At that very moment there was a knock at the door. His heart sank for a moment. It was probably the rent collector. He was not due today, but he did what he liked and his demands had to be met. Still, the knock didn’t sound loud enough for him. Perhaps it was Inspector Denham or one of his constables. Alfie went to the door and opened it. A tall man, wearing a coat, hat and scarf, a man who smelled of cigars stood there, his right hand buried in his pocket.
‘Alfie Sykes?’ he asked. And then looked into the fire-lit cellar. ‘And our property, the box of sweets; and the blind boy,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Alfie, you come with me!’ He spoke in strongly accented English. His left hand went to Alfie’s collar. ‘Come on, young man,’ he said, still with that strong accent. ‘You’re coming with me, boy.’
And while his left arm grabbed the boy’s wrist, his right hand aimed a gun directly at Sammy’s heart.
CHAPTER 19
COURAGE
Sammy only heard the one short sentence: ‘You’re coming with me, boy.’ There were a few steps into the cellar, a gasp of pain from Alfie and a scuffling noise, and then footsteps – boots and bare feet, it sounded like – moving away.
The door slammed closed and Alfie was gone.
Left to himself, Sammy sat very still. One minute, he and Alfie were chatting, sharpening their wits on each other. And then he was alone.
Alfie had been dragged off.
The strange thing was that Alfie had not protested, had not shouted for help, had not tried to escape. He had gone with the rough-voiced stranger, gone without a word of protest.
There could only be one reason for that, thought Sammy, who knew Alfie well and knew the extent of his brother’s courage.
Alfie had been threatened with a pistol and had gone with the man in order to avoid the two of them being shot here in the cellar below Bow Street.
Sammy sat very still and waited. There was no point in pursuit. Over the years Sammy had learned what he could do, and what was not possible for him. By the time he had managed to stumble out, there would have been no sign of Alfie and his captor. Even if he managed to get someone to go after them, the result would probably be a body – Alfie’s – found in a dark doorway the following morning.
After a while, Sammy got up. Moving carefully, with outstretched hands, he made his way to the door. If only he had Mutsy, but the dog had gone with Tom for the breakfast sausages. The butcher was friendly and often gave Mutsy a bone, especially if he managed to catch a rat in the yard behind the shop.
Bow Street Police Station, thought Sammy, as he carefully crawled up the wet and slippery steps that led from the cellar to the level of the street.
Once he had reached the pavement, he clung with one hand to the iron railings which prevented pedestrians from falling from the street into the open area in front of the cellars and made his way slowly along, waiting for someone to offer to guide him.
‘These children should be shut up in some institution,’ muttered a woman as she passed him. His groping hand accidentally touched her dress and she shouted, ‘Constable, can’t you keep the streets clear for respectable women like myself?’
‘You get on home, sonny,’ said the constable’s voice in Sammy’s ear and Sammy turned his face in that direction and decided to trust the policeman. It sounded like PC 27.
‘I have a message for Inspector Denham.’ Sammy wished that he had not had to come out with these words in public. The trouble with being blind was that you never knew who might be listening. If only he could have had a quick look around, before speaking. The woman was still there; he sensed her anger.
‘Could you take me to him?’ He allowed a shake of anxiety to come into his voice.
‘All right, sonny,’ said the constable. Sammy decided that it probably was PC 27. He was a decent fellow; Alfie always said that about this particular policeman.
Sammy leaned back gratefully as the constable put a large firm hand under Sammy’s elbow. In another few minutes he would be with Inspector Denham and he would get help for his brother.
‘I’ll take him, Constable, if you wish?’ Sammy listened anxiously to the voice. The accent was unusual. Was this man, also, a Russian? Another of the spies?
‘That’s all right, sir, I’m going that way myself.’
Sammy breathed a sigh of relief. But would the man be waiting for him on his return?
Still, at least he would have given the message to the inspector by then, and perhaps by then some police constable would be on Alfie’s trail.
Inspector Denham greeted Sammy warmly, sent the constable for cakes and hot chocolate for both of them and settled down to hear what Sammy had to say. Sammy could hear the pen scratching across paper as he explained how he and Alfie worked out the code and Inspector Denham told him to slow down a few times.
‘He’s done well, your brother,’ he said when he had heard the whole story. He spoke with a seriousness that Sammy appreciated. It struck him that Inspector Denham respected Alfie and was concerned about him, as though he had been someone important. ‘Well, I’ve certainly got some good information for Scotland Yard.’
‘Alfie wanted to get it all sorted out for you, sir,’ said Sammy. ‘He was wondering who had murdered the organist, the Russian spy, and why he was murdered in the yard outside the school. If you could get him back from the Russians – he’s probably been taken to their Embassy – then he might be able to tell you the answer, sir.’
Inspector Denham sighed. ‘The problem is, Sammy,’ he said with a lowered voice, as though he did not wish any of the policemen in the outer office to hear him, ‘the trouble is that if Alfie has got himself into the hands of the Russian Embassy, it’s very difficult for us to rescue him. They have something called diplomatic immunity and that means that we cannot really send a party of policemen along to the Russian Embassy and rescue your brother.’
‘Does that mean that they can murder him, sir?’ asked Sammy. He was amazed to find how calm his voice sounded.
‘No,’ said Inspector Denham and he spoke slowly and carefully. ‘I don’t think that they would go as far as that.’
He paused for a moment and then said, ‘I don’t know if you have ever played a game of chess, Sammy – I’d say that you and your brother could be good chess players – but I’ll just explain to you what I’m going to do. If it were a game of chess, then they have made a move and now it’s up to us to make the next move. What we’ll do is this. We’ll send a policeman, armed with a truncheon, to walk up and down Welbeck Street, opposite the Russian Embassy. I’ll give the order straightaway. No one can object to that. He can chat to the nursemaids with children, keep an eye on the street hawkers, but . . . ’
‘But all the time,’ Sammy broke in, ‘if anyone looks out of the windows of the Russian Embassy, they will wonder what the policeman is doing and they will not want to have a body to dispose of . . . ’
‘Precisely,’ said Inspector Denham, and there was the hint of a smile in his voice. ‘We’ll keep a man on duty there, day and night, until your brother is back with you all in Bow Street. And for the moment, I will send my men around to Westminster School to work with the Scotland Yard crowd on the murder of Boris Ivanov and they will find out what’s happening there.’
Inspector Denham’s chair creaked and when he spoke again Sammy knew from his voice that the man had got to his feet. He took Sammy by the arm. ‘Try not to worry too much. I promise you that I will get Alfie back for you as soon as possible. Here’s a shilling for you; I’ll put it into your pocket. Now the constable will see you home and make sure that one of the other lads has returned before he leaves you. And, Sammy, you stay there until we have news for you.’
He paused for a moment and said in a low voice, ‘The streets of London are dangerous places for all of us, Sammy, sighted or not!’
CHAPTER 20
FLIGHT
Never argue with a man who holds a gun. Alfie couldn’t remember who had said that to him, but it was good
advice. He moved slightly ahead of the man with the gun, allowing his arm to be gripped tightly and never turning to try to see the face of his captor. It probably would have been of little use anyway. One quick glance in the cellar had shown him a tall black silk hat, a long black wool coat, and a white silk scarf wrapped around the lower half of the face and leaving nothing but a slit for the eyes between the brim of the hat and the folds of the scarf. Lots of Londoners dressed like that in these days of lung-choking fog.
Alfie had been born in the cellar at Bow Street and had lived there all of his life. Most of the people who lived thereabouts knew the four boys, but Alfie made no appeal for help as he passed up the street and then was escorted down Long Acre and towards Piccadilly Circus. The streets were crowded with people and the noise was deafening. The sound of a shot would be lost in the hullabaloo and the man could easily slip away.
But Alfie had not given up. Every fibre of his being was alert for an opportunity. He hoped desperately that some stranger might stop and ask the way of his captor. Two seconds’ distraction would give him the chance to get away from the man with the gun. Already he sensed that the grip on his arm was not quite so firm.
Now they were going down Piccadilly. This was a street where all the toffs shopped or went to their clubs. The pair was beginning to attract more attention here. Not many bare-footed begging boys dared come down Piccadilly: policemen were everywhere.
‘I say, ole man, whash he done?’ The man asking the question was quite drunk and his words slurred into one another. He stood right in front of the man with the gun, barring his way. ‘Steal something, di’ he?’ he asked. ‘I say, Constable, young scoundrel here . . . my fren . . . ’ His voice was loud and a policeman turned and began to come across to them. The Russian hesitated and his hand on Alfie’s arm slackened slightly.
Now or never! The words flashed through Alfie’s mind and he sprang into action. He jabbed an elbow with all his force into the prominent stomach of the man holding him. There was a gasp of pain and suddenly the small, round, hard mouth of the pistol no longer pressed against the boy’s spine.
Alfie took a chance. With a second jab of the elbow, he was off, running and dodging down the wide pavement of Piccadilly, past the big bookshop, past the fancy grocery shop.
‘Shhtop thief!’ The drunken man was laughing heartily but his cry was taken up. This was a respectable street. No one wanted ragged boys, probably picking the pockets of the rich, in a place like that.
Alfie ran past the doorway to Fortnum & Mason, smelling the delicious smell of dried fruit wafting from the shop. For a moment he wondered whether to turn down the small street beside it, but there was a big delivery van there and the place swarmed with shop assistants unloading supplies. Any one of those could trip him up and claim a reward.
And then he remembered that Green Park must not be too far away. If he could get a start on his pursuers then he might be able to hide in one of the bushes there, or even better, climb a tree and hide there until the hunt was given up.
He dodged behind a man opening his umbrella then sprinted ahead and turned into Green Park
On a foggy, cold day like this day, Green Park should have been empty.
But it wasn’t!
It was jammed with people – men, women and children. Some were standing on the grass beneath the trees, some on the paths, and all of them were looking upwards.
And there, in the centre of the park, high above the trees, straining its ropes was a giant, brightly-coloured hot-air balloon, made from strips of yellow and red silk.
The balloon was the shape of a giant egg, with the patterned silk stretched over a wire framework. Dangling from beneath the egg shape was a basket made from bamboo.
Alfie pushed his way into the centre of the crowd, using his knees and elbows. He would get as far from the man with the gun as he could. After a few minutes, he managed to get himself a place just beside the balloon. No one could touch him here, he thought as he cast a quick look over his shoulder. There were a lot of heavily-built men around, carrying up bags of sand and handing them into the swaying basket. A warmly dressed man in a fur cap stood there. The balloonist, no doubt, thought Alfie.
‘More!’ shouted one of the men. ‘We need more ballast. This basket will turn over if we don’t have a bit more weight in it.’
‘One more bag to go,’ grunted one of carriers. ‘It weighs about five stone.’
‘Should be enough,’ replied the balloonist. ‘Hurry up. We must get going. We’re five minutes overdue already. Fling it over, man.’
Perhaps the man was rushed or perhaps the bag already had a split in it, but as he flung it through the air a stream of sand fell straight down and powdered the grass. By the time the balloonist caught it, the bag had less than half of its contents left.
‘Look what you’ve done, you awkward fool!’ shouted the balloonist. ‘I can’t go up without that last bag of sand. Look at the basket!’
There was no doubt that the basket was not properly weighted down. The ropes were slack and the basket swung to one side and then tilted to the other. Even Alfie could see that those ropes needed to be stretched taut, like the balloons that he had seen from time to time floating across the London sky.
Alfie had only survived the life of a street boy in London by having quick wits and plenty of courage. In a second he had made up his mind and a second later he was inside the bamboo basket, sitting on the floor with his arms around his knees.
‘Take me,’ he said. ‘I weigh exactly five stone.’
Alfie didn’t have a notion of what he weighed, but he had seen large machines inside chemists’ shops and was ready to swear to how, when and why he had been weighed on one of them.
The balloonist, however, took one glance at the boy and made up his mind. If Alfie had been a well-dressed, well-fed young gentleman he would not have risked it, but a ragged slum child was a different matter. No one would worry about him.
‘Cast off!’ he shouted.
Instantly the men holding the ropes let go. The gleaming silk swelled and surged, the pointed top rising towards the sky.
‘Hold on tight to that rope. Don’t wriggle and, whatever you do, don’t stand up!’ said the balloonist sternly.
Alfie was only too glad to stay still and to keep his head down. He wondered whether the man who was chasing him had seen him get into the balloon. Well, if he had, there wasn’t much that he could do about it now!
Peering through the cracks in the woven cane of the basket, Alfie was surprised to find that he was staring at the roof of one of the clubs beside Green Park. Already that high! Where was the man going, he wondered but didn’t bother to ask. The balloonist was on his feet now, tugging at a red cord that seemed to be attached to a sort of flap at the top of the balloon.
‘Need to get a bit more height,’ he yelled when he saw Alfie looking at him. ‘I forgot about that huge plane tree over here. Should have avoided it.’
The next minute the basket hit the tree. A few crows squawked, rose indignantly up into the air and flew away. Alfie shut his eyes and then opened them. The cane basket was stuck, like a giant nest, but it was undamaged. The enormous silk balloon was still full of hot air and it rose above the branches and tugged at the ropes like a living creature. The balloonist pulled once more on the red cord.
‘There we go!’ the balloonist exclaimed as the balloon gave one last tug and the basket floated free. Alfie heard a cheer from the crowd below. The basket was rising rapidly.
We must be well above the tops of the houses now, he thought and peered over the side of the basket, taking care not to move his position.
‘Well,’ he said aloud. ‘I ain’t never seen London look like that before.’
Suddenly the city that he knew so well looked like a picture. Down below him were towers, churches, domed buildings, smoking chimneys, houses the size of a large dog, tiny ships floating on a silver river crossed by toy bridges. He spotted the spire of St Martin’s chur
ch and the fountains of Trafalgar Square. He looked east and thought he glimpsed the stately pillars in front of the Covent Garden Theatre and the crowded streets around the market. He strained his eyes to try to make out Bow Street and that made him think of Sammy and how his brother had been left alone when he, Alfie, had been taken from the cellar at the point of a gun. He wondered what Sammy had done. Would he have guessed what was going on?
Alfie forced his mind away from Sammy; there was nothing he could do and his brother usually found his way out of trouble. He looked up and saw the veils of fog were touched with gold, like a silk lining to a grey coat.
‘Cor,’ he said. ‘I never knowed that the sun stayed up there all the time behind the fog!’ And then he thought that sounded a bit childish and said in a business-like tone, ‘Where are you bound, Mister?’
‘Vauxhall Gardens,’ said the balloonist. ‘I’m going to give rides in the balloon there tonight. There’s going to be a firework display and I’ll take people up for half a crown so that they can see the sights. You enjoying yourself?’
‘How far is that from Westminster?’ asked Alfie, wondering how he was going to get back. He had often heard of Vauxhall Gardens, of course. People who had money went there to amuse themselves, but Alfie had never had money to waste on things like that. Money was for the rent and for food and that was all it could be used for in Alfie’s life.
‘About a mile beside the river,’ said the man. ‘Look down; we’re nearly there.’
Alfie peered over the edge again. They were drifting along the line of the river high above the ships and boats.
‘Lambeth Bridge,’ said the man, pointing. ‘Look, Vauxhall Gardens are there. They cost a shilling to get into, sixpence for children, but you’re in luck. You’ll get in free because you’re with me. Hang on tight, now. This is where we go down.’
The balloonist hauled on the red cord which led upwards into the balloon. The vent for the hot air widened dramatically and the balloon began to sink. Suddenly the ground seemed to rush up to meet them. The basket bumped along the grass, dragged by the half-deflated silken mass of the balloon.
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