Chapter Fifteen
DAISY ARRIVED AT the laundry well on time on Monday morning. She was quaking nervously all over. She entered through the large sorting room where men were delivering sackfuls of Monday’s items, including bed linen and nurses’ uniforms. She dodged around them.
‘’Ello, ’ello, not seen you before,’ said a young man, heaving a sack from his shoulders onto a long table.
‘Oh, I’m new ’ere,’ said Daisy.
The young man shifted his flat cap back, scratched his curly brown hair, took a friendly look at her, liked what he saw and said, ‘What’s yer name, then?’
‘Daisy Cummings.’
‘Well, good on yer, Daisy. I’m Percy Townsend. I’ll meet yer outside the Elephant and Castle Theatre at ’alf-seven tonight and take yer in to see the show.’
‘Crikey, you don’t waste time, do yer?’ said Daisy, delighted.
‘Can’t afford to, it’s a short life and a merry one, yer know,’ said Percy. ‘Well, merry is as merry comes, like the music hall.’ Someone bawled his name and a warning to get on with his job. ‘There y’ar, you can see what I’m up against.’
‘Yes, and I’ve got to get upstairs,’ said Daisy.
‘See yer tonight, then, Daisy?’
‘You’ll be lucky,’ said Daisy, and went on to the sorting room, where the actual washing took place in hydroves, machines that looked like large tubs. The place was the province of men. They did all the washing. Up went Daisy to the next floor, where the calender room was situated, where the laundry was dried and pressed, and where Maureen Flanagan had worked. Laundresses already there greeted Daisy in friendly fashion, and when the forelady arrived she took Daisy in hand, explained that she would be taught exactly what to do, supplied her with a white cap and apron, and then placed her in the charge of a motherly woman for instruction.
Daisy’s day began on quite an encouraging note, the atmosphere of the kind established by chatty women glad to be in work and accordingly cheerful and gossipy. She was shown how to fold sheets and put them through a calender machine, the equivalent of a large mangle. The sheets had to be put in tightly flat and then pulled through the other side. Daisy applied herself happily and diligently, the calender taking two sheets at a time.
She quaked again, however, when the forelady came up and told her the Superintendent wanted to see her.
The formidable lady turned as Daisy knocked on the open door of her office.
‘Come in.’
In Daisy went, nerves travelling up and down so acutely that they seemed to put a strain on her stays, and that made her bosom go up and down as well.
‘Good mornin’, mum.’
‘Ah, there you are, Cummings,’ said the Superintendent. ‘You’re under instruction?’
‘Yes, mum.’
‘Good. You’ll soon get your hand in, and I hope you’re finding the laundresses have got over the worst of the unpleasantness. Do you feel a little better yourself?’
‘Oh, yes, mum, and ever so glad to be at work,’ said Daisy, wondering why the chopper hadn’t quickly come down on her neck.
‘Um – were you able to help the Scotland Yard gentleman?’ asked the Superintendent.
‘Beg yer pardon, mum?’
‘Well, as you were a close friend of poor Miss Flanagan, I suppose you were able to tell the Chief Inspector all you could about her?’
Oh, happy day, thought Daisy, he didn’t tell the Super I didn’t know Maureen Flanagan. She crossed her fingers.
‘Oh, he come and spoke to me, mum, and we ’ad a long talk about poor Maureen. ’E was a kind man, and I do ’ope he catches the one who – who –’
‘Yes, I understand,’ said the Superintendent, ‘and I’m sure you were able to help him a little about any particular man friend.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t able to ’elp him a lot, mum.’
‘Never mind, a little is sometimes enough for the police. That’s all, then, you can return to your work.’
‘Thank you, mum,’ said Daisy, and returned to her work relieved of her quakes and with her fingers uncrossed.
The Chief Superintendent had a word with Chief Inspector Dobbs first thing. His opinion of the detention of Archie Binns was succinct.
‘You’ve laid an egg,’ he said.
‘Well, it needn’t turn out to be bad, providing it keeps Fleet Street quiet and gives us time to catch the real villain,’ said Dobbs.
‘The morning papers look as if Fleet Street’s accepted the egg,’ said the Chief Superintendent. ‘They’ve concentrated on the fact that we’re holding a suspect, and they’ll probably turn him by implication into a tough old chicken, or at least an egg that’s hard-boiled, just to keep things going. As to the real villain, Charlie, you’re still not sure if you’re looking for one or two, are you?’
‘Yes, I’m looking for the one who did for Flanagan,’ said Dobbs. ‘Well, I’ve got a feeling that if we catch him, we’ll also catch a lead to the second murder, even if he’s not responsible for that himself. I’m interviewing Basil Gottfried this morning, and taking a search warrant with me. Inspector Davis and Sergeant Swettenham are keeping the house under observation.’
‘Well, get on with it, Charlie. We’ve got the Assistant Commissioner breathing down our necks.’
‘I can feel it,’ said Dobbs. ‘By the way, I think I’ll let Binns in on details of Flanagan’s murder.’
‘You’ll do what?’ said the Chief Superintendent.
‘It could be a help,’ said Dobbs. ‘Once I’ve given him details, I’ll ask him if he did it. He’ll say yes, poor old Archie. Well, we’ve met his kind before. His confession to both murders will make Fleet Street’s interest in the return of the Ripper as cold as leftover suet pudding. At the time of the Ripper, Archie Binns was a down-and-out in Portsmouth.’
‘How d’you know that?’ asked the Chief Superintendent.
‘Saw the old codger first thing this morning,’ said Dobbs.
‘Charlie, a double confession? Touch of genius. But it’ll all blow up if you don’t solve both cases in reasonable time.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ said the Chief Inspector.
Five minutes later he and Sergeant Ross were talking to Binns, who professed himself happy about the regular supply of hot meat pies. The Chief Inspector said that if he was happy, then so were the police. Further, the police would like his help concerning the death of a woman called Maureen Flanagan, who had lived in Tanner Street, near the south side of London Bridge. She’d had her throat cut last Monday night, and was found in Tooley Street. Archie Binns listened with a peculiarly idiotic smile. Dobbs said the police would appreciate it if he’d assist them with their enquiries.
‘Course I will,’ said Binns, and tapped his nose.
‘Did you do it?’ asked Sergeant Ross.
‘Course I did,’ said Binns, ‘with me razor, didn’t I? And I know Tooley Street, don’t I? ’Ere, can I ’ave mash again with me midday meat pie?’
‘Double portion, if you’d like,’ said Dobbs, ‘and this afternoon we’ll take full statements from you and get you to sign them. How’s that?’
‘Suits me,’ said Binns cheerfully. ‘I can write me name, yer know. O’ course, I’m what yer call unsound of mind.’
‘That’ll count in your favour, Archie,’ said Dobbs.
‘Mind, I ain’t daft,’ said Binns.
‘No, but you’re a great help,’ said Dobbs.
Before he and Sergeant Ross left for Bow, the leading news agency of Fleet Street had been advised that the suspect being held in connection with the Whitechapel murder had also confessed to the murder of Maureen Flanagan, and that the Yard were checking his verbal statements. The Yard would release his name when they were in a position to charge him.
‘Got your nut-crackers with you, guv?’ asked Ross, when they were on their way to Bow in a growler. The morning was as clear as the night had been.
‘For cracking a hard one, my lad?’
‘Basil Gottfried could be tough,’ said Ross.
‘I don’t know why you can’t cheer me up now and again,’ said Dobbs. ‘Try another Scotch story.’
‘I think I’ve run out, guv,’ said Ross, ‘except that as Christmas is coming it’s reminding me of the Scotsman who fired a revolver outside his house on Christmas Eve, then ran indoors and told his kids that Santa Claus had committed suicide.’
‘Look here, my lad,’ said Dobbs, ‘you’re making a regrettable habit of being unfair to the Scotch.’
‘Scots, guv. Scotch means whisky.’
‘Anyway, and whatever, sunshine, don’t take any of those unfair stories North of the Border with you.’
‘Right you are, guv.’
The growler took them through the Strand and Fleet Street, through the city to Aldgate, and then by Whitechapel Road and Mile End Road to Bow, the Monday traffic thick all the way, the street cleaners shouldering the burden of a workload indigenous to horse-drawn vehicles. The cabbie, under instruction, halted on the corner of Medway Road. Inspector Davis, on the lookout, came up as Dobbs alighted, followed by Ross, who paid the cabbie.
‘No movement,’ said Davis.
‘He’s having a Monday morning lie-in, perhaps,’ said Dobbs. ‘Well, you and Sergeant Swettenham keep yourselves handy, while Sergeant Ross and I knock on the door.’
‘Is that in order?’ asked Davis.
It was what Dobbs preferred, but not what was correct. It was not for inspectors to stand and stare while sergeants took the honours.
‘I see your point, George,’ said the Chief Inspector, and glanced at Sergeant Ross. Ross, understanding, nodded.
‘Right, if he does a bunk, guv, I’ll get after him, with Sergeant Swettenham,’ he said. Sergeant Swettenham was some way down the road, but out of sight.
Accompanied by Inspector Davis, Dobbs knocked on the door of Gottfried’s house. Again it was opened by the woman, the good-looking woman who called herself Margaret Donaldson. Her mouth dropped open and a hissing breath escaped.
‘Good morning,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘Oh, and this is Inspector Davis. We’d like to see Mr Gottfried.’
‘I told you, he’s away!’ The woman shouted the words. There was the sound of a chair crashing over at the rear of the house.
‘Kitchen,’ said Dobbs, ‘in you go, George.’
Inspector Davis threw himself into the hall and rushed.
‘’Ere, what’s the bloody idea?’ shouted Margaret Donaldson.
‘Sorry about the hurry, lady, but we do have a search warrant,’ said Dobbs, and went striding through the house to the open door of the kitchen. There, the table was laid for a late breakfast, and the aroma was that of grilled kippers. Two plates showed half-eaten specimens. The kitchen was large, the range extensive, its fire glowing, the furniture excellent, although one table chair lay on its side. Against a wall stood a man with a fulsome moustache, a head of thick wavy brown hair, and an expression of irritation on his broad face. Dressed in a grey suit, with a cutaway jacket, he looked close to forty. Inspector Davis had a hand on his chest, keeping him pinned to the wall. He voiced his irritation.
‘Leave it be,’ he said, ‘I’m not going out.’
‘You looked as if you were,’ said Davis. The scullery beyond the kitchen showed an open door to a small garden much in need of a gardener’s hand. In the brick wall at the rear of the garden was a green door. ‘Sorry if I made a mistake,’ said Davis, and took his hand away. The man adjusted his tie and pulled his jacket into place.
Chief Inspector Dobbs stooped and righted the fallen chair, then gave his suspect a friendly smile.
‘Mr Gottfried? I’m Chief Inspector Dobbs of Scotland Yard. My colleague is Inspector Davis. Sit down, Mr Gottfried. You and your – um – housekeeper can finish your breakfast, if you like.’
‘Thanks very much,’ said Margaret Donaldson bitingly.
Nevertheless, Basil Gottfried sat down, took a cosy off a handsome china teapot, and poured himself a cup of tea. He added milk and a little sugar. Margaret Donaldson, taking her cue from him, seated herself on the opposite side of the table, and she too poured herself tea.
‘Well, now you’re here, Chief Inspector, carry on,’ said Gottfried.
‘How’s your aunt?’ asked Dobbs.
‘Spare me that stuff,’ said Gottfried.
‘Are you German-born?’ asked Dobbs.
‘Do I sound like it? If you could ask my grandfather that, he’d say yes, but as he’s dead, you can’t.’
‘Let me ask you, then, how well did you know a woman called Maureen Flanagan, recently found dead with her throat cut?’
‘Who?’ said Gottfried, sipping his tea.
‘Don’t play games, sir,’ said Dobbs. ‘We’ve witnesses who’ll confirm you knew her. A Mr and Mrs Pritchard. She lodged with them, and you met them one evening. Was that about the time when you were – um – establishing a business relationship with the deceased?’
‘Business relationship?’ Gottfried looked blank.
‘Yes, was she one of the ladies you manage in the West End?’
‘Now wait a minute, what are you after?’ asked Gottfried.
‘Well, briefly, the person who cut her throat,’ said Dobbs. ‘Tell me about her and then we might have a better idea of who we’re looking for, say perhaps a client of hers or someone she considered a friend.’
‘You’re looking for me,’ said Gottfried.
‘Did you do it, then, Mr Gottfried?’ asked Dobbs. ‘Is that why you disappeared in the direction of your aunt somewhere in the country?’
‘No, I didn’t do it, but I guessed you’d come after me,’ said Gottfried. ‘I’m easy meat, easy enough to be put in the dock and found guilty. Very convenient for you, one more case solved, but deadly for me.’
‘Why are you easy meat?’ asked Inspector Davis.
‘All right, so I did know Maureen Flanagan. She needed help or she’d have ended up in the gutter.’
‘Took her under your ’elpful wing, did you, sir?’ asked Inspector Davis.
‘If there was no-one to help these girls, they’d all end up in the gutter,’ said Gottfried.
‘With your help, where do most of them end up?’ asked Dobbs, and Margaret Donaldson gave him an offended look.
‘Mr Gottfried treats all his girls well,’ she said.
‘Yes, I daresay,’ said Dobbs, ‘but where do most of them end up?’
‘I can tell you some have made very advantageous marriages,’ said Gottfried, ‘but what’s that got to do with a murder enquiry?’
‘Just a point of interest,’ said Dobbs. ‘Would you like to tell us about Maureen Flanagan or not?’
‘I don’t trust you, not after the way you foxed my housekeeper,’ said Gottfried. ‘You led her to believe you were looking for a professional acquaintance of mine.’
‘You can accompany us to the Yard, if you’d prefer, sir, and make a statement there,’ said Inspector Davis.
‘Yes, I’d like that, wouldn’t I?’ said Gottfried. ‘Once there, I’d be laughing, I don’t think. All right, about Maureen Flanagan, then.’
He met her, he said, through one of the ladies he was managing. Maureen was willing to be looked after and given use of a room in a house of his in Wardour Street on the occasions when she came up to the West End. She felt she needed security. Chief Inspector Dobbs admired the way that word slipped easily from Gottfried, who went on to say Maureen was a clean woman, looked very attractive in her outfits, but didn’t want to entertain except during evenings, and then only two or three evenings a week. He respected her wishes, knowing she wanted to go back to Ireland eventually. She was a little unlucky one evening, she had her name taken on the grounds she was suspected of street-walking, and that scared her.
‘That made her want to give up being an entertainer, did it?’ said Dobbs.
‘No,’ said Gottfried brusquely, and Margaret Donaldson said something naughty under her breath.
&n
bsp; ‘I suggest you told her she couldn’t give up without your permission, Mr Gottfried,’ said Dobbs.
‘We merely discussed it,’ said Gottfried, ‘and I told her I’d give her further help.’
‘Such as finding clients yourself for her?’
‘I am able to introduce gentlemen of the West End to ladies who like to entertain them,’ said Gottfried.
‘I suggest she had a go at tryin’ to break with you,’ said Inspector Davis.
‘What’s coming next, another suggestion?’ said Gottfried. ‘That she walked away from the business, and that I cut her throat later on? I thought it would come to that, that you’d try to land a murder charge on me. Well, it won’t wash.’
‘Where were you on the night she was murdered, Mr Gottfried?’ asked Dobbs.
‘In Scott’s bar in the West End with Miss Donaldson, my housekeeper,’ said Gottfried.
‘You’ll confirm that, of course, Miss Donaldson?’ said Dobbs.
‘Yes, I bloody well will,’ said the lady. ‘It’s true.’
‘Well, in view of what you might call a cast-iron alibi, Mr Gottfried,’ said Dobbs, ‘could I ask you again why you disappeared?’
‘My answer’s the same,’ said Gottfried. ‘I knew I’d be the first one you’d look for once you found out about Maureen being an entertainer and connected to me.’
‘That’s the word for it these days, entertainer?’ said Inspector Davis.
‘For the select kind of ladies,’ said Gottfried.
‘But you still had your alibi,’ said Dobbs.
‘What’s a housekeeper’s word worth to an Old Bailey judge?’ retorted Gottfried.
‘It’s the jury that decides, not the judge,’ said Dobbs. ‘I think, Mr Gottfried, that we’ll have to search your house. We’ve got a warrant.’
‘Turn the place inside-out, if you want,’ said Gottfried.
‘Basil, you’ll make them put it to rights again, won’t you?’ said Margaret Donaldson.
‘We’ll see what their manners are like,’ said Gottfried.
Inspector Davis fetched Ross and Swettenham, and the three of them went through the house from top to bottom, looking for a sharp knife and a lady’s handbag. They found several knives in the kitchen, of course, two of which were sharp enough to cut a throat, but such could be turned up in many households. They also found two handbags, both of which were in the main bedroom, one on the dressing-table, the other in a tallboy drawer. Margaret Donaldson coldly explained where she had bought them, and just as coldly described them in every detail.
Ghost of Whitechapel Page 19