The Revenge of Moriarty (14 page)

‘They're on the landing,' said Bolton when he reappeared. ‘I can't manage to carry them downstairs. Age and the rheumatics is a terrible thing. I once got me tools and forty-odd pounds of swag over eight rooftops, with the peelers hunting me all the way. Now it takes me an hour to get me tea. A Prooshan, you said? Would I know him?'

‘Doubt it.' Ember cascaded the gold sovereigns onto the kitchen table and ran up the stairs for the bag – what they called a brief bag in a nut brown hide. ‘You won't regret it,' he called out to old Bolton. ‘You'll have them back before the end of the month.'

Tom Bolton had a woman who came in to see he was managing, and do his little bits of shopping. It was not charity, for he paid her odd sums and knew that she stole from the shopping money, but it was necessary. When she popped in on the following morning, he asked her to post a letter which had taken him a long while to write, the knuckles on his hands being swollen. She took it down to the corner box on her way to pick up his groceries. The letter was addressed to Angus McCready Crow, Esq., at his home address.

As he had promised, Ember returned to the Edmonton house three nights after his initial visit. In the time that passed in between, he caught only a glimpse of Franz and one of the other Germans – the clean one. They did not see him and the lurkers, Slowfoot and Widow Winnie, were certain that he had not been followed.

Franz opened the door to him and Ember immediately felt the atmosphere. In the dining-room Wellborn sat with the plump and dirty German. Evans was by the fire, his head in a sling.

‘What you been up to?' Ember asked as cheerfully as he could muster.

‘Douse the chat,' slurred Evans unpleasantly.

‘Did you have trouble getting home the other night, Mr Ember?' Franz sounded openly unfriendly.

‘Well, now you mention it, some ramper tried it on, this side of Hackney.'

‘There's a lot of nasty people abroad in the streets at night. You must take care of yourself.'

‘Oh, I do, Franz. I've never been a shirkster when it comes to keeping body and soul together.'

The house smelled of stale greens, an all-pervading aroma which was familiar enough to Ember who did not hold with the sentiment that cleanliness was next to godliness.

Evans muttered something from the fireside.

‘When is this screwing?' asked Franz.

‘When I give the word and not before.'

‘You do not trust us?'

‘I don't trust anyone, matey. I'll trust you, Franz, when we've done and we're away safe.'

Schleifstein came in and sniffed the stale air.

‘I would like to talk with you upstairs, friend Ember.'

Schleifstein was as neat as ever, controlled and self-contained, though Ember got the impression that the German thought he carried a smell in his clothes.

‘Did you give Evans a bad time?'
Schleifstein asked when they were alone.

‘Evans? A bad time?'

‘Come, come, Ember. I asked Evans to see you home. You laid about him off Dalston Lane.'

Ember knew he was clear, home and dry. He could afford to push it now.

‘It was Evans, was it? With respect, guv'nor, don't ever do that to me again. Not without telling me, that is. I don't take kindly to being lurked round the streets. Makes me nervous. I have been known to chiv someone proper when I'm nervous.'

‘I merely wanted to protect you.' He was suave, plausible even. ‘But there is no harm done. Except to Evans' face and he will soon get over that. His pride is hurt, mind. I do not think it wise to let him know it was you.'

‘No, I suppose not.'

‘Nor do I think it was fair to take his wallet.'

‘I didn't take no wallet.'

‘If you say not, then we will remain silent. Evans will be a week on the mend. Is that time enough, or do we need another man in?'

‘It's time enough.'

‘Good. Then if Peter has come in, you had better acquaint them with your plan.'

‘One thing,' Ember made as though to tug at Schleifstein's sleeve. ‘I want it made plain that while we're inside the crib, I'm in charge.'

‘It will be something like that.'

Ember thought that did not sound over-promising.

Peter was the cleaner of the two Germans. He had got back by the time they went downstairs again, though nobody volunteered intelligence about where he had been or what he had been doing. There was another person in the dining-room also: a lad of around seventeen, tall and gangly with thick hair that had enough grease in it to fry bread.

‘I'll only talk to the crew,' Ember said, pitching his gaze somewhere between Schleifstein and Franz.

Wellborn and the boy were sent out and Ember began to outline the plan. He let them know that it would take place over a weekend, and that there would be two visits, though he gave no clue as to the size or layout of the premises, adhering mainly to the essential facts: how they would get in, the exact amount of work which had to be done, and who would do what. Franz tried to ask questions afterwards, but Ember only answered those that would not give anything away.

They appeared friendlier towards him before he left, though Ember remained much on his guard. In the hall he spoke to Schleifstein.

‘Within the next three weeks, so keep them all at hand,' he said, conscious that it was he who now gave the orders. ‘I will come here on the Monday or Tuesday before it is to take place. That will give you enough time to get your sailing orders out.' At the door he said, ‘Don't have anyone look after me tonight, guv'nor. Really I can manage on my own.'

Ben Tuffnell was still across the road, a permanent fixture, they would not notice him any more than the brickwork now. Two hundred yards down, on the same side as the house, Scarecrow Sim was begging in the gutter. Ember thought he had collected a lot more sores since he last saw him. They looked very real, and the good people of Edmonton appeared to be parting with a lot of chink to salve their consciences.

To set the Italian girl at her ease, Moriarty was showing her a complicated card trick involving the four aces. You put the two black aces in the middle of the pack and the red aces at top and bottom. Then you turned the pack over and there was a black ace at top and bottom and the two red aces were together in the middle. The Italian girl was impressed.

Her name was Carlotta and she had a waist which looked slim enough to encompass with two hands, jet hair and a dark, almost negroid complexion which intrigued the Professor. She also had neat ankles and her body moved beneath her gown in a manner which set raging torrents of blood bubbling through Moriarty's veins.

Sal had brought her up, told her that the Professor had some nice things to say to her; that she had to be good to him and that she was to fear nothing.

Moriarty saw Sal Hodges to the drawing-room door and she gave him a narrow-eyed smirk and whispered, ‘Wasps, salamanders and lizards. We'll talk, James. I hope she is the right one.'

The Professor assured her that he thought Carlotta would be admirable for what he had in mind. He then talked to the girl, played a little Chopin to her and did the card trick which involved the four aces.

She seemed very young, perhaps nineteen or twenty summers, and had a calm manner with no sign of the violent temper which Moriarty associated with Latin women. Bridget Spear had laid out a cold collation – ham, tongue and one of Mr Bellamy's pork pies. There were also two bottles of Moet & Chandon, Dry Imperial, the '84, and they drank one bottle between them before going to bed, where Carlotta proved to be more than a tigress.

‘I understand from Mrs Hodges,' Moriarty said during a recuperative rest, ‘that you have never been to your native Italy.'

She pouted, ‘No. My parents do not wish to return and I have never had the time or money. Why do you ask?'

She ogled him blatantly. With a little grooming and the right clothes – she was somewhat flashily dressed – the dark Carlotta might just pass for a countess.

‘I am thinking of taking a little trip to Italy in the spring. Rome is very pleasant at that time of year.'

‘You are fortunate.' She leaned across and fondled him after the blatant manner of her profession. Then, coquettishly, ‘Fortunate in more ways than one.'

‘I think it could be arranged for you to accompany me to Rome. If you would like that.'

Carlotta launched into a quiet stream of Italian which sounded like a mixture of adoration and pleasure.

‘You would want for nothing. New clothes. Everything.' He smiled at her across the pillow, deep and secretive. ‘And a ruby necklace to wear at your pretty throat.'

‘Real rubies?'

‘Naturally.'

Her hand performed some exquisite tricks, things of which a girl of her tender years should have neither knowledge nor experience.

‘Could I have my own lady's maid also?' she cooed in his ear.

Angus Crow always made a point of calling on his tame retired cracksman after dark. They never spoke of this arrangement, but it was a regular thing between them, as was the signal which the old man supplied. The curtains in his front parlour were drawn tight after sunset if he was alone (in summer the window was left closed). If someone else was present, there would always be a strip of light showing between them.

Crow suspected that this was a signal used for others also, for Tom Bolton would invariably hobble through to the parlour whenever he arrived. They always sat and talked in the tiny back kitchen.

It was a relief for Crow to have an excuse to be away from King Street for the evening. Sylvia appeared to be losing her senses. The wretched servant, Lottie, was still in the house, constantly under his feet when he was there. To cap it all, Sylvia was planning all kinds of new diversions, dinner parties being her current obsession. Crow reflected, with a small happiness, that once friends had dined with them there was little likelihood of them doing so again. Not if Lottie continued to rule the kitchen.

It was with some sense of relief, then, that he now sat in old Bolton's back kitchen, a hot toddie in front of him on the red tasselled tablecloth, a warm fire burning in the stove, kettle spouting steam on the hob, and the lamp turned up. He reflected, as he had done on other occasions, that the china, displayed neatly on the small dresser, was of good quality; who, he wondered, had been its original owner?

Bolton, drawing quietly on his pipe, told the story of Ember's visits and their purposes with little adornment, and Crow allowed him to speak without interruption until the whole thing was out.

‘So you let him take them?' he asked when it was over, his voice reflecting the constant disappointment he felt over the weaknesses of the criminal classes.

‘I didn't have much option. You know what that lot can be like, Mr Crow. I know that I am old, and useless, and crippled, but we all cling to life. That lot work in the shadows. They crawl out of the sewers. You turn over stones and there they are.'

Crow grunted loudly. There was no way of telling whether this implied sympathy, understanding, or rebuke.

‘I've done some bad things in me time, but I was never willingly involved in murder. I want nothing to do with being a victim now.'

‘A German, you say?'

‘He told me a German. A fellow who was wanted in his own country and had found this one crib to crack here. One screwing to set him up for a while.'

‘Not for life?' Crow detected the cynicism in his own tone. ‘That's the usual tale, isn't it, Tom? A good one to set you up? Then you'll have done with it. Retire and lead a blameless life.'

‘That's what a lot of them say, guv'nor. True enough, and I've said it meself before now.'

‘A screwing or a cracking?'

‘Lord love you, Mr Crow, there ain't much difference. You listen to too many tales. The lads who call themselves cracksmen and reckon they're better than those who are dubbed screwsmen. Haven't I taught you that? You get to a place thinking you can screw the door with a spider and find you can't, so you crack it with a jemmy. Any burglar worth his salt has done the lot: screwing, cracking, area diving, cutting out, star glazing, bending the bars. I remember when I was younger …' and he was off on one of his long reminiscences of which there were many, for Tom Bolton had started life as a chimney boy at the age of eight.

Crow heard him out before throwing the next question at him. ‘Ember used to work for the Professor, didn't he? For Moriarty?'

It was incredible, Crow thought, how the name still produced a visible reaction from hardened criminals. The old thief's swollen hands clenched – an action which must have caused extreme pain – and his eyes twitched. The skin on his face went grey, like dry paper.

‘I wouldn't know about that,' the aged voice had acquired a croak, as though the throat had become suddenly parched.

‘He's been gone a long time, Tom. There's nothing to fear anymore.'

There was no sound but the crackle of the fire and ticking of the clock.

‘Look, Mr Crow,' as though he found breathing a labour. ‘I've taught you things, but this is the first time I've blown on anyone. It's not in me nature. I only did this ‘cos of me tools. I don't like to think of some foreigner using them.'

‘It must be big though, Tom. For them to want your tools, I mean. You can't get quality like yours any more.'

‘It's how he uses them as'll count.'

‘A German,' murmured Crow, as though returning to the one sore point, trying hard to piece tangled ends together in his brain. ‘Was our Ember ever a cracksman?'

‘I've known him since he was a lad. Small and wiry. He's done most things. He'd know how. But I wouldn't cross him. He held a certain position – you know. What you said.'

‘The Professor.'

‘I can't hear you.'

‘Did you believe him? About the German?'