Page 91

CHAPTER 91

POE GOT TO the top of the staircase first. His heart was pounding and his throat was tight. He pointed his pistol through a gap in the banister and looked down toward the tile floor in the entryway. No movement. He started down the staircase, hugging the railing. Holmes followed, his back pressed against the opposite wall.

There was no sound from below. No footsteps. No breathing.

Then, a heavy thud.

Poe raced the rest of the way down and took the last four steps in a single leap. At the bottom of the staircase, he stopped cold.

On the right side of the foyer, a figure lay crumpled on the floor.

“Helene!”

Poe holstered his gun and dropped to his knees. He rolled Grey over gently by the shoulders. Her hands were still tied behind her back. She looked stunned and groggy. “Helene! What happened?”

“I think he got me in the head with his pistol butt,” said Grey. She blinked and shook her head. “I’m okay. Just a little blurry.”

Poe looked up. Holmes flipped him a penknife. Poe sliced through the ties around Grey’s wrists and ran his hand gently over her scalp. When he looked back, Holmes was moving toward a half-open service hatch behind the stairs. Barely large enough for a child. Or a very small man.

“He must’ve taken off through there,” said Grey.

Poe turned toward the front of the foyer. He heard a flurry of footsteps outside—then a loud bang.

The front door flew open.

“Police! Nobody move!”

Poe pulled Grey tight against him. He saw Graham Duff step through the entryway, gun raised, with a half dozen heavily armed cops behind him. Duff looked over. His eyebrows shot up.

“Grey?”

“She’s hurt!” shouted Poe. “Call an ambulance!”

“I’m fine, Captain,” Grey mumbled. “Only a bump.”

“Duff!” shouted Holmes. “Oliver Paul just went out through the back! Set a perimeter! Now! ”

Duff holstered his pistol under his suit jacket. “Oliver Paul? You mean your theoretical cold-case serial killer?”

“It’s not a theory, Duff!” shouted Holmes. “We have proof.”

“Don’t bother. You’ll never find him.” The voice came from the staircase. Poe looked up. It was Agnes Matts. Marple was walking her down, gun in her back. “Oliver can smell police,” said Matts. She looked directly at Duff. “He obviously smelled you .”

Duff stared at Marple. “We got your 911. Who the hell is this?”

“She’s the boss, Captain,” said Marple. “I told you a woman was behind it. St. Michael’s, the school bus, Silvercup, London. Everything. This is Agnes Matts, alias Irene Paul. She’s wanted in the UK on suspicion of kidnapping, conspiracy, and murder.”

“I want a solicitor,” said Matts calmly. “And a representative from the British embassy.”

“Right,” said Duff. “Let’s call the king while we’re at it.” He turned to the cops in the foyer and barked off a series of orders. “Get Grey to a hospital, whether she wants it or not. Escort her majesty here downtown for questioning. Start a door-to-door for Oliver Paul. And as for you three…” He looked pointedly from Holmes to Marple to Poe and twirled his fingers in the air like a propeller. “Where’s my goddamn bird?”