The Memoirs of Irene Adler: The Irene Adler Trilogy (16 page)

‘You’ve got excellent teeth,’ observes the Russian with a smile. Golightly nods and twitches his lips. Was it a smile? Ivan wonders.

‘And they’re all my own,’ lies the man from Liverpool. It was a smile after all.

‘Shows what good living can do for one’s constitution,’ says Ivan. Golightly chuckles half-heartedly.

‘Obviously there are fifteen more at hand,’ Ivan says. This produces the first hearty smile on the face of the man opposite.

‘You said nearby? How near?’

‘Not too near ... obviously.’

‘Oh yes, I see, you think I might be tempted to use force to wrestle them from you,’ ventures the not so decrepit old man, whereupon the Muscovite explodes with laughter, raising his finger and waggling it gently as a mute appeal to the banker to temper his witticisms in order to save him from choking with laughter.

‘Ha, ha, ha! You English! I was warned about your capacity to make jokes even when you’ve got your back to the wall. They say it is your greatest gift.’ He is now thinking that his attempt to bounce the austere financier into the right mood for the transaction has worked.

At this point Nancy comes back with tea things and by now the original tension has given way to a more relaxed ambiance.

‘My dear Count, can I ask you a question?’

‘Please do, but I might choose not to answer it.’ Golightly laughs and shakes his head merrily.

‘You’re obviously a man of means, so why do you have recourse to skulduggery? If I might be so bold...’ Ivan guffaws.

‘Your worship, you define me as a man of means, ha! ha! ha! How did I acquire my wealth do you think? No sir, the jewels of the Romanovs belong to my cousin the tsar. I had to use my brains,’ adding after a pause. ‘Isn’t that how you acquired yours?’

‘We employ accountants of course, but we always stick to the rules.’

‘Which are subject to bending.’

‘We don’t breathe over their necks, if that’s what you mean,’ concedes the banker.

‘You realise that I will be instrumental in saving you a not inconsiderable sum of money. That should cheer you up no end.’

By now, the banker appears more relaxed and seems to be basking in the warmth generated by his acknowledged membership of the human race. He has been recognised as a true Englishman with a sense of humour. The atmosphere Ivan had wished for being achieved, he thinks that it is high time they began discussing the where and when of the transfer.

‘You’re getting your ingots back on top of the insurance and after paying me fifteen hundred pounds, you will end up with a net gain in
excess of one thousand pounds,’ Ivan suggests to the man opposite him. ‘You should be grateful to me.’

‘But I am,’ says the banker.

‘And I am grateful to you too of course, for it would not have been easy to dispose of hot loot, so you are saving us a lot of trouble.’ Admitting to your opponent something that he already knows is unlikely to hurt you.

‘My pleasure.’

Golightly then suggests that Ivan brought the gold back to the Royal Mersey for the trade-off at a time of his convenience, but our friend demurs. This was not in our plans.

‘Why, my friend,’ asks the Liverpudlian, using that appellation for the first time. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘Trust you? Of course I do dear friend. I subscribe fully to the notion of Honour Among,’ he hesitated before adding, to Golightly’s relief, ‘gentlemen. Honour Among Gentlemen. Don’t you?’ He nods.

‘My partners have suggested that for a game to be entirely fair, no one must have a home advantage. They insisted on the deal taking place on neutral grounds. You put the money in this small brown case and bring it to a place like...’ he hesitates, ‘eh... the
Parasol
down the road. I will have an identical case with the gold in it. We shall then share a pot of tea and some of the excellent pastry that the place is famous for, while I surreptitiously move the cases so that when we leave each gets possession of the appropriate bag. No eyewitnesses.’

‘How do you know that I will have put money in the case and not some rubbish?’ asks the man behind the desk.

‘Honour among thieves,’ says Ivan blandly, but quickly bursting into laughter added, ‘I know where your bank is, and we also know how to make real bombs.’ The dose of menace was just right.

‘Ha! Excellent point, But how would I know that the gold—’ he begins.

‘You will be given the chance to take a peep of course.’

At the appointed time next day, Clarihoe (wearing a fake beard) and I (in my Count von Klapisberg disguise), who are accustomed to the best seats at the Opera, are seated in a choice corner of the
Parasol
, waiting
for the show to begin, indulging in the best that the establishment had to offer, when Ivan walks in with a brown valise, scarcely giving us a nod. He sits opposite us, at a table which he had instructed Gastron—his real name was Gaston, but our nick-name for him was short for Gastronomique—to reserve for him and a friend. Shortly after Golightly arrives and is ushered towards the table where the Russian was waiting. The valises are side by side, the banker’s standing on one of its sides whilst Ivan had placed his lying down on its flat side, with its top ready for opening. The busy clientèle, too absorbed by Gastron’s delights never aim a single glance at the two conspirators—or at the two of us. I notice that the flap of the locks of Ivan’s suitcase are unclasped, and I see him deftly flick it open with a furtive movement of his left foot, revealing a shiny golden surface not incompatible with its consisting of eight kilo bars resting on another layer of the same. He then digs his companion in the ribs to draw his attention to the contents. Golightly looks intently and nods. By another well-aimed kick the Russian closes the lid. He bends down as if to fasten his shoe, and at the same time locks the case. By a sleight of hand he drops the keys next to Golightly’s plate.

At the end of this rigmarole, the two men were ready to leave. I saw Ivan pick up the case with the cash and Golightly the other one. A smile brightened his face as he acknowledged the plausible weight of his new possession. He followed our friend out. The reader will have discovered that what the old slave-trader thought was gold, was gold-plated iron resting on a bed of lead sheeting in order to make up for the forty pounds that the real gold bars would have weighed—a precaution we took in the event that the wily banker had sufficient experience of gold to, in Armande’s parlance, smell the garlic.

That night as we were celebrating the second part of our triumph, when Armande challenged us.

‘So the concept of Honour Amongst Thieves is
désuet et rédondant
?’

I, for one, had absolutely no qualms about our action. ‘No, dear Armande, honour amongst thieves is alive and well, but if Golightly and his lot are thieves, we are ... what d’you call it? Justiciers.

‘Fair play bestowed on a slave-trader is like giving wine to a nondrinker.’ said Bartola with absolute finality.

he events in this story took place when I was still living at Water Lane and our paths, Sherlock Holmes’ and mine, had not yet crossed as far as
he
knew. But of course unbeknownst to him, they had, in the affair of the Millais forgery as well as in the famous Mill de la Marelle v. Clarihoe case.

The tale I am about to recount involved murder and blackmail, sexual misconduct, political skulduggery, events that had the potential of doing untold damage to the government and the monarchy. Once again I would be crossing swords with the man from Baker Street, albeit with the foils on. But let me start at the beginning.

One Friday evening, Armande my dear friend and landlady with whom I lodged in Water Lane, Brixton, and I, had just finished our light supper of leek soup, which no one in the whole wide world makes better than her, and Cheddar cheese (Fortnum and Mason’s best) with black bread, a love for which my dear father had passed on to me, when Lord Clarihoe arrived in a state of great excitement. Even before he greeted us and asked after us or even kissed us on the cheeks, a charming practice inaugurated by my dear French landlady, he burst out, ‘I tell you dear ladies, I never! Honestly I never!’

‘You never what, dear Aljernonne,’ said Armande.

‘No, honestly, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d never have believed it even if your pope in Rome had told me.’ Shaking his head, he added, ‘Sherlock Holmes of all people!’ Armande literally pushed him in a chair, and like a mother dealing with her indignant son just arrived from school after a scolding from his teacher, asked him to calm down and speak more coherently.

‘You would never have believed it, you said, Aljernonne. Assurément “it” refeurs to somsing, but since you ’ave not defined it first, we are, comment dit-on? in ze dark. So take a dip bress and tell us why you are so ajitated.’ Ah, the French are so Cartesian, I thought.

From what I knew of Mr Holmes, neither would I have given credence to what Algie was about to reveal: that the great Sherlock Holmes had visited the Male Bordello in Cleveland Street. Admittedly it operated as a Turkish Bath and indeed had a large sign outside describing it as such. Now my naughty Uranian husband-to-be had never hidden from us that he sometimes availed himself of the sexual services of some pretty young
mignons
or rent boys in that establishment. In spite of our constantly urging him to find himself a handsome young fellow to visit his carnal passion upon, he showed no inclination to follow our advice. We suspected that in spite of the potentially ruinous court case Mill de la Marelle had brought against him, he still loved the young scamp.

He said to me once. ‘I satisfy my animal urges by paying professionals and emotionally I have you, whom I love dearer than life itself. ‘
Ah, Irene, if only you were a chap
!’

‘I am the happiest man alive. I have the best of both worlds, and I am greatly comforted in the knowledge that you and I will spend our old age together.’

Shortly before noon yesterday, Algie said after he had calmed down, he had made his way to that den of iniquity and was chatting to the young fellow who had caught his fancy when who should walk in but-

‘Don’t tell us,’ Armande and I shouted in unison, ‘Mr Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street himself.’

‘Can you believe it?’ Clarihoe asked.

‘I know you never tell lies, Algie,’ I said winking at my French companion. ‘We believe anything you say, don’t we Armande?’

‘One ’undred pour cent ... we are... what’s the word? gollibol,
non
?’ She meant to say gullible.

Algie and Brooksie his young partner were walking arm in arm to their alcove when he espied Holmes some distance away, who he recognised immediately, following another young man, both with towels
wrapped around them. Holmes blushed when he saw our friend, vaguely knowing who he was, and looked away.

‘Can you believe that?’

‘Yes, yes,’ teased Armande, ‘we’ve bin through all zat already.’

‘What do you make of it?’ Clarihoe asked.

My answer was perhaps disingenuous. ‘If a man visits a bordello and has picked a prostitute, male or female, I would find it very difficult not to arrive at the conclusion that they were going to indulge in some sexual activity, but naturally I wouldn’t dream of saying that there might not be another explanation.’

‘Yes of course, Irene, but...’ he trailed off.

‘Mind you,’ said Armande with that endearing touch of naiveté that she often displays, ‘he might ’ave walked in there believing it to be only a Turkish Bath,
non
?’