India Black and the Gentleman Thief Read online

  The inspector jammed his hands in his pockets and regarded me balefully. “You lied about your relationship with Colonel Mayhew.”

  “I don’t believe I described my relationship with the man.”

  “Not in so many words, but Major French said that he was an acquaintance of the colonel and that you were his cousin. I don’t know if the major told the truth about the colonel, but I know damned well he didn’t tell the truth about you.”

  I shrugged. “You should take up that matter with Major French.”

  “I intend to do just that. But I’m speaking to you at the moment. You didn’t deny the major’s depiction of your relationship.”

  “Why should I?”

  “And furthermore, you had a connection to the victim. Colonel Mayhew patronized your establishment here. I’ve been checking into your background, Miss Black. You’re known to the local police. I’ve talked to some of your girls. They knew Mayhew. So tell me, just what were you and Major French doing at Mayhew’s lodgings this morning?”

  “We certainly weren’t killing him. You saw that room. The killer or killers would have been covered with blood. You might have noticed, if you had been paying attention, that French and I were spotless.”

  “I noticed you’d both been in a fight, and it’s clear from the scene that the colonel fought for his life. I reckon you two got those cuts and bruises from Mayhew.”

  “It would make no sense at all for us to have done the deed, bathed and returned to the scene of the crime,” I scoffed.

  “Criminals aren’t always logical,” the inspector said stubbornly.

  “Neither are the police, apparently.”

  “I think you had better explain just what Colonel Mayhew got up to here at your place of business.”

  “I can’t vouch for his personal proclivities, but I should have thought that you’d understand the purposes of his visits in at least general terms. If you want the details, I’ll have to summon the last girl with him, but now that I think of it, it’s been weeks since the cove was in here and I’ll have to ask around.”

  “You didn’t service him yourself?”

  I laughed scornfully. “Certainly not. I own this establishment. I don’t work in it.”

  The inspector was wandering through the room, picking up an object and examining it, then replacing it and moving on to the next. He had reached my desk and I saw his eyes light up at the sight of the silver dagger I used to open envelopes.

  “What’s this?” He snatched it up and waved it at me triumphantly.

  “I’d have thought a man in your line of work would have recognized a knife when he saw one.” I said it calmly, but I was getting deuced annoyed with the fellow.

  Allen hefted the dagger in his hand. “I’ll tell you what I think.”

  “At least you won’t waste much of my time.”

  He ignored me. “I think I’m holding a murder weapon in my hand.”

  “You think I murdered Colonel Mayhew? Why on earth would I do that?”

  “He was blackmailing you. He knew something about you that you wanted kept secret.” The fellow was talking rapidly, as if to convince himself. “He threatened to expose you.”

  “Expose me?” I laughed. “Inspector, it took you all of three hours to find out I run a brothel. I don’t exactly operate on the sly. It would be damned hard for customers to find me if I did.”

  “Oh, I’ll grant you that you might not care about the average bloke finding out about you, but I’d wager that you might not want Major French to know whatever Mayhew knew. You think he’s your ticket out of here, don’t you? The handsome Major French.” He was mocking me now, the bastard, and I’d had enough.

  “Is this what passes for deductive reasoning at the Yard? As you’ve pointed out yourself, Major French knows what I do. What did you call his appearing with me on his arm? Shocking?”

  That set the inspector back on his heels, but only for a moment. “Alright, then. Maybe Mayhew threatened to tell someone else. Like the prime minister, eh?” He paused to gloat. “That’s it. We can’t have one of our government chaps running around with a tart, can we?”

  I shook my head wearily. “Dear, dear. For a policeman, you are singularly unimaginative. Government chaps are rather prone to consorting with fallen women. Indeed, they’re some of my best customers, which is something you should probably consider if you insist on pursuing this line of enquiry.”

  Inspector Allen was still stroking his pet theory. “Or maybe Colonel Mayhew was considering sharing the news with Major French’s family. He comes from good stock. I doubt he’d be pleased at having his liaison with you paraded in front of kith and kin.”

  That hit rather closer to the mark than the previous barbs the inspector had flung at me. I couldn’t argue with Allen’s premise, but I disliked having this wretched fellow state it quite so baldly. I did not expect French to trot me off to meet his pater and mater, but I’m not accustomed to hiding my light under a bushel for very long. At some point French and I needed to sort out the business of managing our association or relationship or whatever you would call it. I was bloody well provoked at having an insect like the inspector remind me that the sorting needed doing.

  “Major French and I are agents of Her Majesty’s government,” I said. “You may confirm that with Lord Beaconsfield, the prime minister. And I would suggest you ask Major French if he is concerned with our acquaintance becoming known among his circle. I can tell you nothing on that score. And now, unless Colonel Mayhew scrawled my name in blood or you have a witness placing me at the scene, I would suggest that you have no reason to remain here disturbing me with your conjectures. If you wish to speak with me again, you will make an appointment. If you intend to turn up here at the drop of a hat just to harass me, I shall be forced to speak to some of those ‘government chaps’ you mentioned earlier. One of them will have a word with your governor. You will kindly see yourself out.”

  I spun on my heel and marched out of the study, not waiting for a reply. What a maddening fellow. I did not need him lurking around every corner, keeping an eye on me while I tried to find Philip. Not for the first time, I wished that Colonel Mayhew (God rest his soul) had left his envelope with the landlord at his local. That bill of lading was turning out to be an infernal nuisance.

  • • •

  You would think that after the events of the last twenty-four hours I would trundle off to bed and enjoy some well-deserved rest. Indeed I did have a kip, but only for a few hours, for I had a mission and unfortunately it could not be accomplished in the light of day. London’s criminal class works nonstop round the clock but most coves prefer the cover of darkness. I wouldn’t find Philip strolling the streets, of course. Fellows like Philip—the cracksmen, burglars and attic thieves who plied their trade in the West End and Portman Square—would be up on the rooftops after dark, breaking into the garrets and upper floors of the fashionable homes to be found there, lifting the precious stones and jewelry of the occupants. I wasn’t hoping to find my former paramour in the flesh. I was planning to put out the word that I’d heard Philip was in London and wanted to see him again. That should be a simple enough task, requiring only a bit of legwork and a few coins.

  I dozed in a chair and woke when the bells of St. Martin struck midnight. I dressed quietly and slipped down the stairs to my study, where I collected my revolver from the desk drawer and tucked it into my purse. A woman alone would be presumed to be a prostitute (an astute observation, since she usually was) and could expect a bit of rough language and less than subtle propositions. I’ve found that chaps are less inclined to pester me when I show them the business end of the .442 Webley.

  Once I’d locked the door to Lotus House I made for the Strand, that roaring thoroughfare that never sleeps. At this time of night, the street would be humming with life, most of it of the low variety, which suited my needs p
erfectly. It’s not a long walk from Lotus House, and I rather enjoyed striding along in the cool evening air. I wandered over to Haymarket and walked south to Pall Mall, then angled down Cockspur Street, passed Trafalgar Square (scene of one of my greatest triumphs) and turned left onto the Strand. The noise along the street was deafening. The swells were out in abundance in swallowtail coats and top hats, ambling along with their walking sticks under their arms and smirking at the girls working the streets. An army of dippers and mutchers, men, women and children would be out tonight, relieving these rich fellows, the “square-rigged swells” they called them, of their money and their watches. The tricksters would be working the crowd, fleecing fellows with card tricks and games of skittles. The tipsters and bookmakers would be doing a roaring trade before the evening’s entertainment began in the alleys off the Strand—the dog matches, the prizefights with human contenders, and the ratting exhibitions. It’s not a world for the delicate flowers of society.

  You may be wondering why I’d venture out alone into such a heathen place. In truth, I was at very little risk. I had my Bulldog revolver in the unlikely event that things went bad, but I wasn’t worried about sauntering along the pavement without a male companion. Certainly a single female would attract attention along the Strand, and when you’re as delicious as I am, you can expect a fair amount of attention from the male of the species at any time. But at this time of night, single women walking the Strand were common. The troopers and ladybirds would be working the lower class, and the toffers would be trolling for the nobs. With my sophistication and beauty, I’d be taken as an adventuress, a demimondaine, and the only thing I’d have to worry about was a drunken swell pawing me on the street while his friends egged him on. I was quite capable of handling that sort of situation. I’d been doing it all my life. The trick was to avoid trouble but still keep the fellow as a potential customer. There’s a technique to that, but I digress.

  Near Adam Street I spotted a barefoot youngster with a shapeless cap and threadbare clothes. I stopped to have a word with him, whispering my instructions. When I dropped a few coins in his hand he accelerated away, bound for the rookeries that lay just a few blocks north. I’d spent quite enough time there during my idyll with the anarchists and I was thoroughly tired of the filth and foulness to be found in the Seven Dials area. I’d sent the boy to spread the word that I was looking for an old friend, describing Philip and using the name I’d known him by rather than “Peter Bradley.” I didn’t expect Philip to be staying in such a seamy part of the city, but the blocks teemed with cheats and card sharps, punishers and palmers—in short, with every type of criminal. The rookeries were cramped, squalid, dingy and tortuously narrow. The police preferred to stay well clear and leave them to the undesirables. Someone in the area would know Philip and I had no doubt that word would reach him that India Black sought his company.

  But I had other stops to make that night, and so I ambled along to the Gaiety Theatre on Aldwych and had a chat with the manager of the Billiards Room there. Philip enjoyed a game now and then and the Gaiety’s hall had been a favourite of his. I dropped a discreet word in the ear of the maître ’d at the Gaiety’s restaurant, and to the barmen at its several saloons. Then it was back into the night air for a stroll to Romano’s, for Philip had been fond of dining there, and then on to Wiltons as Philip had always had a passion for their oysters and stout. I visited a few more restaurants and taverns along the Strand, and when I’d completed these rounds I traversed a dark and twisting alley to a door set well back into a brick wall, with a dimly lit lantern glowing feebly above it. I knocked and waited. A panel in the door slid open and light spilled into the alley. I heard an exclamation and the panel slammed shut, then the door opened and I was enveloped in an embrace.

  “India Black! What the hell are you doing here, my girl? This ain’t your part of town no more.”

  “Nat, you old villain,” I said. “It’s bloody good to see you.”

  The old villain wore a rusty black suit and an ancient beaver hat that had been made before I’d been born. Nat sported a splendid mustache and a bristling pair of muttonchops. Between the brim of his hat and the soup-strainer, a pair of beady black eyes gleamed at me.

  “Haven’t seen you in ages,” he said.

  “Haven’t had a ruby to fence in ages,” I said.

  His belly shook and the black eyes twinkled. “Don’t stand out there in the dark. Come in and have a drink with me.”

  I stepped into Nat’s establishment and looked around. I’d been here before, on the day I’d pawned the Rajah’s Ruby. I’d known Nat for years before I ever did business with him. He had a reputation for honesty (well, relatively speaking) and was circumspect, a man who paid top dollar and dealt with his accounts promptly. I’d been more than pleased with the price the old Shylock had paid me for the ruby. I had no doubt he’d sold it for a substantial profit, but I didn’t begrudge the man his mite.

  Nat ran a flash house, where, as alert readers will have gathered, stolen goods were fenced. But a flash house was more than that, being a combination of a club and a school. Palmers arrived with the goods they’d shoplifted and the fingersmiths kept Nat in a steady supply of pocket watches. They were always welcome to sit down to a glass of rum or brandy and share the latest gossip, and the young ones were allowed to hang around the edges of the group and imbibe useful knowledge, such as how to ask a passing toff to help you with a drunk friend while you lifted the swell’s wallet. There were dozens of these enterprises around the city, but I’d only crossed the threshold of Nat’s.

  He had a crowd tonight which was not what I wanted, so I drew him aside and asked for a quiet word.

  He nodded sagely and shouted at the group of fellows gathered around the fire. “Drink up, boys. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  That bunch needed no encouragement, for they were downing the liquor at a fast pace. There was a lot of good-natured ribbing and a few ribald comments, which is only to be expected when I walk into a room, but Nat shushed them with a glance and led me down a dark hall to his cramped office. The room was blue with smoke. Nat had been at work, as I could see by the open ledger and the weighted scales on his desk.

  He offered me a chair and a drink, and I spun him a story about the old friend I wanted to find. I didn’t ask Nat outright if he knew Philip. The old duffer was tight-lipped when it came to his clients, but I reckoned that one of London’s best fences would know most of the jewel thieves who plied their trade in the city. I do believe Nat was a romantic at heart, for he heard me out with a sympathetic expression and patted my hand and told me not to give it another thought: If Philip Barrett was in the city, Nat would find him for me.

  I walked home well pleased with my night’s work.

  SEVEN

  After my late night I treated myself to a lie-in. I was reclining in bed with the morning papers and a cup of coloured water Mrs. Drinkwater had delivered to me with the announcement that it was “tea.” There was some evidence that she was correct, as I espied a shred of limp brown vegetation at the bottom of the cup. I’d have to have a word with my cook as I suspected that she was allocating the weekly provisions allowance somewhat differently from what I intended, i.e., in the increased purchase of alcoholic beverages for herself and the decreased procurement of just about everything else on the list.

  As expected, the reporter Johnnies were having a field day with Colonel Mayhew’s death. The headlines were breathless and the prose ghoulish. Inspector Allen was quoted copiously, with frequent allusions to “solid leads” and “quick resolution to the case.”

  Around eleven o’clock French breezed into the room, slapping his gloves against his thigh, and plunked down in the bedroom’s only chair.

  “You’re getting rather familiar considering that we haven’t been familiar yet,” I said, snapping the paper closed in irritation.

  “Plenty of time for that later,” he sai
d. “Get dressed. We’re going out.”

  I looked at him with some pity. “Really, French. Surely by now you know that the only effect of that peremptory tone of yours is to ensure that I will do exactly the opposite of what you command.”

  “Inspector Allen’s been round to see me. He thinks that you and Mayhew were conducting a torrid affair and in a fit of jealousy I carved up the colonel.”

  I burst out laughing. Callous, I know, but the image of French getting worked up enough to slash a chap to death was ludicrous.

  “You find the fact that I’m a suspect amusing?”

  “Yes, I do. But then I know you rather better than the inspector. And when he dropped by here yesterday, he accused me of being the killer. He hypothesized that Mayhew was blackmailing me over some indiscretion and I had killed him when the colonel threatened to tell you.”

  “Clearly the inspector has his lines out and is fishing for all he’s worth. You didn’t mention the bill of lading, did you?”

  “There are times when you annoy me more than others, French, and never more so than when you imply that I am an idiot.”

  He smiled fondly at me. “Your eyes blaze like blue stars when you’re angry, India. It’s a most stimulating sight.”

  That was more like it. I leaned back invitingly against the pillows. It was about time the poncy bastard fixed bayonets and charged the line.

  He leaned forward until we were tantalizingly close and I could smell the bay rum from his morning’s ablutions. His eyes were dancing as he looked into mine. I felt an uncharacteristic fluttering in my stomach.

  Then he seized my tea cup and drained the liquid from it.

  “Five minutes,” he said, standing. “Vincent is waiting downstairs.”

  I swatted him with a pillow and he retreated, laughing. Well, a playful French was an improvement over the stuffy, dour type who’d first presented himself at Lotus House last fall.