Will Thomas - Some Danger Involved

"If you gentlemen will wait here in the hall, I shall see if the master is in residence," he said, and left us to cool our heels.

Any air of solidity and British wholesomeness that the butler may have given the house departed with him when he left. The entrance was lined on all sides by graphic evidence of the master's worldwide travels. Glass eyes glared at us from all sides, framed within still forms that had once lived and breathed. Creatures from almost every continent stood in mute attitudes of menace, a silent tribute to the taxidermist's art. It was not the only home in London which bore testament to a fellow's prowess with a rifle, but it was the most singular. All of the animals in this menagerie were white.

Within their niches, polar bears, Siberian tigers, white wolves, and albino lions stood rampant. The heads of American bison and African rhinoceroses of the same bleached hue stared blankly from the wall. It was unnerving, to say the least. Even Barker looked a trifle uncomfortable.

"Er, I forgot to mention, lad, that he is nominally a big-game hunter, though he makes his money at cards and speculation."

"Remarkable," I said. For a moment, I had the mental picture of their master coming in and, with one word, unleashing all these ungodly creatures to tear us apart. Instead, the butler returned and bowed to us.

"If you gentlemen will please follow me."

He led us down a more prosaic but opulent hall and finally ushered us through glass doors, into a large conservatory. Inside, the heat was oppressive and the lofty palm trees pressing against the panes high overhead gave a tropical jungle feeling to the room. Parrots and other birds, and even a monkey or two, screeched in the trees. A hammock was strung high above us, and a long, white, feline tail as thick as a rope waved lazily in the heat. The butler led us to a circle of cane chairs, where the master of the house was seated.

He was a tall, well-built man of about thirty years of age. I've seldom seen so broad a chest, and I couldn't help but think some rugby team would be glad of his assistance. His skin was bronze from the sun, save for a near snowy whiteness above his eyes and his upper lip, where hair grew. His blond mustache was waxed fashionably and his hair was thick with a tendency to fall forward, which he remedied by occasionally pushing it up with one hand. The most remarkable feature was his eyes, a deep golden color; they regarded you speculatively, as if you were prey. He was quick to smile, but it was a smile that left one cold. His hand rested on a small glass dome, the kind one uses for watches or trinkets. Altogether, it was as if someone had stuffed a tiger into a suit of clothes.

"Mr. Barker, what a pleasant surprise. Forgive me if I do not offer you my hand."

"Not at all. I would not take it," Barker responded.

"You almost missed me. I was just off to the club to play baccarat with the Prince of Wales. What brings you here? No, don't tell me. I have not been a witness to any crime lately, so I can only assume you are here to inform me that I am a suspect. What have I done this time? Stolen the crown jewels, perhaps, or deprived one of the Queen's grandchildren of its rattle?"

"Neither, Mr. Nightwine, though now that you mention them, I'll be sure to see that both are in order. No, I've come about the Jews."

"You mean that crucifixion business? Of course, I should have wondered when you'd get around to me. Was it symbolic, do you think, Mr. Barker? The atheist nails Christianity and Judaism to the cross a final time? Oh, big bad me. What a rotter I am. Very well, I confess. I did it. Put on your bracelets or your thumbscrews or whatever, and have me hauled off to Newgate. Another crime solved by the great enquiry agent."

Barker's cheeks were beginning to redden with emotion. He was just keeping his temper in check. "Spare me your attempts at humor. I'm barely worth the effort."

Nightwine's face fell, and there was a snarl on his lips. "I agree. Barker, the last thing I need to do is defeat the Jews. They are already defeated. Tiberius Caesar saw to that. As far as I am concerned, their presence in history has been merely a highly overemphasized footnote, thanks to that stupid little book they created. It's the biggest collection of fables and fairy stories ever written down, and its popularity only shows how anxious the low intellects of the world are to seize upon anything in which to believe. The Jews were an obscure people, and they are still. I would not waste my time on them."

Barker cleared his throat. "I need not mention how many millions of pounds in the Bank of England are in their hands, or what influence they have in this City. You always need money, especially with the little business enterprise you've got going in the East End. Have the Jews proven obstinate to your plan to extort money? Did you need to set an example, perhaps?"

"If I did, I certainly wouldn't sign it with that hackneyed Anti-Jewish League, or whatever they call themselves. There would be no doubt from whence came the threat. Besides, the Jews know their place. One word from me in the proper ears and I could make it quite intolerable for them. But as I said, they do not interest me, and they won't unless your continued persecution causes me to make an example of them."

Just then he took his hand away from the glass dome. Inside was one of those ghastly native trophies, a shrunken head, its eyes and lips sewn shut. Pale hair sprouted from the upper lip and connected to the side-whiskers. It had once been a white man, some poor chap going out to the colonies to seek his fortune.

"Your little girlfriend looks faint," Nightwine said. "I suggest you take her home."

I sat up in my cane chair. I knew he was merely trying to bait me, but it almost worked. My first instinct was to go over to him and wring his neck, but I remembered Barker's instructions and kept my temper in check. It was a good thing, for my chair gave a sudden lurch, as the large albino panther cat came by, rubbing itself along the chair's arm as well as my own. From my vantage point of a foot and a few inches, I saw the gray, ghostlike spots on its ivory back, like sooty footprints. It sauntered over to its master, who scratched it behind the ear. The creature stretched his head up into Nightwine's hand.

"This is Bolivar, gentlemen. He was captured along the Brazil-Venezuelan border a few months ago. He nearly killed a porter. I'm teaching him proper London deportment, and a taste for private detectives."

"A very pretty little pet, Mr. Nightwine, but let us get back to the matter at hand," Barker said. "Can you tell me where you were on the night of the fifteenth?"

"I can tell you to go to the Devil."

"You're making progress, Mr. Nightwine. I thought you didn't believe in deities, Heaven, and Hell."

"I believe in Hell in this instance, Mr. Barker. I will make your life a Hell on earth if you will not stop hounding me in this fashion."

Barker smiled. "You must make allowances, sir. Hounding is what we hounds do. Now, the night of the fifteenth?"

"I have no idea! What day was that?"

"Saturday night, sir."

"Last Saturday night? Let me think. Yes, I was at Lord Ribbondale's estate in Kent for the weekend. Brought down twenty-seven pheasants and a like number of woodcock."

"Stayed there the entire weekend, did you?"

"Yes, damn you."

"You can verify this, can you not? For the evening, I mean?"

"Would you like the name of the peer's wife I spent the evening with? Will that satisfy you?"

"Good heavens," I interjected.

"Well, that would be a start, I suppose."

"Go hang yourself, Barker. I have no need to establish my location that evening. I only humor you because it is entertaining to see you flailing about, trying to find someone upon which to affix the blame. This case must have you flummoxed for you to come in here questioning me. You'd have better luck questioning the prime minister. Presumably, he was in town at the time."