It took me a moment to realize he was referring to me. A mad killer? Me? I didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered.
I’m not sure how long Barker had originally intended us to stay, but obviously he had decided to return to London. I overheard our hostess trying to convince the Guv to linger another day or two, but he insisted we get back. The fact that Venucchi had been here before us was more than he could stand. I could tell it by the set of his square jaw.
At Seaford I carried Harm’s wicker carrier onto the train and left Barker and Mrs. Ashleigh to say their private goodbyes. When he entered the carriage the Guv tried to act nonchalant, as if he was above sentimentalities. I rather envied his having someone, but at the same time I saw all too clearly how much danger his work brought into the lives of those around him.
* * *
As soon as we arrived in Victoria Station, Barker freed Harm, the empty cage being sent along with our luggage later. We took a hansom to Newington, the dog perched with his little back paws on his owner’s knees and the front ones hooked over the doors of the cab, barking at anything he felt required it. The little creature always took great joy in cab rides.
Not being satisfied with only one view, Harm moved to my side; and before I knew it I was in full custody of him. The Guv opened his newspaper like a foldable screen, successfully dividing the cab. The dog and I have a strange relationship: he considers me a servant too addlepated to intuit what he wants, while I consider him to be a burden, though one I’ve grown accustomed to. I let him share my bed and he lets me share his garden.
London looked the same. Apparently the Mafia had not taken over in our brief absence. We had no sooner begun our journey than it began to drizzle. Harm got down from his perch immediately and attempted to burrow behind my elbow. If there is anything he detests, it is getting wet. Having buried himself in a safe place roughly behind my right kidney he sat comfortably and let me receive the occasional lashing of rain in the face.
Finally we reached the house. I left Barker to deal with his dog, passed the fare through the trap, receiving another face full of rain for my efforts, and then we all hurried down the steps and across the pavement through the familiar front door. Home at last, I thought, and not a moment too soon, as the sky ripped open with a peal of thunder that should have been reserved for Judgment Day, and the rain set to in earnest.
“Welcome home, gentlemen,” Mac said, handing each of us a towel. God bless the fellow-he’s a competent butler. He even draped one over the dog and rubbed his long fur. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of my cheek but did not ask me about it.
“Thank you, Mac. How has everything been here?” Barker asked. I wondered if he was glad to be back in his bachelor’s establishment, which gave him so much more control over everything.
Barker continued questioning Mac about the house and whether anything untoward had occurred. Meanwhile, Harm sniffed the front hallway and made his way to the back door, where his tail went down and he looked my way. I followed him down the hall and opened the door. Harm looked out into the yard and back at me. Apparently, this was one of those times when his servant wouldn’t obey. He wanted me to stop the rain.
“Sorry, old fellow,” I told him. “You’re on your own.”
Reluctantly, the dog stepped out into the downpour. I had assumed he would merely accomplish his task and scurry in quickly, but Harm had been away from his domain for a few days, and rain or no rain, was going to inspect it.
“Harm!” I complained, as he waddled over the bridge. I had no wish to get soaked again merely to retrieve a wayward dog. We had played this game too many times before. I crossed over to the hallway stand while Barker and Mac chuntered on about the condition of the garden and what post had arrived, and retrieved an umbrella. This is where human intelligence won out over brute instinct. Gingerly I stepped out into the garden.
Just then something streaked out from behind the potting shed toward Harm. I thought at first it was an animal, but as it scooped up the little creature, it rose up into the form of a man, wearing a black suit with his collar pulled up and a cap. He headed toward the gate, the poor dog’s tail hanging limp under his arm. Barker’s prized Pekingese was in the arms of a stranger.
I am cursed with a vivid imagination, and here is what I saw in those brief seconds as the man reached the gate. I pictured Harm’s pelt, the dried skin of this rare and beloved creature, tossed carelessly over the wall for my employer’s edification, to prove to him that he was not invulnerable, that in fact, when it came to the Sicilian brotherhood, no one was.
I yelled something; dropped my umbrella; and then ran as fast as I could, ignoring the crooked path and vaulting the narrow stream that bisected the garden. From the other side of the wall I heard Harm’s danger cry, something in between a bark and a howl. For a small dog, he has great volume. Good boy, I thought, tell Uncle Thomas which way he’s taking you.
Reaching the back gate, I squeezed through, then looked both ways. I’d be no good to Barker’s dog if I walked into an ambush. There was no one there, but a hundred feet away, the dog thief was having a spot of trouble of his own. Harm had decided he’d had enough of such attacks upon his dignity and had sunk his teeth into his assailant’s hand. Now Chinese palace dogs don’t visibly have much in the jaw department, but I knew from experience that when he latched onto one, he could hang there until sunset. The man was actually holding the dog out by the hindquarters, trying to break its hold on his wrist.
“Hey!” I cried, being the former classics scholar at Magdalen College that I am. If I’d been given sufficient time I’d have come up with a better remark, something like “I say! Put down that dog!” I’m not always good at coming up with le mot juste at le temps juste. It was successful, at least. The thief dropped the dog-or possibly the dog dropped the thief-and they parted company to their mutual satisfaction.
Harm ran back down the lane and through the round gate to the safety of his domain, while I pulled the dagger from my sleeve, ready to do battle again. For once, I was spared. The young man took one look at the knife in my hand and the ugly, fresh scar on my cheek and ran in the other direction. I was not inclined to give chase.
I pushed open the gate, then locked it firmly. On the little stone bridge, Cyrus Barker stood in his black macintosh and hat, holding his sturdy umbrella over the shivering dog under his arm. I trotted forward through sheets of water and followed my employer into the house.
It had been a disorganized ruse, a feint, a light dessert to the previous night’s meal. There wasn’t even a need to speak of it when it was over. Barker and I went our separate ways, and I am happy to report I spent a rather dull evening reading Thomas Hardy. There’s a lot to be said for good, calm, dull evenings.
20
"How shall we start our day?” I asked my employer the following morning in our offices.
Barker drummed his fingers on the desk. “I want a meeting of the leaders on our side: Gigliotti, Hooligan, Robert Dummolard, and Ben Tillett. There may possibly be others.”
“Mr. K’ing?”
“I’d prefer to keep the Chinese out of this, because of Hooligan, unless I have no alternative.”
“Where should we meet? Here?”
“No.” Barker rose and opened his smoking cabinet. He withdrew a meerschaum and began stuffing it. “It would draw unwanted attention to us, and I doubt any of them wish to be seen so close to Scotland Yard.”