The Wellington Arms loomed up ahead of him. The pub was so close to the Thames that Blackstone could hear the river lapping against steps where the watermen’s boats lay moored. Most men walked down the steps to those boats, but he knew of at least three who had been dragged down by their heels, and had not objected—even as their heads banged on each and every step—because they were long past objecting to anything. It was thoughts of that nature which made Blackstone glad he had his pistol with him.
The Inspector glanced quickly around to see if any of his closest enemies were lurking in the shadows, then pushed open the door which led into the public bar of the Wellington.
The place was full, as it always was at that time of night. Watermen and costermongers stood drinking pints, sailors on shore leave knocked back whiskies as if their throats were on fire. There were leather tanners and dock workers, warehouse men and low-class prostitutes. They were so tightly packed together that it was a wonder they could even breathe—yet despite the cramped conditions they all took the greatest care not to infringe on the area of clear space which surrounded the table in the corner of the room.
The man who was sitting alone at the table was in his mid-thirties. His hair was the colour of straw, and as wispy as a neglected thatch. His eyes were of the palest blue. Though there was a knife scar running down his left cheek, he did not look like he was much of a fighter. Nor were appearances deceptive—Tommy Keogh had not got where he was by being handy in a fight—he had done so by persuading others it was to their advantage to do his fighting for him.
Blackstone fought his way through the crush, and made his way over to the table. Behind him, the bar had fallen silent. Some of these watchers did not know who he was, and marvelled at his temerity. And even those who did recognize him thought he was pushing his luck.
Tommy Keogh watched the policeman’s approach impassively. He gestured that Blackstone should take a seat, then raised his head and gazed with his pale blue eyes into the silence.
‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded. ‘This is a pub, ain’t it? Yer ‘ere to enjoy yerselves, ain’t yer?’
He paused, awaiting a response.
‘Yes, Tommy,’ some brave soul mumbled, and then the whole bar was agreeing that, ‘Yes, Tommy,’ it was.
‘Then bloody well get on with it,’ Keogh ordered.
The bar had been noisy before, but now the noise level was even louder, as all the customers strove to prove that if Tommy wanted them to enjoy themselves they would—whether they wanted to or not.
Keogh took a sip from the glass of vintage brandy which stood on the table. ‘What brings you down on to my patch unannounced, Inspector Blackstone?’ he asked, the pale eyes giving nothing away.
‘What do you think brings me down?’ Blackstone countered.
Keogh ran his hand through his thin thatch of hair. ‘The kidnappings?’ he asked.
‘The kidnappings,’ Blackstone agreed.
‘Don’t know nuffink about them. I’ve ‘ad a few people seen to in me time, but it’s just not me style to cut up kids—not even rich ones.’
‘So whose style is it?’
Keogh scratched his head again. ‘Now there, I’ve got to admit, yer’ve got me.’
‘Are you telling me that you don’t know?’
‘Exactly.’
But would you give me the information even if you did know?’
The other man favoured him with a thin smile. ‘Like I said, it’s not my style to go cuttin’ up kiddies. But I’m not about to shop anybody who does. It’s a tough world, Mr Blackstone, and we all have to do whatever we can to earn a crust.’
‘Live and let live?’
‘Yers, in a manner of speakin’.’
It’s a pity the kidnappers don’t have the same philosophy,’ Blackstone said, with a tinge of regret in his voice.
‘What do yer mean?’
‘You get away with a lot of the things you do because we haven’t got the manpower to stop you,’ Blackstone said. ‘Take last Thursday, for example.’
‘What about it?’
‘There was a ship called the SS Baltimore moored in the Thames just opposite Billingsgate Fish Market. It had armed guards posted on the deck all night, because part of the cargo was antiques destined for America.’ Blackstone paused. ‘I’m not boring you, am I, Tommy?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘About an hour before the fish market opened for business, a ketch appeared on the river, apparently intending to unload its catch. There was a man standing on the deck, and he asked the guards on the Baltimore if they fancied buying some fresh fish from him. Said he could let them have it for a very reasonable price. That was clever, wasn’t it?’
‘I dunno what yer talkin’ about.’
Blackstone smiled. ‘We always think we can peg people, don’t we? So if somebody seems a little bit dishonest, that’s what we think he is—a little bit dishonest. The guards on the ship thought the man on the ketch was trying to make himself a few bob by selling things that didn’t exactly belong to him, and they saw no harm in going along with it. After all, it seemed like a good deal, in which everybody benefited—except the man whose fish they were. The guards told the ketch to come alongside—and the moment it was close enough, two more men suddenly appeared on the deck, both armed with pistols. The guards were disarmed, the antiques were stolen. It was a clever plan, Tommy. One of your best.’
‘Ang on, ‘ang on,’ Keogh interrupted. ‘I got an alibi. I was in Sarfend when that robbery happened.’
‘I’m sure you were,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘But what about Tufty Squires and Harry the Hook? Where were they?’
‘Dunno. Not me business.’
Blackstone laughed. ‘The robbery had your trademark stamped right through it,’ he said. ‘And because the goods were stolen from a ship, we could call it piracy if we had a mind to. You could hang for that, Tommy.’
‘Not me!’
‘You,’ Blackstone contradicted him. ‘If we really made the effort, we could pin it on you. The problem is, we don’t have the manpower for a job like that—at the moment!’
‘What do yer mean? At the moment?’
‘There are some crimes that have to be solved, because everybody wants them to be,’ Blackstone explained. ‘The general public couldn’t give a sheep’s fart about the fact that some rich Yank has lost all his antiques. But kidnapping and murder? Well, that’s an entirely different matter. Parliament will be screaming for results, and so will the newspapers. Especially after the next one.’
‘The next what?’
‘The next kidnapping. There’s a definite progressive pattern to this case, don’t you think?’
‘Yer speakin’ in riddles.’
‘No, I’m not. Look at it this way, Tommy. The first victim came from a moderately prosperous family, the second from a family which you’d have to describe as quite rich. The third’s going to have a very rich dad indeed. And once he’s been snatched, they’ll bring in policemen from everywhere—Bristol, Glasgow, Manchester, Cardiff…Perhaps they’ll even ask for help from the French and the Americans. The whole of London will be saturated with coppers. Nobody will be able to commit any crimes. Worse—from your point of view—in their attempts to find leads in the kidnapping, they may well uncover some clues that can be used to solve old crimes. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Keogh nodded gravely. ‘It’s very worryin’ when a man can’t go about the business of honest, decent thievery wivout havin’ to look over his shoulder every coupla minutes.’
‘So you’ll help me? You’ll find out who’s behind these kidnappings?’
‘I’ll try me best,’ Keogh promised. He squared his shoulders. ‘After all, as a loyal subject of Her Majesty, the Queen, it’s me duty.’
‘You’re a true patriot, Tommy,’ Blackstone said, one half of his forked tongue firmly in each cheek.
Seven
It was the early afternoon of the day following the one in w
hich Obadiah Ramsbottom’s refusal to pay the ransom had cost his son, Wilfred, his head. The Maharaja of Chandrapore was sitting in the salon of his suite at Claridge’s, waiting for the start of the most important few hours of his visit to England.
‘It is true that Victoria has agreed to meet me this afternoon,’ the Maharaja said to his trusted secretary, the only other person in the room. ‘But where has her government decreed that this meeting should take place? In the India Office! If I had been a European monarch—a white monarch—she would have received me at one of her palaces.’
It was no more than a realistic assessment of the situation. However much he talked to others of the queen being his equal, the Maharaja was too much of a political animal to believe it himself—or to imagine Aggarwal believed that he believed it. Yet even though he accepted things as they were—for only a fool railed against that which he could not change—it still rankled a little.
‘And though she will incline her head to me,’ the Maharaja continued, ‘I will be expected to bow deeply to her. She may treat me as if I were a distant cousin, but in her eyes I am never more than a cousin who comes from a vastly inferior line of the family.’
‘The sign of a great man is not that he is the most powerful man in the world,’ Aggarwal said. ‘It is that he sees the strengths and weaknesses of others, and knows how to use them to his own advantage. In that respect, Your Majesty, you tower above both the English queen and the rest of the so-called Indian princes.’
That was no more than a fair comment, at least as far as his brother monarchs were concerned, the Maharaja thought.
How they boasted! How they deluded themselves about their own strength!
‘Why do the British not annex my state as they have annexed so many others?’ they would ask. ‘Because they are afraid of me!’
Almost as afraid as a tiger is of a monkey, the Maharaja would think to himself.
The greater did not normally crush the lesser until given a reason. The tiger had better things to feast on than monkey flesh, and it was only if the monkey persisted in throwing nuts at it that it would take any action.
Of course the British were willing to allow the princes to act independently—as long as that independence had its roots in an unquestioning allegiance to the British crown. And of course the princes were allowed to cheat the British collector of some of the tribute money—as long as he did not try to hold back too much. Aggarwal was right—the great man saw the truth and seized what advantage he could. Thus, if he were to be no more than one of the dogs at Victoria’s feet, he would make sure he was the dog she most cherished and most indulged.
‘How the other princes brag when they return from London,’ he said, inviting his secretary, on this occasion, to laugh at his fellow rulers.
Aggarwal dutifully complied. ‘How they compete with each other to demonstrate the honour the English queen has seen fit to show them,’ he said.
‘—I was given an escort of fifty soldiers,’ the Maharaja said, in a squeaky voice which was a perfect imitation of the ruler of a neighbouring state. ‘—I was given an escort of a hundred,’ he continued, in the deeper voice of another prince. ‘But you are right, Aggarwal. The glory is not theirs. It is showered on them as I shower coins on my poorer subjects.’
Aggarwal risked a chuckle which had not been directly elicited. ‘How envious they will be when they hear how you chose to arrive at the India Office,’ he said. ‘What a masterstroke. What genius!’
The Maharaja nodded, to show he accepted the compliment as no more than his due. It was true that the original plan had not been his at all. It had not even come from an Indian, but instead had been proposed by one of the cursed white invaders. Nevertheless, it would have withered on the bud if he had not decided to cultivate it. And that was the measure of true genius—to know what to nurture and what to consign to the rubbish heap.
‘The Maharaja of Jalandhar arrived at the India Office in the biggest motor car he could find,’ he said. ‘Floshiarpur thought he had got one over on Jalandhar when he travelled in a gold coach. Both those are as nothing when compared with what I am about to do!’ A sudden, troubling thought came into his mind. ‘What if the British cavalry horses are frightened when confronted by the might of India?’ he asked worriedly.
‘The horses are well trained,’ Aggarwal said.
But perhaps not well trained enough. If they panic and destroy my triumphal parade, I will hold you and your idea responsible.’
There was barely a flicker in Aggarwal’s eye as he noted that the whole project had suddenly become his idea.
‘Your Majesty cannot be held responsible for the actions of the queen’s horses,’ he said. ‘If they scatter, any shame that is to be had will fall on the queen’s army. Dhiren, I assure Your Majesty, will not falter.’
‘No,’ the Maharaja agreed. ‘He is a good beast—a reliable beast. That was part of my calculation when I came up with the plan.’
Aggarwal nodded. To be the secretary of a maharaja, he thought, it was necessary to be as cunning as a snake and as swift as a mongoose. And that was only on days when nothing went wrong.
‘Go over to the window,’ the Maharaja said. ‘See what is happening on the street.’
Aggarwal did as he had been instructed. ‘A crowd has gathered,’ he said. ‘They have no idea what is about to happen, but because the street had been closed off to traffic they know that something is.’
A sudden roar went up from the crowd below. ‘Dhiren is coming?’ the Maharaja asked.
‘Dhiren is coming,’ Aggarwal agreed.
Eight
The two men—the tall, thin, almost biblical-looking inspector and his shorter, slightly plump sergeant—left the Embankment and made their way up Whitehall.
They were not going anywhere in particular—they were just walking. Blackstone, even though he was authorized to take hansom cabs, liked to walk. It was a habit he’d grown into when he was a lowly detective constable, he’d once explained to his sergeant, and now he found that it helped him to think. Patterson did not share his boss’s enthusiasm. In his opinion, there was no point in being an inspector if you didn’t take advantage of the perks of the job. And whilst pounding the pavements might be good for the brain, it was hellish hard on the feet.
‘I can’t fathom it,’ Blackstone said. ‘I can’t fathom it at all. I’ve put the screws on some of the biggest villains in London for information. It shouldn’t have been too difficult for them to find out what we need to know. Bloody hell, there’s not a pocket picked without their permission, or a house broken into without one of them first giving the nod. And what have they come up with? Sweet Fanny Adams!’
‘Perhaps they really don’t know anything,’ Patterson suggested.
‘Well of course they don’t know anything. In their own interest, they’d tell me if they did. The question is, why don’t they know anything?’
‘The obvious conclusion is that it’s a new gang which has started up,’ Patterson said.
Blackstone shook his head. ‘These things have to evolve.’
You don’t get to be as good as they are without serving a long apprenticeship.’
‘I’m not sure—’ Patterson began.
‘Well, I am,’ Blackstone said firmly. ‘Think about any business! Think about Harrods! It’s a big store, these days, but it wasn’t always. It started as a corner shop on the Brompton Road. The owners learned their craft and made their mistakes when it didn’t really matter. Then, when they were ready—when they’d honed their skills—they expanded. The question is, where did this gang learn its trade? How did it evolve into the well-oiled machine we saw in operation on Westminster Bridge yesterday? How could any of it have happened without the criminal fraternity noticing?’
There was no satisfactory answer Patterson could come up with, and so he said nothing. The two men walked on in silence, Blackstone thinking about the evolution of criminal gangs and Patterson wondering why his boss—who had much
older feet than he had—seemed not to share his preoccupation with acquiring corns.
Perhaps he could talk Blackstone into taking a cab back to Scotland Yard, Patterson thought as they passed Horse Guards. And then, looking around him, he realized that even if he could persuade his boss, there was not a cab to be had. In fact, even in the short time it had taken them to walk from Parliament Square, the volume of traffic seemed to have thinned out considerably. Now why on earth should that be, he wondered?
The explanation was not long in coming. There were half a dozen policemen stationed at the top end of Whitehall, and they were diverting all wheeled traffic away from the street.
‘Looks as if somebody important is coming this way,’ Patterson said.
‘What?’ Blackstone asked.
‘They’re stopping the traffic. Must be some sort of procession.’
‘There’s always some sort of procession in this city,’ Blackstone said grumpily. ‘Is it any wonder crime’s going up, when we have to spend half our time babying dukes and earls and foreign princes.’
They walked a short distance along Pall Mall, then turned on to Regent Street.
‘No traffic here, either,’ Patterson said. ‘This must be on the procession’s route.’
Blackstone did not reply. He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that it was questionable if he even heard.
‘What next?’ he said, almost under his breath.
‘Pardon, sir?’
‘We’ve had the daughter of a moderately rich Londoner kidnapped, and then the son of quite a rich northerner. What next? The Crown Prince of Sweden?’
‘I don’t think the Swedish royal family is in London at the moment, sir,’ said Patterson, who knew about these things.
There was a sound of horses’ hooves in the distance, then the procession about which Patterson had been speculating appeared at the end of the street.
Blackstone and the Great Game (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 2) Page 4
