Fatal Enquiry

CHAPTER THIRTY

The following morning, I placed this advertisement in the Agony Column of The Times:

Found in Pall Mall yesterday evening:

A substantial bank draft.

Name amount and bearer in order

to collect lost item.

Whitehall 042

Looking back on it now, I should have added a line such as “one call per person.” The telephone set began to jangle at seven-thirty and didn’t stop for hours. Half of the calls were people trying to guess the amount and the bearer. Some thought a pound substantial, while others went as high as ten thousand. The bearers that were proposed included the Prince of Wales, music hall comedian Little Tich, and the Archbishop of Canterbury. The rest of the calls were from reporters wondering what we were about and whether the offer was legitimate or a stunt in order to garner publicity. The agency’s name, which Jenkins announced each time he lifted the receiver, was enough to cause every reporter to request an interview. Those intelligent enough to connect the number and the agency beforehand, with the aid of the telephone directory, were thwarted by a locked door. The Barker Enquiry Agency was not open for business.

Finally, about ten that morning, Jenkins called my name and held out the telephone set to me. I’d like to have thought that Sebastian Nightwine was reading The Times and saw the advertisement, and then ran about the room searching for his cheque in a blind panic before calling. Some things we will never know.

“Mr. Llewelyn,” the voice said. One loses a good deal of nuance when speaking through the device, but I could sense the anger and even danger in it. “I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

“Who may I ask is calling?” I said. Were Barker there, I’m certain he would have reminded me not to be jocose with men that have no sense of humor.

“You waste my time at your peril, sir,” he warned.

“Very well, Mr. Nightwine,” I said. “You have my full attention.”

“I want that cheque returned, Mr. Llewelyn. I could have called a stop upon its payment, but it would not look professional asking the Foreign Office for a replacement. Presumably, you have a demand in return. What is it?”

“I’d like you to blanket London today with notices rescinding the five-hundred-pound reward on Barker’s head. Oh, and keep the Elephant and Castle Boys busy all day visiting every public house in London to tell them the news. Do that, and you can have your precious note back.”

“Done. Where shall we meet?”

“In front of the Albemarle. Bring your daughter, please. I want to be certain she can’t sneak up behind me with her lethal parasol.”

“Shall we say seven o’clock?”

“Seven it is, then,” I said, and hung up the receiver.

To me, being in charge always means getting that feeling in the pit of one’s stomach after every decision is made. Some take to it immediately. I never would. Oh, I’d roll the dice on my own life readily enough, I suppose, but with others it is different. One balances the dangers against the consequences, and then realizes one is considering the fate of a human being one actually knows.

There was a point to this. I was responsible for him, and Mac had expressed an interest in accompanying me to the appointment with Nightwine. He had suddenly become fearless. I would give him full credit for finding the cheque, while I could do little more than to take the blame for getting myself captured and escaping again.

Late in the afternoon, Poole entered with a yellow sheet of paper in his hand, its corner ragged from having been ripped from a telegraph pole. He set it down on Barker’s desk without a word. Getting up from my own desk, I bent over and scrutinized it. The letters were large and filled the entire sheet:

The £500 reward for Mr. Cyrus Barker has been rescinded.

“What’s this about?” he asked, in his hangdog way, as if he were going to regret the news, but was obliged to ask for it anyway.

I stepped around to Barker’s desk, and retrieving the bank draft, set it beside the sheet he had brought in. He immediately grinned.

“I take it Mr. Nightwine has lost this somehow?”

“Just happened to find it in the street,” I answered. “Could have happened to anyone.”

Poole nodded and the smile sloughed from his face again. He didn’t have much to smile about.

“What are you going to do with it?” he asked.

“Give it to him. We have an agreement. He removes the bounty on the Guv’s head, and I give him the banknote. He could always stop payment and request another.”

“Are you giving this to him in person?”

“Seven o’clock at the Albemarle Hotel.”

“I swear Nature must protect her idiots. Shall I accompany you?”

“Best not. You may not represent Scotland Yard’s finest in Warren’s eyes, but Nightwine won’t know that.”

“Do you mind if I hang about nearby, then?”

“You may if you like, but I requested Miss Ilyanova’s presence.”

“Nightwine’s daughter?” he asked, as if her identity were common knowledge now.

“Yes. I want her in sight when I hand her father this cheque.”

He rested his backside on the edge of Barker’s desk, a liberty he never would have taken had the man himself been there, and crossed his arms.

“It won’t do you any good, I’m afraid,” he said. “I came across some news this morning. Ever heard of a bloke named Psmith, with a P?”

“Unfortunately, yes. O’Muircheartaigh’s shootist, isn’t he?”

“Not anymore. He’s employed by Nightwine now. The girl’s been out of sight. If I know Nightwine, he’d like to have your head mounted on his wall right now, and Psmith is just the hunter to give it to him.”

“He can’t have it,” I told him. “I’m still very much using it.”

“You’re sure you don’t need my help?”

“If you happened to be in a tall building nearby and saw Psmith setting up a rifle, I wouldn’t mind if you stopped him from whatever he was about to do.”

“I thought you might. It could get me reinstated, capturing a sharpshooter in the act, so to speak. Warren would appreciate anything that makes the CID look vigilant. So, you’re just going to walk up to Nightwine alone and hope for the best, eh?”

“Not alone, precisely. Mac is coming with me.”

“Mac?” Poole asked. “You mean your Jewish butler? The fellow that looks like Lord Byron?”

“It was he that found the bank draft, you see. I told him he could come.”

His mouth flattened out as he reconsidered. “That’s not a bad idea, actually. The more friends you have present, the less chance you’ll be carried away in a hand litter.”

“Is there a public house in that area you recommend? As a place to meet with friends beforehand, I mean?”

“Try the Dickens, across from Paddington Station.”

“Thanks.”

He thought about that a while and then stood up again. “I think I suddenly have a desire to walk around Paddington. Cheerio.”

After he was gone I considered what people I knew who were tall enough to stand safely behind. The last thing I wanted was to be shot in the head waiting to return a cheque to a criminal who didn’t deserve one. I was minded to start a fire in the grate and watch his gift from the Foreign Office burn.

“I’m going with you, Mr. L, if you don’t mind.”

Our clerk Jenkins had the most intent expression I’d seen on his face in months.

“You’re sure, Jeremy?” I asked. “You’ll be missed at the Rising Sun.”

“The Sun’s loss will have to be the Dickens’s gain. If Mac’s goin’, I can, too. He cares for the house and me the office. We have what you call a working relationship. When the bullets fly, I don’t want anyone thinkin’ to hisself, ‘Where’s Jeremy Jenkins, then?’”

“Is there anyone else we should bring along?”

“The runt.”

“Runt? You mean Soho Vic? The Guv said he’s out of it.”

“No slight intended to Mr. B’s judgment, sir, but ain’t that a decision for Vic himself to decide? I mean, you can’t treat him like an adult for years and then send him on his way with a sweet to suck on when things get dangerous. Not in my opinion, anyway.”

“Your advice is well taken. Think you can get a message to Vic in time?”

“If he don’t have a note in his hand in forty minutes, this ain’t the town I grew up in.”

As he put on a stovepipe hat and prepared to leave, I spoke up again.

“Could you do me another favor?”

“Sure, Mr. L. What is it?”

“Don’t do anything I would do. If this Psmith fellow is out there somewhere, I don’t want him thinking you are me.”

“Right, then,” he said, looking out the door as if deciding whether or not to take an umbrella. He disappeared into Whitehall. Say what you will about number 7 Craig’s Court, we really have some of the most extraordinary conversations in all of London.

Jenkins returned without incident, and when Mac arrived, we locked up promptly at five-thirty. As we walked down Whitehall Street, we had to make way for two young men wearing black lenses. Barker still had his supporters, I was glad to see. The three of us stopped into the Rising Sun, where Jenkins spoke privately with his publican. There was no telling what sort of tales he spun there, but the assembly wouldn’t hear of us leaving without a pint in our bellies. The way they looked at the three of us, we felt like young knights about to go out and vanquish a dragon. In a way, we were, I suppose. In fact, there was even a beautiful damsel, but I would hardly say she was in distress.

Afterward, we walked to Charing Cross and caught the Metropolitan Underground Railway to Paddington. Vic was waiting for us in front of the Dickens.

“Took yer time gettin’ ’ere, din’t yer? You tourists new in town?”

“Thanks for coming, Stashu,” I said.

Vic took the cigar out of his mouth and spat a string of invectives. He was born Stanislau Sohovic, but anyone pointing out he had immigrant parents was in danger of losing some teeth.

“Let’s go inside,” I said.

The Dickens was more a very long hallway than a public house. The four of us could barely stand abreast and touch both walls, but the Dickens had a reputation as the longest public house in the city. We ordered standard pub fare: cutlets, roasted potatoes, and mushy peas, washed down with brown ale. Vic was forced to drink ginger beer, which I secretly found gratifying. He did manage, however, to get the first word in.

“Where do you suppose old Push is now, eh?” he asked. “Reckon he’s down in the sewers ready to jump out at any moment.”

“No! I say he’s brought the Osprey up from Sussex,” Jenkins said, referring to Barker’s steam lorcha. “He could be tied up somewhere along the Thames.”

“I thought he might be in Limehouse, got up like a Chinaman,” Mac replied. “You know how revered he is there.”

I kept my mouth closed, which only made the three of them stop and look at me.

“All right,” I admitted. “This morning I had a thought. What if the Guv were right underfoot this entire time? I went down into the basement and looked to see if he’d been there. I didn’t find anything, but you know he owns the entire building and there are two empty floors above ours.”

We each debated the merits of our case after the food arrived. Had I been alone, I later told myself, I’d have been too nervous to eat. As it was, we wiped our plates with homemade bread and had a second pint. We were well fortified when we left at ten minutes until seven.

“Jenkins,” I said, sounding like a rugby team captain. “I want you to circle around north of the railway and come in from the far end. Vic, you come around from the south along Market Street and walk on the far side of the street as you come back.”

“Wha’ are we doin’?” he argued. “Wha’ am I a-lookin’ for?”

“You’re making sure that I’m not murdered on the street by Nightwine or one of his cronies.”

“Oh,” he said, speaking around the cigar in his gapped teeth. “Thought we was ’ere to do somethin’ important.”

We split up and Mac and I continued down Praed Street. Like many streets in London, it is two solid rows of unbroken three-story buildings. Some very obviously formed residences, while others were a hodgepodge of shops, offices, and government buildings. As we walked I looked for open windows or someone standing on the roofs, hidden by chimneys. I probably wouldn’t feel the bullet, I thought, not if Psmith was the shootist I thought he was. There was no way to prepare beyond common prayer. I looked over at Mac and found he was muttering under his breath, probably in Hebrew.

The Albemarle was there as I had left it, small, discreet, and elegant-looking, with the doorman in a long green coat and hat matching the trim on the building. As we came closer, he opened the door and Nightwine and Sofia exited, waiting for our arrival. I was nervous, conscious that anything could happen. Was this the way Barker worked, or did he prepare for every contingency? One would think after two years in his employ I would know.

“Mr. Llewelyn!” Nightwine called as we approached. “May we please get this business over with quickly? I have an appointment within the hour with someone far more important than you.”

“Good evening, Miss Ilyanova,” I said to his daughter, ignoring his remark.

“Look at you, Thomas,” she responded in turn. “Your face is healing splendidly.”

“Who is this fop?” Nightwine asked, pointing at Mac. “Or should I say, who is this other fop?”

“I thought you’d like to meet the man who found your bank draft in Pall Mall,” I said.

“Are you associating with thieves these days?” he asked. “Of course you are. You criminals always work together.”

I saw Mac’s normally sallow cheeks turn red.

“Have you found proof that I withdrew the bounty on your employer’s head?”

“I have,” I answered.

“Then give me my bloody cheque!”

I pulled it from my pocket, folded in half. He took it, opened it, and visibly sighed.

He’d been actually worried. It was the first human emotion I had ever seen him show.

“Thank you, Mr. Llewelyn. Come, Sofia. We’ll be late-”

“Barker!” a voice called out. I remember thinking it was Soho Vic. Immediately, the cry was taken up by another voice. My eye caught the face of a man who was crossing the street in our direction, the young man who had captured me behind Nightwine’s house, the head of the Elephant and Castle gang. They had brought reinforcements of their own. Why did it seem so unfair that they should have done so, when we had, as well?

I looked down the street from where Mac and I had just come, and at first saw nothing, even though the call was repeated by others, as well. Then Mac or someone else moved and I saw him, walking down the middle of the street, stepping around vehicles and horses as they passed. He was wearing his familiar long coat and bowler hat. From where I stood, I saw he had grown his mustache again and dared wear his spectacles. I felt as if every person in the street had simultaneously taken a long intake of breath.

Nightwine was the first to let it out again, accompanying it with a curse. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a pistol, an Adams revolver by the look of it, with an octagonal barrel. Sofia laid both hands upon his forearm, not stopping him per se, but counseling him not to start shooting just yet. He looked about to shake her off, not being the kind to brook interference.

As Barker stepped under the light of the closest gas lamp, something caught my eye.

It didn’t look right. I’d been worried that the Guv wasn’t eating, but he looked well nourished, even immense. Upon closer inspection, it didn’t look like the Guv at all, actually. I glanced back in time to see a hand seize Nightwine’s shoulder and jerk him around. Not two feet from where I was standing, the doorman slapped a pair of gloves across Nightwine’s face, with a dry leather snap. Sofia made a sound in the back of her throat as her father recoiled from the blow.

“Sebastian Nightwine,” a deep, rumbling, and very familiar voice said almost in my ear. “In front of these witnesses, I challenge you to a duel.”