Ring of Terror (26 page)

He could find out from Mr Warburton or the efficient Mr Sleight whether a passport bearing these particulars had been produced to them in the last twelve months. If it had, then too late to shut that stable door. If it had not, it suggested a number of very interesting ideas.

But if they were so interesting, why was he finding it difficult to concentrate on them? There was something at the back of his mind. Something that Bill had said. Something casual and quite unimportant. As he was leaving he had looked out of the window, had noticed that the rain had stopped and had said—yes, that was it—had said how lucky it was, because when the rain was heavy their basement got flooded. Some blockage, no doubt in the storm drain, which they had been pestering the authorities to do something about.

From that point his mind, which was working with the clarity that sometimes comes in the small hours, moved on to the Rabbi Werfel who had had a similar problem. In his case, what could have caused it?

Luke found it easier to think a problem through if he could commit it to paper. He started to sketch the area of Brownsong Court as he remembered it from his visit with Joe.

Stratford Road ran east and west. North of it lay first the Jewish school, with its playground, then the synagogue. A narrow cobbled way ran along the east end of the synagogue, separating it from the back of the Solomon workshop. Next came Brownsong Passage running past the front of Solomon’s place and into Brownsong Court. Finally, and more tentatively, he sketched in what he remembered as the only exit from the court, a lane which ran past the south end of the Ghetto Bank, turned right and ran north – to where? He didn’t know.

Having blocked in these buildings, roads and passages, he drew a dotted line showing where the storm drain must surely run. Along Stratford Road, certainly. And if it had been blocked, the blockage would be somewhere between the school and the synagogue. If it had been any earlier it would have flooded the school playground. After that the soak-away must turn left, as the land fell away in that direction. But where? The important question was, did it run down the cobbled way between the synagogue and Solomon’s place, or down Brownsong Passage?

Luke now found himself assuming that the blockage was not accidental; it was deliberate. Reason forward from this. There were two significant points. First, that Solomon had shut down—had been forced to shut down?—his business. He didn’t believe for a moment that it was because of a fall in profits. That was eye-wash. Secondly, that since it had shut down, outsiders had been discouraged. There were reports on the files about this and about young Russians who had been observed going into the presumably empty building.

So what was going on?

Luke thought he could guess. He drew in one further line on his plan. It ran from Solomon’s workshop to the synagogue. A tunnel, short and easy to dig. But
if
the storm drain ran, in fact, down the cobbled way, then it would have to be blocked. If not, every time it rained the tunnel would be flooded.

And the objective was clear. They had been expecting a dramatic demonstration by the Russians. What could be more dramatic than blowing up the main place of Jewish worship in the East End of London? And, looked at from the Ochrana point of view, what more likely to move a hesitating government to take the step they were hoping for? They might be able to laugh off a few Liberal defections. The hostility of the Jewish bloc, so strong in the City and beginning to be felt in Government itself – that would be a different matter altogether.

Luke had now so much on his mind that he decided to compose two separate reports. The first would deal with the passports. It would have the four double sheets of paper attached to it. A factual report. No comment needed.

The second was more speculative. He was convinced that he had read the riddle correctly, but there was a lot of guesswork in it.

His conclusion, which he reached after he had finished writing and as four o’clock was striking, was that the first report must go at once. Bill Trotter, or one of the other sailors, would take it for him. As for the other report – he remembered the reproof, all the more stinging for its mildness, which he had earned over his ill-considered scheme to penetrate that meeting – it should go when he had visited the synagogue, spoken to the Rabbi and confirmed one or two of his suppositions.

Having settled all this he lay down to snatch a few minutes’ sleep and woke with a start six hours later. He scrambled guiltily into his clothes, sealed up his first report in an envelope addressed to Wensley and took it downstairs. Bill, who was no early riser when not on duty, was still at his breakfast. He agreed, readily enough, to look for Wensley. Since he could hardly be working in the ruins of Leman Street, he would probably be at Poplar, but there were other possibilities. Bill said not to worry, he would contact him. Relieved, Luke started out for the synagogue, where most of the answers he needed could be found.

He was not to know that he was being monitored every yard of the way and would not have turned back if he had known.

He found the Rabbi in his ground-floor study at the back of the tower block which formed the west end of the synagogue, rising above it like the funnel of a steamer. The Rabbi greeted him and offered him coffee. Having had no breakfast, he accepted it gratefully. When it arrived he embarked on explanations. The Rabbi heard him out, nodding his head from time to time. Then he said, ‘I can see two objections to your most alarming theory. The first, a minor objection, is that our synagogue is founded upon the rock, both metaphorically and literally. When they were digging out our cellars the builders needed explosives to make the necessary excavation. A tunnel could be dug through it, but it would be a laborious and very noisy job. The second objection is, I think, conclusive. The rainwater soak-away to which you refer runs, in fact, down Brownsong Passage. In front of Solomon’s workshop, not behind it. A tunnel starting there and finishing under our synagogue would
not,
therefore, have to cross it.’

He demonstrated on the plan which Luke had brought with him. Luke said, ‘Oh,’ and tried to rearrange his ideas. If his theory was nonsensical he was glad that he had taken the trouble to check on it before putting in a report to Wensley.

‘However,’ said the Rabbi, ‘your idea that tunnelling is taking place is not, in itself, farfetched. I have noticed unexplained visitors recently to a place which is now supposedly shut. They might well be digging. Not towards us. But in a different direction.’ He picked up a pencil and drew in another line on the plan. ‘Not west, but north.’

‘North?’

‘A short tunnel which, as you can see,
would
cross the soak-away. It would bring them into the vaults of the Ghetto Bank.

Whether their objective would be destruction or plunder I do not know.’

‘Both,’ said Molacoff Weil.

He had come in quietly and had two other men with him. Before Luke could move they were behind him and had grabbed an arm each. One of them was Ivan Luwinski. Luke had noted him from Mr Passmore’s window and had judged him to be a powerful man. He saw no reason to change his opinion as his arms were twisted up so savagely that he fell on to his knees. Weil had brought a rug with him. He covered Luke’s head in its stifling folds, pressing it over his nose and mouth.

He heard Weil say, ‘Take him the back way. If anyone sees you it is one of your comrades, being taken to the doctor for attention.’

All three men laughed and the laughter was in Luke’s ears as his senses slipped away.

Luke was lying on the floor of what had been the men’s workroom in Solomon’s spread. If his legs had not been roped as well as his arms, he would have been kicking himself. Had he not done precisely what Joe had been warned against doing? He had got into trouble and had given his senior officers the trouble of getting him out of it.

If they knew about it. And if they could do anything.

In the report which had gone to Wensley there had been no mention of his suspicions or his intentions. Would the Rabbi report what had happened? He had the impression, as he was being carried away like a sack over Luwinski’s broad shoulder, that Weil had stayed behind. No doubt he had been warning the Rabbi what would happen to him and his synagogue if he opened his mouth.

Luke had recovered consciousness as soon as the stifling rug had been removed and he had been able to take a few deep breaths. After which he had nothing to do except to keep a count of the passing of time by the chiming of a distant clock and by the regularity with which his guard was changed.

Every half hour a different man would come in. From the state of their elbows and their knees it was clear that they had been working shifts in the tunnel. Neither Weil nor Luwinski had appeared so far. Of the five he had seen he recognised Indruk Spiridov, with his bent nose, and fat Ben Levin from the earrings he wore, two in each ear. There was a fair-haired youngster who might have been Alexei Krustov or Stanislas Grax. The other two were unknown to him.

Levin was the only one who talked much. Some of his remarks were made to Luke, others to the guard who was patrolling Brownsong Passage. Putting together the bits and pieces of information which they let drop, Luke gathered that the tunnel was approaching the wall of the bank.

‘Any minute now,’ said Levin, his earrings clinking together as he laughed.

Throughout the endless hours, one maddening thought had overridden all others in Luke’s mind. He knew that if he were left alone, for only a few minutes, he could dispose of his bonds.

The men who had tied the knots were not sailors. Also they had used rope, not cord. Following the hints he had picked up, long ago, from Houdini, he had already succeeded in getting that first, vital, stretch in the rope which would allow him to pass his bound hands down behind his back and over his heels. Once his hands were in front of him, his teeth would soon deal with the clumsy knots. And he had worked sufficient slack into the rope round his ankles to ensure that his legs would not be paralysed by cramp.

This was important, because there was a door in the far corner of the room that looked promising. The bolt was on the inside so presumably it could be opened. It would lead to a staircase, which would give him the freedom of the upper storeys.

The spell of duty which started at two thirty had fallen to Ben Levin. He was the oldest and fattest of his guards and had spent most of the half hour brushing the earth off his coat and trousers. After which he had lit a cigarette and sat down to stretch his legs which seemed to have suffered from cramp.

At a few minutes before three the inner door opened and Weil came in, followed by the massive Luwinski and a youngster he had not seen before. When Levin moved towards the door Weil said, ‘It’s all right, Ben, no more digging. All we have to do now is get the gas cylinders through. We’ll soon have the blow pipes working.’

He pulled a bench up to where Luke was lying and looked down at the trussed figure with amusement.

‘Poor little policeman,’ he said. ‘No promotion for him now.’

He took a small cigar from the case in his pocket, offered one to Luwinski, who refused it and lit his own. There was an air of relaxation about the four men. A job attempted, a job completed. Or nearly so.

‘By morning,’ said Weil, ‘we’ll have emptied that strong-room of its Shonks’ gold. Tomorrow being their Sabbath they will know nothing of their lost treasure until Sunday morning. By that time it will be safely stowed where no one can find it. Even if they dared to come and look for it. When we add this haul to what our comrades took from the Lockett shop, we shall be plutocrats.’ He drew, with pleasure, on his cigar until the tip glowed red.

‘What will we do with the money? I’ll tell you. We shall expand our forces and pay our men properly; we shall be an army.’

The youngster and Ben Levin smiled broadly at this prospect. Luwinski remained impassive. A masterful character, thought Luke. Second only to Weil.

‘But you do not seem to be impressed?’ He leant forward and laid the glowing tip of his cigar against Luke’s neck.

The casual brutality of the gesture made Luke catch his breath, turning what started as a scream into a grunt.

‘Observe,’ said Weil, addressing his audience as though he was a surgeon demonstrating in the theatre, ‘he did not cry out. That was, would you suppose, because the part of his body where the cigar rested was not among the most sensitive?’

He put the question gravely. The youngster, who had started to dribble, said, ‘Suppose we removed his trousers. Might we not find more interesting areas for experiment?’

‘We might,’ agreed Weil. ‘But why should we go to that trouble? Tell me, what is the most sensitive part of the human body?’ Answering his own question he said, ‘Surely, it is the eye.’

The full horror of this foul suggestion had not had time to register in Luke’s mind when they all heard it. A slurring sound, followed by a soft but definite thump. They were still staring when the door flung open and Spiridov came in. ‘The tunnel’s down,’ he said, ‘and Alexei’s under it.’ Without a further thought for their prisoner, the four men followed Spiridov out. Luke had supposed that it might take him two minutes to clear his bonds. In less than half that time, he was crawling across the floor towards the door he had spotted.

A flight of stairs ran up from behind the door. He climbed them, pausing for a moment at the top to unloose the rope which still hung from one of his ankles. Then he hobbled along the corridor, feeling the strength coming back into his legs.

There were doors on both sides. The rooms they led into would be empty, but would look down on one side on to Brownsong Passage and on the other on to the cobbled way behind the synagogue. There would be guards on both.

At the far end of the corridor a set of steps led up to a trap-door. Since the building had only two main storeys this must be some sort of attic. He thought that if he could barricade himself in it, this might win him a breathing space.