“I’m afraid you’ll have to go a long way to achieve that.”
“That’s what’s got me worried,” he said. “I’m thinking I’ll have the lads in the Butcher Boys mount guard on her day and night till I can figure out how to get us out of the country.”
“Where were you thinking of going?” she asked. Liam thought he heard a touch of disappointment in her voice.
“Maybe France. The Commune’s Sûreté is as bad as the DPS in some ways, but if you’re a foreigner and you aren’t political they don’t really care. Or maybe we can catch the Trans-Little Russian railway to the Free City of Los Angeles, every fugitive in the Western Hemisphere is holed up there and the Volunteer Police make things plenty hot for spies and stooges, never mind who they belong to.”
They had finally reached the third floor and Liam gestured down the hall towards their right:
“That’s where Mike and I grew up,” he said.
As he spoke the door nearest them flew open and an old man wearing trousers with suspenders over a ragged suit of Long Johns burst into the hall looking frantic.
“Ah, Liam, ‘tis you at last,” he cried in a heavy brogue. “I’m that glad see you, only I’m afraid you’re too late!”
Liam froze for a moment, his face falling: “What the Devil do you mean, man? Surely she’s not dead!”
“Not that,” the old man said miserably, “not that at all, Liam dear, but she’s been taken. Two ugly bruisers from the DPS came for her this morning, and took her away in the clothes she was standing in!”
Liam was stunned, his expression so sick that Becky reached out and took hold of his arm.
“I’ll kill Pilkington,” he said at last, his voice choked. “I’ll tear the heart out of his body and feed it to the rats.”
He turned and started back down the stairs, moving so fast that Becky had to run to keep up.
Outside on the street Liam stood stock-still for a moment, looking around with such a crazy expression that Becky grabbed him by the arms and shook him.
“Liam McCool!” she said sharply. “Don’t you move a muscle till I can see you’ve come to your senses!”
After a moment Liam snapped out of it and let go of a long, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Miss Fox,” he said. “I think I must have been dreading that for months without admitting it. The only way I had of staying in touch from that Godforsaken Henderson’s Patch was by mail, and right up till we returned to the city Mike was checking on her and telling me she was fine. But I’ve never really trusted Pilkington to keep his word.” He took a deep breath and let it out very slowly, then did it again and grinned. “There. My pal Harry says when in doubt, take a deep breath. I promise you I won’t do anything rash, but Mr. Pilkington and I must have a reckoning. Right now.”
Becky assessed him thoughtfully and finally nodded. “Very well,” she said, “only you must promise to me meet for dinner at Delmonico’s to tell me how the meeting went and if you’re to do that you’ll have to stay out of jail. My father’s troubles are enough for me right now, I don’t need to be worrying about my friends.”
She took his arm and propelled him down the street towards Park and the nearest cab stand, as Liam reflected that it felt surprisingly nice for Becky Fox to describe him as a friend. Becky was thinking about what she’d just said herself and smiling a little as she followed it in various directions, so that neither of them was quite alert enough to be forewarned when a couple of heavy-set thugs in full Bowery Boys regalia suddenly stepped out of the alley just ahead of them and barred their way.
The two were dressed identically, each wearing a black silk hat square on top of his head, red cravats with their shirt collars turned over them, fancy silk vests with embroidered flowers, black frock coats and pants and heavy boots. Their faces were red and shiny with booze, and each had a half-smoked cigar stuck into the corner of a sneering grin.
“Well, well,” said Liam evenly. “If it isn’t Tweedledum and Tweedledee.”
“You’d best shut your face, McCool,” the First Thug snarled, “before I put me boot in it.”
“They told us he’d likely be rude,” said the Second Thug in a chiding tone. “But they didn’t say we couldn’t teach him some manners before we brought him in.” He looked at Becky and frowned. “What about her, then? They didn’t mention her.”
The First Thug grinned lazily as he pulled a heavy revolver out of his pocket. “I’m thinking we should take her back in the alley and get acquainted. Once we’ve hogtied Mr. McCool, that is.”
“Cracking fine idea, Kev,” grinned the Second Thug, as he reached out and grabbed Becky by the arm, pulling her towards him.
In the same instant, and before Becky’s indignant gasp had left her throat, Liam had whipped the katana free of its sheath, then whirled around as he swung the blade down through the First Thug’s wrist and on around through one of the Second Thug’s ankles.
To Becky it seemed as if life had frozen solid for a split second, like one of Mr. Brady’s photographs. Then, in the next split second, the First Thug’s gun fell to the ground with his hand still clutching it and he began screaming shrilly as a fountain of blood gushed from his wrist and he stood and stared at it, paralyzed. Now the Second Thug’s jaw dropped with shock as he let go of Becky, tottered for a moment and toppled over, screaming still louder, his severed foot remaining planted on the ground in half of its boot as the ankle parted from it, gushing a second fountain of blood.
Faster than Becky could follow, Liam had wiped his blade on the First Thug’s jacket, slipped it back inside the stick and taken her arm.
“Time to go!” he said urgently and pulled her along with him as he strode rapidly towards Park, leaving the two thugs howling on the pavement behind them.
Three minutes later, they were seated inside a cab, steaming briskly uptown as Liam examined Becky anxiously. She had a few spots of blood on her skirt, but otherwise she seemed unharmed.
“I’m sorry about the blood,” he said.
“That’s quite all right,” she said in a somewhat shaky voice. “But I do hope life around you isn’t always this exciting.”
A little shaky himself now that he thought about it, Liam gave her what he hoped was a reassuring grin. Then he took her hand firmly in his and leaned back against the seat.
Chapter Fourteen
And I say by God, it isn’t fair!”
“Mr. McPherson!” Pilkington frowned disapprovingly and wagged his finger. “I won’t have you or anyone else around me taking the Lord’s name in vain!”
The Great Detective and his boss were sitting in Pilkington’s Union Square office with the windows raised to let in the fine spring weather; a fitful breeze had set the curtains to undulating gently and pigeons could be heard cooing in the eaves.
Across the Square, the building which had once been the headquarters of Tiffany’s was now (Tiffany’s having bowed to force majeure) the New York headquarters of the Department of Public Safety, on the roof of which a giant billboard had been erected displaying the motto “Per Aspera ad Securitas” in golden letters twenty feet tall. Towering above the motto, and picked out day and night with colossal carbon-arc searchlights, was a stark, black-and-white representation of the All-Seeing Eye—a staring eye surrounded by rays of light and enclosed by a triangle.
McPherson, whose broad pink face shone with perspiration from a combination of his dark, heavy suit, three large whiskeys and a good solid head of injured feelings, tried to look contrite without much success.
“But you as much as promised me, sir! You said as soon as Bill Henkel was gone I was the obvious choice to take over the Chicago office, and Bill turned up his toes two weeks ago!”
Pilkington laced his fingers across his ample stomach and beamed reassuringly at McPherson, his twinkling eyes, his rosy cheeks and his fluffy white hair and whiskers combining to make him the perfect archetype of Dear Old Granddad.
“There, now, my boy,” he murmured comfortingly, “you k
now perfectly well I’ll see you right in the end. But just at the moment everybody in the firm is going to have to make some short-term sacrifices and accept a few temporary inconveniences in order for us to meet the challenges ahead of us.”
McPherson ground his teeth. “Yes, sir,” he said. “It would help a lot if I had any idea what you’re talking about. The last I heard from you, you were telling me how vital it was for me to keep a steady hand on the helm down there in Pottsville. Then all of a sudden I get urgent orders to report to Union Square. I was sure it was going to be about Chicago, but instead you’re telling me about sacrifices and challenges and I’m damned …” he bared his teeth and scrunched up his face as he fought to control his tongue, then grated out: “… switched if know what’s going on.”
Pilkington looked at him thoughtfully for a few moments, then nodded: “Very well, Agent McPherson, I think it’s time for me to take you into my confidence.”
He gestured out the window towards the DPS building. “Why do you think Tiffany’s has moved and the DPS has suddenly filled every office in that building with researchers and Secret Service operatives? It’s the threat of war, McPherson. War with Little Russia, and according to Secretary Stanton it’s a threat we may not be able to avert. From now on you and I and every other man and woman in the Agency will be devoting ourselves day and night to warding off this nightmare, but if we fail we’ll be at war before the summer’s over.”
McPherson turned pale and sat back in his chair. “War? Why? … How …”
Pilkington held up a hand to stop him. “There will be changes you can’t possibly imagine and about which you don’t yet need to know. But New York is going to be a hive of activity, the fons et origo of a new and vastly more powerful United States, and as always when it comes to security, Secretary Stanton’s will be the directing hand.” He paused ruminatively, his face clouding a bit as he stared up at the ceiling. After a moment he shook the mood off and continued briskly:
“I must admit that just like you I spent some time dreaming of a great preferment while Secretary Stanton searched for a man to run his Secret Service; after all, hadn’t I worked hand in glove with him throughout the War? But as he told me himself when his final choice fell upon Willie: youth must be served and age must stand by to lend support with its greater wisdom.” He bent forward in his chair, fixing his guileless blue eyes on McPherson:
“And needless to say, Secretary Stanton will be relying on the Pilkington International Detective Agency for confidential services no one else can be entrusted with, so if you fulfill your assignments to the utmost of your ability, there will be no limit to your future. Do you take my meaning, Agent McPherson?”
For a moment McPherson looked a little dazed, his mind racing through the possibilities the Old Man had opened up. Then he smiled slowly and nodded his agreement:
“You can count on me, Mr. P., you know that. Just tell me what you want me to do.”
“Good. And please note that this assignment is strictly confidential, no one else is to know.” His eyes bored into the Great Detective’s until he seemed satisfied that his message had gotten through. Then he continued, with heavy emphasis on every word: “Your primary task until I tell you otherwise will be stick to Lukas like glue and make sure I am informed at all times of his movements and, if possible, his plans. Secretary Tesla has come up with a clever adaptation of his voicewire machine that will let us listen day and night to what transpires inside Lukas’ house. The device is much smaller than a voice-wire box, but it will require clever work on your part to conceal it and put it in action. It’s up to you to figure out how to get Lukas and his servants out of the way for the hour or so it will take you to accomplish that.”
“I don’t get it, Mr. P. I know Lukas is some kind of anarchist and the brains behind the dynamite plot in Pottsville, but for us to invest this much effort in keeping an eye on him?”
Pilkington got up abruptly and walked to the bank of windows, staring towards the DPS building. He peered towards it for a few moments as if he were hoping to see right through it, then he shook his head exasperatedly and turned back towards McPherson.
“Believe it or not, Lukas is working for Secretary Stanton.”
“What?”
Looking thoroughly disgruntled, Pilkington returned to his desk and dropped into his chair to a protesting creak of springs.
“It’s a policy I’ve never totally approved of, nor do I believe that I’ve been told all that I should know about it. But Secretary Stanton has told me enough to let me say with assurance that Lukas’ talents will make him inestimably valuable to the future of our republic. At the same time, however, I can’t help saying that he is one of the most false and duplicitous individuals I have ever met, a crook to the very marrow of his bones, and I mean to know as far as is humanly possible just what he’s up to at all times. Can you carry out this assignment for me in total secrecy?”
McPherson sat up straighter: “You can count on me, Mr. P. Through thick and thin.”
Pilkington relaxed enough to produce his grandfatherly smile: “I am delighted to hear it, my boy. Now, before I let you go, do you have any other questions?”
“Just one, sir. I’d like to ask why you’ve brought McCool back to HQ? If you want to talk about false and duplicitous, that sneaky little blatherskite is the …”
But Pilkington was shaking his head firmly. “Believe me, McPherson, I regard him with the utmost possible wariness. But Secretary Stanton has entrusted me with a task that can only be pulled off by an experienced undercover who’s completely at ease in the Russian language and I’ve got a handle on McCool that makes me willing to take a chance on him …”
He spread his arms in a gesture of resignation and McPherson nodded unhappily and stood up. “Just let me say, sir, that anytime you decide you want to see young Liam brought to heel I’m just the man for you. In fact, I would pay for the privilege!”
Pilkington smiled slowly, thinking that over. “I’ll remember, Agent McPherson. And now if you’ll …”
He was interrupted by the sound of a commotion in the outer office—the clatter of furniture punctuated by the shrill voice of Pilkington’s secretary:
“You can’t go in there until I check with Mr. Pilkington! Are you crazy? Do you want me to call a guard?”
Pilkington reached under his desk and pressed a button; instantly a section of bookcase behind his desk slid open to reveal a stairway. Pilkington gestured towards it:
“That will take you out in the direction of 16th Street. From now on I want you to report to me twice a day by voice-wire; if I’m not here leave a message with my secretary.”
McPherson looked doubtfully towards the outer office and the continuing commotion: “Are you sure you don’t want me to …”
“I can take care of myself, Agent McPherson.” He smiled slightly as he took a Frontier Colt out of a holster under his desk and laid it on the desktop. “Now get out there and get busy.”
“Yes, sir.”
McPherson hastened into the secret passage and Pilkington pressed the button to close it, but before it fully closed the door to the outer office burst open and Liam strode in, his face flushed with anger. Half-turning for a moment to register the movement of the bookcase, he turned back and strode forward again as the secretary stepped into the open doorway behind him, her hands fluttering as if she were trying desperately to take wing:
“I’m so sorry Mr. Pilkington, he simply wouldn’t be …”
“It’s all right, Annie, I’ll see Mr. McCool.”
She pursed her lips disapprovingly and backed out, shutting the door after her. The minute the lock clicked, Liam leapt forward and leaned across the desk so that his face was no more than six inches away from Pilkington’s as he bit out the words:
“You slimy, double-dealing old son of a bitch, where … is … my … grandmother?”
Pilkington pulled back in his chair but his voice was calm as he answered: “Now, now, Mr.
McCool, we have many things to talk about, and your attitude isn’t going to help us at all.”
Liam’s voice went up a notch: “We only have one thing to discuss, and that’s your promise to free my grandmother from surveillance the moment my job in Pottsville was done. She’d best be free and unharmed right now or I will make you the sorriest old man in these United States!”
In spite of himself, Pilkington’s eyes dropped towards the six-shooter on the desk in front of him, but with the speed of a striking snake Liam snatched it up and jammed it into his belt.
“Oh, no you don’t.” he grated. “I want your answer now.”
Pilkington’s answer was to reach under the desk and press another button, ringing a bell that could be heard clanging loudly somewhere behind the bookcases, which abruptly swung wide on the other side of Pilkington’s desk as two burly agents carrying drawn pistols rushed into the room towards Liam.
“Hold it right there …!” was all that one of them succeeded in saying before Liam spun around on one foot, kicking the pistol out of his hand as the movement carried his foot through an arc that ended with his heel slamming against the other agent’s chin hard enough to knock him cold.
As the second agent crumpled to the ground, the first—badly frightened—took up a bareknuckle boxing stance and sent a badly aimed punch at Liam, who knocked it aside with an exasperated frown.
“Don’t be stupid,” he muttered, reaching out and jamming a knuckle into the side of the man’s neck. The first agent’s eyes rolled up into his head so that only the whites showed and he folded to the ground with a thud.
Without missing a beat, Liam whipped the six-shooter out of his belt, leaned back across the astounded old man’s desk and jammed the muzzle into his forehead hard enough to thunk!audibly against his skull and rock him back in his chair.
“Now,” said Liam. “Talk! Let’s start with you sending your bullyboys after me down in Five Points.”
King of the Cracksmen Page 13