‘But you haven’t?’
‘Not yet. So far, they’ve kept clear of law breaking. It’s all secondhand. Organised for them by that bullying lout and gang-boss, Molacoff Weil. Recently, I hear, he’s been enlisting a regular private army, mostly young Russians newly arrived, who can’t get jobs and would starve without the pittance he doles out.’
‘Armed?’
‘No. They don’t normally carry arms, but I’m certain he’s got a cache tucked away somewhere that they can draw on. So, if trouble comes we’re going to find ourselves facing guns and bombs with wooden truncheons. There’s only one answer. We shall have to arm the police.’
‘The idea has been put to Winston more than once. He says it’s un-English.’
‘That’s his Liberal principles,’ said Daines. ‘With a capital “L”. They’ve become very marked since he crossed the floor of the House.’
Wensley said, ‘And it isn’t just a hard core of young toughs that we’re up against. Half the émigré population are passively on their side. They act as spies, informers, keepers of safe houses, hiders of arms and ammunition. What they’re best at is keeping their eyes open. I can’t leave my own office here without the news getting straight back to Weil’s crowd. There’s a man runs a fish stall at the High Street corner and another one who seems to spend most of his daylight hours sitting outside his shop at the south end of the street. I’ve no doubt they’ve got ingenious methods of passing the word to other watchers.’
‘But this is intolerable,’ said Macnaghten. ‘If a police officer can’t move about his own manor without spying and harassment—’
‘They don’t harass me,’ said Wensley with a grin. ‘They know better than to try anything like that. And I’ve got a very simple answer. I’m planning to shut my office here for the time being and move down to one of our other stations. Probably the one at Poplar. That area is full of sailors, who don’t love the Russians. If trouble’s coming, I like to operate from a firm base.’
‘And you really think,’ said Macnaghten, ‘that it will be the sort of trouble which will be difficult to handle.’
‘If I could arm my men, I’d handle it easily enough. Once Weil and his gang have been stamped on, the opposition will crumble.’
Macnaghten said, ‘I’ll put it to Winston, but he’s not an easy man to argue with.’ As he got up he added, ‘There was one other matter, Fred, and I apologise for raising it, knowing how busy you are, but I’ve had Sir Hector Durrance round my neck lately. It seems that his son, Lance, got involved in a street brawl which ended with his being charged. I’m not clear whether it’s breach of the peace or whatever. It could be worked up into something serious and if it ends in a prison sentence it will affect his future career. The witnesses are two of your men.’
‘Pagan and Narrabone. I heard about it.’
‘And it isn’t just Sir Hector. It’s his wife. Her father’s Viscount Rawley and he’s got a lot of pull in political circles. I’ve got so much on my plate at the moment that I’d like to clear this extra bit off.’
Wensley, who had a good deal on his own plate, said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
When his visitors had gone he sat for a few moments, thinking. He was busier at that moment than he could ever remember being. Two time-consuming matters had come together. The killing of Leon Beron on Clapham Common was exciting increasing interest. It had the dramatic touches calculated to appeal to the press and the public. The apparently motiveless murder. The laceration of the dead man’s cheeks. Above all the fact that it had coincided with the Sidney Street siege. Was there any logical connection between them? Had Beron been killed not because he had betrayed his Russian accomplices, but to prevent him from betraying them? And as a warning to anyone who might feel inclined to talk? It was just the sort of pre-emptive strike that would appeal to a trained anarchist.
When Luke and Joe were shown in, he pushed the other papers on one side and picked up their report. He said, ‘Those two letters you found in the Triboff house. They were in Russian. I see that you’ve translated them into English in your report. That sentence, “When you go to your workshop”, I wonder if you can remember what the word was in Russian.’
‘I could look it up. I’ve got the original at home. But I’m pretty sure it was “mastyrskaya”.’
‘Could that mean anything else? I take it the letter was meant for Treschau. He’s a chemist. Could it mean laboratory?’
‘Yes. Addressed to a chemist I suppose it could mean laboratory.’
Wensley resumed his reading. When he had finished he said, ‘I take it you investigated 22 Cundy Street.’
‘We found that it was a butcher’s shop. A kosher butcher.’
‘And didn’t that strike you as odd?’
Luke and Joe looked at each other. The truth was that as soon as they discovered that it was a butcher’s shop, and not a den of anarchists, they had lost interest in it.
‘Assume that these messages are meant for Treschau. He’s not a Jew. Why should he patronise a kosher butcher?’
‘It didn’t occur to us,’ said Luke. ‘Do you think it’s important?’
‘I haven’t any idea whether it’s important or not. But when you’re conducting an investigation and you come across something that seems odd, you don’t let it go. You follow it up. Would it be possible to watch this shop, discreetly?’
‘As it happens,’ said Joe, ‘it would be dead easy. Coolfin Road runs into Cundy Street and two of the houses at the end of Coolfin Road are a sort of boarding establishment for sailors off the “A” and “B” lines. They run it as a commune.’
‘Logical place for it,’ agreed Wensley. ‘Handy for the Victoria and Albert Docks. What did you mean by a commune?’
‘According to Bill Trotter – I told you about him, sir – it’s fairly informal. They club together for the rent and use it when their ship’s in dock. That means that it’s usually half empty.’
‘Then there might be a spare room in it? One that both of you could use.’
‘Actually, Bill suggested it.’
‘What’s the arrangement at your place in Osborne Street, if you wanted to get out?’
‘The office looks after all that sort of thing. I think it would just be a matter of giving a week’s notice.’
Wensley said, ‘Then get them to give it. Everything I heard today from Daines and Kell made me certain that we’re in for trouble. I’d feel happier about you two if you were tucked away down in the docks among a crowd of friends. One other thing. It seems we may be in for some difficulty over Durrance.’
‘You mean that young bully we gave in charge for knocking Anna Katz about? Has there been some trouble there?’
‘The trouble with Durrance is that his father’s an MP and his mother’s the daughter of a viscount. I’ve got so much to do that I’d like to clear this off. See what you can do.’
‘I wonder what he meant by that,’ said Joe, when they were by themselves.
‘Seemed clear enough to me,’ said Luke. ‘When we give evidence we’re to go easy on young Durrance.’
‘If that’s what Fred wants, I suppose we’ve got to do it. Seems a pity. A week or two on the treadmill would have done that blue-blooded nurk a power of good. If I’m to give evidence, you’ll have to tell me what to say.’
‘Play it by ear,’ said Luke.
It turned out to be easy enough.
For a start, the case against Durrance was weakened by the fact that Anna had refused to appear, on the grounds that if she had done so her masquerade as a boy would have come out. Luke, when questioned, agreed that the main assailant, who had been using his boot, had escaped and had not yet been identified. The one they did catch, the prisoner, had been smacking the boy’s face.
‘You mean,’ said the magistrate, ‘not punching with his closed fist, but smacking with an open hand.’
Luke agreed that this was what he meant.
The magistrate turned to the prisoner. ‘I
understand that you have been invited to name the persons who were with you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And that you refused to do so.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You are aware that if you had been prepared to co-operate it would have had a beneficial effect on your case.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you still refuse?’
Durrance drew himself up like a soldier on parade and said, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good boy,’ said his father, from the back of the court.
The magistrate paused to consider the matter. He said, ‘It’s our job in these difficult times to discourage irresponsible behaviour of this sort.’ He addressed the prisoner. ‘In view of the fact that it’s a first offence and that your parents have come forward to give you a good character, I shall merely impose a fine. But let me make it clear that should anything of this sort occur again, I shall not hesitate to impose a custodial sentence. You will pay forty shillings and ten shillings towards the costs of the prosecution.’
Durrance, much relieved, left the dock to discharge his debts. His father was smiling happily. Everyone seemed pleased. The only person who was unhappy was Joe. As soon as they were alone together he voiced his displeasure. ‘Bloody nurk,’ he said, ‘standing there like the boy stood on the bloody burning deck. And incidentally, I didn’t know you was a capitalist lackey.’
‘I’m not,’ said Luke, amiably.
‘Then why did you come down so heavy on his side?’
‘Maybe because I’ve got better eyesight than you,’ said Luke, and would offer no further explanation.
Two days later they were sitting in their Osborne Street quarters, amicably enough, the slight coolness engendered by the Durrance episode having quickly evaporated. They had inspected and approved an attic in the Coolfin Road commune and had arranged to move into it at the end of the following week. They were both reading newspapers. Joe had a copy of Answers and was trying to work out one of the ingenious puzzles for which it was famous. Luke was leafing through the badly printed pages of Rank Pelnis, the immigrants’ newspaper. It was published in Russian and it was his job to extract from it any items of interest, translate them and include them in his weekly report.
‘Well, what do you know?’ he said. ‘Listen to this: “On Wednesday, at 2.30 in the afternoon, there will be held a meeting at the Free Working Men’s Club in Jubilee Street. The meeting is sponsored by the SRP and the MSD jointly.’”
‘And who the hell are they?’ said Joe, putting down his paper.
‘The SRP are the Socialist Revolutionary Party and the MSD are the Marxist Social Democrats.’
‘Add them together and what’ve you got? A crowd of windbags.’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Luke. ‘The interesting thing is that they should be getting together at all. Normally they don’t talk to each other much. The SRP specialise in assassination and bombing. The MSD are more moderate. They believe in expropriation – which is a polite name for robbery – but not in violence. If they’re putting together a common programme it should be worth listening to.’
‘Might be.’
‘But that’s not the really interesting thing. It’s the last paragraph: “The platform will be graced by the presence of Prince Igor.” As we all know, he crossed swords with the Tsar and got turfed out of Russia. “Also by Michael Morrison.”’
‘The one who calls himself the working man’s friend,’ said Joe.
‘That’s the chap. Communist candidate for Deptford at the last election, with as much chance of getting into Parliament as a grasshopper of getting into the Royal Mint. “The third man in this distinguished group on the platform”—wait for it—”will be Julian Spencer-Wells.”’
‘Well blow me down,’ said Joe, ‘not our own Julian, who used to bend our ears back in the public bar of the Suffolk Serpent?’
‘Must be,’ said Luke. He thought of the earnest young man who had sat beside him on the sofa and had wanted to kiss him. He had been much younger then. Infinitely younger. It was a lifetime away.
‘Looks like a meeting we ought to get in on,’ said Joe. ‘Might sneak in at the back somehow. But I’ve got a feeling it won’t be easy.’
‘Listen to this: “Entry is by ticket only. Tickets will be allotted, without charge, to paid-up members of the SRP and MSD, who should apply to one of the stewards (names and addresses below) at least one clear day before the date of the meeting.”’
‘Difficult,’ agreed Joe.
‘I wondered if maybe Anna’s father could help us. He’s a printer. If we could get hold of a ticket he could probably copy it for us. With a crowd going in at the door they wouldn’t be examined too closely.’
‘And how do you suggest we set about getting a ticket for him to copy? You’re not hoping I’ll put on a false beard and apply to one of the stewards, I hope.’
‘You’d lose more than your beard if you tried that. No, I’ll have a word with Jacob. He may have some ideas.’
‘Anything for an excuse to call on Anna,’ said Joe. But this he said to himself.
Next morning, when Luke called at the Katz house, he found Jacob at his desk, examining a page of script with a magnifying glass. He apologised for disturbing him. The old man said he was always welcome and sounded as though he meant it. Whilst they were talking Anna came in from the kitchen. She was wearing a boy’s shirt, open at the neck; her sleeves were rolled up and her forearms were speckled with flour.
She said, ‘You must excuse my appearance. I have been cooking one of my father’s favourite dishes – savoury pancakes. There is plenty for you, if you would condescend to share our midday meal with us.’
‘No condescension,’ said Luke. ‘A pleasure.’
Her father said, ‘Of course he must stay. I regard him as a member of the family.’
When Anna had returned to her cooking Luke explained the object of his visit. Jacob listened carefully, then moved across to a cupboard and brought out a cardboard box, full of tickets, neatly packaged,
‘Half for the SRP, half for the MSD,’ he explained. Noting Luke’s look he added, ‘You must not suppose that because I work for them that I approve of their objects. I do jobs for anyone who will pay.’
Luke examined the tickets. They were numbered from one to three hundred.
‘I doubt whether they will all be used. I have printed a hundred and fifty for each organisation. Nothing easier than to run off two more for you. Only, the numbering would have to be thought of.’
‘No problem,’ said Luke. ‘Pick two numbers at random. Say, eighty-nine and ninety. No one is to know that these particular tickets have been duplicated.’
‘Very well,’ said Jacob. ‘But promise me that when you have used them you will destroy them. I know these people. I would not wish to incur their displeasure.’
Luke said, ‘They shall be burned as soon as the meeting’s over.’
He thought this development so promising that he would not hold it back for his weekly report. He would let Wensley know about it at once.
When he got to Leman Street he was told that Wensley had moved. ‘Gone down to Poplar for a chance of air,’ said the desk sergeant. ‘Comes back here from time to time.’
‘Then I suppose Narrabone and I will be attached to the Poplar Station.’
‘If that’s what you think, you can think again,’ said Superintendent Joscelyne, who had come in and overheard them. ‘We can’t have you spending all your time chasing anarchists. There’s a lot of routine CID work piling up. And we’re short- handed in that department.’
This was true, since the CID contingent at Leman Street, apart from Joe and himself, consisted of a junior detective inspector, who was in hospital with stomach trouble, and two over-worked detective sergeants.
‘There’s no reason you shouldn’t tackle both your jobs. You’ll report here every evening at five o’clock and I’ll give you your instructions for the following day. Understood?’
/> ‘It’s a swindle,’ said Joe when Luke passed this on. ‘A bloody swindle. One moment he tells us to spend all our time keeping an eye on the Russians. Next moment it’s back to the treadmill.’
‘It’s a hard life,’ said Luke. ‘Let’s go and look up the old weasel in his new burrow.’
They found Wensley installed in a room which looked south, over the West India Dock and the river. The Poplar Station was under Inspector Paine, who seemed to be proud to be housing the redoubtable DDI. Luke told him about the forthcoming meeting and about his plan for getting into it. As he was speaking, he noticed Wensley’s face relaxing into a smile and when he had finished and was waiting for some comment, he was awarded a laugh which seemed to start low down in Wensley’s stomach and rumbled on for some seconds.
As soon as Wensley could speak he said, ‘I could give you a lot of reasons against doing what you propose. I’ll let you have the first three that come to my mind. You realise that this meeting will be confined to people who’ve known each other for years. As soon as you showed your face you’d be spotted as an intruder and would be lucky to get out undamaged. Secondly, we know, or can guess, exactly the sort of nonsense that’s going to be spouted. Corrupt capitalistic façades that mask the exploitation of the lower orders by a spurious claim to a democratic electoral system. We’ve heard all that drip a dozen times. Thirdly, and perhaps even more important, the tickets, you may be certain, will be collected at the door and very carefully checked afterwards. Your duplicates will be spotted and since old Katz is the only person who could have printed them, he’d be for the high jump. Do you want any more reasons?’
Luke, whose face was deep red by this time, muttered, ‘No, sir. Three’s enough.’
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