Ring of Terror

by Michael Gilbert

  The blast had brought down the outer wall of the police station and had filled the street with a carpet of brick and broken glass. Luke, picking his way over it, managed to secure the attention of one of the rescue team. When he understood who Luke was, he allowed him through what had once been a door and was now a jagged gap in the wall, into the charge room.

  The man indicated an inner wall, which had almost ceased to exist and said, ‘We think the stuff was in there.’

  ‘Dynamite?’

  ‘Must have been. Very strong blast. Took out everything above it.’ Luke could see clean up to the roof, where the rain was dribbling through a hole. ‘It’s thrown a heap of stuff into the street. Injured three people who were passing by. One of them badly. The side blast, into this room, picked up the desk sergeant – don’t know his name – crushed him against the wall and put his desk on top of him.’

  ‘Sergeant Gorman,’ said Luke. ‘Did it kill him?’

  ‘He was alive when we picked the bits of the desk off him. Died before we could get him into the ambulance. The other one was luckier – well, a bit luckier.’

  ‘The other one?’

  ‘Young detective. Name of Narrowbone. Something like that. I said he was lucky. The explosion sent the door of that inner room right across this one. Must have come like a shell out of a gun. Knocked the youngster flat, but fell across him. That saved him from the really dangerous stuff – lumps of brick that were coming down all round him.’

  ‘Which hospital?’ said Luke urgently.

  ‘Stepney. That’s where most of the casualties—’

  But Luke had gone.

  As the storm passed the rain had eased, but the streets through which Luke ran were empty. He could visualise men and women huddled in their houses, cowed by the double assault from the Almighty and from the enemy. And Joe? The man had said that he had been a bit luckier. What did he mean by that?

  At the hospital the grey-haired doctor, who had been talking to the rescuers, was sympathetic. ‘Friend of yours, was he? Oh, a colleague. Well, you’ll be glad to hear that he’s not on the danger list.’

  ‘Then could I possibly have a word with him?’

  ‘Out of the question. He’s already been anaesthetised and prepared for the operation.’

  ‘Operation?’

  ‘I’m afraid we had no option. That door that fell on him protected most of his body, but part of his left leg must have been outside it. It was crushed so badly by the stuff that fell on it that it will have to come off.’

  Seeing Luke’s face he added, ‘Only below the knee.’

  ‘Only below the knee,’ repeated Luke blankly.

  Joe on crutches. Joe, whose pride had been his strength and his ability.

  ‘Might have been worse,’ said the doctor. ‘A lot worse, when you think that a man a few feet away from him was killed. And I assure you – speaking from cases I’ve dealt with myself – that the days of sailors stumping round on a peg leg are long past. The artificial limbs they make nowadays are excellent. We’ll fit him out with one of the latest types and he’ll soon be hopping round like a sparrow.’

  But not in the police, thought Luke. There was nothing more to be said and he was about to go when the doctor stopped him.

  ‘You wouldn’t be Luke Pagan, by any chance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’ve got a message for you. Two messages in fact. I didn’t understand them, but I expect you will. He said we were to tell you that Bill Trotter had got the papers. The second was something he said later. He was getting very shaky by then and wasn’t easy to hear. It sounded like, “It was Anna who got the sergeant to leave the charge room empty.”’

  ‘Yes. I understand that, too,’ said Luke. He scribbled his address on a piece of paper. ‘Please let me know as soon as I can see him. And when he comes round, tell him I’ll deal with the papers – and the other thing.’

  The doctor promised to pass those messages as soon as his patient was able to appreciate them. Luke walked home slowly, with his thoughts.

  He neither noted nor worried about the fact that he was under observation from the moment he crossed the East India Dock Road. If he had had a thought to spare for it he might have realised that as soon as Wensley shifted his headquarters from Leman Street to Poplar, the network of eyes would have moved south.

  When he got back he found Bill Trotter waiting for him. He said, ‘I’m terribly sorry.’ For a moment Luke thought he was talking about Joe, who had been, he knew, a close friend. But apparently it was something else. ‘He looked all right. I mean, he could have been off one of the ships. Something like that.’

  ‘Who could have been?’

  ‘Why, the man you sent round with a message. At least, that was what he said. He was to wait till you got back. I never thought—well, come up and take a dekko.’

  The room looked as though a small typhoon had been through it. Things were scattered everywhere. Bedclothes on the floor; both mattresses ripped up; chairs upended and their cushion seats sliced across. All the cupboard doors were hanging open and where these had contained suits the pockets had been turned inside out and the jackets and trousers added to the pile on the floor.

  Luke stared at the chaos. In the light of what had happened to Joe, it registered only as a minor irritation. He said, ‘We’d better tidy things up a bit.’

  ‘I’m reckoned to be a good hand with a needle,’ said Bill. ‘I’ll soon tack up those mattresses and cushions.’

  ‘That would be kind of you.’

  By the time Bill came back a semblance of order had been restored. Bill, seating himself cross-legged like a professional tailor, set about repairing the rents in the mattresses. Whilst he was doing so, Luke told him about Joe.

  Bill paused for a moment, said, ‘That’s bad,’ and went on with his work. After a moment he added, ‘He once did me a good turn. Did he tell you?’

  ‘Yes, he told me.’

  A further interval of silence. Then, ‘That man who made all this mess. Was he a Russian?’

  ‘I guess he must have been.’

  ‘Didn’t sound like one. More like a squarehead. Do you know what he was looking for?’

  ‘Yes. He was looking for a packet of papers. The ones Joe asked you to look after.’

  ‘I thought it must be that. Get them now if you like.’

  ‘No hurry,’ said Luke. ‘Please finish what you’re doing. You’re making an excellent job of it.’

  The papers had seemed important once. Now they were nothing more than a routine job. Something to keep his mind off what had happened. Useful because he didn’t think he’d sleep much that night.

  As midnight was sounding he was sitting on his bed in the restored and tidied room, trying to make out what it was in Jacob Katz’s desk that had caused such violent reactions.

  First he had had to put the papers into some sort of order. Into one pile went the public notices of Russian and other émigré events. Into another, the miscellaneous jobs that Jacob had undertaken for other people. Notices of private functions, menus, raffle tickets, fixture lists for local football clubs. When these had been put on one side a more interesting residue remained.

  First, there was a list of supposed supporters of the terrorists – some of them surprised Luke considerably. Finally, and he had left them to the last on purpose, there were four double sheets of paper clipped together.

  The first two, when spread out, appeared to be a draft of the opening pages of a passport. The main headings – Number of Passport; Name of Bearer; National Status – were in what Luke assumed to be Danish, a language of which he was almost entirely ignorant, but were duplicated, fortunately, in French.

  Under ‘Nom de Titulaire’ he noted, with growing excitement, ‘Harald Knud Eberhardt. Profession: Officier d’Artillerie’. In the other, ‘Hartvig Kildebond. Professeur de I’Université d’Arhus’. It was clear that these papers had been in front of Jacob Katz whilst he was printing the relevant pages in t
he forged passports which had allowed Katakin and Heilman to slip out of the country.

  Why in the world had he kept them? Stupidity, forgetfulness, or some long-range idea of bargaining with his employers, who would hate to see them coming to light. Whatever the reason, their production would put Jacob behind bars for a long time. He felt no compunction about this. His views on the Katz family had been blown sky-high by the explosion at Leman Street and had come down in twisted and hateful fragments.

  The second pair were even more interesting. They followed the same lines as the first pair, but in this case the headings were in Polish, of which Luke had picked up a fair smattering from his Russian tutor, and the duplicate entries were in German.

  The holders of these passports, Adam Fredro Krasiki and Juliusz Korgenewski, were both in the Church. Krasiki a priest, ‘Geistliche’, Korgenewski an abbot, ‘Abate’. In both cases the national status was given as Polish. The place of birth in one case was Lodz, in the other, Poznan. From the dates of birth it seemed that both were in their early middle age.

  Luke looked at the second pair of documents, while the minutes of the long night ticked away. Clearly the vital question was whether they related to something which had already taken place – Peter the Painter and Max Smoller? – or whether they had been prepared against future contingencies.

  Both before and after the Houndsditch and Sidney Street outrages, quite a few wanted Russians, Letts and other Eastern Europeans had vanished from the country. It had been so easy. A mask of soot over the face, a trip down river in the Black Stinker, a change of clothing, a new passport, a short paddle in the dinghy, up the dock steps and away.

  He could find out from Mr Warburton or the efficient Mr Sleight whether a passport bearing these particulars had been produced to them in the last twelve months. If it had, then too late to shut that stable door. If it had not, it suggested a number of very interesting ideas.

  But if they were so interesting, why was he finding it difficult to concentrate on them? There was something at the back of his mind. Something that Bill had said. Something casual and quite unimportant. As he was leaving he had looked out of the window, had noticed that the rain had stopped and had said—yes, that was it—had said how lucky it was, because when the rain was heavy their basement got flooded. Some blockage, no doubt in the storm drain, which they had been pestering the authorities to do something about.

  From that point his mind, which was working with the clarity that sometimes comes in the small hours, moved on to the Rabbi Werfel who had had a similar problem. In his case, what could have caused it?

  Luke found it easier to think a problem through if he could commit it to paper. He started to sketch the area of Brownsong Court as he remembered it from his visit with Joe.

  Stratford Road ran east and west. North of it lay first the Jewish school, with its playground, then the synagogue. A narrow cobbled way ran along the east end of the synagogue, separating it from the back of the Solomon workshop. Next came Brownsong Passage running past the front of Solomon’s place and into Brownsong Court. Finally, and more tentatively, he sketched in what he remembered as the only exit from the court, a lane which ran past the south end of the Ghetto Bank, turned right and ran north – to where? He didn’t know.

  Having blocked in these buildings, roads and passages, he drew a dotted line showing where the storm drain must surely run. Along Stratford Road, certainly. And if it had been blocked, the blockage would be somewhere between the school and the synagogue. If it had been any earlier it would have flooded the school playground. After that the soak-away must turn left, as the land fell away in that direction. But where? The important question was, did it run down the cobbled way between the synagogue and Solomon’s place, or down Brownsong Passage?

  Luke now found himself assuming that the blockage was not accidental; it was deliberate. Reason forward from this. There were two significant points. First, that Solomon had shut down—had been forced to shut down?—his business. He didn’t believe for a moment that it was because of a fall in profits. That was eye-wash. Secondly, that since it had shut down, outsiders had been discouraged. There were reports on the files about this and about young Russians who had been observed going into the presumably empty building.

  So what was going on?

  Luke thought he could guess. He drew in one further line on his plan. It ran from Solomon’s workshop to the synagogue. A tunnel, short and easy to dig. But if the storm drain ran, in fact, down the cobbled way, then it would have to be blocked. If not, every time it rained the tunnel would be flooded.

  And the objective was clear. They had been expecting a dramatic demonstration by the Russians. What could be more dramatic than blowing up the main place of Jewish worship in the East End of London? And, looked at from the Ochrana point of view, what more likely to move a hesitating government to take the step they were hoping for? They might be able to laugh off a few Liberal defections. The hostility of the Jewish bloc, so strong in the City and beginning to be felt in Government itself – that would be a different matter altogether.

  Luke had now so much on his mind that he decided to compose two separate reports. The first would deal with the passports. It would have the four double sheets of paper attached to it. A factual report. No comment needed.

  The second was more speculative. He was convinced that he had read the riddle correctly, but there was a lot of guesswork in it.

  His conclusion, which he reached after he had finished writing and as four o’clock was striking, was that the first report must go at once. Bill Trotter, or one of the other sailors, would take it for him. As for the other report – he remembered the reproof, all the more stinging for its mildness, which he had earned over his ill-considered scheme to penetrate that meeting – it should go when he had visited the synagogue, spoken to the Rabbi and confirmed one or two of his suppositions.

  Having settled all this he lay down to snatch a few minutes’ sleep and woke with a start six hours later. He scrambled guiltily into his clothes, sealed up his first report in an envelope addressed to Wensley and took it downstairs. Bill, who was no early riser when not on duty, was still at his breakfast. He agreed, readily enough, to look for Wensley. Since he could hardly be working in the ruins of Leman Street, he would probably be at Poplar, but there were other possibilities. Bill said not to worry, he would contact him. Relieved, Luke started out for the synagogue, where most of the answers he needed could be found.

  He was not to know that he was being monitored every yard of the way and would not have turned back if he had known.

  He found the Rabbi in his ground-floor study at the back of the tower block which formed the west end of the synagogue, rising above it like the funnel of a steamer. The Rabbi greeted him and offered him coffee. Having had no breakfast, he accepted it gratefully. When it arrived he embarked on explanations. The Rabbi heard him out, nodding his head from time to time. Then he said, ‘I can see two objections to your most alarming theory. The first, a minor objection, is that our synagogue is founded upon the rock, both metaphorically and literally. When they were digging out our cellars the builders needed explosives to make the necessary excavation. A tunnel could be dug through it, but it would be a laborious and very noisy job. The second objection is, I think, conclusive. The rainwater soak-away to which you refer runs, in fact, down Brownsong Passage. In front of Solomon’s workshop, not behind it. A tunnel starting there and finishing under our synagogue would not, therefore, have to cross it.’

  He demonstrated on the plan which Luke had brought with him. Luke said, ‘Oh,’ and tried to rearrange his ideas. If his theory was nonsensical he was glad that he had taken the trouble to check on it before putting in a report to Wensley.

  ‘However,’ said the Rabbi, ‘your idea that tunnelling is taking place is not, in itself, farfetched. I have noticed unexplained visitors recently to a place which is now supposedly shut. They might well be digging. Not towards us. But in a different direction
.’ He picked up a pencil and drew in another line on the plan. ‘Not west, but north.’

  ‘North?’

  ‘A short tunnel which, as you can see, would cross the soak-away. It would bring them into the vaults of the Ghetto Bank.

  Whether their objective would be destruction or plunder I do not know.’

  ‘Both,’ said Molacoff Weil.

  He had come in quietly and had two other men with him. Before Luke could move they were behind him and had grabbed an arm each. One of them was Ivan Luwinski. Luke had noted him from Mr Passmore’s window and had judged him to be a powerful man. He saw no reason to change his opinion as his arms were twisted up so savagely that he fell on to his knees. Weil had brought a rug with him. He covered Luke’s head in its stifling folds, pressing it over his nose and mouth.

  He heard Weil say, ‘Take him the back way. If anyone sees you it is one of your comrades, being taken to the doctor for attention.’

  All three men laughed and the laughter was in Luke’s ears as his senses slipped away.

  15

  Luke was lying on the floor of what had been the men’s workroom in Solomon’s spread. If his legs had not been roped as well as his arms, he would have been kicking himself. Had he not done precisely what Joe had been warned against doing? He had got into trouble and had given his senior officers the trouble of getting him out of it.

  If they knew about it. And if they could do anything.

  In the report which had gone to Wensley there had been no mention of his suspicions or his intentions. Would the Rabbi report what had happened? He had the impression, as he was being carried away like a sack over Luwinski’s broad shoulder, that Weil had stayed behind. No doubt he had been warning the Rabbi what would happen to him and his synagogue if he opened his mouth.