Anarchy

by Olivier Bosman

  “The foreskin.”

  “Did it help?”

  Enoch scoffed at this. “Did it fuck!”

  “You had better get back to your room. Mrs Appleby usually starts sweeping the stairs at this time. We don’t want her catching you in here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Enoch walked towards the door, picked his clothes up off the floor and turned the key.

  “Aren’t you going to get dressed first?” Billings asked.

  Enoch looked back and smiled mischievously. “I like living dangerously.”

  Still naked, he opened the door, popped his head out to make sure the coast was clear and ran out of the room with his clothes in his hands.

  Billings laughed.

  Enoch was already sitting at the breakfast table when Billings came downstairs. He was scoffing down the food on his plate: a scone, a fried egg and a slice of fried bacon. His hair was still uncombed, his face unwashed. He had simply thrown on some clothes and come down to breakfast.

  Enoch looked up from his plate and smiled. “Good morning, Mr Billings.”

  They had agreed to call each other by their surnames in order not to arouse the suspicion of Mrs Appleby.

  Billings stifled a smile. “Good morning, Mr McCain.” He pulled up a chair at the table. “Sleep well?”

  “Actually, I didn’t. I felt all night as if there was another man inside me.”

  Mrs Appleby walked in from the kitchen just at that moment, carrying a pot of tea.

  Enoch stifled a laugh, but Billings was not amused. He frowned at his friend, warning him to behave.

  Mrs Appleby put the tea pot on the table. “Good morning, Mr Billings. What will you be having for breakfast today?”

  “Just porridge, please.”

  “Mr McCain has ordered a fried breakfast.” She gave Enoch a look of disapproval.

  “Well, I’ll just have porridge, thank you.”

  Mrs Appleby turned towards Enoch. “Mr Billings always has porridge for breakfast.” The sound of disdain in her voice was palpable. “He only eats meat on Sundays. He doesn’t believe in wasting his hard-earned money on expensive luxuries.”

  “Mr McCain needs to eat something that will give him energy for the rest of the day,” Billings said. “He’s going to spend all day looking for a job. Isn’t that right?”

  “That’s right.” Enoch wolfed down another piece of bacon.

  “Which reminds me…” Billings dug into his pocket and took out some coins. “Here’s some money for the omnibus.”

  “Ta.”

  Mrs Appleby watched this exchange with disapproval. “I’ll go get you your porridge,” she said and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “You will comb your hair, won’t you, before you leave,” Billings said. “You must look presentable when you ask for a job.”

  “I will.”

  “And wash your face and your hands.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your fingernails in particular. You’ve still got dirt under them.”

  “I’ll do all of that.” He picked the last bit of bacon off his plate with his fork and stuck it in his mouth.

  “Well, off you go, then,” Billings said. “I’m leaving in fifteen minutes. You have to leave with me.”

  “Yes, sir.” And still munching on his bacon, Enoch got up from the table and went back upstairs.

  Mrs Appleby came back into the dining room with a bowl of porridge in her hands. “He’s gone back up, has he?” she said, seeing Enoch’s empty plate, smeared with egg yolk and grease.

  “He’s getting himself ready.”

  “I saw you giving him some money.”

  “He’s looking for a job. He needs it for the omnibus.”

  “When I was his age, I walked everywhere.”

  “His leg is wounded.”

  She put the porridge on the table and sat down beside the detective. “I know it’s none of my business, but you do know what you are doing, don’t you? Looking after this Irish boy?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Because, I mean, you don’t know him from Adam.”

  “I know what I’m doing, Mrs Appleby. Don’t worry about me.” He slid the porridge towards him and began eating.

  Mrs Appleby sighed. There was clearly something weighing on her mind. “Where exactly did you meet him?”

  “I told you. I met him in a pub.”

  “But which one?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Was it a reputable place?”

  “No pub is reputable.”

  “Look, Mr Billings.” She leaned into him and whispered in his ear. “I don’t want you to think that I’m interfering, but I do know a little bit about how the world works, and I know that sometimes, good-looking young boys like that can take advantage of respectable gentlemen like yourself.”

  Billings raised his eyebrows. Was she really insinuating what he thought she was insinuating? “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just that I was talking about you with my sister the other day,” she whispered. “And I was telling her that you were still my tenant, even though you are thirty years old and should really have found a wife by now. And then she said that perhaps you were…” She stopped.

  “Perhaps I was what?”

  Mrs Appleby opened her mouth to speak but then quickly decided against it. “Never mind.” She picked up her tea cup and took a sip. “I just want to be sure that you know what you are doing.”

  “Well, I am sure, Mrs Appleby, so you needn’t worry about me.”

  Billings thought that this would be the end of the conversation, but Mrs Appleby’s mind was clearly not at ease. She put her tea cup down on the table and leaned into him again.

  “It’s just that I said something to Mr McCain this morning when he came down for breakfast, and the way he reacted was a little odd.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “Oh, it was nothing. A little joke. A phrase I learned from an Irish friend of mine. I said céad Míle Fáilte to him.”

  “You said what?”

  “It’s Gaelic. It means a hundred thousand welcomes. But he didn’t understand me.”

  “Well, perhaps he doesn’t speak Gaelic. Not all Irish people do.”

  “People from Dublin might not, but he said he was from Galway. They all speak Gaelic in the west. And anyway, it’s a very famous phrase. All Irish people know what it means. Gaelic or no Gaelic.”

  “What precisely are you suggesting?”

  “I’m just not sure he is telling the truth.”

  “About what?”

  “About being Irish.”

  “Why would he lie about that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He probably didn’t understand you. You may have mispronounced that saying.”

  “Well, maybe I did. I just felt I should tell you.”

  “Thank you.” Hoping that that would be the end of that conversation, he swallowed his last spoonful of porridge and got up from the table. “I’d better be going,” he said and rushed out of the room.

  7. The Bohemian Countess

  It was another hot and humid day in the office, and Clarkson was once again working on his reports. He had to write twenty-five of them, one for each of the Autonomie Club members they had interviewed. He had only completed three. Clarkson could not sit still for long. He’d write four or five words, then lay his pen down, get up from his desk and walk around the office, huffing and puffing and complaining about the heat. He was now standing by the open window, fanning himself with a blank sheet of paper.

  “One good thing about this heat,” said Clarkson, “is that the ink dries quicker. My reports aren’t nearly as smudged as they usually are.”

  Billings frowned. He put his pen in the inkwell and looked up from his own report. “Shouldn’t you be doing some work?”

  “I’ve got to take a break every now and then. Me arm hurts from all that writing.”

  “I can help you as soon as I’ve finishe
d my own report, but I won’t get it finished if you keep distracting me!”

  “All right, all right.” Clarkson put his hands up in the air and walked back towards his desk. “I’ll shut up.”

  The sliding door to Flynt’s office opened, and Flynt popped his head out. “Ah, there he is. Our undercover agent.” There was a tone of sarcasm in his voice. “So, things didn’t go well yesterday, then?”

  Billings looked up. “What do you mean?”

  “Two dead anarchists, Billings. That’s what I mean. I’m not sure whether I have made myself clear to you, but we are striving to catch the remaining Hirsch brothers alive.”

  “I cannot be blamed for Zebulun Hirsch’s death.”

  “Why not? What did you do to prevent it?”

  “I wasn’t there to prevent it. I was waiting outside for Joseph Hirsch to exit the building so that I could follow him home.”

  “And did you follow him home?”

  Billings paused before replying. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He fled through the back door.” Billings lowered his eyes, grabbed his pen and continued with his report.

  Flynt placed his head in his hands and sighed. “So who killed him?”

  “It must’ve been either Ruben or Joseph. There was no one else there. My hunch is that it was Joseph. The whole railway plot appears to have been a mere ploy by Joseph Hirsch to bait his brothers into assembling so that he could kill them.”

  “Kill them? Why?”

  “Their father’s will. I need to check the contents of their father’s will. It seems that only one of the brothers will inherit his fortune. The one who outlives the others.”

  “That’s ridiculous! What kind of will is that?”

  “A twisted form of vengeance, perhaps? It seems to be in character with what I have learned about Jacques Hirsch. I just need to check whether it’s all true. If so, we have a motive.”

  “So what’s our next move?”

  “To find Joseph Hirsch.”

  “How?”

  “This is how we’ll find him.” Billings took some letters out of his drawer and slammed them on the desk.

  “What’s that?”

  “These are the letters the landlord gave me. I finally received a signed warrant from the magistrate. The first letter is a message from his father’s lawyer informing him of his father’s death. The other two are letters from a certain Mrs Z.”

  “Let me have a look at them.” Flynt grabbed the letters from the desk and scanned through them. The first one was a telegram from France. It read:

  Votre père est mort * Les détails du testament seront rendus publics * Vérifiez les journaux * Florent Barbet, notaire

  (Your father has died * Details of will will be made public * Check the newspapers * Florent Barbet, lawyer)

  The other two letters were enclosed in small envelopes, sealed with wax and stamped with the emblem of a double-tailed lion wrapped around a capital ‘O’. The first letter read:

  Meet me on Sunday at lunchtime outside Dorothy’s in Oxford Street.

  I must see you again. It’s been too long.

  With love,

  Z

  The second letter read:

  You weren’t there.

  I’ll be at Dorothy’s again next Sunday.

  And every day after that until I see you. I must see you!

  With love,

  Z

  “Who is Z?” Flynt asked.

  “I don’t know, but the elegant curls and graceful loops suggest that the letter was written by a woman. And the purple ink and stamped wax seal suggest that she is rich. I want to go to the Dorothy Restaurant this lunchtime and see if I can find her.”

  “And what about you?” Flynt said, turning to Clarkson. “Have you finished your reports yet?”

  “Most of them,” Clarkson said. “Here’s the report on the landlord.” Clarkson pulled a report out of a pile of papers on his desk and handed it to Flynt.

  Flynt scanned through the report. “What the devil does it say here?” He pointed at a word and showed Clarkson.

  “Kurowski. That’s the landlord’s name.”

  Flynt took the report back and re-read the word. “That doesn’t say Kurowski. It says Kuromski!”

  Clarkson blushed. “I’m sorry, sir. I sometimes get me m’s and me w’s mixed up.”

  Flynt slammed the report on Clarkson’s desk. “This report is illegible! I can’t show this to Special Branch. They’ll think we’re a bunch of amateurs!” He rubbed his forehead with frustration. “Why did I have to be saddled with you two? I’d have made superintendent by now if I’d had a halfway decent team to work with!” He turned back towards Clarkson. “This is what we’ll do. I will get one of those typewriter girls from downstairs to come up and type your report. You’ll have to dictate it to her. I don’t want her seeing your childish scribblings. But it will come off your salary!”

  The Dorothy Restaurant was a women-only restaurant, a novelty in London. It was particularly popular with feminists, bohemians and libertarians. Billings stood outside, watching a group of urchins on tiptoes pressing their noses against the restaurant’s window.

  At around half past one, a woman wearing a dark blue dress and large feathered hat stepped out of the restaurant, leaned against the doorway, took a cigarette out of her handbag and popped it in her mouth. She looked attractive and confident. The urchins by the window were intrigued by her. She smiled at them, which encouraged them to approach her and hold their hands out for some money. She gave them something out of her handbag. Billings couldn’t tell whether it was a coin or a sweet, but whatever it was, the urchins were happy with it. They left, skipping and laughing down the street.

  Billings walked towards her and joined her by the doorway. “I have been sent by Joseph Hirsch,” he whispered to her. He wasn’t sure whether he had the right person, but the woman’s reaction quickly confirmed that he had.

  “Joseph?” She looked concerned. “Why isn’t he here himself?”

  “Mr Hirsch is indisposed.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am a friend.”

  “Where is Joseph?”

  “He asked me to pass on a message to you.”

  “What sort of message?”

  “It’s confidential. I’d rather not tell you here.”

  “It’s quieter around the corner.” She threw her cigarette on the ground, crushed it with her boot and rushed off down the street.

  Billings followed her to a small side street.

  The woman stopped in front of one of the large, elegant houses that lined the street. “Well, what is it?” She looked tense and worried.

  Billings took his badge out of his breast pocket and showed it to her. “My name is Detective Sergeant John Billings from Scotland Yard. Joseph Hirsch is wanted in connection with a police investigation, and I have reason to believe you might know where he is.”

  The woman went silent. Her brow furrowed as she tried to register what was happening.

  “So you tricked me,” she said.

  “I’m afraid I have.”

  “What makes you think I know where Joseph Hirsch is?”

  “You sent him a letter asking him to meet you at the Dorothy Restaurant.” Billings took the letter out of his breast pocket and showed it to her.

  The woman frowned. “Those letters weren’t meant for you. And anyway, it should be perfectly clear from those letters that I don’t know where he is!”

  “Joseph Hirsch is on the run from the police. I’d like to talk to you about him. You may have some information that could help us locate him.”

  “Why would he be on the run?”

  “He is suspected of the murder of his brothers, Issachar and Zebulun Hirsch.”

  The woman laughed. “I have never heard anything more ridiculous in my life!”

  “I’d like to take you to the police station so we can talk.”

  “There’s no need for that, Detective
Sergeant. We can talk here.” She took a bunch of keys out of her handbag and climbed the steps of the house before which they were standing.

  Billings was confused. Was this her house?

  “Well, come on, then,” the woman said, opening the front door.

  Billings followed the woman in. He was taken aback by the house’s splendour. Four Doric pillars decorated the hallway. The marble tiles on the floor and walls shone so brightly that his eyes had to adjust to the light. The house would have looked like a mausoleum had it not been for the various potted palms and aspidistras placed against the wall.

  “We’ll go to the drawing room,” the woman said, climbing the marble staircase. “Bessie will bring us some tea. She’ll have heard us come in.”

  Billings followed her to the drawing room.

  The woman perched herself on the red velvet sofa.

  “Sit down,” she said, pointing at the sofa opposite her, “and tell me more about that ridiculous theory you have concocted.”

  Billings sat down. “You have a nice house, Miss…um…”

  The woman smiled. “You have no idea who I am, have you?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Well, brace yourself, Detective Sergeant, for I shall tell you. My name is Zuzana Olexa, Countess of Bohemia.”

  Billings tried not to look impressed but failed.

  The woman smiled at his reaction. “But I don’t care much for titles, so you can call me Miss Olexa. Or Zuzana, if you prefer.”

  “What are you doing in England?”

  “My father came here in the sixties after his attempt to re-establish a Bohemian Kingdom failed. I grew up here. But you’re not really here to talk about me, are you? You mentioned something ludicrous about Joseph having murdered two of his brothers.”

  “How do you know Joseph Hirsch?”

  “I know all of the Hirsch brothers. I helped them settle down in this country when they were forced to leave France.”

  “How did you help them?”

  “By giving them money.”

  “When did you meet them?”

  “I met them at the Autonomie Club when they arrived in England.”