14

Wednesday, June 9, Cont

The day after the letter from Grüber arrived, Herman awoke slowly. He rarely drank more than two beers in an evening, but last night he’d done his best to dull the pain, only to sharpen it with every swallow. His resolve to exact vengeance on Miss Harkness went from white hot to Arctic cold overnight. He was a master craftsman. He would use his skills and patient temperament to create a precise moment of reckoning. But first, he needed to locate his target.

He explained the contents of the letter to Luigi, and the Italian’s eyes moistened. Luigi told Herman to take the time he needed to mourn. He had plenty of lamps to sell at the moment and gave Herman an advance on their sale. His workbench would be ready when he returned.

It was an easy matter to locate a bookstore, and he found one of Miss Harkness’s books on a back shelf, marked down. Not so popular in your own country, I see, he thought. Somehow, that gave him a measure of comfort. He started to buy it, then he decided he didn’t want any of his money to go to her, so wrote down the name and address of her publisher, memorized her image at the back of the book, and replaced it on the reduced-price shelf, its title facing backward.

For the next part of his plan, he needed better clothes. A secondhand store provided a respectable suit and shoes that would allow him to walk unnoticed into a business establishment without a toolbox over his shoulder.

The manager at the publisher was an elderly gray man who clearly saw little sun. He was suspicious when Herman came seeking one of his authors. “What business do you have w’ Miss Harkness, sir? She’s under contract with us. You can give me your message and I’ll send it on.”

Once you read it, Herman thought. Using his strongest German accent, he said, “I vould like to ask her to write a story based on characters in Berlin. She is quite popular in Germany, und I think such a book will sell very well. It vould only help her popularity and cause her other books to become better known also. It would cost you nothing and may help you sell more of her works.”

Herman noticed the man’s eyes dart to a filing cabinet beside his desk. The thought of selling more books distracting him. Thank you, Herman thought. I would love to play cards with you sometime.

“Do you have a card, Herr . . .”

“Krieger, sir. And sadly, no. I did not bring a card with me. Here is my address in Berlin. I am only in London for two days. I must return to Germany tomorrow, so sadly I will be unable to meet with her while I am here. Please send her my regards and tell her I am eager to hear from her.”

The manager accepted the note. He looked doubtful anything would come of this, but he promised to send the address on. Their business concluded, they wished each other a good day, and Herman left, smiling to himself. One step closer.

Back at the antiquities shop, he asked Luigi if he could help him meet with one of his regular “procurers” of art. Luigi thought this an odd request for a man in mourning, but shrugged and gave him a name and a pub where the man could usually be found. Ignorance of the personal details of one’s associates in art “procurement” was usually wise.

“Keys” Malone was anchoring a corner table of the Dog’s Head pub when Herman entered, just as Luigi had predicted. He was telling a story about his time in Newgate Prison to two mates who seemed familiar with life behind bars.

“Ah tell ye, boyos, ’twas the Black Dog himself who walked past my cell every night just after midnight.”

“What d’he look like, Keys?” asked a mate well into his cups.

“He only came by at the darkest hour, so alls I can say is he weren’t more’n bones. I smelled him first. Damp dirt and rotting flesh, like he’d just climbed out of his grave. Then the sound of his shuffling feet wrapped in rags. He never turned his head to look at me, thanks be to God, though he’s never harmed a prisoner as I’ve ever heard, nor a jailer, more’s the pity.”

“How long’s he been seen in Newgate?”

“I hear he’s been there for over a hundred years. Maybe more. If he’d ever turned to look at me, there’d be another ghost soon enough!”

They laughed together, then Keys noticed the stranger overhearing his tale. “Well, lad, you gonna say something? I usually don’t tell me stories to strangers, least not for free.”

Herman signaled the barmaid. “Four ales, please.” Then, turning to the storyteller, he asked, “Is there someplace we can discuss business?”

Malone smiled with his few remaining, blackened teeth. “This is my office, suhr. My mates were just leaving to have their ales at the bar, weren’t you lads?”

His two companions went to the bar after eyeing Herman curiously. Free ale was, after all, free ale.

After the two men had the corner to themselves, Keys became all business. “What’s the job, what’s the risk, and what’s the pay?”

“I would think the pay would be your first question, Mr. Malone.”

“Pay’s no good if you can’t spend it. I’ve no desire to go walking with the Black Dog. And you haven’t answered my questions.”

“The job is opening a door and perhaps a file cabinet. I will write something down, then we’re done. You’re not to take anything. They can’t know anyone’s been there.”

“Then the pay’d better be good, if I’ve naught to sell after.”

“Twenty pounds for twenty-minutes’ work.”

“And the risk?”

“It’s a publishing house. There’s nothing of great value inside. The lock on the door didn’t look expensive, and the filing cabinet should be child’s play. No one resides nearby, so police patrols will be infrequent.”

“I won’t say yea or nay ’til I’ve seen for meself. Five pounds to have a look. Then twenty more if I say yes.”

They shook hands. “How about another ale, then we go for a stroll?” Keys suggested.

Two hours later, after walking around the building from the outside, a partially sober Malone took thirty seconds before agreeing to the job. “No dogs. Good. I hate dogs. Been bit once on a job. Can never stand ’em since.” He took one look at the lock on the door and smiled. “I’ve a ten-year-old nephew who could pick that,” he said. “Sure there’s naught worth taking? I’ll feel naked without a sack to fill.” Herman shrugged. “You don’t look like much of a reader, but if you want ten copies of some penny dreadful, I doubt they’ll be missed.”

Keys snorted. “Books! I’d need a wheelbarrow full just to make two pounds. Alright then, we’ll do it your way. Ten pounds now, the rest when we’re done. I’ll be here at two. That’s usually when the bobbies take a wee nap or a spot of tea. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Money exchanged, they went their separate ways. Herman had never been a hunter, but he suddenly understood the thrill of it. Soon he would track his quarry to her den.

Keys Malone was punctual and earned his title, opening the door almost as quickly as if he had its key in hand. The door squeaked a bit when opened, and Herman was surprised when the man oiled the hinges once inside. Malone saw Herman’s look and whispered, “Most dangerous parts of a job are when you enter and when you leave. Newgate’s full of men who came in careful and left careless. Lead on.”

Surprisingly, the filing cabinet took the thief longer to overcome than the front door. “Smaller lock,” he explained. “Gives me less room to move about.” He displayed a remarkable vocabulary of swear words, teaching Herman one or two phrases Herman hoped he’d never have use for, before the lock finally yielded and the drawer slid out. “And Bob’s your uncle,” Keys said with satisfaction.

Herman wasn’t sure he heard right but shrugged and, with the aid of a bull’s-eye lantern, quickly found Miss Harkness’s address among the file detailing each of the house’s authors. “I’ve got what I need,” he said, “Your Uncle, Bob.”

He was sliding the file closed when a small form darted out from beneath the publisher’s desk and ran across Malone’s feet, causing him to scream, “Dog!” and jump onto the desk, knocking over an inkwell.

The cat squalled as it fled into the back of the office, and Herman suddenly smelled urine. The burglar had wet himself. “Get down, you fool! Now see what you’ve done.”

Malone climbed down, clearly shaken. “Job’s done! Give me my money and I’ll be off.”

“We need to clean up this mess or they’ll know we’ve been here.”

“They’ll blame the cat. I’m leaving. Pay me!”

Herman saw there was no reasoning with the man, so he handed over the other ten pounds, completing their transaction, and the door swung open and closed without a sound.

Herman was about to go himself when a thought came to him. Perhaps Malone was right. How to convince the publisher it was the cat? He saw the black ink glistening in the dim light given off from the street, then it came to him. One more thing to do. He turned toward the far corner of the room where two eyes were studying him. “Here, kitty, kitty.”