Some Danger Involved (15 page)

W
E WALKED FOR SEVERAL BLOCKS, WHILE
my heart rate slowly returned to normal. Barker appeared to be moving to some purpose, for at one street, he pointed and began moving in another direction. We had reached Belgravia and were heading east, I think. Ornate shopwindows offered chocolates, jewelry, and all of the other baubles of a spoiled society. All was splendor and respectability here. It was hard to imagine that ten minutes ago a madwoman had thrown a dagger at me.

“Did she really mean to kill us?”

“That was no rubber knife she threw, Thomas.”

“But if they’re telling the truth, and it was some other chap dressed as Serafini, why did she throw the knife at me?”

“She’s a vindictive little vixen and dangerous as a king cobra. I just humiliated her husband in there, and she dotes on the fellow.”

We walked on for a minute or two, by the pretty shops full of books and millinery. I must admit I’d had some most interesting conversations since I began this case. “What was it you threw at her?” I asked my employer.

He reached into his coat pocket and placed a penny in my hand. I was perplexed, until I noticed that the edges had been ground down to bladelike sharpness all around. I flipped the heavy coin into the air a time or two, and let it rest in the flat of my palm. “One of my calling cards,” he stated.

“Can you hit a target with this?”

“As easily as a bullet. There were rough gangs in Foochow, where I grew up, and any coin or piece of metal that came to hand could become a weapon. We used to make rude targets out of boards and rice sacking and practice for hours.”

“It sounds to me as if you had a very interesting childhood.”

“Interesting enough, as childhoods go,” he said, but I could get nothing further out of him on the subject.

“So where are we going now?”

“Jermyn Street, to look up an old acquaintance.”

“Another of your ‘watchers’?”

“No, lad, a suspect. Or, at least, I hope he is.”

“You…hope?”

“I desperately hope. It is Nightwine.”

“The explorer? I thought he was dead.”

Barker shook his head. “Not Elias Nightwine, but his son, Sebastian. Perhaps you recall that the father, aside from his travels in Asia, wrote several books espousing what he called ‘social atheism.’ Something like, If there is no God, then to whom are we accountable, and how is society to be restructured in the new century? Anyway, he voiced these ideas up until his unfortunate demise in a hunting accident in Africa two years ago, leaving his son with a valuable estate just in time to pay off Sebastian’s list of creditors and some gambling debts.”

“Are you suggesting he may have killed his own father?”

“I’m suggesting that he has no respect for human life whatever. Any form of conscience was trained out of him by his father. He’s one of the most dangerous men I’ve ever come across.”

“Incredible,” I said. “How does this fit in with the Jews?”

“As an avowed atheist, he has a strong aversion to the Bible and its people. More importantly, I’ve received information that he’s consolidating power among the underworld in London, using extortion and other methods. He lives high and goes through money like water. Sooner or later, he’ll try to frighten the Jews, who have a strong, conservative money base in the City. A public crucifixion is just the sort of grand display he’d attempt in order to spread fear among them. This is all speculation, of course, and were I to say it in public, I’d be swarming with solicitors in a trice, for he is litigious to a fault. Nevertheless, it rings true, as you shall see in a few minutes.”

Jermyn Street is known for its boot makers and its bachelor apartments, and any up-and-coming young men on the Exchange or in the Home Office would be sure to have chambers there. Mr. Nightwine had not contented himself with a mere pied-à-terre, but had taken out an entire residence. His white brick housefront had an air of respectability about it, which was augmented by a solid-looking and phlegmatic butler, to whom Barker presented his card.

“If you gentlemen will wait here in the hall, I shall see if the master is in residence,” he said, and left us to cool our heels.

Any air of solidity and British wholesomeness that the butler may have given the house departed with him when he left. The entrance was lined on all sides by graphic evidence of the master’s worldwide travels. Glass eyes glared at us from all sides, framed within still forms that had once lived and breathed. Creatures from almost every continent stood in mute attitudes of menace, a silent tribute to the taxidermist’s art. It was not the only home in London which bore testament to a fellow’s prowess with a rifle, but it was the most singular. All of the animals in this menagerie were white.

Within their niches, polar bears, Siberian tigers, white wolves, and albino lions stood rampant. The heads of American bison and African rhinoceroses of the same bleached hue stared blankly from the wall. It was unnerving, to say the least. Even Barker looked a trifle uncomfortable.

“Er, I forgot to mention, lad, that he is nominally a big-game hunter, though he makes his money at cards and speculation.”

“Remarkable,” I said. For a moment, I had the mental picture of their master coming in and, with one word, unleashing all these ungodly creatures to tear us apart. Instead, the butler returned and bowed to us.

“If you gentlemen will please follow me.”

He led us down a more prosaic but opulent hall and finally ushered us through glass doors, into a large conservatory. Inside, the heat was oppressive and the lofty palm trees pressing against the panes high overhead gave a tropical jungle feeling to the room. Parrots and other birds, and even a monkey or two, screeched in the trees. A hammock was strung high above us, and a long, white, feline tail as thick as a rope waved lazily in the heat. The butler led us to a circle of cane chairs, where the master of the house was seated.

He was a tall, well-built man of about thirty years of age. I’ve seldom seen so broad a chest, and I couldn’t help but think some rugby team would be glad of his assistance. His skin was bronze from the sun, save for a near snowy whiteness above his eyes and his upper lip, where hair grew. His blond mustache was waxed fashionably and his hair was thick with a tendency to fall forward, which he remedied by occasionally pushing it up with one hand. The most remarkable feature was his eyes, a deep golden color; they regarded you speculatively, as if you were prey. He was quick to smile, but it was a smile that left one cold. His hand rested on a small glass dome, the kind one uses for watches or trinkets. Altogether, it was as if someone had stuffed a tiger into a suit of clothes.

“Mr. Barker, what a pleasant surprise. Forgive me if I do not offer you my hand.”

“Not at all. I would not take it,” Barker responded.

“You almost missed me. I was just off to the club to play baccarat with the Prince of Wales. What brings you here? No, don’t tell me. I have not been a witness to any crime lately, so I can only assume you are here to inform me that I am a suspect. What have I done this time? Stolen the crown jewels, perhaps, or deprived one of the Queen’s grandchildren of its rattle?”

“Neither, Mr. Nightwine, though now that you mention them, I’ll be sure to see that both are in order. No, I’ve come about the Jews.”

“You mean that crucifixion business? Of course, I should have wondered when you’d get around to me. Was it symbolic, do you think, Mr. Barker? The atheist nails Christianity and Judaism to the cross a final time? Oh, big bad
me.
What a rotter I am. Very well, I confess. I did it. Put on your bracelets or your thumbscrews or whatever, and have me hauled off to Newgate. Another crime solved by the great enquiry agent.”

Barker’s cheeks were beginning to redden with emotion. He was just keeping his temper in check. “Spare me your attempts at humor. I’m barely worth the effort.”

Nightwine’s face fell, and there was a snarl on his lips. “I agree. Barker, the last thing I need to do is defeat the Jews. They are already defeated. Tiberius Caesar saw to that. As far as I am concerned, their presence in history has been merely a highly overemphasized footnote, thanks to that stupid little book they created. It’s the biggest collection of fables and fairy stories ever written down, and its popularity only shows how anxious the low intellects of the world are to seize upon anything in which to believe. The Jews were an obscure people, and they are still. I would not waste my time on them.”

Barker cleared his throat. “I need not mention how many millions of pounds in the Bank of England are in their hands, or what influence they have in this City. You always need money, especially with the little business enterprise you’ve got going in the East End. Have the Jews proven obstinate to your plan to extort money? Did you need to set an example, perhaps?”

“If I did, I certainly wouldn’t sign it with that hackneyed Anti-Jewish League, or whatever they call themselves. There would be no doubt from whence came the threat. Besides, the Jews know their place. One word from me in the proper ears and I could make it quite intolerable for them. But as I said, they do not interest me, and they won’t unless your continued persecution causes me to make an example of them.”

Just then he took his hand away from the glass dome. Inside was one of those ghastly native trophies, a shrunken head, its eyes and lips sewn shut. Pale hair sprouted from the upper lip and connected to the side-whiskers. It had once been a white man, some poor chap going out to the colonies to seek his fortune.

“Your little girlfriend looks faint,” Nightwine said. “I suggest you take her home.”

I sat up in my cane chair. I knew he was merely trying to bait me, but it almost worked. My first instinct was to go over to him and wring his neck, but I remembered Barker’s instructions and kept my temper in check. It was a good thing, for my chair gave a sudden lurch, as the large albino panther cat came by, rubbing itself along the chair’s arm as well as my own. From my vantage point of a foot and a few inches, I saw the gray, ghostlike spots on its ivory back, like sooty footprints. It sauntered over to its master, who scratched it behind the ear. The creature stretched his head up into Nightwine’s hand.

“This is Bolivar, gentlemen. He was captured along the Brazil-Venezuelan border a few months ago. He nearly killed a porter. I’m teaching him proper London deportment, and a taste for private detectives.”

“A very pretty little pet, Mr. Nightwine, but let us get back to the matter at hand,” Barker said. “Can you tell me where you were on the night of the fifteenth?”

“I can tell you to go to the Devil.”

“You’re making progress, Mr. Nightwine. I thought you didn’t believe in deities, Heaven, and Hell.”

“I believe in Hell in this instance, Mr. Barker. I will make your life a Hell on earth if you will not stop hounding me in this fashion.”

Barker smiled. “You must make allowances, sir. Hounding is what we hounds do. Now, the night of the fifteenth?”

“I have no idea! What day was that?”

“Saturday night, sir.”

“Last Saturday night? Let me think. Yes, I was at Lord Ribbondale’s estate in Kent for the weekend. Brought down twenty-seven pheasants and a like number of woodcock.”

“Stayed there the entire weekend, did you?”

“Yes, damn you.”

“You can verify this, can you not? For the evening, I mean?”

“Would you like the name of the peer’s wife I spent the evening with? Will that satisfy you?”

“Good heavens,” I interjected.

“Well, that would be a start, I suppose.”

“Go hang yourself, Barker. I have no need to establish my location that evening. I only humor you because it is entertaining to see you flailing about, trying to find someone upon which to affix the blame. This case must have you flummoxed for you to come in here questioning me. You’d have better luck questioning the prime minister. Presumably, he was in town at the time.”

“Thank you for the information,” Barker said blandly. “The Prince and the prime minister. You’re certainly traveling in exalted circles these days.”

“I’m a likable fellow. You know, one of these days, I really must look up whoever is in charge of granting licenses to enquiry agents. It’s shocking how just anyone can set out a brass plate these days and place vulgar advertisements in
The Times.”

Barker gave a slight shake of his head, like a schoolmaster with a troublesome student. “Come, Llewelyn. We wouldn’t want to take up any more of his time and keep the Prince waiting.”

We caught a hansom outside, and I couldn’t help but express my thoughts as I clambered into the cab.

“If if weren’t for that cat, I would have wrung his neck,” I muttered. “Girlfriend, indeed.”

W
E CLIMBED OUT OF THE HANSOM IN POPLAR
again. It was our second assault upon the doors of the First Messianic Church. Our luck improved; the knob of the store-front church opened easily in Barker’s hand. Inside there were a half dozen people already in attendance, though the service would not begin for an hour. Upon questioning, we were guided down a hall to the office, where we were met by the pastor.

Having spoken to but one rabbi in my life, Pokrzywa’s little Russian peasant
rebbe,
I had no idea what to expect, but the leader of the First Messianic still surprised me a little. He put down his sermon and came forward, taking our hands in turn in each of his, as if meeting us had been a delight he had long anticipated.

“Gentlemen, welcome. So good of you to come. I’m Rabbi Mordecai. How may I be of service to you?”

The rabbi looked like Father Christmas in a swallow coat. His long beard was almost pure white, and his hair, parted in the middle and pulled back behind each ear, reminded me of angel wings. Mordecai’s eyes were cornflower blue, and his pink skin was as unlined as a baby’s, for all his sixty years. He was a gentle, amiable soul.

Barker presented his card and told him our purpose.

“Ah, yes, Louis Pokrzywa,” the pastor murmured. “What a tragedy. He had a first-rate mind, you know. I thought he might have made something of himself. I only spoke to him once or twice and was looking forward to getting to know him better.”

“Was he a member of your congregation, Rabbi?” my employer asked.

“Alas, no. I do not believe he was a Christian when he died. He was curious, he kept an open mind, but he was not yet convinced that Yeshua was the Messiah.”

“Yeshua?” I asked.

“We tend to call people and places from the Bible by their Hebrew names here, Mr. Llewelyn, rather than the Hellenized or Latinized form with which you are more familiar. I assure you, Yeshua never heard the name ‘Jesus’ in his entire time on earth. We try to present the gospel from a first-century perspective, before the arrival of Gentile scholars who made changes in pronunciation and doctrine.”

“I must admit,” Barker said, “that this is the first Messianic church I’ve ever visited. How do you stand regarding the gospel?”

“Very biblically,” he said. “We believe it is the duty of all Jews to follow Yeshua, that
that
is the purpose Hashem has always meant for His people.”

“Hashem?” I asked.

Rabbi Mordecai patted me on the shoulder. “I’ll get you some literature, young fellow. Hashem simply means ‘the name.’ We never utter the name of our Creator, it being forbidden by our culture, but of course, we must call Him something.”

“I see.”

“We observe most of the festivals in the Jewish calendar, but we do not believe that their observance leads to salvation, which is a free gift, given through the death and resurrection of the true Messiah, Yeshua Hamashiach. Oh, and since the Apostle Paul said that the gift was given to the ‘Jew first, and also to the Greek,’ we feel it is our duty to evangelize to both groups. Our doors are open to Jew and Gentile alike. In fact, you are welcome to stay for service.”

“We will come back another time, when this case doesn’t occupy us so fully,” Barker responded, “but I thank you for the invitation. For now, let us please get back to Louis Pokrzywa. When did you first meet him?”

The pastor tapped his lips in thought. “I met him in the street during Chanukah. He was studying at one of the outdoor cafés in Whitechapel, so involved in a book that he didn’t notice the cold. I stopped and engaged him in conversation. One could tell before he ever spoke how intelligent and spiritual he was. Wouldn’t he have made a great Yeshua in an Easter pageant?”

“Evidently someone thought so,” Barker said, soberly.

“Yes, yes. I still cannot believe he is gone. His spirit burned so brightly. Anyway, I challenged him to prove that Yeshua was not the true Messiah, and he readily accepted the challenge. We argued over coffee for half an hour, amiably, of course. He hadn’t so much as read the New Testament, or compared it to the Old, so the only arguments he could give were secondhand. His faith was not an obstinate one, you know, merely cautious. I invited him to our church, gave him a spare Bible—I always carry one for emergencies such as this—and offered him the chance for a rematch when he was better prepared. I must admit I was surprised when he actually appeared one Wednesday evening in January.”

“How many times did he attend services?”

“Three times, perhaps four. We never had our rematch. And now we never shall.”

“Were these Wednesday evenings or Sunday mornings?” Barker asked.

“Both, I believe.”

“Tell me, Rabbi, are there many young women of marriageable age in your congregation?”

“A dozen or more. Why do you ask?”

Barker took the program from his pocket and showed it to the pastor, pointing to the notes on it with a stubby finger.

“Louis’s handwriting? Hmmm. I see it now. So it wasn’t just an old man he was coming to see. Why don’t you gentlemen make yourself at home for a few moments, while I ask a few discreet questions. I shall return shortly.”

“I like him,” I told Barker when we were alone.

“He’s likeable enough,” Barker agreed. “I encourage you, however, to resist impulsive decisions during an investigation.”

“Surely you don’t suspect Mordecai of being a member of the league? I should think him the least likely person on the planet.”

“It is highly unlikely, I’ll admit, but he was an acquaintance of Pokrzywa’s and cannot be ruled out yet. This is a nice little office, is it not?”

It was. The rabbi’s office was small but cheery, much like its owner. Bookshelves overflowed themselves with volumes standing every which way, along with ancient artifacts, menorahs, prayer shawls, and alms boxes. It was a smaller collection than the one we’d seen in Saint Swithen Lane, but this one was not behind glass. Two clay oil lamps flickered on the desk, by a small marble copy of Michelangelo’s Moses, giving a mystical, timeless feeling to the room. Surely, I thought, Barker was just being overcautious.

“A fellow would need to be rather clever to outclass Pokrzywa in an argument,” I pointed out.

“He’d need to be even more clever to keep a church like this one going, with opposition from church and synagogue alike. He can’t be having an easy time of it. He’s neither fish nor fowl, you see.”

“ ‘To the Jew first, and also to the Greek,’ ” I quoted.

“Romans two ten. It’s funny how people forget that verse.”

The pastor came bustling back, his grin replaced with a sheepish look. “Alas,” he said, throwing his arms up. “We are undone. None of the girls will admit to being the coauthor of the notes here, much as it would have pleased them to be her. Also, nobody can recall who sat near Louis during the first Wednesday in March, which is when the program is dated. I will continue to press. If I hear something, I shall send word to you.”

“We can ask no more. Tell me, sir, have you noticed any anti-Semitic activity in the neighborhood lately, aside from the crucifixion?”

The pastor nodded gravely. “My congregation has been fearful about getting out at night. A couple of drunken louts gave one of our young men a black eye on the way here last week, and the girl he was with had the comb and veil stolen from her hair. But we’re accustomed to persecution here. This is a dangerous area, particularly in the alleyways.”

Barker turned to me. “Come, lad. Let’s leave the gentleman to his sermon notes. Thank you for your time, sir.”

On our way out the door, Barker stopped me with a raised arm. He’d stopped once or twice before during our investigation, for a final look, a remark, or a note to me. I flattered myself that I was beginning to catch on. In this case, there was an offering box by the door. Barker ran a thumb across the side of his index finger, and I reached for the wallet in my pocket. He extracted a ten-pound note and folded it several times before it would fit into the small slot on the top of the wooden box. No doubt they were not accustomed to large denominations in Poplar.

Barker fished the watch from his pocket and popped the case.

“Ten minutes until six. We have just enough time to return home. Have you any plans for tonight, Thomas?”

“None at all, sir.” It was a formality, of course. He knew I didn’t.

“Excellent. You have no objections, I trust, to accompanying me to the theater? It shall give you an opportunity to try on your evening kit.”

My employer had given me the impression that he was not a theatergoer, and it was not in his character to do something so frivolous as to attend an evening’s entertainment in the middle of a case. It took me several minutes’ silence in the cab before I finally remembered Sir Moses’ concern about a production of
The Merchant of Venice.
As he said, Barker was leaving no stone unturned.

Once in the door, the Guv was giving orders to Maccabee, while I went upstairs to change. My evening clothes were my most impressive outfit, and I admit I felt it something of an extravagance, since I would get little or no use out of it. As usual, Barker had prepared for every contingency. I changed my day suit for evening wear and smoothed my unruly hair. I had never been so formally dressed in my life. My shirt front was snowy white, my white silk tie peeped from under the tips of my collar, and my evening jacket was of the latest cut. There was even a pair of kid gloves.

Mac provided himself and me with a cold meal by the door: slices of game pie, a bean salad with vinaigrette, and a carafe of water on a silver platter. I leaned against the wall and ate standing up. Presently, our employer came down as well.

Cyrus Barker in evening dress was a sight to behold. The expanse of white linen across his chest seemed immense. His day spectacles had given way to an evening pair, the round disks inside the tortoiseshell frames as green as jade. Altogether, he looked grand and foreboding, a figure of mystery.

Gloveless, he picked up a slice of game pie in his fingers and consumed half of it in one bite. Mac handed him a goblet of water and began whisking imaginary crumbs from his suit with a small brush. For once, this all seemed rather decadent. Evening wear, cold suppers, and a butler brushing away stray crumbs was a far cry from starving in a garret. London is truly a city of extremes.

“Mr. Llewelyn, I must ask you not to lean on the wall, please. It is indolent. Mac, whisk him.”

Mac took the broom to me rather thoroughly. There hadn’t been a crumb on me to begin with. Any satisfaction the butler derived was removed by Barker’s next question, however.

“Might Llewelyn borrow your silk hat for the evening? I have not had the opportunity to purchase one for him yet, and I did not anticipate he would require one so soon. I fear one of mine would o’erwhelm him.”

For a moment, Jacob Maccabee looked as if he’d just been slapped. He glanced at me as if I were a species of vermin that had somehow been carried into the house. Then his professional demeanor took over, he acquiesced, and in a moment or two was adjusting a beautiful silk top hat on my head at just the perfect angle. Somehow I wanted to apologize, though I knew it was not I but Barker who had commanded him. Mac tied a voluminous opera cape around Barker’s neck, handed us our sticks, and we were off.