Some Danger Involved (18 page)

“Why did you hire me, sir?” I asked, as Barker replenished my glass yet again.

“I wish you could have seen yourself through
my
eyes, Thomas. I was watching all of you outside from the bow window. You were the most nondescript fellow I’d ever seen. It was as if you were trying to blend in with the brick wall. I almost overlooked you, standing among all the taller men. I was intrigued when you tossed your suitcase into the dustbin, right under my window. Then you came in and presented me with an Oxford education, or at least the beginnings of one. Better still, you had an eight-month tenure at Oxford Prison, which in many ways is more educational than University. You then sailed through every test as if you’d been practicing for weeks, and you kept your temper in check. A man would have had to be an idiot not to hire you on the spot. Whether you know it or not, you’re a natural detective’s assistant.”

“I thought I was fit for nothing.”

“You would think that, lad.” He patted my sleeve. “You undervalue yourself.”

“So, why did you hire Jenkins?” I asked.

I had made Barker chuckle again. “Jenkins came to fill the position temporarily and never went away again. I can sack him any time, and he can quit. He’s an odd fellow, but I’ve grown used to his ways.”

I sat up and put my glass down. The beer had thoroughly loosened my lips.

“So, tell me, sir. How did a Scottish boy end up in China?”

Barker put down his porter. He’d been matching me glass for glass, but so far, it hadn’t seemed to affect him.

“My father was a missionary from Perth. He followed the tea clippers to Foochow soon after I was born. My parents stayed several years, developing a congregation of Europeans and Chinese as well. They died when I was eleven. Cholera.”

“Good Lord!” I said. I could definitely feel the effects of the porter now. I nearly chipped a tooth navigating the glass to my lips. “So, did you go home?”

“That might have happened in England, lad, and possibly in India, but not in China. The right palms were never crossed, so the gist of it was that I was cut loose on my own.”

“Cut loose, sir? In China, at eleven? What did you do?”

“Whatever I could to survive. I was just another street urchin. I started out on the docks, scavenging for food, looking for odd work, and learning how to defend myself the hard way. Eventually, I signed on as a cabin boy aboard a broken-down clipper, looking about as thin and desperate as you did that first day I saw you.”

I was trying hard to keep up, but the alcohol was swiftly overtaking my brain. If he told me the rest of his story that night, I didn’t catch it. After a while, it seemed sensible to rest my hot, throbbing temple against the nice, cool wood of the table. That is the last thing that I remember.

I awoke some hours later. I’d been asleep in my plate, between the bread and the cheese. My head was throbbing and my shoulders ached. Barker was nowhere to be found.

T
HE NEXT MORNING I FELT AS IF MY HEAD
had been split open with an axe from the Tower and my tongue slathered in coal tar. What had I been thinking, pouring that noxious stuff down my throat? I suspected Maccabee of having designs on my life. Lifting my head off the pillow required far more energy than my poor powers could muster. How did Jenkins survive this ordeal on a daily basis?

I lay in bed for over an hour, half paralyzed, watching the sunlight slowly illuminate the room. My head throbbed, and even my cheekbones hurt. I decided to forgo any future attempts at self-pickling. I haven’t the drinker’s constitution.

Barker came bustling in, all health and vigor, shooting his cuffs and adjusting his links. He showed no signs of distress from the night before. My stomach threatened to turn as active as Krakatoa at any moment.

“Morning, lad,” he said loudly. “Beautiful day. Time we were about.” I was in agony, and Barker, it appeared, was in one of his cheerful, telegraph-message moods.

“I fear I’m too sick to move, sir,” I said.

“Nonsense. Get up and walk about. A nice long hike is what you need, and a good soak, to sweat out the impurities, but we don’t have the time. Show your body who is master.”

“Yes, sir,” I answered, and rose to a sitting position. A fireworks demonstration began to go off in my head. I swung my limbs over the side of the bed and waited to see what would happen next. Nothing noteworthy.

“I shall be along, presently, sir,” I told my employer, who still stood there, expectantly.

“That’s the spirit. Have Etienne make you some eggs and coffee. I’ll meet you out front in half an hour.”

“Oh, God, please, not eggs,” I whimpered after he left. “Anything but eggs.”

Dummolard insisted on a concoction of his own, a greenish sludge that looked as if it had been dredged from the sewers. Who knows? Perhaps it had. I managed to keep it down and even swallowed some coffee and toast, but eggs were quite beyond me. Having broken my fast, I dragged myself up the stairs again and traded my old suit for another of my new ones. I was still employed, despite yesterday’s little debacle.

“Ready, lad?” Barker asked, as I stepped down into the hall. Mac was helping him into his coat.

“Ready, sir,” I responded, far more confidently than I felt. I put on my coat myself. I didn’t want Mac near me. I don’t approve of hiring poisoners as servants.

I moaned as I climbed into the cab and leaned well forward in case the rocking motion made me ill. John Racket gave me a frown from atop his box. He didn’t want anyone ill while in his cab, and I am certain that my complexion was as leaden as the sky overhead. Juno was off, and I held tightly to the leather-covered doors.

We didn’t go to the office at all but instead went straight to Tower Bridge. Within half an hour we were seated in the Bucharest Café again. Barker was enjoying strong Romanian tea and a fairly lethal-looking bialy, while I was nursing a bicarbonate of soda.

“Feeling better, lad?”

“Much better, sir,” I lied. “What are we doing here this morning?”

“We’ve been actively pursuing this investigation for several days now, muddying the waters, so to speak. Today, I want us to plumb its depths. We’re going to observe the Jews today and the rhythms of their lives. Is there any real evidence of a threat, or is it merely imagined? Was Pokrzywa’s death a personal matter or a harbinger of future developments? In a way, we shall be testing the area’s temperature.”

I thought it more likely that he had run out of leads, and we were to spend the day sitting idly. However, it was politic to agree. After all, I couldn’t do much else at the moment but sit and sip soda water.

Despite his plan, Barker was too restive to sit long. After half an hour’s time, he announced that he would explore the Lane again. I seconded his decision. His energy was not exactly calming to my stomach. Like a hound let off his lead, Barker shot into the crowd of Brick Lane. Only then did I begin to relax.

The bicarbonate and the absence of my employer began to work their subtle magic on me. In twenty minutes, I ordered a coffee in one of the glass cups, and within another ten, I got up to explore a little bookstall down the street. I bought one of the local Jewish newspapers, in English and Hebrew, more for the novelty than the reading. I also found a book by Maimonides,
A Guide for the Perplexed,
for only a few shillings, and thought I might see why he was such a favorite of Pokrzywa’s. The book, as it turned out, was an attempt to reconcile Jewish doctrine with the Hellenistic teachings of Plato and Aristotle and had been written during the Middle Ages.

I returned to the café, ordered a second cup, and even hazarded a bialy, though it was several minutes before I dared the first bite. Begrudgingly, I had to admit that my employer was right. Being up and about was preferable to staying in bed all day, moaning into my pillow. So I sat in the outdoor café, reading the
Jewish Chronicle,
with a bialy, coffee, and a copy of Maimonides, not realizing how Jewish I myself appeared, in my long black coat, curling hair, and bowler hat, until I was interrupted.

A set of knuckles rapped roughly at my table. I looked up over my newspaper at a fellow I’d never seen before, a tall, well-built Jew in his twenties, with a stern face and a long beard. He looked at me intently and said,
“Sholem aleichem.”

“Aleichem sholem,”
I replied. It was the response Barker had given Zangwill, a few days before, which had impressed the little teacher greatly. The charm worked for me as well, for the fellow nodded once, as if I had given the correct password. He leaned his head to one side and raised his chin, motioning for me to follow him. It was just the sort of break, I realized, that Barker was looking for. I threw down a shilling, gathered my book and paper, and trotted off after the fellow. I only wished I could have had time to write some sort of note to my employer.

I followed him down Brick Lane for several blocks, then he stepped into a warren of doss-houses and ended up on Flower and Dean Street. From there he went into a small court. Where was he taking me, and why all the dodges and turns? After a dozen more yards, I realized we were not alone. There were several silent men moving in our direction. The court was dominated by a set of steps going down in the middle, not unlike an entrance to the underground, save for a large sign at the back that read “Oriental Bazaar.”

Down we plunged into semi-darkness. I smelled spices in the air, and incense. The only illumination here was from the opening overhead and dozens of flickering candles. I saw men squatting on the ground, patiently awaiting customers or playing at cards. There were shining copper pots for sale, bags of saffron, rice, and betel nut, and bookstalls in which not one title was in English. For a moment again, I was not in London. I might just as well have been in Cairo or Calcutta. At the foot of the steps, I heard rather than saw my companions turning left and going back alongside the stairway, down a hall full of underground booths. We came up to an open public house, and at the far end, a bar. The proprietor, without a word, lifted the hinged bar with one hand and waved us through. We passed through a green baize curtain behind, into a large room. Even as I crossed the threshold, a young man on a soap-box had begun speaking.

“Greetings to you, gentlemen of Zion. I address you all in English today, for I can see Sephardim and Ashkenazim alike before me. Forgive this sudden summons from your daily activities. There is in London today a grave threat to our well-being. How many of you have known firsthand the deprivations and cruelty inflicted upon us by the
goyim
in Russia and Poland?” There was a sudden murmur. “I thought as much. Do you feel you have arrived at a place of safety? Is your journey over? Louis Pokrzywa thought it was, and look where it got him. Will he be the last Jew in London to give up his life, or is this just one more beginning of anti-Semitic sentiments in a foreign land? Do you not realize that we shall be continually persecuted until we are restored unto our homeland in Palestine? England has been generous in taking in our widows and orphans, but I fear we are no more safe here than we were in Moscow, Kiev, or Odessa.

“But I have not come to speak to you about Zionism. That is in the future. What of now? Sirs, our unknown adversaries are emboldened by our timidity. Our fear gives them courage. Certainly, not all Englishmen wish us ill. I say to you, stand fast! We can go no further west. It is time to turn and fight!

“Do you think Rabbi Ben Loew will build a golem to defend us as he did in Prague three hundred years ago? If so, you are naive. To this day, we do not know where the clay remains are hidden. It is up to us, then, to build our own golem, to patrol our own streets. We cannot be complacent and rely upon the London Metropolitan Police to safeguard our interests. I cannot speak for every one of you; each one of us must weigh his personal needs against the common good. I merely wish to state that there comes a time when one must put aside commercial interests and lift the sword. Those of you who are willing to defend your people in Aldgate, Spitalfields, and Whitechapel, please leave your names and addresses at the door. Your women, your little brothers and sisters, and your old men look to you for support and safety. How shall you young lions of Judah respond?”

The speaker stepped back, and by some prearranged cue, the gaslights were extinguished and the baize curtain raised. I noticed several fellows by the door with clipboards. Men were almost forcing their names on them. As I brushed by, I saw a few stares in my direction. I found myself in an absurd position. I was no Jew, and yet I felt as if I was betraying them by not leaving my name and address. Also, I was already in the employ of a man hired to combat this very evil, yet I could not reveal that fact now. As it was, I lowered my head and slunk from the room, with an inexplicable feeling of guilt.

Back in Flower and Dean Street, I watched the meeting gradually disperse. Reasoning that Barker might have returned and be concerned for my welfare, I began to wend my way back to Brick Lane when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jumped.

“So, there was a wolf among the sheep, eh?” Israel Zangwill said, an ironic smile on his face. He wore a coat with an Astrakhan collar and a Homburg hat.

“No wolves,” I assured him with a laugh. “Merely a Gentile dog, trying to guard the sheep. Somehow I got scooped up in the shearing. Did you sign up?”

“Of course.” The little teacher looked at me seriously.

“Without knowing the plans? Or do you know?”

“Not a word. But I trust them all the same. The speaker was Asher Cowen, a good fellow. He’s helped organize some soup kitchens in the area and a center for our aged. Asher gets things done. So, how progresses the investigation?”

“To be truthful, I have no idea. This is my first case. I was only hired a couple of weeks ago. Mr. Barker keeps his opinions close to his vest.”

Zangwill smiled. I think I had won him over with my candor. “You surprise me, Mr. Llewelyn. Ira Moskowitz has us convinced that you are a master spy and detective. You are his hero, now, I believe.”

The idea seemed patently ridiculous. “There is no wretch less worthy of being worshipped than I, Mr. Zangwill.”

“Israel, please. I won’t disabuse Ira of his fantasy just yet. It has caused him to clean up his room somewhat, though he rather neglects his studies now for the works of Poe and Collins.”

“I regret coming between him and his studies.”

“He’s always looking for an excuse. But come, must you rush off to meet your mysterious boss, or can you stop for a cup of coffee?”

I thought it over for a moment. I didn’t know whether Barker was frantic over my disappearance or off somewhere about his business without a care about me. Certainly, I should find out, but it might be helpful to stop and talk with Zangwill. He’d already been involved in much of the case.

“If we could stop by the Bucharest for a moment, I’ll check in with Mr. Barker. I’d enjoy a cup of coffee with you.”

“Excellent!” the teacher cried. “We’ll stop, and then I’ll take you to my club.” He broke into a grin. With his long nose and wide smile, he looked like Shakespeare’s Puck.

“You belong to a club?”

“Of course. Come along, then.”

We headed west, one hand in our respective pockets, and the other firm on the brims of our hats, for the north wind was growing blustery.

“So,” I said, “what exactly is a golem?”

“He is a large creature made of clay, brought to life by magic, rather like Frankenstein’s monster. A famous rabbi brought him to life to defend the Jews of Prague a few centuries ago, if one believes the legend.”

“This fellow Cowen surely doesn’t intend to build a magical golem of clay, does he?”

“Why not? We’ve done it before, we can do it again.”

“I find a clay man marching around the East End a trifle hard to believe,” I confessed.

“Fine. We’ll make him out of steel and run him on steam, then. This is the nineteenth century, after all.”

Barker was nowhere to be found in Brick Lane. I searched for his familiar form in all directions and even asked the proprietor if any instructions had been left for me. Nothing. Zangwill and I pressed on.

We were walking down Cornhill Street when my companion suddenly tugged me into a narrow and ancient lane. Old entrances to shops and warehouses stood but a few yards from each other, and so close were they that the lanterns at each entrance burned continuously, or the street would have been forever in shadow.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Use your nose, Mr. Detective. It is Saint Michael’s Alley.”

I had heard of it before, though I’d never been there. It was the center of the West Indies trade. The air in this cloistered street was redolent of the coffee and tobacco that were stored in the old warehouses and served in the ancient coffeehouses that lined the street. Zangwill stopped in front of a dark-windowed establishment called the Barbados and opened the door. “My club,” he murmured, ushering me in.