Read Online The Great Game by Lavie Tidhar - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lavie Tidhar
Tags: Fantasy
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glances. "Yes, Mr Fogg," they both said, in unity. Fogg glared at them. "You," he said, pointing a long, thin finger at Irene Adler, "stay out of it. And you ," he said, turning the finger, like an offensive weapon, on Smith, "outside. Now."
  Smith gave the chief of Scotland Yard an innocent look and got up. He followed Fogg outside, through the station corridors and out into the street, where a black baruch-landau stood, belching steam.
  "Get in," Fogg said.
  Smith got in. The interior smelled of new leather and polish. He wondered if Fogg did his own buffing, and smiled.
  "And wipe that smirk off your face!" Fogg said.
  "Yes, headmaster."
  Fogg let that one pass. He signalled the driver, and the horseless carriage began to move.
  Mycroft, Smith remembered, had preferred the comforts of his own black airship: watching the city from high above, drinking scotch, smoking a cigar. It was easier to see things from a distance, he liked to say. And in comfort , Smith always added silently.
  Fogg was street-bound. "A disgrace," he said.
  "A mess, I think you said," Smith said.
  Fogg shook his head. "Were there witnesses?" he said.
  So he wasn't dumb. But then, Smith had learned long ago not to underestimate the man.
  "Scotland Yardâ" he began.
  "Adler is out of this!" Fogg snapped. Whisper at the Bureau had been that Adler and the fat man's brother had been linked, in the past. Smith had a fleeting image of the bee keeper, standing in the rain, not speaking. What did the bee keeper make of all of this? Rumour had it he, too, was a part of the events in eighty-eight, but shortly after that he'd been retiredâ
  "They interviewed the crowd outside the Bucket of Blood ," Smith said, patiently.
  "And?" Fogg snapped.
  "And they found nothing."
  Fogg snorted. "If you were a witness to such a crime, you wouldn't stick around to be interviewed."
  "My thoughts exactly," Smith said. Fogg looked at him. "So," he said again, " was there a witness?"
  Smith told him about the boy. Fogg looked thoughtful. "You know that part of town," he said. Smith nodded. "The⦠undesirables ," Fogg said. Again, Smith merely nodded.
  "Good," Fogg said. "Then follow that trail."
  Smith was angry with himself. He had been so close⦠Could he have prevented the attack? Could he himself have seen the killer?
  Was he following the wrong path? This chain of events did not begin in London. He was looking at it wrong. He needed to step back, to start at the beginning. He said, half to himself, "But the killer is here."
  He raised his head, saw Fogg smirk.
  "Do you know where I've been in the past few hours, as you two were having your little heart-to-heart in there?" Fogg said.
  Smith said, "No."
  "I was called to Dover," Fogg said.
  "They found another body," Smith said. Thinking furiously â How could the killer get from London to Dover in that time?
  "Yes," Fogg said. "They found a body."
  "Who is it?"
  "Somebody. Nobody. A pastor, by name of Brown. It seems he was in the habit of crossing the Channel regularly."
  Smith: "A courier?"
  Fogg, with pursed lips: "Possibly."
  "What was he carrying?"
  "Nothing was found on the body."
  "But the injury matches?"
  "It matches."
  "So our killer is on his way to France?"
  "He was not on the ferry â that my people could find."
  But the killer had his own ways of getting around, and not be seen, Smith thought. He felt suddenly helpless. Chasing shadows, they called it in the trade: following an impossible trail, and never catching up.
  Fogg signalled the driver. The baruch-landau stopped and the door opened, as though by itself.
  "Get out," Fogg said. And, as Smith climbed out into
  Smith gave the chief of Scotland Yard an innocent look and got up. He followed Fogg outside, through the station corridors and out into the street, where a black baruch-landau stood, belching steam.
  "Get in," Fogg said.
  Smith got in. The interior smelled of new leather and polish. He wondered if Fogg did his own buffing, and smiled.
  "And wipe that smirk off your face!" Fogg said.
  "Yes, headmaster."
  Fogg let that one pass. He signalled the driver, and the horseless carriage began to move.
  Mycroft, Smith remembered, had preferred the comforts of his own black airship: watching the city from high above, drinking scotch, smoking a cigar. It was easier to see things from a distance, he liked to say. And in comfort , Smith always added silently.
  Fogg was street-bound. "A disgrace," he said.
  "A mess, I think you said," Smith said.
  Fogg shook his head. "Were there witnesses?" he said.
  So he wasn't dumb. But then, Smith had learned long ago not to underestimate the man.
  "Scotland Yardâ" he began.
  "Adler is out of this!" Fogg snapped. Whisper at the Bureau had been that Adler and the fat man's brother had been linked, in the past. Smith had a fleeting image of the bee keeper, standing in the rain, not speaking. What did the bee keeper make of all of this? Rumour had it he, too, was a part of the events in eighty-eight, but shortly after that he'd been retiredâ
  "They interviewed the crowd outside the Bucket of Blood ," Smith said, patiently.
  "And?" Fogg snapped.
  "And they found nothing."
  Fogg snorted. "If you were a witness to such a crime, you wouldn't stick around to be interviewed."
  "My thoughts exactly," Smith said. Fogg looked at him. "So," he said again, " was there a witness?"
  Smith told him about the boy. Fogg looked thoughtful. "You know that part of town," he said. Smith nodded. "The⦠undesirables ," Fogg said. Again, Smith merely nodded.
  "Good," Fogg said. "Then follow that trail."
  Smith was angry with himself. He had been so close⦠Could he have prevented the attack? Could he himself have seen the killer?
  Was he following the wrong path? This chain of events did not begin in London. He was looking at it wrong. He needed to step back, to start at the beginning. He said, half to himself, "But the killer is here."
  He raised his head, saw Fogg smirk.
  "Do you know where I've been in the past few hours, as you two were having your little heart-to-heart in there?" Fogg said.
  Smith said, "No."
  "I was called to Dover," Fogg said.
  "They found another body," Smith said. Thinking furiously â How could the killer get from London to Dover in that time?
  "Yes," Fogg said. "They found a body."
  "Who is it?"
  "Somebody. Nobody. A pastor, by name of Brown. It seems he was in the habit of crossing the Channel regularly."
  Smith: "A courier?"
  Fogg, with pursed lips: "Possibly."
  "What was he carrying?"
  "Nothing was found on the body."
  "But the injury matches?"
  "It matches."
  "So our killer is on his way to France?"
  "He was not on the ferry â that my people could find."
  But the killer had his own ways of getting around, and not be seen, Smith thought. He felt suddenly helpless. Chasing shadows, they called it in the trade: following an impossible trail, and never catching up.
  Fogg signalled the driver. The baruch-landau stopped and the door opened, as though by itself.
  "Get out," Fogg said. And, as Smith climbed out into
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