Bodger rolled his eyes skyward. "Beard. Glasses. Looked like a ponce."
"All right, Bodger, what did this gentleman who came around give you to understand you were signing on to do?"
"I can tell you this: He didn't tell us nuffin' 'bout what went on in that bleedin' biscuit factory. No, sir. That's why I run off like I did. And don't think they're not after me for it neither—"
The air was shattered by a piercing chorus of police whistles.
"Coppers!"
The alarm went up, and the men in the dice game scattered. Before Doyle could react, Bodger turned tail and sprinted for the dressing room, the front doors burst open and a squadron of bobbies, batons raised, rushed into the gym. Another phalanx burst through the back exit, and the battle was joined, a half-dozen of them occupied solely with Bodger, whose prowess did not by its demonstration seem in ite least bit overstated. Barry took Doyle's arm, holding him in place.
"It'll go better for us if we don't run, gov," he shouted over the din.
"'But Bodger was just about to tell us—"
"No worries; chances are ripe we'll be sharing a cell soon enough."
"But we're not here to play dice."
"Try telling the grasshoppers that. Rum go, but there it is."
Two policemen were moving toward them. Barry put his hands on top of his cap and advised Doyle to do the same. Doyle instead began walking lively toward the officers.
"Now see here," asserted Doyle, "I'm a doctor!"
"And I'm queen of the May," said the bobby.
The first blow caught Doyle along the side of the head.
Barry's concerned face was the first sight that greeted Doyle when he opened his eyes.
"Feelin' a bit wonky, guv?" asked Barry.
"Where are we?"
"The clink. Gaol. Pentonville, I fink." Doyle tried to sit up, and his head spun like a multicolored pinwheel.
"Easy on, guv," said Barry. "Quite the cue ball you're cultivatin' there."
Doyle raised a hand to the blood-pounding site on his forehead and found a swollen goose egg residing there. "What happened?"
"You missed the ride in the Black Maria. Bein' hauled into lockup was nuffink special. Been ten minutes additional since I set you on this bench."
As his vision stabilized, Doyle perceived they were in a large common holding cell, shared by a milling mix of roughnecks and reprobates, many of whom he recognized from the gymnasium dice game. The room was filthy and reeked to high heaven, a quality, traceable to the common latrine adorning one wall. Roaches the size of thumbs scuttled fearlessly around the margins and over the boots of men who seemed all too accustomed to their company.
"Ever been between the bars before, guv?"
"Never."
Barry regarded him sympathetically. "Not much to recommend it."
Doyle searched the faces roaming the cell. "Where's Bodger?"
"Bodger Nuggins is not among our numbers," said Barry.
"Was he in the Black Maria?"
"I would have to answer in the negative."
"Did you see him escape the gym?"
"No."
Doyle gingerly probed his throbbing head. "What have they charged us with?"
"Charged us? Nuffink'."
"They can't very well hold us here if they don't charge us with a crime."
"This is your first time, idn't it?" asked Barry with a subtle
smile.
"But this is all a dreadful mistake. Tell them we demand to see a barrister," said Doyle, with somewhat hollow conviction. "We have our rights, after all."
"Well . . . suppose there's a first time for everything," Barry replied, trying to make a good show of mulling it over.
Doyle studied him: The irony in Barry's musing quickly communicated the utter futility of pursuing what Doyle had assumed to be the ordinary channels. Instead, Doyle searched his pockets and fished out his physician's prescription notepad; the sight of the Rx gave him a jolt, as if he'd uncovered a relic of some long-forgotten civilization.
"Barry, can you secure me something to write with?"
Barry nodded and sidled over into the flow of convicts. He returned minutes later with a scrounged nub of a pencil. Doyle took it and scrawled out a hasty message.
"Now we're going to need some money," said Doyle.
"How much?"
"How much can you manage?"
Barry sighed heavily. "Stand over here, please, guv."
Doyle stood and shielded Barry from the rest of the room as he turned to the wall, unbuttoned a hidden flap on the in-side of his waistcoat, and pulled out a bulging roll of five-pound notes. "Will this do?"
"Just one, I think, will be more than sufficient," said Doyle, trying to conceal his amazement.
Barry peeled one note off and replaced the rest. Doyle took the note from him and tore it neatly in half.
"Cor ... wot'zat then?" gasped Barry.
"Do you know an officer here you can trust?"
"There's a contradiction in terms—" Let me rephrase that: Do you know one who can be relied upon to do a job for money?"
Barry looked out at the guards patrolling the corridor. "Could do."
Doyle folded the written note around half the bill and handed it to him. "Half now, the rest when we get word the message's been received."
Give it a go," said Barry, sneaking a look at the note as he moved toward the bars. He couldn't help but notice the note was addressed to Inspector Claude Leboux.
Two hours later, Doyle was summarily escorted without
explanation to a small room at Pentonville set aside for ques-
tioning of suspects. Minutes afterward, Leboux appeared alone, his mustache fairly bristling with anger. He closed the door and stared at Doyle.
"Hello, Claude."
"Corralled at a dice game, Arthur? I don't recall gambling as a vice you were given to indulge."
"I wasn't there to gamble, Claude, This is a clear case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Leboux sat opposite to Doyle, folded his arms, splayed out his feet, and toyed with one waxed end of his mustache while he waited for the next line of questions to coalesce in his mind. Trying to heed Sparks's repeated advice about mistrusting the police, Doyle weighed how much he needed to divulge in order to secure his release, without drawing down the unwelcome attention of Leboux's superiors.
"You look like a valet," Leboux finally said.
"There have been repeated attempts on my life by the identical parties who tried the other day. This is by way of avoiding detection."
"Why haven't you come to me?"
"I've been out of the city since you last saw me," said Doyle, thankful to employ some small grain of truth. "Leaving London seemed the safest course."
"Was it?"
"No, as it happens. These assailants have pursued me relentlessly."
"When did you return, Arthur?"
"Last night."
"Have you been to your flat?"
Petrovitch, thought Doyle; he knows about Petrovitch. "I haven't, Claude. I wasn't at all sure it would be safe." Doyle waited, summoning the bland countenance he employed in the presence of patients who had ventured beyond hope of recovery but weren't up to receiving the news.
"Your building was burned down," Leboux finally said.
"My flat?"
"A total loss, I'm afraid."
Doyle shook his head. Fire again. Not hard to reason who's responsible for that, thought Doyle. My flat gone. It wasn't the thought of losing his possessions that troubled him so— he'd considered those lost already. Now not only all evidence of Petrovitch's murder but the outrage they had visited to his
rooms as well was gone forever. A hot coil of anger went red inside him.
"Claude, I want to ask you something," said Doyle. "In your capacity as inspector."
"All right""
"Are you at all familiar with the name . . . Alexander Sparks?"'
Leboux looked up at the ceiling and squinted. After a moment, he shook his head slightly and took out a notepad and pencil. "Let's have it again." Doyle spelled it for him.