The Reluctant Assassin (18 page)

Percival realized then how deep in the mire he stood.

“Please, mister. We have cash in our pokes. Take it and let me go. I will be on the next boat to America.”

Garrick’s eyes held no hint of mercy. “I need the name of the man who pulls your strings.”

Percival ground his teeth. “I cannot. I swore an oath.”

“Aha, an oath,” said Garrick, meandering toward the massive target. “That in itself is a telltale sign.”

“I’ll say no more,” said Percival, stubbornly. “Do your worst, you devil.”

“That, sir, is quite an invitation,” said Garrick, removing one by one the knives sticking Percival to the target. “You may have surmised that I was once an illusionist of some fame. Some called me the Great Lombardi, but notoriety bestowed upon me another name.”

Garrick paused and Percival could not take it. “What name? In God’s name, stop toying with me.”

Garrick whipped a covering sheet from a coffin-shaped box stage left. “I was known as the Red Glove.”

Percival’s eyes rolled back and he fainted where he stood, held aloft only by a cleaver and a stiletto.

“You’ve heard the legend, I see,” said Garrick, plucking out the remaining blades.

Garrick leaned over him, dressed now in full evening wear, with silken hat and dinner gloves, one white, one red.

“This is my most famous illusion,” he said. “A somewhat irksome truth, as it is the only illusion that ever went fatally awry.”

“Awry?” said Percival, his head fuzzy. “Does that mean
wrong
, sir?”

“Oh, it does. And do you know what
fatally
means?”

Percival searched his vocabulary, which consisted of little more than two hundred words, most of them food related. “Dead, sir—is it that someone was killed?”

“You are more educated than you look, Mr. . . . ?”

“Percival, guv’nor.”

“Percival. A good strong Welsh name.”

“Welsh, yes. Perhaps you have Welsh kin and will spare me?”

Garrick ignored the question, drawing from behind his back with quite a flourish a large, wooden-handled, square blade.

“This is the key to the illusion, Percival: the blade. The audience assumes it is a fakement, but I assure you it is of the finest steel and will cut through flesh and bone with barely a stutter.”

And, with great panache and dexterity, Garrick tossed the blade into the air, caught it, then rammed the tempered steel square into the leg slot, appearing to sever Percival’s feet from his legs.

“Mercy!” screamed Percival. “Kill me and be done. This is torture, sir. Pure torture.”

Garrick clicked his fingers and from somewhere overhead came the sound of an orchestra.

“You must indulge me, Monsieur Percival. I so rarely have need of the old togs.”

Percival’s face seemed to swell with fear. “I ain’t no blower. The judges could never make old Percival blab, and neither will you.”

“Why so hysterical, Percival?” asked Garrick innocently. “I have done you no harm. Look.”

Percival saw that there was a large gilt-edged mirror suspended above the proscenium arch. He commanded his toes to wiggle and was mightily relieved to see them do it in the looking glass.

“But the light is so bad in here, Mr. Percival. I should afford you a closer spy.”

And with that Garrick separated the lower box from the main body, and Percival screamed as his feet rolled away from him, toes wiggling furiously.

“My little piggies,” he howled. “Oh, come back, piggies.”

“Who sent you?” demanded Garrick, brandishing a second blade.

“No. Never.”

“I admire your stoicism, Mr. Percival, really I do, but this is a battle of wills, so you leave me little choice . . .” Garrick steadied himself against the saw-box, then drove the second blade into its slot.

Percival gibbered, tears flowing from eyes to ears, and he unconsciously began to sing the ditty of freemasonry loyalty that he had warbled in many a public house with his tattooed brethren.

We stabs ’em,
We fights ’em,
Cripples ’em,
Bites ’em.

Garrick was not surprised. “Ah, Mr. Malarkey, would you insert yourself in my affairs? Thank you, faithful Sir Percival. You have done all I asked of you. So I will inflict no further harm upon your person.”

Garrick sang along for the last two lines, inserting a clever harmony.

Pay us a visit,
The Battering Rams.

Garrick applauded, his red glove flashing in the lights. “You have a fine tenor, Percival. Not professional standard, but pleasing. Won’t you delight me with an encore?”

Percival obliged, his voice becoming more tremulous with each note, dissolving entirely into a terrified, burbling scream as Garrick took hold of the head box and sent it twirling across the stage.

Percival’s last sight was his own receding torso and the wiggling tips of his fingers, straining to be loose from their bonds.

Garrick could have told him that it was all done with mirrors and prosthetics, but a good magician never reveals his secrets.

He danced a quickstep jauntily across the orchestra pit bridge.

“‘Pay us a visit,’” he sang, deciding to sing high for the last phrase, “‘The Battering Raaaaaaams.’”

And he thought, I intend to do just that.

The magician stamped on a powder bomb hidden beneath a patch of carpet in the center aisle and disappeared in a magnesium flash and a ball of smoke.

It had occurred to special agent Chevron Savano that she might be the victim of some massive sting operation. There were files from World War II that told stories of prisoners in war hospitals who had been convinced that the war was over by English-speaking enemies and allowed themselves to be debriefed, but they were high-ranking prisoners and the operations were hugely expensive. She was barely more than a FBI wannabe with a tin badge. No one was going to go to such fantastic lengths for the piddly secrets in her brain.

Any lingering doubts that she might not actually be in nineteenth-century London disappeared the moment Chevie emerged from the dungeon into Otto Malarkey’s den of thieves, cutthroats, and wastrels.

Riley grabbed her elbow.

“Agent . . . Chevie, let me be the mouthpiece in the Rams’ Hidey-Hole. I know these people.”

“Relax, kid, I can talk for myself.”

Riley’s expression was pained. “I know. Your impetuous nature seems to land you in hot water no matter what the era.”

“It’s psychology, Riley,” said Chevie defensively, though she knew it was only half true. “You wouldn’t understand it.”

The Battering Rams’ Hidey-Hole did not seem much like a hole, nor did it seem like they were hiding from anyone. The storeroom’s rickety stairs opened into the entire ground floor of a wide house with no dividing walls to hold up the ceiling, which sagged alarmingly and would have collapsed entirely but for the brick chimney breast. The grand room was crammed with so many lifelong thieves that such a concentration of criminality would have been difficult to achieve elsewhere outside of a prison compound.

Animals roamed freely through the hall, including chickens, hounds, and actual rams, tangling their impressive horns to the encouragement of the two-legged Rams.

There were several makeshift stages constructed from barrels and planks where burlesque ladies sang drinking songs or street conjurers ran thimble games. At least four parrots hid in the crystal chandeliers, swearing in as many languages. “Wow,” said Chevie, feeling the room revolve kaleidoscopically around her. “This is unreal.”

“Say nothing,” Riley hissed. “I may still be able to slip us out of here.”

He dodged between a monkey and its handler to catch Malarkey. “Mr. Malarkey, Your Majesty. I have some conjuring skills. Doves, rabbits, that kind of thing. Think of a card, any card.”

Malarkey strode into the center of the room. “No. We agreed on a bout, lad. Save yer politicking. Wasn’t it you who suggested I bet on the battling lady?”

This was a good point.

“Yes,” admitted Riley. “But that was . . .”

Malarkey stepped over an unconscious sailor clutching a roasted leg of pork. “That was when you was belowdecks in the killin’ basement, with blood on the floor and waste seeping through the walls, and you thought you would spout off whatever it took to see the light of day, but now you see said light of day and are thinking to yerself, Maybe I can stall poor old simple Malarkey and finagle a way out of here for me and the pretty lass.” Riley had a shot at arguing. “No. I have genuine top-notch skills. Watch.” He snatched a vicious dagger from the belt of a nearby sailor and jammed it between the ribs of a man who, for some reason, wore a striped swimming costume. The blade stuck but did no apparent harm.

“See?”

“Not a bad effort,” said Malarkey. “But I have my mind set on a fight.” A thought struck him and he stopped abruptly, turning to Chevie. “Do you know the Marquess of Queensbury Rules?”

Chevie was stretching out her shoulders. “Nope. Can’t say that I do.”

Malarkey tapped her on the head with his riding crop.

“Capital. Neither do we. No holds barred is all the legal we have here.”

With a single bound, Malarkey mounted a central platform where there was a squat wooden and velvet throne, resplendent with a mightily horned, shaggy ram’s fleece. He aimed a kick at a monkey who sat in the king’s spot, then twirled on his heel, falling neatly into the throne. Malarkey smiled for a moment with paternal indulgence at the various forms of criminal mayhem unfurling all around, then snagged a brass speaking trumpet from its leather holster on the arm of his throne. “Listen, Rams,” he called, his voice projected yet tinny.

“Who among you fine sporting gents fancies a wager with your king?”

The word spread like the plague through the assembled rabble, and soon they were clamoring for sport at the feet of their king.

“Very well, Rams,” said Malarkey, rising to his feet. “I have a belter for you this evening, to delay you indoors awhile when you should be outside performing your customary honest labors.” A raucous laugh rose to the very roof at the partnering of the words
honest
and
labors.

“I, your chosen monarch, in sight of the sacred fleece, offer you a wager. And I am telling you coves right from the off that you won’t be taking a ha’penny of my hard-earned. So, who’s got the bottle?”

Many hands went up, and some even tossed coins to the foot of the dais.

“Not so fast, my eager bucks. Let me fill you in on the details, lest there be accusations of cheatin’ flying around laterwise.” Malarkey leaned over, plucking Riley and Chevie from the crowd. “So, my people, what we have here are two possible recruits. A fine little grifter with fast ’ands, and his Injun princess. I’ve instructed ’em only one fights, and that one fights for two.”

“I’ll take him,” said the knifed swimmer.

Malarkey waved him away. “No, you ain’t heard the best bit. The one that’s stepping up is the young lady.”

This announcement was met with pandemonium. “We can’t have a lady on the canvas,” objected the challenger, backing into the throng.

Malarkey stamped a foot. “You have beheld my champion, Rams. Now, show me yours!”

There was no immediate response to this challenge. It was not a matter of cowardice; it was the left-footed awkwardness of tussling with a female in public.

But not all were awkward: one man soon skipped to the front of the line.

“I will crack her skull for her.”

The contender was a bald six-footer with bandy legs from carrying his beer gut.

“Can I use me bludgeon? I never fights without it for reasons of balance.”

Malarkey was shocked. “Use yer bludgeon? Of course you can use yer bludgeon, Mr. Skelp. I would never deprive a brother of his beloved weapon of choice.”

Skelp drew from behind his back a blackthorn club the size of Chevie’s leg. As if its dimensions were not formidable enough, Skelp had hammered on armored plates that had doubtless once been shining steel but were now dull with congealed liquid and matter.

“Charming,” said Chevie. “You guys are a classy bunch.” Malarkey laughed. “Skelp is one of our more sophisticated brothers. Betimes he reads stories to the illiterates.

“The odds are ten to one on Skelpy. Cash only, no markers. Give yer coin to my accountant.”

A small man in a waistcoat was suddenly besieged by aggressive men with money and dealt with them all efficiently, using a complicated system of facial tics and swearing. Once the betting was done, a space was cleared in front of the dais. Riley guessed that this was the traditional bareknuckle arena, and he hoped that the dark splashes on the floorboards were simply wine or beer.

Chevie did not seem anxious, though there could be nothing familiar to her about the proceedings.

Riley realized that the attention of every man in the room was on Chevie, and that this was a perfect time to look for a way out for them both. He couldn’t abandon her now.
We are partners, till the end of this affair.

The Battering Rams jostled for a ringside view as the opponents readied themselves for the competition. Chevie carefully stretched her muscles and tendons, while Skelp stripped to his waist and spoke soft words to his darling bludgeon. “I will call the match,” said Malarkey through his speaking trumpet. “Last man . . . or woman . . . standing shall be proclaimed victor. Both parties prepared for the bout?” Skelp spat a gob of chewed tobacco, mostly on his own boot. Chevie simply nodded and balled her fists.

“Then begin!” called Malarkey.

The Rams were expecting the little lass to be brim-full of vinegar and take a run at Skelp, possibly causing him to fall down laughing. They were prepared to berate their comrade good-naturedly as he was eventually forced to tap the girlie on her noggin in order to claim his winnings.

They were utterly unprepared for what actually happened, and several burst out laughing, presuming that it was some manner of jape orchestrated by King Otto for a bit of a giggle. Before the echo of Malarkey’s words faded, Chevie rushed in low, used a basic judo disarming maneuver to twist the club out of Skelp’s grasp, then unleashed an out-of-the-ballpark uppercut with the man’s own beloved bludgeon that knocked out three of his teeth and sent him flying into a gaggle of his comrades. The whole lot went down like ninepins.

“Next,” said Chevie, which was a bit melodramatic, but no more so than the entire situation.

A silence followed Chevie’s victory, the like of which hadn’t been heard in this arcade in twenty years, not since Gunther No Nose Kelly earned his nickname during a rat-eating contest. “Wait for it,” said Malarkey out of the side of his mouth. When the assembled Rams realized that their invested chink was in serious danger of disappearing beyond their grubby grasp forever, the short-lived silence was shattered by a collective moan that rose like an ululating wave and crashed in a sea of objections.

“Hold on there!”

“Unfair! Unfair!”

“Will you beat a man with his own club?”

“She ain’t no female. She’s a witch.”

Malarkey silenced the clamor with a bellow through his trumpet, then addressed the stunned congregation.

“You fellers seem a mite surprised by my little whirling dervish here. I warned you, but no—you fine gentlemen knows better than yer beloved regent.”

Malarkey rubbed Chevie’s head as though she were a favored puppy and even instructed Riley to relax in his throne. “Here,” he said, tossing a purse of gold to Riley. “A share for the Injun princess, even though that were not part of the deal; but I am a fair and benevolent monarch.”

Malarkey faced his subjects.

“Listen, my gallows-bound busters, there is another twist to this tale. You have witnessed what my champion can do, so maybe yer regretting monies wagered. So I offer you one chance to retract yer wager without penalty. But if you leave yer ill-gotten gains in the kitty, then among the benefits that will accrue to you are shorter odds, a free toddy, and the admiration of your peers. And who steps up to spill the blood is your affair. You coves have leave to select the burliest muck-snipe from among your ranks to set against my little girlie. Choose whomsoever you fancy, so long as he bears the mark.” Riley found his discomfort swelling with every passing second. This was a fine penny-show for the Rams, but Chevie and himself were sitting ducks. If Garrick had managed to dump his carcass into the tunnel-of-time, it wouldn’t be long before some tidbits concerning a battling squaw dropped into his ear hole.
And then the Thames water rats will be raking two extra floaters out of the dawn currents.

Riley perched on the throne’s cushion.

“Chevie,” he whispered, “do the business quick as you like, then we can make ourselves scarce. My skin is crawling with the feeling that Garrick is coming.”

“Roger that. We need to be on our way,” said Chevie.

Every one of Riley’s
Garrick is coming
hunches had been bang on the money so far.

Malarkey overheard the exchange. He plucked Riley from the throne, depositing him at his feet like a royal puppy, or jester. “Don’t worry about Albert Garrick. My best team of murdering scum have been lying in wait for him at his digs, their time bought by the very same fancy gent who ordered your deaths. As to you two foundlings being
on your way
, I think you have misremembered our arrangement.”

Chevie punched her fist into her palm and several large men jumped backward. “What arrangement?” she asked. Riley’s chin dropped to his breastbone, and he answered the question for Malarkey. “We are fighting our way into the Rams, the alternative being a sudden case of violent death— yours and mine. Once we are in, then we are Malarkey’s for life.” Malarkey pointed at Riley. “A shilling to the boy for keenness. You fight for the very breath in your lungs, little lady.

And if you wrestle your death from my grasp, then I still hold your life. Remember that well.”

He swiveled on the balls of his feet like a trained swordsman until his riding crop pointed at Riley. “Take this one and mark him. He is ours now.”

Hands descended on Riley from the crowd, so many that it seemed as though he were being swallowed by a sea anemone.

Riley fought, dropping several of his captors with well-placed blows, but whenever one fell another sprang to take his place.

The Rams lifted him high and carried him through the throng to a far corner of the room, where a decrepit old man sat surrounded by books, boxes of needles, and little ink bottles of dense, jeweled colors. The man’s fingers were small like a child’s but gnarled and inked in the wrinkles, each knuckle a rainbow. Riley found himself plonked in a wooden chair and held in place by viselike fingers on each shoulder.

“A young recruit, is it?” said the man.

“That is the case, Farley,” said Riley’s restrainer. Farley set his store of needles tinkling as he poked through them. “Not really a Ram,” he muttered. “More a lamb than a Ram. Still, mine is not to wonder why . . .” He selected a thin needle to make the mark.

“Mister, ain’t you going to a-sketch it on first?” Riley asked nervously.

Farley’s cough rolled in his throat. “Sketch, is it? Boy, I been doing the ram for years, could do it in me sleep, I could. Now, quit yer vibrations, or it’s a goat adornment you’ll be sporting in place of a ram.”

“That needle is clean, ain’t it? I don’t want to lose an arm.” “Worry not, the tool is sterilized better than any steel in St. Bart’s. No one ever saw a bubble of pus from Anton Farley’s needles. I will do her small and quick, and the time will pass.