Free Some Danger Involved by Will Thomas

suddenly opened a note in his hand, perused it, and thrust it into his waistcoat pocket. He consulted his watch.
    “I know we have yet to break our fast, but it is tea time. I don’t believe it shall spoil our dinner if we stop for a small bite.”
    I was near wilting. “I thought you’d never ask.”

6
    R ACKET’S CAB WAS WAITING FOR US AS WE came into Duke’s Place. It was uncanny the way he and his “magic carpet” turned up at a moment’s notice. His beautiful chestnut mare, Juno, stood comfortably in her shafts, her mane and tail glossy from brushing. John Racket was now taking the brush to his wheels. Many hansoms still had metal wheels, and a passenger could have an unforgettable ride when the cab went over cobblestones, but forward-thinking cabmen like Racket had installed rubber tires. They allowed a passenger to glide along the city streets, as if he were in a gondola in Venice. The cabman turned as we approached, scampered up onto his perch, and set the mechanism that opened the doors in the front for us.
    “You again, Mr. Racket?” Barker asked, looking up at him over the reins.
    “Aye, sir,” Racket replied. “Wife’s on holiday. Thought I’d make an extra bob or two.”
    “Brick Lane, then,” Barker bellowed as we took our seats, and in a moment, Juno was clopping down the street with us in tow. We were back in Aldgate Street in a moment.
    As we came up on Petticoat Lane to the left, I leaned forward. It was close to five now, and the once tumultuous street was nearly deserted. A few forlorn merchants stood staring at nothing, the hawkers had left off their cries, and the stalls were being dismantled for another week.
    Barker sat silently across from me, his thoughts turned toward the new case, no doubt. It was my first moment to myself all day, and I took the time to reflect as we rode. So this was what a private enquiry agent’s life was like: the sudden start of an investigation; the visits to morgues and conversations with the police; the formal summonses to clients and the hiring process; the questioning of witnesses; the endless walks and cab rides; the skipping of meals. As far as situations went, it was satisfactory. I wasn’t locked up in chambers all day, and there were frequent changes in scenery. I could do without the gruesome bits, but presumably I’d grow accustomed to that. It was even rather thrilling. There was something daring about being an enquiry agent, or at any rate, an enquiry agent’s assistant.
    Racket brought us up in front of another foreign restaurant. I would have complained, were it not for the fact that the “good British fare” I’d been experiencing at Barker’s residence over the past few days would have choked a pariah dog.
    It was an outdoor café this time, called the Bucharest. We were seated at a table not far from the curb. Having not eaten all day, I was ravenous. Nothing save the coffee looked familiar on the menu, but it was in English at least. As my eyes bounced between the moussaka and the goulash, my employer seemed distracted, though I knew he hadn’t had so much as a cup of his precious green tea all day.
    Barker actually spoke English to the waiter this time and ordered coffee. The silken tassels which peeked out from under the waiters’ waistcoats told me they were Romanian Jews. I remembered the note the old man at Bevis Marks had given Barker. This was to be a rendezvous, obviously.
    “Should we dine, or is the cook expecting us at home?” I asked.
    “We shall eat presently,” Barker responded, still holding his cards close. “Have a bialy to tide you over.”
    A bialy turned out to be a flat, yeasty roll, whose center was filled with onions and poppy seeds. The Jewish community often had them for breakfast, and while they weren’t bad, I’d need a strong cup of coffee before facing one over the breakfast table. The coffee arrived in little glass cups with metal handles.
    “Bialy!” an unfamiliar voice called in my ear,