The opportunity came unexpectedly. I had to deliver a parcel of stationery at an office appertaining to a large warehouse in Commercial Road East. It was a heavy parcel, but not heavy enough to demand the use of the truck. I carried it on my shoulder, and when I had at length dumped it down in the outer office and taken my receipt for it, I was free and unencumbered. And the weight of the parcel seemed to justify me in taking a little time off to spend on my own affairs.
As I strolled back along Commercial Road East, I kept a sharp lookout for landmarks of that memorable journey with the hansom. Presently I came to the corner of Sidney Street, which I remembered having passed on that occasion, and which gave me what mariners call a “departure.” I turned back, eastward, and, taking the first turning on the right (southerly), left the broad thoroughfare behind and entered a maze of small streets. They were rather bewildering. But it is difficult thoroughly to bewilder a seasoned Londoner who is accustomed to wandering about the town on foot (people who ride in conveyances don’t count. They never become real Londoners). Presently I came to a corner which was marked at the kerb by an angular granite corner-stone. I remembered that stone. I had reason to (and so had the owner of the cab). Taking a fresh departure from it, I soon arrived at a little street at the end of which was a seedy-looking public-house distinguished by the sign of a lion and an inscription in Hebrew characters which suggested that the royal beast aforesaid was none other than the Lion of Judah.
I now had my bearings. This was the place where I had found and purloined the hansom. Just round the corner was the empty house from which Miss Stella and I had dropped down into the court. That was the last house in the street which I had come to identify, the street which was made illustrious by the residence therein of Mr. Ebbstein and his tenant, the ingenious ‘Chonas,’ to say nothing of the old villain whom I had knocked on the head.
I sauntered round the corner, keeping my eyes skinned (as our packer would have expressed it) but carefully avoiding any outward manifestation of interest. The illustrious street I learned from a half-illegible name-plate rejoiced in the romantic name of Pentecost Grove. Strolling along it, I took in the numbers—where there were any—with the tail of my eye, keeping account of them, since so many were missing, until I arrived exactly opposite the mews, or stable-yard, which I had seen from the window of my prison. Thereby I learned that Mr. Ebbstein resided at Number Forty-nine, and the person whose cranium I had damaged was to be found—if still extant—at Number Fifty.
If I had been content with this enlargement of my knowledge and taken myself off, all would have been well. But at this point, my intelligent interest over powered my caution. The stable-yard opposite, bearing the superscription, ‘Zion Place,’ yawned invitingly and offered an alluring glimpse of a hansom cab, horseless and apparently in dry dock. I couldn’t resist that hansom cab. Without doubt, it was the identical hansom with which I had scattered the howling and blaspheming denizens of Ashdod. Of course, it didn’t matter a ‘snide’ half-crown whether it was or not. But I was sensible of an idiotic impulse to examine it and try to verify its identity. Accordingly I crossed the street and sauntered idly into Zion Place, gradually edging towards the object of my curiosity.
It was an extraordinarily shabby old vehicle and seemed to be dropping to pieces from sheer senile decay. But it wasn’t really. The actual robustness of its old age was demonstrated by the near wheel, which memory impelled me to inspect narrowly. On the rim including the tyre, was a deep, angular notch, corresponding, as I grinningly realised, with that sharp granite corner-stone and recalling the terrific lurch that had nearly jerked me from my perch. The notch was an honourable scar on which the builder and wheel wright might have looked with pardonable pride.
I had just reached this conclusion when I became aware of a face protruded round a stable door and a pair of beady eyes fixed very attentively on me. Then the face emerged, accompanied by a suitable torso and a pair of thin, bandy legs, the entire outfit representing the Jehu whom I remembered as bearing the style and title of Louis. He advanced towards me crab-wise and demanded, suspiciously: “Vell. Vat you vant in here?”
I replied that I was just having a look round.
“Ah,” said he, “zen you shall take your look outside.”
I expressed the hope that I had not intruded, and, turning about, strolled up the yard and out into the street. He followed closely at my heels, not only up the yard, but along the street. Finding him still clinging to me, I quickened my pace, deciding now to get clear of the neighbourhood without delay. Heading towards The Lion, I was approaching the corner when two men came round it. One of them, whose head was bound with a dirty rag, instantly riveted my attention and stirred the chords of memory. Apparently, my appearance affected him in a like manner, for, as soon as he saw me he stopped, and, after regarding me for a moment with an astonished glare, flung up his arms and uttered a loud cry which sounded to me like “Hoya!” At the same moment, his companion started forward as if to intercept me.
That uncanny, Oriental alarm-cry, repeated now and echoed by the other two men, instantly warned me of my danger. I remembered its effect last time; indeed, the aid of memory was needless, for already a dozen windows were thrown up and a dozen shaggy heads thrust out, with open mouths repeating that ill-omened word, whatever it might be. Pocketing my dignity, I evaded the attempt to head me off and broke into a run with the cab-driver and the other man yelling at my heels.
Past the Lion of Judah I bolted and along the street beyond for some fifty yards; but now my imperfect recollection of the neighbourhood played me false. For, coming to a narrow turning on my right, I assumed it to be the one by which I had come, and did not discover my error until I had covered more than half its length, when a sharp turn revealed a blind end. But the discovery came too late. Already the place was humming like an overturned hive, and, when I spun about to retrace my steps, behold! the end of the little street was blocked by a yelling crowd.
There was nothing for it but to go back, which I did at a brisk walk; and when the mob came forward to meet me with the obvious intention of obstructing my retreat, I charged valiantly enough. But, of course, it was hopeless. A score of dirty hands grabbed at me as I strove to push my way through and in a few moments I was brought to a stand with both my arms immovably held, and then began to be slowly pushed and dragged forward; and all around me were those strange, pale, greasy, alien faces with their high cheek bones and beady eyes, all jabbering vociferously in an uncouth, alien tongue. Suddenly, out of this incomprehensible babel issued the welcome sound of some thing resembling English speech.
“Wot’s the good of makin’ all this rumpus? Give the bloke a clout on the ’ed and let ’im go.”
I looked round at the speaker and instantly recognised the man who had given me the ‘snide’ half-crown at Byles’s Wharf; and even in my bewilderment, I could see that he was obviously nervous and uneasy.
“Let ’im go!” exclaimed a flat-faced, hairy alien who was hanging on to my arm. “You do not know zat he have try to kill poor Mr. Gomorrah!”
“I know,” said the other. “’E ’it ’im on the ’ed. And wot I says is, ’it ’im on the ’ed and let ’im ’ook it. Wot’s the good of raisin’ a stink and bringin’ the coppers round?”
“He shall pay for vot he ’ave done, Mr. Trout,” the other replied, doggedly; and at this moment, my acquaintance with the bandaged head pushed his way through the crowd and stood for a few moments gloating over me with an expression of concentrated vindictiveness; and certainly, the presence of the bandage after all these weeks suggested that he had some excuse for feeling annoyed with me. I thought that he was about to take ‘consideration for value received’ forthwith, but then he altered his mind, and, with a savage grin, directed his friends (as I gathered) to bring me along to some more convenient place.
“Don’t be a fool, Gomorrah,” urged my friend—whose name appeared to be Trout. “You’ll get yourself and the rest of us into th
e soup if you ain’t careful. This ’ere is England, and don’t you forget it.”
His warnings, however, had no effect, and, once more an effort was made to propel me in the desired direction. It was clear to me that I was being led to the slaughter—not, however, like a lamb (whose policy I have always considered a mistaken one), for I proceeded to make things as uncomfortable as possible for the men who were holding me; who, to do them justice, retaliated effectively in kind. The proceedings became distinctly boisterous with considerable wear and tear of my clothing and person, and our progress was neither dignified nor rapid. Suddenly, the man who was clinging to my right wrist, breathlessly addressed the still-protesting Trout.
“Here come Mr. Zichlinsky. Now ye shall see.”
I looked anxiously at the newcomer who was thrusting through the crowd, and, as he came into view, I had two instantaneous impressions. First, in spite of his shabby, ill-fitting clothes, he was obviously of a totally different social class from the others. Secondly, though he was certainly a stranger, his face seemed to awaken some dim and vague reminiscence. It was a villainous face—dead white with a pair of strangely colourless eyes of the palest grey; and the pallor of eyes and skin was intensified by a brush of jet-black hair that stood straight up on his hatless head. Though not actually uncomely, his appearance and expression were evil to the point of repulsiveness.
These were but momentary impressions of which I was but half aware; for there was matter enough of another kind to keep my attention fully occupied. As soon as Mr. Zichlinsky had worked his way through to me, he introduced himself by slapping my face and remarking, with a sort of wild-cat grin: “So you haf come to see us again. Zis time you shall haf a brober velcome.”
With this he slapped my face again, and then grabbing a handful of flesh and clothing together, helped the others to drag me along. Mr. Trout made yet one more appeal.
“For Gawd’s sake, Mr. Zichlinsky, don’t go and do nothing stoopid. This ain’t Russia, yer know—”
Zichlinsky turned on him as if he would have bitten him. “Have I ask for you to tell me vot I shall do? Keep your hands out of my business!”
But there was yet another protestor. I could not see him, and, though I could hear his voice—speaking in barbarous French—I could make out only a word or two. But of those words, two—“la pucelle”—conveyed to me the gist of the matter.
Zichlinsky answered him less savagely and in excellent French: “It is not only revenge, though this beast has robbed me of a fortune. But he knows too much, and you can see for yourself he is a spy.”
Here he refreshed himself again by slapping my face, and then, apparently goaded to fury by the recollection of his wrongs, snarled and bared his teeth like a dog, and, seizing my ear, began to pull and twist it with the ferocity of a madman. The pain and consequent anger scattered the last remains of my patience and caution. Wrenching my left hand free, I shot out my fist with the full strength of an uncommonly strong arm.
My knuckles impinged on his countenance exactly between his eyes, and the weight of the blow flung him backward like a capsized ninepin. If there had been room, he would have measured his length on the ground. As it was, some of his friends caught him, and he leaned against them motionless for a few seconds apparently dazed, while from the crowd a deafening yell of execration arose. Then he recovered himself, and, with a horrid, womanish shriek, came at me with all his teeth exposed. And now I could see that he held a long, pointed knife in his hand.
I suppose that, until my time comes, I shall never be so near death as I was at that moment. The man was within a foot of me and his arm was swung out to strike. The nearest wretches in the crowd glared at me with gloating, fascinated eyes while my own followed the outward swing of the knife.
And then, in an instant, the fateful thing happened: A pair of strong hands—I think they were Trout’s—seized and held the outswung arm. The din of triumphant yells died down suddenly, giving place to a strange silence. The hands which gripped my arms relaxed their hold so that I could shake myself free. I cast a bewildered glance around, and then I saw the cause of this singular change. Above the heads of the crowd appeared two constabulary helmets, and in another moment two stalwart policemen (the police patrol in pairs in neighbourhoods of this type) pushed their way to the centre of the throng. Zichlinsky hurriedly put away his knife—but not before one of the policemen had observed it—and was in the act of withdrawing when a stern official voice commanded him to stay.
“Now,” said the constable who had noticed the knife, “what’s going on here?”
Mr. Trout hastened to explain. “It’s a parcel of foolery, constable, that’s what it is. A silly mistake. They took this young man for somebody else and they was going to wallop ’im.”
“Seem to have done a fair amount of walloping already,” the constable remarked apropos of my rather dishevelled condition. “And one of them,” he added, fixing an accusing eye on Zichlinsky, “was going to do the walloping with a knife. I saw you putting it away. Now what might your name be?”
The question was evidently anticipated for Zichlinsky replied, promptly: “Jacob Silberstein.”
“And where do you live?”
“I lodge with Mr. Gomorrah.”
“Oh,” said the constable, “you live with old Solomon Gomorrah, do you? That isn’t much of a testimonial.”
He produced a large, black-covered notebook in which he entered the particulars while the other constable peered curiously over his shoulder.
“What’s that?” the latter asked. “Did he say he lived at Sodom and Gomorrah?”
“No,” his colleague explained. “Solomon Gomorrah is a man—at least he’d pass for one in the monkey-house at the Zoo. One of these cag-mag tailors. Makes shoddy trousers. What they call in Whitechapel a kickseys builder. You’ll know all about Solomon when you’ve been a little longer on this beat.” He ran an expert eye over the remaining bystanders (the production of the notebook had occasioned a rapid dwindling of the assembly, though curiosity still held the less cautious) and demanded: “But what was it all about? What did they want to wallop this young fellow for?”
Mr. Trout would have essayed to explain, but he was forestalled by an elderly Jewess who looked as if she might have been “collected” from the Assyrian room at the British Museum. “He is a vicked man! He have try to kill poor Mr. Gomorrah.”
“Nothing of the sort!” said Trout. “T’wasn’t this bloke at all. They thought ’e was ’im, but it wasn’t. It was another cove altogether. ’E ’it ’im on the ’ed.”
The constable’s unsympathetic comment on this slightly confused explanation was that it probably served him right; “but,” he asked, “where is Gomorrah?”
“Seems to have hooked it,” said Trout, looking round vaguely, and I then observed that Zichlinsky had also taken the opportunity to fade away. The constable turned to me somewhat wearily and asked:
“What is your name, sonny, and where do you live?”
“My name,” I replied, “is Jasper Gray, and I live at 165, Great Ormond Street.”
“Quite a treat to hear a Christianlike name,” said the officer, writing it down. “So you don’t belong to this select residential neighbourhood; and if you will take my tip, you’ll clear out of it as quickly as possible. Better walk with us up to Commercial Road East.”
I accepted the invitation gladly enough, and we turned away together from the now silent and rapidly emptying street, and as we went, the senior constable put a few judicious questions. “Do you know what the rumpus was about? Why did that man Silberstein want to knife you?”
“He said I had robbed him of a fortune. I don’t know what he meant. I have never seen him before, to my knowledge. But his name is not Silberstein. It is Zichlinsky. I heard them call him by that name.”
“Oh, Zichlinsky, is it?” said my friend, fishing out the notebook again. “Probably a ‘wanted’ name as he gave a false one. We must see who he is. And now, here we are i
n Commercial Road East. You’d better have a penn’orth on a bus. Safer than walking. Got any coppers?”
He was slipping his hand into his trousers pocket, but I assured him that I was solvent to the extent of twopence, whereupon, waving away my thanks, he hailed a west-bound Blackwall omnibus and stood by to see me safely on board.
I was not sorry to sink down restfully on a cushioned seat (the constable had directed me to travel inside) for I had had a strenuous finish to a rather fatiguing morning. And as the omnibus rumbled along west ward I reflected on my late experiences, and once more the voice of conscience made itself heard. Evidently, Pentecost Grove was a veritable nest of criminals of the most dangerous type. Of those criminals I knew enough to enable the police to lay hands, at least on some and probably on all. Hitherto I had, for purely selfish reasons, kept my knowledge to myself. Now it was time for me to consider my duties as a citizen.
So I reflected as the leisurely omnibus jogged on along the familiar highway, and the sordid east gradually gave place to the busy west. When I dropped off opposite Great Turnstile my mind was made up. I would seek out the guardians of the law and tell them my story.
But once more Fate intervened. The guardians of the law forestalled my intentions; and the ears into which my story was delivered were not those of the mere official police.
CHAPTER XII
OF A HANSOM CAB AND A BLACK EAGLE
(Dr. Jervis’s Narrative)
When I came down to breakfast on the day after the inquest, I found the table laid for one; a phenomenon which Polton explained by informing me that “the doctor” had gone out early. “In a hansom,” he added with a crinkly and cunning smile. “I fancy he’s got something on. I saw him copying a lot of names out of the directory.”
I followed his knowing glance to a side table, whereon lay a copy of the Post Office Directory, and had no doubt that he was right. The Post Office Directory was one of Thorndyke’s most potent instruments of research. In his hands, and used with imagination and analytical feeling, it was capable of throwing the most surprising amount and kind of illumination on obscure cases. In the present instance, its function, I had no doubt, was quite simple; and so, on examination, it turned out to be. Although closed, the volume had two places conspicuously marked by slips of paper, one at the page devoted to rope manufacturers and the other at the list of ship chandlers; and a number of light pencil marks opposite names in the two lists showed that a definite itinerary had been made out.
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 98
