The Tiger in the Well

  The Jews do all right for themselves, don't they?

  They don't go short. . .

  They got the markets all sewn up.

  Disease. They spread disease. . . Their women are rotten with it.

  There's more and more of 'em coming over on every boat. . .

  You can go down their end of Brick Lane and not see a proper English face for an hour at a time. Hanbury Street - Fashion Street - they're just as bad; Flower and Dean Street. . .

  That Hungarian case - it was in the papers - they stole a Christian child and killed her to use her blood in their rituals. It's true - witnesses - they confessed -

  There was a case like that in Germany.

  Christian children? What, they kill 'em?

  It's been proved time and time again.

  There's a Jewish girl in Montagu Street with a stolen child.

  Get away. . .

  It is! Not Jewish, neither. . . Not with fair hair. . .

  "Montagu Street?" said Mr Parrish. He was in a pub in the Whitechapel Road - a grand mahogany place, with polished brass and glittering mirrors and plushly upholstered barmaids. Cigar smoke hung thickly in the air, and Parrish was buying the drinks.

  "Yeah," said his informant blurrily, through his eighth pint.

  "Have you seen this child? What is it, by the way - boy or girl?"

  "My old lady has. It's a girl, she reckons. Crying all the time. Stands to reason they stole it."

  "Your wife familiar with the street, is she?"

  "She oughter be. She was born there. Afore them bloody Jews come in. She was going down there yesterday and she hears this kid yelling and screaming - smart house it was, lick of paint, clean curtains - must be a bit of money in there, eh? They don't go without, do they?"

  "I expect they're living nice and fat," said Mr Parrish. "Go on about the child."

  "Oh, aye. Well, she hears this yelling and carrying on and looks in through the window, and she sees it - nice little fair-haired kiddie struggling to get away from this Jewish gel what was holding it. The gel sees her looking and drags it away from the window. Bound to be stolen, my old lady reckons. Course, she didn't know about this blood business. . . Is that true, then?"

  "I wouldn't be surprised. What number house was that?"

  "Oh, blimey, I dunno. Smart-looking place. Potted plant in the window. Think they're a cut above the rest of us. . . I hates 'em. Ta, guv, another pint for me. . ."

  As the rest of the men were leaving the tobacco warehouse, Goldberg asked Kid Mendel and Moishe Lipman to stay behind. Bill stayed, too, and when he was sure they wouldn't be overheard, Goldberg offered them each a cigar and said, "Gentlemen, we've got another problem to deal with. I didn't want to bother the meeting with it; it's your particular expertise I want."

  The two gang leaders said nothing. They were very different: the balding, sophisticated, elegant Mendel was dressed in the height of fashion and looked like a prince on holiday, whereas Moishe Lipman, who'd been a fairground boxer in his youth, could have auditioned for the part of Frankenstein's monster in a theatre company that wasn't fussy.

  The two men knew each other; their feelings comprised equal parts of respect and mistrust. Bill, watching them, marvelled at the magnetic personality of Goldberg, who'd drawn such different kinds of steel together.

  "Well?" said Lipman harshly, when they were seated again.

  Mendel blew a stream of smoke towards the candle, making its flame waver and flare upwards in the gloom.

  "Let me guess," he said before Goldberg could answer. "It's the woman."

  Lipman's heavy eyes left Goldberg and turned to his rival. "What woman is this? Is this connected with the business we came here for?"

  "Very closely," said Goldberg. "She's the one person who can sink the Tzaddik. . ." In a few sentences he told them about Sally and Harriet. "Now I'm afraid she's put herself into real danger. I want a watch kept on that house; and the moment there's any sign of trouble, I want it raided. Second, the child. She's safe where she is, but I want a guard there. Twenty-four hours a day."

  Silence. Kid Mendel raised an eyebrow; Moishe Lipman scowled.

  "Expensive," he said after a moment or two. "Why bother?"

  "Because that child's mother is the only way we can beat the Tzaddik. If the child is caught, we lose everything; he'll be stronger than ever, because the mother's disguise won't last a moment. In any case, I'm afraid of something worse."

  "The blood libel?" said Mendel, but it wasn't really a question. He meant the ancient slur against the Jews, that they used the blood of Christian children in their rituals.

  Goldberg nodded.

  "He'd do that and blame it on the Jews?" said Lipman. "But why on earth--"

  He didn't finish, because there were running footsteps outside, and a pounding on the door. Lipman jumped to his feet, fists clenched; Mendel turned to watch, with elegant curiosity. But first on his feet, quicker even than Bill, was Goldberg, and his hand was in his pocket.

  Bill opened the door, and it was Reuben Singer who fell in, breathless.

  "The child - they've got her. . ."

  Goldberg was at his side in a second. The young man was bleeding from a split lip, and one of his eyes was closing rapidly.

  "A bunch of roughs - not police, no - no warrant, nothing - a dapper little man in charge of them, called himself Parrish - Rebecca knew what he wanted and tried to get the child out the back way - but they had men in the yard too - and Mr Katz. . ." He broke off to gasp for breath. "He's unconscious," he managed to say. "They beat him with sticks. Rebecca, too. I think her arm's broken. But they've got the child. . ."

  "All right, Dan," said Mendel. "You with us, Moishe?"

  Lipman's brutal features glowered in the flickering light.

  "They're not hurting kids," he said. "Jewish, goy, Hottentot, whatever. Tell us what you want, Dan."

  Goldberg thought swiftly. "Three places he might have taken her to: the house in Fournier Square, or Parrish's own house in Telegraph Road, Clapham, or the place he's taken over in Twickenham. Moishe - take some boys and go to Fournier Square. Kid, you do the same in Twickenham. Orchard House - big place by the river. I'll go to Clapham."

  "What do we do?" said Mendel.

  "Stake it out. Keep watch. The second you see her, move in and snatch her."

  "Ever seen a kidnap?" said Lipman. "It won't be easy without hurting her."

  "We'll do it," said Mendel.

  "We'll need a place to contact," said Goldberg. "My place in Soho is watched, now there's a warrant for me. Any ideas?"

  "I've got a telephone," said Mendel. "Number 4214. I'll put a man on the line full time. Call in as soon as you can when the exchange opens at nine o'clock, and he'll pass on the news."

  "Good," said Goldberg, as the two gang leaders hurried out. "All right, Reuben? You're going to have to look after Mrs Katz and the others. Come on, let's go. . ."

  Then he was off, leaping down the dark stairs and out through the slashing rain, with Bill following close behind.

  Harriet sat very still. There was a horse, because she could hear it, and it was cold and smooth under her hand, like the seat in the cab she and Mama had ridden in.

  There were men talking. It was dark. Mama had said she must be brave, so she was being brave, like Mama herself in the jungle with the bad monkeys.

  There was no Rebecca. She wanted Rebecca suddenly. The men hadn't wanted Rebecca to come, and they'd hit her. They'd hit Mr Katz too.

  It was cold. Her thumb came up to her mouth, and she sucked it hard, but she didn't cry. She just had to sit still.

  Sally woke up suddenly from a confused, painful dream and lay biting her lip in the darkness. Eliza was breathing heavily, obviously asleep, and a clock was striking one, unhelpfully.

  It was no good. She wouldn't sleep any more; she'd clicked suddenly awake in the way that meant that she'd lie for hours unable to sleep again.

  Well, she knew what the target was this time: the offi
ces on the second floor. There must be something incriminating there, if only she could find it.

  She put her feet over the side of the bed, shivering as they touched the cold boards, and felt for her stockings. Then she paused and felt in her basket till she found the heavy coldness of the pistol.

  She was very tempted. She could carry it in the pocket of her cloak, and of course she wouldn't use it, but it would make her feel safer. . .

  It was heavy, and swung awkwardly at her side, and halfway down the stairs she wished she hadn't brought it. Still, there it was. When she opened the door on the second-floor landing, the butt of the pistol knocked against the jamb, and she stood still for nearly a minute, hardly daring to breathe.

  But nothing happened, and she moved on through. The light outside the Tzaddik's bedroom on the floor below filtered up and showed her the dim outlines of doors and banisters, and she tiptoed along the linoleum-covered floor to the door at the front, where she knew the secretary worked.

  Would it open? Yes.

  The chilling thought, suddenly: was the monkey on this floor? Or was it asleep with the Tzaddik?

  Don't stop to think. Look around. Move quickly, but be careful.

  The blinds were open, and a dim light from the gas-lamp in the street below made its way in through the rain-splashed windows - enough for her to see shelves behind the desk, and on them the bulky shapes of something familiar: ledgers. Perhaps she was being lucky at last, finding something she understood. Could she risk lighting the candle?

  The pistol gave her confidence; if the worst came to the worst, she could fight her way out. She lit the stump of candle in its enamel holder and set it on the desk, and took the first ledger from the shelf.

  It seemed to be a record of payments to domestic staff: nothing unusual or irregular here. She scanned it quickly and put it back. The next she took down concerned share dealings; the Tzaddik evidently had a large and diverse portfolio, and it was being managed, she could see, very efficiently. But again there was nothing that any wealthy gentleman would have needed to hide. She put that one back and took another.

  She looked through five more, and found nothing more than the records - immaculately kept - of a successful import and export business. Then in the eighth she saw something.

  It seemed to be an account of payments received from various sources. The amounts varied, and were in several different currencies; but one of them consisted of weekly payments in sterling of amounts around two hundred pounds. There was something familiar about that figure, but she couldn't place it until she noticed that each kind of entry was identified by a letter. The one for the payments which had caught her eye was P.

  Parrish.

  It was the money Goldberg had told her about - the money Parrish collected from the gambling houses and brothels in the West End, the money those poor girls from the immigrant ships were making. And Goldberg had the book that Parrish had entered the weekly totals in! If that tallied with this. . .

  If it did, she had him.

  She found a pair of scissors in the drawer and very carefully cut out the page, cutting as close as she could to the stitching so as to make it inconspicuous. They'd find it soon - but every little helped.

  Then she replaced the ledger, and heaved a sign of achievement. She folded the page and tucked it into her stocking for safety.

  Bed?

  She hesitated. This was an important discovery, but perhaps she ought to force things further. It would be hateful, but so was being without Harriet, so was the whole business. And the heaviness in her soul when she thought of the Tzaddik. . . No, she couldn't avoid it.

  She left the office, her heart beating hard, and crept down the stairs to Michelet's door. And there she hesitated again, and for longer, like a nervous swimmer on the brink of a river that she knows will be cold and deep and dangerous.

  But the longer she stayed, the worse it would be. She swallowed hard, and turned the door handle, and stepped softly in.

  As the cab rattled over Blackfriars Bridge, Bill said, "Why'd you go for Clapham, Mr G? Wouldn't he want to take her straight to his boss?"

  "No, not if I know Parrish. He'll want to do a little bargaining. Damn it, Bill, this is my bloody fault. I should have moved quicker."

  He peered ahead through the teeming rain. There was little traffic; one or two carts lumbering north towards the great markets, another late cab, a strolling policeman swathed in a waterproof.

  "Listen," said Goldberg. "I'm going to stop the cab in Lambeth. I want you to go and round up as many of your Irish mates as you can find, and bring 'em on down to Clapham. Those boys you keep telling me about - good fighters, are they?"

  "The best," said Bill.

  "They'll have to be smart as well as headstrong. Now listen: there's a little alleyway between the houses in Telegraph Road - a passage through to the backyards of the houses on the other side of the road from Parrish's. I'll be waiting in there. Go discreetly - don't get yourselves followed. By the time you get there, I'll have worked out what to do."

  "Can I promise 'em a fight?"

  "If Parrish is there, yes, we'll have a fight. Cabbie!"

  He slid back the partition behind his head, and told the cab-driver to pull over. Bill looked out at the bulk of Bethlehem Hospital.

  "Bedlam," he said. "See you later, Mr G."

  He leapt out and ran off into the dark. The cab rolled on towards Clapham.

  Harriet hadn't cried once. The man beside her was cruel. He shouted at the other men and made them run out of the carriage and open something, and then he picked her up, but not properly, and it was hurting her. She struggled to get up straight in his arms, but he was squeezing too tight. She struggled harder, and he shook her and said something fierce, and then she felt the crying come, but she didn't let it and didn't let it and clenched her mouth and her eyes.

  And they were inside somewhere and there were stairs and a door. He put her down on a bed and it was dark, very very dark. And he said something fierce to someone else and then the door shut her in the darkness.

  They didn't know what to do. They didn't know how to do anything. They hadn't taken off her boots, even.

  And then she knew what was going to happen, and it did, and she couldn't stop it, and the warm wetness spread all through her underclothes and soaked the dress and the coat and the bed; and then she knew that no one would come to wash her, that there were no clothes to change her into, that no one would help her ever again, that she was alone in the dark for ever, because Mama had lost her.

  At last, with a little shuddering whimper, she began to cry.

  Michelet was stroking her hair. He had sprinkled some eau-de-Cologne on his hands and rubbed it on his neck, his chest, his arms, and the sweetness of it was making her feel queasy. So were his greedy little kisses.

  "Is he awake?" she whispered. "Is that why we got to be quiet?"

  "He wakes very easily. The doctor gives him a sleeping draught, but nothing keeps him asleep for long. He has severe pain from his back. And that monkey is restless too. . . Don't think about him, Louisa."

  "Poor man. I can't help it. How does he dress? How does he wash?"

  "I do it for him. Everything. Another servant helps me to lift him up, but everything he needs, I do for him."

  "How did he get paralysed like that?"

  "Why are you asking? Never mind him, Louisa. I am not paralysed. Nor are you. Look at the pretty way your skin takes the light of the candle. . . There. Let me kiss your pretty arm. . ."

  A dull continual throb, like a muffled drum, beat through Sally's body. It was the hidden thing she was going to find out; it was the secret she'd come to uncover. And she was fighting back the suspicion that lurked inside her - the suspicion that she'd known all the time, but hadn't wanted to look. . . It was like being in a railway train without a driver. She'd touched a lever and the locomotive had begun to move forward, and she didn't know how to find the brake, and now it was moving she felt compelled to pu
sh more levers, move it faster, drive it forward, because even a crash would be better than this inexorable helpless rolling. . .

  Michelet's eyes were glazed. He was lost. For the first time since the notion had come to her, she began to understand the real danger she'd put herself in, because the man was crazy. She began to wonder whether she could reach the pistol if she needed to; where was it? Just out of reach -

  And then the Tzaddik spoke from the room next door.

  "Michelet, come here," said the thick deep voice.

  With a heavy slow shudder, Michelet pulled himself back to clear consciousness. He stood up, brushing his hand across his eyes, and shrugged himself into a dressing-gown before opening the door between the two rooms.

  Sally lay still as the Tzaddik said, "I cannot sleep, Michelet. Light me a cigarette and bring me the brandy."

  Michelet moved through. She heard him strike a match, and saw the glow of the gaslight around the edge of the door; and then there was the sound of another match for the cigarette; and then he went out to go downstairs for the brandy.

  The time had come.

  She felt for her cloak, with the heavy gun in its pocket. She swung it around her shoulders and stood up. With shaking hands, shaking feet, with fear drenching her from head to foot, she moved through the door and into the Tzaddik's bedroom.

  It was large and luxuriously furnished. The bed was immense, reinforced by an iron frame that extended above it at the sides and the head. Handles and pulleys were suspended from the frame, and the monkey sat up on the corner of it, watching her with eyes like stones.

  The Tzaddik lay on his back under a silk coverlet, and his great head was turned towards her. In his eyes, which glittered in the lamplight, she could see a reflection of that knowledge which was pounding insistently at her own heart.

  He said nothing as she came towards him. The monkey chittered softly. She caught a drift of the smoke from the cigarette in the ashtray, and picked it up and inhaled, feeling the shaking subside as the smoke calmed her.

  He lay there helpless and watched.

  All the knowledge she had was crowding forward, pressing at the front of her mind; the train was moving faster, and almost lethargically, as helpless as he was, she reached down and pulled away the silk coverlet, the blankets, the sheet, exposing his huge inert chest in its nightshirt. Still he didn't speak. Still his eyes blazed at her.