by Will Thomas
Barker shrugged. “As I told you, I’ve had a lot of training. After he dropped the gun, he shoved the cross, sending it spinning, and ran to the stairs leading to the loft, making sure you were between us the entire time, for I had drawn my gun. I ran to you, and actually had my hand on the crossbeam, when you suddenly shot out of my hands. Racket had seized the hook and swung out, you see, hoping to escape. As he plummeted down, you spiraled upward.”
“And then?” I asked, still perplexed.
“I shot the rope in the middle, which brought you down into my outstretched arms, and by the way, lad, I could swear you’d put on a pound or two, despite my instructions. Racket came down in the street a little faster than he’d anticipated. I hadn’t expected to kill him, just to slow him down enough to catch up to him, but I don’t believe I’ll lose any sleep over his death. Like yourself, I’ll remember the pathetic figures of Louis Pokrzywa and Miriam Smith.”
I shook my head. “Incredible. An inch either way, and the outcome might have been entirely different.”
He shrugged, as if his marksmanship were nothing out of the ordinary.
“This is some profession, Mr. Barker,” I mused.
“It’s the only profession, as far as I am concerned.”
“Perhaps I’m dim, sir, but what caused you to suspect Racket instead of Painsley or any of the other suspects? Why didn’t you think the league was real?”
“There were different reasons for each suspect. Give me a name.”
“Painsley, then.”
Barker set aside the tray. We had both forgotten about the food, and I wasn’t really hungry. “I do not believe he could have derived any benefit from killing Pokrzywa. Should an attack have been made upon the Jews, it would have aroused sympathy toward them and emptied out his church on Sunday mornings. Painsley very much needed the Jews to continue pouring in from Europe because the public anxiety about them was keeping his coffers full. Also, he would have run a very big risk, were he seen at the head of a mob. But as I said, I’m going to keep a watch on that fellow.”
“And Brunhoff, the Anglo-Israelite?”
Barker gave a snort. “Brunhoff couldn’t gather a handful of supporters to a free meal in Bethnal Green. He’s got all the warmth and charisma of a wounded badger. To think that he could gather a band of followers loyal enough to risk jail or injury is preposterous. By the way, he never sent me his alibi. I suppose we’ll have to let him alone…for now.”
My employer got that look again, and his hand brushed his pocket.
“Smoke, by all means,” I encouraged. “And what about my old tutor, Rushford?”
Barker reached in his pocket.
“Of all the suspects, I would have thought him most likely. He was a eugenicist and a recent inmate of Burberry Asylum. However, I thought him too fastidious to actually go into the pubs of Whitechapel, recruiting men, and the men too unlikely to follow him unless it was for pay. I suspect Rushford is rather hard up at the moment, with his position gone and little revenue from his books coming in. If he recruited anyone, it would be his acolytes in Chelsea, and I can’t picture those dandies forming an angry mob, unless the Grosvenor Gallery hangs one of Mr. Whistler’s paintings upside down.”
“Drat,” I said. “So, there’s no way we could tar him with it?”
“Sorry, lad.” Barker knew I was joking, of course.
“What about your choice, Mr. Nightwine?”
Barker blew out his vesta and set his pipe between his teeth.
“Ah, yes, Nightwine. I toyed with the idea for quite a while. Crucifying a Jew in Petticoat Lane is just the sort of ruthless message he would send the Board of Deputies to cow them, if possible, and he could raise a mob as soon as he opened his pocketbook. I wondered if he might be trying to corner the gold and diamond markets in London, extorting money from them or the pawnbrokers, who, though they may appear more humble, have a lucrative business nonetheless. I thought Nightwine the only man in London dangerous enough to threaten the Jews in such a fashion. Obviously, I was mistaken on that point.”
“So what made you discount him?”
“There was nothing to tie Pokrzywa into all of this. Nightwine would have chosen a jeweler or pawnbroker to string up, not a poor little teacher. I think Nightwine bears no personal animosity toward the Jews, beyond their founding of two religions he despises. As he said, he believes them a defeated race.”
I was running out of suspects. “Gigliotti? Serafini?”
“Nothing the Jews had done to the Italians warranted crucifixion, even as an example. The Camorra has an established way of doing things. There would have been a private meeting with someone like Sir Moses, airing their grievances. Then they would have busted a few kneecaps to get their point across. But no good Catholic would dare crucify a Jew, and in their own twisted logic, they’re all good Catholic boys.”
“Not Serafini,” I pointed out. “He’s an assassin.”
“So he is, but Serafini saves the bullets for more ‘deserving’ targets: politicians, diplomats, and kings. In a way, he has his own principles. He wouldn’t shoot a working lad.”
I was scraping the bottom of my memory now. “The Irish, then. Why not suspect them? McElroy was an Irishman.”
“All their efforts at the moment are directed toward Home Rule. After the bombing of the Tower Bridge last November, their leader, Parnell, has made sure they keep their noses clean.”
I made one final, desperate try. “Perhaps I’m obtuse, but how did you know that it wasn’t someone we hadn’t heard from, someone laying very low?”
Barker puffed on his pipe. He was sitting back in the chair with his hands laced across his stomach and his feet on my bed.
“I trust my contacts,” he said, simply. “You see, I try to throw a web over London and sit like a spider in the midst of it all, my fingers on the strands, ready for any subtle vibration. When we’re riding in a cab and I’m scanning the street ahead of me, hundreds of impressions are crowding in on me. I recognize criminals and friends and see who is in town. I note changes of class and nationality within an area. I watch new businesses open up and old ones shut their doors. I find the city endlessly fascinating.”
I’d run out of arguments, but I still had some questions.
“What about Pokrzywa, sir? Why did he have a relationship with Miriam Smith in the first place? She seemed an unlikely choice with beauties like Miss Mocatta about.”
“I can only speculate. They were of an age, and if you recall, she was a Choote, a Dutch Jew. We know he spent some time in Amsterdam before coming to London. I think he knew her there. Years later, he ran into her in Petticoat Lane, married to Racket, or rather, Smith. It can’t have been a successful marriage. She needed help. Remember Mr. Moskowitz’s remark about Louis being a knight searching for a damsel in distress? In Miriam Smith, he found her. He threw his not inconsiderable energies into trying to love and protect her and got himself killed in the process. Poor fellow. Even the wisest man can be made a fool by love.”
I wondered if Barker was making a veiled reference to my own emotional upheavals during the case, but I decided not to mention them.
“One more question, sir. Who was he originally, John Racket or John Smith?”
“Neither, I suspect. Scotland Yard has no record of the first and too many records of the other. All we have is the marriage certificate and his cabman’s license, and I suspect he lied on both. What I do know is that John Smith is the most common name taken by former criminals.”
“I can’t believe we were taken in by a false beard,” I complained.
“The most important thing is that we caught the killer and averted the pogrom, which was our objective.”
“I must admit, sir,” I confessed, “that I doubted you a little. I didn’t see how anyone in London could find Pokrzywa’s killer—one man in the midst of three million people. But you did it. You were a complete success.”
Barker put the chair back and turned to leave.
30
AFTER A WEEK, I WAS FINALLY ABLE TO move back into my old room again. Despite the great pains Mac and Barker had gone to in order to make the ground floor habitable during my convalescence, I far preferred to be in my own room, simple and spartan as it was. I shaved slowly and donned my last new suit of clothes, which included a single-breasted frock coat in light blue-gray, striped trousers of matching shades, and a tie of red silk. The effect was marred, however, by slings of black grosgrain on both arms, made for me by Mac at our employer’s insistence. The tie proved a problem; my fingers fumbled helplessly with the ends, and my arms refused to reach high enough for more than a few seconds. I gave up and went downstairs, hoping someone could help me.
The duty fell to Dummolard, who tied it over my shoulder, our image reflected in the bottom of one of his copper pots. Half of the ash from his cigarette went down the back of my collar. The cook seemed to be in one of his moods, and my suspicions were confirmed when he set my breakfast plate down in front of me.
“A two-egg omelet for monsieur,” he said coolly.
“Not three?”
“Non.”
“No champignons?”
“Non.”
“No fromage?”
“Non.”
“Not even toast and jam?”
“Non.”
I turned the matter over in my mind. “Has Barker said anything about my weight?”
“He has not.”
“Have I done something to offend you, then?”
“Non.”
“And you’re not going to tell me what this is about?”
“Non.”
“Very well, then,” I said, the aggrieved party. I played my trump card. I cut the pathetic little omelet in half, folded it over, and ate it in two quick bites. Then I washed it down with coffee and patted my mouth with a napkin. Dummolard’s eyes grew large, and the corners of his mouth quivered at the insult. For a moment, I hoped he would drop his cigarette entirely, but somehow, it stayed in the corner of his mouth. I rose, bowed to the fellow, and took myself off with as much dignity as my spare Welsh frame could carry.
“You cut a splendid figure today, Mr. Llewelyn,” my employer said. He was standing in the entranceway, putting on his gloves.
“I can’t wear gloves, I’m afraid,” I said, holding up my slings. “Or at least, I can’t put them on.”
“Don’t. I need you to strike a pathetic note. We have our hardest battle ahead of us today. We are going to attempt a reckoning of accounts with Lord Rothschild, and he drives a very hard bargain, indeed.”
Outside, it felt strange to see a different cab at our curb and a perfect stranger atop it. Even now, I found it hard to believe that Racket was the murderer, and that I was almost his last victim. I half expected to look up and see his long, fiery beard through the trap and hear him give me a brisk greeting.
“What’s to become of Juno and the cab?” I asked Barker.
“I made an offer on both, contingent on whether any relative of Racket is found. Juno’s been boarded in another stable, and the cab is locked up at the murder scene.”
“A private cab, eh?”
“I thought I might advertise on the side. Something small, but tasteful. The name of the agency in discreet gold letters, perhaps.”
“The name of the agency…You mean your name, don’t you?” I said.
“Well, it is a name to be reckoned with.”
“That it is. Wouldn’t it be easier just to paint a target, instead?”
“Spare me your humor this morning, Thomas.”
Sir Moses was glad to see us again. He was serene and joyful, shaking hands with Barker, clucking over my injuries, and congratulating us both. Not so his nephew, Lord Rothschild, a small, bald man with a spade beard.
“Tempest in a teapot,” he said, sourly. “A total false alarm. They were a bunch of drunken cowards, who turned and ran at the first sign of a real fight. There was no real danger at all.”
“Tell that to the dozen or so who went to hospital, or to my assistant here,” Barker replied to the baron. “He has been shot at, barely missed by a dagger, physically beaten, strangled, and nearly crucified.”
Lord Rothschild gave me a look, as if to say, “He looks all right to me.”
“Of course, we are so glad of your assistance,” Sir Moses said, trying to keep the peace. “I don’t know what would have happened had you not been there. A ‘Golem Squad!’ What an incredible idea.”
I turned to my employer. “Your idea, sir?”
“You’ll recall the letter I wrote, suggesting the Jews have some of their young men watching the public houses? After a little thought, I wondered if they might be able to do a bit more. But it was they who formed the Golem Squad and forged the swords.”
“I shall ring for tea,” Sir Moses continued.
“No, sir,” Barker insisted. “We are businessmen here, are we not? Pray, let us get down to business.”
“Spoken like a businessman, indeed, sir,” Rothschild said, rubbing his hands together briskly. “Now, I understand that there was no actual fee proposed.”
“That is so,” Barker stated. “Would you like to make an estimate for my services?”
“We would rather you gave us an evaluation of your time and expenses.”
“Certainly,” my employer continued. He flashed one of his rare smiles. The devil was enjoying this. “Before I start, I wish two things be understood. The first is that our investigation has helped avert what could have been a major crisis among the Jews in London.”
“I contest that!” his lordship said. “That cannot be proven.”
“The second factor was the injury to my assistant, which included a week under a doctor’s care and round-the-clock nursing. He nearly died in the performance of his duties.”
Rothschild began to speak again, but checked himself. Was he going to somehow refute the fact that I had nearly been crucified trying to protect his people? I looked straight into the eye of one of the most powerful men in England and did not blink.
“I’ll concede that he was injured during the course of the investigation,” His Lordship said, finally.
Barker cleared his throat. “I am now prepared to offer a fee for my services. My fee is…one hundred pounds…”
Both men raised an eyebrow.
“For each of us.”
“A hundred pounds? One hundred pounds, did you say?” Sir Moses asked. Rothschild smiled into his beard. I myself couldn’t believe the lowness of the offer. It barely covered the two weeks’ expenses, with cab rides and meals, and the nursing. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir, with one stipulation.”
“Name it,” Rothschild stated.
“That the money be kept with Your Lordship’s own accounts, to invest and reinvest along with your own business accounts for a period of one year.”
“Now, wait a minute—” Rothschild began.
“And that a tenth of the interest from the account be given over at the end of that year for the benefit of the Jews’ Free School in memory of Louis Pokrzywa. If that is agreeable to Mr. Llewelyn.”
“Absolutely, sir,” I said.
“See here!” Lord Rothschild blustered. “Of all the—”
“Done!” the old patriarch decided, slapping his hand on the table.
“Sir Moses!” his nephew remonstrated.
“Now, Nathan, he’s done us a remarkable service and shall do so in the future again, I am certain.”
“Very well,” he conceded, with ill grace. “But only as a favor to you, Uncle.”
Barker pulled two contracts from his coat pocket. The crafty fellow had typed them himself, in the presence of his solicitor. For one who made such a public display of shunning finances,
he proved himself shrewd enough when necessary.
The contract concluded, Lord Rothschild nodded to us all and left the room, no doubt to return to the bank with his copy, to begin looking for loopholes.
As for Sir Moses, he was inclined to linger and talk. Tea and biscuits were brought in, and we discussed the school, our agency, my health, and the future of Anglo-Jewry. It was an hour before we got away again. The old man shook my injured hand gently.
Finally, we took our leave. Outside, Barker looked quite pleased with himself. His sitting in the cab with a smile on his face was like any other man’s doing a jig in the street.
“You assume the investments shall pay out,” I said.
“Rothschild’s got the Midas touch. Mark my words. That two hundred shall be at least two thousand a year hence.”
“I don’t believe I can wait that long, myself, being unsalaried.”
The cab pulled out of Saint Swithen Lane.
“I understand,” Barker said. “You are hired on a permanent basis. The pay for the position is five pounds per month.”
I could hardly believe it. That was a great deal of money, along with the free room and meals.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “That’s very generous.”
“Not at all. You’ve more than earned it. Now, let’s go celebrate.”
“At Ho’s?” I asked. I was getting a bit hungry. It was nearly eleven already, and the two-egg omelet had been a rather meager start to the day.
“No. Someplace special. Cabbie, Soho!”
Our destination was none other than Dummolard’s Le Tondre d’Or. It was an elegant little restaurant, with bistro chairs and tables in front that gave it a Gallic air. As we entered, we were met by Dummolard’s vivacious and incredibly beautiful wife. She was a French blonde of almost Amazonian proportions, and she took a liking to me the minute she laid eyes on me. She put us at the best table, and had a half dozen waiters hovering around, bringing us the best that Etienne could frantically prepare. Now I saw why he had fed me so sparingly at breakfast. He was preparing to fete us for lunch. I’m no expert at French cuisine, but what can you do when a beautiful woman is cutting up your meal and feeding it to you, except to eat without complaining?