Mask of the Verdoy (27 page)

‘Well, he wasn’t giving too much away, but from what I could make out he wanted to offload it, you know—
the thing that they’d pinched from the posh trade
.’

‘Really?
Bugger!
How long ago did he leave?’

‘Oh she’s well away on her toes, dear. You’ve no chance of finding him now.’

‘Did you see what it was he was offering?’

‘Not a glimpse. But then who’s to say that he actually had it on him?’

‘So let’s get this straight—you’re saying that if I’d have been here on time Harper would have handed over whatever he nicked from Chantry that night, the thing that Aubrey was creased for?’

‘Yes, but not for nix … I’m sure there would have been an exchange of dinarly.’

‘Is he desperate for money?’

‘Of course. After all, he needs money to leave The Smoke. He’s had enough, dear—wants to cut his losses and get out while he’s still breathing.’

‘But he’s not gone tonight?’

Siddons drained his glass and shook his head.

‘No … doesn’t have the wherewithal yet. But it won’t take a dilly boy like Harper very long to rustle up the necessary for a train ticket. Trouble is, I doubt if she’s bold enough to troll about for the trade—not with sharpies after her … ’

‘Do you know where Harper’s staying, Gilby?’

‘I’m afraid not, dear.’

‘Could you get a message to him?’

‘Hmm … possibly.’

‘Give him the nod. Tell him that I’m willing to buy whatever it is he’s got to offer—assuming it’s what they nicked from Fast Freddie, of course. And tell him I can help him get away safely. But I need to have the full story on what went down that night, and why he thinks Aubrey was murdered. Can you do that, Gilby?’

‘I shall try, my dear … But you know, I find one always tries a little harder if there’s something to focus the mind … a little
incentive
.’

Harley pulled a note from his wallet, folded it and passed it under the table.

‘Ah … what bona timing—just when the cupboard was bare. And
so
generous, George … my word! There may even be a little left for that corybungus of a landlord of mine. Although, of course, the priority is to minister to my own little needs first. As dear Oscar has it: “
anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination”
.’

‘Yeah, well, don’t forget what it’s for, Gilby. I need you to try your damndest to get in touch with Harper. We’ve gotta get to him before Quigg does.’

‘You have my word, George—I shall do my utmost.’

***

Back on the ground floor Harley rooted out Rosen, who was propped up against the bar.

‘There you go, George,’ said Rosen, sliding a pint towards his friend. ‘How did you get on upstairs with the lavenders? Any luck?’

‘Nah—too late. He was long-gone. I’ve put the feelers out, though; you never know, might get lucky … Cheers!’ Harley downed a third of the pint and smacked his lips. ‘Needed that!’

‘I’m not surprised, after yer little run-in with Mori.’

‘Oh, that reminds me, Sol—what’s all this about the BBF rally on Saturday?’

‘Yeah, ’course—that was the other thing I was meant to tell yer about.’

‘All those clouts to the knowledge box finally taking their toll, eh?’

‘Very funny! It’s at the Albert Hall. We’re organizing a right strong crew. Mori’s pulling in a few favours; all sorts are showing up for it, apparently—anyone that’s got a beef with these Blackshirt bastards.
The plan is we’ll slip in as normal punters and then, on a signal, we’ll give it to ’em proper. We’ll be raising Cain inside the joint itself. We’ll show that bastard Saint Clair what’s for. It’s been a long time coming, if you ask me … You in?’

‘Mori’s already decided that for me—I’ve been summoned. But I don’t reckon we’ll get within spitting distance of the Hall itself. The place will be crawling with coppers and these BBF rallies are notorious for their strong-arm stewarding, it’s been all over the papers. I know you don’t have to be a party member to get in, but it’s a ticketed event, ain’t it?’

‘Don’t you worry about that, sunshine,’ said Rosen, producing a wad of yellow tickets from his inside pocket. ‘One of the lads in the print shop that’s got the job owes Mori a favour.’ He peeled off a ticket and handed it to Harley. ‘But dress down, mind—we don’t want you looking too wide, you know?’

‘You cheeky bugger! When have you known me to dress wide?’

Rosen gave a big grin.

‘Will the boys be pouching?’ asked Harley.

‘There’s a stack of Corporal Dunlops for whoever wants them. I’d bring along your trusty knuckles if I were you … I’ll be sticking to me dukes, myself. Why?’

‘Well, I reckon if anyone gets pinched with a bright’un, or a chife, they’re gonna be made an example of. They’ll end up doing time—that’s stone-ginger.’

‘Well, that won’t stop some of the lads—the likes of Benny, Big Lampton …’

‘Just saying.’

‘You’re in though, George—right?’

‘Blimey, you’re keen, ain’t yer?’

‘It’s these dirty Fascists, ain’t it? Especially that cowson Saint Clair. I don’t have to tell you, I’ve spent my whole life dealing with yiddified idiots. With most of ’em it’s just a habit, right? Water off a duck’s back, all that. But this lot? I dunno, there’s summit evil about ’em … And I stand by what I said to Uncle Nate the other day, an’ all—our lot have spent too long sitting round with our noses in books while the rest of the world kicks our arses on a daily basis. Someone’s gotta stand up to ’em … So, you in or not?’

‘I need to watch meself—if I get pinched it’ll put the kibosh on this case I’m on.’

‘Alright, so you need to tread careful, so what’s new? But are you in, George?’

Harley smiled at his old friend and nodded.

‘I’m in, Sol.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Rosen, finishing his pint. ‘Right, I’m just nipping off to ease my mind and then we better shoot to Uncle Nate’s.’

‘Right-you-are,’ said Harley, reaching for his beer.

***

‘Nu, George,’ said Uncle Nate, pouring out three small glasses of slivovitz in the little back room of his bookshop in Whitechapel. ‘You want I should tell you what I’ve discovered about the tattoo?’

‘If you would, Nate—I could do with a bit of good news.’

‘Well now, I’m not so sure this is exactly what you would call
good news
—but it should help you identify the tattoo’s owner, for sure … 
L’chaim
!’ Uncle Nate held up his glass to Harley and Rosen and then took a mouthful of the clear spirit.

They both followed suit, with Rosen finishing his drink off in one go and reaching for a refill. The bookseller peered over his glasses at his nephew and shook his head in mock despair, then turned his attention back to Harley.

‘Well, now—what do we have?’ he said, placing on the desk the fragment of the photo showing the Russian’s tattoo. ‘The
tryzub
—the national symbol of the Ukraine … above a wolf’s head … with a Cyrillic caption which reads “Gerovit’s Horde”. And Gerovit is, Solomon?’

‘God of War, ain’t he?’

‘Very good—yes, a Slavic god of war. All this we learnt on your last visit. But since then I have shown the photograph to my good friend Dov—Dov from Ivankiv, in the Ukraine … Poor Dov! It brought great sorrow to his heart, I’m sorry to say.’

Uncle Nate now sat at his desk and took a thoughtful sip of his slivovitz, shaking his head slowly, seeming to withdraw into himself for a moment. Although intrigued, Harley resisted the urge to try to rush the old man with his story. His nephew, however, was less patient.

‘So, come on then Uncle—are you saying your mate recognized the tattoo, or not?’

Uncle Nate removed his glasses, polished them with his handkerchief and replaced them on his nose before laying his hands flat on the desk.

‘Yes, Solomon … Dov recognized this mark. How could he not? You see the Gerovit’s Horde were a band of Cossacks, a ruthless, marauding troop of heartless killers. Amongst their company were some of the main perpetrators of the Kiev pogroms of nineteen-nineteen.’ Nate looked down now and shook his head again. ‘Such cruelty … Just imagine these men—more butchers than soldiers,
really—on their huge horses, thundering into the shtetle. All those homes pillaged, the women raped, and the men … 
oy vey ist mir
!’

‘What, Uncle? What did they do?’

Uncle Nate held up a slightly shaking hand and took another sip of drink before proceeding.

‘They took them—the men, and the boys of a certain age—and made them line up … Then the Cossack leader, the cruellest of the lot—a man they called
The Wolf of Kiev
—a big man, you understand, towering above all … as strong as an ox. This man then walked the line, staring into the eyes of these poor petrified fellows—these fathers, husbands, sons and grandfathers of the shtetle—searching deep into their souls … And, depending on what he found there, he would either tap them on the shoulder with his sword, or move on to the next man … What was he looking for, you ask. How could we know? Was it defiance? Terror, maybe? Was he looking for that which he lacked himself, this
dybbuk
? Maybe peace … love? None can say … But those that were chosen were pushed forward, and when he was finished they were forced to kneel down in the mud churned by the hooves of the Cossack horses, there in the village where they had raised their families, eaten their meals, laughed with their friends, worshipped their God. There in front of their wives, mothers, daughters, grandchildren … there they knelt. And as they knelt, the Wolf of Kiev, with his arm made strong by rich food and vodka and wrapped warm in expensive furs, walked the line once more … and took off their heads one at a time with his vicious sword. May they find peace in Paradise!’

Rosen grabbed for the bottle again.

‘And they just knelt there, waiting for it to happen?’

‘Not at first, nephew. At first some struggled, pleaded … others ran, of course. But these unfortunate souls were shot, and for each that was shot another took his place to step forward and kneel.’

‘Bastards!’

Harley now sat forward in his chair.

‘So the tattoo belongs to one of these Cossacks, Nate?’

‘Not just any of them, George—this is the mark of their leader, the man whose hand delivered such cruelty and despair to the Jews of Kiev. You see, the hand that bears this tattoo is the hand of the
Wolf of Kiev
himself.’

‘And your friend—Dov—he’s sure it’s the exact same tattoo? After all, it’s some years ago now.’

‘Imagine that you had to stand and watch your father, your uncle and two of your brothers beheaded before your eyes … had to stand there without the power to stop it, or to help them in any way … then,
my friend, you would certainly remember a tattoo on the hand that took their heads. Would you not? This you would never forget.’

Harley took out his notepad.

‘Do we have a name, Nate?’

‘The Cossack leader’s name was Colonel Kosevich. But Dov tells me that until he saw your photograph he believed the stories that the Wolf had been killed in the Revolution, fighting for the White Army against the Bolsheviks. Sadly, this would appear to be untrue. Tell me—was the photograph taken in England?’

Rosen slammed his glass on the table and grabbed the photograph from the table, waving it in the air.

‘Is he over here, George? Is he here? I need to know where I can find this bastard … And, no—I don’t care what it’ll do to your precious case!’

‘He’s dead, Sol.’

‘Shit!
Really?
’

‘You can be sure of this, George?’ added Nate.

‘If the hand in the photograph belongs to Kosevich, then yes—one hundred per cent. I saw it with my own eyes.’

‘How?’ asked Rosen.

‘I can’t tell you that, Sol.’

‘Did he suffer? Was it long and drawn out, a bullet to the gut, maybe? Some horrible disease, please God?’

Nate looked over at his nephew with some concern.

‘Solomon,’ he said, gently. ‘You fancy this will bring you peace in your heart—such hatred, such poison?’

Rosen ignored his uncle and cracked his knuckles.

‘Tell me, George—did he suffer?’

‘Honestly? No—it was quick, probably didn’t know a thing about it.’

‘Did you do it?’

‘No.’

‘And you can’t tell us any more than that?’

‘Not at the moment. I’ll explain everything in good time. To be honest I’m still not sure myself just how this Kosevich fits into it all.’

‘But this photograph, this man’s death—it happened in England, George?’ asked Uncle Nate.

‘Yes, Nate. Here in London … Tell me—is it possible that Kosevich could have been working for an extremist anarchist group?’

‘The Wolf of Kiev? Highly improbable, I’d say. Kosevich was a Colonel in the White Army—a pro-monarchist. He was fighting to retain the Tsarist state. No, no, it is not possible that he was in league with such people.’

‘Anarchists? Hold on—has this got summit to do with the bombings then?’

‘I can’t say, Sol. I’ve told you, I’ve only just started to piece this thing together myself. I can’t tell you anything more at the moment.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t even know if it’s true myself! It’s all just guesswork at this stage.’

‘Solomon,’ said Uncle Nate. ‘It is obvious George has said as much as is possible. When the time is right I’m sure he will tell us the full story … Patience is a virtue.’

‘Why did you cut the rest of it away, George? What else is in the photograph?’

Harley put his notepad back in his pocket and held his hands up to indicate that he couldn’t answer the question.

Rosen slapped the photograph down on the table and stood up.

‘I’ve had enough of this bollocks! Are you gonna tell us what this is all about, or what?’

‘I’m sorry, Sol, I really can’t—not at the moment.’

‘You need to get your priorities right! Sort out whose side you’re on!’

With that Rosen plucked his hat from the back of his chair and stormed out of the shop.

‘Such a hothead, that one … I’m sorry, George.’

‘Listen, I’ve been dealing with Solly’s little temper tantrums all my life, Nate—it’s nothing, really.’