The Giant Rat of Sumatra Page 8

  After leaving the theater, Frank walked over to Broad Street. There was only one clerk inside the Value Plus store, a middle-aged man wearing a bright green jacket with the company emblem on the pocket. His face brightened when he saw Frank. “Can I help you with anything?” he asked.

  “I hope so,” Frank said. “Do you recall anybody buying a bottle of ammonia in the last couple of days?”

  “Are you kidding?” the man retorted. “Do you have any idea how many sales we make in a day? I’ve got enough to do without trying to remember them all.”

  Frank said, “I can understand that. But would you take a look at these pictures? Do any of these people look familiar?”

  The man looked through the photos twice. He shook his head. “I’m not saying they haven’t been in,” he told Frank. “But I sure can’t say that they have. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. Thanks for trying,” Frank said, and left the store. Out on the sidewalk, he paused in frustration. The ammonia bottle was apparently a dead end. What now? There were just too many unanswered questions about the links among their different suspects. But how could he get the information he needed without destroying his cover?

  Frank glanced down at the photos in his hand and an idea suddenly came to him. If the office kept publicity photos of the play’s creators and stars on file, it probably kept press biographies of them, too—if not in the files, then on the computer. By examining dates and activities, he could track down people’s earlier associations.

  With fresh determination, he turned and walked briskly in the direction of the Orpheum Theater.

  • • •

  “Last night went pretty well,” Joe said, “at least after they fixed the lights. Why shouldn’t tonight go just as well?”

  He was in the greenroom with Susanna, Hector, and several other members of the chorus. The mood was tense.

  “Don’t!” Susanna gasped. “Never say that a performance is going to go well. That’s the second most important rule in theater.”

  “Oh? What’s the most important?” Joe asked curiously.

  “Never quote from Macbeth,” Hector said. “That’s one-hundred-percent guaranteed bad luck. And the last thing this production needs is more bad luck.”

  Jerry, one of the Irregulars, said, “What it does need is a new title. I think The Giant Rat of Sumatra is cool. But what about the bridge-and-tunnel crowd? They don’t want to schlep into Manhattan to see a musical about rats. They think Manhattan has too many rats already.”

  “Come on, Jerry,” Susanna said impatiently. “It’s not a musical about rats. It’s a quote from Sherlock Holmes himself, about a mystery that would never be written about.”

  “I know that,” Jerry retorted. “But they don’t. And they’re the ones who buy tickets to successful Broadway musicals. If they don’t buy, it’s not successful.”

  “Jerry’s right,” one of the members of the Giant Rat’s gang said. “I’ve got a friend who works in the business office. Advance sales to the suburban theater clubs are a lot lower than expected. Management isn’t doing anything about it, either. We may not even make Broadway. If by some miracle we do, don’t count on a long run. And don’t lose the name of your employment consultant.”

  Susanna sprang up, with fire in her eyes. “I do not believe you people!” she exclaimed. “This is a great play, with a fantastic score, and we’re going to make it a hit. So what if we’ve had a few bad breaks? Are we going to let that stop us? No! Years from now, you’re going to be bragging to people that you were in the original cast of The Giant Rat of Sumatra.”

  “Yay, Susanna,” Hector said. “That’s the spirit we need.”

  Joe couldn’t tell if he was being serious or sarcastic.

  Al, the stagehand, appeared in the doorway and said, “We’re getting ready to run through the transformation scene. Places, please.”

  Hector stood up and stretched. “Okay, boys and girls, time to earn our pay,” he said.

  Standing in the wings, Joe began to feel excited. He had watched this scene half a dozen times, but he was still captivated by the magic that transformed a London street into the shadowy interior of a sinister warehouse.

  As the lighting changed in color and intensity, the turntable started to revolve. The set that represented the warehouse came into view. As it did, Joe saw a limp figure lying half on, half off the turntable, legs dragging along the floorboards. His first thought was that the trickster must be getting more use from the dummy.

  Then Joe’s eyes widened. As the figure drew closer, it began to look terribly familiar. Even in the dim light, Joe could not mistake the face of his brother.

  With mounting horror, he saw that Frank was being dragged toward a wooden column, one of the platform supports. In another moment, his legs would be caught between the wall of the revolving set and the column.

  He’d be crushed!

  12 Sherlock Gets His Man

  * * *

  “Stop the turntable! Now!” Joe shouted.

  Confused shouts drowned out Joe’s. Clenching his jaw, he dashed out onto the stage. His left foot landed on the moving turntable. He lost his balance and almost fell. Flailing his arms, he recovered and sprinted to Frank’s side. He grabbed him under the arms and tried to drag him back, out of danger. But Frank’s limp body refused to budge.

  Growing frantic, Joe glanced toward the column. It was less than a yard from Frank’s legs now. What was keeping Frank from moving? Whatever it was, it had to give way! Joe grabbed a lungful of air, planted his feet, and pulled at Frank with every ounce of energy he had.

  There was a loud ripping sound, and Joe fell backward. He sprang to his knees, still holding Frank’s arms and ready to renew his effort. But Frank’s legs were now on the turntable, out of harm’s way. Well, mostly. There was a long rip down the left leg of his jeans and an ugly scratch on his calf from which drops of blood were starting to ooze.

  The turntable shuddered to a halt. Joe shuddered, too, as he realized how narrowly his brother had escaped being maimed for life.

  “Frank?” Joe said, bending down. “Frank, are you okay?”

  Frank’s eyes fluttered. He slowly raised one hand and touched the side of his head. “It hurts,” he said in a weak voice.

  “Don’t move,” Joe said urgently. “We’ll get a doctor.”

  Frank shook his head, then winced with pain. “I’ll be all right,” he said. He shrugged away Joe’s hand and lifted himself to a sitting position. Wincing, he examined the cut on his leg.

  Bettina rushed over and cried out, “What happened? What’s going on? Is he okay?”

  “I must have fallen and hit my head,” Frank told her. He grabbed Joe’s shoulder and staggered to his feet. “I’m okay now. My brother tugged too hard and tore my jeans.”

  “If you’re sure . . .” Bettina said, giving him a doubtful look. She turned and called out, “Okay, everybody. Emergency’s over. On with the rehearsal.”

  “I have to go,” Joe said softly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Frank gave him a tired nod. “It’s just a scratch. I’ll wash it and put some medication on it. We need to talk, though, first chance you get,” he said.

  “You bet,” Joe replied.

  O’Lunny rushed up. “Frank, Joe, what happened?”

  “Frank will fill you in,” Joe said. “Take care of him, will you?”

  Frank put one hand on O’Lunny’s shoulder, and the two walked slowly offstage.

  • • •

  It felt like forever, but finally Joe’s scene with the Irregulars was finished. He rushed offstage, finding O’Lunny in the wings, talking with Hornby. When O’Lunny saw Joe, he said, “Frank’s fine. I left him in the greenroom.”

  Joe expected to find Frank stretched out on the couch, resting. Instead, he was pacing up and down the room like a tiger at the zoo. His face brightened when Joe walked in.

  “Let’s get to work,” he said.

  “Sure, but first tell me what happ
ened to you,” Joe replied. “Did you really fall and hit your head?”

  Frank shook his head, then winced. “No. Somebody did it for me. Here’s what happened. I tried to track down who bought the ammonia, but no luck. So I came back to the theater to look up everybody’s bios and check for some link among them. I went to the office, sat down at the computer, and started to boot up. And the next thing I know, I’m lying on the stage with a humongous headache.”

  “Somebody slugged you, then dragged you to the stage?” Joe asked.

  “Right,” Frank said. “But why? Because they don’t like my aftershave? My hunch is that there’s something on the computer I wasn’t supposed to see. No, change that—there was something on the computer. Whoever slugged me is bound to have deleted whatever it was. Come on.”

  “Come on where?” Joe asked.

  “To the office,” Frank replied. “I want to see what it is that’s important enough to get me knocked out.”

  Joe waited until they were inside the office, with the door closed, to ask, “Didn’t you say the bad guy must have erased it?”

  Frank smiled. “Like most people, you think that when you delete a file from a computer disk, you erase it. Wrong. All you erase is the directory listing that tells the computer where the file is. The contents of the file are still there, at least until the disk is reformatted or some other file gets saved in the same location.”

  Frank turned on the computer, typed in SHERLOCK, and looked through the main directory. “Good,” he said. “The diagnostic program they’ve got installed is one I’ve used before. Now, let’s see. . . .”

  As he entered a series of commands, he explained, “I’m trying to find out if any files or directories were deleted this afternoon. And the answer is . . . yes! KEYPERS.INS. Joe, do you see a blank disk anywhere? I’m going to copy this material so we can take a shot at deciphering it later at home.”

  Joe found a box of formatted disks and passed one to Frank. “Why not just read it now?” he asked.

  “Because when you save a file, the computer sticks bits of it in any nooks and crannies that happen to be free,” Frank replied. “Then, when you call up the file, the machine uses the directory listing to put it together again for you. But we don’t have the detailed directory listing. All we know is which sectors the file’s in. So we’ll have to print them out, then hunt through a lot of garbage to find the strings we’re after.”

  The disk drive whirred. Frank glanced up at Joe’s face and laughed. “I didn’t say it was going to be easy.” He ejected the disk and put it in his pocket. “Let’s get out of here before someone decides to hit both of us over the head!”

  They left the theater. “I remember a good coffee shop down the street,” Frank said. “Let’s get something to eat.”

  “There it is,” Joe said. “We used to eat here when Mom took us shopping. And it’s still called Carol’s.” They went inside and slid into a booth. “We always had BLTs, remember?”

  Frank nodded. As soon as the waitress appeared, he and Joe ordered BLTs and colas. She wrote down the order on her pad and left.

  “I’m going to check our machine,” Frank said. “Maybe Mr. Hiroto called.”

  He came back just as the sandwiches and drinks arrived. Once the waitress was gone, he said, “The flecks in Bag A were spray enamel.”

  “We knew that,” Joe pointed out. “What about Bag B? The stuff from O’Lunny’s sleeve?”

  Frank let out an exasperated sigh. “Talcum powder, maybe in aerosol form,” he reported. “Certainly not enamel. O’Lunny’s in the clear.”

  Joe surprised himself by saying, “I’m glad to hear it. I like him. And I didn’t want to think he was deliberately playing us for a couple of chumps.”

  “Me, neither,” Frank replied. “So who does that leave? Li Wei had that meeting with Lestell in his limo. Hector has a great job waiting if The Giant Rat closes. And Gordean wants his pal, Will Robertson, to get Battenberg’s part. Have I left anyone out?”

  Joe shook his head and picked up the second half of his sandwich. “Not that I can think of. Let’s finish up and get back. I want to go over my entrance cues again before tonight.” He polished off the sandwich in three bites and drank down the last of the cola.

  “You’re becoming more of an actor than a detective,” Frank said. “Watch it—I might have to go onstage, too, so we stay a team. And I bet if I did, I’d blow your doors off.”

  Deadpan, Joe said, “Sorry. Blowing doors off is part of the Big Bad Wolf’s business. And his role has already been cast. Toss you for the check?”

  “The prices haven’t changed either,” Frank said. “This is my treat.”

  • • •

  Back at the theater, Joe grabbed his script and went in search of Hector. He found him in the greenroom with the rest of the Irregulars.

  “My man,” Hector said expansively. “Come on in. I was just giving a sermon about good luck.”

  “Oh? Why?” Joe asked.

  Hector smiled. “Here’s the skinny. The same day I accepted this role, I was offered a big part in a new TV series. Was I steamed! But I’d already made a commitment, so there I was.”

  “Come on, Hector, what’s the punchline?” Max grumbled.

  “This. I just spoke to my agent.” Hector paused, letting the tension build. “And the network’s canned the series. Totally down the tubes. They said they didn’t want any more crime shows. If I’d ditched this part to take that one—and you can bet I was tempted—I’d be back programming computers now. Instead, I’ve got a terrific role in a terrific musical. So you see? Sometimes, keeping your word is not only good for your soul, but good for your career.”

  “You know what’s weird, though?” Susanna said. “According to a friend of mine on the Coast, a few days ago one of the studios offered Battenberg a major supporting role in a flick that’s going into production three weeks from now, and he still hasn’t said yes or no.”

  “He’s probably waiting to see how the tryouts go,” Max said. “If Rat looks like a hit, he’ll stay, and if not, he’ll split.”

  “And break his contract?” Susanna asked. “I don’t think so. He’d never work on Broadway again. No, I think Battenberg will decline. But he just can’t stand turning down a juicy movie role.”

  Joe thought fast. If Hector had told the truth about the cancellation of the TV series—and why wouldn’t he?—then his motive for being the trickster had just evaporated. And if Susanna’s gossip was accurate, a new suspect had just surfaced: Battenberg himself, the victim of most of the dirty tricks. He definitely had a strong motive to see The Giant Rat fail, and fail quickly.

  • • •

  Frank was taking another look at the light board. The masking tape labels were illegible. How did anyone know which switch controlled what? He was scratching his head when O’Lunny came over to him.

  “I’ve been thinking about what happened this afternoon,” O’Lunny said. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine,” Frank said. “I’ve got a hard head.”

  O’Lunny hesitated. “Frank . . . when I asked you and Joe for help, I never imagined that I’d be putting you in such danger. I don’t think I can accept that responsibility. If anything happened to you or Joe, how could I face your father and mother? I’m going to have to ask you to give up your investigation.”

  Frank looked at him in surprise. O’Lunny’s face had new strain lines on it, and his cheeks sagged. He looked like someone who badly needed a few days’ rest.

  “You’re both doing a wonderful job,” O’Lunny continued. “It’s not that. But how could I face your father? I’m afraid you’ll have to drop it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear this,” Frank said, trying to hide his surprise. “But I see your point. Could you do Joe a favor, though? It’d break his heart not to be in the play tonight, and I’d really like to watch from backstage.”

  “No, no, that’s fine,” O’Lunny said. “And thanks for being so understanding.
Well, that’s one less worry. If only I could deal with the others as easily. We’ll talk later.”

  Watching him walk away, Frank wondered, Why did O’Lunny want them off the case? To keep them safe, as he had said? Or to keep them from getting any closer to the truth?

  Suddenly Frank felt someone grab him by the collar. He spun around. It was Battenberg, wearing the caped overcoat and deerstalker cap of Sherlock Holmes.

  “What do you—” Frank started to demand.

  In a voice that rang through the theater, Battenberg called, “Over here, Officer. Quickly! Here’s your villain!”

  13 A Short in the Dark

  * * *

  Battenberg tightened his hold on Frank’s shirt collar while a police officer came hurrying toward them. The policeman had his hand on the butt of his service revolver and wore a determined expression.

  “We got a call to 911,” the officer said. “A report of a dangerous intruder.”

  “It was I who called,” Battenberg announced to the gathering crowd. “Once I deduced the identity of the miscreant, I judged it time to hand responsibility over to Scotland Yard. Or, in this case, the Bayport Police Department.”

  Someone in the crowd muttered, “Wacko.”

  “You can let him go, sir,” the police officer said to Battenberg. “I’ll handle this.”

  To Frank, he said, “Can I see some ID, sir? Are you aware that this part of the theater is off-limits to the public?”

  Frank reached slowly for his wallet and produced his driver’s license. As the officer took down the information from it, Frank said, “Chief Collig will vouch for me, Officer. And I’m not an intruder. Donald O’Lunny, the author and co-producer of the play, asked me to serve as his assistant.”

  Battenberg turned away from Frank to face the crowd. “It was quite elementary,” he announced. “I simply applied the principle of the Dog in the Night, from Arthur Conan Doyle’s story ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles.’ In that case, what aroused Holmes’s suspicions was that the dog did nothing in the night.”