Lethal Pursuit

by Will Thomas

  “I could call my own fifty men and escort you to Rome if you wish.”

  “I … I don’t…” Bello said, or tried to.

  “Surely you don’t think they would entrust just anyone with so precious an object.”

  “No, no.”

  Bello’s eyebrow was raised, an unasked question on his lips. He had been assured he was in possession of all the facts, but now he was not so certain. He tried to read the Guv’s expression behind those glossy black lenses of his, but I am a past master and even I find it difficult. I would not expect a total stranger to make head or tails of it.

  “Very well,” Bello said, but he was treading water.

  “If you have no further business, the lad and I have a good deal of planning to do.”

  “When shall you be leaving? Tonight?”

  “Not tonight, and perhaps not tomorrow. If you can provide me with an address in Calais, I shall keep you abreast.”

  “Thank you.”

  Barker stood and bowed. Still at sea, the monsignor did likewise, then backed away.

  “It was good to speak to you, sir,” I said, and nodded also. We watched him turn and leave.

  “Do put these things away, Mr. Llewelyn. We cannot have our chamber cluttered with open blades and pens.”

  “Certainly not, sir,” I said, and began to put the objects back in my drawer.

  I began collecting knives and pens and what-have-you from the floor, while he sat in his chair and cogitated. There was still an unequal division of labor between us, but I was not going to quibble about that. After all, I wasn’t going to have a man with a metal brace on his leg get down on the floor and pick up trinkets.

  The next I knew, the monsignor was pointing a pistol at us. My own Webley, in fact. “Gentlemen,” he said. “You give me no alternative. I have tried to reason with you, but you are thickheaded. No, Mr. Barker, keep your hand away from that drawer! I will take that valise, please.”

  “You are welcome to it. It is in the vault next door.”

  “Sir, I am no fool. I believe you have it with you. I imagine it is between your feet at this very moment.”

  Barker shrugged and pulled his chair back on its casters. He lifted the bag and set it on top of his desk. Cautiously, Bello came forward and raised it.

  “Be careful. It is sealed in glass,” the Guv warned. “Very fragile.”

  “I know. Move your chair back, Mr. Barker. Farther. No, young man, keep your hands where I can see them! I am taking this away with me. It was never yours to protect. The archbishop has gone senile. What was he thinking, hiring two men for a matter this important?”

  The truncheon caught him square on the back of the neck. Some can withstand a solid blow to the cranium, but a thump to the base of the skull and the nerves therein, that was too much for any man. Monsignor Bello slumped, and I leaped and caught the satchel just before it could hit the floor.

  “There are three of us,” Jeremy Jenkins told him. “And don’t make remarks about clerks.”

  “Lad,” Barker said. “Summon a cab we can bundle the monsignor into.”

  “Yes, sir. Where did you get the club, Jeremy?”

  He lifted the Metropolitan Police regulation truncheon.

  “I borrowed it from an obliging peeler, Mr. L. He didn’t seem to need it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The next morning, Cyrus Barker was whittling on that blasted block of his again. Calais beckoned. Even with blue coats chasing us, it seemed an easy matter. One boards a train. One boards a ferry. One gives the satchel to someone else, making it his problem, then boards the ferry and train again. I work for the most stubborn man in the world, I decided, or perhaps he didn’t like Jesuits.

  “What are the Jesuits like, sir?” I asked. “I must admit I’ve never met one. I read a book once about Jesuit assassins, but I could not trust the source.”

  “Who was the source?” Barker asked.

  “Well, it was Jeremy, sir. He leant it to me.”

  “Consider the source.”

  “It was a good book!” our clerk called from the other room. “It was very factual.”

  “No doubt,” Barker muttered.

  Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

  Surely there must be another suspect to interview or a statement one could verify. I was about to perish from inactivity. Normally, the Guv is the energetic one and I am the chap who needs to be prodded.

  The door opened and a man entered in a dove-gray coat that nearly came to his ankles. He wore an alpine-looking hat with a fanned feather in the brim. He actually clicked his heels, and handed a message to Jenkins before marching out again. Jeremy delivered it, but our employer did not look up from his ship. Our clerk looked at me, and I looked at him. We shrugged our shoulders at the same time. Jenkins lifted the message from the salver and set it on the edge of the desk.

  The Guv chose to ignore it for five entire minutes. Never think that there is no bravado in him. He knew what effect ignoring the message would have upon my nerves. Somewhere in the City there must be a businessman who feels no need to torture his partner.

  Finally, he leaned forward and opened the message, which was folded inside a small envelope. He read it and tapped the edge of the desk with his other thumb in thought.

  “We are wanted at the German embassy. Hatzfeldt has canceled an appointment just to see us.”

  “Could we take the Underground?” I asked. “Hansoms are drafty and there is never a brougham about.”

  “Very well,” he said. “However, I believe it is merely another chance for you to ride in a train.”

  “This from a man carving a toy boat.”

  “It is not a toy,” he said. “It is a miniature replica.”

  “My mistake.”

  When we arrived in Holland Park, we were left waiting for twenty minutes. Perhaps Hatzfeldt was truly working on matters of great importance to his country, but it has been my experience that when one is left waiting it is to show them they are a subordinate and are having a favor bestowed upon them.

  “Gentlemen, come in!” the ambassador called from his office. “We have much to discuss.”

  He waved us to a seat. Our host stood and bowed as we entered. When we were last in his office, Hatzfeldt displayed a certain air of bonhomie. Now he looked stern.

  “Thank you for coming in response to my note. I have a message for you directly from the Kaiser himself. He says you must turn over the manuscript forthwith or you will engender an international incident.”

  I glanced over at Barker. His brows were nearly to his hairline. Even he had not anticipated such a response.

  “Berlin has not discovered whether you stole the manuscript yourselves or are merely adventurers hoping to sell it for profit. Either way, our source claims that the manuscript has been brought to London hidden in a Gladstone bag. Do you own such a bag?”

  “Sir,” the Guv said. “I do not have your manuscript. I very much doubt it is in England, and the only bag I currently own houses the equipment for a ship model I am building.”

  “Do you think this is humorous, Mr. Barker? I assure you, I do not. You cannot estimate how much this manuscript means to my country. For years, our best scholars have postulated that there is an unnamed testament from which the books of Matthew and Luke were written. After years of searching, it was finally found in a mean little shop in Jersusalem. Unfortunately, the owner of the shop knew of our country’s scholarship and quoted an outrageous price. We had been fooled before, and were made to look gullible in the European community. The Kaiser ordered the government to pay a princely sum, provided it could be authenticated by the best ancient-language scholar in Germany, Professor Gunther Bischoff. There was rejoicing in the palace that night. However, the manuscript was stolen that night from Bischoff’s hotel room and he was found murdered by a complete scoundrel, a thief and murderer, and probably a spy for another power. Tell me, Mr. Barker, are you that scoundrel?”

  “No, sir,” my employer r
eplied. “I can honestly say that I am not your scoundrel. I have not been in Europe for years, and then only in France. If you believe I have your manuscript, you shall be sorely disappointed.”

  “You, sir,” Hatzfeldt said, rounding on me. “Are you an adventurer?”

  “Sir, you must look far and wide to find a man less adventurous than I.”

  “Are you members of the Foreign Office?”

  “If we were members of the Foreign Office, we certainly would not tell you,” Barker said. “And if we were not, how would you know the difference? The only thing provable is that we have had a private agency for ten years in Whitehall, and there does not seem a likely reason why the Foreign or even the Home Office should concern themselves with the workings of so small an agency.”

  “Do you know who currently possesses the manuscript?”

  “We do not.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “We do not.”

  “Why were you interested in it?”

  “We were hired by Drummond’s parents, as we told you.”

  Hatzfeldt pointed an accusatory finger. “Liar! We have questioned Drummond’s parents. They never heard of you!”

  “Sir,” Barker shot back. “If you know who brought the manuscript to England, why have you accused us of stealing it?”

  The German ambassador sat down again, and examined Barker with slitted eyes, his arms crossed, his head tilted to one side.

  “You will recall,” the Guv continued, “that we came to you about our investigation. Would we have shown ourselves to you had we been guilty of subterfuge?”

  “I would imagine, Mr. Barker, that subterfuge is your stock-in-trade.”

  “It is a useful tool, Ambassador, I’ll admit. However, we are not spies. I have no respect for them. In theory I see the need, I suppose, but it is not an activity in which I would involve myself. It is the underbelly of government. It stains one’s character. A man should be aboveboard, don’t you think?”

  Hatzfeldt looked at us as if unsure how to answer. Perhaps he was being tricked.

  “Espionage has its uses,” he said. “And it has been done throughout history, but I will admit it is not a profession I would like to see my son undertake.”

  “There you are, then.”

  “I wish I knew what was in your mind, sir, I must admit. You are as blank as a stone wall.”

  “An enquiry agent must hold his own counsel until every fact has been wrung from an investigation.”

  “We did some investigation of our own, gentlemen. Mr. Barker, your reputation is spotty. Some we have asked consider you the best detective in London.”

  “Private enquiry agent,” I corrected.

  “Just so. Some consider you a hammer to swat a fly.”

  “They should try to hammer a nail with a rolled newspaper,” I replied.

  “That is an excellent point. You yourself are an interesting study, Mr. Llewelyn. A failed scholar, with eight months in prison.”

  “I did not fail. The sentence merely got in the way of my studies.”

  “Recently married to a Jewess.”

  One can imagine that got right up my nose.

  “Do you have concerns about Jewesses, Your Excellency?”

  “Good heavens, no. They make up a tenth of my country’s population. They are industrious, thrifty, and have a calming effect in our communities. I was merely trying to illustrate that you had a roundabout way of becoming an enquiry agent.”

  “Had I known the future, perhaps I would have planned more wisely.”

  “Oh, dear. I have insulted you twice over. My apologies, sir.”

  I nodded, though I was not fully mollified.

  Hatzfeldt stood and began to pace with his thin arms akimbo. He was no longer the urbane fellow we had spoken with on our last visit.

  “I did not mean to insult either of you. You appear genuine enough, although I have not placed how you are involved in this matter precisely. Understand this. A piece of German property was stolen and one of our citizens murdered. If it can be proven that the English government has conceived and executed this plan, then there is a breach between our two governments. It may rupture our relations and void our treaties. The Kaiser is incensed. In his current state, it might lead to war. Wars have been started over far more trivial matters. Do I make myself clear?”

  The Guv pulled himself forward in his chair so that both hands rested on the knob of his blackthorn stick.

  “Yes, Your Excellency, you do. I am concerned, naturally, but only as a citizen. I cannot enforce policy. I am not a member of the British government.”

  “For whom do you work, Mr. Barker? It is not for the Drummonds.”

  “I make it a part of my enquiries not to disclose the name of my clients. However, I am certain to be able to find a witness to prove Mr. Llewelyn and I have been in this country for the last week or more.”

  Barker can parse words with the best of them. He always tries to tell the truth, but often he gives himself room to maneuver. Indeed, he had not been hired by the British government to investigate the case. He was doing that on his own. He’d been hired to deliver the manuscript to France. The trick was to avoid the question while making it seem that he had answered it.

  “Mr. Barker, you are a seasoned professional. That is a fact. I will not be able to trick you into some kind of confession. You say you have a client, but I have a suspicion who really hired you.”

  “Certainly, you are entitled to your suspicions, sir,” the Guv rumbled.

  “Thank you. I have no further questions. You may go.”

  We left the embassy, walking under the German flag with its two-headed eagle.

  “He was less than cordial,” my employer remarked.

  “I suppose losing a million-dollar artifact would make one that way,” I replied.

  “His government would like him to conjure the manuscript out of thin air, a trick he can never accomplish.”

  “Do you think it’s true about the Bischoff fellow being murdered?” I asked.

  “It is highly likely, if what Hatzfeldt says is true, but he, too, may be covering for his government. It is what he does for a living.”

  We had walked a street or two, heading toward the Underground.

  “Someone is following us,” Barker said.

  “From the embassy, I presume.”

  “Not necessarily. He could have been hired by Lord Grayle.”

  “Do you believe his threat to be credible? Friends in high places?”

  “I’m not concerned,” the Guv answered. “Our friends are higher yet. We may even have the same friends, which shall make it interesting.”

  We found our seats on the Underground and the man following us took a seat in the next carriage. I got a good look at him. He was about thirty, blond, with no obvious scars.

  “Very German-looking,” I said.

  “What makes him German-looking?”

  “I don’t know. Blond. Stern-looking.”

  “Could he not be Danish or Swedish?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Try to be precise, Mr. Llewelyn, and do not make judgments based upon personal prejudices.”

  “Yes, sir. In any case, he can join the others following us about. They can lunch together.”

  “You do talk rot sometimes.”

  We returned to our offices. As expected, Barker found the hull of his miniature ship and began filing it. It was like a dog gnawing a bone. I entered our expenses, such as they were, in the ledger.

  “I don’t know why it is necessary for me to keep an account when you so often offer our services for free,” I said. “In theory, this is supposed to be a profitable enterprise.”

  “It is necessary if for no other reason than to tell us the fare to the German embassy.”

  “Apparently, there is still much I do not know about private enquiry work.”

  He took the file and began sanding the deck slowly.

  “Enquiry work is like
Chinese boxing, lad,” he murmured. “When one has become a partner, or an instructor, one has officially begun the work. One is no longer an apprentice, but one is still just a beginner.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “That is comforting.”

  “Not at all,” he replied. “Anything to help.”

  He never understands sarcasm.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It felt good to be home early after all the threats we had recently endured. After dinner, Mac shooed us away from Rebecca and I climbed the stair and entered our suite. We spent an hour or two reading on either side of the fire. She did not ask me about the case and I did not tell her. The two of us agreed early in our marriage that she would hear all about a case when it was concluded, but not before. However, a small part of it involved her personally, so I told her about it.

  “You went to see my father?” she asked. “Both of you?”

  I explained in detail all that was said while we were in the rabbi’s office. She was surprised that the Guv would entertain the thought of giving up so important a position as the Board of Deputies.

  “I think I shall go to Camomile Street tomorrow and see if anything has changed.”

  She looked expectant and happy. I must remember to defend her more often, I thought.

  “By the way, I think you should know that Harm and I are now the best of friends.”

  “What?” I exclaimed. “Impossible.”

  “Not impossible,” she replied. “I found his weakness, and I must admit I have exploited it.”

  “What is his weakness?”

  “Chicken livers. I gave him a few this morning and a few more this afternoon, and he’s hovered nearby ever since.”

  “I wish I’d known that when I first came to this house.”

  * * *

  The following morning, we met Pollock Forbes at King’s Cross Station to see him off. I realized I did not know how long he had lived in London, or even why. Barker was tight-lipped about him; perhaps he did not know much about his reasons, either. Had the Templars been as important before Forbes became master, or was it all due to his efforts? I would probably never know.