Will Thomas: The Black Hand

Tillett spoke for him. “It’s a rope with a weighted knot on the end. Useful for thumping noggins.”

“Who’ll test the waters?” Dummolard interrupted. “Who will see how they fight and what weapons they’ll employ? May I have the honor?”

“I would rather Mr. Hooligan and his boys do that,” Barker said. “But, remember, it is merely a feint, to pull them out of position. I want you and your brothers to deliver a solid response to their attack from another direction, rather like a right hook to the ear.”

“I hope you know what you are about, monsieur,” Etienne’s brother put in.

“I shall do my best, Mr. Dummolard.”

“And where will my brothers and I be stationed?”

“Your men and Mr. Tillett’s will be behind Hooligan’s. I want the dockworkers to bring up the rear, considering they are untrained.”

“I’ll do my best to keep them there, sir, but some of them are aching for a scrap,” Tillett responded.

“I am certain they’ll get one. Are there any other questions?”

“Just one. The same one I asked when I came in here,” Hooligan said. “What are you about, Mr. Barker? You’re no criminal, and yet you’re planning a dock war in the East End. If the Yard hears of this, you’ll be in Wormwood Scrubs till you rot, and some of us with you.”

“Let us leave Wormwood Scrubs out of this. I make no apologies for the fact that I am after the assassin and the Sicilian leader, whom I believe is named Marco Faldo. I will challenge him and he must attend as a debt of honor. I’m doing this to flush him out of his hole. It is the only way.”

“How do you know it’s this Faldo?” Tillett asked. “I don’t believe I have heard of him.”

“I have the strong feeling that Faldo is in London somewhere, biding his time and sending Black Hand notes. Were there another fellow as dangerous hiding here, I’d like to think he would have reached our collective ear by now. I am in the business of collecting information, after all, and in knowing what dangerous men are in the country.”

No one spoke. Apparently, tomorrow’s events were going forward as planned. Young Mr. Tillett and Robert Dummolard did not seem inclined to stay and chat and enjoy the food Mr. Soft had provided. If one is not accustomed to being underground, it can be unsettling. Hooligan was not going to be put off, however, pouring himself an ale and putting a thick slice of ham in bread.

“Good victuals, Mr. Barker,” he said. “You do know how to throw a party. I’m going to have to rent this place meself sometime.”

Our other guests were halfway up the ladder when Mr. Soft’s placid voice filtered down to my ear.

“Pardon me, gentlemen, and forgive the intrusion, but there appears to be an altercation at the front door. There is no reason to hurry or panic, but I suggest all of you leave at once. If you would deign to follow me, I can get you safely off the premises. This way, please.”

In less than a minute, all of us were on the ladder at once. The metal frame groaned once at the combined weight but showed no signs of giving way. Thank the Lord for good English iron, I say. Barker and I were last, of course. When we reached the top once more, we could hear the disturbance outside. Something was being slammed against the door, perhaps some sort of battering ram. It did not seem to concern Mr. Hardy much, who was sitting in a chair opposite with what I can only describe as an elephant gun over one shoulder and his boot resting against a dog at his feet. The dog was of indeterminate breed and had but one ear and one eye. It seemed to be no more concerned about the pounding at the front door than its master.

“Early stages, gentlemen,” Hardy said easily. “There’s still plenty of time, yet. Mr. Soft does get the vapors up.”

There was a sound of a shot being fired outside and the entire door gave a shudder. The dog put up its head as if mildly curious.

“Ah, now we’re gettin’ somewheres. Stage two of the assault. I suggest you follow Mr. Soft to the escape room.”

So saying, the man pulled a fat cigar from his pocket and scraped a vesta against the wall behind him.

“Hope they tear the whole entrance down,” he said conversationally. “I’ve been meanin’ to put in brick. You get ever so much more security with brick. Or stone! Stone would be nice. Granite maybe.”

We left Mr. Hardy debating the merits of various types of stone and followed our guests. We went down a narrow hall into a sitting room. All our guests looked a trifle perturbed, but Mr. Soft seemed in no more of a hurry than his associate. He pulled a chair out of a corner and moved a blue and white ceramic pot full of tall grass aside.

“This will only take a minute, gentlemen,” he assured us. Taking a small jackknife from his pocket, he cut into the patterned wallpaper and began tearing a straight line. At one point above his head, he stopped and cut horizontally. Then he put the knife away with a fastidiousness that we all found wearing and gave a sudden savage kick to the wall. It gave way with a squeak of rusted hinges. A door had been plastered up inside the wall and papered over. With a bow, he invited us through. We tried to converge upon it at once, propelled by the sound of more shots at the front of the establishment.

“Plenty of time, gentlemen,” Mr. Soft assured us. “Just follow the passages to the street. You’ll exit in the area of the Jewish synagogue. There should be no trouble finding a cab of a Friday night. Thank you for visiting our establishment. If you ever require such services, I hope you’ll think of us. Good evening!”

We squeezed through the small doorway and began to shuffle through a succession of dusty hallways and courtyards. Any moment, I expected to reach the street, only to come upon another abandoned-looking hall. I had heard there were escape passages like this in the warrens of Whitechapel, made by criminals to evade the police. At one point, we went down some steps and through a short tunnel, and at another we found ourselves in a brick alleyway with the stars shining above the roofs three stories overhead. Then, finally, we burst through a door into a courtyard full of Jews in their Sabbath best, the women in dresses adorned with jet and heavy mantles, like Spanish donas , and the men in yarmulkes and long talliths. We made our way through the crowd with apologies, and reaching the street, commandeered some of the vehicles. We all relaxed, I noticed, and were smiling now that the danger had passed, at the novelty of the evening. Tillett tramped off with his hands in his pockets. Hooligan tipped a wink in our direction as his cab rolled by, followed by Robert Dummolard, who gave us a nod.

“Pass me a sixpence, lad,” Barker said, taking control of the situation again. I reached into my pocket and handed the coin to him. Part of my duties is always to have at least one of every coin in the realm, as well as every denomination up to and including fifty pounds. Barker held the coin vertically between his thumb and forefinger and then suddenly it vanished like a magic trick. Behind him, a ragged street urchin jogged away as fast as the crowd and his bare feet would allow. That accomplished, we stepped back from the curb and Barker stuffed and lit his pipe. We watched as the well-to-do crowd made its staid leave-taking from the Sabbath services.

I had to admit I was looking for someone, now that I was here. A young Jewess named Rebecca Mocatta had caught my eye a year before, and rarely did I enter the East End without keeping an eye out for her. Alas, she did not pass by, but it was probably for the better. I was not exactly free to speak with her just then.

There was a flutter by my face, and I stepped back involuntarily. Soho Vic had appeared at my elbow and stolen my pocket handkerchief. He blew his nose into it, a honking blast that turned several heads in our direction, then he stuffed the soiled linen back into my breast pocket.