The Baker Street Boys - The Case of the Captive Clairvoyant Read online

  Wiggins strolled casually over to the baked potato man and spoke quietly to him.

  “’Ere, Ant,” he said, “don’t look now, but there’s a geezer been stood across the road there all afternoon. He’s been trying to keep out of sight in the shadows, but I clocked him straight off.”

  “So what?” said Old Ant. Nobody knew why he was called that – maybe his real name was Anthony – but it suited him perfectly, for he was a thin little man who looked like an overgrown insect with his bent back, large head and wizened face. “It’s a free country, ain’t it? He can stand where he likes if he ain’t doin’ no harm to nobody.”

  “Fair enough,” Wiggins agreed. “But have you ever seen him afore?”

  Old Ant cast a swift glance across the street, then shook his head.

  “Can’t say as I ’ave.”

  “No, nor me neither.”

  Before Wiggins could think any more about the mystery man in the shadows, the stage door opened and Sparrow came out, beckoning to his two friends.

  “He bought it,” he told them. “Rosie’s goin’ on tonight.”

  Wiggins’s face broke into a broad smile. Quickly Sparrow sketched in what had happened in the music hall and assured him that Rosie was going to be all right.

  “You done good,” Wiggins praised him. “Now, you’d best get back inside and keep an eye on her. Beaver and me’ll leg it back to HQ and let the others know.”

  Slapping Sparrow on the back and giving a quick wave to Old Ant, Wiggins bustled off down the street, with Beaver loping alongside him. They had not gone far before Beaver spoke.

  “Wiggins,” he said, “that geezer’s following us.”

  “You could be right,” Wiggins replied. “Best make sure, though, eh?”

  They turned sharply into a side street and kept walking. Sure enough, a few moments later the man turned the corner too, a dark figure in a black overcoat with a cape on the shoulders, moving through the gloom with a heavy limp. As he passed into the pool of light cast by a street lamp, they could see that he had a black beard and deep-set eyes. Another corner, another turning, and still he appeared behind them. There could be no doubt about it: he was on their trail.

  “Right,” Wiggins muttered to Beaver out of the side of his mouth. “You know what to do.”

  “Yeah,” Beaver replied. “Let’s lose him.”

  They sped up and split up, going different ways at the next turning, each cutting through alleyways and courts, doubling back on themselves and even nipping through buildings to make sure the man could have no idea where they had gone. Eventually, by the most roundabout route, they both arrived back at HQ, within a minute of each other, confident that they had given their pursuer the slip.

  The other Boys and Mary were waiting anxiously for news of Rosie, and were relieved to hear that everything seemed to be going well. They all wanted to go to the theatre that night to watch the performance, but Wiggins said that was too risky. If Mr Trump saw them all together, he might start asking why they were there and suspect that they were friends of Rosie’s.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “we can’t leave Mary on her own. So me and Beaver will go back and keep an eye on things at the theatre, and the rest of you stop here.”

  Shiner grumbled at this, but Queenie said she could see the sense in it and told him to shut up. He obeyed her by going into one of his sulks, but Mary got him out of it by saying she would feel much safer with him there as well as Queenie and Gertie.

  “That’s right,” Wiggins said. “I reckon there’s some bloke out there looking for her. He ain’t a copper, that’s for sure. He’s likely working for Marvin. Or even Moriarty.”

  At the mention of Moriarty, the others caught their breath. Wiggins told them about the mystery man who had tried to follow him and Beaver. He described him to Mary, and asked her if she knew anyone like that. She shook her head.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Just remember, whoever he is, he’s out there. So we’ve all gotta be on our guard, right?”

  Waiting until the show had started and the first few acts had finished, Wiggins and Beaver managed to sneak in through the side door of the theatre and up the stairs to the gallery. Right up under the roof, the gallery – usually called “the gods” – was the cheapest part of the theatre, and for good reason. It was hot, smoky and noisy, and not very comfortable. There were no individual seats, just hard, narrow benches curving across the width of the auditorium. And it was so steep that the two Boys felt quite giddy looking down at the stage and the tops of the performers’ heads.

  The people sitting on the top row shuffled along to make room for the Boys, and they soon felt part of the happy crowd. On-stage, a pretty young woman was singing a popular song, and Wiggins couldn’t help grinning as he heard the words:

  “The boy I love is up in the gallery,

  The boy I love is looking down at me,

  There he is, can’t you see, a waving of his handkerchief,

  As merry as a robin that sings on a tree…”

  All the young men around Wiggins and Beaver took out their handkerchiefs and waved them like mad, and everybody laughed.

  As the different acts followed each other for the rest of the evening, all of them highly entertaining, Wiggins had to keep reminding himself that he was there on serious business. Beaver, too, was quite carried away by it all. He could see, he whispered to Wiggins, why Sparrow loved the music hall so much.

  “Me and all,” Wiggins answered, then added in a low voice, “but we ain’t here to enjoy ourselves, Beav. We gotta keep our eyes open and our minds on the job.”

  “Right,” Beaver agreed. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the stage as Signor Macarelli’s knives whistled through the air and thudded into the board around his wife. If one of those knives should miss its mark… Beaver held his breath and shuddered at the thought.

  Behind the scenes, Rosie was getting more and more nervous as she waited to go on. Marvin kept her in the dressing room rehearsing right up to the very last minute, so Sparrow had no chance to speak to her or even to see her until she stood in the wings ready to go on. Dressed in Mary’s costume, with her face made up and her hair tied back with ribbons, she looked very like Mary – so like her that Sparrow was sure no one in the audience would know the difference. Which was just what Marvin and Mr Trump wanted.

  “Good luck, girl,” Sparrow told her. “Knock ’em cold.”

  Rosie did not reply. She stared straight ahead, as though she did not even know he was there. Before Sparrow could say any more, Marvin had taken Rosie’s hand and led her on to the stage, to the sound of loud applause.

  With Sparrow watching anxiously from the wings and Wiggins and Beaver peering down from the gods, Marvin began the act. Because Rosie did not have Mary’s locket round her neck, he could not use it to “hypnotize” her, so he made do with his pocket watch on its gold chain. But everything else was the same. Marvin even called her “Mary” so no one would know they were not watching the real thing. Soon he was moving among the audience and borrowing things for Rosie, now blindfolded, to identify. Just as Mary had said, the objects people handed him were the same as usual: pens, watches, purses, coins, cigarette cases – all the things for which she had learned the codes.

  Everything was going perfectly smoothly until a man handed Marvin a small piece of paper. Marvin looked at it, then stopped short. The colour drained from his face. He staggered, as though about to faint, then stuffed the note into his pocket and continued with the next object as though nothing had happened. Because Marvin was underneath the balcony, Wiggins and Beaver could not see what was going on. Nor could Rosie, from behind her blindfold. But Sparrow, who was peeping round the scenery, saw the mind-reader move quickly away from the man and head back to the stage. He watched curiously as Marvin finished the act in a hurry, took his bow with Rosie, then hustled her away and back to the dressing room.

  “Was I all right?” Rosie asked as Marvin closed the door behind her and t
urned the key in the lock. His face was tense and pale.

  “Never mind about that,” he snapped. “We gotta get outta here. Fast.”

  To Rosie’s bewilderment he began grabbing his belongings and shoving them into a bag as though his life depended on it. There was a loud knock at the door. Rosie was about to open it, but Marvin grabbed her by the arm, dragged her across the room and started opening the window.

  “Leave it!” he hissed. “C’mon – we’ll leave this way.”

  In the dressing-room corridor, Mr Trump knocked on the door again. Getting no reply, he tried the door, then shrugged and walked away. At the end of the corridor he met Sparrow and asked him if he had seen Marvin since he came off-stage.

  “Yes, sir,” Sparrow told him. “He went straight to his dressing room. Looked like he was in a real hurry.”

  “Are you sure? He doesn’t appear to be there now.”

  “He’s gotta be.”

  “Hmm.” Mr Trump thought for a moment. “He must have departed for one of his private engagements. Pity. I wished to congratulate him – and, of course, your, er, cousin. Perhaps you will tell her when you see her?”

  “Right, sir. I will.”

  Mr Trump went on his way, humming happily to himself. But Sparrow was not happy. Sensing that something was wrong, he ran down the corridor and banged on Marvin’s door.

  “Mr Marvin!” he called out. And when there was no reply, “Rosie! Rosie, are you there?”

  He was sure he heard a sound from inside the room, but no one answered. He turned the knob and pushed, but the door would not open. Bending down, he tried to peer through the keyhole but could see nothing. Something seemed to be blocking it. Then he realized what it was: the key was in the lock – on the inside of the door. He stood for a moment, wondering what to do, then turned and charged down the corridor and out of the stage door, past a startled Bert.

  “Oi! Oi!” the doorkeeper yelled after him. “Where’s the fire?”

  But Sparrow didn’t stop. Outside, he looked around frantically for Wiggins and Beaver. He finally saw them strolling round the corner from the front of the theatre, and dashed breathlessly to them.

  “Quick! Quick!” he gasped. “This way!”

  “Whoa, whoa!” Wiggins said. “Hold your horses, Sparrow.”

  “What’s up?” Beaver asked. “Rosie did good, didn’t she?”

  “Yeah, but somethin’s wrong,” Sparrow blurted out, and quickly told them about the locked door and getting no response from inside the dressing room.

  “The window,” said Wiggins, leading the way down the alley behind the dressing rooms. “We can see in through the window. Now, which one is it?”

  “That one,” Sparrow said, and pointed. “The one what’s wide open.”

  They hurried to the window and looked in. Inside the room a dark figure in a heavy overcoat was crouched over a bundle of something on the floor. Wiggins let out a shout, and the man looked up. It was the bearded man who had tried to follow them in the street.

  “It’s him!” Wiggins cried. “Get him!”

  He started to clamber through the window. The man stared at them for a brief moment, then straightened up and rushed to the door. He swiftly unlocked it, dashed through and down the corridor and escaped into the street, past a startled Bert. The Boys tried to give chase, but he had too much of a head start and by the time they got to the stage door he had disappeared into the night. Bert came out behind them, scratching his head.

  “’Ere! What’s goin’ on?” he asked. “Where did you come from? Who was that? What’s he doin’ here?”

  “That’s what we want to know,” Wiggins said.

  “What was he doin’ in the dressin’ room?” Beaver asked.

  “Dunno,” Wiggins replied. “Let’s go and see.”

  Followed by a protesting Bert, Wiggins led the way back to the dressing room. The door was wide open and the “bundle” that the man had been crouching over was still on the floor – only now they could see that it was not a bundle but a body, lying face down. It was the body of Marvin. And he was dead. Very dead, with a large knife sticking out of his back.

  Rosie Disappears

  “Stabbed,” Inspector Lestrade announced, looking down at the body. “From behind. Right through the heart.”

  Mr Trump, who was standing in the doorway of the dressing room, sighed heavily.

  “This is dreadful,” he said. “Truly dreadful…’

  “Yes, indeed,” Lestrade agreed. “If it’s any comfort, I can tell you he would have died instantly.”

  But it was not Marvin’s fate that was upsetting Mr Trump.

  “I’ve lost my star turn,” he moaned. “What am I going to do?”

  “You are going to assist me with my inquiries.”

  Mr Trump looked shocked.

  “Inspector!” he exclaimed. “You surely don’t imagine that I know anything about this terrible crime?”

  “No, sir. But it took place in your theatre and there’s things I need to know that I’m sure you can tell me.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Mr Trump, greatly relieved not to be a suspect. “In that case, I shall be gratified to avail you of the benefit of my cognizance.”

  Lestrade blinked at him, wondering what on earth he was on about.

  “I’ll be happy to tell you everything I know,” Mr Trump translated.

  “Right,” said Lestrade. “Who found the body?”

  “We did,” Wiggins called out from the corridor.

  He stepped forward, followed by Beaver and Sparrow. Bert, determined not to be left out, pushed his way in behind them.

  “And me,” he said.

  Lestrade stared at the Boys in disbelief.

  “Oh, no,” he groaned. “Not you lot. Please don’t tell me Mr Holmes is mixed up in this.”

  “No, he ain’t. He’s miles away on another case.”

  “We must be grateful for small mercies, I suppose,” Lestrade sighed.

  “But Professor Moriarty is,” Beaver told him.

  Lestrade groaned again. “I suppose you’ve seen him, have you?”

  “I did,” Sparrow said. “Sittin’ outside this very theatre, he was, in his carriage.”

  “Tonight?”

  “No. Two nights ago.”

  “I see.” Lestrade clearly did not believe him.

  “And Marvin went off with him after the show,” Sparrow went on. “I seen ’em go.”

  “I don’t suppose you know where they went?” Lestrade asked in a sarcastic voice. “Or what they were going to do?”

  “They was goin’ to give a private see … seeing…”

  “Séance,” Wiggins said.

  “Yeah,” Sparrow continued. “One of them. In a posh house somewhere.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Mary told me.”

  “Mary?”

  “Little Mary,” Mr Trump explained. “Mr Marvin’s assistant. “She absconded last night.”

  The inspector raised his eyebrows and pushed back his bowler hat.

  “Did she indeed?” he said. “Little Mary runs away last night, and tonight Mr Marvin is murdered. Sounds to me like there could well be a connection.”

  “No, there ain’t,” Sparrow piped up. “Mary didn’t have nothin’ to do with it. She couldn’t have.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because she’s – ow!” he cried as Wiggins kicked him fiercely on the ankle. “I just do. She’s not that sort of girl.”

  “I see. When did she tell you about this séance? Before she ran away?”

  Sparrow hesitated, and just stopped himself in time. He nodded.

  “Never mind Mary,” Beaver piped up. “What about Rosie? What’s happened to her?”

  Lestrade held up his hand to calm him.

  “All in good time,” he said, and turned back to Wiggins. “First things first. Tell me how you came to find the body.”

  Wiggins quickly explained, taking care not to say anyt
hing about Mary or their part in her escape. When he described the bearded man, Lestrade looked doubtful.

  “Are you quite certain of this, Wiggins?” he asked. “How could you have seen him so clearly in such a short space of time?”

  “We seen him afore,” Wiggins replied. “We seen him yesterday outside the theatre. He tried to trail us, but we gave him the slip.”

  “That’s right,” Beaver confirmed. “You can ask Old Ant the ’tater man. He seen him and all.”

  “And I seen him tonight,” Bert chipped in. “I seen him racing past my box after he done it.”

  “Ah,” said Lestrade. “Corroboration at last.”

  “Eh?” asked Bert.

  “Backing up what they say,” Mr Trump explained helpfully.

  “So,” Lestrade said to Wiggins, “you clearly saw the murderer but you did not see the actual crime?”

  “No, sir, more’s the pity. If we’d been a minute earlier, we might have been able to stop it.”

  “Or got stabbed yourselves,” Mr Trump said lugubriously.

  “Never mind,” Lestrade continued. “We shall find him, have no fear.”

  “You gotta find Rosie first,” Wiggins reminded him.

  “Wiggins is right,” Beaver said. “Where is she?”

  “Who is this Rosie?”

  “Mr Marvin’s temporary assistant, in the absence of Little Mary,” Mr Trump told him.

  “You mean like an understudy?” Lestrade asked.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “Look,” said Wiggins urgently. “You gotta find her. She was in here when Marvin was topped. What’s happened to her?”