Some Danger Involved bal-1

by Will Thomas

  "So," Barker said, "the Camorra has no interests in Aldgate."

  Gigliotti's eyes grew big and the knuckles of his hand that held the wineglass were suddenly white.

  "I don't know where you got that term, Mr. Barker, but I suggest you never use it in my presence again. I don't care how big a fish you are, there are bigger ones than you."

  Barker smiled. "I like to swim with the big fish."

  "A swim with the fishes in the Thames can be arranged within the hour!"

  The men standing guard suddenly grew tense, and I feared there would be gunplay, but Barker gave a sudden shrug.

  "Not necessary, sir. I think we understand one another. Forgive myЕ poor choice of words. I am so often among the rough element of my trade that I sometimes lose my tact."

  "Apology accepted." The tension, or most of it, eased out of the room. "So, to the best ofЧ"

  There was a loud bang at the back of the room, which made everyone jump, and the fellow by the staircase reached inside his jacket. In the back, the other guard's chair had fallen, and a man was helping him up. Or so it appeared. But when the man was upright, it was obvious he wasn't conscious, and the individual who set him up again had just come in through the back door.

  "Giorgio!" Gigliotti called and waved him toward us. He flashed those wolfish teeth at us again. "That fellow we were talking about, the one you believe shot at your little friend hereЧ I thought you might like to question him yourself."

  Now it was I who stood, ready to fly out of the door or defend myself at a second's notice. This was the man Racket had seen in the street who had attempted to murder me in cold blood. He was a big, stocky fellow, in a loud checked suit the color of Coleman's Mustard. His face was ruddy, and he had short, curly black hair and a beard. There was an air of menace and violence about him as he came toward us. He came right up to Barker, ignoring the rest of the room, and put a hand on his lapel. Barker looked up and regarded him.

  "I hear you been looking for me," he said, in a high, reedy voice and, of all things, a Cockney accent.

  "Good to see you again, Serafini," Barker said calmly.

  "It ain't good seein' your ugly mug, Barker. It ha'n't been near long enough. Word on the street says you're trying to frame me for something." As he spoke, I saw his thumb wander across my employer's throat and dig into the bundle of arteries and muscle in his neck. I watched the jugular vein stand out prominent and blue.

  Barker appeared not to notice for a moment, and then casually, as if swatting at a fly, his hand came up and plucked the hand away. He twisted the hand around, facing its owner, then bore down on the wrist. Serafini frowned at the pain and attempted to turn his hand around again, but Barker had control of it. Serafini stepped back, but the Guv moved in the same direction, anticipating his every move. The Italian had no choice but to fall backward onto the hard tile. Barker stepped by him, still twisting the arm as he went, and rested his boot against the man's chest. Any move on Serafini's part would result in a separation at the shoulder joint.

  "Give it up, Giorgio," Gigliotti purred. "You're hopelessly outclassed. You know Mr. Barker's reputation. Our friend here is the most scientific and the dirtiest fighter in England."

  Barker didn't talk but hefted Serafini into a chair so violently that it skittered across the tile a foot. The man glared at my employer, and his face was now as red as a side of beef.

  "I haven't said you did anything," Barker said. "I'm asking you. Were you paid to shoot at my assistant?"

  "I was not," he said, sullenly.

  "And did you shoot at him?"

  "No, I didn't. I've never even seen this pipsqueak before. If I'm sent to kill someone, I kills 'em. I'm h'on the job every hour, day and night, until it's finished. I heard all about the little muck-up. If I'd missed the first shot, d'you think I'd run? No! I'd drop the cabman and come in and finish the job at my leisure. It don't matter if I'm seen. What can't be bought off can be warned off."

  "There you have it, gentlemen," Gigliotti said, "the answer to your question. You are dealers in logic, and the fact that this little fellow still lives is proof that the great Serafini did not try to kill him."

  "Serafini don't try anyfing!" the assassin bellowed.

  Barker stood. "Very well, gentlemen, you have convinced me. Mr. Serafini, please forgive any pain I may have caused you, emotionally and physically. I suggest ice for yourЕ erЕ gun hand. As for you, Mr. Gigliotti, you are, as always, the consummate host. Excellent food, and ah! The fine entertainment. May we use your back door?"

  Gigliotti waved a hand toward the rear and bawled over his shoulder, "Antony, forget the gelato. Bring Giorgio an espresso and some ice."

  We left the restaurant, and I was never so glad to leave a place in my life. On the way out I noticed that the man at the back door was still unconscious. At least, I hoped he was just unconscious.

  The alleyway was a simple and ancient lane with a sewer trough in the middle and two rows of anonymous doors. I sensed danger as soon as we stepped outside, and there was a movement in the shadows. I ducked, and just beside me came the sharp sound of metal against the rough brick of the wall. A long, thin dagger clattered at my feet.

  "Round the corner, lad, now!" my employer barked. I didn't need a second invitation. There was a small figure approaching in the darkness of the alley. Barker made an abrupt movement, a sudden reaching motion toward it, and a shriek echoed through an alleyway, followed by a volley of curses in a high voice. I reached the street and turned into a shop front, awaiting developments. Barker appeared a moment later, as casually as you please, and began stuffing his pipe, scanning both sides of the street.

  "Who was that?" I asked.

  "Serafini's wife," came the unlikely response. "Serafini's a pussycat compared to the missus. You don't get one without the other, you know. The woman's practically feral."

  "What did you do?"

  "Oh, I gave her a lesson in kind. One shouldn't throw knives in public."

  "You threw a knife at her?" I asked, incredulously.

  "Of course not," he answered, with an air of innocence. "I merely gave her a token of my esteem."

  "What is the Camorra?" I asked, remembering the name and its effect upon Gigliotti.

  "It, or rather they are one of the crime families of Naples. Like their rivals, the 'Ndrangheta of Calabria and the Mafia of Sicily, they rode into power on the coattails of Garibaldi. They've divided the country into personal city-states, concentrating power like the Medicis."

  I shook my head in wonder. "How did you come by the knowledge, if I may ask?"

  "It is my duty to know it," he said, once his pipe was lit. "These societies have very long arms, reaching all the way to London, and anywhere else its immigrants go."

  "So there's a headquarters of an Italian criminal organization in Westminster, but a stone's throw from Buckingham Palace? I can hardly believe it."

  "Yes," Barker said, with one of his rumbling laughs. "London's a right raucous old lass when you get to know her, isn't she?"

  17

  We walked for several blocks, while my heart rate slowly returned to normal. Barker appeared to be moving to some purpose, for at one street, he pointed and began moving in another direction. We had reached Belgravia and were heading east, I think. Ornate shopwindows offered chocolates, jewelry, and all of the other baubles of a spoiled society. All was splendor and respectability here. It was hard to imagine that ten minutes ago a madwoman had thrown a dagger at me.

  "Did she really mean to kill us?"

  "That was no rubber knife she threw, Thomas."

  "But if they're telling the truth, and it was some other chap dressed as Serafini, why did she throw the knife at me?"

  "She's a vindictive little vixen and dangerous as a king cobra. I just humiliated her husband in there, and she dotes on the fellow."

  We walked on for a minute or two, by the pretty shops full of books and millinery. I must admit I'd had some most interesting conversations s
ince I began this case. "What was it you threw at her?" I asked my employer.

  He reached into his coat pocket and placed a penny in my hand. I was perplexed, until I noticed that the edges had been ground down to bladelike sharpness all around. I flipped the heavy coin into the air a time or two, and let it rest in the flat of my palm. "One of my calling cards," he stated.

  "Can you hit a target with this?"

  "As easily as a bullet. There were rough gangs in Foochow, where I grew up, and any coin or piece of metal that came to hand could become a weapon. We used to make rude targets out of boards and rice sacking and practice for hours."

  "It sounds to me as if you had a very interesting childhood."

  "Interesting enough, as childhoods go," he said, but I could get nothing further out of him on the subject.

  "So where are we going now?"

  "Jermyn Street, to look up an old acquaintance."

  "Another of your 'watchers'?"

  "No, lad, a suspect. Or, at least, I hope he is."

  "YouЕ hope?"

  "I desperately hope. It is Nightwine."

  "The explorer? I thought he was dead."

  Barker shook his head. "Not Elias Nightwine, but his son, Sebastian. Perhaps you recall that the father, aside from his travels in Asia, wrote several books espousing what he called 'social atheism.' Something like, If there is no God, then to whom are we accountable, and how is society to be restructured in the new century? Anyway, he voiced these ideas up until his unfortunate demise in a hunting accident in Africa two years ago, leaving his son with a valuable estate just in time to pay off Sebastian's list of creditors and some gambling debts."

  "Are you suggesting he may have killed his own father?"

  "I'm suggesting that he has no respect for human life whatever. Any form of conscience was trained out of him by his father. He's one of the most dangerous men I've ever come across."

  "Incredible," I said. "How does this fit in with the Jews?"

  "As an avowed atheist, he has a strong aversion to the Bible and its people. More importantly, I've received information that he's consolidating power among the underworld in London, using extortion and other methods. He lives high and goes through money like water. Sooner or later, he'll try to frighten the Jews, who have a strong, conservative money base in the City. A public crucifixion is just the sort of grand display he'd attempt in order to spread fear among them. This is all speculation, of course, and were I to say it in public, I'd be swarming with solicitors in a trice, for he is litigious to a fault. Nevertheless, it rings true, as you shall see in a few minutes."

  Jermyn Street is known for its boot makers and its bachelor apartments, and any up-and-coming young men on the Exchange or in the Home Office would be sure to have chambers there. Mr. Nightwine had not contented himself with a mere pied-а-terre, but had taken out an entire residence. His white brick housefront had an air of respectability about it, which was augmented by a solid-looking and phlegmatic butler, to whom Barker presented his card.

  "If you gentlemen will wait here in the hall, I shall see if the master is in residence," he said, and left us to cool our heels.

  Any air of solidity and British wholesomeness that the butler may have given the house departed with him when he left. The entrance was lined on all sides by graphic evidence of the master's worldwide travels. Glass eyes glared at us from all sides, framed within still forms that had once lived and breathed. Creatures from almost every continent stood in mute attitudes of menace, a silent tribute to the taxidermist's art. It was not the only home in London which bore testament to a fellow's prowess with a rifle, but it was the most singular. All of the animals in this menagerie were white.

  Within their niches, polar bears, Siberian tigers, white wolves, and albino lions stood rampant. The heads of American bison and African rhinoceroses of the same bleached hue stared blankly from the wall. It was unnerving, to say the least. Even Barker looked a trifle uncomfortable.

  "Er, I forgot to mention, lad, that he is nominally a big-game hunter, though he makes his money at cards and speculation."

  "Remarkable," I said. For a moment, I had the mental picture of their master coming in and, with one word, unleashing all these ungodly creatures to tear us apart. Instead, the butler returned and bowed to us.

  "If you gentlemen will please follow me."

  He led us down a more prosaic but opulent hall and finally ushered us through glass doors, into a large conservatory. Inside, the heat was oppressive and the lofty palm trees pressing against the panes high overhead gave a tropical jungle feeling to the room. Parrots and other birds, and even a monkey or two, screeched in the trees. A hammock was strung high above us, and a long, white, feline tail as thick as a rope waved lazily in the heat. The butler led us to a circle of cane chairs, where the master of the house was seated.

  He was a tall, well-built man of about thirty years of age. I've seldom seen so broad a chest, and I couldn't help but think some rugby team would be glad of his assistance. His skin was bronze from the sun, save for a near snowy whiteness above his eyes and his upper lip, where hair grew. His blond mustache was waxed fashionably and his hair was thick with a tendency to fall forward, which he remedied by occasionally pushing it up with one hand. The most remarkable feature was his eyes, a deep golden color; they regarded you speculatively, as if you were prey. He was quick to smile, but it was a smile that left one cold. His hand rested on a small glass dome, the kind one uses for watches or trinkets. Altogether, it was as if someone had stuffed a tiger into a suit of clothes.

  "Mr. Barker, what a pleasant surprise. Forgive me if I do not offer you my hand."

  "Not at all. I would not take it," Barker responded.

  "You almost missed me. I was just off to the club to play baccarat with the Prince of Wales. What brings you here? No, don't tell me. I have not been a witness to any crime lately, so I can only assume you are here to inform me that I am a suspect. What have I done this time? Stolen the crown jewels, perhaps, or deprived one of the Queen's grandchildren of its rattle?"

  "Neither, Mr. Nightwine, though now that you mention them, I'll be sure to see that both are in order. No, I've come about the Jews."

  "You mean that crucifixion business? Of course, I should have wondered when you'd get around to me. Was it symbolic, do you think, Mr. Barker? The atheist nails Christianity and Judaism to the cross a final time? Oh, big bad me. What a rotter I am. Very well, I confess. I did it. Put on your bracelets or your thumbscrews or whatever, and have me hauled off to Newgate. Another crime solved by the great enquiry agent."

  Barker's cheeks were beginning to redden with emotion. He was just keeping his temper in check. "Spare me your attempts at humor. I'm barely worth the effort."

  Nightwine's face fell, and there was a snarl on his lips. "I agree. Barker, the last thing I need to do is defeat the Jews. They are already defeated. Tiberius Caesar saw to that. As far as I am concerned, their presence in history has been merely a highly overemphasized footnote, thanks to that stupid little book they created. It's the biggest collection of fables and fairy stories ever written down, and its popularity only shows how anxious the low intellects of the world are to seize upon anything in which to believe. The Jews were an obscure people, and they are still. I would not waste my time on them."

  Barker cleared his throat. "I need not mention how many millions of pounds in the Bank of England are in their hands, or what influence they have in this City. You always need money, especially with the little business enterprise you've got going in the East End. Have the Jews proven obstinate to your plan to extort money? Did you need to set an example, perhaps?"

  "If I did, I certainly wouldn't sign it with that hackneyed Anti-Jewish League, or whatever they call themselves. There would be no doubt from whence came the threat. Besides, the Jews know their place. One word from me in the proper ears and I could make it quite intolerable for them. But as I said, they do not interest me, and they won't unless your continued pers
ecution causes me to make an example of them."

  Just then he took his hand away from the glass dome. Inside was one of those ghastly native trophies, a shrunken head, its eyes and lips sewn shut. Pale hair sprouted from the upper lip and connected to the side-whiskers. It had once been a white man, some poor chap going out to the colonies to seek his fortune.

  "Your little girlfriend looks faint," Nightwine said. "I suggest you take her home."

  I sat up in my cane chair. I knew he was merely trying to bait me, but it almost worked. My first instinct was to go over to him and wring his neck, but I remembered Barker's instructions and kept my temper in check. It was a good thing, for my chair gave a sudden lurch, as the large albino panther cat came by, rubbing itself along the chair's arm as well as my own. From my vantage point of a foot and a few inches, I saw the gray, ghostlike spots on its ivory back, like sooty footprints. It sauntered over to its master, who scratched it behind the ear. The creature stretched his head up into Nightwine's hand.

  "This is Bolivar, gentlemen. He was captured along the Brazil-Venezuelan border a few months ago. He nearly killed a porter. I'm teaching him proper London deportment, and a taste for private detectives."

  "A very pretty little pet, Mr. Nightwine, but let us get back to the matter at hand," Barker said. "Can you tell me where you were on the night of the fifteenth?"

  "I can tell you to go to the Devil."

  "You're making progress, Mr. Nightwine. I thought you didn't believe in deities, Heaven, and Hell."