The Unbelievers

by Alastair Sim

  “Well, Sergeant,” said Allerdyce, “will you come with me? I needn’t remind you of the circumstances of your predecessor’s dismissal.”

  “You can’t dismiss a brewer’s drayman for having a pint,” said the sergeant.

  “Excellent.”

  Allerdyce paid the doorman for both of them, and they went down a narrow passage lined with posters for past sporting events. He could hear shouts from a crowd inside. “Come on, Griffin! Kill them all!”

  The end of the passage opened into a large room. Allerdyce found himself looking down into a pit, in which a bull terrier was chasing rats against the wooden surrounds. Around the pit, in tiers like the anatomy demonstration room at the University, the crowd sat on wooden benches. The pit was illuminated from above by an eight-armed gas lamp. Beyond the pit and the seating a bar ran across the back wall of the room.

  A bell rang and a man in the front row reached forward, lifted the dog up by its collar, and slapped it hard across its haunches.

  “You have to do better than that, you useless cur.”

  The dog yelped as the man shoved it down behind the pit’s surround.

  “This is bigger than any dog-pit in Edinburgh,” said Allerdyce, straining his voice above the boos of the crowd.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I think we’d better get some drinks, in the interests of authenticity.”

  The crowd in the benches was thinning as men made their way to the bar at the end of the bout. McGillivray led the way in pushing through the bodies to make way for him and Allerdyce to get to the bar. As they negotiated their way through the crush Allerdyce noticed the variety of humanity which had been drawn to the pit. Gentlemen jostled with navvies. A party of red-tuniced soldiers had already reached the bar, some of them with their arms round cheaply-dressed women. To his left, he could hear sailors conversing in a foreign language which could be Danish or Norwegian. Ahead of him, an Irishman with a stout mongrel at his heels was demanding whisky.

  When they reached the front of the crush Allerdyce ordered two whiskies and passed one to the sergeant.

  The bell rang again, and the master of ceremonies called out from the centre of the pit.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please place your bets for the most anticipated bout of the evening. Champion ratter ‘Tiny’, newly arrived from Aberdeen, will attempt to kill fifty brown rats, specially brought in from the countryside, within the space of five minutes. If he succeeds, his owner will be presented with this splendid silver collar. If you believe this dog – a champion at sporting arenas throughout the country – will succeed, place your bets now.”

  “I suppose we ought to place a bet,” said Allerdyce, “to avoid being conspicuous.”

  “Definitely, sir.”

  “What do you think of the dog?”

  “Looks like a good prospect to me, sir.”

  They had to wait again as the crowd members pushed forward to the betting table which had been set up in the pit. Eventually Allerdyce found his way to the front.

  “A shilling on Tiny, please.”

  “A wise investment,” said the master of ceremonies, pocketing the money, “and a pleasure to welcome a new gentleman to the arena.”

  McGillivray put fourpence on the dog to win and they took their places on the bench second-nearest the front. The benches gradually filled as the crowd finished their betting. A tattooed man with a bloody apron hammered the surviving rats from the previous bout with his spade, then scooped them up into a sack with the rats the dog had killed, before spreading fresh sawdust over the blood.

  A man looking like a down-at-heel farmer stepped into the ring, holding a Jack Russell by the collar.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the master of ceremonies, “please welcome Tiny’s second, Lucy.”

  The farmer tied the Jack Russell by a short leash to a post in the centre of the pit then stepped back out again. A boy stepped in, holding a hessian sack by the neck. The sack seemed to be heaving and squirming of its own accord. The boy opened the sack and tipped the rats onto the sawdust.

  “Here,” said one of the soldiers, “how do we know that’s fifty rats? You could have slipped a few extra into that sack for all we know.”

  “This sporting arena has always been known for honesty and probity,” said the master of ceremonies, “and if you wish to enter the ring and count them you are welcome to do so.”

  “All right, just get on with it,” said the soldier.

  The rats momentarily sat dazed on the sawdust before seeing the dog tied in the middle. They scurried to the sides of the pit, climbing up on each other in little heaps which kept rearranging themselves as rats tried to climb to the top of the heap, only to be clambered over by their rivals for survival. The Jack Russell barked and strained at its leash.

  Allerdyce scanned the faces of the crowd. He’d seen the Duke’s portrait in Dalcorn House, and had a photograph of the Duke in his pocket. Every possible facial type seemed to be represented among the men sitting and shouting on the benches, clean-shaven, sideboarded or bearded; every hue from workmens’ nut-brown weatherbeatenness to the pallor of late-stage tuberculosis; every gradation from sobriety to near-paralytic drunkenness. But no-one had exactly the white hair, jowly face, and mouth twisted by permanent contempt which was apparent from the images of the missing Duke.

  The farmer now brought a brown-and-white Staffordshire bull terrier into the ring. Its tongue lolled lazily from its mouth.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the master of ceremonies, “please welcome Champion Tiny.”

  The farmer placed Tiny on the sawdust and the men stepped out of the pit. The dog sat down for a second and scratched its ear with its back paw.

  “Get on with it, for Jesus’ sake,” shouted the soldier. “I’ve got a guinea on you!”

  The Jack Russell was now straining and barking in the direction of the Staffordshire. Tiny stood up, yawned, and sauntered over in the direction of a pile of rats. As he approached the pile the rats dispersed to either side.

  “That dog’s been doped!” shouted the soldier.

  Tiny looked up in the direction of the man who was shouting. He stretched his paws in front of him, yawned again, and looked from side to side at the rats. The Jack Russell yelped incessantly at him.

  Damn, thought Allerdyce, that’s another shilling wasted.

  Without warning Tiny ran hard against the wooden side of the pit. The impact of the dog’s head against the wood sounded like someone had struck it with a mallet. When the dog turned round he had a rat between his teeth. He shook it from side to side then let it drop, looking for the next victim.

  The rats were cowering, more thinly distributed now, against the bottom of the wood. Tiny started to chase them round and round the ring, doubling back on himself every few seconds, each time catching a rat who’d failed to turn quickly enough. One by one he massacred them, the white patches on his muzzle turning bloody.

  “That’s more like it!” shouted the soldier above the cries of the crowd.

  The rats were thinning out now. Only about twenty survived. As if by common agreement they changed their tactic, dispersing themselves thinly over the floor of the pit, except where they were in range of the yapping and snarling Jack Russell.

  The tactic failed. Tiny stopped and looked around, before choosing a particular rat, launching himself at it with an explosive burst of his bulky muscles. Despite his bulk, he could twist and turn to match any rat and soon another handful were dead on the sawdust, a couple of them still with limbs twitching desperately despite their broken backs.

  Allerdyce fingered the change in his pockets, anticipating his winnings. Maybe he could treat Alice to the special edition of the Water Babies with coloured engravings.

  Pay attention, he thought. You’re not here to enjoy yourself. You’re here to find a missing person. He turned his attention away from the ring and back to the crowd. For an instant, his eyes met those of man he hadn’t seen before. He nudged
the sergeant.

  “Look, over there. Far side of the ring. Do you think it could be him?”

  “Where, sir?”

  “About five rows back. Seven people in from the right.”

  “Hard to say, sir. Might be.”

  “Keep an eye on him. Best be discreet – we’ll try to get him at the end of the bout. But if he makes a move before that we’ll have to catch him.”

  He looked back at the carnage in the ring. The surviving rats appeared to look at each other before reverting to forming a single writhing pile against the wood. Tiny launched again and again into the pile, each time pulling out a single rat, crushing it in his jaws, and tossing it aside.

  Finally only one living rat, a thin black creature whose rapid breaths were visible in its sides, faced Tiny. Tiny launched himself against the wood at it, but the rat jumped up and seized the dog’s muzzle. It sank its teeth into Tiny’s nose and blood flowed down. Its front claws clung to the dog’s cheeks while its rear feet and tail swung from side to side as the dog shook its head to dislodge the rat, banging his head against the wood.

  “Here,” shouted the farmer, “get that rat away from my dog. It’s not a farm rat, it’s a sewer rat! It’ll give him blood poisoning!”

  The rat clung on as the Staffordshire tried to paw it off. The Jack Russell barked and jumped, pulled back to the centre of the ring by his leash.

  The bell rang and the master of ceremonies stepped back into the ring.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, after a fair fight I declare that Champion Tiny has failed to clear the ring of fifty rats in the prescribed time. All bets are forfeit.”

  Blast, thought Allerdyce.

  The crowd booed. The farmer stepped into the ring to retrieve the Staffordshire. He seized the rat with a leather-gloved fist and crushed the life out of it.

  “That wasn’t a fair fight!” shouted the soldier. “That was a dirty rat!”

  “He’s standing up, sir,” whispered the sergeant. “I think there’s about to be trouble. Better try and apprehend him now.”

  The policemen slipped out of the benches and went over to the bar. A handful of other customers were making their way to the bar too, but most of the crowd stood behind the soldier and his mates, who were arguing with the master of ceremonies to get their bets back.

  The white-haired jowly man had nearly reached the bar when McGillivray seized his shoulder from behind. He turned to face Allerdyce.

  “Are you the Duke of Dornoch, going by the alias of Mr Willie Burns,” asked Allerdyce.

  As Allerdyce waited for an answer his heart sank. Surely the Duke couldn’t have sunk so low, his eyes glazed, his mouth half-open with stinking breath, phlegm caked in the bristles of his unshaven chin?

  “Sir, I must ask for an answer. The whereabouts of His Grace is a matter of substantial concern.”

  The man opened his mouth as if to speak, exposing the rotting black stumps of his teeth, then threw up gently over his chin and threadbare frock-coat.

  “Not our man?” asked the sergeant.

  “Don’t think so. Let’s just check with the barman.”

  The man staggered as McGillivray propelled him towards the bar.

  “Do you recognise this man?” asked Allerdyce.

  “Never seen him before, sir,” said the barman. “I’ll have him thrown out if he’s bothering you.”

  “No. It’s all right. Would you recognise a Mr Willie Burns?”

  “Certainly sir. A most sporting gentleman. I thought he’d have come to Tiny’s bout but there’s been no sign of him.”

  There was a shout from the pit and Allerdyce looked round to see that the master of ceremonies had been pushed to the floor and the soldiers were holding him down while the punters recovered their money. The man with the shovel was coming up behind the crowd. As Allerdyce watched, he started to lay about the crowd with the spade to try and reach the prostrate MC.

  “Come on,” he said to McGillivray, “I think we’re finished here.”

  The policemen left the vomiting drunk leaning against the bar and slipped back out along the corridor, having to push themselves against the wall as the doorman rushed in to join the trouble. As they reached the darkness of the courtyard they could still hear the mayhem behind them.

  Warner was waiting, smoking a cigarette.

  “Is that all your fault?” he asked, nodding towards the arena.

  “No,” said Allerdyce, “it’s a purely sporting disagreement.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “So where do you suggest we look next?”

  “Just follow me.”

  Chapter 6

  They went back through the vennel into the narrow street and turned right, towards the river. After a few minutes they found themselves standing on The Shore.

  Allerdyce looked up and down the cobbled, dimly-lit street. Warehouses stood darkly in the night at either side of the stagnant tidal river which formed Leith’s inner harbour. The darkness was interspersed with bright light from public houses, from which he could hear shouting and singing, and the feeble glow from the windows of the tenements which were crammed in beside the warehouses. The tide was out, and he could see the dark silhouettes of small ships resting on the tidal mud, their masts tilting at crazy angles as the boats leant against the harbour wall. He thought they looked like creatures out of their element, like the fish he’d seen caught by rod and line which were left to flail and suffocate in the poisonous air.

  The stench was worse here, a toxic mixture of industrial effluent, faeces and rotting seaweed. The smell of crime, thought Allerdyce, breathing deeply. This is the manure which feeds it.

  They turned right again, walking along the street towards the docks and the sea. After a few paces they stopped at a closed door with a lamp above it. Allerdyce squinted in the lamplight to read the sign by the door.

  ‘Mrs Allingham’s model lodging house for ladies. Hourly rates available.’

  “I’d better check inside here myself,” said Warner.

  “Very well,” said Allerdyce.

  “I’ll need to give the proprietrix a small gift if she’s to help. Five shillings should do it.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I haven’t got five shillings on me, Inspector. You’ll have to help.”

  “Oh very well. But it’s on account.” Allerdyce fished the coins out and gave them to Warner.

  “Mean bugger.”

  Warner disappeared into the lodging house. Allerdyce and McGillivray stood under the lamp, rubbing their hands and shifting from foot to foot to stave of the night’s chill. Allerdyce took his pipe out of his pocket and lit it.

  What would Margaret think, he wondered, as he drew on the pipe. What would she think if she knew the sordidness he saw daily, if she knew that he came back to her from the depths of poverty and depravity?

  And what will Burgess think if we can’t find the Duke? The tobacco momentarily tasted bitter as he thought about the recriminations which would follow failure. It was absurd that he was being held responsible for a missing husband, but he’d pay for it if the old bastard wasn’t found soon.

  A scantily-dressed woman, in a ballgown with a fur-edged cloak wrapped loosely round her shoulders, came along the pavement from the docks. She stood under the lamplight, and Allerdyce noticed that the thickly-caked make-up on her face had started to crack.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said, fluttering long false eyelashes at Allerdyce, “won’t you come in out of the cold.”

  “Not tonight, thank you, madam,” said Allerdyce.

  “But you’re both so handsome in your own ways. I’ve entertained two gentlemen at the same time before, you know. Or is the big one just your minder? We can leave him out here if you want.”

  “I’m sorry, madam,” said Allerdyce, “We are simply waiting for a friend.”

  “Well move along a bit then,” said the woman. “It’s bad for trade having you hanging round the front door like policemen.”

/>   McGillivray coughed as the woman disappeared into the lodging house. Allerdyce checked his watch.

  “Warner’s been in there a while,” said the sergeant.

  “About eight minutes.”

  “Can’t take him that long to make enquiries. Do you think we should go in and check? He might have scarpered out the back door.”

  “Give him another couple of minutes,” said Allerdyce.

  They hung around for another few minutes, Allerdyce drawing on the warm pipe smoke. Eventually Warner emerged.

  “I’ve been thorough,” said Warner. “The proprietrix hadn’t seen His Grace since last weekend, and I was fortunate that his favourite girl was in and didn’t have a visitor. I was able to interview her and she gave the same story.”

  An in-depth interview, thought Allerdyce, saying nothing.

  “There’s another haunt along here that’s worth a try,” said Warner.

  They walked on, crossing a wide street beside a lifting bridge, before turning under a low arch into a warren of sheds and workshops.

  “The Timberbush,” said Warner. “There’s a public house in here which His Lordship sometimes favours.”

  They came to a bright doorway above which a sign proclaimed ‘The Sailor’s Arms’ with a picture of a muscled mariner.

  “There used to be a glass window,” said Warner, “but it got smashed so often that they bricked it up.”

  “A bit rough, is it?” asked Allerdyce.

  “I’d prefer not to accompany you inside, if that’s all right.”

  Warner spoke to the doorman who, despite the cold, was wearing only a sailor’s white canvas trousers and short-sleeved top. The doorman nodded.

  “You’re in,” said Warner. “I’ll wait for you. Best not to stay in there too long.”

  Allerdyce squeezed past the doorman, followed by the sergeant. His first impression was of the humidity and noise of the place as he tried to edge his way towards the bar. His ears tried to tune into the different conversations as he pushed his way through the crowd, but the wheezing of an accordion and the scratching of a fiddle at the far end of the room, and the tuneless singing coming from there, made it all the more difficult. Even when he could tune in on individual voices in the general clamour he was little better off. He listened uncomprehendingly to a broad voice with long open vowels before realising that the man was speaking English in the Norse accent of Shetland. Other voices were Scandinavian, Dutch or German, with some stranger tongues which he guessed were from the further reaches of the Baltic. Occasional sentences of English would float above the aural Babel.