Queen's Gambit

by Bradley Harper

  “Who’s there?” he asked, out of sorts by his abrupt return to the waking world.

  “Parmeggiani,” whispered a voice. “Get up!”

  Herman staggered to the door and let the small Italian in. He seemed more animated than usual, which took some doing. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “This is what’s wrong!” he said, thrusting a copy of The Star into Herman’s face. “You’re a wanted man, for attempted murder of a woman and a police inspector! You said your hands were clean.”

  “My hands are clean. I missed. But hers aren’t!”

  “I don’t care. Your likeness is all over the city. In the Times as well. You can’t come to the shop. You must go. Now!”

  Herman rubbed his eyes, still unsure he was awake. “Go? Go where?”

  “I don’t care, and I don’t want to know. If someone sees you at my shop and summons a constable, my entire operation would be placed in danger. Here.” He shoved fifty pounds into Herman’s hands. “For the lamps. If you left anything at the store, tell me and I will bring it to you, but you must be away from here as soon as you can.”

  Herman took the money without reaction, trying to grasp his situation. “No.”

  “No? What do you mean, no?”

  “If I leave now, I wouldn’t remain at large for one day. I agree I can’t stay here for long, but give me until tonight. I have nothing in the store which concerns me. Bring me some food for the day, and when you return tomorrow, I’ll be gone.”

  Luigi clasped his hands together. “Madonna!” he cried. “You’re killing me, but alright. Stay inside today, and I’ll bring you food. But you must be gone tomorrow.”

  “Agreed. Now go while I prepare. I’ve been hunted before. I doubt the British can be any more capable than the Okhrana. At least the English don’t torture their prisoners anymore.”

  He laid his hand on the Italian’s narrow shoulder. “Don’t worry, Signore. If I am caught, I will not turn you in. You were kind to me, in your fashion. Besides, turning you in would not help my situation. Now go!”

  Luigi sighed and shook Herman’s hand. “Mille grazie, Signore. It is good when kindness is remembered. I regret my words just now. Fear is stronger than charity, at least in me. I make a good living but never forget I am always one step away from the dock and a magistrate peering down at me. Arrivederci!”

  Herman went to the basin to wash his face. He stared at his exuberant handlebar mustache and sighed. No hot water. This would not be pleasant. He lathered up the soap in a cup and began laying it onto his mustache like a plasterer finishing a wall. He studied his face as he gave the soap a chance to soften the bristly hair. The hair on his head was thinning in front, a feature not shown in the sketch in the paper. He stroked his razor as he considered how much to take off the top. I’m no barber. Best take it all.

  When Luigi returned with a couple of sausages, a bottle of wine, and a loaf of bread his knock brought only a curt, “Leave it outside and go. Best you not see me. Thank you, and good-bye.”

  After the footsteps faded away, a clean shaven, bald gentleman snatched the food inside.

  Senior Inspector Murdock was preparing to depart for the day when a junior clerk came into his office, a letter in his hand.

  “What’s this, then?” Murdock asked, his hat already in his hand. “This letter arrived around noon today. It contains a threat against the queen, and we get so many letters like this without return addresses I was just going to toss it, but it has some specific information most threats don’t contain. It’s probably nothing, but I thought I’d leave that for you to decide.”

  Murdock sighed. He’d better things to do then to read an anonymous letter from some crackpot, but he’d not be able to rest that night, knowing it was waiting on his desk.

  “Very well,” he growled. “Your timing needs improvement. I’ll have a look before I go, now get out!”

  The clerk made his escape, doubting his wisdom at bothering the man this late in the day, while Murdock put on his reading glasses and slumped back down into his chair. As he read the message, he began to sit straighter, and by the time he’d finished his back was ramrod.

  To Special Branch, Scotland Yard From a concerned citizen

  Sir,

  I’m not the most patriotic Englishman in the empire, and I admit that I’ve fallen in with a bad lot and attended some socialist meetings, but there are some things I cannot abide. I feel it my duty to tell you that there is a German anarchist named Herman Ott who is here in London to kill Her Majesty during the Diamond Jubilee. He has a rifle and knows how to use it.

  I beg you take this letter seriously. You can easily see if my words are true, for he is working for an antiquities dealer named Luigi Parmeggiani at the below address. If you perform a search of his lodgings you should find a high-powered air rifle in his possession.

  I’ve done a lot in my life that I have reason to be ashamed

  of. I hope somehow that this letter may put my misdeeds into balance.

  God save the Queen!

  An address followed near Charing Cross station. Murdock hadn’t been on the streets in over ten years. He unlocked a drawer in his desk and brought out his Webley and shoulder holster. Time to see if he was still a policeman.

  Herman left the flat as the sun set. He had to steel himself to go out into a world where everyone was a potential risk. He was more alone than ever before. In Russia or Germany, he could at least hope for a sympathizer. Here, he was not a revolutionary—just a criminal. He must look as uninteresting as possible until his mission was done.

  He stepped out into the darkness without hesitation. He knew any jerky motion would draw people’s attention. He needed to walk as though he owned the ground beneath his feet. He entered the Dog’s Head and found Keys in his usual corner, dispensing wisdom as he sipped an ale. Not wanting to draw attention from the three men sitting with him, Herman sat at the bar and told the barman to send a whiskey to Malone, figuring the others wouldn’t get a good look at him from across the smoke-filled room.

  When the drink arrived and the barman nodded at its donor, Herman raised his glass in salute and turned his back. Now all he could do was wait. He had nearly finished his first ale of the evening when a hand came down soft on his shoulder. “Evening, boyo, and to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Herman turned and was relieved to see no flash of recognition in the Irishman’s eyes. “We’ve done business before. I need your services again.”

  Keys started at the sound of Herman’s voice and studied his face.

  Then he nodded. “Aye, we have. You’re a sight different, though handsome as ever. My office, alone?”

  “Yes, to both. Do I need to buy your friends another round of ale?”

  “Nay. Don’t want to spoil ’em, anyways. They’re used to being shooed off when I have business associates here.” They walked back to Keys’ corner table. “Bugger off now, lads. I need to seek me fortune.” The three hangers-on shrugged and took their custom to the bar without a backward glance.

  “Your friends are agreeable,” Herman said.

  “Long practice, nothing more. Any one of ’em would sell his mother for a drink. It’s a rare treat to do business with a gentleman what keeps his word. Now, what’s it this time, another lock to be greased?”

  Herman leaned in to reduce the chance of being overheard. “Quite the opposite this time.”

  “How’s that again? You want me to secure something?”

  “Not something. Someone. Me. I assume you’ve read the papers?”

  “Nay. There is naught in the papers of interest to me. Besides, I can’t read. What’s in the papers got you so worried?”

  Herman considered how to answer. He knew the higher the risk, the higher the price, but best the man hear his reasons now, rather than go asking about them later. He sighed. “I took a shot at a police inspector. My picture’s in the paper, or my likeness before this . . .” Herman waved a hand over his face and bald head.
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  Keys laughed. “Is that all? So, you missed then? More’s the pity. Well, I can find you a bolt-hole well enough; it ain’t cheap nor fancy, but I reckon you’ve got no cause to be picky. How long you reckon you’ve got to hide?”

  “Five days.”

  “Ah, figure on slipping out during the big to-do for the queen? That’s clever.” Malone nodded, satisfied. “Five pounds a day for five days is twenty-five pounds.” He snorted. “Maybe I can’t read, but I can do me figures well enough.” Then he laid a finger aside of his nose. “We might be busy later on. Best pay me now. Do we have a deal?”

  “Ten now. The rest when I see the place and am satisfied.”

  “It’s not like I’ve a string of houses to choose from, but all right. I’ll take the ten now. I owe the barman near as much, and then I’ll conduct you to the royal suite.” Winking, he continued, “Sorry, lad, but you’ll have to carry your own bags.”

  Soon Herman and the Irishman were walking through a dark courtyard in the East End, and Herman wished he had something besides a disassembled rifle to hand. Keys noticed Herman’s nervous glances as they passed alleyways. “Not to worry, lad. There’s honor among thieves here. ’Sides, I usually don’t have the scratch worth fighting over. Not far now.”

  My safety depends upon the goodwill of criminals. Have I really fallen so far? Herman mused. But then, to their eyes, I am one of them. So yes, I suppose I have plummeted into the abyss.

  They passed through a narrow entrance into another courtyard, this one larger, and Malone led Herman to a dim doorway on the far side. He pulled out a large key, and the well-oiled lock opened without a sound. The doorframe bordered a pitch-black rectangle, and Herman heard something scurry in the room. Rats. I’ll be lodging with rats.

  Malone pulled a candle stub and matches out of a pocket, lit the candle, and handed it to Herman. “I trust you’ll find your lodgings to your taste, sir,” he said, bowing.

  The room had one single bed with an iron frame, a washbasin, a table, one chair, and a bedpan. The entire room was hardly larger than a cell, but at least his only roommates would be rats. He saw a particularly large one sprint under the bed.

  “It has rats,” Herman said. “Big ones.”

  Malone shrugged, “‘Tis the East End, boyo. There’s more of them ’ere than people. Get used to it. Now, about those other fifteen pounds . . .”

  Herman gritted his teeth. He could lodge at one of the better hotels in London for five pounds a night and he might get away with it. He might. Malone stood there waiting, his hand out. Herman paid, accepted the key, and made sure he could lock himself in.

  The Irishman turned to leave, but before he could, Herman caught his arm and asked, “Now what?”

  Malone smirked. “You leave by the twenty-third, lad. Keep quiet and no one here’ll bother you. Half the families here have someone on the lam. Now, unless there’s something else, I’ve a terrible thirst and the bar closes in an hour. Good night, and don’t mind your roommates. They won’t eat much!”

  “Speaking of eating,” Herman said, “bring me some food every day, and I’ll pay another three pounds. Nothing fancy, but a day’s worth. Agreed?”

  “Hope you’re not expecting steak and kidney pie, but if honest food’s good enough, then I’ll do it. That’ll be another five pounds now, Governor.” Keys smiled. “Just so we understand one another.”

  Herman grumbled a bit, enough to keep the man from realizing he could charge twice as much, then he paid. “Once a day, in the morning by eight.”

  “Right you are, then. Eight, sharpish.” Malone tipped his cap, then strode off into the darkness. Herman closed the door, locked it, and eyed the darkness beneath his bed, wondering how long the candle stub would last. He saw no others in the room. It’s going to be a long night. I should have asked for more candles.

  Luigi was closing the shop for the day when a burly older gentleman accompanied by two police constables confronted him at the entrance. The badge the older man flashed in his eyes was impressive, but the large-caliber handgun he carried was even more so.

  33

  Friday, June 18

  James sat outside Murdock’s office promptly at nine, his new hat in his hands.

  Senior Inspector Murdock was in a dark mood when he opened the door. His eyebrows knit together when he saw James sitting outside his door like an errant schoolboy summoned to see the headmaster. “Come in,” he said, his head jerking toward the chair in front of his desk. “We have much to discuss.”

  James entered, thinking of Daniel in the lions’ den, yet doubting he had divine protection. “Aye, Senior Inspector. About the hearing . . .” Murdock grimaced. “There’ll be no hearing.”

  James’s mouth gaped and he bolted upright from his chair. “I’m to be discharged just like that, after all my years on the force?”

  Murdock looked over his glasses. “Sit down, Inspector. You’re not to be discharged . . .” He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, “but promoted.”

  James melted into his chair. “Promoted? How? Why?”

  Murdock replaced his glasses and glared across his desk. “Why, indeed. You might even be knighted at this rate.

  “First, the chief of Financial Crimes, Senior Inspector Danforth, spoke with the police commissioner before I did. It appears the chap you sniffed out wasn’t alone in his chicanery, thus the extent of corruption is broader than it first appeared. You’re a hero, apparently. Dan-forth wants you in his department and promoted to senior inspector and his assistant, as soon after the Jubilee as possible.”

  “But I’m no clerk! Why would he think I’d be of any use in that department?”

  “He says he has plenty of clerks. He needs a proper policeman in charge.”

  Murdock coughed. “Secondly, your suspicion regarding Ott’s risk to Her Majesty was verified last night in a most unexpected manner. Due to an anonymous letter received yesterday we have the man who was sheltering our assassin in custody at this very moment. He was most talkative, but Ott was already gone.”

  Murdock opened his desk and slid James’s badge over to him. “Take it. Your Webley is waiting for you down in the armory.” The senior inspector straightened in his chair, a sour look on his face. “Given these new developments, I’ve decided to keep your indiscretion entre nous. Based upon your body of work over the years, and your instincts regarding our anarchist, I think you merit the promotion.

  “Our informants tell us that several senior anarchists in London are heading to Geneva for a hastily called conference. While none of our sources know the precise reason for the meeting, the timing coincides with the Jubilee, and I see this as further confirmation that your concern about this assassin was correct. I suspect Kropotkin and his kind are seeking high ground to avoid the fury a royal assassination would provoke. I’ve informed the police commissioner that it was you who unearthed this threat against the queen, so if catching errant bookkeepers becomes wearisome, I could find you a post here, as my deputy.”

  “While I’m gobsmacked at my good fortune, Senior Inspector. Don’t you find this anonymous letter a bit too convenient?”

  “Aye. It smells to high heaven. I suspect this betrayal is an act of revenge by one faction against another, but at the moment I’m not inclined to be too choosey as to who helps me protect our sovereign. The enemy of my enemy, as it were.”

  “If you don’t mind, Senior Inspector, I’d like to question the man you brought in last night to see what he can tell me about our assassin.”

  “As you like, Ethington, though I doubt you’ll learn much. He has much to hide, doubtless, but it seems he was kept in the dark concerning Ott’s true purpose here in England.”

  James looked at the badge on the desk in front of him. He recalled the day he’d made inspector and how proud Alice had been when he’d taken his police constable uniform off for the final time, what they’d done after, and the baby who followed. His badge lay there, gleaming, waiting for him to
pick it up, even as another waited to replace it. Senior Inspector. He’d be in charge of a section and lead his men into battle.

  Murdock continued. “The promotion becomes effective at the start of a new pay period, July the fifth. Until then you are still a member of Special Branch, and your only concern until further notice is Ott. If you can’t catch him, at least keep him on the run so he doesn’t interrupt the Jubilee next Tuesday. Once the Jubilee is over, you can take the rest of the time off with pay until your promotion becomes effective.

  “We may sing God Save the Queen, but for the next four days, Special Branch will do their part. That may not make us angels, but at least we’ll be on the same side.”

  James thought of the stern old woman who represented a nation’s will and nobility. His hand seemed to move on its own as he watched it place his badge back onto his vest.

  “Thank you, Senior Inspector. God save the Queen.”

  “God save the Queen!”

  Luigi Parmeggiani was haggard and twitchy when James sat down with him in an interrogation room. His linen suit was badly wrinkled, and he smelled more of prison soap than rose water.

  “Please, Signore, why am I still here? I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “How did Ott come to work for you?”

  Luigi knew that only Grüber could have betrayed him, but the fence would not turn him in to the authorities. In Italy, revenge was almost an art. Justice would be served in due time, but at a time and date of his choosing. He’d worked out his cover story before he’d reached the police station.

  “I needed an electrician. This man showed up, was quick and proficient, so I hired him. I see no crime in that.”

  “Yet you turned him out once his likeness appeared in the papers, so you knew you were harboring a wanted criminal.”

  “I was unaware of the picture, and once it was shown me, it’s not a very good one. Ott, you say his name is? He told me it was Schmidt. Anyway, he’d just learned of his wife’s death a couple of days before. I gave him an advance on some lamps he’d made for me. I assumed he’d gone off to drink away his sorrow. He may be back at the shop even now.”