I carried a knife in my bag that Munro had provided when I first set off on my world travels, along with lessons in the use of.
The thought was initially ridiculous. An eighty-six-year-old woman who was no taller than Lily taught how to use a knife?
Yet, this was a woman who had fought off a street thief with her umbrella and inflicted substantial damage until the constables arrived.
I did reason with her that she should forget the knife and rely on her umbrella in the future. My recommendation had fallen on deaf ears.
Merely the week before, she had showed me the blade that Munro had provided and she had already had several lessons. London thieves were not safe.
Brodie and I arrived at the gymnasium. As we approached the front counter with that display board behind that listed weekly classes I noticed they had added women’s defense classes.
“That could be dangerous,” Brodie commented.
I ignored the sarcasm. I was quite well accomplished in the art of self-defense and it had been quite useful in the past.
I asked the attendant at the counter if we might speak with Herr Schmidt. He picked up the handset with one of those speaking tubes, a new addition since we were last there.
There was a brief conversation in German. Brodie gave our names, and that conversation ended.
“You will please wait,” we were told.
Herr Schmidt eventually made his appearance. He was portly with short greying hair that stood on end. A long, bushy handlebar mustache extended past his chin, while thickly muscled arms were evident beneath the shirt he’d tucked into rough work pants. Tall boots reached to his knees.
He had immigrated to London over thirty years earlier with his family and then established the gymnasium. In spite of his size, he was proficient with a rapier and several other weapons, and was rumored to have once been belonged to the Hessian military in Germany.
He was well-known in the German community, acquired information from others, and had been a source of valuable information in the past.
“Mr. Brodie and Lady Forsythe,” he greeted us with that thick German accent that remained after all the years in London.
“I would ask what do I owe the pleasure, as you say? But I know it is not a social call. Yes?” He escorted us to his office at the back of the main floor of the gymnasium.
Rather than engage in lengthy conversation, Brodie laid the note that I had deciphered on the desk in front of him.
“What do ye know about this?”
The expression on Herr Schmidt’s face changed. Not usually congenial, nevertheless he had been pleasant enough in the past. As I say, in the past.
He shoved the paper back across the desk, and sat back in his chair.
“I think you play a dangerous game, Herr Brodie, and dangerous for a lady,” he added with a look over at me.
“Do ye recognize it?” Brodie insisted. “Is it a name? An organization? What can you tell us?”
“Szábo,” he spat out with that heavy accent once again and in a way that said he recognized it. “It is a man. Not one you want to know.”
“Then you know who he is,” I replied.
“I know what is said about him.”
“What would that be?” Brodie inquired.
Herr Schmidt didn’t answer. Instead, he reached behind him and opened a cabinet door. He removed a bottle and uncorked it. He poured a glass, then a second one and pushed it across to Brodie.
“Drink, Herr Brodie. Then, we will talk.” He downed the drink, what I assumed was very likely schnapps, a favorite in the German community.
Brodie did the same, then set the glass back on top of the desk somewhat sharply.
If the situation wasn’t quite so serious, it would have been amusing. Two men, each staring the other down, in some ancient medieval male ritual.
