Who Done Houdini (20 page)

 

Chapter 30

S
heriff Peabody reminded me of my promise to lock the house. “Pretty handy,” he said as he watched. “I still think I should take those picks away from you.”

I saw he was smiling.

“Officer O'Neal tells me you like automobiles. I think you'll like mine.”

A large auto with the word “Sheriff” and a seven-pointed star on the front door waited beside the house. The sheriff laid an affectionate hand on the hood. “You know what this is?”

“Of course. It's a Lincoln Police Flyer. Detroit has been buying them to upgrade the fleet for a couple of years. Bullet-proof glass?”

“The works. Four-wheel brakes. You can see all the way to Boston when I turn the spotlights on. It even has an ashtray, but I'm not going to start smoking just to try it out. I'll leave that to the youngsters.”

“That's quite a car,” I said. “Middlesex County must really appreciate your work.”

“They better. There hasn't been a serious crime hereabouts since I took office. Who's riding in the back?”

Violet and Rose immediately climbed in. Holmes and I traded glances, then he settled in between them. After leading such an ascetic life, I think he rather liked being between two women.

“Looks like you got shotgun,” Peabody said.

“Shotgun?”

“You're riding up front with me. Haven't you ever seen a stagecoach? The man sitting next to the driver carried a shotgun.”

“It never even occurred to me. I'll have to remember that. My police friends would get a kick out of it. What's going to happen to the Pontiac?”

“One of the deputies is driving it back to town. We'll impound it until we get everything sorted out.”

“Does Max want to turn state's evidence on Becker?” I asked.

“No. In fact he claims he never even heard of him. He says he and his friend were innocently visiting someone at the Parker House Hotel, and you and your wife attacked them for no reason whatsoever. Says he has no idea how your friends ended up in Isaac's house, where the phenobarbital came from—though he thinks you planted it on him—or why everyone should make the same mistake identifying him as a kidnapper.”

Holmes's head and shoulders loomed over the front seat. “If a prisoner made a statement like that in the Old Bailey, he'd wind up with a rope around his neck before he even finished the sentence.”

“It'd be better for him if he cooperated,” I said. “Maybe Officer O'Neal will have better luck with Herr Schmidt.”

“Could be. But don't give up on Hahn. At least not yet. One of the lieutenants in the Boston police has gone to a special interrogation school course at the Federal Bureau. He took a class in psychology from them, so he may be able to get one of them to talk.”

I had to smile. Psychology? Freud knew mothers had been using it on their children from the beginning of time. German police had been using it for centuries. Talk, or I'll kill you. The Russians used a different approach. Talk or I'll kill your mother. Only the constabulary was naive enough to think it was something new. “I sure hope so.”

“So do I. By the way, I called the New York police. There weren't any fingerprints on the gun this Becker was supposed to have used. It's his word against yours if he ever gets caught.”

“Somehow, I knew that'd be the case,” I mumbled.

Conversation ended, and we arrived at the Parker House fifteen minutes later, dumbfounding the doorman. With the poor man obviously unsure what to do, the sheriff opened the doors for us. We parted company with a quick handshake.

My heart skipped a beat to find the door to our room open. Holmes and the women stood back as I peered around the corner. A maid's cart stood in the kitchen area. A petite young lass with red hair peeking beneath a bandana emerged from the bathroom, saw me looking in and let out a cry.

She held her chest as she caught her breath. “Oh, hello, sir. Forgive me. I'll be leavin' in a trice. I made the beds, but I didn't change the Turkish towels in the bathroom because they looked like they haven't been used.”

I loved her Gaelic brogue and her bird-like twitter. “I can see you've done a wonderful job. Thank you.”

“Have you been out sight-seein'? Today's Armistice Day, you know. There'll be a big parade downtown.”

“No. But thanks for reminding me. I forgot.”

She pointed toward the sofa. “There's newspapers for you, and chocolates on the beds. The paper says there's going to be a big parade in Chicago. The mayor will cut a ribbon to open a new road that runs to California. Route 66. It's called the Will Rogers Highway.”

Fearing she would run out of breath and collapse, I reached into my pocket and took out a half-dollar and handed it to her. She curtsied. “Oh, thank you, sir.”

“You have other rooms to clean. Ours looks just fine.”

She curtsied again before hurrying to her cart, her face redder than her hair. “Thank you, sir,” she called over her shoulder.

After she left, Holmes turned to Violet. “I suggest you and Rose check your belongings,” he said flatly. “That woman obviously feels guilty about something.”

“I don't think she's been up to any mischief,” I said. “We just surprised her.”

“You're far too trusting, Wiggins.”

“Maybe. Actually, I'm glad she reminded me today's a holiday. Our young friends, the Irregulars, will be off school, and I think I have a way to put them to good use.”

 

Sam, as well as six
of the seven Irregulars, waited eagerly at the schoolyard when Holmes and I arrived twenty minutes later. Holmes was grumbling. I'd just as happily have left him at the hotel to rest. But I needed help transporting the troops. I knew why he was crotchety. He liked my idea but didn't want to admit it because he hadn't come up with it himself.

We hired two taxicabs, and they stood along the curb. The gulls were back, gyrating in the cloudless sky. All traces of snow had disappeared, and the only moisture was dew in the shadows that hadn't yet fled from the morning sun.

The boys were lined up with eager faces. “Did you bring the money?” Sam asked when I got within ten feet. Not a good morning, or a nice day. This young man was all business.

“We sure did. Who's missing?”

“Mike. He had to go fishing with his parents. He wants me to collect his money for him.”

We had it. Before we left the hotel, Holmes had stopped at the front desk at the hotel and turned a few of his gold pieces into shiny new quarters.

“Do you think you could find someone to take Mike's place? I'm going to need all eight of you today.”

“I can get my brother. Why do you need him?”

“I have a special job for you. Are you all sure you want your money?”

They all responded with cries of “Yes.”

“Line up,” Sam said.

They did. Each in turn inspected his quarter as if it were a foreign object. I almost expected at least one of them to bite it to see if it would bend. Sam and I stood at the back of the line. When all the backs were turned, I surreptitiously slipped him his dollar.

All the young soldiers were paid in a matter of minutes. “What's up?” Sam asked.

“As I said, I have an important job for you. This may be a bit boring, so I'm raising all your wages to a dollar for today.”

I was greeted with a chorus of Ooos. Some of their fathers didn't make that much.

“You're probably too young to know that there are four newsstands in Boston that sell German newspapers. You all know what Mr. Becker looks like. He may already have left town, but he may still be here. He has a lot of friends in Germany, and I'm sure he wants to know what's happening there. If he buys a paper at one of those stands, we may be able to catch him. You all told your parents you would be playing outside all day so they won't miss you. Right?”

They looked at each other and nodded.

“Good. You'll work in teams of two at each of the newsstands. If he should show up, one will stay to watch him, the other will find a policeman. Trade off when you start to get cold. Whatever else happens, don't ever get anywhere close to him. He won't hesitate to hurt you. Do you understand?”

Wide eyes and quick nods.

“My friend and I will take you where you need to go. Someone will have to sit in someone else's lap when we get in the cab.”

As expected, I was greeted by a chorus of “Uh uh. Not me.”

“We'll meet back here at four o'clock. My friend or I will pick you up before then. That's a long time to be standing around, so I'm giving you each another quarter so you can buy a candy bar or a soda pop. Is everyone ready to go?”

“Yeah,” they shouted, taking off on the run toward the cabs.

 

Chapter 31

S
am won the race to the taxis and staked out the one parked in front. “My brother can sit on my lap,” he said.

I thanked him for his generosity. No one else volunteered to double up to ride in Holmes's taxi. We also didn't want any whining about who'd be riding with whom in the taxis. Holmes came up with his own solution. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he took out a box of lucifers and removed two. He broke one of the matches in the middle, and the second so one end was decidedly shorter than the other.

“You, you, you and you are riding with me,” he said, pointing at four of the boys at random. “I have four match sticks. The short one will sit in the long one's lap.”

We heard mutters as he held out his right hand. “Each of you take one.” The boy named Eric was the loser, with Charlie getting the short match. The other two enjoyed a good laugh at their expense.

“Now that's settled, we have to decide who goes where,” I said. “Two of the teams will ride in each cab. Three of the sellers are downtown, the fourth is at Harvard Square.”

Holmes cut me short. “I want the venue at Harvard. I've never visited that educational citadel, and I doubt I'll ever have another chance. I'll take any of the remaining three.”

The words brought a stab of sadness. Even the great Sherlock Holmes knew he was mortal. I showed Sam the list of addresses. “Which one would be easiest to get to from Harvard?”

After a quick look he pointed at the one at 284 Tremont Street.

“That'll be Mr. Andelman,” I told Holmes. “I talked to Officer O'Neal. The vendors all know what we're planning. I'll meet you there.”

Just as Holmes's contingent was about to get into the cab, I took out my bag of liquorice pipes, giving each of them one from my precious stash. “I don't need to tell you to be careful.”

Sam lived three blocks away and jumped out as soon as the driver stopped. Bare seconds later, he came back with a slightly shorter, sandy-haired boy in tow. “This is Vince. He doesn't know what Mr. Becker looks like, so he'll be the one to fetch the cop. You're giving him a dollar, too, aren't you?”

“Absolutely.”

Sam elbowed his brother. “See? I told you I wasn't kidding.”

As we neared downtown Boston, traffic got heavier. People sought out places to sit or stand along Downtown Crossing to watch the parade. Despite the delays, it only took ten minutes before we arrived at 520 Broylston Street where Ada Twombley offered a worldwide selection of papers. Sam and Vince got out first. I followed them into the shop.

The tiny store was unenclosed, with papers clipped to tall stands covered from bottom to top with newspapers from presses in Europe and Asia, as well as an enormous selection of local papers. Ada, diminutive with black hair streaked with splashes of gray, bent forward and held a hand next to her mouth. “Are you the boys working with the police?” she asked in a stage whisper.

They both nodded with enthusiasm.

“This is exciting. I hope I'm here if he comes in. Do either of you like cookies?” The boys beamed. “Yeah.” Neither noticed when I stepped back to return to the cab.

Art and Patrick got the last post at Court Street at Corner Square. This shop had a front door with a large sign reading “Non giornate Italiano,” in red letters. Stepping in, I didn't see as many papers as the other shop, but Tom Flanagan sold tobacco, cigars, and cigarettes as well as candy bars to supplement his wares. A sharp-featured man in a flannel shirt came forward with a jaunty step.

“Top of the morning to you, boys. I'm pleased to meet you. I always like to help the police. Since you're working for them as special agents, you're welcome to buy a Baby Ruth bar or a Coca Cola for a penny. But let me warn you. Don't let me catch you trying to steal cigarettes. If I do, I'll send you to the pokey for a week, special agents or not. Do we understand each other?”

Eyes the size of dinner plates, they nodded vigorously.

Has anyone been in to buy a German language newspaper recently?” I asked.

“Just old Gerhardt Schultz. He buys a copy of
Frankfurter Zeitung
every week. No one else I can think of.”

“Any chance you have a copy of the
Detroit Free Press
?”

“Sorry. I'm sold out. I have the
Dearborn Independent.”

My teeth gritted. Even the mention of the rag made me furious. “Thanks, but I wouldn't even light my stove with it. If I'm not mistaken, you don't carry Italian papers.”

Flanagan shrugged. “You're right. I don't want any dirty W.O.P. coming into my store looking for them.”

I wanted to say I was willing to bet his parents probably didn't have papers when they came to America, either. “Why? Are they trying to buy them with Lira?”

He frowned. Before he could say any more, I turned my attention to my young minions
.

“Good luck, men, Here's a pipe for each of you. Just don't try to put tobacco in them.”

They eagerly snatched the last of my liquorice from my hands, then immediately began to argue about who looked older with a pipe stuck in his mouth. They were still at it when I left.

With the parade only half an hour away, it took us more than fifteen minutes to get to 284 Tremont. I paid the dollar fare and added another dollar for a tip. “I may quit early today,” the driver said without irony. “Thanks.”

The door to the shop stood open. Instead of hangers, shallow shelves bulged from floor to ceiling with newspapers of all sizes. A short ladder on wheels allowed customers to reach the upper levels. Across from them, Terry Fields stood on tiptoes rummaging through the candies. He saw me and showed off his braces with a grin. With customers in the shop, I put a finger to my mouth to prevent him from greeting me aloud.

Mr. Adelman emerged from the back of the store. “Good morning. Can I help you find something?”

“If you've got a copy of the
Detroit Free Press
, I'll buy one.”

“It's a day old. Today's edition hasn't come in yet.”

“Yesterday's is fine.”

He knew exactly where it was. With an apologetic look, he said, “Six cents. I have to charge extra because it has to come by train.”

I had six cents in coppers. Folding the paper under my arm, I passed Terry on the way to the door. “Good job,” I whispered.

Terry's partner waved at me from across the street. Pedestrians ignored the traffic light and crossed in a steady stream. Certain I wouldn't be noticed, I joined them and ducked into the doorway of a dry cleaning shop. My young irregular joined me.

“No luck yet?”

“Nope. This is getting kinda boring.”

“That's the way these things work. I don't know your name.”

“Neil Tully. I just moved here from Cleveland three years ago.”

The conversation ended immediately as a familiar-looking black automobile stopped in front of the news stand. I knew in an instant it was an Essex.

I dashed across the street to get a better view of the auto. My heart pumped faster when I noticed the dented fender. Out of breath, I darted back to where Neil was standing watching me with a puzzled expression.

“Get the policeman! The man we're looking for just went into the shop!”