Under Attack

by Edward Marston

  ‘He damaged both knees badly in an accident. The operations on them failed. Mr Sprake has been unable to walk properly ever since.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to have made him bitter.’

  ‘He’s very philosophical about it. I wouldn’t be.’

  Marmion glanced around the room. It was smaller, less comfortable and far more cluttered than the others. Peebles had none of Harriet’s gift for organising her office. The inspector recalled what she’d said about him.

  ‘I’ve just spoken to Miss Kane.’

  ‘She’s our secret weapon. Hattie more or less runs the place.’

  ‘Don’t you mind?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Well, she’s senior to you.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Most men would feel resentful that a woman had the whip hand over them.’

  Peebles smirked. ‘Hattie is not what I’d call a real woman.’

  ‘That’s a bit unkind.’

  ‘She does her job very well. I don’t deny it. And it may be that she’s paid more than I get for my work in this office. But that’s not the point. Now that Mr Donohoe is dead,’ he said, harshly, ‘she’ll have to go back to Birmingham. I’ll still be here. Mr Sprake is going to move me into her office.’

  When he saw his hat in the window, his first instinct was to storm into the shop, demand to have it returned and insist on being told how it came to be there. Burge realised that that would be a mistake. Instead of easing himself into the community, he’d be revealing himself as an outsider and, in the heat of the moment, might even let slip that he was an undercover detective. Holding himself in check, therefore, he walked away and pounded the streets in the vicinity until he’d calmed down enough to think clearly. By the time he returned to the shop, he’d come to see that, if he wanted his hat back, he might have to pay for it.

  Burge stood in front of the window with its accumulated filth and its piece of brown paper stuck over a large crack but now peeling back at the edges. Pretending to look at the mangle, he was instead appraising the owner, a big, slovenly old man wearing dungarees and shuffling around in a pair of moth-eaten slippers. Stepney shopkeepers were canny. Burge knew that of old. While he might be able to retrieve his hat, the chances of getting the name of the boys who’d sold it to the shop were non-existent. As a result, he had to proceed with caution.

  When he entered the shop, he was hit by a stench that made him cough. It was difficult to see where it came from, though the owner was making his contribution to it. His clothing stank and his matted hair looked as if it hadn’t been washed for years. Wearing a shirt with no collar, he had on a gravy-stained waistcoat with missing buttons. Cigarette ash was scattered liberally over him. The most unpleasant smell seemed to come from the kitchen, making Burge wonder what on earth was being cooked there. Careful not to appear too eager, he looked around the incongruous assortment of items on display. Clothing of all kinds was there in abundance as were dog-eared books and back issues of magazines. Bentwood chairs jostled with a sagging mattress and there was a grandfather clock standing at a rakish angle. When he saw an array of gardening implements, it occurred to him that they might have come from the shed belonging to the elderly couple he’d visited earlier.

  ‘Wot you arfter?’ asked the old man, gruffly.

  ‘Need a hat.’

  ‘They’re on the ’ooks over there.’

  Burge looked in the direction indicated and saw well over a dozen hats hanging in a row. Most of them were caps like the one he was wearing.

  ‘Need something better,’ he said.

  ‘Is it for you?’

  ‘Naw – for my bruvver. It’s his birfday soon.’

  ‘Wot size does he wear?’

  ‘Same as me.’

  Burge crossed over to the hats and ran his eye along them. All had seen better days. There was a top hat, two bowlers, a Homburg and a straw hat almost falling apart. He shook his head.

  ‘Need summat in better condition.’

  ‘Got just wot you needs,’ said the other, walking to the mangle and picking up Burge’s trilby. ‘Not long come in, this ’at – brand new.’

  Taking it from him, Burge tried it on and looked at himself in the mirror behind the counter. He adjusted it slightly and murmured his approval. Then the old man told him how much it cost and Burge recoiled. It was even more than he’d originally paid for it.

  ‘Can’t afford that.’

  ‘Why not? You said it was a present for your bruvver.’

  ‘It is – but I don’t like him that much.’

  Handing the trilby back to him, Burge walked quickly out of the shop. He was confident that nobody would pay that amount for his hat so it was safe to leave it there. When he later returned, he was certain, he’d get it at a much cheaper price.

  The brief interlude with Keedy had been just the fillip that she needed. Alice’s walk was almost jaunty now. Her worries about their relationship had not been eliminated but at least they’d set a date when they could discuss them. Feeling invigorated, she was more well disposed to Iris’s anxieties.

  ‘If only that would happen to me,’ said her friend. ‘You’re doing your job and walking your beat when the man of your dreams leaps out of a car to give you a kiss. I’d love to have been in your shoes, Alice.’

  ‘Joe would have found that very confusing.’

  Iris giggled. ‘I was talking about Douglas. I’d love to have been strolling along when he suddenly appeared in a puff of smoke.’

  ‘You make him sound like a pantomime demon.’

  ‘Well, I’m hoping there may be something of a demon in him. There is in Sergeant Keedy. He’s got that wicked gleam in his eyes. It must be wonderful to have that effect on a man.’

  ‘I suppose that it is.’

  ‘Do you think it will be the same for me and Douglas?’

  ‘How can I possibly tell?’

  ‘You’re so much more … at ease with men. You know what to say.’

  ‘I’m sure that you and Douglas won’t have any trouble talking to each other. I just think it’s important for you to find out certain things about him.’

  ‘I will,’ promised Iris, ‘don’t worry. I know you think he might be married and you want to protect me from being taken advantage of, but he’s not that kind of man. Douglas is honest and open. He won’t try to trick me.’

  ‘Then you’ll have an amazing time together.’

  ‘He wants to take me to the cinema.’

  ‘Which film are you going to see?’

  ‘Douglas said that I could choose. That shows how considerate he is.’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  ‘Who chooses the films you go to see – you or Joe?’

  ‘We haven’t been to the cinema for months and months, Iris.’

  ‘Oh, you poor thing!’ said Iris, touching her partner’s shoulder. ‘It’s a warning to us. I’ll tell Douglas that he’s far better off where he is. If he gets to be a detective sergeant, I’d be in your position, hardly ever seeing him. Well, that’s not going to happen,’ she went on with conviction. ‘Now that we’ve found each other, I’m not going to let go of him. This could be my one chance of happiness and it won’t slip through my fingers.’

  All of a sudden, Alice began to feel sorry for Douglas Beckett.

  Harvey Marmion had a rather hasty meal at Scotland Yard with Keedy. They were able to trade details of their respective interviews that morning. The inspector was interested to hear about the exchange with Patrick Armitage and pleased that Keedy’s estimate of the man chimed in perfectly with his own. He approved of the decision to return to the hotel when the manager was no longer on duty.

  ‘Armitage has an aura about him, Joe. It will be good to see what happens when he’s not there. Did you speak to Adrian Donohoe?’

  ‘Yes – not that it did me any good. He refuses to talk at length about his father or, to be more exact, about his relationship with him. He was quite spiky.’

  ‘
Miss Kane implied as much. She was Donohoe’s secretary in Barnes and probably got closer to him than anyone. I had the feeling that she was quite hostile to the son and he, in turn, was no admirer of hers. They’re seeing each other this afternoon. I sensed that she was dreading his arrival.’

  Marmion went on to describe his conversations with Sprake and with his two associates but it was when he talked about Jean-Louis Peebles that he aroused most curiosity. Keedy was intrigued.

  ‘So he’s a servant, chauffeur, auxiliary nurse and part-time secretary. Most men would find that kind of life demeaning.’

  ‘Sprake treats him like one of the family.’

  ‘But he’s not a real member,’ said Keedy. ‘It sounds to me as if he’s sponging off them. They’ve got three children of their own so where does Peebles fit in? And what other inducements did Sprake have to offer to keep him?’

  ‘I wondered that.’

  ‘You saw him lifting the old man out of the car, you say?’

  ‘That’s right, Joe. He did it as if he’d had plenty of practice. Peebles is a strong man. If he’d wanted to, he could have picked him up bodily and carried him into the office block.’

  ‘Would he be strong enough to carry someone as heavy as Donohoe?’

  ‘Yes, no question about it.’

  ‘Was there any hint that he might have done just that?’

  ‘He’d do anything that Sprake asked of him.’

  ‘Do you really mean everything?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  Keedy’s appetite was whetted. He was keen to meet Peebles and make his own appraisal of the man. Meanwhile, he had other duties. After further discussion, Marmion got up to leave.

  ‘I’d better report to Chat.’

  ‘He asked me earlier how you were dealing with Paul’s disappearance.’

  ‘Oh? What did you tell him?’

  ‘I just said you were coping. He was worried about the press finding out that the famous Inspector Marmion could capture the most elusive killers yet he hasn’t a clue where his son is. It could be embarrassing for you.’

  ‘I can live with that, Joe.’

  Marmion took his leave and made his way to the superintendent’s office. Invited in, he handed over the report he’d written on his return to the building. After studying it for a couple of minutes, Chatfield heaved a sigh.

  ‘I can’t detect any sign of real progress here, Inspector.’

  ‘Read between the lines, sir.’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Everyone at those offices in Barnes knows far more than they’re prepared to admit – and that goes for Harriet Kane as well. What were they holding back and why were they doing it?’

  ‘It’s your job to find the answers.’

  Before the inspector could make a comment, there was a tap on the door and a uniformed policeman put his head in to say that someone was desperate to see the superintendent in response to his plea in the newspapers.

  ‘Send him in, Constable.’

  The man disappeared for a while but soon returned. He ushered in a stout, striking, immaculately dressed individual of middle years with a bald head.

  ‘Which one of you is Superintendent Chatfield?’ he asked.

  ‘I am,’ said the other, ‘and this is Inspector Marmion who is leading the investigation into the murder of Gilbert Donohoe.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here. It was late morning by the time I read the newspapers. I was horrified. I caught the next available train from Kent. My name is Jonathan Ulverton,’ he told them. ‘I was one of Gilbert’s closest friends.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  In the short time he’d been there, Clifford Burge had learnt a great deal. War had inflicted big changes on Stepney. There was a distinct shortage of younger men on the streets and those he did see were often on crutches, missing an arm or with hideous facial disfigurement. Bomb damage had scarred some neighbourhoods. Small children played among the ruins as if they’d been provided solely for their entertainment. It was the older generation who worried most about the lack of safety. Women, in particular, hurried along and looked fearfully over their shoulders. If they saw youths idling on a corner, they deliberately crossed the road. Gang members popped up everywhere, showing off their strength by blocking pavements or tormenting passers-by. When policemen came into view on their beat, the groups quickly scattered, leaving a sense of menace in the air. Stepney was theirs.

  It was in the market and the shops that the effects of war were at their starkest. Everything was in desperately short supply. Potatoes, the staple diet for most people, were particularly scarce. Bread had almost doubled in price since 1914. Cheese, butter and meat were also more expensive. Those with even a tiny garden tried to grow carrots, swedes, onions, potatoes or other vegetables and then had the problem of protecting their miniature harvests from nocturnal thieves. For many people, soup became the only option. Burge knew that the navy was slowly winning the battle against German submarines but that fact was not evident on stalls or in shop windows. The British public was palpably suffering.

  Thanks to the policemen who’d reported on the affray between the Stepney Warriors and the Evil Spirits, Burge had been told exactly where the disputed territory lay. He made a point of walking down all the streets involved. What pleased him most was that nobody seemed to give him a second look. He was an anonymous figure who blended with the local population. When he saw children loitering in doorways, he fought off the temptation to ask them why they weren’t at school because he didn’t wish to draw attention to himself.

  Burge soon came upon another all too common sight. As he turned a corner, he saw a tiny coffin being brought out of a house and loaded on to the back of a cart. He joined a knot of people who were watching sadly from the other side of the street.

  ‘That’s the third one Mrs Harrity has lost,’ said the old woman next to him. ‘None of them reached their first birthday.’

  ‘What did the baby die of?’ he asked.

  ‘Whooping cough. The first two had diphtheria. Mrs Harrity couldn’t afford to go to the doctor. All she could give this last one was a raw onion.’

  Burge knew that the traditional cure rarely worked. Infant deaths were at a depressingly high level. Overcrowding and bed-sharing meant that killer diseases spread more quickly. When he was at school, he’d lost more than several of his friends to tuberculosis or scarlet fever. It brought back searing memories. Breaking away from the cluster of people, he went on his way. Feeling hungry after his hours on foot, he headed back in the direction of the market to pick up a cheap meal. On his way, he came to the junk shop where he’d spotted his stolen hat. It was still there, balanced on the top of the mangle. If he haggled with the owner, he felt, he might get the asking price down by a half but that was still too much in his view. Burge decided to leave it where it was and return the following day. If no interest had been shown in the hat by then, the owner might be more amenable to a lower offer.

  He was still looking in the window when he heard running footsteps behind him. Burge turned to see a boy coming towards him with a bulge under his coat as if he was hiding something. He darted past the detective and went into the shop. The old man clearly recognised him and held out both hands. From under his coat, the boy took out a pair of large black shoes that gleamed as if just brushed. After examining them carefully, the owner put the shoes on the counter, opened his till and took out some coins. Taking the money from him, the boy was obviously pleased with the transaction. He ran out of the shop with a broad grin on his face.

  Burge was astonished. Stealing hats off the heads of unsuspecting pedestrians was relatively easy. Had the gangs now moved on to collecting shoes as well?

  ‘I couldn’t believe it at first,’ said Ulverton, spreading his arms. ‘I thought that it was a grotesque misprint. So I rang Scotland Yard for confirmation. Gilbert Donohoe was murdered, after all. I was so angry with myself.’

  ‘Why was that, sir?’ asked Marmion.<
br />
  ‘Well, I saw him at the start of the week before I had to go back to Rochester. I’d thought of telephoning him at the hotel but I never got round to it somehow. That’s what’s so galling. If I’d rung the Devonian yesterday, I’d have learnt then what had happened to him. Instead of which, I only found out a couple of hours ago.’

  ‘You said that you were a close friend, Mr Ulverton.’

  ‘I like to think I was one of the closest.’

  ‘Perhaps you could explain.’

  Ulverton was quick to do so. It transpired that he was a man of independent means who liked, in his own words, to dabble in the arts. He’d met Donohoe years earlier when the two of them had sat next to each other at a performance of Wagner’s Lohengrin at the Covent Garden Opera House. There’d been an immediate kinship between them and it had developed into a warm friendship.

  ‘I was different, you see,’ said Ulverton, tapping his chest. ‘I was quite unlike any of the people Gilbert dealt with on a day-to-day basis. They were all blinkered businessmen in search of profit. I, on the other hand, rhapsodised about music, opera, theatre, ballet, art and literature. He said I was an oasis of culture in a desert of philistinism. Gilbert had a nice turn of phrase at times.’

  ‘How often did you meet?’ asked Chatfield.

  ‘I usually saw him whenever he was in town. Apart from anything else, there was the club to discuss. We were joint owners, you see. The Club Apollo was our brainchild. It filled a yawning gap.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I follow, sir.’

  ‘Are you a music-lover, Superintendent?’

  ‘I don’t have time for leisure pursuits, Mr Ulverton.’

  ‘Then you’re starving your soul of nourishment. There are many London clubs and, by and large, they offer the same facilities to their members. The Club Apollo is unique. Since it took its name from the god of music, we created a haven of beautiful sound with a resident quartet playing a classical repertoire. From time to time,’ said Ulverton with a grand gesture, ‘we invite well-known musicians to entertain us. Where else in this city could like-minded gentlemen enjoy comfort, companionship, a well-stocked library, an excellent restaurant and some of the finest music available?’