Steinhauer shook his head as if baffled. “The English do like to congratulate themselves.”
“They have a lot to congratulate themselves about,” I pointed out.
We crossed the street through a slow-moving tangle of cabs, pantechnicons and omnibuses to the far pavement and skipped up the steps to the foyer, where I purchased two tickets for the back of the stalls at a shilling each.
“Is Scotland Yard so strict about expenses?” Steinhauer grinned. “Why don’t I buy us both seats in the Royal Circle?”
“We’re not here for the show, Gustav.” I handed the pastel-pink paper tickets to the usher.
The auditorium was darkened for the exhibition, a tub-thumping celebration of Britain’s Imperial might. I’d seen it myself a few months earlier, and it was stirring stuff indeed, but I had no great desire to watch it a second time. I seemed to be in the minority, however—customers were coming to see it again and again, every few days, and according to Sally Porter the disgraced Dr. Remington was one of them.
We stood to one side in the aisle near the front, scanning the faces by the flickering light reflected from the screen. Well, I did; Steinhauer seemed to be admiring the auditorium. He seemed impressed, not just by the scale of the place but its modern, unconventional design. The hall was plainly decorated, with an elegant wrought-iron balcony, but none of the gilt and velvet found in theatres, nor any pillars that might block the view for the audience. It held about seven hundred people and, even now, at lunchtime, was half-full. The audience was male for the most part and enraptured by the moving images of Britain’s fearsome dreadnoughts and their well-drilled naval crews. The patriotic fervour of the assembly was encouraged by stirring martial music performed by a small orchestra concealed behind the screen.
It was no damn’ use. “I can’t see him,” I said, in exasperation.
No one there matched the description of Remington I’d shared with Steinhauer—a man of five foot eight or so in height, early forties, with reddish hair and a bushy, untended moustache. Sally was of the opinion he had once been striking, but a fondness for drink had seen to that. Steinhauer, I noticed to my irritation, had given the audience no more than a cursory glance.
“How often does this man Remington come here?” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the orchestra and drew several dirty looks from nearby customers.
“Most days, I’m told.” I ignored the dirty looks.
“To see the same moving picture? Every day?”
“What’s your point, Gustav?”
“You say he is American, not British. Why would he be interested in your navy? Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless his interest is less in the British navy…than British sailors.” I stared at Steinhauer a moment.
“Damn me for a fool,” I muttered.
I set off across the front of the auditorium, throwing shadows on the screen, ignoring the boos and catcalls of the audience. I was headed for the alcove halfway up the far aisle closed off by a curtain that concealed the door to the public lavatories.
Steinhauer and I entered the gents’ and paused a moment, dazzled by the harsh electric light bouncing off the white porcelain. A line of urinals along the left-hand wall gave way to a row of four wooden cubicles, each with a polished brass lock. There was no sign of any attendant, but a delicate young man with fair hair falling over his face was loitering by the washbasins, as if waiting for a servant to bring him a towel. He smiled fetchingly at me; and I gave him my hardest glare in return. He hurried out wordlessly, his face burning.
The first three lavatory cubicles were empty, but the last was occupied, its door shut and locked. The door did not reach all the way down to the floor, and I only had to bend down briefly to glimpse a single pair of scuffed brown shoes draped with trousers that had been pulled down. A man was clearly seated on the lavatory, and beside him on the floor rested a bag of the stoutest brown paper. The bag was a large one, and its contents bulged against the side. That old codology, I thought. Straightening up I thumped on the door with my fist.
“This stall is occupied!” snapped an angry American voice.
“Dr. James Remington, is it?” I said. “A moment of your time, if you please.”
I heard a stifled gasp, then silence. When the American spoke again, his tone was not quite so defiant.
“God damn it, you blind? I’m otherwise engaged.”
“The name’s Melville, Dr. Remington, Detective Chief Superintendent Melville of Special Branch, and if you make me force this door I’ll arrest both you and your friend with his feet in the paper bag, and you can talk to a judge in the morning.”
More stifled gasps, and a frantic theatrical shushing beyond the door. When I caught Steinhauer’s eye, he was trying not to laugh out loud.
“This is much better than the kinema-show,” he whispered.
“Just a moment,” said the American, his voice quavering. There was an urgent rustling of shirt-cloth and a fumbling of buttons, and the brass latch clicked open.
* * *
—
I pulled the cab door shut and took a seat on Remington’s left, with Steinhauer seated on his right, sandwiching Remington between the two of us.
“May I ask where you are taking me?” His voice cracked with fear.
“That depends on how satisfied we are with the outcome of this conversation,” I said. Remington, pale and apprehensive, swallowed and stared at the grubby cab floor. Steinhauer gazed out of the window, as if admiring the noble sunlit town houses of Park Crescent. We must have looked like three old pals setting off on a sightseeing tour of London.
“With respect, I fear you might have misread the situation,” piped up Remington. Here we go, I thought. “That man was an employee of the Polytechnic who wished to consult me about an…intimate complaint,” Remington continued. He swallowed to steady his voice, hoping to reassert some of his authority as a doctor of medicine. “I can see how this misunderstanding occurred, but I assure you—”
“Isn’t Bow Street Police Station in the other direction?” said Steinhauer, addressing me.
“You’re right, of course,” I said. “I’ll tell the driver to turn around.”
“Look—please,” protested Remington, “we were doing no harm to anyone—”
“I believe in this country it is called ‘outraging public decency,’ ” said Steinhauer. “Personally, having served in the German navy, I know such things go on. But the Chief Superintendent here was raised as a good Roman Catholic in the west of Ireland. I am sure he was appalled by what he witnessed.”
“Oh now, you’d be surprised, Gustav,” I said. Folding my arms I leaned over just a little towards Remington, so he felt even more trapped. “I’m not as green as I’m cabbage-looking, Doctor. I don’t give a damn what you chaps get up to, as long as everyone involved is old enough to make up their own mind, and you don’t frighten the horses.
“If I did want to send you to prison, sure I already had enough evidence to put you away for twenty years. And that was before I caught you offering consultations in a public convenience. I’m told you’re in what’s commonly known as the lock-picking business.”
“Who told—I don’t—I’m not sure I know what you mean,” stammered Remington.
“You know very well,” I said. “But I’m not arresting you for that either. Not yet, anyway. You’re more use to us at liberty.”
“Indeed,” chipped in Steinhauer, “if you are useful enough, my colleague might contrive to lose the charge sheet.”
“Lose his whole damned file, for that matter,” I added.
“My file?” quavered Remington.
“What would you say to that?” I put to him. “A chance to set up shop again with a clean slate?”
“What—what would I have to do?” Remington, God love him
, was no fool; he already suspected that the task we had in mind might be even more dangerous than the work he was already doing.
“Your duty as a subject,” I said.
“Dr. Remington is an American,” Steinhauer reminded me.
“His duty as a human being, then. We’re looking for two anarchists, Dr. Remington. Terrorists. One of them shot in the arm. Have you been approached at all?”
“By—by terrorists?” stammered Remington. “No, absolutely not. I know nothing about any terrorists—”
“All the better,” said I. “You can still help us catch them.”
“But, but—I am a doctor,” protested Remington. “I have obligations, of confidence, towards my patients—I have taken an oath.”
“Of course you have. I must say I’m impressed by ethical principles. Aren’t you, Gustav?”
“Deeply,” said the German. “Remind me, what is the penalty here for performing unnatural acts?”
“Prison, with hard labour. But he’ll be out in five years, with good behaviour. If he doesn’t get murdered in the meantime.”
“Dear God,” said Remington.
“But I don’t like to see a man jailed just for indulging his unconventional affections,” I went on.
“That’s very broad-minded of you,” said Steinhauer.
“Not when I could bang him up for performing abortions.” Remington shut his eyes and shuddered. In truth, I’d never arrested or reported anyone for that offence, apart from one vicious old witch twenty years ago who’d been doing more harm than good. But Remington was not to know that.
“The Zoological Gardens!” exclaimed Steinhauer, looking out of the cab window again. “I have always wanted to visit.”
“You should, Herr Steinhauer,” I said. “It’s a grand day out altogether.”
“I didn’t—didn’t mean—” stammered Remington, “—of course I will do my civic duty—”
“Good man yourself,” I said, beaming.
“What exactly do you want me to do?”
“Just…go about your normal business.”
“My normal business? But—you know my normal business.”
“I do,” I said. “But I have bigger and meaner fish to catch than you, and you’re going to be my bait.”
* * *
—
“Sergeant Lovegrove.”
Lovegrove looked up from the map of London on his desk. A big fleshy man in his forties, he’d often been mistaken for me, and in happier days we’d speculated in jest about how he could provide me with an alibi should the need ever arise. But this was no time for jesting.
“There’s an American doctor sitting in Interview Room number one, name of Remington. He’s based in Whitechapel, and he offers certain medical services off the books. I’m betting our man Akushku is going to come looking for him. Pick three men, take Remington home to his lodgings and find premises nearby from where you can keep an eye on him, discreetly and at a distance. Work out a rota among yourselves. If or when our suspects come calling you are to send here immediately for reinforcements, and I or Inspector Quinn will raise an army. And on no account will you try to detain these terrorists yourselves, understood?”
“Sir,” said Lovegrove, rolling up his map.
“Thanks for your help today, Gustav.” We were heading downstairs towards the Embankment exit.
“That is why I am here. Besides, it was quite enjoyable. If I might say so, we make a good team.”
“You think so?” For all my misgivings about Steinhauer I was inclined to agree. I preferred to work alone, and had thought myself set in my ways, but I had enjoyed the young German’s company that day. Even if browbeating and blackmailing a backstreet abortionist was not exactly the noble vocation I had signed up for. “Well then, I hope you’ll join me tomorrow.”
“I shall report for duty at seven.”
“I shall be at my desk at six. But by all means, treat yourself to a lie-in.”
* * *
—
There was a warm inviting glow from the front window of my home as I fished in my pocket for my latchkey, and the strains of a familiar hymn played on piano and violin in a ragged duet. Kate was a gifted pianist, but William, God love him, was less accomplished. He might make a living at the violin, I reflected, if we ever brought back the custom of torturing prisoners. I wondered if Angela was in there, pretending to enjoy the performance.
But she was not. “She went out for the day,” was all Amelia said as she laid before me a plate of lamb chops and cabbage.
“Out where?”
Amelia shrugged, but her face betrayed real concern. I set to my dinner, but I could hardly taste it. Where could Angela have gone, barely recovered from that bullet wound? She’d been safe here, I’d thought, and happy too. Surely she wasn’t missing her old existence? Friendless, impoverished, at the mercy of every—
Then I heard a soft tread upon the stairs, a tread that had become familiar over the last few days, and the lady herself appeared in the hall, swathed in a blue scarf, cheeks flushed with the cold and eyes gleaming beneath the brim of her borrowed hat. She’d entered silently by the back door. Amelia hurried to help as if Angela was her own prodigal daughter, taking her coat and her scarf and fussing over her—“You haven’t even eaten? Well, I’ve a plate put aside for you, William’s at his dinner now…”
As Amelia bustled away, Angela came to sit by me, pulling off her gloves. Sensing me watching, she drew herself up, straight-backed and defiant.
“You know he is still out there,” I said. “Iosif.” From the parlour I heard the sound of Kate and William laughing over some private joke. They would not overhear us. “He’ll know it was you who betrayed him.”
“Who do you think I was looking for?” She met my gaze and held it.
“That’s not your job, Angela. I was thinking, I could find you a position as a governess—”
“That did not work out so well, last time.”
“As a teacher, then. What would you like to do?”
“I would like to help you.”
“That’s not possible. It’s too dangerous.”
She laughed, and gestured to her shoulder. “You think I have forgotten?”
“There’s nothing you can do that we can’t.”
“William, now you are being foolish. Iosif—Akushku—” She tilted her head to one side, searching for a delicate expression. “He has a…vigorous appetite. Without me, he will find himself another woman. He must, it is like breathing for him. I talk to the street girls.” No tic of shame anymore, I noticed.
“We’re already doing that.”
“Yes, but you are men.” She smiled, and I had no answer for her. She stroked the creases out of her gloves. “I cannot be a governess or a teacher. I hate children.”
“That is something of a disadvantage,” I conceded.
“But I will not go back to the gutter.”
“Then let me find you a position, and a place to live.”
She smiled, radiantly and sadly. “I would be your…kept woman?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She rose from the table but, before she turned to go, placed her hand softly on my shoulder.
“You are a good man, Mr. Melville. I am glad I came to you.”
12
I hadn’t been codding Steinhauer; I was at my desk by six on the Monday morning. Five days to the funeral, and still no word on Akushku and Bozidar, either from my counterparts on the Continent or from the team watching Remington’s lodgings. That might be to the good, I told myself. Maybe Bozidar had died from loss of blood, or succumbed to infection from his shattered arm. Until I could kick his corpse, however, I had no intention of curtailing the search.
The morning newspapers had made no more mention of the “bank robbers” who had
fired on the police on Friday night; the cover story had done its job. Was it worth planting another, I wondered, to keep the hue and cry alive, to turn the screws on Akushku? Or would that merely sow unease among the public? I drummed my fingers on the desk. Not just yet, I decided.
At the bottom of my heap of correspondence was a sealed envelope addressed to me by name and marked “personal.” Inside was a letter on a single sheet of paper, unsigned and undated, but I knew the handwriting well: it was from my young friend Walther at Prussia House. His letter was brief by necessity: his casual enquiries about this latest recruit to the Kaiser’s staff had been met with shrugs or cold stares, and the only files he could find on Steinhauer were slim indeed, with gaps that posed too many uncomfortable questions. According to those records Gustav had indeed travelled widely in the USA and Mexico, but there was no mention anywhere of cigar-selling or Pinkerton detectives. On his return to Germany he had been recruited to the Imperial Navy—not as a common seaman, but as an Offizier-Stellvertreter, a commissioned officer, attached to the staff of Admiral Von Tirpitz himself. After distinguishing himself in that role—notably by bringing home the traitor Ernst Rolf when all before him had failed—Steinhauer had been promoted to his current position. But that position was not officially bodyguard to the Kaiser, even if the Kaiser himself was under that impression. According to his file, Steinhauer was now attached to the German General Staff, Section IIb.
The Intelligence section.
I struck a match and held it to the corner of the letter, then to the envelope, and dropped them both into my litter bin, to watch them blaze and writhe and shrivel into ash. Walther had confirmed what a small nagging voice in my head had been suggesting from the start of this affair—that there was more to Steinhauer than met the eye, and more than he was telling. Indeed, ever since our first encounter he had been parsimonious with the truth, where he had not lied outright. I felt a twinge of regret. I liked Gustav; I admired his wit and valued his pluck.
But what to do? How to keep an eye on him? I could not park him at a Special Branch desk, still less send him back to the Kaiser.
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