The Revenge of Moriarty (12 page)

‘You could handle a Chubb triple lock? You wouldn't have to cut it with a blower?'

‘I told you. It's an old one.'

Moriarty nodded. ‘Hinges strengthened though.'

‘You can still get the door off as long as there's room to get the wedges in. Once you get the wedges into the crack a screw-jack will take it off like opening a tin. So long as you're patient. And as long as you don't bend the door too much and can't prop it back. If the beat man sees it off, he'll raise the alarm in no time.'

‘Leave the beat man to Spear,' the Professor grinned like a gargoyle. ‘You see, Ember, you are going to be caught on the way out with the swag.'

Ember grinned back. ‘Of course we are, guv'nor, I'd quite forgotten.'

‘You know where Schleifstein's making put-up offers?'

‘One or two places.'

‘You can get to him?'

Ember nodded, not over happy at the thought of working in the enemy camp.

Moriarty, as though sensing cowardice, looked at him hard, his deep eyes willing strength into the little villain. When he spoke it was in the quiet rhythmic voice, gentle and soothing, as a nurse will speak to a child.

‘Go and sell yourself to him. Set him at ease, but watch his man Franz – the big one. If he gets wind of you, he will crush you with his little finger.'

When they had gone, leaving him alone, Moriarty started to do some simple arithmetic. He had been right to concentrate upon bringing the foreigners and the pair of jacks to heel, leaving the reconstruction of his rank and file to the others. It was both intellectually and aesthetically satisfying to work out the involved plots that would deal with the powers which offended him; stimulating to put them into action, and pleasurable to see the results. There was something godlike in the occupation. His genius, he knew, was in planning and guiding, and, if he recognized the truth, he found the day by day running of his criminal society somewhat humdrum. This was a supreme challenge. Hisnostrils twitched, for already Grisombre and Schleifstein were marked down, the train of events set in motion. Also, Crow and Holmes were oblivious to the snares being set in their paths.

But, to basics. What had it cost him from the wealth he had brought back from America? The lurkers, punishers and other individual criminals back on his strength were now being paid weekly wages, but already he was seeing a return for his money – the tribute starting to flow in from the demanders; wallets, watches, silk handkerchiefs and purses from the dippers and toolers. There were wages for young Harry Allen. They would be worth every penny, for Harry appeared to be a good boy. The running of the Albert Square house, the purchase of the shop in Cornhill. The two new places for Sal. As though in answer to his thoughts, Sal Hodges appeared in the doorway, tapping lightly and entering without waiting for the Professor's call.

‘I think I have a temptress for you, James.' She looked almost demure, the laces of her tight boots showing beneath the long slim skirt, the white blouse, high to the neck making the texture of her beautifully managed hair even more dazzling than usual. ‘The kind of temptress you require.' The smile on her face like a cat that has swallowed all the cream in the larder. ‘A temptress like a tiger.'

‘Well, Sal, tigress is it? Italian tigress?'

He had spoken to her only a few nights previously, between bouts of passion at the old game, of his need for an Italian girl. His instructions, as always, were clear. Preferably an Italian girl born in England. One who had never set eyes on her true native shore. One who was a looker and right for grooming. Most assuredly one who was a tigress between the sheets.

‘Hot blooded the Italians,' he had murmured at the time.

‘Do you imply that we English bred girls are without hot arses?' She teased, a challenge in her upturned face while her full thighs began kneading his.

‘They're not all as you, Sal. Not all have honey pots full of wasps and salamanders.'

Now she closed the door and came towards him, bending to kiss him lightly on the forehead.

‘This tigress …' Moriarty began.

‘You plan to test this tigress yourself?' The smile licking at the corner of her mouth exaggerated the deep laughter curves which were set, like brackets, on each side of her lips.

Slowly, almost gravely, the Professor nodded. ‘It is part of my grand design, Sal. It is necessary. No disrespect to you, my girl, but I have to train this one myself.'

‘Then I'd better bring her to you. Will tonight suit, or have you other plans?'

‘I have much to do. You stay tonight, Sal. This girl? Does she have intelligence? A quick wit?'

‘She'll serve. Whatever your purpose, she'll serve.'

He knew she was fishing, but the Italian girl's purpose was part of the whole design wrapped in his head, and he would not rise to Sal Hodges' bait. The Italian girl was for the lecher Sanzionare. He glanced down at the paper Ember had handed him. There was a ruby necklace on that list which would also serve for Sanzionare. Moriarty's hand tightened as though pulling on invisible strings.

Sal was sent off in search of Bertram Jacobs who came down within the quarter hour. More money was to be laid out. Again in property. This time somewhere safe within one of the hard territories. Moriarty had his eye near the river – an old stamping ground. Perhaps somewhere in Bermondsey, he suggested. It had to be secure, where they could keep a watch, where nobody could come upon them without warning. Bertram Jacobs took it all in and went off to do his master's bidding.

That evening Spear came and told him about Bridget's condition, but Moriarty showed little interest except to say that he hoped Bridget would train the two young Jemimas so that they could be trusted while she was lying in.

‘I cannot afford for the routine in this household to be shuffled,' he said, and Spear returned to his part of the house feeling vaguely uneasy.

Meanwhile, Labrosse and Harry Allen were on the French railway, nearing Paris – Labrosse well drunk on absinth and Allen doing as he was told, acting as a caretaker. Back in London, Ember was banging the hoof around various hostelries which he knew were haunts of the German's crew. After a few hours searching, he sauntered into Lawson's in the naughty St George's Street. It was kept by a German, though its clientele was mainly drawn from Norwegian and Swedish seamen. The first person he spotted on entering was Schleifstein's bodyguard, Franz. All seven foot of him.

Franz sat at a table in the corner with a man called Wellborn: a name which belied the fellow's ancestry. Both were drinking cheap whisky, sluicing it down as though their guts were on fire and needed quenching.

The place was noisy and filled with smoke, while several young whores were working overtime, trying to part the men from their wages. Ember fended off a gypsy-looking girl of about fifteen, half cut, who made a hand for him before he had moved three paces into the crowd.

He pretended not to notice Franz and Wellborn, making straight for the bar where he ordered gin, then turned with his back to the counter to peer through the dense atmosphere, trying to shut his ears to the din around him. He had seen Franz on a number of occasions, but never close to. As for Wellborn, he would work for anyone: a not over-talented snoozer by profession, but wily and never to be trusted. If the German had many like him in his crew, Ember did not think much of their chances.

He caught Wellborn's eye and nodded, seeing him lean over and whisper something to Franz. The big man stiffened and then looked straight over at Ember. A hard man with cold eyes and arm muscles you could see bulging out of his velvet jacket. Ember coolly nodded at him picked up his glass and began to push his way through the jostle.

‘Hallo, Mr Ember, what brings you down this way?' Wellborn had a rough voice, almost sarcastic in tone.

‘I'm trying to trace the source of the great stench, and I think I've found it,' said Ember turning to the German. ‘You speak English?' he asked, his face as an open book, a trick long learned in his trade.

‘Naturally,' a clipped accent, shaped with mistrust.

Ember turned to Wellborn. ‘You work with him?'

‘In a manner of speaking. I just told him you was with the Professor at one time. Not run abroad with his lot then?'

Ember cleared his throat and spat on the floor. ‘I'm my own man now. Almost carried it for bloody Moriarty, didn't I?'

‘He was a clever man,' said Franz in the same sharp tone. ‘But not clever enough.'

‘I hear your boss is putting up.'

‘So? Who tells you that?'

‘I'm not unknown. I got friends you know. I been around some time, Mr …'

‘Just call me Franz. What is it to you that my boss is, as you say, putting up?'

Ember needed time to think, but time had run out. He plunged.

‘I might just have the very thing for him. As long as I am dealt in. It's not easy.'

‘A screwing?' asked Wellborn.

‘That would be for his guv'nor to find out.'

‘You have a proposition?'

‘I think you could put it like that.' He lowered his voice, ‘It's a big one, Franz. It needs a good crew. Just the thing for Mr Schleifstein.'

‘Herr Schleifstein,' a correction was implicit, ‘is looking for something exceptional.'

‘It is exceptional.'

‘The spoils would …'

‘Have to be large, I know. They would be. Too big for me to handle. They'd have to be fenced off on the other side of the Channel. I want to see him, Franz. Tell you the truth, I been looking for him.'

‘You cannot tell me about it?'

‘Only your guv'nor.'

‘You come back with me. Now.'

‘I'd better be getting along,' Wellborn started to rise, but Franz leaned across and pushed him gently back in his seat.

‘Mr Wellborn will also come with us.'

‘I think you're very wise, Franzy boy. Wellborn has a reputation.'

‘Now look, Mr Ember.'

‘You just come along with Franz and me. I've said too much already and don't want you going round every flash house in the Smoke chaunting that Ember's got a prime crib.'

‘I wouldn't do that. I just …'

‘Mr Ember is right. You come back with us.' Franz lurched to his feet, a good-humoured grin on his pock-marked face. ‘You come or I'll snap your arms.'

Ember had already viewed the house at Edmonton when he was setting up the lurkers. When they got off the omnibus at the
Angel
and walked the few hundred yards up to the place, he spotted two of the family people – Blind Fred working the matches on the opposite side of the road, being led by that skinny little girl of his, and Ben Tuffnell doing the shivering Jemmy between a grocer's and a smart milliner's shop. Blind Fred tapped out his one-two-three to let Ember know he had seen him, which did not help a great deal. If Franz had a mind, he could have snapped Ember's neck and smashed Fred's white stick down his porridge hole quicker than kiss your fancy. Though there was not much security in it, Ember was at least happy that the lurkers were doing their job.

It was a tidy little place, the house: grey stone with two long built-out bows, one each side of the door, high windows set in them on first and second floors. A little iron gate took them up a cement path and five stone steps to the front door. There was a preposterous brass bellpull on the right, and, in the half-light, it looked green and unpolished. Franz had his own key, but as soon as they were inside, Ember knew it was a tinpot show. The furnishings were shoddy and the hall needed new wallpaper. There were also grease stains on the worn carpet. No women, he thought. Schleifstein's doing this on the cheap.

Franz led them into a dining-room to the right where two Germans were bent over bowls of fatty looking soup. One was a plump, unshaven man, dirty and mean-looking; the other a younger fellow altogether different, clean and neat as a pin. They both nodded and exchanged a few words with Franz, using their natural tongue.

‘Wait,' Franz cautioned, leaving the room.

Ember heard his feet thudding up the stairs and a door opening. Then voices from above. Then another from the doorway.

‘Hallo, Ember, looking for work, then?'

The newcomer was a big fellow, a nobbler from Houndsditch who had worked off and on for the Professor in the old days. His name was Evans, and Ember would not trust him with his sister's cat.

Ember inclined his head towards the ceiling. ‘You work for the Prooshan cove then?'

‘When he's over here. It's not like being with Moriarty, but nothing is these days, is it? You on your own?'

‘Come to see him with a proposition.'

Franz was coming downstairs again. He looked huge standing in the doorway. Ember noticed that Evans the nobbler treated him with deference.

‘He'll see you. Upstairs. You come with me.'

Franz's eyes slid round the whole bunch and Ember had the distinct feeling that he was not among friends.

Schleifstein's room would normally have been the master bedroom – the first floor front. The German himself could easily have passed for a provincial bank manager – which he well might have become had he stayed on the straight and narrow path. Here, in the shabby bedroom with its iron cot, cheap wooden table and peeling wallpaper, he looked incongruous. Ember wondered if this was really a front, or whether, for some reason, Schleifstein had been ousted from his superior position in Berlin.

He was an imposing figure, clad in dark professional clothes; a man who gave off the aura of one who is born to lead; a man very much apart from those who followed him.

Indeed, Wilhelm Schleifstein had started life in banking, a fact which led to embezzlement, fraud and from thence to robbery and the flesh trade. Ember knew his reputation as a man of ruthlessness, but somehow could not equate his present position – with the deadbeat gang downstairs – with the legendary criminal overseer of Berlin. For a second he wondered why the Professor was bothering with such an elaborate plan to trap the fellow.