Sergeant Verity and the Blood Royal (28 page)

With a tow, row, row, row, row, row. . .

No, Lieutenant Dacre was not the man to leave the world in ignorance of such a longed for homicidal triumph.

. . . to the British Grenadiers.

Verity watched the Prince of Wales and his companions trot past each of the regiments in turn, the colours dipping and the ranks of blue-coated soldiers presenting arms with a flash of bayonets and the glint of their officers' drawn swords. The young man acknowledged these salutes too and then, at last, turned away with his escort to the open barouche and the line of carriages behind, which waited to begin the ceremonial procession down Broadway. Major Teesdale turned in the saddle and made a brief, imperious gesture to Verity and Crowe. Stepping forward smartly, they marched in step, fists swinging to shoulder-height, oddly costumed in their long civilian coats and tall hats.

Concealed in a closed carriage, they rode immediately behind the barouche, in which the Prince sat beside Mayor Wood, with Newcastle and the British Ambassador, Lord Lyons, facing him. Verity saw the same fortress-like buildings in white marble or granite, the cast-iron store fronts richly decorated and tinted to resemble bronze, which he had passed during his shadowing of Jolly and Sergeant Crowe. But now every window, balcony and roof was packed with faces as densely as the crowds upon the pavement itself. Everywhere on posts and lamp-stands the Stars and Stripes was intertwined with the Union Jack. Flags and banners drooped in the still afternoon air. But at the approach of the royal procession there was a long white ripple of waving handkerchiefs, and a tumult of hats thrown in the air. Not for the first time, Verity was uneasily aware that if Lieutenant Dacre or any of his kind chose this moment to attempt the life of the young Prince, there was virtually no protection against such an attack. It would be over before he or Crowe could reach the young man's side. It was these and other thoughts which led him, unconsciously, to scowl at the good-natured bystanders who were shouting, 'God Save the Queen!' and 'You're welcome to New York!'

'Come on,' said Crowe presently, 'nothing's as bad as that!'

‘I been thinking, Mr Crowe, about the litany. It gotta 'ave an answer, if only we was to ask the right question.'

After lunch oh the following day, Verity and Crowe stood side by side in the palatial lobby of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, where the Prince and his suite were lodged. With wondering scepticism, Verity eyed the massive chandeliers, the plate-glass, the broad stairway and the lounging chairs in rosewood and velvet. He turned to Crowe.

'Your banks over 'ere ain't much to shout about, are they, Mr Crowe ?'

'Why?'

'Well,' said Verity, easing the collar away from his fleshy neck with a broad finger, 'being as I was off-duty this morning, I been to a few banks, telling 'em I was a detective officer and so forth.'

'What for?'

'Well, Mr Crowe, first off, I asked 'em if they had a list of all the boxes as might have been deposited in their vaults since the 9th of October, and if I might see same. Very abrupt they was, Mr Crowe. Sharp, even. Said they'd got such lists but that they wasn't something-well going to show 'em to me, nor to anyone short of your Secretary to the Treasury! When I asked whose authority was needed to have all their customers' boxes opened up and searched, they got quite uncivil. Said they wouldn't do that for President Buchanan himself. Two or three places I was helped to the door with a 'and on me arm!'

'How many banks have you been to, for God's sake?'

'Not more 'n a dozen or two, Mr Crowe.'

'Fat fool!'

'Easy, Mr Crowe! Easy on, now!'

'Didn't you know that banks work on trust and confidence? Let these boxes be opened and searched, they might as well put their shutters up and go out of business.'

Verity thought about this for a moment.

'Seems to me,' he said presently with portly dignity, 'seems to me Lieutenant Dacre didn't need Lucifer and Bull-Peg and that. Seems to me these banks are the best accomplices that a villain could ask for. Why, the crown jewels might be stole and hid in their vaults, and no one allowed to look for 'em! Trust and confidence! Huh!'

The Prince of Wales appeared on the stairs with Newcastle and Teesdale close on either side. Verity and Crowe fell in behind as the three men approached the hotel door and the carriage which waited beyond the long awning. There was a cheer from the waiting spectators. Then, as the Prince stepped forward, Verity caught a movement from the corner of his eye. It was a rough-looking man with the appearance of a sailor, a wild expression in his eyes, who rushed from the crowd and charged towards the royal visitor. The man's clenched fist was raised to attack and his words were hysterically shrill.

'You never shall be King of England! Not if you live a hundred years!'

The Prince stood quite still in the face of the impending blow, and the crowd seemed mesmerized. It was Verity who shouldered aside the grave, frail figure of Newcastle and grappled briefly with the man, smelling the whisky-breath. It was easy enough to seize the bony wrists of the shabby sailor and twist them sharply up between the man's shoulder-blades. The bullying shout died to a grizzle of drunken protest.

'Right, my man.' said Verity, his lips close to the culprit's ear, 'you 'ad your say for this afternoon!'

He bowed the man forward with a further twist of the wiry arms and then trundled him at a run into the privacy of the hotel lobby.

Major Teesdale, his military uniform discarded in favour of a bottle-green evening coat, stood with his hands clasped under its tails and his back to the empty grate of his hotel room.

'His Royal Highness would, of course, wish me to express his personal appreciation of your conduct in this disagreeable incident,' he said, as though finding even a reference to the matter distasteful.

Verity, smartly at attention with chin held high, gazed intently at a space on the wall, just above the mantelpiece.

'You no idea 'ow proud I feel to have been noticed by 'is 'ighness, sir! With respect ,sir!'

'Yes, yes,' said Teesdale, showing the first sign of mild irritation with his plump subordinate. 'There will, however, be no public reference to the incident. The man who insulted the Prince proves to be one Edward Moncar, second mate of the
Santa Claus.'

'The what, sir?'

'Santa Claus,
sergeant. More to the point, he is an Englishman.'

'Well I never, sir! And 'im carrying on like an anarchist!'

'The whole thing is to be dealt with quietly, you understand ? We have trouble enough as it is.'

'Yessir. Just so, sir. 'ave the honour to request a favour, sir!'

Teesdale held a match to a cheroot, puffed energetically, and then looked up at Verity through the thinning smoke. 'What sort of favour?'

'Well, sir, it ain't exactly for meself, but someone 'igher up might be able to get a job done for me. It's them banks, sir. You no idea how uncivil thev can be, sir. With respect, sir.'

'You have already been told, sergeant, that interference with private bank boxes is out of the question! Dammit, man, even the American Treasury wouldn't dare do that without a new law to authorize them!'

Verity's pink moon of a face assumed an expression of injury.

'I never meant to interfere, sir. But it don't need a new law for them banks to pick up the boxes and carry them across the vault and put them down on the other side, do it, sir? Why, they might do that in the course o' sweeping up the floor!'

Teesdale sat down slowly in a wing-chair.

'How can you find gold by moving boxes round a room?' he asked suspiciously.

'There's no end to what a man can do once he puts 'is mind to it, sir. Permission to stand easy and reach in me pocket, sir?'

'If you're wrong,' said Sergeant Crowe, 'they'll roast your fat hide and serve you up to the bank presidents, basted and with an apple in your mouth.'

Verity gasped with exertion as they lowered the box between them to the stone floor of the vault.

‘I ain't wrong, Mr Crowe. I 'ope there's time to prove it, that's all.'

Four bank-tellers, posted in the corners of the vault, watched them with calm but hostile curiosity.

'The one thing he missed, Mr Crowe! The one thing Lieutenant Dacre must 'ave missed. P'raps he never thought we'd get so close as this. But them six boxes that he had in the Mint itself was
weighed,
Mr Crowe. They wouldn't let 'em leave else. And Mints is apt to be very particular about weights, down to the last ounce. We know from the timing that they were taken straight to the railroad depot at Philadelphia and the lieutenant would never have had time to do more than collect 'em in New York and have them fetched to the banks, 'e might chip away the wax seal or alter it. He must peel off the Prince of Wales's transfers. But otherwise the weights must match the entries made by the clerks in the Mint itself.'

'You don't know for certain,' said Crowe doubtfully.

'I'm as certain as I need to be, Mr Crowe. But I ain't going to weigh black boxes only, a-cos one thing he could do easy enough'd be to lick 'em over with paint.'

They heaved the next box on to the weighing pontoon which had been wheeled down to the vault at Oliphant's request. But Verity and Crowe found nothing. It was one of the Treasury guards assisting them who gave the first cry.

'Mr Crowe! This is sure close enough to that last weight on the list!'

Like so many of the depositors' boxes, it was long and black. One of the tellers checked a white-painted number on the lid of the box and checked the list in his hand. 'Valerian Drummond, entered nth October.' Verity looked at Crowe.

'It gotta be, Mr Crowe!' He turned to the teller. 'You get this thing open sharp!' The teller shook his head.

'Out of the question, my dear sir. You have no authority for that whatever. The boxes may be weighed but are not to be interfered with.'

Crowe intervened.

"Then you just run and find someone who carries authority!'

The teller hurried away and Crowe looked at Verity. As though by pre-arrangement, Verity moved so that his bulk screened Crowe from the rest of the room, while the Marine sergeant knelt at the box, sliding a metal bodkin with a flat blade-like end from the recesses of his coat.

'Yes, Mr Crowe,' said Verity reassuringly, 'a man gotta 'ave respect for authority. Why, a man ain't nothing but what he ain't got respect for authority.'

He began to talk more loudly to conceal the shrill protest of yielding wood.

'Why, Mr Crowe, I've known men what 'adn't respect for authority, and d'you know. . .'

The remaining tellers moved forward at the rending crack which echoed from the stone walls.

'Quick, Mr Crowe! What you got there? Is it gold, Mr Crowe?'

'No,' said Crowe flatly, 'no gold.'

'Oh dear, oh dear, Mr Crowe! That ain't half torn it! I can't say 'ow sorry I am. . .'

'What's here,' said Crowe, in the same flat voice, 'is an oil lamp, a jemmy, a pair of scales, a special drill and enough false keys to open every safe from here to San Francisco!'

''ere!' said Verity, craning forward reverentially. 'We done it, Mr Crowe! We bloody done it, after all!'

Valerian Drummond was remembered as an itinerant young gentleman of good family and impeccable antecedents. On leaving for California, early in October, it had been necessary for him to deposit most of his boxed heirlooms in the hospitable vault of his New York bank, to be forwarded to him upon his instructions.

'One thing you can bet on, Mr Crowe,' said Verity as they opened the third box. 'Lieutenant Dacre's a sight nearer New York at this minute than ever he is to California. Stands to reason! Cor, 'ere! Look at them coins! Ain't they little darlings, though? Only thing is, being so new and bright, you might take 'em for plain brass!'

'Proceed with your duties, sergeant,' said Captain Oliphant gently at his back, 'and leave the numismatic observations to those who are expert in such matters.'

Verity's plump face creased in an honest frown of incomprehension as he stepped back and allowed two of the Treasury officials to close the box and apply their own seal.

The black-lacquered boxes, as well as those which Dacre had had waiting in the little house on Juniper Street, had been distributed in the vaults of eight banks. Detection was made easier by the fact that though under different names, the initials of the depositors always corresponded with Dacre's own. The deposit boxes of Vincent Dowd, Vivien Dickson, Vane Duport, Villiers Deene and Valmont Damien, yielded up their treasure.

'I don't get it,' said Crowe, shaking his head, 'I don't get it at all. After so much trouble to get the gold, he made it so easy to find.'

'Easy to find once you was given a start, Mr Crowe.'

'But to put his own initials to the names! Like a signature! Almost as if he wanted us to catch him, to prove to the world that he'd done it.

'Mania,' said Verity knowledgeably. 'What medical men calls a mania, Mr Crowe. In Lieutenant Dacre's case it do take the form of showing himself off. I s'pose every man got his mania, one way or another.'

'And what might your mania be, Mr Verity?'

'Dunno, Mr Crowe. Funny that. I reckon a man p'raps can't tell his own. 'as to have it pointed out to him.'

He lapsed into a long and dissatisfied silence, as though the recovery of the gold still troubled him.

'Mr Crowe, would you have any objection to going back to that first treasure-vault, where the business began?'

'There's nothing else to be found there, old friend.'

‘I ain't so sure, Mr Crowe. There was a box there, long and black, what never corresponded to any weight nor to Lieutenant Dacre's initials. But I been getting a sort of picture of that box all afternoon, and I can just see something in that picture now which tells me why.'