The Tiger in the Well

  It meant nothing to Sally. The men could have been discussing anything from a win in a horse-race that would cost Jewish bookmakers a lot of money to something far more sinister, and in all probability it had nothing to do with her trouble. But she came back to it when Harriet was asleep. Searching around for something to take her mind off the problem, she picked up a copy of the Illustrated London News and flicked through it.

  The word "Jews" in a headline caught her eye, and she looked at the article with it. There was an illustration of a riot in Kiev, and the article told vividly of how the Russian Jews, particularly those in Kiev, had been persecuted by mobs of townspeople, their shops ransacked and their houses looted. It didn't seem to be a case of random attacks or mindless violence, because there was some controlling organization behind it; signals were given by whistle, she read, and the rioters stopped their looting and beating when the whistle was blown, and vanished instantly into the crowd. The soldiers in the local garrison did nothing to protect the Jews. Some of them had stood and watched as an elderly Jew was taunted and beaten in the street.

  Sally had read elsewhere that the Russian government had adopted a policy of anti-Semitism since the new Tsar had come to the throne. The old Tsar had been assassinated earlier that year, and obviously the government was trying to blame the Jews in some way, but she hadn't realized things had gone this far. Could this have been what the men in Parrish's office had been talking about? There was no way of knowing.

  Elsewhere in the same journal there was an article on political economy, and she delved into that to try and distract her mind. But it merely irritated her. Someone was trying to revive an International Working Men's Association, which had split into a socialist half and an anarchist half, and a man called Goldberg was calling for a common front against capitalism.

  Since Sally considered herself a capitalist, this wasn't likely to appeal to her. She knew very little about socialism, and cared less. Plainly, the economic relations between people weren't perfect, but there was little that agitation and propaganda and cheap journalism - she gathered that this Goldberg was some kind of journalist - could do to make them better.

  She threw the magazine to the floor.

  Oh, this helplessness. . . A spy in the kitchen, a faked marriage register. What was going on? Why? The end of it all was that chilling line in the petition: someone wanted Harriet. They wanted to take her child away from her.

  She went upstairs and took a lamp into Harriet's bedroom. The child lay asleep, her stiff fair hair brushed and shining, one bare arm encircling her intent, contained, innocent face. Her Bruin lay on the pillow beside her, about to fall off on to the floor. Sally adjusted him, and then bent and kissed her. No one would take Harriet from her, ever.

  She tucked her in and went downstairs again. She could write to Rosa; why hadn't she thought of it before? Frederick's sister was her oldest woman friend - and she was married to a clergyman, what was more, and he might well have some idea how to find the missing Mr Beech from Portsmouth.

  Good; something positive to do. She turned up the lamp, sat at the table and began to write.

  Mr Parrish was attracting other attention than Sally's that night. In the pub at the corner of Blackmoor Street, sitting near the door so that they could keep an eye on things across the street, two boys in their teens had been waiting for some time. Most of the lights in the offices around had been put out as the buildings emptied and the clerks and the merchants who did business there left for their homes in Holloway, in Islington, in Camberwell, Acton or Brixton. Mr Parrish's office was still lit, but the boys in the pub knew why that was, and knew it was time for them to move.

  They were both lean and hard-looking. They wore caps low over their eyes; one wore a white muffler, the other a blue-and-white spotted handkerchief around his neck, and both were wearing highly polished belts studded with brass nails, in the style that was fashionable south of the river in Lambeth. One was dark, the other red-haired. The dark one answered to the name of Bill. He wasn't above average height, and he was soft-spoken, but men twice his size thought hard before crossing him. There was a cold fearlessness in his eyes that gave them pause; and his knuckles were formidably scarred. His companion was called Liam, and he was even more chilling to look at, if possible. They didn't appear to have much to say to one another.

  Leaving his pint of mild-and-bitter half drunk, Bill settled the cap over his eyes and slipped out into the street. Liam followed him without a word. In ten minutes or so, if things went as they'd gone for the past three weeks, a man would turn into Blackmoor Street and go into the office of Mr Parrish. Between Drury Lane, where the man came from, and the door of the office building, there was a narrow entry into a place called Clare Court, and there Bill and Liam turned in, slipping into it as innocently as if they lived there.

  Bill's Lambeth-sharpened senses told him that a policeman was coming along Blackmoor Street behind them. He motioned to Liam, and they flattened themselves inside a doorway and waited till the steady steps had gone past. Then they turned their attention to the main inconvenience of Clare Court, namely the gaslight on a bracket eight feet up. Bill had reconnoitred it earlier and worked out how to deal with it.

  "Here," he said quietly to Liam, "I'll give yer a hand up. Take these and pull that pipe out of the fitting."

  He handed Liam a pair of stout pliers, made a step for him with his hands, and lifted him up. A quick wrench, and the lamp went out at once. That left a stream of gas escaping into the night; let it, thought Bill. They weren't going to be there for long.

  He took out a sliver of mirror, its edges bound with passe-partout in order not to tear his pocket, and held it at the edge of the wall so that he could see when his man was coming. The street was quiet now; even the pub was emptying, as the men inside finished their drinks and went home to their Carries, their Adelines, their Emilies. One or two dawdling figures appeared in Bill's mirror, giving him plenty of warning to stand quietly in the shadows till they'd gone past.

  Then came the man they'd been waiting for, only a minute or two late: a bulky fellow in a shabby tweed overcoat and a bowler hat, with a leather bag slung over his shoulder.

  "Here he comes," he whispered.

  Liam moved forward, keeping in the shadow. Bill waited till the man was going past the entrance to the court, and then said conversationally, " 'Scuse me, mate?"

  The man stopped, hesitating, peering into the darkness.

  "What?" he said.

  "Got a match?" Bill said.

  The man fumbled in a pocket. It was all Bill needed. He reached forward, seized the lapel of the overcoat, and yanked as hard as he could. The man didn't have time to yell; Liam's fist met his jaw and he slumped to the ground, dazed. The two boys dragged him swiftly into the darkness.

  Off came the leather bag, which was heavy and jingled. Bill slung it over his own shoulder and then saw, in the dim light from the street, a glint of silver by the man's lips.

  "Watch it!" he said quietly, and Liam knocked the man's hand away from his face. The police whistle rolled towards the gutter. Bill gripped the man's collar and twisted it tight.

  "Listen," he whispered, "don't bother to struggle. We could've stuck a shiv in yer ribs by now if we'd wanted. Still could, come to that. I want what you've got in yer pockets - come on. Hand it over. And you make one noise and you won't have time to feel sorry."

  Trembling, the man knelt up and emptied his pockets. A horn comb, a handful of change, some keys -

  "Everything," said Bill harshly.

  A box of matches. A handkerchief. A pipe. A tobacco pouch.

  Bill lost patience and ripped the man's jacket open, and reached inside. In the waistcoat pocket he found what he'd been looking for: a greasy, much-used little notebook.

  "Right," said Bill. "Now I'm going to hit you in a minute, because I don't like your business."

  The man flinched and said, "No - wait - don't -"

  "Oh, it's all right, it's not com
ing quite yet. I'm telling you about it now, so's you can't complain I didn't warn you. But before I do, just tell me: how many other blokes are there working for your master?"

  "None, I swear it -"

  "You the only one?"

  "Only one in this line, yes, honest!"

  "He hasn't got another little sideline you don't want to talk about?"

  "No! Please, mate, let me go! I'm only a poor man trying to earn a living -"

  Bill hit him, and pocketed the notebook. Then he stood up, and as the man lay groaning in the gutter, he said, "Oh, by the way, I wouldn't light me pipe if I was you. There's a leaking gas-pipe on the wall. Could go up with ever such a bang. Like another smack? No?"

  He kicked him instead, and settling their caps firmly over their brows again, the boys made off down Clare Court and around the corner. As soon as they were clear, Liam said, "All right, let's have me cut, and I'll be off."

  Bill reached into the leather bag and counted out a handful of coins. "Here," he said. "Twenty. That's what we said."

  "There's more than that in there, and no error."

  "We said twenty," said Bill, "that's what yer got. If yer don't like it, I'll work with Bridie next time."

  "Keep yer hands off Bridie," said Liam. "Leave her out of it."

  A cold exchange of glances, and then they parted, Liam turning left and making south, for the river and Lambeth. Bill turned his steps towards Soho.

  Margaret Haddow would have recognized Bill's unfortunate companion: it was the man she'd seen that morning in Mr Parrish's office, the man who'd said something about Jews. His name was Tubb.

  Twenty minutes after Bill had left him, he was climbing Mr Parrish's stairs again, with considerably more reluctance than he'd felt that morning.

  "You're late," said Mr Parrish as he entered the inner office.

  "Mr Parrish, look, I'm sorry, I was robbed -"

  Mr Parrish's eyes widened as they took in the state of his employee. The bloody nose, the blackened, closing eye were distressing, but only aesthetically. The missing leather bag was another matter.

  "Where's the bag?" he said.

  "That's it, you see, sir, it's gone -"

  Mr Parrish stood up.

  "The book?"

  Mr Tubb gulped. "That as well. They took everything," he said. "They cleaned me out."

  Mr Parrish's jaw was clenched, his eyes ferocious.

  "When?" he said.

  "Just a minute ago - I came straight up here, sir -"

  "Where?"

  "That little alley off to the left out there - they hit me and dragged me in there, sir - I didn't have a chance -"

  Mr Parrish snarled and ran out. Mr Tubb sank back self-pityingly and mopped his nose with his shirt-cuff. After a minute Mr Parrish came back, a little flushed from racing down the stairs and around the corner into Clare Court, casting about like a bloodhound, and then running back up the stairs again.

  He flung the police whistle at Mr Tubb's head.

  "What'd I give you that for?" he shouted.

  "I tried, Mr Parrish--"

  "I found it in the gutter, you poor cringing wreck!"

  "They kicked it out me hand, sir--"

  Mr Parrish's anger exploded in a volley of blows that landed on Mr Tubb's head and shoulders. They were less scientific than Bill's, but just as painful; and then Mr Parrish drew back, with a sigh, and sat down calmly.

  "Inventory," he said. "Come on, let's make a list. We're going to have to make this up again, you and me, Tubb. We might as well know what we've lost. I can't see Mr Lee letting us get away with less than that, can you?"

  Mr Tubb snivellingly agreed. Mr Parrish took his silver pencil and a sheet of paper.

  "Right," he said. "How much was there in the bag?"

  "Three hundred and fifty pounds," said Mr Tubb miserably.

  "Hmm. That's down a bit on last week," said Mr Parrish. "You sure you got that right? What about the figures for each house? Oh, I know they were in the book, Tubb, but you've got a memory, haven't you? You know what your memory's for? It's for getting things to look right when you make them up. Off you go then. Use your memory. How much did you take from 12 Greville Street?"

  "Sixty-four pounds, Mr Parrish."

  "Good. You're getting the idea. Number 52 Dorset Place?"

  Mr Tubb made up another figure. Then he said, "Er - Mr Parrish?"

  "Yes?"

  "What are we doing this for?"

  "So you can go to 12 Greville Street tomorrow and get sixty-four pounds off 'em. And the same with Dorset Place and Tackley Street and all the rest. Mr Lee would go short otherwise, and then we'd be in trouble, wouldn't we? You don't have to go tomorrow. You can go tonight, if you like. Now then, how much did you collect from Endell Street?"

  Soho at that time was one of the most crowded districts of London; it was dingy, noisy, smelly and decidedly un-genteel. It was also lively, cosmopolitan and fascinating.

  Bill, the leather bag over his shoulder and the notebook in his pocket, slipped at an inconspicuous lope through the crowded narrow streets, savouring the smells of soup, of garlic, of cheese, of grilled meat, of fried fish that filled the air. Soho was the best part of London to eat in, if you liked your food. You could get a three-shilling dinner in Soho that would leave you gasping; and Bill was hungry. He did stop once, to gaze into the window of a Jewish baker's and turn over the money in his pockets. It was enough. He had a penny or two left, and he went inside and bought a bagel.

  He'd finished it by the time he got to Dean Street. There was a music-hall bill on at the New Royalty Theatre, a tiny place on the left, but Bill ignored it. He ignored, too, the premises of the Society of Benevolence and Concord, where, according to a placard, Mrs Letitia Mills was giving a lecture on the benefits of temperance, with lantern-slides.

  Next door to that emporium of plain-living and high-thinking stood a shabby boarding-house, its front door open and spilling light and noise on to the street. Bill slipped inside, edging his way past the crowd in the corridor who couldn't get in to a socialist meeting in the dining room and had to heckle through the doorway, and climbed the stairs to the third floor. Though it was technically a boarding-house, the place seemed to be more like a club; one room was filled with books and newspapers, with three or four people reading or writing silently; in another, three games of chess were going on, with spectators arguing in whispers; in another, a vastly bearded man was explaining the advantages of anarchism to a small group of students, none of whom seemed to be inclined to take his word for it.

  Bill knocked at a door showing a line of light under it, and a voice shouted, "Ja? Immer herein!"

  Bill went in. The room was hot and smoky, and the lamp on the table shone on a clutter of books, papers and journals that spread from the table to the floor and stood in piles around the tattered carpet.

  Behind the table sat the man he'd come to see, and in front of it sat a man called Kid Mendel. Bill stood still, his eyes wide, and automatically took off his cap, for Kid Mendel was the acknowledged leader of the Jewish gangs in Soho. The Jews and the Irish and the Italians between them held a rough balance of power, and Kid Mendel was a statesman, a king among them. He was a man in his thirties, tall, beautifully dressed, with humorous eyes and a slightly balding forehead. He was known to have killed two men with his own hands and to have organized the Wellington Street bank robbery; even the police knew it. But he was too clever for the police. He'd made it known that he intended to retire to Brighton in time for the new century, wealthy and respected by everyone, and then look for a seat in Parliament, and as he said that with a straight face, and as he was Kid Mendel, no one expressed any disbelief.

  And if this great man was visiting Mr Goldberg, the man Bill had come to see, it sent that gentleman up in Bill's estimation too.

  Mr Goldberg waved his cigar.

  "My friend Bill Goodwin," he said. "We've nearly finished, Bill."

  "How do you do," said Kid Mendel, and Bill came awkwa
rdly forward to shake his hand. "Where do you come from, Bill?"

  "Lambeth, Mr Mendel," Bill said hoarsely.

  "Dan tells me you're a useful fellow. Perhaps we can have a chat some time. Well, I must be going, my dear chap," he said to Mr Goldberg, getting up. "Very interesting talk. Something promising there, if I'm not mistaken. Goodbye, Bill."

  Bill watched him go, awestruck.

  Goldberg laughed, and Bill turned back. The man behind the table was younger than Kid Mendel, but that was all Bill knew about him. He was mysterious; he was a little devilish. Bill wouldn't have been surprised to see horns and cloven hoofs, and hear the swish of a snaky tail; certainly the fumes of his cigar were sulphureous enough. He'd turned up one day in the police court at Lambeth, where Bill was starring in a programme that also featured a cosh, a broken window and a quantity of stolen silver. Bill had never seen him before, but he'd found himself so convinced by Mr Goldberg's evidence that he began to remember quite vividly being with him on the day in question, helping at a Jewish orphans' outing to Hampstead Heath.

  "I got it, Mr Goldberg," he said, and laid the leather bag on the table. "And this."

  He dropped the greasy notebook beside it.

  "Good," said Mr Goldberg. "Sit down. Have you counted it?"

  "Course not." Bill seemed affronted at the very idea. "I ain't touched it. Apart from giving Liam his cut."

  Goldberg cleared a space by sweeping the immediate clutter aside with an arm, and tipped the bag out. A cascade of golden sovereigns, silver and bundled notes fell out. Goldberg counted it swiftly.

  "Three hundred and thirty. Here's twenty for you, and ten tome for expenses, and that leaves three hundred. Now listen. You know the Jewish Shelter in Leman Street?"