The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“‘His Majesty’s government, as reported to me by our mutual relative in the Diogenes Club, believes that Konrad was involved in the planning of the recent misfortune at the Tower. He had been in England as a minor functionary of the German embassy. He is no longer in this country. It is my belief that he has entered the United States of America in the guise of a businessman. He travelled as a first class passenger aboard the North German Lloyd liner Leipzig. The name under which he travelled is Bedrich Smetana.

“‘I do not know his mission in the United States, but I would suggest that you contact the American authorities and set them on the qui vivre for this man. In fact, I am of the distinct impression that you are already acquainted with him, so I will not attempt a physical description. It is not entirely impossible that he will be in contact with his nation’s embassy in Washington or its consulates in other cities. Our mutual cousin has also suggested that Konrad is involved in Germany’s war preparations, and her relationship with her Asiatic ally. It is thus possible that Konrad will proceed from New York to the American State of California. He may also have contacts with such groups as Herr Fritz Kuhn’s German — American Bund or the Ku Klux Klan. You are doubtless aware that there are also a number of supposed German — American Friendship Societies or social clubs that are actually dens of fifth columnists.

“‘Be careful, dear cousin. This scoundrel is totally ruthless. Feel free to call upon me at any time if you feel that I can be of assistance.’”

Andy Winslow folded the document and laid it on his employer’s desk. “That’s it,” he announced. “Oh, and the signature — ”

Caligula Foxx grumbled. “I wondered if you would bother with that bit of information. Shall we play a guessing game, or would you be so kind as to tell me.”

“Sorry, Mr Foxx. It was signed, Sexton Blake.”

Andy Winslow ran his finger down the sheet of paper. “That’s a lot of words, Caligula. Must have cost Blake a bundle to send it over the cable.”

Foxx pursed his lips, then sipped at his ale. “I wouldn’t worry about Cousin Sexton’s financial status. He drives that wondrous bullet-proof Silver Ghost, keeps his man Tinker on call, and feeds his bloodhound ground porterhouse. He can afford a few extra pounds sterling.” Foxx studied the golden beverage remaining in his glass. “Very well, Andy, here are your instructions. No, you will not need your pad and pencil. Just pay close attention to what I tell you, and then we shall take a break from our labours and sample Reuter’s no doubt excellent Sunday luncheon.”

* * *

Following a light meal of lobster bisque, spinach salad, and steak tartare garnished with tiny cherry tomatoes and topped off with espresso and biscotti, Winslow set to work. He telephoned Jacob Maccabee, whom both he and Foxx regarded as the premier legman in the City of New York, as well as the best-connected with the shadier elements of that metropolis’s demi-monde. They agreed to meet on a bench beneath the statue of one-time Senator Roscoe Conkling in Madison Square Park.

Despite the distance involved, Andy Winslow chose to walk from West Adams Place to Twenty-third Street. The light snowfall had ceased and a bright December sun shone in a sparkling blue sky. When Andy reached the appointed spot, Maccabee had already arrived and brushed the accumulated snow from the bench’s green-painted wooden slats.

Maccabee was a man of less than average height, dark complexion, heavy eyebrows, huge dark eyes, and a distinctly Semitic nose. He wore a nondescript overcoat, slightly scuffed shoes, and a grey fedora that was starting to show its age. He was perusing a black-covered copy of Mein Kampf, in the original German. He looked up at Andy Winslow. “You seem intrigued by my reading-matter, Andy.”

“Was I so obvious?”

“Know thine enemy, Andy.”

Winslow sat down beside Maccabee.

Maccabee slipped a bookmark into Mein Kampf and turned his full attention to Winslow.

“We had an attempted murder on our doorstep this morning, Jacob.”

“So I heard.”

“Really? So quickly?”

“Word spreads fast around here. You know that New York is just a small town. Maybe the biggest one in this hemisphere, but it’s still a small town at heart. Western Union messenger, wasn’t he?”

“Postal Telegraph, and he was a she.”

Maccabee said, “Oh.” He drew it out into two long syllables.

“And the victim survived?”

Winslow nodded.

“That’s nice. Always happy to hear of a victim coming through alive. He — I mean she — going to be all right?”

“I think so.”

There was a momentary silence as a young couple, out to enjoy the sunny afternoon despite its cold, paused to look up at Roscoe Conkling.

Once they walked on, Maccabee said, “Still, I imagine this would be police business. Does Lieutenant Burke know about it?”