The Arnifour Affair (12 page)

I'd hardly gotten the words out before Miss Crouch inserted her arm through Colin's and ushered him toward the hall. “The café is right by the clerk's office,” she purred. “They have the best nibbles there.”

“I'll get you a nibble.” Colin smirked at me. “You can eat it after we're done.”

“No thank you. I don't need a thing. Please, just go.” And with that Miss Crouch swept him out the door.

The vacuum left by their absence was refreshing even as I stared at the daunting task before me. I hoped I would recognize Mademoiselle Rendell's companion if I saw him. A handful of minutes at the back of a poorly lit pub were hardly the best of conditions under which to remember a face. Nevertheless, I flipped open the first folder and set to work.

The first photo showed a great bulbous-faced man with a dimpled chin and more hair sprouting from his ears than the top of his head. This, the attendant description stated, was the Hungarian ambassador's attaché, a career politician with more vowels in his name than consonants. It was not the man I'd seen huddled with Mademoiselle Rendell, and while I wasn't surprised by this immediate failure, I wondered why the fruits of a search are never borne out beneath the first leaf overturned.

I threw the file aside and plunged into the next few, saturating myself in a world filled with men named Bela, Adelbert, Fodor, Lasio, and Vilmos. None, however, proved to be my bearded target.

The work was proving as tedious as I'd feared, made worse by the fact that facial hair was obviously de rigueur for Hungarian men. It seemed the axiom was proving to be true that we all eventually begin to resemble one another based on our overwhelming desire to fit in. My spirits sank with the flip of each new tintype.

I glanced up at the clock and saw that an hour and a quarter had already passed. The Hungarian files before me were barely more than half-exhausted and I began to wonder where Colin and Miss Crouch had gotten to. A cup of tea and few triangles of bread with cucumber or watercress could hardly take more than a half hour or forty-five minutes to consume at the outside. And as for the Bohemian dossiers, Miss Crouch had said they would take a few minutes for the clerk to pull, not better than an hour. I only hoped she and Colin were having fun as I grudgingly flipped open the next file before me.

A sudden burst of high-pitched laughter turned my gaze to the hallway. It seemed the indolent duo was back. I glanced at the photo in front of me and found myself staring at yet another pair of deep-set, black eyes, this time belonging to a man with enough facial hair to resemble a bear. No details could be garnered on either the shape or depth of his face given its almost complete carpeting of fur.

“We have returned,” Colin announced with high spirits, his arms cradling another huge load of files.

“Smashing,” I groused as I flipped the folder shut.

“Have you had any luck?”

“No!” I snapped in spite of my efforts not to.

“Then I have good news for you.” He beamed, his voice sparkling in defiance of my mood. “While the clerk was collecting the files from Bohemia, I had the most interesting conversation with him.”

“Oh, it wasn't him,” Miss Crouch fairly gushed. “You figured it out by yourself.”

He gave her a quick smile before turning back to me. “The man is practically a historian. He looks like he's worked there for longer that I've been alive. He reminded me of the alliance between Russia and Bulgaria seventeen years ago.”

“Bulgaria?”

“Forged by Czar Alexander the Third. Do you recollect your history lessons?” he prodded.

“I think I was otherwise occupied that semester,” I drolled.

“He freed the Bulgarians from Turkish rule,” Miss Crouch said. “Everybody knows that.”

“Well, at least the clerk downstairs does.” I smiled acerbically.

“When he said that it suddenly struck me that if we're looking for someone involved in illicit doings being run out of a Russian-backed pub, you can be sure the Russians would want to remain beyond reproach should the activity ever be discovered.”

“So what's your point?”

“That's why the man you heard wasn't Russian. Deniability.”

“Okay. So what does that have to do with the Bulgarians?”

“Bulgaria owes the Russians for their release after five hundred years of Turkish oppression. If the Russians are up to something, you can be sure they're funneling it through their most grateful ally. That man you heard wasn't Hungarian or Bohemian or Moravian. . . .” His grin stretched across his face.

“He's Bulgarian,” I answered, finally understanding.

“We shouldn't have any more files to go through than these.” He set the pile down in front of me, revealing the Bulgarian insignia on their cover.

We both began poring through the stack of files, Colin flicking them open and shoving them under my nose while Miss Crouch hummed at his shoulder when not leaning over him in a feigned attempt to be useful. More than twenty minutes elapsed in that way, fraying my nerves to the point of rupture, when I suddenly caught sight of the face we'd been searching for. Heavily bearded, darkly complected, black eyes set within a full, round face, he looked like so many of the men I'd been sifting through, yet there were distinct differences here. His nose was broad and flat and his forehead short, and I knew it was the man I'd seen in the booth with Mademoiselle Rendell.

I hoisted the photo into the air and practically shrieked that we'd found him. “Outstanding.” Colin beamed, and for a moment I thought he might be about to hug me.

Only Miss Crouch looked disappointed.

“So what do we do now?” I asked.

“Let us learn all we can about . . . ,” he leaned in over the file, “. . . Vitosha Harlacheva. I believe he'll be the person through whom we shall lure Miss Rendell.”

“Who?” Miss Crouch asked with a note of displeasure in her voice.

“A woman caught in some nasty business,” he muttered.

“How terrible,” she said, but there was no fervor in her words.

“So you think this man has something to do with Angelyne's disappearance?”

“He's the first person she went to see after our visit. Mr. Harlacheva is the key. I'm certain of it. But right now . . . ,” he looked over at me, “. . . we must pay a visit to the late Earl's partner, Warren Vandemier. If you're up to it.”

“Of course I am,” I answered too quickly.

“Good,” he said, but his eyes hesitated a moment too long. “Because I suspect he has some information that will help. I'm not at all pleased with our progress on that account. Every day that goes by makes the trail colder, and I will not be stymied by that infuriating family.”

“Why, Mr. Pendragon,” Miss Crouch enthused, “are you investigating the murder of the Earl of Arnifour?”

“I'm not investigating it.” He turned to her. “I am solving it.”

CHAPTER 18

A
light rain had begun to fall in direct opposition to my mood, which had begun to rise the moment we'd left the Foreign Ministry Office.

Once Colin had been able to study Mr. Harlacheva's slim dossier we had made a hasty exit, much to the disappointment of Miss Crouch, who was even further vexed to realize that we would not need to come back over the ensuing days, either.

I tugged the brim of my hat farther down over my forehead to keep the rain off my face while I waited for him to hail a cab. The inclement weather had succeeded in driving nearly everyone into a carriage and I began to wonder if we were going to have to walk. I was just beginning to resign myself to such a fate when Colin suddenly lunged into the street and seized the reins of a passing horse, tugging it to the side of the road.

“ 'Ey!”
the driver bellowed from under his tiny awning. “Wot in the bloody 'ell do ya think yer doin'?”

“Official business!” Colin bellowed right back. “You will take us across town and you will do it quickly and safely.”

“Like 'ell I will. Piss off. I'm done fer the day.”

“You will take us where I say or you'll be done for good,” Colin said as I grabbed the carriage's door and leapt in before he could get it moving again, and despite the withering look I received as I ducked inside, I was grateful to be out of the rain.

“It'll cost ya extra!” the man growled back at us.

Colin shoved in next to me and hollered back, “Move!”

 

Twenty-five minutes later we had gone all the way across town and were back in Whitechapel, a distance that should have taken us twice as long. Five minutes after that we were sitting before the well-cluttered desk in the tight, slovenly office of Warren Vandemier.

The late Earl's associate was a man of middle years, probably not more than a handful ahead of Colin, though harder looking in every way. Heavy lines creased his face into a perpetual frown that confirmed Warren Vandemier had led a difficult life. He was jowly, but not fat, though there was a noticeable bulge about his midsection. His brown hair was short and curly, with a liberal infusion of gray flecks along the crown of his face. To me he looked exceedingly tired, the weight of the existence he'd managed to scratch for himself having taken its toll in his rounded shoulders, hollow eyes, and leaden manner. Yet, when he spoke, he lit up with the passion of a much younger man, winking and gesturing with great animation. He seemed to come alive only when thusly engaged, for as soon as he shut his mouth his demeanor once again collapsed in on itself.

Mr. Vandemier's official occupation was property manager, the collector of rents for the noble gentry who did not dare venture down to the flophouses and sweatshops that comprised at least some of their financial holdings. But we were here about his unofficial trade.

“. . . and the Arnifours . . . ,” he'd been blathering on about inconsequential inanities from the moment we'd sat down, as evidenced by the crown sailing between Colin's fingers for the last several minutes, “. . . also had a fair bit of property at one time in this neighborhood.” He smiled like an overzealous teacher who has no idea that his class is trading spitballs behind his back. “That's how the Earl and I became acquainted. I managed a few buildings for him. I'm the best there is, you see.” He leaned forward and winked for what seemed the hundredth time. “I have a way with the scrubbier classes. I was born here. Right around the corner, in fact. My success is all my own.” He leaned back in his chair with a satisfied grin, though it was a bit hard to decipher given the ruts creasing his face that begged to belie his good fortune.

“I'm sure your mother is proud,” Colin muttered.

The man's brow caved in, an expression that seemed far more customary than his gregariousness, and then he broke out in a laugh that sounded as false as his prior gusto had been. “Very good, Mr. Pendragon. Perhaps I
have
pushed the point a bit far.”

“Let me be honest, Mr. Vandemier—”

“I would expect nothing less.”

And without even realizing it Warren Vandemier had handed Colin the freedom to proceed with the delicacy of a charging rhino.

“Very well.” He flashed a tight smile as he quickly tipped his shiny silver crown back into his vest pocket. “Then we should like to dispense with this twaddle and hear about your opium business.”

“Opium?!” The man's eyes popped so unnaturally wide that it looked as though a charge of lightning had ripped through him.
“Opium?!”
His voice squeaked again. He cleared his throat. “I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“It's a narcotic, Mr. Vandemier. Derived from the poppy.”

“I know
what
it is.” He frowned, pushing himself to his feet in a great blustering display. “But I find your inference to be an offense.”

“We are not fresh from the womb, Mr. Vandemier. Please do not suppose you can deceive us with your hackneyed indignation.”

“You have no reason to accuse me,” he blustered, but with less vigor.

And this time I knew it was my turn to speak up. “When I was a foolish lad,” I said in as cavalier a tone as I could muster, “I lived for a time just around the corner on Limehouse. For room and board I did the bidding of a woman whose opium club was the most prominent in the city. So let me assure you that I can smell its residue in your hair and clothing, and given your heavy-lidded look, I would say that your last use of it was less than two hours ago.”

“You worked for Maw Heikens?!”

“I did,” I answered brusquely, aware of Colin's disapproving glare on the side of my face.

“Then you've got nothin' on me!” Vandemier snapped. “Room and board my ass.”

“Look,” Colin interrupted with evident distaste, “I really don't give a good bloody hell how you earn your living. I just want a few answers to some simple questions.”

“Well, just because I run an opium club doesn't make me a murderer,” he shot back.

“A murderer?” Colin glared at him. “Have I accused you of being a murderer?”

Mr. Vandemier narrowed his eyes as he glared at Colin. “I know why you're here. I know what you think.”

“You know what I think?!” Colin replied, glancing at me with a smirk. “I'd bet my life that you don't.”

“I had nothing to do with Samuel's death . . . or that whore niece of his, either.”

“A man who's not afraid to have an opinion.” Colin's smile disintegrated. “May I remind you that I've not accused you of anything. We have only come here in search of some information.”

“Well, there's nothing for you here. Samuel and I had our disagreements over the years, but I sure as hell didn't want him dead. Do you know that he owed me money? That old sod was into me for a pretty pound.”

“Was he . . . ?”

“Damn right he was! Seed money, Mr. Pendragon. We'd just opened the club. The finest supplies, private rooms for the wealthiest patrons, the most beautiful women to tend to a client's every need. Better than anything Maw Heikens ever did.” He slid his eyes to me. “But that old witch Samuel was married to kept her devil's eye on him. She refused him so much as a farthing unless she knew exactly what he meant to do with it. Which left
me
to put the money up
myself
. All of it. His share
and
mine. Bastard swore he'd pay me back.” He hawked into a spittoon sitting on the floor by his desk. “I was a bleedin' fool. I should've known Samuel would be as worthless as his title.”

“Then why did you go into business with him?” I asked.

He swung his exasperated expression in my direction, his eyes squinting to near pinpoints. “I had no idea what a useless turd he was until
after
I'd fronted him the money. Before that he'd been throwing cash around like he grew it on his estate. It was a sham. All he had was what that shrew wife doled out to him. And all he did with
that
was chase whores. I don't believe she really gives two shites who murdered him. Good riddance, I say. But I sure as hell didn't do it.” His narrowed eyes raked our faces several times as if daring us to refute him before he added, “And you can both bugger off if you think you're gonna pin it on me.”

“You must have an extraordinary alibi,” Colin said.

“I was at the club same as I am every night. Plenty of people saw me. Plenty.”

“Users?”

“What?”

“Are you asking me to accept the addled remembrances of addicts? That's your defense? I'm not sure what a magistrate would make of that.”

“I've got nothin' to hide.” He leaned forward eagerly. “Ask me anything.”

And once again I saw the whisper of a sparkle in Colin's eyes. “How accommodating.” He stroked his chin. “When was the last time you spoke to the Earl?”

“About a week before he got himself killed. He was supposed to bring me an overdue payment, but of course he showed up without so much as a blasted shilling. Had some slag in his carriage and a load of piffle about needing more time. I told him he had a fortnight or I'd damn well tell that harpy wife of his everything. Then he got himself killed. Anything ta toss me outta my money.”

“Such disdain. Makes it hard to imagine why you persisted in your dealings with him.”

“What was I supposed to do? You think a titled man comes along every day looking to get into the opium trade? I thought he'd be able to open doors for us. Get us noticed by a better class of people.” He turned and assaulted the spittoon with something he'd hacked up. “Played me for a ruddy fool.” He glared at us from beneath his furrowed brow. “I tell you what, I wish I
had
killed him. God bless the man who did.”

“Touching,” Colin muttered. “And why should we believe you didn't
hire
the man upon whom you are so happy to impart the good Lord's blessings?”

“He owed me money, Mr. Pendragon. Haven't I made that clear?!”

“Ah yes . . . money. So one of the mightiest motives for murder happens to be
your
saving grace.”

Warren Vandemier rose to his full height and scowled fiercely down upon Colin's towhead. “This conversation is over!” he growled with as much menace as an opium user can muster. “I have nothing more to say to you.”

“That may be,” Colin stretched his legs out languorously, “but I am not finished with you, Mr. Vandemier. Now sit down, because you do
not
want me to stand up.” He delivered his last sentence in an offhanded, playful sort of way, but I knew he meant it, and so did Mr. Vandemier, who gave a petulant
harrumph!
as he dropped back into his seat, folding his arms across his chest as if to demonstrate some measure of defiance.

“I will thank you to conclude this interview quickly!” he snapped. “I have work to do.”

“Mr. Vandemier . . . ,” I started to say, hoping to dispel a bit of tension.

“Sod off!” he barked at me. “I'll not be attacked by the likes of you.”

“The likes of me?! I walked away from opium years ago. You're still an addict.”

“An addict never walks away!” he growled back, inciting my deepest fear.

“You'd best watch yourself, Mr. Vandemier,” Colin cut in, leaning forward and fixing his eyes on him. “I'll not tolerate you speaking to Mr. Pruitt like that.”

Warren Vandemier rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and I knew he was in dire need of something to soothe his rattled countenance. Which meant that what was left of his resistance was likely on the verge of collapse. “May we please finish this?” he pleaded.

“If you can contain your theatrics then I'm sure we can be done quickly. I only have a few more questions—for the moment.”

“The moment?!” He looked positively apoplectic as he sagged in his chair. “Get on with it then. . . .” He made a rotating gesture with his hand as if that were going to have any impact.

Colin drew in a slow, languid breath. “Who was the woman you mentioned who accompanied the Earl the last night you saw him?”

“The woman? I have no idea. She didn't come up. You oughta ask Abigail Roynton. She'd probably know. She's the one he tossed over for the new one.”

“Ah . . . ,” Colin muttered. “We haven't had the pleasure of meeting the Arnifours' neighbor yet.”

“She's somethin' else.” He let out a low, wolfish laugh. “And I'm not just referring to Samuel, either.”

“You aren't suggesting . . .”

“Oh, but I am. . . .” He leered at us.

“Eldon?”

“The prodigal son himself!” he sneered with great enthusiasm, seeming well pleased that Colin had followed his accusation. “The lovely widow is not known for being discerning. She'd probably even give
you
a go.”

Colin leapt to his feet and seized the man by the lapels and yanked him nearly the full way across his desk. “You are a reprehensible little turd, Mr. Vandemier,” he snarled within a hair's breadth of his face.

“I haven't told a single lie,” his voice cracked.

Colin heaved him away and stepped back, allowing the flustered man to recoil slightly as he fussed with his clothes as though to reengage his dignity.

“A last question then, and I will caution you to remember your place. Why did you disparage the Earl's niece earlier?”

Mr. Vandemier took several mincing steps back in a clear attempt to avoid any further molestation. “She came to the club on several occasions, Mr. Pendragon, and not always under the tutelage of her uncle. And in spite of the pride I have for my business, I presume you will agree that it is not a place for a young girl of breeding.”