about his private life, and the girl who wrote the notes at the Poplar Church, it would be her.'
'Yes, sir.'
'You had a hard night. Are you up to this?'
'I believe I am, sir.'
'You should spend the afternoon resting. You'll be up for twenty-four hours in a row, and I want you sharp as a tack. I hear this Mrs. Mocatta is a corker.'
'As you wish, sir.'
Barker looked a little irritable. Perhaps he was put out at not getting to explain the duties of a Shabbes goy to me. 'You're deucedly agreeable today. Is there anything I should know?'
'Not a thing, sir.'
'Anything you're not telling me?'
'No, sir,' I answered, all innocence.
We were at Barker's residence again. I climbed down out of the vehicle. 'I'll have Racket here at five thirty, with directions to the rabbi's home.'
'Aye, sir.'
As I opened the door to our residence, the hansom rattled off in the direction of our offices.
23
Despite Barker's admonition to get some rest, I wasn't really sleepy, having just had several cups of coffee. There was no sign of Mac when I came in, and for a few moments I debated what to do. Should I go upstairs and obey my instructions, or try to read in the library? Perhaps I might have an early soak in the bathhouse.
The hall was so quiet, I could hear the murmuring of the stream in the back yard. I still had my coat on, so I went out to sit in the garden. I am no expert, but the garden appeared well laid out, and Barker's team of Chinese workers took excellent care of the place. Plants of all sorts were already pushing shoots up through the mulch. I peered for a moment through the glass walls of a small greenhouse. Barker certainly knew how to live.
There was a sudden clicking sound and a low curse. I was on my guard instantly. The sounds seemed to be coming from the alleyway behind the garden. I moved forward cautiously. The fence is eight feet high, and there is no way to see out except to open the gate. Carefully, I did so.
Etienne Dummolard was in the alleyway, pitching some sort of metal balls about. I couldn't imagine what he was doing there. It was past noon and he should have been at his restaurant.
'Good afternoon, Etienne.'
'Thomas! Come play boules with me. I will teach you how. No Englishman is capable of learning the intricacies of the game, but you Welsh are Celts, are you not?'
'Yes,' I said, and stepped forward. The game, as it turned out, was rather like lawn bowling: one rolls out the small jack, then tries to get closest to it with the heavy steel spheres. I've no great love for the English historically, knowing what they did to the Welsh, but I did believe them capable of comprehending the simple rules of the game.
'Shouldn't you be at the restaurant, Etienne?' I asked casually.
'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
