Ring of Terror (10 page)

‘Yes. It’s an odd dragging limp. I only heard it once, but I think I’d recognise it if I heard it again.’

He told Daines about his night watch over the widow Triboff’s house and its unhappy outcome.

‘Then you never saw his face.’

‘I heard him and felt him, but didn’t see him.’

‘A pity. Next there’s the hard man, the head of their street gang over here, a lout who uses several names, including Zircov and Zmunstrov. His real name’s thought to be Molacoff Weil, nicknamed in Russian “Three Times”.’

Since Daines was waiting for a question, Luke obligingly said, ‘What does that mean?’

‘You may find the story difficult to credit, but the fact that his compatriots
do
believe it will give you some idea of the man. It seems that one of the procedures of the Ochrana, when looking for information or co-operation, is to strip the prisoner naked and immerse him alternatively in boiling water and cold water. A treatment calculated to unlock the most obstinate tongues.’

‘Dear Lord,’ said Luke, ‘I should be talking before they got me near the boiling water.’

‘So would most people. Weil is said to have suffered three immersions before he decided to change sides. Hence the nickname. But the third man is the pick of the bunch. The man whose efforts you encountered in Newcastle – Janis Silistreau, currently going under the name of Ivan Morrowitz. Noted in his own country as a poet and a thinker. All that we have on him at the moment are those excellent photographs that Farnsworth took. We missed him on arrival up here. There was some delay in Farnsworth’s message reaching Wensley. But a man of that eminence can’t stay hidden for long.’

‘Now that you’ve identified these three men, can’t they be arrested and deported?’

‘They could only be deported if they were proved to be involved in criminal activities. Not in political activities. A difficult distinction, as you will appreciate. Also, Treschau and Silistreau are public figures. If we laid a finger on them without full justification, our intellectual lefties would be screaming themselves hoarse. Your job will be to keep your eyes open. If you spot any of the three men, let me and Wensley know at once. And,’ he added with a smile that softened the words, ‘no heroics. If these men catch a spy, their treatment of him is intended as a warning to others.’

When Luke reported what Daines had said, Wensley looked up from a photograph he was studying, thought about it briefly and said, ‘Report weekly, in writing,’ and returned to the photograph. As that seemed to be all he was going to say Luke edged towards the door.

Wensley said, ‘Come here a moment.’ He pushed the photograph across the desk. ‘What do you make of that?’

It was a close-up of a dead man’s face. The only remarkable thing about it was a sickle-shaped slash on each cheek.

‘I’m afraid it doesn’t mean much to me, sir.’

‘You wouldn’t say it was the sign of a secret society?’

‘Difficult to say, sir.’

‘Very difficult,’ said Wensley.

Luke thought he looked tired and worried and said as much to Joe who had been waiting outside.

‘Of course he’s tired,’ said Joe. ‘Poor old sod. Like I told you, he gets landed with any sticky work that’s going. A body turns up on Clapham Common, which is miles from his division. But because it’s a Russian Jew and because a likely suspect is another Russian it gets shovelled on to Fred’s plate. I expect he can live with it. What were his orders for us?’

‘To report in writing once a week.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘That we do what we like and tell him about it once a week.’

‘Well,’ said Joe, ‘I’ve no complaints about that. Sounds like the recipe for a rest cure. The only thing is, what about Josh? He likes to keep an eye on the Detective Branch.’

What Superintendent Joscelyne thought about it transpired later that day when he summoned Luke and Joe to his office. His ears were still tingling both from Winston’s criticisms and from the indirect but even more hurtful comments of other senior police officers, which had made him truculent in temper and violent in speech.

He said, ‘I gather that your job will be to keep an eye on those fornicating Russian bastards. Right? And if keeping an eye on them involves getting a bit rough with them, I’d say get as rough as you like. Don’t worry. I’ll support you. You understand?’

He glared at each of them in turn. Luke said, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘No kid gloves. Give them the sort of treatment they gave Tucker and Bentley and Choate. Work together. Watch your step. Keep your eyes open. Don’t get caught. Don’t get shot. Any questions?’

Since neither of them could think of any questions to ask about these instructions, they were dismissed with an injunction to get on with it and not fuck about.

‘Don’t get caught,’ said Joe. ‘I should worry. A champion dodger like me. If a squad of gamekeepers couldn’t catch me, what chance have a mob of heavy-footed Ruskies got?’

Luke said, ‘Daines isn’t stupid. If he thought they were dangerous, I’ll go along with it. We keep our heads down.’

‘Now you’re talking sense,’ said Joe. ‘Lead me to a comfortable bed and I’ll get my head right down on it, no fooling.’

Luke ignored this. He was pursuing his own thoughts. He said, ‘You remember what happened, that night I got coshed?’

‘I remember what you told me about it.’

‘I was following young Tomacoff. He’s not important. Just an errand boy. He’d been given a message and told where to go and when. From the way he kept looking at his watch his instructions seem to have been to hang about and not get there before a stated time. Right?’

‘Seems logical.’

‘But is it? If he’d simply got a message, why couldn’t he get there whenever he liked? If the man it was meant for wasn’t in, he could always wait. So what was he hanging round for? A dangerous thing for him to do, at that time of night.’

‘You tell me.’

‘I’ll tell you what I think. I think certain precautions had been taken. Routine precautions for men like that. Tomacoff was waiting until his guardian angel was in position. If he was followed, his guardian angel would follow the follower. You follow me?’

‘No.’

‘But it’s obvious. And it’s just the sort of drill they would adopt. They’re professional terrorists. People who’ve lived for years in their own country with eyes in the back of their heads. Which is why they’ve survived.’

‘OK,’ said Joe patiently. ‘You followed Tomacoff. An angel with a sand-bag followed you. So what does it add up to?’

‘It adds up to something we should have thought about before. If the man that Tomacoff was going to see was important enough to warrant such elaborate protection he must have been one of their top men. And a man like that wouldn’t have been lodged any old where. He’d be in a safe house. Kept by a trusted person.’

‘The widow Triboff. That smelly old bag.’

‘Old bag she may be. But I’ve a feeling that if we shook her hard enough something useful might fall out. We’d jumped to the conclusion that her lodger was there by chance. I don’t believe it. I think the Triboff house is one of their centres of activity and must be watched.’

‘By us?’

‘Who else?’

‘Starting when?’

‘Starting tonight.’

‘I thought that was what you meant,’ said Joe.

‘Most of police work,’ Wensley had said, ‘is waiting and watching. I once kept it up for thirty-six hours on end. It was a wasted effort. I was watching the wrong house.’

Luke thought about this, as the sky began to pale over the roof and chimney stacks of the widow Triboff’s home. This time they had a more comfortable observation post than the doorstep on which he had squatted on the previous occasion. They had broken into an empty house and established themselves at an upstairs window.

Joe was beside him, flat on his back and snoring. It was gone half past seven before he rolled over, grunted, sat up and said, ‘How long’ve I bin asleep?’

‘Difficult to say,’ said Luke. ‘It was two o’clock or thereabouts when you started to snore. You might have been asleep before that.’

‘Is that a fact? Well, seeing as how no one turned up, it didn’t matter whether I was awake or asleep, did it?’

‘What makes you think that no one turned up?’

‘If there had been anyone for us to follow, I suppose you’d have woken me up. I mean, we’re on the job together, aren’t we? Correct me if I’m mistook.’ Like most people who feel that they’re in the wrong, Joe managed to sound aggrieved.

Luke said, ‘I never supposed we’d be able to follow anyone. All I wanted to do was to see if someone turned up.’

‘And did they?’

‘Two people. Neither of them stayed more than a few minutes. The first one’—Luke looked at his scribbled notes—’dropped in at 3.15 and the second at 4.25. Both were youngsters. One of them could have been Tomacoff. I imagine they were dropping in written messages for collection later. If we’d followed them we might have found out where
they
lived. Hardly worth the trouble, though.’

So what do we do now?’

‘We pay a visit – an official visit – to the widow Triboff. Look as fierce and formidable as possible.’

‘I can’t look formidable when I’m dying of starvation.’

‘Work first, breakfast next.’

A double rap on the Triboff door, repeated with increased emphasis, produced an untidy old lady in a dressing-gown with her hair in rags. Luke showed her his police identity card and pushed past her into the room at the back of the house which seemed to do duty as sitting-room, kitchen and bedroom combined. The old woman followed him, squawking indignantly. Joe followed her to cut off her retreat.

Standing with his back to the window, Luke surveyed the dirty, cluttered room in silence until the old lady’s protests had died down to a mumbling and clucking. Then he said, ‘Your name is Triboff?’ All he got was what might have been a nod. ‘I want to know who the two men were who visited you last night. What they came for, and if they brought letters, what you’ve done with them.’

The widow snapped her toothless jaws shut and said nothing. Luke stepped up to her. When he was so close to her that he could smell her breath and her fear, he repeated the question; with the same result.

He thought, with disgust, she expects me to hit her. Followed by a second thought. However much I hurt her she isn’t going to talk. He appeared to change his mind. He said, ‘When you’ve got dressed you’ll come along to the police station in Leman Street to answer some questions. If you’re not there by nine o’clock you’ll be fetched. Which may not be so pleasant. You understand?’

The old woman bobbed her head. Luke could see that she was deeply relieved by this change of plan.

‘Then get on with it.’ He strode out into the front passage, followed by a mystified Joe. When he reached the front door he snibbed back the catch on the lock and slammed the door behind them. Then they walked away until they were out of sight of the house.

‘Give her two minutes,’ said Luke.

When they got back they eased the front door open and tiptoed along the passage. The living-room was empty, but someone was moving upstairs and they heard a metallic sound.

‘Come on,’ said Luke. ‘Quickly now.’

The room above the widow’s sordid den was, as they saw when they burst into it, an altogether superior apartment. Neat, well warmed and lighted, with a big desk alongside one wall and a bed pushed back against another; it was an office-cum-bedroom, comfortable and ready for use. The heating came from an old-fashioned iron stove into which the widow was trying to push a sheaf of papers. When she saw her visitors she screamed, but did not stop what she was doing.

‘Grab her,’ said Luke.

Joe sprang into action, twisted the widow’s left arm behind her back, frog-marched her across the room and banged her right wrist down on the corner of the desk, loosening her hold on the papers which fell on to the floor. In her anxiety to get rid of them, the widow had rolled them into a sheaf which was too large to go between the bars of the stove. All she had succeeded in doing was charring the ends of them.

‘Sit her down in that chair,’ said Luke.

‘Tie her up?’

‘No need. She won’t run away.’

The events of the last few minutes had knocked most of the fight out of her. She sat in silence as Luke gathered up the papers. He said, ‘Now listen to me, Mother Triboff. Do you know a man called Weil? Molacoff Weil?’

The widow started to shake.

‘I see that you know the sort of man he is. All right. Unless you answer a few questions I’m going to let him know that you handed over these papers to us, to get yourself out of trouble.
And
that you let us take them away. So what do you think he’ll do to you?’

‘Feed her into the stove, like as not,’ said Joe. But the widow took no notice of him. Her eyes were on Luke and on the papers, which he had unrolled and started to examine. Her lips were working.

Finally she said, ‘What do you want?’

‘I want to know where the messages are that came last night.

You can’t have sent them on yet, because no one has left the house. Also I want to know who’s the man who uses this room.’

‘And if I tell you, you won’t—’

‘If you tell us, that’s the end of the matter.’

‘You’ve got the messages there.’

Most of the documents were anarchist literature, handbills and circulars, printed by the Anarchist Press in Jubilee Street. From among them Luke extracted two grubby envelopes, neither of them sealed. The notes in them were in Russian, unheaded and unaddressed. The first said, ‘The usual place, tomorrow. Bring your two friends with you.’ The second said, ‘When you go to your workshop watch your back. This is important.’

Luke said, ‘What’s this “usual place” and this workshop they talk about?’

The old woman shook her head. She knew nothing. All she had to do was pass on messages to people who came to collect them. This seemed reasonable. Luke changed tack. He said, ‘Tell me about the man who uses this room. He seems to have made himself pretty comfortable. He must have been here some time.’

‘Trout. His name was Trout.’