The Reluctant Assassin (21 page)

This was indeed a tempting offer. “We can murder you tomorrow?”

The teeth glinted again. “You can try, but three of your top bludgers have already tried, and I am sorry to say that Mr. Percival and Co. will not be attending this evening’s soirée.”

Malarkey thought as much. “Here is my counterproposal to you, Garrick. I am planning to close my eyes and sleep. Betimes I say things in my sleep that I would never say when in my waking mind. When I rouse myself, I expect to find you gone and a purse of coin stuffed into my paw. What do you think of that plan?”

Garrick withdrew the needle from Malarkey’s chest. “Close your eyes and find out.”

Chevie first thought that Riley was anxious in the carriage, but she quickly realized that the boy was excited.

“Hey, kid. Are you okay?”

Riley was bobbing up and down in the brougham’s seat, bumping shoulders with Jeeves and Noble, who had been tasked with escorting them.

“Yes, Chevie, I am dandy. Don’t you know where we are going?”

Nowhere, thought Chevie glumly. We are staying right here in Victorian London. I could end up being my own greatgrandmother.

She looked out of the carriage’s window.

Check your surroundings, Special Agent.

They were somewhere in Piccadilly, perhaps driving toward Mayfair, judging by the spruced-up surroundings. The shoals of urchins had stopped clustering around the carriage’s rear wheels soon after they had left the Haymarket, and the number of beggars on the street had decreased as the number of bobbies walking the beat increased.

Riley answered his own question. “We are being sent to Mr. Charismo’s house.
The
Mr. Charismo. Surely you must have heard of him?”

Chevie elbowed Noble, who sat on her left, for a little more room. “No. I have not heard of this Charismo guy.”

“You have not heard of Mr. Tibor Charismo?” said Jeeves, laughing. “Where’ve you been bunking? In a wigwam?”

“In a wigwam,” repeated Noble, slapping his knee. “You do occasionally throw up a good comment, Jeeves.”

Chevie scowled. “So who is this Charismo person? Somebody famous?”

All three were struck momentarily dumb by Chevie’s ignorance. Riley was the first to recover. “Somebody famous? Mr. Charismo is like Arthur Conan Doyle, H. G. Wells, and Robert-Houdin all compacted into one individual. He is our most illustrious novelist, composer, and, of course, spiritualist.”

“Sounds like I should have seen this guy on the History Channel.”

“Queen Vic herself consults Mr. Charismo,” said Noble, touching the brim of his shabby bowler at the mention of Her Majesty.

“And Gladstone, too, before he popped his clogs,” added Jeeves.

“You are familiar with the James Bond series?” asked Riley.

Chevie jerked in her seat. “Er . . . yeah, actually.”

“The novels featuring Commander James Bond of Her Majesty’s navy. He is second only to Holmes himself for exposing villains, though his methods are a little more direct.”

“The name is Bond. James Bond,” chorused Noble and Jeeves, shooting finger pistols into the air.

“And of course Charismo’s symphonies are world famous,” continued Riley. “
Another Brick in Yonder Wall
is my favorite, featuring the crazed lute player Pinkus Floyd.”

Chevie frowned. “
Yonder Wall
?”

“Yes. And who does not adore the stage play
The Batman of Gotham City
?”

Jeeves seemed genuinely scared. “That Joker character gave me the right willies!”

James Bond. Pink Floyd. Batman?

Chevie was pretty sure these things should not exist for decades. Whoever this Charismo character was, he seemed to know an awful lot about the future.

So how come the future doesn’t know about him?

The carriage transported them to higher ground, and the street noise subsided almost completely but for the far-off rattle and clang of an omnibus and the
click-clack
of genteel horses pulling plush carriages. If this was not the richest area of London town, then it was certainly no more than a stone’s throw away. Chevie would have been willing to bet that she and Riley were the only people on this street wearing manacles. The carriage creaked to a halt outside a six-story town house that would cost untold millions in the twenty-first century.

“’Ere we are,” called the driver’s booming voice from above. “Grosvenor Square. North side, all ashore wot’s going ashore.”

Before the passengers could disembark, a small, rotund man came barreling down the steps and across the footpath, clapping his hands delightedly. He was impeccably dressed in a gold-brocade waistcoat and navy trousers. But what really caught Chevie’s attention was the purple jeweled turban perched on his head.

“Visitors,” he sang. “Visitors today for Tibor.”

The man leaped nimbly onto the carriage step and flung the lacquered wooden door wide.

“Children, welcome,” he said, poking his head into the doorway. His broad smile changed to pantomime horror when he saw the manacles. “But no! This is unspeakable! Remove these chains from the delicate limbs of my guests.
Tout de suite!
”

Jeeves was somewhere between starstruck and dutiful. “I dunno, Mr. Charismo. King Otto told me not to take off the bracelets till we get inside the house. I adores yer work, by-theby.
Behold the Rooftop Fiddler
is the wife’s absolute favorite.”

Tibor Charismo’s eyes flared, and Chevie thought she spotted eyeliner. “Inside the house? You will never set foot in my dwelling. The carpets are from Arabia, for heaven’s sake.”

It pained Jeeves to argue with his wife’s hero, but he knew that Otto was a stickler for his orders being followed. “Be that as it be, but orders is orders, sure as the early bird and so forth.”

Chevie noticed that Charismo was sporting a molded theater mask that covered the left side of his face from hairline to cheekbone. It was cleverly painted to blend in and would only be noticed close up. Chevie wondered if this was a kind of show-business affectation, like the turban, or did it hide something?

Charismo’s curled mustache actually quivered with rage. “I do not understand you, sir. Tell Charismo your name.”

Jeeves pressed himself against the carriage wall. “There’s no call to be looking for a man’s name when he’s only doing his job.”

“Don’t tell him, Ben,” advised Noble. “He’ll have the evil eye on you.”

Jeeves actually shrieked. “You glocky toad.”

“Aha!” said Charismo. “Benjamin!”

Noble rolled his eyes. “Calm yourself, there must be dozens of Bens in London. He don’t know Jeeves, does he?”

Chevie groaned. Stupid criminals were stupid criminals in any century.

Charismo placed the thumb of his right hand on a large ruby in his turban, then pointed the index finger at Jeeves, who at this point was cowering in the corner.

“Benjamin Jeeves,” he intoned, and by some trick of the light his eyes seemed to glow. “Beeenjamin Jeeeeeeeves.”

And that was all it took. “Look, Mr. Charismo, see,” said Jeeves, fumbling a key from the band of his tatty hat and getting to work on Chevie’s handcuffs. “I am removing the bracelets. No need to look into my future.”

Charismo broke contact with his ruby. “Very well, uncouth lout. Now free the boy.”

“No need,” said Riley, tossing the cuffs to Noble. “I took ’em off back on Piccadilly, while these two were spying on a group of Oriental ladies.”

“I ain’t never seen one before,” mumbled Noble guiltily.

Charismo stepped down onto the footpath. “I shall take delivery of the
prisoners
, and responsibility, too. Please inform Mr. Malarkey that I am delighted with his service and to await my call on the Farspeak.”

Even the mention of the miraculous Farspeak had the henchmen touching their brims, as though the machine was royalty.

“We will do that, Mr. Charismo, and thank you.”

Suddenly Tibor Charismo stiffened and pressed both forefingers to his temples. “I am getting something from a year hence. I see crowds cheering and I hear hooves galloping.
Manifesto
, the word
Manifesto
. Does that have any significance to you gentlemen?”

Noble and Jeeves clutched at each other in a flurry of excitement. Charismo’s tips were famous. He was never wrong. A man could make his fortune on a tip from Mr. Charismo.

“Manifesto,” said Jeeves in hushed tones. “I bet on that beauty last year at Aintree. She won by twenty lengths. I ate beef for a week.”

“She’s going to win it again,” said Noble. “Not a word of this to anyone. No need for the odds to shorten.”

“No. No need whatsoever. Me and you only, Noble.”

Charismo clapped his hands briskly. “Gentlemen, our business is done, and I would feed my guests.”

Jeeves more or less booted Chevie from the carriage, followed by Riley.

Charismo raised his face to the gigantic coach driver, who kept a cudgel on the seat beside him in case of hijack. The driver gave the impression of someone who had seen every horror London had to offer and had probably been responsible for inflicting a good portion of them. His head was completely shaved, with a star-shaped scar above his right ear.

“Barnum, take these two gents wherever they want to go and then come directly back here.”

“Yessir, master,” said the driver, and he whistled to the horses to move along.

“I know,” said Charismo, as the carriage rumbled down the avenue. “
Master.
It’s so melodramatic, but I get a shiver every time I hear it. Humble beginnings, you see.”

Chevie rubbed the cuff marks on her wrists and wondered when her world would make sense again.

What should I do here? she thought. What does the FBI handbook say about dealing with spiritualists in the past?

The pavement seemed hard and gritty beneath her feet, and she could smell flowers from the window boxes in the evening air.

We have been beaten, drugged, dragged, and beaten some more, she thought. We need rest.

“Perhaps you are considering flight,” said Charismo, linking arms with them both. “After all, who is this mysterious benefactor who has pulled you from the frying pan? Perhaps only to toss you into the fire, eh? If that is your decision, then leave now. Charismo will be devastated, as I have prepared for your coming. A hot bath, fresh linen, soft pillows, roasted fowl, and beer for the boy, but, as you wish. I saw you both in my vision, and I felt that somehow you were special. I would simply like to talk with you, and perhaps document something of your story for my next novel. I was working on a comedy of errors for the stage entitled
The Panther That Was Pink
, but that can wait; I have a feeling that your story is far more interesting. So, you may stay with me for as long as you wish, and in return for a few hours of your time each day, I shall treat you like royalty and perhaps introduce you to some. What say you?”

What say we? thought Chevie. I have no idea who this guy is or what is going on here. The Panther That Was Pink? Riley and I need a few minutes to talk.

She turned to consult her young friend, but he was already halfway up the steps to the spectacular town house.

“It looks like we are staying,” she said to Charismo.

The tiny gentleman squeezed her arm. “Capital. You have no idea how happy that makes me. We will get you cleaned up and find you some ladies’ clothing, instead of that boyish rigout that you were obviously forced to wear by your abductors.”

Chevie spied two young women stepping from a nearby carriage wearing enormous bonnets and a million layers of skirts.

Ladies’ clothing? she thought. Not in this lifetime.

Chevie was woken by a vertical shaft of sunlight slicing through a gap in the curtain. She ignored it for as long as possible, but whichever way she turned her head it seemed to follow, lighting the inside of her eyelid. Eventually she summoned the energy to drag a pillow over her head, and she would have drifted off to sleep once more had it had not been for the sheep.

Her subconscious threw up the idea that she should try to count the sheep.

No, Chevie thought. I am not counting sheep.

But the mind is its own master, and hers was soon trying to figure out how many sheep were in the flock, based on the tones of their bleatings.

It is amazing how each sheep has its own little personality, if you really listen.

And this thought finally forced Chevie to open her eyes. A thought like that could be enough to get a person kicked out of the Bureau if you happened to voice it aloud to the agency shrink.

“Sheep!” she moaned. “Why are there sheep in Bedford Square at this time in the morning?”

Then she sat up and saw that the bed was a showy brass affair heaped with flounces, ribbons, and crocheted cushions, and she remembered that she was not in Bedford Square anymore.

She sighed. “Not a dream, then. What a pity.”

Chevie pulled aside the gauze drapes, climbed out of bed, and padded across a deep carpet to a purple velvet curtain with golden ropes and tassels.

Chevie stood in the tall sash window and looked down on a perfect Victorian mews, thronged with staff and traders, their industry hidden from the view of important people.

She remembered something Charismo had told them at dinner the previous night.

The Duke of Westminster, one of my society clients, lives nearby in Grosvenor Street, and I have a Farspeak line running directly to his office. All I have to do is pick up this receiver and one of the most powerful men in Great Britain listens attentively to whatever I have to say.

Whoever this Charismo guy was, he had all sorts of clout. Funny that the same guy would have one line to the Duke of Westminster and another to Otto Malarkey.

Something caught Chevie’s eye. An elderly gent was walking down the back lane, tugging four sheep on a string behind him.

Four
, thought Chevie.
I knew it.

Charismo had ordered a maid to remove Chevie’s clothing for burning, promising a selection in the room that would be suitable for a young lady about town. Chevie checked the wooden wardrobe and found that in the ladies’ half there was room for two dresses with their voluminous bustles, while the men’s side held a selection of suits and hunting wear. Chevie chose a pair of jodhpurs, probably tailored for a teenage boy, tucked them into knee-high riding boots, and topped the lot off with a crisp white shirt.

We need to get out of here, she thought. I don’t trust this guy: he is being too nice to us. And he knows far too much about the future to be from the past. I do not buy this spiritualist story for a minute.

She placed her ear to the door and could hear sounds of conversation from downstairs.

No doubt Riley the fan-boy is asking any question he can think of.

The conversation drifted up to her with the aroma of coffee and fresh bread. Chevie realized that she was starving, in spite of the feast Tibor Charismo had served up the previous night.

Chicken, guinea fowl, turkey, pheasant. How many birds can a person eat in one sitting?

She twisted the painted knob and found the door locked.

Odd. Why would our supposed benefactor lock me in?

As far as Chevie was concerned, this was simply another tick on the evidence sheet against Charismo.

This guy has some kind of link to the future. He is connected to this case, and with any luck he can show us the way home.

But before she confronted him with her suspicions, Chevie decided that it would be wise to snoop around and gather some evidence.

I’m a federal agent, she thought. Snooping is what we do best.

The window was also locked, which slowed Chevie down. She discovered a cushion that had been embroidered with Charismo’s own face and thought of ramming her elbow through Charismo’s nose to crack the pane beyond.

But the glass breaking was not a clever idea. The noise would still be heard in the mews, and there were people on the flagstones in the yard. As soon as she smashed the window there would be a hundred eyes on her.

There’s something about this guy Charismo. Either he’s from the future or he knows someone who is, but it’s not just that. I have a bad feeling about him. And it’s not just the circumstantial evidence and that creepy mask.

Not a hunch; more than that. An un-remembered memory.
Come on, subconscious; where are you when I need you?
There must be another way out besides the window. Chevie spent a minute knocking on the walls, searching for the secret passage that all Victorian houses had in the movies, but there was no hollow echo, just the flat rap of solid brick. Then she noticed a silk screen, again embroidered with Charismo’s face. In petty annoyance she put the toe of her riding boot through the screen, only to feel a draft. It was a fireplace with a driedflower arrangement in the grate.

The chimney. Garrick came down the chimney in the Garden Hotel. I never thought I would steal one of his tricks.

Chevie knelt and poked her head into the flue. It led to a redbrick chimney. Chevie saw the bricks were red, even through a scaly skin of soot, because a splash of light fell across them from above.

Light, thought Chevie. That means there’s another fireplace one floor up.

She wriggled her shoulders into the flue—while there was enough space for a wriggle, there certainly was no room for a shrug.

I had better not shrug, then, thought Agent Savano, and twisted herself completely into the fireplace.

While Chevie was scraping her nose along the redbrick of a chimney, Riley was being interviewed in the writing room by society darling Tibor Charismo. Riley was an adoring fan of Charismo’s work, and Tibor seemed extremely satisfied to take this as the starting point of their relationship.

They sat at an extraordinary mahogany writing desk fashioned in the shape of a stylized gryphon, with a lion’s body and the head of an eagle, covered in gold leaf, protruding from one side. The lion’s flat back was upholstered in pale orange leather, with cubbyholes for bottles, pens, and blotter.

And even though Riley had visited the twenty-first century, he believed this desk to be the most fantastic single object he had ever seen.

“You are admiring my desk, I see,” said Charismo. On this morning he wore an old-fashioned powdered wig over his dark curls, his mask was painted in garish orange and red to give him a slightly demonic appearance, and his dressing gown was quilted silk with a lush fur collar.

“Yes, sir,” said Riley. “It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

Charismo drummed his fingers on the wood. “A gift from the tsar of Russia. I baked a poultice for a boil on his nose, if you can credit that. The offending blemish was reduced in circumference by more than sixty percent. Alexander was most grateful.”

Riley’s jaw dropped. “You are a doctor, too?”

“I have no formal qualifications,” said Charismo, in a way that suggested
formal qualifications
were a waste of a gentleman’s time. “I am connected with the spirit world, which is composed of the sum of human experience, past, present, and future. The spirits communicate with me in my dreams. They whisper to me of words and music, but also of future events. Wars, catastrophes. Plague and famine. It is a terrible burden.” Charismo rested his weary, tortured brow on his knuckles. “No one can ever comprehend the cross I bear.”

Riley dared to pat his hero’s elbow. “Sherlock Holmes said, ‘Genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains.’ And surely, sir, you are the greatest genius who ever lived.”

Charismo smiled a touch sadly. “Dear boy. Yes, perhaps I am. And how pleasant it is to have the fact acknowledged. You truly are a perceptive young fellow.”

Charismo dabbed a lace kerchief near his right eye. “Perceptive and mannerly. You have no doubt noticed my various masks and yet made no comment.” Tibor Charismo tapped the smooth plaster of the mask molded to the left side of his face. “This particular model is a Japanese Noh mask representing the devil.” He giggled. “I wear it for séances. A little melodramatic, I know, but it gives the ladies such a naughty thrill.” He paused, his mouth drooping in long-suffering sadness. “I know what they say, those so-called gentlemen of the press. Charismo hides his warts. Or Tibor Charismo cultivates mystery because he is a sham. But the truth is, I wear these masks to hide a terrible disfigurement. A birthmark that was the subject of so much childhood ridicule that I cannot bear to expose it now. Even at night I wear a silken veil.” Tibor banged his fist on the desk. “Why must Tibor endure this curse?” he shouted to the heavens, and then, “Oh, look. Tea!”

Barnum, the enormous driver, was also a butler. He now entered, squashed into a uniform and pushing a trolley heaped with cakes and hot drinks.

“I know how you young scamps enjoy your treats,” said Tibor, filling a plate for Riley.

“Oh, no, sir,” objected Riley, his stomach already full to bursting after a glutton’s breakfast. “I’m not used to such rich food.”

“Nonsense,” proclaimed Charismo. “You must sample
les macarons
. My chef is French, and they are his speciality. Though I have been credited with inventing the different flavors. A tip from the spirits.”

“Perhaps just one,” said Riley, selecting a small cake.

Charismo filled his own china plate and ate for several minutes with concentration and enjoyment, growling low in his throat with each mouthful. Eventually he sat back and belched into his handkerchief with such force that the material fluttered.

“Now, what was our topic? Ah, yes, the trials of Tibor, but enough of that. You will think me a terrible boor. We are here to talk about you. The spirits assure me that you have had a fascinating life. Let us start with those unusual eyes.” Charismo placed a finger to his temple. “The spirits inform me that this condition is known as anisocoria, and it is usually the result of trauma, but it can also be inherited.” Tibor leaned forward, suddenly paying very close attention. “Can you remember, my dear boy?” he asked, flecks of sugar on his lips. “Can you remember your parents? Did they have anisocoria?”

Riley sipped his tea. “I do not know for certain, sir. Sometimes I have dreams, or visions. I was young when my parents died . . . were murdered, actually. By a man named Garrick. Now he’s on my trail.”

Charismo stuffed his kerchief in his mouth. “
Quelle horreur!
Murdered, you say. But this is terrible, awful.” He patted Riley’s knee. “You are safe here, my boy.”

Riley placed his cup on its saucer, tracing the pattern of dancing girls on the china with his index finger. “I can’t stay long, sir. You have been wonderful to grant us shelter, but Garrick will find me, and then you would be in danger. My conscience could not bear that responsibility.”

Charismo harrumphed. “With your leave, Riley, I shall worry about this Garrick individual.”

Riley’s scratched the scab on his shoulder, though the tattooist Farley had warned him against this. “Everyone says that, sir. Then Garrick kills them.”

“Shall we make a gentlemen’s agreement?” asked Charismo. “We will have our little talk and I shall take my silly notes, and then I will set all the resources at my disposal, which are considerable and include Otto Malarkey and his stooges, a-looking for your Garrick. How does that sound?”

Riley forced a smile.

“Capital,” he said, resolving that he and Chevie must be away before nightfall.

Chevie’s first thought upon emerging through the fireplace into the chamber directly above her bedroom was that perhaps she should not have worn a white shirt.

I am not having much luck with clothes these days, she thought, and then, These days? What does that even mean anymore?

The climb had been difficult, but far from impossible for someone whose first month in training had included a half-mile crawl along a disused latrine drain, with barbed wire overhead and a permanently disgruntled FBI instructor above the wire. Her only worry in the chimney had been that she would lose her purchase on the mortar between the bricks and slide down to the cellar.

Chevie climbed over the grate’s brass railing, then stood upright, grateful to have space on every side—she had been about two minutes away from developing claustrophobia.

She looked around. This room was three times the size of hers and infinitely more luxurious. The bed was the size of a trampoline and seemed to be built on a nautical theme, with posts designed to look like masts and drapes rigged like sails. Blue-and-white-striped cushions were heaped in a mountain in the center, and what looked like a veil was tied to a brass hook on the headboard. Chevie counted over a dozen gas jets on the walls, as well as four electric lamps. One of Charismo’s Farspeak devices stood on a marble-topped bedside table and another on the rolltop writing desk. Gold-framed pictures lined the walls, and all depicted Charismo. Some were seated portraits, but others documented his extraordinary career. Here he was onstage with Robert Louis Stevenson in Covent Garden, and there was Tibor presenting a leather-bound book to Queen Victoria herself. By the window was a framed cover of
Harper’s Magazine
, split by a Union Jack ribbon into two halves, the left depicting Charismo speaking into his Farspeak device, the right showing an amazed mother with her petticoated daughters listening raptly to the receiver.

Chevie looked around for anything that might justify her nagging suspicions about Tibor Charismo. She knew in her gut that something was wrong. Her instincts had served her well when she’d been undercover in Los Angeles.

I knew those guys were clean, and I just know that Tibor Charismo is dirty. I need to find the connection. There were only two men from the future hiding back here. One was Riley’s father, an FBI agent, and the other was the man he was guarding.