by Will Thomas
What are you up to? I wondered. Why attack me with just a stick? Did you think I could not fight? Are you trying to humiliate me or injure me so that I cannot help Barker anymore? Did you come here on your own or were you sent, and if so, by whom? Whoever it was, I suspected it was the man who killed the ambassador.
He attacked again. I jumped back, sucking in my stomach as the sword swung horizontally, batting one of the buttons off my waistcoat. He swung again and as he did, I twirled my stick and avoided the move. I came down and caught him on the shoulder with the ball of my cane, two inches in diameter of solid silver just where it would do the most damage. He winced and growled what might have been an oath. There was muscle and nerves and bones in that spot and I knew it was suddenly feeling nerveless and weak just then. He stepped back, stomped a foot in anger more at himself than me, angry at his own carelessness. Perhaps he assumed this was going to be easy. I was, after all, just an Englishman. Well, a Welshman, anyway. To him, it must have been like swatting a mosquito; a slow one, at that.
Suddenly, my progress was impeded. I was aware of a large field of blue on either side. Looking back, as the wooden blade came rushing toward me, I saw a sleeved arm come down and club my opponent across the back of his cockatoolike head. We were encircled by a squad of constables.
“Was this person bothering you, sir?” a sergeant asked.
“He was rather,” I said.
“You must come with us to ‘A’ Division.”
“I have some pies for lunch.”
I looked back. The parcel was open, and the pigeons on the pavement a hundred yards distant were enjoying a meal. Our lunch, to be precise.
“Never mind.”
“Friend of yours, sir?” a sergeant with thick side whiskers asked. Poole said side whiskers were out of fashion that year but now was probably not the time to inform him.
“Never saw him before in my life.”
“Come along, then,” he said, fixing darbies to my wrists. “You must answer a few questions and sign a warrant if you wish.”
We arrived at and passed by Craig’s Court. I looked helplessly at the windows of number 7, hoping Barker might randomly glance out the window. Meanwhile, I was being peppered with questions by the sergeant while my assailant was being silently dragged or carried by another pair of constables behind us.
“How did you come to be chased by this foreign person, sir?”
“I was coming back with lunch for my employer. He seemed to be waiting for me.”
“Did this person seem intent upon you personally, or do you suppose the attack was random?”
“Oh, he very definitely singled me out.”
“Can you think of any reason why such a person would choose you over anyone else in the square?”
“Well, I work for Cyrus Barker, and—”
The sergeant came to a stop, rather quickly.
“Would that be Mr. Barker of Craig’s Court?”
“The same. Anyway, I was defending myself. He attacked me.”
“Have you any reason to be attacked by a foreign person?”
“Yes, in fact. We are investigating the death of the Japanese ambassador.”
“So, we might assume this young Japanese lad had reasons for trying to stop you.”
“I’m not certain why. We’re only trying to find out who killed his ambassador. Perhaps he had something to hide.”
“If he does, we’ll get it out of him. Here we are! Home sweet home, as the antimacassar on my mum’s easy chair says.”
I was shoved through the gate and eventually through the doors of Scotland Yard.
“May I please get word to my employer?” I asked. “He’ll wonder where I have gone to.”
“In due course, Mr.…”
“Llewelyn. Thomas Llewelyn.”
“After you’ve answered questions for us.”
Inside the facility, the hustle and bustle of “A” Division went on just as it had, though now it was at different quarters. However, I missed the homely oldness and wear of the previous building, and its more formal manner. This was the modern way now. Methods had changed since the days when Jack the Ripper stalked Whitechapel, the sergeant’s side whiskers notwithstanding.
I was taken into an interrogation room and left for half an hour. Until one has had one’s hands locked behind one’s back for such a time, one cannot imagine the discomfort. Eventually, I heard a key being placed in the lock outside and the door swung open. Inspector Dunn, whom I had seen in the Japanese embassy, entered.
“Mr. Llewelyn, you do tend to get yourself in trouble,” he said.
“Put it on my gravestone.”
“I will. At this rate, I shall be doing it before September. What happened in Trafalgar Square?”
I related an abbreviated version of what had occurred. He looked slightly skeptical.
“If you don’t believe me, ask him,” I said. “Provided he speaks English.”
“He does, after a fashion. He has said exactly six words, but he keeps saying them over and over.”
I tried to imagine what they might be. Most of my guesses were facetious in the extreme. Scotland Yard brings out the worst in me. The inspector was waiting to tell me.
“Very well, Inspector. What words did he speak?”
“He said, ‘I confess. I killed Ambassador Toda.’ I’m going to tell the commissioner now.” Dunn leaned forward and slapped me on the back. “Congratulations, Mr. Llewelyn. You’ve cracked the case.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The samurai and I were still shooting daggers at one another, so we were put in separate cells. They were adjoining, but with a wall between them. I’ve cut up in the past, knowing I had an excellent solicitor in Bram Cusp, but it was safer to keep quiet until I knew who was interrogating me. If it were Chief Inspector Poole, I was safe. If it were a few others I knew, I’d be collecting teeth from the ground.
“Might I be permitted to send for counsel, please?” I asked politely. I asked just once. More than that, and one becomes a burden.
After about thirty minutes, I was moved to an interrogation room, where I waited another twenty minutes. Finally, the door opened and a harried-looking detective with a pencil behind his ear entered. I’d never seen him before.
“Name, please,” he said in a bored voice.
“Thomas Llewelyn.”
He removed the pencil and misspelled my name in a notebook.
“Occupation?”
“Private enquiry agent.”
Most Scotland Yarders take umbrage to my profession, and this is usually when they start chaffing me, but this one was content to take notes.
“Private. Enquiry. Agent. Age?”
“Twenty-six.”
“All right, Mr.… Llewelyn, how came you to enter into an affray with the chap in the next cell?”
“I was coming back from the Arms with some pork pies for my employer’s lunch. That chappie was waiting for me in the square.”
“You mean, you personally?”
“Yes, Officer. It must be because my employer, Mr. Barker, has been retained by the Japanese embassy to investigate the death of the ambassador last week.”
“Barker?” he asked. “Is he the one with offices in the next street?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So why did he attack you, if you were working for the embassy?”
“I wish I knew. I suspect he is one of the bodyguards, but I had never met him before.”
“Why did you raise your stick?”
“Because he’d raised his.”
“Why didn’t you just walk away or call a constable?”
“Two reasons,” I said. “The first is that I help teach a class in antagonistics, and I wasn’t going to be seen running through the square being chased by some stand-in but by a character from a Kabuki play.”
He’d been writing with his pencil the entire time. “Spell Kabuki.”
I did.
“And the other reason?”
“Not to be hit.” He looked up. “He attacked you with a stick. Then what?”
“I defended myself. He was as good as I imagined, but I got lucky once or twice. He definitely had murder in his eyes. Luckily, your man stopped the fight there and then.”
“So, Mr. Llewelyn, you admit it was a fight.”
“Of course we had a fight! We weren’t having a quadrille. I participated, but I did not instigate it. Would you prefer I stand there while he batted me around, and me with a fine stick in my hand?”
“Were you injured?”
“No, not really. A bruise or two.”
“As you recall, did you hurt the foreign gentleman?”
“No. As skirmishes go, it was unsuccessful on both sides. I was concerned at the time, but looking back, I’ve had worse fights in the schoolyard.”
“Do you intend to press charges?”
“No, I don’t think so. As I said, I wasn’t injured.”
“I’m going to take you back to your cell and then bring your opponent in to compare your stories.”
“May I contact my solicitor?”
“No one’s charged you with anything yet.”
“I’d like to telephone my employer.”
“From what I hear, your Mr. Barker is a smart bloke. He’ll figure out you were waylaid.”
“Can I at least get a cup of tea?”
“I’ll have one brought to your cell. Dunno how good it is but it’s hot.”
“I’ve made tea here.”
He snapped his fingers. “That’s where I’ve seen you. You was a special constable during the Ripper investigation, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was,” I said with some relief.
“How the mighty have fallen, eh? Constable! Take this fella back and bring me t’other one.”
I went back to my cell. Eventually, tea was brought in a tin cup. Cocoa tastes better in a tin cup, but tea requires china. Still, I see the reasoning in not serving tea to prisoners in Aunt Primrose’s best Cantonware. I drank it. It hadn’t improved since I left. In fact, it might have been from the same pot, warmed on a hob.
I saw the bodyguard led down the hall, his hands braceleted. He looked at me with no expression. Here he was in a strange country in a prison cell and it was of no concern to him, or so it seemed.
I heard the door slam and continued to ponder the situation. Why had the fellow attacked me? Did he know I was working for the general? Well, Barker was, anyway, and that amounted to the same thing.
Nothing happened for an hour. No more tea, no telephone call, just silence. I listened to the sounds of the building, the muffled voices all around me. We were in New Scotland Yard now, a different kettle of fish. No one had carved initials in anything or kicked the plaster off a doorway entrance while drunk and disorderly. Everything was sterile.
Finally, the prisoner was brought back and I was taken out again. The inspector met me in front of the interrogation room.
“I’m letting you go.”
“Thank you.”
“He confessed.”
“To attacking me?”
“No. Well, yes, he did. As well as killing the ambassador.”
“But he was shot. This fellow had a stick.”
“That doesn’t mean he can’t pull a trigger. You just point and squeeze.”
“I suppose you’re right, Inspector. Sorry. I didn’t get your name.”
“McNaughton.”
“Thank you. Your cell was very nice.”
“Get out.”
I’d actually meant it, but there was no convincing him. “So, what happens next?”
“I have no idea, but the commissioner will have plenty to sort out. This chap’s a foreign national. It will be tricky.”
“He’ll do the right thing,” I said, though I didn’t believe it for a minute. “How is the prisoner?”
“Agitated. He barely speaks English. Do you know what he asked for? He wanted a haircut. Like he was strolling down Piccadilly and wanted to spruce himself up a little.”
“Are you going to give him one?”
“We will, but we’ll watch him closely, and he’ll be in irons. I’m going to have his belt removed. Maybe even his suit. He might try to top himself.”
He looked about at the floor.
“What are you looking for?”
“My pencil. I’ve lost it.”
“Am I free to go?”
“Said you were, didn’t I?”
One of the best experiences of life is being released from jail. The air is sweeter, birds sing; the very clouds look like candy floss. I hopped around the corner into Craig’s Court.
All was as it had been. There was Jenkins with his perennial copy of the Police Gazette. There was Barker digging for the dottle in his pipe with a small tool. He looked up at me and stared.
“No pork pies?”
“No pork pies.”
“Explain.”
I did, from the fight in Trafalgar Square to our arrest and my questioning.
“I’m not familiar with Inspector McNaughton. He must be new,” Barker said.
Then I explained that the prisoner had confessed to killing the ambassador. I expected him to jump up and run out the door, but all he did was press the tips of his thick fingers together and sit back further in his leather chair.
“Interesting.”
Finally, I described things as I left them, how McNaughton had let me go. Then, he jumped out of his chair.
“He asked for a haircut!” he rumbled.
“Yes.”
“They generally shave their heads before killing themselves. It is a form of self-humiliation.”
“It’s all right. They were going to remove his belt and even his clothes so he couldn’t hang himself.”
“Even so. Come! We may be in time to stop him!”
We bolted out of there and only stopped when we came to the gate at Scotland Yard. They tend to stop anyone who appears boisterous or excitable. Finally, we slipped through and entered the building.
“Mr. Barker,” the desk sergeant, Kirkwood, said at our arrival. “Good to see you again.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. We must speak to Inspector McNaughton immediately. I suspect a prisoner brought in recently will do himself a mischief.”
“Got it. I’ll send for the inspector. Have a seat.”
“Cannot I go through?”
“Sorry, sir. Not the way we work now. You can’t just go wandering the halls anymore. Commissioner Munro’s orders.”
I wondered if the rule was made especially for us. There was no love lost between him and the Guv. They’d been adversaries since Munro had been in charge of Special Branch.
After about five minutes of Barker pacing, McNaughton appeared. He was a self-contained fellow, very calm and patient. I liked him better than most of the Yardmen already. He came forward and shook my employer’s hand.
“I’ve heard of you, Mr. Barker.”
“Inspector, did the Japanese prisoner ask to have his head shaved?”
“He did. He had it all cut off.”
Barker explained that a Japanese, after admitting to a crime such as murder, will shave his head prior to killing himself.
“But he had no weapons. And we took away all his clothes but his loincloth. We considered this might happen and acted accordingly.”
“I admire the precautions you have taken, Inspector, but I suggest you look in on the prisoner immediately. A man determined to kill himself will surely find a way.”
“Very well, Mr. Barker. If you gentlemen will follow me, we’ll check on our foreign friend.”
I wanted to run, but the new Scotland Yard building was not a “running” sort of building. At best, we strode as briskly as we could, considering someone whisked from one hall doorway across to another in front of us every fifteen seconds. I could feel the passage of time.
“Keys!” Inspector McNau
ghton bellowed to the turnkey, who jumped at our arrival.
McNaughton took the keys and strode down the hall. It was not a long distance, but I felt as if we were standing in water up to our waists, trying to push through in time.
But we weren’t in time. Our unnamed bodyguard was dead. He lay crumpled naked on the floor. He had strangled himself with his fundoshi, the thong of material he wore around his groin. And what do you think he used to twist the tourniquet so tightly about his throat that it had asphyxiated him? It was Inspector McNaughton’s pencil.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
That evening I decided to stay in. London was feeling decidedly unsafe, and as it happened, both my best friend and the woman I loved lived in the City, not far from Limehouse. I had been attacked once and there were still two more bodyguards out there who might be looking for me.
I did not want to think about Japan. I’d barely thought about it before this case and I hoped never to think about it again as soon as it was over. Since then, I had thought of nothing else and was certain there would be more to come before it was resolved. I had a nice glass of cold milk from the icebox in the larder, a rare treat, and was reading the part in Far from the Madding Crowd where the fellow dropped the bacon in the road.
Just then the doorbell rang. I sighed but continued to read. One of the characters was saying the bacon was gritty, but if one just made sure one’s teeth didn’t meet in the middle …
“There is an Asian gentleman at the door wishing to speak with you, sir,” Mac said, standing in front of me. I don’t know how he moves about so silently.
“Me?” I asked.
“He said either you or the Guv, and I’m not climbing two flights to inform him when you are here in the library.”
I put down the book, took a swallow of the milk, and got up from my chair, a comfortable gentleman’s club chair in faded brown leather, with a matching tufted ottoman, that had become perfectly comfortable over the years. I gave Mac my best put-upon look. One cannot let a butler have his way or he’ll be running the household.
“Asian gentleman?” I repeated as I walked toward the door.
“Yes, sir. A large one.”
I reached for the pistol that Mac kept hanging from a hook by the stick stand, then opened the door while aiming it. Granted, it’s not the most welcoming way to treat a guest, but we all know what desperate times engender. I’d been attacked already.
