Lethal Pursuit

by Will Thomas

  The truth was that I had expended any animosity I had against Voss by beating him at the chin bar, but he need not know that. Questioning him would be more profitable if he felt one of us was more bloodthirsty than the other. Normally, that is the Guv’s domain, but this time I appeared better suited.

  I marched him through the snow to our front door, and had him rap upon the knocker. Mac opened it, saw the situation, such as it was, and let us in. Barker descended the stair in time to encounter Rebecca and the two came down together. At the foot of the stair, both regarded Mr. Voss, Mac, me, and the pistol in my hand as if we were some kind of tableau.

  “I found him at the stable,” I said, as if he were a stray dog.

  “Thomas,” Barker rumbled. “Take him to the basement so that we can question him. Mac, lock the door.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I ordered Voss down the stair at gunpoint, with Barker following behind us. Voss was watchful but trying to put on a brave face. I set out a chair and was about to get the rope when someone slipped past my employer. I turned my head. It was my wife.

  “Rebecca?”

  “Mr. Barker, do you intend to question this man?”

  “I do, ma’am.”

  “Then I shall be his advocate.”

  “I doubt he shall need one,” the Guv replied.

  “No? Are you not keeping him here against his will? Does he have access to his consulate?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Is he able to walk about? Will you offer him so much as a glass of water?”

  “That is not how interrogations occur, Mrs. Llewelyn,” Barker explained.

  I’d seen Barker interrogate a man before, during my first case. I feared he would kill the man. At one point, he’d kicked the fellow’s chair so hard it came apart under him.

  “Let me guess, then, if I may. Will he be tied to this chair, Thomas?”

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “And will you yell at him and threaten him and badger him until he offers you the information you require?”

  Barker shrugged those monolithic shoulders of his. “If necessary.”

  “Will you threaten him with bodily harm if he does not give you what you demand? If he does not, what will you do then?”

  “Madam,” the Guv said. “This young man and his comrades have been responsible for three deaths so far. He tried to attack your husband, I presume. Did he, Thomas?”

  “He did,” I answered in a low voice. I did not want to side against my own wife.

  “You could be a widow twice over were it not for his training.”

  “Now, that was uncalled-for,” I said. I also did not want to side against my employer.

  “Mr. Barker, this is a mere boy,” she said. “A child.”

  “He is old enough to attend university or fight in his country’s army.”

  “I admire you very much, sir,” Rebecca said, stepping in front of Voss with her arms spread wide to protect him. “But these are not the methods of a man who respects civility and the rule—”

  Voss jumped up then and seized my wife by the neck. He pulled a knife from his pocket and put it to her throat.

  “Rebecca!” I cried out.

  Barker moved forward, hoping to separate the two of them some way. He could do nothing. I could do nothing. One slice of that blade and she would be gone from my life forever.

  She hit him in the chest with her elbow, giving herself perhaps an inch of space, in which she turned in his embrace. Then a voice came out of her mouth that even I did not recognize.

  “What do you think you are doing, young man? I am bargaining for your life and this is the thanks I get? Did your mother teach you to treat women in such a manner? Does your father know that you go against the rules of common decency and lay hands upon married women?”

  I’ve never seen a man’s eyes go so wide before. His irises looked like mere spots in the whites.

  “Give me that knife, Mr. Voss! Sit!”

  He sat. She handed the knife to Cyrus Barker.

  “Anyway, I shall not have this boy subjected to physical molestation or harm. Do we understand one another, Mr. Barker?”

  I slowly watched a smile spread across his face. I saw something there I had not seen in many a day: respect.

  “I do, ma’am. Forgive my behavior. We would be honored to have you represent your client. Thomas, please find a chair for your wife.”

  I did. She sat and gave me a smile of her own. She had hidden depths. I must remember never to cause her to unleash such a diatribe on me.

  “Let us begin,” the Guv said. “Thomas, can you take notes?”

  “I can.”

  “Let us begin, then,” Barker said. “Sir! What is your name?”

  “Gunther Voss.”

  “And where are you from?”

  “I will not say.”

  “Are you a student?”

  “I am.”

  “And a Mensurite?”

  “Like my father. And his father.”

  “How long have you been in this country?”

  “Five days.”

  “And why have you come to England?”

  Voss grinned. “To see the sights.”

  “Gunther!” Rebecca pounced again. “Do not be flippant! If you refuse to answer, then say so!”

  He sulked. “I refuse to answer.”

  “Who brought you here?”

  “I refuse to answer.”

  “You see?” Cyrus Barker said, turning to us. “There is no leverage I can employ. Go upstairs, Mrs. Llewelyn. I have methods to make him more pliant and agreeable.”

  “I understand your needs, Mr. Barker, and I know that the stakes, whatever they are, are very high. I have seen the worry in my husband’s eye. But we are civilized here in England, and if I allow you to employ your methods, how better are we than underworld ruffians in a basement in Whitechapel? It would be mere geography.”

  “You argue well. You would make a good barrister. However, we are not progressing, and we must progress. It is vital that we progress.”

  “Let me try again,” I said. “Mr. Voss. Gunther, tell me, what do you study at university?”

  “Chemistry and philosophy.”

  “Philosophy! A proper subject,” I said. “I’ve read Kant and Schopenhauer and Leibniz.”

  “Kant is still relevant, but Schopenhauer and Leibniz are outmoded.”

  I stopped taking notes. I stopped writing as he went on about his subject. I had gotten his attention but did not know what to do after I had. I looked at the Guv and shrugged.

  “Have you come to study philosophy in London, then?” I asked.

  He frowned and sat back. “I refuse to answer.”

  Barker rose and began to pace. Rebecca and I looked at each other. We had reached an impasse. Voss had snapped shut like an oyster, and we had no way to pry him open again. The Guv consulted his watch.

  “Ten thirty,” he said. He turned to Rebecca. “I would like to keep him here for another hour or two.”

  “He has done nothing wrong, Mr. Barker.”

  “He menaced me with a sword,” I replied.

  “From what distance?”

  “Well, fifteen, perhaps twenty feet.”

  “So, he was going to throw it at you? You drew your pistol?”

  “I did.”

  “What happened to the sword?”

  “He dropped it.”

  “Did you bring it with you?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Then how are we to know that he brandished a sword? You have no proof.”

  “Rebecca, I’m not lying!”

  “I didn’t say you were. I said you have no proof.”

  “Shall I go to the stable and bring back the sword?”

  “She’s got you, Thomas,” Barker purred. “Confess.”

  “Hang it!”

  “You were saying, Mr. Barker?”

  “I would like to keep Mr. Voss here until someone more qualified c
an question him.”

  “Whom did you have in mind?”

  My employer crossed his arms. “The German ambassador. One of his purposes is to protect the people of his country. He could not only question him properly, and elicit better answers, but also take him to the embassy afterward. I have no idea if the ambassador is able to come, but it seems the most likely solution.”

  “I agree. He may be the very thing. Call the embassy by all means.”

  He nodded and left, climbing the stairs and making a telephone call on the set in the hall. He’d closed the door behind him. Rebecca and I moved toward it.

  “Was I too hard on you?” she asked.

  “You were wonderful! I abdicate all arguments from now on.”

  “I shall hold you to that,” she replied, turning to Voss.

  “Gunther?” I said.

  “Ja?”

  “Would you like some beer?”

  “Beer?”

  “There are some bottles and glasses in the lumber room there,” I said to Rebecca. “Would you get them? I’ve still got my pistol here, you see.”

  She rose and soon returned with the bottles. I opened one with Voss’s knife and poured a glass for him.

  “This is good beer,” he said after tasting it.

  Rebecca accepted a small glass. Voss took no more than a taste until he saw me help myself, and then he set to with a university student’s thirst. Really, Mac makes an excellent pilsner. Barker returned, took a glass and sat on the stair.

  “The ambassador is coming,” he said. “I assumed it was impossible, but he readily agreed. However, he is hosting a function at the embassy, so it may be after midnight.”

  Rebecca held up a slender finger. “Two hours, you said, Mr. Barker. You must free my client at twelve thirty.”

  “That was arbitrary—”

  “Nothing is arbitrary, sir. Words have meaning. Your word is your bond.”

  “Very well,” he said, stoically. “I hope I have not summoned the ambassador too late.”

  It was 12:23 by my watch when the ambassador arrived. By that time, Voss was sleeping on a cot while I watched. Barker and Rebecca were upstairs waiting. I heard Hatzfeldt enter and speak to Rebecca.

  “Not at all, madam. I must thank you. It was the third event I’ve hosted this week. What is wrong with society these days? Where are the witty conversationalists? Where are the Disraelis? The Melbournes? The Byrons? The only true conversationalist in this country, Mr. Wilde, sits in Reading Gaol!”

  He came down the stair, a grand sight in his evening kit, and the governmental silk sash across his chest. His shirtfront was snowy, his collar so crisp it could cut paper. His bulbous head and weak chin were of no consequence in his element, the society event, where he could discuss the latest news and gossip, while at the same time forge alliances and change policies. Suddenly, Barker’s fine home seemed dated with this bon vivant in our midst.

  “My, Llewelyn,” he boomed, coming down the stairs. “I have just met your lovely wife. What a lucky fellow you are. What is this room?”

  “It is for physical culture,” I explained. “There are mats and equipment, and a shooting gallery over there.”

  “Fascinating. And here is the fellow, eh? You have not injured him in any way, I trust?”

  “Mrs. Llewelyn has played advocate for him,” Barker explained. “I believe she alone has so much as touched him.”

  “I am pleased to hear it. What is his name?”

  “Voss,” I said. “Gunther Voss.”

  “Mr. Voss!”

  Voss had sat up when the ambassador entered, but was obviously not the type to snap awake at a moment’s notice. He yawned.

  “Ja?”

  Hatzfeldt began to question him in voluble German, so that I barely understood a word. Since I didn’t understand what was being said, I noted his gestures and facial expressions. The ambassador began with a hardy bluster, which was met with monosyllabic responses. Then he began wheedling him, drawing him out, asking questions that must have required longer answers. What had been a suspicious young man suddenly became relieved and agreeable.

  “Madam,” Hatzfeldt said, turning to Rebecca. “Would you object if I smoke?”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  He pulled a slim case from his pocket, inserted a cigarette into his holder, and lit it. Then he turned and began to question Voss again. The conversation was tenser this time, or so it seemed to be. The ambassador probed. The young man shrugged. He probed elsewhere, and the young man evaded. He pounced and Voss grew sullen. Finally, he came forward and patted the boy on the shoulder as if with a benediction and said something that made the boy look chastened, but relieved.

  “I’ll take him with me, I think. I’ll get him to his proper destination, the little rascal. He’s been getting himself into some trouble, I should imagine. These plowboys often do in a big city like London.”

  “No doubt,” I said.

  “By the way, I think you should find one thing of interest. Mr. Voss is not German. He is Austrian.”

  Barker and I glared at each other.

  “Arnstein,” I muttered.

  “Valentine Arnstein?” Hatzfeldt asked. “Is he in London? I should have known he would be involved in something like this.”

  “You know Count Arnstein?” Barker asked.

  “Too well, I’m afraid. He is a perennial nuisance. He causes problems wherever he goes. Berlin would very much like to speak with him. He disappeared as soon as our manuscript was stolen.”

  “We presume he was coming after Drummond,” Barker said.

  “But he’d already received the million pounds,” I added. “I thought he wanted to sell it again to Lord Grayle if it could be found.”

  “You’ve lost me, sir,” Hatzfeldt said. “To what million pounds do you refer?”

  “The money for the sale of the manuscript to Germany, of course.”

  “He did not ask for money at all. He wanted our help to invade Austria-Hungary. He wants to start a new Holy Roman Empire, to return to power the last of the Habsburgs, which is to say, himself. We were having the manuscript authenticated when both he and it disappeared. No one thought it would be found here in London.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “How can one man make himself emperor?”

  Hatzfeldt held up a finger.

  “He can’t unless he has help. Have you ever heard of Die Heilige Fehme?”

  “It was a secret society,” Barker answered for me. “The oldest in Europe. But it disbanded in Napoleon’s time.”

  “Oh, come, Mr. Barker. You know a secret society never fully disbands, it merely goes underground. For the most part, it consists of aristocrats, and as long as money and power flow through them, societies like Die Heilige Fehme will flourish.”

  My mind grappled with the thought of a country, any country, run by aristocrats for aristocrats through a secret cabal. It wasn’t particularly difficult.

  “I have heard,” Hatzfeldt continued, “that Arnstein has been traveling from university to fencing club to landowners’ castles and ancient families. He is impressive enough, despite the one arm, and his entrée is always his Habsburg face. I think it ugly, personally, but he is a classic beauty as far as wealthy families in Germany, Austria, and Hungary are concerned.

  “Do you have the manuscript, Mr. Barker?”

  “No, sir. I am sorry, but I do not.”

  Hatzfeldt sighed.

  “I suppose not,” he said. “It did no harm to ask.”

  He turned and spoke to Voss. The young man stood. He offered a hand to my wife and she shook it. Her hand was tiny in his. He followed after the ambassador.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The next morning, I was thinking about the situation in Whitehall, wondering if the Guv had gotten us into even more trouble. There are probably no laws specifically against stopping in the south end of Whitehall, where many of the houses of government stand, but who could say? Those government chappies
are very thorough and some laws deliberately vague. If there wasn’t a law against what we had done there would be very soon. Once or twice I’ve wondered how strong a grasp of British law my employer has. I’ve also wondered if he cared in the slightest.

  I didn’t like this. Helping people on a smaller scale seemed what our agency did best: helping people find lost relatives, determining how and why someone was killed, safeguarding people who were being bullied. That was what Barker was born for and, just as possibly, I as well.

  “What’s wrong, Thomas?” Barker asked.

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “You’ve been tapping your front teeth with your pen for a good five minutes now.”

  I put the pen back in its tray. “Have I? I’ve just been trying to work out what we shall do next.”

  “Not worrying, then?”

  “Worrying? Ha. About what?”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  Our outer door opened and I nearly jumped, expecting another visit from Commissioner Munro, or perhaps the Royal Guard coming to take us to the Tower. Exactly how many years were the young princes held there? I wondered.

  “No, no,” a voice came from the waiting room. “That won’t do. I have been expressly ordered to deliver this to Mr. Cyrus Barker personally.”

  “I am Cyrus Barker,” my employer boomed through the doorway.

  The man entered the room. He was a commissioner, of sorts, but merely the letter-carrying variety. He was perhaps five-and-sixty. His uniform was neat as a pin, his trousers creased, his boots highly polished.

  Jeremy Jenkins was put out. The idea of someone delivering a note themselves, circumventing his authority, was crushing. He stood in the doorway, arms akimbo, clearly dismayed.

  The Guv took the message and slit it open.

  “Thomas, it seems the Prime Minister wishes to see us again.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  “Mr. Llewelyn,” Barker said, reading my mood. “They cannot sack us twice.”

  “May I say, sir,” the old campaigner said, unbidden, “that we are all behind you, to a man. We would not cross the line unless requested directly.”

  Barker looked over the note. “Thank you, sir. What is your name?”

  The man stomped twice on the floor and stood at attention. “Sergeant Alfred Tunney, sir.”