Flashman - Flashman and the Angel of the Lord Part 7

"Oh, nothing." I yawned, and when she had turned away and settled down, I gave a drowsy chuckle. "Nothing much, leastways . . . oh, yes, I gather Joe likes white women .. . unwilling ones, for choice."

She lay dead still - so still, I could sense the sudden tension of her muscles. Good luck to you, Joe, thinks I, if ever Atropos kicks the bucket unexpected and you become the widow's property. I waited for her fury to vent itself in shrieks of rage or fine French oaths, but nothing came for at least a minute, and then the most astonis.h.i.+ng thing happened. She turned slowly towards me in the berth, and her hand stole across, searching for mine, and to my amazement she nuzzled her head on to my shoulder. Her tiny body was trembling, and d.a.m.ned if I didn't feel wetness trickling on my skin - she was absolutely weeping, with a soft murmuring wail that I could hardly hear until it turned into a faint broken whisper: "Oh-h-h . . . hold . . . me ..."

I couldn't credit it - Annette Mandeville, the spurred succubus, hard as a diamond and vicious with it, whimpering like a lost child. I slipped an arm about her, marvelling, and she clung closer still, pus.h.i.+ng her blubbering face under my chin. "Oh-h-h, hold me . . . close . . . close . . . oh, please . . ." Well, naked t.i.ts never appeal to me in vain, so I drew her over me with her small rump in my one hand, for she was the veriest fly-weight. She lay there, keening away, bedewing my manly bosom with her tears. Baffling, I found it, but rather jolly; I disengaged the clasp of her fingers so that I could work at her poonts with one hand and her stern with t'other.

"No . . . no . . . not that," sobs she. "Only . . . comfort me . . . oh, please . . . hold me close!" She was crying hard now, with a great yearning misery. "Please . . . comfort me!"

So I did, stroking her hair and petting her in a bewildered fas.h.i.+on, asking myself if I'd ever understand women. She clung like a clam, and after a while her weeping subsided into little sniffs and sighs, and I guessed she was dropping off to sleep. So then I cheered her up properly.

Some cynic once observed that it was impossible to see the sights of New York City because there were no cabs to take you about, but it didn't matter because there were no sights to see anyway.25 I can't agree; whether there were cabs or not in '59 I didn't have time to find out, but for sights, well, there may have been no St Paul's or Rialto or Arc de Triomphe, or mouldering piles of stone or dreary galleries stuffed with the rubbish of centuries, but there was something far more moving, inspiring, and aesthetically pleasing to the eye than any of these, and you didn't need a cab to see 'em either, as they sashayed along Broadway past the old Astor House by the Park, resplendent in their silks and satins and furs, with those ridiculous fetching hats and parasols above and the extravagantly high heels below. I refer to the women of New York, who for beauty of face and form, elegance of dress, and general style and deportment, are quite the finest I've struck - until they open their mouths, that is, which they do most of the time, but even that incessant nasal braying can't rob them of their exquisite charm. I don't mean only the trollops, either, of whom there were said to be two thousand in a population of three-quarters of a million in '59 (and who counted 'em I can't imagine, some clergyman, no doubt) but the respect-able women of every cla.s.s. I was enchanted at first sight, and if I were condemned to spend my dotage sitting in Stewart's store or the Metropolitan lobby, contemplating the pa.s.sing peaches, I wouldn't mind a bit, provided I was furnished with earplugs against the cackling laughter and cries of "You bet!" "Be blowed!" and "Okay, bo!" But they probably have different cries nowadays, and no powdered hands or Grecian bends, alas.

They absolutely ruled the place then; New York was a woman's town, and let no one tell you different. They were the queens of the world, and didn't they know it, not that they were pus.h.i.+ng, you understand; they were just freer and bolder and more forward and independent than any women I'd seen elsewhere, taking it for granted that men existed to serve and minister to them, and not t'other way about. For example, you could be on an omnibus, going through the inconvenience of paying the driver through his little window, and three or four dolly-mops would come on chattering and laughing behind you, drop their money in your hand, and expect you to pay it over and bring 'em their change - perfect strangers, too. Mind you, the reward of a free and easy smile and "Thanks, chief !" from a pert New Yorker is a delight; given time, I'd have been haunting that omnibus yet.

Everything was for their convenience, too: hotels had their ladies' entrances and dining-rooms, so that the dears wouldn't be offended by the reek of cigars and the conversation of horrid men; every other shop seemed to be dedicated to cosmetics, female finery, and jewellery, from quality establishments like Ball and Blacks to the seedier stores on Water and Mercer Streets; they had their own cake-and-coffee houses where no male dare enter, and there were even gambling h.e.l.ls for ladies only (and I mean society women, not cigar-store tarts from below Fourteenth Street) where they "bucked the tiger"*(* Play for high stakes (prob. from the tiger sign used to denote a gambling-house).) and blued their menfolks' dividends at faro and billiards. And their husbands, sweethearts, and paramours seemed to be all for it, and treated 'em with a regard and deference you'd never find in Europe.

Why this should be, I don't know; New York men are certainly no more chivalrous than any other. It may be that women were scarce in colonial times, and so grew to be particularly treasured, but my own theory is that, the U.S.A. being all for progress and liberty, and New York in the vanguard of everything, its women have become emanc.i.p.ated sooner than their sisters elsewhere. They've usurped not a few masculine habits, too: anywhere in the world you'll see roues with fast young women in tow, but only in New York was it common to see fas.h.i.+onable ladies of mature years settling restaurant bills and buying gifts for handsome young clerks; they picked 'em up over department-store counters, I was told. And the New York female grows up at a startling rate: my first day there I was astonished to see a party of society schoolgirls, the kind whose parents live on Fifth Avenue and have the brats educated at Murray Hill, driving along in a basket wagon with a "tiger" on the step - none of 'em was above twelve years old, and all were got up like women of twenty, even to the languid airs and gestures.

So that was my first impression of New York, gained in a few brief hours: splendid women on the go, but nothing else out of the ordinary, for the town itself was a sort of larger Glasgow - there were no sky-sc.r.a.pers then - and chiefly remarkable for being paved apparently with peanut sh.e.l.ls, which were sold by swarms of urchins and crackled underfoot wherever you turned, even in the lobby of the Astor House, to which we drove from the station. It was the place in New York just then, and large even by American standards, a great barracks looking east across Broadway to the Park, with a shaving mug and brush in each room; talk about luxury, if you like.

If my impressions are sketchy,26 I can only plead preoccupation. New York was where I was going to have to cut stick, not only eluding the Kuklos but hiding out from them, preferably with a British consul who'd see to my pa.s.sage home once he found out who I was. It was maddening (and frightening) to drive through crowded, bustling streets, to look about the busy lobby of a great hotel, to sit in the suit of rooms which had been reserved for us - and to know that l daren't stir a foot for fear of the unseen eyes that were following me everywhere. Soon after we arrived, when Joe had gone below stairs to chivvy the porters about our bags, and Annette and I were alone, I excused myself to visit the privy along the way. She didn't even turn her head as I slipped out into the pa.s.sage, which seemed empty except for a couple of darkies clinging somnolently to their brooms - and then at one end there was a nondescript white man who turned his back just a shade too hurriedly at the sight of me. I strode smartly the other way - and became aware of a chap lounging in an alcove ahead, with a round hat tilted over his eyes. Of course, he may have been an innocent citizen - but I didn't know that. I stepped into the thunder-house, palpitating; it was empty so far as I could see, but it was six floors above ground, and by this time I was convinced that there was probably an armed dwarf crouching in the b.l.o.o.d.y cistern.

Right, thinks I, we'll have to wait until dark; if I'm not a better night-stalker than anything the Kuklos can show, it's a poor look-out. Meanwhile, we'll be a docile little prisoner, and keep our eyes peeled. I headed back for our rooms, and bore up sharp at the door, which was ajar, for voices were being raised within, Annette's and Joe's.

Following her astonis.h.i.+ng behaviour the previous night, when she'd crept into my arms blubbing like a baby, I'd looked to see a softening of her manner in the morning, but no such thing. The Annette who woke as we pulled into New York was her old shrewish self; when I referred to our tender interlude, she simply turned her back and ordered me out in her iciest tone so that she could get dressed. It was the same on the drive to the hotel, with Joe on the box, and at breakfast in the coffee-room; she either ignored my remarks or replied in cold monosyllables, staring past me. And now, as I eavesdropped, she was in fine withering form with Joe, who was fighting a dogged rearguard action, by the sound of it.

"I gotta wait fo' a reply at th'Eastern 'lectric," he was protesting. "Crixus cain't git ma message till aft'noon, an' cud be evenin' 'fore he telegraphs back. Might have to wait till mawnin', even -"

"What of it? D'you think I intend to sit here waiting for you?"

"Might be best, ma'am. Cain't leave Comber heah on his lone - one of us oughta be with him -"

"Don't be a fool! Of course I shan't leave him here! He'll come with me. Hermes's men will have him in view every moment - there are two of them, are there not?"

"Even so, ma'am, he'll be safest right heah! He's a right slippy mean feller, an' dang'rous! Ah know it -"

"You know it! Who are you to know anything, you black dolt! You'll remember your place, which is to do my bidding! D'you hear? Now, get to the telegraph office - and don't return until you have Crixus's order to take him to Boston! I don't care if you have to wait until tomorrow, or the day after!"

He muttered something which I didn't hear, and she fairly hissed in fury. "Don't dare question me - don't dare! Comber is my concern - not yours, you insolent offal! Do you hear? Answer me, when I address you! Do you hear?"

"Yes, ma'am." His deep voice was shaking. "'Sposin' Ah git word f'm Crixus this aft'noon - where Ah find yuh?"

"You don't! Wait till I return. Now, get out!"

I met him in the doorway, murmured, "Ah, Joe - how many free n.i.g.g.e.rs get that kind of pleasuring, eh?", and received a murderous glare before he strode off. Annette was putting on her bonnet before the mirror, but when I inquired where she was going I was told curtly to hold my tongue and wait, which I did obediently, while she fussed with her appearance, referring every few minutes to the little gold watch which she kept in her reticule. She was paler than usual, and twitchy as a nervous sepoy, drawing her gloves off and on and fiddling with her toilette - something's up, thinks I, but after a while she seemed to settle, and it was a good half-hour before she looked at her watch for the last time, stood up, and informed me that we were going out.

"I have business in town. You will come with me, and don't move a yard from me at any time, do you understand? Whatever I do, wherever I go, don't leave my side for a moment, and do not contradict anything you may hear me say. No, do not ask questions!" She rapped it all out like a tiny drill sergeant, steady enough, but I guessed that she was up to high doh within, and striving to hide it. "You are being watched, remember! Do not look around for ... for anyone - they are there. Do nothing out of the usual, you hear? Your life depends upon it!"

It was nothing she hadn't said in Was.h.i.+ngton, but the manner was new: she was scared, and I couldn't believe it was only on my account. I started to ask her what was amiss, but she bit my head off.

"Be quiet! Do as I say - no more! We are man and wife out in New York, so try to behave in a natural manner!" That was rich, coming from her. She took a breath, and handed me some change. "That is our streetcar fare, three cents apiece. Pay the conductor. Now, give me your arm."

It was like walking with a badly wound up clockwork doll as we descended to the street, but once we were out in the suns.h.i.+ne and the chattering Broadway crowds she became easier, possibly because I showed no tendency to cut and run or bawl for a copper. There's a great air of up and doing about New York; everyone seems to be in a cheerful hurry, and even my apprehensions about the Kuklos bravos who, I was sure, were d.o.g.g.i.ng our steps, receded in that jolly bustle. We mounted one of the long cars which ran on rails on the broad thoroughfare; it was crowded to the doors, but half a dozen gallants begged Annette with much tipping of tiles and "Do me the honour, ma'am!" to take their seats, and I'm bound to say she played up like the actress she was, smiling prettily as she accepted and even referring demurely to "her husband" to discourage one young blade who was being over-attentive. He gave me an apologetic grin and offered me a chew from his tobacco case, which I declined; fortunately the press was too thick for him to start the relent-less inquiry to which Yankees are wont to subject perfect strangers as to their origin, business, habits, and destination, and after a couple of stages Annette informed me that "this is our stop, Beauchamp", and we transferred to one of the omnibuses which ran on the cross-streets.

Here I had my encounter with the dolly-mops who used me as a conductor; one of them exclaimed flirtatiously that I'd given her too much change, so I said gravely that in the presence of so much beauty I invariably became confused, and she should return any over-payment to my wife, who handled all my financial affairs. That sent them into blus.h.i.+ng whispers and giggles, with sidelong glances at Annette, who gave me a sharp look as I took my seat beside her, but said nothing. The girls lost interest in me after that, and fell to discussing a party which one of them had attended, "on Park Avenoo, you never seen such style, it was a yellow en'ertainment - sure, everythin' yellow, linen, gla.s.s, plates, an' all, I swear even the lampshades were yellow, but then Mrs van Vogel, she's Harold's boss's wife, y'know, why, she's just drownin' in money - Harold reckons that party cost her fifteen thousan' dollars!"

Cries of "You don't say!" "Well, I swan!" and "Gosh a mercy!"

"Harold hated it, tho', 'cos he couldn't smoke or chew, he was fit to be tied -"

"Say, Harriet, did you have to wear yellow, too?"

"Why, sure, you think I'd go in green or blue to a yellow party? An' we danced, an' there was a magician, an' an English breakfast, an' I never saw more policemen outside a house in my life, to keep the crowds back from the carriages. 'Course, Harold and I, we walked . .."

Annette gripped my wrist. "Come!" snaps she, and made for the door. We were at a stop, some pa.s.sengers had just descended, and the driver was about to strap up the door again; he raised a great bellow of complaint at our tardiness, but Annette squeezed out with me on her heels. I looked back at the cursing driver in time to see him close the door on another latecomer, a cove in a brown suit and bowler who was demanding that he open it again, but jarvey wasn't having any, and the bus rolled off with the fellow staring after us through the gla.s.s.

"This way - do not hurry, and do not look round!" Annette's fingers were tight on my arm as she guided me along the crowded sidewalk, her heels clicking smartly. We were on one of the Avenues, lined with fas.h.i.+onable shops, and before you could say Jack Robinson she had whisked into one of them, a splendid emporium with two large gla.s.s doors, one bearing the word "Madam" and t'other "Celeste" and with fat gilt Cupids capering on the lintel above. One moment we were in the crowded bustle of the street, the next in the hush of an opulent interior, the street noise cut off as the doors closed behind us.

For a moment I thought it must be an exclusive brothel, for we were in a great salon all plush and gilt and mirrors, with thick carpet and velvet divans and curtains looped back by silver cords, and Junoesque females of perfect complexion drifting about. The air was heavy with perfume - and then I realised that I was the only man in the place, and that the Junoes were shop attendants waiting on society women of all ages. My astonished gaze fell on a polished counter displaying alabaster pots of "Mammarial Balm", travelled to a gla.s.s cabinet containing - did my eyes deceive me? - corsets enhanced by globular objects labelled "Madam Celeste's Patent Bosom Balloons, with Special Respirator", dwelt in disbelief on a plaster cast of the Venus de Milo attired in "Eternal Youth Pumped Cups", and came to rest on a double doorway consisting of an enormous oil painting of splendidly endowed females in gauzy costumes teasing the G.o.d Pan who was bound to a tree and not thinking much of it; above the doorway was a gilt sign: ENAMELLING STUDIO.

I'm too young for this establishment, thinks I, but before I could speak we were accosted by a dark soulful beauty who'd have been the picture of elegance if she hadn't been chewing like a longsh.o.r.eman - not baccy, but a curious grey pellet like candle-wax which she removed daintily as she approached and secreted in a lace handkerchief before inquiring languidly if she could render a.s.sistance to "maydam".

"I am Mrs Comber," says Annette. "I have an enamelling appointment with Madam Celeste."

"Sure," drawls the beauty. "Would maydam be requirin' facial treatment only, or face'n shoulders, or face'n shoulders'n buzzum?"

"What do you mean?"

"Face," repeated the young lady patiently, "or face'n shoulders, or . . . ," she fluttered graceful fingers at Annette's upper works "... the whole shebang?"

"I shall discuss that with Madam Celeste!" snaps Annette. "Kindly send for her at once."

"O-kay," sighs the beauty, and spoke as one in a trance. "If- maydam-will- please- to- be-seated- an'- study-our- tariff-she - will - see - we - offer - the - $25 - weekly - application -the-$75-monthly- application-an'-our-special-$500-applicationguaranteed- for-one -full-year-'tis -a-capital-economy-much-favoured-by-our-reg'lar-clienteel -"

"I said I shall discuss it with Madam Celeste!" Annette kept her voice down, but it was quivering with impatience. "She is expecting me - Mrs Comber! I must speak with her privately, do you hear?"

"Privately, huh?" The beauty raised a knowing brow, gave a sly glance at me, and leaned forward confidentially. "Is . . . ah ... messoor to be present durin' th'application?"

"What? Yes, yes - now will you fetch Madam Celeste?"

"Well, sure! Right away. Perhaps maydam an' messoor would care to study our choice of shades while you wait." She presented us each with cards bearing coloured ill.u.s.trations of scantily clad females with varying complexions. "Indian Ivory is 'specially becomin' for facial application," she murmured. "On t'other hand, Rose Blush for the buzzum is a prime fav'rite with gennelmen, we find . . ." She tapped my card delicately. "Perhaps messoor has a pref'rence?"

"Eh?" says I, startled. "Oh, I don't know . . . what flavours have you got?"

"Bring Madam Celeste this instant!" snarls Annette, and the beauty gave me a wondering look and swayed off, smirking, while my companion made seething noises and glanced quickly over her shoulder towards the door; her knuckles were white on the handle of her parasol.

"If you're looking for the cove in the brown suit, he's still on the bus," whispers I, and she started, eyes wide with alarm. "He was Kuklos, was he? Look here - what the devil's up, and what are we doing in this place? Are you trying to give 'em the slip?"

She stared at me wildly, lips trembling, but before she could speak, a tall beak-nosed female, with the beauty in tow, was bearing down on us, crying apologies for the delay, and would Mrs Comber kindly step this way? She bustled Annette off through the enamelling studio doors,27 and as I followed the beauty stood aside to let me by; she was retrieving her chew from her handkerchief, popping it between rosebud lips, and I must have looked mystified for she smiled brightly and said: "Spruce gum. 'Tis real succulent - you wanna chew?"

There was a sudden commotion at the street door. A tall burly man, with another behind him, was pus.h.i.+ng in, looking around the salon, thrusting past a girl attendant who tried to bar his way. I heard Annette give a little scream; she was staring back white-faced from the enamelling studio doors, and at that moment the burly cove spotted us and started forward at a run, barging a customer aside and overturning a table laden with pots - Mammarial Balm, probably, but I didn't wait to see; I was through the studio doors like a whippet, and Annette was crying: "Quickly, for your life! This way!" as she and Madam Celeste disappeared round a corner ahead of me.

I followed, full tilt, and found myself facing a short flight of stairs leading upwards, but no sign of fleeing females. There was a door ajar at the stair foot, though; I dodged into it, and now it was my turn to scream as I found myself confronting four women, naked to the waist and painted entirely white, seated in barber's chairs with girls in overalls lathering them in some kind of plaster from buckets; for an instant we stared in mutual amaze, and then someone shrieked "Peeping Tom!", they rose as one enamelled female and scurried for cover, and Flashy tactfully withdrew and legged it upstairs four at a time. I heard the studio doors crash open behind me, booted feet pounding, oaths and screams as my pursuers encountered the Plastered Poonts Society, a roar of "This way, Jem!", and panic lent me wings as I shot up another two flights - and here was Madam Celeste on a landing, grim as a Gorgon, but pointing towards an open doorway.

"Through there!" cries she. "They're waiting in the far attic! Run! I'll bar the door!"

Some chaps might have paused to offer gallant a.s.sistance, or inquire who "they" might be, but if you're me, and have no notion what the h.e.l.l is happening, but only that you're a short stairway ahead of murderous pursuit, you do as you're bid and let chivalry take care of itself. I bounded through, heard the door slam and the lock grate behind me, and found myself in an immensely long studio gallery with a gla.s.s roof, full of lumber under dust-sheets. Annette was ten paces ahead of me, pausing in her flight to wave me on; I was beside her in a second, bellowing for enlightenment as she fumbled in her reticule and stamped her tiny foot in dismay.

"Where are they?" cries she. "McWatters! A moil"

There was a distant shout from the far end, and then a splintering crash as the door was burst in behind us. I had a glimpse of Madam Celeste being hurled aside by the burly villain, and then he and his mate were hallooing at the sight of us, the leader drawing a revolver - and Annette had a Derringer in her fist and was letting fly, once, twice, the sharp reports no louder than exploding caps, and G.o.d knows where the shots went, for he stood unharmed, covering us and roaring: "Give up, Comber! Hold there, or you're dead, by thunder!"

His muzzle swung to me as I heard Annette's hammer click on an empty chamber - and there was only one thing for it. Quick as light I gripped her by the waist and swung her bodily before me as a s.h.i.+eld, his gun boomed like a cannon in the confined s.p.a.ce, I felt the wind of the slug past my cheek, and as I flung myself back, clasping her to my bosom, an absolute salvo of revolver fire sounded from behind us, the burly man t hrew up his hands and pitched headlong, his mate fell back, clutching his arm, and now the gallery seemed full of men running past us, six-shooters at the ready, bawling to our stricken pursuers to surrender. One of the newcomers, a white-whiskered file in steel spectacles, dropped to his knee beside us and seized Annette by the arm.

"Are ye hit, wumman?" cries he, in a broad Scotch accent, and she plainly wasn't, for she struggled from my nerveless grasp, demanding furiously why he hadn't been on hand when needed, and then she became aware of the smoking Derringer in her fist - and went into a dead swoon. The Scotchman swore and demanded if I was wounded; I rea.s.sured him, and he promptly abandoned me and hurried off to supervise the apprehension and manacling of our two a.s.sailants, who were bleeding all over the shop and being deuced noisy about it - and so far as I could think at all, I was reflecting, well, if this is New York, they may keep it for me. Sixty seconds earlier I'd been quietly weighing the relative merits of Indian Ivory and Rose Blush as knocker cosmetics, and here I was lying winded in an attic reeking with gunsmoke, sober men in large boots were pocketing revolvers and shouting at each other, one was hauling me to my feet and enjoining me to take it easy, and Annette was lying comatose while Madam Celeste waved a bottle of salts under her nose.

One thing only penetrated my dazed mind: she'd led my Kuklos shadows into a carefully laid trap in this unlikely t.i.t-painting emporium - but why? And who were these hard-faced gentry who had emerged to smite the Amalekites in the nick of time? There wasn't a uniform among 'em, but they were far too official to be anything but police or government; one, a brisk, bearded chap in a hard hat who seemed to be the leader, was barking orders - and, biG.o.d, he was another haggis-fancier; no getting away from the brutes, wherever you go.

"Right, McWatters, awa' wi' them tae the Tombs," he was telling the white-whiskered cove. "Pickering'll have the third yin by now - they're tae be kept apart and solitary, mind that! Now, the black fellow, Simmons, will still be at the telegraph office, and Casey's seein' tae it that no message from Was.h.i.+ngton will reach him till tonight - your men are to observe him in the meantime, but let him alone, ye follow?" He gestured at Annette, who was stirring feebly, eye-lids fluttering, and snapped his fingers at the man beside me. "Johnson - carry her down. I'll attend tae Mr Comber mysel' - ye're no hurt?" he added to me. "Capital, I'll be wi' ye directly!" He clapped McWatters on the shoulder. "Away ye go, then, Geordie! A smart morn's work, my boy, and so I'll tell the commissioner!"

So they were police - and suddenly I was so weak with relief that my legs buckled, and I sat down heavily on a pile of lumber. I was safe at last, and could sit there panting gratefully while the man Johnson swung Annette gently up in his arms and bore her out to the stairs, with Madam Celeste in attendance, my two would-be murderers were carried out, dripping gore, McWatters ordered his men away - and then the bearded man and I were alone in the silent gallery, with the powder smoke still wraithing in the sun-beams from the gla.s.s roof, and the blood wet on the planks. He pulled a flask from his pocket and handed it to me.

"Tak' your time," says he, "and we'll have a wee crack, you and I." He was a nondescript fellow, in his shabby suit, but with an eye bright and unwinking as a bird's questing over me and missing nothing, and while he wasn't above middle height I guessed that anyone who ran into him would come away bruised.

"You're police?" says I, when I'd swallowed and gasped.

"Officer McWatters and his men are from the New York force," says he, with a sour glance at his flask. "For mysel' ... let us say that I serve the United States."

"Thank G.o.d for that!"

"Ye can thank Mistress Mandeville, too, while ye're about it. She's in the same employ . . . that startles ye? Aye, weel, tak' anither pull at the Glenlivet, if ye like. She never said eheep to ye, did she? And right she was; the less ye knew, the better."

"She's an American . . . agent? I'll be d.a.m.ned . . . but, lord, she's married to that fat scoundrel -"

"Count Charles La Force, who calls himsel' Atropos. Aye, she is that. It's a great convenience. I'll have the flask back now," he added dryly. "Good malt's scarce on this side o' the water."

I handed it back, marvelling. Annette Mandeville spying for the government on her own husband's conspiracy? Just as Black Joe, in Crixus's confidence, was a spy for the Kuklos ... dear G.o.d, was no one in this b.l.o.o.d.y country what they seemed to be? My bewilderment must have been a sight to see, for my companion was looking sardonic and benign together, rot him.

"A tangled skein, eh?" says he. "But not tae my agency - ye see, Mr Comber, we've been following your progress ever since Moody picked ye up in that Was.h.i.+ngton alley, and every word ye've spoken and heard since then has been reported tae me. We know all about your conference wi' Crixus, and how Atropos had ye lifted, and how they both schemed tae send ye to John Brown (who is a friend o' mine, I'm proud tae say), and about Harper's Ferry, the whole clanjamfry." He had that complacent know-all air which is so objectionable in Scotchmen, especially when it's justified. "Oh, aye, the Kuklos and Underground Railroad pride themsel's on their secret intelligence . . . weel, sir, they're no' the only ones."

He paused, to see how I was taking it, but 1 was mum, so he went on: "Needless tae say, once we knew of your presence, we referred to our official records, and identified ye as the British Admiralty agent who was active - aye, uncommonly active! - in this country ten years ago." He gave a knowing smile. "Never fear, Mr Comber. We have no interest in that, ye'll be glad to hear; our concern wi' you is here and now." He regarded me with eyes like amiable gimlets. "So .. . why are ye in the United States?"

Not a question, you'll allow, to which I could give a short answer - but I didn't need to. Since they weren't concerned with my murky American past, my course was clear.

"There's no secret about it. You're welcome to the whole story - but not until I'm under the protection of the British minister, either here or in Was.h.i.+ngton." I gave him my Flas.h.i.+est smile. "Very good?"

It wasn't, of course. "I'd remind ye, Mr Comber," growls he, "that ye're in no position to make conditions - having entered this country secretly, and a.s.sociated wi' two clan-destine and illegal bodies -"

"a.s.sociated my eye! They kidnapped me - as your eavesdroppers have certainly told you! And I'm not an Admiralty agent, and never was, and my name ain't Comber -"

"I dare say! Prescott, is it? Or Arnold, or Howard? Or have ye another one?"

"You're d.a.m.ned right I have! It's Flashman - and I'm a colonel in the British Army! And believe it or not as you choose, I was on my way home from India to report to Lord Palmerston when I was . . . why, what's the matter?"

For he had recoiled a step, staring down at me in the oddest way - not as though he didn't believe me, but as though he did, and couldn't credit his senses.

"Flashman, did ye say? Flashman - the Afghan soldier?"

Well, this was gratifying - I'd not supposed my fame had carried so far. But of course he was British-born, by his voice, and must have heard of me years ago.

"The very same!" cries I, laughing. "I know it must sound d.a.m.ned unlikely - and I've no papers, or anything of the sort, and I don't know a soul here to vouch for me, but a telegraph to our minister in Was.h.i.+ngton - Lord Lyons, I believe -"

"Stop you!" He leaned forward abruptly. "We may not have tae seek so far. Tell me - sharp, now! - what was your wife's maiden name?"

"What? My wife's . . . what d'ye mean -?"

"Answer!" snaps he. "Her maiden name!"

"Why . . . Morrison! But -"

"An only child, was she?" He rapped it out, face close to mine, and I found myself answering: "Why . . . no - she had three sisters -"

"Their names?"

"What the devil! Now, see here -"

"Answer! Ye say ye're Flashman! Prove it! Her sister's names!"

"Why . . . Mary . . . and Agnes . . . yes, and Grizel -" "Where were ye married?"

This was staggering. "In Paisley Abbey - but how in G.o.d's name do you know?" I was on my feet now. "Who the devil are you? D'ye mean to say ye know me?"

"I do that," says he, and the sudden bark and blazing stare that had jolted the answers out of me were gone, and he was regarding me with grim astonishment. "I could wish I didn't. But we'll mak' siccar - what took ye to Paisley in the first place?"

"Why, I was training militia -"

"That ye were! What for?"

"To . . . to help to put down the Chartists - there was rioting among the mill people -"

"When they read the Riot Act at Morrison's mill - what like horse were ye ridin', and what colour were your breeks?"

"Eh? How the . . . hold on, it was a white mare, I think ... and my pants would be cherry-pink . . . My G.o.d, you were there?" In my mind's eye were the dirty yelling faces, the shaken fists, the hail of clods and brickbats that had knocked the Provost's hat off, the Peninsular veteran sergeant bawling to the wavering militia to hold their line, the snarling obscenities as the mob gave back sullenly before the bayonets, your correspondent near to soiling his fine Cherrypicker "breeks" with fear ... and this glowering inquisitor with his rasping voice and peeler's eyes remembered it, too. And here we were, twenty years after, facing each other in a New York attic . . . where his timely intervention had probably saved my life.

"Aye, I was there," says he. "Was I no'? Man, I was the ring-leader! No, ye won't mind me - it's my trade, no' bein' noticed. And there were no warrants out for Allan Pinkerton in those days, tae drive him from his native land!" His eyes glinted angrily, and then he shrugged. "At least ye didnae fire on us, like those fools at Monmouth Castle!"

His name meant nothing to me; he wasn't the most famous detective in the world, then.' But the great thing was that he knew and could vouch for me, and speed me to the British ministry; in my delight I gripped his hand and pumped it, congratulating him on his splendid memory; he said curtly that it was easy enough to remember going hungry on a cooper's wages, and when I cried jovially that I meant his remembering my wife, and her family, he replied unsmiling that no one in Paisley was ever likely to forget Morrison and his brood. He wasn't sharing my high spirits, I could see; in fact he was looking d.a.m.ned sour, frowning and tugging his beard like a man who doesn't know what to do next.

"It's no' that simple!" snaps he, when I spoke of telegraphing Lyons. "Oh, aye, I ken fine who ye are, and a' about the Crimea and the Light Brigade - I still see the old country papers! Didn't I read lately about your great deeds in India and the Victoria Cross!" He ground his teeth. "And ye spoke of Palmerston - I suppose ye're far ben wi' the Queen, too!"