Robin Hood Yard

THREE

He finally got through to Rebecca Taylor at four thirty as she returned from the canteen. Reporters didn’t get tea breaks. A trolley came round on the hour, every hour. The women who pushed it, each of them wearing what seemed like the same floral apron, were a valuable source of gossip about the goings-on in Hereflete House.

They knew what the seventh floor had decided before anyone else.

It was too late for the early edition – he’d already filed his copy – but it didn’t matter anyway.

“I can’t talk now. Besides, the detective told me not to speak to the press at all.” Johnny liked her voice. She sounded like Jean Arthur.

“What was he called?”

“Parnell, Pentell, something like that.”

Close enough.

“Penterell. Don’t worry about him. He’s a dolt.”

“I don’t want to get into any trouble.”

“You won’t. You have my word.”

“Are you in the habit of making promises you can’t keep?”

“Meet me after work and you’ll find out. What time d’you finish?”

“Half past five. Don’t come to the reception. Wait for me outside.”

“I don’t know what you look like. How will I recognize you?”

“Keep your hair on! I know you.”

He lit up and, slowly exhaling, stared at the massive blank walls of the Bank of England: unscalable, unbreachable, very unfriendly. Prince’s Street had seemed to be one of the most boring thoroughfares in the City until the discovery of the London Curse a few years ago. The lead tablet, inscribed on both sides in Latin, declared: Titus Egnatius Tyranus is hereby solemnly cursed, likewise Publius Cicereius Felix. Empires rose and fell but human nature remained the same. Had the two dismembered men also been cursed?

“You look exactly like your photograph.” Johnny laughed. Miss Taylor looked nothing like Jean Arthur but she was still a dish.

“Is that a good or bad thing?”

“Good, I reckon. You’re famous for not misleading your readers.”

She was only partly right. There were times when he felt it necessary not to tell the whole truth. He did his best to protect his sources and the innocent. Then again, as PDQ was fond of saying – Peter Donald Quarles’s initials gave him the inevitable nickname “pretty damn quick” – what is not said can be just as revealing as what is.

“I’m not famous. I’m simply good at my job.”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “Such modesty!”

“Indeed. I’ve got a lot to be modest about.”

They went to the Three Bucks round the corner in Gresham Street.

“What can you tell me about Walter Chittleborough?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. He seemed a decent enough chap to begin with, but I was wrong.”

She took another sip of beer – a surprising choice of drink. He’d had her down as a G&T sort of girl. He waited for her to break the silence.

“I shouldn’t have given in. He’d been asking me out for months but I wasn’t interested.”

“Why did you?”

“I thought he’d leave me alone if I gave him what he wanted.” Johnny’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re no different. Men are only after one thing. Go on, I dare you. Tell me you’d say no.”

Once upon a time he’d have answered her by kissing her on the lips. They were so red they scarcely needed lipstick. He was no stranger to brief encounters, but as he got older – thirty-one now! – he hankered after something more meaningful. Besides, he’d been in love with someone – someone he couldn’t marry – for years.

“You’re a knockout girl, and I admit I’d like to get to know you better, but what’s the hurry?”

“Haven’t you heard? There’s going to be another war. We might all be dead by Christmas.”

“Let’s concentrate on those who are already dead. Who’d want to kill Chittleborough in such a horrid way?”

“Me, for a start.”

“Don’t say things like that. I thought you wanted to keep out of trouble.”

“I do – but Wally had it coming. He was handsome on the outside, ugly on the inside. He had a sick mind.”

“In what way?”

She shook her head. Her black curls gleamed in the gaslight. “I’d rather not say. It’s not important.”

“Of course it is!” Was she insane? “What did he do to you?”

“Nothing.”

“So why did you reject him?”

“I didn’t! He rejected me.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Stop flattering me.”

“I’m not.” Was he? “Why would he reject you after pursuing you for so long?”

“Pillow talk is dangerous.”

If he pressed her further she would clam up altogether. He tried a different tack.

“Did you ever meet any of his friends?”

“No. He didn’t go out much during the week. His pacing up and down, up and down, drove me mad. I was planning to get out from underneath him.”

“And yet you didn’t hear a thing last night.”

“Not after I went to bed. I was listening to the third act of Carmen from Covent Garden. I think Renée Gilly is marvellous. It finished at five to eleven.”

She met his gaze as if challenging him to contradict her. He remained silent.

“I’m still going to move out, even though he’s dead.” She sighed. Out of relief or satisfaction? He couldn’t tell. “I don’t feel safe. I’ll never spend another night in Savage Gardens.”

“You can stay with me if you like.” The words were out before he could eat them.

“Now who’s in a hurry?” She smiled. Her eyes were almost maroon. “I’m going to stay with my brother in Tooting.”

“Good for you. Call me if you think of anything else.” He handed her his card. “You’ll feel a lot safer when the killer’s in custody.”

“Perhaps. Thanks for the drink.”

Johnny drained his glass and got to his feet. They shook hands. He watched her walk quickly out of the pub, aware of other eyes – those of half-cut bankers, brokers and jobbers – examining her assets. Miss Taylor was too much of a catch to let slip through his fingers. He must find a good reason to see her again.

“Hello stranger!”

It had been over a year since Cecil Zick – brothel-keeper, pornographer and extortionist – had seen his fellow purveyor of smut, Henry Simkins of the Daily Chronicle. It was not a fond reunion.

“Don’t be like that, darling. We make a good team.”

“Keep your voice down.” The wooden walls of Ye Olde Mitre were thin but Zick, a stickler for keeping up appearances, still went to the trouble of hiring a private room. “What brings you back this time?”

“Herr Hitler. I don’t trust a word the ghastly man says. The sooner someone exterminates the jumped-up little man the better. In the meanwhile I’m going to hide behind Britannia’s voluminous skirts.”

“Where exactly?”

“I’ll let you know soon enough. Everything’s almost ready. The show must go on.”

“If word gets out, you’ll wish you were in back in Potsdamer Platz.”

“I know. I know. That’s where you come in.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Whatever you wish. A new pair of balls?”

“Very droll. It’s always someone else who pays the price, isn’t it? You’ve a remarkable talent for survival. One of these days your luck will run out.”

“Not if I can help it.” Zick coughed discreetly. “I was sorry to hear about your little accident …”

“It wasn’t a fucking accident. It was deliberate!”

A psychopath – an amateur surgeon who abjured the use of anaesthetic – had deprived Simkins of his crown jewels the previous summer. If it hadn’t been for Steadman, his arch-rival, he’d have lost a lot more.

“Yes, indeed. You do understand it was impossible to visit. Let me make it up to you. Can you still …?”

“Rise to the occasion? No – but there are other sources of pleasure.”

“Indeed. I should know. However, let’s not forget that pleasure doesn’t equal happiness.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Revenge can be almost as satisfying as sex. The longer it’s deferred, the more glorious its consummation.”

“So that’s what you’re after.”

“Detective Constable Turner is not a man for letting bygones be bygones.” Zick put down his glass and, as if the champagne had turned to battery acid, grimaced. “I hardly touched his wife. How was I to know she was pregnant? I only detained her so that Turner would do what was required. Once again he represents a serious impediment to my business plans.”

“What’s it going to be then? Bribery or butchery?”

“Much as the latter would be fun, the former would be more expedient.”

“Why not have a word with the Commander?”

“The less he knows the better.”

“At the risk of repeating myself: what’s in it for me?”

“Don’t you want to get one over on Steadman?”

“He saved my life!”

“But not your balls, alas. And it seems that’s not all you lost. Where’s the Machiavellian streak that’s got you this far?”

“I don’t have to prove anything to you. He did set me up though. Have you still got the photographs?”

A couple of years ago both Matt and Johnny – on separate occasions – had been drugged and molested while a camera recorded the criminal depravity. So far they had succeeded in preventing the attacks becoming common knowledge.

“Bien sûr, mon petit choux. I knew it would be a mistake to destroy them.”

“So you didn’t keep your word?”

“You saw me burn the negatives, didn’t you? I recall how pleased you were to be able to tell Steadman the good news. Didn’t get you anywhere with him though, did it?”

Simkins scowled. “Get on with whatever it is you want to say.”

“Be like that then. Our old friend Timney, hearing that I’d returned to the Smoke, crawled out from whichever stone he was hiding under and made himself available to me. I was delighted when he told me that – against my direct orders – he’d kept a copy of the negatives. That’s why I need you. Steadman is the simplest way to put pressure on Turner.”

“You mean blackmail him.”

“Such a nasty word.” He waved his hand as if to disperse a bad smell. The ruby on his finger flashed in the candlelight. “Still, it worked last time – if not quite in the way we’d hoped. I can’t approach Steadman, but you can. Tell him the truth – you need his help.”

“To do what? He’s not a fool.”

“You’ll think of something.”

“And if I don’t?”

Zick got to his dainty feet. “Remember what a sticky end is? You used to like nothing more.”

The champagne – still in its glass – smashed against the door. Wisely, he’d waited until his nemesis had gone.

FOUR

Saturday, 29 October, 10.15 a.m.

The first report came in shortly after ten o’clock. Others soon followed. Five banking houses had been attacked: N. M. Rothschild & Sons, Samuel Montagu & Co., M. Samuel & Co., Seligman Brothers, and S. Japhet & Co. All of them were Jewish. Bottles of blood had been flung against the walls of the noble institutions.

The attacks couldn’t have happened at a better time. Johnny was making little headway with the double murders. Everything was too clean. Matt had wearily informed him that Chittleborough had no criminal record and the only fingerprints found in the flat had been his. No one had seen or heard anything strange on Thursday evening. The killer had shown a clean pair of heels.

“Someone’s not happy,” said PDQ. “Perhaps they’re blaming the Jews for dragging us – kicking and screaming – towards war. They get blamed for all sorts of things.”

“Perfect scapegoats,” said Johnny. “But Chamberlain’s flying to Munich this morning. Third time lucky.”

“I hardly think so, Steadman,” said Patsel. “Such – how do you say it? – yo-yo diplomacy is bound to fail. It demonstrates weakness, not strength.” He appeared gratified at the prospect.

“There’s been another one.” Tanfield, who had the desk opposite Johnny’s, brandished a telegram from Reuters. “The next Lord Mayor’s been hurt.”

Mansion House Street was to the City what Piccadilly Circus was to Westminster. It was the very heart of things, where no less than eight arteries met, and as such was usually clogged with traffic. On the map it resembled the head of a splayed octopus with one limb shrivelled.

Johnny stopped the taxi by the monumental headquarters of the Midland Bank. Lutyens had a lot to answer for. The naked boy wrestling a goose above him was a jocular nod towards the building’s location: Poultry. Ten years on, only the southwest corner, regularly lashed by rain, retained a hint of the Portland stone’s original whiteness.

Outside the Bank of England a City cop in reflective white gauntlets waved him and Magnus Monroe, a staff photographer, across the road. The Royal Exchange lay in the fork between Threadneedle Street and Cornhill. The Duke of Wellington and Copenhagen – cast in bronze from captured French cannon – gazed down at him with sightless eyes. The City thrived on making the man in the street feel small.

The Exchange had closed – or been closed – early. One of its constables – instantly recognizable in his blue-and-gold uniform – stood talking to a City cop beneath the portico. As soon as Johnny started climbing the steps, he raised his stick. Johnny kept going.

“Thus far and no further.” The bumptious beadle attempted to block his path.

“John Steadman, Daily News.”

“Sorry, sir. The Exchange is closed.”

“I can see that. Let me pass.”

He was tempted to knock off the beadle’s cocked hat. The old man – who had the power to arrest and detain him within the Exchange – waved his stick at him. Pop! Magnus set to work. It was always good to illustrate the risks a fearless reporter faced as he went about his business. The old soldier turned his attention to the photographer. As soon as he took his eyes off him, Johnny headed for the doors.

“Going somewhere?” The long arm of the law felt his collar. It wasn’t the first time – nor would it be the last.

“Yes.”

“No.” The constable let go of his collar but only to pluck the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Ouch! Fuck off, Watkiss.” They had met before. The Square Mile often felt as small as a bear pit or bullring. “Still a plain bogey, I see. You must miss Sergeant Turner.”

“Not as much as you.”

“He’ll be here in a minute.”

“Really?”

Johnny nodded. Several of his competitors were piling out of taxis. “Do me a favour – keep that lot out.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Go on then – and mind that you do.”

He pushed open the heavy swing doors and made a beeline for the man sitting on a bentwood chair in the middle of the empty courtyard. It was pleasantly warm beneath the glass canopy but a metallic tang hung in the air. The antique Turkish pavement was splotched with blood.

“It’s not mine – at least, most of it isn’t.” Leo Adler tried to get up but his legs gave way. A concerned minion dabbed at the cut on his forehead. “Let me be!”

“John Steadman, Daily News.”

The cop interviewing one of the gathered witnesses turned round but said nothing.

“How d’you do?” They didn’t shake hands. “Not fond of bankers, are you? I must say, I enjoyed your exposure of that wicked boy’s scam.”

A post-room worker had been removing foreign stamps from envelopes and selling them. As the recent pepper scandal had demonstrated – an attempt to corner the world market in white pepper had floundered because the perpetrators failed to realize that black pepper could be turned into white – there was no shortage of crooks in the City. However, it was generally those at the bottom who were caught. Those higher up the ladder remained at large. In Johnny’s eyes, anyone in pinstripes belonged behind bars.

“A reporter is only as good as his sources.”

“Much like a French chef!”

“What happened? Why aren’t you taking this seriously?”

“It’s nothing. A rough-looking gentleman sprayed me with blood then threw the bottle at me and scarpered. Fortunately, it didn’t smash. I saw stars for a minute but I’m right as rain now.”

“Red rain. Why blood?”

“No idea. Perhaps he was a communist protestor hell-bent on keeping the red flag flying. We’ll probably never know.”

“What did he look like?”

“As I said, rough. Not the type generally seen round here.”

The mayor-in-waiting gestured at the arcades that lined the court where commodities had been bought and sold for centuries. There were other exchanges nearby: the Corn Exchange in Mark Lane, the Baltic Shipping Exchange in St Mary Axe, the Metal Exchange in Whittington Avenue, the Wool Exchange in Coleman Street, the Rubber Exchange in Mincing Lane and, of course, the Stock Exchange in Threadneedle Street.

The motto of the City of London was Domine Dirige Nos – “Lord, guide us” – but it might as well have been Quid pro quo – “something for something” – or “anything for money”: timber, minerals, coffee, sex, information or access.

Magnus, the archetypal shutterbug, came beetling towards them. No doubt he’d slipped Watkiss a oncer to let him in. If Steadman’s profession was asking, Monroe’s was taking – usually without permission. Mouths opened in protest were more dramatic than thin-lipped smiles. Adler, though, was only too happy to oblige. No wonder he’d been elected Lord Mayor. His regular, tanned features represented the acceptable face of capitalism – even if he was Jewish.

Johnny had read interviews with the second Jew destined to become Lord Mayor of London. The first, David Salomons, had been elected in 1855. City folk, pragmatists par excellence, were less vocal in their anti-Semitism than some of the population. The size of a man’s fortune was more important than the size of his nose.

“You must have heard about the other attacks,” said Johnny. “They can hardly be a coincidence. This seems like the start of a hate campaign. It must be personal, anti-Semitic. You’re the only person to have been attacked.”

“I’ve just come from Rothschild’s in New Court.” St Swithin’s Lane was less than a minute’s walk away. “It won’t take long to clean up the mess.”

“Rothschild,” murmured Johnny. “Red shield.”

“What’s that?”

“Probably nothing. I was thinking aloud.”

“Come off it. Next you’ll be saying that murder spelled backwards is red rum.”

“Why would I? I like crosswords but no one’s been murdered – not here anyway. Are you sure you haven’t a clue as to who’s responsible?”

“If I had, they’d be under arrest already.”

Johnny believed him. After “The Silent Ceremony” at the Guildhall on 9 November – during which the outgoing mayor would hand over the sword, sceptre, seal and list of Corporations to him – Adler would be the Chief Magistrate of the City.

“Such publicity is bad for business,” he continued. “The sooner it stops, the better.”

“Why talk to me then?”

“Your opposition to the bowler-hat-and-brolly brigade is well known. If you say it’s nothing but a stunt, people will believe you. Outside the City I don’t have much clout.”

Johnny was flattered but not convinced.

“Adler. That’s a German name, isn’t it?”

“Yes. My grandparents were German, but both my parents were British. It means eagle.”

“Perfect for a high-flier.”

Adler’s laughter echoed round the Exchange.

“I need a drink. Care to join me? It’s almost midday.” He got to his feet and, this time, stayed upright. “Are we done now, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir, if you’re sure you don’t want to go to Bart’s.”

“Quite sure. I’ve had worse bumps. Got a thick skull. Let me know when you catch the blighter.”

It was all right for some. Lesser mortals would have been obliged to make a statement at Snow Hill police station.

Adler, having dismissed his entourage with reassuring noises, led them out of an exit at the rear of the building and thus avoided the scrum waiting at the front. Johnny was delighted. Monroe went off to develop his prints while he and Adler crossed the road and entered the maze of alleys that zigzagged between Lombard Street and Cornhill. Thirty yards down Birchin Lane they turned left into Castle Court.

The George and Vulture was one of Mr Pickwick’s favourite haunts.

“He dined here with Sam Weller,” said Johnny.

“I don’t have time to read for pleasure.”

“But you do read the papers.”