India Black and the Gentleman Thief

by Carol K. Carr

  French summarized the events of the last few days (skating over the fact that Colonel Mayhew had deposited his envelope into the care of this madam) while Homer listened attentively. He started involuntarily and shot a glance at me when French told him I was a bona fide agent of Her Majesty’s government. I didn’t mind; it’s sometimes difficult for me to get used to the notion that I am a spy.

  “So you see,” French concluded, “the prime minister asked Miss Black and me to look into the matter. Your chap in the India Office told us his man had sailed for England following a lead. I anticipated that we would run into him at some point in our investigation. Of course, I wasn’t expecting the India Office’s man to be you, Homer. You always said you were going to retire to the country and farm after your stint in the Forty-second.”

  “One day I will, but after I left the regiment I knocked around India for a bit. I’ve a fondness for the country and wasn’t quite ready to leave it yet. I knew some fellows in the civil service and it turns out they needed someone who spoke Hindi and Urdu and who knew about intelligence work. They hired me to keep an eye on activities in the princely states.”

  “We’ve heard about Ganipur. Your superior at the India Office seems to think there’s a Russian hand in the rebellion there.”

  “You know the government. They see Russians everywhere. But in this case, it’s true. There’s a fellow named Mirov who’s been chumming around with the rajah of Ganipur, urging him to expel the British, which he’s done, and assuring him of Russian backing. We believe Mirov has supplied the money to buy the British weapons that have been stolen.”

  “How did Mirov suborn Welch?” I asked.

  “He didn’t, not directly anyway. I believe Mirov hired a Greek, Aristotle Vasapoulis, to supply the arms. That was Vasapoulis in the farmhouse, and he’s the man I’ve followed to England from Calcutta. I’d done some digging there and I knew that he was the registered owner of the South Indian Railway Company. When he left India, I was on his trail. I was hoping he would lead me to his contact in the army and now he’s done so. I reckoned it would be a long haul once I got here but what a stroke of luck I’ve had tonight with this Captain Welch turning up and then running into the two of you. We’ve closed the pincers neatly.”

  “Tell me more about Vasapoulis,” said French.

  Homer obliged. “He’s an arms dealer with a vast network of contacts. If a client wants the latest Mauser Gewehr 71 rifle, then Vasapoulis calls on his friends in Germany. Mauser Brothers and Company is a new enterprise and eager to find clients for their munitions. But when a client wants the Martini-Henry, Vasapoulis must find sources other than the manufacturer. The rifle is only made by the Royal Small Arms Factory in Enfield, which is owned by the government.”

  “And thus Vasapoulis must find someone in the military who will provide the rifles to him,” I said. “That’s where Welch entered the equation.”

  “India and I have been trying to collect evidence against Welch but we’ve found nothing solid yet,” said French. “But given what you know about Vasapoulis, I suppose we have reasonable grounds for military officials to detain the captain.”

  “That will halt the thefts, but it won’t stop Vasapoulis.” Homer paused for a drink of whisky. “He’ll merely find another source, although I think he’ll avoid recruiting at the quartermaster general’s office. You know the army. There’ll be a whole raft of new regulations and procedures put in place. You won’t be able to get a nail without an order signed in triplicate by five generals.”

  “Then what of Vasapoulis? We’ve nothing on him, other than the fact that he met with Welch. Would Welch give evidence against him?” I asked.

  “The method of Colonel Mayhew’s death must have shocked the captain,” said French. “If we can assure him that he’ll be safe, he may give evidence against Vasapoulis.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be Welch. Vasapoulis has survived this long because he’s utterly ruthless.” Homer sounded grim. “He’ll find a way to get to Welch, and he’ll be sure that Welch knows it.”

  We stood about for a minute, passing the flask among us and contemplating our next move.

  As I wanted my dinner, I made the first suggestion. “We should have Welch arrested. But it should be done quietly. As soon as Vasapoulis gets wind of it, he’ll leave the country and we’ll miss our chance at him.”

  “I’d like a crack at Vasapoulis,” said Homer. “I’ve been chasing the bloody man from Calcutta to Surrey and some of our best lads are dead because of the rifles he has supplied to the rajah. I’ve a score to settle with him.”

  “But what proof can we hope to find?” I asked.

  “He’s got a case with him,” said Homer. “I saw it on the ship. It never leaves his side. I’d be willing to bet there are some interesting documents in there.”

  “If he keeps it with him at all times, how were you planning to get a look inside?”

  “He’s got to sleep sometime. That’s why I was at the house tonight. I was planning on burglarizing the place.”

  “Vasapoulis would make for the nearest port if he woke up to find his case gone,” said French.

  “No doubt. But if I were lucky enough to find some hard evidence of the thefts, I’d immediately alert the authorities and place a watch on the coast.”

  “And if there is no evidence in the case?”

  “There will be something of value in there, something I can use as leverage against him. I’ll stay after the man until I bring him down.”

  “We’ll do everything in our power to help you do that,” said French. “I suggest that India and I return to London and have Welch taken into custody immediately. If he is willing to provide evidence against Vasapoulis then we’ll arrest the man. If the captain won’t speak against Vasapoulis then we’ll watch the Greek until we have the opportunity to examine the contents of the case. Should we send some reinforcements for you?”

  “I think not. Too many strangers in the neighborhood will attract attention. I’m used to discomfort. I’ll keep watch and wait to hear from you. In the meantime, I’ll look for a chance to get my hands on that case.”

  “Be careful, Homer. I’ve told you what these chaps did to Mayhew. Vasapoulis won’t hesitate to kill you.”

  We bid adieu to Homer and watched as he crept away into the night. By now it was getting on toward dawn and French and I faced a long hike to the station. I was hungry, tired and chilled to the bone. My clothes were damp and my hair was in knots. I was certain my skirt was ruined from sitting on the grass. To take my mind off my condition, and to pass the time, I proposed to have a friendly conversation with my companion.

  “I should like to discuss our ancestry, cousin. Just how is it that we are related?”

  French took a moment to light a cheroot. “I’m afraid I stretched the truth a bit when I told Bunny Alcock that we were cousins. There are no blood ties between us. We share a great-aunt in the marchioness, but I’m descended from her husband’s side of family. My grandmother was a sister of the Marquess of Tullibardine, the marchioness’s husband.”

  “He’s dead, I suppose, as the marchioness carries the title of Dowager.”

  “He died some years ago. They had a son, David, who assumed the title of Marquess. I don’t think Aunt Margaret thinks much of the poor chap. He’s a bookish fellow who can’t shoot, can’t ride and can’t abide dogs.”

  “He must have taken after the marchioness’s husband.”

  “He did. I don’t think she cared much for him either.”

  “Have you been to Strathkinness?” I asked.

  “Strathkinness? Oh, your family seat. Yes, I have been once. I went there as a small boy.”

  “I suppose there’s a great house?”

  “Um, yes, I think it was quite distinguished.” French puffed on his cheroot and added, “In its day.”

  “The marchione
ss says it needs a new roof.”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised,” said French. “Tell me, do you think you’ll ever be able to think of the marchioness as family? I’ve noticed that you don’t call her ‘Aunt.’”

  “This is all so sudden. One minute I’m the owner of a brothel, the next a spy and now I’m the Countess of Strathkinness. It makes my head hurt just to think of it. And I don’t know if I’ll ever reconcile myself to being kin to the marchioness, although she’s certainly acting like an annoying relative, popping into Lotus House and usurping my position. I’ve been wracking my brain trying to think of a way to get her to leave London. Any ideas?”

  “If I know Aunt Margaret, she’ll leave when she’s ready and not a moment before. And there’s Maggie to consider. I don’t think your houseguest will be going until those pups are ready to travel.”

  “Vincent seems quite taken with those creatures.”

  “I’ve noticed that. I have a feeling that one of those puppies may be staying behind when the marchioness leaves.”

  “What? With Vincent? How’s he going to take care of an animal? Half the time he sleeps on the street and the only time he eats a meal is when he cadges one from me.”

  “He might leave the dog with a sympathetic friend.”

  I stopped in the road and grabbed French by the sleeve. “Oh, no. You tell Vincent that I refuse to keep a puppy at Lotus House.”

  “The little fellows are awfully cute.”

  “I run a business. I can’t have a dog underfoot, humping the customers’ legs and leaving bones about the parlour.”

  “Then I suppose Vincent will have to seek companionship elsewhere. It’s a shame, really. There’s one little pup in particular that he dotes on.”

  I could see I was going to have to nip this plan in the bud, just as soon as I returned to Lotus House.

  We had passed the Duke of Wellington by then and still had a mile to travel before we reached the station.

  “French, I want to talk with you about something. Please try not to explode when you hear what I have to say.”

  “This is about Lady Daphne, isn’t it?” The poor fellow sounded resigned.

  “It is. I want to be absolutely clear about my position regarding your engagement.” I’d given quite a lot of thought to this and I think you’ll be jolly well pleased to find that I intended to take the high road, at least for the moment. Well, there really wasn’t an alternate route, to be honest, what with French insisting on playing the gentleman and being torn between his duty (marriage to a dull wench) and his base desires (represented by yours truly, in case you were wondering). I’d been riding the chap pretty hard, encouraging him to indulge both his honour and his lust, but I could see that French was mighty uncomfortable at the notion. I found that hard to fathom, frankly, but then my morals have an elasticity that French’s do not. In truth, it’s one of the things I find most endearing about him, if a little frustrating.

  “I realize you feel honour bound to go through with the marriage.”

  French said nothing but drew deeply on his cigar and expelled a stream of smoke.

  “I’ve made it clear to you that neither your engagement nor your impending marriage is an obstacle to me, but I know that you feel differently. I propose that in the future we merely regard each other as friends and associates.”

  Now I had no intention of giving up on the poncy bastard. You may think less of me (though I don’t care if you do) when you hear that I consider French to be a particularly well-defended fortress which could be worn down by an unremitting siege. Even the most priggish of chaps is bound to succumb to my charms if exposed to them constantly, and I intended to bombard French until his walls crumbled. In the meantime, I had the added advantage of appearing to sacrifice my personal feelings so that French wouldn’t have to violate his bloody principles. I felt rather pleased with myself for thinking of this stratagem, though it would be difficult to chase villains with French when I wanted nothing more than to disarrange the bedclothes with him. This would call for a great deal of patience on my part, and I have frequently made the point that I possess very little of that characteristic. I would have to exert all my will to keep my hands off the man, but the game should be worth the candle.

  French had stopped in the middle of the road. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that, India. I had been thinking the same thing.”

  Bloody hell. I hadn’t seen that coming. I thought he would protest for form’s sake, capitulate reluctantly to my plan and spend the next few months fighting his lust for me until in a moment of weakness he gave in. I felt as if I’d received a blow to the solar plexus, but I’d be damned if I would let French know that his words had affected me so.

  “We’re agreed then.” I said it nonchalantly, although I nearly choked on the words.

  “Good. We’ll be friends.” French sounded casual, but I thought I detected a hint of remorse in his tone.

  “And associates,” I said. “We’ve got a job to do now, and I suspect Dizzy will come up with a few more for us.”

  “Right,” said French, who resumed walking. I trudged after him, pondering just how it was that I had misjudged things so badly. I’ve a superior strategic mind and I rarely make mistakes, but I’d made a real dog’s breakfast out of this situation.

  We bought tickets at the Redhill station and caught the first train to London. French and I sat in silence for most of the journey, making a few desultory and awkward comments just to prove that we were indeed chums.

  I did not expect to be cheered by my return to Lotus House. Normally, I would have relished a return to my haven, where clean clothes, a hot bath and copious amounts of whisky were on offer. Instead we had to contend with an interrogation by the marchioness and another by Vincent, while fat puppies waddled about underfoot. At least Fergus was there, carrying in a breakfast tray laden with eggs, bacon and porridge. I ate like a coal miner and was finally permitted to trudge upstairs for a bath and a change of clothes.

  Fergus had brushed French’s clothes and poured a bath for him in the servants’ quarters. His nibs was enjoying a steaming cup of coffee when I entered the study.

  “Welch lives in Fulham. I’ve a cab waiting outside to take us there.”

  “Are we going alone? I’d have thought a few soldiers or policemen might be useful.”

  French produced a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. “I believe we can handle him. I’d rather not make a scene, in the event Vasapoulis is keeping an eye on Welch. We’ll show up at the captain’s door as if we’re paying a call and spirit him out the back.”

  “I’m fightin’ fit,” said Vincent from the sofa. “I’d better come along.”

  French raised an eyebrow at the marchioness.

  “I dinna see why the young rascal shouldna go. He’s liable to rip that wound open again if he’s too lively, but I admire spirit in a boy. Take him along and get him out of my hair.” The marchioness and Vincent shared a conspiratorial glance. Dear God, that’s all I needed, those two in league against the rest of the world.

  • • •

  Apparently, Captain Welch was the type to fritter away his ill-gotten gains on gambling and whores rather than invest in real estate. He lived in lodgings that could charitably be described as modest and more accurately as crumbling.

  “Blimey,” said Vincent. “Wot the ’ell was ’e doin’ livin’ ’ere?”

  “Perhaps he preferred to spend his money on dice and dogs, rather than superior digs,” I said.

  “Vincent, find a convenient location and keep an eye on the neighborhood,” French directed. “If you see anyone who looks as if he’s watching Welch, come inside and tell us. If the area is clear, then meet us at the back of the house in ten minutes.”

  Vincent scuttled off to check the lay of the land and I stood aside to let French rap on the door.

  Th
e landlady, Mrs. Bostwick, was a large, cheerful woman with a dingy apron. She was surprised to see us, but enormously pleased by our visit.

  “Well, well. This is the first time the captain has had visitors. I always tell him he should have his friends round. It’s no trouble to make a meal for them, I say to him, and the price would be reasonable. All I need is a day’s notice, I tell him, and I can serve a meal fit for a king. But he keeps himself to himself, as you know, and usually dines out. The poor man works too hard is what it is. He’s out till all hours of the night. He’ll break his health if he’s not careful, I tell him. I’m glad you’ve come by to see the captain. Just the other day, I said to him, I said . . .”

  With difficulty, French stopped the spate of words. “We’ll not trouble you, ma’am. We’re in a bit of hurry, you see. Would you be kind enough to show us to Captain Welch’s room?”

  “I’d be delighted to, but unfortunately you won’t find him in today.”

  “Ah,” said French, feigning absentmindedness. “He must be at the office.”

  “I couldn’t say. All I know is that he left here yesterday afternoon and I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Did he say when he was planning to return?”

  “I thought he’d be back today. He said he had business out of town but would be back on the first train this morning. I expect he went directly to the office. As I said, that man works all the time.”

  “Would it be too much trouble for you to knock on the captain’s door, just to be certain that he’s not here?” I asked.

  Mrs. Bostwick looked puzzled, but she trotted out dutifully.

  “Why the devil did you ask her to look?” French hissed. “If Welch is dead, we’ll have another hysterical landlady on our hands.”

  I regret to say I hadn’t thought of that because I’d been so intent on finding Welch. To my great relief, Mrs. Bostwick returned to the room shaking her head. “He’s not here, Major.”