Some Danger Involved : A Novel

by Will Thomas

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid I had a problem with Rushford. I think I can reasonably state that it won’t happen again, unless we suddenly move the investigation to Oxford.”

  “What do you think of him as a suspect?” Barker asked, nodding in the direction of the house.

  “Oh, I think he’s an excellent candidate. He despises being out of the limelight, and these new theories of his are controversial enough to get him back in the newspapers and journals. He is still mad; he’s just traded obsessions.”

  “Perhaps you are a trifle prejudiced, but I agree. We cannot rule him out as a suspect.”

  “He is mad,” I insisted. “All these eugenicists are mad.”

  “No, Thomas, people are like teapots. They need to let out a little steam from time to time. The citizens of London are genuinely worried about the influx of so many aliens; they feel powerless to stop it, so of course, they complain. Complaining is the only civilized form of regress. Crucifixion, on the other hand, is a barbaric form of torture that should have been left in the first century. It is the work not of civilized people but of madmen.”

  16

  FANCY A SPOT OF LUNCH, LAD?” BARKER asked after we returned to the cab. It was nearing noon.

  “Ho’s?” I asked, glumly. I was beginning to dread the place. Good as it was, I didn’t think I could live on a thrice weekly diet of shark’s fin soup or the like.

  “No, something different,” my employer answered, to my relief. He rapped on the trap with his cane. “The Neopolitan, in Marsham Street! Ever eaten Italian food?”

  “No. Is it spicy?”

  “Well, it’s not Etienne’s Scottish feast, if that’s what you prefer.”

  We crossed London again. For a Scot, Barker had certainly hugged the town to his bosom. He had a cosmopolitan’s knowledge of the whole of the town and thought nothing of crossing it to get to a particular restaurant or public house. We finally found the establishment in Westminster, a respectable-looking building with a façade in dark mahogany and marble. The restaurant’s name was in gold letters, flanked by two Italian flags, which, on closer inspection, I could see were actually enameled tin.

  Inside, we found checkered floors, white tablecloths, and dripping candles in old Chianti bottles. The walls were cleverly painted to look like an old piazza in Naples, with red brick showing through crumbling plasterwork. A crack team of Italian waiters stood at the ready in crisp, starched white aprons and waxed mustaches. One of them detached himself from the others and solicitously led us to a table.

  Barker ordered for us both: seafood for himself, and some sort of “sampler” fare for me. I had no idea what to expect and I was pleasantly surprised: vermicelli pasta noodles in a flavorful tomato sauce with some sort of white cheese. It was indeed spicy and garlic-laden, but not excessively so. As for Barker, his meal looked like it had been prepared in the galley of Captain Nemo’s Nautilus. Yawning clamshells, mussels, and octopus tentacles predominated.

  “What is this?” I asked, pointing to a breaded item on my plate that looked like fish but was clearly not.

  “Aubergine,” Barker murmured. “If you will take your face out of the trough for a moment, lad, let’s play a little game. I contend that there are three men in this room who are armed, besides myself, of course. Let’s see if you can come up with the same three, without appearing to look around.”

  Honestly, it’s a wonder I didn’t have a case of permanent dyspepsia. Was every place we went into full of conspirators and thugs? I was beginning to think the world had gone mad. Luckily for me, there were small, mirrored panels around the top of the room, in imitation of the Café Royale. I cleared my throat and brought the napkin up to my mouth.

  “The fellow by the staircase,” I muttered. He had a foot up on the second rail, and was resting his forearms against the banister, with an air of careless watchfulness.

  “Obvious.”

  “The fellow in the far back by the door, with his chair up on two legs.”

  “Another guard. And the third?”

  I took another bite of aubergine, though it had lost what subtle taste it had, and glanced about again.

  “I can’t find the third.”

  “Middle of the room, having a simple bowl of soup and a glass of Chianti. Brilliantined hair, pencil mustache, nicely dressed—”

  “Got him. Do you know him?”

  “Of course. That’s Vittorio, or rather Victor Gigliotti, our host. He’s paying for our meal. After we eat, we will pay our respects.”

  We finished and went to his table. He was a sharp-faced but handsome fellow, immaculately dressed in a dove gray lounge suit. His right hand was a mass of diamond rings and his left hand was bare. Barker and I waited as he addressed the bowl in front of him, and when he was done, he looked up.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, displaying a mouth of vulpine teeth. “How marvelous that you could come. Did you enjoy your meal?”

  “The best in London, as always,” Barker bowed.

  “That is good, but your friend has a sour face. Perhaps we could get him a bromide.”

  “That won’t be necessary. It is his first time to try Italian cuisine.”

  “Delicious,” I put in. “Very rich.”

  “And he has not developed that fine sense of mingling pleasure with business. That is for more…experienced palates like our own.”

  “Indeed. But where are my manners? Have a seat, gentlemen. Antony! Bring for the young fellow a small gelato. Sometimes chilling the stomach can aid in digestion. Now, Mr. Barker, I am so glad you accepted my invitation. May I ask at this moment whether you are living up to your name?”

  “I always live up to my name. Would you expect otherwise?”

  “Naturally not. Would you be so kind as to place your weapon here on the extra chair, out of sight under this napkin?”

  “I will not. Do you think me so naive as to hand you my pistol when there are four guns in this room able to be pointed at my head within three seconds?”

  “Four?” I said, involuntarily. “I thought you said three.”

  “There is a scattergun under the front desk. Mr. Gigliotti, I promise you that I will not wave my pistol about and frighten the patrons of your excellent establishment unless I am standing in an absolute hail of bullets.”

  “Fair enough, Mr. Barker. May we get past the preliminaries? I understand from your letter, and I must say that Machiavelli himself could not have written a more subtle missive, that this little fellow here met with a mishap in a hansom cab yesterday, and that a witness tied the crime to one of my associates. A particular associate, in fact. You questioned whether the Italian community has some sort of grudge against the Jews and I will answer truthfully. We do. They come in and offer at a lower cost many of the services we provide. They are taking our work, our livelihood, and our housing. They are like locusts: unstoppable! But let me anticipate your next question. Do we, does the Italian community and any group that claims to protect it have any designs to harm the Jews? No, I don’t believe so. Sooner or later we shall have to make an example, as one swats a puppy with a rolled-up newspaper, to teach them what is what, but the Jews are quick. They’ll catch on.”

  “So,” Barker said, “the Camorra has no interests in Aldgate.”

  Gigliotti’s eyes grew big and the knuckles of his hand that held the wineglass were suddenly white.

  “I don’t know where you got that term, Mr. Barker, but I suggest you never use it in my presence again. I don’t care how big a fish you are, there are bigger ones than you.”

  Barker smiled. “I like to swim with the big fish.”

  “A swim with the fishes in the Thames can be arranged within the hour!”

  The men standing guard suddenly grew tense, and I feared there would be gunplay, but Barker gave a sudden shrug.

  “Not necessary, sir. I think we understand one another. Forgive my…poor choice of words. I am so often among the rough element of my trade that I sometimes lose my tact.”


  “Apology accepted.” The tension, or most of it, eased out of the room. “So, to the best of—”

  There was a loud bang at the back of the room, which made everyone jump, and the fellow by the staircase reached inside his jacket. In the back, the other guard’s chair had fallen, and a man was helping him up. Or so it appeared. But when the man was upright, it was obvious he wasn’t conscious, and the individual who set him up again had just come in through the back door.

  “Giorgio!” Gigliotti called and waved him toward us. He flashed those wolfish teeth at us again. “That fellow we were talking about, the one you believe shot at your little friend here—I thought you might like to question him yourself.”

  Now it was I who stood, ready to fly out of the door or defend myself at a second’s notice. This was the man Racket had seen in the street who had attempted to murder me in cold blood. He was a big, stocky fellow, in a loud checked suit the color of Coleman’s Mustard. His face was ruddy, and he had short, curly black hair and a beard. There was an air of menace and violence about him as he came toward us. He came right up to Barker, ignoring the rest of the room, and put a hand on his lapel. Barker looked up and regarded him.

  “I hear you been looking for me,” he said, in a high, reedy voice and, of all things, a Cockney accent.

  “Good to see you again, Serafini,” Barker said calmly.

  “It ain’t good seein’ your ugly mug, Barker. It ha’n’t been near long enough. Word on the street says you’re trying to frame me for something.” As he spoke, I saw his thumb wander across my employer’s throat and dig into the bundle of arteries and muscle in his neck. I watched the jugular vein stand out prominent and blue.

  Barker appeared not to notice for a moment, and then casually, as if swatting at a fly, his hand came up and plucked the hand away. He twisted the hand around, facing its owner, then bore down on the wrist. Serafini frowned at the pain and attempted to turn his hand around again, but Barker had control of it. Serafini stepped back, but the Guv moved in the same direction, anticipating his every move. The Italian had no choice but to fall backward onto the hard tile. Barker stepped by him, still twisting the arm as he went, and rested his boot against the man’s chest. Any move on Serafini’s part would result in a separation at the shoulder joint.

  “Give it up, Giorgio,” Gigliotti purred. “You’re hopelessly outclassed. You know Mr. Barker’s reputation. Our friend here is the most scientific and the dirtiest fighter in England.”

  Barker didn’t talk but hefted Serafini into a chair so violently that it skittered across the tile a foot. The man glared at my employer, and his face was now as red as a side of beef.

  “I haven’t said you did anything,” Barker said. “I’m asking you. Were you paid to shoot at my assistant?”

  “I was not,” he said, sullenly.

  “And did you shoot at him?”

  “No, I didn’t. I’ve never even seen this pipsqueak before. If I’m sent to kill someone, I kills ’em. I’m h’on the job every hour, day and night, until it’s finished. I heard all about the little muck-up. If I’d missed the first shot, d’you think I’d run? No! I’d drop the cabman and come in and finish the job at my leisure. It don’t matter if I’m seen. What can’t be bought off can be warned off.”

  “There you have it, gentlemen,” Gigliotti said, “the answer to your question. You are dealers in logic, and the fact that this little fellow still lives is proof that the great Serafini did not try to kill him.”

  “Serafini don’t try anyfing!” the assassin bellowed.

  Barker stood. “Very well, gentlemen, you have convinced me. Mr. Serafini, please forgive any pain I may have caused you, emotionally and physically. I suggest ice for your…er…gun hand. As for you, Mr. Gigliotti, you are, as always, the consummate host. Excellent food, and ah! The fine entertainment. May we use your back door?”

  Gigliotti waved a hand toward the rear and bawled over his shoulder, “Antony, forget the gelato. Bring Giorgio an espresso and some ice.”

  We left the restaurant, and I was never so glad to leave a place in my life. On the way out I noticed that the man at the back door was still unconscious. At least, I hoped he was just unconscious.

  The alleyway was a simple and ancient lane with a sewer trough in the middle and two rows of anonymous doors. I sensed danger as soon as we stepped outside, and there was a movement in the shadows. I ducked, and just beside me came the sharp sound of metal against the rough brick of the wall. A long, thin dagger clattered at my feet.

  “Round the corner, lad, now!” my employer barked. I didn’t need a second invitation. There was a small figure approaching in the darkness of the alley. Barker made an abrupt movement, a sudden reaching motion toward it, and a shriek echoed through an alleyway, followed by a volley of curses in a high voice. I reached the street and turned into a shop front, awaiting developments. Barker appeared a moment later, as casually as you please, and began stuffing his pipe, scanning both sides of the street.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Serafini’s wife,” came the unlikely response. “Serafini’s a pussycat compared to the missus. You don’t get one without the other, you know. The woman’s practically feral.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Oh, I gave her a lesson in kind. One shouldn’t throw knives in public.”

  “You threw a knife at her?” I asked, incredulously.

  “Of course not,” he answered, with an air of innocence. “I merely gave her a token of my esteem.”

  “What is the Camorra?” I asked, remembering the name and its effect upon Gigliotti.

  “It, or rather they are one of the crime families of Naples. Like their rivals, the ’Ndrangheta of Calabria and the Mafia of Sicily, they rode into power on the coattails of Garibaldi. They’ve divided the country into personal city-states, concentrating power like the Medicis.”

  I shook my head in wonder. “How did you come by the knowledge, if I may ask?”

  “It is my duty to know it,” he said, once his pipe was lit. “These societies have very long arms, reaching all the way to London, and anywhere else its immigrants go.”

  “So there’s a headquarters of an Italian criminal organization in Westminster, but a stone’s throw from Buckingham Palace? I can hardly believe it.”

  “Yes,” Barker said, with one of his rumbling laughs. “London’s a right raucous old lass when you get to know her, isn’t she?”

  17

  WE WALKED FOR SEVERAL BLOCKS, WHILE my heart rate slowly returned to normal. Barker appeared to be moving to some purpose, for at one street, he pointed and began moving in another direction. We had reached Belgravia and were heading east, I think. Ornate shopwindows offered chocolates, jewelry, and all of the other baubles of a spoiled society. All was splendor and respectability here. It was hard to imagine that ten minutes ago a madwoman had thrown a dagger at me.

  “Did she really mean to kill us?”

  “That was no rubber knife she threw, Thomas.”

  “But if they’re telling the truth, and it was some other chap dressed as Serafini, why did she throw the knife at me?”

  “She’s a vindictive little vixen and dangerous as a king cobra. I just humiliated her husband in there, and she dotes on the fellow.”

  We walked on for a minute or two, by the pretty shops full of books and millinery. I must admit I’d had some most interesting conversations since I began this case. “What was it you threw at her?” I asked my employer.

  He reached into his coat pocket and placed a penny in my hand. I was perplexed, until I noticed that the edges had been ground down to bladelike sharpness all around. I flipped the heavy coin into the air a time or two, and let it rest in the flat of my palm. “One of my calling cards,” he stated.

  “Can you hit a target with this?”

  “As easily as a bullet. There were rough gangs in Foochow, where I grew up, and any coin or piece of metal that came to hand could become a wea
pon. We used to make rude targets out of boards and rice sacking and practice for hours.”

  “It sounds to me as if you had a very interesting childhood.”

  “Interesting enough, as childhoods go,” he said, but I could get nothing further out of him on the subject.

  “So where are we going now?”

  “Jermyn Street, to look up an old acquaintance.”

  “Another of your ‘watchers’?”

  “No, lad, a suspect. Or, at least, I hope he is.”

  “You…hope?”

  “I desperately hope. It is Nightwine.”

  “The explorer? I thought he was dead.”

  Barker shook his head. “Not Elias Nightwine, but his son, Sebastian. Perhaps you recall that the father, aside from his travels in Asia, wrote several books espousing what he called ‘social atheism.’ Something like, If there is no God, then to whom are we accountable, and how is society to be restructured in the new century? Anyway, he voiced these ideas up until his unfortunate demise in a hunting accident in Africa two years ago, leaving his son with a valuable estate just in time to pay off Sebastian’s list of creditors and some gambling debts.”

  “Are you suggesting he may have killed his own father?”

  “I’m suggesting that he has no respect for human life whatever. Any form of conscience was trained out of him by his father. He’s one of the most dangerous men I’ve ever come across.”

  “Incredible,” I said. “How does this fit in with the Jews?”

  “As an avowed atheist, he has a strong aversion to the Bible and its people. More importantly, I’ve received information that he’s consolidating power among the underworld in London, using extortion and other methods. He lives high and goes through money like water. Sooner or later, he’ll try to frighten the Jews, who have a strong, conservative money base in the City. A public crucifixion is just the sort of grand display he’d attempt in order to spread fear among them. This is all speculation, of course, and were I to say it in public, I’d be swarming with solicitors in a trice, for he is litigious to a fault. Nevertheless, it rings true, as you shall see in a few minutes.”