Ring of Terror

by Michael Gilbert

  ‘Yes. That’s clear.’

  ‘Does he know about Peter?’

  ‘Peter is in Tver, working in the rolling-stock sheds and leading a quiet and useful life. If he knows that, he knows all there is to know about him.’

  ‘Have you heard from him lately?’

  ‘As you well know, I hear from him once a month, thanking me for the money I have managed to send him.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘He sends news about his family.’

  ‘And he is in no sort of trouble?’

  ‘None,’ said Jacob. He said it firmly.

  Dmitry looked as though he would have liked to take the matter further, but could think of no way of doing so. As he looked at Jacob’s grey face much of the anger drained out of him. He said, ‘Whatever the trouble is, you might find it lighter if you were able to share it.’

  Jacob sighed and said, ‘Go to bed.’

  On that same Monday evening Joe had disposed of two irritating jobs that Joscelyne had found for him, was tidying up the dockets of papers on his desk and was preparing to go home when he heard a footstep that he recognised on the stairs outside. It was Wensley, plodding up to his old office.

  Joe judged, from the manner of his walk, that his chief had had an exceptionally trying day. He knew, having twice tried to get hold of him, that he had been locked in conference with the lawyers, shifting through the evidence in the Clapham Common murder case. There were more than thirty witnesses for the prosecution and their statements had been checked and rechecked by Richard Muir, the formidable and painstaking Crown Prosecutor. And great care was necessary. The case was not going to be a walkover. The accused was being represented by Edward Abinger, a paladin of the criminal bar, with a junior, Roland Oliver, who was destined to become more famous than his leader. The newspapers of the left had started to describe the accused as a martyr.

  Joe hesitated before following his chief upstairs. But he thought that what he had to tell him might at least divert his mind from his immediate worries.

  When he went in, Wensley pushed aside the heap of depositions on his desk and listened patiently. Then he said, ‘Next time, take field glasses with you. Don’t try to follow Treschau directly. Circle round, moving only when he does. And keep out of sight. You were a country boy. You understand about field craft.’

  Joe agreed that he would find Plaistow Marshes and the East Ham Level a more congenial area for stalking a quarry than the streets of Stepney and Limehouse.

  ‘When Treschau reaches whatever seems to be his destination, pick some spot from which you can watch it. Then you and Pagan can keep it under observation. Continuous observation is the secret of all good police work.’

  Joe agreed, but insincerely. In his view the secret of success in police work was energetic action.

  Sensing that he was not carrying his audience with him, Wensley said, ‘Later, when you’re sure you haven’t been seen, you can close in. Step at a time. For the moment, what I want to know is what a famous chemist is doing creeping about the marshes with a packet of meat scraps. When we know the answer to that we might be able to take some effective action.’

  As he spoke, Wensley had moved across to the window and was staring out over the wharves and buildings to where the Thames ran sparkling under the late February sun. He said, ‘Sometimes I find it hard to believe that it was twenty-five years ago that I came up from Somerset. In all that time, I haven’t seen a meadow with its wildflowers out, and most of the cattle I’ve seen have been cut up and hanging in butchers’ shops. I’ve sometimes thought I’d like to give it all up and go back. And if I did, very likely I’d be bored silly inside a week. Better to keep it as a lovely dream. Off you go, and remember, keep out of trouble. Because if you get into trouble it will cause me trouble to get you out of it. Understood?’

  Joe said that he understood. He didn’t take the warning very seriously. He had an infinite belief in his capacity for looking after himself.

  That same evening he and Luke had a visitor.

  Dmitry had waited until Jacob was busy in his study and Anna had gone up to her own room. He had left the house by the back door, closing it quietly behind him. He was aware of the efficiency of Molacoff Weil’s corps of unofficial helpers and he chose a roundabout and zig-zag route, pausing at each corner to look and listen. Helped by the blackness of the night, which had closed down over London like a blanket, he was confident that he could reach his destination unseen and unfollowed.

  “Ullo, ‘ullo,’ said Joe. ‘See who’s here.’ He and Luke were polishing off the remains of the beer that had accompanied their supper. ‘If we ‘ad a spare glass, we could’ve given ‘im a drop.’

  ‘He certainly looks as if he could do with it,’ said Luke. Dmitry’s face was white and wet with a mixture of rain and sweat. ‘There’s a glass in the bathroom.’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ said Joe. ‘And I’ll see if I can raise another bottle of beer from Bill. I saw him come in just now and he owes me one.’

  When he got back he had something better than beer. It was a bottle of schnapps, part of the fruit of some enterprising smuggling when the Beatrice was last at Esbjerg. When Dmitry had downed half a tumbler of this, his face had recovered some of its colour.

  He said abruptly, ‘I’ve got something I must tell you. And a favour to ask.’

  He said this in English, no doubt out of consideration for Joe.

  But Luke had noticed before that his English was, in fact, more fluent than his Russian; not unnaturally when one remembered the age at which he had arrived in London and the life he had lived.

  ‘I have to tell you, first of all, that I am not Jacob’s son.’

  This did not surprise Luke, who had suspected it when he first saw the family together.

  He said, ‘But Anna – she’s his daughter, is she not?’

  ‘Yes. She is his daughter. I am his nephew. The son of his elder brother, Ivan. My father was shot by the police. Not for any offence. Just because he was rash enough to be out in the street when a pogrom was taking place. After that happened, I was taken care of by Uncle Jacob. When he finally succeeded in leaving Russia, I was only six and he declared me as his son. Anna was seven and he was allowed to bring both of us with him. His own son, Peter, was fifteen and was held to be too old to be allowed to leave. Boys of that age, you understand, were wanted as workmen and soldiers. Peter was developing some skill as an engineer and was apprentice to a railway construction company. This was fortunate. It saved him from being called up.’

  As Luke listened to Dmitry, a number of things which he had suspected became clear and began to fit together.

  He said, ‘Let me guess. The Ochrana have arrested Peter, on some trumped-up charge, no doubt, and are holding him as surety for Jacob’s help and co-operation.’

  ‘That must be so. He is not a coward. That must be why he crawls to Weil.’

  ‘Does Anna know about it?’

  Seeing the look on Dmitry’s face, he was sorry he had asked this.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dmitry. ‘I think she must have been told. I believe that my uncle has already given her messages to deliver and small jobs to do connected with the anarchist ring. He would only do this if he was sure of her.’

  ‘Because of her love for Peter.’

  ‘No,’ said Dmitry with a twisted smile. ‘She can only have known him as a much older brother and such memories as she has will have faded by now. It is love for her father. She knows that if anything happened to Peter it would be the end of the world for Jacob. Perhaps you will understand if I tell you that when we first came here and had almost no money, a part of what ought to have been spent on food was being sent to his son. Any that was left went, I’m sure, first on food for his wife and us children. For himself, he was prepared to starve if it meant that a few more roubles could go through the Ghetto Bank to Peter.’

  The awkward silence which followed was broken by Joe. He said, ‘Maybe I’m being dumb. Not an unusual oc
currence. But there’s two things I can’t understand. What’s it Jacob can do for them that’s so important? He takes lovely wedding photographs and he did print some tickets for one of their meetings, but that was in the line of business. Doesn’t seem to me anything to get excited about. And what’s even more of a puzzler is why he’s so keen on no one going near Ikey Solomon’s sweat-shop?’

  ‘Which we hear, anyway, is closing down,’ said Luke.

  Dmitry said, ‘I wonder if the answer to both those questions might not be in the same place.’

  They waited for him to explain what he meant. When he seemed reluctant to go on, Joe poured him out another drink and Luke said, ‘You can’t leave us guessing. Come on. Cough it up.’

  ‘I mean,’ said Dmitry, with obvious reluctance, ‘that both answers may be in my uncle’s desk. Lately he’s been so secretive about his work. If anyone comes in – even his wife or daughter – he covers it up. And it’s locked away each night.’

  ‘Do you think you might manage to get a quick look at it?’

  ‘I might, perhaps, do that. But it doesn’t mean that I should have any idea what it’s all about. How am I going to know what’s significant? If it concerns Weil and the men who are behind him – I don’t even know who they are.’

  ‘Janis Silistreau and Casimir Treschau,’ said Luke. ‘Or so we think.’

  ‘There it is. You know about them. You’d be able to guess what they’re planning. Hints, which would mean nothing to me, might tell you the whole story.’

  The forlorn tones in which he said this reminded Luke that they were dealing with a sixteen-year-old boy who needed sympathy more than prodding. Before he could say anything, Joe, smiling in pleasurable anticipation, said, ‘Looks like we’ll have to do a bit of housebreaking, dunnit?’

  ‘No need for housebreaking.’ Dmitry took a purse from his pocket and extracted from it three keys which he laid on the table. ‘These are copies. I have been able to take impressions without exciting my uncle’s suspicions and one of my friends who works in an ironmonger’s shop made these for me. They are not elegant, but they work. This is the key of the desk. That was the most difficult to get. This is the door of my uncle’s workroom, which is kept locked at night. This is the back door. The family all sleep upstairs and on the far side of the house.’

  ‘Money for old rope,’ said Joe.

  ‘No,’ said Luke.

  He said it so firmly that the others stared at him. ‘Come to your senses, Joe. You and I are members of the police force. Are you seriously suggesting that we commit a burglary?’

  Joe, who had been about to suggest just that, opened his mouth and shut it again.

  Luke said, ‘The most we can ask you to do, Dmitry, is to try to get a look at the papers your uncle’s working on. You could make a note of anything that seems significant – names, places, dates, that sort of thing – and pass the information on to us.’

  He put the keys back in the purse and handed it to Dmitry. He said, ‘There is another way you could help. There’s a piece of information that I’d value. If things come to a head it may be of great importance. It’s simply this. Just how deeply is Anna committed? You say that she’s carried messages and done other small jobs. Would she be prepared to take on something more important?’

  ‘I can tell you one thing about Anna,’ said Dmitry. ‘And that is that she’s a very close-mouthed girl and very unlikely to confide in me.’

  ‘Understood. All we can really ask you for is your opinion.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Dmitry slowly. ‘I think that if her father put it to her that Peter’s safety was at stake, she’d do whatever she was asked to do.’

  ‘However dangerous.’

  ‘In such a case, danger would not be considered.’

  ‘I see,’ said Luke. ‘Well, thank you. You’d better be getting back before you’re missed.’

  ‘I’ll see him out,’ said Joe, jumping to his feet. ‘I can give Bill back what’s left of his bottle at the same time.’

  He ushered Dmitry to the door and went through, shutting it behind them. Luke heard their footsteps clattering downstairs, after which there was an interval in which he heard their voices but could not pick up any of the words. They seemed to have a lot to say to each other.

  Then the front door slammed.

  9

  Next morning Luke and Joe, having thrown on their clothes, were preparing to go out. Their immediate destination was the Seaman’s Cafe at Tidal Basin. Here they planned to take a leisurely breakfast, after which they would move along, not too fast, to Leman Street to see whether Joscelyne or Wensley had thought up any plans for them.

  This programme was destined to be altered.

  ‘Take a look,’ said Joe, who was at the window pushing a comb through his unruly hair. ‘Isn’t that our friend at the end of the street?’

  Luke joined him at the window. Even at a distance he had no difficulty in recognising the dragging, limping gait that had once haunted his dreams.

  ‘It’s Treschau, all right. Another shopping expedition, do you think? Wait for it. Yes. He’s going into the butcher’s shop.’

  They made for the door, picking up the binoculars which stood ready on the table. Once outside they wasted no time. They slipped across into Garvary Road, scudded down it, crossed Freemasons Road and Prince Regent’s Lane and took the centre of the three dead-end streets which led to the marsh.

  Joe had already marked down a useful observation post.

  The last house in that particular road was empty, and, judging from the state of the garden, had been empty for some time. There was an apology for a summer house at the foot of the garden. Openings in its walls commanded the ends of all three of the approach roads.

  ‘Bound to see him,’ said Joe, ‘whichever way he comes.’

  ‘Always supposing we’ve guessed right,’ said Luke. ‘Did it never occur to you that he mightn’t have come this way at all?’

  ‘If he didn’t come this way, which way did he go?’

  ‘He might have been visiting one of the houses in Prince Regent’s Lane with a parcel of meat for one of his starving compatriots.’

  ‘No,’ said Joe. ‘He came this way.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Instinct.’

  Luke had nothing to say to this. He had known Joe predict the movements of birds and beasts with unfailing accuracy, so why not human beings, too?

  A very slow quarter of an hour crept by. Then they saw Treschau. He was climbing through the fence at the end of the next road along. They focused their glasses on him. He seemed to be following a track which led straight out into the marshes. It ran up to the embanked side of one of the many dykes and they could see that it continued beyond it. No doubt there was some sort of bridge across the dyke, hidden by the bank.

  They waited, but Treschau did not reappear.

  ‘Gone to ground,’ said Joe. ‘Yes. I can see him now. The crafty bastard. He’s lying up, under the edge of the bank. You see him? Just to the left of that old willow stump.’

  Luke said, ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Joe, though Luke was loath to admit it, had better eyes than him.

  After about five minutes they saw Treschau again. Apparently satisfied that he wasn’t being followed he had crossed the dyke and was hobbling forward, clasping his brown paper parcel under one arm. Luke said, ‘Off we go. You lead.’

  Their plan was to make a circle to the left where the lie of the land would keep them out of sight for most of the way, stopping when they reached a spot from which they could mark their quarry.

  Treschau seemed easy and unsuspicious. He went on his way for about half a mile. At this point a rise in the ground took him out of their sight. Fearful of losing him they raced forward across the tussocky ground and climbed the far end of the ridge.

  ‘Heads down now,’ said Joe. They went on hands and knees until they reached a clump of bushes on top of the rise. Peering through it they found they were
looking both at their quarry and at what was clearly his destination.

  They were on the edge of a valley, shut in on two sides, open at both ends. A fair-sized stream ran down the middle of it, widening as it joined the mouth of the River Roding, known in its lower stretches as Barking Creek.

  Here a substantial landing-stage had been constructed, large enough to accommodate quite a sizeable boat. There were signs that dredging had taken place to provide the necessary depth of water. At the moment it was occupied only by a two-oared dinghy, attached to a post and bobbing in the current.

  But this was not what held their attention.

  Above the dock and joined to it by a covered flight of steps, stood a single-storey building, inside a palisade. On each of its two separate wings a chimney was smoking. As they watched they saw the heads of two or three men who were moving about inside the palisade, busy at some job which was hidden from them. Treschau had walked straight in, as though expected.

  They settled down to watch.

  It was all of two hours before Treschau reappeared. He came out of a gate at the far side of the left-hand building, followed by one of the workmen down the steps to the jetty and climbed into the dinghy. The man loosed the rope, holding it in one hand to steady the boat, then stepped in, unshipped the oars and allowed the current to carry the boat out into the creek. Once there he used the oars only to turn the head of the boat downstream and, with an occasional corrective pull, was soon out on the dimpled grey waters of the Thames. He carried out all these manoeuvres with the unfussed ease of a seaman.

  ‘Tide’s starting to make,’ said Joe. ‘Timed it nicely. A quarter of an hour and he’ll be up to Gallions Steps. No sweat.’

  ‘If it’s as easy as that, I wonder he didn’t come that way.’

  ‘Well, he had to pick up the meat, didn’t he? And the tide would have been against him.’

  ‘I suppose that’s right,’ said Luke. He was trying to make sense out of what he had seen.