Blind Instinct jc-7

by Robert W. Walker

  “But he could put it out for the court of public opinion.”

  “Yes, well, he may save that up as his trump card, but I rather doubt he'll take that gamble.”

  Jessica looked past him, her head spinning until she finally focused on a chimney pot, a pipe added to the top of chimneys. They were everywhere, all over London, ubiquitous for city dwellers whose homes spewed the remnants of their coal-burning fires, in shops and in homes. But this particular one had a red-legged crow sitting atop it, and at first Jessica thought it an ornamentation, but then it cocked an eye at her, flapped its wings and gracefully, thoughdessly eased skyward.

  Sharpe followed her gaze as she watched the bird, now a black dot in the distance. “A chough, we call them,” he informed her. “So, where shall we go for a bite?”

  “I thought you had a place selected?”

  “I want to be democratic. That way is Fleet Street, where the pubs are filled with newspeople and photomakers. If we stay put, the pub we enter will be full of bankers. And that way”-he pointed in the opposite direction-”will take us to Grub Street. Just the opposite-where starving artists, actors, and writers live in garrets and fill the pubs by day. If we walk out of the City, this way”-again he pointed-”then we can go to where I had planned.”

  “I'll risk your judgment.”

  Jessica had learned that the City, as Londoners called the financial district, was roughly the equivalent of Wall Street in New York, with some five thousand residents during business hours scrunched into one square mile of territory.

  “This is one hell of an unholy dog's breakfast. This thing with Copperwaite being sucked into becoming a stoolie for Boulte and our Miss Prosecutorial Bitch… A true unholy mess,” Sharpe muttered, as much to himself as to Jessica, as they picked their way through the crowd. He was holding her hand now, taking charge and going straight for the place of his choosing. “Doom perhaps for me and the case, unless you stand firm, Dr. Coran. Doom… how ironic. Did'ya know that the painting of the Last Judgment over here is called Doom!” He laughed hollowly at the thought. “Are you sure you want to be seen with me, Jessica?”

  “Don't be silly.”

  “He who sups with the Devil, must use a long spoon.”

  They passed pedestrian walkways, went through lights, crossed into narrow lanes, rushing past fascinating, quaint little shops she would have loved to browse, until they found a lane so small that Jessica could not imagine how cars passed one another until she saw some do so.

  Another step around a comer and they found a quiet, even peaceful shop-lined street with outdoor cafes and art galleries.

  “Maybe it's Copperwaite that bothers me most. The fact someone you trust can so quickly be at your back with the cutlery.”

  “I've had it happen to me. I know the feeling,” she commiserated, still wondering if it were true.

  “Cupboard love's what we call it over here, Jessica-sucking up. Sucking one's way to the top. But perhaps the whole thing's a blessing in disguise, heh? A real curate's egg.”

  She'd heard this expression before-something both good and bad at once.

  “I'd been giving some thought to retirement anyway. Copperwaite can have the damned dead man's shoes. You know that's what Boulte feared most about me, that I'd run for his job. Well, now Copperwaite or some other fool can just wait to inherit it when Boulte kicks off.”

  “Crumpet-getting any crumpet?” said a man lying in a vagrant's pose in a doorway to a vacant shop.

  “Watch your vile tongue, rogue!” shouted Sharpe, just itching to thrash the man. Instead, he pulled Jessica past the hobo, saying, “Just a brainless come-day, go-day, that one. I pay him for information on the street from time to time, which explains his being so familiar.”

  “Why would he take me for your whore, Richard?” she said and jabbed him in the ribs. “Lighten up, please,” she teased. “At least you are getting some crumpet.”

  This made him laugh and kiss her there on the street.

  Jessica felt the traffic in the small back lanes here lighter and more willing to give way to pedestrians. Something about London, its small streets and compact alleyways, made her feel comfortable and at home, made her feel like an oversized Alice in this wonderland, and even made her feel important, large, and of consequence. Jessica held on to Richard's arm as the traffic halted for them to cross.

  “There's the pub. The one I think you'll find both quite colorful and authentic,” he said, pointing, but an entire array of pub signs stared back at Jessica from across the tiny street. They read: lion head, the silver cross, the roundtable INN, THE CAPTAIN'S GALLEY, and THE BOAR'S HEAD PUB. “I had thought Stuart a smart fellow, you know, and it's a shock to learn that a man you called friend turns out to be dim as a Toc-H lamp, which he is, but worse yet, he's betrayed our partnership.”

  At the end of the street Jessica saw a flashing road sign which read in bold letters: DIVERSION, meaning detour. For some reason both sign and meaning stamped themselves on

  BUND INSTINCT her brain with the force of a psychic vision, but she quickly dismissed the thought.

  The unclean man who'd been lying in the street moments before suddenly limped up alongside them. “I got my leg banged up the other day, Inspector. Need some attention given it, but I got no green. I 'ave information for you. Can we do business? I got word on that Crucifier thing.”

  This made Sharpe stop, and with him Jessica, who truly looked at the man for the first time.

  “Dot'n Carry's what they call me, mum… Steve's the true name, Steve Savile. Family migrated here from Sweden. Made of me a Londoner without they give me a choice, what.”

  “Whyever do they call you Dot and Carry?”

  “Mostly on account-a-this game leg. When I walk, the wooden one goes dot, the other carries me. Got it in the war's what. It's why Sharpe and me can have some common ground, right, Colonel?”

  Sharpe ground his teeth. “What've you got on the Crucifier, D.C.?”

  But Dot'n Carry, or D.C., addressed Jessica instead, asking, “You must be that lady FBI woman Sharpe hired on for the case. Read about you in the papers. Think I can't read? I read good when I can find a paper left behind by somebody.”

  Sharpe grabbed him up by the lapels, and he dropped a walking stick which had so become a part of the man that Jessica hadn't noticed it until it bounced on the sidewalk, making two distinct pings.

  “Word is, the Crucifier's really a good guy, Sharpe. What they call a benign killer. Only kills people who are in suffering, kinna like Robinson Hood and Sherwood's Forest, you see. Only he don't rob from the rich and give to the poor, but takes troubled lives and frees 'em.”

  “If that's so, then why hasn't he done a damned thing for your sorry ass, D.C.?”

  “Must figure I don't 'ave it so bad. Still got my sense of humor. Ain't suicidal or depressed, Inspector.”

  “Get outta here, D.C.”

  “But Sharpe, Colonel, I need something. Please, man.” Sharpe tossed several bills down, grabbed Jessica's arm, and led her toward the Boar's Head, apologizing to her.

  “What did he mean, Sharpe?”

  “D.C.? He's full of it half the time and a no-opinion the other half. The man's double Dutch in his tongue and double-gaited elsewhere! Forget it. If you let him, D.C. will tell you everything opens that shuts and everything shuts that opens.”

  Jessica guessed that Sharpe meant the other man spoke with “forked” tongue.

  “Filth!” D.C. called out from across the street.

  “Common term for cops in England,” explained Richard. “I think he knows I'm trying to get him on charges as a fire-raiser-an arsonist-even as I use him. Interesting past, the man has, actually. Just after returning from the service with his gimp leg, he tried white-collar crime. Was put away for his trouble.”

  “Arrested for what exactly?”

  “Got 'im for fluffing the books, accounts.”

  She and Richard moved on, going right past the Boar's Head. They l
ocated a place called the Clockwork Arms, which Richard pointed out had been renovated from a building housing a clockworks and separately an armory. Now an eatery, the place made the most of the brick exterior and solid oak beams. “The weather this time of year? Is it always so balmy and beautiful?” she asked.“Luke's little summer,” he replied, smiling, helping with her chair.

  “Luke's what?” the noise of the crowd and the music from a live flutist in one comer whose melodic Celtic music touched something in Jessica's core, running along her spine, made it difficult to focus on Richard's words.

  “St. Luke's summer. I suspect you call it Indian summer where you're from,” he explained. “Look, if you don't mind, I have to see to the geography of the house,” he said, and promptly left the table, leaving Jessica to wonder whatever he meant. Then she remembered an earlier comment and realized that he was going to the men's room.

  While alone, Jessica took in the sights and sounds of the pub. She caught snatches of conversation and found herself matching oddly strange Briticisms with the word or phrase that might be its counterpart in America. British English and American English proved two entirely different animals.

  She overheard people in the pub referring to such things as “between whiles” at Billingsgate Market-a fish market, as famous for its foul language as its fish. She heard some men talking about her at the bar: one called her “an attractive bit of goods.” She heard multiple requests for what appeared the national drink-bitter beers. She heard one woman complaining she hadn't been to Blackpool in decades and wanted to go there to ride the switchback-the roller coaster.

  Jessica found something fascinating in every small word and thing and person, and in all the quaint places and place names everywhere she went in London. Even what she'd learned from hanging about Scotland Yard fascinated her. Fingerprints were dabs, handcuffs darbies, police cars- which were blue and white in color had become jam sandwiches or panda cars, while extortion was demanding money with menaces, and rape or criminal assault was euphemistically called being interfered with. A police beat or patch in America here became a manor. To catch a packet meant to stop a bullet. Ever the stiff upper lip people, the British didn't get their walking papers, but rather their marching papers. While American cops were cited for bravery, British cops were mentioned in dispatches.

  Gin was mother's ruin, and denatured alcohol in Britain became methylated spirits, and meths were the unappealing derelicts who drank it. While the Mets in America meant baseball in New York City, Mets in London referred to the London police. And a pedestrian walk equaled a pelican crossing. A speed bump posed in London as a sleeping policeman or rumble strip.

  In fact the British, aside from being a nation of shopkeepers and the “pudding nation,” had come to be world renowned as the most euphemistic race on the planet. When speaking of being taxed, they put it as suffering an assessment. It appeared they would say anything to keep from cursing, even to abbreviating “God blind me” to blimey… and “God's truth” to 'struth! They much preferred a phrase such as “the best of British luck” said with irony. Even “bloody fool” was abbreviated to b.f. so as to avoid the cursing. She thought it rather hilarious. As a result of the euphemisms, many a word that passed British lips, while not a curse, stood in for one just as well. They had literally hundreds of words that kept them coming up short of calling God's name out in vain.

  He's up for the high jump now formed a grim echo of the hanging days, and a mortician in London became a funeral furnisher.

  Meanwhile, a penny dreadful, often called a shilling shocker stood in for a dime novel. The false issue of a red herring, ubiquitous and obligatory in any mystery story, here became a Norfolk capon. A literary hack such as the infamous Geoffrey Caine here might be called a nasty or a devil, but so, too were law apprentices.

  When Richard returned to the table, he began a tirade about the two arrested as the Crucifying Duo. “A pair of comic book characters if ever there were,” he said, spouting venom.

  Jessica tried to get him off the subject, off work altogether. She asked him about the British Museum, what she might find there, but he ignored her, going on about the twosome under arrest for the Crucifier's sins.

  Giving in, she said, “I particularly hated the one who led the other by the nose.”

  “Oh, that creep Periwinkle is a real Geordie.”

  “Geordie? Explain that again, please.”

  “A native of Tynsdale-raised with the pigs, maybe. A coal miner for sure.”

  “A coal miner? That's rather coincidental.”

  “Not at all. Everyone in Tynsdale goes to the mines for work. I've seen their like before. One is a Geordie, the partner a George.”

  “A George?”

  “Automatic pilot. One's the planner, and he's a weak-minded bastard if ever there was one, and the other goes about on automatic pilot. A Geordie and a George, true criminal masterminds those two, truly fit your profile of the killer, as well, wouldn't you agree?” he facetiously asked. “But then in dealing with Boulte, one must take in the Paddy factor.”

  “Well, they are the right age, and they do live with their mothers.” Jessica had heard the term Paddy bandied about in police circles here, referring usually to IRA terrorists, but it had an ethnic edge to it. It meant that the criminal mind often meant the stupid mind, and Paddys-a common Irish name- were criminally stupid. “Is Boulte part Irish?”

  “If he is, he wouldn't admit to it.”

  London, despite its diverse population and the international flavor of its makeup, remained a haven for racial prejudice, just as Hawaii and other beautiful places around the globe Jessica had visited harbored racial disharmony. Sadly enough it appeared a global fact of life. Here a British racist was known as a racialist. Even now, she could hear Paid jokes being told at the table over her shoulder between calls for the waiter to answer the questions: “Where's the other half.”

  “How 'bout the other half?” Both meant the speaker wanted another drink.

  “Paki” formed an unpleasant racist connotation in its compactness. Hearing the term several dmes, Jessica asked Sharpe about it. His reply was off-handed, his shoulders shrugged as he said, “Paki-bashing. It's an extremely unpleasant activity here. At its most benign, it begins with jokes. At its most vicious, it ends with roaming gangs-usually a rat's nest of Paddys-looking for and usually finding Pakistanis to beat up.”

  “Past a joke is another British expression, meaning something's not funny anymore, but rather intolerable. Most Mets in London simply don't want Paki-bashing on their little patches.”

  Someone entering the pub and passing their table said hello to Richard, asking, “And how are you, Sharpe?”

  “Not so dusty,” replied Sharpe. “And you?”

  “Gain on swings, lose on rounds, you know? Take all due care.” And the man disappeared into the crowd at the bar.

  “Drinking friends,” said Richard. “Cricket metaphors… Sorry, they're rather like your baseball metaphors in America. Endemic here, really…”

  “You needn't apologize for it.”

  “Everything in this blasted country has ties to the national sports. It's become part of our thinking and speech.”

  “Like it hasn't happened in America?”

  He shook his head and bit his lip at once, disagreeing. “Here we say at close of play, bat a brace, bat first, boundary, bowler, duck, cap, fieldsman, batsman, play a straight bat, knock for six, get one's eye in. maiden over, night watchman, off one's bat, off the mark, pitch, rot, run out, run up, sticky wicket, stump, take first knock.”

  She laughed at his rendition.

  He added between sips of dark beer, “For a time I played with the Marylebone Cricket Club, but I must admit, the game's become a fantastic obsession for the population here.”

  “In America we've got sports metaphors all over the language map, too. We talk about bush-leaguers, rookies, getting to first base, stepping up to bat, having something on the ball, making a hit, bei
ng off base, stealing home, pinch hitting, rain checks, check swing, strike outs, curve balls, and so…” She stopped to stare into his eye and to raise her own pint to her lips. “Anything you've got in the way of problem clichds from being cricket-obsessed, we've got tenfold in the Colonies with baseball-and basketball-and football-obsessing fans. Trust me.”

  “Even the police jargon uses cricket terms,” he countered. “We play in a witness or a suspect before any serious interrogation begins. As we did with the rat brothers back there today. We began with the weather, the cursed traffic, the latest on the Royal Family and the current political crisis. Then the suspect plays himself in, as it were.”

  “We do the same where I come from. It's called reeling him in, from fishing expedition to having baited your hook to landing the big one.”

  He challenged on another front, a smile lurking behind his countenance. “At least your government has its house in order,” he said, making her instantly laugh.

  “Are you kidding?”

  'To some degree, yes, but look here, our government can make a far greater muckery of statesmanship than yours any calendar day of the week.”

  “A muckery? Do you mean mockery?”

  “I said muckery, and I mean muckery. The British government makes a muck of everything it touches.”

  “In about the same way the U.S. government makes a mess of things?”

  “I hope you're not suggesting there's any room for comparison? Your American politicians might mess around, but ours muck about. They muck in places they have no business mucking. They pretend the exercise is a mental one, but we know what total mucks they are, despite the cloak of words they spew forth. They need to muck out Parliament and start over. They need to put every single one of those Parliamentarians in a muck to sweat and off their duffs. They spend their lives on the never-never. The whole business of government here has become an idle nonsense like… as in Alice's Wonderland.”

  “Are you through mucking over Parliament?”