The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits (Mammoth Books)

by Ashley, Mike;

O’Nions face coloured at the pointed nature of the doctor’s retort. He turned away into the darkness.

  “That settles it, then. Rothstein or Fields must have done Premadasa in because he spoke to Potter. You’d better find that letter.”

  “But guv, if I lift it, Roth stein’s going to know who took it. Then I won’t be incognito, and able to hang around him any more.”

  O’Nions nearly blew his top. “As far as we know, Rothstein doing a bunk probably means you are no longer incog-bloody-nito. And if you don’t get your hands on that letter, there’s precious little point in you hanging around anyway. Unless you fancy getting little Amy in the family way.”

  Banks tried hard to meet O’Nions’s leer with a cold stare. It was the best he could do, because his guv’nor had read all the way to his very soul as usual. Banks was sweet on Amy Clark, Bolshie politics notwithstanding.

  “So, get out there with some real coppers. Turn the place over, and find that letter.”

  Banks shuffled his feet, but could think of no excuse to avoid what his boss had commanded. “Yes, guv.”

  O’Nions let his sergeant leave the scene of the crime, before adding his own gloss on the command. “And if you can’t find it, I’ll have to bloody fake it!”

  The room where Harry Rothstein had gone to ground was grey. Grey walls, bare, grey floorboards, grey mattress on the rickety bed. The bed-bugs on the mattress were probably grey as well. Harry imagined that in this dingy part of London, by the docks, nothing much had changed since Victorian times. For sure, the single cold water tap out in the back yard, shared by several inhabitants of the tenement, had been placed there when the old Queen was on the throne. Then, it had been a new and hygienic amenity. Now, it spoke volumes about the crumbling Empire she had ruled over, and how much of it still lingered on at home. A country fit for heroes to live in? Come the Revolution, maybe. He smiled at his own foolishness, and sank wearily on the damp, stained mattress.

  Going to earth sounded an appropriate definition of his actions in the circumstances. The dingy hovel he had rented was located in a warren of back-to-back houses crumbling down towards the chaos from which they had grown. The maze of streets would be bewildering to the outsider. Through their narrow confines scuttled little grey-faced creatures that hardly resembled Rothstein’s fellow men. A forgotten underclass who rooted for their sustenance from amidst the detritus of others. It was the fear of all working men that they could tumble back into this hellish pit at any time.

  “That’s what separates me from you, Mr Premadasa,” muttered Rothstein to himself, as he fumbled for his cigarettes. “You might spout the language, but when your back’s against the wall, there’s always a bolt-hole for the likes of you. What can I fall back on? A bloody great hole.”

  He looked around the room at the peeling wallpaper, and the threadbare curtains that, when drawn, failed even to cut out the yellowish flicker of light from the gas-lamp outside in the street. He struck a match, and lit his cigarette, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs. He couldn’t waste his time worrying about Junius Premadasa. But as for Tommy Fields, that was another matter altogether. He was relying on his friend, and all that held them together was Tommy’s little weakness.

  Rothstein prised open the cap on the bottle of beer he had bought, and took a swig straight from the neck. He belched as the fizzy brew hit his stomach. He normally didn’t like drinking bottled beer – it left a sour taste in his throat. But he wasn’t going to risk being seen in his usual haunts for the sake of a pint of draught. He did miss his old, scratchy portable gramophone though. What he wouldn’t give for the sound of the ODJB playing Tiger Rag right now. He conjured the sound in his head, and capered round the shabby confines of the room, imitating the fruity trombone glissando.

  “Hold that tiger . . . brrrrm, hold that tiger . . . brrrm, hold that tiger . . .”

  He stopped suddenly, and stood stock still, his heart pounding. He was sure he had heard something. He heard it again. A scratching, rustling sound from outside his door. He laughed.

  “Pull yourself together, Harry boy. In a place like this, if it isn’t the mice it’s the cockroaches.” He took another pull on his bottle of beer, and essayed another little caper. He waved a finger in the air in imitation of the dance moves of the smart set he had seen on the silver screen. “Hold that cockroach . . . brrrrm . . .”

  Rothstein sucked deeply on the stub of his cigarette, and stubbed it out on the cracked saucer on the floor beside his bed. He breathed the blue smoke out through his nostrils, contemplating his options. He knew what he should do, but didn’t know yet whether he could. Only time would tell. But that didn’t prevent the feeling of dread, and of guilt, that permeated to his very soul. He reached out for the packet of cigarettes. There was a scratching at his door, and he rolled off the bed.

  O’Nions could scarcely contain his excitement. He now had some evidence to show BT that would have the old man licking his lips. He held the letter in his trembling fingers, and scanned it once again.

  Instructions to British Communist Party

  Executive Committee,

  VERY SECRET

  Third Communist International.

  Presidium.

  29 March.

  To the Central Committee,

  British Communist Party.

  Moscow.

  Dear Comrades,

  “Dear Comrades,” he murmured. The phrases rolled off his wet lips like plump sturgeon giving up their roe. “It is indispensable to stir up the masses of the British proletariat . . . a successful rising . . . to count upon the complete success of an armed insurrection.”

  He sat back in his chair, and plonked his boots on the battle-scarred edge of his desk. This letter, linked to Rothstein, along with Premadasa’s seditious speech in Hyde Park would give him sufficient ammunition to convince his boss of a plot, which was aiming to reach its culmination soon. The problem was, he needed to come up with a target. He had some ideas on that, but he wasn’t about to tell Banks. Let the sergeant run around chasing shadows. This would be his own personal triumph.

  The gambling club hadn’t changed much in forty years. Since the day that Billy Orwell had invested the proceeds of his prizefighting days into the shabby building in the East End that had become his goldmine. Downstairs you could first dance with cheap women, and then upstairs, the rolling chemin de fer tables would conclude your expensive night. As many as sixty men were playing at any one time including shop-keepers, artisans, and gentlemen fond of slumming. And if your gambling desires were not sated, there was always the tape machine relaying racing information right into the premises. Old Billy still presided over this empire, his aging and battered features, crudely rearranged by other fighters’ bare fists, beaming over his customers’ eagerness to part with their hard-earned cash.

  John Banks sidled up to the narrow door in the alley wall that suggested nothing of the pleasures that lay within. But Orwell’s club did not need to advertise to draw in the gambling addict from the working classes. Indeed, the very opposite was the case. The exterior was so modest as to be downright invisible. Those who needed to, knew where to go. And how to gain access.

  Banks tapped on the Judas-slitted door, which slid back revealing a pair of suspicious eyes. It was his informant, a former pugilist called Attey.

  “Is he still here?”

  Jack Attey worked for Orwell, but was in debt to Banks for being kept out of jail over the little matter of beating up a prostitute. He had been the first to respond when Banks put the word out about the names involved in the case. The pug-faced man nodded nervously, and quickly opened the door to let the policeman in. Banks slid past Attey, and made for the stairs up to the gaming room. He declined the offer of services from a heavily-scented blonde girl who hung around the landing, and strolled inconspicuously into the smoky fug of the chemmy tables. It took him a while to spot his quarry, but eventually he saw him. Tommy Fields was staring disconsolately as a pile of money was raked aw
ay from in front of him. Banks eased into the seat beside Fields, resting a firm hand on his shoulder.

  “Can I buy you a drink, Tommy?”

  Fields turned his dulled eyes on to the inconspicuous, little man at his side. The last thing he wanted was some eager football fanatic at his shoulder.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Does it matter? You need a drink, and I’m offering one.”

  Fields shrugged, and acquiesced to the man’s offer. He was all done in, despite his physique. Banks thought he looked defeated. He pulled the day’s Daily Herald out of his pocket.

  “You’re not in the team, then.”

  Fields scanned the West Ham team named for tomorrow’s Cup Final. Hufton, Henderson, Young, Bishop, Kay, Tresadern, Richards, Brown, Watson, Moore, Ruffell.

  “It doesn’t look like it, does it?”

  The card game continued around them as Banks whispered in the footballer’s ear. “It could be worse.”

  “How?”

  “You could be in jail.”

  Crowds of men were already beginning to pour out of the Metropolitan Railway station at Wembley Park, and it was only morning. The Cup Final between West Ham and Bolton Wanderers was four hours off. It was a similar situation at the Great Central Railway station at Wembley Hill, and Wembley station on the London and North Western Railway line. The site of the Empire Exhibition was witnessing a steady stream of capped and raincoated figures making their way towards the new stadium. To Albert Potter, standing at one of the upper window of the stand, it resembled a busy line of worker ants scuttling inexorably towards their target. The two white towers of the stadium sparkled in the late morning sunlight. From behind Potter, Sir Charles Clegg, President of the Football Association, tremulously voiced everyone’s concerns.

  “Does this look like a crowd of fifty thousand to you?”

  That had been the attendance at the last Cup Final at Stamford Bridge.

  “Don’t worry, Sir Charles,” said Potter confidently. He was a board member of British Empire Exhibition Inc, and felt the need to reassure the FA Committee members standing around him in their plush overcoats and bowler hats. In fact he was more than a little worried himself. But that was because Superintendent O’Nions had asked to see him on site in a few minutes time. “We had a full infantry battalion marking time on the terraces yesterday. They’re as solid as a rock. Besides we can accommodate over one hundred and twenty thousand.”

  Relieved, the committee members chuckled through their luxuriant white moustaches. A hundred and twenty thousand. Such a large figure for the Cup Final was inconceivable. Potter slipped out the room, and left the gentlemen to their refreshments. In the long concrete corridors below the stand, his footfall echoed hollowly. They were windowless and lit only by electric light. He turned a corner, and at the farthest end of the long corridor that ran the length of the stand, he could make out two figures. As he approached, the larger one resolved into O’Nions. He was pacing agitatedly up and down under the full glare of a lamp. Beside him, slightly in shadow, stood the slim, impassive figure of Sergeant Banks. His face gave nothing away.

  “Ah, Mr Potter, good. The King is not due until two o’clock. So we have time to conclude this matter. Banks tells me he has arranged for Fields to do as he was instructed, and leave the outer door to the changing rooms open. Rothstein is no doubt going to slip in that way and carry out his plans.”

  “You don’t really think that Harry intends to kill the King, do you?” Potter was shocked at O’Nions’s interpretation of Harry Rothstein’s intentions. He could imagine Harry trying to harangue the crowd, to appeal to their working class sentiments, to boo and hiss the King like some music-hall villain. That degree of protest he thought Harry quite capable of. But murder? Never.

  O’Nions shook his head at Potter’s naivety. “I have seen the instructions from Moscow. There can be no doubt what Premadasa and Rothstein planned.”

  “And the steam shovel?” This was Banks, daring to question his own boss in front of Potter. “Fields told me that Rothstein planned to use the steam shovel from the building site for something. What’s he going to do? Brain the King with it?”

  O’Nions face went puce at such impertinence. His future career depended on his handling of this affair, and he wasn’t going to let a Bolshie police sergeant interfere. He wished he had left Banks hanging out to dry during the Police Strike. Once a Red always a Red. Shame, he would have made a good policeman. Through gritted teeth, he told Banks to go and check on the uniformed police allocated to the King’s protection. There were five hundred constables on site, and most of them were on that detail. Banks shrugged, and disappeared round the corner. Potter was left dealing with an embarrassing silence. He tried to break the ice.

  “I could have done with some of those constables on the exhibition site today. We have been taking delivery of some exhibits for the Ceylon Pavilion. A bit early, but they had to come all the way by sea, and better they arrived early than late. That’s what I say. Nevertheless, it’s a headache, when you realize their value . . .”

  He knew he was burbling, and O’Nions was paying him no attention. He decided to leave the superintendent to his plotting.

  “I’ll just go and see how . . .”

  Potter followed Banks down past the players’ changing rooms, and out on to the approach road to the new stadium. After the hollow silence of the concrete underworld, the noise and bustle outside assailed his senses. The crowds were even larger now, thousands of men milling around like a human whirlpool. And he was in danger of being sucked in. His head spun, and he almost pitched over. A strong hand grasped his upper arm, and pulled him to one side. It was the hand of Sergeant Banks.

  “There’s going to be a lot of people here today, Mr Potter. And the police aren’t going to be of much use.”

  They watched as the press of people at the back of the crowd forced those at the front closer to the turnstiles. There was a trickle feeding through each turnstile, but the crowd outside was like a river in spate. Already some men were clambering over one turnstile gate simply to escape the suffocating pressure. The man at the turnstile was helpless.

  “How are we going to spot Rothstein in amongst all these people?” groaned Potter.

  “Do you really think he’s going to sneak in and kill the King?”

  “Don’t you, Sergeant Banks?”

  “I don’t know, Mr Potter. But what I do know is that the guv’nor is basing everything he’s got on two things. What Tommy Fields told me, and that letter. The problem is, I don’t know where he got the letter from.”

  Potter looked confused. “Didn’t he tell me that you found out about the letter?”

  “Yes, I did. But I never managed to lay my hands on it.” Banks gloomily contemplated the moment when he burst into the shop in the East End with two uniformed constables in tow. Amy Clark had looked shocked at first, then had fixed Banks with a censorious stare. He could see the disappointment in her eyes, as he went through the shop and office with a fine tooth comb. For the first time, he felt shabby doing the job he loved.

  “The thing was, there was no letter there.”

  The two men watched on helplessly as the tide of men surged through the broken turnstile. Two policemen appeared round the edge of the crowd, and tried to restore some sense of order. It was like trying to bail out the North Sea with a bucket.

  “But the fact is, it did exist.” Potter still could not believe that O’Nions had faked evidence. “And there is still a danger to the King. Though how any assassin is going to make his way through this . . . mob . . . I don’t know.” He sighed. “To think I came here today as a diversion from my troubles at home. You see Rosalind . . .”

  Banks suddenly turned to face Potter, a gleam in his eyes. “Did I hear you say as I left just now, that there was going to be a delivery of some exhibits to one of the pavilions today?”

  “Yes. A consignment of pearls to the Ceylon Pavilion. If the van is able to get through
this crowd. Quite valuable too, I understand. “

  “How valuable?”

  “They are insured for a million pounds.”

  “A million . . . Come on.”

  “Where?”

  Banks was already pulling out his warrant card and flashing it at the two overwhelmed constables, who looked glad to be given other orders. The sergeant looked over his shoulder at Potter.

  “The Ceylon Pavilion. It’s just as you said. This assassination plot is Red Peril scare nonsense. It’s just a sideshow.” Potter was beginning to understand, but Banks still spelled it out.

  “A diversion.”

  The speech-making in the Chamber of the House of Commons was dulling Potter’s senses. The debate on the debacle at the Wembley Stadium when over two hundred thousand people turned up, and nearly kyboshed the whole match, droned on incessantly. Only Potter knew that the real excitement had been witnessed by only a handful of people, and had taken place way across the site at the Ceylon Pavilion.

  Potter had been soon left behind by the younger, fitter Banks and his two constables. They disappeared from sight, but he trotted on past one of the unfinished constructions that was to be India’s Pavilion. The building was made of steel and fibrous plaster and was already flanked with minarets hundred feet high. In front of the pavilion was a sunken courtyard surrounded by an open colonnade. As he rounded the half-finished building, he was met by the most bizarre of sights. Hong Kong intended to reproduce one of its native streets. There were already twenty-four shops on one side of the road, and on the opposite side of the road there was a large Chinese restaurant. Down the middle of the road, lumbering towards the Ceylon Pavilion, rumbled a huge contraption designed to shift vast quantities of earth with its scoop. Closing up behind this bulldozer were the two uniformed constables. Their presence seemed to flush out two desperate-looking men advancing behind the steam shovel on foot. They were soon tackled by the constables and arrested. In the meantime, the shovel ploughed on its way, the driver not having seen or heard the apprehension of his fellow criminals. Potter reckoned that if it was Harry Rothstein in the cab, he was clearly intent on smashing down the main doors to the pavilion to get to the pearls. Potter could see Banks skirting round the rumbling, hissing monster to get in front of it.