Old Scores--A Barker & Llewelyn Novel Page 2

  “Mac!” I called down the stairs.

  “Yes, Mr. Llewelyn?” our butler’s voice carried upward toward me. There was no pause between my call and his response, as if he were waiting for it. I padded downstairs in my bare feet.

  Mac was fully dressed and holding a candle in his hand in the hallway. He was looking out into the street through the narrow strips of glass on either side of the door. Beside him, Harm, Barker’s prized Pekingese, circled the hall warily.

  “Where has he gone?” I asked.

  “He didn’t say. He left not long after you.”

  “Did he receive a telephone call or a message?”

  “No, he just left.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Nothing. By the time I asked when he would return, he was gone.”

  I looked at the Swedish standing clock in our hall.

  “He’s been gone for hours, then.”

  “Yes,” Mac replied.

  “He can generally take care of himself.”

  “Generally, yes.”

  I considered the matter. “Surely he would have called if he knew he would be overlong.”

  “Of course. You know how considerate he is,” Mac said.

  “Should I go look for him?” I asked. “It’s only been a few hours, but still…”

  “Where would you begin? He could be anywhere. He could be in Paris or Amsterdam by now. And if not, he’s out there among millions of people.”

  “So, what do we do?”

  “I am a butler. I keep house. It is my duty. Tracking down our employer is yours.”

  “Right,” I answered. “I just wondered if you had any suggestions.”

  “I don’t.”

  “What was his mood when he left?” I asked.

  “He looked preoccupied.”

  “Did you notice that he hesitated before greeting the delegation this morning?”

  “No, I didn’t notice. You think it significant?”

  “It might be. You said he left not long after I did?”

  “Half an hour or so.”

  “On the one hand, he could have been waiting for me to leave. On the other, he might have thought of something and left on the spur of the moment.”

  “Does that particularly matter?”

  “Perhaps.”

  I might have said I didn’t have the slightest idea but that wouldn’t give Mac any confidence in my abilities. Not that he had any, mind you.

  “I can’t just traipse all over town, but I might pass by the embassy and see if the Guv is there.”

  Mac raised an eyebrow, but didn’t reply.

  “If I don’t seem likely to return before midnight, I’ll call. I hope he’ll simply come home ahead of me.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Mac said, though neither one of us believed it.

  “To your knowledge, has he disappeared like this before?”

  “It happened frequently after he first opened the agency. He was arrested often and had to acquaint himself with the Metropolitan Police and other local agencies. Now most would not dare arrest him.”

  “You think he was arrested?” I asked.

  “I didn’t say that. Stop making me do your work for you.”

  “I was questioning a witness. I’m not certain how reliable he is, though.”

  Mac rolled his eyes. He can roll them far back in his head. It was his standard method for suggesting that I’m an idiot who had somehow wandered in off the street one day and been taken in. Mac doesn’t like to admit he was also a stray rescued by Barker. A Welshman and a Jew, rescued by a Scotsman, a household of outsiders in this mad country called England.

  I thought about taking my pistol; thought long and hard, in fact, but decided against it. If I did attempt to enter the embassy, I would be hindered and possibly detained if I carried a firearm. I did carry a stout stick, however. London can be a dangerous place at night. The good citizens go indoors while the ones lurking in shadows all day come out to either find a way to make money or to spend it. They were not especially particular how to do either.

  I had the address and it was a good one, fortunately. The temporary embassy was in the private home of Lord Arthur Diosy, The Times had reported. Diosy was a gentleman, the kind with a good deal of money, as well as an Orientalist who spoke fluent Japanese, so it seemed logical that he would host the delegation in his mansion, where he could both practice his Japanese and keep an eye on the entourage.

  I had no idea whether I would even be able to see anyone, but then I wasn’t sure I would need to. I would go there and then see. The address was in Bermondsey, a nice row of residences each of whose owner could have probably fed the entire population of Cwmbran, where I was raised. As far as I could tell in the twilight, the house was a white marble structure with pillars on either side of the door and twelve windows facing the street. It was all lit up, in spite of the late hour. I listened carefully to hear if there was a party going on inside. I had been introduced before. Perhaps I could get invited inside long enough to ask if Barker had come by.

  The front door was guarded, however. A constable stood in front of each pillar and two of the bodyguards were sitting on the steps beside each other, watching and talking together. The place looked impenetrable. I doubted Barker would be up late attending an embassy party. For one thing, it was not the Baptist thing to do.

  I had just about decided to go back home, when a heavy hand landed on my shoulder. I almost flicked my fist over my shoulder according to my training, breaking the assailant’s nose. Luckily, I controlled myself. Constables take exception to being assaulted.

  “Pardon me, sir,” he said. “What is your name and your business here?”

  “Thomas Llewelyn. I’m a private enquiry agent. I work for Cyrus Barker. I’m looking for him.”

  Then the constable took me by the elbow with his other hand. It’s a strange thing about daily training in antagonistics. It tends to make one shy of being manhandled. The mind automatically goes to how to free oneself, and how to counter whatever might come next. My instinct told me to pull my hand away sharply and smack the edge of it under his chin strap. Logic told me not to get myself into trouble. Barker might need me.

  “Come along with me, sir,” he said, and began to march me forward toward the house, the very house I was trying to get into. Now that I was heading exactly where I wanted to be going, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go any longer.

  Once inside, I took off my bowler out of habit and continued moving forward. There did not appear to be a party, as I thought. The house seemed silent, but then the Japanese, from what I had observed, are a quiet race.

  The mansion was sumptuous, but rather typical, with a large staircase in the middle, leading to a landing above and rooms on either side of a large hall. There were Persian carpets underfoot, and a display of ivory carvings from Japan, some a trifle ribald. In place of the usual baronial portraits, there were paintings of Japanese landscapes, and a feudal suit of armor. Mr. Diosy needed something on which to waste his money, I supposed. He could spend it as he liked.

  I was herded into the bowels of the house. I suspected where we were going before we arrived. An inspector and two constables were in the kitchen with the cook. Cups and saucers were on the table, along with the remains of a cake studded with sultanas.

  “Who have you got there, Wilkes?” the inspector asked.

  “I caught this fellow lurking about outside, sir. He admits to being an accomplice.”

  “Oh, he does, does he?”

  “I admit nothing of the kind. I arrived less than five minutes ago, looking for my employer, who has been missing for several hours. The cabman who let me off was license number 718. What has happened here? Why are you in the embassy?”

  “Wilkes, search his pockets.”

  A skill inspectors acquire over their long years in the Metropolitan Police is the ability to ask questions without answering them. I might as well have been a sheep bleating for all that he paid attentio
n to me. I supposed that facts were a commodity too rare to be passed about wantonly.

  Wilkes, an eager, bumptious fellow, searched my pockets none too gently and finally slapped down Barker’s wallet on the table. The inspector, still nameless, gave it a whistle and picked it up.

  “Thick,” he said.

  “I’ll expect a receipt.”

  The inspector read Barker’s business card.

  CYRUS BARKER

  Private Enquiry Agent

  Whitehall 112 7 Craig’s Court, CE

  “Trust but be careful in whom.”

  “Do you always carry another man’s wallet in your pocket?”

  “I do, actually. Mr. Barker does not like to pay for anything himself.”

  “Don’t see why not. He’s got plenty of the ready. Constable Gore, quit swilling tea and count this money. The gent wants a bloody receipt.”

  “May I have your name, Inspector?” I asked.

  “Dunn. ‘H’ Division.”

  Dunn was a small-eyed, square-jawed fellow in his mid-thirties. He was already beginning to look jowly, as if he were half bulldog. His hair was slicked to his head and he wore straight side whiskers down to his jawline, in the manner of General Gordon. He was the kind that had risen up through the ranks, had seen everything, and was surprised by nothing.

  “Inspector Dunn, has Mr. Barker been here this evening? As I said, I’m looking for him.”

  The inspector glanced at my business card, which was retrieved from my own wallet.

  “He was. He’s gone now. Some johnnies from the Foreign Office came and collected him. He wasn’t here long, just long enough to shoot the Japanese ambassador.”

  “What?” I cried. “Are you serious?”

  “Oh, no, I always tell little jokes like that. Tell me, were you sent to shoot someone else?”

  “Of course not. I don’t even have a pistol with me!”

  “No, but I recognize a fighting cane when I see one. Did you plan to beat the man to death?”

  “I only came here because I was looking for my employer. The delegation toured his garden this morning. I thought he might have come here.”

  “That’s nice,” Dunn said. “Did the ambassador criticize his roses, by chance?”

  I was getting decidedly frustrated now. “Where did the Foreign Office take him?”

  “Them Foreign Office fellows don’t reveal their plans to lowly inspectors, Mr. Llewelyn. Your guess is probably as good as mine. Maybe better. Constable Wilkes, go out and track down cabman number 718 and get the particulars of how this gentleman arrived. And hop it. We don’t have all night.”

  Dunn had just watched Wilkes pour tea into a mug and add cream and sugar. The constable was just in the act of bringing the mug to his lips for the first time when the order came. Wilkes made a dark face, put down his mug, and left the room. The inspector had the ability to irritate several people at once.

  “So,” I said. “You fellows caught Mr. Barker in the act or shortly afterward, and were questioning him when the Foreign Office swooped in and snatched up your suspect without a by-your-leave.”

  “Summat like that.”

  “Typical,” I said. “And they’re questioning him while you are forced to guard the premises and to look for clues.”

  Dunn raised a brow.

  “And they’ll probably take credit for the collar, as well, I have no doubt.”

  “Standard procedure.”

  “So, you’re left with nothing.”

  “Not nothing, Mr. Llewelyn. We have you. Slap the darbies on him, Constable Gore.”

  I should have seen that coming.

  “Am I under arrest, Inspector?”

  “No, sir. You shall be questioned.”

  “Why not question me here and now, then? It will save time.”

  “I’m going off my shift. I’ve been up three days straight. Besides, if and when you’re finally released from Scotland Yard, you’ll be right there by your offices in Craig’s Court. So you could say the Yard is paying your cab fare. Not that you’d have any trouble there, with your boss’s wallet in your pocket.”

  “Much obliged.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Llewelyn, what was your Mr. Barker a-doing here at this time o’ night? Was he hoping to be asked to dance?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t know why he came here. I wasn’t even certain that he had come here. It was an educated guess, I suppose.”

  “From an educated man, no doubt. In what college, sir, did you matriculate?”

  I was slightly impressed that Dunn even knew what “matriculate” meant. These were deep waters. Men such as the inspector did not care for educated men, whom they considered posh. It was no good explaining that I had won a scholarship and that my father was a collier. To him, I ate my jam on a silver spoon.

  “Magdalen.”

  “Cambridge?”

  “Oxford. It’s a common error. Both universities have a Magdalen college, but ours is pronounced with a silent g. Well, never mind.”

  My head is stuffed with too many facts. One never knows when one might pop out, such as in front of an inspector.

  “Oh, no, Mr. Llewelyn. This is very illuminating. I never knew there were two colleges named for Mary Magdalene, the fallen woman.”

  “Actually, that’s a misconception. Mary, the sister of Martha and Lazarus, was the fallen woman. Mary Magdalene was probably a—”

  Dunn thumped me one in the stomach. Hard. Over the years in Barker’s antagonistics classes, I had learned how to tighten my stomach, but only when I knew the punch was coming. Dunn’s blow knocked the wind right out of me. I rolled on the floor in agony.

  “Clumsy,” Dunn said. “Sorry about that, young fella. I tripped. You all saw me trip, didn’t you, lads?”

  All of the men in the room agreed. Terrible how clumsy the inspector was, always having to apologize. He really must work on that.

  Meanwhile, the air was slowly working its way back into my lungs, and my stomach chose, against expectations, to unwrap itself from my spinal column. Too soon, Dunn pulled me up roughly and set me on my pins.

  “What were we a-talkin’ about, Mr. Llewelyn?”

  I coughed, not certain if I could speak.

  “I don’t recall, sir,” I mustered.

  He smiled. “Too bad. And there I was learning so many interesting things. Gore! Hail a cab and take this man to ‘A’ Division. No, better make it the CID. Keep an eye on him. I’ve heard of the Barker Agency. They are supposed to be slippery coves. If somehow he manages to escape, you’ll be lugging floaters and flogging sewer duty until you’re old and gray. Got it?”

  Gore concentrated his gaze on me as if I had just insulted his mother. I smiled helpfully. I had been arrested or detained several times. Normally, I gave everyone as much chaff as I dared get away with, but now I needed to find Barker. The CID seemed like a good place to start. I had been on my best behavior, but it had still led to my being arrested.

  “Come along, you,” he said, gritting his teeth.

  I sighed. “Whatever you say, PC Gore.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  We passed Barker’s offices on the way to Scotland Yard and I craned my neck to see if anything was going on there. It was impossible to see from Whitehall Street, since the bow window mainly faced businesses on the other side of Craig’s Court. The street is so narrow that once during the Regency period a carriage containing the speaker of the House stuck fast between two buildings and the man had to be cut out. Anyway, I saw nothing, for there was nothing to see unless someone was actually entering or leaving the premises.

  We passed through the gate in Great Scotland Yard and slowed in front of “A” Division, where we alighted. A year before I had actually been in uniform, a special constable during the Ripper investigation, but that was water under the bridge. The Charing Cross Railway and Footbridge, to be exact. We went inside the offices of New Scotland Yard, where I strolled up to the desk sergeant and showed him my
lovely new bracelets.

  “Very nice,” the sergeant said. “Good to see you again, Mr. Llewelyn.”

  “Likewise, Sergeant Kirkwood. What are you doing here so late in the evening?”

  “I’m filling in for an officer who was ill.”

  There was no question about why I was in darbies or how Mr. Barker was or what the commissioner was up to these days, the rascal. He took my arrest as a matter of course.

  “This way, Mr. Llewelyn,” Constable Gore said.

  “Thank you,” I replied.

  I didn’t know the PC and had no wish to become better acquainted with his truncheon. Being perfect strangers was just fine by me. He led me up the stair and down a few corridors and then took me into a room where a man was seated behind a desk.

  “Loiterer up Bermondsey way, sir. Has no alibi. Says he came there to find his master, Mr. Barker.”

  “Did he, now?” the man said. Actually, he was a detective chief inspector.

  “I have an alibi, actually,” I replied. “But it has not yet been verified.”

  A rough hand seized my shoulder and the constable was so close to my ear that his helmet strap brushed against it.

  “Shut your gob, you,” he said, as if by my correction we were now both in trouble.

  “Leave the suspect with me, Constable,” the DCI said. “That will be all.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gore answered, tugging on the brim of his helmet. He left me alone with the inspector.

  We stared at each other for a moment, sizing each other up.

  “Hello, Thomas,” he finally said. “It’s been a while.”

  “It has, Terry. Congratulations on the new promotion, by the way. What has become of your dundrearies?”

  “It has become policy at the Met that side whiskers and beards are to be avoided. Not smart enough,” Terence Poole explained.

  “You are back at ‘A’ Division, I see.”

  “Yes, no thanks to the two of you.”

  Detective Chief Inspector Poole had been transferred a few years ago when Commissioner Warren got the impression that he and Barker were working together too closely. Now Warren was gone, and Poole brought back into the fold of the Criminal Investigation Department. There was little going on in London that he didn’t know about.