The Iron Angel

by Edward D. Hoch

  “Where would I begin?” Michael wondered aloud. “Everyone is dead.”

  “That orderly survived. He might know something.”

  By morning the town of Starkworth was in a frenzy. Television crews from the BBC and the independent networks were crowding the lanes with their trucks and more American and European correspondents were arriving by the hour. Teams of Scotland Yard investigators were everywhere and before Colonel Jugger and Michael had even finished their breakfast eggs they were being interviewed by a pair of dour-looking investigators from London. They told their story of finding the bodies, which was really all they knew.

  “What about Mr. Isaacson?” one of the Scotland Yard men asked. His name was Inspector Drexell and he carried his excess weight with seeming ease.

  “Who?” Michael questioned.

  “The sole survivor. The man you found in the doorway. We need to know exactly what he said.”

  Jugger thought for a moment and answered. “I think it was ‘Gas, they’re all dead.’ Isn’t that what he said, Michael?”

  “As I remember it.”

  “Nothing else?”

  They both shook their heads. “His breathing was bad,” Michael said. “How is he today?”

  “The doctors say he’s coming along fine,” the inspector said. “He should be released soon.”

  “We need to speak with him,” Jugger said. “The European union will want a full report on this.”

  “I’m afraid that will be impossible until after we’ve interviewed him.”

  “Have you been able to trace those canisters?” Michael asked

  “I’m not at liberty to talk about that.”

  They departed soon afterward and Colonel Jugger spent the rest of the breakfast deep in thought. “They may be onto something. That fellow Drexell –”

  They were interrupted by the sudden arrival in the hotel dining room of a tall, blonde woman. Wearing a short black leather jacket, a tight skirt that ended just above the knees and a knapsack over her shoulder, she strode purposefully across the room to their table, pale blue eyes taking in the scene. “Which of you is Michael Vlado?” she asked.

  “I am,” Michael acknowledged with a smile.

  “Katie Blackthorn, Skywatch World Service. I’d like to interview you about the killings.”

  Michael must have looked blank, because Jugger had to mutter into his ear, “Television, go ahead!”

  “I only know what’s been on the news,” he said.

  “I understand you are a Gypsy king who came here specifically to meet with the victims. That’s what I want to ask you about.”

  Michael reluctantly followed her to a secluded corner of the hotel lobby where her cameraman was waiting. “This is Dominick,” she said. “He’s my eyes. Dominick, I’ll need about three minutes with Mr. Vlado here, maybe with that wall as a background.”

  “How are you?” Dominic said, shaking hands as he balanced the video camera on his shoulder. He was a husky man with dark hair and a trace of beard, wearing a rock group T-shirt. Positioning himself a few feet away, he aimed the camera. “Ready when you are, Katie.”

  The cameraman shot some footage as she introduced Michael to the viewers, and then she asked Michael a preliminary question about being a king of the Gypsies. “I am only king of my clan,” Michael explained. “Gypsies have many clans and many kings. Because of the recent increase in Gypsy migration to Britain, I was asked by the European Union to meet with these groups and establish their true destination.”

  “Some say they’re bound for Canada.”

  He nodded. “That’s what I was trying to determine. Tragically, these killings occurred before we could talk.”

  “Do you believe it was an attempt to discourage Gypsy immigration?”

  “I really don’t know. Right now I’m still trying to get over the terrible shock of this atrocity.”

  Katie Blackthorn relaxed and allowed herself to smile. “Thank you, Mr. Vlado,” she said and then after a pause, “That’s it, Dominick.”

  Dominick stopped filming and replayed the tape for her. Michael stayed to watch and heard her cell phone beeping. She took it from her duffel bag and answered with a touch of impatience. “Blackthorn here.” Apparently it was no one she knew and she seemed ready to hang up when something the caller said caught her interest. “Cubberth? How did you get my phone number?” Then, “All right. At the pier in an hour.”

  She broke the connection and stowed away the phone. “A fan,” she told her cameraman. “The office gave him my number. Shoot some footage of the church and the town hall for atmosphere. I’ll see you back at the hotel around noon.”

  Michael returned to the table and finished his breakfast. “That’s probably the first of many interviews you’ll be giving,” Jugger predicted.

  “She seems nice enough. I’ll have to look for myself on the evening news.”

  “I must report in to the immigration people about this business. Do you want to come along?”

  Michael shook his head. “I’d rather look around the town. I came here to speak with Gypsies and I haven’t seen a live one yet.”

  Their waitress brought them the check. “They just said on the telly the Prince of Wales is coming this afternoon to see the place where it happened!”

  “The media will love that,” Colonel Jugger decided. “I understand they are even worse here than in Germany.”

  Michael departed, feeling he’d better get started if he wanted to see anyone before the traffic jams began. The local police were already fighting a losing battle to keep the main streets passable. He intercepted one officer and asked directions to the local caravan site. “Straight down the road to the railroad tracks, then left for about a half mile,” he said. “But you won’t find any Travelers there, if that’s what you’re looking for. They all left town. Frightened, I suppose.”

  Michael glanced at his watch and saw it was only ten thirty. He set off for the site, following directions. When he reached it nearly twenty minutes later the field was indeed deserted, but he saw an elderly man with a thick cane walking about with dazed look on his face. As he drew nearer, Michael could make out some intricate carvings on the cane. He had seen such cranes before, carried by older Gypsies. “Pardon me,” he said. “Are you a Traveler?”

  The man replied in a language Michael had never heard, and he switched to Romany, asking the question again. Still the old man talked on unintelligibly and Michael remembered Jugger’s mention of a language called Shelta, spoken by some Travelers. “Shelta?” he asked.

  The man’s face brightened for the first time in recognition of the word. Michael tried Romany again speaking more slowly. If there were Gypsies of many tribes here they must have some way of communicating. “What is your name?” he asked the man.

  “Granza,” he said finally. “Where have my people gone?” His knowledge of Romany was faulty but understandable.

  “You are Granza?”

  A nod. “Granza Djuric. When I left yesterday the caravan was camped here.”

  “There has been a terrible tragedy,” Michael tried to explain. “Many Gypsies newly arrived from Europe died here yesterday. Your people have fled.”

  Suddenly a lone horseman appeared at the other end of the field, riding toward them. He was young, in his twenties, and wore a colorful shirt that caught the wind as he rode. “Granza!” he shouted as he approached.

  “See?” Michael told the old man. “You are not forgotten!”

  Granza Djuric smiled. “It is Dane, my grandson.”

  As the rider dismounted, Michael greeted him. “Michael Vlado. I am king of a Rom tribe in the foothills of Romania. I have come here because of the immigrants.”

  The young man, with curly black hair and a gold tooth that was visible when he smiled, shook hands. “I am Dane Morgan. We left at dawn and I thought my grandfather was in another caravan. We only now realized he was missing and I rode back for him.”

  “You left because of the deaths?
”

  He nodded. “A terrible thing. Some people think we did it. Others believe we could be the next victims. Either way it was time to move on.”

  “It’s important the police find whoever is responsible. Someone may be trying to keep Roms from coming here.”

  “We have not heard details, only that many people died.”

  “Fifty-five in all,” Michael confirmed, “Counting two volunteers who were staying with them. Poison gas was used.”

  “My grandfather knows about that. He was at Auschwitz. He almost died there.”

  “Have you heard anything at all? Did the residents of Starkworth resent the arrival of more Gypsies?”

  “Some might have, but they were only here temporarily. “He thought for a moment. “There was one man ”

  “Who?”

  “His name was Cubber or Cubberth. He had a laboratory nearby and he manufactured drugs like LSD. Tried to sell us some a few weeks ago, but we sent him on his way.”

  Where had he heard that name before? “A laboratory?”

  “So he said. To him Travelers are nothing but fortune-tellers, beggars and gamblers. He wanted money from us. And I heard him complaining about more Gypsies coming from Eastern Europe.”

  “Cubberth.” Michael repeated the name. He remembered now. It was the person Katie Blackthorn had agreed to meet in one hour at the pier. Checking his watch again, he saw that it was a few minutes to eleven. If he hurried back he might be in time for that meeting. “Which way is the pier?” he asked Dane Morgan.

  “Did you come from town?”

  “From the hotel.”

  “There’s a shorter way back to the pier.” He gave Michael careful directions and then helped his grandfather up onto the horse. “We’ll be camped tonight further west along the coast, near Whitstable,” he said. Michael waved as they rode away.

  The Starkworth pier was about a hundred feet long and seemed to be a town fishing spot. There was a narrow rocky beach on either side but nothing that would invite swimmers. Michael got there by eleven-fifteen and saw a lone fisherman out near the end wearing a broad-brimmed hat that shielded his head against the noonday sun. Another man was just stepping onto the pier. He was balding, without a hat, and seemed a bit hesitant in his movements. Finally he headed toward the fisherman at the end of the pier.

  For a moment Michael wondered if the fisherman might be Katie Blackthorn disguising herself to hide from rival press people. But then he saw her come around the corner of a building walking fast toward the pier, her knapsack over one shoulder. He moved quickly after her, but was too far away to beat her onto the pier. The balding man had reached the end and was seated next to the fisherman, his back against one of the wooden posts.

  Michael was still only about halfway to the end of the pier when the television reporter reached the two men. He couldn’t quite see what she did because her body shielded them from Michael’s view. But he saw her jump back as if stung by some unseen hornet. The broad-brimmed hat the fisherman wore had fallen to the dock and his jacket collapsed beneath it. Katie Blackthorn screamed and Michael broke into a run.

  “What is it?” he called out as he reached her.

  She turned to him terrified. “He’s dead!”

  “The fisherman?”

  “There is no fisherman. It think this is a man named Cubberth.”

  The balding man was slumped against the wooden post, his throat torn by a jagged weapon. At his feet lay a bloody fish-scaler. Michael looked around. “I saw someone out here fishing.”

  “A coat and hat were propped up with this broomstick. That is what you saw.”

  “Then who killed him?”

  “I have no idea.” She squinted at him in the sunlight. “You’re that Gypsy, Michael Vlado.”

  “That’s right.”

  She pulled the cell phone from her duffel bag and jabbed the button for the operator. “Police! It’s an emergency! There’s a dead man on the Stark-worth pier.” Then after being connected, she repeated the information adding, “I’m a television journalist. My name is Katie Blackthorn. Yes, I’ll stay right here till you arrive.” She broke the connection and immediately punched in another number. “Dominick. I’m at the pier. Get down here with your camera right away!”

  Within a minute they heard the sound of an approaching siren. “What are you doing here?” she asked Michael.

  “I remembered Cubberth’s name from when he phoned you back at the hotel. I was questioning a local Traveler just now and the name came up. I decided to join your meeting with him.”

  “How did his name come up?”

  “I’d better wait and tell that to Inspector Drexell.”

  The stocky Scotland Yard man was one of the first to arrive. “Were you together when you found him?” he asked Michael and the newswoman while his assistants were examining the body.

  Michael explained that he arrived at the pier just as the victim was walking out toward the end. “I knew Cubberth had an appointment with Miss Blackthorn and I guessed this might be him. She was just a few seconds behind him.”

  The inspector turned toward her. “Miss Blackthorn?”

  “Cubberth phoned me at the hotel this morning. The station gave him my number. He claimed to have information about yesterday’s killings. He said he’d meet me here at the pier.”

  “And what’s your connection with Cubberth?” he asked Michael.

  “One of the Travelers told me he has a laboratory near here. He’s been making LSD and other chemicals. If he had something to tell the press it might have involved the killings.”

  The inspector nodded. Dominick had arrived with the video camera on his shoulder and was panning down the pier. “The body’s at the end,” Katie shouted. “Get down there!”

  He hurried past them. “I was filming around the town hall like you said. I’ve got great footage for you!”

  “Good. Now get me some blood and guts.”

  “Is that what you want Miss Blackthorn?” the inspector asked with a certain grimness. “Were fifty-five bodies not enough for you?”

  “That’s – that’s so terrible my viewers will have trouble grasping it. A single body with his throat cut is more understandable.”

  “Do I need to remind you that you seem to have been alone with the victim when he died? Mr. Vlado here saw him walk out on the pier ahead of you.”

  “There was a fisherman at the end.” She gestured toward the body and the slouched stick-figure dummy. Dominick had paused in his filming holding the camera against his striped T-Shirt while he changed the video cartridge.

  “Where is he now?” Inspector Drexell asked.

  They gazed into the water together and Michael could see a flatfish gliding a few feet down near the stony bottom. Katie Blackthorn didn’t answer. Instead she said, “I went to the hospital this morning to see that injured orderly, Isaacson. He wasn’t there. He’d been released.”

  Drexell nodded. “They kept him overnight but his lungs seemed all right. Having his head out the door saved his life.”

  “I need to interview him.”

  “Before either of you leave, I want the name of that Traveler, Mr. Vlado.”

  “Dane Morgan. He’s with his grandfather, an old man named Granza Djuric. They may have already left Starkworth.”

  “We’ll find him.”

  Drexell started to turn away but Katie reminded him, “What about Isaacson? Where is he now?”

  “At the command post we’ve set up on the top floor of the hotel. I believe Colonel Jugger is questioning him on behalf of the European Union.”

  She shouted out to her cameraman. “Keep filming. I’ll meet you back at the hotel.” An ambulance crew had arrived to remove the body when the police finished. At the shore end of the pier uniformed police were keeping back the crowd.

  They reached the hotel a little before noon. Without Drexell along, Michael doubted they’d be allowed to interview the massacre’s sole survivor, but Colonel Jugger arranged that.
“He knows nothing, really, but you’re welcome to do an interview if he’s willing.”

  Carl Isaacson was seated in a chair in one of the top floor meeting rooms. His breathing was still a little raspy but he showed a vast improvement over the previous day. “You’re the one who was with Colonel Jugger yesterday,” he said rising to shake Michael’s hand. “I don’t know how I survived that terrible thing.”

  Katie Blackthorn immediately took over the interview. “What was it like in there when the gas started seeping through the ducts? Did you know what was happening?”

  “Not at first. I heard some of the Gypsies starting to cough and choke. Then I saw Mrs. Withers, one of the volunteers, collapse on the floor. That’s when I realized something was wrong. I ran to call for help and collapsed in the doorway.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

  “It had to be a terrorist,” Isaacson told them. “Or a madman. It doesn’t make much difference, does it?”

  Someone turned on a television set and they saw the turmoil on the road north of town. The motorcade carrying the Prince of Wales was approaching with television crews jockeying for the best positions.

  “He’ll come to the nursing home,” Katie decided. “That’s where it happened.” She called Dominick again on her cell phone and told him to get there with his camera. Jugger hurried outside to join the welcoming committee.

  When Dominick arrived he handed her the tapes he’d shot in the town square and at the pier, then hurried out to join the others. “Do you have to get these tapes back to London?” Michael asked. “The world of television crews was a long way from his farm in Romania.

  “No, no. We transmit them by satellite from our news van directly to the studio. Whatever they’re shooting now will be on the evening news and I’ll do a live commentary to accompany it.”

  Before he could say anything else, a line of black Rolls Royce limousines came into view. Bodyguards jumped out first, crowding around the central vehicle in the motorcade. Michael caught a glimpse of Colonel Jugger shaking the prince’s hand as the cameras rolled.