Will Thomas - Some Danger Involved

"Stupid woman," the Frenchman said under his breath.

"Who?"

"Madame Dummolard."

"Your wife?"

"My ruin! Do you know what she wants now? A saucier. A saucier! As if my sauces are not the greatest to be found outside of France. 'We're too busy, Etienne.' 'Let me get you some help, Etienne.' 'A saucier would give you more time, Etienne.' Ha!" He struck the jack.

I hazarded a guess. "So, you're playing petanque in frigid weather to teach her a lesson."

"Oui! She has the ambition of Napoleon. She will not rest until she has captured all of Soho. I don't know what to do with her."

"That's simple," I quipped. "Open up a restaurant in Waterloo."

The Frenchman's laugh started low in his giant stomach and erupted forcefully. He slapped me hard on the shoulder.

"It's good you are here, Thomas. You bring humor to the place. But now I am ashamed of myself. I have deprived London of my artistry and left Mireille ringing her hands, no doubt. Not that she does not deserve it. Saucier! Bah!" I helped him return the balls to the case lined with faded velvet, and he hurried off. It hadn't been difficult to convince him. I wished this case was as easy to solve as Dummolard's problems with his wife.

I returned to the garden and walked about. Barker could spend hours here, meditating in the peaceful confines, but I'm not Barker. Ten minutes in a garden, and I'm afraid I've exhausted my interest.

There was a yip at my ankle, suddenly. Harm, the sentinel of the garden, was there, with a small rubber ball at his feet. I greeted him and patted his head. He was a bit wary, as I would be if half my head consisted of eyes. I picked up the ball, and he promptly nipped me in the hand.

"Little beast," I said, picking up the ball again, and tossing it along.

"Fetch," I called, pointing to it. The dog did nothing but pant expectantly. "Go on! Get the ball!" He accompanied me across the lawn to see where the ball had gone. I pointed to it. "Pick it up! Come, boy, pick it up!" Perhaps, I reasoned, he only knew Chinese. I bent to pick up the ball, and, of course, he nipped my hand again. It appeared we had been playing at cross-purposes. I was playing "fetch the ball," while he was playing "bite the assistant." That was enough for me. In spite of his insistent barks that I come back and try to pick up the ball again, I went inside. Petulant Frenchmen and heathen dogs. What had I done to deserve such a fate?

I went upstairs to my room and looked through one of the books of Jewish customs that Barker had placed on my desk since the case began. A Shabbes goy was to keep all fireplaces, lamps, and candles lit throughout the twenty-four hours of the Sabbath. Lighting a match is considered "working" by Orthodox Jewish standards and is prohibited on Shabbat. I was also to be on hand for the hundreds of other menial tasks that are forbidden the zealous Jew, from opening medicine bottles to cooking. Although Mocatta was keeping a tight restraint on his daughter, I very much wanted to snatch a few moments' speech with her if possible, for Barker's sake if not my own. The success or failure of the case might depend upon it.

Racket was there to take me to Saint John's Wood promptly at five.

"You must be growing as rich as Rothschild by now," I called up to him.

"There's no money I can make that the missus can't spend," he quipped back.

Despite Zangwill's words about the "Jewish ghetto," some Jews had left the confines of the East End for the prosperity and security of the West. Mocatta's home was a small manse set back from the road, a solid three-story, red-brick affair, softened with plenty of climbing ivy. Only the mezuzah on the door betrayed anything out of the ordinary.

I was about to knock, but somethingЧ instinct, if enquiry agents have itЧ prompted me to go around and use the back entrance. I was to be a servant, after all. I was shown into a bustling kitchen which was the headquarters of the Sabbath's day plans. All the servants were Gentiles. The cook, Mrs. Stahl, was everything an English cook should be: a buxom, no-nonsense woman who would die before seeing the joint and peas undercooked. The staff would see to the kitchen fires, while I saw to the rest of the house. Everyone was aware that the Shabbat would begin at 5:47 sharp.

An adenoidal youth who passed for a footman led me solemnly to the woman of the house. Mrs. Mocatta was everything I feared she would be, a hawkish woman with a severe bun and an even more severe expression. I expected her to raise her black shawl like wings, seize me in her talons, and take me up to some remote mountain peak to feed her young. I understood our relationship at once when she called me over.

"Boy!" she said. "Come here, boy. Let me look at you." She was not yet fifty, and there were only a few silver threads running through her fine black hair, but she could have been a septuagenarian for her temper. "I don't know what Mr. Mocatta was thinking. Do you know what you are about, boy? Do you understand your duties?"

"I believe so, madam."

"I do not expect any fires to go out tonight. Nor, on the other hand, do I expect you to be overliberal with the coal. I abhor waste. After dinner, the dining room fire is to be doused until morning, and the fire in the library when we retire. You may keep the sitting room fire burning for your own warmth, provided you are abstemious with the coal; a boy like yourself shouldn't need more than a shovelful to keep warm. The fires are to be well filled and banked in the bedrooms upstairs, and you are not to enter them after we retire. The tweeny shall attend to them first thing in the morning, and they shall be put into your charge after all are dressed."

"How many fires are lit upstairs, madam?"

"Three. One is for Mr. Mocatta and myself, one for our elder daughter and her husband, and one for our younger daughter."

"Are there any medications I may set out for any of you?" I asked, trying to sound efficient.

"Mr. Mocatta takes pills for his liver, Miss Mocatta has extract of malt every morning, and Mrs. Waldman, our eldest, takes a private medication. She may prefer to take it herself."

"Very good, madam. Which lights are to burn all night?"

"The dining room, sitting room, and hall lights on both floors are to be kept lit, but quite low. The cost of gas is exorbitant these days. Don't just stand there, boy. There is work to be done."

I nodded and tended to the fires. If there is one thing I know other than storytelling, it's coal. They used a good bituminous Welsh coal here, none of that cheap English coal, but whoever set the fire did not know how to prepare it properly. I filled it well, but not overmuch, knowing that one lump too many would put Mrs. Mocatta's claws into my back. I did the same to the library and sitting room fires. The home was well furnished and prosperous-looking, but every chair was so overstuffed as to be hard as stone. I don't think there was a comfortable place to sit in the entire house.

I went upstairs, greeted Rabbi Mocatta, who was studying at a table with his hand-embroidered prayer shawl about his shoulders, and asked about his medication. I unstopped it for him and built up his fire a little. The Waldmans were not yet arrived, so I set their fire, then moved on to the younger daughter's room. She was also not at home. I went into her room and glanced around swiftly. I felt somewhat guilty going into a girl's private chambers. I passed by her small secretary, where she had begun a letter to a friend. I suppose Barker could have told me if the penmanship was different from the notes in Pokrzywa's Bible, but I wouldn't have had the slightest idea. I moved to the fireplace and began to lay the fire. The room was very feminine, with chintz curtains and toile fabrics on the chairs. I had not spoken to a girl near my own age in almost a year. I had been living in a man's world, with all its harsher realities. This room with its lace and porcelain and gossamer fabrics seemed almost a fairyland.