The Cutthroat

Isaac Bell drew a deep breath. “After ’eighty-eight?”

“’Eighty-nine, ’ninety, and the first half of ’ninety-one.”

“Why did the Yard deny it?”

“If they said he was dead, the case was closed. The most they could be charged with is incompetent detective work on only five killings. Subsequent murders could be blamed on copycats until the fiend finally ran out of steam or vanished.”

“What happened in the second half of ’ninety-one?”

“Vanished.”

“Not a trace?”

“Not a trace.”

“Any idea why?”

Abbington-Westlake shrugged. “In my humble opinion? Same reason he shifted operations to the suburbs. Wisely not pressing his luck in London. How long could he count on Scotland Yard bungling? By mid-’ninety-one, he probably reckoned it was time to stop pressing his luck in England.”

“Thank you,” said Isaac Bell. He headed for the door. “Tell me one more thing, Commander.”

That drew another elaborate sigh. “Now what?”

“Why should I believe you?”

An uncharacteristically bleak expression crossed over Abbington-Westlake’s face, and his poignant reply reminded Bell of a shaken Captain “Honest Mike” Coligney the day they found Anna Waterbury’s body in the actor’s flat on West 29th Street.

“Because I have three daughters.”

“I never thought of you as a family man.”

“It sneaked up on me,” said Abbington-Westlake. “When I wasn’t looking.”

“I thank you for your help,” said Bell, and headed for the door.

“On the contrary,” Abbington-Westlake replied in cold, measured tones, “thank you, Mr. Bell, for spending more time with me while we sorted out what you are up to.”

The door opened, swinging inward. The tall, thin shadow Bell had cornered in Whitechapel entered.

“Not so fast, Mr. Bell.”

Behind him were his heavyset partner in tweed, whom Bell had encountered outside the Electric movie theater, and another, who had the height and heft of a Marine sergeant out of uniform. They crowded into Abbington-Westlake’s office, blocking the door.

Isaac Bell gave them a quick once-over and looked at Abbington-Westlake.

The British spymaster said, “I do not like being hoodwinked nor made sport of.”

“I would think by now you’ve gotten used to it,” said Bell. To the shadow and his men he said, “Gents, get out of my way.”

They spread out, left and right, with the shadow in the middle.

Bell looked the shadow over again, and admitted, “You surprise me. I hadn’t realized you’re more of a fighting man than a spy.”

“I restrained my better instincts on orders. My new orders mesh with my instincts. Are you familiar with the Gurkha fighters’ kukri?” He took a leather sheath from his coat and pulled out of it a foot-long curved knife made of heavy steel. It looked like a boomerang with a razor’s edge.

His men whipped service revolvers from their coats, cocked them, and aimed them at Bell’s head. Bell looked at Abbington-Westlake. “I seem to be the only one who doesn’t know his new orders. Care to fill me in, Commander?”

“We’ll start with your accomplices. The agent who pretended to be a German, and the agent who pretended to be a police officer, and the agent driving your growler.”

“I hailed the growler on Oxford Street. The bobby was an unemployed potboy. The German is a Dutch tulip salesman.”

“Their names?”

“Didn’t catch them.”

“My offices,” said Abbington-Westlake, “are in the back of the building and encompass the rooms above, below, and next to this one. You may yell in outrage. You may scream in pain. You may weep with dismay. No one will hear you. And, frankly, if by a miracle they do, I will send them packing with a word. We will start with your accomplices and work our way slowly to what you are really up to. Enjoying a bit of vengeance on the way.”

* * *

Isaac Bell opened his hands and addressed Abbington-Westlake. “I’m embarrassed. Not only did I fail to see that this fellow who’s been following me around is an actual fighting man, I also fell for your pomposity act. It never occurred you were vicious as well as unpleasant.”

“Slashing with the Gurka kukri requires a very fine touch as its primary purpose is to sever bone and muscle.”

“With a single blow,” said Bell. “I’m familiar with the kukri. It is the Nepalese weapon of choice for beheading people who annoy them.”

“Reginald has that fine touch,” said Abbington-Westlake. “He can use it as a skinning knife. I’ve seen him flay a man’s arm from wrist to shoulder, removing a layer so thin you could read your morning paper through it. Name your accomplices.”

“Now I’m really embarrassed. I completely forgot to ask.”

“Hold his arms,” said the shadow.

“Wait!” said Abbington-Westlake. “Take his gun.”

Isaac Bell had been trying to distract the gunmen with bravado and sarcasm while weighing his chances of shooting both with a quick draw of his Browning before they shot him. As practiced as he was at clearing his holster and firing fast, the odds were abysmal. Even if he managed to shoot them both, the kukri knife would take his head off.

“I am opening my coat slowly,” he said, “to hand you my automatic, butt first.”