Some Danger Involved by Will Thomas Page A

upon a large, gloomy open space which I recognized, by the dim light of a dirty stained-glass skylight, as being some sort of church. Barker passed briskly between the rows of benches, his big hands drumming against the corner of each pew. At the back of the sanctuary, he opened yet another door, then proceeded down a hallway and into a small room. It was dominated by a desk and illuminated by afternoon light from several windows on the west side. Behind the desk was a man of perhaps thirty-five years. He was bald, but that was all I could tell, for while he wrote furiously with his left hand, he held a large piece of beefsteak to his face with the other.
    “What a waste of good meat,” Barker remarked. The man put down the steak and stared at us. His right eye was swollen and discolored, obviously from a blow, and his misshapen nose and swollen ears plainly showed him to be a pugilist.
    “I plan to eat this when my eye is done with it.” He smiled, revealing a missing left canine. “Hello, Cyrus. Sportin’ another new assistant, I see.”
    “Thomas Llewelyn, the Reverend Andrew McClain, known at one time to the boxing fancy as ‘Handy Andy,’ former heavyweight champion of London. Bare knuckle, of course.”
    “Hello,” he said, grasping my hand in a viselike grip. “Don’t believe a word he says about that. Never had a day of formal religious training in my life. Just a calling as a missionary to Darkest Mile End Road. Also, regular sparring partner to a certain private detective.”
    “That’s private enquiry agent.”
    “As you say. What brings you to the mission? No, don’t answer that. You seek information. You want me to do your work for you.”
    Barker leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed. “I pay for the information. You’d still be prizefighting if it weren’t for my contributions to your cash box. But you know I don’t discuss money. I have a problem.”
    McClain leaned back and pressed the meat to his face again. “Enlighten me,” he said.
    “Not with that cutlet on your eye! Kindly put it down.”
    The steak made a slapping sound as it hit the plate.
    “Thank you. Now, have you heard about this poor Jewish fellow who was killed last week?”
    “A man bearing more than a passing resemblance to our Savior Jesus Christ is crucified a mile from here, and you wonder if a missionary has heard of it? Not half!”
    “The Jewish community,” Barker continued, ignoring the banter, “has requested that I look into it. What I’m wondering is whether his resemblance to Christ might have made him a target, and if the speakers in the area are agitating against the Jews. Not personal remarks, you understand, but actual calls for action against them. Anything that smacks of anti-Semitism, any written materials that might have been translated from the German or Russian—”
    “Or the French, or the Dutch,” Andrew McClain continued. “I understand. I’ll put my ear to the ground. Stay for lunch?” He regarded the steak.
    “Thank you, no, we have dined.”
    “Cheerio, then,” he said. “Cash box is on your left as you leave the sanctuary.”
    Outside, I ventured a remark. “Seems like a good fellow.”
    Barker nodded. “Salt of the earth. Worth any ten men in London.”
    “How’d he get the black eye?”
    “He has a habit of taking his beliefs to the people directly. Directly, that is, into the pubs on a Saturday night or a Monday afternoon. And since his dramatic conversion a few years back, he’s taken to turning the other cheek, at least to a point. Ah, he’s got a right hook that’ll fair tear your head off. It’s a thing of beauty.”
    “So, he’s not officially a member of the clergy.”
    “No, but that hasn’t stopped him from trying to evangelize the entire East End, and he’s not doing too bad a job of it. You’d be surprised at how many prostitutes, tramps, and criminals he’s helped turn their lives around. It’s hard to believe he was once one of the