England thought about the proposal. His face was strict and inscrutable, which did nothing to make Billings feel more at ease. He took off his eyeglasses and placed them on the table.
“Who exactly is this McCain?” he asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“He is Jacques Hirsch’s illegitimate son. McCain is an alias. I don’t know his real name. He thinks he might apply for the inheritance once all of his stepbrothers have died.”
“He probably won’t if he’s illegitimate,” England mumbled. “How do you know about this McCain?”
“I…um…”
Flynt interrupted his colleague. “Billings learned about him through an informer.”
“An informer? And how did he get hold of this informer?”
“The informer is a close friend of the Hirsch brothers. Billings met him at the Metropolitan plot meeting.”
England frowned. “Really? As I recall from the report, there were only four people present at that meeting: Billings, Joseph, Ruben and Zebulun. “
“Well…” Flynt became flustered. “That’s because Billings didn’t mention the informer in the report.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because…” Flynt frowned and turned towards Billings. “Why was that, Billings? Why didn’t you mention the informer in the report?”
“I…um…” Billings could feel his face begin to blush. “It didn’t seem relevant.”
“It didn’t seem relevant?”
“My informer hadn’t spoken a word at the meeting. And he didn’t stay long. He left before I did.”
“How did he get to be your informer?”
“He approached me.”
England raised his eyebrows. “He approached you?”
“He sent a letter to Scotland Yard after the meeting.”
“How did he know you worked at Scotland Yard? And if he knew, then how is it that the Hirsch brothers didn’t?”
“Well… um…” Billings’ face was now flaming red, and he could feel a trickle of sweat begin to roll down his forehead. He was terrible at lying. Luckily Flynt came to the rescue.
“When it comes to informers, Chief Inspector England, I think that the less you know about them, the better,” he said. “We don’t want to risk exposing them. But I know who the informer is, and I can vouch for him. I believe we can rely on the intelligence he has given us, and I recommend we act on it.”
England seemed satisfied with this explanation and put his eyeglasses back on. “Very well. Give me a detailed plan of how you intend to bait McCain, and we’ll contact the papers.”
“I will do.”
Billings and Flynt turned their backs on England and headed for the door.
“This plan of yours had better succeed,” Flynt whispered to Billings as they exited the office, “or else…”
There was no need for Flynt to complete his sentence. Billings knew full well what was at stake. If they succeeded, Flynt would claim all the glory for himself and possibly be promoted to Special Branch. But if they failed, Flynt was sure to turn on him. Failure would mean dismissal and disgrace.
By the time Billings left the Scotland Yard building, he was trembling all over. The sweating and palpitations had also started again. These symptoms could not be alleviated with a warm flannel and a good night’s sleep, so he stopped at a chemist’s on his way home and bought himself a couple of ampoules of morphine.
As he approached Alexandra Avenue, with clenched fists and gritted teeth, a fleeting hope crept into his mind that when he turned the corner, he would see Enoch sitting on the curb in front of Mrs Appleby’s house as usual. What a relief that would be! To have been mistaken about that boy. To not have all hell break loose every time he allowed himself to fall in love.
But it was not to be. There was no one sitting in front of Mrs Appleby’s house. Enoch was gone. He had made a fool out of Billings and disappeared.
20. The Bait
“What have I done?”
Ruben Hirsch sat in the paddy wagon, staring at the ground and shaking his head. Billings and Clarkson sat on either side of him, batons clutched in their hands, looking out of the barred windows.
“No, really,” he continued. “What actually have I done?”
Neither Billings nor Clarkson replied. They were too busy scanning the road to pay attention to the disgruntled prisoner’s protestations.
“I’ll tell you what I’ve done. I put some of my hard-earned money towards the purchase of some dynamite. That’s it. That was all. And for that I’ve been forced to lead the life of a fleeing gutter rat? For that I am being sent back to France to get my head chopped off?”
He looked at Billings, then at Clarkson. But neither man responded.
“I didn’t know people would die.” Ruben sounded exasperated, desperate for some kind of response from the stoic-faced detectives, but none was forthcoming. “The factory was supposed to be empty. And as for my brothers… How could anyone think I killed them? Me? The one who always tried to keep the peace in my family? The one who always tried to keep us together? It is outrageous, I tell you! Outrageous!”
He lifted his shackled hands to wipe away the tears that were welling in his eyes, turning once again towards the detectives as he did so, but both were still too busy looking out of the barred windows to notice his distress.
“Good Lord!” Billings muttered.
As the paddy wagon approached the dock, Billings saw a horde of journalists running towards them, wearing derby hats and long overcoats and holding pencils and note pads, some even carrying cameras and flash lights.
“Mr Hirsch! Mr Hirsch!” they shouted, jumping up to get a good look at the prisoner through the bars. “How do you feel about being extradited to France?”
Ruben lowered his head and hid his face behind his hands. “Tell them to go away.”
Billings stuck his hand through the bars and waved his baton around. “Clear off!” he yelled. “If you get trampled under this wagon, it’ll be your own fault!”
A team of police officers was waiting for the wagon in front of the customs building. They had cordoned off a crowd of curious spectators, leaving a space for the paddy wagon to stop in.
The crowd jeered and whistled as the wagon doors opened and Billings and Clarkson stepped out with the prisoner.
“Death to anarchy!” the crowd yelled. “Death to the Hirsch brothers!”
Ruben kept his head down as the detectives led him into the building. “What did I do?” he kept muttering to himself. “I only helped destroy a factory that enslaved its workers. And for this I get shouted at? For this I am hated?”
Billings and Clarkson took the prisoner into the customs building and towards an office that had been cleared for their use.
“It’s a mad house out there,” Billings said, entering the office and wiping the sweat off his brow with his sleeve. He was talking to Flynt, who was waiting for them there. “Those journalists are like savages! Like a pack of starving dogs!”
He led Ruben to the table and sat him down. Ruben rested his elbows on the table top and put his head in his hands. His face was flushed, and his limbs were trembling. Clearly, he had not anticipated the attention he had attracted. Billings looked at him with pity.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked.
Ruben looked up. “Perhaps you can relieve me of these?” He raised his shackled hands in the air. “They’re hurting me.”
Billings turned towards Flynt for permission.
Flynt shook his head.
“Any signs of him?” Billings was referring to McCain. A police sketch artist had drawn a portrait of him based on Billings’ descriptions, and his likeness had been spread among the various officers involved in the operation.
“Nothing,” Flynt answered. “He had better be here soon, Billings. You don’t need me to tell you what kind of hell will break loose if he doesn’t show up.”
“He’ll be here,” Billings replied, although he was by no mea
ns convinced of this. It was odd that Enoch hadn’t been spotted yet, considering the amount of undercover officers among the public.
“Perhaps I should go out and have a look,” he suggested.
“He’ll recognise you if he sees you, and that would jeopardise the whole operation.”
“I’ll be careful,” he said, and without waiting for Flynt’s reply, he walked out onto the harbour.
The steamer had just arrived from France, and port officials were busy unloading the cargo and cleaning the decks, while the next load of passengers lingered outside, waiting for the boarding gates to open. As Billings scanned the passengers for any signs of Enoch, he began to have doubts. What if he’d been wrong? What if there was a perfectly good explanation for Enoch’s disappearance? And that of the gun? He suddenly wondered whether he had checked the right drawer. Had he hidden the gun in the left or right drawer?
He thought back on all of the things that had made him believe that Enoch was one of the Hirsch brothers: the name, the circumcised penis, the mysterious telegram from France. All of this supposed evidence suddenly seemed very flimsy. He began to sweat. Had he allowed his bitterness to cloud his judgement? Had he acted out of spite when he concocted his theory?
A young man wearing a porter’s uniform and pushing a trolley with three large cases suddenly caught his eye. He saw the porter walking up and down the dock. Where was he going with those cases, Billings wondered. Was he loading them or unloading them? Why did he keep on pacing up and down the dock?
Billings squinted and focused on the porter’s head. His black hair was cut short, shorter than Enoch’s, but the contrast with his pale skin was striking. It wasn’t until the porter gave him a sideways glance that Billings noticed the young man’s diamond blue eyes. His heart leapt in his chest. It was Enoch.
“There he is!” he yelled, hoping that an undercover officer in the crowd might hear him. He headed for the porter, but the porter quickly pushed the trolley away from him and ran away.
The trolley hurtled towards a group of passengers, hitting a woman and knocking her onto the ground. This incident caused such consternation in the crowd that they all turned their attention towards the fallen lady, leaving Enoch to run away unobserved.
“It’s him! It’s McCain!” Billings tried to chase after the fleeing porter, but his path was blocked by passengers who were fussing over the fallen lady and helping her back onto her feet.
“That’s him!” he cried again, looking desperately around him for any sign of the undercover officers who were supposed to be immersed in the crowd. “He’s running away!” He pushed past the passengers, almost knocking the poor lady back onto the ground, and ran after Enoch.
While Billings was still struggling to push past the crowd of indignant passengers, who were yelling at him for kicking over their cases or stepping on their wife’s skirts, Enoch sprinted towards the fishing harbour. At last Billings was able to leave the crowd behind him and run after Enoch.
Having recovered from the incident with the luggage trolley, the crowd now became engrossed in the spectacle of Billings sprinting across the dock, zig-zagging past dock workers and sailors, leaping over mooring ropes and climbing over piers in pursuit of the fleeing porter. By the time the undercover officers finally copped on to what was happening, Enoch had already led Billings away from the ferry dock and into the fishing harbour.
Never in his life had Billings run as fast as he was running now. A great anger welled within him as he thought about Enoch’s betrayal, giving him a sudden surge of energy. He focussed on his target, blocking out the world around him. Soon enough, he saw the distance between him and Enoch get shorter.
Enoch too must have felt Billings catching up with him, because he turned his head and looked back. This proved to be a great mistake. He tripped over a mooring rope and smashed into the ground, cutting his forehead against the pavement.
While Billings walked towards his stricken prey, Enoch turned over on the ground, pushed himself up to a sitting position and pulled out a gun.
“Let me go,” he said, the blood streaming down from his forehead and into his eyes.
Billings stopped. He felt a pang in his heart as Enoch clenched the gun in both hands and pointed it right at his chest.
“I have two bullets in this gun,” he said. “I’ll still have one left for Ruben after I’ve shot you.”
Billings didn’t say anything. He kept looking at Enoch’s face, searching for a sign of regret, or desperation, or even insanity. Anything that suggested Enoch’s relationship with him had been more than just one step in a carefully plotted plan to acquire his father’s inheritance. But there wasn’t any such sign. Enoch stared at him as if he were a stranger, with a cold and determined look in his eyes.
“Let me go,” he repeated, pulling back the hammer of his gun. “I’m going to kill Ruben. Nothing can stop me. I’ve been through too much to fail!”
Behind Billings, three men ran into the fishing harbour.
At last, Billings thought. The undercover officers. Enoch looked alarmed when he saw them and pulled the trigger. The bullet whizzed past Billings, brushing against his upper arm. Billings winced with pain and grabbed his bleeding arm, while Enoch got up and began to run. He didn’t stand a chance. Unwilling to waste his last bullet on the officers, he tried to flee, but the three men quickly caught up with him, pushed him to the ground and wrestled the pistol from him.
21. Dan
“My father named me Dan.”
Enoch kept looking at his shoes as he spoke. He was leaning forward in his chair. His hands were cuffed behind him. Occasionally, after finishing a sentence, he would look up and meet Flynt or England’s eyes. It was a look of defiance. He seemed eager for the world to know that he was not ashamed of his actions. But not once did he look at Billings. Not when he’d been caught by the three undercover officers and escorted to the customs office. Nor during the long train journey back to London. Nor did he look at him now, as Billings stood behind Flynt and England with his right arm in a sling.
“Dan,” Enoch continued. “In the scriptures, Dan is Jacob’s bastard son. The one born to him by his wife’s handmaiden. The tribe of Dan was the last tribe to receive its territorial inheritance. And they were allocated the least hospitable part of Canaan. Forced to scavenge the barren coast for food.” He looked up at England and Flynt. “That’s me. The bastard son of Jacques Hirsch, forced to scavenge for his share of the inheritance.”
“Did you really think you’d get your father’s inheritance if you killed your stepbrothers?” England asked. “You are, after all, a bastard. You said so yourself.”
“Who else would the money go to?”
“You must’ve known you’d get caught at some point. You must’ve known you’d be executed before you could inherit the money?”
Enoch shrugged. “Then the money will pass on to my mother. She’s the one I did all this for. You don’t know how much she suffered at the hands of that man. She didn’t receive a single penny from him after he went back to his wife. She was forced to sell herself to give me an education. I’m not ashamed to confess that to you. I admire that in her. We must all do what we can to get what we want. I’ve sold my body too. Many times.”
England frowned. “There’s no need to get into such sordid details, young man. Let’s leave your mother out of this.”
“But my mother is what this is all about. I owe everything to her. It’s because of her that I was able to live in Dublin and Liverpool and teach French.”
At last Enoch looked up at Billings, as if to say: “I didn’t lie to you about that.” But Billings looked away.
“My mother shacked up with some Russian aristocrat in Paris – a fat, vulgar drunkard– just to send me money.”
England raised his eyebrows. “Why did she send you money?”
“Because it’s not cheap tracking your brothers through the London slums. It costs an awful lot of money. My mother financed this. She sent me
a cheque every two or three months. She’d sign the cheques with ‘M’.” He looked at Billings again. “‘M’ for ‘maman’.”
“How did you track your brothers?”
“The first one was easy. I went to the Autonomie Club. I was sure my brothers would try to become members there. I lingered outside the club every night, waiting for them to appear. Joseph, Issachar and Zebulun went there every week. They were always together. They entered the club as a threesome and left as a threesome, making it impossible for me to strike. When they were barred from the club, Joseph and Zebulun never returned, but Issachar did. He was a drunkard, you see? Life as a fugitive had turned him into a drunkard. Issachar would return to the club on his own and linger outside the entrance, arguing with the doorman and harassing the members for some drinking money. He was completely plastered the night that I killed him. It was a cold, wet day. The street was deserted. Issachar had once again been turned away by the doorman and was staggering down the street, barely able to stay upright. So I took my chance. I rushed up to him, dug my knife into his back and ran away. That was the first one, and I felt good. I was on my way. One brother down, six to go.”
“What about Zebulun Hirsch? Did you kill him too?”
“Yes, although finding him was a bit more complicated. I didn’t know where any of my brothers were staying, and none of them ever visited the Autonomie Club again. But then I had a stroke of luck. I met someone who could lead me to them.”
“You met someone?”
Enoch glanced at Billings. The look was observed by Flynt but went unnoticed by England.
“Who did you meet?”
Enoch looked at his shoes and shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”
Anarchy Page 15
