India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery) (27 page)

“You are vermin,” Flerko informed Dizzy. “I spit on you.” He pursed his lips to make good on this statement.

“Don’t taunt the prisoner,” I said. “You’ll have plenty of time to sneer at him later.”

A blade appeared in Flerko’s hand. Dizzy cast a frantic look at me. Confound it, this wasn’t in the script.

“Save that for the guards,” I said crisply. “Iv—, I mean, Grigori will be furious if you stab the prime minister before we get a chance to try him for his crimes.”

The mention of Grigori did the trick. Flerko ran a thumb along the knife’s edge while he mumbled a few threats at Dizzy, and then reluctantly sheathed the weapon. The prime minister’s face was as pale as a tallow candle, and a bead of sweat trembled on his upper lip. I tipped him a quick wink as Flerko retreated to join Thick Ed.

I believe I mentioned previously that the time was approaching when our scheme would have to trump that of the anarchists. Our radical friends, being the bloodthirsty buggers that they were, had intended to knife the guards and leave behind their dead bodies. Well, it wouldn’t do to let them live, as they could easily identify Flerko, Thick Ed and me. Naturally, Dizzy had baulked at this aspect of the plot, and it had been left to French and me to devise a way to circumvent this heartless deed without alerting the members of the cell. I was to judge the proper moment when we must intervene to stop the guards’ death, and then things must go as clockwork if we were not to wind up with two dead blokes on our hands. Judging by the look of killing rage on Flerko’s face as he bent over the second guard, the time had come.

I stepped to the window and pushed aside the curtain. “I see someone in the alley, Thick Ed.”

Thick Ed had been arranging the guard’s body to permit more expeditious throat slitting. He sprang up and joined me at the window.

“Where?”

But there was no need to point out the nonexistent interloper. On the floor below us, a ruckus had erupted. Several men were shouting unintelligibly, and the stamp of feet could be heard on the marble floor of the lobby.

“Flerko! Quick! Run down and see what’s happening.” Thick Ed yanked Dizzy to his feet, and Flerko hared away to return in a few minutes, blowing hard and with his hair standing on end.

“There are men in the lobby,” he huffed, “and they’re shouting at the desk clerk.”

“Police?” I asked.

Flerko shook his head. “I didn’t see any uniforms.”

“Can we reach the storeroom?” Thick Ed asked.

“If we hurry.”

Thick Ed pushed Dizzy toward the door. “Not a sound, remember? If you make a noise, we’ll kill you.”

Flerko led the way, sprinting down the corridor to the stairs and darting down them to ascertain the lay of the land. He motioned to us from the first landing, and we careered after him with Thick Ed dragging Dizzy and me bringing up the rear. We gained the ground floor and peered cautiously down the hall toward the lobby. We saw nothing, but heard voices barking questions, followed by the drowsy reply of the night clerk.

“If anyone tries to stop us, keep going,” said Thick Ed. “All we have to do is get to the storeroom and lock the door behind us. Move now.”

We moved. Thick Ed hustled Dizzy along with me at his heels and Flerko dogging my footsteps. We reached the storeroom and bolted inside. Flerko eased the door closed and turned the lock.

“Out the window,” ordered Thick Ed, which turned out to be confoundedly difficult for Dizzy as he’s about as spry as an iron post. But we managed somehow, lifting the prime minister bodily through the opening and hurling ourselves into the alley. We jogged along at a rapid clip, or attempted to, for Dizzy, besides being an inflexible old coot, was also slow. Thick Ed kept dragging the prime minister and swearing under his breath, while Dizzy staggered and bumbled about making an enormous racket as he tripped over boxes and collided with empty barrels. At this rate half of London would hear us and come to investigate. Thick Ed realized the same thing at the same instant, and letting out an exasperated curse, he swept up Dizzy in his arms and flung him over his shoulder. Dizzy issued a stifled grunt, and I stifled a smile. I reckon I’m the only whore in history who’s ever seen the British prime minister carried about London like a side of beef.

We made good time after Thick Ed hoisted Dizzy to his shoulder. The prime minister constituted a light burden, and Thick Ed carried him as easily as he would a child. He even had breath to speak.

“Where’s that bloke you saw?” he asked.

“What bloke?”

“You said you saw a man in the alley. Why haven’t we run into him?”

“It must have been a vagrant, looking for a place to doss down. Perhaps the noise frightened him away. Do you see anyone, Flerko?”

“Not a soul.”

We reached the street where Schmidt waited with the carriage, and Thick Ed whistled softly. Schmidt had been enjoying a pipe. He knocked out the ashes on his boot and stowed the pipe in his pocket. He wrenched open the door of the carriage.

Thick Ed tipped Dizzy onto the seat, which elicited a groan from our aging statesman. Poor fellow. He was as game as they come, but this escapade was proving a bit much.

“Were there difficulties? Did anyone see you?” asked Schmidt.

“There was a flap in the lobby as we were leaving.” Thick Ed shoved Dizzy’s legs inside and offered me his hand.

Schmidt made a noise in his throat. “The police?”

“We didn’t stay to find out. And I’d bloody well suggest we do the same thing now.”

I pulled Dizzy upright and straightened his legs for him, which earned me a grateful look. I hoped no one else had noticed. Flerko sprang up on the box with Schmidt to keep watch, and Thick Ed tumbled into the carriage as Schmidt whipped the horses and the carriage shot away from the curb.

Our destination was an abandoned warehouse on the river, selected by Flerko and approved by Harkov and Schmidt as the perfect place to hold a mock trial and an actual execution. Our journey there was made in silence, but for the creaking and rumble of the wheels and the clatter of hooves on brick and stone. Dizzy and I occupied one seat, and Thick Ed sat across from us, staring impassively out the window, though there was nothing to see, and occasionally stealing a glance at the prime minister. I kept my eyes on the floor. I daren’t look at Dizzy for fear that our acquaintance might reveal itself by some gesture or gaze. That left me with nothing to do but think about what was to come, and hope that by dawn my anarchist comrades would be spooning up gruel at Scotland Yard and Ivanov would be contemplating the irony of life as a British prisoner. It was a jolly long carriage ride and one I wouldn’t care to repeat.

Our progress slowed as we neared the water. Dank walls closed in around us, and the only sounds were the rush of water down the streets and the constant patter of rainfall on the cobbles. The air was rank with the smell of human waste and the bitter smoke of thousands of coal fires. I pushed aside the curtain and rubbed a circle in the clouded window glass. Decrepit buildings towered overhead, their windows shattered or boarded shut and the lintels sagging with age. Their exteriors, whether brick or stone or wood, were fouled with soot. It was a fitting place to bring the anarchists’ ill-starred plans to conclusion.

The carriage slowed and then rolled to a stop before our destination. Flerko tugged open the door and made a derisory bow toward Dizzy. “Welcome. Your destiny awaits you here.”

If this portentous twaddle was an example of Flerko’s epistolary style, it’s a jolly good thing he gave up novel writing for anarchy.

Thick Ed helped Dizzy down from the carriage, and Schmidt drove the carriage down an alley and out of view. He returned shortly, bringing the key to the heavy padlock on the massive wooden door. We crowded inside, and Schmidt lit a candle for himself and one for me.

“Harkov, Bonnaire and Grigori are waiting for us upstairs, on the second floor.”

My heart leapt at the news. Ivanov had snapped up the fly like a starving salmon. Of course I realized that Ivanov might have come only to silence me, but I felt a rush of exultation at how close we were to destroying the Dark Legion and capturing one of the tsar’s most trusted agents.

We navigated through a series of chill and clammy rooms and up a warped staircase that groaned alarmingly under our feet until we reached a cavernous room, bare but for a few empty packing cases and tea chests, a few oil lamps and the dim figures of our fellow conspirators. Harkov had been pacing the room but swung to an eager stop as we entered. Ivanov had made himself comfortable on an empty crate and was enjoying a cigar. He did not rise at our entrance. A look of amusement crossed his face at the sight of Dizzy. I had to control the urge to draw my Bulldog and inform the Russian he’d be laughing out the other side of his face soon. It’s all well and good for me to mock my leaders, but I draw the line at any damned display of Russian arrogance. My anger must have been palpable, as Ivanov’s eyes slid in my direction and I saw a fleeting smile before he smoothed his face into impassivity.

Harkov advanced on us anxiously. “You are late.”

“We’re not late.” Thick Ed sucked his battered knuckles.

“And all went according to plan?” Harkov asked.

“Not exactly,” said Thick Ed. “We didn’t have time to kill the guards. A bunch of blokes were shouting down in the lobby. We had to get out of there.”

“The guards saw you?” Harkov’s cheeks paled. “They’ll recognize you. They’ve surely been found by now, and the authorities will be after you.” Bloody observant of Harkov, if only he’d known it, except the police had arrived at the warehouse hours ago. He flitted to the window and prized open a shutter. “They might be out there at this minute, watching.” He whirled round. “Perhaps we should abandon our objective and leave now. We can be on a mail boat this morning.”

Flerko was pushing a great wooden box into the center of the room, panting loudly with the effort. “I shall not leave here until I have cut off the head of this louse and raised it high on London Bridge.” He scurried into a dark corner of the room and emerged with an axe in his hand. Up to that minute, I’d always considered Flerko an emotional but not particularly dangerous chap. Seeing him there with that maul in his grip, the blade honed so that the edge gleamed dangerously in the candlelight, I revised my opinion.

“We were going to try him for his crimes,” protested Harkov.

“There is no reason to do so. We all know he is guilty. And if the police are following us, then we must kill him now.”

“You,” he said to Dizzy, “kneel down and put your head on that crate.” Dizzy cast a terrified glance in my direction. I expect Louis XVI had looked much the same on his way to the guillotine. The Bulldog was halfway out of its holster. Flerko’s mouth was stretched in a rictus of hate, eyes gleaming maniacally. He looked round frantically as if daring anyone to interfere with his plan.

Someone did.

“I’m sorry, my friend. I can’t let you do that.” Bonnaire took a casual step forward. In his hand he held a Chamelot-Delvigne revolver, of the type issued to the French military and police. It was not what I would have chosen to carry, as the bullet lacked significant velocity, but for a small chap like Flerko at this range it should be just the ticket. The unexpected sight of his comrade aiming a revolver at him checked Flerko’s movements.

“Bonnaire?” The little Russian’s face was anguished. “What are you doing? We have waited for this moment for such a long time.”

“Inspector Bonnaire,” the Frenchman corrected him. “Of the Sûreté.” His gaze swept the room. “All of you, move over by Flerko. Lord Beaconsfield, come this way, please.”

Poor Dizzy. I don’t believe he’d ever been as flummoxed as he was now. I could see he was already calculating the odds that the story of his kidnapping by anarchists and rescue by an agent (and a
Frog
agent, no less) would make the morning papers. I felt rather perturbed myself. This was supposed to be a British operation. What the devil was Bonnaire doing interfering in our business? My temper was not improved by the realization that Bonnaire had successfully deceived me for an extended period of time. Me. India Black, who prides herself on seeing through men like so many gauze curtains.

“I was wondering how long you’d wait before you announced yourself,” I said coolly. “I was afraid I’d have to step in before you had the chance to do so. That wouldn’t have gone down well with your colleagues at the Sûreté, would it? By the way, I’m with the British government. If you’ll remove the prime minister’s gag, he’ll confirm it.” I hadn’t produced the Bulldog yet, but my fingers were firmly gripped around the handle.

Dizzy nodded frantically.

Bonnaire grimaced. “Very well, Miss Black. You may remove the prime minister’s gag and let him speak.”

Schmidt lifted a hand apologetically. “Pardon me, Bonnaire, if that is indeed your name. I shall take it on faith that you are with the Sûreté, but I shall request that you grant me the same indulgence until we may compare documents. I am Gerhard Hoffman of the Berlin
Landespolizei
.”

“No,” screamed Flerko. “It can’t be true.”

I had removed Dizzy’s gag and untied his hands. Being muzzled is unpleasant for anyone (and I speak from experience), but for a man of Dizzy’s loquaciousness the last hour must have been sheer bloody torture.