Against the Brotherhood (20 page)

Now Madame Isolde went white around her painted mouth. “Oh, no,” she said, holding on to the bannister for support. “What a terrible thing.”

“She is ... quite shocking to see,” I cautioned her.

Herr Dortmunder was knocking on McMillian’s door as we reached the top of the stairs. “Let me in.”

McMillian responded to the summons slowly, as if answering doors was beneath him. He rolled back his eyes in high-born protest to Herr Dortmunder’s officious behavior. “All of you?” he asked in a pained voice. He was almost completely dressed, lacking only his cravat.

“It would be better,” I recommended. “So that someone can give the report.”

“Ah, yes. That,” McMillian said as he stood aside. “You will need to know what to tell the police.”

As I went into McMillian’s room, I saw out of the tail of my eye that Mycroft Holmes had abandoned his solitary chess game and was standing at the foot of the stairs looking up. I wished I could ask him to join us here, but that would not be acceptable to McMillian or Herr Dortmunder, and so I held my peace. I moved to a corner of the room so that there would not be a crowd around the body.

Madame Isolde stared in dismay at Francoise, and I saw tears standing in her eyes. She swallowed hard several times, and at last looked away from the dead girl.

“Tell me how—” began Herr Dortmunder.

McMillian launched into recounting the death of Francoise, emphasizing his own conviction that he was the intended victim. He set his jaw and looked directly at Herr Dortmunder. “It would not be fitting for me to be part of any inquiry into the matter.”

“How can you say that, if you were the target?” demanded Herr Dortmunder.

“Because I
was
the target, you cretin. You would expose me to another attack if my name were to come into the investigation. If there is an investigation.” This last was speculative.

Herr Dortmunder nodded slowly. “Yes. There is a way it could be managed.” He gave a signal to Madame Isolde. “Have your staff bring a tarpaulin up here.” When he saw resistance in her face, he said, “At once, Madame,” in
a tone that cracked like a whip and I remembered the cold ferocity with which he had killed Angus the night before.

She capitulated with a nod and went to the bell-pull, tugging it twice. “Hannes and Ernst will be up shortly. You may give them your orders.”

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:

Word has just come from M.H. that he has located G.
at last, and will be accompanying him and McMillian to England, though they will probably not travel by Mercury train, M.H. judging such extraordinary measures apt to draw unwanted attention to the mission. This is good news at a time when such is needed. He warns me, however, that I must not attempt to contact him at any time, for it could increase their danger, which is already very great.

G.
has been injured, though not seriously. M.H. expects to be traveling again by nightfall.

BY THE TIME
Hannes and Ernst had wrapped Francoise in the tarpaulin and borne her down to her small quarters, McMillian was becoming anxious to depart. As soon as the body was gone, he left his room and made his way downstairs to put distance between himself and her death. He was increasingly apprehensive and testy, pacing the main parlor, drinking schnapps and coffee alternately, and swearing at the servants when they dared to approach him. Satisfied that Francoise would not be connected to him, he did all he could to behave as if he knew nothing of the matter. He had no wish to return to his room, and ordered me to tend to all packing.

“You’ll need this,” he said, holding out a key to me.

I took it. “What does this open, sir?” I asked him as politely as I could. I had already made up my mind to drop the most offensive of Jeffries’ mannerisms and try to maintain the appearance of an acceptable servant. I doubted McMillian would tolerate gutter slang or the speech of the lower orders. Let the other assume that I was trying to elevate myself, or put on airs. It was what would be expected of someone like Jeffries.

“It opens a lock, of course, fool,” he snapped, and then said, “In the closet there is a small chest. You will have to open it to pack it. There is a long leather map case in the chest. For no reason are you to disturb it. Do not open it, and do not move it from its place. It must remain precisely where it is.” He tossed back his schnapps, muttering, “They can’t make decent whiskey in this place.”

“I will attend to it at once, sir,” I said, bowing, and wanting to get my shoes on at last. Not only did my head hurt, but my feet were starting to ache from the chill of the day. I climbed the stairs quickly, and let myself into McMillian’s room, taking care not to step where Francoise had lain. There had been too many violent deaths in my life these last few days, and the weight of them was telling on me. As I buttoned my shoes on, I did what I could to put it out of my mind and set about gathering and folding McMillian’s clothes. I wanted that task done before I tended to my own things, for I was reasonably certain he would be annoyed if I put my packing before his.

I was interrupted by a rap on the door, and a moment later, Mycroft Holmes, in his Oriental splendor, came into the room. “Pity about the girl.”

“It is,” I said with feeling, for as deplorable as her way of life might be, she deserved a better end than this one.

“If I had time, I would want the last of the wine in the bottle that killed her, so that I could determine the poison used. But”—he spread his hands wide—“that would draw attention on Kamir, and that might lead to questions that would be awkward to answer. So I will content myself with warning you to be very careful in all that you do. Our enemies, and there are a number of them, are playing for the highest stakes imaginable, and will not let anyone, certainly not you or I, stand in their way.” With this, he bowed deeply and left me alone to my work.

The chest McMillian had singled out was behind a large valise, and I pulled it out with a little difficulty. It was a sturdy, leather-covered and brass-bound piece, about twenty-four inches long, sixteen wide, and ten deep, and the lock on it was heavy, though it opened readily enough at the turn of the key. I folded the lid back and saw that there was indeed a long, tubular map case in the bottom of the chest, with a small brass lock on the fittings. I shook it carefully and heard the slither of paper inside. Doubtless that was where McMillian had the treaty. At least he had kept it under a double lock; that was a little consolation. I laid his hunting jacket and britches atop it, using the boots to steady the map case.

There was a sharp sound below and a moment later I heard the main door open, stern voices asking to see Madame Isolde.

Thinking it was the official from this morning returning, I left my task and went to the top of the stairs. Herr Dortmunder was confronting two men I took to be constables of some sort. I heard his postilion’s spurs ring as he paced, making an invisible barrier with the movement of his strides between the constables and the rest of the house. Realizing I would have to hurry, I went back to packing with more dispatch than finesse. When this was completed, I was satisfied that we could now depart. I went to the room I had been allotted, collected my hat, my coat, and my carpetbag, and used the bell-pull to summon assistance in carrying the luggage down to the carriage entrance, for even if we were bound for the train, we would certainly not go to the station on foot.

Though I looked for him in a general way, I saw no further sign of Mycroft Holmes, or his Turkish counterpart, Kamir. Much as I wanted to know what had become of him, I knew it would be unwise to ask about him. Perhaps, I thought, I would overhear the servants mention him as I finished preparations for departure. I listened closely without results.

There was a porter; Madame Isolde summoned him and had him load up the chaise with McMillian’s luggage, apparently as eager to be shut of him as he was to be out of her place. As he went about his work, he whistled a tuneless little four-note song that he repeated endlessly. By the time the trunks and chests and cases were secure, I was heartily sick of the refrain and knew it would echo about in my mind for hours to come.

At the train station, McMillian attempted to commandeer a car for himself, and was told politely but firmly that this would not be possible. He raged at the stationmaster, demanding an explanation. “I am on a diplomatic mission, I will have you know, and if anything should happen to the documents I carry, the consequences would be heavy for Germany. If I come to any mischance, it will be laid to your lack of assistance.”

I thought about the singular lack of care McMillian had shown these same documents while he was at Madame Isolde’s, and had to conceal a sour smile. Such cavalier treatment would not be viewed favorably by those who were depending upon him for the safe delivery of the treaty. Not that it was likely they would ever learn of it.

“There is no order assigning a private car to you, sir,” said the stationmaster, bowing as much as his starched shirtfront would permit, which was not very much. “The best we can do is give you a private compartment with empty compartments on either side of you.”

“That is hardly sufficient; the arrangements must be better,” said McMillian with terrible scorn. “My mission is much more important than you suppose. You surely know how to take care of foreign diplomats, don’t you? You are not barbarians here, are you?”

“When we are told to by those with the authority to command us, we perform our duties to a high standard. We do not offer any insult to those not deserving of such. It is a tradition in Germany to give superior service,” said the stationmaster, the very picture of affronted dignity. He seemed about to impale his jaw on the starched points of his collar.

“Very good,” said McMillian sarcastically. “Then you will attend to getting the private car I require, and then you will see that a waiter and a guard are assigned to it.”

The stationmaster grew more formidably stiff. “You have no authorization for such specialized treatment. For what reason do you believe you are entitled to such privilege?”

Realizing that the Scotsman and the German had reached an impasse, I plucked at McMillian’s sleeve, and cleared my throat, hoping it would not be ripped out for my pains. “Sir, if I may make a suggestion ...”

“What is it, Jeffries?” He gave me a hard stare, as if he had already come to the decision that employing me had been a mistake.

“It is simply this,” I said, keeping my voice low. “There have been attempts on your life; why make yourself conspicuous? The more distinction you are given, the easier it will be for those working against you to find you. A private car is obvious, and easily isolated. It would tend to attract the very forces you would most want to keep at bay.”

This argument apparently carried some persuasive weight with McMillian, for he rubbed at his chin and regarded me thoughtfully for a short while. “That is a very telling observation, Jeffries; yes, I take your meaning,” he declared at last, and swung back in the direction of the stationmaster. “Your circumstances here have put me at a disadvantage. Under the circumstances, I will avail myself of your offer of a private compartment with empty compartments on either side, and a guard assigned to the car.” He raised his chin, the better to look down his nose at the stationmaster. “See to it.”

“I will have to get permission to assign you a guard,” said the stationmaster, unwilling to compromise even on this point.

“Then
do it,
man,” he ordered. “The train for Karlsruhe leaves in twenty minutes and I have my luggage to get aboard yet.” He scowled at the platform, where the locomotives were drawn up.

“The Karlsruhe train will not leave for an hour yet,” said the stationmaster in the manner of one confessing a fault. “It has been delayed by order of King Ludwig.”

“Oh, my God,” muttered McMillian in English. “That delusional madman.” He rolled his eyes upward as if petitioning heaven to aid him.

If
the stationmaster understood, he did not admit it, though he spoke more sharply. “His Majesty is sending a messenger to France on the Karlsruhe train. This messenger will have a private car.”

“A private car,” repeated McMillian as if counting this against the stationmaster. “Very good for him, getting the approval of a man like Ludwig,” said McMillian, once again speaking German. “Well, let him enjoy it. Make note of this, sir: I will change at Karlsruhe for Mainz and then to Bonn. At Bonn, I will change for Liege. At Liege I will change for Ghent. I expect you to wire instructions ahead so that I will not have to repeat this farce again.”

“I will endeavor to do as you instruct,” said the stationmaster.

I noticed that there was a strange emblem on the watchfob the stationmaster wore, an Egyptian eye, of the sort I had seen over the gates and fireplace at von Metz’s schloss. My heart beat more quickly. I did not know if I should warn McMillian, and if I did, how I would account for my information. I was beginning to fear that everything I had been told about the Brotherhood was not only true, but an understatement. Would it be safe to alert McMillian in any way?

I was still puzzling over this when McMillian rounded on me, whiskers bristling. “And Jeffries, from here on out, making these arrangements will be your responsibility. If I am kept waiting or if I am given inadequate accommodation, it will be on your head.”

“Certainly,” I said, doing all that I could to look prepared for the task. “Just tell me who you want me to talk to.”

“There is a private waiting room,” the stationmaster announced as if divulging a state secret. “You may wait there until the train is ready to depart. No one will disturb you.”

“And my man?” asked McMillian with a negligent wave in my direction. “I will need him to tend to me.”

“He should remain in the public waiting room.” The stationmaster heaved a little sigh. “But if you require him, he can be with you while he is fulfilling your commissions.”

McMillian was pleased at having scored this point, and so pressed for one more advantage. “And as there has been no time for breakfast, you will see that we have pastries and coffee.”

The stationmaster set his jaw. “I will tell the baker who has his wagon outside to bring you his best.”

“And quickly,” added McMillian, starting down the corridor the stationmaster indicated.

No sooner had McMillian settled himself in a high-backed, overstuffed chair than the door opened, so suddenly that I spun about in a crouch, expecting trouble and prepared to defend myself. The events of the last few days had truly taken their toll on me.

It was the messenger who had come to Madame Isolde’s that morning, armed with nothing more than a walking stick and an overlarge valise. He strode toward McMillian purposefully. “I was told you would be here,” said the messenger. “You have led me a merry chase.”

“Oh, it’s you, Zimmerman,” said McMillian blandly after he had regained his composure. “You have been on my heels for three days. What do you want?”

“I have a message for you, something that I must tell you in private,” he said with a quick glance in my direction.

“I will leave you; I want to have a bite to eat,” I said at once, the more to reassure Zimmerman than to appear subservient to McMillian. I preferred selecting my own food, now that I thought about it; this situation was too exposed and I had to assume we were being watched. I wanted to be certain I did not eat anything detrimental to me.

“You are such a fussy old hen of a man,” said McMillian with a sigh of ill use. “Though I suppose government needs fellows like you, to tidy up after the real work is done.” He waved me away with a weary flap of his hand. “Come back in ten minutes.” His gaze rested on Zimmerman. “I don’t suppose you will need more than ten minutes.”

“If you have no questions, it should suffice,” said Zimmerman, trying not to sound too put-upon.

“And bring pastry and coffee when you come,” McMillian added as I went out the door, taking care to close it.

The platform was busy, with travelers, porters, and railroad employees bustling about. The activity was invigorating, the kind of sensible work that had not been my lot for some time. How tidy it all was, this determined industry, how simple and direct. The engines hissed like tame dragons as they were stoked and readied. Ruddy-faced men loaded fuel into the car immediately behind the engine, and I watched these efforts with a degree of envy that surprised me. Porters with handcarts carried crates and bales to the waiting trains, stowing them with the ease of practice. Those men were not being hunted by unknown cabals, the targets of assassins, sent on missions that grew hourly more convoluted and dangerous. None of them had thrown a man to his death. None had stood helplessly by while an innocent man was ritually slaughtered. At the end of the day they went home, having done an honest day’s labor, to an uncomplicated family and the pride of achievement. Even as I thought this, I knew it for the simplification it was, and found little solace in it.