The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes (34 page)

So, this was it. Behind that door was the man he had heard so much about, the man who had threatened the Prime Minister, and who many—including the head of the Secret Service—believed to be nothing more than a phantom, a ridiculous myth. Rutherford knew now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was dealing with a man of absolute genius, a master manipulator; a man so adept at managing his reputation that he’d been able to construct an entire mythology around his very existence.

Rutherford took a deep breath, and then set out to meet him.

As he crossed the road and approached the door, he became aware of the strains of a violin emanating from one of the first-floor apartments, a soulful lament, played by an exceptional hand. He followed the sound, through the grandiose entrance hall, up the immense central staircase and towards an open door that led into one of the apartments. Steeling himself, he stepped inside.

Oyani was waiting to greet him, and wordlessly ushered him on into the drawing room. He slipped his hand into his pocket, feeling the comforting butt of his revolver against his palm.

The room was dressed after the appearance of its owner: in swathes of ebony and startling white. The floor was laid in a chequerboard of alternating black and white marble, whilst the walls were washed in brilliant white paint. Black drapes hung across the window, and a low divan sat in the centre of the room, covered in a crimson throw. A tall, gilt-framed mirror hung above the fireplace, in which leaping flames licked gently at a wooden log.

Monsieur Zenith himself stood with his back to Rutherford, dressed from collar to toe in immaculate black, his right arm moving slowly back and forth with the ebb and tide of the strains of his violin.

Rutherford sensed the door closing behind him as Oyani retreated, leaving him alone in the room with the albino.

“Don’t you think it’s sublime how a simple phrase on the violin can describe such exquisite pain?” said Zenith, his voice a low, epicurean drawl.

Rutherford remained silent, studying Monsieur Zenith’s back. His grip tightened on the revolver in his pocket. After a moment, the violin playing ceased.

“Oh, do put the gun down, Mr Rutherford. You shan’t be needing it,” said the albino, pompously. “I should consider it very bad manners indeed if you were to shoot me on our first date.” He turned then, glancing back over his shoulder, and Rutherford was granted his first proper glance at the albino’s face.

He was stunningly handsome, with a profile that might have been hewn from the purest Carrara marble. His thin, sensuous lips were drawn in a tight smile, and his eyes were orbs of the deepest crimson. His white hair was short and swept back from his forehead, and he was dressed in pristine evening wear—a black suit and velvet cape, with a red silk cravat—even at this time in the mid-afternoon.

“I’m here—”

“I know why you’re here,” said Zenith, cutting him off abruptly. He lowered his violin and bow, placing them on a lacquered sideboard before turning and crossing the room. He flicked his cape out behind him and dropped onto the divan, stretching out like a supine cat. At no point did his gaze leave Rutherford’s face. “But let’s not talk of such prosaic matters, Mr Rutherford. Let us get to know each other a little, first of all.”

Rutherford sighed, withdrawing his hand from his pocket. He glanced behind him, located a high-backed chair and dropped into it. “You cast a long shadow, Monsieur Zenith,” said Rutherford, calmly.

“For one so pale?” replied Zenith, wryly. “Yes, I understand you’ve heard the testimony of a number of my acquaintances. And yet still you came. I find this... most satisfactory.”

Rutherford must have frowned, because Zenith allowed himself an amused smile.

“Am I not everything you expected, Mr Rutherford? Do I disappoint?”

Rutherford hardly knew how to respond. “I have yet to form a full and proper opinion, Monsieur,” he replied, levelly.

Zenith laughed, and his long eyelashes flickered. “Quite so. I do enjoy it when people are honest with one another. Don’t you? Saves all that ridiculous posturing.”

“Then allow me to ask you an honest question, Monsieur.”

“Be my guest.”

“Why? Why threaten the Prime Minister?”

“Oh, this again,” said Zenith, waving his hand and affecting an air of disinterest. “Why not?” he said, in response.

“But what could you possibly hope to gain? Was it blackmail you had in mind?”

“Nothing so prosaic, Mr Rutherford.” Zenith looked him in the eye. “If we’re still being honest with one another, perhaps it’s time I confessed. I never had any intention of seeing it through. The threat to the Prime Minister was a bluff, a flippant sham, a fake.” He laughed. “Does that surprise you?”

“No,” said Rutherford. “No, it doesn’t surprise me. But it nevertheless intrigues me. I still wish to know why.”

Zenith smiled again. “Excellent. I see, Mr Rutherford, that you shall do quite well.”

Rutherford felt his heart skip a beat. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m bored, Mr Rutherford. Peter. I can call you Peter?” Rutherford nodded his assent. “My detective friend is otherwise engaged, and I find myself in need of... company.”

“You have Oyani,” said Rutherford.

“Ah, but I require a very particular sort of company, Peter. You see—this world, I find, is a dreary place, when all is said and done. I need a companion who can offer a diversion, a distraction from the tiresome, day-to-day business of living.”

“A plaything, you mean?” asked Rutherford, harshly.

“Not at all,” said Zenith, with a conciliatory tone. “That’s quite the point. Rather someone who might offer up a challenge, who might present at least a modicum of intelligence.”

“So... your scheme, the reason for your threatening telephone call to the Prime Minister—it was all to draw someone out, bait for a new opponent for your infernal games?”

Zenith sighed contentedly. “And you answered the call with perfect aplomb.”

Rutherford swallowed. His mouth was dry. So all of this—all of those conversations with Angelchrist, Miss Hobbes and the detective, his parley with Meng Li—all of it had been a kind of extended job interview, a test by which Zenith might identify his latest opponent in the grand game of his life. By finding him, by following Oyani here, Rutherford had effectively volunteered himself for the position. “What if I do not agree to this risible business?” he asked.

“Then, of course, your precious Prime Minister will find his darkest secrets spread across the evening headlines.”

“So I’m to become a sacrificial lamb?”

“Oh, don’t look at it like that, Peter. We’ll have fun, you and I. Two kings commanding our legions of knights and pawns, each trying to stay one step ahead of the other.” Zenith swung his legs down from the divan, pulling himself up into a sitting position. “So, Peter. Do we have an understanding?”

“I don’t see that I have any choice,” said Rutherford, resignedly. “Unless, of course, I reach for my revolver and shoot you now.”

Zenith scowled. “I should hope you would not prove so uncouth,” he said, standing. “You’d make a terrible mess of the décor.”

Rutherford laughed. In spite of everything, he was strangely attracted to this most unusual of criminals. “We have an understanding, then,” he said. “The Prime Minister will rest easily tonight.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t have thought so,” said Zenith. “Not knowing the sorts of things he gets up to after nightfall.”

The door opened, and Rutherford turned to see Oyani waiting in the hallway to show him out.

“Until we meet again, then, Peter,” said Zenith, extending his hand. Rutherford took it and held it for a moment. It was surprisingly warm.

“Good day, Monsieur Zenith,” he said, and then turned and followed Oyani to the door.

The red telephone box stood like a bright sentinel on the street corner, the herald of a new age. Rutherford smiled to himself as he opened the door and stepped inside, regarding the primitive machinery before him, all dials and coiled cabling. He’d spent time in New York a few years earlier—during the height of the tensions with the former colony—and the holotube technology the Americans had developed quite outstripped the more traditional telephony system still in place across England. Nevertheless, it would suffice for his needs.

He lifted the receiver to his ear. “Operator? Yes, Whitehall 1212, please. Thank you.”

The telephone buzzed at the other end. After a moment, it clicked, and a woman’s voice spoke on the other end. “Yes?”

“Hello, Ginny. It’s Peter. I need to speak with Absalom,” he said. The woman was Absalom’s secretary, Ginny Roberts.

A pause. And then: “I’m afraid he’s busy, Peter. In with the PM. He’s not accepting calls.”

“He’ll want to accept this one, Ginny. Trust me.”

“Sorry Peter. No can do.” She sighed. “You know how he is,” she said, apologetically.

“Very well. Can you give him a message for me, then?”

“Of course.”

“Can you tell him the threat to the PM has been eliminated?”

“Yes. I’ll tell him right away.” She paused again. “Is everything quite well, Peter?”

“Yes, everything’s fine, Ginny. Don’t worry. Just pass on the message for me, if you will.”

“Yes, I will. ‘The threat to the PM has been eliminated’,” she parroted. “Good job, Peter.”

“Thank you, Ginny. See you later?”

“Not tonight, Peter. I’m off early for the weekend. Going dancing with Evie.”

Rutherford laughed at the sheer normality of it all. “Well, you have a good time, Ginny. Watch out for yourself.”

“Goodbye, Peter.”

“Goodbye.” He replaced the receiver and leaned back against the inside of the telephone box. His heart was hammering frantically in his chest. It was over. The job was done. The Prime Minister could sleep safely in his bed.

For Rutherford, however, it was only just beginning. The game was afoot, and he had no idea when, or how, Zenith would make the next move. The strange thing was... he actually found himself relishing the idea. The notion of meeting with such a remarkable character again filled him with a thrill of anticipation. He remembered the words of Miss Veronica Hobbes, spoken in the restaurant just a few days earlier: “His criminal activities were diverse and reckless, but never, ever, boring.”

To Rutherford, there was promise in those words.

Rutherford pushed open the door of the telephone box and stepped out into the brisk afternoon. He turned his collar up against the chill, and started off down the road. He would catch a cab back to Whitehall, where he’d offer Absalom just enough of the facts to put the Major’s mind at rest.

Then, he decided, he might see about a game of chess at his club. After all, he was going to have to get some practice.

“Good morning, Professor.”

Rutherford leaned back against his car door, watching as the two men—the aged Professor Angelchrist and his immaculately dressed butler—traversed the path to the end of the garden. Their steps were tentative and steady, and Angelchrist was leaning heavily on his ebony cane, his exhalations forming ghostly shapes in the chill winter air. Late morning sunlight was slanting through the overhanging branches of a nearby oak tree, dappling the frosty path. The ice crystals twinkled like diamonds scattered haphazardly across the ground.

“And a good morning to you, Mr Rutherford,” replied Angelchrist, glancing up for a moment from where he’d been carefully following his own steps. “This is a... unexpected pleasure.”

Rutherford grinned. He reached into his pocket, his fingers closing on his silver cigarette case. He half extracted it before changing his mind and allowing it to fall back into place. “I thought you might enjoy a short drive,” he said, non-committally.

“Did you indeed?” said Angelchrist, with a knowing smile. Clearly, he suspected an ulterior motive. The old man was still sharp, and Rutherford had to suppress another grin. “Well, I don’t suppose it could do any harm, now that I’m up and about.” He’d reached the front gate of his property and rested there for a moment, his hand on the stone gatepost. He was wrapped in a warm winter overcoat and was wearing a bowler hat and black leather gloves. He was labouring slightly for breath, and Rutherford wondered how long it had been since he’d last left the house. He hoped the trip wouldn’t be too much for the old man.

Rutherford pushed himself away from the car and smoothed down the front of his coat. He walked around the vehicle and popped open the passenger door. “If you need some more time...?” he said.

“Nonsense,” said Angelchrist, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m quite ready, Mr Rutherford.” He pushed himself away from the gatepost, shrugging off the concerned hands of his butler, who was fussing around him, trying to take his elbow in order to prevent a fall. “I must admit, I’m rather intrigued about the true purpose of your visit.”

Rutherford laughed. Angelchrist was as direct and to the point as ever. He chose not to respond to the comment as he watched Angelchrist cross the pavement towards the waiting car.

“A most unusual conveyance, Mr Rutherford,” said Angelchrist a moment later, as he lowered himself heavily into the passenger seat.

Rutherford closed the door and circled the back of the car, sliding easily into the driver’s seat. “It’s a recent model,” he said, twisting the key in the ignition and causing the throttle to choke and splutter, until the engine finally bit, roaring noisily to life. “It’s powered by oil rather than coal.”

“Remarkable,” replied Angelchrist, with a raised eyebrow. He propped his walking stick against the dashboard and fastened his seatbelt. “I do miss my dear old motor car,” he said, wistfully. “We had some adventures together, let me tell you. She proved a reliable friend for many years. Although she was never quite the same after that incident with the Squall.” He paused for a moment, reflecting. “Mind you, neither was I.”

“The Squall?” asked Rutherford, absently, glancing in the wing mirror.

“Horrible, bat-like things, they were, and they really did give us a run for our money. That was—what, more than twenty years ago now. Seems like a lifetime.”