Some Danger Involved (22 page)

It was a spare little working-class flat, though opulent by the standards I had once lived under. There were antimacassars on the backs of faded stuffed chairs and framed pictures pulled from magazines on the walls. Miriam Smith had worked hard to make the shabby apartment habitable. Everything was spartan but clean. The flat seemed unnaturally still, however, and I had to agree with Inspector Poole’s assertion that it had been abandoned.

The room was divided by a screen and a blanket hanging from the ceiling. We moved into the back portion of the room.

“No blood,” Barker noted, looking about. “She wasn’t murdered here, unless Smith cleaned up afterwards.”

“Search the drawers,” Poole suggested, and we immediately began going through everything. Most of the dead woman’s personal effects were still here, worn but carefully repaired. The suspect’s clothing was gone, as was anything referring to him, save for a certificate of marriage on the wall, from a church in Brighton. There were no photographs and no evidence of where Smith might have gone.

“Scampered,” Poole pronounced. “I’ll have my men take this place apart board by board in the morning, but we’re losing valuable time now.” He turned to the crowd. “Can anyone describe John Smith?”

The crowd pushed forward a hesitant-looking Jewish fellow with long side locks and a cap he was twisting in his hand.

“Sir,” he said gravely to the inspector, wringing his hat until it resembled a challah. “Sir, I am a street artist. If I could just go get my charcoal and some paper, I could sketch him in just a few minutes.”

“Get your things, by all means,” Poole agreed. The fellow ran downstairs and returned with a piece of butcher’s paper and a charcoal pencil. We sat him down in one of the worn dining chairs and left him to reconstruct the man from memory, while we combed the flat for more clues. All we found of interest was Miriam Smith’s Bible. It had no bulletin from the Poplar church, but her handwritten name on the dedication page was in the same handwriting as the notes we had, or so Barker pronounced. Miriam Smith was definitely the woman with whom Louis Pokrzywa had been passing messages.

“I’ve got it,” the street artist called in triumph. The three of us crowded around him and looked into the face of our possible murderer for the first time. It was a square, clean-shaven face, a man of perhaps forty years with a birthmark on his chin. He had typically British features and gave the appearance of a stern, no-nonsense sort of person. It was an intelligent face, and not one I would associate with violent behavior. Most of all, though I did not recognize his face, I somehow felt I had seen him recently, if only I could place just where.

“He matches the description of the man in the park who Da Silva said was speaking against the Jew,” Barker said, turning to Poole. “I believe this has answered your question, Terry. Whether the deaths were personally motivated or not, this fellow obviously has an agenda against the Jews. I still think he will attempt to force a pogrom if he can.”

When we came out of the building, it was nearing six. Poole was anxious to take the sketch to Scotland Yard, and Barker and I were hungry, neither of us having eaten since breakfast. We parted company, and the Guv and I walked back to the station, where we were able to catch a hansom dropping a fare. I fell asleep in the cab and knew nothing until Barker shook me roughly to say we were at the Elephant and Castle. We were a couple of tired and hungry men as we passed down the lane behind Barker’s home and reached for the latch of the back gate. All my thoughts were of a filling dinner and a warm bed. The last thing I expected was for us to be set upon in our own alleyway.

A
T LEAST A DOZEN MEN CAME AT US OUT OF
the gloom of the alley, their hands filled with staves, axe handles, and other makeshift weapons. I recognized none of them. Was this it, I wondered? Were we finally being set upon by the Anti-Semite League? Roughly, Barker thrust me through the gate and followed behind. With a ham-sized fist, he smacked a small brass gong which hung near the entrance. The sound reverberated around the small enclosure. At the far end of the garden there was a horrid screech. It was Harm giving the alarm. Without slowing his cacophony, he flew across the lawn, charging the first intruder. Pekingese, I have discovered, have absolutely no fear when it comes to protecting their property from invasion.

Harm sunk his razorlike teeth into the ankle of the first man, bringing a cry of pain to his lips. Before he could do any further damage, however, a second fellow caught the little dog full in the ribs, a savage kick that brought a yelp of pain from the poor animal, and sent him flying several feet into the bushes.

That tore it, as far as I was concerned. I saw red. Just who did these blighters think they were, coming onto our property and kicking our dog? There the big blackguard stood, his foot still in the air. Is it any wonder I seized the offending foot in my hands and planted my own full in the fellow’s stomach?

Another scoundrel seized my lapel and raised a club, ready to strike me down. It was just like an exercise in Barker’s class. I trapped his hand with my own, stepped back, and raised my other arm up hard, striking him in the elbow joint. I felt rather than heard the break, and the fellow went down holding his arm. At that moment, I was struck two different blows by men armed with staves, and I tried another trick that Barker had demonstrated in class: run when you are momentarily outnumbered.

As I passed him, Barker appeared in little trouble. He was mowing men down as if they were skittles. I saw him pick up one fellow like a doll and toss him into two more. Then he seized one of the others by the wrist, and flipped him so fast, he caught another in the jaw with the man’s foot. My employer might have been out for a little light evening’s entertainment, but I had a ringing head and a sore shoulder and was in need of a good wall to put my back against.

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?”