04 - Carnival of Criminals (11 page)

He was tall and lean, probably without his shirt on you
would see his ribcage. His clothes, like that of his wife, were almost
threadbare and one pink elbow was poking through his left sleeve. There was a
dullness about him. Clara couldn’t quite describe it, but it was somewhere
between intense melancholy and soul-rending despair. His eyes stared at nothing
and were dim, he clutched his hands on his paltry stomach and lay half turned
from the window. He showed no interest in the child or her presence, other than
to tell her he wouldn’t get up.

“My name is Clara Fitzgerald.” Clara held out a card, but
Mickey didn’t move, “I wanted to ask you about someone you used to know.”

“I used to know a lot of people.” Mickey said quietly,
addressing himself to a sofa button.

“I imagine we could all say such, but this is a
particular man who I am hoping you can remember. His name was Mervin Grimes.”

Clara had half expected a reaction and for a second
Mickey’s hands twitched, then he seemed to press himself further into the sofa.

“Don’t remember him.” He said.

“I rather think you do. I was told you used to be
friends.”

“Someone is having a laugh with you.”

“I don’t think that is in Bob Waters’ nature.”

Mickey tensed.

“Is he that big boxing fellow?”

“Yes.”

Clara waited. For a long time there was no sound except
for the child clattering the wooden pegs together. Then Mickey turned his head
a little towards her.

“Is Mervin alive?”

“No. He was shot fifteen years ago.”

“I always thought he would come to a bad end.” Mickey
sniffed, “Why are you here then?”

“Because I have been asked to find out who killed Mervin
and I am trying to trace people who used to know him. I was told to speak with
you. I don’t know if you are aware but a lot of the Black Hand gang came to
rather unpleasant ends.”

“1905 was a bad year for ‘em.” Mickey nodded solemnly,
“They got too big for their boots and decided to take on the Paddington gang
down from London. Mervin was a fool for such larks. He didn’t like how the
London boys came down here and swaggered about like they owned the place. He
wanted to show them up.”

“So Mervin was behind the race fixing?”

“It was his idea, yeah, and he persuaded the other lads
to go along with it. The Black Hand was never a real, proper gang, you see. It
was always a ragtag assortment of street boys and a couple of older blokes who
had done time and knew what was what.” Mickey licked his lips, “You said
something about money?”

“That will depend on how helpful you are to me Mr
Walker.” Clara gingerly leaned back on the table, “Were you part of the Black
Hand.”

“Not really.” Mickey snorted, “I mean, I knew Mervin and
sometimes I did him favours, but that was as far as it went. I wasn’t
interested in being a full-time criminal and Mervin knew that. But I was useful
to have around. I was a lot younger then and I had fast legs. I often ran
messages for the gang.”

“What about on the day they fixed their last race?”

“Oh yeah, I ran a message then. Ran several in fact.” Mickey
hoisted himself up a little on his sofa, “The police in Brighton were mighty
hard on race fixing and the race bosses kept tight security. Night and day
there were guards on duty, but Mervin had his ways around that. He picked one
of his smallest lads, a reliable sort but small, like. He gave him a bag filled
with bottles of beer and bread and cheese, and a blanket. Then the night before
all the horses were due to arrive and race the lad snuck into the stables at
the course and hid away in one of the unused storage rooms. So when the horses
and the guards and the police arrived, ready to catch someone sneaking in, he
was already there ahead of ‘em. He slept and ate and pis… well you get my
point, in that room. But it was all worth it, for just before the race he was
able to slip out and dope the horses as he pleased. Then he went back to hiding
in the storage room.”

“I imagine the police and the race course bosses were not
impressed.”

“Nor were the fellas from London. On that day I took
several messages between Black Hand members on the course and I went past those
London gangsters more than once. Mean looking sorts they were. And they looked
even meaner once they lost.”

“Did they realise it was Mervin and the Black Hand who
had tricked them?” Clara asked.

“Difficult not to the way Mervin crowed about it. He was
a clever one all right, but he didn’t have a lot of common sense. Me now, when
I saw the way things were going I slipped out of the race course and never even
asked for my share. When I saw what happened to the others I was glad I
didn’t.” Mickey made a tutting noise with his tongue, “I think it was Reggie
they got first, he was a bit like a lieutenant in the gang, but his weakness
was drink and women. I doubt he was hard to find that night. He washed up on
the beach the next morning looking like he had argued with a brick wall. Well,
I think everyone’s nerve cracked a little when they saw that. They knew at once
it was a warning. And of course Mervin was already gone. Everyone expected for
him to be washed up next. But he never was, was he?”

“So opinion within the Black Hand was that Mervin had
been a victim of the London boys?”

“Naturally.”

“Any idea what happened to his share of the money?”

Mickey propped himself up on one elbow and watched the
child for a moment. He was clearly considering how much to say.

“The boys in the Black Hand didn’t exactly go in for
banks or savings plans. Most spent their money as fast as they earned it. Just
as well for a lot of them, as they wouldn’t have had the chance to enjoy it
later.” He didn’t need to articulate that he was referring to the untimely
deaths of many a Black Hand member, “Look, if you happen to find any of
Mervin’s winnings I want a cut for helping you. You don’t look short of a
penny, but me…” Mickey indicated his parlour, “I was part of that scam and I
never got paid for my work.”

“You said yourself you didn’t hang around for your cut.”
Clara said coolly.

“That was self-preservation. No point getting the money
and being too dead to enjoy it. But here I am, one of the few that are left,
and I think I deserve my share.”

“Are you suggesting Mervin Grimes stashed his money
somewhere?” Clara asked cautiously, up until now there had been no hint that
any money remained.

“Mervin liked his drink and his dancing, yeah, but he had
his old mum to think of. He put a bit aside for her, in a secret place. She was
supposed to get it if anything happened to him.”

“Who knew of this place?”

“Not his mum, that’s for sure. If she knew she would have
hounded him for the money and spent it. No, as far as I know he only ever told
that girl of his.”

“Penny Palmer.”

“Yeah.”

Clara let this sink in, a new motive had just emerged.

“But if you knew of his secret stash, so might others?”
Clara postulated.

“Oh no doubt, when Mervin had a few pints in him he was
prone to bragging. He just kept quiet about the location. I reckon it was a
locked box or something, he talked about a key once. Could be anywhere, of
course. If he had any sense he buried it somewhere.”

“Mickey, think carefully, if this box is still hidden
somewhere, how much do you imagine would be in it?”

Mickey’s eyebrows lowered as he considered the question,
he tapped the fingers of his right hand on his flaccid belly.

“Wouldn’t be surprised if there was something like £1,000
in that box.”

Clara restrained herself from gasping. £1,000 was a lot
of money, especially for someone used to poverty like Mervin Grimes, or for
that matter his mother. If that box still existed all Mrs Grimes’ woes would be
at an end, at least financially. But where on earth had Mervin hidden his loot?
And what was this key? Could it be that he had been murdered for it and the box
had been emptied fifteen years ago?

“Mr Walker, I don’t suppose you know what became of Penny
Palmer?”

Mickey gave a shrug.

“I never got on with her.”

Clara left the room, negotiating the obstacle of the small
child and its peg dolls who, if nothing else, showed a dedication to its meagre
playthings as resilient at its father’s attention to the damp spot on the
ceiling.  She had just entered the hall and was debating if she would be in
time to catch the omnibus home when Mrs Walker emerged from the kitchen.

“You won’t forget us if you find Mervin’s money?” She
said quietly, with the desperation of the terminally poor.

“No Mrs Walker, I won’t, but it is always possible Mervin
was murdered for that money and it is already gone.”

“I never liked him.” Mrs Walker wrinkled her nose, “We
all grew up in the same street, but he was always a trouble-maker. That ma of
his could never see no wrong in him, nor that daft oaf Bob Waters. He was bad
news. I’m glad he’s dead, he would have led my Mickey into wicked ways.”

“I’ll keep you informed of anything I find out.” Clara
promised, “I don’t suppose you know what became of Penny Palmer?”

“I didn’t like her either.” Mrs Walker puttered, “She
thought herself better than the rest of us because her daddy worked in an
office. She was from Margate, but I always thought there was something odd
about the way she never went home. She said she was a typist and rented a flat
with two other girls. Could be that was true. After Mervin died I deliberately
lost track of her, but I do recall seeing her marrying someone in the papers.
Must have been 1907 or ’08. He was older ‘an her. Think he had a P name too, bit
like Peters. I remember thinking that at least she wouldn’t have to worry about
changing the initials on her handkerchiefs!”

Mrs Walker gave a hoarse laugh.

“I really hope she is quite miserable, like the rest of
us!”

“Well thank you Mrs Walker.” Clara let herself out the
front door and found it was raining again. She had neglected her umbrella.
Pulling her hat down over her ears she braved the downpour and only hoped Annie
didn’t see her coming home drenched – she would never hear the end of it
otherwise.

The stationmaster’s letter (on Liverpool Central headed
paper) confirmed PC William’s story. Jurgen Smith had bought a third class
ticket for London and a second ticket from the Capital to Brighton. He should
have arrived home in the early hours of Christmas Eve 1918. Only he never did.
The stationmaster had been good enough to include details of the other ticket
holders heading for London that day and Tommy noted that Dieter and Friger were
among them. So what had become of Jurgen Smith?

Tommy put down the letter and picked up the phone again.
For a housebound detective he wasn’t doing so badly, though it helped that so
far all the people he needed to speak to were on the phone. He knew his luck
would run out eventually and it did when he asked the girl at the exchange if
she could locate a Mr Friger living in Norwich. After a lengthy wait she called
him back to explain that Mr Friger did not appear to be on the telephone. He
then asked for a Mr Dieter in Surrey. The girl, who sounded a tad annoyed at
this point, asked him to bear with her and rang off for yet another lengthy
period. She finally called back to state there were three Mr Dieter’s on the
telephone in Surrey. She gave Tommy all their addresses and was then
disgruntled when he said he didn’t want her to connect him.

Tommy needed time to think and to consider what he would
ask these strangers who may have nothing at all to do with Jurgen Smith. It may
have been a complete fluke they got in the same carriage as him.

He was toying with his fountain pen, wondering if Friger
still lived at the address he had given PC William, when Annie walked into the
room. Annie was technically the Fitzgerald maid, but her role in the household
was much more complicated than such a title implied. For a start her
relationship with Tommy was teetering on the verge of becoming a full-blown
romance. Not that either would admit to such.

“There’s a man on the hall telephone who wants to speak
with you. He says he’s a brigadier. You aren’t going back into the army, are
you?”

For a moment Tommy couldn’t tell if she was serious or
not, he gave a glance to his legs.

“Well, if good old Dr Cutt fixes me up, you know…”

Annie gave him a mischievous smile.

“You better talk to him right away, he doesn’t sound like
the sort of man to keep waiting.”

“He never was.” Tommy said, “Wheel me through, dear
Annie!”

They had just arrived at the hall stand where the phone
perched when the front door flew open and Clara stepped in. She was a dripping
wet mess. Annie gave out a gasp at the sight. Clara threw off her hat which was
utterly ruined and would never sit right on her head again and pulled off her
dripping coat.

“It’s raining a bit.” She announced to them both, “I’m
going to have a hot bath.”

She vanished upstairs before Annie could begin berating
her for going out without an umbrella. The drama concluded, Tommy lifted up the
ear piece of the phone and spoke into the receiver on its slender, pillar
stand.

“Brigadier Beard, hello Sir.”

Beard sounded impatient at the other end of the phone.

“You take a damn long time answering your telephone!”

“It isn’t easy when one doesn’t have the use of one’s
legs, Sir.” Tommy said a little sharply, despite knowing he needed the
brigadier on his side.

Beard huffed on his end of the line but made no comment.

“I had a look at those papers for you.” He said after a
sufficient period of stormy breathing had passed, “There was quite a file on
your fellow Smith.”

“Really?” Tommy was genuinely astonished.

“He was an agitator, nothing serious, but one of those
sorts who can’t keep their nose out of trouble. He was always trying to get
extra privileges for the internees and stood up for a couple of fellows who got
themselves into trouble. There were all manner of letters and petitions in his
file, here, this one for example. ‘Mr Jurgen Smith, courteously requests that
men of no denomination are not excluded from the Easter celebrations, but are
included in such events as the Easter supper and Sunday cricket match. It has
come to his attention that certain authorities have expressed a wish for these
to be exclusive for those who attend the church service on that day, which
would be detrimental, in his opinion, to morale among the men.’ There is a lot
of stuff like that, you get the picture.”

“So Jurgen was an advocate for his fellow internees?”

“He was a damn nuisance if you ask me. Why can’t people
just get on with being held prisoner and stop bothering the chain of command?
Do you know how much paperwork that causes?”

Tommy could guess.

“Aside from these letters, was there anything that hinted
of more sinister trouble in Jurgen’s life?” He changed the subject.

“Nothing that stuck out, he seems the sort who everyone
liked. Oh, but that other name you gave me, Dieter, he was a real trouble-maker
and was even once under suspicion for murder.”

“What a minute… Alphonse Dieter was a suspected
murderer?”

“Seems like a fellow was drowned in the harbour, might
have been an escape attempt. In fact that’s what the guards on the island
assumed at first. But when the body was hauled out of the water the deceased
had a nasty gash on his head and finger-marks around the throat. The theory was
someone had attacked him, tried to throttle him and then either pushed him into
the water and in the process he banged his head, or banged him on the head
first which caused him to tumble off the harbour wall.” Beard cleared his
throat and there was a rustle of papers, “At first no one seemed interested,
then a local came forward and described seeing two men standing at the harbour
wall around midnight the night before. It was a strange sight to see because
mostly everyone was in bed by then, and the authorities were not keen on lights
being shone at night in case of an enemy zeppelin spotting them. Naturally with
hardly any light it was difficult to describe the men, but he swore that he
could hear them arguing and one used the name ‘Alphonse.’”

“Dieter’s name was Alphonse.”

“Yes, but I presume you are aware the name is Old German
and not so uncommon? In any case there were too many ‘Alphonses’ on the island
to focus in on one and the local had not actually seen anything occur other
than an argument. However, the victim was a known braggart and was generally
disliked, particularly by this Dieter fellow, who had some sort of disagreement
with the victim.” Beard shuffled more papers, “The authorities suspected Dieter
and your chap Smith stood up for him, wrote some quite heated letters on the
topic. The case could not be proved, in fact there was hardly any evidence. The
authorities pressed hard on Dieter trying to get a confession and that got
Smith into battling mode. He complained to everyone there was to complain to.”

“Was Dieter ever arrested?”

“No, but the files suggest he was, and still remains,
prime suspect for the killing. It’s always possible he didn’t just stop at this
fellow in the harbour.”

Tommy had to admit that was a possibility. If he was hot
tempered and had argued with Jurgen Smith, was it possible he had killed him?

“Was there anything on Hans Friger?”

“Only basic information.”

“And there was nothing that might suggest a reason for
Smith disappearing?”

“He probably drove the British army lads insane while he
was being guarded, but there was nothing to suggest anyone would want to kill
him. He doesn’t seem to have been in any trouble and as far as the Isle of Man
authorities were concerned when 1918 came he was sent home and that was an end
of it.”

“Thank you for your help, Sir. It is much appreciated.”

“We are even now Fitzgerald, understand?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Good, take care of yourself private.”

“You too Sir.”

Tommy replaced the ear piece of the phone, waited a
moment then, with a slight pang of nerves, asked the exchange to put him
through to one of the phone numbers listed under the name Dieter. His first
call put him through to an elderly man who was extremely deaf and who needed
Tommy’s question about whether he knew Jurgen Smith repeated three times,
before he was able to give a sharp ‘no’ and slam down the phone. The second
Dieter was actually a woman who had failed to correct her phone directory
records after the death of her husband. Neither had been interned during the
war. It was the third Dieter that finally gave Tommy some good news.

“Yes, I knew Jurgen.”

“Are you sure we are talking about the same Jurgen Smith?”

“Tall, dark, a bit of a goody-two-shoes when he felt like
it. That Jurgen.”

“That’s the one. I am looking for him.”

“I can’t help you then, I haven’t seen Jurgen in two
years.” Alphonse Dieter sighed heavily on his end of the phone, “You should try
his mother in Brighton.”

“That’s just the thing, she doesn’t know where he is
either.”

There was a long silence on the line.

“Who is this?” Dieter asked with a hint of unease in his
tone.

“My name is Thomas Fitzgerald, I am investigating the
disappearance of Jurgen Smith on behalf of his mother.”

“Why are you calling me?”

“Because, from what I understand, you may be one of the
last people to have seen him. You boarded a train with Jurgen in 1918 after
leaving the Isle of Man?”

“I suppose I did.”

“What happened after that?”

“Jurgen got off the train in London, what happened after
that I don’t know.”

“Jurgen definitely got off the train at London?”

“Yes, I just said! Look, I haven’t seen him since we
parted ways in London two years ago.” Dieter gave an odd cough, there was a clattering
noise in the background as if wherever he kept his phone was in a busy place
with people around, “Look… has someone… have you been speaking to the Isle of
Man authorities?”

“Should I be?”

“Have you, or haven’t you?”

Tommy considered the implications of the question, then
said very calmly.

“They told me about the murder.”

Dieter swore quietly under his breath.

“I didn’t kill anyone, hardly knew the man.”

“That isn’t why I am contacting you.” Tommy assured him.

“No? But you suspect me of killing Jurgen, yes? They say
I killed once before, so maybe I killed again?” Again Dieter swore to himself,
“Reuben van Cole, that was the name of the man who fell in the harbour. He was
in his forties, a part-time drunkard with a habit for bragging that got on
everyone’s nerves.”

“You disliked him?”

“I wasn’t alone! Anyway, some interfering soul reckoned
he had heard my Christian name being called and told the authorities. As it
happened the day before I had confronted van Cole for taking my pocket watch.
He was a thief among other things. I had put the watch down when I went to
wash. I knew he had taken it because I saw him leaving as I came to put on my
clothes. We argued over it, I insisted on searching his room and there was my
watch. He tried to deny it, but the watch was engraved. I punched him. That was
it, it was all over.”

“He didn’t start the argument again the next day,
perhaps?”

“No! I just happened to have been the last to argue with
him, that’s all. Plenty others had argued with him too, and several were called
Alphonse, if you want to believe that witness.”

“Shouldn’t I believe him”

Dieter grumbled something, then said;

“He didn’t exactly like Germans.”

“But Jurgen was on your side?”

“Jurgen was on everyone’s side, he was like that. I’m
sorry, I sound angry, but it is not with him. Just… just with all that time I
spent for no good reason on an island. Jurgen somehow managed to stay positive,
I hated him for that. Not to want to kill him, he was a friend. He just annoyed
me sometimes.”

“I believe you Dieter.”

There was a pause.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“I wish I could help you find Jurgen, but we parted ways
at the train station. I was heading for Surrey, he was off to Brighton to see
his parents for Christmas.”

“During the train journey, did he talk much or about
anything in particular?”

“Jurgen liked to listen to others more than talk. He did
seem extra quiet that journey now you mention it. Like something was on his
mind. I remember he fell asleep and we had to wake him at the station. We all
stumbled off and Jurgen looked dead on his feet. Hans Friger was going to take
him for a cup of tea before the next train. I had to make a fast connection so
I left them. We said goodbye and that was that.”

“So I can’t ask you if Friger stills lives at the same address
in Norwich either?”

“No. I’m sorry. I put that part of my life behind me. I
didn’t want to stay in touch and be reminded.”

“One last thing, is there any reason, anything at all
that you could think of that might explain Jurgen simply vanishing after he got
off that train?”

Dieter said nothing for a while, he was obviously
thinking. The clatter in the background resolved itself into the noises of
children playing.

“Jurgen wasn’t the sort to just vanish. He wanted to go
home.” Dieter sounded quite upset, “All this time I imagined he had got back to
Brighton and had a happy Christmas with his parents. Instead, he was just,
gone.”

“I’m going to find out what happened.” Tommy promised,
wondering if he could keep his word.

“When you do, could you write to me and tell me?” Dieter
was plaintive, “I don’t want to sit here thinking over all the possibilities.”

“I shall do that.” Tommy answered.

He confirmed Dieter’s address and then put the phone
down. There was a great deal to think about. His last hope was Hans Friger. He
had the address Friger was returning to in 1918 and he just had to hope the
German was not inclined to move house. After speaking with Dieter Tommy was
once more convinced that Jurgen had not simply decided to vanish, something had
happened to him. It might have been an accident. Perhaps he was just another of
the casual victims of mishaps in London, knocked down by an omnibus, trampled
by a taxi. In the dark days of December London streets became treacherous. Had
Jurgen become just another of the unidentified lost souls the Metropolitan
police picked up deceased every day after an accident? Buried now in some
pauper’s grave because no one could identify him? Or had something much worse
happened to the man who was on everyone’s side? Tommy hoped not, somehow an
accident seemed preferable to the thought of Jurgen being murdered for his
wallet. What of this Hans Friger? He had caused no trouble during his
internment, but did that mean anything? Who was to say what he was like or what
he was capable of? Had he taken an opportunity when Dieter had turned his back?