The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

Back at West Adams Place Andy Winslow peered into the garage and noted that the Postal Telegraph messenger’s bicycle had been removed. Apparently Lieutenant Burke’s men could do something useful. Andy let himself in, wiped the snow from his shoes, and found Caligula Foxx in the parlour seated before a roaring fire. A Steinway grand piano, its size proportionate to Caligula Foxx’s great bulk, was situated well away from the fireplace. A snifter of cognac stood at Foxx’s elbow. The stack of Sunday papers had migrated from his down-filled comforter to his more than ample lap.

Winslow never ceased to be amazed at Foxx’s ability to absorb the content of every paper from the staid Times and Post, to the wild tabloids — one of which was uppermost on Foxx’s lap. It was the Sunday Mirror. A huge photo of a burning building filled most of the front page, a headline announcing an explosion and fire at a synagogue on Essex Street.

Foxx turned his massive head to greet his assistant. “Ah, Andy. How went it with Mr Maccabee?”

Winslow gave him a report on his meeting with the investigator. “I’ll look forward to seeing the photos of this bozo,” he concluded.

“A nasty piece of work. I have not previously mentioned that I crossed paths with Pan Konrad — I suppose he would prefer Herr Konrad now — towards the end of the Great War. He was serving in Emperor Franz Josef’s army at the time. It was then that I got to know him quite well. One’s loyalties are often strained by the exigencies of war.” Fox rubbed his massive forehead contemplatively. “And of politics,” he added.

Uninvited, Andy sank into a chair facing Foxx. “I didn’t know you’d served in the war.”

Foxx removed the papers from his lap and set them aside. He took a sip of brandy. “Would you like some, Andy? No? Well, not to bore you with excessive detail, but I will say that I did not serve in the war in an official capacity. Or, well, perhaps not exactly in the capacity in which I seemed to serve.” He grinned. “I hope that is not too convoluted an explanation for you.”

Winslow ignored the dig. “But unofficially?”

Foxx smiled. “Yes. I like to think that my modest talents were not entirely wasted. I was a mere lad, you understand. And Pan Konrad was another. We are of an age, you know. In fact, I believe that at one time we competed against each other in schoolboy athletic contests. I disliked Konrad even then. When the war broke out — that was the summer of ’14, of course — I was ready to enlist and offer my services to Franz Josef, he of such tragic memory. But, instead, a court official — I imagine at the instigation of our village priest, but one can never be certain of these things — gave me a ticket to Prague. A ticket to Prague, that lovely city, and an address at which to report.”

Foxx had a faraway look in his eyes.

“Imagine, Andy, a mere stripling lad, a vysokó škola u enic — nowadays we would say, a high-school scholar — entrusted with missions that would have resulted in my immediate execution, had I been captured by the Tsar’s men.”

“And you met Konrad then?”

“Andy, I thought that Pan Konrad was a loyal subject of the Emperor — as I was. Little did I know, my boy. I carry a scar to this day — you have never seen it, nor will you, I trust — but I bear that scar to this day, and I will carry it with me even when I go to meet my maker. A scar, courtesy of Heinrich Konrad.”

“And now he’s calling himself Bedrich Smetana,” Winslow supplied.

Foxx held his brandy snifter and gazed through it at the dancing flames. He was in the habit, Andy Winslow knew, of changing the subject at any time, with little or no notice. And yet, when one reviewed the conversation afterwards, a relevance in Foxx’s words was always apparent. Now he asked, quite suddenly, “Did you happen to pass by Wanamaker’s on your way home from your meeting with Maccabee?”

“I did, Caligula.”

“Have they put up their light display? Surely they would have done so by now. I had not yet got to the customary photographs of it in the rotogravure sections when I was so rudely interrupted this morning.”

“Yes, it’s up. It’s truly magnificent, Caligula. I would have been home sooner but I stopped to admire the lights. And the children, of course. Swarms of them, with beaming parents, come to look at the colourful lights, and wreaths, and trees. And of course, the presents.”

“Well, Andy, I’m glad that it snowed today. That would add to the children’s pleasure. But now,” — he lifted an inch-thick sheaf of papers off the larger stack — “to return to the unpleasantness of Heinrich Konrad. I have here a list of events in the city, planned by Herr Kuhn’s German — American Bund, and other organizations of its ilk. I want you to study these and coordinate your efforts with those of Jacob Maccabee. Surely Pan Konrad will be at some of them. You will need to be there as well.”

“Then we’re not giving this to Jacob Maccabee?”