Blood Is Blood

by Will Thomas

  Humphrey drew in his breath, then nodded.

  “Fleet!” he called.

  The odious secretary rushed into the office.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Get Smithers in here.”

  “Right away, sir!”

  Fleet rushed back out again.

  “We’ll have this matter arranged to your satisfaction, Mr. Llewelyn,” the manager assured me. “I would not want to see a falling-out between our agencies. We try to keep harmony between the various businesses in Craig’s Court. Just yesterday we were working with the telephone exchange to get the lines restored. We had heard a rumor that the explosion came from some electrical problem there. We did not hear for several hours that Mr. Barker, one of our own clients, was injured. By then, the thief had come and gone, with nearly five thousand pounds sterling.”

  We heard a knock on the door.

  Humphrey leaned forward. “Yes?”

  Smithers was pushed in from outside, like a Christian being fed to the lions. He was a pudgy fellow, with receding hair and spectacles.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “Come in, Smithers. This fellow is Mr. Llewelyn, assistant to Cyrus Barker. The real Cyrus Barker. He is here to investigate the imposter you spoke to yesterday.”

  There was an underlying tone implying that this humble clerk was solely responsible for the entire incident. Poor chap, I thought to myself.

  “Mr. Smithers,” I began. “Could you describe the man who came to you yesterday morning?”

  “Yes, sir. He was tall and well built, with a heavy mustache and dark spectacles. I have seen your employer once. He was pointed out to me in passing. This fellow looked very much like him. It did not occur to me that our visitor might not be he.”

  “What kind of hair did he have?”

  “He wore a bowler hat the entire time.”

  “Did he carry a stick?”

  “He did, but I did not notice what kind, regrettably.”

  He looked up and flinched at Humphrey’s expression. Apparently, clerks at Cox and Co. are expected to notice everything, not unlike private enquiry agent assistants.

  “Was he lean or heavily built?”

  “He tended toward lean, I should say. Wait! Yes, I did notice the stick. It was very thin and black, one of those wand types that are fashionable these days. With his physique I thought the stick looked too thin.”

  “Excellent. Was it a cane or ball end?”

  “Ball, sir.”

  “Very good, Mr. Smithers. Now his clothes. What can you tell me?”

  “He wore a morning coat, double breasted, striped trousers, and pumps.”

  “Collar? Tie?”

  “I don’t remember the collar, sir. I’m sorry. The tie was red. It was an ascot. Very smart. There was something wrong with the hat, however. The crown was very high. It did not go well with the suit. In my opinion, sir.”

  The last was directed toward his employer.

  “Tie pin?”

  “Nothing notable, I’m afraid.”

  “You spoke to him for how long, would you say?”

  “Ten minutes at most. Had it been a lesser amount, we would have filled it immediately, his being a client in long standing.”

  “I was out of the building,” Mr. Humphrey assured me, removing himself from any blame in the matter. “The approval was given to my assistant, Carruthers.”

  I did not want to be in Carruthers’s shoes, either, although I might be if I did not handle this case correctly.

  “So you engaged in a conversation, then?”

  “He was not a talkative man. For the most part he merely waited.”

  “Did he have an accent?”

  “Yes, sir. Scottish.”

  “Could you tell if it was Highland or Lowland?”

  “That’s the thing I’ve been turning over in my mind, Mr. Llewelyn. I was in a play once, sir. A bit of amateur theatrics, you might say.”

  He looked sheepishly at his employer that he would dare have once indulged in such frivolity. The latter seemed to agree.

  “Anyway, my role was a Scotsman, and it was difficult to attempt, if one does not have the knack. Looking back to yesterday, his accent seemed put on. It sounded like the one I affected, which was neither Highland nor Lowland, but what a London audience might think a Scotsman sounds like.”

  “You are doing well, Mr. Smithers. Can you add any other detail to your account?”

  “Well, sir, when he came toward my desk, his walk was unusual. He sort of rolled from side to side.”

  “Was he bowlegged?”

  “He might have been. As I said, he wore a long coat.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He was very at his ease. Being there did not appear to fluster him. The hand he gave me did not shake in the least.”

  I stood. “Thank you, Mr. Smithers. You’ve been very helpful.”

  The teller nodded at his employer and began to scurry away. I called after him.

  “Excuse me, sir. Did he have a scar?”

  “No scar, sir!” he called as he hurried out the door.

  “Good man,” I said to Mr. Humphrey.

  “Yes, less dull than I expected.”

  “That conversation was all that I required.”

  “Will you let us know Mr. Barker’s condition and his progress?”

  “I shall.”

  We both understood that the fellow had no real interest in Cyrus Barker’s condition and that I had no plan to inform them of it. It was merely a way for him to end the interview and get me out of the room in time for his next appointment. I nodded, took up my hat and stick, and left his office.

  At the front entrance I stopped and turned about, surveying the room and the path he must have taken. Smithers was at the front desk, past the line of tellers. I tried to picture the man crossing to the desk. The problem was I had little trouble picturing it. The imposter in my vision was Caleb Barker.

  CHAPTER TEN

  My employer’s brother returned an hour later, transformed. His hair had been cut short, his mustache trimmed, and his clothes made respectable. He wore a brown suit and a matching bowler. I couldn’t help but think that somehow he seemed diminished.

  “That’s quite a change,” I said.

  “As a Pinkerton agent, I don’t want to stand out in a crowd,” he said in an accent that could almost pass for English.

  “Is this your true speaking voice, or has the American become more familiar?”

  Caleb Barker nodded, curling his fingers around his lapel.

  “A fair question. I adopt whatever language I need wherever I am. It has become second nature. However, I’ll admit being in the United States for so long has flattened my natural way of speaking.”

  “I wish you would choose one accent and stay with it.”

  “I’m not here to please you, son, only to help Cyrus. Have you finally made a plan about how to catch whoever tried to kill my brother?”

  “I have. We’re going to Scotland Yard to get information. While we are there, I will introduce you to some colleagues.”

  Caleb frowned and crossed his arms. “That’s not the best of plans, Mr. Llewelyn.”

  “You don’t wish to visit the greatest detective police force in all the world? You, a Pinkerton agent?”

  “Not while they are hunting for me,” he said.

  Now I understood why he’d been so ill-tempered and secretive. “Was this in connection with the case that brought you here to England?”

  “It was,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What happened?”

  “A simple difference of opinion. I thought two men should die and they disagreed. As you can see, I won the argument.”

  “Was it murder or self-defense?”

  “They were wasting bullets as fast as I was,” he said.

  “Where did this take place?”

  “Sussex,” he replied.

  “I see.”

  “Don’t expect
me to walk in and surrender myself.”

  “But you can’t walk about London with impunity,” I answered.

  “Hence the new suit, Mr. Llewelyn,” he said, beginning to pace the room. He strode back and forth like he was already in a cell.

  “Look,” I said. “Your brother and I have friends at ‘A’ Division. We’ve even worked there on a case or two. The name ‘Barker’ has a certain reputation in London.”

  “You can’t expect me to stroll in and say ‘Good morning! I’m the fellow you are looking for.’”

  “They’re not stupid. Sooner or later they’ll catch you. Wouldn’t it be better to go and surrender yourself? Isn’t that the way a Pinkerton agent should act?”

  Caleb’s temper got the best of him again. “Don’t lecture me on what a Pinkerton should do. You can gamble with your freedom, but I’d prefer to choose what I do with my own, thank you.”

  I shrugged. Some people won’t listen to reason. Not that I haven’t been accused of that myself once or twice.

  “Do as you like,” I said. “I’ve got business to do. I’ll see you later.”

  “Wait, give me a minute to think on this,” Caleb said. “You can’t just spring this on a man, and expect him to trot along behind.”

  Caleb Barker was becoming something of an impediment. He wished to be consulted about everything. This was not his case, and to some extent he was hindering rather than helping. I wondered if that were his intent. If this man was being deliberately obstinate, he was doing a fine job of it.

  “Suit yourself,” I said, standing. “That’s me, then.”

  “Oh, very well. It might be worth it to see the face of Scotland Yard’s finest when I walk in the door.”

  * * *

  I led him round the corner to Great Scotland Yard Street and through the gate to the new “A” Division. As usual, the first face I saw upon entering was that of Kirkwood, the bewhiskered desk sergeant.

  “Hello, Mr. Llewellyn,” he greeted upon our arrival, looking my companion up and down. “Whom have you brought us today?”

  “This is Mr. Caleb Barker, my employer’s brother. He is connected with the business that occurred in Sussex earlier this week.”

  “Ah, the Wealden murders,” he replied. “Three men dead in a display of firearms, all Americans. It is as if they come from the womb with a gun in each hand.”

  Caleb looked ready to defend his adopted country, but bit his lip. He gave me a look which told me he regretted being brought here. While a constable was dispatched for an inspector, he dropped into a chair and offered me a Sobranie from a new cigarette case, which I refused, and lit one of his own with a match.

  A few minutes later, Chief Constable McNaughton came to the front desk with his hands in his pockets. It’s true, I do have a reputation for bringing the unexpected into their building, but I am only doing the Guv’s work.

  “Hello, Mr. Llewelyn,” the chief constable said. “Is this the gentleman you were referring to?”

  “It is. This is Caleb Barker, my employer’s elder brother.”

  “I hear this is the man we’ve been combing Sussex for. And you just marched in off the street?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” Caleb said irritably.

  “Is it true that you are an agent of the Pinkertons?”

  “What’s your best guess?”

  “Friendly chap, isn’t he?” the chief constable said to me.

  “Oh, he’s just bags of fun.”

  “Gentlemen, let’s go back to my office.”

  We followed him through the wide, sand-colored halls of the new “A” Division, which were so much better than the cramped quarters of their previous offices.

  “Here we are,” McNaughton said as we entered the room. It had the usual dull furnishings but a number of racing prints on the walls where one expected photographs of criminals. He waved us into chairs and closed the door, to keep others out, and his suspect in.

  “Now, Mr. Barker, I understand you were accompanying Mr. James McCloskey to England. For what purpose, may I ask?”

  “Mr. Pinkerton felt that America had become too dangerous for him. He was being pursued by members of a group calling itself the Knights of the Golden Circle.”

  “Were the two gentlemen found dead in the house you rented members of this party?”

  “They were, sir. Mr. Josey Anderson and Mr. Bodie Calhoun.”

  “What was your purpose in coming to England?”

  “To protect Mr. McCloskey, obviously.”

  “You’re not very good at your occupation, then, are you, sir?”

  “Apparently not,” Caleb said, stubbing out his cigarette in a glass ashtray on the desk.

  “Where were you during the shooting?”

  “Getting supplies.”

  “How came all of you to possess firearms?” McNaughton asked. “You have no permits to carry any here.”

  “I’m not armed, and I have no idea how McCloskey or those dirty rebels got theirs.”

  “Do you believe the two men were shot by Mr. McCloskey?”

  “I couldn’t tell you. As I said, I was out getting supplies. Coffee. Bacon. Flour for biscuits.”

  “There was no chance, then, that Mr. McCloskey was shot by these two gentlemen and in turn you killed them both?”

  Caleb smote the arm of his chair with the palm of his hand.

  “That’s what it was, Chief Constable. It looks like you got your man. Now why don’t you run down to the American embassy and inform them that you are holding an American citizen against his will, after he came in voluntarily to help Scotland Yard with an investigation.”

  “Out of the goodness of his heart.”

  “Well, naturally. Cyrus and I were raised by a fine missionary mother.”

  “Chief Constable,” I said, “Mr. Barker here has been instrumental in helping me search for the two men who bombed our offices. Apparently, he was some sort of tracker in America. He wants to find the men who nearly killed his brother out of a sense of family honor.”

  “That’s right,” Caleb replied.

  “Mr. Barker, if Mr. Llewelyn is willing to vouch for you in your brother’s name, I will allow it. However, you may not leave London.”

  “Chief Constable, may that be extended to England?” I asked. “We are involved in a case which may yet take us out of town.”

  McNaughton leaned forward and glared at me with the full authority of the Metropolitan Police Force on his shoulders. “We had an agreement,” he said, “but that didn’t include a murder suspect.”

  “I brought you the most wanted man in England,” I replied. “Surely that is worth something.”

  “I’ve a mind to toss both of you into a cell and let the commissioner decide what to do.”

  “You can, but we will merely summon the American ambassador and Mr. Bram Cusp to release us. It would be a wasted effort.”

  Cusp was our solicitor, who liked nothing more than dragging men from the clutches of the Met. McNaughton inhaled slowly through his nose and out through his mouth.

  “You realize the American legation will be looking for you. We’ve informed them of the incident.”

  “They’ll have to catch me first,” Caleb said, as if it were a herculean task.

  “Mr. Barker, the only reason you’re not cooling a bench in a cell right now is because of our…” McNaughton had begun to say “respect,” but looked for another word. “… previous working relationship with your brother. Don’t make me regret my decision.”

  “No, sir.”

  The chief constable looked at me but pointed at Caleb. I understood what it must be like to be a lowly constable dressed down by him.

  “Now, I have some information for you regarding your list of suspects,” he said.

  I nodded. “The first was a French anarchist named Jacques Perrine.”

  “He’s been in La Santé Prison for several years, thanks to your employer. Then there’s the financier, Henry Strathmore, who is in Newgate, a
long with Joseph Keller.”

  “The fellow who is about to hang.”

  “That’s correct. The next one is Henry Thayer Pritchard, who murdered his three wives. He’s still in Burberry Asylum, which, as far as I’m concerned, is the perfect place for him. And finally, we had Jack Hobson, the East End gang leader. I’m afraid I have some news on that score.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately, he’s been released from prison and we don’t know his precise whereabouts at the moment. C.I.D. was not warned before he was released.”

  “I appreciate your effort to locate everyone, sir,” I said.

  I stood to go. It seemed that Hobson was our primary suspect, but I thought it best we visit all of them, anyway.

  McNaughton cocked his head toward Caleb. “Keep this one close to you, Mr. Llewelyn. Whatever trouble he gets into, I hold you responsible.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We were halfway down the corridor when I heard McNaughton’s voice calling after us.

  “Wait!”

  I turned about. “Sir?”

  “You said two men bombed your offices,” he said. “How did you know that?”

  “Mr. Barker here led me through the telephone tunnels under our offices and pointed out two sets of footprints.”

  I didn’t mention the French cigarettes. He needn’t know every detail of the case.

  “I see. The tunnel, you say?”

  “Yes, in the basement where you found me.”

  “Ah.”

  Much as I wanted to, I did not smirk. What the Yard had not thought of was the first thing the Guv had.

  I waved at the sergeant on the way out, and we were soon in Great Scotland Yard again. I led Caleb to the Rising Sun across from the old Criminal Investigation Department and ordered two pints of bitter.

  “Do you ever get Englishmen out there in the plains?” I asked.

  “From time to time a lord will come for the hunting, though the buffalo are gone now. I’ve shown a few Englishmen around, being able to comprehend the language.”

  “Did you tell anyone you were Scottish?”

  “Mr. Llewelyn, you should know by now not to tip your hand. Silence, as they say, is golden.”

  He was right, and though I didn’t trust him fully, I did learn a few things. I’m far too gullible. It is a habit I need to grow out of. I also trust too much. There must be some way, I told myself, to talk easily to someone while at the same time assessing their words and character. I should be, well, let’s face it, more like my employer, which was a sobering thought.