Cold as a Russian icehouse in here. My legs are frozen solid. My body won’t let me make decisions anymore. When I mess myself, who will clean me? Nina got out quick. Selfish quick. I know who she is. Whose daughter. Abandon the helpless. But: no. She’ll look after Rosie. Nina cares for her more than she likes to show. This is worse than old age. Dribbling out of my back. So I won’t be an old man with her in America. Nina or some other one. In Penn-sylvan-ia. She was my last woman. My lifetime—twenty-four years. I killed men (confess it!), so a man killed me. He changed me into meat on a slab. I changed what happened in a day. More than one time. I decided and ordinary days broke apart. Measure by fractions. They’re pouring out of me—things I did, my habits, my decisions, my names—now they have a number. I don’t know where my legs are. I’m not here.
“Karl? I’ll give you some medicine. Yes? It’s morning. You can have some. Lean your head a little more. Karl?”
Did you touch me in the back? Did someone punch me? I remember a metal rod. The burner, the—what. From the tanks. Blowpipe. Tip of the flame. Did we pull his money from inside? The prize, we exed it, no? Good piece of asbestos. Max burned me in the back. You can’t say it was luck. We did it. I did something. Some action that ended me here. I always thought I’d get a bullet, but quick to the brain. Executed. In a jail or on the street. I remember fighting. Friends carried me and put me in this box. Who did? Jacob and Nina. The other one. She left the window open so the moths came in. Light keeps powder on their wings dry. A column of heated air rises. Updraft. Per ounce per volume of. Pushes them in the air. Am I in my coffin remembering this or am I in a dream of my future? Have I been born yet?
“Rosie?”
“I’m here.”
“You can’t do anything.”
Lead weights tipped down the well of Rosie’s heart. Her sadness doubled, hearing those words; they opened a wound as old as she was. Lumbered with that knotted hump on her back, what could she do? All her life the same refusal over and over again. Sara Rosa, who couldn’t play schoolgirl games. Rosie the red-faced maiden, who couldn’t attract a man. Sara the Seamstress, who could hardly feed herself, employment the charity of Luba’s brothers. Never completely trusted to do anything. She knew what she could accomplish: as much as Nina and Luba could, those two together. Those cripples.
She went back to her station on the floor in front of the grate, to the haystack heap of photographs, charts, and tables, pamphlets, postcards and letters, and fed the fire. Cared for the fire, helped it burn. When a curled sheet of ash threatened to smother the coals, she swatted it to pieces, stirred it away. She kept an eye on the burning and added coal when it was needed to keep the flame even. Do it and it is done. Rosie’s face and hands, the front of her, roasted in the constant heat; her back absorbed the cold that was in possession of the other side of the room. Half-dead, half-living.
PETER HAD FLED. Jacob, Yourka, and Max. Yoska and Fritz. All the men were gone when Rivka shook herself out of her numb trance and, wrapped in Nina’s shawl, drifted back into the room. The third time she repeated Rosie’s name, Rivka touched her on the shoulder and got this reply: a reluctant and brief turn of her head away from the fire. Did Rosie know? Did she refuse to know? Until you stood close to him, Karl looked to be alive. His sleepwalker’s eyes were open, distantly engaged, his lips were slightly parted as if in conversation, paused by the interruption of a further thought. Rivka brushed the wetness from her face, then bent down next to Rosie and said, without much hope, “Do you know where Fritz went? Did he say? Or Yoska?” In the blackness swaddled around her, Rosie didn’t hear Rivka’s voice. She only rocked forward on her knees to lay a pale blue envelope on the fire. Help for Rivka had to come from somebody else. A reliable friend. No one was left at Grove Street who cared if Peter was safe or not.
Twenty-nine
STORY OF HOUNDSDITCH MURDERS.
CONSTABLE’S GRAPHIC NARRATIVE.
“A MAN’S HAND.”
LEVI—THE OPENER OF THE DOOR.
THE FIRST SHOT.
In the very heart of London three good officers were shot fatally, and two seriously wounded by burglars who were interrupted in tunnelling their way to the safe of a Houndsditch jeweller.
In the ordinary contest of police against thieves the position would have been dead against the criminals.
But here they shot their way to liberty—in the criminal foreigner’s characteristic way. And though the police, searching in scores, have what are supposed to be descriptions of their appearance, they are still at large.
Once more it is proved that the warrens of London slums are excellent grounds for concealment, and the fact that the men know little English emphasizes the truth of that old maxim of the criminal.
The chase is continued to-day by over a hundred detectives, every man eager for the avengement of the death of his three comrades.
“WANTED.”
POLICE DESCRIPTIONS OF THREE MEN AND A WOMAN.
Following is the description issued by the police of the three men and one woman wanted in connection with the murders—
A Storm in the Blood
1.
“FRITZ”: Aged twenty-four or twenty-five; height about 5ft. 8in. or 5ft. 9in.
Complexion sallow, eyes grey, medium moustache turned up at the ends, colour of hair on head fair, nose rather small, slightly turned up, chin a little rounded, a few pimples on face, cheek-bones prominent, shoulders square but slightly bent forward.
Dressed brown tweed suit, thin light stripes; dark melton overcoat, velvet collar, nearly new; usually wears grey crush tweed cap, red spots; sometimes a trilby hat.
A native of Russia, speaks English and German imperfectly.
A Storm in the Blood
2.
“PETER”: Surname unknown; known as “Peter the Painter” aged twenty-eight to thirty; height 5ft. 9in. or 5ft. 10in.
Complexion sallow, skin clear, eyes dark, hair medium, moustache black, medium build.
Very reserved manner.
Usually dressed in brown tweed suit, large dark stripes; black overcoat, velvet collar rather large; rather old large felt hat; shabby black lace boots.
Believed to be Russian anarchist, frequents club and institute, Jubilee-street. Resides Grove-street.
A Storm in the Blood
3.
“YOURKA”: A Russian; age twenty-one; 5ft. 8in. in height.
Heavy moustache; dark brown hair; sallow complexion.
Dressed in blue jacket suit and grey cap.
A Storm in the Blood
4.
A WOMAN: Aged twenty-six to thirty; 5ft. 4in. in height.
Slim build; drawn face; brown hair; blue eyes.
Wearing a dark blue three-quarter jacket and skirt, with white blouse, light-coloured shoes, and large black hat trimmed with black silk.
DEAD ASSASSIN.
ACCIDENTALLY KILLED BY HIS COMRADE.
A remarkable discovery was made by the City Police Saturday. One of the murderers was found dead in a house at 59 Grove-street, Commercial-road. He was identified as the “Mr. Levi” who rented No. 11 Exchange-buildings, and there seems to be no doubt that he was killed by his comrade.
He was taken to the house in Grove-street in a cab by two men early on Saturday morning. He was bleeding from a wound in the head and wore a bandage. Medical advice was sought, and some suspicion being aroused the police were summoned. Before they arrived the man was dead.
It is believed that Levi is not the dead man’s name. It has been established that he is not a Jew, and the police believe that neither of his companions was a Jew.
THE ALIEN CRIMINAL.
HOW THE DOOR IS OPEN TO HIM.
This is the third crime of this particular type for which alien criminals in Britain are responsible. The first was the unsuccessful attempt on the Moth-erwell (Glasgow) branch of the Royal Bank of Scotland by three Poles armed with revolvers.
The second crime was that at Tottenham on 23 January
1909, when two Poles, Hefeld and Jacob Lapidus, snatched a bag of money from a clerk who was carrying the week’s wages to Messrs. Schnurmann’s works. They were instantly pursued, and fired on their pursuers repeatedly, killing Police Constable Tyler and a boy and wounding eighteen persons. Finally both shot themselves.
To such an extent has the Aliens Act been relaxed that in 1906 a Russian Pole who had shot a policeman was admitted as a political refugee. But most of the Russian criminals who leave their country for its own good and come to England find the door opened to them by that provision of the Aliens Act regulations which exempts from scrutiny small vessels carrying fewer than twenty passengers.
THE HOUNDSDITCH MURDERS.
NEW DESCRIPTIONS OF THE WANTED MEN.
“FRITZ” & “PETER.”
30 ARMED POLICE SEARCH FOR ASSASSINS.
THE INQUEST.
THE MURDERER’S DYING STATEMENT.
“SHOT BY MISTAKE.”
With energy and hard determination that have never been surpassed in the elucidation of a great London crime the police of every department are hunting for the Houndsditch assassins—the burglars who, interrupted in their work, shot and killed three City policemen and seriously wounded two others.
Every detective trained to expertness in ransacking the East End dens of suspected aliens is in the pursuit. Every railway station and all Continental passenger steamers are being watched.
No fewer than thirty officers, each carrying a loaded revolver, were dispatched in one party in the dark early hours.
DEFENCELESS.
Every Londoner must feel deeply angry that three brave members of the police force have been lost in a murderously unequal struggle.
Despite the tragedies of Tottenham and Houndsditch, are we to continue to send virtually unarmed men—socially valuable ones, too—against the pestilential foreign criminals that London and the world would be cleaner and happier without?
DOCTOR’S EVIDENCE.
MURDERER’S ACCOUNT OF HOW HE SUSTAINED HIS WOUNDS.
Dr. John James Scanlon, temporarily assisting Dr. Bernstein, a friend, in Commercial Road, was called:
Did you speak to him?—He was muttering. I spoke to him in English. I asked his name.
Before you examined him?—Yes.
“MY NAME IS GEORGE GARDSTEIN.”
He said his name was George Gardstein. I asked him what had happened to him. He said—Three hours ago I was shot by a friend with a revolver in the back by a mistake.
I examined him and found a bullet hole in the left side of the back, and I found the bullet under the skin of the chest. It had not come out. It was about two inches from the middle line of the body.
The man was in a very weak condition. He vomited some blood while I examined him, and frequently asked me to give him a narcotic to relieve the pain.
He had great pain in the region of the stomach and abdomen […]
I made up a mixture of belladonna, nux vomica, and opium.
THE INJURED.
P.C. WOODHAMS’ STORY: “WE RAN FORWARD…AND I KNEW NO MORE.”
The two officers—Sergeant Bryant and Constable Woodhams—injured in the outrage are reported to-day to be progressing satisfactorily.
It is reported now as almost certain that Sergeant, who is in St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, will recover.
Constable Woodhams, the more seriously injured, is at London Hospital. He is not allowed to see visitors.
He has, however, given the description of the outrage:
—I heard the whistles go, and my sergeant and his mate tried to open the door. We saw a flash, and they fell into the road. We ran forward, and then I found myself rolling on the ground, and I knew no more.
He added that he saw nothing of the assailant, who apparently fired through the door.
THE HOUNDSDITCH AFFRAY.
DEATH OF ANOTHER POLICEMAN.
VIVID STORIES.
THE WOMAN WITH THE SHAWL.
A GANG OF SIX.
Another police officer—Constable Choate—died today as the result of the shooting outrage by burglars in the Houndsditch district last night.
The full list of the killed and wounded is as follows:—
KILLED
Sergeant Tucker
Constable Choate
INJURED
Sergeant Bentley (shot in the neck and shoulder), condition serious.
Sergeant Bryant (shot in the arm).
Constable Woodhams (both legs broken by bullets).
THE COVERED FACE.
STORY OF THE WOMAN COMPANION OF THE MAN WHO LOOKED LIKE A RUSSIAN JEW.
Miss Ada Parker, who lives exactly opposite the house where the burglars carried on their work, gave an Evening News representative some particulars about the occupants of No. 11.
“The first I saw of them,” she said, “was about three weeks ago, when the gentleman came across the road and asked me if I could find him a servant to clear up the house before he took possession of it.
“He spoke in very broken English. From his appearance I should say he was certainly a Jew—perhaps a Russian Jew.
“The only people I ever saw in the house were this man and the woman I took to be his wife. She was a very smart-looking woman.
“Every morning about eight o’clock she used to come outside and take down two of the three shutters. Behind these two shutters were thick curtains through which nothing could be seen.
“Behind the middle shutter, which was never removed, was a lighter curtain.
“I said to my brother only yesterday, ‘I do not know how these people get their food in; I never see the young lady go out for provisions the way we do. I suppose they must go out late at night.’
“The young woman always kept her face covered with a shawl, so that no one here knows what she is like.”
THE STEPNEY BOMB FACTORY.
TO-DAY’S IMPORTANT REVELATIONS.
MOROUNTZEFF.
THE ASSASSIN WITH THE BLACK BOX.
SOUNDS BY NIGHT.
CRIMINALS WITH A PARIS MEETING PLACE.
Today’s inquiries show that the discovery made last night at a house 44 Gold-street, Stepney, by detectives who are searching for the alien assassins of three City police officers […] is one of the very greatest importance.
The discovery has established the fact that the murderer who died at a house in Grove-street, Whitechapel, was not named George Gardstein—as he told the doctor whom the two women summoned to him—but Poloski Morountzeff.
He it was who had occupied the rooms in Gold-street—rooms found to resemble nothing so much as an arsenal.
The landlord thought the man an artist. He appeared to be a dreamer; he had been seen painting at the window.
And whenever he went out he carried a black tin box—a box thought to contain painting materials, but was probably used to bring to the house the deadly explosives with which the man was surrounded.
THE DISCOVERY.
LETTERS SAID TO REVEAL AN ANARCHIST PLOT OF SENSATIONAL CHARACTER.
The police discovered at the house in Gold-street a complete process for the manufacture of bombs.
A number of mechanical appliances were found, and in glass bottles—used in order that the effective strength of the materials be preserved—were large quantities of
Nitric acid
Liquid mercury
Sulphuric acid
Potash, and
Nitro-glycerin phosphates
The police were able also to take possession of a magazine pistol, similar in pattern, it is believed, to that which was employed in the fusillade fired from the house in Exchange-buildings.
In addition a dagger was found, and a belt which is understood to have had placed within it 150 Mauser dum-dum bullets—bullets, that is, with soft heads, which upon striking a human body would spread and inflict a wound of a grievous if not deadly character.
But even this does not exhaust the list of dangerous material.
MEETINGS IN
PARIS.
FINGER-PRINTS SENT TO THE CONTINENTAL POLICE.
MOROUNTZEFF.
THE STORY OF THE MAN WHO PAINTED AT THE WINDOW.
AN EVENING NEWS REPRESENTATIVE SAYS THAT THE HOUSE […]
It was obvious that the Lettish bandits and “insurgents,” who at that time terrorised Riga and the adjacent country, had made the Russian Empire too hot to told them; go somewhere they must; and of course, some came to London, while no doubt others have gone as far as Canada and the United States.
Cornered, they fight like cats; the least chance of escape, however, and they are down on their knees begging for mercy. I have seen men imploring a Russian officer to spare their lives, but the moment the firing party was called out and hope abandoned, these same men struck up the “Marseillaise” and died with that defiance in their mouths.
Feline in temperament, the Lett is also feline in his personal appearance. You can distinguish him at a glance, especially by the peculiar dead-white pallor of his skin, the narrow cat-like eye and prominent cheek-bone.
And so the Anarchist degenerates into the common burglar, into Fritz or “Peter the Painter.” That they should use magazine pistols against the London police is also quite natural; for they would have treated their own police to nothing less. Ideas of justice or mercy or a fair trial are as foreign to them as the streets wherein they pillaged and murdered. No immigration laws will keep them out; as long as the Russian system of government is what it is, men as desperate as these will be produced, and, if they find their way to England, so much the worse for us.
A Storm in the Blood Page 23