CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
When Ian Hamilton emerged onto Jeffrey Street, Derek McNair was perched on the low brick wall lining the street. When he saw the detective, the boy jumped lightly from his spot.
“You owe me fer a cab,” he said, brushing dust from his pants.
“How did you find me?” Ian said, striding in the direction of High Street.
“I got my ways, Guv,” Derek said, scrambling to keep up. “I got some information fer ye.”
“From what source?”
“Billy Striebel—he’s one a’ me lads—overheard somethin’.”
“Overheard where?”
“His da were talkin’ t’a mate.”
Ian stopped walking. “Is his father William Striebel, the safecracker?”
“Tha’s him, yeah.”
“What did Billy hear?”
“His da was knockin’ back a few wi’ his mate, an’ Billy was s’posed t’be in bed, only he wasn’t.”
“What did he hear?”
“Well, his da asked if everythin’ was on, an’ someone said somethin’ ’bout minding the construction in the back.”
“Did he mention where?”
“No, jes that there was construction in the back. An’ someone said somethin’ ’bout how the coppers would never think they’d try somethin’ so bold, like.”
“Are you certain? They said all this?”
“That’s what Billy said. Think it might be useful?”
“It could very well prove vital. Can you do something for me?”
Derek’s face brightened. “Yep!”
“Fetch Sergeant Dickerson and tell him to meet me at Madame Veselka’s straightaway. He knows where it is.”
“Right, Guv!”
“Tell him to bring along a couple of constables,” Ian added, tossing him a coin. “Quick as you can!”
“Right-o!” Derek said, scampering off toward the police station.
Ian took to his heels in the opposite direction. It wasn’t far to Blackfriars Street, and as it was near the end of the workday, cabs would be in short supply.
In less than ten minutes he was at the ramshackle tenement where Madame Veselka lived. He thought he heard voices coming from inside, but his knock on the front door brought no response, so he went around to peer in the front window. The French lace curtains were drawn, and a heavy drape had been pulled over them, preventing him from seeing inside.
Returning to the front door, he knocked loudly and announced himself.
“Edinburgh City Police! Open this door!”
When no response was forthcoming, he threw himself against the door, splintering the termite-ridden wood, sending spears of pain through his injured shoulder and ribs. Tumbling into the foyer, he got to his feet and hurried to the parlor, where he found Madame Veselka cowering in a corner, Catherine Nielsen holding a knife to her throat. He recognized it as the long knife she had used to cut the Dundee cake, and it looked even more lethal now.
“Not one step farther!” she hissed as Ian entered the room. “Stay where you are!”
“Put the knife down, Mrs. Nielsen,” he said calmly.
“Just as soon as I slit the throat of this liar.”
Madame Veselka sobbed, tears running down her face, leaving salty streaks on her plump cheeks. “G-Gretchen—she killed p-poor Gretchen!”
“She deserved it,” Catherine Nielsen muttered through gritted teeth. “Stupid girl.”
“Where is she?” said Ian.
“I-in the b-bedroom—she was trying to protect me,” the medium whimpered.
Ian made a move, but was stopped by Catherine Nielsen’s voice, sharp as the steel blade in her hand.
“I said stay where you are!”
“Are you unhurt?” he asked the medium.
“I’m all right,” she replied. “Poor G-Gretchen . . .”
“What did they do to you that deserves death?” he asked Catherine Nielsen.
“Madame was going to rat me out—said she saw it all in a ‘vision,’ and knew I was guilty! She tried to convince me to turn myself in—ha! That’s a laugh—turn myself in! Why on earth would I do that?” she said, her eyes wild. Ian wondered if she had ingested something—she seemed positively demented. She brandished the knife, flailing it in the air.
Afraid she was about to kill Madame Veselka, he took a step toward her. In an instant, she sprang at him, slashing him across the face with the knife. He reeled backward and fell to the ground, looking up just in time to see Sergeant Dickerson barrel into the room and launch himself at Catherine Nielsen. She was ready for him, and plunged the knife into his side. He grunted with pain but tackled her to the ground, the knife still in his body.
Ian got up, blood spurting from his face, and wrestled Catherine away from the injured sergeant. She shrieked and fought like a lioness, with such fierce strength that he could barely contain her, scratching at his injured cheek with her nails. He finally managed to get her under control, wrapping her hands behind her back.
“Handcuffs, Sergeant!”
Groaning, Dickerson rolled onto his side and extracted a pair of cuffs from his uniform. Ian took them and fastened them round Mrs. Nielsen’s wrists. Wiping the blood from his face with his free hand, he pulled her down onto the couch. “If you so much as move a muscle, I’ll tie your feet as well,” he told her. “Can you keep an eye on her?” he asked Madame Veselka, helping her to her feet.
“I’ll kick her bloody teeth in,” she muttered, staggering toward the couch.
“No! Just watch her,” Ian commanded. “She’ll face punishment later.” He knelt beside Sergeant Dickerson, who was breathing heavily, sweat beading on his forehead. “Steady on, Sergeant. Let’s have a look at that wound, shall we?” he said, gently examining where the knife protruded from the sergeant’s side. There wasn’t as much blood as he expected, but he knew if he pulled out the knife Dickerson might bleed to death. “We’d best get you to hospital. Where are those constables I asked you to bring along?”
“Chief put . . . ev’ry spare man . . . on watch at jewelry store,” Dickerson said through clenched teeth. “Tonight’s s’posed t’be . . . big break-in.”
“No more talking—save your strength,” Ian said, trying to figure out what to do next. It was imperative to get Dickerson medical attention, yet he couldn’t leave the madame alone with a killer. The medium hovered over Mrs. Nielsen, swaying a little, looking rather murderous herself. There seemed to be no way out of this predicament.
Then he heard the most welcome sound of his entire life.
“Hamilton! You in there?” It was Conan Doyle.
“In here!” he called.
Doyle appeared at the door, medical bag in his hand. “Good Lord,” he said, kneeling beside Dickerson.
“He needs to go to hospital straightaway,” said Ian. “Can you manage that?”
“You’re bleeding,” Doyle said.
“There’s a girl in the back room. Can you see if she’s still alive?”
Doyle disappeared through the beaded curtain, emerging a few moments later.