‘Blackstone thinks there might be a way to find Thomas,’ Lord Dalton said.
‘Thinks far too much, if you ask me,’ Hugo Montcliffe retorted.
‘You see, when he was questioning the servants, he thought he noticed that one of the parlour maids—a girl called Molly—seemed unnaturally upset by Thomas’s disappearance,’ Dalton continued, ignoring the interruption. ‘I have just spoken to Hoskins, and he confirms the fact that—while as butler he did not encourage it in any way—they appear to have fallen in love.’
‘Fallen in love!’ Hugo sneered. ‘They’re nothin’ but servants, for God’s sake!’
‘Blackstone believes that Molly might know where Thomas has gone to ground. His plan is to have the housekeeper assign Molly an errand which would give her an excuse to be out of the house for quite some time. If he’s right about her, then instead of performing that task she’ll run straight to where Thomas is hiding.’
‘So instead of losin’ one servant, we’ll lose two,’ Hugo Montcliffe said.
‘Blackstone intends to have two of his best men posted outside the house when she leaves. She’ll never notice them following her.’
‘Waste of time,’ Hugo told him. ‘Don’t even want Thomas back in the house. Never liked the man. Shifty eyes.’
‘You’re forgetting that the reason Inspector Blackstone is looking for him is because he might know who killed Charles,’ Lord Dalton reminded him.
‘Don’t believe it,’ Hugo replied. ‘Said earlier, don’t think the man knows anything.’
Hugo was doing his best to block the plan, the Earl thought. But his son was still floundering and perhaps it was time to step in himself.
‘Bit of a pointless discussion, this,’ he said. ‘The Home Secretary has asked me to allow none of the servants to leave the house. Doesn’t want news of Charles’ death gettin’ out until after the Jubilee. So you see, the matter’s completely out of my hands.’
‘We both know that the Home Secretary will do exactly what the Prime Minister tells him to do,’ Dalton responded, ‘and we also know that the Prime Minister would be very unlikely to refuse a personal request from you.’
‘Perhaps it might be best to let sleepin’ dogs lie,’ the Earl suggested.
‘You’re worried that Thomas might have knowledge of something scandalous,’ Dalton said. ‘I can understand that. But you must see that as long as we don’t know where he is, he’s like a ticking bomb which might explode at any time. Whereas, once we’ve caught him, we can go about defusing him.’
‘But it won’t be us who’ll be talkin’ to him,’ the Earl objected. ‘It’ll be that fellow Blackstone.’
‘He has agreed that I may be present at the interrogation, and that nothing which might harm the family will be allowed to go beyond that room. And once Thomas has told the police what they need to know, I will immediately dispatch him to Italy with a generous pension. After that, you’ll never hear from him again.’
Blackstone isn’t the problem, the Earl thought. The problem is that once you—Lord William Dalton—have heard what Thomas has got to say, you’ll drop any idea of marryin’ into this family like a hot potato.
‘I’m afraid I can’t allow my influence with the Prime Minister to be used in a private matter,’ he said.
‘Charles and I had become close friends,’ Dalton replied. ‘And as a close friend, I consider it my duty to do all I can to find those responsible for his death. I would consider it a personal favour if you would speak to the Prime Minister on my behalf.’
He made it sound as if he were making a request, the Earl thought. But he wasn’t. How could it be a request, when a very clear message lay behind it? And that message was, ‘Do what I say or I’ll cut the money off.’ But he’d probably cut the money off anyway, when he’d listened to Thomas. There had to be another way round the problem.
‘Very well, I will speak to Lord Salisbury after luncheon,’ the Earl said, hoping that in the intervening period he would come up with a solution to the dilemma.
‘Perhaps it might be better to do it before luncheon,’ Dalton suggested firmly.
There was no way he could refuse, the Earl decided. ‘Yes, it might be better to call him now,’ he agreed.
He made his way reluctantly over to the telephone—but not before he had exchanged a worried glance with his eldest son.
Twenty
The Ghetto Bank of Whitechapel stood at the corner of Osborn Street, next to a branch of the Post Office. The post office had signs in both English and Russian, but the bank, in addition to those two languages, also had posters stuck to its frontage in what Blackstone had come to recognize as Hebrew.
‘What do they all mean?’ the Inspector asked the Russian woman.
‘That one says that the bank will transfer money back to your relations in Russia for you,’ Hannah explained. ‘The one next to it says that the bank’s agents in Russia, Poland and Germany will help those same relations to emigrate to England. The third offers to change coins and paper money into any European currency.’
‘Seems to do a good trade,’ Blackstone said, watching the constant stream of customers passing through the bank’s door.
‘Of course it does,’ Hannah said. ‘There is no other bank in England which provides the services this one does.’
She laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’ Blackstone asked.
‘It is funny that the Russians—by which I mean the pure Russians—so despised us Jews when they were in their homeland, but now that they are abroad they would be lost without us.’
‘That’s the first time I’ve ever really heard you sound bitter,’ Blackstone told her.
Hannah shrugged. ‘I shouldn’t be, I suppose. It is not their fault. They are raised from birth to look down on the Jewish people. They will not change until society itself has changed.’ Her voice had been growing wistful—almost visionary—but now her body tensed slightly and when she spoke again it was with a crispness that proclaimed that she remembered her job was to guide a policeman around Little Russia. ‘Shall we go into the bank?’ she suggested.
‘Why not?’ Blackstone agreed.
Hannah pushed open the door and Blackstone followed her into the bank. Running the length of the room was a heavy wooden counter, behind which stood clerks in suits and ties. At either end of the counter were metal grilles, sealing the cashiers off from the outside world. It was, in so many ways, like every other bank the inspector had ever visited, but never before had Blackstone heard so many conversations in languages he didn’t understand.
There was a long queue in front of every position, but Hannah marched to the head of the nearest line.
‘Do you speak English?’ she asked the clerk.
The man shook his head.
‘Gabaresh pa-ruski?’ Hannah demanded.
‘Da.’
Hannah said something more to the man. He shook his head. She spoke again, and there was a new urgency in her voice. The clerk responded with an even more vehement shake of his head, and Blackstone thought he could detect disdain in the man’s tone.
Obviously having had enough of the preliminary sparring, Hannah slammed her hand down on the counter, and spoke in a cold, hissing way that almost chilled Blackstone’s blood. The effect on the clerk was instantaneous. He nodded for a third time—but now defeatedly—and, ignoring his waiting customers, disappeared into the hack room.
‘What was that all about?’ Blackstone asked.
‘I said we needed to see the manager immediately on a matter of great urgency, and he told me that was completely impossible because Mr Bialik was far too busy. I told him you were a very important policeman from New Scotland Yard, and he said that would make no difference—you would still have to make an appointment.’
‘That’s when you slammed your hand down on the counter,’ Blackstone guessed.
‘Yes.’
‘And what did you say next?’
‘I told him that the police h
ad been watching him for some weeks, building up an extensive dossier on him, and that if he didn’t make it possible for us to see the manager, action would have to be taken against him.’
‘What kind of action?’ Blackstone asked. ‘What’s he done?’
‘Probably nothing,’ Hannah said indifferently, ‘but Russians are born with a strong sense of guilt, and it only needs someone to tell them they have done wrong for them to start imagining that they actually have.’
Blackstone shook his head, and wondered if this fascinating young woman would ever stop surprising him.
*
Blackstone sat in the Ghetto Bank’s manager’s office. Mr Bialik was around forty. He had a hooked nose, olive skin and jet black hair that was swept severely back. His expression was both watchful and calculating, and Blackstone decided that even seeing him on the street, it would have been impossible to take him for anything but a Jewish banker.
‘My clerk tells me you have some qvestions you vish to ask me, Inspector,’ he said.
‘That’s right, sir,’ Blackstone agreed pleasantly. ‘I wonder if you remember talking to a journalist called Smith.’
The banker nodded gravely. ‘He came to see me under false pretences.’
‘Would you care to explain that?’
‘Ven he asked for an appointment, he said it vas because he vanted to learn how the bank works.’
‘And didn’t he?’
‘Not in the general vay that he pretended to be interested.’
‘Go on,’ Blackstone said encouragingly.
‘We have our fingers in many pies here—as you English say—but our biggest piece of business is to transfer money to the East. Some of our customers only send a little to their families in Russia each time, perhaps no more than five or ten roubles—’
‘Excuse my ignorance, sir, but what’s a rouble worth?’ Blackstone interrupted.
‘There are roughly ten roubles to the pound sterling.’
Blackstone nodded. ‘I see. Carry on, sir.’
‘All those small transfers add up. Last year, ve sent over a million roubles back to Russia.’
Blackstone whistled softly. ‘That is a lot of money, sir,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m not quite sure I see how that particular piece of knowledge fits in with your suspicions about Mr Smith.’
‘I am no journalist,’ the bank manager replied, ‘but if I vas, I think I vould write my story about that one million roubles—and Mr Smith showed no interest in it at all.’
‘So what was he interested in?’
‘He vas interested in money travelling the other vay.’
‘The other way?’
‘From Russia to here.’
‘But surely that can only be a trifling amount?’ Blackstone suggested. ‘Barely a trickle?’
The bank manager looked away. ‘There can be very few Russians who have either the means or the desire to send their money to England,’ he said evasively. ‘It is true that the rich keep some money in the South of France, because that is vere they spend their vinters, but who would vant to spend a vinter in London? And as for inwestment—if they vish to inwest, there are far better returns to be had in our own country.’
‘You haven’t really answered my question, have you, sir?’ Blackstone asked, a little sternly.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, with respect, sir, I think that you do. I said that the money which came from Russia couldn’t be more than a trickle, and you didn’t agree with me. Now why was that?’
The banker looked down at his hands. ‘Until recently, vat you said was true. But in the last few veeks...’
‘A lot of money has been coming in?’
‘A substantial amount.’
‘How much?’
‘That I cannot tell you.’
‘Can’t? Or won’t?’
The banker spread his hands helplessly in front of him. ‘I see no difference betveen the two.’
‘It is not a good idea, in this country, to do or say anything which might make the police want to take an interest in you,’ Blackstone said, remembering Hannah’s comment on Russians earlier.
But the bank manager was made of sterner stuff than his clerk had been. ‘It is not a good idea in my own country, either, but however much you threaten me, I vill not betray the confidence of my clients.’
‘Perhaps you can help me a little more without actually betraying that confidence,’ Blackstone suggested. ‘Will you try?’
‘All right.’
‘This “substantial” amount of money which you say has been coming into the bank? Is it still here?’
The bank manager hesitated for quite a while. ‘No, it has been vithdrawn,’ he said finally.
‘All of it?’
‘All of it.’
‘I see,’ Blackstone mused. ‘So from that I take it that it all belonged to the same man.’
‘I do not see how you could possibly reach such a conclusion,’ the manager said.
‘That’s easy,’ Blackstone told him. ‘Let’s suppose that the substantial amount you talk of were made up of ten sums for each of ten men. The chances of all of them withdrawing their money over such a short time are very slim indeed. Five or six might withdraw it, perhaps even seven or eight. But there would always be one or two who didn’t need their money quite yet, so why shouldn’t they leave it in a nice safe bank, where it would be earning interest? Yet you say all the money has been withdrawn. Therefore, it’s likely it was sent to only one man. Am I right?’
The bank manager hesitated again. ‘I cannot say,’ he told the policeman. ‘It vould not be right.’
Blackstone nodded sympathetically. ‘I understand your dilemma,’ he said. ‘And I must apologize if I seemed to be threatening you a few moments ago. I assure you that was never my intention.’
The bank manager visibly relaxed. ‘I am pleased to accept your assurances,’ he said.
Blackstone stood up and held out his arm. ‘Thank you for sparing me some of your valuable time, Mr Bialik.’
‘Not at all,’ the bank manager said, shaking his hand. ‘I am always villing to help the police.’
Blackstone turned and ambled lazily over to the door. It was not until his hand was on the brass handle that his body tensed and he swung round on his heel.
‘It was Count Turgenev, wasn’t it?’ he demanded.
‘Vat!’
‘The man who transferred those large sums of money? It was Count Turgenev.’
‘I could not possibly tell you that!’ the manager protested.
But the expression on his face already had.
Twenty-One
Blackstone had been right to decide not to come on this particular operation, Sergeant Patterson told himself as he looked through the window of the hansom cab at Montcliffe House. It would have been an unnecessary risk for the Inspector—whom Molly had seen at close quarters in the servants’ hall—to have involved himself in tailing her. Yet Patterson could not help but wish that his boss were sitting by his side at that moment. And however much he tried to persuade himself it was a simple, straightforward job, he could do nothing to quell the uneasy rumbling in his stomach.
It was a quarter past four when the girl emerged from the servants’ entrance. She was wearing a dress of finely striped cotton. On her head, she had an extravagant hat with a lacquered feather trim—a hat that would be easily spotted in a crowd. But even that stroke of luck did little for Patterson’s feeling of foreboding.
Once she had reached the pavement, Molly stopped to look into her handbag. Patterson had been told that she had instructions to visit a dressmaker’s on Wigmore Street, and if she turned right that was probably exactly what she intended to do.
‘Turn left!’ the sergeant urged her silently. ‘Turn left!’ The maid turned left—and Patterson realized that for the previous few seconds he had been holding his breath.
‘So far, so good,’ said the man sitting next to him.
Patterson t
urned to face Sergeant Dickens, a slightly overweight forty-year-old, who looked more like a greengrocer than a detective.
‘There’s many a slip twixt the cup and the lip,’ he said. Yet why should there be a slip this time? Why shouldn’t Molly lead them straight to her lover? And once she had done that, why shouldn’t Thomas Grey tell them who killed his master, and why?
The girl was already some distance down the road, and Patterson, whose gut still refused to be pacified, banged on the roof of the hansom to tell the cabbie to pull away from the kerb.
There was something wrong with the way the parlour maid was walking, Patterson decided, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.
And then he had it!
What was wrong was there was nothing wrong! Molly was sauntering along as if she were merely out for an afternoon stroll.
And she shouldn’t have been! A girl like her—a girl who was fleeing from her employers and into the arms of a lover who was wanted by the police—should have been almost running, and checking over her shoulder every few seconds for signs of pursuit. So why wasn’t she? Because she knew they were on to her? Knew—and didn’t care?
Molly reached a bus stop and came to a halt. She opened her handbag, and took out a powder puff.
Wrong again! Patterson thought. She should have been far too nervous to even think about making herself look pretty.
A double-decker omnibus, pulled by two black horses, came to a halt in front of the stop. The girl stepped on to the platform, and disappeared inside the bus.
It would have been better for them if she’d chosen to go up the outside spiral staircase to the open top deck, Patterson thought, because from there she would have been clearly visible. But perhaps he was worrying unnecessarily. She was on the bus, and she could not get off without them seeing her do it—so why did it matter where she sat?
The bus pulled off, and the cab fell in behind it. Patterson lit a cigarette and tried to persuade himself that everything was still going according to plan.
Blackstone and the Rendezvous With Death (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 1 Page 13
