A Lynchman's Owl Read online

front of a short stoop, looking warily from side to side. Then she went up with her companion, who knocked and was let inside. A head poked out after them, looking furtively from left to right. And spying nothing out of the norm it soon vanished as well, and the door was firmly shut after them.

  A few moments later a long shadow belonging to a disheveled looking person would have been seen flitting past that same door. Armed with a half bottle of port and an uneven stride he could not have been mistaken for anything but a drunkard out for a late stroll. But still unseen eyes followed him wherever he went.

  Bailey then had every right to reason that he would gain very little going up and down the length of the alley in his hasty disguise. Indeed, it was not altogether inconceivable that he might be found out if he continued to loiter about the vicinity in this manner. But armed with his badge he had access to considerable resources which easily allowed him to set matters up with expectations. The patrolman standing guard at the corner of the street soon became a willing lackey on the merits of a few whispered words and faint promises of association with the mighty personalities of the realm. He in turn had a little authority in these parts, and together they returned to the alley, commencing a great study of the windows on the same side as the door which Madine and her companion had been admitted.

  Thankfully as a local man he seemed to know the layout of the buildings well, unassuming tall bricks of peeling grey mortar they were. He was able to put forward several helpful suggestions on the matter, and very soon they were quietly knocking up the first-floor apartment three doors down from the one which held Bailey’s interest with a polite but insistent rapping which at once drew a response. But once the door had been unbolted from within and something approaching a little of an opening appeared, I’m sorry to report all manner of civility became swiftly abandoned. Bailey, quicker than a cat, had a foot in the door to prevent it from being closed again. And the patrolman who had come with him stuck his face into the narrow space, armed by the twofold threats of the lily pin on his collar and the stock of his rifle being brandished in very open terms.

  “It’s official business, sir. Let us in and be quiet about it.”

  One look at the stoic, serious countenance of the short fellow was more than enough to earn the acquiescence of house’s occupant. A stout man in Bailey’s eyes, he started out of the way to yield the door, struggling despite his shaking frame to shield his family—a woman who was undoubtedly his wife and their two children—from this unexpected intrusion.

  “I’m a patriot, sir,” he managed as some resistance when they pushed their way inside.

  “Good for you,” said Bailey offhandedly. “We don’t care. My man here will tell you what we need.”

  To his credit, the patrolman managed in the little window of time afforded to him to assuage the fears of this little family which found their humble lodgings so suddenly invaded. He assured them that nothing was to come of the matter, but for the use of their keys.

  “Keys, sir?”

  “You are the landlord of these apartments, are you not?”

  “Y-yes, my lord. How did you know?”

  Bailey looked towards his companion.

  “Come now,” said the patrolman with a wearied sigh. “It is obvious. Your doorknob alone is polished brass, whereas all others in this line of houses are making do with latch and key. Your inscription is gilt, though long since faded now. These are open and frank evidence to your ownership of these buildings. But I have no need of them for I have been standing at my post at the end of this street for the better part of two decades, and know every dwelling here and their lodgers as well as the back of my hands. It’s me, sir. Now Mr. Gaston, keys, if you please.”

  Out they came from the landlord’s pocket with a ring and a jingle, and Bailey wasted no time in letting know the patrolman (who relayed his instructions to the landlord) as to how best they might be put to use. They were both conscripted to help. Soon afterwards they found themselves back outside, passing down a short length of the alley with the landlord leading, carrying his toolbox in his arms, and the patrolman taking up the rear. They found another door and were swiftly let inside. Only Bailey, however, followed the much befuddled man up the short flight of stairs, while the patrolman was left in the street with his hands on his hips and a glower on his face as a deterrence for any unwanted interest they might provoke from the neighborhood at this late hour. At the top they came to another door, narrow and tall, where the landlord swiftly selected a key from the ring and inserted it into the lock, speaking quietly as he went about his business.

  “You are very fortunate, my lord, that this particular apartment happens to be unoccupied at present. The previous lodger was second foreman down at the paper mill. A good enough fellow, but after complaining about noise downstairs he has since found other arrangements more suited to his liking. His apartment is located directly above that one which has your interest, and I give you full leave over the management of the place for as long as you need. Truth to be told I am as well not fond of the people downstairs, but they pay on time without a hassle, and that sort is difficult to come by lately. I do not know the young man well at all though, of that I can assure you in utmost confidence. And all that they do, or what might be suspected of doing, I am completely ignorant.”

  So eager was he to profess his innocence of whatever wrongdoing he imagined his tenants might be guilty of, he was only altogether too glad when Bailey seemed to take no notice of the matter entirely.

  “Only take care that your family remains as discreet about our business tomorrow as you have promised me tonight,” said he to the landlord after taking his keys and pocketing them. “Or else I shall have to visit again. Women especially tend to speak too freely, and I hope you can control yours better than others I have known and met before.”

  “If she asks,” the landlord swiftly promised, wiping sweat from his brows, “I’ll give her a knock about the head with my shoe.”

  “You do that, my good man.”

  Once they were inside the landlord’s aid was again enlisted in tearing up the flooring. The room was a single modest sized chamber of drab grey walls and worn molding, bare and devoid of furniture or accessories save for a single wooden backscratcher discovered discarded beneath the carpet. On lifting and rolling it away into a corner they set to work with the tools. The floorboards were already uneven from years of disrepair, and with a little effort they were able to thin it out further by removing a plank or two, until all that which stood between the two apartments sitting atop one another were some overlapping beams with crooked seams. The landlord, having completed his fair share of the work, was summarily dismissed from the premises, if not entirely from Bailey’s service altogether. He was made to sit outside the closed apartment door in the post of a sentry, armed with a ready excuse should anyone penetrate the stalwart guard outside. This he did without delay.

  Alone now, Bailey flattened himself against the floor like a sniffing hound with his rear raised wriggling into the air. He produced from his pocket that most curious of instruments—a stethoscope by any measure of imagination—but modified as a tool of spy-craft. Armed with this device he managed, after several taps with a little hammer, to find the most appropriate spot to apply it, catching a few errant syllables from the conversation in the apartment directly below. Happily, they were just getting on with the subject, and his timely arrival yielded the lion’s share of the dialogue he was hoping to hear.

  Madine was there, along with several others, to judge by the number of voices which swelled ringing hollow and distant through the tube to reach his earpiece. Theirs were lively voices and words which betrayed the common age shared by the young men and women below, made animated through youth and purpose. Behind their voices the noise attributed by the landlord to the complaints filed against his tenants was plainly recognizable to Bailey as belonging to a small printing press going merrily about its business. Its
purpose was readily divulged by the conversation going on around its methodical crashes. For these young people, to hear them tell of it, met often in secret beneath these walls discolored by fresh spilled ink to handle rollers and print newspapers in the glow of oil lanterns. They drew satirical caricatures of the Prime Minister and his Cabinet, and wrote columns criticizing the injustices of the nation—all of it printed on paper beneath a header of an owl spreading out its wings on every sheet. Now they were arguing whether or not this practice should be continued in the face of what they perceived to be imminent, looming danger.

  “You shouldn’t have,” said one voice belonging to a woman who was obvious in trying to put the blame on Madine for their most recent predicament. “You should never have approached him at the counter when you did, let alone asking outright about his patrons. You made him reveal himself to you! And in doing so you have caught his eye.”

  “Look,” countered another voice belonging to one of the young men, coming quickly to Madine’s defense, “We don’t know this fellow is here for us. Not for sure, I mean. How could anyone have our number when we’ve only been at this for weeks?”

  “Weeks