by Jack Murray
Ever honest, it seemed to him a plainly ridiculous proposition to reconcile the extreme violence he meted out on a frequent basis to Catholics and faith in God. He noted, with some cynicism, many of his fellow warriors had no such problem. He was fine with this. It meant that he could get on with the real business in hand.
Crime.
The odd thing about crime, he discovered, was its intrinsic pluralism. Johnny Mac’s victims and, sometimes, associates came in all sizes, shapes, genders, and creeds. By day Johnny Mac might be beating the be-jays us out of a Catholic who had strayed into the wrong area, by night he might be working with other Catholics, earning money on the black market. Had he thought much about it, the black economy, which linked the north and south of the island as well as the two religions in a common purpose, was the one true manifestation of Ireland’s unity.
Although he feared no man, Johnny Mac accepted he was a prominent target. Literally. Being virtually a foot taller than most meant he was unmissable in a crowd. It was inevitable he would become a focus for republicans. As the price on his head began rising at an alarming rate, he decided the time had come to leave his beloved Ulster.
A move to the mainland, he recognised, would offer new opportunities to expand his criminal horizons. As the republican net drew tighter, he hastened to London. Belfast was becoming a no-go area for him as soldiers of both religions, trained in killing returned from the trenches. They were an altogether tougher prospect than the usual assortment of hard men who had avoided the War.
One final, and relatively lucrative, raid on a village post office provided the pin money to set up comfortably in London. He invested his money wisely: principally property and stolen goods. Dabbling in the black market, plus his inability to avoid excessive violence, soon brought him to the attention of those who could deploy this proficiency to best effect. The criminal underworld.
And they liked what they saw: a man with sadistic inclinations, brutally uninhibited by any sense of morality apart from an honest dishonesty and the work ethic of the religion he was born into. Once again, in a short space of time, Johnny Mac rose through the ranks to assume wide responsibilities in the serious business of crime.
Frank self-appraisal had long since occasioned Johnny Mac to accept that his gifts were better utilised as a senior rather than a leading figure in an organisation. He was happiest giving and carrying out orders within a remit defined elsewhere. The elsewhere, in this case, was one Charles ‘Wag’ MacDonald, the head of the Elephant and Castle Gang, or the ‘Elephant Boys’.
Few people had ever earned Johnny Mac’s full respect. Wag was one. It wasn’t just that he’d given up crime to fight in Flanders; the risks in this endeavour surely outweighed the pleasure to be gained from the unhinged violence of war, in the Ulsterman’s view. The unnecessary risk to life and limb was also a question mark against him. However, outweighing this was his admiration for the brilliance McDonald had demonstrated in uniting various family factions, reducing gang warfare in the city, and exploiting the business potential of nightclubs and, particularly, horse racing. Wag McDonald transformed skirmishing factions into a single, cohesive unit that linked up with Billy Kimber, another criminal kingpin from the Midlands.
It was late afternoon and Johnny Mac trooped into Wag’s office, located at the back of the Duke of Wellington, a pub on Waterloo Road frequented by McDonald and his brothers. There was no greeting when he arrived. McDonald wasn’t a man for small talk. He walked in and sat down in front of the boss. Wag McDonald was in his thirties but could have been older. Dressed well in a shirt, tie, and waistcoat, he looked like a boxer working part time in bank.
‘You wanted to see me, Wag?’ asked Johnny Mac after a minute of silence had passed.
More silence followed as McDonald continued to study the notebook in front of him. Then he wrote a paragraph on the book. Finally, he looked up, past Johnny Mac to the man stationed at the door. Johnny Mac looked at the notebook with curiosity.
‘You keepin’ a diary, Wag?’
McDonald glowered at the smiling Ulsterman before looking up at the man standing at the door and ordering, ‘Bring him in.’
Johnny Mac turned around and was somewhat surprised to see the new arrival. The initial surprise was that he did not enter under his own steam so much as land on the floor. The second surprise was his face.
Abbott was never the best looking of men, but the vicious beating which had recently been administered made him almost unrecognisable. Both eyes were swollen, with cuts and abrasions around his face and a bloodied mouth which probably sported even fewer teeth now.
Johnny Mac reluctantly moved his gaze from the fascinating spectacle that was Abbott back to McDonald for an explanation.
‘He ate something that disagreed with him.’ Johnny Mac waited for the punchline. ‘Wal’s fists,’ laughed McDonald. ‘He tried to sell some snout in the Temple Bar. Snout from your factory.’ He pointed at Johnny Mac for added emphasis.
Johnny Mac laughed mirthlessly and looked down at the pitiful figure of Abbott.
‘That was mistake. Silly boy, what are you?’
Abbott groaned in reply. It seemed he was just about alive.
McDonald looked Johnny Mac in the eye, ‘You knew nothing of this?’
‘No.’
McDonald nodded. He believed the Ulsterman because he saw no good reason why anyone would be stupid enough to go into one of his pubs and try and sell cigarettes to one of his men, inadvertently, unless he was a lone operator, and a stupid one at that.
‘He says there’s someone else. He said this person made him do it.’
‘Who?’
‘Wyan or something. It’s difficult to make someone out when their mouth is full of teeth.’
‘I’ve found that also. Best to start on the body and work your way up slowly, like,’ suggested Johnny Mac.
‘Good point. You hear that, Wal? Listen to this man, he knows what he’s on about. Who’s this Ryan?’
‘They’re both on the packing. Probably where they stole the stuff,’ replied Johnny Mac.
‘It was a rhetorical question, Johnny. Deal with him. Make a point to the rest of the boys there,’ said McDonald, ‘I mean it.’
‘We have a problem then,’ commented Johnny Mac in a manner that was marginally more casual than the can-do tone his boss was wanting to hear at that moment.
‘I pay you to take away problems, Johnny. D’you hear what I’m saying?’
The Ulsterman held the palm of his hands up.
‘Hear me out. We were aware that Ryan and Abbott were up to something but when we searched them the other night, we found nothing.’
McDonald looked unimpressed, but Johnny Mac indicated he was not finished.
‘So, I had both followed. Abbott went home then afterwards he went to the Temple Bar where he was a naughty boy.’
‘You knew he was selling snout?’ asked McDonald.
‘Yes, I found out earlier. Anyway, I haven’t finished. Ryan went home and didn’t come out again until early afternoon. So, he’s not the seller.’
‘I don’t care,’ said McDonald angrily, ‘Bring him here. You don’t seem to understand this, Johnny. They know we’re creaming off cigarettes from the factory. Abbott told me he saw the lorry.’
This seemed to stop the Ulsterman in his tracks for a moment. McDonald had the happy inner glow of triumph that a boss feels when he has put a troublesome subordinate back in his box. However, this was to be short-lived.
‘And you’re not listening to me, Wag,’ insisted Johnny Mac, ‘Ryan had a visitor. My man recognised him. He’s in the job.’
‘He’s already been to the rozzers?’ exclaimed McDonald angrily.
‘Wag, the copper is his brother. He’s obviously not one of yours.’
McDonald put the heel of his palms to his temple. The situation was spinning out of control and he needed to think.
‘I can still bring him in,’ suggested Johnny Mac finally, ‘Find out w
hat he knows. But then we must finish it. That’ll bring a lot of problems if his brother is involved.’
McDonald glared at Johnny Mac. The Ulsterman had a smile on his face. The effect was always somewhat distracting. McDonald never could understand why a man would paint his front teeth black. Bloody Irish, he thought, although never said. This was probably for the best as the Ulsterman would have been deeply offended by the being called Irish.
‘So? What’s your solution then, Johnny?’
‘You need to call in some favours.’
Then a smile spread across McDonald’s face as he understood where Johnny Mac was heading. He nodded and said, ‘I’m think I’m with you now. Maybe it’s time some of my people started to earn their money.’ He looked meaningfully at Johnny Mac.
‘Precisely, Wag. This is exactly the kind of problem they need to take away.’
Chapter 20
It was late afternoon when Kit handed over watch duty to Alfred. He thanked him again for his support. Quite what the rotund young man could contribute to the physical safety of Mary was up for debate. If anything, he suspected Mary would be a better bet than Alfred. Hopefully matters would not arrive at such a hazardous point. Kit looked in amusement as Alfred arrived with a bag full to the brim of sandwiches.
‘Keeping your strength up, Alfred? What do you have there?’ asked Kit with a smile.
‘Bacon, sir. I’m a somewhat partial to a nice bacon sandwich,’ replied Alfred.
Or six, thought Kit.
‘I’ve asked Mary to bring you out some food. I was worried you would be hungry. Unnecessarily, it seems.’
Alfred laughed, and admitted, ‘I never turn down nice food, although I’m not too keen on eggs, to be honest.’
Kit tried hard to avoid looking at Alfred’s rather large stomach and wished him well. He confirmed Harry Miller would take over around seven thirty for the night. With that, Kit left Alfred to his observation tasks and went in search of a taxi to take him back to Belgravia, judging it too cold to go on foot.
Inside the car, Alfred settled down to what he hoped would be an uneventful afternoon of surveillance. He lifted from the passenger seat a fine pair of binoculars and surveyed the house. Nothing much seemed to be happening, so he began to test the power of the glasses on houses further away. The potency of the glasses was immediately apparent as he looked from one bedroom window to another. If the room was lit up it was possible to see quite a bit through the sash windows in the square. From time-to-time people would stray into view. A couple arguing. A young woman dancing. A middle-aged woman alone: she seemed sad. What, at first, had seemed to be a bit of a bore was soon transforming into something infinitely more interesting.
Around six thirty, a light came on the in a dining room at the front of the house. First a butler appeared, followed by a blonde maid. The maid was wearing a black outfit that clung enchantingly to an evidently slim figure. When she turned around, Alfred realised he was looking at Mary. For the next few minutes, she moved in and out of sight. This was somewhat frustrating for Alfred, like listening to beautiful music on a radio which occasionally loses its frequency.
At one point, Mary reappeared in view. Clearly, she had spilled something on the front of her white pinafore. Alfred, watching her hands slowly rub the front of her outfit, experienced a level of excitement he would have dreamt impossible not three hours previously. He shifted position several times as the delicious spectacle he was viewing up close, thanks to the miracle of magnification, sadly reached its climax.
Mary disappeared for a moment and then reappeared walking towards the window. Alfred found himself looking directly into her blue eyes. Those eyes narrowed for a moment into a frown that caused the young man’s heart to manage the improbable feat of missing a beat whilst racing like he was sprinting after a bus. Then, all too soon, she swept out of view.
For the next five minutes, Alfred yearned for Mary to return. This felt like a significant moment in his young life. He had enjoyed the vision in the dining room on several levels that he did not understand. To have it so cruelly removed felt close to a bereavement.
The separation was, thankfully, ended by the delightful arrival of Mary to the car. She leaned down close to the driver’s window. Only a pane of glass separated Alfred from the almost hallucinatory beauty of this young woman. As desperate as he was to kiss the enchantress, he realised this would have several consequences the worst of which was the certainty of missing out on the food parcel she was carrying.
As ever, Alfred’s stomach ruled his heart. He opened the door and Mary handed him the food.
‘Can’t stay. Enjoy.’
Alfred opened the paper and found chips and what looked like lobster. He closed his eyes and breathed in the aroma of the food and tried to recapture the image of the previous moment so that he would never forget.
-
It had been a waste of a day in Jellicoe’s view. Several hours spent with Bulstrode and Wellbeloved reviewing the case notes was as disheartening an experience as he could remember. Their inclination towards more savage methods of interrogation was one thing but, with a realisation bordering on epiphany, the reason they employed this approach was because they had the collective intellect of a tomato.
These faults allied to a general deficiency of character, an absence of morality and a heightened suspicion that there were no depths to which they would sink left Jellicoe and Ryan both feeling thoroughly dispirited from their morning’s work. Jellicoe had been tempted to join Ryan when he went to see his brother for lunch.
The plan of attack, which Jellicoe worried they meant literally, was to revisit all the known fences for jewels and to apply greater rigour. The Chief Inspector remembered with a shudder Bulstrode’s smile when he said, “rigour”.
It was with something approaching ecstasy that, late in the afternoon, Jellicoe heard of Lord Kit Aston’s arrival at Scotland Yard asking to see him. Bulstrode heard this with amusement.
‘Hobnobbing, are we?’ asked Bulstrode sardonically.
‘Something like that,’ replied Jellicoe rising his from his seat and walking to the door.
Ryan looked up at him hopefully, but Jellicoe indicated to stay. He felt a pang of guilt at doing this, but it was impossible to know if the meeting with Aston would be useful or not. On the one hand there was no doubting Aston’s intelligence, his intuitive sense of people and, most importantly, his ability to connect seemingly disparate pieces of information. However, he represented a class to which Jellicoe was not a member, and never would be. The jewel robberies were a threat to this class and Aston had been used once, however reluctantly, as a messenger to communicate this fact.
Jellicoe greeted Kit warmly in the lobby area and asked him to come through to an office. The policeman looked at Kit wryly and asked, ‘What brings you along today, sir? Is there another message to communicate?’
Kit exhaled and looked at Jellicoe with a degree of embarrassment, ‘I’m sorry about that, Chief Inspector, it was a favour and I hoped it would ease some of the pressure.’
Jellicoe showed Kit into a room and they sat down. He glanced at Kit and said, ‘The Commissioner has invited a couple of other men to join the investigation and take a lead.’
Kit looked at the Chief Inspector. It was often difficult to tell if he was happy or gloomy about any given situation.
‘Is this a positive development?’ asked Kit.
‘Bulstrode, the new man, and his partner, Wellbeloved, have achieved good results in the past. Their approach is, shall we say, robust.’
‘I think I take your meaning, Chief Inspector,’ replied Kit. ‘I wonder if you are interested, in that case, if I offer a suggestion on another possible avenue of enquiry?’
Jellicoe did smile at this point and nodded, ‘I would be interested in your thoughts, Lord Aston, certainly. We could do with something new.’
‘To your knowledge, did the other houses that were robbed employ a young woman in the days leading up to the
robbery?’
Surprise registered on the Chief Inspector’s face followed by a nod.
‘Yes, Lord Aston. In the first two robberies, this was the case. The third at Lord Wolf’s, there were many servants hired for the pre-conference party, men, and women. But, certainly, in the first two cases a young woman was brought in as a maid. The description differed on each occasion but the woman or women in each case were judged to be in their early twenties, respectable and all disappeared after the robbery. We didn’t publicise this for the reason I suggested earlier. We could not obtain a consistent likeness. May I ask how you arrived at this conclusion?’
Telling the good Chief Inspector that the possible break in the case was the result of the investigation of two elderly women and his fiancée struck Kit as not being very sensible. Instead, he opted to check one other point that had been nagging him.
‘Before we go into that, may I ask you another, related, question. How did the young women obtain these postings? Was it the same agency who placed them?’
‘In the first two cases, their predecessors left very suddenly. Coincidentally, the household received a flyer detailing the existence of an agency dedicated to placing experienced servants in houses on either a short term or long-term basis. This agency was called Holland Placements. Of course, when we went to visit them, it was an abandoned office in Clerkenwell. We followed up by checking printers in a wide vicinity, but no one admitted to having done the print job on the flyer.’
‘Is this unusual? I mean, would a printer have any reason not to admit they’d created such advertising?
‘None that I can think of unless they feared being implicated in the crime. What are you driving at?’
‘I’m not sure. It just strikes me that this is a very well-planned operation. On the one hand you can, presumably, pay off a servant to leave a job. You go to the trouble of printing flyers about an employment agency then place someone on the inside.’
