The Hangman's Revolution (W.A.R.P. 2)

More clattering, fading now.

“Oh, very well, blast you!” shouted Otto, stamping his feet as though ants were heaped beneath them. “Double. I’ll give you double chink to stay. You can purchase that village of yours. SO YOU CAN.”

Figary’s head appeared in the doorway. “A deal, sir. And cheap at twice the price, if I may say so.”

Malarkey and Chevie could only stare in wonderment. After all, a mere moment before, Figary’s footsteps had echoed from the top story. Riley, on the other hand—and with both hands—drummed up a round of applause.

“Well done, sir. Well done indeed.”

Figary bowed, and this time it was real. “Thank you, Master Urchin. Never bet against Michael Figary when there are wooden surfaces and hard soles involved. Sure I can play those stairs like a grand piano.”

Malarkey shook his head ruefully. “You will be the death of me, Figary. Tell me one thing, hand on heart now: were you truly ignorant of my real moniker? All this time?”

Michael Figary laughed. “Is there anybody in London town who does not know the great King Otto? I knew you the second I walked into the hallway for my interview. I knew you from your silhouette, sir. Missus Figary didn’t raise any idiots, so she didn’t.”

And this was a statement that no one in Grosvenor Square had the gall to poke a hole in.

Malarkey insisted on breakfast before he would continue with his story of the copper commodore. And so Figary, in a matter of seconds it seemed, conjured up a mountain of kippers and eggs, of which Riley accepted a portion even though he had stuffed himself to rotundity not an hour previously.

“This is sheer ambrosia,” Riley declared. “Mr. Figary is worth his wages and more besides.”

“What a clever urchin,” said Figary, patting Riley’s head. “May we keep him, Commodore?”

“There is no need to persist with the title,” said Otto. “I would not have you lie with every breath.”

Figary played his invisible piano, dismissing the objection. “What is a title but a collection of letters or stripes on a sleeve? And at any rate, I think it wise to maintain the illusion, if we are to stay on in Grosvenor Square. The residents are not known for their tolerance of criminals. I refer you to Mr. Charismo, the previous resident of this house, so I do.”

Malarkey nodded. This was a wise argument, and in truth he had always liked how the word sounded in Figary’s Irish burr.

“Very well, you may address me as Commodore, for appearances’ sake.”

“My pleasure, Commodore.”

Once the master-servant relationship had been bolstered with cash and titles, the morning’s exposition could begin in earnest. Otto told his Commodore Pierce tale, bemoaning the fact that Ram kings rarely survived to enjoy a retirement wallowing in their ill-gotten gains, but he intended to buck that trend. So when his associate Tibor Charismo’s assets were seized and the demolished Grosvenor Square house went under the hammer for mere pennies, Otto had purchased it under the name Commodore Pierce, a secret alias he had established years previously to salt away his private wealth, mainly stolen Saltee Island diamonds. Perhaps the house had been under something of a shadow at the time of purchase, but with a new facade and the passage of time, someone would pay top guinea for a Grosvenor Square address, and that would go a long way to financing his retirement. Otto’s plan was to abdicate from the Hidey-Hole when the house was habitable, take up residence as Commodore Pierce, then turn it over for a profit as soon as possible. After that it was a first-class cabin on the Campania all the way to New York City. He even had an American passport run up by the best purveyor of fakements in London.

But then, Otto began visiting the works, dressed as the commodore and spouting such Americanisms as: Those drains better be done by nightfall or there’ll be hell to pay, and I am prepared to pay top dollar for premium workmanship. It was a jolly gas, and Malarkey warmed to the role. And when he’d hired Figary as overseer and general butler, that had sealed the deal. Malarkey loved everything about the commodore; his cavalier mannerisms, how the genteel ladies sneaked peeks at him from behind their fans, the constant warring with Figary. He adored the entirety of the experience, and now that the house was nearing completion, he found himself loath to give it up.

“But give it up I must,” he concluded. “For Grosvenor Square ain’t more than a brief trot from the Haymarket, and some cracker casing a swell’s digs or flying the blue pigeon in the vicinity would be sure to cop a squint of my lovely hair; then it’s off to Highgate for old Golgoth.”

Figary’s piano hands went crazy. “Desist please, Commodore. If you are to be a resident of Grosvenor, then this Cockney double-talk must be knocked on the head, so it must. What are you saying, man? Pigeons and crackers? It’s gibberish concocted by criminals.”

Riley and Chevie exchanged amused glances. It was incredible to them that King Otto would react to his butler’s impertinence with no more than a resigned grimace.

“Betterment of the self is a hard road,” said Otto, reading their looks. “And betimes a cove must swallow down what he would ordinarily chuck to the floor and stamp on.” He shot Figary a dark glare of foreboding that would have most men leaving town without taking the time to pack a suitcase. “But take heed, Michael Figary, for every man has his breaking point, and when King Otto breaks, he breaks uncommonly violent.”

“Tush,” said Figary. “Tush, bah, and fiddlesticks, Commodore. King Otto’s days are numbered, but thanks to me, Commodore Pierce will enjoy a long retirement in high society.”

Chevie felt that, amusing as it was to see Otto Malarkey chastised by his Irish butler, there were probably more important things they could be discussing.

“Maybe we should talk about the Rams, Otto. My guess is that Farley’s boss wants to step into your boots.”

“The tattooist said as much,” said Otto. “He said the Rams would be part of a new world order, those that took the shilling.”

Chevie kneaded her knuckles. “The Rams are the key. Box’s foot soldiers took the city for him; without the Rams he’s nothing. How loyal are your men, Otto?”

Malarkey spat on the carpet, which had Figary back at the brandy decanter. “Loyalty among thieves, is it?” said Otto. “That only exists when there ain’t cash involved. As soon as it becomes a transaction, then it’s ‘the king is dead, long live the king.’”

Chevie stood. “I mean to stop Farley and the whole lot of them. How about you, Malarkey?”

“Farley killed my brother. And for that I’ll see him and anyone who stands with him at the bottom of the Thames.”

“So we’re all of a mind,” said Riley. “But how are three hunted individuals to take on an army with weapons like Farley was to

ting?”

“We need to see the lay of the land,” mused Otto. “Find out which way the Rams are blowing. My boys are greedy coves, yes, but they are also suspicious, and cautious. My Rams need to be approached like actual rams. Real careful-like. One wrong word, and Farley could find himself with a hole in his gullet.”

“We need eyes on the inside,” said Chevie. “One of us has to go into the Hidey-Hole. And it has to be today. This is Emergence Day. Box attacks today.”

“But who?” wondered Riley. “Chevie made a spectacular impression the last time she was here. Farley himself did my ink. And as for you, Your Majesty, even the glockiest duffer in your outfit would point the finger from a mile off.”

“The Rams know us all,” said Chevie.

Otto Malarkey stroked sheaves of his long hair from root to tip. “Not all of us, they don’t.”

It took a second for the penny to drop, but when it did the Irish butler actually hooted in surprise and slopped some of his beloved brandy on the rug.

“Me? You want Missus Figary’s only son to venture into a den of maniacal thugs and pirates? Michael Figary, raised on buttermilk and scholarly discourse, in amongst the muck snipes and gutterflies, is it? Well, you can blow that idea right out of your head.”

“So you can,” Chevie added.

She couldn’t help herself.

Things that shouldn’t happen do happen. Things that should happen don’t. It’s a maze in a minefield on a fault line.

—Professor Charles Smart

Colonel Clayton box.

The Blessed Colonel.

A god who walked the earth.

But he hadn’t always been. Once upon a nonanointed time, there had simply been Clay Box, a kid from Texas who grew up surrounded by men with big guns and women with smaller ones tucked into their purses, because you never knew when the Second Amendment might need to be upheld. Clay’s father, Clayton Sr., had taught him to shoot a .22 rifle when he was eight years old, and the boy was shooting a Competition Pro model by the time he was twelve. Pop Box was overjoyed to find that his son had a real passion for sharpshooting. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Young Clay did not have a passion for shooting, or anything else for that matter; the reason he was so proficient at putting rounds through the bull’s-eye was that he treated the entire procedure as a mathematical equation. He was completely dispassionate, and when he shot, it was almost as if he was watching himself from above, considering the challenge, adjusting his scope, factoring range and wind speed. For Clay, marksmanship was no different than skinning a frog in biology. The important thing was efficiency. Winning a ribbon meant little to young Clay, but losing it because of some lack of efficiency would have infuriated him beyond words.