By this time a small crowd had collected and when Luke asked if anyone knew where the boy lived, several voices volunteered. ‘Deickman Street’, ‘Just round the corner’ and ‘The shop with the photographs.’
Luke hoisted the boy on to his back. Joe, his prisoner and PC Perry marched off and the crowd started to disperse. Two or three of them followed Luke to point out the shop, easily identifiable from the photographs of marriage groups in the window. One of them ran ahead to knock on the door, which was open by the time Luke arrived.
An elderly couple were standing in the hall. The woman uttered an exclamation of alarm. Luke said, ‘Nothing too serious, Mamma.’ He lowered the boy to his feet and he seemed able to stand. The woman put her arms round him and hustled him off.
The man said, ‘We must thank you. And introduce ourselves. Jacob and Elzelina Katz. You are – Pagan – yes. Please be seated, Mr Pagan. My wife has medical training. She should shortly be able to reassure you that our son Ivan will be all right. Thanks to your most timely assistance. Whilst we are waiting, might I offer you a glass of schnapps or of brandy?’
Luke voted for brandy. This seemed to him to be exactly the sort of contact he had been told to look for. He said, ‘Would you regard it as an impertinence if I asked you to tell me something about yourself?’
‘An impertinence, no. I only fear that I might bore you. I have poured out my troubles so often that they come out like water when you turn the tap.’
Luke said, ‘Turn it on for me.’
‘If you wish me to. It is a sad story, though a common enough one in these parts. Maybe we have been luckier than some. It was – let me see – almost exactly ten years ago that we arrived. Myself, my wife Elzelina and the two children, Dmitry and Ivan. They were six and seven years old. It was only because they were young, you understand, that we were allowed to bring them with us. If they had been a few years older we should have been compelled to leave them behind.’
Outside it had started to rain. A heavy January shower blown in from the east.
‘It was raining when we arrived,’ said Jacob. He looked back, in silence, to that unforgettable moment: he and his family squatting in the rain on the quay, with their few belongings around them and no idea of what to do next.
‘To leave your old life behind,’ said Luke, ‘and start anew. It must have been a hard decision. What drove you to do it?’
‘We came because we had to come. Life for us Jews had been made intolerable. I mean that literally. Impossible to bear. Our language was forbidden. Our books were burnt. Our sons were dragooned into the Army. A Russian recruit faced fifteen years of service. A Jewish boy thirty years. Very few survived it. It was customary to recite the prayers for the dead over our young conscripts. Then, when they were in the Army, they were forced into the Orthodox religion. They underwent a rechristening.’
‘Could they have refused?’
‘Oh, certainly. What followed such refusal would be a diet of salted food, water being withheld until they agreed to co-operate. Most did. A few resisted until death mercifully carried them away. When our village was uprooted and transferred, with many others, to where they called the Pale of Settlement, conditions became even worse. But I had one advantage over my fellows. My printing and photographic business had prospered. I was even able – you must not laugh – to publish a newspaper. It was a poor little sheet and always cringingly discreet. In the end, even that was frowned on and I was forced to suspend it, but by that time I had money. Not a lot, but enough. I could buy my way out. It would cost me all, or almost all that I had, in payments to the authorities, at all levels, for a permit. Bribes at the frontier would extract what I had left. In fact, I was able to bring out a very small residue of cash. I will not describe to you the method of hiding it, which might shock you. I only know that if it had been discovered, further fees and formalities would have been invented. With that money and the necessary resolution to starve rather than spend all of it on food, I was able to start again. My first work was handwritten. Fortunately I am a good pen-man. Then I was able to buy an old camera. Then a better one. Then set up my printing press again. Now, as you see, we live in a measure of comfort. I can even save money. That enables me to send remittances to my son, Peter. The Ghetto Bank handles such matters.’
‘Peter, then, was your elder son?’
‘He was fourteen years old, nearly fifteen, when we left. Now he will be twenty-four. He has, mercifully, managed to avoid conscription and tells me that he is doing well as an engineer.’
‘That sounds like a happy end to an unhappy story.’
‘May it continue happy. I hope it will. But sometimes I fear—’
‘Fear what?’
Picking his words with evident care Jacob said, ‘Most refugees, ourselves and our friends, view England as a haven. A blessed place, on no account to be disturbed by resort to criminal activities. But, alas, our activists reject such a view.’
When he paused, as though not anxious to proceed, Luke said, ‘It seems such a sensible view that one wonders why anyone should reject it.’
‘One reason is that they want money. More money than they can possibly get by honest work. But they persuade themselves that there are more lofty reasons. They despise all existing administrations as corrupt capitalistic facades, erected in order to mask the exploitation of the lower orders. Nonsense, of course, but that is the way they have been conditioned to think.’
At this point they were interrupted by the return of Elzelina Katz. She said, ‘Ivan is much recovered. It is nothing worse than bruises and scratches, thanks to this kind gentleman. I do not know your name, sir.’
‘Luke Pagan. My friend and I have an apartment in Osborne Street. A short way down the High Street. You know it, perhaps?’
‘Indeed,’ said Jacob. ‘I know all the streets round here, having tramped them for custom. I hope you will pardon me for asking what may seem an impertinent question. But are you of the police?’
‘Correct. But I wasn’t aware that it was so obvious.’
‘My unhappy experiences have enabled me to identify a policeman almost at first sight. Ah, here is Ivan. He does indeed appear to have recovered somewhat.’
Luke said, ‘Now I, in turn, must ask you an equally impertinent question. What is this child’s real name?’
‘His real name,’ said Jacob. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Not Ivan, surely. Would it perhaps be Rebecca? Catherine? Leah?’
In the silence that followed, the members of the Katz family looked at each other. They did not seem greatly alarmed. It was Elzelina who broke the silence. She said, ‘Her name is Anna.’
6
Luke was dreaming.
From time to time he grunted, twisting about in bed, unwilling to return to reality. Feeling a hand on his shoulder he opened his eyes.
Joe said, ‘You’ve bin imitating a pig for nigh on half an hour. Must have been a lovely dream. Something happening in a farm yard, was it?’
Luke said, ‘If it was, I’ve forgotten. I never remember dreams for more than five seconds.’ This was not true. He could remember it clearly. He had been dreaming about a girl’s body in boys’ clothes.
Joe, who was already dressed, said, ‘Arise and shine and tell me what’s on the menu for today.’ The rain, which had belted down all night, had stopped and the sun was shining. ‘It’s a lovely morning. Let’s go out and kill someone.’
‘We’ve got a job to do.’
‘Don’t tell me. I know we’re going to watch a house somewhere for someone who isn’t there.’
‘No. It’s what you might call a cleaning job. I told you last night that the boy I picked up turned out to be a girl. I didn’t tell you why she was forced to dress like that and how I found out.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Joe. ‘You found out when you laid your hand gently upon his heart to see whether it was beating and felt—’
‘Right,’ said Luke hastily. ‘That’s when I
found out. Later on I discovered why she was going round dressed as a boy. It seems she and her brother needed jobs and the only ones they could get were at a sweat-shop in a place called Brownsong Court, wherever that may be. It’s run by a prime bastard called Solomon. If a girl entered his employment, one of the understood terms was that she would co-operate with him in every way. In every way. A session in his private apartment after the day’s work was done, is the usual arrangement.’
‘And if they refuse?’
‘They lose the job. Which is why Anna went on as a boy. She reckoned that Solomon would tumble to it sooner or later, but meanwhile she is pocketing her pay – which, as sweat-shop pay goes, is fairly generous.’
‘And you think we ought to make it clear to Mr Solomon that we consider his terms of employment irregular.’
‘I think it is our duty to do so.’
‘How did you propose to set about it?’
‘I hadn’t worked out all the details.’
‘What would be suitable,’ said Joe thoughtfully, ‘would be a boot in the crutch. That would keep him quiet for a week or so. Anyway, more fun than watching an empty house. Lead on.’
Brownsong Court, when they found it, proved to be an enclosed square in the Spitalfields area, south of the market. The approach to it was a narrow cobbled lane called Brownsong Passage. The whole area seemed to have been taken over by the Jewish fraternity. On the left, as they approached down Stratford Road, they passed the Jewish school and a modern synagogue. In Brownsong Passage, the right-hand side was lined with tiny shops that sold old clothes, sewing-machines and religious medallions. The left-hand side was occupied by the double frontage of Solomon Enterprises. Before tackling this, they looked into the square. On the right and on the far side, it was lined by one-storey houses, each of which seemed, from the boards at the front doors, to be the residence of half a dozen different families. To the left, behind Solomon’s spread, stood a branch of that monument to Jewish industry, the great Ghetto Bank.
‘Shonks’ corner,’ said Joe.
Luke found nothing to disapprove of. Like most Jewish quarters it was neat, functional and, after the recent heavy rain, clean. ‘Better than most Gentiles’ corners,’ he said.
The front door of Solomon’s shop was opened by the proprietor himself. Luke, who had expected a Jew in a greasy gaberdine, rubbing his hands together and smiling in a placatory manner, was taken aback to be confronted by a thickset dwarf, wearing a dark, well-cut suit and a scowl. When they had identified themselves as policemen, the scowl disappeared, to be replaced, as he understood the business they had come on, with a smile of seemingly genuine amusement.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Come in. Feel free to question all my boys and girls. They make up stories, you understand, to intrigue each other. They will have nothing to tell you that will embarrass me. Of that I am sure. Enlighten me. Who has made this preposterous accusation?’
This was difficult. He could hardly say, ‘One of your girls who was dressed as a boy,’ so he was forced to fall back on generalities. He said, ‘I have heard it from many sources.’
‘Indeed,’ said the dwarf. ‘But you know what girls are. As I said, they like to spread romantic tales. Me, I have no time for such frippery. I work as hard as they do. Or harder.’
By this time they were through the entrance hall and were looking into the two big rooms beyond. In the left-hand room, a number of men were working with sewing-machines. In the right-hand one, separated from it by a partition, twenty or more girls were sewing and pressing. When they peered through the door in this partition, most of the girls looked up and most of them smiled. None of them looked oppressed.
‘My happy family,’ said Solomon, beaming at them. ‘Though I fear that soon they may have less cause to be happy. Soon I shall be forced to close down part of my business. Maybe I shall retain one of these rooms and work only from the other one. I am being driven out by the large operators. I employ twenty or thirty workers. They use two or three hundred. With mass production they can afford to lower their prices. In the end, maybe, I shall have to close down both rooms.’
Luke decided to terminate what was turning out to be an unproductive visit. In an endeavour to maintain some part of the initiative, he said, ‘I may be back with some questions for you later.’
‘I shall always be glad to see you,’ said Solomon with a warm smile, as he closed the door behind them. When the door was shut the smile was shut off, too.
‘Didn’t get much change out of him, did we?’ said Joe. ‘Could be true about those girls. I mean, that they made the running, not him. It’s a funny thing about girls. I’ve noticed. The idea of having it off with a dwarf or a cripple or someone like that seems to titubate them. Do I mean titubate?’
‘I think you meant titillate.’
‘That’s right. Titty-late. Just the word I had in mind. You remember one-legged Jack, back at Bellingham. Girls round him like flies round a jam pot. ‘Ullo, who’s this?’
They had turned out into the main road and were passing the frontage of the synagogue, when the door swung open and a white-bearded man erupted from the door. He grabbed Luke by the arm, dragged him across the pavement and said, ‘You are of the Government, yes. Then you will do something quickly. Before worse occurs.’
He pointed to the spot where the forecourt in which they were now standing bordered on the road and Luke saw that water had flowed out of the two storm drains in the gutter and had formed a pool. It was clearly the residue of a much larger pool, almost a lake.
‘Come and look,’ said the old man. He had such a firm grasp of Luke’s arm that Luke could not have thrown him off without hurting him. When they got into the synagogue he could see that the flood, before it receded, had entered the building and covered a section of the floor.
Luke said, ‘Must have been the rain last night. Unusually heavy.’
‘Never before has such a thing happened. Rain we have had, yes. Storms, yes. But never before a flood. Our building is precious to us, you understand. We cannot stand idly by and see it ruined.’
With the idea of getting away Luke said, ‘I’d better report this to the sanitary authorities. They’ll know what to do.’
This qualified assurance seemed to satisfy the old man, who smiled for the first time, and said, ‘That is well. You will make a report. Something will be done. We are proud of our synagogue. It must not be damaged. Noble, is it not?’
Looking about him Luke saw an oblong, uninspiring interior, the only remarkable feature of which was the great window which filled the east wall. ‘A masterpiece indeed,’ said the old man. ‘It is the work of Elias Kazan. You will have heard of him, of course.’ Luke felt that it was safe to nod. ‘You will observe the motif. In the centre is the Prophet Moses, in his glory. At his feet the spirits of the damned, who are in Purgatory. Along the top, ten great benefactors and scholars. On the left you can see the blessed Chasdal ibn Shaprut and next to him the learned Johan ibn Janach. I could tell you the story of each one. My name, by the way, is Werfel. Joshua Werfel. I have the charge of this congregation.’
‘You are its pastor?’
‘I am its Rabbi,’ said the old man with a smile. ‘At your service.’
‘I’ll keep in touch with you,’ said Luke. ‘And when we have a moment you shall tell me the story of your window. Meanwhile, I must hurry away. I have much to do.’
One of the things he had to do, he realised, was to deliver his weekly report to Wensley. It was already a day late. He had written most of it the night before. He decided that he would hand it over as it stood, since their expedition that morning did not seem to have produced anything of importance.
When they reached Leman Street they were told that Wensley was in conference. He would see them as soon as he was free.
Wensley had known and admired Sir Melville Macnaghten since the days when Sir Melville was Chief Constable of the CID and he himself a detective sergeant. The admiration was mutual. Wensley�
��s subsequent promotions had been well earned, but it had done him no harm to have a friend at court. ‘A thoughtful man’, Wensley had once called Sir Melville and he was demonstrating his thoughtfulness at that moment by coming to Wensley’s office to confer rather than getting him up to Scotland Yard. He knew how busy the Clapham Common killing, added to his other preoccupations, had made his subordinate. He had brought Hubert Daines with him.
He said, ‘I wanted you to hear, at first hand, what he has been telling me.’
Daines said, ‘Our troubles stem, as usual, from the Tsar. A tiresome creature. If only he would stop swinging from left to right and right to left like a demented pendulum, we might know where we stood. One moment his troubles come from the moderates on the right, who want a constitutional government. The next moment from the revolutionaries of the extreme left. The main plank in their programme is the assassination of the Tsar, along with most of his ministers, and then, a constant source of irritation to him, there are the émigrés, particularly the ones who have reached this country. Protected by our well-known tolerance, they sit here like a line of rooks croaking out anti-Tsar propaganda. The Minister of the Interior, Peter Stolypin, is said to be temporarily in favour because he has promised to organise a series of outrages here in London that will force our government to come off the fence.’
‘Which they’re closer to doing than you might think,’ said Sir Melville.
‘The Opposition, I’m told, has already prepared a draft bill calling for the return of émigrés to their own country. In fact, it doesn’t need a bill. It could be effected by an Order in Council under the Aliens Act. The Cabinet is said to be spilt, but it wouldn’t take much to move them. If the anarchists’ recent plan to bomb the Lord Mayor’s show – aborted at the last moment – had come off, that would almost certainly have tipped the balance.’
‘So,’ said Sir Melville, ‘what do you think, Fred?’
Wensley, who had contributed nothing to the discussion so far, pondered for almost a minute. Then he said, ‘You ask for my opinion. So be it. What I think is that two very able men have been sent here to organise trouble. Casimir Treschau, or Trautman, and Janis Silistreau, who calls himself Morrowitz. Both well known in Russia. Treschau as a chemist, Silistreau as a poet. And if I had the smallest shred of evidence that they’ve committed, or were planning to commit, any criminal acts, I’d ask you to send them straight back where they came from.’
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