Mask of the Verdoy (23 page)

‘Bit different to Belgravia, isn’t it?’

‘You’re not wrong there, Albert. Most of these places will still have families living in two rooms, Mum and Dad with three or four kiddies crammed in together. All the water fetched in from the yard, the cooking done on a little stove by the bed, shared privy—and paying ten bob a week for the privilege, too.’

‘Doesn’t look too sanitary.’

‘Crawling with vermin, I shouldn’t wonder. In some places they’ve started pulling these old slums down and replacing ’em with modern housing: blocks of flats with shared green spaces—you’ve probably seen ’em. They’re based on Le Corbusier’s ideas of urban living.’

‘Le Corbusier?’

‘French architect—actually, I think he might be Swiss. Anyway—smart man. Got this vision of modern urbanisation, to get city families out of dumps like this.’

‘I’ve seen those buildings—they look a bit like prisons to me, Harley. Do you really think people will adapt to living like that—in little boxes up in the sky?’

‘Well, it’s gotta be better than living in a khazi like this, ain’t it?’

Harley got out and reached behind the driver’s seat, pulling out a scruffy grey coat and a pair of workman’s boots. He removed his own jacket and waistcoat and put on the coat and boots, adding the final touch by folding turn-ups in his trouser bottoms. He stood up and made a final check of his disguise in the reflection of the van’s window.

‘Right, Pearson, you stay put. I shouldn’t be too long. I’ve got a police whistle with me—if you hear three blows on it then you know I’m in schtuk. Then you come running with yer pistol drawn.’

‘But where will you be?’

‘See that little alleyway over there? It leads to a courtyard with an old water-pump in the centre of it. I’ll be in one of the houses off the yard—the one with the yellow curtains, apparently. Anyway, if I’ve called for you, you’re bound to hear the commotion once you get there. Right, I’m off.’

‘Be careful, Harley.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, Albert—I always am.’

Harley patted his brass knuckles in his trouser pocket, pulled his cap down a little over his eyes and set off towards the dark passageway.

Less than a minute after he’d watched the private detective disappear into the alleyway Pearson heard the creak of a door opening somewhere nearby. He quickly shifted into the back of the van and shuffled up to peer out one of the back windows, rubbing a small peephole in the film of grime. Out of the house immediately adjacent to the alleyway came a desperate looking individual in a shabby army trench coat. The man was wearing the kind of peaked cap once favoured by Vladimir Ilyich Lenin and to Pearson’s eye had the pointed beard and the furtive air of the extremist or revolutionary.

This would-be terrorist now peered around the corner of the alleyway then placed the grubby sack he was holding on the ground. Pearson’s heart began to beat a little faster as the man’s gaze fell in his direction and the policeman held his breath as it looked as though the stranger was about to cross the street to investigate the parked fishmonger’s van.

But just then a woman appeared from a doorway further down the street, carrying a large basket of washing on her hip and with a couple of ragged toddlers pulling at her skirts. Seeming anxious to avoid contact with her the bearded man picked up his sack again and strode purposefully off into the alleyway; as he did so Pearson was certain that he got a glimpse of gun metal and a wooden stock poking out of the hessian. It looked highly likely that it contained some kind of firearm.

‘Damn!’ said Pearson, under his breath and waited for the distinctive trill of a police whistle. But the only sounds he could hear were that of the children now squabbling over an empty tin can they’d found in the gutter.

Pearson pulled his face away from the window and kept still as the little family group passed close by to the van. He thought about Harley’s instruction to stay put until he heard the distress signal. Surely by then it would be too late? What if something serious happened to Harley? How would it sound if in his statement he confessed to seeing an armed desperado pursuing the private detective, but simply sat there
doing nothing? Besides, he was the CID man, wasn’t he? Shouldn’t he follow his policeman’s instincts? This individual, whoever he was, was certainly acting suspiciously … and this was England, after all, not the Wild West, as Harley had described it. Could he really leave a criminal at large with a gun?

Having made up his mind, Pearson opened the back doors and got out. He took off his gabardine and hat and threw them into the back of the van, checked his Webley revolver, placed it back into his shoulder holster and headed off towards the alley.

He stopped for a moment a few steps into the passageway and allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom—the cut through the buildings was so narrow as to expel almost all of the daylight. The reek of urine filled his nostrils, and also something gamier, rotten and festering.

He pushed on, breaking out into a little trot, dodging the unsanitary puddles and piles of domestic detritus dotted here and there along the way. Up ahead in the distance Pearson could now see the bright strip of light at the end of the alleyway and outlined against it what looked like the silhouette of the bearded man in the cap. He slowed his pace, conscious of the echo that his steps might be sending forward to warn of his approach. Up ahead it looked like the anarchist had stopped moving. Pearson stood and held his breath to listen for a moment, straining for any sign that his quarry might have turned around. Above the constant trickle of running water he could hear the sounds from the tenement buildings to his left: the screaming of a distressed child; the clatter of pans from an upstairs room; someone repeatedly shouting the name “Betsy”.

Pearson jumped as a sash window a few feet ahead of him clattered open and a scrawny hand appeared to empty a chamber pot out into the passageway. Then from behind the grubby-curtained window a few inches from his head someone began a retching, bronchial coughing.

Having composed himself a little, Pearson moved on a few paces and looked to the strip of light—the silhouette had disappeared. He picked up the pace, only stopping when he’d reached the end of the passageway.

Before him was a squalid little quadrangle, the meeting place of four dingy alleyways. The air here was a little cleaner; the predominant smell now was of burning wood, with a hint of frying meat. Someone in a nearby house had a gramophone playing and the thin strains of Vesta Victoria singing “Daddy Wouldn’t Buy Me a Bow Wow” drifted over the square. In the centre was a rusted cast iron water pump and at its base, licking half-heartedly at the muddy puddle, was a scrawny dog with a large, flaking scab on its hindquarters. The stray stopped
drinking when it caught sight of Pearson, and after considering the new arrival for a few seconds delivered one high-pitched bark.

Pearson crouched to his haunches and held his finger up to his lips to try to persuade the dog to keep quiet. On the ground floor of one of the houses to the right of the quadrangle he could see someone flick the grubby lace curtain briefly, but it was too dark to see whether there was anyone watching him. The house opposite was fire-damaged and derelict, the brickwork surrounding the glass-less windows pockmarked and blackened by the flames. Pearson’s gaze was drawn to one of the first floor windows, where he was certain he’d seen movement in the shadowy interior.

Then from somewhere to his left he distinctly heard someone whisper—yes, there it was again:
politsey!
Now the crunch of broken glass underfoot from the alleyway opposite. Pearson drew his pistol and took a cautious step out into the square.

Everything went black as a rough hessian sack was thrust down over his face. Someone struck hard at his wrist, forcing him to lose his grip on his weapon. Then something that felt remarkably like the barrel of a gun—possibly his own—was pushed into small of his back as a whisper came close to his ear.

‘
Move, copper!
’

CHAPTER TWENTY

‘Ah! Here he is, now,’ said Sir Pelham, slapping his riding boot as General Swales was shown into the Home Secretary’s office.

‘I do apologize, gentlemen—my meeting at Special Branch rather overran I’m afraid.’

‘Special Branch, General? Don’t say there has been a development in this anarchist bombing investigation?’ Sir Pelham looked over at Box-Hartnell, sitting behind his desk with a view of the Thames behind him. ‘Oh dear! I shall be getting myself in trouble with the Home Secretary again.’

Box-Hartnell held out his hand towards Sir Pelham.

‘General Swales—Sir Pelham Saint Clair.’

The BBF leader now stood and shook the General’s hand.

‘Pleasure to meet you Swales. Although I do believe we’ve met once before—last summer at Cowdray Park? I made a show for the Household Brigade Club, had a couple of damned good chukkas as I remember it. We met after the match, cocktails with HRH?’

‘Ah, yes—the Prince of Wales, I remember now.’

‘Take a seat gentlemen, please,’ said the Home Secretary, closing a large ledger on his desk. ‘I’m sure we’ve all got things we should be doing … So, General, would you be so kind as to give a brief summary to Sir Pelham as to why you’ve summoned him here today.’

Swales raised his eyebrows briefly at Box-Hartnell, smoothed his moustache and then turned to Saint Clair.

‘Well, Sir Pelham … I have
invited
you here today in order that we might discuss the forthcoming British Brotherhood of Fascists march through the East End.’

‘Ah, yes, of course, the march … What about it?’

‘Well, I’m sure you realize that there are many who consider the choice of route as, shall we say … 
provocative?
’

‘Provocative? Really? How so?’

‘Come now, Sir Pelham. Two to three thousand BBF supporters—many of them in uniform no doubt, drums sounding, banners
waving—parading through Whitechapel and Stepney, areas known to have a large Jewish immigrant population.’

‘Merely exercising our democratic right, General—would you deny us that? And by the way, we’re expecting closer to five thousand, old man.’

‘And what about the public disorder that such a march will undoubtedly foment? What about the cost of policing? The damage to private property? The disruption to the local small businesses?’

‘My, my, Swales—you sound like you’ve been speaking to our old friend Max Portas. That was his argument last week in the chamber, almost verbatim, I’d say.’

‘Well, in my mind he’s been talking a great deal of sense on the subject, Sir Pelham.’

Saint Clair gave Swales a look of mock surprise.

‘You do understand, Commissioner,’ said Box-Hartnell, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms. ‘That Sir Pelham is perfectly within his rights to go ahead with this march? That there is no law in the land we can use to prevent him doing so? And then again, why should we? Why should any of us pander to the whims of the Bolsheviks and Israelites!’

‘Bolsheviks and Israelites, Home Secretary?’

‘Oh come now, Swales, you must be aware of the Portas lineage: his mother was a Jew and his father is a Communist agitator. For over a year now he has been carrying out a personal vendetta against Sir Pelham. Probably in the pockets of the Soviets, I shouldn’t wonder. Are we really going to have such a man dictating to us about what we can and can’t do on the streets of our capital? He obviously has a hidden agenda.’

‘Well my agenda, gentlemen, is certainly not hidden—it’s the safety of the British public. I urge you, Sir Pelham, to contemplate the consequences of going ahead with this march. Just think of the danger to the innocent bystanders and the local residents from any ensuing riot. I’m aware that I cannot force you to desist … but I ask you now, respectfully, as a fellow officer and gentleman, to cancel it. Or at least alter the planned route. What do you say?’

Saint Clair sat for a moment in silence. He pulled out his cigarette case, removed a cigarette and tapped it on the back of his hand.

‘Well, General … I say it’s a damned shame that our Metropolitan Police Commissioner cannot guarantee the safety of the public when threatened by the extremist forces intent on disrupting a perfectly legal rally.’

He paused to light his cigarette.

‘But, if that really is the case … well, then, in the interest of public safety—and nothing is closer to my heart, you understand, than the welfare of the great British people—I shall, of course, call off the march as you have requested.’

Swales looked genuinely shocked.

‘You will?’

‘I give you my word, as an officer and a gentleman.’

The General immediately stood up to shake Sir Pelham’s hand.

‘Damned decent of you, Sir Pelham! You’ll make an announcement to the press, as soon as it’s convenient? After all, we don’t want people turning up ad hoc, having their own unofficial march.’

‘I’ll get my people onto it as soon as I get back to the office, Swales.’

‘Excellent,
excellent!
 … Right, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen—I have something urgent I need to attend to. Good day, to you, Sir Pelham … Home Secretary.’

After Swales had left Box-Hartnell turned to Saint Clair.

‘Am I missing something, here? Why would you bow to such pressure? And so easily? What on earth is this going to look like in the press?’

‘My dear Ambrose, it will look exactly as we want it to look. Rainsworth will portray it to the nation as a black day for freedom of speech.’ Sir Pelham now stood and struck a pose while he smoked—one booted foot on the chair and a hand on his hip. His voice assumed the cadence of the seasoned speech maker. ‘He’ll hint at the infiltration of the alien into the heart of the British Establishment—an infestation so deep that it can now sway the opinion of the Metropolitan Police Commissioner. This will be yet another example to the British public of our noble intentions. Oh yes—it’s quite perfect.’

He sat down again.

‘Besides, I’ve been receiving predictions of the number of anti-fascist factions planning to attend. Trades unions, communists, Jews—bussed in for the day in numbers far exceeding those of our own … all thanks to that little upstart Portas and his histrionics. We may well have been facing a humiliating defeat on the streets of the East End. Oh no—this is by far the best outcome. If Rainsworth does his job correctly this should swell the ranks no end. Just in time for the rally at the Albert Hall. And there, you understand, we shall be running the show completely.’

***

In the back-streets of Stepney, still blinded by the hessian sack, Pearson was pushed over the threshold of a doorway and bundled onto a wooden chair. He felt his hands being tied efficiently behind his back, and all the while the cold barrel of the gun pushed spitefully into the nape of his neck. He wasn’t quite sure how his captor had achieved this.

‘Right,’ said the voice with the German accent. ‘Let us see what we have here.’

The sack was removed and Pearson found himself in the middle of a grubby parlour facing the barrel of his own Webley service revolver.

‘
Ausweis!
’ said the bearded character in the Lenin cap.

‘I must warn you,’ said Pearson, trying to adopt an authoritative command to his voice. ‘I am a British police officer, CID. And unless you—’

The man dug the gun barrel into his shoulder.

‘Identification!’

‘Alright, alright! In my jacket, there …’

The policeman indicated his left breast with his chin.

His captor rummaged in the inside pocket and removed the police identification card. He looked from the card to Pearson’s face and then called out.

‘Karl!’

Pearson heard voices outside the room and then the sound of a door being opened behind him. He kept his eyes fixed on the man’s trigger finger.

‘Hello, what have we got here then, Joe?’

The new arrival, “Karl”, walked around to look at Pearson’s face. The bearded man handed him the ID card.

‘CID?’ The man said, looking past Pearson to the back of the room. ‘I take it he’s with you?’

Pearson heard footsteps behind him.

‘Albert?’

He turned to find Harley staring at him in astonishment.

‘What the bloody hell are you doing here? I told you to wait in the car!’

“Karl” threw the ID card at Pearson in disgust as Harley untied his hands.

The policeman stood up—a little sheepishly—and the bearded man handed him back his revolver and nodded at Harley.

‘George.’

‘Joe, good to see yer again … this here’s Pearson.’

‘We’ve met.’

Joe had now lost his German accent. He nodded towards the man he’d called Karl.

‘You remember Bryson?’

Bryson gave Harley a curt nod.

Joe took off his cap and walked over to a battered sideboard out of which he produced a bottle of Schnapps and four glasses.

‘D’you know how long we’ve been on this job, Harley?’ asked Bryson, who now had his back to them, peeking out through a crack in the closed curtains, obviously agitated. ‘Almost a year … A year of attending meetings, having to socialize with zealots, labouring on building sites,
living in this stinking hovel!
’ He left the window and strode over to Pearson. ‘And just when we’re beginning to get somewhere you saunter along with this idiot
boy scout
and put the whole operation in jeopardy!’

‘Alright, Bryson—easy now!’ said Joe, handing out the schnapps. ‘Tell, me—how exactly did you find us, George?’

‘FW sent me.’

Harley downed his schnapps and held out his glass to allow Joe to refill it.

‘I know that—we got word to expect to bump into you at some time or other. But Swales doesn’t know about this place … no one does. At least, they’re not supposed to. It’s a safe house.’

‘You know me, Joe—I’ve got a lot of connections.’

Joe exchanged a concerned look with Bryson.

‘Now you’re worrying me. Who else knows we’re here?’

‘It’s alright—it ain’t like that. I just had a drink with a few Stepney wide-boys. Said I was working a case, after a German geezer that had been knocking about with the daughter of one of my clients, some fat cat from the city. Said he’d commissioned me to pay him off. I gave ’em your description. I guessed you’d have the old face fungus—you always liked a beard in your undercover work.’

‘When was this?’

‘Two days ago.’

‘What—and we’re meant to believe that it only took you two days to find us?’ said Bryson, grabbing the schnapps bottle and refilling his own glass.

‘Yeah, that’s right—and from the reaction I got, I reckon Joe’s reputation has probably gone up around the manor.’

Joe gave a short gruff laugh.

‘Alright, I’ll buy that. But
this
, George?’ Joe pointed at Pearson, who had sat back down on the chair and was sipping at his drink. ‘This is sloppy. Not like your work at all. Look at him—he may as well be wearing a sandwich-board with ‘Scotland Yard’ written on it.’

Pearson held up his hand.

‘I’m sorry, Harley. I thought you were in danger. I saw Joe here following you down that alleyway, with what I thought was possibly a sawn-off shotgun.’

Joe held up a semi-automatic pistol with a long wooden shoulder stock.

‘Mauser C96.’

‘I thought you were in danger … I’m sorry!’

‘Yeah well,’ said Bryson, who was now leaning against the door. ‘It’s all a bit fishy, if you ask me.’

‘Fishy? How’s that, then?’ asked Harley.

‘Well, how do we know we can trust you, eh? After all, you’ve got previous, haven’t you?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means how do we know where your loyalties really lie? What with you quitting the Firm like that, over that Zinoviev affair. As I see it, you had your orders and you refused to follow them. The country would be in a right old state if the rest of us did that, wouldn’t it?’

‘The last time I looked, Bryson, it
was
in a right old state! Listen, mate—for the record, when FW first persuaded me to join your precious Firm, I didn’t realize the remit was to get involved in party politics and to collude in falsifying evidence. And blindly following orders? Where did that get all those poor buggers at Passchendaele and the Somme, eh?’

Bryson now slammed his glass down onto the mantelpiece and squared up to Harley.

‘Don’t you dare go thrusting that DCM down my throat! Just because you—’

‘That’s enough!’ shouted Joe, jumping in to split the two of them up.

Bryson threw up his hands and walked over to grab the bottle of spirits.

Harley stood glowering at the agent for a moment, then crossed the room and slumped down on an overturned tea chest.

‘Listen George,’ said Joe. ‘Bryson and I were up all last night on an obbo. We sorely need some shuteye. So—can we get this over and done with, eh? Whether we like it or not, we’ve had orders from the boss to cooperate with you as much as we can. So, tell me—what is it you want to know?’

Harley looked over at Bryson who was still glaring at him. He got out a packet of Gold Flake and tossed a cigarette at each of the men in the room, then sparked up one for himself.

‘Alright—let me have all you’ve got on this Wild Cat International Brigade.’

Joe nodded warily at Pearson.

‘It’s alright,’ said Harley, ‘he’s been seconded to me by FW.’

‘I thought it was the other way round, actually,’ said Pearson, quietly.

‘Schtum, Albert! Go on, Joe—I’ll vouch for him. We’re both working directly for Swales.’

‘Alright,’ said Joe, striking a match on the sole of his shoe to light his cigarette. ‘Well, it would appear that this Wild Cat Anarchists’ Brigade are a ghost outfit. Oh, there’s plenty of rumours about them on the street—who might be behind them, where they hold their meetings, who’s funding them. But we can’t make contact with any single person who is an actual member. And believe me, we’ve tried our damnedest.’

‘So, in your opinion they don’t exist? It’s just some hoaxer cashing in on a lone killer’s rampage?’

‘Oh no—I didn’t say that. For a start I don’t think one person working alone could manage so many attacks without giving something away. And it’s highly likely that someone is seeding the rumours as well—there’s intelligence out there that couldn’t have come from the newspapers.’