Ring of Terror (6 page)

Suddenly, and it happened so quickly that he could hardly believe his eyes, he saw the young man’s hand slip into the shopping bag of a lady in front of him and extract her purse. He was about to drop it into his own pocket when Luke, lunging forward, caught hold of his wrist and took the purse from him.

The young man did not resist him, but bellowed out, ‘Take your hands off me, you crazy bluebottle.’

‘That’s right,’ said a bystander, ‘you leave him alone. And what are you doing with that purse, eh?’

At this the young lady swung round and said, ‘That’s my purse. Let me have it back at once.’

‘Excuse me, madam,’ said Luke. ‘It was this young man who stole your purse. I saw him do it.’

‘A pack of lies,’ said the helpful bystander.

‘And I’m charging him with it. I’ll require you and him to come with me to the station.’

‘Don’t go,’ said the helpful bystander. ‘Are we going to let ourselves be trampled on by a Jack-in-office what’s been caught stealing money and is trying to put it on to an innocent man?’

The crowd seemed to be with him and was turning ugly when a second constable appeared. This was PC Farmer, a large and formidable person, and when Luke had rapidly explained the situation to him he said, ‘Right. You come along with us. You and the lady. And that witness. Where is he?’

But the witness had disappeared.

Back at the Station Sergeant Hamble listened, first to Luke and then to the young man, who repeated his story and added that if the police persisted in such a ridiculous charge, he had a number of highly respectable friends who would vouch for him. The sergeant said that if he would give them his own name and address and details of his friends, he would be allowed to depart, being remanded to appear in due course and answer the charge.

The young man thought about this and said, ‘You shall have my name, which is George Taylor. But not my address or the details of my friends. When this insulting charge has been dismissed, as it will be, you will release me and apologise. And I trust,’ he added, eyeing Luke malevolently, ‘that steps will then be taken against the actual thief.’

The sergeant said that if he persisted in refusing his address he would have to be held, in custody, to appear before the magistrate.

This took place on the following morning. The magistrate, Mr Horace Lamb, was shrewd but fair. It was one man’s word against another. The woman was neutral. She had no idea who had taken her purse. The helpful bystander had disappeared and no other witnesses had come forward. As the matter stood it seemed to turn on the character of the accused. If he had indeed led a blameless life, never straying from the straight and narrow path, it seemed incredible that he should have chosen such a public occasion to depart from it. On the other hand, it was equally unlikely that a young policeman should have embarked on a career of crime in such a place and in such a manner. In the end, the magistrate decided to adjourn the hearing for seven days.

‘This will give you time,’ he said to Mr Taylor, ‘to think again about your refusal to identify your family and the friends who will speak for you. You realise, I hope, that their evidence may be decisive.’ Mr Taylor said that his friends would have to be consulted, but he was sure they would speak for him. The magistrate said, ‘Very well,’ and looked at Luke, who had nothing to say.

He was certain that the self-styled George Taylor was a professional thief and that the helpful bystander had been an accomplice. He had a week to prove it. For God’s sake, how did he set about it? Joe said he would ask around and see what he could ferret out. Sergeant Hamble recommended prayer. Luke went up to Scotland Yard and began a desperate search through the photographs in the Rogues’ Gallery.

There were hundreds of photographs. Thousands. Front view, side view, even back view. After a bit they seemed to merge together. They became a composite picture of criminality which haunted him in his sleep. When, on the third day, suddenly and without the least doubt, he found Mr Taylor, he was so relieved that he laughed aloud.

A man who was also studying the photographs turned round and Luke recognised him. It was Detective Inspector Wensley, the DDI of ‘H’ Division. Known throughout the force as Fred and by the criminal population of east London as Vensel or the Weasel, he looked as unlike a senior policeman as it was possible for a man to look. He had a long, white, sad face which sloped down from his forehead to a prominent jaw. His upper lip was adorned by a splendid moustache which made him look more like a walrus than a weasel.

Plucking up courage as he noted the twinkle in Wensley’s deep-set eyes, Luke had poured out the whole story.

‘Good,’ said Wensley. ‘I had a very similar experience myself during my early days in Whitechapel. It’s a common ploy among the light-fingered gentry. If I might suggest it, your next step should be to examine the man’s record. If he’s a professional criminal there will certainly be previous convictions.’

Luke said he had thought of this, but would the rules allow him to bring them to the magistrate’s attention?

‘There’s an answer to that,’ Wensley said. ‘Not, perhaps, strictly legal, but very effective. I take it you will be conducting your own defence? Good. You’ll do it much better than the sort of third-class barrister you could afford. Records of previous offences are on dark blue paper. I’ll assume you find one or more of them. You hold them in your hand in such a way that the prisoner can see them and you say to him, “You are aware, I take it, that lying on oath is a crime, for which you can be severely punished. So I want to ask you one question. You have based your defence on your good character, so I’m entitled to ask you whether you have ever been convicted of a criminal offence.” He’ll be a very bold man if he doesn’t say “yes”. Then you can rub it in. How many times and what for? I’m sure I can leave it to you.’

His confidence was not misplaced. Taylor, real name Abrahams, was convicted of attempted theft and Luke received a commendation.

Wensley, who was in court when this happy conclusion was reached, had taken him aside afterwards to congratulate him. What followed seemed predestined. As soon as he discovered that Luke was a fluent Russian speaker, he had applied his considerable weight to effect what Luke had been praying for, both for himself and Joe. A transfer to the Detective Branch and a transfer to ‘H’ Division. Superintendent Garforth had fought hard to retain Luke, but his opposition had been steam-rollered. Opposition to Joe’s departure had been a good deal less strenuous.

This had all happened six months ago and Luke had had time to appreciate why, in the eyes of the Force, the ‘H’ in ‘H’ Division (which embraced Stepney, Whitechapel and Poplar) stood for Horror. Notwithstanding the dangers and difficulties he had enjoyed life enormously.

Hold it. The door of the house he was watching was being opened, cautiously. Someone was going to come out. Was coming out. He craned forward, and the movement saved him. A blow, which would have fallen squarely on his head, fell instead on his left forearm. He whipped round, got his right arm round his attacker’s neck and pulled him down.

Footsteps running up and a rain of blows from his new attacker. A lot of them fell on his opponent as they rolled together on the ground. Then a crack on the forehead which dazed him.

When the mist had cleared a little he levered himself up on to his knees. He could hear two sets of footsteps running away round the corner and disappearing into the distance. He was in no shape to follow. His left arm felt as though it didn’t belong to him, his head was still spinning. He felt sick.

He was sick.

This restored him sufficiently for him to get to his feet and stagger towards the only destination that mattered – his bed. As he went, there were two thoughts in his mind. The first was that there was something wrong with his arm. Something very wrong. And it wasn’t only his arm, now. His legs were misbehaving. As they buckled under him and he went down face first into the gutter there was another quite independent thought in his mind. There had been something odd about the second set of footsteps. Something he ought to remember.

For some time there had been nothing firm, nothing to cling on to. Flashes of consciousness had been followed by intervals of darkness which were too disturbed to be called sleep.

In these intervals he seemed to spend most of his time walking down the Ratcliffe Highway, a frontage of buildings with nasty, dark, dangerous little alleys between them. Every other building was a tavern. Between the taverns were shops that catered for sailors. Peering through the windows as he strolled past he could see sou’westers and pilot coats, thigh-length rubber boots, sextants and bosun’s pipes, knives and daggers. Why, you could fit out a whole ship from each shop, he said. Ship, shop. Ship, shop. Clip, clop. Hansom cab coming up behind him. Dodge before it runs you down. The effort he made to escape jerked him back to consciousness.

A man with a beard, whom he had seen before, was smiling at him. He said, ‘That’s right. Cheated the parson this time. Lucky these youngsters have got such hard heads, isn’t it, Mrs Hutchins.’ There was a woman with him who reminded him of Mrs Parham. He remembered her as one of his regular visitors, who gave him hot sweet drinks which made him sick.

On one occasion, most remarkably, it had been DDI Wensley who had stared down at him, looking like a mournful seal, and said something that sounded like ‘bloody young fool’. After that it was the motherly woman again. This time she had given him a cold and rather bitter drink which he had succeeded in keeping down.

Then he really had slept.

When he opened his eyes he saw Joe, perched on a chair beside his bed, reading a magazine. All he could see of it was the picture of a girl with beautiful legs which, very reasonably, she was making no effort to keep hidden. Wanting to see more, he hoisted himself up on to his elbows

“Ullo ‘ullo,’ said Joe. ‘The sleeping beauty has awucken. And you’re not supposed to sit up.’

‘Why on earth not?’ said Luke, sitting up.

‘Bin at death’s door, haven’t you?’

‘Nonsense,’ said Luke. ‘I’m as fit as a fiddle.’

‘Whole thing was a fiddle, if you ask me. Three days in the infirmary and Mother Hutchins clucking over you, like as if you was her long-lost son.’

‘Have I really been here for three days?’

‘Best part of. Every precaution known to science has been took.’ He was examining a chart which hung at the foot of the bed. ‘This one shows your temperacheer. And here’s a list of ticks and crosses. Nothing to say what that is. Might be the number of times you wet your bed.’

‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ said Luke. ‘Tell me. Did old Wensley come and have a look at me? It seemed like him and I thought I heard him say “bloody young fool”.’

‘Taken by and large,’ said Joe, ‘that seems to sum up the general verdick. Letting yourself be knocked on the napper by a couple of cheap Ruskies. Mind you, I’m beginning to wonder if we was quite as smart as we thought we was, getting ourselves transferred to this division. Talk about the bloody Tower of Babel. Squareheads, Polacks, Guineas, Johnnies and hundreds of thousands of Shonks. Fourteen to a room and one bed. Either they take it in turns, or some of them sleep on the floor.’

‘Uncomfortable either way,’ said Luke. ‘That’s a lovely black eye you’ve got. Been fighting someone?’

‘In this part of the world, life’s one long fight. How’d I get this shiner? I got it yesterday. Rescuing a sailor from a fate worse’n death. From death too, like as not.’

‘Tell,’ said Luke, settling himself comfortably.

‘Well, I was proceeding along Cable Street, getting dark, and mist coming up from the river, and I was thinking as how nice it would be if I was back home with my slippers on and a glass of something in my hand when I saw these three men coming along, arm in arm. Friendly types, was my first thought. When they got up to me, I saw the two on the outside was nasty-looking hunkies.’ Joe demonstrated what he meant by frowning ferociously and sticking his jaw out. This made Luke laugh.

‘Laugh away,’ said Joe. ‘It weren’t funny. Not really. The one in the middle was a sailor – not much more’n a boy – and as anyone could see, he was drunk as parson’s cat. Couldn’t hardly stand up. I said, “You leave that boy alone.”

‘”We leave him, he falls down,” said the tough character on the right. “We take him home.”

‘”I know just where you’re taking him,” I said. “Somewhere you can finish emptying his pockets. And then empty him into the river. Not tonight, though. This ain’t your lucky night.”

‘He didn’t seem anxious to let go of the boy, which handicapped him somewhat, so I hit him.’ Joe smiled at the thought. ‘A four o’clock one. Right on his snozzle. He let go the boy then and come for me. So I kicks him in the goolies.’

‘Wasn’t that a bit rough?’

‘I had to protect myself, didn’t I? Then I got me old whistle out and blew it. Always creates a good effect. The other man took one look at his friend lying on the ground trying to be sick and cut off smartish down one of the side streets. The only one who didn’t seem to appreciate my efforts was the boy. He said, “You’ve hurt my friend. Only friend I’ve got,” and blow me down if he didn’t square up and belt me in the eye. It was what you might call a parting effort, because as he did it his knees gave way and if I hadn’t grabbed him he’d have finished flat on his face. I got him up over my shoulder and left the field of battle as the crowd started to gather. One of the men knew me and gave me a hand with our gallant tar and we got him into the church refuge just round the corner. When we got him there he fell flat once more and this time, just to show how comfortable he was, he started to snore. It didn’t seem to worry the refugers.’

‘I expect they’re used to that sort of thing. What did they do with him?’

‘They said they’d put him to bed. He’d be all right in the morning. I wasn’t too sure about that, so I went round next morning and had a word with the boy. He was called Bill Trotter and he was off the brig
Alice.
The usual story. Came on shore with a friend from another ship. Both of them with their pay in their pockets. Friend went off with a girl, leaving young Bill on his tod. Easy meat for the squareheads. Seeing he was still a bit shaky I went back with him to his ship.’