by J M Bannon
Around the corner, Trevor Conroy poked his head and peeped over his glasses. “Friday already? Oh, what a surprise, Jimmy. Did you come along today? No problems, I hope.”
“Don’t act surprised its fucking Friday, Trevor. I am like the racing form. I turn up every Friday," said Allen.
Trevor got up from his desk and scurried to meet Allen.
“Well, of course/ I realize I have a debt to repay and —"
Jimmy pushed by Trevor to discover what he was working on. Trevor’s office space was cramped but neat. Trevor was an artist, but had equipment for what he couldn’t create by hand. He had several types of printing machines, from clacker printers to variable stampautotrons to replicate government documents, and it appeared he was in full operation with multiple machines whirring and clicking. His specialty was documentation for smugglers and fences to get illegal goods into the continental markets.
“Looks like you have a job?” asked Jimmy.
“Yes, I’ve got some work. Just came in, a rush job,” answered the forger.
“You better have not spent the down payment. That’s money you owe Mr. Lo.” Allen was playing extra tough with his boss around. “How about you save your stories for your mates at the paddock and bring me my cash?” Allen finished.
“So the interest for this week is eight shillings—” calculated Trevor.
“Chen, rip this place apart and uncover my money,” said Jimmy as he tightened his ascot. Trevor’s interest calculation was correct, but Jimmy needed to learn how much the forger had been paid. He couldn’t leave Trevor with too much money as it would just go to betting on horses.
“Mr. Chen, no need to get physical. These are delicate apparatus. Let me get the payment." Trevor went over to his coat to get his pocketbook.
Jimmy stared at the document descending from the stampautotron as it slowly lurched out of the rollers. The machine selected the correct letter template, inked them and pressed the page with the stamp. He cocked his head to read the upside-down type. The document was a bill of sale for 1450 one hundred-gram bars of bullion purchased in Amsterdam in 1842 from a metals dealer to a Venetian banker.
Chin grabbed the billfold from Trevor. The intimidating goon brought the wallet to Jimmy, who looked inside and pulled out thirty-three pounds. Jimmy exclaimed. “Holy fuck, Trevor. This job was a big payday.” The thirty pounds would take care of Trever Owens’ gambling obligations. “Trevor, you are having a lucky streak.”
“I’ll have you know I have plum picks for the courses. There is this trifecta that is an absolute lock—"
Jimmy interrupted. He didn’t give a shit about horses. “Trevor, tell me about this assignment you’re working on.” Jimmy looked at the sheets on the line drying, a waybill for a steamer line moving the gold from Venice to Liverpool. A bill of sale from a Venetian merchant bank to a trust in the United States.
Lin did the math in his head, converting grams to pounds, figuring the losses in paying for smelting, recasting and paying a document forger; this looked like just the right sum of gold to be left over after losses and costs for the witch’s gold.
He held out the wallet to Trevor. “This is how lucky you are. You tell me about who employed you and when they are returning to pick up the paper, and you might get me to cover this week’s interest myself and leave you with all of these banknotes for that trifecta.”
“Jimmy, honor among thieves, mate. If it were to get out about town that Trevor Owens spills the beans, I would never get work.”
Lin put the billfold into the inner breast pocket of his coat. “No worries, Gov. I understand. Looks like I found the last honest criminal in London. Good luck at the track tomorrow.”
“Ah. Mister Lin, how about leaving a bloke with a fiver to see him through the week?”
Jimmy made his way out of the back room. “Come on, Chen. We got a schedule to keep.”
“Let’s say I was to provide this information. You and I would be good for let’s say two weeks of interest, I could get that deposit back and be sure that my name would never come up."
Jimmy stopped short with his back to Trevor. He had to admit that was a ballsy move on the forger’s part to up the ante. This certainly was Jimmy’s lucky day. It had been less than twenty-four hours, and he had a solid line on thousands in gold. This could save him days of running around town, listening to the stuttering shit birds that provided underworld information. All this would cost is a few weeks’ interest, and Trevor was a degenerate who would lose the thirty pounds in the wallet and then come to him for another loan.
Jimmy plucked out the wallet and held it up for Trevor to grab. “You tell me everything about what you're putting together, who and how they are getting the paper from you, and we can keep this lucky streak going for you.”
* * *
8:00 PM, Canterbury Music Hall
The meeting place was Canterbury Music Hall. Keane had a table where he could keep an eye on Nelson Bruce and his associate Allister “Red” McKenney. The nickname was from his hair color, not his political affiliation. Both parties had a stake in the meet-up and wanted to make certain the encounter took place without witnesses.
The Canterbury was brightly illuminated, with sodium arc lamps ensconced in the walls and the most magnificent chandeliers. Each fixture had over one hundred arc reflectors that cut through the haze of soot and smoke that hung in the theater from countless cigars, pipes, and cigarettes. The house band played an interlude between acts, and many of the patrons sang along while a charming girl held up cue cards with the lyrics to the ditty.
Dolly approached the table with two whiskeys. He was singing along, reveling in the atmosphere of the hall. Setting one glass down in front of Keane, he held his up for a toast as he sat down. “To a night out on Her Majesty,” said Dolly in an acknowledgment that the Metropolitan Police Service would be picking up the tab.
Keane said nothing.
“Callum?”
Keane turned to Dolly.
“Sorry, mate. I was daydreaming,” Keane replied.
“Are you alright, Keane?”
“Brilliant. Just have a lot on my mind, casework and such,” Keane replied, still a bit distant and dissociated.
“Well, here’s to the Queen,” Dolly motioned.
“To the Queen!” replied Keane.
“What is the latest with the Chilton murders?" asked Keane.
"Are you going to take another stab at clearing up the case with your alcohol-sodden deductive powers?" replied Dolly.
"I only share my logic to show you how to close cases. If you're ever going to have a career, you need to close a case once in a while.”
"Thanks for the career guidance," said Dolly “Will you get all shitty when I tell you that Rose established what the killer looks like?”
"How the hell did she manage that?” Keane asked, setting down his drink.
“She built this contraption. It is like a camera, but it captures spiritual remnants. I couldn’t believe my eyes.”
“What was the picture of?” asked Keane.
"I saw two pictures, one of a black woman standing over a white man at a writing desk. The second was the same woman and man, but she was gripping a sphere and penetrating his heart with a wand while he writhed in torment. Between the orb and the stab wound was a streak like lightening going across the night sky," explained Dolly.
“Rose Caldwell has these pictures?”
“Who else in London would construct a camera that takes pictures of spirits but the good Sister?”
“Anything else I should know?” asked Keane.
“I have corroboration that the suspect is a negro from Haiti, a runaway slave. Monday I have luncheon at the French embassy to learn more.”
“Who are you meeting with?” asked Keane.
Nelson Bruce arose abruptly from his chair and crossed to the side of the auditorium, making his way to the rear stairs of the hall that served the balcony.
“Looks like it’s time,”
Dolly said before slamming back his glass of whiskey. The detective went to the opposite side of the music hall then zig-zagged his way through the revelers to the back stairwell that led to the balcony. The lighting was poor in the upper balcony, and there were no tables, just rows of seats. These were the cheap seats, but the theater chairs were nice with velour cushions, compared to the wooden benches of lower class halls.
Upon reaching the balcony, Dolly worked his way to where Nelson Bruce sat in the rear row. From this spot, they could see anyone approach and were deep in the shadows of the rear balcony. There were only a few patrons in the mezzanine on a Thursday night, and they were close to the railing where the view of the stage was better.
The two others in the row with Nelson were embracing each other and were too engrossed with their affection to hear what transpired between Nelson and Williamson.
“How you doing, Brucie?” asked Dolly. He had passed the bar and picked up two ales. He handed one to Nelson.
“Thanks, mate. I'm still struggling for the worker.”
“You called for a meeting. What do you have to share?” asked the detective.
“You are correct. There are forces at play to instigate a panic,” responded Nelson. He handed Dolly a pamphlet.
Dolly unfolded it and read.
Citizens of London, Beware
The Baden Gaswerks is building the Royal Fleet at the expense of your children!
We have it on good authority from prominent doctors and scientists that the construction of the plant and the sub-street sewerage is part of a complex system for the Baden Gaswerks to defuse insidious gases through the city. Its dark purpose is not to fill airships with LQ gas but to sterilize the immigrants flooding the city’s ghettos.
Unite! Resist! Revolt!
"Where did you get this?" Dolly frowned. Now he had two cases about to boil over where he was the lead detective.
“Near the works. Some bill posters were gluing them up, and there have been a few laborers passing them out. When I asked who hired them to pass and post the bills, they had no notion where they came from, but they had been paid for the work.” Nelson said, never taking his eyes off the stage.
"This reads like what you were spouting to rile up your comrades the day I was down at the works. I would say verbatim.” Dolly put the handbill in his inside coat pocket.
"Well, it isn't the Commonwealth Communist Union. I made sure of that, mate. I got your message clear as glass and told the committee you drew the line, and it was my reputation if it was crossed.” Nelson’s speech was harried.
“Then who's the organizer, if it's not you?” asked Dolly.
“None of the trade unions I know. I inquired around, and none claimed the bills,” added Nelson.
“You pull off the picket line. I don't want one of your guys down there even walking their dog. The PM will call in the fusiliers to clear the crowds if there is any violence.”
“I moved my lads yesterday, but the crowds have doubled. The migrants are paranoid that the aristocracy will poison their children to keep them downtrodden. I’m steering clear of that site now, Detective, so as far as I am concerned, this is the last we need to talk.”
“If something goes down, expect to be carted in for appearances, but I’ll make certain that your aid is recognized,” said Dolly.
“Much appreciated.” Nelson looked at him with a sarcastic sneer then went back to watching the stage.
Dolly walked away and toward Keane. On the way back, he stopped at the bar again to pick up two beers. When he returned to the table, Detective Burton was sitting with Keane, and there were already drinks on the table.
“Adam, good to see you,” said Dolly, then he noted the third beer. “Someone sitting there?”
“No, that’s for you. I noticed you two registered in the logbook. Thought I would come over after my shift to grab a drink with you fellas,” answered Burton.
Dolly placed the pints down and pulled the chair around. “Well, it looks like we have a few ales to drink here, Keane.” Dolly then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the handbill and gave it to Keane.
“Fuck me,” Keane said.
“A few more beers before I'll be doing that,” said Burton smiling at his own joke and reading the bill over Keane's shoulder. “Oh, those are glued all over the walls of the gaswerks,” Adam related.
“The leaflet isn’t as significant as what Nelson declared. He asserts that he nor the other trade unionist are behind this. In fact, he already pulled his brothers out of there before I proposed it.”
“That means he expects something is going to happen, even if he doesn’t know who is behind it or what they are planning,” Keane added.
“Righto, mate. We have some work to accomplish on Monday, but right now, I’m just going to get drunk at the Queen’s expense, and you fellas are welcome to join me.”
12
Monday, the 21th of June
8:40 AM, Scotland Yard Briefing Room
The detective’s briefing had concluded and Dolly was now in the constables’ briefing room listening to the upcoming police operation to break up the crowds at Baden Gaswerks.
Sergeant Eakins was chosen to command the operation. A uniformed officer with military experience, he was highly qualified in procedures where crowds were involved, from the planning of a parade or the smashing of a riot. Dolly, Keane and Burton were all in attendance as they had spent the most time gathering intelligence on the case at the gaswerks.
Once the operation was initiated, Eakins would be in charge. Today he was laying out his strategy. He stood in front of a chalkboard with a map of the neighborhood around the gas and iron works drawn out.
“As you see, there is a natural flow of the avenues to the plant. Three streets east, west and south with a gate at each end. The northern gate sits opposite the south gate of the Lloyds Works with the perimeter road between the two fences. There will be three muster points. Here, here and here.” Eakins pointed to the spots on the map marked A, B and C.
“Muster point A will have two waves. The initial squad will go down Northern Docks Road and secure the north gate. At the same time, squad two will secure the western gate. Squads three and four will move on to the east and south gates.
“We will send in horse-mounted constables to separate groups and then police on foot behind them to disperse and guide people away. Those that won’t disperse, or resist will be rounded up. Each muster point will have police wagons staged to move in and pluck up those that we arrest.”
After a pause, Eakins continued, “I have spoken with Commissioner Mayne and have the 10th Fusiliers on ready if mass resistance ensues. Our preference is first to get everyone off the right of way to the gaswerks premises then to disperse and move the crowd out in an orderly fashion. Questions?" declared Eakins.
A constable raised his hand.
“Yes?” Eakins acknowledged the constable.
"Why are we breaking this up if there has been no violence?" the boyish constable asked.
Mayne interrupted before Eakins could answer. “Detectives Keane and Williamson have evidence that the common trade associations have fled and that there is a nameless group seeking to incite a riot at the location.”
“Do we know who?" asked another constable.
Dolly spoke up this time, sitting on the edge of a desk with his jacket off. The room was steamy from the June heat and the large congregation in the small space. “The gaswerks are pivotal to our national interests. We know the throngs are not the usual trade unions causing trouble, and we can’t put a finger on who is behind it. They are getting the migrants fired up, and we need to break it up before a bunch of ignorant buggers get hurt for no reason.”
The group began asking specific questions about tactics and strategy. Dolly lost interest and started his way out of the briefing room.
As he stepped out, Mayne signaled to him to come over. “Dolly, I need you and Keane down there tomorrow to keep an eye on things. We s
till have no idea what the caper might be, and once the crowd is under control there, we may lose the opportunity to find out who has been stirring things up at the plant.”
* * *
12:00 PM, French Embassy, London
Guild Master Saint-Yves had extended the invitation to Detective Williamson to meet for lunch at the French Embassy. He sat alone in the bright and spacious dining room, an island of black in a sea of white linen covered tables. The guild master sat in a contemplative trance, watching his thumb and forefinger slide up and down the stem of his water goblet. The condensation caused the motion to make a high-pitched squeak each time he did it. He stopped when the detective was escorted into the dining room.
The maitre’d approached the table with the detective following. The detective was nearly a foot taller than the maitre’d, and he walked with a confident gait.
“Guild Master, your guest is here to lunch with you,” pronounced the maitre’d.
Saint-Yves was stood up and greeted his guest.
“Detective Sergeant Williamson, I appreciate you accepting my invitation. I assure you that you will enjoy one of the finest lunches in London and come away with information pertinent to the Moya Case,” said the guild master.
“Thank you, Guild Master.”
“Call me Gerard. Since we will be working together, I would like us to be on a first name basis.”
“Then thank you, Gerard. You can call me Dolly.”
“Please sit. Dolly, pardon me, but is this not a woman’s name?”
“It’s short for Adolphus. That’s my middle name, and it has been my moniker since I joined the police service.”