Free The Hansa Protocol by Norman Russell Page A

his thoughts. He felt himself blushing, but was spared the indignity by Box, who suddenly brokewhat he thought was becoming an embarrassed silence.
    ‘Inspector Lewis, I didn’t have time to introduce you properly back there at the Rents. This is my sergeant, Jack Knollys. He’s from Croydon, originally.’
    ‘Oh, Croydon? Really. Pleased to meet you, Sergeant.’
    The heavy cab had reached Parliament Street, and Box glanced at the magnificent Italianate palace built by Sir Gilbert Scott to house the Home Office. It made him think for the moment of old Mr Mack, who had a little room somewhere in that impressive pile.
    ‘And you reckon it wasn’t a gas explosion, Mr Lewis? A gas leak?’ Lewis shook his head decidedly.
    ‘It wasn’t gas, Mr Box. Two men from the Gas, Light and Coke Company came out within the hour, turned the gas off, and hammered the broken pipe flat. But it wasn’t gas. It was as though a shell had exploded, or a magazine gone up. There’s devilry behind it, and for my money it’s not the Fenians this time. Still, that’s for you to decide, Mr Box, when you’ve seen the place. The Belvedere, I mean.’
    The cab turned into Broad Sanctuary, and proceeded at a good pace down Victoria Street. Evidently, the driver was following a well-known route of his own out to Chelsea. He’d turn into Buckingham Palace Road just opposite Grosvenor Gardens, then into Pimlico Road, and go round the long boundary wall of the Chelsea Royal Hospital.
    ‘I must confess, Mr Lewis,’ Box said, ‘that I’m not well versed in these high-class German political thinkers, and how they live. What should I know about this house in Lavender Walk, and the folk who live there?’
    Inspector Lewis coughed, and drew a sleeve across his mouth. This infernal cold! The old cab smelt of stale tobacco and damp straw. He’d be glad when they got to Chelsea.
    ‘Well, Mr Box, Dr Seligmann’s house has always been a popular sort of place. We’ve a lot of thinkers and artists and so forth living in Chelsea. There’s always been a lot of coming and going at Dr Seligmann’s. Poor old Mr Carlyle used to visit there, years ago, and he’d gabble away in German with Dr Seligmann and the other Germans in the house.’
    Sergeant Knollys suddenly spoke, causing Lewis to start in surprise.
    ‘Any Englishmen, sir? Coming and going, I mean?’
    Sergeant Knollys’ voice was well enunciated and slightly mocking.The man looked like a thug, but was evidently something else. He dressed well, too. There was more to Mr Box’s sergeant than mere bulk and brawn.
    ‘Yes, Sergeant, there were some Englishmen from time to time. Learned men from the universities, and more than one Member of Parliament. Sir Charles Napier, the Under-Secretary, has called there more than once. He and Dr Seligmann were old friends. But usually there’d be a lot of foreigners turning up, some of them with huge pointed moustaches and what I’d call hectoring voices. Germans, most of them, I’d say.’
    ‘And who’s inside the house at present?’ asked Box.
    ‘Well, there’s Mr Schneider, who was Dr Seligmann’s personal secretary . Very stiff and foreign – all heel-clicking, and so forth – but a very decent, honest kind of man, I think. I’ve passed the time of day with him more than once. I told Mr Schneider that I was going to Scotland Yard. Everybody else seems to have been prostrated with grief. So Mr Schneider said.
    ‘Then there’s Count Czerny – C-Z-E-R-N-Y. They say he’s an Hungarian, and that may well be so, but he speaks better English than most English people. I don’t know exactly what he was supposed to do in the house, Mr Box, but he lives there, and was very close to Dr Seligmann.’
    The clumsy four-wheeler rumbled its way out of Pimlico Road, and proceeded along Royal Hospital Road, which at that point was flanked by spacious, tree-lined gardens. They were passing the gracious buildings that housed the Chelsea Pensioners, and for a