“For Christ’s sake, you’re going to break my arm!”
“Damned right I will, unless you promise to behave.”
“Yes, yes, blast you…”
He wouldn’t honour his promise, I knew. He was an aristocrat, a spoilt vicious brat, and any promise to an inferior such as myself would mean nothing anyway. I caught Madame de Bosanquet’s eye, and she nodded, so I unwound the belt from the man’s fist, tossed it onto the bed and stepped back, releasing him. He turned, flexing his twisted right arm and massaging it with his left, face pale and eyes wide with injured pride. His mouth worked, and he hawked and spat on the carpet at my feet. “You ignorant Irish ape, do you have any idea who I am?”
“Nobody gives a tinker’s curse who you are,” I said. “Get dressed and leave.” His nostrils flared. For a moment I thought even he wouldn’t be stupid enough to take a swing at me, but I had given him too much credit. He was young and strong and fast, but I’ve been knocked about by bigger and better fighters, men who didn’t telegraph their intentions. I had only to lean back for his fist to swing wild, and it was the work of a moment to grab his arm, tilt him off balance and kick his feet out from under him. He landed with a thump on the rug and, as luck would have it, face-first into that gob of his own phlegm. If I’d planned it I couldn’t have planted him more neatly. Too bad the rug was deep and soft, so it broke his fall—he tried to get up again until I brought my right boot down hard on the elbow of his outstretched arm. I felt rather than heard the bones crack, and he screamed, and when the women turned away in revulsion I realised I’d probably overdone it. I’d let frustration get the better of me—I was treating this drunken idiot the way I wanted to treat Akushku. Then again, better him than someone who didn’t deserve it.
While the young buck lay on the floor, snivelling and clutching his arm, I crossed to the wardrobe and wrenched it open. His clothes were all there, neatly hung up; de Bosanquet’s offered all the luxuries of a West End hotel, but with hot and cold tarts on tap. I pulled the trousers from their wooden hanger and tossed them at the injured man.
“Stop whimpering,” I told him.
“You’ll regret this!” he wailed. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with!”
“I have a very good idea, Lord Trevithick,” I said. “And if your brother the Earl finds out you’ve been up to your old tricks again, he’ll probably ask me to break your other arm, and your valet will have to wipe your arse. Now get up, get your clothes on and get out. And count yourself lucky I don’t make you get dressed in the street.”
* * *
—
“Will the girl be all right?”
“Jenny? Oh yes, nothing broken. It’s not her first time either, poor thing. I’ve given her the night off. Sugar?”
“None for me, thank you.”
We were sitting by a low table in Madame’s library, a long elegant room facing east, lined with deep soft sofas and mahogany shelves filled with leather-bound volumes. A temple to literature, except nobody ever came in here to read. This morning, however, the pale winter sun washed the room with light and lit up very prettily the wisps of steam rising from my tea.
“You sure he won’t make trouble? You were rather rough with him, Mr. Melville.” After the morning’s fracas, Madame Antoinette de Bosanquet—alias Sally Porter from Gateshead—had dispensed with the French accent, and to be honest I was glad of it. Playacting was part of her business, of course, and her clients went along with it, but I had always found it a seedy sort of charade that quickly grated.
“He won’t,” I said. I didn’t mention that I knew the family well; having already paid out a small fortune to hush up one scandal, they would have no time or tolerance for another. “But if he tries anything on, you let me know.” It was lucky for me Trevithick had been here that morning and the club’s bouncer had been off sick. Sorting out that wretch had put Madame in my debt, and it would make the task ahead that much easier.
“Well, suppose you tell me why you’re here? Seeing as you never indulge us with your custom.”
The tea was too hot for my taste; I put the cup back in its saucer till it cooled off. “You might have heard,” I said, “of an incident last night just down the road from here. A police raid on a gang of bank robbers. There was some shooting.”
“I did hear something, yeah, but I didn’t know it were bank robbers. You there, Mr. Melville?”
“As it happens I was. The blackguards blew a hole in my best hat.”
“God almighty. Mind—didn’t think that were your department. Bank robbers, I mean.” She said it casually, as if daring me to elaborate, but I merely looked at her, until she blushed and cast her eyes down and stirred her cup urgently.
“It isn’t, usually. But I was passing by.”
“Well, I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”
“I wasn’t, thank God. But one of the men we were after was injured.”
“I don’t follow you.” Sally frowned. “They didn’t come here.”
“No, of course not. But they would have gone somewhere. They were in need of medical assistance. Probably still are.”
“Oh yes?” Sally sounded studiously vague.
“Professional medical help, from someone qualified.” Now it dawned on her where I was going with this, and her mouth puckered into a hard pink line. “Qualified, that is,” I went on, “but not practising. Not openly, anyway. I’ve heard tell of an American chap, by the name of Remington, and I need to get hold of him.”
My tea had cooled enough now, I found as I sipped it, and I brushed a few drops from my moustache while I waited for Sally to reply. In the silence I heard the grandfather clock in the hall chime a stately half-hour.
“I know what you are getting at, Mr. Melville, but that is not a practice I countenance. My girls see the nurse every month and take every precaution to avoid such misfortune. We do have mishaps now and again,” she conceded, “but in those cases we send our young ladies away to the country—”
I replaced my cup in its saucer rather too hard, and she flinched, but my patience with all this fake gentility was wearing thin. “Name of Jaysus, Sally, I didn’t come down in the last shower of rain. You’re not running a convent here, and you don’t spend your tarts’ earnings on country retreats. So where do I find this lock picker?” She winced at my use of the street term, but I charged on. “I’m asking you as a friend, but I have no time for flannel.”
Her shoulders sagged a little. “I do know him. Remington. He’s discreet and he’s obliging and he does the business, well enough, when he’s sober.”
“And where would I find him?”
* * *
—
On the way back to Scotland Yard I asked the cabbie to drop me on the north side of Green Park and walked from there in the direction of Whitehall. On so chill and damp a day there were few families en promenade, but all the same I was nearly run down by an overenthusiastic little boy in a sailor suit driving a hoop twice his own size. It was just after noon, and a silver band had assembled on the bandstand, swathed in heavy coats, their faces red from the cold. The first tune they struck up was Wagner’s Rienzi, a suitably sombre piece for this period of national mourning, but it lifted the spirits all the same; a solemn sort of joy seemed to spread across the park, putting a spring in every step. I paid an attendant threepence for a deckchair, which I inspected carefully before I sat down, in case it planned to collapse under me. That had happened once before, to the great amusement of all assembled.
“I do hope they play Moses in Egypt,” said the young man seated to my right. He was pale and skinny, with a neck so thin his scarf went around it three times, and glasses so thick they made his eyes look too big for his head. “They have an excellent arrangement.”
“I hope so too. Sure who doesn’t love a bit of Rossini?”
We weren’t looking at each o
ther, but we could hear each other perfectly well, and there was no one close enough to eavesdrop, even if they had been able to make out our words under the grunt of the tuba.
“Though there is much to admire in your English composers. Herr Elgar’s Enigma Variations. Superb.”
“I prefer his choral stuff myself. But then Amelia says I have no taste.”
I heard him chuckle. “How have you been, Herr Melville?”
“Fine, thank you, Walther. Thanks for coming.”
“My pleasure. Your note suggested the matter was urgent.”
“Well, it is and it isn’t. I’m working with a compatriot of yours. His Imperial Majesty’s new bodyguard.”
“Ah yes. Herr Steinhauer.”
“You know him?”
“I have met him.” Walther worked as a clerk at Prussia House, the German embassy. I had formal police contacts there, of course, but Walther was an informal contact, and a sight more useful. We’d been friends ever since he’d tried to bring his young fiancée across from Germany; I’d helped him resolve some complications with her papers, and in return he’d taken to doing me the odd favour. As it happens, I had been the one who originally caused those complications, but Walther was not to know that.
“He’s an interesting character,” I said. “I’d like to know more about him.”
“In what respect?”
“Who recruited him. Who he answers to. The scope of his duties.”
Walther paused to listen to the soaring flight of a cornet. “I shall have to enquire,” he said at last.
“Don’t put yourself out on my account. I’m just looking for some background, is all.” I was hoping the remark sounded enough like a warning.
“I shall be discreet, Herr Melville, don’t worry.”
“Good. And how’s the lovely Mathilde?”
“She is well. Expecting a baby shortly.”
“Lord help us, how many’s that now? Two?”
“This will be our third.”
“You must be a glutton for punishment, Walther. Good luck with everything. I’ll send along a gift for the christening.” I’d be sure to send money, as well as baby clothes; Walther was an excellent investment.
“You are too kind. Ah!” He grinned with delight on hearing the opening bars of Moses in Egypt.
“I must be getting along. Enjoy the concert. Drop me a line, when you can.” I extricated myself, with some difficulty, from my deckchair and strode off south-east.
* * *
—
Waiting on my desk were replies from the police chiefs of Europe to my latest questions about Akushku, pursuing the agent provocateur possibility, but even though Angela’s description of the man had been superbly detailed—right down to his missing finger—yet again my enquiries had drawn a blank. Which was, I confess, not entirely unexpected; those government officials who commissioned agents provocateurs did so at arm’s length and routinely denied all involvement. If I wanted the truth, it seemed, I would have to twist some arms in person.
There was a rap on my office door—Constable Lawrence, who knew better than to enter unbidden before I had secured my papers.
“Come.”
“Herr Steinhauer to see you, sir.”
Steinhauer strolled past Lawrence beaming, like a gentleman of leisure visiting his wealthy maiden aunt.
“Thank you for seeing me up, Constable. It would be all too easy to get lost in this maze of unmarked doors.” I took that with a pinch of salt: I’d wager Steinhauer memorised the layout on his first visit here. Then I recalled with a jolt how that had only been the night before last.
“Gustav, good afternoon,” I said. “Jim, wait—Gustav, would you like tea or coffee?”
“You are very kind, William, but I have just had an excellent breakfast.”
I nodded to Lawrence, who stepped out smartly and shut the door behind him. “A bit late for that, surely? I thought you Germans liked to be up with the lark.”
“I was up with the lark, as it happens. I did not go to bed until six.”
“Ah yes. Another of your mysterious sources.”
“You know how it is. Some sources needed to be cajoled. Others can be persuaded with oysters and a good champagne. Particularly younger, female sources.”
“Oh aye? And was your investment worthwhile?”
“Oh, I learned a great deal. Sadly none of it was relevant to this case.”
Was he trying to shock me? I wondered. I didn’t bother to tell him I’d just come from one of London’s finest bordellos—this wasn’t a competition. Besides, I wanted to know a little more about young Steinhauer before I shared too many confidences with him.
“So what can I do for you, Gustav?” I slipped the unmarked folder of telegrams into a drawer of my desk.
“My report to His Imperial Majesty is now long overdue. And I hoped you might have some good news I could share with him.” Was that a threat, or a genuine plea for help? More likely the latter, I decided; Steinhauer had as much to lose in this business as I had.
“We’re making some progress, but not enough to report. Maybe you should tell His Imperial Majesty about these contacts you interrogated last night; I’m sure he’d find that entertaining.”
“Have you managed at least to confirm what I told you?”
Was Steinhauer stringing me along? Or were his so-called sources stringing him along? What was his game anyhow? I could not send him back to the Kaiser—I did not want word of this affair to spread before I caught Akushku—but I didn’t want to leave the young German to his own devices either.
“Let’s discuss it on the way,” I said, rising from my seat.
“On the way to where?”
“Ah now, that would spoil the surprise.”
11
We left Scotland Yard through the eastern entrance this time, past the stables and out into Whitehall’s Parliament Street, where I flagged down a cab. I wanted to have a discreet conversation—and in a cab, over the rattling wheels and clattering of horseshoes, nothing could be overheard, not even by the driver, unless he were to lean over backwards and press his ear to the window.
“Langham Place,” I told the cabbie. “Since you ask, Gustav, no—I haven’t been able to confirm what you told me yesterday.”
“Don’t you have sources among the Latvian exiles?”
“I have. But they tell me the man we’re after is not Latvian. He may claim to be, but in fact he’s Russian. And no anarchist.” I observed Steinhauer closely. “Rather, he’s an agent provocateur, in the pay of the Okhrana.” Steinhauer blinked, and stroked his bare chin, very much like a man quite taken aback. “And if all that is true,” I went on, “this whole conspiracy could be a sham.”
Steinhauer nodded. “And this,” he said, his grin creeping back, “is what you call having little to report?”
“If it’s indeed a hoax, there’s no point in reporting it at all,” I said. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t waste my master’s time with false alarms.”
“Are you so sure of your sources?”
“This one has been reliable in the past.”
“But even if Akushku were an agent of the Russian police, it does not follow this plot is a hoax.”
“Surely you’re not implying the Russians want to assassinate His Imperial Majesty? He’s the Tsar’s cousin.”
“When has that ever made a difference? How often in history have brothers gone to war over a crown? Besides, even if a ruler embraces peace, the men who surround him sometimes think they know better.”
Is that how it is in the German court? I wondered. But I said, “You’re suggesting it’s not the Tsar who is behind this, but his generals? Or the Okhrana themselves?”
“I am suggesting nothing—I am merely asking questions, weighing up the possibilities. And in th
e end”—he held his hands out wide, palms up—“it does not matter what you or I believe. Our job is to manage risk. And I am sure you would agree there is a risk. There is certainly no evidence that would justify us sitting back and doing nothing.”
“Akushku nearly blew my brains out the other night, Gustav. I have no intention of sitting back and doing nothing.”
“So why are we in this cab, exactly?” asked Steinhauer.
“There’s a backstreet butcher called Remington,” I said. “An American, who fled his homeland under a cloud. And he now resides somewhere in Whitechapel, offering his services to embarrassed ladies of the parish.”
Steinhauer sat up, like a hound that has caught the fox’s scent. “Of course. Who better to extract a bullet or sew up a wound for a criminal on the run?”
“Are you a fan of the kinematograph, Gustav?”
“Moving pictures? Not particularly. If I want melodrama I go to the opera, where at least they have a decent orchestra.”
“I’m of your mind entirely. But it seems Dr. Remington is fond of novelty. It’s how he likes to spend his Sunday afternoons.”
Even on a Sunday the traffic along Regent Street moved slowly, and this afternoon it was jammed solid; two delivery carts had collided in Piccadilly, and the drivers had come to blows. Rather than wait, Steinhauer and I jumped out at St. James’s and walked north to Regent Street. Fifteen minutes later we were admiring a huge banner covering the entire façade of a building just south of Langham Place, advertising the latest kinematographic sensation.
“That does not look like a music-hall,” said Steinhauer.
“That is the Royal Polytechnic, an educational establishment. With its very own auditorium, designed especially for displaying moving pictures.”
“our navy and our army,” Steinhauer read aloud from the banner. “showing daily from one p.m. The same presentation every day?”
“And a very popular one, I’m told.”
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