The Assassin's Assassin Read online

operation, was surprise. Thamesis knew neither him, his business, nor his intention— and that alone made him more dangerous than her.

  He addressed his client confidently. ‘This matter will need three things that you will not like: money—’

  ‘That’s no object.’

  ‘—Time—’

  ‘Oh— really?’

  ‘I won’t make a myth of your legend overnight. I could, I suppose, but I won’t. She’s been paid, hasn’t she? She’s no threat to you? Well, then. I’ll take my time, and you can be confident of the result.’

  The widow fumbled for another cigarette. ‘Alright, but don’t let it drag on too long, that’s all. What was the third thing?’

  He watched her calmly. ‘You must hire her again.’

  The cigarette rolled from the widow’s fingers. ‘No— no, that’s impossible. I can’t face her— especially not now.’

  ‘Come, come. You faced your husband over the breakfast table every morning, didn’t you, when you knew he had a mistress, and who that mistress was, and what she would do. Half an hour with Thamesis will be easy.’

  ‘But why? What for?’

  ‘Engage her to assassinate me.’

  ‘What? That’s ridiculous— and what’s more, reckless. I tell you her methods are extremely effective.’

  ‘I’m touched by your concern,’ he answered sardonically. ‘But leave me to consider that. I told you this would take time, because she takes time— she “lures them in”, as you said. If it were easy for me to track her down or find her out, she wouldn’t have sustained her career so successfully for very long. You must lure her. I think you’ll enjoy it. Tell her I’ve a will in your favour— or I’m blackmailing you— why not say I’ve been hired to murder you? It doesn’t really matter— just set her on me, and trust me to bite before I’m bitten.’

  This widow was nothing if not a woman of resolution, so it did not take much more persuasion to reach an agreement. And the result was that, towards the end of a mild September, the assassin found himself attending a fine musical soirée at Somerset House, on the Strand— it was a private party, but the crocodile-widow had engineered his invitation. The Fountain Court of the old palace, a classical quadrangle open to the air, was filled with expensively dressed people, milling between the white jets that spouted up in columns from the pavement. But their idle chatter, compliments on the setting, the champagne, the Mozart, were of absolutely no relevance or even significance to our hired man, as he moved among their numbers. He was watchful without appearing to be, taut while outwardly relaxed, casual while inwardly ticking like a mechanism; his object was Thamesis, and his whole consciousness concentrated upon her.

  He knew she would attend, and this would be their second encounter. Their first, something over a fortnight earlier, had given him a short insight into her method. His employer had carried out his instructions and engaged Thamesis once more, so he knew he had only to wait until she attempted to ensnare him. But on the first occasion, when they spent some hours in the same room together at a busy event, she did not bother— she did not even seem to glance in his direction. Her tactic was clearly the same as his, to wait, and let the victim approach of their own accord— so they both did nothing. But he slyly appraised her appearance nevertheless, as she no doubt did his, and he was pleased enough with what he saw to wish to be magnanimous, and break the stalemate. He may as well play into her hands, after all; there was no need to lengthen the business unnecessarily by making her set out her wares to entice him. So, towards the close of the evening, he contrived to pass her on a staircase, as he was ascending, and she running down.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, standing by to let her go.

  She smiled charmingly, and made to continue on her way.

  ‘Aren’t you the famous Thamesis?’ he enquired.

  She paused, and looked up with a reproving, but half-smiling, expression. ‘Aren’t you ashamed?’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of being a thief.’

  ‘I didn’t know I was.’

  ‘You’ve robbed me, haven’t you? But I’ll get my own back.’ —and with that she was gone.

  As an opening volley it was just enough, and now, among the fountains that early-autumn evening, he prepared himself for the second round.

  He noted her arrival, spying her at a distance as she bobbed among the crowd, never settling. She came nowhere near him, and as before, seemed unaware of his presence. It was designed obliviousness, of course, and he waited to see how long she would maintain it; but at length her patience out-reached his, and he found himself obliged to speak, or waste the evening altogether. The music was finished, the light applause expended, and the multitude thinning; Thamesis was nowhere in sight, and he made towards the terrace beyond the quadrangle to see if she might be there— and as he came to the doors, she came through them, and met him.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he opened. ‘I thought I might find you here.’

  ‘Really? Why?’ She smiled with interest.

  ‘You live in a gilded bubble, don’t you? And this is one.’ He glanced around at the splendid scene.

  ‘A silver bubble, I hope,’ she said, laughing. ‘Gold’s not my colour.’

  He raised a wry eyebrow. ‘I’ve heard otherwise.’

  She glanced down, and replied shortly: ‘You were lied to.’

  But as she was turning off to leave, she paused, and asked curiously: ‘Why do you say I live in a bubble?’

  ‘I’ve heard that, as well. And judging by these surroundings, I’m inclined to believe it.’

  ‘But why a bubble?’

  ‘Oh, come on, it’s an old comparison.’

  She cocked her head enquiringly.

  He shrugged. ‘Well, this world of yours is all glitter and show, but contains nothing.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘Just you, floating above the real world— the grisly world outside.’ He gestured over her shoulder, beyond the enclosing palace.

  She shook her head with a new, subtler smile. ‘Believe me, I know all about reality— my bubble is transparent, I suppose— I can see through it.’

  ‘But do you ever look?’

  Thoughtfully, she linked her arm through his, and led him back into the courtyard.

  ‘Why should I? All I’d see is slavery, crime, depravity, hatred— life in the city. I can’t change it, so why dwell on it? Don’t you prefer my bubble too? The arts, music, conversation— these are the highest achievements of society. Why forget them, just because the world outside is “grisly”?’

  ‘You mean why remember the hatred and depravity— why notice the things that cause them? Don’t forget, though, that bubbles are fragile— one day it might all burst in on you.’

  ‘All the worse for me if it does— then I’ll have time enough to study the real world, won’t I? So I’ll spare myself for now.’

  She beamed, and he could not help but chuckle. ‘Isn’t society supposed to make that “life in the city” you describe better for the poor souls who have to live it?’

  ‘Well, you see that it doesn’t. That’s what humanity’s for, not society.’

  ‘So you’ve no humanity.’ He examined her upturned face. ‘It’s true, then?’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Something else I’ve heard— that you’ve no feelings.’

  ‘Aha, you’ve heard that? Are you sure it wasn’t that I’ve no heart?’

  ‘Isn’t it the same?’

  ‘Not at all— I’ve feelings enough, believe me. They hardly let me alone. When I see others suffering, I feel acutely— anguish, pity— and especially when I see the hurt I’ve caused, I’m not cold— I’m tortured. But I don’t do anything about it— I don’t care. That’s what tortures me: I can only sympathise, because in the end, I’m indifferent. So as I say, I have feelings, but no heart.’

  ‘You’re very frank about it. You don’t recommend yourself.’

  She laughed in proof of her point.
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br />   ‘I should be wary of you, then, Thamesis,’ he concluded, ‘since you hurt people so carelessly.’

  ‘No!’ she protested, laughing. ‘Not carelessly! If I’m going to hurt, I hurt on purpose. You, for instance— I still mean to punish you.’

  ‘Is that so? Why?’

  ‘Because of your robbery— and now you’ve robbed me twice, so I’ll make sure to double the penalty.’

  ‘How have I robbed you?’

  ‘Tut, tut. You should be a gentleman and confess your crime, rather than force me to accuse you.’

  That concluded the joust— others beckoned, and she departed with a single, amused glance back at him. He was satisfied. An intimacy had been established; the pace would increase from here on in.

  As he returned to Soho, he re-enacted the exchanges, and scrutinised them until he became irritated that he could not distract himself with another subject. Thamesis’ parting accusation, naturally, irritated him most of all— as it was obviously intended to do. In fact, his very sense of annoyance and curiosity at something expressly dealt in order to invoke those sensations, multiplied the irritation. He hated to react as others expected; but in this case he could not help it.

  And the sense of provocation, of unrest, did not subside the next day, or even the next week— instead, it began to saturate his time, so that his thoughts were never divorced from this woman he was meant to kill. For sure, it was not unusual for him to contemplate, long and thoroughly, an intended victim, in order to manipulate and finally remove them more appropriately and secretly. But his musings on Thamesis were not the same; they were not pragmatic