Blackstone and the Endgame

by Sally Spencer

  ‘I was supposed to meet my contact at the foot of the steps, but he was obviously alarmed by my little contretemps with your friends and has rowed away into the night,’ Vladimir said. He took a flashlight from his pocket and shone it over Blackstone’s trunk. ‘Your clothes are covered with blood, but that is hardly surprising,’ he continued. ‘You need to change out of them, or it will not take even your slow British coppers long to work out that you were involved in all this.’

  Go away, Blackstone prayed silently. Please just go away.

  ‘We all have to pay for our little idiosyncrasies in the end,’ Vladimir said, ‘and while it is true, on the one hand, that I undoubtedly saved your life tonight, it could also be argued that I am indirectly the cause of the present state of your ward- robe –’ he gave a small sigh – ‘so I suppose I had better give you the money for a new outfit.’

  He had to speak now, Blackstone told himself. There was simply no choice in the matter.

  ‘I have money,’ he croaked.

  Vladimir shrugged. ‘If you wish to cling to your tattered pride – to your pathetic sense of dignity – then that is up to you.’

  He turned away, took a few short steps towards Tooley Street, then spun around again.

  ‘I know you,’ he said.

  ‘You’re mistaken,’ Blackstone told him.

  ‘I am sure I know you,’ Vladimir said, squatting down and shining his torch into Blackstone’s face. ‘Is it … could it be you, Sam?’ he gasped.

  ‘Please go away,’ Blackstone said weakly. ‘You’re endangering my investigation.’

  ‘Your investigation?’ Vladimir repeated, disbelievingly.

  ‘I’m in disguise.’

  Vladimir shook his head slowly. ‘Of course you are,’ he agreed.

  He stripped off his cloak and held his hand out to Blackstone. ‘Let me help you to your feet,’ he suggested.

  SIX

  The Hansom cabs which were lined up at the rank on Tooley Street had a defeated air about them that was detectable even from a distance. It had not always been thus – when Blackstone had first started working at New Scotland Yard, the Hansoms had been undisputed kings of the streets, and the clip-clop sound of their horses’ hooves had seemed as much a part of London life as the yells of the newspaper vendors.

  But their glory days were over, and the petrol-driven ‘taxis’ – so called because they had taximeters which measured the mileage – had been eating away at their business for years. Now, there were only a couple of hundred Hansoms left in the whole of London, and even though they were cheaper than the taxis – six pence a mile in the Hansoms, eight pence a mile in the taxis – the cabmen were finding it harder and harder to make a decent living.

  ‘They’re like me,’ Blackstone thought, with a bitter whimsy born of hunger and exhaustion. ‘They’re desperate to keep on going – but they’re doomed.’

  Vladimir helped Blackstone into the Hansom at the front of line, then looked up at the driver, who was sitting on his box behind the cab.

  ‘The East India Dock Road, cabbie,’ he said. ‘I’ll bang my stick on the roof when I want you to stop.’

  ‘The East India Dock Road,’ Blackstone repeated softly to himself. ‘Little Russia.’

  He knew it well. It was home to countless Russian revolutionaries and members of the tsarist court who had fallen out of favour. Former peasants from the Ukraine lived there, and rubbed shoulders with horse traders from Siberia and tailors from Minsk. And, for the moment at least, it appeared to be where Vladimir had established his base.

  As the cab pulled away from the curb, the Russian said, ‘So tell me, Sam, however did you come to be in this pitiful condition?’

  ‘It’s quite a long story,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘It’s quite a long way to our destination,’ Vladimir replied.

  And there was a commanding edge to his voice that said he would have the story, one way or the other.

  Despite his exhaustion and his pain, a grin came to Blackstone’s face. It was typical of Vladimir to want to know the full story, he thought, because the Russian had a thirst for information – any information.

  It was always possible that, one day, some of that information might come in useful – just as a collector of string might, one day, suddenly need to wrap a large and complex parcel that required miles of the stuff. But that was not why the string collector collected string, nor why Vladimir collected information.

  It was an obsession, and Vladimir could no more resist it than some of his compatriots could resist a bottle of vodka. He was – and always had been – an addict.

  ‘Whether a story is long or short, it is always best to start at the beginning,’ Vladimir nudged.

  Blackstone sighed. There was no getting round it, he decided.

  He began by telling Vladimir of his first meeting with the head of the Special Branch.

  He was only halfway through when the Russian interrupted him.

  ‘I don’t think that I much like the sound of this Superintendent Brigham of yours,’ Vladimir said. ‘He is just the sort of man I would take great pleasure in crushing, and – don’t misunderstand me, Sam – I do not mean that in any metaphorical sense.’

  When Blackstone got on to Max, Vladimir found it impossible to restrain his amusement.

  ‘He didn’t know the man’s name, and yet he was prepared to hand over twenty-five thousand pounds to him,’ the Russian said, between chuckles. ‘For that amount of money, I would demand – as a minimum – that he gave me his first-born child as a hostage.’

  ‘But then maybe you’re not as desperate as Brigham – and the British government,’ Blackstone pointed out.

  ‘Desperation is a weakness,’ Vladimir said, ‘but when combined with foolishness, it is nothing less than a capital crime – and Brigham clearly is a fool. Why did you agree to go along with his plan?’

  ‘I was ordered to.’

  ‘I would not have obeyed that order, even if it had come as a direct instruction from His Imperial Majesty Nicholas the Second, Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias,’ Vladimir said.

  Blackstone laughed – it seemed to him to be a long time since he had done that.

  ‘Have I said something funny?’ the Russian asked.

  ‘I know you too well to believe what you just said, Vladimir,’ Blackstone replied. ‘If His Imperial Majesty Nicholas the Second – Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias – had told you to saw off your arm with a teaspoon, you would have tried your hardest to comply.’

  ‘True,’ Vladimir agreed, rather uncomfortably, ‘but I still don’t think you should have obeyed the instructions of a jumped-up bureaucrat like Superintendent Brigham.’ He paused. ‘Of course! How foolish I’m being! It was not Brigham’s order that made you decide to accept the mission. That wasn’t it at all. So why don’t you tell me your real reason?’

  ‘I couldn’t bring myself to get my neck free of a noose by putting another man’s neck in its place,’ Blackstone said.

  Vladimir nodded, as if Blackstone had simply confirmed what he already knew.

  ‘That has always been your greatest weakness,’ he said ponderously, ‘although, admittedly, it has also always been your greatest strength. What happened next?’

  Blackstone told Vladimir about the meeting at the Western Dock and waking up on the park bench with a thousand pounds in his pocket.

  ‘What do you think was Max’s motive in “fitting you up”, Sam?’ Vladimir asked.

  ‘I’m still not sure,’ Blackstone admitted. ‘The only answer I can come up with is that it bought him some time.’

  ‘You mean that as long as the police were devoting all their energy to questioning you, they wouldn’t really be looking for him?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Vladimir shook his head.

  ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ he said. ‘Carrying your unconscious body from the docks to the embankment must have both taken quite some time and been very risky. An
d the thousand pounds he put in your pocket means a thousand pounds less for him. So it seems to me that, on balance, the advantages he gained from framing you were far outweighed by the disadvantages.’

  ‘It seems that way to me, too,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Still, life is full of unsolved mysteries,’ Vladimir said philosophically, ‘and there is no doubt that he did frame you. But what surprises me, to be honest, is that Superintendent Brigham took the bait quite so easily.’

  ‘It was the only way he could make it seem like my mistake, instead of his,’ Blackstone said. ‘And then, of course, it was also what Assistant Commissioner Todd wanted.’

  ‘I remember Todd from Russia,’ Vladimir said. ‘If there was such a thing as the king of fools, he would be wearing the crown.’ He glanced out of the window, to see where they were. ‘And now we come to the best part of your narrative,’ he continued.

  ‘The best part?’

  ‘Your escape! I am eager to learn what devilish trickery you used to break free.’

  ‘It was nothing to do with me,’ Blackstone said, and he told Vladimir what had happened on Southwark Bridge.

  ‘I wish I’d met this Sergeant Patterson of yours,’ Vladimir said. ‘He seems like a remarkable man.’

  ‘He is,’ Blackstone agreed.

  ‘And what of his accomplice – the man who released you from the handcuffs? Do you think that he was a policeman, too?’

  ‘No,’ Blackstone said. ‘Archie would never have asked another officer to take the same risk as he was taking.’

  ‘So who was the second man?’

  ‘He was probably some criminal who owed Archie a favour.’

  ‘Yes, that is more than likely,’ Vladimir agreed.

  He glanced out of the window, then lifted his cane and banged once on the roof of the Hansom. The cab slowed, and then came to a halt.

  Looking out himself, Blackstone saw that they had pulled up in front of a house that was only distinguished by its ordinariness.

  ‘We have arrived,’ Vladimir announced.

  The bed on which Archie Patterson lay was far too narrow for a man of his girth, and the room that contained the bed was so cramped that it was almost impossible to avoid banging into one of the walls. Still, that was only to be expected, he thought. After all, this wasn’t the Ritz – it was Pentonville Prison.

  He shifted slightly – in search of a more comfortable position, even though he already knew there wasn’t one – and, looking up the ceiling, cast his mind back to his brief appearance in the magistrates’ court.

  The press have not been informed about what happened at the docks, nor been given the name of the man whom Patterson is accused of helping to escape, but the very fact that a detective sergeant from Scotland Yard should be involved in holding up a Black Maria is more than enough for them – and they have gone to town on it. So when Patterson is brought up from the cells and emerges in the dock, he is not surprised to see that both the press gallery and the public gallery are just about as full as they possibly could be.

  The magistrate’s clerk looks down at the paper in his hand, then up at the dock in which Patterson is standing.

  ‘How do you plead?’ he asks. ‘Guilty or not guilty?’

  Patterson is not sure how he is going to respond, because he still doesn’t know whether he did it or not.

  He remembers being in the Goldsmith’s Arms with Ellie Carr, and he remembers being arrested in the Royal Oak by the two officers from Special Branch, but he can recall nothing in between.

  So did he hold up the Black Maria, or didn’t he?

  All the evidence would suggest that he did, and he knows that he would have laid down his life for Sam Blackstone without a second’s thought, so the chances are he is guilty as charged.

  ‘Guilty or not guilty?’ the clerk repeats impatiently.

  ‘Not guilty,’ Patterson says.

  And he’s thinking, ‘If they’re going to lock me up and throw away the key, the least I can do is make them work for it.’

  Ellie Carr has managed to scrape together a little money to pay for Patterson’s solicitor, and now that solicitor stands up.

  ‘My client is a married man with three small children, and he would like to request bail so that he can set his affairs in order before he comes to trial,’ the solicitor says.

  ‘Because we all know I won’t be able to set my affairs in order after the trial,’ Patterson thinks.

  The magistrate glances in the direction of the inspector in charge of the case. The inspector nods.

  ‘Bail is set at twenty-five pounds,’ the magistrate says.

  There is an explosion of coughing from the back of the courtroom, and when Patterson turns his head towards it, he sees that the person causing the disturbance is Assistant Commissioner Todd, who, between coughs, is glaring first at the magistrate and then at the inspector.

  The inspector clears his own throat. ‘The police feel that twenty-five pounds is too little, Your Worship,’ he says.

  The magistrate glances at Todd again. ‘Very well,’ he agrees. ‘Bail is set at two hundred and fifty pounds.’

  ‘Todd will never forgive me for rescuing Sam Blackstone and denying him his revenge,’ Patterson thinks.

  And then he wonders if he’s just admitted to himself that he’s guilty.

  If I didn’t rescue Sam, then I bloody well should have done, Patterson thought, still gazing up at the ceiling.

  He was going down for a long time, he accepted. It wouldn’t be easy for him, but that didn’t matter. What did matter was that his lovely wife and beautiful kids would suffer, too. The only bright spot in his increasingly darkening sky, he told himself, was that at least Sam seemed to have escaped.

  The woman who answered Vladimir’s knock was plump, middle-aged and had a welcoming half-sincere smile on her face.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Hoskinson,’ she said, in a cultivated accent which didn’t quite come off, ‘and good evening to you, too, sir,’ she continued, looking at Blackstone.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Collins,’ Vladimir replied affably. ‘My friend has had an accident. He will require a hot bath as soon as possible.’

  The woman nodded. ‘You take him up to your apartment, sir, and I’ll put the copper on.’

  Mrs Collins looked just like a landlady was supposed to, Blackstone thought, as Vladimir assisted him up the stairs. In fact, there was not a theatre producer in the whole of London who wouldn’t immediately cast her as one. But even without a stage to perform on, she was only playing the role, because no real landlady could ever have looked at her unexpected visitor – dishevelled, dirty, and with his bloodstained suit not quite entirely hidden by Vladimir’s cloak – and acted with such equanimity.

  ‘Is Mrs Collins …’ he began.

  ‘She’s half-Russian,’ Vladimir said, as if that was all the answer Blackstone needed.

  And, in fact, it was.

  SEVEN

  Vladimir’s apartment continued the illusion of ordinariness that Mrs Collins had created on the doorstep. It was well furnished – though not extravagantly so – but had the slightly uncared-for feel with which many confirmed bachelors seem to imbue their residences.

  Blackstone wondered how the real Vladimir would have furnished his apartment – and then realized that, after years of spying, it was possible there was no real Vladimir any more.

  The Russian gestured that he should sit in the best armchair.

  ‘Would you care for a glass of vodka, Sam?’ he asked.

  It was tempting, but after days of near starvation, Blackstone didn’t think he could risk it.

  ‘No vodka, but I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea,’ he said, looking across at the large samovar – the only real hint of Russia in the room – which was sitting in the corner.

  ‘Tea, it shall be,’ Vladimir agreed, immediately busying himself with the samovar.

  ‘I’ve told you all about me,’ Blackstone said. ‘Now it’s your turn. What are you doi
ng here in London?’

  ‘I am just passing through,’ the Russian replied, far too casually. ‘I arrived two days ago, and by tomorrow evening I will be gone.’

  ‘And what was the purpose of your short trip?’

  ‘There were some people here who I needed to talk to.’

  Vladimir crossed the room, handed Blackstone a glass of tea, then sat down opposite him. The tea was hot and very sweet, and as he sipped at it, Blackstone started to feel a little better.

  ‘And what was it you needed to talk to these people about?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘Naval movements, arms production – matters of that nature,’ Vladimir replied, squiggling in his chair to make himself comfortable. ‘I was doing what I have always done, Sam – I was spying.’

  ‘On us?’

  ‘Naturally, I am spying on you. Why else would I be in England at all?’

  ‘But we’re your allies – we’re fighting Germany on the Western Front, and you’re fighting it in the east,’ Blackstone protested.

  Vladimir laughed. ‘Of course you’re our allies – that is precisely why I am here. You can always trust your enemies’ intentions, Sam. They have one aim, which is to destroy you. And so, in order to prevent that, you try to discover what their plans are – which divisions they will move to where, on which front they intend to concentrate their attack.’ He waved his hand expansively through the air. ‘These are purely mechanical matters, which any competent spy could deal with, and they hold no interest for me.’

  ‘But spying on your friends does interest you?’ Blackstone suggested.

  ‘It fascinates me,’ Vladimir admitted. ‘Your friends, you see, have part of their minds on the present conflict, and the other part on the future. If they lose the war, then half their effort will have been wasted. But what if they win? The old threat will have been vanquished, but there is a new threat – and that comes from those who were formerly your allies. Everyone has plans to be top dog, Sam, but, by the very nature of things, there can only be one top dog.’

  ‘So you’re here to find out what Britain intends to do once the war is finally over?’