Will Thomas - Some Danger Involved

"But I have not come to speak to you about Zionism. That is in the future. What of now? Sirs, our unknown adversaries are emboldened by our timidity. Our fear gives them courage. Certainly, not all Englishmen wish us ill. I say to you, stand fast! We can go no further west. It is time to turn and fight!

"Do you think Rabbi Ben Loew will build a golem to defend us as he did in Prague three hundred years ago? If so, you are naive. To this day, we do not know where the clay remains are hidden. It is up to us, then, to build our own golem, to patrol our own streets. We cannot be complacent and rely upon the London Metropolitan Police to safeguard our interests. I cannot speak for every one of you; each one of us must weigh his personal needs against the common good. I merely wish to state that there comes a time when one must put aside commercial interests and lift the sword. Those of you who are willing to defend your people in Aldgate, Spitalfields, and Whitechapel, please leave your names and addresses at the door. Your women, your little brothers and sisters, and your old men look to you for support and safety. How shall you young lions of Judah respond?"

The speaker stepped back, and by some prearranged cue, the gaslights were extinguished and the baize curtain raised. I noticed several fellows by the door with clipboards. Men were almost forcing their names on them. As I brushed by, I saw a few stares in my direction. I found myself in an absurd position. I was no Jew, and yet I felt as if I was betraying them by not leaving my name and address. Also, I was already in the employ of a man hired to combat this very evil, yet I could not reveal that fact now. As it was, I lowered my head and slunk from the room, with an inexplicable feeling of guilt.

Back in Flower and Dean Street, I watched the meeting gradually disperse. Reasoning that Barker might have returned and be concerned for my welfare, I began to wend my way back to Brick Lane when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jumped.

"So, there was a wolf among the sheep, eh?" Israel Zangwill said, an ironic smile on his face. He wore a coat with an Astrakhan collar and a Homburg hat.

"No wolves," I assured him with a laugh. "Merely a Gentile dog, trying to guard the sheep. Somehow I got scooped up in the shearing. Did you sign up?"

"Of course." The little teacher looked at me seriously.

"Without knowing the plans? Or do you know?"

"Not a word. But I trust them all the same. The speaker was Asher Cowen, a good fellow. He's helped organize some soup kitchens in the area and a center for our aged. Asher gets things done. So, how progresses the investigation?"

"To be truthful, I have no idea. This is my first case. I was only hired a couple of weeks ago. Mr. Barker keeps his opinions close to his vest."

Zangwill smiled. I think I had won him over with my candor. "You surprise me, Mr. Llewelyn. Ira Moskowitz has us convinced that you are a master spy and detective. You are his hero, now, I believe."

The idea seemed patently ridiculous. "There is no wretch less worthy of being worshipped than I, Mr. Zangwill."

"Israel, please. I won't disabuse Ira of his fantasy just yet. It has caused him to clean up his room somewhat, though he rather neglects his studies now for the works of Poe and Collins."

"I regret coming between him and his studies."

"He's always looking for an excuse. But come, must you rush off to meet your mysterious boss, or can you stop for a cup of coffee?"

I thought it over for a moment. I didn't know whether Barker was frantic over my disappearance or off somewhere about his business without a care about me. Certainly, I should find out, but it might be helpful to stop and talk with Zangwill. He'd already been involved in much of the case.

"If we could stop by the Bucharest for a moment, I'll check in with Mr. Barker. I'd enjoy a cup of coffee with you."

"Excellent!" the teacher cried. "We'll stop, and then I'll take you to my club." He broke into a grin. With his long nose and wide smile, he looked like Shakespeare's Puck.

"You belong to a club?"

"Of course. Come along, then."

We headed west, one hand in our respective pockets, and the other firm on the brims of our hats, for the north wind was growing blustery.

"So," I said, "what exactly is a golem?"

"He is a large creature made of clay, brought to life by magic, rather like Frankenstein's monster. A famous rabbi brought him to life to defend the Jews of Prague a few centuries ago, if one believes the legend."

"This fellow Cowen surely doesn't intend to build a magical golem of clay, does he?"

"Why not? We've done it before, we can do it again."

"I find a clay man marching around the East End a trifle hard to believe," I confessed.

"Fine. We'll make him out of steel and run him on steam, then. This is the nineteenth century, after all."

Barker was nowhere to be found in Brick Lane. I searched for his familiar form in all directions and even asked the proprietor if any instructions had been left for me. Nothing. Zangwill and I pressed on.

We were walking down Cornhill Street when my companion suddenly tugged me into a narrow and ancient lane. Old entrances to shops and warehouses stood but a few yards from each other, and so close were they that the lanterns at each entrance burned continuously, or the street would have been forever in shadow.

"Where are we?" I asked.

"Use your nose, Mr. Detective. It is Saint Michael's Alley."

I had heard of it before, though I'd never been there. It was the center of the West Indies trade. The air in this cloistered street was redolent of the coffee and tobacco that were stored in the old warehouses and served in the ancient coffeehouses that lined the street. Zangwill stopped in front of a dark-windowed establishment called the Barbados and opened the door. "My club," he murmured, ushering me in.

It was black as pitch inside. The room had a comfortable smell of coffee and Virginia Cavendish. I made out a row of dark wooden pews bracketing tables lit by small candles. We stood until a waiter came up to us out of the gloom and conducted us to a booth.

"MrЕ. Zangwill, is it not? And you, sir. I don't believe we've seen you before," the waiter, or rather the proprietor, said, looking at me. He was an imperious fellow, about five and fifty, without a hair on his head.

"I'd like to sponsor this fellow for membership," Zangwill declared, placing fourpence on the table. I was mystified at this. Was this yet another secret cabal? Was nothing as it seemed anymore? The proprietor had me fill out a card with my name, address, and date of birth, then he left us. We hadn't even ordered coffee yet.

"†'Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,'†" I quipped.

"You just wait. You'll see you have joined a select little coterie, at some expense to an impoverished teacher."

The owner returned with a large tray. He handed Zangwill an old clay churchwarden pipe, and gave a fresh white new one to me. Setting down a pen and an inkwell, he had me print "T. Llewelyn" in minute letters on the stem. Then he left us with a wooden bowl full of fresh tobacco and a porcelain striker containing matches. We filled our long pipes and lit up. It felt rather silly, as if we were playing at Drake and Raleigh, but my friend took it rather seriously, and it would have been impolite to laugh at his expense. I had to admit it was convivial sitting there in the booth with a companion, two pipes, and a candle.

"I have a confession to make," my companion admitted. "Your employer makes my flesh creep. He looks like something of a golem himself. I think he rather intimidates me."

"Oh, Barker's all right," I said. "He's treated me dashedly well, bought me a whole new wardrobe and everything. I admit, he can scare the wits out of you at times, and between you and me, he's a walking arsenal, but as an employer he's not bad. He's teaching me the trade."