Some Danger Involved Read Online Free PDF Page B

before turning south. I was to work in Whitehall, one of the most famous streets in the world. Rattling down Whitehall Street in the hansom, I could look directly ahead and see the Parliament clock tower containing the bell called Big Ben. Over my shoulder were Trafalgar Square and Nelson’s Column, and down the street was the prime minister’s residence, and the Home and Foreign Offices. Everywhere you turned there was a monument, a statue, a famous landmark.
    Craig’s Court is a quiet little cul-de-sac backing up against Great Scotland Yard and the police headquarters that have appropriated the name. Despite its abbreviated length, Craig’s Court has a reputation, for it is where most of the enquiry agents in town keep their offices.
    Inside the agency, the antechamber, the scene of such trepidation two days ago, now seemed dull and vacant. The clerk was still there, buried behind another Police Gazette. Barker continued on, but I stopped to introduce myself.
    “ ’Lo. You’re the new assistant. Welsh fella.”
    “Yes, Llewelyn.”
    Jenkins didn’t improve on second glance. He was in his early thirties, sprawled in his chair as loose-limbed as a marionette, and was so nearsighted he almost used his chin for a paperweight while copying down my name.
    “You just had to have a long name,” he complained. “Last one was named Quong. Nice and short.”
    “What happened to him?” I asked. Jenkins raised a hand and formed his fingers into a gun. He brought his index finger to a spot between his eyes and squeezed the trigger. My predecessor was dead. That was what I had been afraid of.
    “Here,” he said, pulling himself up, as if an inspiration had hit him. “Jones is a Welsh name, init? That’s not long.”
    “Are you proposing I change my name to Jones so you’ll have less work to do?”
    He shrugged his bony shoulders. “Just a thought. Have you got a cigarette?”
    “I fear not.”
    “I need a cigarette. Tell Mr. B. I shall return directly.”
    He left. It was a wonder Barker got any work done, taking on charity cases like us. I went into the inner chambers.
    If I was fearful of being shot at on that first day, I needn’t have worried. I spent part of the morning taking shorthand notes for my employer and the rest typing them up. Aside from the odd hint of blackmail or other crimes in the letters he dictated, I might just as well have been working in a bank or a government office. The only excitement of the morning was trying to make sense of Barker’s notes. His personal handwriting was almost indecipherable.
    There is no need to wonder what time it is in Craig’s Court when Big Ben peals noon. We had a ploughman’s lunch at a pub around the corner, called the Rising Sun. I’ve never been able to abide pickled onions, but Barker polished off a plateful with his lunch, washing them down with abstemious sips of his stout. I ate fresh bread and cheese and drank a half-pint of bitters, all of which was excellent.
    “What shall be our itinerary for the rest of the day, sir?” I asked. I hoped I had the rest of Saturday free, but with Barker as an employer, it was not good to presume.
    “I’m going out of town this afternoon. You may have the rest of the day off. It is a beautiful day, and I suggest you don’t waste it. Why not walk home, and get to know the area better?”
    “Certainly, sir. I will.”
    “I’m off, then. Tell Mac I shall be late again.” And he was gone. He moved fast for a big man.
    So that was that. An invigorating walk across half of London. Of course, it began pouring rain halfway across Waterloo. I had no umbrella, having pawned it months before, but I did have a stout bowler and heavy woolen Ulster coat that had once belonged to my late predecessor. It had no bullet holes, I noticed. I pulled up the collar and tugged down my hat and settled into a regular, plodding pace. Being poor and Welsh, I’d learned to walk in hilly country. These flat streets were nothing to me. I