India Black and the Gentleman Thief

by Carol K. Carr

  There was one more exchange of fire from the parlour, then a single shot.

  “Got him!” I heard Homer shout.

  “French?” I called.

  “India? Where are you?” My knees almost buckled with relief at the sound of the poncy bastard’s voice.

  “In the dining room. There are two men down in the hall, including Vasapoulis.”

  “Dead?”

  “One is, I think. I’ve only wounded Vasapoulis, though.”

  “Homer and I are coming out. Cover us.”

  “French, there’s another man, up on the first floor. I shot at him, but I’m not sure I hit him.”

  “Alright. We’ll watch for him. You keep an eye on Vasapoulis until we can be sure he’s unarmed.”

  My gaze was fixed on the Greek, but I heard the creak of the wooden doors to the parlour as they swung open and a moment later French and Homer crept into view. French advanced on Vasapoulis, his Boxer in his hand, while Homer covered the hall. It did occur to me that if the chap on the floor was playing dead and suddenly reared up, Homer and I might end up shooting each other, but there was nothing to be done about it but hope that I had shot the chap thoroughly. I heard a scuffling noise as French kicked Vasapoulis’s gun out of reach and jerked him upright by his collar.

  “Bastard,” said French. “You’re lucky my associate didn’t kill you.”

  “Like this one,” said Homer, bending over my first victim. “He’s dead.”

  I charged out of the room and trained my Bulldog on the stairs. “There’s another one up there. I’m going after him.”

  “India, wait!” French shouted, but my blood was up and I was going to get that last chap. I’d spotted him, so I had first dibs.

  Dimly, I heard French calling to Homer to guard Vasapoulis. I knew it. His nibs was about to horn in on my capture. I lunged up the stairs with my Bulldog in hand. Now I’m not a complete idiot. I did have the foresight to stoop down and poke my head around the corner. The hall was clear in both directions.

  French rushed up behind me, panting heavily.

  “You go right,” I told him. “I’ll go left.”

  “I suppose that means you know the man went left.”

  “I’ve no idea which way he went. He may have jumped out a window by now.”

  “I suppose there’s no point in telling you to be careful.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Bloody hell, French, if not for me, you and Homer would still be pinned down in that parlour.”

  “I only suggest that you be careful so that I can enjoy more of these debates in the future. I wouldn’t dream of impugning your ability to deal death and destruction to our enemies.”

  “To the right, French.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I crept slowly down the hallway, alert to every movement and sound. A plank squeaked under my foot and I shuffled hastily to one side, but the sound did not draw fire. I came to the first room on my right. The door stood open and I could see that this was a bedroom. The furniture was recognizable under the drapery of white sheets. I ducked in for a quick look, my heart hammering, but the room was quiet as a tomb. Not, in retrospect, a well-chosen comparison.

  The door across the hall was closed. I knelt down against the wall and warily tried the knob. Locked. Was the villain in there? I must remember to have French show me the trick of kicking open a door sometime. At the moment, I did not trust myself to pull this off. I tiptoed past the door. I’d clear the remainder of the unlocked rooms and then fetch French to act as strongman.

  The second door on the right was open, and it too appeared to be a bedroom. This one had been occupied, however, for the covers had been flung off the bed. I inched through the door, the Bulldog at the ready. I swept the room with my revolver, staring into the dark shadows at the corners of the room, kneeling down to look under the bed, cautiously opening the wardrobe and darting back out of the way to give myself a clear shot. But the room was empty and silent.

  I felt as weak as a kitten suddenly. I suppose in all the excitement I’d forgotten that I’d had very little sleep for two nights, not to mention that hiking over the country is damned tiring and that popping a couple of thugs is hard going. The bed looked tempting. All I wanted to do was collapse on it and let French and Homer clean up the mess. I steeled myself to finish my work, though, shaking my head in an attempt to clear the cobwebs before I set off again.

  One last room to clear before I summoned French to deal with the locked room down the hall. The door into this room was closed so I knelt with my back against the wall and reached up for the knob. I rotated it slowly and felt it turn. I pushed the door gently with two fingers and gripped the Bulldog firmly. No sound emanated from the room. Down the hall I could hear French opening and closing doors. I could feel the drumbeat of my pulse in my throat. I stood up and squeezed through the door, aiming right, then left. It was dark as pitch in there, for the room was bare. No ghostly shapes of sheet-covered furniture shone in the moonlight. The room smelled of dust and dry wood. There was only one place I hadn’t searched. I risked a quick look behind the door. And came face-to-face with the barrel of a revolver.

  EIGHTEEN

  “I was hoping you’d come for me, India. Now hand over your gun.” I did so reluctantly. Philip bent down gently and placed it on the floor, all the while covering me with his own revolver.

  “What the devil are you doing here, Philip? You’re supposed to be on your way to India.”

  “Some of the boys and I got off in Lisbon. Our services were needed here.”

  “You wouldn’t shoot me, would you, Philip?”

  The fellow took a deuced long time to answer. When he did, he didn’t sound entirely reassuring. “Let’s not put that proposition to the test. It would be best if you cooperated with me. I don’t plan to be captured, India. I don’t enjoy gaol. The food is terrible and some of the inmates could do with a bath.”

  I didn’t really think Philip would murder me, but then I’d once been sure that he wouldn’t use me to steal the Rajah’s Ruby. That scenario had played out in my favour, but I wasn’t certain this one would.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m sure you’ve twigged that you’re my hostage now. We’ll just walk out together.”

  “And then?”

  “What happens next depends on your friends downstairs.”

  I couldn’t vouch for Homer but I felt sure that French would not do anything that would result in my being harmed. Unless he thought I’d surrendered myself to Philip to ensure my old lover’s escape. Oh, dear. I cast back over the past weeks. Had I been convincing when I’d assured French I had no feelings for Philip? God, I hoped I had, or things might get sticky.

  “India?” French’s voice, coming from the hallway.

  “Are you ready?” Philip grasped my right arm using his left hand. His right hand held his revolver, which he pointed at my head. “Open the door and step into the hall.”

  I did as instructed. As I stepped into the corridor I saw French stalking slowly toward us. The big Boxer came up and locked on me, then realizing it was me, French let it fall.

  “No luck?” he asked.

  “Only the bad sort,” said Philip. He shoved me into the hall and followed on my heels. Then he clamped his arm tightly around my neck and pulled me to him so that our bodies presented a single silhouette. French’s arm jerked up and once again I found myself on the business end of his Boxer.

  “Put it down,” said Philip.

  “You’re not going to shoot her,” French said. “You had your chance to kill her on the Sea Lark and you couldn’t do it.”

  “I was leaving the country. Since she posed no threat to me then I could play the gentleman and arrange for her escape. But the stakes are rather higher for me now. I don’t want to shoot her. God knows I’m fond of the we
nch. But I’ll do what I must to leave here a free man. Put down your weapon.”

  You may have thought that I would say something idiotic like, “Shoot him, French!” but I chose not to for fear that French might actually fire the gun, and for fear that if he did he might miss his target and end up putting a bullet squarely between my eyes. Better to let this play out and see what developed.

  French let the Boxer fall from his hand. The heavy revolver sounded like a cannon as it crashed to the floor.

  “And now?” asked French.

  “Tell your compatriot down there that we will be coming down the stairs and he should place his weapon on the floor. If he doesn’t comply, then I’ll shoot you.”

  I could almost feel the anger rising off French. He leaned over the banister. “Homer, India and I have been taken hostage. We’re coming down. The chap up here has a gun pointed at India and he’s threatened to shoot us both. Put your gun on the floor.”

  “Dammit, French. I can’t do that. Do you know how long I’ve been pursuing this bloody Greek?”

  “I’m sorry, Homer. Please do as I ask.”

  I heard a clunking noise as Homer placed his pistol on the floor of the entry hall.

  “Step away from the gun, Homer,” called Philip. He waved his own weapon at French. “You lead the way. India and I will be right behind you.”

  French walked slowly down the stairs. I stumbled along behind him, it being difficult to navigate a series of steps when a bloke’s got you in a chokehold. I could feel Philip’s breath on my cheek, hot and ragged. He was scared, poor chap, and that scared me. I hoped French and Homer wouldn’t mount a rescue operation once we reached the entry hall, for it was very likely Philip’s nerve would give way and French and I might end up in a touching farewell scene, if I lived long enough to participate.

  We reached the bottom of the steps after an agonizing descent.

  “Barrett,” said Vasapoulis hoarsely. “I’ve been shot in the leg, but I can still travel. Shoot them all. Then fetch my case from the library and harness the horses. Hurry, man!”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Sorry, old boy, but you’ll only slow me down.”

  “You won’t live long enough to regret that decision,” said Vasapoulis. “I’ve men all over the world. Your life is mine.”

  I recalled the fate of Colonel Mayhew. I couldn’t help but feel that Philip had made a tactical error. Gaol couldn’t be any worse than being hunted across the globe by Vasapoulis’s henchmen.

  “Oh, I can’t live like that.” Philip’s tone disturbed me. It was febrile and high-pitched and he sounded nothing at all like the suave fellow I knew. He dragged me closer to Vasapoulis and we looked down into that dark face, now twisted with pain. But there was no fear in the Greek’s eyes, only contempt.

  “You and Welch were two of a kind,” said Vasapoulis through gritted teeth. “Two weak links. I should have killed you earlier.”

  “You’ll never have the chance now,” said Philip. His body shook and I could feel the moist heat rolling off him. He aimed the revolver at Vasapoulis’s head.

  “Don’t do it, Phillip. You can testify against him. The authorities will protect you,” I said.

  A bark of laughter from Vasapoulis ended in a snarl. “I own the authorities. Your life is forfeit, Barrett.”

  I sighed. Really, Vasapoulis was doing nothing to aid his cause, taunting and provoking Philip like that. The Greek surely knew what kind of man he was dealing with; Philip was a coward. But the prospect of being cut to ribbons did not entice. Under those circumstances, my former lover did what most men would do. He steadied his wavering hand and shot Vasapoulis in the face.

  The noise deafened me, but the audacity of his act must have stunned Philip for he loosened his grip on my neck. French, dedicated agent that he was, decided that Philip was likely to be distracted, having just murdered the Greek, and launched himself at my captor. But Philip still had the presence of mind to raise his revolver and I tore loose from his arm, wrenching my neck but freeing myself for action. I shoved Philip’s arm skyward and there was a second great explosion as he pulled the trigger again. Then Philip stepped aside and shoved me at French and the poncy bastard crashed into me and knocked me arse over teakettle. I heard Homer shout and French grunt as the door to the house burst open and Philip pelted out of it. There was a mad scramble in the hall as Homer searched for his weapon and French scrabbled on the floor for the dead Greek’s gun, but by the time the two men had secured revolvers and followed Philip out into the night it was too late. The gutless poltroon had vanished into thin air. Homer and French spent a half hour crashing through bushes and checking the outbuildings but the search was in vain. Philip would be bolting over the hills, no doubt headed to the nearest bolt-hole he’d created for himself. I had no doubt he’d snatch the first opportunity to board a ship out of England.

  As for us, we’d done well. The prime minister would be pleased that the smuggling ring had been broken up, and no one would mourn the loss of the thugs lying dead in the farmhouse. I knew French would disagree, but I had no qualms about Philip’s escape. I had no doubt that Vasapoulis was merely a cog in a machine, and that when it became known that Philip had shot the Greek like a rabid dog, someone from Vasapoulis’s organization would be on his trail. It would be a long time before Philip could rest his head at night without fear of being yanked out of bed and cut down. I cannot say the prospect pleased me. But for him, French, Vincent and I might be floating in the English Channel now. I felt we all owed him a bit of gratitude for that. However, I did not take kindly to being held hostage, nor did I approve of Philip’s attempt to shoot French. I wasn’t sorry to see Philip go. He needed a change of scenery, for England would be too hot for him for years to come.

  I found a box of matches and a candle on the chest and lit the wick. The scene in the hallway was macabre, what with Vasapoulis and his henchman lying on the floor in separate pools of blood. I scurried upstairs and retrieved my Bulldog and French’s Boxer. I’d have been damned displeased if I had lost French’s gift. Then I went to the library. I rounded up all the loose papers and documents lying about and stuffed them into Vasapoulis’s case and carried it into the hall.

  Homer and French returned, winded and irritated at Philip’s escape.

  “Bastard,” said French.

  “He is that. But he’ll be running for the rest of his life once the rest of Vasapoulis’s gang hears about this. They’ll be out for revenge. Philip will have to lie low for a long time. We won’t be troubled with him anymore.”

  French came to stand beside me and rested an arm around my shoulder, pulling me close. “We?”

  “Yes, we.”

  NINETEEN

  I’ve never had the vapours before, but I came damned close during the exercise of loading humans, canines and luggage into the three hansoms and the wagon we’d hired to take us to King’s Cross station so that we might catch the train to Perth. The marchioness demanded that Vincent, Maggie and some of the pups accompany her in one cab, while French and I were to occupy another and Fergus and the remaining dogs were to ride in the third. I did my best to impose order on the process, but after having my directions countermanded at various times by French, Fergus, the marchioness and Vincent, and completely ignored by Maggie and the other collies, I finally admitted defeat and retreated to the pavement. I was joined there by approximately half the London population come to watch the free circus. When the final stray pup had been rounded up and the last chest lashed into place on the precariously tottering pile of luggage on the wagon, I deigned to join the traveling party. Mrs. Drinkwater and the bints came out to see us off, ululating like a group of Egyptian women at a funeral. I’ve always forbidden any embraces or displays of affection, so the tarts restricted themselves to wringing my hand and expressing their intentions to abid
e by the rules, which, I need hardly mention, I didn’t believe for one minute. Then the treacherous wenches fell on the marchioness, weeping copiously and demanding she return soon and bring the puppies and generally behaving as if their dear old granny was leaving town. The marchioness had a tear in her eye and looked as sad as if one of her favourite dogs had been run over by the mail coach. It was a damned good thing I was getting her out of here or I’d have had a palace coup on my hands.

  We were standing in a knot on the pavement trying to extract ourselves from the clutches of my employees when a comely young fellow with mild blue eyes walked up briskly and doffed his hat to me.

  “Miss Black?”

  I recognized the amiable face under the cloud of blond curls. “Mr. Brown, how nice to see you again.”

  French detached himself from the spectacle and wandered over. “Hello, Brown.”

  “Hello, French.”

  It was no surprise the two knew each other as they both worked for the prime minister. I’d made Brown’s acquaintance a few weeks ago, when Dizzy had dispatched him to Lotus House to plant some information among the anarchists.

  “What brings you here?” asked French.

  “I’ve a packet from the prime minister for you.” Brown handed it to French and I looked over his shoulder as he opened it. He pulled out a handful of papers and thumbed through them. He glanced up at Brown.

  “What is this?”

  “They are tickets, sir, for Reverend Edward Campbell and his wife, Rachel, and for their ward, Vincent Smith. You’ll be sailing tonight on the Castle Mail Packet Company’s steamship, the Dunrobin Castle, bound for Durban, in South Africa.”

  “I can see that they are tickets, Brown. I meant, what is this about?”