Queen's Gambit

by Bradley Harper

  I asked the desk sergeant for Inspector Ethington and was directed down a long hall lined with offices to my right. It seems Special Branch is more interested in reports than fieldwork, I thought. There are more offices down this one hall than in the entire Spitalfields Police Station. As I passed each door, I saw earnest young men with stacks of paper and photographs on their desks making notes and looking at maps. The last door on the right was closed, however, and on it was painted in black letters: Inspector J. Ethington.

  My knock got a muffled response, then the door was opened from inside and a bleary-eyed “J. Ethington” stuck his head out. Napping, I thought. We’ll make this short. At least I don’t smell whiskey.

  “May I help you, Madam? Have we met before?”

  I’d briefly considered delivering the report dressed as Pennyworth, but as I had other errands to run that day, decided it wasn’t worth the effort. An inspector in Special Branch should be accustomed to deception. I wondered what reaction I would get from him. Shock? Laughter? Outrage?

  “Yes, Inspector, we have, though not in the traditional sense. My name is Margaret Harkness. I was Professor Bell’s companion when you met us at the Marlboro Club.” Seeing his puzzlement, I continued. “This was shortly before we went to Germany.”

  Inspector Ethington peered closely at me, still bewildered. “I apologize, Madam, as I am quite proficient at remembering names and faces, but I recall Bell’s companion as a slender middle-aged bookish gentleman who was going as his translator, and no one else. Besides,” he cleared his throat, “the Marlboro Club bans women from entering their premises unless they are in service.”

  “Quite so, and you flatter me that my disguise fooled a professional like yourself. I sometimes assume a waistcoat to open doors closed to petticoats.”

  Ethington’s face pinked up in a most becoming way. Embarrassment. How quaint.

  “I see,” Ethington gulped. “Or think I do, at least. You and the professor . . .”

  “Are dear friends who have faced danger together before, though there was none this time, thankfully. I was in male attire to gain entrance to the Marlboro Club. I have the professor’s report here.”

  I handed over the three-page summary of our brief foray into espionage, then nodded toward the gap in the door he was still guarding. “I’m willing to remain while you read it over if you offer me a seat, in case you have any questions. Otherwise, I’ll be on my way.”

  He backed into his office as he opened the door wider, nearly bowing. “Yes, of course. Terribly sorry. I was on surveillance duty last night and got very little sleep. I’m afraid you’ve not caught me at my best. Do sit down.”

  Still better than last time, I thought, but outwardly I only smiled as Ethington removed a stack of reports from the only other chair in the room. Other than this pile, his office was well-organized, the only ornamentation on his orderly desk was a silver-framed photograph of him and a young girl around twelve who shared his slender, pointed nose. His left hand rested upon her left shoulder, and she had her right hand over his: A beloved daughter, whose likeness was placed so that he could glance up and see it whenever he wanted. It was angled for his own frequent contemplation, not put there to impress others.

  My father had never requested a likeness of me.

  I studied the man while he read Bell’s report through. My friend generously gave me full credit for discerning the source of the leak within the Secret Police, and Ethington whistled a low tone when he got to the part describing the listening apparatus within Herr Adler’s office.

  “That’s solid work, Miss Harkness,” he said. “No danger, you say, but a nice adventure all the same. Learning the name of the head of their section will impress my superiors. Do you know what happened after the device was found?”

  “I heard the man they believe placed the telephone was still at large when we left Germany. I do not know his name or if others were involved. Once we did our jobs, the Germans were rather anxious that we leave. I think they were embarrassed we were able to find the leak so quickly, though grateful it was literally plugged.”

  I noticed the inspector leaned forward as I spoke. He didn’t interrupt me. Unusual. Not unpleasant though.

  There was a pause, which lengthened until he reddened again and coughed. “How did you and Bell become involved in this enterprise? Are you a detective?”

  I laughed. “A female detective! Is there such a thing?”

  “You seem skillful at disguise and deduction. You bested the German Secret Police and found the source of the leak before even the famous Professor Bell. If you’re not a detective, what are you?”

  “An author and a friend of the professor’s. I’ve observed his methods and learned how to apply them, though not as well as he.”

  “Yet you deduced the solution before he did. How?”

  “The light fixture was on the ceiling, of course, so out of his direct line of vision. While Professor Bell’s powers of observation of people far exceeds my own, I had the advantage in this instance of being a woman. The style of the new fixture in the colonel’s office was different from those elsewhere in the building and markedly larger, yet the size of the electric light bulbs was the same. The decor in the spymaster’s office was spartan, yet the fixture was elaborate. Why was that so? Certainly not at the insistence of its occupant.

  “I can assure you, Inspector, that no woman would have selected a fixture for the chief of Secret Police so different from its fellows, so I deduced the electrician who emplaced the fixture had his own reasons. As it was the only possible explanation for the leak of information, it had to be the correct one.”

  “Brava! An accomplishment worthy of Holmes himself. And how does a lady author become a friend of a man such as Bell and go off with him on adventures?”

  I found myself enjoying the man’s intent gaze and admiration. He seemed genuinely interested in my intellect, and as I noted the depth of his brown eyes I felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the early summer weather. “We worked together once before, here in London. Though I am not a detective, I do have confidences to keep involving the matter.” And to keep me out of prison.

  “Ah, a woman of mystery. Now I recall my parting words to you at the Marlboro, ‘There’s more to you than meets the eye.’ You and Bell must have howled once I was out of earshot.”

  His honest admission of his error made me more charitable then I’d felt at the time. “I took it as a compliment, sir, that I could fool an inspector from the Special Branch of Scotland Yard in good light and close quarters. Don’t worry, sir, your reputation is safe with me.”

  Ethington flinched at the word “reputation.” There, I’ve said the wrong thing again, I thought.

  “Well, Miss Harkness,” he said, now businesslike, “this was most enlightening. I’ll be sure to pass this report on to my superiors. I believe this concludes the official matter. I do have something else I would like to discuss with you, however.” Straightening himself in his chair, he said, “May I ask you to dinner, where you can tell me more about the adventures of lady authors?”

  I nodded toward the photograph on his desk. “Wouldn’t your wife disapprove of such a meeting, Inspector?”

  He paused and looked at the photograph of his daughter. “My wife, Alice, has been dead for the past two years, Miss Harkness.”

  He held up his hands. I grew warmer still, but now in embarrassment. No ring.

  “I assumed a woman with your apparent talent for observation would have noticed the absence of a wedding band.”

  I swallowed. A nice man. He didn’t deserve me accusing him of infidelity. “I apologize, sir. Our greatest blunders usually follow hard on the heels of our triumphs.”

  Ethington looked down at his desk for a moment. “Yes, my life has demonstrated that pattern better than you know.” Then, looking directly into my eyes, “But you didn’t answer my question. Would you join me for dinner tomorrow night? Seven? Name the place, and I’ll be there.�
��

  He’s a good sort, at least when he’s sober. Why not? Least I can do after . . . “Delighted. I know a lovely café where you can interrogate me further. A well-done lamb chop does make me more talkative, Inspector, especially if accompanied by a good Bordeaux. You’ve been warned.”

  I confess I left with a new spring in my step. I had intended to visit the ticket office to book passage after my visit to the inspector, but I changed my mind. I had a dinner engagement to prepare for. Australia wasn’t going anywhere, just yet.

  14

  Wednesday, June 9, Cont

  The day after the letter from Grüber arrived, Herman awoke slowly. He rarely drank more than two beers in an evening, but last night he’d done his best to dull the pain, only to sharpen it with every swallow. His resolve to exact vengeance on Miss Harkness went from white hot to Arctic cold overnight. He was a master craftsman. He would use his skills and patient temperament to create a precise moment of reckoning. But first, he needed to locate his target.

  He explained the contents of the letter to Luigi, and the Italian’s eyes moistened. Luigi told Herman to take the time he needed to mourn. He had plenty of lamps to sell at the moment and gave Herman an advance on their sale. His workbench would be ready when he returned.

  It was an easy matter to locate a bookstore, and he found one of Miss Harkness’s books on a back shelf, marked down. Not so popular in your own country, I see, he thought. Somehow, that gave him a measure of comfort. He started to buy it, then he decided he didn’t want any of his money to go to her, so wrote down the name and address of her publisher, memorized her image at the back of the book, and replaced it on the reduced-price shelf, its title facing backward.

  For the next part of his plan, he needed better clothes. A secondhand store provided a respectable suit and shoes that would allow him to walk unnoticed into a business establishment without a toolbox over his shoulder.

  The manager at the publisher was an elderly gray man who clearly saw little sun. He was suspicious when Herman came seeking one of his authors. “What business do you have w’ Miss Harkness, sir? She’s under contract with us. You can give me your message and I’ll send it on.”

  Once you read it, Herman thought. Using his strongest German accent, he said, “I vould like to ask her to write a story based on characters in Berlin. She is quite popular in Germany, und I think such a book will sell very well. It vould only help her popularity and cause her other books to become better known also. It would cost you nothing and may help you sell more of her works.”

  Herman noticed the man’s eyes dart to a filing cabinet beside his desk. The thought of selling more books distracting him. Thank you, Herman thought. I would love to play cards with you sometime.

  “Do you have a card, Herr . . .”

  “Krieger, sir. And sadly, no. I did not bring a card with me. Here is my address in Berlin. I am only in London for two days. I must return to Germany tomorrow, so sadly I will be unable to meet with her while I am here. Please send her my regards and tell her I am eager to hear from her.”

  The manager accepted the note. He looked doubtful anything would come of this, but he promised to send the address on. Their business concluded, they wished each other a good day, and Herman left, smiling to himself. One step closer.

  Back at the antiquities shop, he asked Luigi if he could help him meet with one of his regular “procurers” of art. Luigi thought this an odd request for a man in mourning, but shrugged and gave him a name and a pub where the man could usually be found. Ignorance of the personal details of one’s associates in art “procurement” was usually wise.

  “Keys” Malone was anchoring a corner table of the Dog’s Head pub when Herman entered, just as Luigi had predicted. He was telling a story about his time in Newgate Prison to two mates who seemed familiar with life behind bars.

  “Ah tell ye, boyos, ’twas the Black Dog himself who walked past my cell every night just after midnight.”

  “What d’he look like, Keys?” asked a mate well into his cups.

  “He only came by at the darkest hour, so alls I can say is he weren’t more’n bones. I smelled him first. Damp dirt and rotting flesh, like he’d just climbed out of his grave. Then the sound of his shuffling feet wrapped in rags. He never turned his head to look at me, thanks be to God, though he’s never harmed a prisoner as I’ve ever heard, nor a jailer, more’s the pity.”

  “How long’s he been seen in Newgate?”

  “I hear he’s been there for over a hundred years. Maybe more. If he’d ever turned to look at me, there’d be another ghost soon enough!”

  They laughed together, then Keys noticed the stranger overhearing his tale. “Well, lad, you gonna say something? I usually don’t tell me stories to strangers, least not for free.”

  Herman signaled the barmaid. “Four ales, please.” Then, turning to the storyteller, he asked, “Is there someplace we can discuss business?”

  Malone smiled with his few remaining, blackened teeth. “This is my office, suhr. My mates were just leaving to have their ales at the bar, weren’t you lads?”

  His two companions went to the bar after eyeing Herman curiously. Free ale was, after all, free ale.

  After the two men had the corner to themselves, Keys became all business. “What’s the job, what’s the risk, and what’s the pay?”

  “I would think the pay would be your first question, Mr. Malone.”

  “Pay’s no good if you can’t spend it. I’ve no desire to go walking with the Black Dog. And you haven’t answered my questions.”

  “The job is opening a door and perhaps a file cabinet. I will write something down, then we’re done. You’re not to take anything. They can’t know anyone’s been there.”

  “Then the pay’d better be good, if I’ve naught to sell after.”

  “Twenty pounds for twenty-minutes’ work.”

  “And the risk?”

  “It’s a publishing house. There’s nothing of great value inside. The lock on the door didn’t look expensive, and the filing cabinet should be child’s play. No one resides nearby, so police patrols will be infrequent.”

  “I won’t say yea or nay ’til I’ve seen for meself. Five pounds to have a look. Then twenty more if I say yes.”

  They shook hands. “How about another ale, then we go for a stroll?” Keys suggested.

  Two hours later, after walking around the building from the outside, a partially sober Malone took thirty seconds before agreeing to the job. “No dogs. Good. I hate dogs. Been bit once on a job. Can never stand ’em since.” He took one look at the lock on the door and smiled. “I’ve a ten-year-old nephew who could pick that,” he said. “Sure there’s naught worth taking? I’ll feel naked without a sack to fill.” Herman shrugged. “You don’t look like much of a reader, but if you want ten copies of some penny dreadful, I doubt they’ll be missed.”

  Keys snorted. “Books! I’d need a wheelbarrow full just to make two pounds. Alright then, we’ll do it your way. Ten pounds now, the rest when we’re done. I’ll be here at two. That’s usually when the bobbies take a wee nap or a spot of tea. Don’t keep me waiting.”

  Money exchanged, they went their separate ways. Herman had never been a hunter, but he suddenly understood the thrill of it. Soon he would track his quarry to her den.

  Keys Malone was punctual and earned his title, opening the door almost as quickly as if he had its key in hand. The door squeaked a bit when opened, and Herman was surprised when the man oiled the hinges once inside. Malone saw Herman’s look and whispered, “Most dangerous parts of a job are when you enter and when you leave. Newgate’s full of men who came in careful and left careless. Lead on.”

  Surprisingly, the filing cabinet took the thief longer to overcome than the front door. “Smaller lock,” he explained. “Gives me less room to move about.” He displayed a remarkable vocabulary of swear words, teaching Herman one or two phrases Herman hoped he’d never have use for, before the lock finally yi
elded and the drawer slid out. “And Bob’s your uncle,” Keys said with satisfaction.

  Herman wasn’t sure he heard right but shrugged and, with the aid of a bull’s-eye lantern, quickly found Miss Harkness’s address among the file detailing each of the house’s authors. “I’ve got what I need,” he said, “Your Uncle, Bob.”

  He was sliding the file closed when a small form darted out from beneath the publisher’s desk and ran across Malone’s feet, causing him to scream, “Dog!” and jump onto the desk, knocking over an inkwell.

  The cat squalled as it fled into the back of the office, and Herman suddenly smelled urine. The burglar had wet himself. “Get down, you fool! Now see what you’ve done.”

  Malone climbed down, clearly shaken. “Job’s done! Give me my money and I’ll be off.”

  “We need to clean up this mess or they’ll know we’ve been here.”

  “They’ll blame the cat. I’m leaving. Pay me!”

  Herman saw there was no reasoning with the man, so he handed over the other ten pounds, completing their transaction, and the door swung open and closed without a sound.

  Herman was about to go himself when a thought came to him. Perhaps Malone was right. How to convince the publisher it was the cat? He saw the black ink glistening in the dim light given off from the street, then it came to him. One more thing to do. He turned toward the far corner of the room where two eyes were studying him. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

  15

  Thursday, June 10

  After more indecision than is my custom, I chose a green satin dress with a modest neckline. A small emerald pendant and white silk shawl complemented the ensemble nicely without being pretentious. I’d paused at the door of my apartment before going out. On the spur of the moment, I dabbed a small amount of perfume behind my ears. Enough. It’s unlikely I’ll ever see him again. Just relax and enjoy the evening.

  The Mistral Bistro was intimate, the tables crowded closely together, requiring the waiters to rise up on their toes like ballet dancers to deliver the orders. The table was so small I smelled his sandalwood cologne mixed with the odor of his freshly applied boot polish, a strangely masculine combination. The food was quite good and the prices reasonable for the West End, which was one reason I’d chosen it. I assumed an inspector with a daughter had to be cautious with his budget. Inspector Ethington looked at the menu as soon as we sat down, and I noticed the furrows on his forehead smooth out once he reviewed the prices.