The gang put their earplugs in and went back to their game of cards.
* * *
1. Snite his snitch: give him a good slap in the face.
2. Mill his rattlers: knock his teeth out.
3. Nob him on the canister: whack him on the head.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Underneath the arches…”
Flanagan and Allen
Underneath the arches near Blackfriars Bridge, a lonely pieman was wheeling his hot-pie wagon along and whistling to keep his spirits up. There was hardly anyone about that night; he hadn’t sold a pie for over an hour.
Then he heard a familiar tune. It was Santa Lucia, played on the barrel organ of his friend Antonio Rolipolio.
He turned the corner and saw the organ grinder outside the Rose and Crown, with his monkey Miranda capering about on the barrel organ. But there was no one listening to him. The streets were deserted.
“Poor folks like us have got to take our chance,” said the pieman. “Hot pies! Hot pies!”
“Funiculi, funicula,” agreed the organ grinder.
Just then, who should come around the corner but the sailor from the Indomitable, Able Seaman Jim Bowling. He was glad to be out and about, in spite of the cold, because it gave him the chance to come and say farewell yet again to his sweetheart, Polly Pickles, the barmaid at the Rose and Crown.
He went inside and fetched her out, and they stood beneath the gaslight on the corner of the street to say a tender good-bye.
“Oh, Jim, my beloved, farewell!” she said.
“Farewell, Polly!” he said. “We’re off to Baltimore and Panama, and Trebizond and Trinidad and Trincomalee, and Auckland and Shanghai and Wagga Wagga, and it’ll be years before I’m back in London. Don’t forget me, Polly!”
But it was no good asking Jim to buy anything. His pockets were empty.
“I reckon we’re all in the same fix, mates,” he said. “Still, Polly, I’ll pick up a shilling or two tonight, ’cause there’s a gent on board who wants his case picked up before we sail. I daresay he’ll slip me a bit of money, if I gets it to him smartish. So I’m off now, Polly, love, and the first stop on the way to Baltimore is the Saveloy Hotel!”
“Oh, sweetheart!” said Polly. “Take care!”
“I will!”
“And come back safe!”
“I will!”
“And don’t forget your little Polly!”
“As if I ever could!”
The pieman and the organ grinder, not to mention the monkey, were overcome at the sight of such devotion.
And so Jim left, leaving Polly weeping under the gaslight.
“Well, there’s no money for us here, mate,” said the pieman. “Time to move on. Hot pies! Hot pies!”
And he trundled his pie wagon away. The organ grinder sat his monkey back on the organ and began to pack up too.
“Come along, monkey,” he said. “Good-a night, pretty Polly. Love will-a find a way!”
“Good night, Signor Rolipolio,” said Polly. “Good night, monkey…”
Oh, well, thought Polly. Someday my Jim will come back, and then we’ll be as happy as fleas on a nice warm dog.
She was just about to go back into the pub when—
Polly knew Spring-Heeled Jack well. He’d saved her from some robbers only a month or two before, so she wasn’t afraid of him at all. And when she heard what he had to say, she was glad to help.
“Ooh, that’s awful!” she said, when they told her about Mack the Knife and Ned and the locket and everything. “But you come inside—you’ll be safe here. You can rely on Jack. If anyone can save your little brother, he can!”
And he leapt away over the rooftops with incredible speed, making a whizzing noise like a firework and leaving a trail of smoke in the air.
“Oh, miss,” said Rose, “we’re in such trouble!”
“We must get Ned back, you see,” said Lily, “and then get to the Docks in time, and…”
“There, there,” said Polly. “You come on in. I’ll see if I can find you a sandwich. You look as if you could do with a feed.”
So in they went, and the cold, foggy street was empty again.
But not for long.
Because an odd, bedraggled little creature like a mournful moth, or like a secondhand angel, was flapping dismally through the foggy air, invisible to everyone except us. It flew in and hovered near the window of the pub, as if it was waiting for someone.
And a second later, that someone arrived. It was Filthy.
Filthy was ambitious. Besides, he didn’t much like what Mack the Knife was up to. He thought there’d be openings for a smart young man, and he’d spotted something going on a minute ago outside the Rose and Crown—something he could turn to his advantage.
So he crept up to the window—and the little shabby mothlike thing came and sat on his shoulder.
That was how they dealt with consciences in London. The other members of the gang had no consciences at all, or else they’d gotten rid of them better than Filthy had. With an uneasy look behind him, Filthy went into the Rose and Crown.
CHAPTER SIX
“There is an air of cold, solitary desolation about the noiseless streets…”
Charles Dickens, Sketches by Boz
There was an air of cold, solitary desolation about the noiseless streets. Mr. Killjoy and Miss Gasket had been combing them for hours, and Sergeant Pincher from the Hangman’s Wharf Police Station had got his best men searching too. There was hardly a corner of London they didn’t poke their noses into. They were only bothering because of the locket, of course.
And not long after Rose and Lily arrived at the Rose and Crown, and only a minute or two after Filthy did, Mr. Killjoy and Miss Gasket did too.
They were feeling chilly, and Mr. Killjoy was thinking that he’d like to slip into the saloon bar for a large brandy. It wouldn’t be fitting for a lady to be seen in a public house, so he’d send out a glass of lemonade for Miss Gasket while she kept watch on the pavement.
He was just explaining this to her when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
Filthy looked around nervously in case his conscience was watching, but he couldn’t see it, so he went on:
“I thought as how I heard the lady here address you as Mr. Killjoy, and I thought to myself, I thought, I wonder if this man could be the Mr. Albert Killjoy as runs the Alderman Cawn-Plaster Memorial Orphanage?”
“That person has the honor of being me,” said Mr. Killjoy austerely. “Well, my man, what is it? What is it?”
“Get off,” muttered Filthy, brushing something off his shoulder. “I beg your pardon, sir. The thing is—I knows the whereabouts of a certain pair of little girls.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Killjoy. “Ah.”
Then Miss Gasket took him aside.
Mr. Killjoy was a soft touch, but Miss Gasket was terrifying. Filthy nearly quailed as she glared at him.
“I suppose you intend to ask a price for this information?” she said.
“Well,” said Filthy, “I thought maybe a payment of five guineas would cover it. Sort of an honorarium kind of thing.”
“A dishonorarium, more like,” said Miss Gasket. “I’ll give you one, and that’s your lot.”
Mr. Killjoy was deeply impressed, but Filthy wasn’t.
“One guinea?” he said, shocked. “One guinea, after all I’ve done? If you said four, now…”
“If I agreed to four, I’d be a fool,” said Miss Gasket. “Two at the most.”
“Make it three?” said Filthy humbly.
“Certainly not,” she said. “Two, and that’s your lot.”
Mr. Killjoy handed Filthy two guineas. Filthy stowed them inside his pocket quickly before his conscience saw how much he’d gotten.
So Filthy slunk away. But around the corner—
Inside the Rose and Crown, Mr. Killjoy was demanding to see Polly Pickles.
“She’s in the public bar,” said the landlord, “doing her job, what
she’s paid for. She’s spent enough time this evening canoodling with her sweetheart.”
“Don’t argue with me,” said Mr. Killjoy. “Have you a private parlor, my man?”
“Yes, I have, and it costs a guinea to hire it,” said the landlord.
Mr. Killjoy drew himself up to his full height, and then handed over a guinea.
“Be good enough to show us in there,” he said. “And subsequently have this Pickles person brought before us, or else face the full rigor of the law.”
The landlord said something rude, which Miss Gasket didn’t quite catch, and then went to fetch Polly.
“We’ll have to play this careful,” said Mr. Killjoy to Miss Gasket as they went into the parlor. “We don’t want ’em to take fright and skedaddle.”
So when Polly came in a minute later, they were all smiles and sweetness.
“Now, Miss Pickles,” said Miss Gasket, “three of our little charges has gone astray. Our dear little charges. And naturally we’re upset and concerned—”
“And we’ve come searching for them,” said Mr. Killjoy, “sparing no expense of time or money—”
“Just so’s we get our little darlings back!” said Miss Gasket.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Polly. “They did say they came from the Alderman Cawn-Plaster Memorial Orphanage, not the Happy Smiles whatever-it-was…”
“The little monkeys!” said Mr. Killjoy fondly. “Always ready for a joke, them kids. We’ve laughed together many a time, haven’t we, Miss Gasket?”
“Oh, those jolly evenings in the Home,” she said, “with the little darlings around our feet, playing their merry tricks!”
Polly wasn’t used to dealing with important people, and these two seemed very important. And she wasn’t used to dealing with crafty deceptive sneaks either. These two were worse than weasels, but she didn’t know that they were lying.
“Well,” she said, “I’m not sure…”
“There,” said Miss Gasket. “You’re anxious about their safety, I can tell.”
“Yes, I am,” said Polly. “They’re ever so upset, the pair of them, and worn out too.”
“Ahh,” said Miss Gasket fondly.
“You fetch ’em here, Miss Pickles,” said Mr. Killjoy. “Take it from me, they’ll be overjoyed to come home again. They’ll be frantic with glee.”
“Well, if you say so, sir,” said Polly, “I’ll have to believe you, you being in your position and me being in mine, and the world being what it is. All right, I’ll fetch ’em out.”
And out she went, and a short while later she came back with the girls.
And before they could get away, Mr. Killjoy had seized Lily in his great red hands. But Rose was too quick for Miss Gasket; she dodged out of the room and down the corridor as quick as a cat.
“Stop! Stop, you hussy!” cried Miss Gasket. “Come back here!”
“Run, Rose, quick!” shouted Polly. “Go to the Saveloy Hotel—ask for Jim Bowling! He’ll help you!”
And Rose was gone.
Without another word, Mr. Killjoy and Miss Gasket swept out, dragging poor Lily behind them.
“Oh, Lily, I’m sorry!” Polly cried, and she tried to hold on to Lily’s hand, but Mr. Killjoy and Miss Gasket were too strong for her. She ran to the door after them, only to see them disappear around the corner, with Lily still calling Mr. Killjoy every name Polly had ever heard of, and several she hadn’t.
“Oh, what a fool I am!” she said to herself. “How could I let meself be taken in like that? Them poor kids, and they was relying on me, and I handed ’em over just like that…”
Poor Polly. It wasn’t her fault, but she felt it was, and that was bad enough. Saying good-bye to Jim, and then this…It was too much. She howled and howled.
And meanwhile Rose was running full tilt through the dark streets, looking for the Saveloy Hotel…
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I didn’t dare stop to rest…”
Tove Jansson, The Exploits of Moominpappa
Rose didn’t dare stop to rest. She ran like the wind, up alleyways, across busy squares, down desolate streets. She couldn’t afford to be afraid of what might be hiding around dark corners. From the Rose and Crown she ran full tilt until she came to the Strand, and then she stopped and looked up and down.
The gaslights shone down on hansom cabs and carriages, on gentlemen in top hats and flower girls in rags. There were theaters and restaurants and embassies and clubs, and the biggest, poshest, swankiest place of all was the Saveloy Hotel.
When Rose got to the hotel entrance and looked in at all those servants and guests, her heart sank. How was she going to get past all that poshness, dressed in rags as she was?
However, there was always the back door. She might be able to get in and find Jim Bowling that way. The trouble was, she didn’t even know who Jim Bowling was, or what he looked like, or anything. Still, he was her only hope, so she slipped down the courtyard beside the hotel and looked for the back way in.
Meanwhile, in the great kitchen, twenty sauce cooks and thirty meat cooks and forty vegetable cooks and fifty pastry cooks were preparing a banquet for the King of Brazil and all the other guests. The chief cook was shouting at them all, and the cooks were shouting at the waiters, and the waiters were shouting at each other, and the air was full of delicious smells and ferocious heat.
In the middle of all the noise and rush, Jim Bowling was making his way out with Mr. Summers’s suitcase. Since he was only a common sailor, they couldn’t possibly let him go out through the front door. But Jim didn’t mind, because he suddenly spotted an old friend.
“Casey Wilkins!” he said. “Shiver me timbers and blow me down, but wherever I go, Shanghai or San Francisco or Bombay, I’m sure to find some old shipmate ashore, snug in a cushy berth and good for a glass of grog. How are you, Casey?”
Casey Wilkins was long, lean, and miserable. He’d been a ship’s carpenter when Jim had sailed with him. He was a pastry cook now, and he was kneading some pastry for some viande de saucisses en croûte à la graisse froide.1
“Hello, Jim,” he said. “Keep your voice down. See that fat cook? The bloke in charge? He’s worse than any bo-sun you’ve ever sailed with, mate. Wherever you go, there’s blokes whose only job is bossing the likes of you and me around.”
“Still the same old cheerful spirit,” said Jim. “What’s the rush for? Is it extra busy tonight?”
“We’ve got the King of Brazil in,” said Casey. “He likes his food, King Alfonso does.”
“Oh, the King of Brazil, eh,” said Jim. “Posh.”
The fat cook came past with a saucepan, and Jim couldn’t resist.
At that moment the door at the far end of the kitchen opened and Rose looked through. No one noticed her in all the hubbub, but she spotted Jim at once, because he was the only person in the place not dressed like a cook.
And Rose was just about to do that when someone else ran up. This time it was a pageboy. The place was definitely getting crowded.
It’s all kicks and no ha’pence, being a pageboy.
Casey Wilkins led Jim and Rose up the servants’ staircase and along lots of narrow corridors and then up some more stairs into an attic.
“What do we do?” said Jim, who was getting nervous already.
“Nothing to it,” said Casey. “Just squeeze out through the skylight and there you are, mate. It’s a bit steep and slippery, mind—just hang on to the chimneys and you’ll be all right…”
He had to leave them then and go back and make some more pastry.
Jim squeezed out first with the suitcase and Rose came after him, listening carefully all the time for Miss Gasket and the policeman. They wobbled their way along the roof, clinging tightly to the chimneys. Rose had to tell Jim where to put his feet, because he had his eyes shut.
Meanwhile, Miss Gasket had gone through all the rooms in the hotel like a simoom.2 The policeman trailed nervously behind her, apologizing. He was called P. C. Tweedl
e. He wasn’t much good at chasing people; what he liked best was helping them across the road. He’d never met anyone as fierce as Miss Gasket before, and he wasn’t sure how fierce she wanted him to be.
“Er—excuse me, miss—” he said, as she came charging out of a linen cupboard like a khamsin.3
“No, they’re not in there,” she said. “Come on. We’ll do the attics next. Wake up, man! Move yourself!”
And off she went like a harmattan.4 Gulping, he followed her up the stairs.
Of course, they found nothing in the attics except beetles and woodworms, and it wasn’t long before Miss Gasket saw the skylight. It was still open, because Rose hadn’t managed to shut it from outside, and Jim couldn’t have shut it anyway with his eyes closed.
With a snort of derision, Miss Gasket told P. C. Tweedle to kneel down. She stood on his shoulders and hauled herself through the skylight, and then pulled him up after her. He didn’t like it at all.
And at the other end of the roof…
P. C. Tweedle was horrified. He didn’t like heights any more than Jim did.
“He looks dangerous to me,” he said. “He’s a desperate character, miss. He’s probably got knives and guns and dynamite in that suitcase. I think we’d better call for reinforcements—”
Miss Gasket hit him.
“Ow!” he said. “All right, all right—I’ll arrest him.”
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