The Cutthroat (Isaac Bell 10)

“If they said he was dead, the case was closed. The most they could be charged with is incompetent detective work on only five killings. Subsequent murders could be blamed on copycats until the fiend finally ran out of steam or vanished.”

“What happened in the second half of ’ninety-one?”

“Vanished.”

“Not a trace?”

“Not a trace.”

“Any idea why?”

Abbington-Westlake shrugged. “In my humble opinion? Same reason he shifted operations to the suburbs. Wisely not pressing his luck in London. How long could he count on Scotland Yard bungling? By mid-’ninety-one, he probably reckoned it was time to stop pressing his luck in England.”

“Thank you,” said Isaac Bell. He headed for the door. “Tell me one more thing, Commander.”

That drew another elaborate sigh. “Now what?”

“Why should I believe you?”

An uncharacteristically bleak expression crossed over Abbington-Westlake’s face, and his poignant reply reminded Bell of a shaken Captain “Honest Mike” Coligney the day they found Anna Waterbury’s body in the actor’s flat on West 29th Street.

“Because I have three daughters.”

“I never thought of you as a family man.”

“It sneaked up on me,” said Abbington-Westlake. “When I wasn’t looking.”

“I thank you for your help,” said Bell, and headed for the door.

“On the contrary,” Abbington-Westlake replied in cold, measured tones, “thank you, Mr. Bell, for spending more time with me while we sorted out what you are up to.”

The door opened, swinging inward. The tall, thin shadow Bell had cornered in Whitechapel entered.

“Not so fast, Mr. Bell.”

Behind him were his heavyset partner in tweed, whom Bell had encountered outside the Electric movie theater, and another, who had the height and heft of a Marine sergeant out of uniform. They crowded into Abbington-Westlake’s office, blocking the door.

Isaac Bell gave them a quick once-over and looked at Abbington-Westlake.

The British spymaster said, “I do not like being hoodwinked nor made sport of.”

“I would think by now you’ve gotten used to it,” said Bell. To the shadow and his men he said, “Gents, get out of my way.”

They spread out, left and right, with the shadow in the middle.

Bell looked the shadow over again, and admitted, “You surprise me. I hadn’t realized you’re more of a fighting man than a spy.”

“I restrained my better instincts on orders. My new orders mesh with my instincts. Are you familiar with the Gurkha fighters’ kukri?” He took a leather sheath from his coat and pulled out of it a foot-long curved knife made of heavy steel. It looked like a boomerang with a razor’s edge.

His men whipped service revolvers from their coats, cocked them, and aimed them at Bell’s head. Bell looked at Abbington-Westlake. “I seem to be the only one who doesn’t know his new orders. Care to fill me in, Commander?”

“We’ll start with your accomplices. The agent who pretended to be a German, and the agent who pretended to be a police officer, and the agent driving your growler.”

“I hailed the growler on Oxford Street. The bobby was an unemployed potboy. The German is a Dutch tulip salesman.”

“Their names?”

“Didn’t catch them.”