Against the Brotherhood (16 page)

I wondered if there was another reason for selecting the place, but I said nothing more as Herr Dortmunder went on.

“In a way we of the Brotherhood are grateful for King Ludwig’s passions. He reminds the populace of the glorious past of the German people, and he is so preoccupied with his projects that he leaves the affairs of state to others. Two of his ministers are members of our Brotherhood, and they have promoted our interests without impediments.” He frowned. “I suspect that there are members of the Golden Lodge buried in the government as well.”

“Why is that?” I asked, hoping to learn what I might be running into. I did not want to have another encounter like the one in Luxembourg.

“Because some of our efforts have been thwarted,” said Herr Dortmunder in so threatening a tone that I recoiled at it.

“Tough on you, Captain,” I made myself say. Playing August Jeffries was becoming more automatic even as it became more hazardous. “They probably think the same of you.”

Herr Dortmunder shook his head twice. “They will answer for it.” He made a sweeping gesture at the fog. “Be grateful for this, Mister Jeffries.”

“Why? So like England?” I knew it was dangerous to be sarcastic with this man, but I could not bring myself to care.

He gave a vile chuckle. “Not exactly. Because no one can see us well enough to stop us.” This announcement had all the unpleasant effect he had been striving for. “We have received word that the assassin from the Golden Lodge has been sent to stop us from getting the treaty. He is supposed to have arrived in Munich yesterday.”

“The assassin?” I repeated, disliking the sound of it. “Who is it?”

“We don’t know that, or the assassin would be in our sight,” Herr Dortmunder admitted unhappily. “Which is why you must be particularly careful. You may be known to them already, judging from the incident in Luxembourg.”

“You mean that the way you will find this assassin is when he tries to kill me? And it might not matter much to you if he succeeds?” I did not like the rising tone of my own voice.

“It may come to that, yes,” said Herr Dortmunder.

If only I had some way to reach Mycroft Holmes. I had to know more about the Golden Lodge and this supposed assassin, or I suspected this first mission of mine would also be my last, and Mister Holmes would be in need of another secretary. Which put me in mind of another unpleasant matter: what had become of the man I replaced? At the time I took the work, I had been informed that the fellow had received a more satisfactory offer for his services, and had departed. But I had inquired no further—why should l? Now it seemed I had overlooked something I needed to know.

“Do not go into panic, Mister Jeffries,” advised Herr Dortmunder with a slight, contemptuous smile. “Your pay for risk will more than make up for this minor danger.”

“Minor, you say,” I scoffed, and realized I had let myself be lost in reflection. “You’re not the ones being shot at, are you?”

“Not by the assassin, I should hope,” said Herr Dortmunder, with great meaning. “You cannot ignore the possibility.”

“If your Brotherhood doesn’t kill me, then this Golden Lodge assassin may do it,” I said, speaking my thoughts aloud.

“Exactly,” said Herr Dortmunder.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:

Inspector Cornell is once again asking for M.H.’s assistance. Thus far I have been able to put him off, saying that M.H. is busy with Admiralty affairs, but I will not be able to continue this ruse forever, and Edmund Sutton has said he wants no part of deceiving the police. I have produced the original letter sent to M.H. by the dead woman—MH said I should if pressed—and that ought to satisfy them for the time being. In time, the Inspector will return and will not be willing to accept the temporizations Sutton and I must provide.

M.H. has wired to inform us that he will be in Germany shortly, and has located McMillian.

NEVER VISIT A
brothel early in the morning; it is more disillusioning than being backstage at the ballet, and just as odorous. Beyond the discreet entrance to Madame Isolde’s establishment, there was clutter everywhere: abandoned glasses, tankards, plates, cigars, and, in one corner, a pair of patent men’s shoes. A sleepy butler in a Moorish tunic provided our escort through the refuse, muttering only a few words to us to prevent us from adding to the shambles. I noticed that a few servants were beginning the awesome task of setting the whole to order in preparation for another evening of license and revelry. The Oriental finery looked tawdry in the wan morning light, the peacock fans were dusty, and the gilding on the Moorish arches leading into the main parlor was flaking, showing the rough wood beneath.

Madame Isolde herself greeted us, decked out in a pink negligee with elaborate Japanese sleeves and feather trim at the neck. Her finery could not conceal the slackness of the opulent flesh beneath her garment, nor the lines fretting her sharp blue eyes. She wore kohl on her lashes and rouge on her lips and cheeks, and an overpowering attar of roses. Her greeting to Herr Dortmunder was a shade too effusive for genuine good feeling. “What an unexpected honor. It has been too long,” she cooed as she took him by the arm. Her accent was more Prussian than Bavarian. “It is always a pleasure to have you here with us.”

I hung back, not knowing what to do. How could I face Elizabeth after being in this place? This was not like the English brothels I had some little experience of, where gaming and drinking were as important as wenching and tupping. Here the emphasis was on entertainment, of what nature I could only speculate, though the evidence suggested an abandon not often found in the acceptable London establishments. At my feet I could see a number of wine stains on the Turkish carpet; I supposed that they would blend into the intricate pattern with time. The discarded cigars were another matter, and I could see that the burns they made would mar the carpet forever.

“This is the man I mentioned.” He added in English, “Mister Jeffries, come here,” he commanded me, all but thrusting me forward. “He is to be presented to the Scotsman. Be good enough to kiss Madame’s hand, Jeffries.”

I did as he ordered; trying to walk with the slight swagger I suspected Jeffries would have in these circumstances.

“Good morning, Mister Jeffries,” said Madame Isolde in German, extending her hand to me, and waiting until I bowed over it.

“Good morning, Madame,” I said, also in German, and added, “You have a very unusual place here.”

She laughed. “I like to think so,” she said with a simper that I supposed was meant for a show of modesty.

“Mister Jeffries is here to enter the employ of McMillian, as we have already arranged. The Brotherhood is depending on you to make the introduction. He is still here, isn’t he?” This last was more an accusation than an inquiry.

“He is asleep with Gretchen and Francoise. He had quite a night with them. They are in the Chinese room, second door on the left at the top of the stairs.” She spoke hurriedly, as if she feared a slow answer might gain his disapproval. “Neither girl was remiss in her work,
mein Herr.”

“Excellent,” said Herr Dortmunder as he patted Madame Isolde’s arm, for all the world as if rewarding an obedient dog.

“He had four bottles of champagne opened last night; he poured all of one over Francoise, and then licked it off her himself. Like a great, randy puppy. Francoise said his moustaches tickled something fierce.” Her laugh was high and nervous. “After such a night, I doubt he will be moving before noon, and then slowly. And his head may ache.”

“Good, good,” said Herr Dortmunder. “Then he will be less likely to turn away a new servant. He will have to be attended quickly. Did any of your other guests spend the night?”

“Just the Turk,” she said apologetically, and hurried on with her explanation, as if delaying punishment. “He refused to leave at the end of the night. He spent the whole evening playing chess. Winning, too. Nothing to drink. No whoring. He said in his country he would not receive such poor hospitality as I would show by requiring him to leave. And he paid very well for the privilege. Didn’t even take a girl with him. Didn’t have any boys to offer him. For all he did here, he might as well be a monk.”

“And you do not want it said that your house does not serve its guests well,” said Herr Dortmunder, looking ill-used.

“Not at this house, no, and not a Turk. What would they say if we would not allow him to sleep here?” said Madame Isolde, as if defending herself before the bench. Just what threat did Herr Dortmunder hold over her to gain so timorous a compliance as she provided? Perhaps she had seen something as hideous as the rite I had witnessed the night before, while McMillian was pouring champagne over a whore named Francoise and licking it off her.

Again the satisfied pat. “Never mind. The Turk might prove useful.”

The relief on Madame Isolde’s face was so great that under other circumstances it would have been comical. I decided to take what advantage I could of this development. “Tell me about this Turk then.”

Herr Dortmunder shot me a critical look. “Why do you ask this?”

“Because,” I said, improvising, “if the man has any position in the world he might be able to convince McMillian he needs me.” I looked about as two more servants began to clean. “I think it would be a good idea, if this McMillian is as touchy as you say he is, if I made it look as if I would uphold the honor of the Queen, don’t you know?” As I spoke I was getting a better idea of my own stratagem, and my enthusiasm for it grew. “If the Turk were made to pay respects to a mere fellow like me, your high-in-the-instep Scotsman would be more likely to employ me.” I smiled. “And I think I can show this Turk a thing or two.” I had not yet the slightest notion how, but I trusted I would find suitable means as I went on.

Herr Dortmunder stared at me as if I had just sprouted an extra pair of arms, or some appendages more alarming still. “Go on, Jeffries,” he prompted. “There may be some merit in your plan.” If his dog had spoken to him, he would not have been more astonished.

“Well,” I said, growing bolder. “If this Turk were to come down to dine, then it might fall out that he and I would have a word or two, particularly if I pressed the matter. And we have a few bones to pick with the Turks, any road.”

“Not in establishments like this,” said Herr Dortmunder, prepared to dismiss the notion completely.

“Then I could catch his attention,” I went on, letting my improvisation grow bolder. “I could challenge him about certain irregularities in our dealing with the Turks, and ask for some explanation as to how such things came to be. I could make it clear to him that I won’t be put off.” Again, the vision of my affianced bride came to my mind and I was chagrined at what my work was leading me to do. Nothing I could tell Elizabeth would save me from her scorn.

“If he knows of such things, what convinces you he would respond to anything you tell him?” This question was quick and clipped, the words staccato. But there was also interest; for the first time I sensed he was willing to grant me a hearing.

“Well,
I
would, if I were challenged as I could challenge him, given the chance. If I wrap myself up in the Union Jack, your Scotsman may decide that in spite of my appearance and ... all the rest of it, I would be a suitable substitute for his missing valet. Otherwise, him being the cove you say he is, he might just go and look for a valet among the servants here. In Bavaria.” Just the mention of the man brought back a brief, hideous recollection of the previous night and I steeled myself against it.

“Mister Jeffries,” said Herr Dortmunder, “I may not have appreciated you until now. Venal you may be, but venality has its uses.” He smiled in that grim way of his, for all the world as if he were going to bite an arm or a head off of someone who displeased him.

“You hired me to do your work,” I said, doing my best not to be offended. “Here I am, trying to do it.”

“So we did.” He looked over at Madame Isolde, who had the manner of one seeking to escape from a room with no doors. “What do you say, dear lady?”

“If it would suit your purposes, I will order one of the servants to wake the Turk.” She laughed unconvincingly and waved her hand to conceal how much she was shaking. “He will have risen before now, in any case, to pray. They all do, you know.”

“So they do,” said Herr Dortmunder, as if prayer was a disgusting habit. “And several more times during the day.”

“Yes,” I chimed in, recalling that Jeffries ought to know something of this, having, according to his story, spent time in Egypt. “They have a cove in a tower who sets up a holler when the time’s right. They all drop everything they’re doing and bow to Mecca. Except for the Jews. And the women. And the Christians, of course.”

“So they do,” said Herr Dortmunder, his smile still in place.

I could feel his sudden wrath as keenly as if a cold wind had cut through the stuffy room. What was it about the rites of the followers of Mohammed that made Herr Dortmunder so furious, I asked myself. Was it his own dislike, or the notion of the Brotherhood? I did not know how to ask, and decided it best not to think about it just now. Better to think of what I would tell Elizabeth about this stage of my mission, if I told her anything at all.

“So, you bring yourself to the attention of the—” He broke off as a sudden, hard knocking was heard from the front of the house. “Are you expecting anyone?” he demanded of Madame Isolde.

She shook her head. “The butcher brings his wares to the back of the house. I don’t—”

He motioned her to silence as the door swung open and a few hurried words were exchanged with her major domo. The three of us stood very still, as if eluding a hunter.

“Madame Isolde,” said her major domo—the fellow in the Moorish tunic—as he came into the room. “There is a man at the door. He is in an official carriage, judging by the device on the panel. He claims he must speak to Herr McMillian at once.”

“Herr McMillian is still abed,” said Madame Isolde in an apparent rush of relief

“I don’t think that will be a sufficient answer,” said her major domo. “He is most insistent.”

“Tell him to leave a message,” said Madame Isolde. “He should know better than to come here at this hour. No one comes here at this hour but tradesmen.” She realized her mistake and did her best to cover it. “This has no bearing on you,
mein Herr.
Your invitation is without condition. You are welcome at any hour. Any hour.” She was becoming flustered again, and kept glancing uneasily in the direction of Herr Dortmunder. “What shall I do if he will not go away?”

“You will have to admit him eventually,” said Herr Dortmunder in a fatalistic way. “Make it worth his while to wait.”

She nodded and fussed with the feathers on her robe. “Tell him I do not like to disturb my guests. If there is something he wishes to impart to the Scotsman, he may leave word with me. I will have it carried to Herr McMillian when he rises. That will be as soon as he will be of use to anyone in any case.” She waved the major domo away as if driving off a pesky mosquito.

“I will give him your answer,” said the major domo in a voice that suggested he doubted that this ploy would succeed.

“Tell him to present himself at noon. He can have a buffet with Herr McMillian then, if he wishes.” This last offer had a breathless quality to it that struck me as an indication of dread, though I did not venture this opinion.

Herr Dortmunder held up his hand for quiet while he listened intently to the discussion at the front door. “The man is from Chancellor von Bismarck’s office. He claims to know nothing about any documents. He was, I think, in fact sent by the Krupps. At least he asked if Cameron McMillian of the ships’ engines McMillians might be here. He was to extend an offer for such a man to meet with those who might wish to purchase machinery; he could ensure himself of a great profit if he could make such an arrangement.” He heard the hinges creak. “It was not a clever deception. To seek to bribe a fool without any skill and no subterfuge.” He shook his head in patronizing condemnation. “He deserved to be sent away.”

“But—” Madame Isolde looked more distressed than ever.

“Be quiet,” said Herr Dortmunder; she complied at once.

The front door had just closed when the major domo uttered an exclamation of surprise. A moment later he stepped into the parlor. “The Turk is just emerging from his room.”

Madame Isolde sighed. “He must be fed. He expects his food promptly, or so he told me. Have the cook prepare those lamb chops he ordered last night, and make sure the pastry is hot.” She had lost that bewildered look and replaced it with an exasperated one. “I had best tend to it.”

“And you, Mister Jeffries, may want to see your ... opponent up close before you undertake your little scenario.” He nudged my arm.

“Right you are,” I said, and stepped into the entry hall, glancing up the elaborate staircase to the landing where the Turk had paused in his majestic descent from the rooms above.