The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

police evidence team had removed the.22 calibre bullet from the front door. The ever-competent Reuter had filled the hole with quick-hardening putty. He was already at work staining the putty to match the surrounding wood.

Caligula Foxx, resplendent in his usual glaring aquamarine silk shirt, flannel trousers and foulard-pattern dressing gown, was seated behind his gigantic glass-covered desk, reading the Sunday funny pages. A bottle of Teplitz-Schonau ale stood at his elbow.

He lowered the colourful newsprint, tipped the bottle of ale into a tall glass and sipped judiciously. He wiped his lips with a bandanna and looked at Winslow.

“Tell me everything.”

Winslow repeated his story, reporting on the condition of Miss Mayhew.

Foxx nodded approvingly. “She is an innocent child, Andy. Whatever deviltry is afoot, she did not deserve to be attacked in this manner. It almost gives one to believe in divine intervention to learn that she could take a bullet through the skull and suffer nothing worse than a headache.”

“Almost,” Winslow said. “But, if God got into the act, he could have made the gun misfire and blow off the shooter’s hand, couldn’t he?”

Foxx grinned sardonically. “I should know better than to engage in theological speculation with you, my boy. And Lieutenant Burke’s man said that it was a steel-jacketed bullet, so it didn’t break apart in the victim’s brain. And it must have had an extra load of propellant to make it punch its way out and penetrate into our door.”

He leaned back in his oversized chair and drew a breath. “All right then; I detect from your manner that you are holding something back. Spill it, Andy, spill it.”

Winslow reached into his pocket and withdrew a large envelope. It bore the Postal Telegraph logotype — the company’s name set in large, jagged letters that suggested bolts of electricity — in the corner. “This is the message that Miss Mayhew was attempting to deliver when she was shot. I couldn’t find the original in her clothing. I even searched her messenger’s bicycle. I’ve asked Reuter to put it in the garage. They’ll have to come for it themselves if Lieutenant Burke doesn’t want it.”

Foxx nodded and made a humming sound.

Winslow said, “Oswald Hicks, the manager at Postal Telegraph, gave me this copy. I guess the shooter didn’t realize that Postal Telegraph keeps copies.”

Foxx nodded impatiently. “All right, Andy, all right. Read it to me.”

He took a sip of ale, lowered the glass to his desktop, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and laced his fingers behind his neck, his elbows extending like the antennae of a giant butterfly. To any casual observer, it would appear that Caligula Foxx was treating himself to a nap, but Andy Winslow knew that the rotund detective’s incisive brain was fully on the alert.

“‘Dear Cousin,’” Winslow read, starting on the night letter. “‘I apologize for my dilatory response to your previous communication, but I have been deeply immersed in sensitive work for the crown and for the government of this nation. A personage has asked me to convey his gratitude for the assistance you so brilliantly provided, even from the distance of three thousand miles. The crown and sceptre have been recovered and restored to their proper resting place, and the scoundrels involved in their temporary abduction are in custody.’”

A smile played around the lips of the detective.

Andy Winslow continued to read. “‘You are surely aware that the situation on the Continent continues to deteriorate, as madmen and villains vie for the title of Most Evil Man in Europe. You own country has, to date, escaped involvement but I assure you, cousin, that this will not be the case for very much longer.’”

Winslow paused for breath. Foxx unlaced his fingers and without opening his eyes gestured for Winslow to read further.

“‘You may not have heard of Heinrich Konrad, cousin. Or, come to think of it, I am certain that you do know of him, as he is a native of Maffersdorf bei Reichenberg in Bohemia. Not far, as I recall, from the seat of your own branch of our family, and the place of your birth. Konrad was the leader of the Sudetendeutsch Partei and a campaigner for the recent, vile treaty that led to the dismemberment of Czechoslovakia and the annexation of the Sudetenland by Germany. The Sudetendeutsch Partei no longer exists as a separate entity, and Konrad is now a fully fledged Nazi.

“‘His Majesty’s government, as reported to me by our mutual relative in the Diogenes Club, believes that Konrad was involved in the planning of the recent misfortune at the Tower. He had been in England as a minor functionary of the German embassy. He is no longer in this country. It is my belief that he has entered the United States of America in the guise of a businessman. He travelled as a first class passenger aboard the North German Lloyd liner Leipzig. The name under which he travelled is Bedrich Smetana.

“‘I do not know his mission in the United States, but I would suggest that you contact the American authorities and set them on the qui vivre for this man. In fact, I am of the distinct impression that you are already acquainted with him, so I will not attempt a physical description. It is not entirely impossible that he will be in contact with his nation’s embassy in Washington or its consulates in other cities. Our mutual cousin has also suggested that Konrad is involved in Germany’s war preparations, and her relationship with her Asiatic ally. It is thus possible that Konrad will proceed from New York to the American State of California. He may also have contacts with such groups as Herr Fritz Kuhn’s German — American Bund or the Ku Klux Klan. You are doubtless aware that there are also a number of supposed German — American Friendship Societies or social clubs that are actually dens of fifth columnists.

“‘Be careful, dear cousin. This scoundrel is totally ruthless. Feel free to call upon me at any time if you feel that I can be of assistance.’”

Andy Winslow folded the document and laid it on his employer’s desk. “That’s it,” he announced. “Oh, and the signature — ”

Caligula Foxx grumbled. “I wondered if you would bother with that bit of information. Shall we play a guessing game, or would you be so kind as to tell me.”

“Sorry, Mr Foxx. It was signed, Sexton Blake.”

Andy Winslow ran his finger down the sheet of paper. “That’s a lot of words, Caligula. Must have cost Blake a bundle to send it over the cable.”

Foxx pursed his lips, then sipped at his ale. “I wouldn’t worry about Cousin Sexton’s financial status. He drives that wondrous bullet-proof Silver Ghost, keeps his man Tinker on call, and feeds his bloodhound ground porterhouse. He can afford a few extra pounds sterling.” Foxx studied the golden beverage remaining in his glass. “Very well, Andy, here are your instructions. No, you will not need your pad and pencil. Just pay close attention to what I tell you, and then we shall take a break from our labours and sample Reuter’s no doubt excellent Sunday luncheon.”

* * *

Following a light meal of lobster bisque, spinach salad, and steak tartare garnished with tiny cherry tomatoes and topped off with espresso and biscotti, Winslow set to work. He telephoned Jacob Maccabee, whom both he and Foxx regarded as the premier legman in the City of New York, as well as the best-connected with the shadier elements of that metropolis’s demi-monde. They agreed to meet on a bench beneath the statue of one-time Senator Roscoe Conkling in Madison Square Park.

Despite the distance involved, Andy Winslow chose to walk from West Adams Place to Twenty-third Street. The light snowfall had ceased and a bright December sun shone in a sparkling blue sky. When Andy reached the appointed spot, Maccabee had already arrived and brushed the accumulated snow from the bench’s green-painted wooden slats.

Maccabee was a man of less than average height, dark complexion, heavy eyebrows, huge dark eyes, and a distinctly Semitic nose. He wore a nondescript overcoat, slightly scuffed shoes, and a grey fedora that was starting to show its age. He was perusing a black-covered copy of Mein Kampf, in the original German. He looked up at Andy Winslow. “You seem intrigued by my reading-matter, Andy.”

“Was I so obvious?”

“Know thine enemy, Andy.”

Winslow sat down beside Maccabee.

Maccabee slipped a bookmark into Mein Kampf and turned his full attention to Winslow.

“We had an attempted murder on our doorstep this morning, Jacob.”