The Cutthroat

Ironically, they caught up with the shadow on Hanbury Street, and when he sidestepped into an alley, it was not Number 29—but close. Bell tore in after him and grabbed him by his canvas collar.

“I beg your pardon. What do you think you are doing, sir?”

“Interviewing you.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“I will when I’m done.”

“I am a police officer.”

“No you are not,” said Bell. “Police officers work shifts. They spell each other. You’re shadowing me around the clock. You followed me around London; you followed me to Manchester. About the only place you didn’t follow me was into Angel Meadow, where I could have used a hand. Now you’re following me in London, again. All by your lonesome. That makes you a freelance. If you’re freelance, I want to know who’s paying you. If you’re working for Military Intelligence, I want to know what the blazes you think you are doing shadowing an American citizen on legitimate business.”

Bell lifted him an inch off the ground and shook him hard.

“Which is it?”

“I could have you shot!”

Bell lowered him until his feet touched the mud, loosened one hand, and drew his derringer. “I’m better fixed for shooting.”

He let the operator peer into the immensity of twin barrels, each nearly half an inch wide. “Who are you?”

The man dropped his gaze. “Freelance.”

It was almost certainly a lie, but Bell went along, asking, “Who are you working for?”

“Military Intelligence.”

Bell regarded him sternly. “That is ridiculous. I have nothing to do with Military Intelligence, if such a thing even exists.”

“I’d expect you to deny it.”

“Deny what?”

“We know who you are.”

Bell tightened his grip and backed him hard against the bricks. He pressed the barrels to his cheek. “Tell me who I am.”

“We know who you are, Mr. Isaac Bell. What we don’t know is who you are spying for. The United States or Germany. Or both.”

Bell snapped his fingers in sudden comprehension. “Abbington-Westlake.”

The operator’s eyes widened. He recovered in an instant and desperately tried to backpedal from his mistake. “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

“Tell that underhanded rat I know he’s your boss,” said Bell, and stalked away.

* * *

Joel Wallace trotted after him.

“What the heck was that about?”

“Commander Abbington-Westlake, British Admiralty, Naval Intelligence Department, Foreign Division.”

“Fancy name for ‘Royal Navy spy.’ Told you, it was dreadnoughts.”

“I caught him snapping Kodaks of ours in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Back in aught eight.”

“Wha’d you do to him?”

“Promised I’d throw him off the Brooklyn Bridge if he tried it again. He turned out to be very helpful.” Bell shook his head. “Abbington-Westlake is one of those operators who acts like he’s a stuffy old duffer before his time. Behind the bumbling front he’s slick as ice. Should have thought about him first time around. I just assumed he was too sharp to make this stupid a mistake.”

“Like I say, spies don’t trust nobody.”

“The thing is,” Bell mused, “he is such an insider… If anyone knows what the Yard won’t tell me about the Ripper, it’s Abbington-Westlake.”

“Will he talk to you?”

“Not unless he sees a payoff.”

“What can you offer him?”

Bell thought hard for a full minute. “We need a German.”

“Where do we get a German?” asked Wallace.

“I’ll get the German. You find out which of Abbington-Westlake’s London clubs he’ll eat lunch at tomorrow. Can you do that by midnight?”

Wallace nodded. “Bank on it.”

“Report to me in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”

“At midnight?”

“I’ll need you to stand lookout.”

“What’ll I be looking out for?”

“The cops.”

“Why?”

“Because it won’t do me or you any good if Metropolitan Police constables arrest the Van Dorn Detective Agency’s Chief Investigator.”

“For what?”

“Burglary.”

“Fact-based truth,” Joel Wallace agreed. But he blinked like a man whose head was spinning. “Mind me asking what’re you planning to break into?”

“The Lock Museum.”

22

At seven o’clock, the bar at the Garrick Club emptied out as actors hurried off to the West End theaters to dress for the evening shows. The few who remained nursed their drinks with an eye to keeping them going until some prosperous soul offered to buy a round for a player “at liberty.”

The obvious candidate was a tall, amiable American in an expensive white suit. He was a guest, the barman confided to the members, who had presented a letter of introduction from The Players, an actors’ and writers’ club in New York that had a reciprocal membership arrangement with the Garrick.

Sadly, the guest was already buying whiskeys for James Mapes, a handsome leading man whose great mane of wavy hair was laced with silver. Despite his years, Mapes, whose mane might once have been as golden as Isaac Bell’s, still cut a commanding figure. Only his frayed cuffs suggested that he had been refusing to play character roles for longer than he should.