'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.'
'Is it a trade?' Zangwill asked, sucking at his long stem.
'Well, not like any trade I've heard of before, but then, I'm no businessman.'
'What did you do before Barker hired you?'
'Eight months for theft at Oxford Prison.'
Zangwill coughed so hard, he nearly dropped his fragile pipe. At that point, the proprietor came up and my friend, if he was still my friend, ordered for us both. After he left, Zangwill looked me square in the eye.
'Very well, Thomas, confess. How did a bookish little fellow like yourself end up a hardened criminal?'
For the second time in twenty-four hours, I told the story of my life, though a much abbreviated and less personal version this time. Coffee came, and a small dessert which Zangwill jokingly called a 'barrister's torte.' He seemed fascinated by my story and was not evasive toward me in the least, as I had feared he might be upon hearing my history. We talked and smoked and drank several cups of the strong brew. I hadn't had a real friend since childhood. It felt good to sit here across from a fellow my own age and talk about anything that came into my head.
'A detective and a former convict with a tragic past. Oh, Becky shall eat this up.'
'Who is Becky?' I asked, mystified.
'Rebecca Mocatta. Rabbi Mocatta's daughter. You're expected at their house tonight. Hasn't Barker told you?'
'Mr. Barker delights in keeping me in the dark and dancing like a marionette. I always suspect that all of London knows what I am doing before I do. How came you to hear of it?'
'Oh, Barker asked the rabbi, the rabbi informed his family, and Becky told me about it this morning. You're to be the Shabbes goy at their house inЕ,' he consulted his watch, 'well, in a few hours, I suppose.'
I took in the news. 'Forgive my ignorance, Israel, but just what is a Shabbes goy?'
'You are to keep the lamps and fires lit in their home overnight, since we Jews are forbidden to work on the Sabbath. You'll work from six in the evening tonight until six in the evening tomorrow night. Straight through. I hope you are well rested.'
I thought of my few hours of drunken stupor the night before, and my headache suddenly began to return.
'Wonderful,' I muttered.
'Well, Mrs. Mocatta is quite a dragon,' my friend continued, 'and the rabbi is no charmer, but you should get along fine. It's easy work; they generally give it to a child. But I must warn you to be careful around Becky. She's quite vivacious, and they guard her like a treasure. Only two daughters, you know, and she the younger and unmarried. Have a care, Thomas!'
'I'll try to control myself,' I assured him, amused at his chiding.
The bill arrived and I pounced on it. The proprietor took possession of our pipes, which he stored with several hundred others in racks overhead. There they would sit, ready for use as long as we would live, Zangwill assured me, and when we passed away, they would be broken in a small but solemn ceremony. Who could ask more of any institution?
'Now you must sponsor someone yourself someday,' Zangwill said. 'But not just anybody. You must use foresight and discretion. Be selective.'
'And where am I going to find a Welsh detective who was formerly a convict? We don't grow on trees, you know.'
Zangwill laughed and patted me on the back as we parted company. 'You're starting to sound like a Jew now.'
Barker was once more seated at our table at the Bucharest. When he saw me approach, he shoved a thumb and finger under his bristly mustache and launched a loud whistle which reverberated off the buildings. There was a clatter of hooves, and Juno and Racket came rattling around the corner.
'Did you have an instructive morning?' he asked.
'I believe I did, yes.'
'Climb aboard, and you can tell me all about it.'
We climbed into our seats and I gave my employer all the particulars about the secret meeting, from the young man who rapped on my table at the Bucharest to the little ritual at the Barbados. I didn't tell him that Zangwill had revealed my schedule for the evening. It was my trump card.
'I didn't tell too much about our plans to Zangwill, did I? I assume he is a suspect.'
'Certainly, he is very close to everything. We cannot rule him out just yet. But you revealed nothing. How is your head, by the way?'
'Not bad.'
'Do you think you might be up for something a little out of the ordinary?'
'Of course, sir. Anything.'
'I would like you to serve as a Shabbes goy for Rabbi Mocatta's family this evening and tomorrow.'
'Ah,' I said.
'You do know what a Shabbes goy is, do you not?'
'Of course.' I did now. He looked a little taken aback.
'Excellent. I've told them you were newly hired and that I wanted you to see a typical Jewish home, since we do work for the Board of Deputies, of which Rabbi Mocatta is a member. Actually, of course, your purpose is to speak privately with Miss Mocatta. She was perhaps the only confidante of Louis Pokrzywa. If anyone would know
