Some Danger Involved (19 page)

It was black as pitch inside. The room had a comfortable smell of coffee and Virginia Cavendish. I made out a row of dark wooden pews bracketing tables lit by small candles. We stood until a waiter came up to us out of the gloom and conducted us to a booth.

“Mr…. Zangwill, is it not? And you, sir. I don’t believe we’ve seen you before,” the waiter, or rather the proprietor, said, looking at me. He was an imperious fellow, about five and fifty, without a hair on his head.

“I’d like to sponsor this fellow for membership,” Zangwill declared, placing fourpence on the table. I was mystified at this. Was this yet another secret cabal? Was nothing as it seemed anymore? The proprietor had me fill out a card with my name, address, and date of birth, then he left us. We hadn’t even ordered coffee yet.

“ ‘Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,’ ” I quipped.

“You just wait. You’ll see you have joined a select little coterie, at some expense to an impoverished teacher.”

The owner returned with a large tray. He handed Zangwill an old clay churchwarden pipe, and gave a fresh white new one to me. Setting down a pen and an inkwell, he had me print “T. Llewelyn” in minute letters on the stem. Then he left us with a wooden bowl full of fresh tobacco and a porcelain striker containing matches. We filled our long pipes and lit up. It felt rather silly, as if we were playing at Drake and Raleigh, but my friend took it rather seriously, and it would have been impolite to laugh at his expense. I had to admit it was convivial sitting there in the booth with a companion, two pipes, and a candle.

“I have a confession to make,” my companion admitted. “Your employer makes my flesh creep. He looks like something of a golem himself. I think he rather intimidates me.”

“Oh, Barker’s all right,” I said. “He’s treated me dashedly well, bought me a whole new wardrobe and everything. I admit, he can scare the wits out of you at times, and between you and me, he’s a walking arsenal, but as an employer he’s not bad. He’s teaching me the trade.”

“Is it a trade?” Zangwill asked, sucking at his long stem.

“Well, not like any trade I’ve heard of before, but then, I’m no businessman.”

“What did you do before Barker hired you?”

“Eight months for theft at Oxford Prison.”

Zangwill coughed so hard, he nearly dropped his fragile pipe. At that point, the proprietor came up and my friend, if he was still my friend, ordered for us both. After he left, Zangwill looked me square in the eye.

“Very well, Thomas, confess. How did a bookish little fellow like yourself end up a hardened criminal?”

For the second time in twenty-four hours, I told the story of my life, though a much abbreviated and less personal version this time. Coffee came, and a small dessert which Zangwill jokingly called a “barrister’s torte.” He seemed fascinated by my story and was not evasive toward me in the least, as I had feared he might be upon hearing my history. We talked and smoked and drank several cups of the strong brew. I hadn’t had a real friend since childhood. It felt good to sit here across from a fellow my own age and talk about anything that came into my head.

“A detective and a former convict with a tragic past. Oh, Becky shall eat this up.”

“Who is Becky?” I asked, mystified.

“Rebecca Mocatta. Rabbi Mocatta’s daughter. You’re expected at their house tonight. Hasn’t Barker told you?”

“Mr. Barker delights in keeping me in the dark and dancing like a marionette. I always suspect that all of London knows what I am doing before I do. How came you to hear of it?”

“Oh, Barker asked the rabbi, the rabbi informed his family, and Becky told me about it this morning. You’re to be the
Shabbes goy
at their house in…,” he consulted his watch, “well, in a few hours, I suppose.”

I took in the news. “Forgive my ignorance, Israel, but just what is a
Shabbes goy?”

“You are to keep the lamps and fires lit in their home overnight, since we Jews are forbidden to work on the Sabbath. You’ll work from six in the evening tonight until six in the evening tomorrow night. Straight through. I hope you are well rested.”

I thought of my few hours of drunken stupor the night before, and my headache suddenly began to return.

“Wonderful,” I muttered.

“Well, Mrs. Mocatta is quite a dragon,” my friend continued, “and the rabbi is no charmer, but you should get along fine. It’s easy work; they generally give it to a child. But I must warn you to be careful around Becky. She’s quite vivacious, and they guard her like a treasure. Only two daughters, you know, and she the younger and unmarried. Have a care, Thomas!”

“I’ll try to control myself,” I assured him, amused at his chiding.

The bill arrived and I pounced on it. The proprietor took possession of our pipes, which he stored with several hundred others in racks overhead. There they would sit, ready for use as long as we would live, Zangwill assured me, and when we passed away, they would be broken in a small but solemn ceremony. Who could ask more of any institution?

“Now you must sponsor someone yourself someday,” Zangwill said. “But not just anybody. You must use foresight and discretion. Be selective.”

“And where am I going to find a Welsh detective who was formerly a convict? We don’t grow on trees, you know.”

Zangwill laughed and patted me on the back as we parted company. “You’re starting to sound like a Jew now.”

Barker was once more seated at our table at the Bucharest. When he saw me approach, he shoved a thumb and finger under his bristly mustache and launched a loud whistle which reverberated off the buildings. There was a clatter of hooves, and Juno and Racket came rattling around the corner.

“Did you have an instructive morning?” he asked.

“I believe I did, yes.”

“Climb aboard, and you can tell me all about it.”

We climbed into our seats and I gave my employer all the particulars about the secret meeting, from the young man who rapped on my table at the Bucharest to the little ritual at the Barbados. I didn’t tell him that Zangwill had revealed my schedule for the evening. It was my trump card.

“I didn’t tell too much about our plans to Zangwill, did I? I assume he is a suspect.”

“Certainly, he is very close to everything. We cannot rule him out just yet. But you revealed nothing. How is your head, by the way?”

“Not bad.”

“Do you think you might be up for something a little out of the ordinary?”

“Of course, sir. Anything.”

“I would like you to serve as a
Shabbes goy
for Rabbi Mocatta’s family this evening and tomorrow.”

“Ah,” I said.

“You do know what a
Shabbes goy
is, do you not?”

“Of course.” I did now. He looked a little taken aback.

“Excellent. I’ve told them you were newly hired and that I wanted you to see a typical Jewish home, since we do work for the Board of Deputies, of which Rabbi Mocatta is a member. Actually, of course, your purpose is to speak privately with Miss Mocatta. She was perhaps the only confidante of Louis Pokrzywa. If anyone would know about his private life, and the girl who wrote the notes at the Poplar Church, it would be her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You had a hard night. Are you up to this?”

“I believe I am, sir.”

“You should spend the afternoon resting. You’ll be up for twenty-four hours in a row, and I want you sharp as a tack. I hear this Mrs. Mocatta is a corker.”

“As you wish, sir.”

Barker looked a little irritable. Perhaps he was put out at not getting to explain the duties of a
Shabbes goy
to me. “You’re deucedly agreeable today. Is there anything I should know?”

“Not a thing, sir.”

“Anything you’re not telling me?”

“No, sir,” I answered, all innocence.

We were at Barker’s residence again. I climbed down out of the vehicle. “I’ll have Racket here at five thirty, with directions to the rabbi’s home.”

“Aye, sir.”

As I opened the door to our residence, the hansom rattled off in the direction of our offices.

D
ESPITE BARKER’S ADMONITION TO GET
some rest, I wasn’t really sleepy, having just had several cups of coffee. There was no sign of Mac when I came in, and for a few moments I debated what to do. Should I go upstairs and obey my instructions, or try to read in the library? Perhaps I might have an early soak in the bathhouse.

The hall was so quiet, I could hear the murmuring of the stream in the back yard. I still had my coat on, so I went out to sit in the garden. I am no expert, but the garden appeared well laid out, and Barker’s team of Chinese workers took excellent care of the place. Plants of all sorts were already pushing shoots up through the mulch. I peered for a moment through the glass walls of a small greenhouse. Barker certainly knew how to live.

There was a sudden clicking sound and a low curse. I was on my guard instantly. The sounds seemed to be coming from the alleyway behind the garden. I moved forward cautiously. The fence is eight feet high, and there is no way to see out except to open the gate. Carefully, I did so.

Etienne Dummolard was in the alleyway, pitching some sort of metal balls about. I couldn’t imagine what he was doing there. It was past noon and he should have been at his restaurant.

“Good afternoon, Etienne.”

“Thomas! Come play
boules
with me. I will teach you how. No Englishman is capable of learning the intricacies of the game, but you Welsh are Celts, are you not?”

“Yes,” I said, and stepped forward. The game, as it turned out, was rather like lawn bowling: one rolls out the small jack, then tries to get closest to it with the heavy steel spheres. I’ve no great love for the English historically, knowing what they did to the Welsh, but I did believe them capable of comprehending the simple rules of the game.

“Shouldn’t you be at the restaurant, Etienne?” I asked casually.

“Stupid woman,” the Frenchman said under his breath.

“Who?”

“Madame Dummolard.”

“Your wife?”

“My ruin! Do you know what she wants now? A
saucier.
A
saucier
! As if my sauces are not the greatest to be found outside of France. ‘We’re too busy, Etienne.’ ‘Let me get you some help, Etienne.’ ‘A
saucier
would give you more time, Etienne.’ Ha!” He struck the jack.

I hazarded a guess. “So, you’re playing
petanque
in frigid weather to teach her a lesson.”

“Oui
! She has the ambition of Napoleon. She will not rest until she has captured all of Soho. I don’t know what to do with her.”

“That’s simple,” I quipped. “Open up a restaurant in Waterloo.”

The Frenchman’s laugh started low in his giant stomach and erupted forcefully. He slapped me hard on the shoulder.

“It’s good you are here, Thomas. You bring humor to the place. But now I am ashamed of myself. I have deprived London of my artistry and left Mireille ringing her hands, no doubt. Not that she does not deserve it.
Saucier
! Bah!” I helped him return the balls to the case lined with faded velvet, and he hurried off. It hadn’t been difficult to convince him. I wished this case was as easy to solve as Dummolard’s problems with his wife.

I returned to the garden and walked about. Barker could spend hours here, meditating in the peaceful confines, but I’m not Barker. Ten minutes in a garden, and I’m afraid I’ve exhausted my interest.

There was a yip at my ankle, suddenly. Harm, the sentinel of the garden, was there, with a small rubber ball at his feet. I greeted him and patted his head. He was a bit wary, as I would be if half my head consisted of eyes. I picked up the ball, and he promptly nipped me in the hand.

“Little beast,” I said, picking up the ball again, and tossing it along.

“Fetch,” I called, pointing to it. The dog did nothing but pant expectantly. “Go on! Get the ball!” He accompanied me across the lawn to see where the ball had gone. I pointed to it. “Pick it up! Come, boy, pick it up!” Perhaps, I reasoned, he only knew Chinese. I bent to pick up the ball, and, of course, he nipped my hand again. It appeared we had been playing at cross-purposes. I was playing “fetch the ball,” while he was playing “bite the assistant.” That was enough for me. In spite of his insistent barks that I come back and try to pick up the ball again, I went inside. Petulant Frenchmen and heathen dogs. What had I done to deserve such a fate?

I went upstairs to my room and looked through one of the books of Jewish customs that Barker had placed on my desk since the case began. A
Shabbes goy
was to keep all fireplaces, lamps, and candles lit throughout the twenty-four hours of the Sabbath. Lighting a match is considered “working” by Orthodox Jewish standards and is prohibited on Shabbat. I was also to be on hand for the hundreds of other menial tasks that are forbidden the zealous Jew, from opening medicine bottles to cooking. Although Mocatta was keeping a tight restraint on his daughter, I very much wanted to snatch a few moments’ speech with her if possible, for Barker’s sake if not my own. The success or failure of the case might depend upon it.

Racket was there to take me to Saint John’s Wood promptly at five.

“You must be growing as rich as Rothschild by now,” I called up to him.

“There’s no money I can make that the missus can’t spend,” he quipped back.

Despite Zangwill’s words about the “Jewish ghetto,” some Jews had left the confines of the East End for the prosperity and security of the West. Mocatta’s home was a small manse set back from the road, a solid three-story, red-brick affair, softened with plenty of climbing ivy. Only the mezuzah on the door betrayed anything out of the ordinary.

I was about to knock, but something—instinct, if enquiry agents have it—prompted me to go around and use the back entrance. I was to be a servant, after all. I was shown into a bustling kitchen which was the headquarters of the Sabbath’s day plans. All the servants were Gentiles. The cook, Mrs. Stahl, was everything an English cook should be: a buxom, no-nonsense woman who would die before seeing the joint and peas undercooked. The staff would see to the kitchen fires, while I saw to the rest of the house. Everyone was aware that the Shabbat would begin at 5:47 sharp.

An adenoidal youth who passed for a footman led me solemnly to the woman of the house. Mrs. Mocatta was everything I feared she would be, a hawkish woman with a severe bun and an even more severe expression. I expected her to raise her black shawl like wings, seize me in her talons, and take me up to some remote mountain peak to feed her young. I understood our relationship at once when she called me over.

“Boy!” she said. “Come here, boy. Let me look at you.” She was not yet fifty, and there were only a few silver threads running through her fine black hair, but she could have been a septuagenarian for her temper. “I don’t know what Mr. Mocatta was thinking. Do you know what you are about, boy? Do you understand your duties?”

“I believe so, madam.”

“I do not expect any fires to go out tonight. Nor, on the other hand, do I expect you to be overliberal with the coal. I abhor waste. After dinner, the dining room fire is to be doused until morning, and the fire in the library when we retire. You may keep the sitting room fire burning for your own warmth, provided you are abstemious with the coal; a boy like yourself shouldn’t need more than a shovelful to keep warm. The fires are to be well filled and banked in the bedrooms upstairs, and you are not to enter them after we retire. The tweeny shall attend to them first thing in the morning, and they shall be put into your charge after all are dressed.”

“How many fires are lit upstairs, madam?”

“Three. One is for Mr. Mocatta and myself, one for our elder daughter and her husband, and one for our younger daughter.”

“Are there any medications I may set out for any of you?” I asked, trying to sound efficient.

“Mr. Mocatta takes pills for his liver, Miss Mocatta has extract of malt every morning, and Mrs. Waldman, our eldest, takes a private medication. She may prefer to take it herself.”

“Very good, madam. Which lights are to burn all night?”

“The dining room, sitting room, and hall lights on both floors are to be kept lit, but quite low. The cost of gas is exorbitant these days. Don’t just stand there, boy. There is work to be done.”

I nodded and tended to the fires. If there is one thing I know other than storytelling, it’s coal. They used a good bituminous Welsh coal here, none of that cheap English coal, but whoever set the fire did not know how to prepare it properly. I filled it well, but not overmuch, knowing that one lump too many would put Mrs. Mocatta’s claws into my back. I did the same to the library and sitting room fires. The home was well furnished and prosperous-looking, but every chair was so overstuffed as to be hard as stone. I don’t think there was a comfortable place to sit in the entire house.

I went upstairs, greeted Rabbi Mocatta, who was studying at a table with his hand-embroidered prayer shawl about his shoulders, and asked about his medication. I unstopped it for him and built up his fire a little. The Waldmans were not yet arrived, so I set their fire, then moved on to the younger daughter’s room. She was also not at home. I went into her room and glanced around swiftly. I felt somewhat guilty going into a girl’s private chambers. I passed by her small secretary, where she had begun a letter to a friend. I suppose Barker could have told me if the penmanship was different from the notes in Pokrzywa’s Bible, but I wouldn’t have had the slightest idea. I moved to the fireplace and began to lay the fire. The room was very feminine, with chintz curtains and toile fabrics on the chairs. I had not spoken to a girl near my own age in almost a year. I had been living in a man’s world, with all its harsher realities. This room with its lace and porcelain and gossamer fabrics seemed almost a fairyland.

“Good evening, Mr. Llewelyn.”

I stood and turned. Rebecca was standing in the doorway.

“Miss Mocatta,” I answered, bowing.

“One doesn’t generally find a gentleman in one’s private boudoir.” There was a touch of playful irony in her tone.

“Not a gentleman, but a humble
Shabbes goy
,” I corrected. Though it was rude to stare, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was a vision. Though she still wore black, it set off her tiny waist and fine figure. There was a comb set in the back of her dark hair, from which hung a veil of black silk.

“I understand I am to set out extract of malt for you,” I continued.

“You needn’t bother,” she said, a smile playing on her pretty lips. “If truth be told, I only pretend to take it for Mama. It tastes quite terrible. And you needn’t act like a servant around me. I know exactly why you are here. You wish to speak to me about Louis.”

“I admit it. I do,” I said, thinking I would willingly speak with her about the price of corn and any other subject under the sun. My conscience smote me then. Was it not only yesterday that I was mourning the anniversary of my wife’s passing?

“We cannot speak now,” she said. “I shall contrive a time.”

“As you wish,” I bowed. “I am in your hands.”

“A dangerous place,” she countered. “I might drop you.”

I thought for a moment of how easily she could do just that.

As the family went through the blessings and candle lighting of the traditional Sabbath meal, I sat in a corner and tended the fires, as remote and forgotten as the moon. The members of the dinner party took no notice of me, save for a glance every half hour or so from Rebecca Mocatta. I counted the minutes between every chance meeting of our eyes. It would not do to give any sign, however, for Mrs. Mocatta was in the middle of the room, keeping an eye on me to make sure I was working. For all that Rebecca was there, I found the meal a long affair, full of the rituals which link the modern English Jew to his ancient past. I might have paid more attention had there not been something more distracting in the room.

I hoped for some quiet moment during the evening when I could speak to her again, but it never came. The family went to service, they returned, they played cards, and they talked. They might have been a normal English family on a Friday evening, if one didn’t catch the references and Jewish turns of phrase. Finally, the evening party began to wind down, and I was busy replenishing and banking the fires upstairs for the night. Mrs. Mocatta was behind me every moment, fearing perhaps that I would nick the silver. Unhappily, from her point of view, she could find little fault with my work.

Eventually, everyone went to bed, and I was left in charge downstairs. The servants left for the night or retired to their quarters. By eleven, the fire in the sitting room grate, the ticking mantle clock, and I had the place to ourselves. The cook left some food for me, along with a new pot of coffee. I sat in a strange kitchen and ate someone else’s bread.

I felt a little brighter after I’d eaten. I got up to look into the library. Perhaps I could find a novel to read. I lit a small lamp. Most of the volumes were in Hebrew, I was sorry to see, but I persevered. On the shelf farthest to the right, I found some English novels; obviously, someone other than the rabbi had chosen these. Most of them I had read, but there was a copy of Hardy’s
Far from the Madding Crowd,
which I had not. I took it down and thumbed through it. A cup of coffee and a book seemed a good way to while away the hours. I turned to leave.

I heard a rustle of fabric, and she was there. Rebecca Mocatta,
in her night attire.
True, it covered her as much as her day attire, if not more so. But just the thought that she was uncorseted and ready to retire, and so close, unnerved me.

“Don’t look!” she began, a protective hand over the ribbon at her bosom. “You needed to see me, and I wanted to help you find whoever killed Louis. This is the only way, I’m afraid. Mama had her eye on me all night, and no doubt will tomorrow.”

“I fear I must look, Miss Mocatta, if only into your eyes. You see, I am trained in knowing if one is telling the truth.”

“Very well, if you must.”