The Aquila Project Page 8

  ‘Very possibly dressed up as an intended bomb outrage. But now, you see, I’ve lost all contact with Grunwalski. I don’t know where he is, what he’s doing, or who it was that freed him from captivity.’

  ‘I think you’ll find, sir,’ said Box, with a thrill of pleasure, ‘that the people responsible are that very group of conspirators mentioned by Paul Claus – The Thirty. Monsieur Rosanski spoke about them, and he was going to tell me who they were on Sunday afternoon. That’s why he was murdered, sir, to keep the identity of The Thirty hidden from the light of day. Some at least of those people are here, in London.’

  Arnold Box enjoyed Kershaw’s air of bewilderment. It wasn’t often that he was able to produce that effect. He reached into his waistcoat pocket, took out the Polish coin, and handed it to Kershaw.

  ‘That coin, sir, a Polish coin for thirty kopeks, is probably used as a kind of passport by the members of this Polish conspiracy. That particular coin was found among Grunwalski’s effects.’

  Kershaw examined the coin briefly, and handed it back to Box.

  ‘Well, I’m damned!’ said Colonel Kershaw, and rose from the table. Evidently it was time for them to go. ‘We’ll meet again soon, Box,’ he said, ‘because I think there are more things for us to discuss about this business. You know where to find me. The Thirty…. Well, we must do something about them.’

  ‘And we must do all we can to snatch Grunwalski back—’

  ‘Oh, no, Box. I don’t want Grunwalski back: I want him to go on with his anarchist’s mission unimpeded. He knows what to do when the moment of crisis arrives. But I don’t know where he is, and I don’t know how to follow his progress. But if you find him, let me know, but leave him to go quietly on his way. Incidentally, I mentioned your name to him as a possible contact in time of emergency, so something might come of that. I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all, sir.’

  So the old fox had known all along that he, Box, would agree to work with him once more!

  ‘Incidentally, sir,’ said Box, ‘there is a man, another mysterious individual, who has appeared on the periphery of this business. I saw him at the bridge on Saturday, peering through a telescope at the boiler rooms. He’s a big, Viking sort of man, with flowing hair, a magnificent beard, and a monocle—’

  ‘Ah! That’s a perfect description of a man called Baron Augustyniak, a Polish nobleman who has settled recently in a mansion out at St John’s Wood. He’s come to England, so it’s said, to establish a Polish library and cultural institute, whatever that is. We’re very interested in the good baron – me, and the Foreign Office, you know. I know nothing of the man, or whether his mission here is genuine, but I intend to find out very soon. I think I know the ideal person to come up with some interesting information about the baron.’

  ‘Augustyniak…. It’s quite a memorable name, sir.’

  ‘Yes, it is. And, as I say, there are ways of keeping a cautious eye and ear on people like him. What was he doing near the bridge on Saturday? Was he waiting to see if Grunwalski was successful? It certainly looks like it. If I find out anything of interest, I’ll let you know by word of mouth. As you know, I never write anything to anybody.’

  Colonel Kershaw picked up his hat and cane, nodded in friendly fashion to Box, and swiftly left through a door half hidden by a screen at the far end of the room. Box heard the lock of the storeroom door click open, and within the minute he was out in the open again, in the crowded thoroughfare of Piccadilly.

  Vanessa Drake sat in a chair at the window of her little sitting-room, and looked out at the pitched roofs and pinnacles of Westminster Abbey. A copy of The Graphic lay open across her knees, but her mind was elsewhere. She was thinking of Sunday’s outing to Hampstead Heath, and her mistaken conviction that Jack Knollys was going to name the day. He’d come very near to it when they were having tea at Jack Straw’s Castle, but had then taken fright, and hurried her back to the train.

  Never mind! There was plenty of time yet. Jack had his way to make in the Metropolitan Police, and she was content to live quietly in this former Anglican convent, skilfully adapted as apartments for single young ladies. It was conveniently near to Watts & Co., where she plied her needle patiently in the embroidery department.

  Content? No! She was not content. Why had life become so dull and uneventful? There was a time when she had risked danger and death in the service of Colonel Kershaw and his secret intelligence organization. On one of those occasions, she had been within seconds of death. But now….

  There came a knock on the door, and a moment later Colonel Kershaw himself walked into the room. He had once told her not to stand up for him in her own home, but she was quite unable to prevent herself from springing up from her chair with an exclamation of delight.

  Colonel Kershaw was wearing civilian clothing, and made no attempt to take off his long dark overcoat with the astrakhan collar, because, as she knew, he always liked to create the fiction that he had simply called on her quite fortuitously in passing. He sat down at the table, peeled off his black suede gloves, and deposited them in his silk hat.

  ‘Well, missy,’ he said, ‘and how are you today?’

  ‘I’m very well, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Excellent. I’m glad to hear it. Your jaunt out to Hampstead evidently did you good. No, I wasn’t there myself, Miss Drake, but somebody I know saw you there with Sergeant Knollys. People are always coming to tell me things, you know. Now, if I were to inform you that I have something interesting going forward at the moment, would you care to be associated with it?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir!’

  Vanessa made no attempt to conceal her delight. She saw Kershaw smile with affectionate good humour. He was always amused and gratified, she thought, by her unconcealed enthusiasm.

  ‘What I want you to do, Miss Drake,’ said Kershaw, ‘is to take up a position as one of two housemaids at the residence of a Polish aristocratic gentleman in St John’s Wood. You’ve no objection, I take it, to turning yourself into a servant for a while? No, I thought not. The gentleman’s name is Baron Augustyniak – no, don’t write it down, missy, just try to remember it. Augustyniak. We never write down anything in our organization, so there’s nothing for our enemies to read.’

  ‘And what am I to do, sir, when I go to work for this gentleman?’

  ‘You’re to look and listen – as you were supposed to do when I sent you to the home of Baroness Felssen during our investigation of the Bleibner affair. You remember? You had ideas of your own, which got you into trouble.’

  Vanessa had the grace to blush. It was on that occasion that her inquisitiveness had caused her to exceed her orders in such a way as to bring her very near to death, while ensuring the escape of a very dangerous assassin. If Colonel Kershaw saw the blush, he made no sign of the fact. But she had realized that his words had been a warning to do as she was told.

  ‘Keep an ear open, Miss Drake,’ Kershaw continued, ‘for anything that might be said in conversation about the Tsar of Russia, or about European politics in general. A housemaid, as you may or may not know, cleans bedrooms and reception rooms, looks after the dining-room, and waits at table during dinner. Plenty of opportunities there for you to overhear without seeming to do so. When the time comes, you will be told how to leave Baron Augustyniak’s service, and report to me. What do you say to that?’

  ‘When do I start, sir? And what about my employer?’

  ‘Don’t worry about Watts & Company, Miss Drake. They know all about me now, and what work I do. As for when you start, well, you must receive a day’s training first. You will go to see Mrs Prout at Bagot’s Hotel, and she will tell you all about being a housemaid – how to stare straight ahead when waiting at dinner, and not keep looking at the diners. How to curtsy – all that kind of thing.

  ‘After that, you’ll go out to White Eagle Lodge, Baron Augustyniak’s residence in Cavendish Gardens, St John’s Wood. All the staff there have been newly recruited by Thompson
’s Agency. You will appear on their books as Susan Moore – Vanessa being a decidedly unsuitable name for a housemaid! Mrs Bagot will tell you all you need to know. I’ll go now, missy. Do as you’re told, and all should be well. And remember: there may be danger, but you will never be more than a breath away from help.’

  6

  A Half-crown for Kitty Fisher

  KITTY FISHER WINCED as a packed train thundered across the railway bridge spanning Ludgate Circus. A great swath of acrid black smoke was blown down on to the pavement, and Kitty coughed, more in protest than discomfort.

  Bloomin’ cheek! It was no joke standing for hours in bare feet on a hot summer pavement. The trains should have more consideration for the likes of her. This was a favourite spot of hers, in a corner just to the right of Bell & Pritchard’s, the tailors. City gents tended to notice a pretty girl of fourteen with a tray round her neck, selling boxes of matches, bootlaces, and packets of pen nibs. When it rained, she’d move under the bridge until it stopped. She could make a shilling or more a day on this patch.

  The road was crammed full with heavy Wednesday morning traffic, some pouring in from Fleet Street and Farringdon Street, and some climbing the hill towards St Paul’s. The pavements were crowded, too. A close-packed knot of men hurried past her, none of them evidently in need of matches. Oh, well! Perhaps later.

  What time was it? She walked to the other side of the bridge, where she could see the clock in St Paul’s. Ten past two. In a few minutes’ time the barmaid at the King Lud across the road would beckon to her, and she’d be given a cup of mild beer and a piece of bread. God bless her! Janie had a heart of gold. Kitty returned to her pitch near the tailor’s shop.

  Whatever now? Three men, looking neither to right nor left, had hurried past in yet another throng of busy folk. As they’d passed her, one of them had thrown a little parcel into her tray! Bloomin’ cheek!

  Ten minutes later, Kitty was sitting in a store room behind the bar of the King Lud tavern, sipping her beer, and devouring her round of bread and jam. When Janie, the barmaid, came in from the front to see how she was, Kitty showed her the little parcel that had landed in her tray.

  ‘It’s got writing on it, Janie,’ she said, ‘but I can’t read. What does it say? Maybe it’s important.’

  Janie, a good-natured girl in her twenties, looked at the thin child in the cut-down black dress and shapeless hat. She’d walked out here barefoot to the Circus early, all the way from Shoreditch. Poor little lass! She was pretty, too, but poverty would soon play havoc with her youthful attractions.

  The little parcel had been made from a torn piece of handkerchief, tied firmly with cotton. Around it was a strip of paper – it looked like one of the margins from the page of a newspaper – and on it someone had scrawled a message in pencil, which Janie read out to her young friend.

  Take this to Mr Box at 2 King James’s Rents, Whitehall. He will give you half-a-crown.

  ‘Mr Box? I know him, Kitty. He comes in here sometimes for a glass of India Pale Ale. He’s a famous detective-man. Here, there’s something wedged into the end of the packet – it’s a shilling! That’ll be for you, to make sure that you take the message to Mr Box. Inspector Box, he is, really.’

  ‘Half-a-crown…. Do you think it’s true? Will he really give it to me?’

  ‘I’m sure he will. Now, you’ve got a shilling already, so if I were you I’d go to King James’s Rents straight away, and see Mr Box. If he’s not there, ask them where he is.’

  ‘Half-a-crown…. Will you come with me, Janie? I don’t know where it is.’

  Janie considered for a moment. The boss would grumble and growl, but he’d let her go for half an hour. Poor little Kitty! Two-and-six was a fortune to her.

  ‘I tell you what, Kitty,’ she said, ‘Burton’s wagon will be leaving in ten minutes’ time. It’ll be going down the Strand, so the driver can give us a lift as far as the Whitehall end. Leave your tray here till we get back. Come on, let’s go off to see Inspector Box.’

  While Kitty Fisher was preparing for her visit to King James’s Rents, Arnold Box was sitting at the long table in his office, reading a note that he had just received by messenger. It was from Inspector Pollard at Bow Street Police Station, telling him of some further developments in the matter of the Rosanski murder. It was obviously some kind of Polish vendetta, Pollard thought, and the people behind it had hired Schumann to make away with their imagined enemy. Well, Box knew better than that, but it wouldn’t do to disabuse Pollard on that point.

  Box turned over the note, and whistled in surprise.

  ‘Now here’s something that will surprise you,’ Pollard had written. ‘Oscar Schumann died last night from natural causes in the Middlesex Hospital. The doctors say it was aneurysm of the aorta. He died without speaking, so we’ll never know who employed him.’

  Box read on. Pollard had managed to compile a list of everybody who had been present in Rosanski’s shop on Sunday morning. He would draw Box’s attention to two of these people. One was a certain Baron Augustyniak, of White Eagle Lodge, Cavendish Gardens, St John’s Wood. As a nobleman, he would probably be a prominent figure in the Polish fraternity, and so worth questioning. The other man was called Herr Gerdler, and he was another German, like Schumann. Perhaps there was a link there. Gerdler was a gunsmith by profession, with premises in Dover Lane, Covent Garden.

  It was odd, thought Box. If Rosanski’s murder was a Polish affair, why should there be Germans connected with it? What time was it? 2.30. It would be a good idea to act on Mr Pollard’s information, and pay a call on this Herr Gerdler in Covent Garden.

  Dover Lane was a kind of wide alley near the Russell Street approach to Covent Garden Market. The premises of Herr Alois Gerdler were smart and well kept. A discreetly grilled window displayed an impressive array of hunting guns and pistols. A little bell behind the door jangled as Box entered the shop.

  A mousy little man with a stoop looked up from a ledger that he had been studying. His face bore a faintly hostile expression, and when he spoke Box saw that his mouth was cruel and thin-lipped.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr Gerdler?’ said Box. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Box, of Scotland Yard. This is just a routine call. Would you please show me your current gun licence? We’re checking the validity of all such licences this year.’

  Box saw the strands of a beaded curtain behind the counter tremble faintly. He wondered who it was in the back room of the shop, listening so intently to their conversation.

  ‘My licence? Yes, I have it here, in this drawer. You’ll see that I’ve been established here for nearly three years. All my papers are thoroughly in order.’

  As Box made a show of examining the licence, the beaded curtain suddenly parted, and a man came down the step from the back room. A greater contrast to Gerdler could not have been imagined. Tall and imposing, the man was dressed expensively in black, and sported an orchid in the button hole of his frock coat. His long face was adorned with the type of fierce moustache, waxed and turned up at the ends, favoured by the Kaiser.

  ‘Inspector Box,’ said Gerdler, ‘it is my privilege to present an old friend from my German days, Herr Doktor Franz Kessler, who is the new Second Secretary at Prussia House.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, sir,’ said Box. ‘Well, I must be on my way. It was just a routine call. Good day to you, gentlemen.’

  Box raised his hat, and both Germans clicked their heels in response. They watched him as he turned out of Dover Lane into Covent Garden.

  ‘What did that fellow really want with you?’ asked Kessler. ‘All that talk of a check on licences was a crude fiction.’

  ‘He was involved in the arrest of Grunwalski last Saturday. He was also involved in the investigation of Rosanski’s death. He will know all about Oscar Schumann, I expect. He’s pestered me first, and now, no doubt, he’ll bother Baron Augustyniak with his little questions. Don’t let him disturb you, Fritz.’

  ‘I won’t, if you
say so. But there have been serious leaks of information, some of which have been stopped at source. Sir Charles Napier was in Berlin last month, and made contact with that money-grubbing Judas, Paul Claus. He wouldn’t have spoken to Napier unless he had something to tell him. Well, you know what happened to Claus.’

  ‘Do you think that the British intelligence people have discovered what we intend to do? Is Count von Donath quite certain that it is safe for us to act on the twenty-first?’

  ‘Of course it’s safe. What can British intelligence possibly know of the matter? How could they even remotely conceive what we intend to do? I’ve no doubt that they’ll be interested in the sudden arrival of Baron Augustyniak and myself in England. They might even look for links between him and me – and you, for that matter, and of course, they’ll find them. But they can’t possibly guess what our ultimate purpose is. I ask you, how could they? Just think of the elaborate charade that we provided for them – the bridge, the waving pistol, the crowd of notables! As the conjurors say, the quickness of the hand deceives the eye!’

  *

  As Box came into the vestibule of 2 King James’s Rents, Sergeant Driscoll came out of the reception room near the door.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘there’s a young girl in the front office who wants to talk to you. Kitty Fisher’s her name. A peddler, by the looks of her. Says she’s fourteen. She’s brought some kind of a message wrapped up in a handkerchief.’

  ‘A peddler?’ asked Box. ‘Is she by herself?’

  ‘A young woman brought her – one of the barmaids from The King Lud. She says she’ll call back for the girl in half an hour’s time. Shall I bring this Kitty Fisher in?’

  Box had already caught sight of the rather mournful figure standing by herself in the reception room. Even from where he was standing, he could see that the girl was the poorest of the poor. He told Sergeant Driscoll to bring her into the office, and then to leave them alone. The girl might find a uniformed sergeant with a flowing beard rather too intimidating.