Will Thomas - To Kingdom Come

We were herded into the entranceway of the constabulary building. A man waited for us as we neared the front door. He was approximately five and thirty, with a thin mustache like a brow across his upper lip and one of the squarest jaws I’d ever seen. He looked at us out of steel-gray eyes and over an aquiline nose. He was dressed in the military-looking green uniform of a Liverpool inspector.

“You’ve got them, eh? Good work, gentlemen. Take them to the questioning room.”

I didn’t like the sound of “questioning room.” British officials are quick to give bland names to menacing places. The euphemisms complemented the chilling humor of the administrators.

We were taken into a room where, despite the fact that we made absolutely no struggle since it had all began, we were thrust roughly down into two chairs. The fellow in the green jacket came in and we were left alone with him and one constable, who had his notebook out. I noticed the inspector had a short riding crop in his hand.

“I am Chief Inspector Johanson,” he stated. “You two gentlemen have been seen in the company of known Irish rebels. I demand to know your names.”

Barker ignored the question and launched a barrage of his own in a thick German accent. “What is the meaning of this? Where have you brought us? Cannot a man walk in this city without being attacked by the secret police? I demand to be released immediately!”

Barker was oscillating his head slightly, and it took me a moment to realize what he was doing. He was pretending he was blind. It was why he had stumbled in the street.

“You have not answered my question,” the inspector warned. “Tell me your name, you.” He held up his riding crop, threatening Barker, but my employer appeared to take no notice. Seeing that warning him didn’t work, he struck the Guv a cutting blow across the face. Rather melodramatically, Barker fell out of his chair. He would have absorbed such a blow without comment under normal circumstances.

“ Schwein! ” he called from the floor, shaking in anger. “You strike a blind man, without warning? Coward! Why don’t you simply go out in the street and kick children and old women?”

Realizing for the first time that his suspect was blind, Johanson hefted him back into the chair, though he offered no apology.

“Look, man, you are in no position to be calling names here. You watch your mouth or I’ll give you another one.”

“You strike me one more time, Inspector,” Barker assured him, “and you shall be patrolling the quays as a constable by tomorrow. Do you think I am some common street thief you have caught in your dragnet? Nein! It is a whale. I am too big for your little boat. You want to know my name? I shall tell you my name. It is Johannes Otto van Rhyn! You recognize it? Good! Now run along. Get someone of authority in here. I do not talk to … to … What is the word, Thomas? The little fishes, you know.”

“I think the word you want is ‘minnows,’ sir,” I prompted.

“ Ja. Danke, Thomas. I do not talk to minnows. Run along, Little Minnow. And I should like some tea if I am to be kept waiting long.”

I could see a thousand thoughts running through the inspector’s head. No prisoner had ever spoken so rudely to him, or they’d have been beaten soundly, but no prisoner ever had spoken with such authority either. Certainly, he’d heard of van Rhyn. The mysterious bomber’s name had been in the newspapers several times. He was well known, indeed. Johanson might receive acclaim for capturing him. On the other hand, he’d struck him. Did Barker really mean that he could have the man demoted? If Barker spoke to the press and made it seem like the Liverpool police had beaten and mistreated a blind man, he might. These were deep waters, indeed. Johanson didn’t want to get in trouble with his superiors. He did have a whale in his net. It would be a great deal safer if he’d simply step down the hall and speak with his supervisor.

“What are you doing?” the inspector snapped at the brawny constable holding the notebook.

The fellow looked up in surprise. “Taking notes, sir.”

“Destroy that!” he ordered.

I dared put in my own oar. “Herr van Rhyn takes milk and two sugars in his tea, Inspector, and I prefer black, myself.”

I could see he’d dearly like to have a swing at my head with that crop of his, but the political ramifications had suddenly filled the room. It was too hot in here. He needed to step out for some cool dock-side air.

“Stand guard outside!” he snarled at the poor constable. “I’m stepping down the hall to talk to the superintendent. Inspector Munro of the Special Irish Branch is here, and I think he’ll want to interrogate this prisoner.”

Both of them stepped outside, and we could hear the inspector going down the hall.

“Quick, lad,” Barker said. “We haven’t a moment to lose.”

“Turn around and see if you can reach my waistcoat,” Barker said. “I still have the betty in my pocket.”

I did as he said, guiding my hands to his pocket while looking over my shoulder. I’d forgotten about the little skeleton key he’d used to unlock Dunleavy’s door. My fingers seemed to belong to someone else, but eventually I dug it out and passed it to him back to back. In almost no time at all, he was swinging the open bracelets around and freeing his other hand. Then he seized my wrist and began unlocking mine.

“I’d say we have about two minutes to get out of here,” he said in my ear.

In a moment my hands were free, but I wasn’t sure what good had been accomplished, since there was still a guard at the door and bars on the window. Barker put a finger to his lips and moved silently to the door. Then giving me a look that said “prepare yourself,” he opened the door, snaked a hand around the guard’s mouth, and delivered a kick to his calves, yanking him into the room. I ran to close the door while my employer delivered a blow to the constable’s neck, just under the helmet, with the edge of his hand. The officer was knocked cold.

Barker peered out into the corridor and motioned to me with two fingers. We were out of the room, moving down the hallway as casually as we could bear. In a moment, we stepped out the entrance door and melted away into the night.

We were walking along swiftly when I suddenly began to get rubber legged. I couldn’t help it. Because I had been incarcerated for eight months, my greatest fear is of imprisonment. I began gulping for air and feeling dizzy. Barker sat me down on the stoop of a shop front and pushed my head between my legs.

“A little too close for you in there, was it, lad?”

“Aye, sir,” I gasped.

In a few moments, I was feeling a little better. We’d been inside the lion’s mouth, and emerged safely again, but it had been close. My mind knew we were out, but my nerves were still coming to grips with the thought of being behind bars again.

“Feeling better now?” Cyrus Barker asked. He was being patient, but we were still rather close to the station. I jumped up from the stoop.

“Ready, sir,” I stated.

Alfred Dunleavy was at the O’Casey house, when we arrived shortly after twelve. Both he and Eamon looked very worried when we came in, and I’d like to think Maire O’Casey had a look of concern, as well. The three of them were amazed when we entered, as casual as you please, as if we’d just had an evening’s ramble.

“We’d heard you’d been taken!” Eamon O’Casey said, hurrying up to us. “Fergus is outside, keeping a watch out for the police. They know we are in the area and so far they have not located the address, but it is only a matter of time. So what happened?”

Barker threw himself into a chair and began patting his pockets for his pipe. “ Ja, well, we did not care for the accommodations. Thomas and I wished to sleep in our own beds tonight.”