“How does Forbes come by his information? Do people just tell him things, or is there some way with the full weight of his office he can force confidences from his brothers? I don’t understand how it works.”
“How could you, not being a member?” he answered. “The first thing you should understand is that police work does not pay well and offers few benefits. By joining the Freemasonry, constables receive insurance and supplemental pay if they are injured. It is more than a fraternal organization. The majority of the Metropolitan Police are members, as are Her Majesty’s Army.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Their members also include MPs, the Home Office, the clergy, and the judiciary. Often the only connection between these offices is the bond of Masonry. If one needs information and cannot not go directly to the source, one could go to Pollock and barter information, or as you would put it, go begging. We certainly had our hat in our hands today.”
“Is that why you did not ask for money?”
“Aye. He was already giving us information and food. I did not wish to be indebted to him any more than I must. If he were to ask us certain questions in exchange, I would prefer we have the freedom to say no, if we choose.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
We were walking through Leicester Square a few minutes later when Barker suddenly pointed to an alleyway so narrow it would be unnoticeable a dozen paces away. I dipped in and Barker followed, flattening himself against the wall. I did the same, realizing we were being followed. I had not noticed him turn around and look once since we left the café, so he must have used every window we passed to scan the crowd behind us. The arrival of plate glass in London had no doubt been a boon to enquiry agencies.
We waited nearly half a minute and I was beginning to think that for once Cyrus Barker was wrong, when suddenly he gave a mighty heave and a man shot past and struck the wall in front of us like a salmon pulled from a Speyside stream. He was about five and twenty and wore a gray serge suit and a silk topper over long curling hair the color of honey, which reached nearly to his shoulders. I can honestly say that if I had any professional instincts to jangle, they jangled then. I recognized a professional criminal when I saw one and stepped forward, pinning him to the wall with my forearm.
“Careful,” he said. “You’ll rend the fabric.”
“I’ll rend more than that. How long have you been following us?”
He shrugged. “Ten minutes or so. I’ve been sent to fetch you.”
“By whom?” I pressed, still pushing him against the brick.
“The Irishman.”
Barker put a hand on my shoulder and I let the dandy stand at ease. He immediately began to pick imagined specks of dust from his jacket and rearranged his clothes to his satisfaction.
“He’s still alive?” Barker rumbled.
“It would take more than a mere plague to kill him.”
“I don’t think we should place ourselves in criminal hands at this particular time, sir,” I told my employer.
“Mr. O’Muircheartaigh said you’d say something like that,” the young man stated. “He told me to say he wishes to extend the olive branch. He understands that your professional relationship has been breached, but the present situation warrants a meeting.”
“I don’t trust him,” I argued.
“Probably best,” the young man agreed.
“I’m not talking to you!” I said, pushing him against the wall again. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Psmith, with a P. The P is silent.”
“Then why bring it up?” I asked.
“I didn’t want you to think I’d made it up.”
“I do think you made it up,” I answered. I didn’t much like this mannequin and his suave manner.
“I don’t believe you,” Barker said. “Or rather, I don’t believe him.”
“He said you’d say that as well. He wanted me to assure you that the olive branch only extends until our mutual obstacle has been eliminated. Then the gloves come off once more.”
“‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend,’” Barker quoted.
“Something like that.”
“That sounds more like Seamus.”
The dandy’s face creased into a smile. “The Irishman is no politician. He would rather be feared than admired. Are you coming? I’ve got a vehicle waiting just down the road.”
“What made you think I would go to the Café Royal?”
“I didn’t, but the boss did. You took your time getting here, too. I’ve waited close to a day. Thought I’d go out of my mind with boredom waiting for you to turn up.”
I looked at Barker, who had crossed his arms and was staring at the man. He came to a decision quickly.
“Very well. We will hear what Seamus has to say.”
The young man led us to a new-looking landau on the other side of the square. It was gleaming black with red wheels and an interior of cream leather. It emphasized in my mind that while we were practically living on the street, O’Muircheartaigh was a success, at least as far as his finances were concerned. We climbed in and Psmith stretched out across from us, his arms strewn across the back of the seat, as if the vehicle belonged to him.
“And how is your master?” Barker asked politely. He was exercising some of that patience he was always telling me to cultivate.
“I call no man master, Mr. Barker. Mr. O’Muircheartaigh is recovering, or so his doctors inform me. You’ll find him gravely changed, however. It is possible he will remain an invalid the rest of his life, but then it was his brain that has gotten him this far.”
We pulled into Commercial Road, headed for the City. The day was warm and the sun beat down unmercifully upon us.
“You’re not what I expected, you know,” Psmith said, after a few minutes. “I mean, being the best detective in London and all. I heard you had a good tailor.”
“This is not a time to be spotted in my sartorial best, Mr. Psmith.” There was a moment of silence before Barker spoke again. “Is Seamus still in hospital?”
“No, at his request he’s been moved to rooms around the corner from the Old Jewry. He keeps his own doctors and nurses on the premises.”
“I suppose you have been given orders to kill them if he dies,” the Guv said.
Psmith chuckled. “You know him rather well.”
“Better than I would wish. You are a shootist, then. Why are shootists always interested in clothing?”
In response, Psmith opened his jacket. He had two small pistols jammed into the waistband of his trousers, with the butts facing forward.
“It’s clean work,” the young man said. “As long as you don’t stand too close.”
“Twenty-two-caliber Remingtons, I see. You must be very accurate.”
“It’s a gift. I hear you’re not bad with a pistol yourself. Is it your weapon of choice?”
“No, it is merely a necessary evil,” my employer said.
“What’s your weapon?” Psmith asked, turning to me.
“Him,” I said.
The young man grinned like a jackal. He smiled too easily for my comfort. “Good answer.”
The cab deposited us at the corner of Old Jewry and Cresham. Psmith unlocked the door of an affluent-looking red brick residence. Inside, two very large gentlemen were seated in the front room and exchanged glances with Psmith as we walked by. We walked down a nondescript corridor until we saw a nurse in her caped uniform and followed her into a sickroom. There were two other nurses there, flanking a bed with a still body resting on an oversized pillow, a counterpane pulled up to his chin.
“All of you, leave us!” O’Muircheartaigh cried peevishly from the bed. “I wish to consult with Messrs. Barker and Llewelyn privately.”
We waited until everyone left the room, and then my employer and I moved closer to O’Muircheartaigh.
I could not believe the change the man had undergone since last I saw him. O’Muircheartaigh’s eyes were sunken in their sockets and he had lost much of his hair, what remained lying lank and colorless against his scalp. The ricin, or whatever it had been, had broken capillaries across his face, leaving it etched in purplish tracks. His skin was jaundiced, the color of cheese rind; even his eyes were an unhealthy yellow. He lay shrunken in his pillows, clutching a small tank in clawlike hands with a valve and a rubber hose from which he breathed periodically.