The Giant Rat of Sumatra Page 9

  Hector asked, “Are you saying you suspect Frank because he hasn’t done anything?”

  Battenberg gave him a superior smile. “Exactly, my dear chap. Some villain has been trying to destroy our play, correct? And he certainly isn’t going to announce his identity by behaving in a suspicious manner, correct? So I simply looked around for the person whose manner was least suspicious. And here he is.”

  Susanna looked over at Frank and rolled her eyes. Then she twirled her forefinger near her temple. Frank grinned back.

  Hornby came rushing up. “Now what?” he demanded.

  Three or four people at once tried to explain. Hornby swallowed an antacid tablet, then said, “Officer? What’s the problem here?”

  “Seems to be a misunderstanding,” the police officer said. He indicated Battenberg. “This gentleman thought that Mr. Hardy was an unauthorized intruder. According to Mr. Hardy, he’s working here.”

  “Of course he is,” Hornby said. “I’m directing this show, and I take full responsibility, Officer. Here’s my card.”

  Hornby turned to Battenberg and continued, “As for you, Charles, you’re letting your role as Holmes go to your head. Would you please restrict your urge to play detective to the stage?”

  Battenberg drew himself up and threw his head back, as if he were posing for his portrait. Stiffly, he said, “You seem to forget that I am the key person in this production, Gilbert. This is not merely my opinion, it is my official status in this company. And as the key person, I consider it my duty to do whatever I must to safeguard the welfare of the production. Whatever the personal cost, I shall not shirk that duty.”

  Battenberg turned and stalked away. There was a smattering of applause from the crowd.

  The police officer looked over at Frank with a hint of a grin and said, “I guess actors have to be a little bigger than life, huh, Mr. Hardy?”

  “It sure looks that way,” Frank replied.

  Hornby scowled at the circle of onlookers. “Are you forgetting that we have a show to put on?” he demanded.

  The crowd began to drift away. Before walking off, Hornby turned to Frank and said, “Watch your step, young man. Charles was clearly out of line, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about your presence. We have no room backstage for sightseers.”

  “Yes, sir,” Frank said. He moved off in the opposite direction, trying to keep out of Hornby’s way. Though O’Lunny had removed him from the case, Frank had no intention of actually dropping the investigation. He kept his eye out for anything that seemed out of the ordinary. But what did “out of the ordinary” mean, in a setting like this? There were people wandering around dressed as nineteenth-century gangsters, with clubs and even pistols in their belts. Was that ordinary? And what about someone who looked and dressed exactly like Sherlock Holmes and seemed half convinced that he was Sherlock Holmes? Was that ordinary?

  As he crossed the back of the stage, Frank saw O’Lunny in conversation with Li Wei. They both looked glum. Frank went over and joined them.

  O’Lunny glanced at Frank and said, “It never rains, but it pours. Li Wei, tell Frank what you just told me.”

  “Rat is in very big trouble,” Li Wei said. “I met this morning with someone who is very well placed to know what is happening. Gilbert Hornby’s organization has been doing a terrible job of promoting the play. There are practically no advance sales. Unless something is done, and done quickly, we’ll never even reach Broadway.”

  “But what can we do?” O’Lunny demanded. “It seems hopeless.”

  “Some of the backers are talking seriously about getting a new producer,” Li Wei said. “I don’t need to mention names. But if it’s going to do any good, it must happen before Rat gets a reputation as a failure. All these accidents and incidents are destroying any chance we have of saving the play. Donald, can’t you do anything to stop them?”

  O’Lunny met Frank’s eye as he said, “I’ll do everything I can.”

  “Please,” Li Wei said. She started to walk away, then turned to add, “It’s very important, to all of us.”

  After a moment O’Lunny said, “Frank, I take back what I said before. Will you and Joe carry on with your investigation? You can see how urgent it is. Just be extra careful that you don’t get hurt. Please,” O’Lunny finished, his voice wavering with emotion.

  “You can count on us,” Frank said. “Now, I’d better go find Joe and fill him in.”

  Joe was in the men’s dressing room, struggling with his makeup. Frank called from the doorway, and Joe joined him in the hall. In a low voice Frank told him the latest developments. “You see what this all means?” he concluded. “Li Wei does have a link to Lestell, but that doesn’t give her a motive to sabotage the play. She sincerely wants it to be a success. So she’s off our suspect list, too.”

  Joe rubbed his chin, then looked with dismay at the tan makeup on his hand. “So who’s left?” he asked. “Battenberg, that’s who,” he said, answering his own question. Joe quickly told Frank his latest thoughts about Battenberg as a suspect. “Still, I don’t accept the motive. Why would he want to get out of the play, just to be in some movie? He lives and breathes Sherlock Holmes. I bet he even wears that funny Holmes cap in the shower.”

  “Which brings us down to zero suspects,” Frank said. “Our only hope is to catch the trickster redhanded. But face it, we can’t be everywhere at once.”

  “Then what do we do?” Joe demanded. Frank didn’t answer. Joe noticed his brother seemed to be miles away, so he nudged him and asked again.

  Frank’s face broke into a grin. “We do what Sherlock Holmes would do. We call in the Baker Street Irregulars!”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” Joe mumbled as they went off in search of Hector. He was in the greenroom with Susanna. Frank started to explain what they wanted.

  After the first couple of sentences, Susanna interrupted. “You’re detectives? I knew it had to be something like that.”

  “I figured something was up,” Hector said. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but, Frank, you’re not the go-fer type, and sorry, Joe, but you’re no actor.”

  Joe’s face fell, but this was no time for hurt feelings.

  “Will you help? You and the others?” Frank asked.

  “You can count on us,” Hector replied. “Anything unusual, we’ll let you know right away.”

  “And good hunting!” Susanna said.

  • • •

  On the stage, Holmes stood in his sitting room, playing a haunting melody on his violin.

  Frank was in the wings, between Susanna and Joe. “You know, Battenberg’s really good,” he whispered to Susanna. “Where did he learn to play the violin?”

  “It’s a recording,” she replied. “It’s being broadcast to a radio receiver under his chair. You’re right, though, in a way. He fakes pretty well.”

  The music was interrupted by the arrival of a client. The visitor explained that he was a shipowner being blackmailed by the Sumatra Rats. He was scheduled to deliver a payoff that afternoon, in the East End. Would Holmes watch secretly and catch the villains in the act of collecting the money?

  What the audience knew, and Holmes supposedly didn’t, was that the shipowner was really the Giant Rat himself, in disguise. He had devised a fiendish plot to kidnap Holmes and Watson, or if necessary, to kill them.

  Once more the scene changed to the dank shadowy docklands warehouse that was the headquarters of the Sumatra Rats. After a song in which the Giant Rat made hair-raising threats about what he was planning to do to Holmes, some of the gang hid in ambush near the entrance. But at that moment Holmes and Watson, revolvers in hand, suddenly appeared from the other direction.

  “Hands up, please,” Holmes said. “A fine rat trap, wouldn’t you say, Watson?”

  From where he was standing, Holmes couldn’t see the character played by Robertson. Robertson stealthily drew a club from his belt, then jumped out to aim a blow at Holmes’s head.

  Holmes react
ed instantly. He aimed his revolver over his attacker’s head and pulled the trigger. There was a loud bang!

  Frank couldn’t quite believe what he saw next.

  A few inches above Robertson’s head, a window shattered, and shards of glass rained down on the actor.

  14 A Message from the Beyond

  * * *

  Susanna grabbed Frank’s arm. “That wasn’t a blank, that was a real bullet!”

  Onstage all the actors were paralyzed with shock. Robertson was staring up at the shattered window. Battenberg was staring down at the revolver in his hand. Then they all seemed to remember they were in a play and that hundreds of spectators were watching every move they made.

  “That was just a warning,” Battenberg ad-libbed. “Behave yourself, or next time I may aim lower.”

  “Right you are, guv’ner,” Robertson replied. He gingerly placed his club on the ground, then raised his hands.

  “Quick—where are the guns and ammunition kept?” Frank asked Susanna in a whisper.

  “Stage right, in a cabinet near Bettina’s desk,” Susanna replied. “But it’s always locked. I don’t see how—”

  Frank didn’t wait for the end of her sentence. “Come on, Joe,” he said, walking quickly toward the rear of the stage. They passed behind the set, then made their way forward to the stage manager’s station. Bettina was dividing her attention between the action on the stage and a lanky bearded man of about forty.

  “I can’t explain it,” the man was saying. “We don’t even have any live ammunition. Not a single round. Why would we?”

  “Face it, Alex,” Bettina said. “It wasn’t a blank that blew that hole in the set. Either it was an oversight or someone played a very dangerous prank. I want you to check every cartridge in every gun we have . . . and do it before the next act. Okay?”

  “You bet,” Alex said. He went over to a steel cabinet fastened to the wall and unlocked the door.

  Frank stepped up to the manager and said, “Bettina, Donald O’Lunny asked me to find out as much as I can about this accident. Are the revolvers always kept locked up?”

  “They certainly are,” Bettina replied. “Whenever they’re needed onstage, Alex, our props manager, personally hands each one to the actor who’s supposed to carry it. And at the end of the scene, he collects them and puts them back in the cabinet.”

  “Does a particular actor always get the same gun?” Joe asked.

  Bettina nodded. “That’s right. They’re different sizes and types. We don’t want to confuse anybody.”

  “And who has a key to the cabinet?” Frank asked.

  Bettina’s face hardened. “I thought it would come to this,” she said defensively. “I do. So does Alex. That’s it. Make of it what you will.”

  “Aren’t there any other copies?” Joe asked. “Maybe a spare somewhere?”

  “Well, yes, we have a duplicate set of keys in the office, in case one gets lost,” Bettina replied. “But they’re always kept locked up.”

  Frank asked, “Do you have any idea how that live round got into Battenberg’s revolver?”

  “I wish I did,” Bettina said. “I’ll tell you one thing—it wasn’t Battenberg who put it there. The guy is practically phobic about guns. I hear he goes and scrubs his hands after every scene where he has to even touch one. I can’t imagine him unloading a blank and putting in a live cartridge.”

  She held up her hand, then listened intently to her headset. “Sorry, guys,” she said hastily. “Duty calls.” She turned back to face the stage.

  Frank and Joe got into a huddle. “The key to the cabinet is in the office,” Joe pointed out.

  “The key to the whole case is in the office,” Frank retorted. “That’s where somebody hocussed the complimentary-ticket program, somebody typed and printed that note that was supposed to lure Battenberg into falling through the trapdoor . . .”

  “And somebody knocked you out, then erased that computer file,” Joe concluded. “Okay, next question—who, besides us, has a key to the office? Mila, obviously. O’Lunny, unless he gave you his only key.”

  “I know Hornby does,” Frank said. “He came in while I was there this morning. He wasn’t happy to find me there.”

  “I’d like to search the place more carefully,” Joe said.

  “No better time than now,” Frank replied. “No one’s likely to interrupt us while the play’s going on.”

  Once again they circled behind the set. They were turning into the corridor that led to the office when O’Lunny intercepted them.

  “We can’t go on like this,” he announced. “I’m going to insist we suspend the rest of the performances here in Bayport, and I’m seriously inclined to cancel the run on Broadway as well.”

  “Why?” Joe asked.

  “How can you ask?” O’Lunny retorted. “You saw what just happened. It was only by pure chance that Will Robertson wasn’t killed! Before this, I thought we were dealing with a mere prankster. Now I realize that our opponent is a cold, ruthless murderer.”

  “Will you wait a little longer before you do something as drastic as closing the show?” Frank asked. “I can’t promise anything, but I think we’re close to cracking the case.”

  O’Lunny stared at him. “You are? That’s wonderful, if it’s true. Can you tell me—”

  “I’m afraid not,” Frank said, shaking his head. “Not yet. One question, though. Who has keys to the production office?”

  The playwright’s eyes widened. “Why, I do, of course, and our secretary, Mila, and Gilbert Hornby.”

  “Anyone else?” Joe asked. “What about Bettina?”

  “No, she doesn’t need one,” O’Lunny replied. “And I gave you fellows the spare. Why?”

  “We’ll explain later,” Frank promised. “Right now, we have work to do.”

  “So do I,” O’Lunny said. “I’ll look for you later.”

  As the Hardys continued down the hall to the office, Joe said in a low voice, “It’s got to be Hornby, Frank. Unless you think Mila is the guilty one. Personally, I don’t see her knocking you out, then carrying or dragging you to the stage.”

  “I don’t either,” Frank admitted. “But she could be working with somebody. I know Hornby looks like a more likely candidate. But why would he try to wreck his own play, when he’s got so much at stake?”

  “I have no idea,” Joe replied. “But remember what Holmes said.”

  Frank groaned. “Oh, please, not the Dog in the Night again!”

  “Nope,” Joe said. “I mean, ‘Once you eliminate the possible, what remains, however improbable, is the truth.’ That’s not word for word, but it’s close enough.”

  Frank gave his brother an admiring glance, then unlocked the office door. Once they were inside, he relocked it. If anyone came in on him this time, he wanted a few seconds warning.

  “This shouldn’t take long,” he told Joe. “Why don’t you take the file cabinet and I’ll take the desk.”

  They both got to work. Frank barely had time to go through the center drawer of the desk when Joe cried, “Frank, look at this!”

  Frank joined Joe at the file cabinet. At the very back of the bottom drawer, behind the hanging files, was a twisted-up shopping bag from Value Plus. Joe pulled it out and looked inside.

  “A plastic raincoat, a can of white spray enamel,” he announced, “and a cash register receipt that lists a bottle of ammonia and a spool of nylon leader.”

  Frank beamed. “That’s great evidence, Joe. The only thing is, will the clerk at the discount store remember the purchases? All of the items are pretty ordinary, even if the combination is weird.”

  “Good point,” Joe said. “But who’s our mystery shopper? Hornby? We still don’t have the ghost of a motive for him.”

  Frank looked around the office. On the desk next to the computer, the red light was blinking on the answering machine. Frank went over and pressed Play, then kept his finger ready on the Fast Forward button.

  “Hello
, I’m calling about complimentary seats . . .” Click, whirr.

  “This is Mike Seward, at the Journal. I’d like to set up some interviews . . .” Click, whirr.

  “Mila, it’s Inessa. Give me a call . . .” Click, whirr.

  Joe said, “Come on. This is a waste of time.”

  Frank held his finger up to his lips.

  “Mr. Hornby, this is Alice, at the Beyond the Horizon Agency. I have a confirmation on your rental of the Marston villa on Aruba for next week. As I told you, the price includes the use of a car and the services of a maid and cook. I hope you enjoy your stay. Please call me if you have any questions. And have a lovely trip. Goodbye.” Alice hung up, and the machine fell silent.

  Joe stared at Frank. “Aruba? Next week? But Frank, Rat still might make it to Broadway. What producer-director would want to miss that?”

  “One who already knows that it’s not going to happen,” Frank said. “One who’s going to make sure that it doesn’t happen.”

  “But why?” Joe demanded.

  “Joe, that computer file,” Frank said. “The one labeled KEYPERS.INS. That stands for ‘Key Person Insurance.’ It’s the policy that people have been talking about. It’s what Battenberg meant when he said he was the key person in the production. If Battenberg can’t perform—if he breaks a leg falling through a trapdoor or has a sandbag fall on his head—Hornby collects a million dollars! Hornby must have been the one who deleted that file that we retrieved. He didn’t want anyone to know he’d make out like a bandit if something happened to Battenberg. How’s that for a motive?”

  “It’ll do,” Joe said. “But, Frank—we’ve got to stop him! He must be getting desperate. Who knows what he’ll do to Battenberg next?”

  A key turned in the lock. Frank and Joe looked around as the door opened. Hornby was standing with his hand on the knob and a look of surprise on his face. His thick black eyebrows lowered into a suspicious scowl as he took in Frank’s expression. Then he looked over at Joe and saw the plastic bag in his hands.