The building was a boxy, three story brick edifice with stone lintels over the square windows. I loitered across the street, watching as he dug in his backpack and pulled out a set of keys. The entrance was up a couple of steps and recessed to form a narrow vestibule. Bathmore unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Now my job was waiting, again. I didn’t want to loiter in the street or try to sit in a pub and watch the building. My jet lagged brain was not alert enough for that and I wanted to be closer so I could see if Bathmore had visitors—maybe even close enough to hear if he made phone calls. That meant getting inside. I walked back up the street, turned down a side road, and circled around to the back of the building via a narrow alley. Twenty feet along the alley, it opened up and there was a parking area big enough for six cars and a dumpster. The building had a fire escape ladder up the back and a door at ground level probably used by people assigned parking spots. Only two of the spots were occupied, one by an ancient Mercedes sedan, the other by a tiny Ford van with Mulgrew’s Plumbing stenciled on the side in elegant burgundy letters. The door was propped open with a brick, probably by the plumber. That made things easy.
Inside, I found a long central hallway with doors opening to both sides. Gray linoleum, waxed a thousand times, stretched away, edges converging toward a distant spot of daylight. The walls were a yellowed white, the ceiling ten feet high with cobwebs in the corners above the door. Somewhere down the hall a bad ballast in one of the fluorescent light fixtures was buzzing. The building felt tired—like it would happily crumple to the ground if a helpful earthquake would just give it a gentle shake. A sewer gas odor wafted down the corridor and I could hear the dull echo of metal on metal in an enclosed space. To my right a narrow stairway led upward but I wanted to see if there was a directory so I started down the hallway toward the front of the building. Halfway down the corridor, a door was propped open. The clanging sound was coming from there. As I passed, I caught a glimpse of the plumber’s work boot clad feet—maybe Mulgrew himself—through the gap. I kept going. There was a glass fronted box in the tiny lobby holding a recently printed sheet of A4 that bore a list of office numbers and the names of the tenants. Only about forty percent of the office spaces were occupied if I could trust the list. Bathmore was on the top floor in 218. 216 and 214 were both unoccupied or at least had no name next to the room numbers. Every other office seemed to be empty. Maybe intentional—if you have a half empty building where people teach music lessons you might as well leave a buffer between occupied spaces.
I climbed the creaky steps. As I neared the top landing I could hear a piano. Someone was hesitantly running through the chords from Satie’s Gymnopedie Number One. I paused on the landing. Cello sounds droned from another room farther down the corridor. As I passed the piano room I heard a muffled voice with a Slavic intonation giving corrections. I stopped outside 216 and listened for a moment. I could hear no sound from inside. It was right next door to 218 where Bathmore had to be. I could hear no music or voices coming from 218 so his student must not have arrived yet if that was indeed what Bathmore was doing here. He could be up to something else. If so, I needed to know what it was. There was no bolt lock on the door to 216, just a cheap knob set. I tried the handle. It was locked. I had a pick gun, a bump key, and the picks I had used to get into Bathmore’s building with me. I decided to try the bump key first. It made some noise but the loud violin from a couple of doors down would help. I inserted it into the key hole, gave it a bit of tension, and realized I needed something to tap it with. There was nothing nearby so I quickly removed my shoe and used the sole. On the second tap, the lock turned. I pulled the door open, verified that the room was empty, and stepped inside.
The space was about twelve by ten feet. It had a warped hardwood floor gray with age and lack of proper care, a window overlooking the roof of the building next door, and nothing else. I set my backpack down quietly and, seating myself on the floor, put my ear against the wall which was shared with Bathmore’s room next door. Eyes closed, I listened. At first, I heard nothing. After a minute, I thought I heard the sound of a mouse scurrying along inside the wall. Another minute passed and then I heard the sound of an occupied chair scraping over wood floor, as if someone had scooted an inch or two. I thought I heard muttering but couldn’t tell if it was real or my imagination. The sounds of violin and piano continued but muffled now. After maybe ten more minutes of the same sort of sounds I heard a sharp voice say “Damn it!” then the sound of a pencil or pen being tossed down hard onto paper. The chair slid, feet paced around the room, then Bathmore sat down again. I imagined him seated at a desk or table. What was he working on? Was he trying to crack the code too? Working from Wolhardt’s notes? I hoped so. That would mean the notes were just in the next room and my job was close to done. I would merely have to wait for him to leave then go in and take them.
He kept me waiting for a while. I spent two more hours sitting on the floor and listening before I finally heard him stand up. A loud zipper opened and closed followed by a curious bang like metal striking metal, then the door opened and Bathmore left the room, slamming the door closed behind him. I had to think fast—follow Bathmore or search his office first. It was an easy choice. I knew I had to search his office, even if it meant losing him. I waited for two minutes, then peeked out into the corridor. It was empty. I repeated the bump key trick on Bathmore’s door and the lock gave way. Inside I found a simple wooden desk, a locking file cabinet, two stools, and a music stand. Early afternoon sun shone through the window and dust motes circled in the shaft of light. There was a sheet of paper, folded in thirds on the desk. It had a piece of tape on it as if it had maybe been taped to the outside of the door. I picked it up. It was from the building management—an official notice of eviction effective at the end of the month. It was June thirtieth so Bathmore’s time was up. I opened the unlocked file cabinet drawers. They were empty. He had taken the notes with him if they had been there at all. I hurried from the building, hoping I could catch up to him.
Chapter 13
Beer and Necromancy
July 2: London
Bathmore was nowhere to be seen when I burst out the door. I started back, retracing the route I had taken while following him. The houseboats were still out on the canal. I walked fast but did not see him ahead of me. He could have taken a different route or maybe he wasn’t headed home. If I didn’t find him I would have to head back to my rental and keep watch, hoping he would show up. My intuition told me he still had the notes. He had been keeping them at the space he rented for giving music lessons and working on breaking the enigma there. By bad luck I had followed him there a day too late. He had cleared out, knowing he would be evicted the next day and any belongings left in the room either discarded or held until he paid his back rent. I should have gone there the night before. Hopefully, he would take the notes home. I would have to break into his apartment again the next time he went out. He had to be trying to solve the enigma in order to get the reward from Jutting. He must have learned about it while working for the tycoon. Maybe he had an extra motivation. Maybe he believed he had been treated unfairly by Jutting and wanted to be the one to find the solution so he could get some kind of revenge in addition to the reward. It was speculation but it fit what I had seen and the clues I had gathered. He might be getting desperate though. He was behind on all his bills, he had been evicted from the space he presumably used to pursue his only money making vocation. He must be in danger of losing his apartment as well. I hoped he wasn’t desperate enough to contact Jutting and try to sell the notes. It would be infinitely more difficult to steal them from a billionaire surrounded by bodyguards and private security. For a member of the highest class of the global elite, his house had looked modest from the outside. I had no doubt it was not modest on the inside. He almost certainly had the best security money could buy. It wouldn’t be like breaking into Carlu Ortoli’s house. Carlu Ortoli was merely wealthy. Jutting was on a different plane
of existence.
I reached the Bethnal Green station still without having caught sight of Bathmore, walked up and down the platform rapidly, scanning the crowd, looking for that burgundy backpack. No luck. I had lost him. My only option was to return to my temporary home and wait. I rode the trains back to Hammersmith, thinking. I still wanted to pursue a meeting with Jutting if possible. If Bathmore turned over the notes as I feared he might I would need to know as much as possible about Jutting’s residence and business. When I emerged from Hammersmith station I paused out of the flow of human traffic and called the number Gabrielle’s father had given me for Ortoli. It was an answering service. I had placed calls to the number twice before. The first time had been to arrange our initial meeting at Ortoli’s Genoese villa, the second to arrange a rendezvous to turn over the painting to him.
“Pronto,” said the voice I recognized from the last time—a deep, slightly raspy, female voice.
“Hello,” I answered in my faltering Italian. “I would like to leave a message for Signore Ortoli.”
I left my name and phone number and the woman assured me he would call me back within a day. I thanked her, hung up, and jumped back into the stream of pedestrians. Two doors down, I veered back out of the crowd and made a quick stop at a tiny market for a bag of cat food. I had left the living room window open. From there the cat could easily jump to the handrail outside. I hoped he hadn’t disappeared. I liked the cat’s presence. It helped calm my thoughts. As I was paying, it occurred to me that Bathmore’s apartment had been devoid of food and full of takeout containers. The main street outside was lined with bars, coffee shops, and takeout restaurants. Back on the street I peered into each window as I passed, looking for that burgundy backpack. It was more difficult to see into the shops and restaurants across the street but whenever there was a break in the traffic I shot a glance across, checking windows. Half a block from the market I stopped, thinking I had seen something burgundy.
“Watch yourself, tosser.” A man barged past me, giving me a hard bump with his shoulder. I ignored him. There was a pub directly across the road with a dusty window facing the street. It was dim inside but I could see through to the bar and the backs of several customers seated there. One of them was wearing a burgundy backpack.
I walked down to the next light, shoving the cat food into my pack, crossed and hurried back up the street. Cautiously, I opened the door and peered in. It was Bathmore. I entered the pub and walked up to the end of the bar farthest from where he was seated. There were a couple of people between us—a bald man in his fifties who had to be a British Telecom repair man with his yellow jacket and cargo pants and a younger man farther down the bar who had long hair and sported a corduroy jacket with worn leather elbow patches. I wasn’t worried that Bathmore would recognize me. Out of the corner of my eye when I leaned forward or back I could see that he was staring straight ahead, watching his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The glass in front of him was nearly empty. His head was lolling slightly as if he was already drunk. The bartender—whose graying buzz cut, lined face, and heavily tattooed forearms indicated he might have attended a few Clash gigs at the Hammersmith Odeon back in the day—approached and I ordered a stout. I wondered how many Bathmore had consumed already. He couldn’t have had enough time to drink more than one or two. I got my phone out and pretended to read, heading off any potential conversations with strangers while I kept an eye on Bathmore. He drank another pint, nursing it for fifteen minutes while I took occasional sips of mine. An old CRT television up in a corner behind the bar played a grainy rugby match. I had no understanding of rugby. I tried to make out the rules while stealing glances down the bar. Bathmore’s phone was on the counter and he kept checking it every few minutes as if he was expecting a call or a text message. Suddenly it buzzed and began vibrating. He reached for it and stood unsteadily while swiping to answer the call, put a coaster over his beer, and walked out, mumbling into the phone.
I got up and wandered over. He stood outside the front door, leaning on it. I could see the back of his head through the small window in the door. Just inside was a little bulletin board. A flyer advertising the pub’s quiz night was tacked to the board. I read it over while straining to hear Bathmore—every Sunday starting at eight PM, maximum team size six. Bathmore wasn’t speaking. He was standing with his head down, phone pressed to his ear, listening. In profile, he looked very young although I knew he had to be in his mid to late twenties. He raised his head finally and spoke. I strained to hear him over the traffic noise from the street and caught just a few words.
“…got any money…understand…yes, of course…”
I walked back to my spot at the bar, frustrated. Bathmore’s caller must have been one of his many creditors. Or was he arranging to sell the notes? I couldn’t tell. He came in a moment later and sat back down. Once again I waited, watching the rugby while Bathmore drank another beer. He had to be very drunk by this time unless his tolerance to alcohol was superhuman. He had consumed at least four pints in the space of an hour. Finally, he motioned for another beer and the bartender just shook his head.
“You’ve had enough, lad. Go eat something and sleep it off.”
Bathmore didn’t argue. He stood, steadying himself with a hand on his stool, then walked with as much dignity as he could muster. His face was puffy and white with a sheen of sweat. I waited thirty seconds then followed him out the door just in time to see him turn the corner at the end of the block. He was moving slowly and I caught up to him easily. We were two blocks from his building. I kept a distance, not worried about losing him. When I turned down the street he lived on he was half a block ahead of me. I slowed. I didn’t need to catch up. I only needed to see that he made it home. It would be another waiting game after that.
I watched him stumble, turning toward the walkway that led to the building entrance. Just then, the driver door of a van parked on the street swung open, slamming into Bathmore and knocking him down. He fell like a log, completely dazed. A man in a black bomber jacket jumped from the open side door of the van, rolled Bathmore over, and began tugging the backpack off his limp arms. I hesitated for a moment then ran toward the two struggling figures. Before I was halfway there, the man got the backpack away from Bathmore and began kicking him viciously. All I could think was that the notes were in the backpack, I couldn’t let the attacker get away with them. I kept running, accelerating until I was close enough to launch myself at him. We both went down on the sidewalk. The guy felt solid, like tackling a tree trunk. We were both up in an instant. He swung at me. I ducked and pushed the heel of my hand hard into his nose. He moved his head just enough to avoid the worst of the blow but it still made him stagger backward and I felt a sickening crunch of cartilage.
“Get in the fucking van!” I heard someone yell. The man jumped for the open door. I grabbed at a strap of the backpack but it slipped through my fingers as the driver stepped on the gas and the van peeled away. I fumbled my phone out of my pocket and snapped a photo just as they reached the end of the block. Hopefully the license plate would be readable. It was the second time in recent memory that I had watched a van race away from the scene of a crime. The first time, though, the crumpled figure at my feet had been driving the van. I heard Bathmore moan and crouched down.
“Nigel Bathmore,” I said. “My name is Justin Vincent. Sorry I didn’t get here sooner. They got your backpack. Were your keys in there?”
Bathmore shook his head, wincing, and sat up. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his keys. “Got ʼem here,” he mumbled.
“Good. Mind if I help you into your place? I’d like to have a talk.”
“Probably owe you that. Help me up.”
He leaned on my shoulder and we made it up to his apartment. The place had been ransacked. The guys in the van must have searched the apartment top to bottom before deciding to lurk on the street waiting for Bathmore to come home. In the kitchen, all the drawers were pulled out and dump
ed. Cushions were strewn around the living room. I got the couch put back together and lowered him onto it. He sat there, arms wrapped around his middle, while I switched on lights, replaced utensils and tea towels in the kitchen drawers, and started water for tea. While the water boiled, we called the national health service advice line. It took as long as making and drinking two strong cups of tea but finally we got an advice nurse on the line. Bathmore had received a few good kicks to the side and back and had some bruises but nothing appeared to be broken. The nurse said that he should see a physician immediately if he found blood in his urine but otherwise it would be fine for him to wait until morning to get checked over. By the time Bathmore hung up, he had sobered up considerably. He put his head in his hands, massaging his temples.
“I’m sorry,” he said, raising his eyes to me. “I suppose you know it was me who broke into your place? Is that why you’re here? Why did you save me down there?”
I studied his face. He had the inward looking self-sufficiency of someone who thought of himself as smarter than other people—who had decided early on that other people’s ideas were not to be trusted. His eyes were green and sunken like he had been sleeping poorly for a while. His brown hair was in need of a trim. “Yes, I figured out it was you,” I answered.
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