Some Danger Involved (2 page)

“You look like you could do with some lunch,” he said, conversationally.

“I have the position?” I asked, astounded.

“Never any doubt.” He leaned out over the balustrade and retrieved my case from the dustbin. “Don’t forget your belongings. Come, we’ll take a hansom cab.”

W
E DID INDEED TAKE A HANSOM CAB. IT
was my first. It was awkward climbing the small steps and twisting around the leather doors, into the seats. It was even more so sharing such intimate quarters with a perfect stranger. Barker sat just inches away, facing forward, and did not speak once during the entire journey. He might have been a wax figure from Madame Tussaud’s for all his animation. We crossed Waterloo Bridge and rode for miles. Stamford Street was followed by Southwark; Saint Thomas turned into Druid Street. There were dozens of public houses and restaurants along the way, but we passed them all. Tower Bridge took us back across the Thames again, and then we were in the East End. The cab glided through a maze of shabby streets until I became hopelessly lost. Were we in Whitechapel? Stepney? Bethnal Green? Finally, the cab turned toward an alleyway so narrow that the horse shied, and the cab would have scraped axles on both sides. It was a villainous alley, with ancient stone arches overhead and litter at our feet, but Barker alighted and headed down it, as if it were his home. Perhaps it was. Maybe all his money went into the upkeep of his office, and he lived in some hovel alongside the sailors and asiatics of Limehouse. Barker came to an unmarked, peeling door at the end and opened it, ushering me in with the nod of his head.

It was black as pitch inside. I heard metallic scraping in the darkness, then a match sputtered into life. My new employer lit a naphtha lamp and held it high. We stood in a confined space, with concrete walls on both sides. Barker pointed down a flight of long steps into Stygian blackness. He was playing Virgil to my Dante.
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
Very well, I motioned, lead on.

I followed him down the dark stone steps, our footfalls echoing and multiplying until the sound filled my ears. There was a pressure in my ears as well, and I reasoned that we might be under the Thames. After a couple of dozen steps we found ourselves in a long stone corridor, just barely wide enough for two men to walk abreast. Twenty-five or thirty paces later we reached another staircase and began to ascend, not soon enough for me. The light winked out, there was a scraping of the lamp on concrete, and a door opened before my eyes.

We entered a long, low-ceilinged room full of people eating and talking. The room was dark and smoky, and full of a strange aroma. My stomach recognized food when it was close; it constricted to the size of a cricket ball. I won’t go into how little I had eaten over the past few weeks, or what I had lived upon, except to say that I was now in no way particular. Whatever they were serving, I would gladly eat.

A shadowy figure shuffled forward and led us to a table, lit by a flickering penny candle. I squinted and tried to see my neighbors, then wished I hadn’t. The first had a bristling beard and a disreputable hat on his head. The second looked like he’d arrived straight from the steppes of Mongolia, and the third was a stage version of an anarchist from a Russian play. I glanced at my employer. With the scar on his brow and his fierce mustache, he seemed as sinister as his fellows.

“What are we—” I began, but Barker raised a hand. A man stepped into the nimbus of light cast by our candle and looked intently at us. He was Chinese, but far from the normal everyday Chinaman one sees in the area. He was shaved bald on top, had a long rope of hair in a plait hanging down his chest, and his earlobes were an insignificant distance from his shoulders thanks to the heavy steel rings in them. He wore a splattered apron over an undershirt and trousers, and rope soled shoes. His arms were a riot of tattoos, and his stomach preceded him to the table. He reminded me of statues of Buddha I had seen in photographs or stereopticons, save that he wasn’t jolly or serene. This was a Buddha that would as soon have your liver out as look at you.

The man spoke to us in Chinese, and you can imagine my surprise when Barker replied in kind. My new employer rattled off Mandarin as if it were his native tongue. The Chinaman nodded once and left.

“That was Ho, the owner,” Barker said. “I ordered for both of us, presuming you’ve never been in an Asian restaurant before. Don’t overeat; in your condition it will only make you ill. Understand also that one of the terms of your employment is that you do not gain back your former weight. I want you thin as a lath and wiry as a terrier. It is your best chance of survival.”

My stomach was trying to tie itself into knots by now. The pain was so intense I could barely sit in the chair. In a few moments, an Asian waiter appeared and slapped down two bowls of a colorless broth, with all the grace of a Spitalfields barmaid. I waited for a spoon, but none was forthcoming. Barker raised the porcelain bowl to his mouth and strained the soup through his big mustache. I hazarded a sip. It was not bad, not bad at all, really. There were spices and vegetables and some sort of noodles at the bottom. Definitely edible, even without a spoon.

The bowl was whisked away, and a plate of small sweetbreads put in its place. Barker reached forward and speared a piece between two thin sticks of wood. Chopsticks. I’d seen them before in pictures of China.

“So, how do you use these things?” I asked. Barker showed me. It takes some knack. No one exactly stood and applauded my performance, but I managed to get a few pieces of fried pork in my mouth before the plate disappeared and the next arrived. It was a good thing, too, for I was just about to set my chopsticks down on my plate.

“By the heavens, man!” Barker cried, making me jump. “Never set your chopsticks across your plate like that. It announces that you are finished with your meal. We’d have had to pack up and leave before the main course. It is a definite insult to the cook, and believe me, it is not wise to insult Mr. Ho.”

“Yes, sir!”

The main course proved to be steamed duck in a white wine sauce. If the soup was subtle and the sweetbreads delicious, the duck cemented my opinion that the Chinaman was a genius in the kitchen.

Barker hoisted a watch at the end of a long chain from the well that was his pocket and consulted it. His hand went down, decisively, and placed his chopsticks across a corner of his plate. Then he removed a sealskin pouch from his coat pocket. I watched him with some interest. At this point, there was nothing I could discount that he would do. If he suddenly pulled a wavy sword from under the table, lit it afire from the penny candle, and swallowed it down to the hilt, I would probably just nod my head and say, “That Barker, anything to put you off guard.” As it was, he reached into the pouch and pulled out a pipe, one of those white meerschaums, with a stem made of amber. It was carved in his own image, from the bowler hat to the spectacles and mustache, and still further to an effigy of the pipe itself, stuck in the little pugnacious jaw. The white mineral had taken on a rich ivory hue from much smoking, and with loving care, Barker charged it with tobacco from the pouch, tamped it down with a meaty thumb, then topped it off with a few more strands before striking a vesta on the rough table in front of us. He ran the flame in circles around the inside of the bowl and blew out the match, before tucking the stem of the pipe between his strong, square teeth.

“This place is unique,” he stated. “Ho does not advertise, but the place is always full. There are unspoken rules here. Don’t ask what is in the food, and don’t repeat what you hear within these walls. This is neutral ground. An Irish Fenian may plan to assassinate a member of the House of Lords tomorrow, but today, they are seated at the same table here, enjoying a meal. Isn’t there a child’s game that has a safe spot where no one may be tagged or captured? That is Ho’s.”

“Remarkable. And the only way in is through that passage?”

“Yes. I don’t know what its original purpose was. Smuggling, perhaps, or a Catholic bolt hole during the reign of Henry the Eighth.”

Barker puffed for a moment, silently, then heaved a sigh of contentment. We, most of us, have these safe places in our lives, where we can go and eat food that is meant not to impress but merely to satisfy. Seeing my employer contentedly leaning back in his chair, with a pipe going and his boot against the base of the table, showed me beyond any word that this was such a place to him.

“The interviewing of candidates for assistant has taken more time than I had hoped,” he said eventually. “I have an investigation or two that had to be set aside during the hiring process. I must now make up for lost time. I shall not return to my home until late. Here,” he said, retrieving a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, “is a list of places for you to visit this afternoon. Now, listen carefully. You must follow the same procedure in each case. Locate each building, circle it, and enter through the back entrance, if there is one. Once inside, ask to speak to the manager. Tell them Barker sent you. Then, do as they ask. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I responded. “Barker sent me.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“Only about a thousand, sir.”

“Wonderful,” he said, giving a wintry smile. “It will give us something to discuss over breakfast. Now we have work to do. I’ve given Ho instructions to let you eat but to toss you into the river if you’re still here in ten minutes.” He stood up to leave. “Ah, I almost forgot. There is a stack of books on the desk by your bed—”

“My bed, sir?”

“Yes. Didn’t I make myself plain? Lodgings and meals are included in the terms of employment. I cannot have my assistant sleeping in doorways or park commons. It is not a sound advertisement for my agency. Now the books; begin studying them tonight. We’ll discuss them in the morning. I’m off, then.” And he was.

I sat there for a moment or two, trying to gather it all in. Was this all legitimate, or was Barker some sort of eccentric? Was he really a “prominent enquiry agent,” or was this a hoax, and if so, to what end? I couldn’t even credit that the room I was seated in could exist in the middle of London. In Shanghai, perhaps, or in a penny thriller, but not in good old, matronly London. Here I sat, eating God only knows what, in the employ of a complete cipher, who spoke Chinese and whose every statement seemed to spring from a disturbed mind. Perhaps, I considered, I should bolt. After all, with a full belly, I had now come out ahead. It was possible I could still find normal employment. And yet…

A roof over my head, three meals a day, a position with a regular salary: these were not things to throw over lightly. Who knew, perhaps this was routine for an enquiry agent’s assistant on his first day. I could always resign later, if the work didn’t suit me. I should stick it out and give the fellow a chance.

The burly Chinaman suddenly appeared at my elbow. His mood had not improved since we arrived. He was sharpening a wicked-looking cleaver against a whetstone in his hand.

“You go now.”

I retreated down the long tunnel, the naphtha lamp throwing weird shadows on the walls. When I was mid-distance between the two staircases, I stopped and listened. As I suspected, I heard the water coursing above the smooth ceiling overhead. I was under the Thames. I’d heard rumors that there were all sorts of tunnels, passageways, abandoned underground lines and caverns under the old town, but this was the first time I had ever been inside one.

For the second time that day I came out of a dim passageway into bright light. As I extinguished the lamp, it occurred to me that Barker had not advanced me the money for a hansom cab, and that obviously I couldn’t pay for the fare myself. How was I to fulfill the instructions he had given me? This was not a propitious start.

As I came out of the alleyway, still reflecting on what to do, a cab appeared almost out of nowhere and clattered to a stop in front of me. I raised a hand to shield my eyes from the sun overhead.

“I’m sorry, I have no money to pay you!” I called, over the jingling of the harness and the nickering of the horse.

“Perhaps not,” the cabman answered back, “but I bet you know some magic words that’ll make this magic carpet fly.”

“Barker sent me?”

“A regular Ali Baba, you are,” the man observed, motioning for me to get in. I’d barely found my seat before we were off like a shot.

The trap over my head opened up and I got a view of a square face with a long red beard shining in the sun. The man’s arm was thrust through.

“List!” he demanded, and I handed it up to him. He grasped my outstretched hand and gave it a brisk shake before letting go. “Racket’s the name. John Racket. Or it’ll do for one. This here’s Juno, best cab horse in Whitechapel.”

“Thomas Llewelyn,” I called over my head.

“Thought I smelt coal!”

“Are you Barker’s personal cabman?” I asked.

“Don’t I wish! No, us dogs go for whatever scraps old ‘Push-Comes-To-Shove’ throws our way. Best tipper in London, he is.”

The first address was in Holborn on a street which had reached its heyday during the Prince Regent’s reign and had been declining ever since. Racket stopped the cab a half block away from the address, and I sauntered by casually. It was a tailor’s shop: K and R Krause, Fine Gentlemen’s Apparel and Alterations. Of course, I needed a new suit if I was to be Barker’s assistant. It seemed silly to play the spy in front of a simple tailor shop, but I obeyed orders and passed down an alleyway, then backtracked in the next street. I judged the approximate door which might belong to the back of the shop and opened it. An elderly man looked up from his cutting table, then nodded when I gave him the words. In a few moments, he had measured me thoroughly and seen me out the door again. I had no idea what sort of clothing I had been measured for and only hoped that the establishment had standing instructions from my employer. I climbed into the cab and was borne away again.

The next few stops began to fall into a predictable pattern. First there was a cobbler, who mourned the state of my old shoes and measured my feet, but did not discuss cut or color. Next was a barber, who cut my hair without asking how I wanted it. A haberdasher provided me with a black bowler hat, and I was measured for new collars at a shop in Saville Row.

I was reduced to running errands after that. First there was a tobacconist in Oxford Street who gave me a pound of Barker’s tobacco, which they blended for him specially on the premises, then I picked up a caddy of tea at an import firm in Mincing Lane, the City. According to the proprietor, a talkative Greek fellow, Cyrus Barker was a regular customer, with a strong addiction to what he called ‘green gunpowder tea.’ The leaves, he informed me, were not minced, but rolled into tiny pellets.