What was this? A beautifully drafted plan of the internal structures of the Tower Bridge, expertly traced in blacklead pencil from an architect’s original drawing. Who could have made such a plan for a man like Grunwalski? And this other paper – a careful plan of the three interiors of the three boiler rooms on the south side. They looked as though they had been prepared for Grunwalski’s convenience by the chief engineer himself. Had these papers been passed to the anarchist by hidden accomplices? There were rotten apples to be found in every barrel.
And here was a professionally drawn picture of the detonator with its accompanying dynamite attached. A carefully written label bore the legend: ‘Use the inserted keys to set the time-clock. Remove and discard once time is set.’ The words had the typical terseness of a manufacturer’s instructions to the user of one of his patent appliances: ‘Depress handle sharply to flush the bowl’. That kind of thing.
Did a professional bomber like Grunwalski need such elementary instructions? Or was he simply a lone wolf, driven by his own fevered grudges against society?
Box picked up the sealed envelope. Inspector Fitzgerald had scrawled a rough message on it, signed with his initials. Object retrieved from Grunwalskt’s lodgings. May be of interest in investigating his antecedents.
The envelope contained a heavy copper coin, bearing on one side the image of a double-headed eagle with a crown above it, and seven heraldic shields arrayed across its wings and body. The eagle clasped an orb and sceptre in its claws. One of the claws had been depicted as a human hand.
Box sighed, and put the coin down on the desk. Over the last two years he had developed a wary dislike of eagles on coinage. Europe seemed to be awash with eagles, some with two heads, some with one, all symbolizing one or other imperial state and its satellites straddling the continent of Europe and, to Box’s way of thinking, threatening its peace and stability. Here was another such coin, found among Grunwalski’s possessions. Which eagle-state would it be? Russia? Prussia? Dozy old Austria?
He turned the coin over, and saw an inscription that he knew to be in the Cyrillic or Russian alphabet. Mr Mackharness knew Russian from his Crimea days, and would be able to interpret those words. There was a big number 30, presumably the value of the coin, and then a figure 2, followed by a word in the ordinary Latin alphabet. Zlote. There was a curly line through the letter L. The coin was dated 1836.
Box rose from his chair and threw a scuttleful of coal on to the dying fire. He poked the coal vigorously in order to bring the unwilling flames to life. June or not, it got cold in the Rents at night.
He caught his reflection in the big fly-blown mirror above the mantelpiece, and considered it critically. He looked tired and strained, which wasn’t surprising, considering the long working-day, but no one could say that he wasn’t a personable sort of fellow. That neatly trimmed moustache suited a man of thirty-six. He’d always tried to be smart and well turned out. Would he look as presentable as this in ten years’ time?
To the right of the mirror he had pinned up a photograph of the Duke of York, to join that of his wife, the former Princess Victoria Mary of Teck. Just a week ago, Her Royal Highness had given birth to a baby boy, who was to be called Prince Edward. No doubt the Duke had been given an extra cheer or two when he’d appeared that morning at the opening of Tower Bridge.
The foreign coin still lay where Box had placed it on the table. Somehow, it made him uneasy. Those eagles again…. Grunwalski was a Pole. Perhaps that was a Polish coin? He wouldn’t bother Mr Mackharness about it. There was a man he knew living near Maiden Lane who’d know all about Polish coins – if it was a Polish coin.
A sudden commotion in the vestibule recalled Box to the present. He could see a knot of uniformed policemen talking excitedly to Pat Driscoll, who had come out of the reception room to see what was the matter. Box saw Sergeant Driscoll point towards Box’s office, and in a moment a uniformed sergeant all but burst into the room. Box could see the shining Ms on his collar, telling him that the officer was one of Inspector Hare’s men from Southwark.
‘Inspector Box? Sir, there’s been a bomb outrage at Weavers’ Lane Police Station. The outer wall of the cell block has been blown apart, and the prisoner Grunwalski has escaped. Mr Hare wants you to come straight away.’
‘Any casualties?’ Box was struggling into his overcoat as he spoke.
‘Two constables wounded, sir, and one detainee badly injured. No deaths.’
The eagle coin lay where Box had left it on the long office table, glinting in the firelight. He scooped it up, thrust it into one of his waistcoat pockets, and was out through the office door before the sergeant had finished speaking. In less than a minute he was in a police cab, and clattering out of Whitehall towards London Bridge.
Box stood beside Inspector Hare in the alley behind Weavers’ Lane Police Station, where the back wall of the cell block had been blown inward to a height of some thirty feet. By the light of the gas flares standing in the alley, he could see the exposed floor of the upper storey, which was sagging downward dangerously. The ground was littered with bricks and shattered timber. There was a smell of gunpowder and scorched plaster in the air.
‘It’s a mercy that no one was killed,’ said Inspector Hare. His voice no longer held the weary cynicism of that morning, when he had received Sergeant Knollys into the boiler room. He sounded not only shocked but affronted. He nodded towards an ambulance standing at the entrance to the alley, two uneasy horses between the shafts.
‘Two of my constables are in there, waiting to be taken to Guy’s Hospital. One of them has a broken arm, and the other one’s received internal injuries.’
‘And this was done to spring Anders Grunwalski from custody?’
‘It was. We all thought he was some kind of wild amateur with a grudge against society. Other folk thought him worth exploding a bomb to get him out. In God’s name, Mr Box, who can be behind this wretched man?’
Hare’s uniform was covered in plaster-dust, and his right hand was roughly bandaged. He looked bewildered, and suddenly out of his depth.
‘What happened exactly, Mr Hare?’ asked Box.
Hare led the way out of the alley and into Weavers’ Lane, where the front of the police station was a blaze of light. The roadway was crowded with excited onlookers, who simply ignored the efforts of the police to move them on.
‘It was like this,’ said Hare, when the two men were safely ensconced in the inspector’s cramped office. ‘I’ve two sergeants and four constables here. One sergeant and two of the constables were out on patrol – it was near on nine o’clock. The others were in here with me, carrying out routine work. I had three prisoners in the cells, Grunwalski and a couple of local drunks. The drunks would have been let out tomorrow morning, with a warning from me. Grunwalski was due to appear before Mr Locke in Tooley Street on Monday morning.
‘And then, suddenly, there came an almighty crash and bang, and the whole building shook like a house of cards. We ran out into the street and, as we did so, there came another explosion, and a sound like showers of bricks raining down from the sky. The upshot of all this was that the cells were breached, and Grunwalski was spirited away into the dark. One of the two drunks was very badly injured, and he’s already been taken to Guy’s.’
‘Did my sergeant, Jack Knollys, ask to see this Grunwalski’s pistol?’
‘What? Yes, he did. He asked whether he could keep it for a while, as he knew where it must have come from. So I gave it to him.’
Inspector’s Hare’s eyes suddenly assumed an expression of mute pleading.
‘Mr Box,’ he said, ‘this business is too big for me to handle. Will you agree to be associated with the case of Grunwalski’s disappearance?’
‘I will indeed, Mr Hare. This is certainly a task for Scotland Yard. I think we all realize now that there’s more to this Anders Grunwalski than meets the eye.’
4
A Death in Sherry Wine Court
ARNOLD BOX W
AS breakfasting in his first-floor lodgings at Cardinal Court when there came a knocking on the front door below. He heard the cheerful tones of Mrs Peach as she admitted someone to the house. In a moment the door opened, and his landlady ushered Sergeant Knollys into Box’s living-room.
‘Ah! Jack. Sit down, and pour yourself a cup of tea – there’s another cup and saucer there, on top of the bookcase. I’m glad you’ve called. Tell me what you found out about Grunwalski’s pistol. Inspector Hare told me that you’d asked him for it.’
Sergeant Knollys did as he was bid, and filled his cup to the brim from Box’s brown glazed teapot. He also helped himself to a piece of toast, which he ate without butter or marmalade. Box continued to attack his plate of sausage, bacon and egg.
‘Sir,’ said Knollys, ‘I’ve heard all about last night’s bombing at Weavers’ Lane, so there’s no need to brief me about that. Evidently our lone wolf Grunwalski wasn’t as lonely as we thought. But let me tell you about that pistol. I recognized it straight away as the one that was stolen last month from Knightsbridge Barracks. You remember the quartermaster reporting the theft to us?’
‘Yes, he came in here on 17 May, as I recall. Very intelligent of him to think that it might have been more than a routine theft. Go on.’
‘Well, Grunwalski’s weapon was obviously a military revolver, a .455, and its identifying number was etched along the underside of the barrel. So whoever stole it, sir, stole it for Grunwalski to use.’
‘Well done, Jack! That was a peculiar business, you know. Just that single pistol was removed from the armoury, with no sign of a break-in. Stolen to order…. What did you do then?’
‘I went straight away to Knightsbridge, and saw the sergeant armourer. He confirmed that the weapon was indeed the missing revolver. “Can we have it back?” he asked. “No”, I said. “It’s wanted as evidence”. Don’t you want that sausage, sir?’
‘What? No, I’ve had enough. A single weapon stolen, and it ends up in Grunwalski’s pocket…. I’m getting too old for this job, Jack. I can’t make head nor tail of it.’
Sergeant Knollys had retrieved the unwanted sausage from Box’s plate, and was busy demolishing it.
‘You’re right, sir,’ said Knollys between mouthfuls, ‘there’s something missing. We’re not seeing the full picture. Grunwalski’s a Polish name. Do you think that might be significant?’
‘I do, Jack, and that’s why I’m going to visit an old man I know who keeps a shop in Sherry Wine Court, just off Maiden Lane. He could enlighten us on matters Polish, and especially on this interesting piece of evidence. Mr Fitz found it among Grunwalski’s effects.’ Box produced the Polish coin from his waistcoat pocket, and showed it to Knollys.
‘It’s dated 1836 – a bit of an antique, I’d have thought,’ said Knollys. ‘But of course, you never know what passes for currency in these foreign countries.’
‘Maybe it’s time we found out,’ said Box. ‘Have you finished your breakfast? Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to ring for another slice of toast? Good. It’s just after nine, so let’s take a stroll up the Strand in the direction of Maiden Lane.’
‘Sir,’ said Knollys, ‘I’d planned to take Vanessa out to Hampstead Heath this afternoon. There’s a good train from Broad Street Station at two o’clock—’
‘Yes, I know, Jack. But this business won’t take us more than half an hour. It may come to nothing, but I want you to be there just in case.’
Although it was Sunday, Sherry Wine Court was thronged with busy people, all intent on various kinds of business. Each side of the narrow thoroughfare was lined with small shops. Knollys, who had never ventured into the small squares off Maiden Lane, counted two kosher butchers, three working jewellers, and an ancient bookshop, with shelves of battered volumes in obscure foreign languages arranged in open bookcases standing on the pavement. The centre of the court was occupied by a fenced-off vegetable market, which seemed to be doing a thriving trade.
Box pointed to a dim shop front, over which was written, Peter Rosanski. Provisions.
‘This little court, Sergeant Knollys,’ he said, ‘is a kind of miniature Polish quarter. For over a hundred years Polish exiles and immigrants with special skills to offer have set up business here. Some of these shops have been established since the end of the last century. Poles of every complexion, Jew and Gentile, come here to shop and to browse on Sundays, and the authorities turn a blind eye to the legality or otherwise of Sunday opening.’
‘It’s a fascinating place, sir,’ said Knollys. ‘Are we going to pay a visit to any particular shop?’
‘We are,’ Box replied. ‘We’re going to call on old Peter Rosanski, in what he rather imaginatively calls his provision shop. In fact, it’s a grocery, a little political library, a chess club, and a gathering-place for folk who want to read last week’s Polish newspapers. I did Peter Rosanski a favour a couple of years ago, and he’s looked on me kindly, as it were, ever since. Let’s go in.’
Peter Rosanski’s premises smelt of exotic pickles and cheeses, overlaid by a strong aroma of pipe tobacco. It was very dim inside, and it took both officers a little time to make out the row of tables where hunched men in foreign clothes played chess or dominoes. Beyond this smoke-laden area was a sort of reading room, where more hunched men occupied themselves with tattered books and newspapers, which they read by the light of guttering candles fixed into empty bottles. A beaded curtain beyond led into what was presumably Peter Rosanski’s private quarters.
The proprietor, who was sitting behind a small counter, looked up and smiled as the two men entered the shop. Before they could say a word, he burst into speech.
‘Inspector Box! I wondered, yes, I wondered, after yesterday’s drama at the bridge, whether one or other of you Scotland Yarders would come here. How are you? And this hefty young man – your sergeant, no?’
Sergeant Knollys looked at Peter Rosanski with interest. He was a man well over seventy, with a mane of silver hair and a thick drooping moustache. He surveyed the world from hooded grey eyes, and his voice still held the trace of a foreign accent. He looked a benign and harmless man, who might yet have experienced hardships and injustices in earlier years. Knollys knew that there were many such foreign exiles in England.
‘This is Sergeant Knollys,’ said Box, ‘a fellow toiler among the teeming millions. I want to show you something, Monsieur Rosanski, and then listen to what you can tell me about it.’
Box produced the coin that had been found among Grunwalski’s effects, and placed it on the counter. Rosanski picked it up, peered at it, and then threw it down. He regarded the handsome coin with undisguised distaste.
‘You want to know what this coin is? You have reasons? That, my friends, is a so-called Polish coin. I say “so-called” because there is no such place as Poland! It’s a political fiction, if you know what I mean by that. You see the inscription in Cyrillic? “30 Kopeks”. That is Russian money. And beneath it, in the Polish alphabet, firmly in second place, its equivalent value in the land calling itself Poland: 2 zlotys.’
‘So this is a coin of the Kingdom of Poland—’
‘I tell you, there is no such place!’
The old man’s voice was raised in anger, and one or two of the men at the tables raised their heads to look at him. He turned the coin over on to its other face, and jabbed a stubby finger at it.
‘You see that grand coat of arms? It is the arms of Imperial Russia. Poland is simply part of Russia, and the so-called “King of Poland” is the Tsar, Alexander III. You see the great wings of the Imperial Eagle spread wide? Do you see the little shields of the subject peoples displayed across those wings for all to see, to their eternal shame? Look: Kazan. Astrakhan. Siberia. And here, on the other wing, Poland, the Crimea, Finland. Subject states. All parts of the Russian Empire. Any other view of the thing is mere romantic fantasy.’
One of the chess players came across to the counter, and murmured a few words in Rosanski’s ear. The language
was unknown to Box and Knollys, but they could see from the man’s expression that they were kindly meant.
Monsieur Rosanski made some placatory noises, and the man returned to his game.
‘This Grunwalski,’ said the old shopkeeper, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, ‘I do not know him, and he has not been in here, thank God! That name, you know, is German in origin, and it means “a man who comes from Grunwald”. That is the name of a place where a great battle was fought in the year 1410, in which the Poles – they were real Poles, then – defeated the Teutonic Knights. A famous victory, you see. Grunwalski is a rare name in Poland. Perhaps this hothead with his bomb adopted the name out of misguided patriotism, I don’t know. But he’s not been in here.’
Had the old man realized that he had shown knowledge of Grunwalski, even though Box had not mentioned the name? Age was a careless warder of secrets.
Rosanski picked up the coin again, and pointed to the words ‘30 Kopeks’. He glanced round the shop in a furtive way, which seemed uncharacteristic of the man. He lowered his voice once more.
‘This coin – there is more to it than meets the eye, Inspector. I have lived in this country for forty years, and I don’t approve of conspirators from abroad coming here and making trouble for people like me, and the good traders you will find in this little court. I close this shop on Sundays at four o’clock. Come back then, you and Sergeant Knollys, and I will tell you what this coin signifies. You found it in Grunwalski’s house, I expect? Yes, I thought so. Well, that would suggest that he was a member of The Thirty—’
He stopped short as one of the readers at the back of the shop rose abruptly and disappeared from sight through the beaded curtain.
‘Walls have ears, Mr Box,’ said Rosanski. ‘Come back at half past four this afternoon, and I will tell you what that so-called Polish coin – the coin for thirty kopeks – signifies. Meanwhile, keep it safe.’
The Aquila Project Page 5