wyatt thought a minute, wrote a note on the yellow form, folded it and gave it to him.

“What’s the charge on that?” he asked.

“No charge,” said the boy. “The sender will pay.” Then when Wyatt tipped him. “Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you very much.” And saluting, he hurried out of the dining room.

“When did you make it for?” asked Sara.

“An hour from now. Two thirty.”

“He couldn’t ask for anything sooner than that,” said Decker, getting up. “I’ll, run along. I’m assuming you’ll let me know if it’s anything I should know.”

“Of course,” said Wyatt.

Cady must have been fairly close by and as anxious to see Wyatt as the telegram suggested, for at exactly two thirty, there was a knock at the door of Wyatt’s room, and when he opened it, Cady came in, followed by his unobtrusive companion, Biggs.

“Afternoon, Inspector,” he said. “It was good of you to—” He paused, staring at Sara and Andrew.

“You met my young friends, Sara Wiggins and Andrew Tillett, didn’t you?”

“Yes, at Guido’s. I’m a little surprised to find them here.”

“Well, we are friends. And we had a date. We were going out to the Statue of Liberty. Have you ever been there?”

“No. Somehow New Yorkers never get around to seeing any of the sights tourists do. Well, I don’t suppose it matters. I thought we should have a little talk.”

“‘The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things.’”

“What?”

“It’s from Alice in Wonderland,” said Biggs. “A children’s book by a chap named Lewis Carroll.”

“It’s true that it’s generally considered a children’s book,” said Wyatt. “But I’ve found that the older I get, the more I get out of it.”

“I’m not much of a reader so I wouldn’t know about that,” said Cady. “All right if I sit down?”

“Please do.”

“Thanks.” Adjusting the crease in his trousers, he seated himself near the window. “I’m sure you know why I wanted to see you.”

“Why should I know that?”

“I just think you do. Didn’t you have a visitor the other day who talked to you about me?”

“Who was that?”

“I must say you play it pretty close to your vest,” said Cady, smiling. “But that’s all right. I’m talking about Al Manion.”

“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.”