The Reluctant Assassin (19 page)

And presently I will select a second, alcohol-swabbed needle to pick out the ram on your friend.”

At the mention of his friend, Riley craned his neck, trying to look back toward the boxing circle without moving his shoulder. From his seat he couldn’t see so much as the top of Chevie’s head, just a throng of Rams who had set up a chant.

“Golgoth, Golgoth,” intoned the criminal coterie, and again, “Golgoth, Golgoth.”

“Ah, me,” said Farley sadly. “Just the one needle, then.”

Chevie was not yet accustomed to the sheer pungency of Victorian London. Even the air seemed to have a sepia tinge to it, and mystery flakes landed on her head and shoulders, mottling her skin.

That can’t be good, she thought. I don’t even want to think about where those flakes come from.

The Rams had formed a loose human cordon around her and seemed to have developed a certain prudence in approaching the Injun maid, probably due to the large club dangling from her dainty fist and the blood dripping from its
howjadoo
end.

And now the men were chanting the word
Golgoth
, which Chevie suspected would turn out to be some particularly vicious incarnation of Battering Ram.

Battering Rams. If these guys got any more macho, they could have their own show on cable TV fixing motorcycles and pumping iron.

The ocean of men parted and a malevolent hulk strutted into the circle like he was the world’s best at something violent.

So this is Golgoth, thought Chevie. It’s probably going to take two wallops to knock out this guy.

Golgoth reached up a delicate forefinger and thumb, pinching his crown and removing his hair, which apparently was some kind of hairpiece.

“Hold Marvin for me, would you, Gilhooley?” said Golgoth, dropping the hairpiece into the hand of his much smaller friend, who did what his far larger friend requested of him, which was probably the basis upon which their relationship was built.

Two things about Golgoth surprised Chevie.

One: his creepy hairpiece had a name.

And two: no one besides her seemed to find the word
Gilhooley
hilarious. It sounded a little bit rude, but she wasn’t sure why.

“Okay, Golgoth,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “I will try to hurt you humanely.”

“I ain’t no Golgoth,” said the giant. “I is his little bruvver.”

Which was the last thing she heard before something the size of a cement block hit her square in the chest with the speed of a freight train.

Chevie may have been strong and quick, but she was also small and light. The blow from her mystery attacker knocked the FBI agent over and set her skidding across the floorboards, picking up dozens of splinters in the process.

The pain was so huge that Chevie wondered if her lungs had been crushed, and she was relieved when her breathing started up again.

“Oooh,” she groaned, a blood-string swinging between her lip and the ruined shards of her Timekey on the floor.

I am stranded here.

“No fair.”

“Golgoth! Golgoth!” chanted the Rams, stamping their boots to set the floorboards a-jumping.

Chevie raised herself to all fours, wondering if her skull was fractured, thinking, Where is this Golgoth guy? Can Victorians do invisible?

She struggled to her feet, shaking her head to extinguish the stars in her vision, casting around for her attacker. There was no one in the fighting arena but Otto Malarkey.

“Where is he?” Chevie asked blearily. “Point me toward Golgoth.”

Malarkey touched two fingers to his lips, a gesture of guilt. “I am afraid, princess, that I am Golgoth. My old circus strongman name.”

Oh, crud, thought Chevie. “But I’m fighting
for
you!”

Malarkey removed the fingers from his lips, wagging them at the assembled Rams. “I said they could pick any Ram, and the clever bleeders picked me. After all, who better? Now I must choose between purse and pride.”

Let me guess, thought Chevie. Pride wins.

“And in that tussle, pride wins every time. I must sacrifice my wager to save my position.”

Chevie adopted a boxer’s stance, dipping her chin low behind raised fists.

Not that it matters much. With those hands, Malarkey could punch straight through my guard. I will have to rely on my speed.

The crowd’s attitude shifted from raucous encouragement to quiet, feral anticipation. There was much at stake here. Both combatants were being tested, but while Chevron was fighting for her life, Malarkey fought to prove himself loyal to his men, and he knew that there would be more than one Ram praying for him to fall and leave a vacancy for the top position.

The contestants circled each other with wary respect. Chevie’s ear was ringing with what she couldn’t help feeling was the
Star Trek
theme tune, which was extremely distracting. Malarkey rolled his shoulders and danced light-footed back and forth in a complicated jiglike routine that was almost as distracting as the ringing.

After a minute or so of sizing each other up, both fighters attacked at the same moment, to a tumultuous roar from the Rams. Malarkey’s swiftness was limited by his sheer bulk, and only his eyeballs could move with sufficient quickness to capture Chevie darting under his ham-fist to punch him twice in the solar plexus. Which had about as much effect as throwing a snowball at Mount Everest.

Punches not working, Chevie realized, straightening her fingers and jabbing them into Malarkey’s kidney. It does not matter if a man is as big as a house and made from red brick: if he gets a solid poke in the kidneys, it is going to hurt.

Malarkey roared and reflexively jerked his torso, which bumped Chevie into the human cordon around the fighting arena.

Rough hands tousled her hair and one cheeky so-and-so even patted her bottom.

“See that? What she done with her fingers there?” said one Ram, behind her.

“Fingers? I coulda sworn she used her thumb,” replied his comrade.

“Nah, dopey. Four fingers, held stiff, like so.” And the Ram demonstrated the move on Chevie, sending her lower back into spasm and giving Malarkey enough to time to get a grip on her neck.

Game over, thought Chevie, as her feet left the ground.

She chopped at Malarkey’s forearm and pinched the nerves in the crook of his elbow, just as Cord Vallicose had assured her would break the grip of the
biggest son of a gun on this green earth.
Apparently he hadn’t taken Victorian crime bosses into account.

Malarkey laughed in her face, but Chevie thought she detected a spark of relief in his eyes.

“You had help, Otto. Remember that when you’re gloating on your throne.”

Malarkey squeezed her windpipe, choking off the accusation along with her air. Chevie hung on to his arm, taking the strain off her neck, trying to avoid spinal damage, but already the lack of oxygen was blurring her vision and draining the strength from her limbs.

“Riley,” she croaked, though she knew the boy was under guard outside the throng. He could neither see her nor help her if he did catch a glimpse.

Malarkey drew back his free hand. “This pains me greatly, little maid. Yes, I prove my physical supremacy once again, but it will cost me a pretty pound to honor all the chink bet against you, not to mention the fact that I lose me own wager. I bet on you, girl, and you let me down.”

Malarkey clenched his fist, his knuckles creaking.

“I won’t kill you,” he promised. “And you should wake up with most of yer teeth and marbles.”

Chevie tried to draw away, but she was held fast. The ringing in her ears changed from
Star Trek
to something more strident. A simple bell. Was her subconscious trying to tell her something?

Malarkey cocked an ear, and Chevie thought for a second that he could hear what was inside her head; then the Ram king called, “Shush! Shut yer babbling gobs. Can you not see I am listening?”

Silence fell almost instantly, except for Mr. Skelp, who was just waking up.

“Wot’s occurring, mates? I remember having me porridge this morning and then . . . nuffink.”

Malarkey took three steps into the crowd and silenced Skelp with a boot to the chin.

“I said quiet, you dolts!”

There was dead silence, except for the curious ringing.

Malarkey’s eyes widened as his mind connected the noise with an object. “The Telephonicus! ’Tis the Telephonicus Farspeak!”

A chorused
Awww
rose through the Hidey-Hole’s ballroom, and all the heads swiveled, lemminglike, toward Malarkey’s throne. On a walnut parlor table stood a device, carved from ivory, in two parts: a base and cylinder, connected by twisting cables. The device jangled with each ring.

Malarkey summarily hurled Chevie into the arms of the throng.

“Hold her. Not too tight now, boys. No one hurts the maiden but me.”

He ran to the Telephonicus Farspeak and delicately answered the call, little finger raised like a duchess taking tea.

“Helloooo,” he said, his accent a little more refined than usual. “This is Mr. Otto Malarkey speaking from the HideyHole. Who is it on the hother end?”

Malarkey listened a moment, then pressed the earpiece to his chest and hissed to the Rams.

“It’s Charismo. I can hear him so clear, like he’s a fairy in my ear hole.”

No one was particularly surprised to hear that it was Charismo’s voice emanating from the earpiece, as it was Mr. Charismo who had installed the Farspeak in the Hidey-Hole. Even so, at the mention of his name, several of the villains blessed themselves, and a couple of the Catholics genuflected. A few more Rams formed triangles with their thumbs and forefingers, an ancient gesture to ward off evil.

“Come now, brothers. Mr. Charismo is a friend to the Rams,” said Malarkey, but his words sounded forced and hollow.

Malarkey listened some more, his face falling. When Charismo had finished speaking, Malarkey nodded as if that could be transmitted over the phone line, then replaced the ivory earpiece in its holder on the base.

“Well, Rams,” he said. “There’s good and bad in it. Mr. Charismo has heard
somehow
of the Injun and the boy. He instructs that we deliver them direct to his residence. There is not to be a mark on either, he says.”

“And the good news?” asked a Ram in the front row of the throng.

“The good? The good is that the bout cannot technically be concluded, so all bets are off.” Malarkey smiled broadly. “Which
is
good news. For your king, which is me.”

A few of the Rams grumbled, but not too loudly, and Malarkey knew that his luck would not be questioned. All in all, it was the best possible result for the Ram king: his reputation was intact, his purse no lighter, and Mr. Charismo had been in a much better mood than expected, considering. A good day’s graft all around.

Farley finished the simple Ram motif on Riley’s shoulder and swabbed it with medicinal alcohol.

“Don’t pick at the scab,” he advised, “or you’ll end up with scarring, which makes my design look bad.”

Riley could not work out what had happened. “Is my friend safe? Is the fighting done?”

Farley placed a clean rag across the tattoo. “The fight has been suspended. A client has expressed an interest in meeting you, as I thought he might.”

Riley frowned. There were politics at work here.

“So, you sent word to this gent? It was you that saved us, Mr. Farley?”

Farley tied the knot tightly. “Quiet now, boy. I took a few bob for sending a message, that’s all.”

Riley touched the bandage gingerly. “Who is this client? What would he want with us?”

Farley carefully and methodically capped his inks and replaced them in a wooden case.

“This
client
is a most singular individual,” he said. “A genius in many fields, he is, and a generous benefactor to those who keep him informed. As to what he wants with you, well, that’s a question he will answer in person.”

“Any words of wisdom for me, Mr. Farley? Regarding this mysterious client and how to keep him sweet?”

Farley smiled and his teeth were remarkably white inside wizened lips. “You are a smart one, boy. That is possibly the best question to have asked, when there was only time for one.” Farley thought while he wiped his needle. “I would advise you to keep yourself interesting. Be amusing in your conversation. Mr. Charismo is unlikely to send you back here for as long as he finds your company scintillating.”

Riley stood on the stool and caught sight of Chevie, who was terrorizing the Rams trying to restrain her.

Scintillating, he thought. That shouldn’t prove too difficult.

Then the name mentioned by Farley penetrated his brain.

Mr. Charismo? Surely not Tibor Charismo, the most famous man in all of England. What was his involvement in this whole affair?

Whatever Mr. Charismo’s intentions toward their persons, they were sure to be less lethal than those of either Albert Garrick or Otto Malarkey.

Perhaps we will have a moment’s respite. Perhaps even a bite to eat.

Riley waved at Chevie and smiled encouragingly.

Our situation is about to improve
, he wanted to tell her.
Be of good cheer.

But Chevie was not in good cheer and would not be for some time; for, lying in the palm of one hand, were the remains of the Timekey, which had been smashed utterly by Otto Malarkey’s surprise blow.

Before quitting the Orient in search of the Rams, Garrick checked that his cashbox was still hidden in a steel safe below the conductor’s podium in the orchestra pit. It would be a galling shame to return after dumping the bodies of Percival and his cronies in the Thames to realize they had raided the stash before his arrival.

Garrick loaded all three bodies onto a cart in the yard and made a quick trip across to the low-lying marshes on the Isle of Dogs to lighten his load.

More food for the fish, he thought as the macabre packages slid below the murky waters.

And now, with the day’s donkey work completed, he could attend to more important business. Specifically, to find out who had hired the Rams to do him in. There was one man who would surely be able to answer that question, and Garrick knew precisely where that man would be.