The Baker Street Boys: The Case of the Disappearing Detective Page 4

  Sparrow nodded and skipped off towards the dressing rooms, where the first performers were already putting on their costumes. As top of the bill, Little Tich would be on stage last, so he would not be arriving at the theatre until after the interval. But there was plenty to keep Sparrow busy until then. He changed quickly into the jacket the manager made him wear – it was very like Billy’s uniform, with shiny brass buttons up the front – and went to see if anyone needed anything.

  In the first dressing room, a trio of acrobats were limbering up, bending and stretching so far that it made Sparrow’s arms and legs ache just looking at them.

  The leader called out to him, and asked him to fetch a plate of ham sandwiches from the bar. “A big plateful,” he stressed. “Got to keep our strength up in this business, you know!”

  In the next room, a fat lady singer cleared her throat and trilled a few scales. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she moaned. “Don’t I sound terrible? I need a gargle.”

  Sparrow secretly agreed with her, and doubted that gargling would improve things. Nevertheless, he took the shilling she gave him to buy her “a large gin and polly” from the bar. It would ease her poor throat, she told him confidentially.

  A cockney comic, dressed as a pearly king with thousands of shiny pearl buttons sewn all over his suit, was passing by at that moment. “Need a spot of the old lubrication, Nellie?” he asked, with a cheeky grin. Turning away, he gave Sparrow a huge wink and added quietly, “Like putting oil on a squeaky gate, eh, son?”

  Sparrow only just managed not to laugh out loud, before hurrying off to the bar through the pass door that led from backstage to the “front of house”. The orchestra was tuning up, ready to start playing. In the gilded auditorium, the faded, red plush seats were filling with people wearing evening dress. Way up above in the topmost gallery – known as “the gods” – poorer people were packing on to the hard benches, laughing and joking and leaning forward to catch a glimpse of the “nobs” below them. The whole theatre was filled with an expectant buzz. Sparrow breathed in the atmosphere, looked around at the happy faces and decided that he was in the most exciting place in the entire universe.

  The first half of the programme went very well. The audience laughed at the cockney comic’s jokes, gasped at the twists and turns of the acrobats, marvelled at the skill of the jugglers, and even listened enraptured to the fat lady singer – to Sparrow’s surprise, the “lubrication” seemed to have worked wonders on her voice. As the applause died away, the theatre manager strode on to the stage to announce the final act before the interval.

  “Your Royal Highness,” he proclaimed. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen! It is my proud privilege to present to you an artiste we have brought over, at enormous expense to the management, all the way from Milano in sunny Italy. A man who has performed for the crowned heads of Europe and the world. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the magician magnificent, escapologist extraordinaire, the one and only – the Great Gandini!”

  The Great Gandini was a rather oily, middle-aged man, whose twirly, black moustache turned up at each end into sharp, waxed points. He was slim but well muscled, and wore a rather shiny dress suit, complete with white bow tie and tailcoat. He was assisted by an attractive young woman, with wavy, black hair, wearing a tight-fitting dress of scarlet satin. Because it was the interval next, and he did not have to call any more artistes, Sparrow was able to stand in the “wings” at the side of the stage and watch as the magician performed a series of tricks, each more amazing than the last. He made doves appear and rabbits disappear. He produced coins and eggs from people’s ears. He stole people’s watches and produced them in other people’s pockets. He presented a lady with a large bouquet of real flowers that he had conjured out of a small pocket handkerchief. And all the time, he kept up a continuous patter, addressing the audience in a heavy Italian accent, with almost every word seeming to end in “o” or “a”.

  Sparrow was enthralled by it all. But it was the Great Gandini’s final trick that really grabbed his attention. With the help of a volunteer from the audience, the assistant fastened the magician’s wrists with handcuffs and bound his arms and legs with chains. She secured these with strong padlocks, which she asked the volunteer to check. Then a large wooden chest was wheeled on to the stage, and also checked carefully to confirm that it was solid. The assistant opened the hinged lid, the escapologist climbed inside and the lid was closed and fastened with a heavy iron bolt and another padlock, the key to which was given to the volunteer to hold. A black curtain with a silver moon and stars sewn onto it descended from the “flies” above the stage, to hide the locked chest from the audience. Standing in front of the black curtain with the volunteer, the assistant started a large clock, which ticked very loudly, and the drummer in the orchestra began playing a drum roll.

  Watching, fascinated, from the wings, Sparrow heard the rattle and clank of chains from inside the chest. Then, to his amazement, the lid of the chest opened and the Great Gandini climbed out, free of chains and handcuffs. He closed the lid again, then pushed through the curtain to be greeted by wild applause. When the curtain was raised once more, the volunteer checked that the chest was still fastened. He took the key and undid the padlock, and found the chains and handcuffs lying in the empty chest.

  Sparrow could hardly believe what he had seen. All day he had been puzzling over the mystery of the iron door. Could this be the answer? During the interval, when Gandini had retired to his dressing room to pack up the rest of his equipment, Sparrow crept over to the chest, which had been pushed into a corner, ready to be dismantled and taken away. Having seen how the trick had been done, he had a pretty good idea what he was looking for, and it did not take him long to find it. He was just lifting the lid when he heard an angry roar behind him.

  “Hey! What d’you think you’re doin’?” Gandini was so furious his face was livid. In fact, he was so angry he had quite forgotten he was supposed to be Italian, and was speaking in a broad north-country English accent.

  “I … nothin’. Nothin’. Honest,” Sparrow stammered, afraid of the angry magician and confused by his sudden change of nationality.

  “You’re messing wi’ my things!”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Gandini, sir. I ain’t done no harm.”

  “No harm? No harm? What’s that got to do wi’ it, you little tike?”

  “What’s going on here? Is this personage causing you annoyance, Signor Gandini?” It was the theatre manager, Mr Trump. He looked at Sparrow accusingly.

  “He was messing wi’ my stuff,” Gandini snarled. He swung back to Sparrow. “You never, never, touch a magician’s props. Don’t you know that’s the cardinal rule of this business?”

  “What’s that mean?” asked Sparrow.

  “It means a rule that must be obeyed,” Mr Trump snapped.

  “I… I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to… Only, you see…”

  The manager silenced him with a wave of his hand, and spoke to Gandini again. “Pray accept my most compunctious apologies,” he grovelled.

  “What sort of staff do you employ here?” Gandini demanded.

  “He’s regrettably inexperienced,” the manager continued. “He doesn’t know any better.”

  “Well it’s time he learnt,” Gandini spat. “I want him out of here!”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Now!”

  Mr Trump turned to Sparrow again. “You’re fired!”

  Sparrow was close to tears. “No. Please,” he begged. “I can explain. It’s important.”

  “Well?” The manager loomed over him. “It had better be good.”

  “You see, there’s this door, and…” Sparrow stopped as he realized he wasn’t supposed to say anything.

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Who put you up to this?” asked Gandini.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”

  “I’ll bet it is,” Gandini snorted. He turned back to the manager. “The secrets a
re mine. And he was trying to steal them.”

  “No, I weren’t. Honest. Give me another chance. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

  “Get out of here,” the manager growled. “And don’t come back.”

  “Oh, please… Can’t I just stay and see Little Tich?”

  “No. And divest yourself of that garment before you depart.”

  Heartbroken, Sparrow slipped out of the call boy’s jacket and dragged himself to the door. His dreams were shattered. As he left, a hansom cab drew up outside the stage door and a figure hopped nimbly out. It was Little Tich. Sparrow watched as the tiny comedian paused to exchange greetings with Bert, before disappearing into the theatre. Then he turned away and trudged miserably home.

  Trapped!

  Back at HQ, Sparrow flung himself down on his bed, weeping miserably. The only other Boy at home was Shiner, who was still upset by his encounter with Basher Brannigan and did not want to hear Sparrow’s troubles. After a few minutes, however, his curiosity got the better of him, and he couldn’t resist asking what was the matter.

  “Nothin’,” Sparrow replied, burying his face in his mattress so that Shiner wouldn’t see his tears.

  “Don’t look like nothin’ to me,” Shiner said, not unkindly.

  “Nothin’s the matter. I’m all right.”

  “What you cryin’ for, then?”

  “I ain’t,” Sparrow insisted, sniffing loudly.

  “And what you doin’ here?” Shiner went on. “I thought you was s’posed to be at the theatre?”

  That started Sparrow off again. “I was,” he sobbed. “I got the sack.”

  “What they do that for?” Shiner asked indignantly. “I thought they liked you.”

  “The Great Gandini don’t. It was him what got me chucked out.”

  “The great what? Who’s he when he’s at home?”

  “Gandini – magician magnificent, escapologist extraordinaire.”

  “Blimey! That’s a bit of a mouthful, ain’t it? What’s it mean? Esca-what-you-call-it?”

  “Escapologist. Means he escapes.”

  “Like from prison, you mean? He’s an escaped convict?”

  “No,” Sparrow replied scornfully. “He gets out of handcuffs and chains and locked boxes and things.”

  “Oh.” Shiner was disappointed. An escaped criminal would have been exciting. “So what happened?”

  “He caught me lookin’ at his props.”

  “His what?”

  “Props. Things what artistes use on stage, in their acts.”

  “To prop ’em up, so they don’t fall down?” Shiner grinned at the picture this conjured up in his mind.

  “No, stupid. It’s short for ‘properties’.”

  “And what’s that mean?”

  “How should I know? It’s just what they’re called. You gonna listen now? This is important.”

  Sparrow sat up. He had stopped crying as he remembered what he had discovered. His eyes, though still red, were bright with excitement as he described Gandini’s escape from the locked chest. To his surprise, however, Shiner was not impressed.

  “You mean it was all a trick?” he asked.

  Sparrow sighed impatiently. “Course it was a trick, you dummy!” he almost shouted at Shiner. “It’s all a trick. He ain’t even Italian, he just pretends to be.”

  “Who you callin’ a dummy?” Shiner snapped, mightily offended.

  “You, of course,” Sparrow snapped back. “Can’t you see what I’m tellin’ you?”

  “What?”

  “I know how it works!” Sparrow crowed triumphantly.

  Shiner stared at him dully. “What good’s that?” he asked. “All that’s done is get you the sack.”

  Sparrow let out a cry of exasperation and beat one hand against his forehead. “I’m talkin’ about the mystery door, you dope. I reckon it works just like Gandini’s trick chest. I know how to open it!” And he went on to describe exactly how the trick chest worked.

  Shiner found it hard to understand – which was not really surprising, since Sparrow’s explanation was rather garbled. But, being Shiner, there was no way he would admit this. “Garn!” he scoffed. “You’re makin’ it all up.”

  “I ain’t!”

  “You’re makin’ it all up, so you can look clever.”

  “You callin’ me a fibber?”

  “We all know how you likes tellin’ tall tales.”

  This was perfectly true: Sparrow did like a good story, and he was not above spicing up his tales to make them more exciting. But this time he did not need to, and he was very upset when Shiner refused to believe him. The disagreement became a quarrel and the quarrel became more and more heated, until Sparrow could stand it no longer and stormed out into the night.

  “I’ll show you!” he hurled back over his shoulder. “You’ll be sorry!”

  Shiner shrugged, and went to bed. Before long he was fast asleep.

  The night seemed darker than usual as Sparrow made his way along the street. The shadows between the pools of light cast by the gas lamps were deep black. Anyone, or anything, could be hiding in them. But Sparrow was a boy with a mission. He swallowed hard and hurried on, until he reached the entrance of the alleyway leading to the iron door. His eyes were becoming used to the dim light, but the alley itself was even darker and gloomier than the street. He wished he had had the sense to bring the bull’s-eye lantern that Wiggins kept at HQ, but he couldn’t go back for it now.

  Sparrow took a deep breath and started walking down the alley, feeling his way cautiously. But just before he reached the bend where it turned to the right, he heard a sound from the alleyway ahead of him, the dull clang of the metal door being closed. It was followed by voices, speaking very low. Sparrow looked around desperately, but there was nowhere to hide. Suddenly the men came into view round the corner, lighting their way with a bull’s-eye lantern of their own. There were two of them – one middle-aged, the other much younger. Both were short and wiry, and both wore dark suits, flat cloth caps and white silk scarves knotted around their necks.

  The light picked up Sparrow as he turned to run.

  “Hey, you!” the older man called, and then stopped. “Ah, sure and it’s only a kid.”

  “Yeah,” his companion replied. “Just some little ragamuffin.”

  “Get outta here, kid!” the first man shouted. “And don’t come back. There’s nuttin’ for youse down here.”

  The voices sounded Irish, or American – Sparrow was not sure which. But he didn’t stay to find out. Once in the street, he dived into the first doorway for cover. From there, he watched the two men emerge from the alley and look furtively around before moving off.

  Now Sparrow was faced with a quandary: should he follow the men and find out where they were going? Or should he take advantage of the fact that they had left, and try his luck with the door? He was eager to test the lock, but he might learn more of what they were up to if he followed them. He decided to follow them, dodging from doorway to doorway so as not to be seen.

  He did not have far to go. After only a few hundred yards, they stopped and entered a pub, and when Sparrow peeped through the window he saw the two men buying large glasses of ale at the bar and then settling themselves down in a corner. They looked as though they intended to stay there for some time. Sparrow thought fast. Now was his chance. He turned and hurried back to the alley.

  It was so dark at the far end of the alley, cut off from even the tiniest glimmer of light from the street, that Sparrow only found the door by feeling for it with his arms stretched out like a blind man. Once again, he cursed himself for not thinking to bring a lantern. He moved his hands over the cold, rough surface of the door, trying to make out the padlock and bolts, and the hinges. It was impossible, and he could have cried with frustration. But then he felt something scrunch under his feet, and as he moved there was a sharp fizzing sound, and a familiar smell. Could it be? Hardly daring to hope, Sparrow bent down and felt along the grou
nd. Yes! It could. Matches! The matches that Sherlock Holmes had dropped! He gathered a handful, stood up and struck one against the rough wall. It burst into flame, allowing him to see the door quite clearly.

  Sparrow needed three matches before he finally managed to work out how the lock worked, trying to remember exactly what he had seen at the theatre. But suddenly he had done it. Sparrow swung the door open, then nervously stepped inside.

  He found himself in a large storeroom, dimly lit by two oil lamps that the men had left burning but turned down low. Along the far wall, there was a workbench scattered with tools and odd pieces of equipment. To one side stood two camp beds, covered with rumpled blankets, showing they had been slept in, and a bulging carpet-bag. A square kitchen table was littered with used mugs, glasses, bottles, plates and cutlery. There were two wooden packing cases pushed against the opposite wall, one large and the other smaller. A large cabin trunk with a rounded lid stood on its end in the centre of the room, looking as though it was ready for a journey.

  Sparrow did not know what he was searching for, but he poked around the room, hoping to spot a clue. He wished Wiggins were there – he would know exactly what to look for. Perhaps whatever was in the packing cases would give him an idea. But when he lifted the lid of the first one, it turned out to be empty, apart from a heap of wood shavings. The other contained a mixture of odds and ends, including a box filled with cardboard tubes and coils of what looked like thick string. Sparrow moved on to the cabin trunk, which had labels pasted on it picturing an ocean liner and the name “White Star Line”. This was more like it. Sparrow began to examine the trunk more carefully. Curiously, it had a number of small holes drilled in the lid.

  Suddenly he heard something that made him freeze with fright. It was the sound of breathing. Steady breathing, like someone in a deep sleep. And it was coming from inside the trunk. With trembling fingers, Sparrow started to unfasten the big brass catch to open the lid, when he heard something that scared him even more: the sound of the iron door opening. He looked around desperately. Where could he hide? Remembering the wooden packing cases, Sparrow rushed across the room, pulled open the larger one and climbed in, sliding the lid over the top of him.