Chapter 27

Rose was on the couch in our room, waiting for me when I got back. She had become worried when we didn’t return. I spent the next half hour relating everything that had happened. She caught her breath loudly several times before I was done.

“How terrible,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through.”

“Thank you. You’re absolutely right. Has anyone called?”

“No, but I’ve been on the telephone almost the entire time. I learned a few things, but it isn’t the right time to discuss them.”

“Not unless you have some idea where Violet and Mr. Holmes might be.”

A knock. We both looked toward the door.

I carefully moved closer. “Yes.”

“Mr. Wiggins?” a voice said in a gasp.

“Who are you?”

“Simon Bertolini . . . the Croydons’ chauffeur.”

I threw caution to the winds and opened the door. A battered young man stood in the hallway.

“Come in,” I said, grabbing his arm and gently pulling him inside. “What happened to you?”

“I . . .” he said, obviously in great pain.

“Don’t talk,” Rose said, disappearing into the bathroom. Water ran. She came back with a wet towel. Without a word she gently laid it against his face.

Seconds later he pulled it away. “Thank you. That felt good.” Bertolini’s voice came out in a whistle because one of his front teeth was broken off and the words emerged over the edge of a badly swollen upper lip. His coat was missing two buttons, and he had a livid-looking knot in the center of his forehead.

With effort, he said, “I’m supposed to tell you your companions are well and safe, and that you will get instructions about what to do to get them back.”

“Can you identify the kidnappers?”

“I only saw one of them, and he told me to deliver the message or he’d kill me. Then he threw me out of the car. I’m sure they had to be going thirty miles an hour. I must have hit my head when I landed and passed out.”

“You’re lucky to still be alive.”

I took O’Neal’s card out of my pocket. “This officer is working with me. I’ll give him a call for you. He’ll want to talk to you, too.”

Officer O’Neal arrived twenty minutes later and escorted the ill-treated chauffeur from the room in a wheelchair. “I’ll talk to you first thing in the morning,” the officer said as he left.

Rose and I stood watching until the elevator arrived and the two men disappeared.

“I have something to give to you,” Rose said. “Mr. H. gave it to me and I want you to have it. You may need it.”

She left the room through the adjoining door and quickly came back carrying something her hand nearly covered. When she opened it, I recoiled at the sight of what appeared to be a human finger. “Wha-a-a-t?”

“It’s not real. It’s one of Mr. H’s escape kits.”

She pointed to a barely visible line in the middle of the right side. Using a finger nail, she separated the grim object into two pieces.

A piece of coiled wire with teeth came out first. “This is what’s called a gigli saw,” she said. “It can cut through steel bars.”

I took it from her to examine it. Even its appearance frightened me. If it could cut through steel, it could as easily cut through nearly anything else.

“You already know what these are,” she said, taking out two small lock picks. “Mr. H. said these two working together would be capable of opening just about any lock in the world.”

“Very ingenious. Did he ever use the contents of the finger?”

“Many times. The most important was when he escaped from a Siberian Wagon in Russia. They were supposed to be escape-proof and were used to transport prisoners. No one had ever even tried to escape. Mr. H. cut through the floor of the wagon with the saw and walked to the nearest town. The secret police were absolutely furious. I think some of them are still convinced he had an accomplice.”

“Why did he give the false finger to you?”

“He was worried I might need it if one of the mediums got angry enough to want to do me harm. I’ve carried it with me ever since.”

“Thank you,” I said, putting the two pieces back together. “I’m sure it’ll come in handy.”

“I’m so sorry about your wife and Mr. Holmes. You know how much I hope they are all right.”

“Absolutely. Mr. Holmes can take care of himself, and I’d be very surprised if he isn’t planning some escape this very minute. Violet must be terribly frightened, and I’m very worried about her. But she’s much stronger than she might appear at first glance.”

“I gathered that. Actually, I don’t think Becker will want to harm either of them yet. He wants to punish us, too.”

“I agree, but I know how angry Becker was with Mr. Holmes. He might very well be trying to torture him right now. It won’t do any good, though. Mr. Holmes has studied eastern religions and knows how to suppress feeling pain. Violet isn’t as lucky.”

“There’s nothing we can do until we hear from them.”

 

Unable to sleep, I sat up on the sofa until sheer exhaustion took over. I awoke with a start to the sound of the telephone.

“Hello!”

Instead of an answer I heard the click of a telephone hanging up, and a dial tone.

Becker or an underling. Undoubtedly calling from the lobby to see if we were in our rooms. I glanced at my watch. Seven o’clock.

“We have to get out of here,” I said, taking Rose by the arm. “Leave everything.”

I swallowed hard and put the false finger and picks into my left pocket, but kept the saw wrapped in bathroom tissue in my right.

Where could we go? Down the stairway? I was sure our foe would be smart enough to make certain we couldn’t leave that way, and felt certain someone was already on the way up by elevator.

My blood ran cold. Becker knew he couldn’t force us out of the hotel at gunpoint, so this would have to be a tidy execution. Fortunately for us, he didn’t realize I’d have a weapon.

Certain the stairway up would still be safe, we climbed three flights. Even so, I still opened the door to the hallway with caution.

No one about. Now the elevator seemed our best escape route. Pulse racing and short of breath, I tiptoed to the tightly closed double doors. “Against the wall,” I whispered.

With finger shaking, I pushed the summons button.

One of the pairs of elevator doors opened. Anyone within ten feet should have been able to hear my heart pound.

Rose started to take a step forward, but I restrained her. The elevator door began to close, and I jumped out to catch it.

Schmidt, dressed as a gentleman and wide-eyed in surprise, stood inside holding a gun. I ducked back and heard a hollow “chuk.” A vase of flowers sitting in an alcove shattered as the elevator door closed. Rose and I fled willy-nilly back toward the fire escape. We would have bare seconds before the door reopened and he’d be on our backs.

In a flash I knew what to do.

I pulled out the picks and headed for the nearest hotel room door. With a prayer, I set them in place. Houdini was right about them. A few movements, and the tumblers moved. I turned the knob and the door opened.

“Go to the fire escape and hold the door open until you see him coming from the hallway. Then duck into the fire escape.”

She threw me a questioning look, but did as directed. I opened the hotel room door far enough to slip inside, leaving the door open a crack.

Almost immediately I heard the sound of rushing footsteps.

I took out the saw and grasped it tightly, listening for him to pass the door. When he did, I opened it and ducked into the hallway, two steps behind him. He heard me and tried to turn, but I was directly behind him and wrapped the gigli saw around his neck.

“Drop the gun or I’ll cut your head off.”

When he hesitated, I gave the saw a tiny pull to show I meant business. He screamed in pain, and the gun dropped to the floor.

Rose reappeared. I motioned at the gun with my foot. She picked it up.

With a twitch of the saw, I said, “Open the fire escape door.”

Quivering, Schmidt did as instructed.

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Max Hahn,” Schmidt choked out.

“Call him and tell him we’re dead and he should come up. If you say anything else, or if he doesn’t come, your head will end up in the basement.”

“I understand!” he gasped.

I eased the pressure enough to let him take a normal breath.

“Komst, Max,” Schmidt called in a normal voice. “Ils sind todt.”

Doublecross! I started to pull the gigli tighter, intent to carry out my threat.

Before I could, a voice from a lower level called back. “Sehr gut, Kamerade. Ich bin gleich da sein.”

It was just then I realized how close I had come to being hoisted by my own petard. It never occurred to me the assassins would speak to each other in German. Poor Schmidt had been so frightened he summoned his partner-in-crime as I told him to do. There was no telling what Max would do if he heard English.

I pulled Schmidt back and closed the door. “Bitte, bitte,” he gibbered. Rose stood beside the fire escape door, back against the wall, waiting.

The door opened. A man, taller than Schmidt but similarly dressed in suit and tie, came through. Catching sight of Schmidt and me, he turned on his heels.

Rose stepped out. “Don’t move.”

He stopped short and raised his hands.

“Is Becker with you?” I asked.

“Nein!” Schmidt cried.

“Are you sure?” I shouted, giving the saw another twitch.

An unmistakable outhouse odor filled the air. Poor Schmidt was almost foaming at the mouth. “Mein Gott, Max! Sagst ihm!”

“Herr Becker is at the farm,” Max said.

“Farm?”

“Yes. He’s waiting for us to bring you back.”

“Are the hostages with him?”

“Ja!” Schmidt blurted.

“Are they still alive?”

“Ja!!”

“Has Herr Becker hurt them?”

“Not yet. They don’t even know he’s there. He wanted to wait until he had all of you.”

The words surprised me. I had been certain they were on an assassination mission. “How did he expect you to get us out of the hotel without a struggle?”

Neither said a word. Then it occurred to me. “Check Max’s pockets.”

“Take your jacket off and lay it on the floor,” Rose said.

Max did. Holding the gun on him, she knelt and felt inside the side pockets. She held up a small black case in triumph.

“What do you suppose is in there?” I asked.

Rose handed it to Max. “Open it.”

When he did, I knew what their plan had been. It was a hypodermic syringe with needle in place nestled inside the case.

“Only one?” I said in a suspicious voice. “I bet you have one, too, don’t you, Herr Schmidt?”

Before he could answer, I said, “I think we’d better move back into the hotel room where we can sort this out.”

Rose marched Max, and I followed with Schmidt walking on eggs in front of me.

We entered the room. I shut the door behind us. “We seem to have a slight problem. We’re understaffed. I need both of my hands, and Rose can’t do everything one-handed and keep our friend Max under control. However, if what I suspect is in that hypodermic, we may have a solution. Do you have any idea what it is, Herr Schmidt?”

As I said it, I twitched the saw.

“Phenobarbital,” Schmidt gasped.

“Then I suggest Max inject you. You were planning to do the same to us, right, so turnabout is fair play.”

Max didn’t move.

“If Rose shoots you, we won’t have a problem.”

Max reluctantly took the hypo out of the case.

“Hold out your left arm, Herr Schmidt. It’s unfortunate, but we’ll have to inject you through your jacket.”

“Nein,” Schmidt blubbered. “Bitte nein.”

Max seemed to realize he had no choice. Schmidt let out a cry of pain as the needle struck home. I bulldogged him to the bed and took the saw from his throat. The hapless man collapsed face down.

I nearly did, too. The tension had left me exhausted, and my hands shook from the nervous strain. Free of my burden, I walked to the desk and took out an envelope. With a sigh of relief, I dropped the saw inside it. Then I returned to Schmidt, unconscious or too frightened to move. His head lolled to the side when I rolled him over on his back and went through his pockets. I found the twin to Max’s black case in a jacket pocket.

I took the gun from Rose. “Get two pillow cases and tie his hands to the bedstead,” I said.

She removed the bed cover and dumped the pillows out of their cases. “Be a good boy, now, Jurgen, and slide back. I don’t want to have to shoot you.”

He did, though he could barely move. Rose folded the pillowcases in half and wrapped one half around a wrist, and the other around the post at the end of the headboard. I doubted she had ever had to be quite as active in an investigation, but she quickly had the nearly unconscious German with his arms stretched wide apart and lashed to the bedstead.

“Mr. H. would escape in in a second,” Rose said, “but I think it will hold Herr Schmidt just fine.”

“Now take the sheets and tie his ankles.”

Minutes later, Schmidt was spread-eagled on the bed. He lay without struggling.

“Now for you, Max. Take off your coat.”

As I said it, I opened the second kit and took out the unused hypodermic. When I held it up, Max cried out. “No. Don’t. You want to rescue your friends, don’t you? You’ll never find the farm without me.”

“Where is it?”

“Just a few miles from here. Near Framingham.”