Some Danger Involved : A Novel

by Will Thomas

  I was running toward the house when our back door opened and Maccabee jumped out. He braced his back against the door and brought his shotgun to bear. I had just enough time to throw myself on the ground before both barrels went off, peppering the crowd with buckshot. There were oaths and cries aplenty after that.

  I sat up and turned around, in time to see Barker shoot out of the crowd, running toward us. His hands were in the pockets of his overcoat, and just before he reached me, he stopped and turned back. His hands came out and suddenly the air was filled with pennies, dozens of copper pence, glittering in the light from the kitchen window. They flew across the enclosure, and wherever they landed, they stuck, whether in wood or plant or human flesh. The advance stopped as men reached for an injured limb or a cut forehead. One poor blighter was spinning around, trying to remove the coin from between his shoulder blades. It was too much for the visiting team, who, one by one, began to break and run. Barker inflicted more punishment on the retreating figures, while I rushed to shut the gate after them. In a moment, the latch clicked after the last of them, and we heard the men running away down the lane. It was over as quickly as it had begun.

  “Are you hurt, lad?” Barker asked. We were both a little winded and still leaning against the gate.

  “No, sir,” I said, and it was true. I’d been thumped twice and would have bruises, but I felt rather good.

  “Gave as well as got?”

  “Broke one fellow’s arm, sir,” I said, as if it were something to take pride in. “And kicked another in the stomach.”

  “Mac?” he called. The butler had his shotgun broken open and was removing the shells. By his coolness one would think this was the standard Saturday night’s fare.

  “I am well, sir.”

  “Harm?” Barker called. “Harm?”

  It was the first time I’d seen my employer actually look frightened. He stepped away from the gate, still calling the little dog’s name. I’d felt it was silly at first, this big, rough fellow so fond of his little lapdog, but now I had to admit I was worried myself. I hadn’t seen the little creature since he’d received the boot in the ribs. I feared the worst might have happened.

  “In the bushes, there, sir,” I said, pointing to the left. We both converged on the spot, and Barker pushed back the leaves. Harm was lying there, not moving, but his head was up and he was panting.

  “Oh, Harm, what have they done to you?” Barker asked.

  “He may have a broken rib or two,” I hazarded. “That was quite some kick he received.”

  “Mac! Bring a large pillow!”

  The butler nodded and glided into the house.

  “Are you hurt, boy?” Barker asked, patting the little fellow on the head. The dog gave a feeble bark, almost like a cough. When Mac returned, we gently transferred him to the pillow. Despite our efforts to be careful, he gave a yip of pain. I knew nothing of dog anatomy, but I worried that a broken rib might have punctured a lung. I’m sure Barker was thinking much the same. We got him safely onto the pillow and Mac took him into the house.

  Barker turned his head and seized my shoulder.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “I heard something.”

  The thought that they might return in greater numbers hadn’t occurred to me. We would be overrun in that case. We listened closely to the gurgle of the stream and horses clopping in the streets. Then I heard it: a moan.

  “Someone’s still here!” I cried.

  “Over there, behind the bath house. Hop it, lad!”

  I ran over to the far side of the outbuilding, hands raised, ready to defend myself again if necessary. There was a man lying on the ground, moaning softly. My nose told me that he had been ill. Barker joined me, looking over my shoulder.

  “Mac!” he called. “Bring a lamp!”

  The butler came out into the garden again, an oil lamp in his hand, as placid-looking as if he were bringing the morning Times. If he didn’t hurry up with the lamp, I thought, I was going to run up and take it out of his hand. He finally arrived and held the lamp high. The man lying against the side of the building looked like a day laborer, in an old suit, a cloth cap, and worn boots. I say man, but he couldn’t have been much more than my own age, perhaps two and twenty. It wasn’t until he turned his head and blinked into the light that I recognized him.

  “It’s the one that kicked Harm, sir,” I stated. “The one I got in the stomach.”

  “By the looks of him, Thomas, I’d say you missed his stomach by a good margin.” He reached forward and pulled the fellow up by the lapels of his flimsy jacket. “So, you’re the fellow that kicks poor, defenseless little dogs. Who sent you?”

  “Sod off, mate,” the young man summoned the courage to say.

  I saw Barker reach back his fist, ready to strike the man down, there and then, but he suddenly changed his mind.

  “Mac, Thomas, take this fellow down to the cellar, and tie him up in a chair. We’ll let him cool his heels awhile. Then afterwards, Mac, I want you to prepare a light supper. Is the bath ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Splendid. Then there is no need to alter our routine. We shall question this fellow at our leisure. But now, I must make a telephone call. Several, in fact. Take him, gentlemen.”

  Maccabee and I did as Barker asked. I used the approved Tokyo come-along hold. The man we carried down the stairs outweighed us each by three stone, but he was not in much shape to protest. Mac brought a spindle chair and some rope from the lumber room, and between the two of us we trussed him up rather snugly. Then we left him, as Barker had ordered. For his sake, I hoped the police arrived soon. He looked the very picture of misery.

  Barker was still on the telephone by the front door when we came up into the hall. He was speaking rapidly in Chinese. Obviously, it wasn’t the Yard he was speaking with. Finally, he set the earpiece back in its cradle.

  “They shall be here within the hour,” he said.

  “Scotland Yard?”

  “No, the gardening crew. My garden is a disaster! It shall take months to get it back the way it was. And someone shall be coming to take Harm away. I want you to handle that. They shall arrive in a black carriage. Carry him out on the pillow.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “When will Scotland Yard come for the fellow in the basement?”

  “I haven’t called Scotland Yard just yet,” Barker replied. “I wanted to question him myself first.”

  There was something in Barker’s look that I didn’t like. If he had been stone-faced before, he now looked like solid granite.

  “But, sir, isn’t it unlawful to detain a man against his will?”

  “Mr. Llewelyn,” Barker said, “I’m not sure of your meaning. The fellow is our guest.”

  It was several hours before we got back to our “guest.” We ate a cold supper of French sausages, cheese, and hard-boiled eggs, then Barker had his bath, as if it were any other night. I sat in the front room, with Harm on his pillow, waiting for the carriage to arrive.

  Almost an hour after Barker’s phone call, as he’d predicted, a closed carriage arrived at the front door. No one got out to ring the bell. I opened the door and carried the pillow and Harm out to the vehicle. The driver got down from his box and opened the door; I got a glimpse of a female figure all in black, with a heavy veil. She took the dog, pillow and all, into her lap. The driver closed the door before I could speak, and they drove off without a word. I hoped Barker knew what he was doing, trusting Harm’s health to these mysterious persons.

  By the time I reached the back garden to tell Barker, the garden crew had arrived. They carried paper lanterns on long poles. There must have been twenty workers at least. They swarmed all over the garden, sweeping, clipping, digging and replanting, while Barker moved about in shirtsleeves, inspecting everything. I helped by picking up pence. They were in the path, on the lawn, and buried in the back wall. I only found about a dozen. Presumably, the rest went home with our attackers as souvenirs.


  I gave Barker his pence and told him that the carriage had taken Harm away. He nodded without speaking, rolling up his sleeves. I noticed that the marks on his arms made the Chinese nervous. Perhaps there was some emblem there that had meaning to them. My employer was not pleased with the way one fellow was raking the stones, and he took the rake himself, working until he was satisfied with his own efforts.

  Finally, close to midnight, the gardeners finished their work and loaded their tools into an ox-driven cart. By the time they left, the garden had returned to its general appearance, or so it seemed to a layman such as myself. Barker washed his hands at a delicate pump by the windmill and struggled back into his suit jacket, clean as ever.

  “Let us go speak to our guest,” my employer said. “He should be well primed by now.”

  Our “guest” was wide awake and wary as we came down into the cellar. He looked frightened, and well he might. Sitting alone for hours, not sure of his fate, must have terrified him. I noticed his wrists were chafed from struggling to get free. Barker took another chair, spun it around, and straddled it.

  “So,” he said conversationally, “what am I going to do with you?”

  “I ain’t peachin’ on my mates,” the poor man spoke up, bravely. “That’s a promise.”

  “Oh, you’ll sing like a nightingale before I’m done with you. I’m no Scotland Yard inspector, you know. I don’t have to play by any rules. I could keep you here indefinitely. Your mates, as you call them, are long gone. They’ve probably written you off as a loss. For all they know, this place is crawling with constables. I could keep you down here for days. Weeks even. No one’s coming to save you. This could very well be the night you disappear from the face of the earth.”

  The poor soul went to work, struggling against his bonds again and grunting for all he was worth. It was a helpless ordeal. Barker sat there and watched him. The man finally gave up and almost swooned from fatigue.

  “What is your name?” my employer asked.

  “Jim Brown.”

  Barker brought his foot up, kicking the bottom of the man’s seat. The fellow jumped and grimaced. After the kick I had recently given him, he must have been sore.

  “What is your real name?”

  “McElroy, sir,” he responded. “Albert McElroy.”

  “Very well, Albert. Now we’re going to play a little game. I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer them if you wish. Strictly voluntarily, of course. What do you say?”

  “Do your worst, peeler. You can’t scare me.”

  Barker’s foot came up again, and this time McElroy and the chair went with it. All four legs lifted off the floor, and the chair smashed into the padded wall, breaking apart like a matchstick. Our guest fell hard on the mat, and pieces of wood rained down all around him.

  “Mr. Barker!” I protested.

  “Mr. Llewelyn, our guest seems to have had an accident. Would you pull up another chair for him? I don’t think you shall have to tie him up again. He’ll be much more cooperative now, won’t you, Mr. McElroy?”

  The man groaned as I helped him into another chair. I was very concerned now. Mr. Barker was cutting it quite rough. Just how angry was he about Harm? I feared he might go too far. In fact, I believed he’d done so already.

  “Now,” Barker continued. “We were about to begin our game. Any objections, Albert? No? Excellent. Question one: Do you belong to any organizations?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “To what organizations do you belong?”

  “Do I have to answer, sir? Didn’t you just say they were voluntary-like?”

  “They are.”

  “Then I’d rather not say.”

  Barker reached into his pocket and McElroy flinched, no doubt expecting a gun or some knuckle-dusters. Instead, he produced his pipe and filled it with tobacco from his sealskin pouch.

  “Very well. Let me rephrase the question. Are you involved in any organizations that aren’t for the benefit and support of the Irish people?”

  “No, sir, I am not.”

  “So, you don’t belong to any organization whose purpose is to harm or remove the Jews from London.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Have you ever heard of a group called the Anti-Semite League?”

  “No, sir. Can’t recollect any group like that.”

  “What do you do for a living, McElroy?”

  “I’m a carpenter as was, sir, afore the Jews moved in and took over all the work.”

  “And might I assume that you now spend your days with some of your fellows, bending an arm and talking about general conditions in what one might call a social club?”

  “Social club! That’s a good’un, sir. Aye, we philosophize most afternoons, down at the Crook and Harp.”

  “Oh, the good old Crooked Harp. I know it well. Excellent. Now, Albert, I’m not going to ask you to name any of your mates. I’m not after the little fish, only the big one. Did someone come in and get you fellows all stirred up, someone blaming all your present troubles on the Jews? Not one of the regulars, mind, but someone new? Someone extra?”

  “Aye, sir, he did. Said there was no end to ’em and that they’d run us out of England. Said he knew how hard we worked to start a new life after bein’ forced out of Ireland. Said they needed to be taught a lesson. A good hard lesson, if you get my meanin’, sir.”

  “You’re being wonderfully cooperative, Mr. McElroy. My, but this is thirsty work. I believe we still have some good homemade porter in the lumber room. Mr. Llewelyn, would you be so good as to get our new friend a drink?”

  In a moment or so, I had the Irishman seated at the table with a glass in his hands. McElroy was obviously relieved, but he kept flicking his eyes Barker’s way, in case his mercurial temper suddenly rose again.

  “Thank ye, sir,” he said.

  “Not at all. Pray continue. What did your fellows say when he made this proposal?”

  “Oh, they was all for it. They’ve been spoilin’ to smash a few heads for months, only didn’t know how to go about it. The bloke said he had a cart outside, ready to take any fellow man enough to teach them Jew-boys a lesson, and to get the fellow responsible for takin’ our positions.”

  “And that was…?”

  “You, sir.”

  “As I thought,” Barker said, and made that harumph in his throat that was meant for a chuckle. “It might interest you to know neither of us are Jewish.”

  “He didn’t mention that, sir, nor did he say that you kick like a Skibbereen mule.”

  “What did he look like, Albert, this fellow that talked you into coming here with your mates?”

  “Middlin’ sort o’ fellow, sir. Midthirties. Clean shaven. Claret mark on his chin. Dressed well, not flashy. But he weren’t no toff, spoke like one of us.”

  Barker turned to me. “John Smith.”

  “So it would appear, sir.”

  “Did this fellow intimate that there might be more ‘action’ than just tonight’s little bit of fun, that there might be an attempt to teach all the Jews a lesson?” he asked the Irishman.

  “Aye, he did, sir. I can’t remember all he said, on account of my havin’ had a pint or three. But I got the impression he was goin’ from pub to pub lookin’ for any blokes with a grievance against the Jews. Tomorrow mornin’ it’s to be, sir, in Petticoat Lane.”

  “Thank you, Mr. McElroy. You’ve been a fount of information. I regret the incident with the chair.”

  “No hard feelin’s, sir. Sorry I kicked your little dog. Me blood was up. Hope the little chap’s all right.”

  “Llewelyn, see if you can get a cab at this late hour for Albert.”

  Racket was at his post across the street when I looked outside. He rattled over and tapped his top hat with his crop. McElroy looked all in from the action, and I helped him into his seat. The cabman took me aside.

  “Bit of a to-do here tonight?” Racket asked, stroking his thick beard. “If you need any help,
I’m your man.”

  “It was nothing we couldn’t handle,” I answered smugly. “A group of men were stupid enough to attack Barker in his own garden.”

  “Sorry I missed all the fun. Old Push is a real corker, ain’t he?”

  I thought of Barker working his way through a bunch of armed ruffians, as easily as if he’d been in his exercise class. “That he is.”

  Racket flicked the reins and Juno tossed her head and began to move. The last I saw of Albert McElroy that night was his waving hand as the cab rattled down the street.

  I went back inside. Barker was just coming into the hall.

  “Get some sleep, lad, but stay in your clothes. I might need you. We’ll have a very early start in the morning.”

  27

  TOO SOON, BARKER’S HAND WAS ON MY shoulder, shaking me awake.

  “Get up and ready,” he said. “Take your revolver this time. I want us in the Lane within the hour.”

  I rose quickly, and loaded my Webley. Then I met Barker in the hall. Mac brought out coffee and croissants with gooseberry jam. There was no telling when we would eat again.

  “You think McElroy was telling the truth, that there shall be further trouble this morning?” I asked.

  “Last night was just a preliminary skirmish. There will be a larger conflict today, you can count upon it. One doesn’t collect an army of troops and just let them sit on their hands, not if one is a competent general.”

  “Do you think the ‘general’ was among the men last night? I didn’t see anyone I knew.”

  “Nor I, but I believe he would be recognizable to us, should he show his face. Therefore, he shall hide it. This is one leader who shall not be at the head of his army.”

  “You know who he is?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “Have you alerted the Jews?”