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Will Thomas: Some Danger Involved

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Will Thomas Some Danger Involved

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Barker hoisted a watch at the end of a long chain from the well that was his pocket and consulted it. His hand went down, decisively, and placed his chopsticks across a corner of his plate. Then he removed a sealskin pouch from his coat pocket. I watched him with some interest. At this point, there was nothing I could discount that he would do. If he suddenly pulled a wavy sword from under the table, lit it afire from the penny candle, and swallowed it down to the hilt, I would probably just nod my head and say, "That Barker, anything to put you off guard." As it was, he reached into the pouch and pulled out a pipe, one of those white meerschaums, with a stem made of amber. It was carved in his own image, from the bowler hat to the spectacles and mustache, and still further to an effigy of the pipe itself, stuck in the little pugnacious jaw. The white mineral had taken on a rich ivory hue from much smoking, and with loving care, Barker charged it with tobacco from the pouch, tamped it down with a meaty thumb, then topped it off with a few more strands before striking a vesta on the rough table in front of us. He ran the flame in circles around the inside of the bowl and blew out the match, before tucking the stem of the pipe between his strong, square teeth.

"This place is unique," he stated. "Ho does not advertise, but the place is always full. There are unspoken rules here. Don't ask what is in the food, and don't repeat what you hear within these walls. This is neutral ground. An Irish Fenian may plan to assassinate a member of the House of Lords tomorrow, but today, they are seated at the same table here, enjoying a meal. Isn't there a child's game that has a safe spot where no one may be tagged or captured? That is Ho's."

"Remarkable. And the only way in is through that passage?"

"Yes. I don't know what its original purpose was. Smuggling, perhaps, or a Catholic bolt hole during the reign of Henry the Eighth."

Barker puffed for a moment, silently, then heaved a sigh of contentment. We, most of us, have these safe places in our lives, where we can go and eat food that is meant not to impress but merely to satisfy. Seeing my employer contentedly leaning back in his chair, with a pipe going and his boot against the base of the table, showed me beyond any word that this was such a place to him.

"The interviewing of candidates for assistant has taken more time than I had hoped," he said eventually. "I have an investigation or two that had to be set aside during the hiring process. I must now make up for lost time. I shall not return to my home until late. Here," he said, retrieving a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, "is a list of places for you to visit this afternoon. Now, listen carefully. You must follow the same procedure in each case. Locate each building, circle it, and enter through the back entrance, if there is one. Once inside, ask to speak to the manager. Tell them Barker sent you. Then, do as they ask. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," I responded. "Barker sent me."

"Do you have any questions?"

"Only about a thousand, sir."

"Wonderful," he said, giving a wintry smile. "It will give us something to discuss over breakfast. Now we have work to do. I've given Ho instructions to let you eat but to toss you into the river if you're still here in ten minutes." He stood up to leave. "Ah, I almost forgot. There is a stack of books on the desk by your bedЧ"

"My bed, sir?"

"Yes. Didn't I make myself plain? Lodgings and meals are included in the terms of employment. I cannot have my assistant sleeping in doorways or park commons. It is not a sound advertisement for my agency. Now the books; begin studying them tonight. We'll discuss them in the morning. I'm off, then." And he was.

I sat there for a moment or two, trying to gather it all in. Was this all legitimate, or was Barker some sort of eccentric? Was he really a "prominent enquiry agent," or was this a hoax, and if so, to what end? I couldn't even credit that the room I was seated in could exist in the middle of London. In Shanghai, perhaps, or in a penny thriller, but not in good old, matronly London. Here I sat, eating God only knows what, in the employ of a complete cipher, who spoke Chinese and whose every statement seemed to spring from a disturbed mind. Perhaps, I considered, I should bolt. After all, with a full belly, I had now come out ahead. It was possible I could still find normal employment. And yetЕ

A roof over my head, three meals a day, a position with a regular salary: these were not things to throw over lightly. Who knew, perhaps this was routine for an enquiry agent's assistant on his first day. I could always resign later, if the work didn't suit me. I should stick it out and give the fellow a chance.

The burly Chinaman suddenly appeared at my elbow. His mood had not improved since we arrived. He was sharpening a wicked-looking cleaver against a whetstone in his hand.

"You go now."

I retreated down the long tunnel, the naphtha lamp throwing weird shadows on the walls. When I was mid-distance between the two staircases, I stopped and listened. As I suspected, I heard the water coursing above the smooth ceiling overhead. I was under the Thames. I'd heard rumors that there were all sorts of tunnels, passageways, abandoned underground lines and caverns under the old town, but this was the first time I had ever been inside one.

For the second time that day I came out of a dim passageway into bright light. As I extinguished the lamp, it occurred to me that Barker had not advanced me the money for a hansom cab, and that obviously I couldn't pay for the fare myself. How was I to fulfill the instructions he had given me? This was not a propitious start.

As I came out of the alleyway, still reflecting on what to do, a cab appeared almost out of nowhere and clattered to a stop in front of me. I raised a hand to shield my eyes from the sun overhead.

"I'm sorry, I have no money to pay you!" I called, over the jingling of the harness and the nickering of the horse.

"Perhaps not," the cabman answered back, "but I bet you know some magic words that'll make this magic carpet fly."

"Barker sent me?"

"A regular Ali Baba, you are," the man observed, motioning for me to get in. I'd barely found my seat before we were off like a shot.

The trap over my head opened up and I got a view of a square face with a long red beard shining in the sun. The man's arm was thrust through.

"List!" he demanded, and I handed it up to him. He grasped my outstretched hand and gave it a brisk shake before letting go. "Racket's the name. John Racket. Or it'll do for one. This here's Juno, best cab horse in Whitechapel."

"Thomas Llewelyn," I called over my head.

"Thought I smelt coal!"

"Are you Barker's personal cabman?" I asked.

"Don't I wish! No, us dogs go for whatever scraps old 'Push-Comes-To-Shove' throws our way. Best tipper in London, he is."

The first address was in Holborn on a street which had reached its heyday during the Prince Regent's reign and had been declining ever since. Racket stopped the cab a half block away from the address, and I sauntered by casually. It was a tailor's shop: K and R Krause, Fine Gentlemen's Apparel and Alterations. Of course, I needed a new suit if I was to be Barker's assistant. It seemed silly to play the spy in front of a simple tailor shop, but I obeyed orders and passed down an alleyway, then backtracked in the next street. I judged the approximate door which might belong to the back of the shop and opened it. An elderly man looked up from his cutting table, then nodded when I gave him the words. In a few moments, he had measured me thoroughly and seen me out the door again. I had no idea what sort of clothing I had been measured for and only hoped that the establishment had standing instructions from my employer. I climbed into the cab and was borne away again.

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