The Secret Tunnel (23 page)

“Sure.”

“Want a taste?”

“But Mr. Taylor—”

“Oh, bugger Mr. Taylor. On second thought, don’t. He gets more than his fair share as it is.”

“Sounds like Dickinson’s got you all worked up.”

“He has.” Billy grabbed the front of my pants, and his eyebrows (plucked, I fear) shot up. “Well! It’s my lucky day.”

“If I fuck you, will you tell me what Dickinson was saying?”

He scowled. “Oh, I see.” His hand fell to his side. “No. I can’t.”

“You’re scared of him, aren’t you?”

“I don’t want to go to prison.”

“Nobody wants to go to prison. But, you see, if you don’t tell me what he said, then I shall be forced to say something about the mouthwash.”

Billy jumped as if he’d received an electric shock. It was a good guess.

“What did he say?”

“Who?”

“Taylor.”

“Nothing. He thought he’d had a funny oyster. Fortunately for him, and unfortunately for you, I am a doctor.”

“Pull the other one. Doctors don’t make dirty movies.”

“This one does. And as a doctor, I recognize the symptoms of cyanide poisoning. Not to mention the smell.”

Billy came toward me again, and started entwining himself like a snake. “It’s not my fault. I didn’t know what it
was. Dickinson just told me to put it in something that Hugo would drink.” He wrapped his leg around mine, pressing his hip into my groin. “I thought it was a love potion.” He was grinding against me like a dancing girl.

“But you didn’t know that Taylor would spit instead of swallowing.”

“I didn’t think. I’m not very bright.” His eyes were hooded, his lips parted.

“No, you’re not, are you.” He knew what he was doing, and I was almost fully hard—and I was tempted to fuck him. I might have done so, were it not for the fact I had left Bertrand in the adjacent dressing room.

“Now listen, Billy, you have a choice. You can do what Dickinson tells you to do—and face the consequences. If anything happens to Hugo Taylor, I will talk, and you will be on trial for murder. Or you can do as I say.”

“And then Dickinson will grass me up.”

“He won’t. He’s got too much to lose. He’s desperate. He’s gambling on your fear.”

“Oh, what the hell. He told me to give him this.” He pointed to an electric hair dryer on the dressing table. “After a show, Hugo always washes his hair and blow-dries it. I’ve dressed him before. It’s the same every night.”

“And Dickinson gave you this?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t ask, but I suppose—”

“Exactly.” I tugged the wire, which showed signs of tampering. “It’s wired up to provide an electric shock the moment it’s turned on. It would either kill him, or burn him so badly he’d never go on stage again.”

“Shit.”

“Shit indeed. I’ll take this.” I pulled the wire out of the appliance. “Hugo will just have to use a towel tonight.”

“He won’t be happy.”

“Maybe. But he will, at least, be alive. Thanks, Billy.”

“You’re welcome. Now will you fuck me?”

I’m a believer in fair play. “I tell you what. You’ve done something for me, I’ll do something for you. You can suck it.”

“Oh, goody.”

“Let me just see where my friend is.”

I looked into the empty dressing room where we had hidden.

“Bertrand? Are you here?”

No reply. He must have followed Dickinson. I was about to return to Billy, and his pink, parted lips, when I noticed that the room was full of what appeared to be smoke. I flicked the light switch, and saw a dense white fog—of face powder. The dressing table was in disarray, chairs were turned over—and there was no sign of Bertrand.

I had not heard a struggle, but then, the walls were thick, the rooms soundproofed to prevent noise reaching the stage.

Bertrand’s ticket stub lay on the floor, dropped (intentionally?) in the struggle.

But where was Bertrand?

I TRIED TO KEEP CALM. BERTRAND WAS A RESOURCEFUL BOY; perhaps he had just gone off on his own, looking for clues…

But why was the furniture turned over? Why was the air thick with the spilled face powder? I knew in my heart exactly what had happened: Bertrand had been abducted by Dickinson.

My first impulse was to run out of the theater and look for them on the street, as if I would see Dickinson, cackling like a screen villain, loading the struggling Bertrand into the back of a hansom cab and speeding to his lair. But they would be far away by now, and there was no point in my proceeding alone. I needed help.

I ran upstairs and arrived panting in the box. The first act was just coming to an end, thank God. Belinda, Boy, and Simmonds were all applauding enthusiastically.

“Not your cup of tea, old chap?” asked Boy. He looked uneasy; he must have realized that I’d slipped out with Bertrand, and drawn the obvious conclusion.

“Mitch doesn’t go for all that soppy romantic stuff,” said
Belinda, with a sly laugh. “You’re much more of a man’s man, aren’t you, Mitch?”

I mustered as much chivalry as I could, but I was in no mood for social pleasantries, even with a woman I esteemed as highly as Belinda.

“Where’s Bertrand?” asked Simmonds, looking no more pleased than Morgan. Oh, God, that’s all I needed; an irate love rival…

“You’d better come with me.”

“Has something happened?”

“Morgan, take Belinda to the bar. We’ll meet you later.”

“Mitch, what’s going on?” His face suddenly brightened. “I say, is there trouble?”

“It certainly looks like it.”

“Your young friend… Oh, dear. Has something happened?”

“I’m afraid it has.” I restrained Simmonds, who was as eager as I had been to rush into the street. “We must think clearly. Simmonds, come with me. Morgan, take care of Belinda.”

“Not on your life. I’m coming with you.”

“Oh, Harry!” Belinda cried.

“Come on, old girl. You can entertain yourself. The place is full of people that you know.”

“And what will they think if they see me wandering around on my own, without my husband? A very nice impression that will give. Honestly, Harry, the one night we get out and you want to rush off on the tail of—well, I don’t know what.”

“She’s right, Morgan. You must stay here. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves. If they think—”

“They?” Morgan’s eyes were blazing. “Who’s they? You mean there’s a gang? Here? In the theater?”

“I have no idea. But there are too many coincidences. We must be watchful. I need you here, Morgan, behaving
completely normally, but keeping your eyes and ears open. See that old bird down there?”

“Who, the one with the chicken’s arse sticking out of her hat?”

“Harry!”

“The very same. That’s Lady Antonia Petherbridge. She was on the train. Watch her like a hawk.”

Belinda peered around. “Oh, yes!” She waved in Lady Antonia’s direction; the great lady inclined her head in return. “We know her, darling. She came to the wedding.”

“Did she?” Morgan peered around, with a cheery smile on his face. “Oh yes. Her. Spent half an hour telling me that Jews were taking over the banking business.”

“That sounds about right.”

“She’s from a very old family,” said Belinda.

“Soft in the head, those old families,” said Morgan.

“I want you to engage her in conversation. Keep her busy. Don’t let her get away. Has she got her companion with her? Dowdy little woman by the name of Chivers?”

“I can’t see anyone, no,” said Belinda. “Just a couple of other old dears. Oh, wait a minute. That’s Rotha Thingummy. You know. The one who’s in the papers all the time. The fascist woman. And that’s her henchman. I wonder what they’re doing here?”

I recognized the faces from the newspapers: Rotha Lintorn-Orman, head of the British Fascist Party, and her “head of intelligence,” Maxwell Knight. They were constantly in trouble for their notoriously violent public meetings.

“I imagine they’re here to cause trouble.”

“Gosh,” said Morgan. “Do you suppose they’ve got rotten eggs in their handbags? You know, to pelt the stage with?”

“Bombs, more likely,” said Belinda. “They’re complete lunatics.”

“Right. Your job is to keep them occupied. On no account
let them out of your sight. Cause a commotion if necessary. Think you can manage that?”

“Of course we can,” said Belinda—and I had every faith in her. “But could you give us the tiniest hint of what this is all about?”

“There have been two attempts on the life of Hugo Taylor this evening.”

Belinda and Morgan’s faces fell.

“And, if I am not mistaken, Prince George could be in danger as well. Our friend Bertrand has been abducted—”

“No!” Simmonds sounded as if he’d been punched hard in the stomach.

“A man was killed on the train, and two others, including Taylor, assaulted. Another man has been arrested for the murder, and a woman has been arrested as his accomplice.”

“You mean Daisy Athenasy, don’t you?” said Belinda. “It was in the papers. They said she’d been arrested in connection with a motoring offense. I said, didn’t I, darling, that I didn’t believe a word of it. So she’s a murderer.”

“She’s no more a murderer than you or me. She’s been framed.”

“Wow!” Morgan’s eyes were wide; he was enjoying all this much more than he’d enjoyed
La Dame aux Camélias
. “So what do you want us to do in the second half?”

“Watch the play, of course. If anything is going to happen in the theater, I want you to witness it.”

“Oh, God. Can’t I come with you?”

“Certainly not,” said Belinda, firmly. “Now, Mitch, what happens after the show?”

“We’re going to the party, of course. At the Café Royal.”

 

Simmonds and I hurried out of the theater and into the street. Why were we hurrying? There was little we could do
to help our friend—but the idea of sitting inactive, while he was in danger, was unthinkable to both of us.

“What are we going to do?” Simmonds looked genuinely stricken. His face, a strange cross between handsome and brutish, was pale, his eyes wide with fear. “Will they…hurt him?”

“I don’t know. Dickinson is a very dangerous man.”

“But he’s the police. Is Bertrand under arrest?”

“Possibly.”

“But for what?”

“There’s always a reason to arrest people like us, Simmonds.”

“But he wouldn’t have been—”

“No. I don’t imagine he would.” Not after the fucking you’d given him, I almost added. “But Dickinson is a senior officer. Who’s going to take the word of an impoverished foreigner against his?”

“Not so impoverished, as it turns out.”

“What?”

“Didn’t he tell you? He went to see his uncle this afternoon.”

“And?”

“His father’s will is very…favorable.”

“Ah. I see. Well, that’s good news. I congratulate you.”

“Me, sir?”

“I assume that you have some interest in Bertrand’s future.”

“Not that kind of interest, sir. If you’re suggesting that I’m after his money—”

“I know perfectly well which part of Bertrand you’re after, Simmonds, and it ain’t the pounds, shillings, and pence. Or whatever they have in Belgium.”

“Francs, I believe, sir.”

That seemed to bring the conversation to an end, and we walked up Charing Cross Road deep in thought, to all
appearances like two friends out for an evening stroll. I had no idea where to go, what to do.

“If I might make a suggestion, sir…”

“For God’s sake, can we drop the ‘sir’? We’re not on the train now.”

“Sorry, Mitch. I think we ought to check at the hotel, to see if there’s a telegram for me.”

“Ah, the famous secret tunnel!”

“Yes. Arthur should have had time to have a good look around by now, and he promised he’d send a telegram as soon as possible. It hadn’t arrived when we left, but it’s nearly half past nine now.”

“Good idea. The only thing we can do now is to build the case against Dickinson.”

“You really believe that he’s behind all this?”

“I have to believe it, Simm—Sorry, Thomas. There is no other possible explanation.”

“But you have no proof.”

“Not yet, I admit. Just a lot of guesswork. But there’s no time to put together a case against anyone else. We just have to take a gamble. If the pieces fit, then we have our man. If not… Well, we’re in the dark.”

“And Bertrand?”

“We will find him, Thomas. I promise you that.”

“Thank you, Mitch.”

“And if the pieces of the jigsaw do fit together, and it turns out that Dickinson is somehow behind the murder of David Rhys, then we…well, we…”

“Yes. That is the question. What do we do, exactly? It’s not as if we can call the police. He is the police.”

“They can’t all be rotten.”

“You’re asking the wrong person. My experience of the boys in blue has not been a happy one.”

I had heard this frequently from my friends; I guess I had just been lucky. But I cast my mind back to that long-ago
summer in Norfolk, when Boy Morgan and I discovered a taste for detection—and even there, in the tiny village of Drekeham, the police force was riddled with corruption. There was one good copper, my friend PC Shipton, he of the hairy, obliging ass—but there was also the sadistic sergeant and his bullying sidekick Piggott, whose interrogation of an innocent suspect opened my eyes to the unorthodox policing methods rife in the English constabulary. If that sort of thing happened in rural Norfolk, how much more vicious would they be in London?

Yet surely, for every Peter Dickinson there must be at least one PC Shipton. We needed to find a sympathetic friend on the force—someone who could give us access to restricted information.