The Difference Engine (15 page)

“I must confess I’m not familiar with your books,” Mallory said. “I’ve been overseas, and far behind in my reading. I take it you hit the public mark, then, and had a great success?”

“Not the books,” Oliphant said, with surprised amusement. “I was involved in the Tokyo Legation affair. In Japan. Late last year.”

“An outrage against our embassy in Japan, am I correct? A diplomat was injured? I was in America . . .”

Oliphant hesitated, then bent his left arm, tugging back coat-sleeve and immaculate cuff to reveal a puckered red scar at the outer joint of his left wrist. A knife-slash. No, worse than that: a saber-blow, into the tendons. Mallory noticed for the first time that two of the fingers on Oliphant’s left hand were permanently bent.

“You, then! Laurence Oliphant, the hero of the Tokyo Legation! Now I remember the name.” Mallory stroked his beard. “You should have put that upon your card, sir, and I would have recalled you instantly.”

Oliphant worked his sleeve back, looking mildly embarrassed. “A Japanese sword-wound makes so odd a carte d’identite . . . ”

“Your interests are varied indeed, sir.”

“Sometimes one can’t avoid certain entanglements, Dr. Mallory. In the interests of the nation, as it were. I think you yourself know that situation very well.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you . . . ”

“Professor Rudwick, the late Professor Rudwick, certainly knew of such entanglements.”

Mallory now grasped the nature of Oliphant’s allusion. He spoke up roughly. “Your card, sir, declares you a journalist. These are not matters one discusses with a journalist.”

“Your secret, I fear, is far from hermetic,” said Oliphant, with polite disdain. “Every member of your Wyoming expedition knows the truth. Fifteen men, some less discreet than one might hope. Rudwick’s men knew of his covert activities as well. Those who arranged the business, who asked you to carry out their scheme, know as well.”

“And how, sir, do you know?”

“I’ve investigated Rudwick’s murder.”

“You think Rudwick’s death was linked to his . . . American activities?”

“I know that to be the case.”

“Before we go any further, I must be sure where we stand, Mr. Oliphant. When you say ‘activities,’ what exactly do you mean? Speak plain, sir. Define your terms.”

“Very well.” Oliphant looked pained. “I refer to the official body that persuaded you to smuggle repeating rifles to the American savages.”

“And the name of this body?”

“The Royal Society’s Commission on Free Trade,” Oliphant said patiently. “They exist — officially — to study international trade-relations. Tariffs, investments, and so forth. Their ambition, I fear, over-reaches that authority.”

“The Commission on Free Trade is a legitimate branch of Government.”

“In the realm of diplomacy. Dr. Mallory, your actions might be construed as clandestinely arming the enemies of nations with whom Britain is not officially at war.”

“And shall I conclude,” Mallory began angrily, “that you take a very dim view of —”

“Gun-running. Though it has its place in the world, make no mistake.” Oliphant was watching for eavesdroppers again. “But it must never be undertaken by self-appointed zealots with an overweening notion of their role in foreign policy.”

“You don’t care for amateurs in the game, then?”

Oliphant met Mallory’s eye, but said nothing.

“You want professionals, then, Mr. Oliphant? Men like yourself?”

Oliphant leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “A professional agency,” he said precisely, “would not abandon its men to be eviscerated by foreign agents in the very heart of London, Dr. Mallory. And that, sir, I must inform you, is very near the position you find yourself in today. The Commission on Free Trade will help you no longer, however thoroughly you’ve done their work. They have not even informed you of the threat to your life. Am I wrong, sir?”

“Francis Rudwick died in a brawl in a ratting-den. And that was months ago.”

“It was last January — five months only. Rudwick had returned from Texas, where he had been secretly arming the Comanche tribe with rifles supplied by your Commission. On the night of Rudwick’s murder, someone attempted to take the life of the former President of Texas. President Houston very narrowly escaped. His secretary, a British citizen, was brutally knifed to death. The murderer is still very much at large.”

“You think a Texian killed Rudwick, then?”

“I think it almost certain. Rudwick’s activities may be poorly known here in London, but they’re quite obvious to the unhappy Texians, who regularly extract British bullets from the corpses of their fellows.”

“I dislike the way you paint the business,” Mallory said, with a slow prickle of anger. “If we hadn’t given them guns, they wouldn’t have helped us. We might have dug for years, if it weren’t for Cheyenne help . . . ”

“I doubt one could make that case to a Texas Ranger,” Oliphant said. “For that matter, I doubt one could make it to the popular press . . . ”

“I’ve no intention of speaking to the press. I regret having spoken with you. Clearly you’re no friend of the Commission.”

“I already know far more about the Commission than I should have cared to discover. I came here to convey a warning, Dr. Mallory, not to request information. It is I who have spoken too openly — have been forced to do so, since the Commission’s blundering has very obviously endangered your life, sir.”

There was force in the argument. “A point well taken,” Mallory admitted. “You have warned me, sir, and I thank you for that.” He thought for a moment. “But what of the Geographical Society, Mr. Oliphant? What is their place in this?”

“An alert and observant traveler may serve his nation’s interests with no prejudice to Science,” Oliphant said. “The Geographical has long been a vital source of intelligence. Map-making, naval routes . . .”

Mallory pounced. “You don’t call them ‘amateurs’, then, Mr. Oliphant? Though they too muck about with dark-lanterns, where they oughtn’t?”

A silence stretched. “They’re our amateurs,” Oliphant said dryly.

“But what, precisely, is the difference?”

“The precise difference. Dr. Mallory, is that the Commission’s amateurs are being murdered.”

Mallory grunted. He leaned back in the chair. Perhaps there was real substance to Oliphant’s dark theory. The sudden death of Rudwick, his rival, his most formidable enemy, had always seemed too convenient a stroke of fortune. “What does he look like, then, this Texian assassin of yours?”

“He is described as tall, dark-haired, and powerfully built. He wears a broad-brimmed hat and a long pale greatcoat.”

“He wouldn’t be a ratty little race-track swell with a protruding forehead” — Mallory touched his temple — “and a stiletto in his pocket?”

Oliphant’s eyes widened. “Dear heaven,” he said softly.

Suddenly Mallory found he was enjoying himself. Discomfiting the suave spy had touched some deep vein of satisfaction. “Had a nick at me, this feller,” Mallory said, in his broadest Sussex drawl. “Derby Day, at the races. Uncommon nasty little rascal . . . ”

“What happened?”

“I knocked the scoundrel down,” Mallory said.

Oliphant stared at him, then burst into laughter. “You’re a man of unexpected resources. Dr. Mallory.”

“I might say the same of you, sir.” Mallory paused. “I have to tell you, though, I don’t believe the man was after me. He’d a girl with him, a track-dolly, the two of them bullying a lady —”

“Do go on,” Oliphant urged, “this is uncommonly interesting.”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” Mallory said. “The lady in question was a personage. ”

“Your discretion, sir,” Oliphant said evenly, “does you credit as a gentleman. A knife-attack, however, is a serious crime. Have you not informed the police?”

“No,” Mallory said, savoring Oliphant’s contained agitation, “the lady again, you see. I feared to compromise her.”

“Perhaps,” Oliphant suggested, “it was all a charade, calculated to involve you in a supposed gambling-brawl. Something similar was worked on Rudwick — who died, you well recall, in a ratting-den.”

“Sir,” Mallory said, “the lady was none other than Ada Byron.”

Oliphant stiffened. “The Prime Minister’s daughter?”

“There is no other.”

“Indubitably,” Oliphant said, a sudden brittle lightness in his tone. “It does strike me, though, that there are any number of women who resemble Lady Ada, our Queen of Engines being a queen of fashion as well. Thousands of women follow her mode.”

“I’ve never been introduced, Mr. Oliphant, but I’ve seen her in Royal Society sessions. I’ve heard her lecture on Engine mathematics. I am not mistaken.”

Oliphant took a leather notebook from his jacket, propped it against one knee, and uncapped a reservoir-pen. “Tell me, please, about this incident.”

“In strictest confidence?”

“You have my word.”

Mallory presented a discreet version of the facts. He described Ada’s tormentors, and the circumstances, to the best of his ability, but he made no mention of the wooden case with its French Engine-cards of camphorated cellulose. Mallory considered this a private matter between the Lady and himself; she had burdened him with the guardianship of this strange object of hers, and he regarded this as a sacred obligation. The wooden case of cards, carefully wrapped in white specimen-linen, lay hidden among the plastered fossils in one of Mallory’s private lockers at the Museum of Practical Geology, awaiting his further attention.

Oliphant closed his notebook, put away his pen, and signaled the waiter for drinks. The waiter, recognizing Mallory, brought him a huckle-buff. Oliphant had a pink gin.

“I would like you to meet some friends of mine,” Oliphant said. “The Central Statistics Bureau maintain extensive files on the criminal classes — anthropometric measurements, Engine-portraits, and so forth. I should like you to try to identify your assailant and his female accomplice.”

“Very well,” Mallory said.

“You shall be assigned police protection, as well.”

“Protection?”

“Not a common policeman, of course. Someone from the Special Bureau. They are very discreet.”

“I can’t have some copper tagging always at my heels,” Mallory said. “What would people say?”

“I worry rather more what they’ll say if you were to be found gutted in some passage. Two prominent dinosaur-savants, the both of them mysteriously murdered? The press would run quite wild.”

“I need no guard. I’m not frightened of the little pimp.”

“He may well be unimportant. We shall at least know that, if you are able to identify him.” Oliphant sighed delicately. “No doubt it’s all a very trumpery affair, according to the standards of Empire. But I should reckon it as including the command of money; the services, when needed, of that shady sort of Englishman, who lives in the byways of foreign life in London; and lastly, the secret sympathy of American refugees, fled here from the wars that convulse that continent.”

“And you imagine that Lady Ada has fallen somehow into this dire business?”

“No, sir, none of it. You may rest assured that that cannot possibly be the case. The woman you saw cannot have been Ada Byron.”

“Then I regard the matter as settled,” Mallory said. “If you were to tell me Lady Ada’s interests were at hazard, I might agree to almost any measure. As things stand, I shall take my own chances.”

“The decision is entirely yours, of course,” Oliphant said coolly. “And perhaps it is still early in the game to take such stem measures. You have my card? Let me know how matters develop.”

“I will.”

Oliphant stood. “And remember, should anyone ask, that today we have discussed nothing more than the affairs of the Geographical Society.”

“You’ve yet to tell me the name of your own employers, Mr. Oliphant. Your true employers.”

Oliphant somberly shook his long head. “Such knowledge never profits, sir; there is nothing but grief in such questions. If you’re wise, Dr. Mallory, you’ll have nothing more to do with dark-lanterns. With luck, the whole affair will simply come to nothing, in the end, and will fade away, without trace, as a nightmare does. I shall certainly put your name forward for the Geographical, as I have promised, and I do hope that you will seriously consider my proposal regarding possible uses of the Bow Street Engines.”

Mallory watched as this extraordinary personage rose, turned, and strode away, across the Palace’s rich carpet, his long legs flashing like scissors.

Clutching his new valise with one hand, the overhead straps with another, Mallory inched his way along the crowded aisle of the omnibus to the rattling exit-platform. When the driver slowed for a filthy tarmac-wagon. Mallory jumped for the curb.

Despite his best efforts, Mallory had boarded the wrong ‘bus. Or perhaps he had ridden too far on the correct vehicle, well past his destination, while engrossed in the latest number of the Westminster Review. He’d purchased the magazine because it carried an article of Oliphant’s, a witty post-mortem on the conduct of the Crimean War. Oliphant, it developed, was something of an expert on the Crimean region, having published his The Russian Shores of the Black Sea a full year prior to the outbreak of hostilities. The book detailed a jolly but quite extensive Crimean holiday which Oliphant had undertaken. To Mallory’s newly alerted eye, Oliphant’s latest article bristled with sly insinuation.

A street-arab whipped with a broom of twigs at the pavement before Mallory’s feet. The boy glanced up, puzzled. “Pardon, guv?” Mallory realized with an unhappy start that he had been talking to himself, standing there in rapt abstraction, muttering aloud over Oliphant’s deviousness. The boy, grasping at Mallory’s attention, did a back-somersault. Mallory tossed him tuppence, turned at random, and walked away, shortly discovering himself in Leicester Square, its gravel walks and formal gardens an excellent place to be robbed or ambushed. Especially at night, for the streets about featured theatres, pantos, and magic-lantern houses.

Crossing Whitcomb, then Oxenden, he found himself in Haymarket, strange in the broad summer daylight, its raucous whores absent now and sleeping. He walked the length of it, for curiosity’s sake. It looked very different by day, shabby and tired of itself. At length, noting Mallory’s pace, a pimp approached him, offering a packet of French-letters, sure armor against the lady’s-fever.