‘We can all ’ave a talk tonight,’ said Billy. ‘Only could yer refrain from chuckin’ saucepans about?’
‘And could you get a new copper stick from somewhere, Bridget?’ asked Daisy. ‘Only you went and lost our old one.’ She quivered under Bridget’s fierce look. ‘No, p’raps not.’
‘Come to think of it, I’d like to ’ave a copper stick in me ’and tonight,’ said Bridget.
‘Thought you would,’ said Billy, and winked at Daisy. Daisy smothered a giggle.
* * *
‘You getting anywhere?’ asked the Chief Superintendent of Chief Inspector Dobbs.
‘Slowly,’ said Dobbs.
‘Can you hurry it up?’
‘Not without falling over my feet,’ said Dobbs.
The Chief Superintendent smiled.
‘That’s a common failing with the Force according to certain newspapers,’ he said. ‘Well, in your own time, Charlie. But how do prospects look?’
‘Not unfavourable,’ said Dobbs.
‘Leave it to you, then,’ said the Chief Superintendent, who was one with Dobbs in the latter’s refusal to make public the possibility that Maureen Flanagan was a part-time pro. If the press got hold of that, nothing would stop them from reminding their readers that the Ripper’s victims were women who sold themselves. The case would take on a hellishly fanciful aspect.
The Chief Inspector called Sergeant Ross in. He had an easier relationship with Ross than with Inspector George Davis, who, in any event, was currently investigating a case of suspected arson. Sergeant Ross listened to his guv’nor’s new assessment of the bloke known as Godfrey. He considered it, reflected on it, and decided he liked it.
‘A pimp?’ he said. ‘I’ll go along with that. No wonder the geezer hasn’t come forward. It’s odds-on he was trying to make a full-time pro of Flanagan, that she wouldn’t play and threatened to break with him. End of Flanagan. Pimps don’t allow desertions. They’re smilers carrying knuckledusters in their pockets. Remember Mrs Pritchard telling us what a cheerful character Godfrey was? And when you come to think of it, what she said of Flanagan’s attitude to him fits that of a woman who liked her pimp. They all like their pimps to begin with. It’s the pimps who seduce the new ones and get them on the game. But why, I wonder, did Flanagan bring hers to the house to meet the Pritchards?’
‘Let’s suppose he called on her without being asked to,’ said Dobbs. ‘It would’ve been in character, a pimp wanting to find out exactly what her background was like. And she herself might have decided to introduce him to the Pritchards to give the impression she was going steady with him. Very respectable, that would have looked. And mentioning him to her mother – she might even have had some weird female idea of actually marrying him and turning him respectable. Would you think she might, my lad?’
‘I’m slightly dubious, guv,’ said Ross.
‘So am I,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘I think Maureen Flanagan had sense enough to play her cards carefully. You’d better toddle off to Vine Street.’
‘Vine Street station?’
‘Yes. Get round there and find out what they know about the pimps of the West End, and if they’ve got anything on one we only know as Godfrey. If they have, we want his address. Make sure you get it.’
‘Right, guv.’
‘Off you go, then,’ said Dobbs.
‘I’m on my way,’ said Ross, and departed. His head and shoulders returned. ‘Might I ask if you consider Pritchard’s now an also-ran?’
‘No, he’s still in the running,’ said Dobbs.
‘Reasonable,’ said Ross, and went.
Ross returned later, notebook marked with scribbles.
‘Sit down,’ said the Chief Inspector. Ross seated himself. ‘Well?’ said Dobbs.
‘Pimps mostly stay under the surface—’
‘I know that.’
‘But they bob up occasionally.’
‘I know that too, don’t I? Get on with it.’
‘There’s a file at Vine Street—’
‘I’ll chuck my inkwell at you in a minute,’ growled Dobbs.
‘There’s several names,’ said Ross, ‘but no Godfrey Who.’
‘I hope you can do better than that,’ said Dobbs.
‘On the happy side, guv, it’s recorded that a woman called Maureen Flanagan was stopped in Drury Lane one evening and given a warning on suspicion of being a street-walker and accordingly a public nuisance.’
‘Yes, that’s a lot better,’ said Dobbs. ‘When was this?’
‘The evening of 15th October,’ said Ross, ‘which—’
‘Hold on,’ said Dobbs, ‘what’s going on at Vine Street? Maureen Flanagan’s name must have been printed on the front page of every newspaper when she was murdered. Why didn’t Vine Street pick it up and let us know they’d got a mention of her in some constable’s notebook?’
‘My point exactly when I put the question,’ said Ross. ‘It seems the name didn’t register. It might have done with the constable in question, but he happened to be on his last week of duty when he stopped and warned Flanagan, and he’s now halfway to Canada with his family. He’s emigrated.’
‘You look as if you think that’s helpful information,’ said Dobbs. ‘It’s not, it’s the worst case of inconvenient emigration I’ve ever heard of. But let’s see, she was warned on the 15th of October?’
‘That’s the date,’ said Ross, consulting his notebook.
‘Well now, my son, 15th of October was the day when I think the unfortunate lady got the wind up. So what did she do? I’d say she had a meeting with her pimp and pointed out she wasn’t going to risk being arrested. That would have meant an appearance in court and her name in the papers. Her pimp, of course, treated her to a bucketful of reassurance, along with his most charming smiles. That may have eased her worries for a little while. But I’d say she had another go at him, perhaps several, and during the last one he went over the top, like pimps do when they’re crossed.’
‘Whoever he is, he’s not known to Vine Street,’ said Ross.
‘Perhaps, my lad, we’ve got his name wrong.’
‘Not according to Pritchard and his old lady,’ said Ross.
‘Did you list known names?’ asked Dobbs.
‘Such as were given, guv, and such being standard practice according to—’
‘Yes, I know. Read ’em out.’
‘Right. Gus Robbins, Pinky Schmidt, Frankie Zapparelli, Jimmy Morris and Sidney Whelan. They’re known. Then there’s two suspected of pimping. Baz Gottfried and Walter Reynolds. Looks like Godfrey Who has never broken surface.’
‘Does it look like that?’ asked Dobbs.
‘You asking or saying, guv?’
‘I’m asking,’ said Dobbs. ‘And I’m asking who’s got a name like Baz?’
‘It’s what Vine Street’s got as the first name for Gottfried,’ said Ross. ‘German immigrant, I suppose.’
‘Gottfried,’ said Dobbs.
Sergeant Ross hit himself with his notebook.
‘Well, I’m a ruddy cuckoo,’ he said. ‘Godfrey, of course.’
‘Well, it’s what Flanagan called him,’ said Dobbs. ‘Right, telephone Vine Street this time. Ask them if they’ve got the address of this suspected pimp, Gottfried. If they haven’t, ask them for the addresses of a couple of known West End ladies of the bedchamber. One of them might know Gottfried and where he keeps himself under the surface. Get through now. Give ’em my compliments.’
‘That’ll help, of course.’
‘Hurry it up,’ said Dobbs.
Sergeant Ross made the call and came back with the information that Gottfried’s address wasn’t known, but the addresses of two West End ladies of the bedchamber had been given.
‘Shall we go to work, guv?’
‘Yes, put your hat and coat on,’ said the Chief Inspector.
Chapter Ten
CONSTABLE FRED BILLINGS, COMING off his first beat of the day, spoke to Sergeant Gough about a lad
y resident’s complaint concerning a suspect loiterer who began to follow her. Wisely, he omitted any mention of her female intuition.
‘Come off it, Billings,’ said Sergeant Gough.
‘Thinkin’ about it,’ said Fred, ‘I considered it me duty to report it.’
‘You’re reportin’ that some lady friend of yours was follered last night in Back Church Lane?’
‘The same, sarge.’
‘Any lady in Back Church Lane at that time o’ night can expect to be follered,’ said Sergeant Gough. ‘And much as it grieves me, some of ’em like to be follered. For purposes of a licentious nature, with money changing hands. Unfortunately, it don’t always happen like that, as you know, or should know. Some of ’em get laid out, their ’andbags nicked and their wearables removed. That’s on account of what we call the recipients bein’ in need of overgarments and undergarments, and not too proud to put ’em on for Sunday church. I wouldn’t be surprised if ’alf the hard-up females in Bow Bells on Sundays ain’t wearin’ what don’t rightly belong to ’em.’
‘I know all that, sarge,’ said Fred, ‘but I think what this partic’lar lady was on about didn’t concern ’er wearables. I think she meant ’er virtue.’
‘Eh?’
‘Virtue, sarge.’
‘You feelin’ ill?’ enquired Sergeant Gough.
‘Right as rain, sarge.’
‘D’you mean that after three years on yer present beat, you’ve found a female in Whitechapel that’s still in ownership of ’er virtue?’
‘I wouldn’t rightly say I’ve found her, sarge, I’ve known ’er for years.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Bridget Cummings, sarge.’
‘Bridget Cummings?’ Sergeant Gough eyed Fred pityingly. ‘The middleweight champion of Petticoat Lane, Caledonian Market, Whitechapel and Mile End? Constable Billings, any suspect geezer that takes to follering Bridget Cummings home is liable to be found in a mortally wounded condition.’
‘Beg to differ, sarge.’
‘You beg what, Billings?’
‘Well, I grant Bridget Cummings is a bit quick to get aggravated, but under all that it’s me genuine opinion she’s got a warm heart and good intentions.’
‘You’re off yer rocker,’ said Sergeant Gough. ‘Bridget Cummings is ’ighly fortunate not to be in jug for participatin’ in that riot.’
‘She was only there by accident, sarge.’
‘Billings, if you’ve gone weak in the head, get yerself a job openin’ cab doors for the gentry. By the way, how’d you come to be speakin’ to the middleweight champ first thing this morning?’
‘I’m lodging with her and ’er family, sarge, ’aving moved in yesterday evening. It’s already in the records.’
‘Billings, see a doctor,’ said Sergeant Gough.
‘Sarge—’
‘It’s an order.’
Lulu Swann shared a flat with a lady friend in Albany Mansions off Shaftesbury Avenue. Albany Mansions looked as if it had seen its better days long ago. The stone stairs were pitted, the tiled walls dull with neglect. On the first floor, a woman stood in the open doorway of her flat. There were curlers in her fair frizzy hair, and she wore a pale green feathery wrap that looked as if it was struggling to survive constant wear. It also looked as if it was on its own.
‘Hello, darlings, heard you coming up,’ she said to the two men as they reached the top of the first flight of stairs, ‘but no daytime clients, sweeties – oh, ’elp.’ Her tone changed. She’d recognized two arms of the law. She vanished, closing the door fast.
Chief Inspector Dobbs and Sergeant Ross traversed the landing and climbed the second flight of stairs, their boots treading stone. They were looking for flat number seven. They found it and Sergeant Ross knocked. The door opened after a short interval. Another woman appeared, another gaudy feathery wrap, another head of hair, but loose in the absence of pins or curlers. A pretty face, a face that looked as if it had just had a lick and a promise, took on an expression of caution.
‘Good morning,’ said the Chief Inspector breezily.
‘Er?’ said the woman, in her mid-twenties.
‘Would you be Miss Swann?’
‘Who’s askin’?’
‘I am. We are.’
‘What for? I ain’t done nothing.’
‘Why d’you say that?’ asked the Chief Inspector.
‘’Cos yer coppers, ain’t yer?’
‘Very observant of you, Miss Swann. I’m Chief Inspector Dobbs of Scotland Yard, and this is Detective-Sergeant Ross. Might we come in and talk to you?’
‘’Ere, this ain’t fair, Scotland Yard comin’ it ’eavy on a gel,’ said Lulu Swann.
‘You’re in no trouble as far as the Yard is concerned,’ said Dobbs. ‘We’re simply making enquiries about a certain gentleman you might know.’
‘Me?’ said Lulu Swann. ‘I don’t know no gentlemen, except—well, a gel can never tell who’s a gentleman and who ain’t. You sure you ain’t after layin’ something on me?’
‘Sure,’ said Sergeant Ross.
‘’Ere, you’re nice-lookin’ for a copper, did yer know that?’ said Lulu.
‘Yes, Sergeant Ross knows it,’ said Dobbs. ‘Can we come in?’
‘Well, all right, only I ain’t prepared for visitors, not this time of the day I ain’t, and Irene, me flatmate, is still in bed.’ Lulu stood aside and the men entered. Sergeant Ross closed the door for her and she took them into a living-room, cluttered and untidy. There was a faint aroma of scent and musk. ‘Well, this is me sumptuous abode,’ she said. ‘Still, we don’t get the mice up ’ere like they do downstairs. What certain gent was you wantin’ to ask about?’
‘First,’ said Dobbs, ‘would you know a woman called Maureen Flanagan?’
‘Is that Irish?’ asked Lulu, drawing her wrap closer over a fairly capacious bosom.
‘Yes, Irish,’ said Ross.
‘Never ’eard of her,’ said Lulu.
‘Sure?’ said Ross.
‘Positive,’ said Lulu, ’never met any Flanagans in me life. Is she a gel that gets arrested occasional?’
‘One of the arrestable kind, you mean?’ said Ross.
‘If yer like,’ said Lulu.
‘We’ve no record that she’s ever been arrested,’ said Dobbs.
‘Well, I still don’t know ’er,’ said Lulu.
‘D’you read the papers?’ asked Ross.
‘Papers? No, only picture magazines.’
‘D’you know of or have you heard of a man called Baz Gottfried?’ asked Dobbs.
‘Baz what?’ said Lulu. ‘Who’s ’e with a monicker like that?’
‘A gentleman engaged in procuring,’ said Dobbs.
‘Oh, blimey,’ said Lulu, ‘you’re ’ot stuff, you are, mister. A gentleman, you said? That’s a good one, that is. But I’ve never seen ’im, spoke to ’im or ’eard of ’im.’
‘Who looks after you, Miss Swann?’ asked Ross.
‘Give over, you know the game, don’t yer?’ said Lulu. ‘I ain’t comin’ across with ’is name. He’s me insurance.’
‘You’ve never heard anyone mention the name Baz Gottfried?’ asked Dobbs.
‘No, honest I ain’t,’ said Lulu.
‘How about Godfrey?’ suggested Dobbs.
‘No, nor ’im, either,’ said Lulu.
‘Your friend Irene,’ said Ross, ’d’you think she might help us, Miss Swann?’
‘She’s in bed,’ said Lulu. Her wrap, loose, gaped a little. Abundance made a fleeting attempt at emergence. ‘Oh, beg yer pardon, gents,’ she said, and forestalled revelation by adjusting her wrap and holding on to it. ‘Irene had – well, a busy night. But she wouldn’t be able to ’elp, she’s new and a bit green. Me insurance man only brought ’er up from the country a week ago.’
‘Your insurance man’s heading for a nasty fall,’ said Dobbs.
‘Yes, ain’t some people wicked, mister?’ said Lulu.
‘People like Baz Go
ttfried?’ said Ross.
‘Blimey, that one sounds like a circus knife-thrower that’s ’it ’is target when he shouldn’t ’ave,’ said Lulu. ‘Sorry I can’t ’elp you gents, I never met nicer coppers. ’Ere, listen, handsome,’ she said to Ross, ‘you got any money? Only you could buy me out for a hundred quid, and I’d come and ’ouse-keep for yer, and do yer washin’ as well.’
‘I’m short of money in the bank,’ said Sergeant Ross.
‘Well, if yer luck changes and a windfall lands on yer doorstep,’ said Lulu, pert and saucy, ‘just come and knock.’
‘And if you should hear of a man called Baz Gottfried,’ said Ross, ‘get in touch with us at the Yard.’
‘Crikey, I don’t want to be seen at the Yard,’ said Lulu.
‘There’ll be a couple of quid for any useful information,’ said Dobbs.
‘Two quid?’ said Lulu, looking pained.
‘Four,’ said Dobbs. ‘Good day, Miss Swann. Stay off the streets.’
‘Yes, be a good girl,’ said Ross.
‘Nice to ’ave met yer, I’m sure,’ said Lulu, hugely relieved she’d hadn’t been copped for soliciting. She saw them out, opening the door for them before suddenly sparking into life. ‘’Ere, half a tick, wait a bit. Baz you said? Baz? You sure you don’t mean Basil?’
‘You’re saying there’s a Basil Gottfried?’ said Dobbs.
‘Well, you said four quid and I remember I did ’ear a gel mention ’im once.’
‘Dear, dear,’ said Dobbs, shaking his head. Lulu gave a very good impression of not understanding. ‘You’ve been naughty,’ said Dobbs.
‘Lying, guv, is that the word?’ said Ross.
‘Me?’ said Lulu.
‘Didn’t you say you’d never heard of any Gottfried?’ said Ross.
‘It’s me memory,’ said Lulu, ‘it goes blank sometimes.’
‘Dear, dear,’ said Dobbs again.
‘Look, mister,’ said Lulu, ‘anyone could go blank about a name like that.’
‘The reverse, I’d say,’ said Ross.
‘I told yer, though, that I’ve managed to remember,’ said Lulu. ‘By the way, could yer make it a fiver?’
‘That depends,’ said Dobbs.
‘Well, could yer ’old on a minute while I see if Irene’s still asleep? Only it ain’t clever to talk about names if someone’s listening.’ Lulu moved down the corridor, carefully opened a door and looked in. Satisfied, she quietly closed the door and returned. ‘Dreamin’ of country chickens, I expect,’ she said. ‘Anyway, Basil Gottfried’s got gels, but I ’eard he’s a bit nasty. He scarred one gel for life when she crossed ’im. Mind, that’s only what I ’eard.’
Ghost of Whitechapel Page 13
