Creeping up the rickety staircase, he appeared suddenly and to the utmost surprise of half a dozen boys who were playing a game of cribbage by the light of a solitary candle. Huddled beside the hearth directly behind them were as many boys again wrapped in rags and old blankets against the bitter cold.
'Now 'ow many times 'as I told you, keep a sharp eye!' Ikey admonished. 'The lad what's supposed to be watchin' out is asleep on the landin', lushed out and smellin' o' gin!' Ikey sucked at his teeth and wagged a mittened finger at the urchins seated crosslegged around a box. 'Gentlemen, gentlemen! Cribbage in this kind o' light ain't no good for the senses. You'll lose your touch, the light of a candle dulls the mind and makes it too easy to palm a card or deal a crooked 'and. Brightness be what's called for, where everything can be seen, clear as daylight, open and negotiable as a whore's cunny.'
The boys laughed loudly at this last remark but Ikey held up his hand for silence. 'A cardsharp to be warranted any good must make 'is play in the best o' conditions. We'll 'ave no second-rate broadsman spreadin' the flats in darkness in my school o' learnin'! A trade ain't worth 'avin' if you're not the best there is at it.'
His young pupils crowded about him. 'There's a people what's lookin' for ya, Ikey, is ya in lavender then?' a young tooler named Sweetface Mulligan enquired.
'Perhaps I is and perhaps I ain't, it all depends on who is lookin' and whether it be opportunity knockin' or disadvantage breakin' down the door.'
'It's Bow Street! Some say it be City police! All about Petticoat Lane they is! Anyone seen ya, they asks! Rewards is offered! Never seen so much law about, 'as we lads? Wotcha do, Ikey? Murder was it? There's talk o' forgery! Millions o' pounds! There be a poster o' yer gob pasted everywhere! We's proud to know ya, Ikey!' All this and more they chorused crowding around Ikey, the smaller ones hopping up and down and jumping on the backs of the larger boys to get a closer look in the semi-darkened room.
'And Mistress Hannah!' a boy they called Onion, whose birth name was Pickles, shouted. 'She been lookin' for ya an' all!'
Ikey shrugged his shoulders. 'It's true, my dears, the constabulary 'as a sharp eye peeled for me.' He looked around slowly, spread his hands and his face took on a look of regret. 'O' course I apologises for scarperin' without informin' you, gentlemen. A matter of urgent expediency, you understand? No offence intended and I 'opes none is taken. No time to pay me respects or bid you all adieu.'
They nodded, happy at the compliment he'd paid their mutual fraternity. Ikey rolled his eyes and seemed to look at each of them in turn. 'Now we 'asn't seen me, 'as we, lads? I means, no seein' to the degree o' not seein' nothin' at all!'
Ikey's fingers flicked heavenwards as though to expel the memory of having seen him completely from their minds. He stopped and lifted the candle from the box, the hot glass warming his mittened fingers. Holding the lighted jar before him, he inspected each boy's dirty face, watching as they solemnly nodded acquiescence. 'We doesn't want no pigs sniffin' round askin' awkward questions now does we, my dears?'
It was not Ikey's intention to stay long at the Academy of Light Fingers, although he did not indicate this to the urchins around him. While they were well trained in all matters of villainy and each had a healthy disregard for the constabulary, he knew he could ill afford to trust them. They were 'street Arabs' seldom allowed the importance of being noticed and any one of them with three or four noggins of gin to loosen his tongue would not be able to resist the urge to boast of his knowledge of Ikey's return. Ikey needed them now for only one purpose, to find Bob Marley as quickly as possible.
Under normal circumstances there were half a hundred places in the surrounding rookeries where Ikey might indefinitely conceal his presence, though he was not foolish enough to suppose that these would now apply. As a Jew in trouble with the law he was fair prey for all but his own kind. Even though his standing as the Prince of Fences was considerable, they would come snarling in for the kill, the promise of a large reward sufficient to overcome their normal tendency to remain stum. Ikey was aware the criminal code of honour was a fragile thing and would always buckle with the opportunity for a quick profit or a favour returned. He knew this as a certainty, for he was himself no different.
With the promise of a good tightener washed down with a pint of best beer at the nearby chop house, and with the further inducement of a shilling for all and a gold sovereign for the boy who turned out to be the fortunate finder, Ikey sent his young associates off into the winter streets. He directed them to the Haymarket at the popular West End to find and bring Bob Marley back to him.
'When you finds 'im, ask for 'is ear, very quiet mind, say that Ikey Solomon requests the pleasure of 'is company.'
It was not an hour later when Ikey, drowsing at the hearth, was awakened in a great start by a small urchin named Sparrer Fart, a tiny lad of ten with an open angelic face which, together with his size, gave him the appearance of being much younger. He showed all the makings of becoming an expert tooler, with fingers light and sticky as cobwebs and the fearless disposition of the young.
'I brung 'im, Ikey. I found Mr Marley. Can I 'ave the sov what's mine?' Sparrer Fart stuck out his dirty hand and grinned. 'Much obliged, I'm sure!'
'Where?' Ikey cried, shocked at the sudden awakening and alarmed that he hadn't heard the boy ascend the stairs, though the howl of the winter wind and the natural creaking and groaning of the ancient building would have masked Sparrer's light footfall.
'E won't come up them stairs.' Sparrer grinned. 'Too danegis, 'e reckons.'
Ikey, by now fully recovered of his senses, removed a gold sovereign from the interior of his coat and held it out to the youngster, pulling it out of the reach as the urchin snatched at it. Ikey shook his head. 'Tut, tut! First principle o' business, Master Sparrer Fart! Seein' is believin', always inspect the merchandise before you pays fer it, my dear.' Bending to retrieve the candle, he rose from where he was seated on the cribbage box and proceeded carefully down the stairs.
Bob Marley was waiting in the darkness of the tiny downstairs hallway which was now clearly lit by the light of Ikey's candle. He wore a heavy dark coat which fell almost to his ankles with a pair of stout boots protruding from trousers of rough corduroy. A tartan scarf was wrapped about his face so that only his eyes showed between the scarf and the rim of his battered top hat. He removed the scarf at Ikey's approach and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat.
This form of attire was unusual for Marley, who liked to be seen about the town as a proper swell, dressed in the latest fashion. Ikey's keen eye noted this disparity in his dress and concluded that Marley had not been found by Sparrer Fart in the Haymarket, where a man of his reputation would not venture dressed in so poor a manner.
Ikey turned to look sternly at Sparrer Fart. 'We went off to spend our shillin' on a tightener and a noggin o' gin then, did we? We went local and not to the Hay-market did we? We didn't do no lookin' at all!' Ikey glanced at Bob Marley and winked. 'Methinks, we chanced upon Mr Marley 'ere by sheer luck and great good fortune and because we 'as a greedy guts!'
The boy shuffled, looking down at his feet. 'I found 'im di'nt I? I done good!' He moved up to Ikey and began to clutch imploringly at his coat. 'It were a fair find an' all!' he whimpered into the folds of Ikey's greasy coat.
Ikey clucked, wrapping his free arm around the boy's shoulder. 'We all needs a bit o' luck, my dear. Gawd knows yours truly could use a speck o' good fortune right now.' He pushed the young lad gently away and his hand went into his coat and a moment later appeared with half a sovereign held between forefinger and thumb. 'I tell you what I'll do, we'll keep 'arf a sov back on account of 'ow you disobeyed instructions and I'll give you 'arf a sov for deliverin' the goods. Punishment and reward both at the same time, now what could be fairer than that, my dear?'
The small boy looked doubtful. 'It ain't fair, I done what ya asked! Ya said a sov for 'im what found 'im!' He moved close to Ikey plucking at his coat. 'It ain't fair, I done what
ya asked, I found 'im.'
This time Ikey pushed him away roughly, but the boy grabbed onto the coat and Ikey smacked him across the ear. 'Disobedience! Discipline! 'Arf a sov and you're lucky to be keepin' it, boy!'
Marley's hand shot out and snatched the coin from Ikey's fingers. '
'Arf a mo, Ikey, one sov was promised the lad, one sov must be given!'
'Lessons! Boys must learn lessons! Obedience, discipline,' Ikey whinged.
Marley laughed. 'Promises! Boys must 'ave promises kept.' He tossed the half sovereign into the air and caught it. This'll pay for the inconvenience o' crossing the lane,' he said, pocketing the coin. 'Ya owe the brat a sov, so pay up, Ikey Solomon!'
Ikey's eyes widened in surprise. 'You was in the Hare and Hounds?' he exclaimed, naming the flash-house across the lane.
Marley nodded. 'Ya was due back 'bout now, ya couldn't 'ave gone to too many places what wouldn't 'ave shopped ya, this were one,' he explained simply, giving Ikey a slow smile. 'How may I be o' service to ya?'
Ikey turned to Sparrer Fart and handed him a sovereign. '
'Ang about and you might learn something, me boy! See what we just seen demonstrated?' He turned and gave Bob Marley an oily smile, returned his gaze to the small boy and stooping low he pushed the candle close to his dirty little face. 'See? Discipline!' He tapped the side of his forehead with his forefinger. 'Use o' the noggin, thinkin'! That's trainin', my dear, that's discipline, that be what makes a great tooler into a swell mobsman, an aristocrat o' the art o' pickin' pockets!' Ikey straightened up, satisfied that he'd recovered his dignity by making his original point and at the same time had sufficiently softened Bob Marley with his flattery. Patting Sparrer Fart on the head, he said, 'You 'as just 'ad the benefit o' the wisdom o' Solomon, my dear!'
Sparrer Fart looked up and pointed to Bob Marley and then to Ikey. 'Oh yeah, 'ow come Mr Marley's got 'arf a sov what's yours and I've got a sov? Be that the wisdom o' Solomon?'
The boy ducked as Ikey swatted at his head with his free hand.
Marley laughed, delighted at the boy's quick mind. 'You've not lost yer touch, Ikey, yer still the best o' the kidsmen, there ain't no one knows better 'ow to pick the fly ones!' He too patted the top of Sparrer Fart's greasy cap. 'Stay away from the gin, you've got all the makin's, son.'
Sparrer hadn't moved. 'What about t'other lads, Ikey? You promised them a shillin' fer lookin' and a good tightener wif a pint o' best beer to follow.'
Marley looked suspiciously over at Ikey. 'That true?'
Ikey gave him a sheepish grin and a reluctant hand went into the interior of his coat and shortly returned with two sovereigns which he handed to Sparrer. 'Mind you give this to Sweetface Mulligan to share out. He's the kidsman when I'm away. Now scarper! Bugger orf!' He turned to Marley. 'Shall we go upstairs, there's a fire in the 'earth.' Then remembering Marley's reluctance he added, 'It ain't dangerous, only a tad rickety but the stairs be solid enough.'
'What, up them?' Marley said in alarm and pointed above to the dark shape of the stairs where Sparrer Fart had disappeared as though swallowed into a deep black hole. 'Not bleedin' likely! We'll talk down 'ere if ya don't mind.'
Ikey clasped his hands together in front of his chest. 'I needs a lair, a place where somebody what's lookin'
'ard and knows what they's lookin' for, can never 'ope to discover who it is they wants to find.'
'Hmm, a good 'iding place o' that nature, cost ya 'eaps,' Marley said speculatively. 'Big reward out, Ikey, 'arf London Town's lookin' for…' grinning he quoted The Times, 'the Jew what's financially undermined England!' Marley shook his head in a melodramatic way. '
'Fraid ya ain't got no friends no more. City police is spreadin' five pounds notes about just for keepin' a sharp eye out. There's a fortune on yer 'ead.' Marley paused and gave Ikey an evil grin. 'Matter o' fact, I could be interested meself!'
Ikey reeled back in horror, his eyes large with fright. 'Don't talk like that, Bob Marley! I taught you everythin' you knows. Was I not your kidsman?' Ikey smiled, his voice somewhat calmer as he remembered. 'You was a good snakesman though, that I'll freely admit. In and out o' the smallest openin's, a natural eye for good stuff too!' Ikey spread his arms and smiled disarmingly. 'Look at you, my dear! Not a copper's dirty great 'and on your shoulder in all these years. Never stood in front o' the bench, never seen the judge's dreaded gavel come down pronouncing a sentence, nor 'as you 'ad the misfortune to look out from the inside o' the bars o' a Newgate cell.'
Ikey paused to emphasise his point, jabbing his forefinger at Bob Marley. 'That don't come natural, my dear! That's trainin', expert trainin', what you got young from a certain someone what is present and is beseechin' you to offer an 'elping hand in 'is hour o' most urgent need!'
Ikey cleared his throat and his tone became unctuous. 'I'm a bit short at the moment, unforeseen expenses and the like, but you knows me credit to be good. Me lovin' wife Hannah will pay you when she comes to see me.'
Marley shook his head. 'Don't know 'bout lovin' wife, Ikey. Yer missus weren't none too pleased findin' out 'bout Mary and yer high-class brothel in Bell Alley an' all!'
'Oh shit, she knows about Mary? 'Ow'd she know about Bell Alley then?'
Marley laughed. 'S'pect she read it in The Times. The 'ole of London's talkin'
'bout you, Ikey. What ya done an' all, inta-nash-nil forgery ring, plots to send the 'ole country broke wif fake English longtails floodin' the European market. Britain's credit in question by the Frenchy parleyment! Austry-'Ungarian empire financially embarrassed and undermined! Yer a right notorious bastard, you is. If ya wasn't in so much shit you'd be the bloomin' toast o' the London criminal class. You is the biggest thing what's 'appened since Queen Caroline's trial!'
Ikey ignored Marley's exaggerated banter. 'Well, you may be sure Mary will pay you, then,' Ikey whined.
'Mary? Mary's in Newgate! She's been in front o' the beak and is awaitin' sentencin' at the Old Bailey. She's Botany Bay bound for sure.' Marley sniffed and looked ominously at Ikey. 'City arrested 'er three days after ya scarpered, charged 'er wif runnin' a bawdy 'ouse, but that were only the excuse.'
'Oh Jesus!' Ikey cried. 'Mary get the boat for runnin' a bawdy house? It ain't possible, runnin' a respectable brothel ain't no crime what merits transportation!'
'That's what folks is sayin' in the Lane. There's talk she'll get the full fourteen years.' Then Marley added darkly, 'On account of you, ya bastard. City ain't convinced she don't know nuffink 'bout that printin' press and what you've been up to wif the deaf and dumb Frenchy.'
Ikey looked up astonished. 'She kept stum? She didn't bleat?' If Mary had turned King's evidence and Ikey were caught there wasn't a judge in England who wouldn't find her information damning.
'She didn't say nuffink to nobody! That's a bloody good nemmo that is.' Marley jabbed a finger into Ikey's scrawny chest. 'Better'n what the likes o' you deserves, Ikey Solomon.'
Marley paused and shook his head. '
'Fraid I can't give ya no credit, Ikey. I can't take no chances.' He shrugged. 'So that's it, it's all a matter o' business, knows what I mean? Pay up and I 'elps you to escape, don't and I marches ya straight to the City constabulary and collects me considerable reward for the heroic hap-prehension of England's number one notorious villain.'
Ikey examined the tops of his mittened hands, shook his head slowly, then looked up at Bob Marley accusingly. 'You got a bet each way, is that it!' In a broken whisper he added, 'Shame on you, Bob Marley!'
Bob Marley shrugged.'
'Fraid so, me old matey. Business is business!' He paused, grinning. 'Now who was it taught me that?'
'Ow much?'
'Twenty sovs down.'
'Twenty sovs!' Ikey wailed. 'That be pure daylight robbery!'
Marley, not bothering to reply, shrugged and held out his hand.
'Fifteen? Fifteen sovs!'
Marley shook his head slowly. 'I'd like to, Ikey, but this ain't no ordinary deadlurk what'
s needed. I got expenses. Twenty sovs now and ten fer every week what I keeps ya safe in 'iding.'
Ikey made one final attempt. 'Twenty and five!'
'Twenty and ten, take it or leave it. I 'asn't got all night.'
Ikey sighed and, turning his back to Bob Marley, he foraged deep within his great coat and fished into a bag of coins which he knew contained two hundred and seventeen gold sovereigns, the last of the money Silas Browne and Maggie the Colour had paid him in cash for the Bank of England watermarked paper.
Getting back from Birmingham had proved an expensive business. Twice he'd had to pay heavy bribes when he'd been recognised from his picture on posters which seemed to be sprouting like crocuses in April on the walls of every village or town through which he passed on his circuitous route to London.
Ikey slowly counted the twenty sovereigns into the slasher's hand. Marley counted the coins for himself, biting every second one as a test. Satisfied, he placed them in the pit pocket of his vest, then held his palm out to Ikey, wiggling the ends of his fingers.
'What?' Ikey asked, his eyes large and innocent.
Marley wiggled his fingers again. 'The ten sovs what's the first week's rent in advance,' he said quietly.
Ikey seemed at the point of tears as he counted ten more coins into Marley's outstretched maw.
'Cheers, Ikey!' Marley said, acknowledging the payment, then added, 'I got a nice little place, a deadlurk on Jacob's Island what is perfect for the purpose o' bein' in lavender. Lots o' bolt holes. Mind, 'iding a man o' yer extreme notoriety what everyone's lookin' for ain't easy and is very dangerous to me own safety.'
Bob Marley, now all business, placed his hands on his hips and looked quizzically at Ikey. 'You'll not be goin' out wif me dressed like that. Ain't a magistrates' runner or nark in London wouldn't recognise ya in an instant in that schemata. Buggered if I know 'ow ya got this far. Ya stick out like a bloomin' whore at a christening, ya does!'
The Potato Factory Page 22