Will Thomas - Some Danger Involved

It was while the mourners were filing out that I saw a young Jewish woman coming down the line. She was dressed all in jet and wore a veil of mourning, but even her somber habit could not conceal her comely appearance. I was just looking down the row when she glanced at me. I felt those eyes on me for a moment, and it was as if unspoken questions passed between us: Who are you? Why are you here? Then the moment passed, as she looked down demurely again. An older woman came up beside her and took her arm, and then they were lost from my sight. She was the first young woman to look at me since my wife had died a year before.

Outside the cemetery, the usher was there to collect my cap and hair clip. In exchange he gave us each a beeswax candle to pray for Pokrzywa's soul and sent us on our way. We didn't see Racket's cab, so we walked along the street with the mourners.

"Why did we fill in the grave ourselves?" I asked Barker.

"It was for the benefit of the bereaved," he answered. "The sound of the dirt striking the coffin lid is proof that the deceased will never return, so that real grief can begin, and eventually acceptance."

"Why the back of the shovel and not the front?"

"To express that this is not the usual use for the shovel, but something quite different."

"It was a very short service," I noted.

"Yes, but it is only beginning. For the next week we shall have the shiva, the first mourning period. Very good for us, the shiva. Friends and associates are encouraged to remember and talk about the departed. It will be a perfect time to question them without appearing to interfere."

With the mourners, we reached what appeared to be the house of mourning. Several people were going in, after washing their hands. The usher with the skullcaps was now holding a washbasin and pitcher, and a towel over his arm. We came forward to speak to him.

"Stop, gentlemen," he said. "I'm afraid this is only for close friends." I'm sure he realized we were not among them, since we were the only men standing in the cemetery without the long, winding prayer shawls.

"I understand," my companion said. "I am Cyrus Barker, and this is my assistant, Thomas Llewelyn. We have been asked by Sir Moses Montefiore to investigate Mr. Pokrzywa's death for the Board of Deputies. I have come to request that I might make a shiva call sometime this week. You men, of everyone in London, knew him best. I assure you I will be civil and shall not interfere with your mourning."

The man thought for a moment. "Granted," he said, finally. "Be here tomorrow, late afternoon." Then, with his bowl and his ewer, he went inside. The click of the door, effectively shutting us out, was the end of the service for us. They had politely put up with us for so long. Now they were closing ranks, and the true mourning, the private mourning, would begin.

Like a clockwork figure in a Tyrolean timepiece, Racket's cab came around the corner and stopped in front of us. We climbed in and lounged against the plush seats. I, for one, was exhausted.

"How did I do?" were the first words out of my mouth.

"Passable, lad, passable. At one point you had a vapid grin on your face, but you mastered it."

"I believe you cracked a couple of my ribs back there."

"They'd better get used to it. They won't be the last bones you'll crack in this business."

"I liked the service," I said, changing the subject, "but I missed the flowers and hymns. I might have understood it better in English, of course."

"No doubt. Many of the verses the rabbi spoke were from the Psalms. The same ones I've seen Spurgeon use in his funeral services, in fact."

"It seems strange to find a Baptist such as yourself so well acquainted with Jewish customs," I said.

"Yes, well, knowledge is a good thing. If the Bible says that the Jews are His chosen people, we ought to take it seriously." He banged on the roof overhead with his cane. "Racket! Ho's!"

At the entrance to Ho's, Barker opened the faded door and immediately plunged in, clattering down the steps in the dark.

"Mr. Barker, sir!" I cried. "The lamp!"

"That's for initiates!" he called back. "Twenty-one steps down and the same going up! Thirty paces down the hall, thirty-five with your legs. Stay to the left, or you'll stumble into someone coming out!"

Marvelous. When I met the reserved interviewer at 7 Craig's Court half a week ago, I little imagined he would have such a perverse sense of humor. He seemed to rejoice in giving me just enough rope to hang myself with. I plunged in after him and arrived at the other side with nothing worse than a barked shin and toe and a dusty left jacket sleeve.

"Try a thousand-year-old egg," he said, after we were served.

I eyed the appetizer dubiously. The "white" was a dark gray, and the yoke a bilious green. The dish was one of Barker's favorites. I would go very far to please my new boss, but this was one step beyond that. Thanks to Barker, I'd discovered the wonders and subtleties of Chinese cuisine, but I could never bring myself to eat a duck's egg that had been slathered in lime and tea leaves and buried in the ground a hundred days until it was mummified. "I believe I'll stick to the rice," I said.

Soon, the ever helpful waiter was slapping down cups of tea on our roughhewn table, and Barker was reaching for his likeness in meerschaum. I leaned back in the stout Windsor chair, and put my feet against the base of the table, as Barker had done. A full belly and a comfortable chair. What more could any man ask?

"So, how is the investigation going?" I asked.

"Tolerably," he said, between puffs. "It's still early days yet. An investigation is like a drop of water in the cleft of a rock. One must remain fluid and take advantage of every quake and opportunity to get to the bottom of it."

"That sounds like an oriental axiom. You could write a book of them, The Analects of Barker."

He continued to puff, once every thirty seconds or so. "I must learn to guard myself from that scalpel-like humor of yours," he said, finally.

"Sorry, sir. Could you explain how we're to go about the case a little more clearly?"

"Very well. Our purpose is to discover who killed Mr. Pokrzywa and whether there is an attempt afoot to create a pogrom against the Jews in London, correct? Now, somewhere out there are individuals who perpetrated the atrocity and who want to thwart our attempts. Between us, there are dozens of individuals with bits of information that would be helpful to our case. They may be keeping them secret; they may not even know they are important. Our simple task is to find those individuals, out of the three million people presently living in London, and to pry the information out of them, like a pearl out of an oyster."

"You make it sound so easy," I said cynically.

"It's not as difficult as it seems. People are naturally gregarious. And we'll have a wee bit of help. There are a few, let us call them 'watchers,' in the area. We'll parlay with them, next. Let's go brave the tunnel again, shall we? Ho needs the table, and it's hard to investigate with a hatchet in one's back."

Back in the street, which at Ho's insistence shall remain anonymous, Barker and I set out on foot.

"If I may ask a question, sir, what skills should I develop to become a better detective or assistant?"

"Patience, most of all," he said, swinging his stick to match his stride. "Patience is the essential quality of a man. Observation. Doggedness. Imagination. It's all in those books I gave you. Oh, and meditation, or prayer."

"Prayer?" I asked.

"Of course. If you're not connected to the source of all knowledge, you're no better than a telephone when one of these lines is down." He gestured with his stick at the wires over our heads.

We had reached Mile End Road and were heading east. We were near Limehouse, as far as I could tell, and were walking along a blank wooden wall, painted a dull brown, one like a hundred other such walls in London, when he lifted a latch and stepped into a small courtyard with an old pump. Barker did not hesitate but moved to the pump and drew water. He washed his hands with a small piece of glycerin soap and even wiped a little of the grime from his patent leather boots. I'd noted he had a certain catlike cleanliness. He spoke not a word but passed me the soap and renewed the pump. Our ablutions complete, we entered a tall building whose blackened exterior gave no indication of what we would find inside. Barker opened a door and led me into a large room lit only by windows. In the center, four posts were set up and connected with thick ropes to form a makeshift boxing ring. Hanging bags, jumping ropes, and Indian pins gave evidence that this room was used for physical culture. My employer, still silent, led me across the room to a stair at the far end and began to climb.