Chapter Two

There are things greater than our wisdom, beyond our justice. The right and wrong of this we cannot say, and it is not for us to judge.

- Jack London, An Odyssey of the North

Once begun, Jack London warmed to his narrative, employing his hands to aid explanation and his eyes to convey intensity. And yet, though obviously a natural storyteller, he remained unable to prevent his political asides from creeping in.

“For breakfast at the Barracks, the well-fed authorities offer the starving poor this swill they call ‘skilly’.”

I cocked an eyebrow at the term.

“It’s a thin brew of oatmeal. They give you a pint of the stuff along with a six-ounce loaf of bread - stale bread.”

“At least it’s food,” I felt the need to point out. “And gratis.”

“Sort of,” London scoffed. “When this so-called breakfast is over, they make you put in time cleaning up the place. That’s the way you pay for your meal.”

Ungrateful as well, I thought, but held my tongue.

“When we finished our spells,” he continued, “we all joined up out on the street. Naturally, such a motley crowd attracts the coppers, and a couple of ‘em were walking back and forth eyeing the likes of us. You know how that lot look at the poor. To the cops, the ill-fed and ill-clothed are nothing but anarchists, fanatics or madmen. But, you see, I’m a writer and wasn’t hankering for trouble, so I moved on down the street a bit.

“That’s when I saw this gaunt old geezer propped up on a wooden bench. I remembered seeing him inside the barracks when we were eating, but out here he was wheezing and coughing. He was dressed in rags like everybody else, and he didn’t look good. Not healthy, if you know what I mean.”

“Couldn’t you ask the people in charge - the police you mentioned - to fetch a doctor?”

London laughed. He didn’t dignify my question with an answer.

“This wrinkled old man - maybe he was fifty though he looked older, wasted - motions me over and grabs my hand. ‘I need someone to talk to,’ he says in a whisper. Well, I’m hoping to learn as much as I can for the book I’m writing, and he actually sounded like he’d had an education. So I sat down next to him. He was all skin and bones, and I could easily have pulled my hand out of his frail fingers, but instead I let him hold on to me.

“‘What do you want?’ I asked.

“‘I’ve done some bad things in my day, mate,’ he says in a weak voice, ‘and I need someone to tell them to. I don’t know how much time I’ve got left to clear my conscience.’ His voice was an echo of a rasp, and it was all I could do to hear him.

“‘Why me?’ I asked.

“He shrugged. ‘I saw you nosing round in the barracks. You look like you want to learn things; you seem like you’d understand.’

“He’d pegged me right, and I nodded. Then he took a couple of quick breaths and told me his story.”

Here London paused and looked about the room again. “You sure there’s no one else in here that can listen in?”

I told him I was the only one there - and that no one was hiding in the hallway or upstairs in the bedrooms either.

He peered round once more and muttered, “OK, then,” and repeated to me what the fellow had told him: “‘You wouldn’t know it from the state I’m in today,’ the old man says, ‘but I used to work for a high-class syndicate. The Assassination Bureau, Limited, it’s called; and they pay good money for people like me.’

“‘What do you mean, “people like me”?’ I asked. ‘What are you?’

“The old man pulled me closer. I could smell his foul breath. ‘I’m an assassin,’ he whispered, “or was. ‘I was paid to kill people.’

“I must say that the geezer got my interest up. But I had to wait for him to complete a tired cough before he began again.

“‘From what I’ve been hearing,’ he said, ‘the Bureau’s still run by a Russian fellow with lots of money. I don’t know his name, but he supposedly lives here in London with his daughter who’s yet a teen. People say the wife’s dead. I believe he’s been in charge for some ten years now.’ Suddenly, his sharp eyes locked on mine. ‘You’re American, right?’

“I nodded, and he said, ‘Well, don’t think you’re immune to these people just ‘cause you’re a Yank. I’ve been told the Bureau was going strong in America long before the Russian ever took over. By now, it’s set up across the Channel as well.’

“The old man paused. We both saw the two coppers moving in our direction. Why should we worry? All we were guilty of was sitting on a bench.

“‘I told you the organisation eliminates people,’ the man went on, ‘but it isn’t the way you think. They don’t just kill anyone; they have a conscience. They only target subjects the Bureau considers enemies of the public good - you know the type - corrupt rulers, crooked business magnates, vicious criminals, and the like.’”

“Hold on,” I said to Jack London. “Do you mean to say that this Bureau, as you call it, sits in judgement regarding who should live and who should die?” If this were actually the case, then Jack London’s story did indeed sound like something that would interest Sherlock Holmes.

“I asked the old man the same,” said London, “about sitting in judgement, I mean. After all, murder is murder.

“‘Don’t ask me to justify what the Bureau does!’ he cries, pulling his hand away. ‘I was just a hired gun.’”

London’s tale defied credibility. If such an organisation really did exist, how come we had heard nary a word about it before? At the very least, there would have been rumours.

“You’ve never heard of the Assassination Bureau,” said London as if reading my mind, “because they have all sorts of clever ways to cover up what they do. At least, that’s what the old man said. He told me that maybe their victims are killed by an expert assassin who gets away. Or maybe by a poor innocent that the Bureau is able to set up and take the fall. Or maybe their victims appear to die of natural causes. You’re a doctor. You know how deadly some germs can be - and undetectable.”

“Germs?” I repeated in utter disbelief. “Do you mean using microbes as weapons? Good heavens, man, no civilised person could stoop so low!”

London smiled at my naiveté. “The old man said, ‘All that matters is that the murder can’t be traced back to the syndicate. Planning a safe strategy may take a while,’ he cautioned, ‘but in the end, they always get their man - or woman.’

“After this last bit,” reported London, “the old man leaned back against the bench. He looked winded, tired out. For a moment his eyes fluttered and then shut. It was at that instant that one of the two policemen swooped in.

“‘Hoy!’ shouted the copper, banging the old man’s skinny legs with a dark, wooden club. ‘You know the law! Swine like you can’t be sleeping on these benches!’

“The old man jerked awake, wincing and rubbing his thigh. His upper leg looked no broader than his lower arm.

“I was about to protest; but the copper with the club pointed the thing in my face, and I guess I was wise enough to keep my mouth shut.

“The two coppers moved on, laughing. I was enraged by these pawns of the ruling class, and yet I confess that I was thinking more about this man’s fantastical story than about any anger I was harbouring. I waited for the cops to get far enough away, and then I asked my companion the inevitable question: ‘who did you ever kill?”

“‘Me?’ His rheumy eyes opened wide at the memory, and for the first time he managed the beginnings of a smile. ‘I got my feet wet in an attempt on the Queen - that last try in ’82.’

“‘Last?’

“He nodded slowly - as if the movement required great effort. ‘There were at least eight tries on Victoria that I know of; maybe there were more.’”

I myself had heard of some of these attempts, but I never kept a tally. Upon eight occasions someone had tried to take the life of the Sovereign! My word!

“‘The Bureau tried many different approaches’ or so the old man maintained. ‘At one time or another, they enlisted a bartender, a hunchback, even a group of Irish-American radicals called the Dynamitards. But no one could ever get it right - not even with thirty pounds of grade-A dynamite brought over from New York. And, of course, it didn’t work out when I was involved either.

“‘I was a young man back then, and all I had to do was hold the horses while a concealed gunman shot at the Queen as she was leaving Windsor Station. He fired at the precise moment another gunshot went off. My mate missed; but just like it had been planned, the other shooter, Robert Maclean, got the blame. You’ve probably heard of the lunatic Maclean. No? Somehow, the Bureau had secretly persuaded him to take a shot. He missed too, of course; but because he’d fired at her in public when she was entering her carriage - just as he’d been instructed to do - the police were able to nab him. One shooter was sufficient as far as they were concerned, and the true assassin and I got away.’

“I shook my head in disbelief, but the old man offered other examples for confirmation.

“‘It was similar to the plan they used to assassinate your President Garfield,’ he said. “Remember that nutter Charlie Guiteau who was charged with killing him at a train station in Washington? Oh, Guiteau did the shooting all right, but who it was that put him up to it and who it was that caused Garfield’s medical treatment to be so badly botched was never revealed. The real killers escaped.’”

Jack London fixed me with his eyes. “I tell you, Dr Watson, my blood ran cold. I couldn’t believe what the man was telling me. I had heard of this fella Guiteau, though I wasn’t familiar enough with what he’d actually done to raise any questions about the details. I knew it was a sad affair - that Garfield had grand ideas about helping people and that he’d crossed a powerful Senator named Conkling in the process and that it took the President weeks to die. But . . . .”

London’s voice trailed off, and his brow began to furrow. “Still, I’m a thinker and was quite prepared to ask the old man a larger question-”

“Which is?”

London managed a close-lipped smile. “Why, the same one you want to ask: ‘Just who was behind it all? Just who exactly thought they could order the death of Queen Victoria and President Garfield and get away with it?’”

London was right. He had indeed stated the same question I would have posed.

“The old man shook his head when I asked him. ‘Not my worry, was it?’ he answered with a ropey laugh. “Somebody pays for a contract. The Bureau’s administrative board decides if the case is ethical. That’s how it worked with McKinley in New York as well.”

“‘Go on,’ I said to the old man. ‘Everyone knows that McKinley was shot by an anarchist, a fella named Golgosh or Gulgosh . . . .’

“‘Czolgosz,’ the old man chuckled. “Leon Frank Czolgosz - once again, just as the Bureau had planned it. All I can say on the matter is that other guns besides his were drawn that day.”

“Really!” I exclaimed. To London - or to the old man he was quoting - the whole world seemed involved in some ridiculous sort of grand conspiracy. No one in his right mind could accept such a story as anything but nonsense. To do otherwise would mean to believe that virtually every assassination in the recent past was performed by this single diabolical organisation. The proposition was absurd.

“‘So what happened to you?’” Jack London said he asked the old man. “‘How did you lose your job?’

“‘I got old. Over the years, I killed an MP and a local gangster - nobody a Yank like you would ever have heard of. But then I started missing my marks, and the syndicate wanted to get rid of me. Brought in new blood, didn’t they? Even some women - like the Russian’s daughter.

“‘One can only laugh. New blood. Sooner or later, they’ll all learn what I learned. The syndicate’s not an outfit you can walk away from. I had to hide out here in London Town. The Bureau’s high-class; they don’t come round the East End much.’

“Here the old man sighed and leaned back against the bench. He looked worn down. I figured he was pretty much talked out.”

London took a deep breath himself, seemingly relieved at having completed the tale. “I didn’t know what to make of the old man,” said he, “-whether to believe him or not, I mean. I wished him well and said I hoped he felt better for sharing his story. He nodded in my direction, thanked me for listening, and closed his eyes once more. I started off along Blackfriars. The one time I turned around, I saw the two coppers circling back to roust him.”

London gave a quick nod of his head. “There you have it.”

“The world is full of paranoiac individuals,” I observed coolly. “Not a few of them believe that every important death - suspicious or not - is related to some single force that rules the world. Anyone with an ounce of intelligence would never take such beliefs seriously. You say you’re a writer; and despite your ragged clothes, you look like a sensible enough fellow. I’m surprised you could be taken in by such a - a fairy tale.”

Jack London shrugged his shoulders. Mites of dust flaked off his jacket.

“What can I say, Doctor? The old man sounded legit. I’ve already told you that I reported the story to Scotland Yard. But let me tell you something else. Walking around with all this information in my head makes me nervous; and, generally speaking, I’m not the nervous type. I’m not easily frightened. But I can’t stop wondering about who could be next - that is, if such a tale happens to be true. The old man might be finished, but the Assassination Bureau - if it really exists - is not. Why, the geezer rambled on about hearing threats to-”

“Stop!” I cried, cutting him off. “This is crazy.”

“You too, Doctor? And here I thought that with the police not caring, Sherlock Holmes might be able to track down the truth. I’m done now. All I can hope is that you relay the story of the Assassination Bureau to Mr Holmes. But, hey, if the ruling classes aren’t interested in protecting their own, who am I to take up the battle?”

The ruling classes again! But, of course, what other terminology might one expect from a dedicated Socialist?

“Do you know,” Jack London droned on, “that your statesmen are fond of saying, ‘Wake up, England’? What they should be saying is, ‘Feed up, England!’”

Enough! I wasn’t going to listen to some delusional American tell me how we should run our country.

“Thank you, Mr London,” said I, rising to my feet. “I’ve heard more than I need from you. Good day.”

Jack London stood up to face me. Plopping his flat cap atop his head, he eyed me from under the short brim.

“Tell Mr Holmes hello from Johnny Upright,” said he and then made for the door. Suddenly, he stopped and turned round.

“Assassination Bureau or not, Doctor, after what I’ve seen in East London, we might as well go back to howling savagery if this is the best that civilization can do for its people.” With that parting shot, he exited the sitting room. I counted the seventeen steps he hit on his way to the outer door.

* * *

Later that evening, I met Sherlock Holmes in Simpson’s at the hour named. The sky remained washed in light, and it felt strange to be wearing a heavy coat in the summer. Yet it was chillier now than it had been earlier in what already had been a cool day. Holmes was sitting at a small round table by a window that overlooked the Strand. A pair of full sherry glasses stood at the ready.

“Ah, Watson,” he greeted me as I slipped off my coat. “Let me tell you of my meeting with Shinwell Johnson. I do believe that our plans regarding Baron Gruner-”

“In a moment, Holmes,” said I, quickly taking my seat. “First, allow me tell you about the caller you missed this afternoon. Believe me, it won’t take long. Then I shall be prepared to give my full attention to Mr Shinwell Johnson.”

His face betrayed no impatience, but I could tell from the gleam in his eye that he had much to report about the case Sir James had brought to him. Still, Holmes bided his time and told me to proceed.

As quickly as I could, I furnished my account of how I had spent the hours at Baker Street listening to Jack London’s tale of the Assassination Bureau. At the conclusion of my report, Holmes flashed a smile. It made him look both cynical and humorous at the same time.

“A generations-old secret organisation devoted to eliminating the people it finds objectionable? Hah, Watson, it is the Holy Grail for conspiratorial minds. How simple it would be to blame all our troubles on a single group. One need only eliminate the assemblage and - voilà-the problems of the world vanish.”

“Listening to this Jack London, I felt much as you do - not to mention all his prattle about the ruling classes and their victims.”

Sherlock Holmes sampled his sherry. “Which of the Yarders did you say called him a ‘conspiracy nutter’?” he asked, cocking an eye.

“Lestrade.”

Holmes snorted his approval. “Of course, it would be Lestrade. “It’s not often that I agree with the man,” said he, raising his glass in the policeman’s honour, “but in this case I shall make an exception. “A ‘conspiracy nutter’,” repeated Holmes with a broad smile.

His smile turned into a chortle, and then we both burst into the hearty laughter to which I referred at the start of this narrative. Only after the two of us had exhausted our mirth did we finish our sherry.

“Now, Watson,” said Holmes, replacing his glass on the table, “we have the murderous machinations of Baron Gruner to discuss. His nefarious story - along with a cut of roast beef from one of those silver-domed trollies - ought to be just the thing to put Mr Jack London out of mind.”