by Will Thomas
Barker looked on approvingly while Mac tried to look as if he ran a rotary printer every day. Before I knew it, we were done.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it, Mr. L,” Jenkins said, and brought over a single large sheet of newsprint, still warm and drying, with my article in print.
“Good work, Jeremy,” I said. “My first appearance in print and I didn’t get a byline.”
“You’ll be the envy of your friends,” Jenkins said.
Mac looked a little green.
“And back in prison as soon as you can say ‘knife’ if we’re caught,” he stated.
“Let’s try not to be caught, then,” Barker said.
Our next duty was to strip the front page from fifty copies of the Gazette. It was the work of only a few minutes. Soon we had a stack of finished newspapers in front of us.
“Mr. Maccabee,” Jeremy said.
“Yes, Mr. Jenkins?”
“I’ve been there when the newspapers are delivered at the Home and Foreign Offices. As I recall, they are bundled in string. First one way, and then the other. Here is the string, but I’m hopeless at wrapping. Would you do the honors?”
“Of course.”
Mac soon had the bundle sufficiently tied. He was a bit sulky about it, though. He had hoped to shine, but instead Jenkins had supplied the luminescence.
Armed with the bundle and an armload of other copies, we left the building. Barker inserted his key and locked the door soundly. Mac went out first to see if a constable was coming along on his appointed rounds. We strolled out into Fleet Street while in the distance, Big Ben tolled midnight.
Ten minutes later we were in The Old Bell. The newspaper workers were enjoying themselves, possibly too much.
A man spoke up from a table nearby. It was Henry Cathcart himself, presenting his bloodshot eyes to me.
“So what’s all this about, then?” he asked in a voice different from his own.
“Dunno any more than you,” he continued in a second voice. “Alls I know is free beer and try not to drink so much that you can’t do your job ar’terwords.”
He shook his head. “And nobody thought to invite me.”
“Sorry, Henry,” I said. “I don’t know what we were thinking.”
He ran a hand down his snowy beard.
“Evening, Young-fella-me-lad. Some doings, eh?”
“Indeed!”
As usual, the Sponge knew where free alcohol was available in London Town. He sucked down a glass of pink gin neat.
Mac and Barker returned from the bar with pints of Whitbread’s finest. The foam was frothing over the sides. When the four of us were seated, I nudged Barker with my elbow. He looked over at me. I, in turn, looked at Mac. He was looking very down in the mouth and sipping at his beer. Beer is never meant to be sipped.
“Mac,” the Guv said, “that was superior work, as always. Thank you for lending a hand.”
Our butler suddenly took on a warm glow.
“Oh, I didn’t do much. Thank you all the same. Very good work, Mr. Jenkins.”
“Thank you, Mr. M.”
Mac frowned. He didn’t mind others being called by our last initial, but he drew a line at himself.
Having been deprived of nourishment for most of a night, Jenkins made short work of his pint and went back for another. Meanwhile, Barker took gulps of his pint in measured increments. Years before he’d been a sea captain and was known to put down several bottles of grog at a seating. Now a reformed Baptist, and a good deacon, he imbibed rarely and in moderation. So, too, did Mac, always hoping to impress his employer, usually at my expense. It was all too exhausting. I enjoyed my pint, though I didn’t have another.
“What do we do until morning?” I asked.
“I originally planned to have us sleep rough in the offices, but it is not really necessary,” Barker said. “We shall have to change into fresh clothing in order to exchange the newspapers.”
“What kind of fresh clothing?”
“I haven’t decided yet. But I shall by morning.”
I finished my pint. Barker’s was still half full, while Mac’s was near the top. As for Jeremy, he’d finished his second and returned with a third. When we stood to leave, he was sitting with his arm around Henry Cathcart, trying to recall the words to “Loch Lomond.”
We left, Mac still clutching his stringed package, and I with an armful of loose Gazettes under my arm. Barker split the air with a whistle and a cab came down the street and slowed to a stop in front of us.
“Evenin’, gents,” he said. “Where to?”
“The wilds of Newington,” I told him.
“He’s drunk,” Mac murmured.
“Not on one measly pint. At least I drank it. I didn’t mouth it, like some.”
“I’m not fond of beer. I prefer wine.”
“But you make ale of your own. Damned good stuff it is, too.”
“I make it, but I don’t drink it,” Mac informed me.
“How do you know you’ve done it correctly, then, if you don’t test it?”
“I follow the recipe stringently.”
“Mac’s Stringent Ale.”
We stopped talking after that. All right, so perhaps I was feeling some slight effects of the ale. Before I knew it we were home, and Barker was shaking me awake.
“I’m tired,” I insisted. “I’m not drunk.”
We opened the house and stepped inside. Harm waddled forward for our inspection. Barker was approved, as he always is. Mac was not, because he was gone when his sole purpose is to let him in and out of the yard. Constantly.
Harm raised his nose and looked at me accusingly. Sometimes I think he’s more of a Baptist than Barker.
“I had a beer,” I insisted as he gave a shrill yip. “One! I admit it! Now will you let me alone?”
I went upstairs, took off my shoes, which suddenly weighed as much as cannonballs, and struggled out of my jacket. Then I dropped onto the bed and immediately fell asleep.
CHAPTER THIRTY
We had about four hours’ sleep that night. Morning dawned even earlier than usual, if such a thing were possible. We were up and dressed at four A.M. Barker had asked me to wear my country browns, right down to a pair of leather gaiters I almost never wore. No self-respecting Londoner would dare wear such colors. Brown screamed of the country, but then that was the intention.
Our purpose was to switch our newspapers with the real editions to be delivered to the Foreign Office. Barker and I had agreed, after discussing various methods of bait and switch, that the simplest way was generally the best. That is to say, the Guv had decreed it and I had agreed to it, if you take my meaning.
I carried a large ordinance map of the West End, and at the given time, which was around five forty-five, I was to come out of Downing Street with the map fully opened, looking hopelessly lost. I’m good at that. I have one of those faces. Anyway, I was to distract the clerk from the Foreign Office with this oversized map and, in my befuddled way, ask the fellow where the bookselling part of Charing Cross might be. If all went well, I would draw him away from the bundle in time for my employer to step into the spot between the clerk and the newspapers, and consult his watch. Then Mac would switch the real Gazette for ours, and stow the originals in his coat and walk away.
Our second objective was much easier. The Gazette was also delivered at Lord Diosy’s house. Three copies, in fact. They were delivered by a rascally young man who agreed to deliver our newspaper instead, for a not very small fee. The delivery was later than the one in Whitehall, and we had just enough time to arrive with little or no margin for error.
Barker came down in his morning coat and inspected my ensemble: a tweed suit, with breeches and hose, the aforementioned gaiters, and a peaked cap. I had placed the cap rather jauntily on my head, but he set it right. I was to look lost and befuddled.
“Satisfactory,” Barker rasped.
Then Mac came in, also in a cap, but in dark gray t
weed. He wore no jacket, only a black waistcoat over trousers, and his shirtsleeves were carelessly rolled up to his elbows. His boots were scuffed. I suspect Mac came out of the womb in well-polished boots, wiped down by himself in preparation for his entrance. Having to go about in scuffed boots must have been painful to him.
“How do I look, sir?” he asked.
“Splendid, Mac. Thank you.”
Barker’s pet. Mac always got the pat on the back, and I the boot in the posterior. I had come to accept this treatment anyway, so it didn’t rankle much. After all, Mac wanted more than anything to do enquiry work, whereas I would consider maintaining a house and polishing bannisters all day as nothing less than torture.
We left, and squeezed the three of us into a hansom cab at the Causeway, in front of the Metropolitan Tabernacle. The horse’s hooves had to dig into the limestone cobbles below to find purchase and then we were off to our destination. I perched upon about four inches of leather seat, with my arm hanging over the batwings of the cab, looking out at the early dawn and ruminating.
It was a good plan, but not a perfect one. It required theft, subterfuge, bribery, and chicanery. As Christian gentlemen, apart from Mac who was Jewish and a good son of the Torah, we strove to meet our clients’ needs without breaking the law. As enquiry agents, one either keeps the law or one doesn’t. If one did not, one was no better than a detective, a word which Barker considered pejorative. Sometimes, however, one must break the law if it is for the common good. Whether this was for the common good I was not certain, but I hoped it was. I hoped very much, for you see, it looked to me as if the Guv was double-crossing his client.
“Here we are, lad.”
“What o’clock is it?” I asked.
“Half past five.”
The vehicle shuddered to a stop at the curb in front of Downing Street. Just a few hundred yards away, the prime minister was snoring into his pillow, dreaming of consolidating his party against those damned muddleheaded savages, the Conservatives. He was welcome to it. We had work to do.
“Are you ready, lad?”
I pulled the ordinance map from my pocket and began opening it.
“Ready.”
“Let us rehearse.”
I walked toward number 10, the prime minister’s residence, while Barker crossed in front of the Home and Foreign Office to the other side. Mac stood in the street, with a bandanna around his neck, carrying the false papers we had made. Oh, yes, I forgot. We must add counterfeiting to the other crimes we were perpetrating. I really hoped this was for the common good, and not Barker trying to settle old scores.
We had worked out that General Mononobe had hired us assuming that we could not discover that he was responsible for Ambassador Toda’s death. If we had, and really, he should have known better, he had diplomatic immunity. He could not be arrested or charged, and even if he could, we hadn’t enough evidence to prove that he was the culprit. He even had a bodyguard willing to make the sacrifice of confessing, right before strangling himself. Scotland Yard was satisfied they had their man and had moved on to other things. The Foreign Office was satisfied that selling arms and battleships to Japanese war interests would not reflect badly on them, and our manufacturers were vastly content. The Japanese delegation was pleased that their new embassy was establishing a foothold, in spite of the ambassador’s untimely death, as well as that of a few unimportant bodyguards. General Mononobe was satisfied that his plan to purchase armaments for certain wealthy elements in his country would turn his country into an imperial nation like England and America. Everyone was satisfied except Barker. If they were to reap the whirlwind, well, that was their fault, not his.
We blocked out our movements in full view of the Foreign Office building, but then it was mostly empty. Somewhere inside a crew of workmen were finishing their cleaning rounds and a clerk was snatching a hurried cup of tea before starting his duties.
I was back near number 10 when Mac spotted the delivery van coming down the street, and lifted his cap, as if he were wiping the sweat from his forehead. Slowly, I began to move forward, clutching my map. I could feel my heart thumping against the inside of my rib cage. I had to control my breathing, force myself to be calm, and pace my feet. I did not want to arrive one second too early.
The van arrived, the clerk came out to the street, and I arrived at the corner simultaneously. I opened my map and surveyed Whitehall from one end to the other. I scratched my head, and pushed my cap back farther on my head. A country bumpkin in the big city.
“I do beg your pardon, sir. I ’pear to be lost.”
The clerk held the newspapers in his hand by the string. I had to get him to drop them.
“To where do you wish to go?” he asked.
“I heard there are some good booksellers in Charing Cross. Beryl will be quite discontented if I don’t bring her some of the latest books from London.”
“They are to the north. Go past Nelson’s Column and they should be on your right.”
I scratched my head again and consulted the map.
“So, which way is north?”
The clerk pointed.
“That way. Can’t you see Nelson’s Column?”
Of course I could. It was right down the street and one hundred and sixty-nine feet high. But I wasn’t going to tell him that. I consulted the map again, looking rather desperate.
“Where?”
“Right there. Can’t you see the column?”
“Now wait a minute,” I drawled. “Beryl and I drove by that yesterday, and the guide told us it was Trafalgar Square.”
“It is Trafalgar Square, you—sir,” the clerk said. “Nelson’s Column is in Trafalgar Square.”
I attempted to push half the map into his hand, but he clutched the newspapers tightly by the strings, refusing to surrender them.
“It doesn’t say Nelson’s Column anywhere on this map,” I argued.
“I don’t care about your bloody map. I’m telling you, that is Nelson’s Column!”
“With the lions.”
“Yes!”
“What are the lions called?”
“How should I know?”
“Well, you seem to know everything. I thought you would know the lions’ names.”
“Look, you—”
“What seems to be the trouble?” a man said, a very helpful man with black lenses and a thick mustache.
“This fellow’s lost, and I’m trying to convince him that that,” he said, pointing north, “is Nelson’s Column.”
“I assure you, sir, he is right. Now let us consult your map.”
Thunk. The newspapers dropped to the ground.
Barker took one side of the map, and I pulled at it from the other side. The clerk was between us.
“Okay. I get it. The statue is Nelson’s Column. The place is Trafalgar Square. Are the bookstores in Trafalgar Square?”
Gradually we moved to the corner, but I was too occupied to see if Mac was making the switch. The clerk had been gnashing his teeth.
“Yes, sir,” Barker said, which told me he was playing a role since he generally said “aye” after the Scottish fashion. “They are right here past the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” I asked the clerk.
“I did!” the clerk almost bellowed. “The next time you’re in London, sir, which I hope is never, I suggest you don’t go out anymore without your guide!”
He crossed behind Barker, picked up his newspapers, and headed into the building. Had Mac had time to switch them? It was close. We watched the clerk retreat into the building. Mac came up behind us.
“The cab’s waiting. We don’t have much time.”
“You switched them?” I asked.
“I did.”
“I could kiss you!”
“Not if I have any say in the matter.”
Time was of the essence. We jumped into the cab and it bowled off.
“Thank you, sir,” I told the Guv.
“If you hadn’t come along, he would never have released the newspapers. He was clutching them like the mortal remains of his sainted mother!”
“By now, the newspapers are being disseminated among all the departments of the Foreign Office. We’ll see what sort of chaos your little article will cause there.”
A few minutes later we came up to the large residence that housed the Japanese embassy. The young man was standing on the pavement to one side with the bundle by his feet. His arms were crossed and he looked none too happy. We jumped out.
“Are you ready?” Barker asked as Mac exchanged newspapers.
“Not so fast. As I see it, I’m taking all the risks. I don’t even know your names.”
“Is that so?” Barker asked coolly.
“Yes. I want ten pounds.”
“We agreed on five!”
“Ten.”
“Seven, then.”
“Ten, and not a pence less!”
Barker spit in his hand and extended it. The young man did the same.
“Pay the man.”
With reluctance, I tendered a ten-pound note. Of course, we had agreed on ten pounds all along. We’d only offered him five. If he hadn’t been so greedy, he’d have received the other five as a bonus. Now they had agreed. He couldn’t peach on us now, or defy underworld society.
After pocketing the note, the youth picked up the newspapers and headed toward the embassy door.
“Ta, gents,” he said.
Then, and only then, did I relax. I was like a balloon deflating. The youth delivered the newspapers into the hand of one of the last remaining bodyguards. The man shut the door. I waited a moment, as if the entire house were a big dog which might or might not spit out the medicine he was tricked into taking. Waited, waited. Nothing happened.
That is to say, nothing happened outside. I suspected a good deal was happening in the house, once the front-page article had been noticed.
Suddenly, we heard a muffled cry from within.
“It would be best,” Barker said, “to not be found in the vicinity. My first visit here proved that.”