The God of the Hive - Laurie R. King [99]
But first, another telephone call, this one to Richmond.
The butler answered. After a minute or two of silence, Javitz’s loud American accents were assaulting my ear.
“Yeah? Is that Mary Russell?”
“Hello, Captain Javitz, I thought—”
“You gotta get us out of here,” he said sharply. “Like, now.”
Cold air seemed to blast through the stuffy office, and I found I was on my feet. “Why? What’s happened?”
“You know who your crazy hermit Goodman is?”
“I know whose house that is, but—”
“But you don’t know who he is?”
“No, who is he?”
“I’d have thought—oh, look, I really can’t go into it here. Just, how soon can you come get us?”
“Hours. I don’t know the train schedule.”
“Then the kid and I are setting off now, we’ll be at Waterloo when we can.”
“Wait! You can’t set off on crutches, you’ll hurt yourself.”
“I’m not staying here. Get a car and come.”
“For heaven’s sake, what is going on?”
“One hour, we leave.” The instrument went dead.
I swore, and looked at my wrist-watch: It had to be twenty-five miles, even if I left this instant … But first, one last call.
“The Travellers’ Club,” the voice answered.
“I’m looking for Captain Lofte.” Lofte was my last hope, this fleet-footed traveller from Shanghai, Mycroft’s man who had given us key information about Brothers. No one working with Brothers would have given us what Lofte did.
“I’m sorry,” the smooth voice said, “Captain Lofte is no longer with us.”
For a horrible moment, I thought the man meant—but he went on. “I do not think he will be returning for some time.”
“Has he gone back to Shanghai?”
“I am sorry, Madam, but The Travellers’ does not divulge the destination of its members.”
“This is terribly important,” I begged.
Something in my voice must have taken him aback, because after a moment’s silence, he said, “He left a week past. I believe the gentleman had a message on the Friday, directing him to return to the East.”
Rats, I thought; Lofte would have made a resourceful colleague. Billy was beyond reach, Holmes was gone, none of Mycroft’s other agents were beyond taint. I should have to make do with what I had. Namely, myself.
I thanked the person at the club, put up the earpiece, and scurried back into the bolt-hole to cram a valise with everything I thought I might need.
Goodman had not returned. I thought of leaving him another note, but couldn’t decide what that should say. So I shut off the lights and stepped into the corridor—and then I stopped.
My hand went to the pocket in which I was collecting all the bits concerning the case, and thumbed through the scraps until I found the notes I’d made in Richard Sosa’s flat.
A number jumped out at me, because I’d just rung it. Sosa had written down the number of The Travellers’ Club on Thursday, on the diary page beside the telephone. And, I thought, he rang the number, either then or on the Friday, to send out of the country the only person apart from Holmes and me who could link Mycroft to the investigation of Thomas Brothers.
I hoped to God he’d only sent Lofte away. I did not want that valiant individual on my conscience as well.
Somewhere in the building, a clock chimed the quarter. I woke with a start, and hurried down to the street to hail a taxicab.
Chapter 49
Javitz was standing outside the gates of the house on the quiet and dignified road, a large, bruised man looking very out of place with a small girl on one side and a white-haired housekeeper on the other. He leant heavily on his crutch, the child kicked her heels from the top of the low wall, the woman was wringing her hands. He had acquired an elderly carpet-bag, now lying at his feet; his hand was on the taxicab’s door-handle before the hand-brake was set.
“Come on, ’Stella-my-heart,” he said, sounding more like a father than a man on whom a stray had been pressed. She hopped down and scrambled into the taxi, Dolly in hand, to stand at my knees and demand, “Where is Mr Robert?”
“I don’t really know,” I told her. “Mr Jav—”
She cut me short.