Authors: Mark Frost
"How did that happen, Larry?"
Finished grinding the bones, Zeus circled twice and curled up under the chemist's bench. With a mighty yawn, he settled his head down on a foreleg and watched Larry alertly for signs that he might produce additional delicacies.
"It was late one night, near three. Barry's turn at the pub— not long after his unfortunate set-to with the fishmonger; we'd grown beards to cover the scar—I'd hit a house in Ken-
sington for a healthy haul of collectibles, and we're back at our flat feelin' more than a bit eager—we'd been through some lean weeks waitin' for Barry's scarification to settle— when the door flies open and standing there like the wrath of God was the Man, a stranger to our eyes, and a pistol in either hand that spelled serious business. The game was up. A few baubles ain't worth dying for. Don't get hurt for the loot, that was our motto. So this gent first-off confiscates our ill-gotten gains, as expected, but then gives out the confounded-est confabulation we'd ever heard: Forsake this petty life of crime, he says to us. Come work for me in the service of the Crown, or else. Or else what? we wants to know. Or else our fortunes will turn sharply downward and future events go badly for us, with a decided lack of details as to how this might transpire. We've a lunatic in our midst, that's what Barry and me are thinkin'—and our thoughts are ofttimes as loud to each other as speakers in the House of Commons. So we posthaste agree to this malarkey, let him take the loot and be done with the mucker, and the man blows out of there like June rain. A thief steals from a thief. No tears shed. Hazards of the trade. Plenty of other flats in London, so we flies ourselves out of that coop and sets up across town by the very next afternoon.
"Four days pass, and we can't help notice we're not gettin' any richer, so we pull another job. Barry hits a silversmith— he's always been partial to silver, useful with the ladies—and he's no sooner through the door of our new crib when this selfsame avenger crashes in and seizes the bag right out of Barry's mitts. This is our second chance, he spells it out for us; put your lawless ways behind you and follow me, or the end is near. He don't even wait for an answer, just takes the swag and scoots. Now Barry and me got our monkeys up, we're spooked: How'd this bloke pick us out of all the crooks in town; if he's so hard up for boodle, why don't he rob his own houses; exactly what's he mean the 'end' is near; and how on earth do we stop this moke from hittin' us where we live again?
"So it's desperate measures for desperate times. We lay lower than dirt. Move our base around like fireflies in a bottle; four times in a week. Not a word to nobody. Watch our tail religiously for the slightest sign of this troublesome shade, and all we draw are blanks. Three weeks go by, and we've got stomachs to feed. Safe as houses by now, we figure. Maybe the bloke's spied one of us in the pub and followed us home, that's how he's capered us, so for luck we got out on the stoush together this time, and there'll be no more unpleasant surprises. We picks our target more careful than a bleeder shaves. An antique store down Portobello, far off the beaten path. In we go down the air shaft easy as pie, ready to grab and stuff.
"And there's the selfsame bloke sittin' in a chair, cool as iced tea, pistol in hand. Cornered bang to rights. Not only that, this time he's brought a copper; he's behind us ready to make application with his nightstick and hear our confessions. This is your final opportunity, the man says as a how-do-you-do. And he knows our names and our latest address and everywhere else we been up to the minute.
"It's the second time in me life the hand of Destiny reached down and smacked me in the north and south. This is the end, Larry, I says to myself. Third time's the charm, I says to Brother B, who's by nature a bit more pigmy-minded than yours truly. Turns out he's had a sudden rush of brains to the head. Stranger, we says, you is too much for us; we will do our best to answer the call. The gent proves good as his word; he gives the high sign, the copper takes his leave without so much as a good-night kiss from his stick. The Stranger says follow me, boys, and so we marched out of the antique store on Portobello Road with Mr. John Sparks six years ago, our brilliant criminal careers at an end."
"He threatened you with arrest?"
"He did better than threats: He convinced us. 'Course, it wasn't till months later we find out the 'copper' was one of his Regulars in costume."
"His Regulars?"
"That's what he calls us, those of us in his employ," said Larry modestly.
"How many of you are there?"
"More than a few, never enough, and as many as necessary, depending on your point of view."
"All former criminals like yourself?"
"There's a few recruits from the civilian side. You're in good company, if that's the worry."
"Did he tell you right off he was working for the Queen?"
"He told us a great many things—"
"Yes, but regarding the Queen, specifically?"
"Now it won't do any good your outthinkin' the chief, I can tell you straight away," chided Larry. "Transmogrification, that's the ten-pound word for what he does. And you has to give yourself over to it."
"What work is that?"
"Transmogrifying: You know what that means, don't you?"
"The transformation of souls."
"That's the ticket. And I'm here to give witness. Gave me appreciation of the finer things that in my thickheaded way I was sorely lacking. I goes to plays regular now and sits in the stalls like a genuine swell. I listens to music. Taught me how to read proper, too. No more penny dreadfuls for yours truly, I enjoys lit-ter-a-ture. There's this French feller, Balzac, I'm partial to; writes about life in a real sort of way. Common folk and their predicaments."
"I'm partial to Balzac myself."
"Well, one day we should have a proper chat about him, and I do look forward to it. That's what the guv'nor does, see; provokes you to think. Has a way of askin' questions that takes you up the next rung of the ladder. Hard work. Surprisin' how few folks ever develop the habit. This is where you want it, right here." Larry tapped himself on the side of the head. "So what do I owe Mr. S, you ask? Only my life. Only my life."
Larry stopped to roll a cigarette, using the distraction to veil some deeper vein of emotion. Just then Sparks emerged from the inner room, dressed again in his customary black. Zeus immediately scrambled from under the bench to shake his hand.
"Gentlemen, let's be off," Sparks said, cuffing Zeus affectionately. "The hour is late, and we've a full night of burglary and stealth ahead of us."
"I'll fetch me tools," Larry said eagerly, as he skipped to the door.
"All for the cause, Doyle," said Sparks, seeing the hesitancy on his face. "Sorry, Zeus, old man, we shan't be taking you with us tonight."
Sparks pocketed a handful of vials from a rack on the bench and straightaway left the flat. Doyle bit his tongue and followed. Zeus dealt with his disappointment admirably and resumed his solitary vigil.
Except for the occasional after-theater cab, Montague Street was deserted by that time of night, and a fleecy mass of fog made subterfuge all the easier. The imperial facade of the British Museum presided over the street like a tomb of the ancients. As they made their way to Russell Street, Doyle glanced back at the windows of Sparks's apartment and was surprised to see a light burning and the silhouette of a man framed in the sill.
"Tailor's dummy," said Sparks, noticing his interest. "Took a sniper's bullet intended for me once: never complained. There's a soldier for you."
Ducking through a cobbled alley, they arrived at the rear of the building Doyle recognized as the one seen earlier in the photograph of the woman. They blended into the shadows; then, with a nod from Sparks, Larry skipped silently across the alley and up the steps to the back door.
"Larry always appreciates a chance to polish his cracks-manship," said Sparks quietly. "Barry's no slouch, and he's a damn sight better scaling a wall, but Larry's touch with a lock is second to none."
"So this is breaking and entering, plain and simple," said Doyle, a touch of fustian unease creeping into his tone.
"You're not going to blow the whistle on us, are you, Doyle?"
"How can we be sure this is the right establishment?"
"Our friend the Presbyterian minister made the rounds of Russell Street today, peddling his deathless monograph on advanced cattle-breeding techniques in the Outer Hebrides."
"I had no idea I was earlier in the company of such an esteemed author."
"As it happens, I did have such a monograph in my files, dashed off on holiday there a few years back. I don't know about you; hard for me to sit quiet on holiday. All I think about is work."
"Hm. I do like a bit of fishing."
"Casting or fly?"
"Fly. Trout mainly."
"Gives the fish a sporting chance. In any case, imagine my surprise this afternoon when one of the Russell Street firms made an offer to purchase my pamphlet right on the spot."
"You sold your monograph?" asked Doyle, feeling the sour drip of authorial envy.
"Snapped it right up. I tell you, there's no accounting for people's taste. I hadn't even gone so far as to invent a name for the man: a monograph-bearing Presbyterian is usually more than sufficient to ward off even the most inquiring mind. Had them make the check out to charity. Poor chap: four hours old and already denied his proper royalties." Sparks looked across the street, where Larry was giving them a wave. "Ah, I see Larry has completed the preliminaries. Here we go, Doyle."
Sparks led the way across the alley. Larry held the door as they slipped inside, then followed and closed up behind them. Sparks lit a candle, throwing reflections off a building directory on the corridor wall.
"Rathborne and Sons, Limited," read Sparks. "There's a service door round the corner that I think you'll find preferable, Larry."
Down and left around the hallway they moved to the entrance, where Sparks held the candle aloft as Larry went back to work.
"Let me get this monograph business straight: They paid you on the spot right then and there for it?" said Doyle, unable to let go of his fixation.
"Not a princely sum, but enough to keep Zeus in soup bones for a stretch."
Larry eased open the door to the offices.
"Thank you for those kind words, Larry, why don't you keep an eye on the hall while we have a look inside?"
Larry tipped his cap. Not a peep from him since they'd left the flat, observed Doyle, whereas Barry went positively jabberwocky in a tight spot: How odd, their patterns of speech are directly reversible.
By the dim light of the candle, they explored the offices of Rathbome and Sons. Subdued reception area. Rows of clerks' desks: sheaves of invoices, contracts, bills of lading. It seemed a neat and orderly concern, handsomely accoutred, ran with a minimum of fuss, but other than that, utterly unremarkable.
"So this is the last house to which you submitted your manuscript, and you don't recall receiving it back from them," said Sparks.
"Yes. So Lady Nicholson's father and brother must be involved somehow."
"One brother we know of. The late George B. Other than that, nothing's available on the Rathborne family in public record. I've found no reference to a Rathborne the Elder whatsoever."
"That's odd."
"Perhaps not. This firm is six years old. Hardly an enduring tradition passed down for generations."
"You're suggesting there is no Rathborne the Elder?"
"You do ran a fast track, Doyle. I wanted to have a look back here," said Sparks, leading him toward the rear. "Our friend the clergyman was rather firmly denied access to any of the senior executives."
They moved to a row of closed doors. Finding one with chairman emblazoned on the smoked-glass window panel locked, Sparks handed the candle to Doyle, took a small set of twin picks from his pocket, and worked them into the keyhole.
"No interest in cattle-breeding?"
"From what I could gather during my visit, they didn't seem terribly interested in books generally."
"Whatever do you mean, Jack?"
"I fingered a catalog of their published works. Singularly unimpressive; works on the occult seem to be the specialite de la maison, a trickle of legal publishing—hardly enough volume of trade to support such a well-appointed concern as this—and no fiction whatsoever," said Sparks, manipulating the picks like a pair of chopsticks. A click was heard inside, and the door popped open. Sparks pushed it open the rest of the way.
"I now recall it was their interest in the occult that prompted me to send my manuscript here originally. In my amateurish eagerness, I didn't take the time to discover if they had an ongoing interest in fiction."
"I didn't wish to put it so indelicately," said Sparks as he took back the candle and entered the office.
"Quite all right; any author worth his salt needs to inure himself to criticism. So, if they have no interest in fiction here, the question is why wasn't the book simply returned to me straight off?"
"I suspect your title—"The Dark Brotherhood"—must have caught someone's eye."
"Ipso facto, Rathborne and Sons must be the intersection from where my work fell into, as you put it, the wrong hands."
"Just so," said Sparks.
He crossed to and rifled through the drawers of the massive executive desk that anchored the spare furnishings of the sober, oak-paneled office.
"And if I interpret your observations correctly," said Doyle, "your feeling is that Rathborne and Sons is in its primary purpose not a publishing company at all, but a front for some far more sinister concern."
"Sinister. Or Left-Handed," said Sparks, producing a correspondence with masted letterhead from a desk drawer. "Have a look at this, Doyle."
The letter itself was of no apparent concern, a routine memorandum regarding contractual dealings with a bookbinder. But the list of company directors on the masthead was something else again:
Rathborne and Sons Publishing, Ltd. Directors
Sir John Chandros
Brigadier General Marcus Drummond Maximilian Graves