Desperate Acts (36 page)

“I doubt that Nestor is a candidate for
hypnotism.”

“Alright, then I’ll head up to Nestor’s hovel
an’ tear it up board by board. It could be that note is hidden
somewheres we didn’t look. Then we’d have the killer’s own writin’
to bring to the judge.”

“It would certainly help to have an
extortion-note with a death-threat on the back.”

“Well, then, I’ll go straight there now. An’
then I’ll beetle into Irishtown an’ have a look fer the
mesmerizer.”

Cobb was beginning to work up some genuine
excitement, mainly to try and raise Marc’s spirits, but he noticed
that his partner had drifted into a brown study. Marc was staring
out at the island as if some solution to the problem lay encrypted
in the branches of its leafless trees. When he turned back to Cobb,
he too was excited.

“That death-threat on the reverse side of
Duggan’s blackmail-note is the key to this whole business,” he
said.

“But we ain’t got it – yet.”

“Ah, but you see, old friend, we don’t
actually need to hold it in our hands.”

“Whaddya mean? You plannin’ on a little
ledger-domain
?”

“No. I’m counting on the fact that only we
and the killer know of its existence.”

“An’ Nestor.”

“Exactly. Can you get Wilkie or one of the
part-timers to cover your patrol for the next hour or two?”

“Wilkie can’t be roused once he’s asleep, but
I can get somebody else.”

“Great. Meet me in an hour at your
house.”

“You figured out another way?”

“I have. But we’ve got to hurry.”

Cobb got up, started to trot off, then
stopped and turned back to Marc. “You still want me to go up to
Pokewood Manner tonight?”

“Yes, definitely. For what I have in mind,
we’ll need our suspects completely relaxed and off-guard. After
tonight it won’t matter whether you keep on acting or not.”

“Okay, major. I’ll go. And I have to say, I
ain’t hated it as much as I thought I would.”

***

Cobb was waiting for Marc when he arrived at the
Parliament Street cottage.

“He’s in the kitchen” Cobb said, “eatin’
everythin’ but the fryin’ pans.”

Dora was just serving Nestor a plate of crisp
back-bacon and four fried eggs when Marc and Cobb burst in.

“Finish up yer
vitals
, Nestor,” Cobb
said, “an’ then come inta the parlour. You got work to do.”

Dora grinned. “We’re startin’ to fatten him
up – fer Sunday dinner.”

“I can’t do no liftin’,” Nestor complained
without looking up or interrupting the regular see-sawing of his
fork.

“We’ve got something a lot more interesting,”
Marc said.

***

Ten minutes later found Nestor seated between Marc
and Cobb at Dora’s little writing-table in the parlour, upon which
were spread out several sheets of stationery, a jar of ink, and a
quill-pen. Marc had finished sketching out his plan to Cobb while
they were waiting, and both men were highly excited, a state that
prompted nothing but anxiety in Nestor.

Marc began: “Nestor, you are going to help us
catch the man who killed your cousin. I want you to do precisely
what I tell you, without asking any questions. Is that clear?”

“I ain’t gonna be stickin’ my neck out, am I?
‘Cause I don’t think I could manage that in my – ”

“You’ll manage whatever we tell ya to
manage!” Cobb said.

“The alternative,” Marc said, “is for you to
be subpoenaed to testify in court on Monday afternoon.”

That did the trick. Nestor shut up, and
contented himself with looking aggrieved.

“The killer, as you informed us yesterday,
wrote Albert a death-threat on the back of Albert’s own
extortion-note. As far as the killer knows, that note is still in
existence. He may even have gone over to your house and searched
for it. And the killer now knows not only who Albert Duggan was, he
knows who he lived with – thanks to the newspaper accounts and the
very public trial. What we’re planning to do is set a trap for him
– and you’re going to be the bait.”

“The
bait
! But I’m a sick man, I
nearly – ”

“Shut up an’ do what you’re told!” Cobb
hissed. “Brodie Langford ain’t gonna hang just because you’re a
snivellin’ coward!”

Nestor began to tremble, but had no other
response.

“Take the pen there and write out on a sheet
of paper precisely what I tell you to,” Marc said.

“But I can’t spell,” Nestor protested as he
took the pen in hand.

“I’m counting on that,” Marc said. Then, as
Marc dictated, slowly and word by word, Nestor scratched away
beside him:

Shutelwerth

I’m back in town and I got that note yu sent to

my cuzzin, Mr Duggen. I no yu kilt him. I’l sell yu
the note fer 25

pownds. Cum to the allee behind the cofee howse on
Yung and King

at 10 Sunday nite. I’l hav the note. Yu hav the
munee.

Nestor Peck

“But what if it ain’t Shuttleworth?” Nestor said,
beginning to sense what the scheme involved and trembling
accordingly.

“Don’t worry about that,” Marc said. “You’re
going to make four more exact copies, except that they’ll be
addressed to Tobias Budge, Horace Fullarton, Andrew Dutton and
Cyrus Crenshaw.”

“My fingers’ll be worn to a frazzle!”

The ingenuity of Marc’s plan, as he had
outlined it for Cobb, was that only the killer would be tempted to
respond to such blatant extortion. The others would dismiss
Nestor’s note as a crank attempt by the murdered man’s cousin to
cash in on the crime. And whatever they might think about the
effort, they certainly would not go to the alley behind the British
American Coffee House tomorrow night at ten. Nor would they likely
tell anyone else about it: each of them had a secret to be kept.
Moreover, Nestor’s reference to his having possession of a
death-threat note would suggest to them that the cousin had only
this bogus means of extortion at his disposal – and not the
dastardly secrets Duggan had, mercifully, taken to his grave.

Marc had already reconnoitred the alley. It
was a perfect location. The coffee house would long be closed, and
the street dark and quiet. The alley could be entered at the south
end from King Street or at the north end from its junction with the
east-west service lane. And the buildings that formed the sides of
the alley had numerous ells and alcoves where a man could remain
out of sight and still command a view along its entire length.

It took Nestor fifteen minutes of scratching,
dipping, blotting and complaining to complete the five separate
copies required. Marc then folded each, tucked it into an envelope
and sealed it. He then had Nestor write the addressee’s name on
each envelope.

“How can I take a letter, which I don’t have,
to this alley?” Nestor said when he was finally finished.

“You’ll take this,” Marc said, and showed
Nestor the note he had prepared and which was to substitute for the
real thing. “I’ve written a phony name at the top and then smudged
it, as if it had got wet. Below it, you’ll see I’ve penned
something like the note that Albert sent Brodie.”

XXXXXXXXXX:

Bring the money agen this week to the

usual place. I mean bisness. You won’t want to be
ruined.

“And on the other side I’ve composed a death-threat
of sorts.”

“An’ you think some guy’s gonna give me
twenty-five pounds fer this?”

“He is,” Marc said, “or I’ve misjudged
him.”

“You try an’ run off with the money and I’ll
break both yer legs!” Cobb added.

“But what happens if the fella peeks at the
letter an’ knows right off it ain’t the one he wrote?”

“It won’t matter. Once there’s been an
exchange – witnessed by Cobb and me, who’ll be hidden nearby – then
we move in and arrest him.”

“But what if he just comes there without the
money to beat me to death like he did poor Albert?”

“That’s a chance I’m willin’ to take,” Cobb
grinned. “An’ then we’ll know fer sure we got the killer, won’t
we?”

“Actually, Nestor, there’s little risk of
that happening. Albert was killed in a sudden, unplanned burst of
fury. I don’t believe we’re dealing with a hardened killer. All he
needs to do is buy that note, expecting that Brodie will be
convicted by Tuesday, after which it won’t matter if you go to the
police or try further extortion, for who would believe you without
the note as evidence?”

“You fellas’ll be close by, eh? You won’t let
me get hurt?”

“’Course not,” Cobb said. “Right now, you’re
the most valuable person we know.”

“An’ just how’re these letters gonna get
themselves delivered?”

“They’re going to be delivered by hand,” Marc
said. “Under cover of darkness. Tonight. By you.”

Nestor had to be helped to his room.

***

While Cobb went off to the near-dress rehearsal of
The Dream Sequence
(in style via taxicab with a donkey’s
head tucked underneath his arm), Marc prepared to have the
extortion-notes delivered. First of all, at Beth’s suggestion, Marc
disguised himself by borrowing a large overcoat and tradesman’s cap
from Jasper Hogg next door. Further deception was provided by
Jasper’s horse and buggy, the latter having a leather canopy under
which Marc and Nestor could huddle and remain inconspicuous. Nestor
himself was suited up in a pair of Cobb’s overalls, a cotton shirt
and a wool sweater. The only boots that would fit his shrivelled
feet were a pair belonging to young Fabian Cobb. This outfit,
however, was not intended to disguise Nestor, for, as Marc
explained to him upon setting out, Nestor was to dash up to the
front door of the designated house, shove the envelope under the
door, then turn and flee. If someone – maid or butler – were to
hear him, fling open the door and spot him scuttling off into the
thin moonlight, all the better, as long as he wasn’t caught. Any
report of a scruffy scarecrow of a fellow hightailing it into the
shadows was certain to add authenticity to the ruse they were
perpetrating.

It was eight-thirty when they set out. A
quarter-moon in a clear sky provided just enough light for them to
carry out their plan as conceived. First, they headed up Sherbourne
Street. A few hundred yards from Oakwood Manor, Marc pulled over to
the side of the road and brought the horse to a halt in some deep
shadow.

“All right, Nestor. Here’s Sir Peregrine’s
envelope. Walk along the road, keeping to this side in the dark.
When you come to the gate, slip in towards the house – not on the
gravelled path but beside it and out of sight. Go up to the
verandah, make a bit of noise as you’re doing so, and push the
envelope under the front door. Give the door a kick, then run into
the woods on this side of the property. It’s not dense, so all you
have to do is look up at the slice of moon there. It’s in the
south-eastern sky. Follow your nose till you hit this road again.
I’ll swoop by and pick you up.”

Nestor, who had been too frightened to speak
since they had left Cobb’s house, tried one last time to register a
protest, but failed.

“Don’t worry,” Marc said. “Just do as I’ve
suggested and you’ll be fine.” Very gently he lifted Nestor up off
the padded seat and dropped him feet-first onto the ground.
“Go!”

Nestor went. Soon he was zigzagging along the
shadow-ridden verge of Sherborne Street north.

A good twenty-five minutes went by. Fifteen
minutes should have been more than enough time for the task to be
completed. Surely the entire Shuttleworth household would be too
focussed on their rehearsal-in-costume to notice the arrival of
Nestor at the front door, however clumsy he might be. But Marc was
worried, and not sure what he could do to help. He couldn’t leave
the buggy and go wandering into the woods after Nestor and he
couldn’t risk driving up to the gate. While he was still searching
for a third option, he heard the sound of footfalls crashing
through the underbrush nearby. They had a desperate ring to them.
Marc stepped down to the side of the road just as Nestor staggered
out of the darkness. His face was as white as the moon.

“Are you being pursued?” Marc said as Nestor
crashed into him and flung both scrawny arms around his waist.

“N-no,” Nestor stammered. “I got lost.”

***

While Nestor pulled the burrs and nettles out of his
hair and his sweater, and muttered under his breath about never
again going near the bush or trapper’s cabins, Marc eased the buggy
along the back streets until he calculated he was about a block
from Horace Fullarton’s place on George Street. He pulled over to
one side and pointed out the house, a distinguished, two-storey
residence with four chimney-pots.

“Stay here, well out of sight, Nestor. I’m
going to drive past the house and park farther up the street.
Deliver the envelope and then run up the road until you see the
buggy, then hop on quickly. There’s no need to make a noise in
there. We don’t want to disturb Mrs. Fullarton. She’s an
invalid.”

This delivery went off smoothly, if you
didn’t count Nestor’s tripping on a rut in the road near the buggy
and breaking his fall with a chin.

Andrew Dutton, who lived farther west on
Jarvis, was next. His house was set back in a copse of evergreens,
and Nestor, bruised and burred (in addition to his wasp-wounds),
was very nervous about going up to it.

“He’s not at home,” Marc reminded him.
“Everybody on our list except Budge is up at Oakwood Manor.”

Nestor took a deep breath and vanished into
the evergreens. Marc moved the buggy down the street about a
hundred yards, and waited. Five minutes went by, and no Nestor.
Then, to his dismay, Marc heard the blood-lust yodel of dogs on the
scent. Above the yowling of the beasts came an even higher-pitched
hog-squeal – piteous and unending.