The Darkest Hour: A Novel

by Tony Schumacher

  “Come!” shouted Sterling, and the young maid entered. She hovered at the door reluctantly, eyeing Rossett before speaking to Sterling.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, sir. It’s the telephone, a Mr. Wilson, sir. He said it was important. I told him you were not to be disturbed, but he insisted.”

  Sterling considered the message before looking at Rossett.

  “May I?” He gestured that he wished to take the call, but Rossett shook his head by way of reply. “It’s a business matter, nothing more,” Sterling added.

  “No.”

  Sterling rolled his eyes again.

  “Tell Mr. Wilson I am tied up somewhat, and that I’ll not be able to make our meeting today.”

  The maid nodded and backed out of the room, and silence took her place.

  Another half hour passed before Chivers got up and wandered across to the fireplace. Jacob was now asleep on the floor, and the old man knelt with difficulty and started to build a fire with some coal and kindling. When the fire was lit, Chivers creaked to his feet and looked around the room.

  “Where’s the booze?” He looked at Sterling, who shook his head.

  “I don’t have ‘booze.’ ”

  “You posh blokes always have a bottle to ’and. Come on, where’s the booze?”

  “There are drinks in that bureau, but it most certainly isn’t booze.” Sterling directed a long, languid finger toward a polished wood drinks cabinet set among the books. Chivers rubbed his hands together and winked at Kate as he passed her. He pulled open the doors of the cabinet, which lit up inside as he did so, and whistled quietly through his teeth.

  “Blimey, there’s enough ’ere to get me pissed till Christmas.” He picked up a bottle of brandy and studied the label at arm’s length before pulling the cork and sniffing it, then turning to Sterling and winking.

  “That is vintage, man, almost one hundred pounds a bottle,” Sterling said, waving a finger at Chivers.

  Chivers took a slug straight from the bottle, then tilted his head forward and gasped.

  “An ’undred quid? You’ve been robbed, mate.” The old man poured himself a large glass before holding the bottle up and waggling it at Rossett.

  “No.”

  Chivers shrugged his shoulders and poured two smaller glasses, one for Kate and one for Sterling. He handed Kate hers and crossed the room to Sterling, setting the glass down noisily on the small table next to the other man’s chair.

  Sterling studied the glass and then wiped a small spill away with his hand before picking it up and holding it under his nose.

  “Are you not drinking, Sergeant?” Sterling asked.

  Rossett shook his head.

  “I suppose you’ll make something up about being on duty?”

  Rossett ignored him.

  They had a long evening ahead.

  THE ROOM WAS quiet when suddenly, somewhere in the house, a bell sounded once, then once again, and everyone jumped.

  “What was that?” Rossett looked at Sterling.

  “The doorbell. It must be a caller; the girl will get it,” Sterling replied lazily, chin in hand.

  Rossett rose from the chair immediately, pulled the Browning from his pocket, slipped the safety, and pulled back the slide, letting it click forward under its own sprung speed.

  He looked first at Chivers, who held out a hand to take the gun, but Rossett turned to Kate.

  “Here, take this. If he moves, shoot him.”

  “But—” Kate tried to speak.

  “Shoot him,” Rossett cut her off. “Shoot him for Jacob. Shoot him for your freedom. Do it for us.” As Rossett spoke he pushed the Browning into Kate’s hand.

  “For us,” Kate said, nodding, as she slipped her finger over the trigger.

  Rossett left the room. He walked toward the front door, and the maid appeared to his left from some service steps that came from downstairs. She froze and stared at him, so he forced a smile and raised one finger to his lips.

  “Just open the door and step back so I can see you. Act normally and tell whoever it is that Sir James isn’t home,” he instructed. “It’ll be all right.”

  The girl nodded. As she turned away, Rossett produced the Webley from his coat and, holding it behind his leg, ready but out of the maid’s sight, he took up his station behind the door.

  The bell sounded again and the maid looked at Rossett, who nodded. She took a deep breath and opened the door, stepping back into the hall.

  Before she had a chance to speak, two men rushed past her into the hallway. One turned to speak to the maid but stopped when he saw the Webley pointing at him and Rossett staring down the sight.

  Nobody spoke. The second man through the door held a Browning at his side, while the first appeared to be unarmed. The unarmed man, whom Rossett remembered from the warehouse, raised his hands slowly, unsure of what was taking place, while his colleague stared at the end of Rossett’s pistol, fluttering his empty hand against his other leg, weighing up the odds.

  “Drop it,” said Rossett, closing the door with his free hand and cutting off any means of escape.

  “Our mate is outside in the car. He’ll be wondering where we’ve gone,” said the first man. Rossett ignored him and continued to stare at the second, who was breathing hard and starting to lower his brow.

  “Don’t,” said Rossett.

  “There is no need for gunplay, Sergeant. We just want to check on our—”

  The Webley boomed once and the second man slammed into the wall, the bullet in his chest killing him before his back touched the wallpaper. He dropped to the floor in an unnatural heap as the gun dropped from his lifeless hand onto the tiles.

  The hallway seemed to ring with the echo of the gunshot as everyone’s ears adjusted to the shock. The maid slowly lifted her hands to the sides of her head and her mouth opened, but no noise came out. Rossett took her wrist in his hand and gently pulled her toward him. The first man looked at his dead colleague and then back to Rossett’s gun.

  “Is there anyone waiting outside?”

  “No.”

  “If you are lying . . .”

  “I’m not. We’re alone.”

  “Gun,” Rossett said, and for a moment the man looked confused. Then he gingerly reached into his coat and pulled out another Browning, which he handed over nervously, butt first.

  “Go,” said Rossett, flicking the pistol, indicating that the man should start walking toward the rear of the house.

  The man made his way down the hallway. Rossett gently took the arm of the maid, who gave a low squeak. Still holding one hand to her head, she allowed herself to be led by Rossett back to the drawing room, stepping gingerly over the body of the man.

  “In there,” Rossett said when they reached the study door.

  The man opened the door and stepped into the room, looking around and then crossing to the fireplace. Rossett pushed the maid ahead of him and followed her in.

  Rossett turned to look around and saw Sterling, with Jacob on his lap, sitting at the far end of the room. In front of him knelt Kate. The most noticeable thing about the tableau was that Sterling was holding the Browning under Jacob’s arm, resting the muzzle against the boy’s ribs.

  Rossett looked at Jacob, who stared back with watery eyes that hovered uncertainly over thin lips, and then back at Sterling, who looked like the cat who had the cream.

  “Drop your gun, Rossett.”

  Rossett looked at Kate, who lowered her eyes. “Drop your gun,” Sterling said again, this time his voice stronger, attempting to take control.

  The man whom Rossett had pushed into the room straightened and then took a half step toward him but stopped as Rossett pointed the Webley at him.

  “Don’t. I’ll kill you. Sterling, drop the gun.” Rossett didn’t look at Sterling as he spoke. He fixed his g
aze on the other man, who glanced at his boss and then back at Rossett.

  “I’ll kill the boy,” Sterling said.

  Jacob whined, hurt by the words and by the barrel of the gun that pushed into his ribs. Kate made to stroke the boy’s hair, but Sterling pushed her hand away.

  “Sterling, drop the gun,” Rossett said coldly. “It’s empty. Put it down. If you do anything but put that gun down, I’m going to kill this man and then kill you. Drop the gun.”

  Kate placed one hand over her mouth. Jacob whined again and the man at the end of Rossett’s barrel opened his hands and made a calming motion.

  “Sir?” The man looked at Sterling with pleading eyes, barely able to drag them away from the Webley.

  “I mean it, Rossett,” Sterling said, his voice less assured.

  “Uncle James, please,” Kate said.

  A moment passed.

  Nobody breathed. Minds raced, hearts pumped, and time seemed to stand still.

  And then Sterling pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Rossett fired the Webley and Sterling’s man hit the floor.

  Even before the hammer was halfway back, Rossett was pointing the gun at Sterling and making ready to kill again. Sterling clicked the Browning trigger once more, then twisted in his seat, lifting his arm to cover his face.

  “John!” Kate screamed as Jacob stared at him, his mouth open and eyes wide.

  Rossett paused, jaw clenched, arm straight, and Webley unwavering out before him.

  “Please, John,” Kate said, more softly this time. “He’s my uncle. Please.”

  Rossett looked at Jacob. The child shook a little and his eyes welled, shocked at what he’d just witnessed. Rossett relaxed slightly as Sterling let the gun slip from his hand onto the floor.

  Chivers launched himself out of his chair and crossed the room to take the Browning off the floor as Sterling slumped and pushed Jacob off his lap.

  “Come ’ere, boy.” Chivers held out his hands to Jacob, who charged across the room and fell into the old man’s arms, sobbing.

  “He snatched it from me. I tried,” Kate said quietly.

  “ ’E’s a fast bastard, the bleedin’ snake,” Chivers said behind Rossett. “She did ’er best.”

  Rossett reached down, took the Browning from Chivers, and slipped it into his pocket, still pointing the Webley at Sterling.

  “It was empty,” Sterling said quietly.

  Rossett nodded, his eyes on the top of Kate’s head, willing her to look up and meet his gaze.

  “You was testin’ her?” Chivers again, looking first from Rossett to Kate and then back again.

  Rossett didn’t answer.

  He finally lowered the Webley and took a seat, the pistol resting on his knee, as he weighed his options. Chivers led Jacob to a settee and sat with the boy, his arm draped over his shoulders, staring at Sterling.

  Kate slowly raised her face and looked at Rossett.

  “You didn’t trust me?” she said.

  “This is the sort of man you’re getting mixed up with, girl. He’s a killer, a damned murdering traitor.” Sterling stared at Rossett as he spoke, using words to mask the embarrassment of having the tables turned on him by someone he considered an inferior.

  “I can’t trust anyone yet,” Rossett said to Kate, ignoring Sterling.

  “No, you can’t,” said Kate sadly.

  Chapter 61

  KOEHLER AND SCHMITT had visited eight pubs in Wapping before they finally found themselves standing outside the Prospect of Whitby.

  Across the street, Werner climbed down from the cab of the troop transport and nodded to Koehler as he adjusted the machine pistol across his chest and took up a station at the rear of the truck.

  “How many more of these places do we have to visit?” Schmitt said, burying his hands in his pockets.

  “We keep going until we find news of this Irishman, Chivers, or Rossett, simple as that.”

  Koehler checked the Mauser in his pocket, then walked to the bar doors and pushed one open. He squinted into the darkness of the pub and waited for a moment for his eyes to adjust before walking inside.

  The fat man sitting behind the door looked up at the two Germans entering and then across to the bar. He stood, picked up his old coat from the back of his seat, and made to leave.

  Koehler shook his head, and the fat man sank back into his seat. Koehler walked slowly to the bar, aware that the general noise of the pub had dropped to barely a whisper. He rested an elbow on the brass rail and then turned so that he was facing the customers of the pub, who in turn all managed to not face him.

  Schmitt stood at the pub door, hands still in his pockets but eyes alert, holding his Mauser tightly and watching the shadows for movement.

  Over his right shoulder Koehler noticed the barmaid moving reluctantly toward him. He turned to rest both elbows on the bar and smiled at her.

  “Good afternoon, Fräulein.”

  “What can I get you, sir?” the barmaid replied politely.

  “Is the manager of the pub about?”

  “He’s upstairs, sir.”

  “Could you fetch him, please? I’m looking for a friend and he might be able to help me.” Koehler smiled again, and the barmaid, much to her own surprise, smiled back.

  “I’ll not be long, sir.”

  Koehler gave a half salute and then turned to face the room again. Taking his time to look around, he pulled out a packet of cigarettes and leaned back before speaking loudly.

  “I’m looking for George Chivers?” Koehler left the question hanging in the air as he put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it.

  Nobody spoke, so Koehler pushed himself off the bar and walked among the tables, smiling at the few customers who dared to meet his eye.

  “It’s very important I speak to George. So important I’m prepared to pay handsomely for any information that could help me.” As he spoke, Koehler stopped at a table around which three men were sitting. He lifted a pint glass out of one of their hands and sniffed its contents, then frowned at the man whose drink it was. “You should try some good German lager, my friend.”

  The man stared silently at Koehler, who smiled warmly back at him and gently placed the glass on the table before he continued to wander around the bar.

  “Can I help you, sir?” A voice from behind him caused him to turn.

  Koehler looked at the pub manager, who had appeared behind the bar. The small man smoothed a gray shirt across his potbelly and then nervously put his hands in his trouser pockets and attempted to affect an air of confidence. Koehler smiled and approached the bar, charm personified.

  “Good afternoon. Are you the manager?”

  “Yes, sir. Alf Beckett.” Beckett produced a clammy hand and shook Koehler’s over the bar.

  “Alf, I wonder if you can help me,” Koehler said genially, desperately resisting the urge to wipe his hand on his leg to remove the sweaty residue left by Beckett’s.

  “Anything at all, sir. Always happy to help,” Beckett replied, eyes flicking around the room. Koehler smiled again, leaned against the brass rail, and flicked a finger for Beckett to come closer.

  “I’m looking for George Chivers.”

  “Sir?”

  “Come now, Alf, let’s not be foolish.”

  “I think I know the name, sir.”

  “Think hard, Alf. I don’t like asking questions twice.” The smile was now gone and Koehler’s eyes darkened in the gloom as he leaned even closer to Beckett.

  “This is difficult for me, sir.” Beckett’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “Trust me, Alf, it can be an awful lot more difficult than you’d imagine.”

  Schmitt appeared at Koehler’s shoulder and leaned against the bar, his leather coat squeaking as he did so. Schmitt turned and faced t
he room, causing all those looking to turn away.

  “He was in earlier, sir.” Beckett was barely audible and Koehler had to lean forward on his tiptoes to hear him. “With another feller I didn’t know.”

  “Describe him.”

  Beckett squirmed and looked over Koehler’s shoulder again. Koehler reached and gripped his forearm, causing him to flinch.

  “Please, sir.”

  “Last chance, Alf.”

  “Big bloke, angry looking. They met the Irishman.”

  “Irishman?”

  Beckett looked like he might cry.

  “I didn’t see it, sir, it was only what I was told. I—”

  “Irishman?” Koehler repeated.

  “Pat Flanagan. Please sir, he’s a dangerous man. I could—”

  “Alf?” Koehler interrupted quietly, causing the other man to stop speaking and nod dumbly. “You are talking to the most dangerous man in London right now, right at this minute. You are whispering in death’s ear. So please, get your priorities straight.”

  Beckett looked like he would faint. Koehler released his grip and then rested his hand on Beckett’s shoulder.

  “This could get me shot, sir.”

  Schmitt sighed loudly and impatiently, then reached into his coat, produced his Mauser, and placed it on the bar. He stared at Beckett but didn’t speak before turning his back on the conversation and again looking around the room, which had fallen totally silent.

  The pistol sat on the bar like a fat black cockroach, and Beckett found he was unable to look away from it. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, and it briefly crossed Koehler’s mind that the other man might have a heart attack before he could pass the information that was required.

  “Will this Flanagan drag you out into the street in the next two minutes and shoot you in the face?” Koehler whispered, placing his hand gently onto Beckett’s arm once again.

  Beckett shook his head.

  “I will.”

  “Flanagan is a . . . I don’t know, sir. He’s able to get you things, anything you want. He has boats.”

  “A smuggler?”

  Beckett squirmed before nodding.

  “Chivers was buying something?” Koehler gripped tighter.