6

      ‘He’s a pretty slick son of a bitch, ain’t he, that Lawrence Street. Lajos Kossuth – Lord Almighty, that would never have occurred to me. Not in a thousand years.’

      The Colonel picked up the cut-crystal decanter he’d removed from the restaurant, took another swig straight from the neck and then went back to loading the Navy revolver that hung from his right hand. The pint or so of whiskey that he’d already imbibed was making this rather difficult, however; Edward had already been obliged to chase several dropped bullets across the sand-scattered floorboards.

      The secretary was sitting beside his employer, smoking a penny cigar. They were in Marchant’s Shooting Gallery, on the opposite side of Leicester Square to the Hotel de Provence. It was a rough-edged establishment, a whitewashed vault with a gun-rack at one end and an assortment of lime-lit targets at the other. A split log had been laid out about twenty yards from the targets to mark the firing line. All of the customers were male, mostly of the sort you’d expect to find clustered around a cock-fight – battered hats, loud chequered trousers and well-patched jackets were present in abundance. There was some money mixed in there too, though, a conspicuous minority of dissolute-looking gentlemen taking an evening away from Society. Rifles were the near-universal choice of weapon. Due to the effects of liquor and a general lack of expertise, the fire across the gallery was intermittent and less than accurate; but several spirited contests were underway nevertheless, with cash changing hands and victors crowing in triumph.

      Colonel Colt, with his revolver, his crystal whiskey decanter and his outlandish, fur-lined attire, was attracting the usual amount of attention. He’d been unimpressed by Marchant’s at first, declaring it a poor example of its kind and discoursing at some length on the inferiority of the guns on offer. But now, settled on the periphery with his belly full of strong liquor, a wad of tobacco in his cheek and a presentation case of pistols open on his lap, he looked about as comfortable and content as Edward had ever seen him.

      They’d left the hotel about half an hour earlier. A waiter had pursued them outside, attempting to reclaim the purloined decanter from the Colonel’s grasp; tucking a banknote in the fellow’s waistcoat and waving him away, Colt had run an eye around the coloured lights of the square, soon settling upon Marchant’s. The mustard-coloured barouche had drawn up beside them. Opening the door and leaning inside, the Colonel had retrieved a box of Navys from the small stock that was kept on board and headed over to the shooting gallery. Following close behind, Edward had imagined that he wished to fire off a few shots with one of his inventions to dispel the aggravation he’d doubtlessly accumulated during his conversation with the inexplicable Mr Street – who’d remained seated at his table, unfolding his newspaper and returning his glasses to his nose almost before they’d risen from their chairs.

      The secretary knew that he had witnessed something important in the Hotel de Provence. This Mr Street seemed to be going out of his way to further the interests of the Colt factory. There could be no doubt that hidden forces were working towards the achievement of their own ends. He’d decided that he would learn more.

      ‘Who would’ve thought it, though,’ Colt drawled, picking up the Navy once more and taking a bullet between thumb and forefinger. ‘Kossuth, a committed opponent of tyranny, held up as a hero by the British!’

      ‘Excuse me, Colonel?’

      The gun-maker laughed nastily. ‘You forget that you’re talking with an American here, Mr Lowry! We can still recall fighting our way out from under your tyranny, my young friend.’ He looked around the gallery with jolly ferocity. ‘Why, not ten years ago I myself was occupied with designing weapons – undersea mines of extraordinary power – expressly to keep our American harbours safe from the threat of your goddamn ships.’

      Edward picked a shred of tobacco from his lip, curbing a smile. This seemed a pretty blatant refutation of the so-called ‘Anglo-Saxon bond’ mentioned by Street in the Hotel de Provence – and which the Colonel had taken to inserting into his correspondence with British military figures and politicians at every opportunity. The Colt mind was clearly broad enough to encompass the odd contradiction.

      Finally managing to slot the last bullet into his pistol, the Colonel worked the loading lever and then set the hammer against one of the cylinder pins. Lifting the revolver up to examine it, chewing slowly on his plug, his meaty face assumed a look of almost reverential appreciation. ‘This arm here,’ he declared, ‘is so much finer than the wretched Adams I held in the office of that idiot Paget as to make any comparison downright odious.’

      The shining blue and brass Navy was starting to draw notice, as was surely Colt’s intention. Slowly, he turned his head and released a long spurt of tobacco juice onto the range’s sandy floor.

      ‘Mr Kossuth is not admired by everyone, Colonel,’ Edward volunteered. ‘His boldness in attacking emperors and tsars in his public addresses has made him many new enemies in the palaces of Europe. Louis Napoleon wouldn’t let him so much as set foot in France – and over here, during his last visit a couple of years ago, the few government men who extended a friendly hand found none other than Queen Victoria herself seeking their removal from office.’

      ‘Queen Victoria herself, eh?’ the Colonel mused. He took another drink, smacking his lips; and then casually spat out his plug, sending the little brown projectile sailing away into a far corner. ‘Perhaps that right there