India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery) (25 page)

Flerko snatched the poker from the hearth and brandished it over his head. “I’ll kill him,” he shouted.

Bonnaire vaulted from his chair and closed a hand over the poker. “Wait, Flerko,” he said soothingly. “He will not escape.”

“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” asked Harkov.

“There’ll be another after me,” French drawled. “You lot are about as hard to deceive as a forty-year-old virgin.”

“Traitor,” Flerko screamed and drew back the poker.

“Traitor,” I echoed. French’s Remington pocket pistol had appeared in my hand. I pointed the barrel at him, and his eyes widened. There was fear in them, and the sight was so unexpected I almost lowered the gun. French’s hands came up, and he took two steps back. I advanced on him. The pistol trembled in my grasp, but I steadied my grip and sighted down the stubby barrel. I had a perfect view of the buttons on his weskit. Engaged? To that vapid blond wench? I pulled the trigger and shot him.

TWENTY

T
he bullet struck him in the chest, yanking him backward with the force of the blow. Blood spurted from the wound, a bright red stream that soaked his weskit and flowed down his ribs onto my Turkey carpet. Damnation. I hadn’t thought of that before I pulled the trigger. I never would get that blood out. I bent over him and listened to the ragged sound of his breathing. He stared up at me, a puzzled expression on his face. One hand groped for his chest and feebly batted his bloodstained clothes. He looked at the crimson smear on his palm, whispered something unintelligible and then took one long breath that rattled in his chest. His eyes fluttered closed.

“Good God,” exclaimed Bonnaire.

“You’ve killed him,” said Harkov, ashen-faced.

“You wanted him dead, didn’t you?” I snapped. “Quick, now. All of you, out the back door. That shot will have the police here any minute.”

“But what about the body?” asked Harkov.

“Flerko and I can take it,” said Bonnaire.

Thick Ed grunted. “Let me. I can carry him by myself.”

I was already at work, folding the carpet over French’s inert body. “Don’t worry. French isn’t the first to die at Lotus House. I’ve had half a dozen geezers with dicky hearts board the train for paradise in my time. French will just be another. I have a friend I trust who’ll help me get rid of the body without any questions.” I finished wrapping French in the rug and gave the package a swift kick. “There. In a little while, he’ll be swimming in the river.” I quickly surveyed the group, who looked as though they’d just seen a war party of Iroquois in the distance and weren’t quite sure which direction to flee. For a group of hardened radicals prepared to commit mass murder a few days ago, they seemed unduly shocked by tonight’s events.

“Leave now,” I said, “while you still have the chance to slip away unseen.”

“Oh,” Flerko exclaimed. “Oh!”

These sorts of ejaculations usually preceded one of Flerko’s imbecilic notions.

“Why don’t we cut off French’s head and put it on London Bridge? We could post up a sign, saying this is what happens to those who betray our cause.” To be fair, it wasn’t a
new
imbecilic notion, as earlier he’d proposed the same treatment for the prime minister. Still, I couldn’t permit this to happen.

“It would be nice to make an example of our late colleague, but that would be foolish,” I said briskly. “If the prime minister knows we’ve found their agent, he’ll do everything in his power to run us to ground. It will be better if French just disappears. Let the prime minister worry about why they haven’t heard from him. By the time his body is found, we’ll have dispatched Disraeli and vanished.”

Thick Ed was kneeling beside the rug, testing the weight by lifting French’s legs. He looked up in consternation. “Christ! He’s still breathing.”

“Is he?” I opened my desk drawer and took out a sharp, silver-handed letter opener. “He won’t be in a few minutes.”

Thick Ed swallowed. “Are you sure—”

“Oh, yes. I’ve had to deal with some unpleasant situations in my time. I’ll finish him off and then fetch my friend. He’s a big brute. It’ll be dead easy to dispose of the body. Now please leave. We won’t be able to strike a blow for liberty if we’re all in gaol for murder.”

They gathered their hats and coats and milled around, and I had to direct them down the hallway to the kitchen, where they could slip out into the garden and exit through the gate in the wall. I waited until they were out of sight, and then I waited a little longer. It was drizzling again, and the night was as dark as Dizzy’s complexion. After a good long while, I heard a low whistle and whistled back, and Vincent appeared beside me, shaking the rain from his cap.

“All clear,” he whispered. “They ran like rabbits. Couldn’t get away fast enough. I followed ’em back to Seven Dials, and then I come back ’ere and ’ung about to make sure none of ’em come back to see wot we were doin’. I reckon we’re safe now.”

I’d extinguished the lights in the study as I’d ushered my fellow radicals out the door. Now I slipped to the mantelpiece and groped for the matches, lighting a single candle. I hastened to the window and peeked through the curtains, but detected no movement on the pavement outside Lotus House.

“Did you check St. Alban’s Street?”

“’Course I did,” said Vincent. “Quiet as a cathedral at evensong.”

“You’ve been to evensong?” I was quite incredulous at the thought of Vincent attending a service.

“One of them charities got ’old of me once. ’Orrible, hit was. Them ole ladies ran me ragged, takin’ me to church and teachin’ me my letters.”

“Meddling cows.” I sympathized, having been the all-too-frequent object of some do-gooder’s grand plan.

“Could the two of you debate the merits of charitable efforts some other time?” French asked in a muffled voice. “I’m cold, this blood has congealed, and it stinks.”

Vincent and I unfolded the Turkey rug, and French sat up gingerly, probing his chest where the wadding from the blank charge had struck him. The front of his shirt was scorched and pocked with powder. The bladder of pig’s blood I’d obtained from a theatrical company and that he’d concealed beneath his shirt had contained a copious amount of blood, indeed much more than I had expected, a fact that may be useful to know, but I doubt it.

French was correct: the pig’s blood was highly odiferous. I sent him to the kitchen to wash. I hoped he’d brought a clean shirt, as I tossed the one he’d been wearing, along with the weskit, onto the fire.

“Worked like a charm,” said Vincent.

“Except that I failed to take into account the effect a pint of blood would have on my Turkey carpet.”

“Can’t you wash it?”

I was not surprised at Vincent’s lack of knowledge about the limits of soap and water.

“I’ll send it out to be laundered, but I’d be very surprised if it comes back clean. Oh, well. I’ll just have to purchase a new one and send the bill to Superintendent Stoke.”

French returned, scrubbing the last traces of blood from his torso with a towel. That would have to go in the fire as well. As this was the first time I had seen French
en déshabillé
, I took the opportunity to evaluate his masculine attributes. To my satisfaction, he possessed a nice chest with some noticeable muscles, strong arms and a lean, flat stomach. That would do nicely. He caught my frank appraisal and blushed. Fancy, a grown man turning pink like that. Most blokes would stick out their chest and flex their biceps, but not French. Sometimes I despair of ever corrupting the fellow.

He draped his coat over his shoulders and huddled before the fire.

“Do you think they fell for our scheme?” he asked.

Our
scheme? As I recall, I’d been the sole author of this particular plan. I may have developed, shall we say, an affection for French, but that didn’t mean he was free to steal my thunder.

“Aye, I fink they did. They couldn’t get out of ’ere fast enough,” said Vincent.

French smote his forehead with his hand and swore softly. “I’m a bloody fool. I should have had Vincent stay on Harkov. He’s bound to report back to Ivanov, and we might have been able to capture the villain.”

“It couldn’t be helped,” I said. “We had to be sure that the group believed I had killed you and that they weren’t suspicious enough to wait around here to see your body carried out the door.”

“The others might have fallen for our ploy, but I think it unlikely that Ivanov will believe that you shot me, India.”

“He probably won’t believe it. But I’ve thought of a way around that problem.”

“Oh?”

“It’s quite simple, really. I shall send a private message to Ivanov informing him that I regret my previous work for the British government, that I was shabbily treated during the whole affair over the War Department memo, and as a consequence I am committed to the anarchist cause and have pledged my undying allegiance to the Dark Legion. When you appeared at our meeting, I suspected immediately that you were working for Dizzy, and I planned to use you to plant disinformation with the government about the anarchists’ plans. Before I could put this scheme into action, Harkov and Schmidt unmasked you. There was nothing to be done at that point but kill you. Which I have done. Thus, my anarchist credentials are impeccable, but his, meaning Ivanov’s, are not. I suggest that he demonstrate his own fidelity to the enterprise by participating in Dizzy’s kidnapping, or I shall be forced to denounce him to the others. That should draw him out.”

French was brooding over the fire, eyebrows knitted in a frown. “Exactly how do you propose to find Ivanov to deliver your message?”

I confessed, with some irritation, that I had not given that aspect of the project much thought.

“Send it to ’Arkov. Tell ’im hit’s for Ivanov’s eyes only.”

“That might work,” said French. “Although Harkov might be angered at not being trusted with the message and suspect that you are positioning yourself to become the next leader of the Dark Legion.”

The thought made me hoot with laughter.

“And even if you are successful in getting a note to Ivanov, do you think he’ll fall for your story? Frankly, I’d find it hard to swallow. If you were disenchanted with the way you’ve been treated, I can see you marching into Dizzy’s office and haranguing the poor man, but I can’t envision you joining forces with a bunch of anarchists. Ivanov has met you; he’ll surely see through the pretense.”

“For God’s sake, French. We can’t get wobbly at the knees just thinking of Ivanov. If you’ve got a better idea for getting that worm out of the woodwork, then by all means, let us hear it. Otherwise, let’s quit flapping about like frightened geese and figure out how we’re going to wind up this assignment. I’m tired of worrying about what Ivanov is thinking or doing or planning. To hell with Ivanov.”

French glared at me. “What if he decides the best thing to do with you is to put a bullet in you. Your note might result in him appearing on your doorstep with a revolver in his pocket.”

“Even better. We shoot the Slav bastard and round up our anarchist friends. I’d be jolly pleased if Ivanov tried to kill me.”

“You’re proposing yourself as bait,” French sputtered. “You can’t do that. I won’t stand for it.”

“You won’t stand for it? Who appointed you as my guardian? I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I have managed to toddle along without you for twenty-seven years, and I venture to say I can make the next several decades without a nursemaid.”

“I am not implying that you need a nursemaid. God knows you’re tough enough to take down Ivanov without my help. If he’d seen the look in your eye when you shot me, he’d head for Moscow tonight.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t pull out my Bulldog and do the job properly. You deserve a bullet in the heart for withholding information from me. Harkov knows more about you than I do. What kind of moniker is Lachlan Nebuchadnezzar whatever? And you’re engaged?”

French reached for my hand, which made his coat fall off his shoulder and exposed one side of that handsome torso.
Quite
a virile body. Just the right amount of dark, curling hair on his chest, contrasting nicely with the olive skin. I forced myself to look away. I don’t mind saying that it was jolly difficult to do so.

“Clothe yourself, French. It’s deuced hard to concentrate when you’re strutting around half-naked.”

He thrust his arms through the sleeves of the coat. “I am not half-naked.”

“You were.”

“Well, now I am dressed. You were spouting a load of drivel. Please continue.”

I had forgotten that Vincent was present.

“Oi, can you two stop flirtin’ wif each uvver until we get our claws on Ivanov?”

French and I rounded on Vincent. “We’re not flirting,” we said simultaneously.

Vincent shrugged. “Well, I don’t mind wot you call it, s’long as we grab Ivanov and put the rest of them blokes in gaol. And listen, you two don’t need to put on that act for me. You’ve been makin’ calf eyes at each uvver since you met.”

“I have never made
calf eyes
at anyone,” I said coldly. “Especially not at French.”

“Neither have I.” French stood with his arms crossed.

“You could bof do worse,” Vincent announced. “Listen, guv, no duke’s daughter can stand the strain of bein’ married to a secret agent. And India ain’t ’ad no luck wif men, unless you count that gentleman thief. ’E was the best of the bunch, which ain’t sayin’ much. What was ’is name, India?”

The Turkey rug was already soaked with blood, so I didn’t think Vincent’s would be all that noticeable. If I’d had my rapier handy, I’d have run it right through the cheeky little sod. I was sure French shared my views, but when I snuck a glance at him, I noticed a grin hovering on his lips.

“A gentleman thief, eh? Sounds interesting, Vincent. When this is over, we’ll repair to the nearest pub and you can tell me all about the man.”

That didn’t worry me any. Vincent can always be bought. The thought of how much that might cost in this instance, however, did arouse some anxiety.

French and Vincent were grinning like ventriloquists’ dummies. Men are so infantile.

“We’ll discuss this later,” I said, tight-lipped. “Right now we’ve got a Russian agent to snare.”