Free Web of Discord by Norman Russell Page B

pocket, and handed it to Kershaw, who looked thoughtfully at the side containing the Russian characters.
    ‘Dr N.I. Karenin,’ he muttered. ‘Nikolai Ivanovich, most likely. Hm….’
    ‘Then you know who this man is?’ asked Box, eagerly.
    Kershaw sighed, and slipped the card into an inside pocket of his great-coat.
    ‘I’m not Little Jack Horner, you know, Box. I don’t just put my thumb into a nice big pie, and pull out a juicy plum, saying, “Oh, what a good boy am I”. Karenin? No, I don’t know anyone of that name. As for the Nikolai and the Ivanovich, it’s just that Russian names have a certain predictability – and monotony. But if you’ll let me take the card away with me, I’ll find someone at the reception tonight who’ll steer you in the right direction.’
    Colonel Kershaw stood up, and treated Box to a kindly smile. He picked up his silk hat and his ebony cane. At the same time,the old man with the medal appeared from the church, carrying a bunch of keys.
    Box thought to himself: he’s playing the innocent, but he’ll have to get up early to deceive me. He’s drawing me into something , but he’s not going to tell me what it is yet. Well, so be it. Wily old fox! It was time to make arrangements for hovering in the vicinity of Arlington Street, just off Piccadilly.
     
    ‘Inspector Box! What brings you down this particular alley this evening?’
    ‘Well, well. Fiske of the Graphic . I could well ask you the same question. And the intrepid Mr Carter, of the Sketch . How are you, gents? As for why I’m here, it’s to get a cup of hot coffee. It’s chilly tonight, even for early March.’
    Arnold Box looked at the two reporters, who were leaning against a wall near to a rather flimsy coffee stall, where a taciturn , nondescript sort of man displayed a steaming urn and a pile of chipped mugs. Billy Fiske was the Graphic ’s chief political reporter, an impressive figure, much given to flapping overcoats and old-fashioned high-crowned hats. He sported a fiercely intimidating black moustache. Ted Carter, a frog-faced man with a hacking cough, and a navy-blue muffler tied round his throat, was Court and Society Correspondent for the Sketch.
    Box threw a penny down on the counter, and received a steaming mug of coffee. He wondered why there should be a coffee stall so near to Sir Abraham Goldsmith’s imposing residence . He also wondered what Billy Fiske was doing there.
    ‘I’m here to report the social goings-on for our avid readers, Mr Box,’ said Fiske. ‘Another brilliant levee for the glittering ornaments of the upper echelons of our society. The coaches have been coming and going for the last half hour. Gentlemen in sashes, and ladies in ball gowns, some with tiaras (but most without) have ascended the steps outside the brilliantly lighted mansion of the celebrated merchant banker, Sir Abraham Goldsmith.’
    ‘Strewth! You don’t actually write like that, do you, Billy? I’ve never bothered to read your stuff’
    Fiske of the Graphic laughed, and gulped down some of his coffee.
    ‘No, Mr Box, that’s not my style. I’m imitating poor Ted here – Ted, if you cough any louder, you’ll cough your fat head off.’
    The frog-faced man managed a smile. He rubbed his mittened hands together, and stamped his feet. Box realized how very cold it was in the alley, and wondered why these two eminent reporters had chosen to freeze there together. Still, their presence simplified the business of hovering.
    ‘Mr Box,’ said Ted Carter of the Sketch, between coughs, ‘ignore this overbearing ignoramus. I pen my reports in a dignified and elegant style, worthy to rank with the best in The Times. I’ve made a note of all the most eminent persons who’ve arrived so far. The German Ambassador and his suite came on foot from Prussia House. His Excellency the Russian Ambassador, accompanied by Princess Orlova, arrived just minutes ago. The French party – well, they’ll come deliberately