“There it is!” she said, leaning forward and putting her hand on the Uber driver’s shoulder. “Stop, please, this is number eleven on the right.”
The Range Rover coasted to a stop outside a dingy row of indistinguishable shops. They all seemed to be falling down, yet they were crowded together cheek by jowl.
“We found it,” Sigrid said. “Can you believe it?”
“Hmm,” Ambrose said. He had his nose pressed against the foggy rear window, and he was trying to determine which one was the tiny emporium. He could barely make out MILITARY CURIOSITIES on the window in peeling gold leaf. The place looked abandoned. His spirits sank as he reached for the door handle to exit the Range Rover.
“Let’s go,” his new partner said, opening her door. “Have you got your gun?”
“Gun? I hardly think that will be necessary, dear.”
“Yeah, but you’ve got it, that’s the main thing.”
Ambrose ducked out of the snow and tried the front door. Locked, of course. He knocked hard, three times, with no response. “I can’t see a bloody thing in there. Can you see anything?” he asked Sigrid.
“Junk,” she said, shading her eyes with her hands, her nose to the grimy glass. “Wait! Someone’s back there! Coming from the rear of the shop. It’s an old woman. Here she is.”
They stepped back as the old crone pulled the door open a crack.
“What you want?” she said in a low growl, angry and not hiding it well.
She could not have been four feet tall, and she weighed less than ninety pounds. She had a shawl over her head, which partially obscured her sharp-featured face.
Congreve bowed gallantly from the waist and said, “Guns, madame. We are looking for guns.” He then pulled out his solid gold pocket watch and dangled it for a moment before looking at it.
She immediately stepped forward and peered up at this giant of a man. “What kind of guns?”
“My wife and I are collectors. We collect historic pistols from the World War II era, madame. Curiosities, one-offs, things of that nature, as a matter of fact. May we step inside?”
She hesitated a moment, nodded, and stepped back, making room for them to enter. Sigrid let the chief inspector go on charming the proprietress while she had a quick look around. A single dim lightbulb dangled by its cord. The light it cast was negligible, but just enough to see her way around the shop.
There were sagging shelves loaded with antique weapons of every description. Swords, battle axes, knives, pistols, and rifles. All stacked on top of each other in a random jumble. A pile of defunct (one hoped) hand grenades. Artillery shells stacked like dusty soda bottles. She grabbed the first handgun she saw and held it up for the boss’s inspection.
“Look, darling, over here!” she said. “I think this is just what we’re looking for!”
Congreve excused himself and made his way through the clutter toward her.
“Yes!” he exclaimed. “That’s the one, all right!”
Sensing the first sale in years, the owner rushed over and took the pistol from Sigrid’s hand a bit too aggressively.
“This one you like?” she said, as if she rather doubted it.
“We do,” Congreve said. “What kind of gun is it?”
“Don’t know. Not my business.”
“Ah. Whose business is it?”
“My son, his business, not mine.”
“May I speak with him?”
“He not here today.”
“Too bad,” Ambrose said, pulling his billfold out and placing a thick wad of Swiss francs wrapped in a rubber band on the glass counter. “I’m very interested in buying this exotic treasure.”
“How much you got?”
“Count it. I think that’s ten thousand francs, madame.”
“Be right back. You wait here.”
She glided away on tiny feet into the darkness at the rear.
“Good work, that gun thing,” the chief inspector said.
“Thanks. You, too.”
“Shhh! How good is your hearing?” he whispered.
“Twenty-twenty.”
“Be quiet. Listen. What do you hear, Sigrid?”
“Some kind of whooshing sound.”
“Hydraulic door. What else?”
“Some kind of deep humming. I can almost feel it.”
“Air-conditioning. There’s a sweatshop hidden back there.”
“But how do you—”
“Silence, here they come.”
“They? How do you know?”
“Shhh.”
Two shadows materialized from the gloom.
“Ambrose, I think it’s him,” she whispered in his ear. “That’s the man, I’m sure of it.”
Sigrid froze, her fingers digging painfully into Ambrose’s forearm. Surely the man would recognize her. It hadn’t been that long since he’d last seen her and —
“How may I help you?” the thin, black-haired man said, walking behind the counter and glancing at the money. He had a skimpy black goatee that needed a trim. His mother stood behind him. She was watching their every move, dark eyes moving back and forth.
Congreve smiled and placed the automatic pistol on the counter beside the money. “My wife wants to buy this one.”
“She has very good taste,” the man said, looking carefully at Sigrid. “How do you come by such knowledge?” he asked her, squinting in the low light.
Congreve slipped seamlessly in front of her before she could reply. “So sorry. My wife is deaf and dumb. I’m Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve, Scotland Yard. I’m the one with all the money.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your name, son?”
“Ding Wong,” he said, casting a side glance at his mother.
“Pleasure, Ding. So. What kind of gun is this? It looks very valuable.”
“Excellent eye, Chief Inspector. Extremely valuable, sir. Quite old.” Visible money always did the trick.
“Quite rare, is it?” Ambrose said.
“Chinese manufacture, sir, 1920s, maybe 1930s. Very limited production, maybe even handmade, home manufacture. Very popular 1911 to 1949, prewar era. Used by Chinese Communist soldiers. Exposed trigger, so later model. In use because of the arms embargo imposed on us before the war. Five-digit serial number on barrel, but maybe not mass production. Chambered for Mauser 7.63mm.”
“Very impressive,” Congreve said, hefting the weapon in his hand.
Ding turned his attention back to Sigrid. “This is gun you were looking for, yes?”
Sigrid nodded yes.
“Sold,” the tall man said, sweeping the cash from the counter and into his cash drawer. “Thank you. Have to go now.”
He turned and nodded to his mother, who took his place at the counter. Then he headed for the rear.
“Hold on a second, Ding,” Congreve said. “There’s another pistol that I’m very interested in.”
“Another pistol, sir?” He stopped and turned around. “Which one?”
“This one.”
Congreve already had the Ruger 9mm automatic aimed at Ding’s head.
“Huge stopping power, ball rounds,” Ambrose said. “Take your arm off. No manual safety, striker fired, short, light, and crisp trigger pull, magazine loaded with seven rounds, hollow points. Care to see how it shoots, Ding?”
“You get out of here. Now. Wife, too. I call police!”
“Good luck with that. Detective Kissl is now going to check you and your mother for weapons. If you even think of resisting, I’ll blow your bloody head off. Same goes for Mommy dearest over there in the shadows. Understand me? Because I will do it.”
Ding Wong’s black eyes flared defiantly, but he nodded his head yes.
“Pat them both down, Detective,” Ambrose said to Sigrid.
She moved quickly behind the counter, saying, “Hands in the air. Both of you. Now! Spread your legs. Wide. Did you not hear me? I said now! And keep your fucking hands up where I can see them.”
Ambrose could not help himself.
He smiled at his new pupil.