by John Rhode
Mr Boost looked at him threateningly. Despite the duplicity written large all over the man, there was an unmistakable note of sincerity in his tones.
‘If he only had his shirt and socks on, he can’t have gone very far,’ said Mr Boost decisively. ‘He’s probably in the house somewhere.’ He turned to Harold. ‘Come on, we’ll have a look for the young fellow.’
They had scarcely descended more than a few stairs when a bitter howl from Bob arrested them.
‘What’s up now?’ exclaimed Mr Boost. He and Harold rushed back into the room, to find Bob executing a fantastic war-dance, shaking both fists in the air the while.
‘’E’s gorn, I told yer ’e’d gorn!’ he exclaimed as soon as he caught sight of Mr Boost. ‘The artful young dodger! ’E’s taken my Jim’s Sunday suit wot was lying on that there chair. Blamed if I know what my Jim’ll say when ’e comes ’ome. ’E’ll wallop me for sure. O lor, O lor!’
Mr Boost swore angrily. Then, accepting his defeat like a strong man, he shrugged his shoulders and turned to Harold.
‘We’d best go home, you and I,’ he said. ‘We’ve been properly fooled all along the line. That young rascal must have dressed as soon as Bob’s back was turned, and sloped off in the crowd. Might as well look for a needle in a haystack. Come on!’
He and Harold turned to go, heedless of the clamour of the bereaved Bob.
‘’Ere, what about my Jim’s Sunday suit?’ he protested wrathfully.
‘Damn your Jim’s Sunday suit!’ replied Mr Boost. ‘You ought to have known better than to leave young Isidore alone in here. Why didn’t you lock the door?’
And with this parting admonition they left the house and regained the street once more.
The fire was still burning brightly, and it was obvious that Mr Samuels’ shop was doomed. Stacked with dry wooden lumber as it was, the flames had got complete command, and the place was alight from cellar to attic. Indeed, the firemen were devoting their efforts to preventing the spread of the conflagration, and one hose only still poured water into the heart of the furnace, which rose in a tower of steam tinged blood-red by the flames beneath.
‘I wonder what his game was?’ mused Mr Boost, as he and Harold edged their way out of the crowd. ‘Looks to me as if he’d fixed it up with young Isidore. He clears out, so that everybody should see him. Then Isidore comes along—there is a back entrance in the next street, though everybody don’t know that, and like enough he slips in that way. Everything’s all ready. Isidore strikes a match, and when it gets too hot for him, he tumbles out of the window.’
‘It looks very much like it,’ agreed Harold. ‘But why only in his shirt?’
Mr Boost chuckled. ‘Cunning young devil!’ he replied. ‘He must have watched till he saw someone outside who knew him. What else could they do but take him in? He’d be bound to find clothes of some sort, even if they didn’t give him any. And he’d be left alone, too, since everyone was sure to run out and watch the fire. Then nothing would be easier than to slip away in the crowd without being recognised.’
‘I wonder where he’s gone to?’ suggested Harold.
‘Off to join the old man somewhere, I expect,’ replied Mr Boost. ‘Samuels will have taken the cash-box with him in the cab and they’ll be quite happy even if the insurance people don’t pay up. They’ll manage to cover their tracks somehow. Old Samuels must have guessed that it was about time he cleared out of the comrades’ way. And I’m bound to say he chose a pretty artful way of doing it.’
They were clear of the end of Inkerman Street by this time. As they turned the corner, a taxi drove up, and as it slowed down to avoid the crowd, a woman jumped out, thrust a note into the driver’s hand, and began to run towards the fire.
Harold stared at her for an instant. Then he started forward. The woman caught sight of him and stopped with a startled cry. The glow of the fire lit up her face distinctly. It was Vere.
CHAPTER X
VERE and Harold stood as if suddenly turned into stone, staring at one another, unable to find words in which to speak. To each it was inexplicable what the other was doing here, why the glow of a fire in Inkerman Street called them from the ends of London to meet there. And it was Vere who first recovered her presence of mind.
‘Harold!’ she exclaimed. ‘What in the world are you doing here, of all places?’
He hesitated for a moment. After all, what was he doing? He had set out on the faint trail of an elusive clue, but it seemed now that the clue had escaped him for ever. He laughed shortly.
‘Well, I came to see the fellow whose shop is now providing that jolly bonfire over there,’ he replied. ‘My friend here, who happens to be my landlord—’
He turned, as though to introduce Vere and Mr Boost. But Mr Boost was nowhere to be seen. Like a discreet companion, he had slipped away at the appearance of this girl, whose life he shrewdly guessed to be intertwined with Harold’s.
Vere turned sharply, and, seeing no one, turned to Harold inquiringly. ‘Who was it?’ she asked.
‘Oh, only Mr Boost,’ replied Harold. ‘You know the fellow whose shop I live over. He had some business or other with old Samuels, and as I had nothing better to do I came along with him.’
The mention of the name Samuels brought back all the anxiety to Vere’s face. She suddenly put out her hand and caught Harold’s arm. ‘Samuels? What have you got to do with him?’ she gasped. ‘It is his place that’s on fire? They told me so at the end of the street, but I wouldn’t believe it till I’d seen for myself. I must go—’
She suddenly released Harold’s arm, and started off towards the impenetrable wall of the crowd. But Harold grasped her by the wrist and restrained her.
‘It’s no use, Vere, you can’t get near the place,’ he said soothingly. ‘There’s half the population of Camberwell, to say nothing of scores of police and firemen, between us and the fire. Besides, what business is it of yours, anyway?’
‘Business?’ she flashed at him. ‘Business enough, if you knew. Anyway, a jolly sight more business than it is of yours. Let me go.’
Shrugging his shoulders, he dropped her hand obediently. He had experienced her capabilities for making a scene, and he had no desire to become a centre of attraction, second only in interest to the fire itself. Vere started away from him, and by sheer energy succeeded in forcing a way for a few paces through the throng, only to stop discouraged in the centre of a serried knot of people wholly oblivious to her pleadings.
Harold made his way after her and, not without a struggle, succeeded in getting close enough to whisper in her ear.
‘It’s no good,’ he said soothingly, ‘You’d much better come away out of it. I know the whole story, if it interests you.’
She turned almost gratefully. ‘Harold, dear, I’m so worried,’ she replied. ‘You don’t understand—’ A sudden look of fear sprang to her eyes. ‘Unless—unless you’ve found out—’
‘I haven’t found anything out,’ Harold hastened to reassure her. ‘I wish I had. But, look here, we can talk somewhere else. Let’s get you out of this mob to begin with.’
It was easy enough to get away from the fire, and very soon Vere and Harold found themselves beyond the end of Inkerman Street. Harold remembered that on his way to the tram he had seen a squalid-looking tea-shop, and to this unpromising haven he silently led Vere. It was not until they were seated at a fly-blown marble-topped table that Vere spoke.
‘Thank you, Harold dear,’ she said simply. ‘I am sorry that I lost my temper with you the other night. I was worried, unstrung. You wouldn’t understand. Tell me what you know about—about Samuels and his nephew.’
Harold glanced at her in amazement. What on earth could she know about these two? Was it some business connected with them that had brought her post-haste to Camberwell in a taxi? There seemed much to be learned here, if he played his cards properly.
Vere listened attentively while Harold told her the events of the afternoon, as recounted by the vol
uble Bob. She made no comment until Harold began to elaborate Mr Boost’s theory of collusion between the old man and his nephew. But at this she shook her head violently.
‘Never!’ she exclaimed. ‘They hated one another too bitterly for that ever to be possible. No, it’s much more likely that old Samuels set a trap for young Isidore. I don’t understand it quite, but they are both as cunning as they can be.’
‘Hated one another, did they?’ said Harold musingly. ‘Well, it certainly seemed that young Isidore was afraid of his uncle the last time I saw him—’
‘You’ve seen him!’ gasped Vere. ‘When, and whatever made you think he was afraid of old Samuels?’
‘Oh, I’d better tell you the whole story, I suppose,’ said Harold. ‘I came down here once about a week ago to interview Samuels on Mr Boost’s behalf.’
Vere listened to the story of Harold’s visit to Samuels’ shop, and when he had finished, she sat for some time in silence, playing with her tea-spoon.
‘I can’t make it out at all,’ she said at last. ‘You seem to know so much already that you might as well know everything. Listen, and I’ll tell you. Old Samuels is a Jew. Nobody quite knows where he comes from, or anything about him. I’ve been told he came from Budapest some years ago, but I don’t know for certain. Since he’s been in London, he’s been mixed up with all sorts of queer things, and it seems pretty certain that by one means or another he has made a lot of money. He was supposed to be an anarchist or something, but they say he is anything that gives him the chance of making a bit at the moment.’
Harold nodded. So far this tallied with Mr Boost’s account of Mr Samuels. ‘What is he like to look at?’ he enquired.
Vere shuddered. ‘Oh, a horrible-looking old man!’ she exclaimed. ‘All hairy and bedraggled, always muffled up in lots of filthy old clothes, put on one on top of the other. He walks about with a thick stick and coughs and wheezes in a most disgusting way. Sometimes, when he’s ill, he’s worse than ever. When he first came to England he had a younger sister with him, whom I believe he used to treat abominably. Anyway, she ran away with a Christian who deserted her after a few months. The wretched woman must have had some spirit, for she came back to Samuels and threatened to give away some secret or other of his she had got hold of if he didn’t let her live with him peaceably. Samuels gave in and after a short time her child was born. That was Isidore.’
‘I see,’ replied Harold. ‘But what became of his mother?’
‘Oh, she died,’ said Vere. ‘Old Samuels saw to that, I expect. But from the moment of his birth he took a violent hatred to the boy. Of course, it was another mouth to be filled, but there was something more than that. Samuels, disreputable old rascal though he is, always professes to be very strict with regard to his religion. The fact of his sister’s lapse did not worry him of itself, but he never stopped sneering and nagging at her for being the mother of a Christian’s child. And, unfortunately for the wretched infant, when he was born he happened to have a birth-mark in the form of a cross on his left shoulder.
‘His mother said nothing about this, naturally, and, in order to pacify her brother, promised to bring the child up as a Jew. But one day Samuels accidentally caught sight of this mark, and kicked up a frightful fuss. He said it was a judgment upon his sister for her sins, that the child was a scapegoat, born with the mark of the gallows upon it, and I don’t know what else. Anyway, the wretched woman died soon afterwards, and the old man promptly got rid of the child, gave someone a few pounds to take it away and never let him see it again. That’s how Isidore began life.’
She paused, and Harold, interested despite himself in this queer story, prompted her gently.
‘What happened then?’ he asked. ‘How did the two come together again?’
‘It seems that the woman Samuels had paid to take his nephew away had, in her turn, disposed of him to a travelling showman, and eventually lost sight of him. Then, like everybody else, she quarrelled with Samuels, and, looking about for some means of getting even with him, thought of Isidore. She managed to find him, and made it her business to tell him the whole story of his birth, and who his uncle was. By this time he was a lad of eighteen or so, quite of an age to be a considerable thorn in the old man’s flesh, if he had wanted to be.’
‘I see,’ put in Harold. ‘And he’s been living on the old man ever since. I don’t wonder they hate one another.’
But Vere shook her head. ‘No, it’s not quite so simple as all that,’ she replied. ‘Isidore isn’t by any means the half-witted fool he pretends to be to strangers. He had managed to pick up a certain amount of education in his wanderings, and he was intensely ambitious. He very soon found out what his uncle was worth, and from the first he made up his mind to get hold of the money. He went to see his uncle, told him he was quite ready to help him with the business in the evenings, that he had a job which would keep him in the daytime, and all that sort of thing. Old Samuels, who had no idea how much he knew, but guessed that he knew enough to make things jolly unpleasant for him if he wanted to, was forced to agree.’
Harold smiled. ‘I expect he wished him to the devil,’ he said. ‘But what was the job young Isidore had?’
Vere shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘It was soon after this I first met him. Oh, don’t be alarmed. I’m not going to give you the pathetic history of the early years of the girl who went astray. I kept house not far from here for a drunken father, and that’s enough for you to know.
‘I wasn’t the only girl attracted by young Isidore, but he took to me more than to the others. I’m not denying that he helped me. It was through him that I took lessons in shorthand and typewriting, and so got a job which led to my present one. That was all part of his game.’
A sudden light broke upon Harold. ‘Then, why—good Lord, Isidore is the fellow—’ he began excitedly.
‘Of course,’ replied Vere. ‘How else do you suppose I knew all this? What did you suppose I was doing in this part of town at all? I had come down here, when I thought I should find him in the evening, to—to tell him that I had broken off with you, and that he could do as he liked for all I cared. I saw that story in The Weekly Record yesterday and it gave me an idea. I was furious with you, Harold dear, and I wanted my own back. I was going to pretend that the story was true, that I was the girl, and I wanted him to help me. Then the taxi-man said he couldn’t go any further, and I asked a man where the fire was, then I saw you—’
She paused in confusion, looking at him imploringly. But Harold, hot on this new scent, had no eyes for her distress.
‘But I don’t understand,’ he said abruptly. ‘You didn’t live together. You’ve got your room in Bloomsbury, and you say that he lived with his uncle here.’
‘All part of his game,’ she replied. ‘As soon as I had a job of my own, he began to work on my gratitude. He wanted money, wanted it badly and I must lend it to him. He made a little for himself, but he wanted more, just a little more, for a few years. Then everything would be all right, and he would pay me back handsomely. If I wouldn’t do it he would go to my employers and tell them facts about me which would very soon get me the sack. I was utterly in his hands, you see.
‘Well, I had to agree, and this went on for years. I saw him off and on, about once a week, when he came to get what he could out of me. And every time he told me he was getting nearer his goal, that the time was soon coming when he wouldn’t trouble me any more. Then came the evening I told you about. You can guess that by this time I was ready to promise anything to get rid of him. You understand why I did it, don’t you, Harold, dear?’
‘It seems to me it is all a devil of a mess,’ replied Harold gloomily. ‘The only thing to do is to find Isidore and get the whole truth out of him. You say he told you he had all the money he wanted now? Well, it seems pretty clear he didn’t get it from his uncle, for the old man appears to have bolted with the cash this afternoon. He must have got it through that mysterious job of his, w
hich I expect was a partnership in some burglary syndicate, or something of the kind.’
Suddenly he turned upon her eagerly. ‘Look here, Vere, you want to find this fellow again, don’t you?’ he exclaimed.
She looked at him and smiled sadly. ‘Yes, I suppose I do,’ she agreed. ‘I can’t go on wondering when he will turn up again to plague me. I must know the truth, once and for all.’
‘Well, then, will you tell a friend of mine who is helping to find out about the man I found dead in my rooms, all you’ve told me?’
She started, and stared at him curiously. ‘A friend?’ she replied. ‘What sort of a friend?’
‘An old professor I’ve known all my life,’ answered Harold. ‘Come on, we’ll go and see him now. He’s an awfully kind old chap, and if anybody can help us, he can.’
She rose languidly. ‘Yes, it doesn’t matter much, I suppose,’ she said. ‘I can’t go on like this; something’s got to happen. And I’ve no friends to help me out.’
It was a silent drive in the taxi that Harold secured. The whole way to Westbourne Terrace each was preoccupied with divergent thoughts, each sought the solution to a different problem, of which Isidore Samuels was the only common factor. The clocks were striking eight as Mary, vastly intrigued at the sight of Vere in Harold’s company, showed them into the Professor’s study.
They had not long to wait. Professor Priestley joined them within a minute of their arrival. ‘Good evening, my boy,’ he said as he entered the room. ‘This is Miss Donaldson, I presume? Pray take a seat. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.’
He took no further heed of Harold, but devoted himself to Vere, striving to overcome her embarrassment and make her feel at home. ‘No, you have not disturbed me in the least,’ Harold heard him say. ‘As it happens, I am dining alone, and dinner is always a movable feast on such occasions. I am more than delighted that Harold persuaded you to come.’
Harold, for his part, strained his ears for some indication of April’s presence in the house, longing to hear if only the echo of her voice, dreading lest she should enter the room and see Vere. He heard the door-bell ring, heard Mary open it and a man’s footsteps enter. Then April’s voice from the head of the stairs, ‘Oh, there you are at last, Evan, you’re very late! I’ve been ready for ages.’
