by Will Thomas
"But I have not come to speak to you about Zionism. That is in the future. What of now? Sirs, our unknown adversaries are emboldened by our timidity. Our fear gives them courage. Certainly, not all Englishmen wish us ill. I say to you, stand fast! We can go no further west. It is time to turn and fight!
"Do you think Rabbi Ben Loew will build a golem to defend us as he did in Prague three hundred years ago? If so, you are naive. To this day, we do not know where the clay remains are hidden. It is up to us, then, to build our own golem, to patrol our own streets. We cannot be complacent and rely upon the London Metropolitan Police to safeguard our interests. I cannot speak for every one of you; each one of us must weigh his personal needs against the common good. I merely wish to state that there comes a time when one must put aside commercial interests and lift the sword. Those of you who are willing to defend your people in Aldgate, Spitalfields, and Whitechapel, please leave your names and addresses at the door. Your women, your little brothers and sisters, and your old men look to you for support and safety. How shall you young lions of Judah respond?"
The speaker stepped back, and by some prearranged cue, the gaslights were extinguished and the baize curtain raised. I noticed several fellows by the door with clipboards. Men were almost forcing their names on them. As I brushed by, I saw a few stares in my direction. I found myself in an absurd position. I was no Jew, and yet I felt as if I was betraying them by not leaving my name and address. Also, I was already in the employ of a man hired to combat this very evil, yet I could not reveal that fact now. As it was, I lowered my head and slunk from the room, with an inexplicable feeling of guilt.
Back in Flower and Dean Street, I watched the meeting gradually disperse. Reasoning that Barker might have returned and be concerned for my welfare, I began to wend my way back to Brick Lane when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jumped.
"So, there was a wolf among the sheep, eh?" Israel Zangwill said, an ironic smile on his face. He wore a coat with an Astrakhan collar and a Homburg hat.
"No wolves," I assured him with a laugh. "Merely a Gentile dog, trying to guard the sheep. Somehow I got scooped up in the shearing. Did you sign up?"
"Of course." The little teacher looked at me seriously.
"Without knowing the plans? Or do you know?"
"Not a word. But I trust them all the same. The speaker was Asher Cowen, a good fellow. He's helped organize some soup kitchens in the area and a center for our aged. Asher gets things done. So, how progresses the investigation?"
"To be truthful, I have no idea. This is my first case. I was only hired a couple of weeks ago. Mr. Barker keeps his opinions close to his vest."
Zangwill smiled. I think I had won him over with my candor. "You surprise me, Mr. Llewelyn. Ira Moskowitz has us convinced that you are a master spy and detective. You are his hero, now, I believe."
The idea seemed patently ridiculous. "There is no wretch less worthy of being worshipped than I, Mr. Zangwill."
"Israel, please. I won't disabuse Ira of his fantasy just yet. It has caused him to clean up his room somewhat, though he rather neglects his studies now for the works of Poe and Collins."
"I regret coming between him and his studies."
"He's always looking for an excuse. But come, must you rush off to meet your mysterious boss, or can you stop for a cup of coffee?"
I thought it over for a moment. I didn't know whether Barker was frantic over my disappearance or off somewhere about his business without a care about me. Certainly, I should find out, but it might be helpful to stop and talk with Zangwill. He'd already been involved in much of the case.
"If we could stop by the Bucharest for a moment, I'll check in with Mr. Barker. I'd enjoy a cup of coffee with you."
"Excellent!" the teacher cried. "We'll stop, and then I'll take you to my club." He broke into a grin. With his long nose and wide smile, he looked like Shakespeare's Puck.
"You belong to a club?"
"Of course. Come along, then."
We headed west, one hand in our respective pockets, and the other firm on the brims of our hats, for the north wind was growing blustery.
"So," I said, "what exactly is a golem?"
"He is a large creature made of clay, brought to life by magic, rather like Frankenstein's monster. A famous rabbi brought him to life to defend the Jews of Prague a few centuries ago, if one believes the legend."
"This fellow Cowen surely doesn't intend to build a magical golem of clay, does he?"
"Why not? We've done it before, we can do it again."
"I find a clay man marching around the East End a trifle hard to believe," I confessed.
"Fine. We'll make him out of steel and run him on steam, then. This is the nineteenth century, after all."
Barker was nowhere to be found in Brick Lane. I searched for his familiar form in all directions and even asked the proprietor if any instructions had been left for me. Nothing. Zangwill and I pressed on.
We were walking down Cornhill Street when my companion suddenly tugged me into a narrow and ancient lane. Old entrances to shops and warehouses stood but a few yards from each other, and so close were they that the lanterns at each entrance burned continuously, or the street would have been forever in shadow.
"Where are we?" I asked.
"Use your nose, Mr. Detective. It is Saint Michael's Alley."
I had heard of it before, though I'd never been there. It was the center of the West Indies trade. The air in this cloistered street was redolent of the coffee and tobacco that were stored in the old warehouses and served in the ancient coffeehouses that lined the street. Zangwill stopped in front of a dark-windowed establishment called the Barbados and opened the door. "My club," he murmured, ushering me in.
It was black as pitch inside. The room had a comfortable smell of coffee and Virginia Cavendish. I made out a row of dark wooden pews bracketing tables lit by small candles. We stood until a waiter came up to us out of the gloom and conducted us to a booth.
"MrЕ. Zangwill, is it not? And you, sir. I don't believe we've seen you before," the waiter, or rather the proprietor, said, looking at me. He was an imperious fellow, about five and fifty, without a hair on his head.
"I'd like to sponsor this fellow for membership," Zangwill declared, placing fourpence on the table. I was mystified at this. Was this yet another secret cabal? Was nothing as it seemed anymore? The proprietor had me fill out a card with my name, address, and date of birth, then he left us. We hadn't even ordered coffee yet.
"†'Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,'†" I quipped.
"You just wait. You'll see you have joined a select little coterie, at some expense to an impoverished teacher."
The owner returned with a large tray. He handed Zangwill an old clay churchwarden pipe, and gave a fresh white new one to me. Setting down a pen and an inkwell, he had me print "T. Llewelyn" in minute letters on the stem. Then he left us with a wooden bowl full of fresh tobacco and a porcelain striker containing matches. We filled our long pipes and lit up. It felt rather silly, as if we were playing at Drake and Raleigh, but my friend took it rather seriously, and it would have been impolite to laugh at his expense. I had to admit it was convivial sitting there in the booth with a companion, two pipes, and a candle.
"I have a confession to make," my companion admitted. "Your employer makes my flesh creep. He looks like something of a golem himself. I think he rather intimidates me."
"Oh, Barker's all right," I said. "He's treated me dashedly well, bought me a whole new wardrobe and everything. I admit, he can scare the wits out of you at times, and between you and me, he's a walking arsenal, but as an employer he's not bad. He's teaching me the trade."
"Is it a trade?" Zangwill asked, sucking at his long stem.
"Well, not like any trade I've heard of before, but then, I'm no businessman."
"What did you do before Barker hired you?"
"Eight months for theft at Oxford Prison."
Zangwill cough
ed so hard, he nearly dropped his fragile pipe. At that point, the proprietor came up and my friend, if he was still my friend, ordered for us both. After he left, Zangwill looked me square in the eye.
"Very well, Thomas, confess. How did a bookish little fellow like yourself end up a hardened criminal?"
For the second time in twenty-four hours, I told the story of my life, though a much abbreviated and less personal version this time. Coffee came, and a small dessert which Zangwill jokingly called a "barrister's torte." He seemed fascinated by my story and was not evasive toward me in the least, as I had feared he might be upon hearing my history. We talked and smoked and drank several cups of the strong brew. I hadn't had a real friend since childhood. It felt good to sit here across from a fellow my own age and talk about anything that came into my head.
"A detective and a former convict with a tragic past. Oh, Becky shall eat this up."
"Who is Becky?" I asked, mystified.
"Rebecca Mocatta. Rabbi Mocatta's daughter. You're expected at their house tonight. Hasn't Barker told you?"
"Mr. Barker delights in keeping me in the dark and dancing like a marionette. I always suspect that all of London knows what I am doing before I do. How came you to hear of it?"
"Oh, Barker asked the rabbi, the rabbi informed his family, and Becky told me about it this morning. You're to be the Shabbes goy at their house inЕ," he consulted his watch, "well, in a few hours, I suppose."
I took in the news. "Forgive my ignorance, Israel, but just what is a Shabbes goy?"
"You are to keep the lamps and fires lit in their home overnight, since we Jews are forbidden to work on the Sabbath. You'll work from six in the evening tonight until six in the evening tomorrow night. Straight through. I hope you are well rested."
I thought of my few hours of drunken stupor the night before, and my headache suddenly began to return.
"Wonderful," I muttered.
"Well, Mrs. Mocatta is quite a dragon," my friend continued, "and the rabbi is no charmer, but you should get along fine. It's easy work; they generally give it to a child. But I must warn you to be careful around Becky. She's quite vivacious, and they guard her like a treasure. Only two daughters, you know, and she the younger and unmarried. Have a care, Thomas!"
"I'll try to control myself," I assured him, amused at his chiding.
The bill arrived and I pounced on it. The proprietor took possession of our pipes, which he stored with several hundred others in racks overhead. There they would sit, ready for use as long as we would live, Zangwill assured me, and when we passed away, they would be broken in a small but solemn ceremony. Who could ask more of any institution?
"Now you must sponsor someone yourself someday," Zangwill said. "But not just anybody. You must use foresight and discretion. Be selective."
"And where am I going to find a Welsh detective who was formerly a convict? We don't grow on trees, you know."
Zangwill laughed and patted me on the back as we parted company. "You're starting to sound like a Jew now."
Barker was once more seated at our table at the Bucharest. When he saw me approach, he shoved a thumb and finger under his bristly mustache and launched a loud whistle which reverberated off the buildings. There was a clatter of hooves, and Juno and Racket came rattling around the corner.
"Did you have an instructive morning?" he asked.
"I believe I did, yes."
"Climb aboard, and you can tell me all about it."
We climbed into our seats and I gave my employer all the particulars about the secret meeting, from the young man who rapped on my table at the Bucharest to the little ritual at the Barbados. I didn't tell him that Zangwill had revealed my schedule for the evening. It was my trump card.
"I didn't tell too much about our plans to Zangwill, did I? I assume he is a suspect."
"Certainly, he is very close to everything. We cannot rule him out just yet. But you revealed nothing. How is your head, by the way?"
"Not bad."
"Do you think you might be up for something a little out of the ordinary?"
"Of course, sir. Anything."
"I would like you to serve as a Shabbes goy for Rabbi Mocatta's family this evening and tomorrow."
"Ah," I said.
"You do know what a Shabbes goy is, do you not?"
"Of course." I did now. He looked a little taken aback.
"Excellent. I've told them you were newly hired and that I wanted you to see a typical Jewish home, since we do work for the Board of Deputies, of which Rabbi Mocatta is a member. Actually, of course, your purpose is to speak privately with Miss Mocatta. She was perhaps the only confidante of Louis Pokrzywa. If anyone would know about his private life, and the girl who wrote the notes at the Poplar Church, it would be her."
"Yes, sir."
"You had a hard night. Are you up to this?"
"I believe I am, sir."
"You should spend the afternoon resting. You'll be up for twenty-four hours in a row, and I want you sharp as a tack. I hear this Mrs. Mocatta is a corker."
"As you wish, sir."
Barker looked a little irritable. Perhaps he was put out at not getting to explain the duties of a Shabbes goy to me. "You're deucedly agreeable today. Is there anything I should know?"
"Not a thing, sir."
"Anything you're not telling me?"
"No, sir," I answered, all innocence.
We were at Barker's residence again. I climbed down out of the vehicle. "I'll have Racket here at five thirty, with directions to the rabbi's home."
"Aye, sir."
As I opened the door to our residence, the hansom rattled off in the direction of our offices.
23
Despite Barker's admonition to get some rest, I wasn't really sleepy, having just had several cups of coffee. There was no sign of Mac when I came in, and for a few moments I debated what to do. Should I go upstairs and obey my instructions, or try to read in the library? Perhaps I might have an early soak in the bathhouse.
The hall was so quiet, I could hear the murmuring of the stream in the back yard. I still had my coat on, so I went out to sit in the garden. I am no expert, but the garden appeared well laid out, and Barker's team of Chinese workers took excellent care of the place. Plants of all sorts were already pushing shoots up through the mulch. I peered for a moment through the glass walls of a small greenhouse. Barker certainly knew how to live.
There was a sudden clicking sound and a low curse. I was on my guard instantly. The sounds seemed to be coming from the alleyway behind the garden. I moved forward cautiously. The fence is eight feet high, and there is no way to see out except to open the gate. Carefully, I did so.
Etienne Dummolard was in the alleyway, pitching some sort of metal balls about. I couldn't imagine what he was doing there. It was past noon and he should have been at his restaurant.
"Good afternoon, Etienne."
"Thomas! Come play boules with me. I will teach you how. No Englishman is capable of learning the intricacies of the game, but you Welsh are Celts, are you not?"
"Yes," I said, and stepped forward. The game, as it turned out, was rather like lawn bowling: one rolls out the small jack, then tries to get closest to it with the heavy steel spheres. I've no great love for the English historically, knowing what they did to the Welsh, but I did believe them capable of comprehending the simple rules of the game.
"Shouldn't you be at the restaurant, Etienne?" I asked casually.
"Stupid woman," the Frenchman said under his breath.
"Who?"
"Madame Dummolard."
"Your wife?"
"My ruin! Do you know what she wants now? A saucier. A saucier! As if my sauces are not the greatest to be found outside of France. 'We're too busy, Etienne.' 'Let me get you some help, Etienne.' 'A saucier would give you more time, Etienne.' Ha!" He struck the jack.
I hazarded a guess. "So, you're playing petanque in frigid weather to teach her a lesson."
"Ou
i! She has the ambition of Napoleon. She will not rest until she has captured all of Soho. I don't know what to do with her."
"That's simple," I quipped. "Open up a restaurant in Waterloo."
The Frenchman's laugh started low in his giant stomach and erupted forcefully. He slapped me hard on the shoulder.
"It's good you are here, Thomas. You bring humor to the place. But now I am ashamed of myself. I have deprived London of my artistry and left Mireille ringing her hands, no doubt. Not that she does not deserve it. Saucier! Bah!" I helped him return the balls to the case lined with faded velvet, and he hurried off. It hadn't been difficult to convince him. I wished this case was as easy to solve as Dummolard's problems with his wife.
I returned to the garden and walked about. Barker could spend hours here, meditating in the peaceful confines, but I'm not Barker. Ten minutes in a garden, and I'm afraid I've exhausted my interest.
There was a yip at my ankle, suddenly. Harm, the sentinel of the garden, was there, with a small rubber ball at his feet. I greeted him and patted his head. He was a bit wary, as I would be if half my head consisted of eyes. I picked up the ball, and he promptly nipped me in the hand.
"Little beast," I said, picking up the ball again, and tossing it along.
"Fetch," I called, pointing to it. The dog did nothing but pant expectantly. "Go on! Get the ball!" He accompanied me across the lawn to see where the ball had gone. I pointed to it. "Pick it up! Come, boy, pick it up!" Perhaps, I reasoned, he only knew Chinese. I bent to pick up the ball, and, of course, he nipped my hand again. It appeared we had been playing at cross-purposes. I was playing "fetch the ball," while he was playing "bite the assistant." That was enough for me. In spite of his insistent barks that I come back and try to pick up the ball again, I went inside. Petulant Frenchmen and heathen dogs. What had I done to deserve such a fate?
