by Evelyn Weiss
York to London. Clearly, they have to be loaded on a ship, without anyone knowing. Which is why I did my bit of play-acting to Jimmy Nolan.”
“So the reason for our visit to Nolan was for you to pretend to be Black Velvet, and tell him that the shipment should be sent.”
“Exactly. A few days from now Nolan will send a message to a Mr Jack Corr at the New Amsterdam Hotel, with full details of the loading of the shipment. Nolan thinks Jack Corr is me, Black Velvet, but in fact Jack Corr at the New Amsterdam Hotel will be Inspector Trench. He will pass information to the New York Police Department, who will carry out an operation to stop that shipment going through. There are likely to be multiple arrests, and possibly some kind of armed struggle, at the docks. The Gophers will not go down without a fight.”
“Won’t it be very dangerous? A fight – over a cargo of explosives. Wouldn’t it be safer all round to stop the Gophers before they get to the docks?”
“It’s only when loading them onto a ship that all the explosives will be brought together. The New York police need to get hold of every single stick of dynamite – and arrest as many Gophers as possible.”
“If there is a fight – if people get killed – won’t the secrecy of the operation be exposed?”
“No. The Police Department will simply tell the newspapers: this was action against a criminal gang. There will be no mention of Ireland, independence, politics, Percy Spence’s death, the Titanic.”
“Or the explosives, I guess.”
“Newspaper stories about cases of explosives being smuggled through the streets and docklands of New York would not be good news, no. We want to avoid panic, and avoid drawing attention to our actions. But if we’re successful, the operation will lead to the arrest of all the key Irish rebel supporters here in the States. From them, we will gain information about their operatives in Ireland and England. In a few days’ time, we will break the power of the Black Velvet organization.”
For some reason, I recall Chisholm’s home in London: his long hours of work, his sudden trips away from home. The succession of men who have called at Grafton Square, to see him in private. Every time, I was told that they were ‘ex-Army acquaintances’. I realize – yes: what’s happening right now is true, it’s real.
I’m talking to a secret agent.
15.The man from the maze
“Agnes?”
“Sorry, yes? I was thinking.”
It’s just moments later, but I’m understanding now what’s happening. Every day, I become more aware that this is not just a private investigation of a murder, or even a search for Kitty. I’m in a web. In fact, I’m part of the web. Lord Buttermere is aware of my existence, to the extent that he felt the need to threaten me. Worst of all, if the Gophers realize that Chisholm isn’t who he told them he was, then they know not just his face, but mine too.
“I want to give you this.” Chisholm passes a small paper card to me. I look at it. It’s a first-class railroad ticket for the New York, Westchester and Putnam line.
“Get out now, Agnes. Leave this city, leave everything. Forget all that I’ve said, every bit of your involvement. Go back to your hometown and live like none of this had ever happened. This is your chance, Agnes. I’ll give you time to think about it, because I have to leave you for a while. I have to send a telegram to our offices in Whitehall. And although I can’t risk meeting Inspector Trench, I am going to telephone him from the hotel office. And I’ll speak to the City of New York Police Department too.”
“Thank you, Chisholm. Yes, an hour for me to think everything over would be good. I’m just – taking all this in. I’ll sit here for a while.”
“You’ve got deeper into this than you should have, Agnes. Get out now, that’s my advice.”
I sit quietly, alone. I ponder everything that I’ve heard from Chisholm. And most of all, I look at the railroad ticket. I think: I could be at home this evening.
It’s funny: I realize that I’m enjoying my first taste of Coca-Cola for a year. I run my fingers over the textured lettering on the bottle, and I enjoy that too. Because right here, right now, my main feeling is: I’m glad to be alive. I could so easily have died, this time last year. Being here, now, seems like an unexpected gift.
I look up. A man is standing at the bar. I can’t see his face.
He’s talking to the bartender, an English accent but with a strange edge to it, something I can’t quite place. I can’t help listening, as he speaks to the bartender. I can’t hear the words he’s saying, but I realize what’s odd: the accent is perfectly normal, but I catch the phrasing, the pauses, they’re not quite right.
The man and the bartender are just chatting, but something here in this bar has changed. I feel a coldness in the pit of my stomach.
The man glances round the room. He’s young, maybe only a few years older than me: tall, blonde hair, fit physique. The movement of his head is casual, but I can tell that it’s just an act. He’s looking carefully around the bar, taking note of everything. I pretend to be looking down, but I glance under my brows at his figure, the way he stands. In this situation, I think, Professor Axelson would doubtless spot an identifying detail, a clue. But I don’t need to. I simply know it.
It’s the man from the maze at Sweynsey Hall.
I glance timidly at his face, and I see a glint of white teeth. He’s showing me a charming smile, and he catches my eyes. Again, he’s pretending to act naturally, casually. The man moves easily away from the bar and steps towards me. Almost a saunter. He stands over me as I sit in the leather easy chair, and I hear his voice again.
“I see you’ve no companion, Miss. This city can be a lonely place, even in a hotel as welcoming as the Metropole. Would you do me the honor of allowing me to buy you a drink?”
Every nerve in my body wants to run.
“That would be lovely. Thank you. Another Coca-Cola.”
The man returns to the bar, and a few moments later, he’s back. He takes a seat: he and I are facing each other across the low table. The waiter brings me another glass of cola, but I don’t touch it. As if to shield myself, I hold the Vogue issue in front of me, look at him over the top of it. Again I see the smiling curve of teeth: the casual movement, the pretended friendliness. Then the man leans forward, and speaks soft and low.
“Miss, you’re mixed up in something you don’t understand. You see, I know that one year ago, you were a survivor. After the sinking of the Titanic, you were one of those who were rescued. So you know.”
My throat feels tight, but I manage to respond. “Know what?”
“You know what it feels like to realize that Agnes Frocester might be dead. Oh yes, the possibility of death is something you understand all too well. In fact, I think that is exactly what you’ve been thinking about, while you’ve been sitting here alone.”
Again I hear the odd edge in his English accent. The gleaming smile goes on, and I see a shake of his head as if he’s made a joke. The bartender carries on cleaning glasses, and although the bar is still empty, I hear movement and happy voices through the door from the hotel lobby. But I’m utterly alone, here with this man.
“You see, Miss Frocester, I don’t want to kill a woman. Although I work with others who have no such scruples. But I’ll do you if needed.”
I’m taking it in, understanding his unfamiliar, horrible phrase. “I’ll do you.” But he’s speaking again now.
“You see, I know you won’t be able to stop Chisholm and that quack professor trying to investigate this business. Because – I know what Chisholm really is. A British agent.”
“So - what do you want from me? Have you come here to warn me off?”
“We’re far beyond warnings, Miss Frocester. This isn’t a message: it’s an interrogation. What you’re going to do, right now, is tell me everything that you and Chisholm Strathfarrar have found out about Percy Spence’s death and Black Velvet. Every single thing. Otherwise, you will live for only a few hours, maybe a few days at most. T
his is your only opportunity to tell me: there will be no second chances. If you don’t tell me everything you know, then – when you least expect it, both you and Chisholm will be killed.”
I’m silent: thinking. I have no doubts: what this man says, it will happen. But I’m not going to give in. I realize that what happens next depends on what I say. So the initiative, right now, is with me.
So, I ask a question.
“Where’s Kitty?”
I’m reading a face. And I see several things in that face. His eyes blink once, unwillingly. He holds the smile – but with effort. Yes, he knows who I’m talking about. I know it, for sure: I’m speaking to the man who took Kitty from her room in Grafton Square. But – he works for others. This is the errand-boy, not the storekeeper.
And the other thing I see in his face is a sense I can hardly put into words. Like someone who’s holding a good hand of cards. He’s holding something to bargain with. If Kitty was dead – if this man had killed her, or seen her killed – then his face would have a different expression.
I know it. Kitty is still alive.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced?” Another voice is speaking: a woman’s voice, gentle but strong.
“It’s nice to see you’ve already made a friend in this city, Agnes.” A hand extends towards the seated man. “I’m Mrs Gwyneth Gilmour. And you are?...”
“Carver. Ah – Mr Daniel Carver. At