“I’m afraid we’re full up, sir,” the clerk said dismissively.
Barker was not to be dissuaded. He cleared his throat loudly and covertly passed a banknote across the desk to the clerk. Not a pound nor a fiver, but a full ten pounds, the price of a room for a week.
“Your name, sir?” the clerk asked, suddenly solicitous. His very demeanor had changed. One would have thought Barker a long-lost uncle.
“Johannes van Rhyn.”
“You are from …?”
“London. Well, Berlin, originally, but that was years ago. I lived in Budapest and then in St. Petersburg for a year, and …”
“London will be fine, sir. And your occupation?”
“I am an industrialist,” Barker said, puffing out his chest.
“Thank you, sir. You are most fortunate. A suite of rooms has just been vacated. We can put you in Number 47.”
“Danke. Is that rascal Dunleavy about? I have an appointment with him this afternoon.”
“The colonel is in the dining room, sir.”
“Excellent. Have our bags sent up to our rooms. We shall have a meal after our little journey.”
We made our way into the dining room, but Barker made no attempt to spy out Alfred Dunleavy. We were shown to a table, and he made something of an act of being cantankerous, refusing the first one. Once seated, he ordered tea and roast beef and said loudly, “Well, Thomas, we are here.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, trying not to look around. I wondered what Barker was about. Casually, I glanced around the room. I couldn’t see any terrorists, but, then, they don’t exactly wear uniforms or have insignias on their lapels.
“Mr. van Rhyn!” a voice suddenly cried. “Telegram for Mr. van Rhyn!”
“Over here, my good fellow!” Barker called out to the young porter, whom he tipped a shilling. He opened the message and perused it, with the note close to his eyes. From where I sat, I could see it was blank. He had sent it himself from the train station. What was he up to? I wondered.
Our meal arrived, and without a word we ate. It was classic hotel dining room fare, the meat cut from a large joint on a serving table in the room, but I had no interest in it as I had eaten so well at breakfast. Barker had that look about him of a man waiting for a fish to rise to the bait. It did not take long.
“Pardon me, gentlemen,” a polished American voice drawled behind me. I looked up to see a man in his mid-fifties with white hair, worn rather long, and a short beard. He affected a breezy manner, but his eyes glowed like banked coals. “I hope you will forgive my rude interruption of your meal, but would I be addressing Mr. Johannes van Rhyn?”
“Perhaps,” Barker responded in his assumed German accent. “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
“My name is Colonel Alfred Dunleavy, and I am a representative of the Irish Republican Brotherhood,” he said, putting out a hand.
“I am indeed Johannes van Rhyn,” Barker said, taking the offered hand.
“I am very gratified to hear it. Mr. van Rhyn, we had heard rumors that you’d been snatched away by the British government and taken to a secluded place at Her Majesty’s expense.”
Barker nodded. “Ja. That swine Parnell informed on me, I think, because I would not agree to his terms. My solicitor was able to gain me a temporary release, and I have taken the opportunity to decamp. I am traveling to Dublin, then making my way to America. I have made too many enemies in Europe. It is time to see the New World, don’t you think, Mr. Penrith? Excuse me, Herr Dunleavy, I would like to present Thomas Penrith, my assistant.”
“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” the American said, briefly shaking my hand. “I assure you, gentlemen, that I concur with your opinion of Mr. Parnell. But before you slip through our fingers, allow me the opportunity of delaying your departure for just a while longer. I’d like to present a proposal to you.”
“I might be willing to entertain an offer. What do you have in mind?”
“May I arrange an appointment with you this evening in your rooms? I’d like to speak with my associates. Would ten o’clock be suitable?”
“Certainly, sir. We would be delighted.”
“It was most fortuitous that you should choose this hotel to stay in.”
“I heard it was the best,” Barker said, shrugging. “And one has but one life, after all.”
“My sentiments exactly, gentlemen. We will speak later. I’ll leave you to your meal. Until then.” He bowed, and left the dining room.
“That was simple enough,” I said, returning to my food.
“I hazarded a guess that Dunleavy would be as fond of spending the Irish-American money as Parnell and that he would choose a hotel close to the station. Keep your wits about you, lad, and do not look around. If Dunleavy is the old campaigner I think he is, he shall send a confederate to watch us. He cannot be certain we are whom we claim to be, but by turning us down, he might have missed a great opportunity. He will alert his associates and have us watched.”
“What shall we do?” I asked.
“We shall eat, and then go to our rooms. We are not tourists here to see Liverpool.”
As we were nearing the end of our meal, a man came in casually and ordered a cup of tea. From the quick glance I caught of him as I summoned a waiter for a new fork, I saw that he was close to thirty with curly hair and a sharp nose over a small mustache.
“Is that the man?” I asked in a low voice.
“Doubtless,” my employer answered. “From where I am seated, I can see that he is missing two fingers, a sure sign of the amateur bomber. Also, he’s looked at us twice since he came in.”
The fellow followed us out of the dining room and up the stairs, staying some distance behind us. When we were safely in our rooms, I heard his footsteps pass a half minute later.
“That was …” I began, but Barker put a finger to his lips. I looked over at the bottom of the door, where a sliver of light shone in from the hall. After a moment’s pause, a flicker of shadow moved across the light.
Still standing in front of the door, my employer pulled back his arm, and then smote the door very close to eye level. I could picture the fellow in the hall with his ear pressed against the other side. I heard feet stagger back and then run swiftly down the hall. Barker wasn’t going to let these fellows think that the prickly van Rhyn was going to be that easy to handle.
11
It was near eleven when they finally appeared at our door. The odor of alcohol that I smelled on Colonel Dunleavy told me our rooms had not been his first stop of the evening, but his associates seemed sober enough. There were two of them, and one was the fellow who had followed us earlier.
“Gentlemen!” Alfred Dunleavy bellowed when we opened the door. “We come bearing gifts.”
I need hardly mention that the gifts were all of the liquid variety. Each of the colonel’s subordinates carried a wooden crate full of bottles, which they set down on the largest table in the room. There was a bottle of schnapps, bottles of Irish and Scotch whiskey, and a dozen bottles of ale. Rather than risk having the whiskey forced on me, I took a Guinness.
“I’ve never been to Liverpool before,” I said. “What’s it like?”
“I believe you’ll find the town has much to recommend it, sir,” the third man spoke up. “It combines the rowdiness of Dublin with the anonymity of London. You’ll feel welcome.”
“I am Johannes van Rhyn,” Barker announced, putting out his hand. “And you are?”
“Eamon O’Casey,” the fellow said, shaking it firmly. “This is Niall Garrity.”
O’Casey was a young, capable-looking chap with a confident manner and an athletic build. He looked like a university student, the kind who takes a first in his studies and has a blue in rowing. As it turned out, that is exactly what he was. He had recently graduated from Trinity in Dublin. With his square jaw and frank, hazel eyes, I could see him succeeding in whatever he undertook, and he must have caught the eye of many a girl in Dublin or in Liverpool, for that matter.