‘An absolute pleasure mixed with delight for this son of a Wisconsin cowpuncher to finally make your acquaintance, Toby, old bean, eh what.’
Algie tried to stop himself listening in on two people who had nothing to offer to the world, as far as he was concerned and turned away, but like a fly which had stumbled on a rotting carcase, he was drawn to the pair, and seconds later he was at it again.
‘I assure you, you invest five thousand pounds and before the year is out, it will have, wait for it, not doubled it, but trebled. At least. I can show you my costing.’
The third Earl looked at his interlocutor dubiously.
‘You know about the law of supply and demand, don’t you, Toby, old bean?’ But he did not wait for an answer.
‘In the book of this sonofabitch hick from Wisconsin, where there is a demand, there are good profits to be made if you can do the supplying, isn’t that right?’ Maldicott nodded and stifled a yawn.
‘Yessir, but Bleek’s second law of trade is, where there is no demand, but supply is possible, then you gad-damn create the demand.’ If his bon mot did not cause even a chuckle from the Englishman, his own ensuing explosion of hilarity more than made up for it.
‘The first step towards your first million then, is to work out the area where a demand exists, and study the means of supplying. Then you take the plunge. Now, I have a few areas that I have studied, and if you are willing to join forces with me, I will give you the details.’ Maldicott’s interest seemed to be stirring just a tad.
‘Take drunkenness. I know a foolproof method for making money from that. First, get the politicians, the priests, and similar meddlers, preaching against alcoholism. Then urge your senator … here it would be your M.P. ... to push for a bill outlawing the sale of the devil drink-’
‘But I thought you were telling me about how to get folks drinking, Hiram.’
‘I am, old chap,’ the man from Wisconsin laughed, ‘that’s the beauty of it. You see, when beers and spirits are no longer available legally, the enterprising supplier gets his sources to produce the stuff and he sells them in secret at a price of his choosing.’
‘Then there is gambling. We’re all born gamblers, but folks spend peanuts in clubs and street corners. In Europe, not England, they’ve sort of got the idea, but they apply it with timidity. They have casinos at sea-side resorts. I foresee the creation of massive centres devoted to serious gambling. Every town will clamour for one, and the profits would be astronomical.’ Algie could see that Maldicott was now hooked.
‘I’ll give you one final example. Narcotics. Have you noticed who are the people who indulge? The high-born, aristocrats, the very rich. Or the very rich criminal class. That’s less than half of one percent of the population. As an American, I am an egalitarian. They should be for everybody. As you know most of them are addictive, so once they are encouraged to have a taste, they become hooked. My idea is first to give people free samples, then when they begin to go mad with cravings, you charge them what you want.’ Algie was thoroughly disgusted by the amorality of the man. The English aristocrat went through the motion of expressing some slight reservation here.
‘Look here, Hiram, I’m no moralist, believe me, but does it not worry you... I mean the effect these schemes of yours would surely have on innocent folks? Wouldn’t your conscience trouble you?’ The American seemed delighted, and tapped his companion on the leg.
‘Of course, Toby. But you can ease your pangs by setting aside a small part of your profits to philanthropy. Which justifies me calling myself entreprenure and philanthropist.’ The Englishman was now staring at the man from Wisconsin with something like admiration.
‘Now to my concrete proposition Toby, old bean. Tell me, who are the most disfavoured class in London?’ But Hiram J Bleek was not going to wait for an answer. ‘I’ll tell you: orphans and abandoned children. Shivering tatterdemalions, sir. Mudlarks and ragamuffins, starving waifs and penniless street urchins, homeless strays, beggar-girls. Tatterdemalions. Don’t you agree? Of course you do, Toby.’ Algie thought that the fellow rather liked the word Tatterdemalion- a recent acquisition to his vocabulary?
‘Tell me, your lordship,’ he spluttered on, as the Englishman became aware of some semi-liquid substance emanating from the mouth of the man opposite landing on his cheeks. ‘Tell me, when you are in entrepenureship (sic), and you have an excess of a certain commodity, how do you deal with that situation?’ At this point he alarmed his listener by leaning forward, tapping him with some force on the knees and bursting into raucous laughter. ‘But of course, Toby, you hit it right between the eyes, you son of a gun. You capitalize on your asset, that’s exactly what you do. And there was I, thinking that an Englishman needed a lesson in sound business practice from a gad-damn Yankee! You capitalize it, my good chep, eh what.’
Lord Clarihoe whose interest in what the Yankee was saying to the paedophile was beginning to grow, thought that he would pay more interest to the conversation, but as the reader, inured in the traditions of fiction would have guessed, at this very moment Lord Bickeringstone appeared at the door.
That was a year ago. He had told his friends in Water Lane about it, and then promptly forgotten the incident until now. For some time the press had been full of stories of children going missing. Mr Stead’s Pall Mall Gazette, which had pioneered investigative journalism, had sent his best reporters to look into this, and until now, all they gathered were disparate bits of information, vaguely connecting the disappearance with the sex trade. That was nothing new. There were eye-witnesses purporting to have seen people described as the debonair Schultz and Abélard Léopold Cachefesse, well-known pimps and placeurs, inveigling little girls with sweets and marshmallows, bonbons and ribbons, in parks and public places. The Belgian Schultz was a handsome Lothario who was very proficient in the art of worming his way into the affection of the young of the female sex. He knew how to flatter those love-starved and downtrodden little innocents, and gain their confidence, only to betray it after by violating them and passing them on to Mrs Jeffries and women of her ilk. There were a handful of these sombre individuals doing much the same work. Vague rumours began reaching London about a place (or places) where these little geishas were kept well-fed and comfortable, taught comportment and deportment, for the delectation of the aficionados of pre-pubertal flesh. It was believed that this phenomenon arose and was nurtured from the fear of catching rampant venereal diseases. You catch your nymphettes young and the risks are minimised. However, serious investigations had yielded no concrete result, and most people dismissed the little that was found as tittle-tattle.
Inspector Minahan, who had been sacked from the Force for insisting on carrying out his duties to the letter, against the specific instruction of Commissioner Douglas Labalmondière, whose habit of looking the other way lest people of a certain class, to whom he was beholden be caught with their trousers down- literally, knew more about the intricacies of the sex trade than almost anybody else in London. He had often crossed swords with Mary Watts, Mrs Jeffries’ so-called secretary. Some said Sapphic lover.
There is a strange phenomenon which has been described in print, usually fiction, of the relationship between two people with diametrically opposite beliefs, who purportedly hate each other, but who, nevertheless, enjoy each other’s company, if only for the opportunity of spitting out their venom at each other. Jeremiah Minahan and Mary Watts were two such people. One, a man of principle and integrity who would never tell a lie even if his life depended upon it, and the other, a woman of no virtue, who facilitated the moral and physical decay of little girls as young as ten or eleven. Of society itself. When they met, insults flew in both directions, like sparks from a cackling bonfire. Yet, both would admit to themselves afterwards that they had enjoyed the exchanges.
Minahan, having read the Gazette, took it upon himself to discover whether there was any truth in Mr Stead’s assertion that the disappearance of young children was on the rise. He suspected th
at after he himself had done his best to draw attention to this sad state of affairs, the public was becoming more educated in this matter, thus making it appear so. Inevitably, he too, better-informed than most people, having heard the rumours of alleged grooming, was readier to give credence to it. He wondered whether Mary Watts might shed some light upon this.
He knew where to find her. Barbara had made some sandwiches and a Thermos flask (a welcome present from her father the Reverend Hughes) of sweet tea for him, and he set out early to Cremorne Gardens. On foot. He was a believer in the virtues of walking, and had little money to spare on bus fares anyway. If the entremetteuse was not around, he would come back next day, the exercise would do him some good. But he did not need to do. As he had hoped, she was inside the Tea House, seated by herself at a table with a pot of tea and a large plate with a mountain of patisserie in front of her. She saw the Irishman looking at her through the window, and smiled at him like an old friend. When the ex-policeman did not move away, she understood that he wished to talk to her, and with a broad smile beckoned him in. He needed no second invitation.
‘My dear friend, what a pleasure to see you. Haven’t seen you since … last time. And it will be an honour for me to offer you some small collation, knowing your impecunious state of affairs. Your own fault, as I’ve had the opportunity of telling you. Why you naughty man, you didn’t have to disobey your bosses and try to close us down. We offer a service and deserve medals and not aspersions. Without us, women would be raped all the time. And trust me, would starve, for you see, we provide them with an income.’ That was an unfailing theme of hers, and Minahan sometimes suspected that she truly believed this nonsense.
‘Mary Watts, you remind me of something which happened last month when we were invited to my wife Barbara’s rich uncle in Norwood. They played some music on a ... Berliner Gramophone, I believe it’s called. I am sure that with all your immoral earnings you possess that contraption yourself. It was an aria by Jenny Lind: Prendi, prendi, per me, sei libero. And as I was saying, something happened, and the needle went in a groove. All you could hear was per me, sei libero … per me, sei libero... a hundred times, before her uncle stopped it.
‘What are you talking about, Minahan? Have you gone completely bonkers all of a sudden?’
‘I was saying that you are like that aria in its groove, constantly repeating itself. Every time we meet you embark upon the same diatribe. I’ll have you know that I have never regretted my course of action. Poverty is much preferable to me and my dear wife to wealth gained by sinful practices. Even if I’m no longer in the Force, whenever I can put a stick in your wheels, I will gladly do so.’
‘Good. And we will break your stick as we have always done and throw the bits in your face, you silly Irishman. Come on drink your tea and eat your profiterolles. I’m sure you cannot afford luxuries like that on the pittance you make chasing stray husbands.’ The good nature inherent in her tone was not necessarily a counterfeit.
Mary Watts was well aware that Minahan was not in the Gardens by accident. ‘So why have you sought me out, Minahan?’ He told her that he wanted to know whether according to her and her satanic clique, there had indeed been a rise in the number of girls being trafficked. Mary nodded wearily.
‘Good question that. Perhaps we could employ you to find out, I’m sure you need the income. We keep hearing of all those girls going missing, but you won’t believe this, we’ve been experiencing great shortages lately, to the extent that we’ve had to rely more and more on housewives to moonlight for us. Something strange there. You would know all about the laws of supply and demand. When they don’t match, the business suffers. Well, we are in the situation whereby demand is in excess of supply by a ratio of more than two to one.’
‘And why is that, according to you?’
‘We are at a loss. Not the faintest idea.’
‘Could it be that other agencies have joined the fray?’
‘It would appear to be the only explanation. Do find out Minahan, and tell us. We will reward you handsomely.’ Before the ex-Inspector opened his mouth, Mary Watts burst out laughing.
‘Now, you are going to be like that gramophone record yourself. You’ve told me a hundred times that you’d rather starve than take a single penny from us.’
‘I’m glad you remember.’
‘Yes, but your conscience did not stop you tucking into my profiterolles, paid for, as you so aptly but inelegantly put it, by my immoral earnings, did it?’ He was stumped and chose silence.
At the same time as this little scene was being played in Cremorne, Irene and friends were having a special lunch to celebrate and rejoice in the fact that the Obituary Columns in the morning newspapers showed that not one of their acquaintance had passed away in the night. (Last time they had a little celebration, it was on Wednesday the ninth. Because “Wednesday” had nine letters.) Armande had only received a colis from her cousin in Lorient the day before, and thought of sharing its contents with the six members of the Club present. Cousin Fernand had included a canard confït among the many délices sent, to say nothing of the pâté de foie gras. Present besides Irene and their hostess, were Algie, Bartola, Traverson and Ivan Vissarionovich. She planned to open a bottle of Riesling d’Alsace and a Beaujolais Nouveau which she had brought over from France when she came back from the continent three weeks ago. This happy little prandial interlude will be left to the imagination of the reader, as the agenda here, is the story of the disappearance of little girls, which was fast claiming exclusivity over all topics of conversation in Water Lane.
‘Hiram J. Bleek Junior of Wisconsin, U.S. Of A!’ said Algie suddenly, slapping his forehead with the palm of his right hand. He had a habit of ejaculating some sentence unconnected with the present conversation out of the blue.
‘Oo, the devil are yoo spikking of?’ enquired Armande.
‘Oh yes, you mentioned him a few of months ago,’ said Irene, coming to the rescue of her husband. A little reminder here: They were only nominally married, as the young lord had to placate his irascible father who did not approve of inversion, as he called it. It was of course a mariage blanc, but the warmth of their relationship never ceased to amaze the Club.
‘You will recall that I expressed some consternation after a man I had seen at pater’s club, the Cumberland, described himself as a philanthropist and offered to treble an investment of five thousand pounds in a year for the accursed Lord Maldicott.’ Everybody nodded vigorously, as they recalled the story of the conversation at the Cumberland. That man, he reminded his friends, was Hiram J. Bleek Junior.
‘Yes,’ conceded Bartola, ‘but that was almost a year ago. Why did you suddenly cry out of the … merda, I forget the colour.’
‘Blue?’ suggested Irene.
‘Why did you cry out his name out of the blue? Hiram J Bleek Junior? Why didn’t you cry out John P. Smith of Highbury, London?’ That was a typical Bartola interruption. Algie reminded his friends about what the American had said about the number of deprived children in London.
‘So,’ Armande enquired, ‘remind me, as yoo kno I ave a linnet’s ’ead. Did ee indicate zat ee was planning to bring some succour to zese benighted little sings?’ Algie took a deep breath, nodded and shook his head wearily. ‘From the fellow’s general bearing, I can now infer that if he was planning to bring anything to these benighted little people, it was misery and not succour. I’ll even risk a guess, to the effect that what he had in mind, was the opposite of the easement of their plight. I’m afraid, but it’s only a guess, that he might be involved in the disappearances that the newspapers are talking about. The notion just occurred to me, which answers Bartola’s question of why I had shouted his name and not John P. Smith of Highbury, London.’
‘We need a plan,’ suggested Irene, ‘we need to find out.’ Before Armande’s offerings had been entirely consumed, a proposition had been put forward, discussed, modified and approved. The first step, was to locate the man from Wisconsin.
First thing next morning, Clarihoe aimed for the Strand and rang the bell at the Cumberland. It was the very man he had come to see who opened the door for him: Albert Curton the Doorman.
‘Come right up, my Lord,’ Albert said in his usual dry tone with each syllable carefully avoiding any contact with the preceding one.
‘No Curton, I won’t. I’ve only come to check something with you.’ He noticed a visible glint of pleasure in the eyes of the Cerberus.
‘Do you remember ushering in a Mr Hiram J. Bleek Junior some months ago?’
‘Ve-ry clearl-y my lord. He was re-com-mended by Lord Mal-di-cott. It was pro-ba-bly a whole year a-go sir.’
‘Is that right? Would you know where I can find him?’ At this juncture, Algie slipped a silver crown worth five good shillings into the man’s hand. Albert positively glowed with pleasure, and explained that as a rule, he never listened to Cumberlanders, but without meaning to, he had gleaned that the man from Wisconsin lodged at Wheels when he was in London.
‘And would you be-lieve, Lord Cla-ri-hoe, if the good lord did not grant me good looks at my birth, he gave me a sound me-mo-ry. I for-get no-thing sir.’
‘Tell me, Curton, what else did you pick up without meaning to?’ Algie said winking at the doorman in a conspiratorial manner.
Albert had understood that Bleek was negotiating the acquisition of a grand mansion outside London, and that the deal was only a few days away. That was last time he was here, eight months and three weeks ago.’
‘Any idea where that mansion would be, Curton?’ He did not, but he guessed that it was less than fifty miles away. What made him say that? He had arrived late morning, and had seemed travel-weary, implying that he had just arrived into London.
‘As a ree-sult, sir, I take it that it would have been less than fif-ty miles a-way.’ Algie was on the point of beating a retreat and consider other strategies when Albert said that he had one last information his lordship might like to have. Hiram J.Bleek Jr had mentioned that he came to London on business at least once a week. That was what gave Irene’s husband the idea of booking a room at the Wheels, a well-appointed hotel at the edge of Marble Arc.
Sherlock Holmes Vs Irene Adler: A Duel of Wits (The Irene Adler Series Book 4) Page 6
