Queen's Gambit

by Bradley Harper

  Herman thought about Immanuel being raised by a grandmother who hated him. All his son would ever know of his father was that he had caused Astrid’s death.

  “How can I trust you, after all this?”

  “Herman, I have always kept my promises to you. Do this for me, for the cause, and I will see to it that your son is sent to you wherever you choose to live. America, perhaps? A man and his son could easily disappear in such a large country.”

  “I would need enough money to buy passage and start a new life.”

  “Easily done. We have wealthy patrons who can give you what you need to establish yourself there. From what I have heard, a skilled craftsman like you would do quite well in America.”

  Grüber extended his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

  “From what you say, Frau Vogel will never agree.”

  “Frau Vogel has no say in this matter.”

  Herman sighed. What have I got to lose that I haven’t lost already? Herman looked at Grüber, then, ignoring his hand, took off his apron and hung it up. “Excuse me, I need to find a seat for the ceremony.”

  “Herman, wait!” Grüber pulled out his notebook and quickly scribbled an address, then tore out the page and handed it over. “We have sympathizers in Southampton who will take you in on my behalf. Wait there for me or a message after the deed is done, and I will see to it your son is delivered to you.”

  Herman took the note, turned to leave, then paused and looked back. “Do not forget our bargain, mein Herr. If I survive and you fail to deliver my son, I will hunt you next.”

  Grüber was struck at the hardness in the man’s cool gray eyes. The thought of those eyes peering through a telescopic sight with him in its crosshairs gave him a s udden chill despite the warm June morning, but the feeling quickly passed. As he watched Herman’s broad back leave the workshop, the man bent on his new task, Grüber had to restrain a smile. The trout had risen to the bait, and the hook was deeply set.

  Herman bought a newspaper with a map showing the route. The procession was to begin at Buckingham Palace and proceed to St. Paul’s Cathedral, the site of the actual ceremony, traveling via an egg-shaped circuit which wound from Constitution Hill, down Piccadilly, to Strand, then Fleet Street, until finally arriving at St. Paul’s. On the return the royal procession would cross the Thames twice, pass the Houses of Parliament, then arrive back at Buckingham.

  Herman considered the options. His target would be as dead if he shot her on the return leg of her journey as she would be on the front end, and the bridges tempted him. If he should miss on his first shot, there would be no place for the carriage to go but forward.

  Obviously, he could not hold a rifle in plain sight, even one as unusual as Befreier. Once assembled, its purpose was plain. He would have to find a rooftop, but that would be difficult, as every flat surface along the route was being prepared as a viewing platform.

  He spent the day examining possibilities within range of the two bridges and finally gave it up. Even at the sedate pace of the royal carriage a shot over one hundred yards at a moving target the size of a pie plate, among a throng of hangers-on, would be risky. No. He had to look elsewhere.

  As he studied the route map again, he idly turned to the description of the ceremony. He was astonished to read it would not be held within St. Paul’s, but outside. Victoria, due to her advanced age and rheumatism, would remain in the carriage, the celebrants standing on the steps above her. She would be motionless out-of-doors for about twenty minutes.

  Herman stood at the foot of the cathedral stairs where the map showed her carriage would rest. He turned slowly in all directions. First, he studied the cathedral. There was one window to his right, high up, but getting the rifle inside past the throngs of clergymen and military officers would be well-nigh impossible. Next, he scanned the courtyard. Every rooftop had temporary bleachers being constructed with awnings placed above in case of rain or excessive sun. No place to hide.

  He was about to give up and see what opportunities could be found close to Whitehall when he noticed a narrow street leading out of the plaza straight ahead of where the carriage would be pointing. Down at the end of the short street, on the corner, was a building with a flat roof and both first- and second-story windows. If he could see the windows from where he was standing, then he could see his current location from there. Worth a further look. He walked to the entrance just around the corner and saw a small sign: St. Paul’s Boys Choir Boarding School, and underneath: No Visitors.

  I need to make an official visit, I see, Herman thought. I’ll be back.

  22

  Special Branch headquarters, Monday, June 14, cont.

  Senior Inspector Murdock glared over the top of his tortoiseshell glasses. He was infamous for his glares and general ill-humor. Before his transfer to Special Branch, he had reduced more than one bobby to tears for an incomplete report.

  “What’s this rubbish about an assassin, Ethington? Is this your excuse for blazing about Soho with your revolver like some cowboy in a penny dreadful? Your conduct casts a garish light on Special Branch and I won’t stand for it!”

  James reddened at the rebuke and had to take a deep breath before responding. “I was acting in defense of myself and my companions, one of whom was my daughter. I had no intent to cast any sort of light on anyone. I was being shot at and was trying to stop the assailant using the best means available. I dare you or any other man to say they’d have done differently.”

  Murdock was unused to being talked back to but conceded James’s point. “Well, be more careful next time. The owner of the sausage cart was most unhappy with the hole you drilled into his means of livelihood. If you patronize him in future, probably best you don’t identify yourself. No telling what you might find in your sausage.”

  Ethington placed his derby onto the senior inspector’s desk. “And I was most unhappy with the hole drilled into my hat. Two inches lower, and we’d not be having this conversation.”

  Murdock found himself without a ready retort. For all his long years in law enforcement, he had never been shot at. He cleared his throat. “Then I’m glad it wasn’t. Two inches lower, I mean. Well, it’s done.” He suddenly found the reports on his desk in need of rearranging. Still looking down he said, “You know the situation best. What do you propose we do next?”

  “His intended target was Miss Harkness, and she had just moved into my apartment building as a precaution before the shooting occurred. I doubt the man will try again where he has failed once, but as the lady is proficient at passing as a man, I’ll advise her to assume male clothing whenever she leaves the building, at least for now.”

  Murdock raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He’d been on the force for many years and had seen far stranger things than a woman dressed as a man.

  “The best thing of course,” James continued, “would be to capture him, but right now we have a faceless man in a metropolis of six million, and he knows us better than we do him. We need a description to go with his name. Have we learned anything useful from the owner of the wounded sausage cart?”

  Murdock’s face twitched into something resembling a smile. “We did. He said a fellow German had rented his cart for a day. Oh, he also produced a fine gold pocket watch the man had given him in addition to ten pounds, as a security deposit. There was an inscription we think is in Russian. I’ve sent for an Orthodox priest to come in and translate it for us. I’ll let you know what it says when I find out.”

  “What did you discover about the brass flask I found? Was it a bomb of some kind?”

  “We sent it to the armory for study. Go down and ask Sergeant Quint what he’s discovered. Be prepared for a long discussion, even if he’s found nothing.”

  “I will, sir. But before I go, I request you contact our German counterparts for a sketch or photograph of Herman Ott, as well as anything else useful. They owe us that much. He’s used deadly force here in England. When he’s caught, we can choose to send him bac
k to them, if they give us good reason, or prosecute him here. That should motivate them to be helpful.”

  Murdock frowned. “I don’t like dealing with the Germans, but you’re right. This Ott fellow is our problem for the moment. I’d not cry if we let him become theirs again. I’ll send a telegram straightaway. Now be off. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear back.”

  James sprang out of his chair, relieved at how the meeting had gone, and made straight for the indoor firing range in the basement, and the legendary Sergeant Quint.

  Known as “Sergeant Q,” the man knew everything there was to know about firearms, knives, saps, and archery. If it was manmade and lethal, he’d studied it. A solitary fellow, he seemed to store up any need for conversation for the moment he was asked a question. Then a flood of information, relevant or not, came tumbling out of his whiskered face, leaving it to the listener to sift for what was useful.

  The smell of gunpowder and oil told James he was nearing the armory, and he found the man cleaning a large-bore rifle within the ammunition cage. This was convenient, as James needed a resupply of cartridges after the previous night’s gunfire. He was only allowed the six spares besides the cartridges in his revolver. Besides, he felt the sudden need to refresh his skills at the firing line.

  Taking a deep breath, he plunged ahead. “Good morning, Sergeant Q. Going elephant hunting, are you?”

  The beefy man smiled as he inspected the rifle’s barrel for perhaps the tenth time. “Nay, Inspector, though I reckon this piece’d do it. She’s a beauty, ain’t she? Martini-Henry rifle. Military issue, fires a .577/450 cartridge effective out to six hundred yards if the marksman’s capable. I got Special Branch a dozen of these for, well, whenever they might prove useful. Never know. Would you be interested in some training on it?”

  “No thank you, Sergeant. I used my Webley for the first time last evening. It certainly lights up the night.”

  “I heard about that, Inspector.” Leaning in, he asked, “Hit anything?”

  “A sausage cart. Dead center.”

  “Oh. Well, I expect you’ll be needing some more cartridges then, in case you get attacked by another cart.”

  “Indeed I shall, thank you. Can’t be too careful, what with carts loitering all over the place. Anything you can tell me about the brass flask I brought in last night?”

  The man smiled like a child eyeing a full Christmas stocking. “One or two things, Inspector. But first, what did the rifle sound like?”

  “A hollow sound. Like someone blowing into an empty jug, only very short.”

  The sergeant brought the flask up from under the counter, then a flattened large caliber bullet. “You should be flattered, Inspector. You were nearly the first person in all of England to be killed by an air rifle. A very powerful one, I might add. I’ve never encountered anything like this.”

  “You’ve never seen an air rifle?”

  “Oh, I’ve seen scores of those. Most of them puny little things used for target practice or shooting rats.” Hoisting the bullet in his right hand he said, “Look at the size of this. It weighs nearly as much as the one from this here Martini. If it had hit your head it would’a left a hole you could stick your thumb into. Whoever made this beauty has my admiration. Not many craftsmen in the world could have done this. Two shots in less than four seconds, if I recall your report correctly?”

  “You do.”

  “Then it likely has an attached magazine for rapid reloading. Remarkable. If you catch the bugger who fired at you, bring me the rifle to study and I’ll retire a happy man.”

  James cleared his throat. “And the brass flask?”

  “The propellant force, Inspector. No gunpowder. That’s why it was so quiet.”

  “So, what happened? This just broke off?”

  “Seems so. The Austrians had a model like this. The flask also served as the butt, the top screwed into the firing chamber. Rapid-fire, accurate, powerful, but too fragile for a common soldier. It was only issued to elite snipers.”

  “I’m honored beyond words.”

  “Aye, you should be. Anything else I can tell you?”

  “What would be its effective range?”

  “Not near as far as this beauty,” he said, patting the Martini. “I can’t imagine how large a flask it’d take to have that much power, but I’d think a hundred yards would be possible.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. You’ve been quite helpful. Oh, I’d like an extra twenty rounds. After last night, I’d like some practice with the Webley.”

  “Here to serve, sir. Blaze away. Think of me, if you get your hands on that air rifle, now. I won’t forget it.”

  James took his pistol and the spare cartridges to the firing range, assumed a dueler’s stance, right foot pointed toward the target, the left at ninety degrees, toward the left wall. He carefully aimed at the human silhouettes twenty-five feet away.

  “Hold on, Inspector!” Sergeant Q yelled out. “As you might actually use your weapon, allow me to give you some advice.”

  James handed the pistol over as the man approached. Gesturing toward the target, he said, “Be my guest.”

  “After last night you should know that if it comes down to using your Webley, it won’t be ‘ten paces turn and fire.’ You’ll most likely be at short range, and if you take the time to use your sights, you’ll be a dead man.”

  “So I should just point in my enemy’s direction and pray?” James asked.

  “Point, aye, but not with your hand. Point your fist at your enemy and fire immediately before your aim has a chance to waver. Like this.” The armorer faced the wall to his left, then turned sharply toward the back wall and jerked his hand up, firing twice in quick succession. Both shots hit the target in the mid chest. “Like that. It’s good for one or two shots, before the barrel drifts from the recoil. Now, you try. Don’t turn, just look straight at it, and fire.”

  James felt like a gunslinger in a “shilling shocker,” but found the technique worked. If he forgot about the gun in his hand and concentrated on pointing his fist at the target, his accuracy was at least as good as when he aimed, and he got the shot off in less than half the time.

  “Well done, Inspector,” Sergeant Q said, smiling. “Nothing like getting shot at to motivate your student. I pity any sausage carts that get in your way.”

  “I’ve still got to figure out how to get close to a man armed with a rifle, but you’ve bettered my odds if I get in range, and I thank you for that.”

  He carefully cleaned the revolver before loading and replacing it into his shoulder holster. If he pulled it out in earnest, he needed to know it would perform.

  After a brief lunch, James returned to Senior Inspector Murdock to learn if he’d gotten an answer from the Germans or a translation of the inscription of the pocket watch. Murdock looked up when Ethington knocked, and actually smiled. “Come in, Ethington. It seems the Germans are keen to get their hands on this fellow. A composite sketch will soon be winging its way to us via diplomatic pouch. I should have the man’s likeness in two days.”

  “Anything else about him we should know?”

  “He’s a trained gunsmith, a crack marksman, and an electrician who has recently branched into telephony. All in all, a man of many talents.”

  “Do you think he’s just here to escape the Germans, sir, or do you think his arrival is more than coincidence?”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences, Inspector. Given what we now know about the man’s impressive skills and his apparent willingness to use them”—he paused to point to James’s ventilated derby—“I see why you were so keen to tell us about him. I fear he may pose a risk to either Her Majesty or a visiting noble. The Diamond Jubilee procession and ceremony with its parade of royalty from around Europe is enough to make any anarchist salivate. I think we should recognize the risk he poses very seriously, both to Her Majesty and to her royal guests.” Murdock clenched his jaw. “Driving him to ground now has the highest priority.”

&n
bsp; “I agree, Senior Inspector. Anything on the inscription?”

  “Not much help there, I’m afraid. Just a proverb. ‘A great voyage requires a great ship,’ or something like that. The priest said it meant that it took a great man to accomplish great things. Let’s hope our friend Ott doesn’t aspire to greatness, if he even understood the inscription. I suspect he bought it at a pawnshop.”

  James sighed. “I agree. No help there. What do you suggest we do while we wait for a sketch of the man?”

  “Don’t go after him directly. Without his likeness, you could sit beside him on the Underground and never know it. Make him think he’s in the clear for now. We’ll get back to him soon enough.”

  “What should I be doing in the meantime, sir? The trail is hot, and I’m hot to follow it.”

  “I have a task for you until something clearer comes along. I suspect that one of our foreign anarchists has recently become active again. I want you to surveil him for the next two days or until the sketch arrives. You can make sure he is limiting his misdeeds to pamphlets and books. He’s wealthy enough to hide our German sniper and supply him with explosives to create havoc during the Jubilee. Remember, Ott is an electrician. God forbid he add bomb making to his repertoire, but he’s still a man. He needs a place to stay and food to eat. We find his benefactor, we find him. So, while you may think I’m wasting your time, you might be leading us straight to our assassin.”

  “Who is this wealthy anarchist, sir?”

  “Peter Kropotkin. Here’s his address in Battersea. I think you’ve earned a bit of rest after your recent adventure, so you can start tomorrow. Two days should be enough to see if he’s behaving himself. Then you can go after Ott fullbore.”

  “With respect, I’d rather inquire around about any new German electricians in the city.”

  “Time enough for that, Inspector. Let’s do this my way, shall we?”

  “Very well, sir. As you like.”