To Kingdom Come bal-2

by Will Thomas

  Mac had put some concoction into Barker’s hair, turning it varying shades of gray, so that each strand resembled a bit of wire. The front was plastered back; but behind his ears, it was thick and unkempt. His beard was equally shot with gray, and not even his mustache and eyebrows had been spared. In place of his usual spectacles were a smaller pair, black as night, exactly like the ones van Rhyn wore, with dark lenses and glass side pieces. He wore a tweed suit of European cut, and I could tell that Barker had neared his goal of gaining half a stone in weight. In his hand was a tall walking stick, or short staff, inlaid with ivory.

  “Guten Morgen, Herr Penrith,” he said to me.

  “Good morning to you, Mr. van Rhyn,” I replied.

  “I think it appropriate that we pray over this meal,” Barker said, and I bowed my head. He did thank God for the meal, but also he asked for success in our endeavor and a safe journey home. It only served to reinforce my fears that we were about to embark upon a most dangerous assignment.

  The table was immaculate with white linen, heavy silver that I had never seen before, and Blue Willow transfer ware, laden with far too much food for just two men. Platters of eggs, bacon, bangers, kedgeree, potatoes, grilled tomatoes, toast, jam, marmalade, and coffee all fought for space on the sideboard. As I got my first cup in me, my appetite began to grow. I dared the toast first, then the bacon. It was excellent, so I thought I might have some eggs to go with it. The potatoes looked particularly good; and I wouldn’t want to insult the cook, who had gone to so much trouble with the kedgeree. Before long, we had sampled every dish and even gone back for seconds.

  Afterward, when we had shaken hands with Mac and Dummolard, and given Harm a parting pat on the head, I felt positively moribund. We stepped into the cab in danger of breaking the springs, and rolled off toward Euston Station.

  “I think the next time we leave the city on a case, it should be a spur-of-the-moment decision,” I muttered.

  “Agreed,” said my employer, for he had wielded his knife and fork as well as I.

  We arrived at Euston Station in plenty of time, and boarded our train. I’d seen the northern trains before, with their pretty milk-and-claret paint scheme, but I would have preferred better circumstances for an excursion. I procured a copy of The Times at one of the news vendors, and spent the journey studying it in the smoking car, where Barker sat with his pipe and cogitated. The window was half closed. It rained most of the journey and no one dared disturb the Welshman reading his newspaper or the German poisoning the car with his heavy pipe fumes, so we had the carriage all to ourselves. When we arrived in Liverpool, my suit and my newspaper were crumpled and damp and smelled of tobacco smoke.

  Barker reached into the cavernous pockets of his coat and produced a packet of papers, which he handed to me.

  “I had these made for you,” he said. “They are identification papers in the name of Thomas Penrith.”

  “Are they forgeries?” I asked as I glanced through the passports, which looked as authentic as any papers I had ever seen. Wondering where he could have procured such things, I thrust them into my pocket. Somewhere he had a fellow at his beck and call who was a maker of false papers. It was an odd business we were in. No shipping merchant or exchange clerk would require knowing such a person.

  “Either that, lad, or I found another fellow named Penrith who is an explosives expert,” he said. It was the closest he had come to jesting, and I took it as a good sign. He didn’t appear to be worrying over the case. If anything, he was looking forward to it.

  In the ticket office in the Lime Street Station, Barker asked the clerk-a portly, friendly-looking fellow in a blue coat and peaked cap-if he might use the telephone. And might the clerk recommend a good hotel in the area?

  “Midland Hotel, sir, right around the corner,” the clerk said, before leading us back to a cluttered desk where the telephone stood, surrounded by timetables, papers, and tin teacups.

  “If he is like Parnell, he’ll only want the best,” Barker growled. He asked the operator for the hotel, and was connected through.

  “Good day,” he said into the mouthpiece. “I have an appointment with Colonel Dunleavy today, and I wanted to make certain that he is in…. The dining room, you say? No, you need not tell him. Thank you.”

  He replaced the receiver and turned to me. “Luck is with us, lad. He is indeed staying at the Midland Hotel. I must send a telegram, but afterward, let us go and see if we, too, can get a room.”

  My first view of Liverpool was grim and gray. A city does not look its best in the rain. As we stepped out of the station and into the road, the aspect of Lime Street reminded me of a watercolor painting, all washes and colors blending together. There were puddles in the gutter, and rain dripping steadily from the eaves.

  The Midland, while not as intimidating as Claridge’s, was certainly imposing. It rose five stories, with turrets offering a jagged skyline, but down on the street, it had window panels like a cozy tearoom to draw people in. Inside, the hotel was opulent. It was also exclusive. The clerk was not going to let just any pair of disheveled, slightly disreputable-looking persons such as ourselves into the establishment.

  “I’m afraid we’re full up, sir,” the clerk said dismissively.

  Barker was not to be dissuaded. He cleared his throat loudly and covertly passed a banknote across the desk to the clerk. Not a pound nor a fiver, but a full ten pounds, the price of a room for a week.

  “Your name, sir?” the clerk asked, suddenly solicitous. His very demeanor had changed. One would have thought Barker a long-lost uncle.

  “Johannes van Rhyn.”

  “You are from …?”

  “London. Well, Berlin, originally, but that was years ago. I lived in Budapest and then in St. Petersburg for a year, and …”

  “London will be fine, sir. And your occupation?”

  “I am an industrialist,” Barker said, puffing out his chest.

  “Thank you, sir. You are most fortunate. A suite of rooms has just been vacated. We can put you in Number 47.”

  “Danke. Is that rascal Dunleavy about? I have an appointment with him this afternoon.”

  “The colonel is in the dining room, sir.”

  “Excellent. Have our bags sent up to our rooms. We shall have a meal after our little journey.”

  We made our way into the dining room, but Barker made no attempt to spy out Alfred Dunleavy. We were shown to a table, and he made something of an act of being cantankerous, refusing the first one. Once seated, he ordered tea and roast beef and said loudly, “Well, Thomas, we are here.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, trying not to look around. I wondered what Barker was about. Casually, I glanced around the room. I couldn’t see any terrorists, but, then, they don’t exactly wear uniforms or have insignias on their lapels.

  “Mr. van Rhyn!” a voice suddenly cried. “Telegram for Mr. van Rhyn!”

  “Over here, my good fellow!” Barker called out to the young porter, whom he tipped a shilling. He opened the message and perused it, with the note close to his eyes. From where I sat, I could see it was blank. He had sent it himself from the train station. What was he up to? I wondered.

  Our meal arrived, and without a word we ate. It was classic hotel dining room fare, the meat cut from a large joint on a serving table in the room, but I had no interest in it as I had eaten so well at breakfast. Barker had that look about him of a man waiting for a fish to rise to the bait. It did not take long.

  “Pardon me, gentlemen,” a polished American voice drawled behind me. I looked up to see a man in his mid-fifties with white hair, worn rather long, and a short beard. He affected a breezy manner, but his eyes glowed like banked coals. “I hope you will forgive my rude interruption of your meal, but would I be addressing Mr. Johannes van Rhyn?”

  “Perhaps,” Barker responded in his assumed German accent. “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

  “My name is Colonel Alfred Dunleavy, and I am a representativ
e of the Irish Republican Brotherhood,” he said, putting out a hand.

  “I am indeed Johannes van Rhyn,” Barker said, taking the offered hand.

  “I am very gratified to hear it. Mr. van Rhyn, we had heard rumors that you’d been snatched away by the British government and taken to a secluded place at Her Majesty’s expense.”

  Barker nodded. “Ja. That swine Parnell informed on me, I think, because I would not agree to his terms. My solicitor was able to gain me a temporary release, and I have taken the opportunity to decamp. I am traveling to Dublin, then making my way to America. I have made too many enemies in Europe. It is time to see the New World, don’t you think, Mr. Penrith? Excuse me, Herr Dunleavy, I would like to present Thomas Penrith, my assistant.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, sir,” the American said, briefly shaking my hand. “I assure you, gentlemen, that I concur with your opinion of Mr. Parnell. But before you slip through our fingers, allow me the opportunity of delaying your departure for just a while longer. I’d like to present a proposal to you.”

  “I might be willing to entertain an offer. What do you have in mind?”

  “May I arrange an appointment with you this evening in your rooms? I’d like to speak with my associates. Would ten o’clock be suitable?”

  “Certainly, sir. We would be delighted.”

  “It was most fortuitous that you should choose this hotel to stay in.”

  “I heard it was the best,” Barker said, shrugging. “And one has but one life, after all.”

  “My sentiments exactly, gentlemen. We will speak later. I’ll leave you to your meal. Until then.” He bowed, and left the dining room.

  “That was simple enough,” I said, returning to my food.

  “I hazarded a guess that Dunleavy would be as fond of spending the Irish-American money as Parnell and that he would choose a hotel close to the station. Keep your wits about you, lad, and do not look around. If Dunleavy is the old campaigner I think he is, he shall send a confederate to watch us. He cannot be certain we are whom we claim to be, but by turning us down, he might have missed a great opportunity. He will alert his associates and have us watched.”

  “What shall we do?” I asked.

  “We shall eat, and then go to our rooms. We are not tourists here to see Liverpool.”

  As we were nearing the end of our meal, a man came in casually and ordered a cup of tea. From the quick glance I caught of him as I summoned a waiter for a new fork, I saw that he was close to thirty with curly hair and a sharp nose over a small mustache.

  “Is that the man?” I asked in a low voice.

  “Doubtless,” my employer answered. “From where I am seated, I can see that he is missing two fingers, a sure sign of the amateur bomber. Also, he’s looked at us twice since he came in.”

  The fellow followed us out of the dining room and up the stairs, staying some distance behind us. When we were safely in our rooms, I heard his footsteps pass a half minute later.

  “That was …” I began, but Barker put a finger to his lips. I looked over at the bottom of the door, where a sliver of light shone in from the hall. After a moment’s pause, a flicker of shadow moved across the light.

  Still standing in front of the door, my employer pulled back his arm, and then smote the door very close to eye level. I could picture the fellow in the hall with his ear pressed against the other side. I heard feet stagger back and then run swiftly down the hall. Barker wasn’t going to let these fellows think that the prickly van Rhyn was going to be that easy to handle.

  11

  It was near eleven when they finally appeared at our door. The odor of alcohol that I smelled on Colonel Dunleavy told me our rooms had not been his first stop of the evening, but his associates seemed sober enough. There were two of them, and one was the fellow who had followed us earlier.

  “Gentlemen!” Alfred Dunleavy bellowed when we opened the door. “We come bearing gifts.”

  I need hardly mention that the gifts were all of the liquid variety. Each of the colonel’s subordinates carried a wooden crate full of bottles, which they set down on the largest table in the room. There was a bottle of schnapps, bottles of Irish and Scotch whiskey, and a dozen bottles of ale. Rather than risk having the whiskey forced on me, I took a Guinness.

  “I’ve never been to Liverpool before,” I said. “What’s it like?”

  “I believe you’ll find the town has much to recommend it, sir,” the third man spoke up. “It combines the rowdiness of Dublin with the anonymity of London. You’ll feel welcome.”

  “I am Johannes van Rhyn,” Barker announced, putting out his hand. “And you are?”

  “Eamon O’Casey,” the fellow said, shaking it firmly. “This is Niall Garrity.”

  O’Casey was a young, capable-looking chap with a confident manner and an athletic build. He looked like a university student, the kind who takes a first in his studies and has a blue in rowing. As it turned out, that is exactly what he was. He had recently graduated from Trinity in Dublin. With his square jaw and frank, hazel eyes, I could see him succeeding in whatever he undertook, and he must have caught the eye of many a girl in Dublin or in Liverpool, for that matter.

  As for Garrity, I noticed right off the missing two fingers. He reminded me of Cassius in Julius Caesar, the one who had “a lean and hungry look.” He looked young enough to be a youth in the eyes of the cabman John Farris. His sharp eyes over a broad arrow of a nose gave him a devilish appearance.

  In a moment or two we were all seated, Barker with schnapps, Dunleavy with a full glass of whiskey, Garrity with a bottle of ale. O’Casey, I noticed, was not drinking. I wished I could have emulated his abstinence.

  Dunleavy spoke up. “Gentlemen, it was most fortuitous that we should find ourselves at the same hotel, but you must understand that I and my associates are suspicious of coincidences. British agents have attempted to infiltrate our ranks in the past. I wonder if I might prevail upon you to see some identification.”

  Barker and I reached into our pockets and handed over our passports. Dunleavy held them out at arm’s length and read them. “You are quite well traveled, Mr. van Rhyn-France, Russia, Italy, Montenegro; in fact, all across eastern Europe. That is quite satisfactory. I wonder, sir, if I may presume upon our new friendship a little further and request that you remove your spectacles?”

  A slow smile spread across Barker’s face, the coldest, most lethal smile I’d ever seen him give. “Be careful what you ask for, Herr Colonel. The last fellow who forced me to remove these met with an unfortunate accident. He was trying to light his stove and it exploded. Apparently, something had happened to the valve and it was leaking gas. Killed him and his dog A terrible tragedy. I liked the dog.”

  The three Irishmen looked at one another uneasily and silently agreed to let the matter of Barker’s spectacles rest. They turned, instead, to me. Apparently, I was still fair game.

  “So, Mr. Penrith, how long have you been working for Mr. van Rhyn?” O’Casey asked.

  “Half a year now, I’d say.”

  “I take it,” Garrity put in, “that you are something of an explosives expert yourself.”

  “He was trained by Mr. Nobel at his factory near Glasgow,” Barker spoke for me. “And I have taught him much of what I know. He is a fast learner, but, then, he has had to be. You see, gentlemen, I have a degenerative ocular disease. I can no longer see the fine measurements on a beaker. Thomas is my eyes now. I cannot do without him.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Cardiff, originally. I’ve been living in London.”

  Garrity leaned forward in his chair. “What are your politics, Mr. Penrith? How do you feel about the English?”

  “My country is no more free than yours, Mr. Garrity. I find calling the Queen’s whelp the Prince of Wales to be the grossest of insults. Anything I can do to relieve them both of power shall be good for my people.”

  O’Casey turned to my employer. “You are a very famous figure, M
r. van Rhyn,” he said. “One might almost say legendary. There are a lot of stories about you being passed around among the factions. Is it true, for example, that it was one of your bombs that blew up Czar Alexander the Second three years ago?”

  “I was in Russia at the time, but the anarchist responsible was capable enough of building his own bombs. We consulted, but that was all. It was enough, however, to have Czar Alexander the Third’s parliament declare me an enemy of the state and to escort me to the border.”

  “I see,” O’Casey said. “And were you really a member of Le Cercle de l’Anarchie, which threatened Louis Napoleon?”

  “Monarchies, even such enlightened ones as his, are relics of the Dark Ages, gentlemen,” Barker pontificated. “The sooner they are exterminated, the better for society.”

  “You were a member, then.”

  “Ja, Herr O’Casey. I was a member.”

  “Then you would be sporting the society’s tattoo on your forearm.”

  With a sigh, Barker pushed back the sleeve of his jacket and unbuttoned his cuff, exposing the back of his thick forearm. There, a few inches up from the wrist, were three crude black lines, crossing themselves to roughly form the letter A. I had sat with Barker in the steamed heat of his bathhouse many times, but I hadn’t noticed such a mark before. Was it new, or had a former case required him to join that organization?

  “Are you satisfied now, gentlemen, that I am whom I claim to be?” he asked, buttoning his sleeve. “This exercise is getting tedious.”

  “Of course we are, sir,” Dunleavy stated, anxious to make peace. “Forgive these young fellows’ doubts, please. It seemed too good to be true that we should come upon you just at this time.”

  “And what time would that be, sir?” Barker asked.

  O’Casey gave a smug smile. “A week after we bombed London.”

  So, they admit it, I told myself. Barker was on the right track. I should have known such an old hunter would find the scent. My employer broke into a laugh.

  “Ho, ho, so it was you! I should have suspected. Well, gentlemen, I don’t know what you need of my services. Two attacks in one night! You are doing well enough on your own. From what I read in The Times, London has certainly sat up and taken notice.”