“Either way, I’d feel better if we’d trussed him up and handed him over to the authorities. That cac ar oineach deserves to be tossed in the deepest hole we can find,” Gentry said, spitting the Gaelic curse with more vigor than fluency. Despite growing up in an Irish household, Gentry only knew a little Gaelic, and mostly just curses.
Then, Anthony reflected, Gaelic was, at its heart, pretty much nothing but curses. He smiled and, in the same language, replied, “Chan ann leis a’chiad bhuille thuiteas a’chraobh.” Switching to English, he added, “It’s not the first stroke that fells the tree, Tom.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Gentry muttered.
The bell over the doors buzzed and the doors opened, revealing the entry hall to the penthouse apartments of the Waldorf-Anthony as well as a familiar face. The latter belonged to Anthony’s butler, Dawkins or, as the latter was fond of saying, his ‘gentleman’s gentleman’. Dawkins was a rail thin man of indeterminate years, whose face rarely showed any expression other than polite attentiveness.
“Glad to see you home, sir,” Dawkins said, his Cockney accent contrasting ever so slightly with his impeccable attire. While he presented the image of a traditional English gentleman’s gentleman, Dawkins’ lower class London accent and scarred features denoted a life not lived exclusively in the houses of the wealthy. Like both Gentry and Anthony, Dawkins was a veteran of the Great War. “Ms. Colquitt is here to see you.”
“Dolores,” Anthony said, momentarily nonplussed as a vision of hair the color of sun gold and pale blue eyes set into a strong, yet undeniably feminine face passed across the surface of his mind, displacing all other thoughts. The moment passed and he was instantly alert. “What’s wrong?”
Dawkins looked at him gravely. “She’s not alone, sir. And her friend has quite a story for you.” Anthony and Gentry followed Dawkins into the penthouse. The apartment was large, but cramped. The furniture had been selected less for taste and more for comfort. Peculiar iconography decorated the walls, jostling for space with framed photos, maps, and the odd painting that Jim had taken a fancy to. Richard Upton Pickman’s infamous painting “Subway Accident” shared a space with a cubist self-portrait by Campalans. Anthony found that the resulting clash of color and shape helped stimulate his thought processes.
The apartment spread out around the aleph of a curving stairwell that led to the roof. The kitchen, Dawkins’ uncontested territory, was a slice of space separated from the main room by an island bar and a dressmaker’s dummy studded with blowpipe darts and shuriken. Large potted plants occupied the corners and flat spaces, stabbing some tropical vibrancy into the sterile art deco set-up, and braziers of potent incense had been set up to smoke softly in unobtrusive corners.
Across from the kitchen was the sitting room, the limits of which were marked out by a serpentine couch that Anthony had carved from a single, immense piece of driftwood. A few wicker chairs filled the rest of the space between the couch and the balcony doors. Between the kitchen and the sitting room was the heavy door to Anthony’s main New York laboratory. The lab door was coated in a special sealant to make it leak proof, though not quite airtight. Added to that the structural reinforcement Anthony had installed in order to contain possible explosions, and the door was the next best thing to unbreachable from the interior.
The slim form of Dolores Colquitt rose from the couch as Anthony and the others entered. “Jim, you’re back,” she said and flew into his arms. Her full lips planted themselves on his, silencing any words that might have been about to escape him. Anthony stiffened, as if he had received an electric shock, and then he wrapped his long arms around her. After a long moment, they broke apart. Anthony drank in the sight of her. Dolores was tall, slender and, outwardly at least, every inch the Silk Stocking society gladiatrix, with a face for the pictures.
But when she was with him, those polished edges seemed to blur into something rougher and less civilized. Ever since their first meeting, Anthony had felt a closer bond with Dolores than with any other woman he’d known. “Dawkins didn’t know when you’d be back. He said something about Cuba,” she said.
“Been and gone,” Anthony said, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. He glanced at the couch, where an unfamiliar form still sat. “Who’s this?”
“Magda Sirko,” the woman said. She had a strong accent, but it wasn’t prominent. She had been in the United States long enough to soften it, he estimated. She rose from her seat with a brittle grace that indicated to his keen eye some physical frailty, likely a result of prolonged illness or a childhood injury. She was not tall, and built slight, with once round features now drooping slightly with age. She looked as if she would blow away in a strong breeze. Her hair was still dark, but shot through with wide, irregular streaks of silver and gray. She was dressed conservatively compared to Dolores, but her outfit was expensive. Despite that, he could see the calluses on her hands that denoted a youth spent in toil. He caught a flash of metal when she spoke. Several of her teeth had been filled, not with gold but likely with steel. “And you are Mr. Anthony?”
“Da,” he said. “Ochen priyatno poznakomitsya.”
She blinked and then replied. “You speak Russian?”
“Odnova jazyka nikogda nedostatocno,” he said, and then, in English, “One language is never enough. How can I help you, Ms. Sirko?”
“Mrs.,” she said, smiling thinly. “Dolores swears you are a detective, like in the books by Mr. Doyle. That you can find people.”
Anthony glanced at Dolores, who gestured surreptitiously in a manner he knew meant ‘I’ll explain after’. He nodded. “Among other things, yes,” he said. “Who do you need found?”
“My husband,” Sirko said. “He has been taken.”
“By who?”
“Not by who. By what,” Sirko said. “A demon, Mr. Anthony. A devil from the depths of Hell itself!”
4.
Anthony listened to Sirko’s story in silence. He sat on the couch, elbows planted on his knees, his chin resting in the cradle of his interlaced fingers, his eyes never leaving the woman’s face. Even as Anthony listened, he was studying the flickering micro-expressions that crossed Sirko’s features. Such tiny changes of expression were useful indicators of a speaker’s honesty. There were any number of chemicals that could wring the truth out of someone, but Anthony preferred a more subtle approach, especially when the individual he was studying was asking for his help.
His first impulse had been to pawn her off on the police. He had Cloud’s record books to decipher, as well as a number of other metaphorical pots boiling over—Anthony rarely had only one case on the go at a time. Some investigations took time to ripen. But he knew that Dolores wouldn’t have brought the woman to him if it weren’t important. And, he had to admit, Sirko’s story had perked his interest. He felt his pulse quicken, like a hound that has heard the first note of a hunting horn, as the tale unfolded. Nothing got his blood going like a good kidnapping, though he would never say so out loud.
Sirko spoke quickly, detailing everything she knew about the men who’d set upon she and her husband outside the New Jersey cinema. A hint of pride crept into her voice as she spoke of how her husband had dispatched one of the attackers. Anthony gestured silently to Gentry, who sat on the back of the couch, listening grimly. The big man nodded tersely and stood, heading for the laboratory and the phone there. If a man had died, or been injured in front of a cinema in New Jersey, there would likely be a police report. If such a thing existed, Anthony would have it before the sun set.
When she had completed her tale, Anthony remained silent for several moments, considering. Then, he said, “Why not go to the police?”
Sirko made a face. “The police? Pah. We have had enough of police, Sergei and I. They will do nothing—nothing!” She turned and smiled weakly at Dolores, who patted her hand. “But Dolores, she is a friend. She tells me, I know a man who can look for your husband. He is just like Sherlock Holmes.”
“Not quite
,” Anthony said. He’d met the Great Detective once, long after the man’s retirement to Sussex and his beehives, during a case involving the theft of a rare type of honeycomb. Age had not dulled the old man’s faculties in any way, and Anthony had learned more about the methods of ratiocination and investigation than he’d ever thought possible over a single afternoon’s tea. “Tell me about the demon.”
Sirko paled and sat back. “He is a devil. My husband, he is not a bad man,” she said, after a slight pause.
“But he’s done bad things,” Anthony said. She looked at him and nodded, just once and sharply. Anthony amended his previous estimation of her—there was a raw-edged practicality to the woman. ‘Peasant pragmatism’, his father would have called it.
“He served under the Mad Baron. Those were bad times. And Sergei did… bad things. He did them for me, to help me. I was sick.” She touched her face. Dolores, sitting beside her, wrapped a comforting arm around the other woman’s shoulder. Sirko took a shuddery breath and continued. “We needed money, and he got it. He never said where, but there was a shadow on him. It followed us across the continent, and then here, like a ghost haunting him. Something he’d done, someone he’d…” she trailed off again. “Sergei was a soldier. He fought the Germans, and then the Bolsheviks. He was a good soldier, and he killed men and their ghosts never followed him like this one. Then, we saw in the paper that a man he knew, named Kuzmin, had died in London.”
“How?” Anthony asked.
Sirko swallowed. “The papers didn’t say. But Sergei… it bothered him. Kuzmin left Mongolia at the same time we did. Just before the Mad Baron was captured by the Bolsheviks. I think—I think whatever Sergei did, Kuzmin was part of it.”
Anthony sat back. If the papers had mentioned it, it had likely been murder, or a rather spectacular suicide. From the sound of Sergei Sirko, he wasn’t a man to read the obituaries. He filed the name away. He also filed away the reference to a Mad Baron. “And this demon is… what? Someone they wronged? A ghost out for revenge?”
Sirko’s face hardened. “You are mocking me.”
“No, I’m not,” Anthony said. “I am asking for your opinion, nothing more. Was your husband frightened? Did he show any sign of feeling trapped or hunted?”
She frowned. “Sergei had a face like stone. He did not like to talk about the things which bothered him.”
“Like some men I could name,” Dolores murmured. Anthony glanced at her, and she smiled quickly and crookedly. He snorted and turned back to Sirko.
“The devil,” he said, again.
“I do not know. I only know that the men who took him, one of them said, ‘your old friend wishes to see you again’ and Sergei turned pale… so pale. It is the first I think I have ever seen him frightened,” Sirko said. She pulled a handkerchief out of her purse and snuffled into it. “That is why I said it was a devil. A devil, hunting Sergei for his sins.” She knotted the handkerchief between her fingers. “You must find him, Mr. Anthony. Find my Sergei. Whatever they intend, he does not deserve.” Her eyes, wet with unshed tears, met his. “Find him, please.” She bent forward, slowly, like a tree toppling over, and began to weep into her cupped hands.
Anthony shifted uncomfortably as Dolores comforted Sirko. He stood and began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back. He began to work through the potential investigation in his head. According to Sirko’s story, her husband had been kidnapped almost forty eight hours previous. No ransom had arrived, no warnings, and no corpse. The trail would be cold, but not impossible. He looked back at Sirko. “Is there anything else? Anything you forgot to mention?”
“No, I—wait! Yes, a name—Tornovsky,” Sirko said. “A bad man, very bad. One of Sergei’s superiors during the War. He was one of the Mad Baron’s right hand men. A Cossack, like Sergei. Sergei spoke of him once or twice, and then, not long after Kuzmin died… Tornovsky called Sergei. I don’t know how he even knew where we lived, but he did and Sergei looked so frightened. They talked for an hour, and Sergei grew paler every minute, until I thought he might die right there. When I asked him after, he said that Tornovsky had wanted to talk to him about Kuzmin, but he would not say why.”
“Could this Tornovsky have been behind the kidnapping?” Anthony asked.
Sirko hesitated, and then shook her head. “I do not think so. I got the sense that he—Tornovsky—was afraid as well. I think maybe he called to warn Sergei, but I am not sure.” She fell silent. Dolores patted her arm. Anthony turned away, thinking. He gestured to Dawkins, who trotted over swiftly, after casting a concerned glance at the women on the couch.
“Sir,” Dawkins said.
“I need you to go into my files while I’m out, and see what you can dig up on a Cossack called Tornovsky. He would have served with the Russian army, likely under this ‘Mad Baron’ Sirko referred to.”
“Ungern-Sternberg,” Dawkins interjected.
Anthony looked at him. “That name sounds familiar.”
“It should, sir. He was responsible for a fair amount of the death and destruction that followed in the wake of the big guns falling silent. They called him the ‘Mad Baron’.”
Anthony snapped his fingers. “That’s right. I remember him now—Roman Ungern-Sternberg. He was arrested in ’21, and executed after a brief mock trial.”
“A well deserved fate, if I might be so bold, sir,” Dawkins said. Anthony glanced at the man. Though Dawkins had served the father in much the same capacity as he now served the son, he too was a veteran of wars. It was in part Dawkins own heartfelt resignation from his father’s service on the outbreak of hostilities between the great powers that had prompted Anthony himself, when he was old enough to fool recruiters, to join the American Expeditionary Force. Dawkins had never said in what capacity he’d served in His Majesty’s military, but Anthony knew that it hadn’t been in the trenches. Dawkins sounded like a Cockney geezer and played the role of butler, but he knew his way around a garrotte and could speak six languages, including one Anthony had never heard of.
Gentry stepped out of the lab and gestured silently. Anthony joined him, and the big man whispered, “Got him. Body was brought into a hospital in Bayonne yesterday evening, knife wound to the belly, bled out before the cops got there. No identification, no nothing. Witnesses said a black car, Ford maybe, peeled out with the old man bundled in the back. The Bayonne cops want to talk to her, but she’s been ducking them.”
Anthony glanced back at Sirko’s quivering form, still huddled in Dolores’ arms. If she was an actress, she was a good one. He looked back at Gentry. “Where’s the body?”
“Jersey, where else?” Gentry scratched his cheek. “It’s at the hospital in Bayonne. I called the coroner’s office, mentioned your name and once the shouting died down made an appointment. Want me to get the car ready?”
“I can drive myself, Tom. You haven’t had any sleep since yesterday,” Anthony said. “Go get some rest. I can get to New Jersey without incident, I believe. It’s not a long drive to Bayonne.”
“Aw, I got plenty of sleep on the plane,” Gentry said.
Anthony blinked. “What?”
“Automatic pilot,” Gentry said, tapping the side of his head. “I just zoned out and let that big metal brain you built into the controls do all the flying.” ‘The big metal brain’ as Gentry referred to it was a streamlined variation of the Brainerd punch-card automata that Anthony had modified to control the Thunderbird II in certain desperate situations. It was less a brain, however, than a set of automated responses to pre-programmed situations. And it was most certainly not a qualified pilot.
Anthony stared at him. “That’s—that’s not what that’s for,” he said in disbelief.
“Ain’t it? I was pretty tired,” Gentry said.
“It’s for emergencies,” Anthony said.
“Well, I’d say being unable to keep my eyes open was an emergency, wouldn’t you?” Anthony opened his mouth, shut it, and shook his head. Gentry grinned. “I’ll just go get
the car, shall I?”
“Try not to fall asleep while you’re backing out of the parking lot,” Anthony growled.
Gentry laughed and headed for the elevator, hands thrust into his coat pockets. Anthony watched him go, and then looked down as Dolores joined him. He saw Dawkins serving Sirko a drink, distracting her. “So, like Mr. Doyle’s detective, am I?” Anthony murmured.
“Depends… am I THE woman?” Dolores said. She took his hand.
“At the moment,” Anthony said. He laughed as Dolores punched him in the bicep. “How do you know her?”
Dolores held up a hand and rubbed her fingers together. “They donated to Daddy’s last campaign. Sergei did, at any rate. They went to all the best parties, though Magda never seemed comfortable. Neither did Sergei, for that matter. I made her acquaintance at one of those interminable wine and cheese functions you squirmed out of a couple of months ago. You were in Guatemala, I think.”
“Be fair, I was almost suffocated by a giant snake during that one,” Anthony said. “I would have preferred wine and cheese, frankly.”
“Really,” Dolores said, quietly. She didn’t look at him. He felt a flush of guilt. For Anthony, life without struggle was no sort of life. Shean Boru Anthony, his father, had been a footloose Irish adventurer who’d come late to America after a life lived hard in some of the remotest and most dangerous portions of the globe, hunting wealth and excitement; his mother, Fawn Johntom, in contrast, had been a rancher in the Quanah Parker mould, with a great deal of money made from ranching revenues and the peyote trade, despite her father Mephito’s disapproval. Thanks to his father’s keen instincts and his mother’s ruthless business acumen, he’d inherited a material fortune to rival the gross national product of a small country.
Being rich, rather than providing comfort, only opened up new arenas for Anthony. As a child, under Mephito’s tutelage, he’d pitted himself against nature. Now, as an adult, he pitted himself against rival tycoons in the cutthroat world of print journalism, but that wasn’t enough. He needed the thrill of the hunt, the rush of danger and the sting of violence. Dolores knew that. She even understood it, he thought. She was no wilting flower, looking to settle down. But just because she sympathized, and understood, didn’t mean she approved of everything he did.
The New Adventures of Jim Anthony, Super-Detective Page 3
