The Cutthroat

“I’ll do better than tell you. I’ll show you.”

“Show me what?”

“Someone I found.”

“Whom have you found?”

“A German who wants to sell a secret.”

“What secret?”

“A new fire-control device.”

Abbington-Westlake’s eyes went opaque as Bell was betting they would. Naval cannon range and speed of fire were increasing rapidly, demanding radically improved methods for the dreadnought battleships to aim their big guns. “Why would you share your treasure with me?”

“You’re better placed in London to do something about it. And I have no doubt you will do the gentlemanly thing and share it with us.”

“No doubt,” Abbington-Westlake lied. “Where is this Hun?”

“He has promised to meet me in a cab at Charing Cross.”

“When?”

“Eight o’clock tonight.”

“Do you trust him?”

“He’s scared and greedy,” said Bell. “All he wants is to get his money and board the first boat back to Germany.”

Abbington-Westlake’s expression hardened. “So the reason you are sharing this is you expect me to put up the money.”

“I don’t need your money,” said Bell.

“Really? Oh— Well, I stand corrected… Bell, this is all quite unusual.”

It occurred to Isaac Bell that this was as enjoyable as fly-casting for trout. It was time to set the hook. He said, “I think I made a mistake. I thought this was for a Navy man. Now it strikes me I should speak with a fellow I know at the Foreign Office.”

“Not if you’re expecting immediate action.”

“Then Military Intelligence.”

Abbington-Westlake regarded him shrewdly. “I regret to inform you that your old friend Lord Strone has been put out to pasture.”

“Leaving only you?”

“To your great good fortune,” said the commander. “I will have that cab surrounded by twenty picked men.”

“No,” said Bell. “Not one. This German is as sharp as they come. He’s survived twenty years’ spying in London and you never caught him. You don’t even know his name. He’ll spot your picked men in a flash. We will keep it simple — you, me, and him.”

“How did you stumble upon him?”

“Sheer luck,” said Bell.

“I thought so. How?”

“I was closing in on a Japanese. The German beat me to him. He wrecked everything I’d been working for. I lit out after him and caught up.”

“So you made your luck.”

“Exactly as you would, Commander. Shall we shake hands on it?”

Abbington-Westlake extended a soft pink hand. Bell gripped it hard. “Just so we understand each other, sir, I will spot your ‘picked men’ just as I spotted your shadow. Don’t try to slip them past me.”

“Wouldn’t have dreamed of it.”

* * *

Fog was thickening when Isaac Bell pulled up in front of the Charing Cross railroad station in a closed carriage, a roomy cab that Londoners called a growler. He opened the door and beckoned Commander Abbington-Westlake. The Navy spy was dressed identically to the hordes of City bankers rushing home in bowlers and raincoats, with one exception. Instead of an umbrella, he carried a walking stick with an ivory knob carved to resemble the head of a crocodile.

Bell moved over to make room on the seat beside him. Abbington-Westlake climbed in, and the Van Dorn driver set his horse at a quick trot up the Strand.

“Wait. Where are we going?”

“Our German changed his mind at the last minute. Trafalgar Square.”

“But—”

“But your picked men are at Charing Cross?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Because I suspect this fellow is going to run us in circles until he feels safe.”

At Trafalgar Square, a flower girl tapped the window and handed Bell a scrap of paper.

Bell read aloud, “‘Berkeley Square.’”

“How did that girl distinguish this cab from a hundred others?”

“The same way the German will. The driver has a white ribbon tied to his whip.”

The horse trotted up Cockspur to Pall Mall, up Pall Mall and across Regent Street to Piccadilly, where it turned at the Ritz Hotel onto Dover and down Hay Hill into Berkeley Square. It stopped abruptly. James Mapes flung open the cab door and climbed heavily inside with a strongbox under his arm. He was dressed in a fine suit of clothes, a rabbit-felt fedora, and the latest Burberrys waterproof. Bell could almost hear Joe Van Dorn’s howls of protest over his expense sheet.

“Took your time,” Mapes said in an accent so heavy that Abbington-Westlake, straining to see his face in the dark, said, “What was that?”

“He said,” said Bell, “we took our time.”

“Damn right, we took our time, and we’ll continue to take our time until we’re convinced you have something of value.”

“Vere ist der muny?”

“Where are the fire control plans?”

Mapes patted the strongbox. “In der buks.”

“Open it.”

“Show der marks.”

Bell passed him an envelope. “Give me the key.”

Mapes pulled a key from his pocket but held on to it and used it like a letter opener to slit the envelope. Suddenly a shadow loomed out of the fog. The driver knocked a warning, but he was too late, and the shadow took the shape of a constable’s helmet. A truncheon rattled the window.

“Ist der trick!” Mapes shouted. “Schweinhund!”