The Poison Tide

by Andrew Williams

  ‘Don’t you want to know why?’ She was a little hurt, lifting her head from his shoulder to gaze up at his face. ‘I want to tell someone, you see—’

  ‘If it’s Clan business, you shouldn’t,’ he interrupted, bending to silence her with a rough kiss – and for a time she let him.

  ‘But it’s important. I want you to . . . I only heard today – and you’re Sir Roger’s friend,’ she persisted. ‘It’s to be Easter, you see. It’s decided – and Roger will be there – with guns.’ She smiled, craning up to kiss him lightly on the lips. ‘Do you remember what you said the day we met? You spoke to the Clan, and you said it was time to prove we had the guts to do more than sing about dying for Ireland. Aren’t you pleased we’re going to at last?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t look pleased. Please be happy – this is what we’ve been hoping for – freedom at last.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he kissed her forehead, ‘it is wonderful news. I’m just anxious for Roger, that’s all. It won’t be easy, even if the people rise together against the British.’

  ‘I know, but it is something to celebrate, isn’t it?’

  Something fine, he said, but a sad cold wave was washing through him. In an effort to suppress it he kissed her hair and her cheek and her neck, holding her very close, until with trembling breath and parted lips she turned her face, and he kissed her passionately, deeply, with all the love he felt for her. Why? Why did you speak of it? She was still trembling when they broke apart and he said in a broken whisper, ‘I must go.’ She squeezed him tighter, clinging to him as one who has known little, perhaps nothing, of men. Eyes firmly shut, stroking her hair, for a while he couldn’t speak as sad, cutting thoughts waltzed round his head to the tissh, tissh, tissh of the diamond disc phonograph. Why did you tell me? But to even ask was another lie. The blame was his alone. She trusted de Witt – she loved him.

  ‘I must go,’ he said with more determination. She spoke but it was barely a whisper, and her words were lost at his shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t . . .’ he said, pulling away to examine her face.

  Her large eyes lifted shyly then dropped. ‘You don’t have to go. You can stay,’ she said.

  ‘Your aunt will be home, and . . .’ he understood and was afraid for her. ‘I . . . I think I should leave,’ he stammered.

  ‘Would you like to make love to me?’ She turned her face up with I can, I will eyes, and he felt a frisson of desire and at the same moment guilt that she was offering her love for the first time to a man like him. Tissh, tissh, tissh, the revolving phonograph, as if possessed by the spirit of her maiden aunt, and Laura looked down, disconcerted that he hadn’t spoken or kissed her. ‘You can, it’s all right – I love you,’ she whispered.

  ‘I love you, Laura,’ he said with quiet sincerity. ‘Please believe me – that’s why I’m going to leave.’ He bent to kiss her but she’d turned her face away, pulling from him, hurt and perhaps a little ashamed.

  ‘You’re very beautiful and I want you,’ he said. ‘It’s just . . .’ but he couldn’t think how to explain. ‘I love you,’ he said again, but this time it sounded like an excuse.

  ‘I’m glad. I love you too,’ she declared brusquely, her back turned as she lifted the needle from the disc.

  And now she wanted him to leave at once. ‘I’m sorry. I do love you,’ he said again in the hall, his coat over his arm.

  ‘Why are you sorry? There’s no reason to be,’ she said, but wouldn’t look him in the eye.

  ‘Yes, there are many reasons why I should be sorry,’ he said bitterly; ‘but it doesn’t matter now . . . it’s gone, done . . .’

  ‘No. How can you say so?’ and she stepped forward, laying her hand upon his arm. ‘It’s just pride’ – and she lifted her eyes to his face and blushed. ‘What a hussy you must think me.’

  ‘You’re surprising, beautiful, clever and I want you very much – I love you,’ he repeated, drawing her close. ‘Please kiss me.’

  Standing across the road from her apartment, gazing at her lighted windows, he could still taste that last kiss, smell and feel her pressed to him; and when for a moment he shut his eyes she was beckoning him back to be her lover. He stood in the empty street, the railings and the sidewalk were white with frost, his coat open, head bare, the cold pricking his face and hands. He was lonely, he hurt and he hated himself even more, though he knew he’d done the right thing for once; just too late.

  There was a taxicab at the end of the street but he wanted to walk, striding out in his best shoes, slipping, almost falling, too angry to care. By the time he reached the Albemarle Hotel it was midnight.

  Wiseman answered his door in slippers and a silk dressing gown, its pocket sagging with the weight of a revolver. Raising an eyebrow, he enquired with his customary composure, ‘Are you all right, my dear fellow? You did take care, didn’t you? They keep a pretty close eye on me here.’

  Wolff hadn’t taken the trouble he should have.

  ‘Another drink?’ Wiseman asked, gazing pointedly at his tie and tails. ‘Whisky, isn’t it?’

  ‘No.’

  Wiseman brandished the decanter. ‘You don’t mind if I . . .’ and poured himself a glass. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘No.’ Wolff took a deep breath. ‘There’s something you should know.’

  ‘You’re a bit out of sorts, I can see that. Are you in some sort of difficulty?’

  ‘I haven’t murdered anyone else, if that’s what you mean,’ he gave a bitter little laugh, ‘yet.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ Wiseman replied quietly. ‘Sit down, why don’t you?’ and he indicated the couch opposite with his glass.

  Wolff shook his head impatiently. He was standing with his back to the door, tapping his hat against his leg. ‘There’s going to be a rebellion in Ireland – at Easter.’ He spoke hurriedly and mechanically like someone repeating instructions. ‘Not sure of the precise date – perhaps Easter Sunday – don’t know – there will be German guns – don’t know when they’ll be landed – Casement will be part of it – not sure how much of a part – there are difficulties between him and the Clan and the leaders in Dublin. How good is my source? Good.’ He took another deep breath. ‘That’s it. That’s all I know.’

  Wiseman had listened with the faintly superior air of a university don coaxing a temperamental undergraduate with nods and smiles. ‘You’re quite sure about this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They aren’t trying to smoke you out?’

  ‘They – whom do you mean?’ he snapped.

  ‘The Irish, the Clan, or the Germans – perhaps they fed her this information to test her, or you, or both of you.’

  ‘You know then?’

  Wiseman acknowledged it with a slight nod.

  ‘No, it’s true,’ he said, wearily. He’d said what he had to say and he didn’t honestly care whether anyone believed him.

  ‘I see,’ Wiseman drawled, leaning forward, elbow on his knee and chin on his knuckles like Rodin’s Thinker. ‘Do you think you can learn more?’

  ‘No, and please don’t ask me to try.’

  ‘It must have been a difficult evening for you,’ Wiseman observed politely.

  ‘It was fine,’ he lied.

  ‘Sure you don’t want a drink?’

  ‘I’m sure. Look, there’s no reason for me to stay in New York, is there?’

  ‘Do you want to go to Baltimore?’

  ‘I don’t know – yes – somewhere.’

  Wiseman considered this for a moment, sipping his whisky. ‘Perhaps Baltimore is best.’ Then, in his soapiest voice, ‘You’ve done well, old boy. I don’t have to tell you how important this might be. I know you’re tired – go home. Rest.’

  Wolff left him to encipher his signal to London. Task complete, Wiseman may have gone back to his bed and was perhaps still sleeping the sleep of the righteous when, at daybreak, Wolff caught his train to Baltimore.

  30
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  A Baltimore Valentine

  FROM THE SINGLE grimy window of Thwaites’ hotel room it was just possible to see the tips of the cranes on the south side of the harbour.

  ‘Better not to be too close, I hope you agree,’ he said, sweeping newspapers and an edition of Tacitus’ Histories from his bed. He had signed in as Schmidt and was dressed in a sack suit like a travelling salesman. His runners were staying at a flophouse on the south side, in spitting distance of Hinsch’s ship, the Neckar.

  ‘That Masek’s a taskmaster.’ The bed springs groaned as Thwaites perched at its edge. ‘His people hate the Germans, you know, which is all the better for us. Why don’t you settle in, then we can go over there.’

  Wolff was on the same corridor. The room was damp and smelt of stale smoke and the window wouldn’t close. He inspected himself in the spotted mirror above the basin. His eyes were red rimmed so he bathed them in cold water. Then he changed into an old pea coat and boots. They left the hotel separately and took separate cabs to Locust Point. Masek met them in a dark little basement bar a few streets from the Norddeutscher Lloyd dock. The owner was also a Czech, he informed them, and for the right price could be trusted to hate Prussians too. Their host brought strong black tea and they sipped it and listened to Masek’s report of comings and goings to the ship.

  ‘No Hinsch, then?’ Thwaites enquired, blowing the steam from the top of his glass. Briefly, at the foot of the ship’s gangway, came the reply. He was seen with a large black man, a stevedore. They’d spoken for a minute, then Hinsch had given him a package.

  ‘The Negro isn’t Irish, is he?’ Thwaites remarked with an unpleasant little laugh. ‘So of no interest to us.’

  Wolff wasn’t sure. ‘Hinsch may have found some of his own people.’

  One of Masek’s runners was inside the yard, another at the gate, two more at the flophouse or in the bar, and there was nothing for Wolff to do but wait. Rather than contemplate the stains on the hotel wallpaper, he left Thwaites to his Tacitus and walked down to the waterfront. His route took him through a salty neighbourhood of brick terraces and cobblestone streets, taphouses, whorehouses, markets and missions, empty warehouses and decaying timber wharfs that brought to mind London’s docks and Portsmouth and a score of other ports over almost as many years. At a place called Fell’s Point he stopped to gaze at the last of the sun on the water. A stiff breeze was rocking the oyster boats and beating loose halyards against the masts. From the other side of the harbour the long, empty echo of a ship’s horn. Keep moving, keep busy, concentrate on the operation, he said to himself, but the ache in his chest was there – as if he’d been kicked by a horse. Closing his eyes, he could see Laura looking up at him expectantly, a small surrender that only served to sharpen his pain: and what was his pain? Love, loss, regret, guilt, anger, hopelessness – all those words and ones he didn’t remember or had never known.

  Thwaites was waiting in the hotel lobby. ‘Where have you been?’ he hissed, pulling Wolff roughly aside. ‘You came here to do a job – Hinsch is at the Hansa Haus – the Negro too.’

  They parked in front of a row of shops on the opposite side of the street, about fifty yards from the main entrance. Masek recognised their motor car and wandered over, stepping up to the back seat. ‘My man there,’ he said with Slavic disdain for prepositions. ‘Front automobile showroom. Hinsch inside with Hilken two hours, but that nothing strange – here always.’

  Wolff looked at Thwaites sceptically. ‘So no need to get excited.’

  ‘We need to be with him all the time,’ he replied coolly. ‘If you haven’t the stomach for it . . .’

  ‘All right,’ Wolff held up his hand, ‘I know.’

  Masek patted him on the shoulder. ‘Pretty girl – Brooklyn. I remember you. Followed you for Captain Gaunt.’ Sliding down the seat, he pulled his peaked cap over his eyes – ‘Masek have nap’ – and like a dog he was asleep and snoring gently in minutes. Wolff lit a cigarette and watched the lights go out in the large office building opposite. Clerks from the downtown business district were striding home along the Charles Street corridor or queuing for streetcars to the suburbs. The tinkling of a bell signalled the approach of another and the scramble for a seat. ‘You know it’s Valentine’s Day?’ Thwaites remarked. ‘Did you send your Irish lady a card?’

  ‘Chuck it, will you?’

  ‘Just killing time, old boy. But I say, you’re not . . .’

  ‘Shut up, for God’s sake.’ He nudged Thwaites with his elbow. ‘There’s our man,’ and turning to wake Masek, ‘Hey, you, any idea who the other two are?’

  They were standing at the main door, the Norddeutscher house flag flapping above their head. ‘Hinsch – and that is Hilken in wool cap – the Negro do not know and . . .’ Masek pointed over Wolff’s shoulder, ‘Hilken’s driver.’ A large burgundy-and-orange Packard was drawing to the kerb a few yards from the group.

  ‘The Negro’s carrying something – looks like a present for his mother,’ Thwaites observed sardonically. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

  With a curt nod to his companions, Hilken walked over to the motor car and stepped into the back. The driver was plainly expecting another passenger because he stood waiting at the open door.

  ‘We should follow the black man,’ Wolff declared.

  ‘Because of his parcel?’ Thwaites sounded sceptical.

  ‘Because Hilken and Hinsch won’t be doing their own dirty work. Hilken isn’t comfortable with – look, here we go . . .’ Hinsch had shaken hands with his companion and was lumbering towards the motor car.

  ‘Hurry up, you ox,’ Wolff said between gritted teeth. The black man had set off at a good pace, faltering only to wave at one of the city’s gaudy yellow cabs. ‘We can’t wait – you go after him, Masek – don’t lose him.’

  Thwaites stepped out to start the motor car and was bending over the handle when the Packard pulled away. He limped back slowly, was caught at the first set of lights, then the second. ‘Come on, man, come on,’ Wolff grumbled. Masek flagged them down outside the bank at the corner of Baltimore and Charles Streets. ‘Where you been?’ he railed. ‘Go west – go straight.’ They caught up the stevedore’s cab at the City Hall and followed it without difficulty through cobblestone streets to the harbour. Beyond the old wharfs at Fell’s Point it turned south-west into new docklands, through a dark tunnel of warehouse walls broken only by glimpses of the navigation lights on the shore, emerging after a mile in a neighbourhood of workers’ rowhouses.

  Morahan’s Bar was the last building in a parade of rundown shops, at the edge of a salt marsh; opposite, a dockyard gate and chain-link fence. Single storey, windows part boarded, it was a hard-drinking place for run-ashore sailors and stevedores with piecework wages to blow in an evening.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Masek rubbed his little beard: ‘Think dangerous.’

  ‘Yes.’ Wolff took a deep breath. ‘I think so too. Have you got a gun?’

  Thwaites patted his pocket.

  ‘Then give it to me.’

  ‘I’m coming,’ he protested.

  ‘Not with your leg – not in that suit,’ Wolff insisted. ‘Masek – you come.’

  The Czech touched his cap facetiously. ‘Du bist der Chef.’

  ‘We’re Germans,’ Wolff muttered, stepping out of the car. ‘I’ll do all the talking.’

  But as they were crossing the street the stevedore appeared on the threshold of the bar again. He must have thought nothing of the approaching sailors because he pushed the door ajar and called to someone inside. His companion was young, white, well built and dressed in a longshoreman’s cap and short coat. Cradled in the crook of his right arm was the parcel.

  ‘Got a light?’ Wolff asked in German, stopping a few yards short of them to fumble for a cigarette.

  Masek nodded. ‘Sure.’

  The stevedore seemed to barely notice. He whispered something to his associate, then watched him walk beyond the c
ircle of light cast by the parade lamps.

  Wolff bent over the guttering lighter flame. ‘Hold it steady, man,’ he protested loudly. The stevedore gazed at them for a moment then stepped back into the bar.

  ‘Stay with him, Masek,’ Wolff said. ‘Take this,’ and he handed him the revolver.

  The meadow at the end of the parade was soft underfoot and thick cord grass grew at its edge. Stumbling forward a few feet, Wolff found a path and, presuming the young man with the package had taken it, he pushed on quietly, weaving first away from the road then back, the faint glow of light from the wharf buildings behind the fence his guide. It didn’t take long to catch him. Sinking to his knees, Wolff watched the longshoreman make his way from the meadow up to the road and across to the fence. He bent over his toes to tug at the bottom of the wire: it lifted like a curtain. Then, slipping under, he ran for the cover of a warehouse. Bloody idiot – I should have kept the revolver, Wolff thought, as he scrambled after him. On the other side of the wire, he crouched to gather his bearings – twenty or so yards, three warehouse buildings, no lights, no sign of a guard. He struck out fast and low to the nearest. Back pressed to it, the first thing he noticed was the smell of shit, then a restless murmur like the breaking of waves on a distant shore, and in the seconds it took to reach the front of the building he realised that the dockyard was full of horses. Covered stables occupied two sides, an open corral the third, the administrative block along the fourth – the Union flag flying from a pole above the door. Beyond this, the dock and the dim lights of two large ships.

  What the hell was he doing here? Were the ships the target, or the horses? It was a British remount depot. He’d seen a place like it in a New York park, and there were half a dozen more on the East Coast. Horses and mules to haul British guns, bring up the rations, and carry the luckless into no-man’s-land; from Midwest pastures by train, then sea; no passport, no neutrality – big business. A precious investment guarded by careless nightwatchmen: or was Hinsch paying them to turn a blind eye? If so, to what end?