The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes (33 page)

The detective reclined in his chair and regarded Rutherford appraisingly. He was handsome, with a square-set jaw, fine dark hair swept back from his forehead and the solid-looking physique of a boxer. He was dressed in an unassuming black suit, the collar left open while he relaxed by the fire. Rutherford felt a little uncomfortable beneath his penetrating gaze, but was nevertheless drawn to the man, who—he’d decided—was harbouring a fierce intelligence behind his piercing blue eyes.

A large bloodhound was curled up by his feet, and his housekeeper—a bumbling, rotund woman whose propensity for malapropisms, even in the scant few moments in which Rutherford had met her, seemed utterly at odds with the calm sophistication of her employer—was making tea.

He’d come here directly following his meeting with Miss Hobbes, on the off-chance that he’d find the detective at home, and much to his surprise he’d been admitted and ushered into the detective’s consulting room. He sat there now, before the dying embers of a warming fire, studying the detective’s face for any signs of a reaction. He had, moments earlier, imparted the news of Monsieur Zenith’s threat to the Prime Minister.

“Zenith is a dangerous foe indeed, Mr Rutherford. You should watch your step,” said the detective, folding his hands upon his lap. He was wearing a thoughtful expression.

Rutherford smiled. “I’m sure I’ve faced worse,” he replied, without humour.

The detective shook his head. “I sincerely doubt that, Mr Rutherford. Zenith is dangerous because he cares little for his own existence. He lives only for the thrill of the chase. To him, all of this—life, criminality, danger—is a game. A game he insists he will win, at any cost, even his own life.”

“You make him sound utterly insane,” said Rutherford, weighing up the detective’s words. They seemed to chime with the opinions expressed by Miss Hobbes earlier that morning. The portrait he was assembling of this albino prince was one of a deranged genius, intent on finding an exciting way in which to die.

“Not insane,” replied the detective. “Simply bored. Weary of this world, and looking to fill his hours with excitement. He craves those things most others fear. He commits his crimes not for political or penury gain, but because he is searching for distraction, for thrills. When he is not being tested in such a way, he succumbs to a fatalistic state of ennui, and gives himself over to his favoured intoxication, opium.”

“He’s an opium eater?” asked Rutherford, surprised.

“Indeed. A most voracious one at that,” replied the detective. “But do not let that fool you, Mr Rutherford. He is at his most dangerous when his mind is not distracted. That’s when he cooks up his most diabolical schemes, his most dangerous endeavours. He will look to push himself ever closer to the precipice, raising the stakes, and in turn, the reward. The greater the danger, the bigger the thrill.”

“You’ve faced him many times before?” asked Rutherford.

The detective laughed. “Oh yes, Mr Rutherford. On countless occasions. He might have killed me more than once, save for his unusual moral code and his desire not to forgo a worthy opponent. Zenith obeys only his own rules, and they are close to unfathomable.”

“I see that I have my work cut out,” said Rutherford, with a sigh. “But tell me, do you think he’s serious?”

“In his threat to the Prime Minister?” The detective paused, and then his shoulders heaved in a resigned shrug. “Impossible to say. I find it hard to imagine what he could possibly hope to gain from such an undertaking, other than sheer amusement. I doubt he’ll be considering murder—although he certainly has before. No, I imagine his scheme will be to somehow discredit the Prime Minister and force a resignation. Assuming, of course, that he even has anything on the man. It wouldn’t be unlike Zenith to fake a controversy just to stir things up a little.” The detective smiled wistfully.

“You sound as if you almost admire him,” said Rutherford.

“Oh, I do, Mr Rutherford. In many ways. Yet in others I find him utterly despicable. I will, when the opportunity arises, take every measure to see him locked behind bars. My moral code is not as complex as the albino’s, and while I recognise and perhaps even appreciate his genius, I still see, nevertheless, a criminal mind at work. One day he will overreach, and I will be there to catch him when he falls.”

“You’ll help me, then?” asked Rutherford. “You’ll assist me in locating Monsieur Zenith and bringing this threat against the Prime Minister to an end?”

The detective sighed. “Alas, Mr Rutherford, I find myself entangled with a prior engagement, and one of equal importance to the security of the realm. The Master Mummer is once more afoot in London, and I’m working with the Yard to put a stop to his schemes. We believe he intends to cause a train to derail as it pulls into King’s Cross Station, and to use the ensuing panic as cover for a transaction of some sort. As yet, we’re not entirely sure as to the nature of that transaction, but I have a fear he’s looking to smuggle one of his associates into the capital as part of some even bolder strategy.” The detective met Rutherford’s gaze. “Even now, the Yard is working to ascertain which train has been sabotaged and targeted. I may be called upon at any moment.”

Rutherford nodded. “I quite understand,” he said. “Your dedication to the protection of the nation does you credit. I see that your reputation is well earned.”

The detective chuckled. “Perhaps.” He reached for his briar pipe, which was resting on the arm of his chair. He watched Rutherford in silence for a moment. “I fear you are not yet fully aware of the danger you are facing, Mr Rutherford. Once you engage Zenith, you will be unable to disentangle yourself from his web. You will find yourself in the midst of a battle of wits, from which the only way out is to win. Unless, of course, he grows tired of you and sees to it that you are dead.”

For the first time, Rutherford realised that the detective was actually afraid of the albino. He felt suddenly cold. “Nevertheless, I cannot put my own safety above that of the Prime Minister,” said Rutherford, steadfastly. “I have a job to do.”

The detective nodded, sucking on his pipe. “Very well, Mr Rutherford. I shall tell you what you need to know. As I explained, Zenith is a consummate opium eater. He keeps a Japanese manservant known as Oyani, and it is this man whom he charges with the maintenance of his addiction. Oyani will need a regular supply of the drug for his master. Therefore, if you wish to find Zenith, you need only look for the Japanese.”

Rutherford smiled. He was sure the detective was making it sound simpler than it was, but this—finally—was the lead he’d been searching for. “My thanks to you,” he said.

“Don’t thank me yet,” said the detective, quietly. “In time you may feel quite differently about the matter.”

Rutherford sighed. He’d have to cross that bridge, he decided, when he came to it.

It had taken him three days to find the Japanese, three days during which there had been no more threats made to the Prime Minister via his private telephone line, but throughout which the politician had continued to press Major Absalom for any sign of progress.

Ever the diplomat, Absalom had assured the Prime Minister that Rutherford was on the trail of the villain, and that the matter would soon be brought to a close. The Major had then telephoned Rutherford in the dead of night to unleash his own barrage of threats, berating him for his failure to locate the man whom Absalom himself considered to be nothing more than a myth. As Rutherford had discovered, however, his superior did not take kindly to being reminded of this fact, which, of course, he now deemed to be utterly inconsequential.

Thankfully, the newspapers were yet to get hold of the story, and so it only remained—so Absalom had put it - for Rutherford to bring the matter to a swift conclusion. Locating Zenith had now become Rutherford’s sole aim. He had barely been home in the last week, and he could feel the pressure of the situation bearing down on him like a pressing weight upon his shoulders. He could almost sense Absalom’s whiskered presence looming over his shoulder, watching him as he worked.

Thankfully, the detective’s steer had proved to be a good one, although the consequent tour of London’s less than salubrious establishments of intoxication—the Chinese-operated opium dens—had been a taxing and largely unrewarding business. Rutherford’s questions had led him to become embroiled in two brawls, and at least one attempt had been made on his life as he’d lounged on a divan in a place called “Johnny Chang’s”, pretending to be lost in an opium dream while in fact keeping a watchful eye on the comings and goings of the clientele. The would-be assassin had been nothing but a child - a Chinese boy in the employ of the owners of the house, charged with despatching any unwanted visitors and making off with their wallets. Rutherford had shown the boy the back of his hand, before making a swift exit from the establishment in question.

Finally, however, the net was closing on Monsieur Zenith. From where he now sat, lounging upon a daybed in the semidarkness and beneath a fog of thick, sweet-smelling smoke, Rutherford could see the little Japanese manservant deep in conversation with one of the Chinese attendants. If Oyani knew he was being watched he gave no outward sign of it, continuing with his master’s business—the procurement of a new supply of opium—quite readily.

Rutherford had been forced to make a pact with the devil in order to secure this trap. The owner of the house—Meng Li—was one of the most notorious Chinese crime lords in the Empire, and his men had identified Rutherford as an agent within minutes of him entering the iniquitous den. This, in itself, had not surprised Rutherford, but the fact that Meng Li himself had chosen to pay him a visit was more cause for astonishment. Not only that, but the man had seemed to know all about Rutherford’s search for the Japanese manservant of Monsieur Zenith.

“You search for Oyani, whose master is the white ghost, he of pale flesh and crimson eyes,” Meng Li had said, standing over Rutherford as he reclined on the daybed, feigning delirium. To Rutherford the crime lord himself had appeared somewhat wraith-like, with sunken eyes, jaundiced skin and a long, dripping moustache and beard. His flowing silken robes skimmed the floor as he moved, giving the impression he was floating on a carpet of billowing opium smoke. It was impossible to discern his age from his appearance, but his voice spoke of untold decades, perhaps longer.

“I do,” Rutherford had responded, knowing that lying to this man was in no way an option. He would have been dead before he had finished his sentence.

“Then I can help you, Mr Rutherford, in your quest,” Meng Li had continued, with a smile, “for a price.”

“Name it,” Rutherford had said, perhaps even then knowing that he was involving himself in something decidedly inadvisable.

“Only that I may call upon you, Mr Rutherford, if I should find myself with need to,” Meng Li had said, in a tone so reasonable that Rutherford had almost missed his meaning.
Quid pro quo.
If he chose to accept this man’s help, he would be in his debt. That, in itself, might prove to be deadly. But what choice did he have?

“I accept your offer,” Rutherford had replied, with a bow of his head.

“Very wise, Mr Rutherford. The hand of Meng Li, once extended, is not to be shunned,” the crime lord had said, with a broad grin. “Now, let us speak of Oyani.”

So it was that Rutherford had been granted leave to lay in wait for the manservant for what transpired to be his daily visit to the opium den. Now, only a few hours later, he watched as Oyani concluded his business, slipping the small package of opium into the folds of his coat and handing over a sheaf of notes.

Rutherford made ready to follow him, gathering his coat and checking his revolver in his pocket. With luck, the Japanese would finally lead him to Zenith.

As yet, Rutherford had no idea what he would do when he found him.

Oyani had travelled on foot, and as such had proved relatively easy to trail. He’d made little attempt at concealment, and Rutherford had kept to the shadows, keeping pace with the manservant, but at enough of a distance that Oyani would not—he hoped—become aware of his presence.

They had crossed town for at least two miles before arriving at St. John’s Wood, ducking down unfamiliar side streets and alleyways, at one point taking a short cut across a small, leafy park.

Eventually, Oyani had come to a stop before a large Georgian building that bore the legend
BROUGHAM MANSIONS
on a small, brass plaque. It was an impressive edifice that had clearly once been the home of a well-to-do sophisticate, but had now been broken up into a series of luxury apartments. Zenith, Rutherford considered, must have taken up temporary residence in one such apartment.

Rutherford watched from behind a tree on the other side of the road as Oyani dug around in his pocket for a key, slipped it into the lock and opened the door to the foyer. He disappeared inside.

Moments passed. Rutherford hesitated, trying to decide on the best course of action, and then, just as he was about to step out from behind the boughs of the great oak, Oyani appeared once again in the doorway. The manservant glanced from side to side, shrugged, and then announced, loudly to the street at large: “Won’t you come in, Mr Rutherford? You are, after all, expected.”

Rutherford bristled with shock.
Expected?
But... how did Oyani know Rutherford’s name? Or that he’d been followed here? Had the Chinese attendant tipped the manservant off, back in the opium den? Rutherford tried to think on his feet. What should he do?

“Monsieur Zenith awaits you in the drawing room,” said Oyani, and Rutherford knew, then, that he had been outplayed. The game had already begun, and Rutherford was already one move behind.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm and level-headed. He stepped out from behind the tree. “Thank you, Oyani,” he said, with a smile. “Tell your master I should be only too pleased to join him.”

Oyani bowed, and then disappeared inside once more, leaving the door hanging open for Rutherford.