Moriarty

13 The Third Secretary

The American legation had been transformed for the minister’s reception. The gate stood open and torches had been arranged in two lines, blazing the way to the front door. There were half a dozen footmen, equally brilliant in their bright red coats and old-fashioned wigs, bowing to the guests as they climbed down from the phaetons and landaus which had assembled outside. With the lights glowing behind the windows, the piano music playing on the other side of the front door and the flames throwing dark orange shadows across the brickwork, it really was easy to forget that this was a rather drab building and that we were in London, not New York. Even the flag was flying.

Athelney Jones and I had arrived together, both of us in tailcoats and white tie. I noticed that he had exchanged his usual walking stick for another with an ivory handle and wondered if he had one for every occasion. He looked nervous, for once unsure of himself—and I had to remind myself how much of a risk he was taking, coming here. For a British police officer to enter a foreign legation under false pretences and in pursuit of a criminal investigation could be the end of his career. I saw him hesitate, contemplating the open doorway. Our eyes met. He nodded and we moved forward.

He had retrieved the invitation that he had taken from Bladeston House. Fortunately it had survived both the explosion and the fire although, on close inspection, it was slightly singed. ‘The Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary, Mr Robert T. Lincoln, requests the pleasure of the company of…’ The words were written in perfect copperplate and to this had been added: ‘. . . Mr Scotland Lavelle and guest.’ We were fortunate that the woman whom we had known, all too briefly, as Hen had not been named. We had decided that if we were questioned, I would claim to be Scott, Scotchy or Mr Scotland, as he now seemed to be. Jones would be the anonymous guest and if asked would give his own name.

But in fact, neither of us was examined in any way. A footman glanced at our invitation and waved us through to a wide entrance hall, lined with books that were obviously artificial—they did not pretend to be otherwise—as well as two plaster replicas of classical Greek goddesses, one at each end. The party was taking place on the second floor. It was from here that the piano music was coming. A thickly carpeted staircase led up, but in order to begin the climb, the guests had to pass a line of four men and a woman who had positioned themselves purposefully so as to be able to greet each and every one of them.

The first man I barely noticed for he was standing with his back to the door. He had grey hair and drooping eyelids and there was something so dull and self-effacing about him that he seemed completely unsuited to be part of a welcoming committee. He was also the shortest of the four of them—even the woman towered over him.

It was clear that this lady was the wife of the envoy. Though in no way beautiful, with a prominent nose, pale skin and hair packed too tightly into curls, she was still undeniably regal, greeting all those who approached her as if she alone were the reason they had come. She was severely dressed in brown wool twill with puffed out gigot sleeves and a ribbon around her neck. As I took her hand and bowed, I smelled lavender water.

‘Scotland Lavelle,’ I murmured.

‘You are very welcome, Mr Lavelle.’ The monarch herself could not have said it with less enthusiasm.

Her husband, standing next to her, was more genial, a large, square-shouldered man with deep black hair which swept across his head in two contradictory waves. The smile on his face was fighting a losing battle with the seriousness in his eyes and his every movement seemed formal to the point of being stilted. His cheeks and indeed his mouth were obliterated by a huge beard and moustache which stretched all the way to his ears and which I might almost have described as lopsided and even unkempt. I had seen him addressing the people at the front of the line and it occurred to me that both he and his wife were concealing something, with greater or lesser success. They had been touched quite recently by some sort of sadness and it was still with them, here in the room.

I found myself standing in front of him and once again repeated my false name. By now I was getting used to it. He seized my hand in a powerful grip. ‘I am Robert Lincoln,’ he said.

‘Mr Lincoln…’ The name was of course well known to me.

‘It is a great pleasure to welcome you to my London home, Mr Lavelle. May I present to you my councillor, Mr White?’ This was the third man in the line, also bearded, about ten years younger than the envoy. That gentleman bowed. ‘I hope the evening is both enjoyable and useful to you.’

I waited until Athelney Jones had made his introductions and together the two of us climbed the stairs.

‘Lincoln… ?’ he asked.

‘The son of Abraham Lincoln,’ I replied. How could I have forgotten that this descendant of one of America’s most famous families had been sent to the court of King James? A seat had actually been reserved for Robert Lincoln at the Ford Theatre on the night his father had been assassinated and the sympathy that many people felt for him had been translated into enthusiastic support. It was said that Lincoln might himself run for president at the time of the next election.

‘This imposture will be the undoing of me,’ Jones muttered, half seriously.

‘We are in,’ I replied. ‘And, so far, without any difficulty.’

‘I cannot find it in my heart to believe that a criminal organisation could be hiding itself in the sanctuary of an international legation. Such an idea does not bear thinking about.’

‘They invited Scotchy,’ I reminded him. ‘Let’s see if we can find the fat boy and the man from the brougham.’

We passed through an archway and into a room that stretched the entire length of the building with floor-to-ceiling windows that might have provided views over the gardens at the back had they not been heavily curtained. There was a crowd of some hundred people already gathered together with a young man at the piano playing the syncopated rhythms which, I imagined, would have been unfamiliar to Athelney Jones but which I recognised as originating from the streets of New Orleans. A long table stood with glasses and what looked like bowls of fruit punch, and waiters were already circulating with plates of food… raw oysters with cucumbers and radishes, fishballs, vol-au-vents and so on. It amused me to see that many of the dishes carried labels advertising the ingredients; among them were E. C. Hazard’s tomato ketchup, Baltimore vinegar and Colburn’s Philadelphia Mustard. Later on, one of the tables would be displaying Chase and Sanborn’s finest coffee. But then this was a business gathering and so perhaps the legation staff considered these notices to be part of the etiquette.

There was not a great deal we could do. This was the room in which the reception was to take place and there was no question of our creeping around the legation in search of Clarence Devereux. If he was here, there was a chance we might stumble across him—or at least across somebody who knew him. If not, we had wasted our time.

We drank some mint julep (Bourbon from Four Roses, Kentucky, the label read) and mingled with the other guests. There were soon a couple of hundred people present, all of them in their finest evening dress, and I noticed the little man from the door among them. He was angrily dismissing a waiter who had approached him with a plate of curried sausages. ‘I do not eat meat!’ The words, expressed in a high-pitched voice, seemed somehow ungracious and out of keeping with the affair. Then, finally, the envoy, his wife and his councillor came up from the entrance hall, signalling that the assembly was complete. From that moment on, wherever Robert Lincoln placed himself, a small crowd gathered round him, and such was his command of the room that Jones and I were unable to escape being drawn into one such circle.

‘What is to be done with this business of seal hunting?’ someone asked him. With his whiskers and beady eyes, it struck me that there was something seal-like about the interlocutor himself. ‘Will we go to war over the Bering Sea?’

‘I think not, sir,’ Lincoln replied in his quiet way. ‘I am quite confident that we will be able to negotiate a settlement.’

‘But they are American seals!’

‘I am not convinced the seals think of themselves as American, Canadian or anything else. Particularly when they end up as somebody’s handbag.’ The envoy’s eyes twinkled for a moment. Then he turned and suddenly he and I were face to face. ‘And what brings you to London, Mr Lavelle?’ he asked.

I was so impressed that he had remembered my name—or, at least, the name I had given him—that I faltered and Jones had to answer for me. ‘We are in business together, sir. Company promoters.’

‘And you are?’

‘My name is Jones.’

‘I am delighted to see you here.’ He nodded at the younger man standing next to him. ‘My friend, Mr White, believes that we should look to Central and South America as our natural trading partners. But it is my belief that Europe is the future. If I or my staff can be of any assistance in your enterprise…’

He was about to move on but before he could so do, I suddenly blurted out: ‘You could indeed help us in one respect, sir.’

He swayed on his foot. ‘And how is that?’

‘We are seeking an introduction to Clarence Devereux.’

I had spoken the words deliberately loudly and was it my imagination or did a certain hush descend on the room?

The envoy looked at me, puzzled. ‘Clarence Devereux? I cannot say I know the name. Who is he?’

‘He is a businessman from New York,’ I replied.

‘In what sort of business?’

But before I could answer, the councillor stepped in. ‘If this gentleman has registered his address with the legation, I am sure one of the secretaries will be able to assist you,’ he said. ‘You can call at any time.’ Gently, without seeming to do so, he led the envoy away.

Jones and I were left alone.

‘Mr Jones! Mr Pinkerton!’

My heart sank, hearing myself addressed in this way. I turned and found myself facing Edgar and Leland Mortlake. Although dressed more formally in white tie, as the occasion demanded, the two men presented exactly the same appearance that they had at the Bostonian and it was as if no time had passed between then and now.

‘Perhaps I am mistaken,’ Edgar Mortlake began, ‘but I am sure I just heard the envoy addressing you as Scotland Lavelle. I knew it couldn’t be right when I heard the name as poor Scotchy is in no state to attend.’

‘An outrage!’ Leland Mortlake rasped, his thick lips curling in a scowl.

‘It seems to me that you have no right to be here. You were not invited. And if you are present it is only by theft—you stole the invitation, did you not?—and by lying to the envoy of the United States of America.’

‘We came in pursuit of our enquiries and following an attack on my office that led to the death of two police officers,’ Jones replied. ‘You will, of course, pretend you know nothing of that. But we can discuss this at another time. We will leave.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Edgar raised a hand and a younger, rather pompous-looking man, one I had not seen downstairs, came hurrying over, as if he sensed trouble. ‘These two gentlemen are detectives. One is a Pinkerton’s agent. The other is from Scotland Yard. They have entered the legation under false pretences and have interrogated the envoy himself.’

The official stared at us. ‘Is this true?’ he asked.

‘It is true that I am a police officer,’ Jones replied. ‘And I did speak just now with Mr Lincoln. But it was not my intention to meet him and I certainly did not interrogate him.’

‘You must have them removed,’ Edgar snapped.

‘Arrested,’ Leland added. As always, one word seemed to be all he could manage.

The official was clearly uncomfortable, aware that this conversation was taking place in a crowded room with the envoy and his wife no more than a few feet away. Jones had maintained his equanimity but I could see that he was deeply troubled. Meanwhile, the two brothers were gloating, enjoying our predicament. ‘Gentlemen, you had better come with me,’ the official said, at length.

‘Gladly.’ Jones and I followed him out of the room, leaving the party behind. Neither of us spoke until we had reached the corridor and the doors had been closed. But finding ourselves alone, Jones turned to our escort. ‘I do not deny that we should not be here and that, at the very least, this is a most serious breach of protocol. For that I can only apologise. But I can assure you that you will find redress with my superiors and now, with your permission, my friend and I will leave.’

‘I am very sorry,’ the official replied. ‘I do not have the authority to make that decision. I must speak to my own superiors before I can permit you to depart.’ He gestured. ‘There is a room just down here. If you will wait a few minutes, you will not be detained for long.’

We could not argue. The official showed us into an office where, I presumed, visiting members of the public might find themselves, for it was sparsely furnished with a table and three chairs. A picture of Benjamin Harrison, the twenty-third President of the United States, hung on one wall and a large window looked out onto Victoria Street with the beacons still alight below. The door closed and we were left on our own.

Jones sat down heavily. ‘This is a bad business,’ he remarked.

‘And one that is entirely my fault,’ I said, adding quickly, ‘I cannot tell you how much I regret the impulse that brought us here tonight.’

‘All in all it was probably futile. But I will not blame you, Chase. It was my own decision and there is some significance in the fact that the brothers Mortlake were both here.’ He shook his head. ‘That said, I do not care to think what may ensue.’

‘They will not fire you.’

‘They may have no choice.’

‘Well, what does it matter?’ I exclaimed. ‘You have the most remarkable mind I have ever encountered. From the moment we met in Meiringen, I saw that you stood apart from Lestrade and the rest of them. In all my years with the Pinkertons, I have never met an agent like you. Scotland Yard may choose to dispense with you, but let me assure you, my dear Jones, that they will come searching for you, wherever you are. London needs a new consulting detective. You were saying the same only yesterday.’

‘It was in my mind, it is true.’

‘Then you should make it an actuality. And maybe I will stay here a little longer myself, just as your wife suggested. Yes—why not? I can become your very own Watson, but I can promise you I will cast you in a more flattering light!’ He smiled at that. I went over to the window, looking out at the footmen and the waiting coaches. ‘Why must we wait here?’ I asked. ‘The devil with it, Jones, let us be on our way. We can face the consequences tomorrow.’

But before Jones could reply, the door opened and the official returned. He walked towards me and drew the curtain, deliberately blocking the view.

‘Are we to be allowed to leave?’ I demanded.

‘No, sir. The third secretary wishes to meet with you in private.’

‘Where is he?’

‘He will be here presently.’

No sooner had he spoken than there was a movement at the door and the secretary walked in. I recognised at once the short, grey-haired man I had seen in the entrance hall. Now that we were in close proximity, he seemed even smaller than I had first thought, putting me in mind of the puppet that Jones had purchased for his daughter. He had a very round face with the eyes, nose and mouth grouped tightly—almost too tightly—together. His hair was thin and wispy, showing through to a skull that was peppered with liver spots. Most peculiar of all were his fingers, which, though perfectly formed, were too small for his hands, perhaps half the length they should have been.

‘Thank you, Mr Isham,’ he said, dismissing the official in the queer, high-pitched voice I had noted earlier. ‘Shall we sit down, gentlemen? This is an unfortunate business and we need to be brief.’

We sat down.

‘Let me introduce myself. My name is Coleman De Vriess and I hold the position of third secretary here at the legation. You are Inspector Athelney Jones of Scotland Yard?’ Jones nodded and he turned to me. ‘And you… ?’

‘My name is Frederick Chase. I am an American citizen, an agent with the Pinkerton Agency in New York.’

‘Why are you here?’

It was Jones who replied. ‘You will be aware of the outrage that took place two days ago at Scotland Yard. I believe that I was the target of an attack that left three men dead and many more wounded.’

‘And your enquiries brought you here?’

‘We believe that the man responsible may be hiding behind the protection of the legation, yes.’

‘And who might that man be?’

‘His name is Clarence Devereux.’

De Vriess shook his head. ‘Apart from the envoy and his wife, this legation has only twelve permanent members of staff,’ he said. ‘I can assure you I have never met the man of whom you speak. And of course we are aware of what happened at Scotland Yard. How could you think otherwise? Mr Lincoln himself sent a message of condolence to your Commissioner and I can understand your desire to apprehend the perpetrator by any means at your disposal. At the same time, however, I cannot stress too highly the impropriety of what you have done, coming here tonight. You are aware, sir, of the principal of extraterritoriality, that the residence of the envoy is protected from British law and that for a police officer to come here in this manner is a flagrant abuse of international protocol.’

‘Wait a minute!’ I cried. ‘We have seen two men in this building tonight, Edgar and Leland Mortlake, and we know them to be gangsters of the very worst kind. I have seen their files at Pinkerton’s. I know them for what they are. Yes, Inspector Jones and I may have stepped outside the niceties of the law, but are you going to sit there protecting them and obstructing us, particularly in light of what has occurred?’

‘It is the responsibility of this legation to protect American citizens,’ De Vriess returned. His voice had not changed but there was anger in his eyes. ‘To the best of my knowledge, the two gentlemen of whom you speak are businessmen, nothing more. Do you have evidence of any crime they have committed in this country? Is there any good reason to request their extradition? No. I thought not. And if I may say so, there is nothing to be gained by adding slander to the list of charges which will be brought against you.’

‘What is it you plan to do?’ Jones asked.

‘You have my sympathy, Inspector Jones.’ From the look on the third secretary’s face, he had anything but. He folded his hands on his lap, lacing his fingers together. The tips barely reached his knuckles. ‘It is my intention to lodge a formal complaint with your superiors first thing tomorrow and I will accept nothing less than your dismissal from the force. As to your friend, there is little we can do to rein in Mr Pinkerton’s agents. They are well known for their excesses and for their irresponsible behaviour. I will have you removed from this country, Mr Chase, and you may well find yourself being prosecuted in an American court. And that, gentlemen, is all. I have a party to return to. You will be shown to the door.’

Jones stood up. ‘I have one question,’ he said.

‘And what is that?’

‘When you came into this room, you addressed me, correctly, as Athelney Jones. I wonder how you came by that information as neither of the Mortlake brothers were fully acquainted with my first name?’

‘I do not see the relevance—’

‘But I do!’To my astonishment, Jones strode across the room and, using his walking stick, hooked the edge of the curtain and threw it back, revealing the scene outside. For a moment I thought there was something he wanted us to see but then I realised he had quite another aim in mind. The effect on the third secretary was extraordinary. It was as if he had been struck in the face. For a moment, he sat in the chair, staring wildly, gasping for breath. Then he twisted round, unable to look outside for one minute longer.

‘I would advise you against reporting me to anyone, Clarence Devereux!’ exclaimed Jones.

‘Devereux… ?’ I got to my feet, staring at the cowering figure.

‘Now everything is explained,’ Jones went on. ‘The connections between Lavelle, the Mortlakes and the legation; the reasons why the carriage came to this place and why you can never be found. Is Mr Lincoln aware, I wonder, of the sort of man he employs as his third secretary?’

‘The drapes!’ the man who had called himself Coleman De Vriess muttered in a high-pitched whisper. ‘Close them, damn you!’

‘I will do no such thing. Admit who you are!’

‘You have no right to be here. Get out!’

‘We are leaving, of our own volition. But let me tell you, Devereux. We know who you are now. We know where you are. And although you may hide in the legation for a while to come, you can no longer rely on its protection. We have found you and we will not let you go!’

‘You will die before you come close.’

‘I think not!’

‘You cannot touch me. And I swear to you—you will regret this day!’

Jones was ready to leave but I was not. ‘You are Devereux?’ I exclaimed, looming over this small, trembling man. ‘You are the criminal mastermind we have so long feared? It was you who came to London believing that you could yoke the entire underworld to your desires? I would not believe it but for the evidence of my own eyes and what I see is beneath contempt.’

With an animal snarl, Devereux lunged at me and might have grabbed hold of me had Jones not pulled me back.

‘Can we not arrest him?’ I cried. ‘I have travelled halfway around the world to find this man. We can’t just leave him.’

‘There is nothing we can do. We have no authority here.’

‘Jones…’

‘Forgive me, Chase. I know your feelings. But we have no choice. We must leave now. We cannot be found here.’

Still I wanted to fall upon Devereux, De Vriess, whatever he called himself. The man was trembling, his eyes half-closed. I thought of the trail of blood that had brought us here, the fate of Jonathan Pilgrim, who had been so mercilessly put to death by this creature or his cohorts. I remembered all the suffering he had caused. I believe, had I not left my jackknife at the hotel when I changed, I would have plunged it into him with no second thought but Jones had seized hold of me. ‘Come!’

‘We can’t!’

‘We must! We have no evidence against him, nothing but the strange psychological condition that has reduced him to this state.’

‘You will die for this,’ Devereux hissed. He was half-covering his eyes, his whole body contorted. ‘And it will be slow. I will make you pay.’

I wanted to reply but Jones dragged me out of the room. The corridor was empty and nobody tried to apprehend us as we continued down the stairs and back out into the street. Only once we were in the open, away from the legation gates, did I free myself from my friend’s grip and spin round, sucking in the evening air. ‘That was Devereux! Clarence Devereux!’

‘None other. Was it not obvious? When we first entered the hall, he had his back to the door. It was his agoraphobia. He did not dare look out! And before he came into the room, he sent his lackey in to draw the curtains for the same reason.’ Jones laughed. ‘And his name! There’s vanity for you. Coleman De Vriess. CD. He chooses to hide behind the same initials.’

‘But did we really have to leave him? For Heaven’s sake, Jones, we have just discovered the greatest criminal of his generation and we walk out without apprehending him, without saying another word!’

‘If we had tried to apprehend him, all would have been lost. Our own position was tenuous for we were there under false pretences. I have no doubt that Mr Lincoln and his friends are unaware of the sort of man they are protecting but even so their natural instinct would have been to come to his defence, to support one of their own.’ Jones smiled grimly. ‘Well, the game has changed. Now we are at liberty, we can regroup and plan our next move.’

‘To arrest him!’

‘Of course.’

I looked back at the legation—at the coaches, the footmen, the flickering lights. It was true. We had found Clarence Devereux. There was only one problem. How in Heaven’s name were we going to draw him out?