by Will Thomas
“But which one? There are at least forty.”
“More if you count the City Police.”
“Would they take a suspect to the City?”
“They might. You won’t be able to deduce where by logic. They won’t tell us and we cannot compel them.”
The Special Branch had only recently stopped calling itself the Special Irish Branch, since their work often involved more than just Fenians. These days, there were Russian anarchists and Italian secret society members, German spies, and American confidence men. The Irish seemed almost law-abiding by comparison.
“What do I do, then?” I asked. “Wait?”
“There isn’t much else you can do.”
“What about you? Can you do something?”
“Not directly. If I send one message with his name on it, the new commissioner will hear of it and I’ll be called in. I owe Cyrus, but I cannot risk my reputation to help him just yet.”
“Can you ask someone else to do it?”
Poole’s lips creased in a rare smile. His face was having trouble deciding what to do with it.
“Thomas, you’re not as green as you once were. I’ll see what I can do if and only if you tell me everything you know about this incident. If we’re going to get on top of this, we must know more than Campbell-Ffinch.”
“That shouldn’t be hard.”
I made Poole smile twice in one day. “Don’t sell him short.”
Poole scribbled on a sheet of paper and handed it to a constable.
I told him everything from the moment the director of Kew approached us and asked Barker to open his gardens for a tour of foreign dignitaries. Of course, Poole knew our garden. He had stood in it on several occasions. If Barker had close friends I could not name more than three. There was a Chinaman named Ho, a Scotsman with no obvious occupation named Pollock Forbes, and Terence Poole. One could add Mac or Etienne Dummolard, or Jenkins, our clerk. In fact, one might even add me, but all of us were employed by him. That is, except for Etienne, who acts as our cook but is unpaid. But he’s a special case.
I explained up to and including walking in the door and finding Detective Chief Inspector Terence Poole.
“How many ambassadors, ministers, what have you, came to Cyrus’s garden?”
“There were three of them.”
“And how many bodyguards?”
“Two.”
“Big fellows?” he asked.
“One was very large. The other, not as much.”
“Were they armed?”
“How should I know?”
“Oh, come along, I know you better than that. You know how to tell if a man is heeled. Were they or weren’t they?”
“They weren’t. Nothing in any of their pockets that I could see.”
“No swords, or whatever the Japanese use?”
“The general and the admiral each carried one, but I’m certain they were ceremonial. They might not even be sharpened.”
“Top of the class, Tommy, my boy. The ambassadors were armed and the bodyguards weren’t? We’ve fallen down the rabbit hole.”
“You’re saying they do have pistols, then.”
“Of course. But they’d have to be well hidden.”
“So, one of the bodyguards is big.”
“He’s massive. He’s built like one of the standing stones in Barker’s garden.”
Poole had pulled out his notebook and was taking casual notes in it with a short pencil. “What about the other one? Would you say he was as tall as you?”
“A little taller.”
“Distinguishing characteristics.”
“Oh, yes. He had an elaborate black mustache curled at the ends.”
“Did you have any other impressions of him?”
“He was very grave. Every time I looked at him, he was frowning. The other one, well, he wasn’t genial, but looked rather bored, or was just being wary in case something should happen.”
“Bit of a fanatic, was he?”
I snapped my fingers. “Exactly. That was the impression I had. Like a watch spring wound too tightly. Jittery.”
“Those are always the most interesting, don’t you think?” Poole asked.
“What happened from your side?” I asked. “About the ambassador being shot, I mean.”
“The Met was summoned by telephone to Diosy House around nine o’clock. Inspector Dunn was dispatched. He found the Japanese ambassador or envoy or whatever the hell he’s called dead by the window. Shot in the upper chest. One entry, no exit. Some blood on the floor, not much. The window he may have been facing was open. Not long after, Barker was arrested across the street.”
“Why?”
“Why was he arrested? He was carrying a pistol.”
“Barker always carries a pistol if he suspects his life is in danger. I meant, why was he still hanging about? If you shoot someone, your best recourse is to get out of there.”
“Perhaps he was confused or unsure.”
“Barker hasn’t been either of those things for as long as I have known him. He comes to a decision almost instantly and is convinced it’s God given and not to be refused.”
“Amen,” Poole said, putting his palms together. “Where were you tonight?”
“I was out with a friend. I got back to Lion Street shortly after nine.”
Poole stared at me again. If I listened carefully I could have heard the wheels clanking in his head. He got up and moved to a window that overlooked the Embankment.
“You were with a friend and you got back by nine.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Will you give me her name?”
“How do you know it is a woman?”
“If it were your friend Zangwill, you would have told me, and you would have just been starting at nine. Barker tells me you often stay out past midnight. Also, you’re acting strange.”
“You seem to know an awful lot about my private affairs.”
“Yes, well, that’s why I am a detective chief inspector. Now will you give me her name? I do have to establish your location this evening in order to eliminate you as a suspect.”
“I thought Special Branch has their man. Let them handle it.”
“They think they do. Perhaps they’re wrong. I need to have your alibi for the evening.”
“No.”
He leaned forward across his desk as if he’d never heard that word before.
“Did you just tell me no?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“Let’s try it again. Where did you go this evening?”
“I can’t tell you that. If you question the staff there they shall recognize her and it might damage her reputation.”
“I could toss you in the cells.”
“Of course you can. You’ve done it before.”
“We don’t like being told ‘no’ at the Met.”
“I don’t believe anyone much cares for it, but we all must get used to it sometime or other.”
“We’re going to find out. You know that, don’t you?”
“Perfectly, but by then she’ll have been warned.”
“Not by you.”
“I’m not giving up her name. You can forget that.”
“Fine, be Perceval, the gallant knight. See if it gets you anywhere.”
“Are you going to arrest me?”
“I’m considering it.”
“So, what is the scenario? I blasted the victim with my Webley from across the street, a distance of hundreds of yards, then after Barker is arrested, I show up looking innocent. Just happened to be in the area?”
“Certainly,” Poole said, lighting up a small cigar. “I like it fine.”
A constable came strolling in and laid a folded slip of paper on his desk blotter. Terence Poole opened it, looked at it, and set it down again.
“Well, at least I know where he’s been taken,” the inspector said.
“Where?” I asked.
“Why should I tell y
ou? You won’t give me anything.”
“You get a twisted pleasure out of this, don’t you?”
“I do. Penge.”
“Penge? That’s practically in Kent! What’s down there?”
“A constabulary of sorts. I gather the Irish boys wanted some time alone with your employer.”
“I need to get him.”
“You’re still under suspicion.”
“You’ve got both of us jugged at once this time, don’t you? You’re enjoying this far more than you should.”
“I am, aren’t I? Oh, very well. I’m pulling your leg. Get out. Go rescue your boss. I know where to find you if I need you.”
“Can I have these removed, please?” I asked, holding up my shackled wrists.
He dug around in his desk, came up with a key and released me. I stood up immediately.
“Give my best to Cyrus,” Poole said. “Tell him to keep his nose clean for once.”
“I will,” I said. “Provided I can find him.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Penge is—well, it’s Penge, isn’t it? The name explains it well. It’s a suburb of London that barely has enough population to warrant a constabulary that qualifies as part of the Met. It is a bucolic town, the kind Londoners like myself tend to make fun of. Nobody thinks for themselves and its newspaper is as likely to discuss what is happening in nearby Croydon as London, something a respectable Fleet Street rag would never do.
The next morning I stepped off the train at the station and looked about. The constabulary across the street was reassuringly square and boxlike, built in a dazzling white brick. It looked like It had only been open a few years and the town must be proud of it. There was barely enough horse traffic to make the bricks dusty.
Before hopping the train I had alerted Bram Cusp by telephone of Barker’s situation. He is our solicitor and a very good one he is, too, but he’s not much of a conversationalist. He’ll usually be speaking to several clients within an hour’s time. I have never seen a man make so many telephone calls. He’s got an office hard by the Middle Temple, and if one notices his cuff links, he is a Freemason like Barker. When I called him, he grunted at the news that my employer was in jail and promised to get back to me. He is good at providing bail quickly.
I’ll say this for Penge, the peelers looked no different than the London variety. The sergeant behind the desk was not especially impressed by a private enquiry agent’s assistant from London.
“I wish to know if my employer, Mr. Cyrus Barker, is in the building,” I said. “I heard he was brought here for questioning by the Special Branch.”
The desk sergeant pointed to a bench and promised to return. I waited half an hour. I’m no scientist but I believe the molecular structure of constabulary benches is the hardest substance known to man.
“I’m sorry, young fellow,” he told me upon his return. “A warrant has been issued. He cannot be released without standing before the bench.”
“Mr. Bram Cusp is on his way,” I said. I didn’t know that for certain, but I thought it at least possible he was coming.
“Oh, good. We’ll be glad to have a celebrity in town. I’ll have someone sweep the streets.”
He left me to my worries. About half an hour later, Cusp blew in from the street. He is a stocky, short, bandy-legged fellow with a squarish head and a short beard. There is nothing much physically to recommend him, nor is his voice particularly pleasant. Booming, I would call it. But he had something. Assumed confidence, perhaps, or a refusal to take no for an answer.
Entering, he clapped a hand on my shoulder and looked about the Penge Constabulary waiting room as if it were the British Museum.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“Inside somewhere,” I said. “They won’t let him go.”
“Nonsense! You, there, Sergeant! I must speak with my client. I suspect he has not been treated properly.”
“You’ll have to sign here, sir.”
I had been stopped as if by a brick wall, but everything opens to Bram Cusp. One gets the feeling that he has important friends at his beck and call, friends that would not be glad that you were thwarting whatever it was he wanted. I was feeling guilty for having wasted his time over something as trivial as getting the Guv released.
“I would be glad to sign the book, Sergeant,” he said as if bestowing a favor on him. “Your station is beautiful, sir. A credit to the Metropolitan.”
He turned and tipped me a sly wink after signing the book. In a pig’s eye.
“Now, come let us find Mr. Barker,” he said.
Cusp made a gesture, telling me to stay where I was until they returned. Reluctantly, I nodded. I was relieved to see him, but I was more worried about Barker than ever. He had been gone for over twelve hours.
For five minutes, I was alone in the waiting room, but no one entered during the entire time the sergeant was gone. I felt I had spent the entire morning waiting when our solicitor returned. When he did, he sat on the other side of the bench and spoke to me in a low voice.
“Apparently, the Foreign Office lads have administered quite a beating. Cyrus claims he is well, but I know when a client is in pain. He’ll try to avoid it, but I need you to take him to a doctor. Don’t accept no for an answer, do you hear? You know how stubborn he can be. I’m holding you to it.”
“Yes, sir. Will he be released?”
“You leave that to me. I’ll raise such a stink as will make the Thames smell like a mountain stream by comparison. This Campbell-Ffinch person has overstepped his bounds. The Foreign Office will close ranks around him, of course. Brotherhood and all that. Standard practice. I’ll have to apply the heat evenly under the entire pan.”
“Is he badly hurt? Can he walk?”
“You’ll have to see for yourself. I’m about to call down the wrath of God in a minute or two. He needs treatment right away, I suspect. I’ll distract them while you get him out of the building.”
“What do you mean? Can we go with a case pending over him?”
“Leave that to me. They won’t be happy, but they’ll swallow it. They are responsible for what the Foreign Office does to a prisoner while in custody. There are laws about that.”
“Right,” I said, though I did not fully believe it.
Cusp bustled toward the front desk. He was a bustling sort of fellow. Just then a door opened and two men stepped out. One was a constable in the act of unlocking the Guv’s darbies. My employer turned and looked at me, raising his chin as if to say hello. His face was red in that way that raw beef is red. Any skin that wasn’t red looked pale. Normally, he is rather sallow.
“You, there, Sergeant,” Cusp said. “Where is your courthouse?”
“Right behind the station,” he answered, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.
Cusp was gesturing to me as he spoke to the sergeant, waving me to go.
“And what, pray, is your name?”
“Flynn.”
I stood and walked over to Barker. He was standing, but slumped over. He looked knackered. Having brought him out, the guard returned to the bowels of the station.
I slid a hand under his arm. Then I stepped back, forcing the Guv to come with me. I took another step forward, looking very innocent. Meanwhile, Cusp was engaging in a conversation at the top of his lungs, punctuated by bombast. Sometimes I suspect he might be losing his hearing.
Another step, and then out the door. I dragged my nearly unconscious employer with me. He was twice my weight, wheezing and wincing from the pain. I hoped Cusp grilled them like a salmon, the Foreign Office, Special Branch, and the Penge Police.
“Come, sir. We’ll find a cab.”
He patted my wrist, something he’s never done before. When a cab finally stopped before us, he slumped into the seat and fell asleep almost immediately.
I was expecting a hue and cry, and then both of us arrested, but it never happened. Perhaps there was not much crime in Penge, and they didn’t know how to go about apprehending a
pair of fugitives. The possibility that they were embarrassed by what had happened in their constabulary and wanted us gone as much as we wanted to go never occurred to me.
We alighted at the station, and went into first class. The Guv could afford it, and anyway, no one would look for us there. Barker shuffled forward and eased down into a plush chair. Again, he slept. Once I was certain we were away and safe, so did I. I had been awake for thirty-six hours.
Of course, I didn’t exactly say, even to myself, that this was the Guv’s fault. If he wanted to go shooting ambassadors, that was his concern, but there are consequences to our actions, such as having the Special Branch turn him into a side of beef. Even I knew that, not that I actually thought he killed the ambassador, of course. Any minute and I expected the doors to burst open and constables would belch forth and surround us.
We got off the train at Victoria Station. I hailed the first cab that came clapping along, pulled by an ancient mare, and came to a stop at my frantic waving. It was no small feat getting Barker up into it. I suspected they had injured his ribs.
I did not want to pester him with questions at a time like this, but there was one thing I had to ask.
“Where are we going, sir?”
“Home,” he replied.
“You need to go to hospital, if I may say so.”
“Home.”
“Let me be clear,” I insisted. “We are going to the hospital.”
He turned his head and regarded me. “Or?”
“Or I get off at the next stop. I’ll clear out my room in a day or two.”
He stared at me for a moment, then his mustache bowed the slightest bit. “Brag and bounce. You wouldn’t resign over such a trifling matter.”
“You think not? You’re going to that hospital if I have to assemble Ho, Mack, Jenkins, and everyone you know to carry you there. I won’t hear any argument.”
“I don’t need a doctor.”
“I suspect you need several. Was it Campbell-Ffinch himself who beat you so severely?”
“He tried to get information on my whereabouts on the night in question. After he left, the officers of the Special Branch each had a turn. They became angry when I wouldn’t tell them anything. They also had several questions about past cases with which I was not forthcoming.”
