Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

Andy grinned. “What corpse would that be, Lieutenant?”

“This one!” Burke jabbed a thumb at the slight figure on the bed.

“You mean Miss Mayhew, Lieutenant? I don’t think Miss Mayhew is dead. Are you dead, Miss Mayhew?”

The slim woman managed a wan, tiny smile. “I don’t think I’m dead. I don’t even feel sick. I do have a dreadful headache, though.”

Andy Winslow grinned, “You’re entitled to that.” Then, to the cop, “It’s true that Miss Mayhew was shot at Caligula Foxx’s house. I thought it was more important to make sure that she was all right, than to wait around for New York’s Slowest — er, pardon me, I mean New York’s Finest — to arrive.”

Burke frowned. “You rode in the ambulance with her?”

“No, I took my car.” He didn’t mention his detour via the Postal Telegraph office, but then he hadn’t exactly lied, either.

“And you, sir?” Burke whirled towards Oswald Hicks.

Hicks identified himself.

“The victim worked for you?” Burke asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“What was she doing at Mr Foxx’s house on a Sunday morning?”

“Postal Telegraph prides itself on its service, Lieutenant, seven days a week. A night letter came in from London, England, and Miss Mayhew was despatched to deliver it to the addressee.”

Burke stared at the slim figure beneath the bedclothes, then turned back to Hicks. “You always use girls for this kind of work? Isn’t it dangerous?”

Hicks said, “Would that bullet have bounced off the messenger’s skull if he’d been a boy instead of a girl?”

Burke growled. “All right, never mind. We’ll need statements from all concerned. That’s all for now.”

He strode from the hospital room, followed by his retinue. As soon as the police detachment was out of earshot, Andy Winslow asked Martha Mayhew if she’d mind his looking through her Postal Telegraph uniform, hanging now in the closet. Martha Mayhew managed a barely audible assent.

Winslow checked out the clothing, then turned back to her and to Oswald Hicks. “It isn’t there.”

“What isn’t there?” Hicks asked.

“The night letter. The message that Miss Mayhew was attempting to deliver to Caligula Foxx.”

“Could she have dropped it at the house?”

“I would have found it when I answered the door.”

Hicks rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose she would have left it in the basket of her bicycle.”

Winslow said, “I’ll check on that when I get back to the house but I doubt it.” He hadn’t told Hicks specifically about the LaSalle coupé that had pulled away from the house just as he answered Martha Mayhew’s knock, but that had been part of his narrative to Lieutenant Burke. “I have a feeling that whoever shot Miss Mayhew escaped in that LaSalle car. And I have a feeling that he committed the crime in order to prevent her from delivering it to Foxx. Most likely, he has the night letter now.”

Oswald Hicks said, “In any case, I think I’d best get back to my office. There will be paperwork to do, both for the company and for the police.”

Andy Winslow offered him a ride back to his office. As they made their way through the quiet streets, Hicks volunteered, “We’ll still deliver the night letter, you know. Postal Telegraph takes pride in its reliable performance.”

Winslow was startled. “How can you do that?”

“Oh, we have a copy of the message on file at the office. Two, in fact. It’s standard practice. And if we didn’t have it, there would be the original in London. They’d have to retransmit it to us, but that wouldn’t take very long.”

At the Postal Telegraph office Hicks located the night letter. It had been typed out and a flimsy sheet remained in the overnight file folder.

Winslow stared at it. The message was a lengthy one. “I’ll need to take this with me.”

Oswald Hicks assented.

By the time Winslow pulled his yellow Auburn into the garage at West Adams Place and entered the house, a police evidence team had removed the.22 calibre bullet from the front door. The ever-competent Reuter had filled the hole with quick-hardening putty. He was already at work staining the putty to match the surrounding wood.

Caligula Foxx, resplendent in his usual glaring aquamarine silk shirt, flannel trousers and foulard-pattern dressing gown, was seated behind his gigantic glass-covered desk, reading the Sunday funny pages. A bottle of Teplitz-Schonau ale stood at his elbow.

He lowered the colourful newsprint, tipped the bottle of ale into a tall glass and sipped judiciously. He wiped his lips with a bandanna and looked at Winslow.

“Tell me everything.”

Winslow repeated his story, reporting on the condition of Miss Mayhew.

Foxx nodded approvingly. “She is an innocent child, Andy. Whatever deviltry is afoot, she did not deserve to be attacked in this manner. It almost gives one to believe in divine intervention to learn that she could take a bullet through the skull and suffer nothing worse than a headache.”

“Almost,” Winslow said. “But, if God got into the act, he could have made the gun misfire and blow off the shooter’s hand, couldn’t he?”

Foxx grinned sardonically. “I should know better than to engage in theological speculation with you, my boy. And Lieutenant Burke’s man said that it was a steel-jacketed bullet, so it didn’t break apart in the victim’s brain. And it must have had an extra load of propellant to make it punch its way out and penetrate into our door.”

He leaned back in his oversized chair and drew a breath. “All right then; I detect from your manner that you are holding something back. Spill it, Andy, spill it.”

Winslow reached into his pocket and withdrew a large envelope. It bore the Postal Telegraph logotype — the company’s name set in large, jagged letters that suggested bolts of electricity — in the corner. “This is the message that Miss Mayhew was attempting to deliver when she was shot. I couldn’t find the original in her clothing. I even searched her messenger’s bicycle. I’ve asked Reuter to put it in the garage. They’ll have to come for it themselves if Lieutenant Burke doesn’t want it.”

Foxx nodded and made a humming sound.

Winslow said, “Oswald Hicks, the manager at Postal Telegraph, gave me this copy. I guess the shooter didn’t realize that Postal Telegraph keeps copies.”

Foxx nodded impatiently. “All right, Andy, all right. Read it to me.”

He took a sip of ale, lowered the glass to his desktop, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and laced his fingers behind his neck, his elbows extending like the antennae of a giant butterfly. To any casual observer, it would appear that Caligula Foxx was treating himself to a nap, but Andy Winslow knew that the rotund detective’s incisive brain was fully on the alert.

“‘Dear Cousin,’” Winslow read, starting on the night letter. “‘I apologize for my dilatory response to your previous communication, but I have been deeply immersed in sensitive work for the crown and for the government of this nation. A personage has asked me to convey his gratitude for the assistance you so brilliantly provided, even from the distance of three thousand miles. The crown and sceptre have been recovered and restored to their proper resting place, and the scoundrels involved in their temporary abduction are in custody.’”

A smile played around the lips of the detective.

Andy Winslow continued to read. “‘You are surely aware that the situation on the Continent continues to deteriorate, as madmen and villains vie for the title of Most Evil Man in Europe. You own country has, to date, escaped involvement but I assure you, cousin, that this will not be the case for very much longer.’”