The Clockmaker

by Jane A. Adams

  And now Joseph was dead and everything had gone back to the way it was before – for Gus and Fred, at least.

  Addie stared out through the rain-streaked window. The boarding house they were staying in was close to the tidal river in Boston, but the tide was out just now, and all she could see was mud with a mean little streak of water and boats tilted at angles against their moorings. Fred had gone into town and Gus to make his report to the police – he was still on ticket, having to sign in every couple of days, or sometimes more frequently, depending on the mood of the desk sergeant.

  Not that it stopped him doing much. He’d sign the book, hop on the train an hour or so later, get up to whatever he had planned and then be back on the train to sign, good as gold, the next day. Addie knew it was a common enough scenario. Addie herself had never been arrested, and Fred had only once been charged. His prints had been taken and he’d come up before the magistrate, but when a witness withdrew – after Gus had a word – the case had been dropped.

  Gus had just been unlucky – so he said. Stupid, Addie would have contradicted if she’d dared, getting himself in a fight when a would-be victim had called him out. Gus had drawn a knife, failing to realize that the victim was not alone. A friend had punched Gus in the kidney and he’d gone down. Arrested for affray, they’d found wallets in his possession that were certainly not his own.

  Now they used Addie as a distraction, Gus as back-up in case anything got heavy, Fred to dip. Light-fingered and quick, Fred was born to it.

  The front door slammed and Addie heard Gus’s heavy tread on the stairs.

  ‘Right, Addie girl, time to get a shift on.’

  ‘Fred’s not back yet.’

  ‘He’ll meet us at the Angel.’

  Addie nodded. The Angel was close to the market and a favourite with Fred. She collected her coat from the end of the bed and her bag from the dresser.

  ‘And put a smile on it,’ Gus told her. ‘What punter wants to speak to a face like that?’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  By Tuesday results were beginning to come in from the enquiries Henry had put out. Names had been sent to the fingerprint bureau from the various divisional headquarters and constabularies of those picked up for crimes involving theft from persons, and had been cross-checked against fingerprint records – should they become relevant later – and prison records. These had been followed up at the local level and a handful of possible suspects forwarded to central office. It was a laborious and time-consuming process but ultimately an efficient dragnet. It was not uncommon for dippers to work in groups or for them to be mixed up with ‘women of the unfortunate classes’, as DI Fred Cherrill of the fingerprint bureau liked to call them – known or suspected prostitutes.

  Had the crimes been committed in London, Henry and Mickey would have had a ready list of persons to be brought in for questioning, but they were well off their own patch and dependent on the knowledge and record keeping of others – and Henry chafed against the inevitable delays.

  So far the investigation into the Goldmanns’ affairs had turned up nothing untoward, but it was clear that they had prospered greatly in the past four or five years: from owning one small shop they now had three – and the boarding house. The similarity to the Levys’ circumstances was not lost on Henry.

  ‘In the case of the Goldmanns,’ Mickey pointed out, ‘there is a solution to this.’ He had been reading through a set of documents released to them by the Goldmanns’ bank.

  ‘Oh, what?’

  ‘Both Mr Goldmann and his wife suffered bereavements. Her mother was a widow; she died leaving a good-sized house, and this was sold and ploughed back into the business. See?’ He laid the paperwork on the table and indicated sales documents, bills for conveyancing and deposits into the bank.

  ‘Mr Goldmann had an elder brother who had previously inherited the family business, that being—’

  ‘Don’t tell me. The boarding house.’

  ‘One and the same. They seem to have refurbished and extended into the next-door property and now employ a housekeeper – as they told us. So far, all very easily accounted for. Henry, it could be that the family – both families – were merely embarrassed by the young man’s activities and that we misread this.’

  Grudgingly, Henry had to agree. ‘Clem Atkins suggested—’

  ‘And since when has he been a reliable witness?’

  Henry shrugged, conceding the point. Pressure was being applied by their superintendent to put the business aside. Sooner or later, whoever had done for Joseph Levy would be picked up – probably for something else – and would be brought to justice. The family were not pressing, the newspapers showed little interest in the death of a young Jew, and evidence and leads were both in short supply.

  For now, the trail was cold.

  By Wednesday, Henry was willing to concede that the death of Joseph Levy was not the most pressing business. But then a note arrived from a pawnbroker. He had a watch in his possession that he believed might have belonged to the dead man. Thinking about fingerprints, Henry fired off a telegram, warning the man not to touch it, just to set it aside; he and Mickey would travel up the following day. It was not lost on either of them that the pawnbroker was in Grimsby, where the Goldmanns had their boarding house.

  They would take with them the fingerprint cards belonging to the suspects that local knowledge or the railway police had provided. The chance that the watch would still bear a relevant fingerprint was remote. But it was still a possibility.

  ‘I’m having a pint with Phil Cox tonight,’ Mickey told Henry. ‘Would you care to come along?’

  Henry shook his head. ‘Works with Ted Greeno? He’ll say more to you if you’re alone.’

  ‘Likely true.’ Not everyone could cope with Henry. Phil was an old friend, a detective sergeant from another division.

  ‘Have fun.’ Henry smiled at his sergeant. ‘See if Ted has any tips to offer.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  DS Phil Cox had already been propping up the bar for some time before Mickey arrived. Like Mickey Hitchens, he was a solid man, one who liked his food, his beer, his horses and his wife, and, like his guvnor, Greeno, possessed an encyclopaedic knowledge of the street gangs, the race gangs, the con artists and every low life in between.

  When Mickey arrived, Cox was deep in conversation with two men who drained their glasses and disappeared as soon as Mickey got the next round in.

  ‘I’d have bought them a pint,’ Mickey joked.

  ‘Best not.’ Cox’s eyes laughed. ‘So, what can I be doing for you, Mickey lad?’

  Mickey plonked the beers on the table and shrugged out of his coat. ‘The Elephant mob,’ Mickey said. ‘You can enlighten me about them. What they’re up to, goading Clem Atkins, and what all this has to do with bloody Sabini.’

  ‘Well, you don’t want much, do you? Now, where shall I begin?’

  ‘Maybe I should make a start,’ Mickey said. ‘Tell you what we know so far.’

  Over a couple of pints, Mickey explained the background to the problem. The attack on the Elephant boy on Clem Atkins’ territory and then the seemingly random attack on Henry Johnstone a few days later. ‘That second could just be coincidence, of course. Henry was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘Inspector Johnstone’s good at that.’

  Mickey let that slide. ‘And there’s something else. Might be connected, probably not, but we’ve been looking into the murder of a young man by the name of Joseph Levy.’

  ‘Nephew to Abraham Levy.’ Cox nodded. ‘Bit of a troublemaker, the uncle.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before.’

  ‘He’s something of an agitator. He tried to organize the sweatshop workers into a union. Stood on a soapbox outside the labour exchange until he got moved on sharpish. Spends too much time at that place on Alie Street.’

  ‘The Workers’ Circle.’

  ‘A favoured haunt of the East End tourists, yes.’

  Mickey snorte
d. He had no liking for the people Cox referred to. Middle-class and even rich punters who paid for tours of the poorer streets, liked the adventure of slumming it in places like Alie Street or listening to the yarns told by some old timer in Charlie Brown’s pub in the East India Docks. They put money in the hat, listened to a talk on the perils of drink and went on their way feeling virtuous. And often much lighter in the pocket than they expected.

  ‘That didn’t work out so well,’ Mickey commented.

  ‘Indeed not. Union labour is the first to get chucked when there’s a downturn – and in the sweatshops that’s every other week. The machinists get paid their thirty bob a week, do their sixty, seventy hours, take themselves off home. Doesn’t leave much time or energy for a lot else. Mr Levy shouts a lot, but I hear he’s been quiet of late. Someone threatened to break his hands and a clockmaker’s not much use to anyone without use of his fingers.’

  ‘Who threatened?’

  ‘Josiah Bailey. Or one of his mob, anyway. I don’t imagine Atkins would be any softer, but from what I hear, Levy’s kept his head down and minded his own business of late. I had a little chat one time with Long Hymie – remember him? Pickpocket, added a sideline as an epileptic, close to Christmastime when the crowds could be counted on?’

  ‘I know Hymie; don’t recall him pulling that particular con. Never reckoned he’d be that good an actor.’

  ‘What acting skill does it take to lie on the floor and shake? Bit of soap in the mouth for effect and you’ve got the full sideshow. And it always gets to me how many of our solid citizens get trimmed.’

  ‘People get conned for two reasons,’ Mickey said. ‘Because they’re greedy or because they mean too well and get taken advantage of. Know anything about the family?’

  ‘What, Ben Levy and his lot? Nothing significant. Why?’

  ‘Just asking.’

  ‘He likes a flutter. Don’t do too badly at it either.’

  ‘Benjamin Levy? The brother?’ Mickey was surprised.

  ‘Owns the jeweller’s shops. Yes. I don’t think that wife of his approves, but I’ve run into him a time or two, passed on a tip a time or two, in fact. He knows his form.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Mickey finished his pint and went back to the bar to get two more in.

  ‘So, the Elephant mob,’ he said, coming back and setting the glasses on the table. ‘And this conversation you had with Long Hymie.’

  ‘I’ll get to him in a minute. The Elephants have been unusually quiet and thin on the ground. Diamond Annie’s been off somewhere and no one’s saying where, and the boys have been playing things very close to their chests. Crime is down on their patch, if you can believe that, but what concerns me more is that the rump end of the Bessarabian mob seems keen to do business with your Mr Atkins, and, well, I don’t much like it when I hear about that sort of potential dalliance between Atkins and the Tigers. I don’t imagine the Odessans or the Elephants would welcome the development either.’

  ‘I thought the Tigers were finished,’ Mickey said.

  ‘And so they were. So they are if we’re talking about the grandfathers, but there’s talk of young bloods picking up the torch.’

  Mickey absorbed that. ‘And Sabini? I hear he’s back on the scene.’

  ‘You think he ever left? But no, I hear he’s lurking. And that brings me back to Long Hymie. We pulled him in one day, usual sweep of dippers and cons at Chepstow.’

  ‘Chepstow? That’s not on his usual patch.’

  ‘Took a day trip by train. Whole shebang apparently decided they wanted a change of scene. Anyway, Ted Greeno took him aside and advised him that he might walk away quietly in time to use his return ticket, should he have anything useful to say. Old Hymie is of the opinion that while Bailey might have been happy just to maintain his rights to territory, Atkins has plans for a bigger presence. That our old friend Sabini might be relied upon to provide the foot soldiers for such an expansion.’

  ‘And is Greeno taking this seriously?’

  ‘Ted takes everything with a large pinch of salt, even bigger one of pepper, but he considers it worth keeping in mind.’

  ‘And Diamond Annie and the Elephant boys will be wanting to keep an eye.’

  ‘Among others, I would suppose,’ Cox agreed.

  ‘So,’ Mickey pursued, ‘if all is quiet on their patch and most of the Elephants seem to have gone to ground, what do we think they are concerned with? Two have been sussed on Atkins’ patch. You’re thinking they’re more than keeping an eye?’

  ‘Sitting in the Charlie Brown. Playing dominoes in the Workers, drinking in a local pub that gets busy enough that a stranger won’t stand out, especially if he’s been driving a van and looks like a delivery man.’

  ‘And to what end? We want no more street battles, Phil. There’s enough bodies poisoning the Thames as it is. And where’s Diamond Annie, d’you reckon? I for one prefer to have that woman in plain sight.’

  ‘Too true. But I reckon she’ll turn up. She’s not the shy and retiring type.’

  Definitely true, Mickey thought. Annie was tall for a woman. At five feet eight, she was taller than most men and proportionately built, you might say. She had acquired her nickname from the wearing of diamond rings on every finger of both hands. Diamond Annie was not averse to the odd fist fight, and diamonds cut like razors.

  Mickey returned to an earlier subject. ‘The kid who got carved up on Atkins’ patch – but, of course, has no idea who did it – his name was Sammy Butcher.’

  ‘Sammy doesn’t ring a bell, but I know Charlie Butcher. Oddly enough, he used to live over that way, when the old Josiah Bailey was in charge. The family moved about, what, five years ago. His ma was done for immoral earnings more times than I’ve got fingers, and the two older boys have records for petty theft, if I remember right. I wouldn’t place them as members of the gang, but there’s not much that happens on their ground that the Elephants don’t know about. What about him in particular?’

  ‘He had to be there for a reason,’ Mickey said. ‘Sammy was chased by a group of kids, so must’ve stood out. We’ve been talking about some discreet spying going on, but it doesn’t seem to me that young Sammy Butcher fits the bill. So what was he doing?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can find out, let you know. Now, how’s that beautiful wife of yours? It’s been ages since we had you round; Mary said to ask you when I mentioned we were meeting up tonight.’

  They chatted for a little longer and then Mickey took his leave with a hive’s worth of thoughts buzzing around his head.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The journey from London to Grimsby was a long haul, and despite an early start, it was late afternoon by the time they found the pawn shop. They had chatted sporadically on the way, Mickey recounting to Henry the conversation he’d had the night before and discussing the implications, but they were also comfortable with silence. Mickey read Lord Peter Views the Body by Dorothy L. Sayers and from time to time broke off to criticize the investigation. Henry had borrowed Decline and Fall from his brother-in-law; he’d been curious as this had been Mrs Parker’s reading matter. He explained this to Mickey.

  ‘But you didn’t even like the woman. Why would you like what she reads?’

  ‘I find I do like the book,’ Henry said. ‘I suppose even women like Mrs Parker might have decent taste in literature.’

  Despite this, Mickey noted that Henry’s attention was elsewhere. He knew better than to ask where his colleague’s thoughts had drifted off to. He’d let Mickey know soon enough.

  The pawnbroker was just off the Bullring. The scent of coffee hung in the air, together with the smell of cooked meats and pies as they passed a shop called Stephenson’s West End Provisions.

  ‘My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut,’ Mickey said. ‘It’s to be hoped the pawnbroker can suggest a place to stay. One that serves decent food.’

  ‘Mr Siddons?’ Henry asked as the ringing of a bell above the door brought a man through from the back
room.

  ‘I am indeed, and you must be the police from down there in London. Come through. Put the closed sign on the door; it’s nearly time anyway. It’s a long old journey from down there to up here.’

  Mickey agreed that it was and they followed him through to the back of the shop. There were glass-topped counters on three sides displaying goods for sale, and cabinets on the walls containing objects awaiting redemption. The back office was obviously used for paperwork and storage. The watch had been placed in a tray and set on the writing surface of an open roll-topped desk.

  ‘It’s the engraving I spotted. What you put out on the watch list.’ He chuckled. ‘A watch on the watch list. I must say I was surprised when I realized I had it. I wasn’t here when it was taken in. My assistant did the deed. He’s not in today. Should you need him, he can be summoned, I suppose. Or you can talk to him in the morning or pop along to his house tonight. Of course, all the details are in the book.’ He pointed to a ledger set next to the tray.

  Henry picked it up and stepped aside so that Mickey could get to the watch. Mickey set his bag down on the floor and studied the watch carefully. It looked very clean. He said so.

  ‘Well, it will have been polished when it came in,’ Mr Siddons informed them. ‘Nine times out of ten, items like this don’t get redeemed. We extend the best of terms, you know. We are very fair. But, of course, that means that not everyone is able to afford to redeem their items. Well, it stands to reason: if they could afford to keep them, they wouldn’t be pawning them in the first place, would they? So we always clean the items when they come in and—’ He broke off, raised a hand to his mouth. ‘Oh dear, I suppose you want fingerprints, don’t you? I expect they’ll have been wiped clean away.’

  Mickey glanced at Henry, rolling his eyes. Henry led the pawnbroker away and pointed to an entry in the book. ‘So it came in only five days ago?’

  ‘That’s what the book says.’

  So the thief had hung on to the watch for a time, Henry thought.