Scollay Square was not Harry’s Boston. Even in the spring night, the worst of Boston collected here in an urban and fetid mass, a far cry from the Knight house on Commonwealth Avenue or Harry’s club at Harvard. When he came into his money, Harry thought, he’d help to clean this place out. Sooty Southern Negroes jostled greasy Jewish storekeepers and greasier Italians from the North End. Outside the garishly lit Old Howard, a streetwalker bulging out of a tight checked dress yelled at Harry. “College boy, want to take a course from me?” On the street corners the Irish micks looked him up and down, eyes glinting under their flat caps. I’ll take on any six of you now, Harry thought. And when I have my place, I’ll send you all back where you belong.
You and the d—ned Baron von Reisden.
Daugherty had said they’d meet at Corbin’s pistol range. The place was in the basement of a decrepit alley building that had been falling apart in Paul Revere’s time, down stairs that stank of urine. There were scratches in the dirty counter and the range was not quite big enough, so that the targets looked too close. Six little gasfires flickered down the wall, spitting smoky light. A gaslight at the front threw Daugherty’s fat-boxer shadow at the wall.
“I suppose the guy picked this place, Daugherty. But you didn’t have to go along with him.” Harry thought of taking off his seersucker suit coat, because the place was hot, but he wasn’t going to lay it across that filthy counter.
“Neither one of us, I think, wanted to meet at the Harvard Club,” said a third voice.
All Harry saw at first was a shadow. The man who had spoken had to duck as he came down the stairs; he was an inch or two taller than Harry. His voice was deeper than Harry’s. Then he came into the light, and Harry tensed all his muscles and gauged the man’s size and strength as if he’d have to fight him.
On the stairs of the house on Commonwealth Avenue hung portraits of all of William’s sons: William, Alphonsus, John, Clement, Thomas Robert. Up and down the stairs every day, Harry passed a long row of Knight men, dark-haired, long-nosed, with the same build of eyebrow and eyelid and the same half-colorless grey eyes. Looking at the Baron von Reisden, Harry was overcome with indignation, as if the man’s very look was a trick, a falsity; he looked as if he should have been painted.
“You’re Harry.” The Austrian baron was thin, dressed in a dark suit and coat, not in fashion for the summer; but he had the look, absurdly, of a man who was used to being in charge.
Not in charge here, Harry thought. He could play cool too. “Daugherty here says you’re a gentleman. A gentleman wouldn’t do what you’re doing.”
“Anecdotal evidence suggests there are exceptions. Would you like to play games or shall we talk?”
“What?” Harry smiled. The man even spoke like a portrait.
“I don’t like this. I assume you don’t either. Let’s not waste time proving it.” The man went to the counter of the shooting gallery and casually took a gun out of his pocket. Harry blinked. “Am I really supposed to show you I can use this?” Reisden asked Daugherty.
“Bucky’s nervous. He keeps thinking about Jay French.”
“Jay French, at least, knows I’m not Richard Knight.” The Austrian took out a box from his other coat pocket, opened it, and began fitting bullets into the gun with quick, economical movements. “Daugherty, could you find fresh targets?” Daugherty lumbered up the stairs. Harry was left alone with Reisden.
“I’m Alexander Reisden,” the man said, turning around with the gun still in his hands. “I am going to briefly and unsuccessfully impersonate your cousin. I thought you should meet me first. ”
“I'm Harry Boulding,” Harry said, but nothing more.
“You are Gilbert Knight’s adopted son?”
“So he says. I can’t say he does much about it.” Harry felt he was complaining. Not to this man.
“Yes, he’s being foolish.”
“I didn’t say that.” Harry moved away from him. The Austrian opened his mouth, then closed it again without saying anything. Shut up, you paint on canvas.
Daugherty came clattering downstairs with fresh targets. “Thank you,” Reisden said, and Daugherty reeled in the targets on their wires without being asked.
“Gilbert Knight and Richard didn’t know each other well,” Reisden said after a moment. “Gilbert is unlikely to be certain of anything, except, I hope, that he doesn’t want Richard.”
“He won’t think you’re Richard.”
Daugherty came back behind the counter. “You ready, Reisden?”
Reisden casually stood behind the counter, bracing his gun hand with the other, and fired off six shots, steadily as a clock ticks. Daugherty looked at the target solemnly, counted the holes near the center, unclipped it, and folded and pocketed it. “So’s to tell Bucky he don’t need to worry,” he explained.
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” Harry asked in spite of himself.
Reisden looked at him, uninterested. “Targets don’t hurt. That makes them easy.”
Bastard.
When the two other men had gone, Harry went upstairs.
“Give me a gun,” he said.
The targets were farther away than they looked, but Harry blazed away at them, round after round, trying to shoot a hole in something he didn’t want to give a name to.