Part 4 (1/2)

Mr. Safari must be a keen one. He opted not to show for my ambush. I got up and peeked around the corner. He was nowhere, vanished. Maybe he took an alley all his own. Maybe he took off his mask and blended with the regulars. Now that I think about it, I was so distracted by his mask, I didn't catch what the man had been wearing. I stuffed the Engholm into my jacket pocket and proceeded with my morning business.

I reentered the street and let the smells and noises of London wash over me. I tried to see everything at once, hear everything at once, smell everything at once, the clomping of hooves against the barks and cries of wagoners against the scent of manure and roasting nuts and my own stale whiskey s.h.i.+rt. No man gets the drop on me in my home territory.

I entered my tailor's shop and was met with wide-eyed stares from friendly Elester and his two a.s.sistants.

”You look the dog's body,” Elester said.

”I've been busy,” I replied. ”Got a s.h.i.+rt in my size?”

”Off the rack?”

”I've not time for better. Trousers too.”

Elester vanished behind a curtain. One of his a.s.sistants leaned in close.

”You've got feathers in your hair,” he whispered.

I ran a hand through my mop and knocked loose a few white feathers.

”I pow wow on my off days,” I told him.

The a.s.sistant c.o.c.ked his head to one side. I'd once seen a c.o.c.ker spaniel do the same thing. Elester returned with a giant blue and red striped b.u.t.ton-up.

”Christ, Elester! Motley?”

”Sorry, Jolly. I can have a better s.h.i.+rt for you by tomorrow.”

”Trousers?”

”Tomorrow. You're dripping blood on my floor.”

I closed my eyes. I'm not religious by nature but I do believe the Lord tests men on some days more than others. I pulled off my jacket and threw it to the ground. My pistol fell out, of course. I took off my whiskey s.h.i.+rt and exposed my teats and belly in all their glory. I pulled the clown s.h.i.+rt on and tucked it smartly. Then I ripped a great big strip of cloth from my dirty s.h.i.+rt and wrapped my b.l.o.o.d.y hand in it. I donned my jacket and returned the pistol to its pocket. Elester and his a.s.sistants watched in silence. I projected an air of ”don't f.u.c.k with me or I'll start cracking skulls.” Successfully, I might add.

”What do I owe?”

Elester waved his hand. ”Nothing today, Jolly. Just promise you'll come back tomorrow. I'll have such lovely things for you to buy.”

I thanked the tailor for his intention if not his execution.

The day was growing late. I skipped brunch and decided to meet McGraw hungry and mean. Officer McGraw, now Sergeant McGraw, the man with something to lose.

I strolled into his precinct twenty minutes later. The dispatch officer recorded my name and went to retrieve McGraw at my request. The precinct buzzed like the Bow Street Firm buzzed, all clacks and clinks and the frequent whoosh of pneumatic tubes.

Sergeant McGraw approached me with a p.i.s.sed-off look on his face. At first I thought he recognized me from his investigation, then I remembered my s.h.i.+rt and face and the fact that I now resembled a crazy duffer.

”You've got a feather in your hair, Mr...?” He let the question hang.

”Fellows.” I presented a hand. ”Jacob Fellows, of Bow Street.”

McGraw slowly nodded his head. He ignored my hand.

”Formerly of Bow Street, if I've heard right,” he said. ”Unless there is another Jacob Fellows, maybe one not thrown out of Bow Street.”

So began our game. No different from all the games of men. Words for advantage. Words for power.

”You're right. I'm being punished for misbehaving. You can say I'm a specialist at misbehaving.” I smiled. McGraw didn't.

”Why are you here?” he asked.

”Misbehaving,” I replied.

”Get out!” McGraw motioned to his dispatch officer. The young man put hard hands on my shoulders and tried to leverage a push to get me through the doors. I ignored the little fella.

”I heard you could get me a deal on gemstones. Fine diamonds and such,” I said.

McGraw shoved the dispatch officer aside and put his own forceful hands on me. I let him duck walk me to the front door.

”Six o'clock. Meet me at Weeks Cafe,” McGraw whispered and shoved me out into the street.

”And lose that b.l.o.o.d.y s.h.i.+rt!”

So I found myself with time to kill. I took in a meal of roast beef and Yorks.h.i.+re pudding. I wandered to the tube station and hired a locker for my lockbox, putting all those cards and scotch and most of my savings under lock and key. I strung the key to the trigger guard of my pistol for safe keeping and walked out onto the station platform.

People come and go and come and go. To and fro. The tube station is new. All the bra.s.s is s.h.i.+ny and reflective despite the hands and bodies that press and lean and s.h.i.+ft. The steam engines of the tram belch a sulphurous miasma upon every arrival and departure. City managers spent a sultan's fortunes on low-light flowers, and perfumes, and agents and myriad counter scents. Anything to beat the foul sulphur rot. In practice, the new scents just add a layer on top of the sulphuric belches. All smells present and accounted for. Some days smell like sulphur and sage. Some like sulphur and roses. Today was sulphur and ambergris. It bled into my new s.h.i.+rt, my old jacket, into the cuffs and frills of all the dapper commuters returning to the beautiful country from their posh jobs. I took the measure of them, and went on my way.

Weeks Cafe specialized in pretentious coffees and teas. I ordered a Snap Dragon Delight, whatever the h.e.l.l that was. A young barista, dressed precariously in a blacksmith's ap.r.o.n and chemist goggles, squeezed a ball of leaves into a mesh pouch. He then gently placed the pouch in my cup and blasted it with a copper steam pipe connected to a bustling apparatus that occupied the entire north wall of the establishment. Pipes shook and rattled and soon the young man was consumed by a cloud of steam. He eventually emerged with my cup. During the a.s.sault, the pouch had burst and everything, barista, cup, saucer, was covered in beaded moisture.

”Make sure you let that cool, sir,” the barista said.

Heat radiated from the cup. I could no longer see the young man's eyes through the precipitation of his goggles. At some point in the process, my sinuses cleared for the first time since winter. I took a table and blew on my cup.

Officer McGraw entered the establishment. He'd changed to plain clothes for our chat. Being inconspicuous I guess. A man trying to hide is unbalanced by spectacle, which meant it was time for me to be difficult.

McGraw spotted me and walked to my table with long straight strides. His was the walk of a man with purpose. No tea, no coffee, no looking about, straight to the confrontation. I shoved a stool out with my foot and beckoned McGraw to sit. He disregarded the seat and loomed large and imposing over my little tea table.

”What do you think you have?” He asked.

I casually took a sip of my tea and was instantly overtaken with burns on my lips and tongue. Hot as b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l! I wiped my chin and was happy not to see dead skin and blood.

”You know what I have. Take a seat, mate. Order a cuppa. You're making a spectacle.”

McGraw took a seat.

”Your s.h.i.+rt is a spectacle,” he replied. No point in a retort, the s.h.i.+rt was indefensible. I reached into my pocket and pulled his Boschon card.

”Bow Street knows about your cousin. We also know about the diamonds. No need to explain, mate. Innocent or not this card paints you like Dorian Grey.”

”Is that the only copy?”

”Yeah,” I lied.