Snifter of Death

by Chris Karlsen

  “This is rather nice, considering what it’s for.” He couldn’t help but comment seeing spectator stands, a host/proprietor stand where guests placed their bets, and a special section set off for the fighters. In the middle was the actual ring. It smelled of men and sweat but nothing like he imagined or been told. No blood or vomit on the floor, although a black man with a mop and bucket stood by in the corner.

  The fighters and their coaches nodded as Napier entered. The host came over to greet both Napier and Effingham. Effingham introduced Ruddy and Archie and they all took seats in the stands while Napier disappeared into another room to change.

  “The ring is larger than I thought it would be. I’d heard they vary in size.” Ruddy was showing his ignorance about the sport but he was curious. If he wound up fighting Napier down the road, he wanted to know all he could about the rules restrictions.

  “This is a 24-foot ring—the true size a ring should be,” Effingham explained.

  “Who does Napier spar with?” Archie asked. “There’s quite an array of men here size-wise.”

  “Nathaniel will hop in the ring and whoever volunteers, that’s who he’ll spar with. Since this is practice, they’ll only go about five or six rounds. In a real fight, they’d go twelve unless there’s a knockout, of course.”

  “How long is a round?” Ruddy asked, thinking this had the potential to drag on quite a while.

  “Three minutes.”

  Three minutes. Ruddy’d been in enough fights to know that kind of time can go either way. It flies when you’re winning and is an eternity when you’re losing and he’d been on both sides of that ticking clock.

  Napier came out. He was bare chested wearing only white knicker-like drawers and soft-soled black leather shoes. A man hurried over with a pair of brown leather gloves and helped get them on and tied over Napier’s hands. Gloves helped the hands but were hell on the face. Ruddy made quick notes since he’d only ever seen him in street clothes. The shorter Napier had about a stone, maybe a stone-and-a-half on him in weight and from the look of him when he flexed his biceps and forearms, it was all muscle weight. Good to know. I’m still going to knock you on your arse, though.

  “That’s Nathaniel’s coach,” Effingham said, pointing to the man helping Napier.

  The two sparring men in the ring finished after a few minutes and Napier stepped into the ring. His coach stood with him and asked for a volunteer sparring partner. A barrel-chested, bearded man with short thick arms slipped between two ropes. His legs were like his arms—thick as tree trunks. In a heavy Russian accent he said he’d do it.

  A third man who’d been in the ring with the two previous men had remained. He wore a loose fitting shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, knickers similar to the fighting men and soft shoes like theirs but he didn’t fight. He circled the men as they sparred, watching, occasionally barking orders.

  “I assume he’s a referee,” Ruddy said to Effingham.

  “Yes. He referees the official matches as well.”

  Ruddy questioned the man’s ability to stay neutral. Surely he’d begin to favor certain men after a while. It’s human nature.

  Napier’s coach moved to a corner just outside the ring. A bell rang and the Russian and Napier began sparring. Napier bobbed and the Russian missed landing a hard roundhouse, instead just grazing the side of Napier’s temple.

  Napier countered with a quick left jab that knocked the Russian back into the ropes. Napier followed with another left and then a right cross.

  “That’s some left Napier’s got,” Archie said.

  Ruddy nodded. “Interesting since he writes with his right. I’d have thought that his dominant hand.”

  The Russian gave as good as he got but Napier had him on the ropes a number of times. Ruddy kept a close eye out for weaknesses on his part. The few he caught were hard to judge as to whether they were overall weaknesses or just faults the Russian knew how to bring out. He’d like to see Napier sparring with other fighters but couldn’t figure how to go about arranging that. He wasn’t a member of this club and had no intention of joining. Napier and Effingham would prevent him even if he tried.

  “Napier’s better than I thought,” Archie whispered. “But if this is his best, I still think you can polish him off.”

  “This isn’t his best. He’s not foolish. He won’t let us see his best. He’ll save that for our day.” Ruddy’s mind was spinning. Who could he get to be a mole and finagle a way into this club to spy? Where was Napier weakest? In a street fight knowing a man’s weaknesses weren’t that important. Hit wherever you could land a punch and hope to knock him down or out. Here he’d be hampered by rules and time. He had to make every punch count.

  Ruddy gave Napier and Effingham a few more minutes to relish showing off before he pulled out his watch. “We need to get back to the stationhouse. It’s been entertaining. Thank you for the invitation, Chief Superintendent.” He stood.

  “I’ll be in touch with Henry about a possible match,” Effingham said, referring to Jameson. “Nothing like sport between men to stir the blood. It’ll be fun.”

  “Fun indeed. Let’s go, Arch.” Ruddy hopped down to the floor.

  ****

  On the way back Ruddy and Archie briefly discussed who they might slip into the athletic club. They eliminated any constables from Holborn as they might be recognized. Archie suggested Seamus.

  “What need does anyone there have for a shine boy?” Ruddy asked.

  “None,” Archie replied. “It was a desperate suggestion because I’m out of ideas.”

  They rode the tram the rest of the way in silence.

  “I don’t suppose it’s ever crossed your mind if you did fight, you might lose,” Archie said, settling down at his desk. “Napier’s experience worries me plus he knows all their piddling rules too.”

  Of course it crossed Ruddy’s mind. The man who thinks he can’t lose a fight is delusional. Doesn’t matter how big or strong or well-trained you are, you have to assume there’s always someone bigger and stronger and better trained. But Archie didn’t need to know of his doubts. “Just because he’s their boxing champ doesn’t mean he can’t be thrashed.”

  Between the army and police work, Ruddy had his fair share of fights. He’d delivered far more thumps than he’d taken. All were street fights. Having experience operating within the rules gave Napier a big advantage.

  “That, right there,” Ruddy said, jabbing the air and driving home his objection with his finger. “The ridiculousness of including rules is what offends me. If you’re going to fight, then by God, fight. All this nonsense about you can’t do this and you can’t do that, then it’s not a fight anymore. That’s just two men rough dancing with each other.”

  “Are wagers being made yet?” came Freddie Coopersmith’s cheery voice from behind Archie.

  Ruddy leaned to the left so he had a better view of Coopersmith as Archie turned in his chair. “What are you talking about?” Archie asked.

  “Ruddy’s going to fight Napier, right? We all hate that arrogant bugger. Our money is on you, Bloodstone,” Coopersmith said far too loudly for Ruddy.

  Ben, Coopersmith’s partner, nodded his agreement and left his desk and half sat on Freddie’s, a cup of tea in his hand. “Don’t pick a ring in the City’s jurisdiction. Doesn’t matter the match is between Peelers, I don’t trust their lot to not put the fix in with the referees. We need a place that’s neutral. If it’s not one in their jurisdiction, it automatically puts it in ours, but we choose one that’s not in our district. That’s fair.

  The other detectives had stopped what they were doing to listen. “Someone neutral should hold the money,” another added.

  “Jameson will do,” Ben said.

  Ruddy’s hands shot up. “Wait, wait, wait. I haven’t agreed to fight Napier or anyone. I’ve not been approached. Arch and I are having a hypothetical discussion. Nothing more.”

  Freddie eyed him with the same suspicion he reserv
ed for cutpurses and footpads. “You said you don’t like the rules but know he’d demand using them and whatnot. Why talk like that unless you’re planning on a fight?”

  “We saw Napier about a case. Every time he sees me, he likes to poke the bear. He’s spoiling for a fight. In the past Effingham has intervened. Today, Napier wasn’t his usual irritating self and Effingham mentioned a future boxing competition between our agencies. Just to clarify, my name was not specifically mentioned as a participant.”

  “Doesn’t matter, he made his intent obvious,” Freddie said.

  Ruddy knew too well Effingham would enjoy seeing him humiliated. He never told Archie or anyone at the station of the brief history he and the Chief Superintendent had. When he received his V.C., General Chelmsford asked what his plans were after his requested discharge. Ruddy had said he wanted to go into law enforcement. He wanted to work a city department, preferably London. Chelmsford made some innocuous comment and moved along. Ruddy didn’t think any more on it.

  When the time came he applied with the London Metropolitan Police Service but not with the City of London. The City department was too small an agency. He preferred to be with an agency that had the bigger population and more activity. He was anxious to handle every kind of crime. He might see and do all that with the City but it would take longer than he wished.

  To his astonishment, while examination process with London Metro, he received a letter from Effingham, who was only a Commander at the time. Effingham offered him a post, no examination needed. He guaranteed Ruddy rapid rise within the ranks. Apparently, Chelmsford had interceded without Ruddy’s wanting or asking and contacted Effingham. Ruddy had turned the offer down and Effingham never forgave him.

  “You’d let us know if you were going to fight, wouldn’t you?” Freddie asked. “It’d be wrong to keep that to yourself.”

  “After Arch and me, you all will be the first to know.”

  Freddie and Ben had a quick exchange and then Freddie scooted his chair closer to Ruddy’s desk. He said in a low voice that had Ruddy and Archie straining, “Being an unmarried man, should this fight become a reality, I’d suggest you avoid feminine companionship for at least a week prior. As a married man myself, I can attest to the fact attending to a lady’s physical needs can exhaust a man.” He made fists and flexed. “Rubbery legs and arms...” He relaxed and pressed closer, looking straight at Ruddy. “You understand what I mean,” he said and winked.

  Good Lord. Bad enough Freddie Coopersmith was giving him risqué advice. But twice a year the station had social events that involved wives and special lady friends, the summer picnic and the Christmas party. Now, when he saw Mrs. Coopersmith, he’d have to contend with the image of Freddie tending to her “needs.” And that was not a picture he ever wanted to conjure. He’d seen Freddie without a shirt. The man would make an unshorn ram envious. Thanks to Freddie, the sight was fresh in his mind all over again and had his poor wife attached to it now.

  “Thank you for the sage advice,” Ruddy said. “Let’s go, Arch. I need some air.”

  “Where to?”

  “I’d like to stroll by the Odeon Music Hall. Will says there’s a lovely singer there I should see. I’m hoping they have a poster out front. I might go tonight.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Odeon was one of the newer theatres in the city. The owners, a consortium of men who owned several small breweries, built it on a lot that formerly housed a burned out factory. They’d spared no expense. Long bars made of imported teak wood from Southeast Asia lined the side walls. Glass shelves were filled with bottles of Caribbean rum, whiskey from Ireland and Scotland, exotics from the Continent like Absinthe and anise-flavored Raki from Turkey. Light from the gas lamp chandeliers glittered off gold-veined mirrors that hung on the walls. Housed beneath the bar were the more common drinks like beer, ale, and the occasional bucket of champagne for the man with high hopes for the evening’s end.

  The main floor was like most every other music hall, simple straight-back wooden chairs arranged around wooden, linen-less tables that sat either two or four. The owners weren’t so silly as to waste money on fine chairs and tables. Not when at least one night a month, and more often than not, two or three nights, a donnybrook over some real or imagined nonsense was bound to occur. Above the main floor were two more tiers for standing room only customers. Waiters attended to them from simple service bars at the rear of each tier.

  A music hall admirer, Ruddy had been to several in the city. The Odeon had the best stage with a sizeable pit so they had a big orchestra who made even mediocre singers sound good.

  “Would you rather sit or stand?” Ruddy asked Will.

  “I’d rather stand at the bar. This end of the bar gives us a direct line of sight with the dressing rooms.”

  “Are you going to try and talk to Miss Flowers?”

  Will quickly eyed himself in the mirror behind the bar. “Would you blame me?”

  “No.”

  They took two open spots at the end of the bar that gave them a perfect view of both the stage and the path to the dressing room. Ruddy raised his hand to get the bartender’s attention. “Two beers and two Irish whiskey chasers please,” he ordered, when the bartender looked up. “I don’t know what good it does since you’re leaving in a couple days.”

  “If I talk to her, which I’m not really planning on, it will be on your behalf. I told you last night, you should chat her up.”

  From the artist’s rendition of her on the theatre poster, the lady was as attractive as Will said. Ruddy hadn’t decided whether he’d attempt much of a conversation with her. A lovely entertainer, men probably attempted to charm and seduce her all the time. She may find their efforts, his included, tiresome. Slathered in flattery for who knows how long, she might be an unpleasant creature, snippety or vinegary, not worth chatting up.

  That said, Ruddy liked the idea of having one special lady in his life. Not a wife, necessarily, but a special lady. If the relationship deepened into a love match, he’d welcome family life.

  A stagehand came out and lit the gas lamp footlights as the orchestra entered and took their seats. Another stagehand tied back the outer heavy red velvet draperies. A second set of red velvet drapes remained closed.

  Then the interior drapes opened and the tuxedoed Master of Ceremonies walked out onto center stage. A dozen men and women entered and made up the chorus. Miss Flowers wasn’t in the group. Above them, a canvas painting of Queen Victoria dropped down. The music started with the popular music hall tune, Oh! The Fairies. Every audience loved the song and sang along. Ruddy and Will joined in singing loud like their nuns back in Brecon’s stone church classroom taught them. After the people finished the short tune, the Master of Ceremonies declared, “God save the Queen.”

  The audience stood and repeated the blessing and sang along while the orchestra played the National Anthem. The men in uniform, like Will, stood at attention.

  The Queen’s picture was pulled from view and the chorus darted off stage. The inside curtains closed again and the Master of Ceremonies stayed and read a list of the evening’s entertainment. Then he introduced the next act, a ventriloquist. A man dressed in white tie and tails, top hat included came out from the opposite side of the stage with a puppet dressed the same. He brought a chair with him and sat, putting the puppet on his knee. A political discussion between the two ensued.

  The puppet made some observations about the Prime Minister that were as funny as they were harsh and astute. “I didn’t think I was going to like this fellow. I mean a man talking to a puppet, I thought, how silly. But he’s got the P.M. down to a gnat’s bottom,” Ruddy said, chuckling.

  A glow of light in Ruddy’s peripheral vision caught his attention and he turned. It came from Flower’s dressing room. The star exited and closed the door. She smiled as she walked toward them, wearing a lavender dress of lace-covered silk with a sheer silky material over her shoulders to her throat. She smiled and walked past t
he short stairs to the stage and over to Will.

  “You were here yesterday. You sat there.” She pointed to a table for two in the front row.

  Ruddy had never seen his brother at a loss for words. If only a moment could be bronzed in time.

  “I’m gobsmacked you remember me,” Will said at last.

  “What lady doesn’t remember a fine example of a man in service to her majesty?”

  “You flatter me.”

  “Are you with the Queen’s Guards here at the palace?” she asked.

  “No. I’m just on leave in London. I’m deployed in India.”

  Honeysuckle turned to Ruddy. She looked from him back to Will and then to Ruddy again. “You’re brothers?”

  “Yes. And he does live here in London,” Will rushed to add.

  She peered over her shoulder in a coquettish way that women do. “Is he mute?”

  Ruddy hoped Will read his I’m going to kill you look. “No, he is not,” Ruddy jumped in with. “But he does have an irksome brother who blathers on unnecessarily before I can get a word out. I know from your poster outside that you’re the star, Honeysuckle Flowers. I’m Rudyard Bloodstone and the vexing man to your right is my brother Will.”

  She gave each a warm smile accompanied by a slight feminine tip of her head. When she smiled and tipped her head Ruddy’s way, she kept her eyes up and on him. If he knew her even a little better, he’d have pulled her behind the curtain and kissed her. He knew a little about heat between a man and a woman and there was heat in those pretty green eyes she’d locked on him.

  “May I buy you a drink?” he asked.

  “No thank you, detective. Not before the show. But afterward, I’d love to share a bottle of champagne with your brother and you.”

  A stunned Ruddy asked, “How did you know I was a detective?”