“Billy, this is a souvenir of my time in the trenches, fighting the Boche in the last war,” Archie said. He picked up what looked like a short sword from beneath his chair. With remarkable swiftness he was up, unsheathing the blade from its scabbard. “My own bayonet, seventeen inches long, and still as sharp as the last time I gutted a Boche with it, or anyone else for that matter. Can you feel it?”
I could. He’d stepped around me, pressing the blade to my neck, and I wondered if it had been Archie and Topper that night on Fleet Street, never mind Charlie and his swollen knuckles. “Sure. My old man brought one back from France, too. He keeps his up in the attic.” I felt the cold steel against my soft neck, pressed flat. A slight change of angle and pressure and the carpet would be a helluva mess.
“Did he now? Well, I say once you’ve learned how to use a tool, you don’t let it rust.” He moved away, rubbing his thumb gently along the blade before putting it back in the scabbard, and tucking it back under the seat. “Tell me, what led you to me? Of all the people you could ask about dead Russians in London, why did you decide to visit old Archie?”
“The map,” I said. It was my only card, and I had to play it, weak hand that it was. I watched their faces, and saw the flash of surprise, too quick to hide. In a second their masks of languid cruelty returned, but it told me they hadn’t known Egorov had it in his possession.
“A treasure map?” Topper said with a sneer, buying time to figure out what else I might know.
“Of sorts. The route of a supply truck, from farms up north straight to the Russian Embassy. Like the one that was hijacked a while back.”
“Do tell,” Archie said, settling back into his chair. “Topper, refills all round. One for the road, Billy. Come back when you have something specific to offer, and something specific to ask for.”
“I’m after the murderer,” I said.
“You may be,” Archie said, “but it’s nothing to us. The Russian was nothing to us, so how can we help you? If you have something of value on offer, then it may become something to us. Until then, all we’ll do is have a drink and chat, get to know each other better.”
“Cheers,” I said when the glasses were full, resisting the urge to tell him I’d gotten to know the Chapman family well enough.
“To your father, and all the lads who didn’t come back from that last blasted war, there were enough of them.” He drank his gin down in one gulp, and Topper was ready with the bottle. “And now to you, Billy, in this war.” We all drank again.
“You’re not in the service?” I said to Topper as he filled my glass.
“For health concerns,” Archie was quick to put in. “And I need my boy here, I depend on him, and so do many others.”
“London’s dangerous enough,” I said, watching Topper sit back, clutching his drink, watching me with a stillness that reminded me of a hunter in a blind, quietly waiting for the right moment.
“True,” Archie said. “I’ve seen hundreds of poor civilians killed within a stone’s throw of my door. Life’s risky.”
I drank some more gin, thinking back to the night at Kirby’s Tavern when my dad announced they had cinched the deal to get me on Uncle Ike’s staff in D.C. He’d said exactly the same thing about life.
“No need to tempt fate,” I said, recalling the next thing he’d said.
“Exactly! You never know where that bastard death might find you. Me, I served with the Royal Welch Fusiliers, three years in the trenches, never a scratch, none that could be seen, anyway. You ever heard of Siegfried Sassoon, boy?”
“He’s some sort of poet, isn’t he?”
“He was my captain! Served with him in the First Battalion. Mad Jack, we called him. A holy terror, a man made for night patrols and the knife. A right poof he was too, but no one cared about that, not with a killer the likes of him to lead us. Taught me how to slit a throat and how to appreciate a good bit of poetry; not many that can do both well, not like Mad Jack!” He knocked back his gin and before the glass was down, Topper had it filled. He refilled his and mine and we both drank, it seeming the only sensible thing to do.
“Oh, when one of his friends-his dear friends, you know-when one of them got killed, he’d be in an awful state. Terrible. Took its toll on him, it did, all those pals of his buying it. But he kept me alive, even though there were times I’d pray for a quick bullet. Do you know his poetry, boy? Likely not, likely not. I read it still, his war stuff, I mean, when the bombs fall. Makes me feel better, remembering where I’ve been, and survived. Now listen, and you’ll know what I mean.” He pushed his glass toward Topper, who added a splash and sat back.
He read from the book, poems about rotting corpses, mud, machine guns, and death. He read between slugs of gin, and his voice rose, until the book fell from his hands and he recited a final paragraph, his face turned upward, eyes searching the ceiling for ghosts, flares, or perhaps a glimpse of heaven. Alone he staggered on until he found Dawn’s ghost that filtered down a shafted stair To the dazed, muttering creatures underground Who hear the boom of shells in muffled sound. At last, with sweat of horror in his hair, He climbed through darkness to the twilight air, Unloading hell behind him step by step.
I sat in stunned and gin-soaked silence as he finished. The room beyond, and all the people in it, were quiet, hushed, as if in church at the end of a magnificent sermon. Archie’s eyes were half open, but I knew he was somewhere else, somewhere beyond drunkenness and memory, someplace I never wanted to see, a place worse than hell, that place I’d glimpsed in my own father’s eyes. The trenches.
I stood, glancing at the books on his shelf. All poetry, the big English poets-Blake, Wordsworth, and others I’d never heard of. Americans like Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, and Poe. But it was the volume of Sassoon that was dog-eared, scarred with bookmarks and notations, open on the floor. Topper rose and took me by the arm, guiding me out, into the open space.
“Don’t come back, if you know what’s good for you.” He said it quietly, not a threat, more as a wishful entreaty, a desire for someone to escape the repeated misery of a father’s wartime memories. Charlie returned my revolver, and I walked out of the siding, hardly aware of the faces gazing at me.
I made my way upward. The bombing had stopped, and as I came to the surface it seemed like bright daylight. I squinted against the light and saw it was a raging fire, enveloping a building farther down Liverpool Street. Fire engines pumped streams of water that disappeared into the inferno as I made my way around the wreckage that had spilled out into the street. Firemen snaked hoses around burning timbers as ambulances stood in the rosy, flickering light, their rear doors open, beckoning the injured. Beyond, bodies lay in a row where the sidewalk was clear, dust coating them a uniform gray, their corpses merging into a single lump of shattered flesh and torn clothing. It was the ARP warden I’d talked to on my way in, along with the mother and two small children he’d been helping.
I stumbled out into the street and broke into a run, not knowing where I was going.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I’d decided to join Kaz on his early morning trot through Hyde Park. I wanted to sweat out the stink of gin and poetry that clung to my skin and clogged my brain like a foul nightmare. My head was thick with the smell of smoke I’d inhaled from the fires, the hangover I’d awoken with, and the confusion I felt as I tried to sort through what I’d learned.
I filled Kaz in on my trip to the shelter and the strange interview with Archie and Topper Chapman. Archie’s alcohol-fired poetry reading, the sharp blade to my throat, Topper’s warning, the home-away-from-home setup in the tunnel, it was all strange enough. But what I really didn’t get was their entire lack of interest in Gennady Egorov.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I said, trying to draw in enough breath to speak and keep up with Kaz. “They were interested in doing business if I had something to offer, but they didn’t give a hoot about Egorov.”