Will Thomas - Some Danger Involved

"It was in the Bible."

"First Messianic Church of Poplar," I said. "It's no denomination I've ever heard of."

"It is a church for Jews that have converted to Christianity."

I sat up in my chair. "Really?"

"Yes, though it was not something he would have spoken about with his friends or rabbis, or put down in journals that didn't have a lock or key."

"Of course! No wonder he stopped the entries! Was he thinking of converting?"

"There may have been more than religion involved. Look at the margins in the back."

I turned the circular over. The service's hymns were printed there. Notes had been scribbled in the margins, in pencil, notes in two different hands.

Can you get away tonight?

I'm not sure.

I'll be at the usual place until nine thirty.

I make no promises. I'm being watched. I'll try to be there.

"An assignation!" I said, and whistled. Barker had not wasted his time.

"Yes, and a feminine hand. Unless I'm entirely mistaken, Pokrzywa had met the princess of whom Moskowitz had spoken."

"I wonder how long it had been going on."

"Three months, I'd say. The journal entries stopped, you see. I think not only did he wish to avoid setting down his feelings about a Christian-convert girl on paper, he also had nothing else to write about. It is not yet proven, but I believe we shall find that Louis Pokrzywa had given up most of his charity work and could generally be found in the girl's neighborhood, mooning under her window. The longer love tarries, the harder it strikes. After twenty-nine years, Louis was deeply smitten."

"Was it the girl Ben Judah mentioned seeing?" I asked. "Was the telegraph pole their 'usual place,' do you think?"

Barker shrugged his thick shoulders. "Who can say, at this point? But it certainly gives us a place to start."

"Where?"

"Why, Poplar, of course."

In chapter seven of Matthew, Jesus says, "Knock and the door shall be opened unto you." That technique did not work at the First Messianic Church of Poplar. No amount of knocking or knob rattling brought anyone forward to open the door. It was not a traditional church. More likely it had been a large shop, converted over for church usage. There was a faded silk banner over the shop's original sign, which bore the name of the church and the message, "If the Lord comes today, will you be ready?" The windows were large, but no amount of pressing my nose to them brought anyone out of the gloom. All I could see were rows of chairs and a makeshift podium. It was not exactly Saint Paul's.

"Do you see anything that says when services are held?" Barker asked, looking in as well.

"Yes, sir. There's a small card stuck to the window here. Sunday mornings at nine thirty, Sunday and Wednesday evenings at six thirty."

"Tomorrow night, then. Very well." He leaned against a lamp post and pulled some notes out of his coat. I think he carried a working office in his breast pocket.

"What have you got there?" I asked.

"These are the lists of anti-Semite speakers and organizations in London, provided by Brother Andy and the chief porter of the Tower. It's probable that one or more of them are members of the Anti-Semite League that murdered Pokrzywa."

I looked over his shoulder at the list.

"Good heavens," I said. "Most of them are pastors of churches."

"That is so. One is not five blocks from here. Shall we go and have a look?"

After ten minutes' walk east, we came upon a modest but venerable church. It was not old by London's standards, mid-seventeenth-century at the earliest. Looking around me at this decayed area east of the City, it was hard to imagine it new a century and a half ago, when this was the edge of town and the church looked out onto acres of empty pasture. Now the faзade was crumbling, the stonework blackened with soot, and the board-covered windows were in need of a glazier. Across the entire front were hoardings explaining how the old building was receiving a reprieve:

Come hear the VERY REVEREND ALGERNON PAINSLEY preach from his immortal series, "THE WANDERING JEW" or "THE LOST TEN TRIBES OF DIASPORA" every Sunday in April at six P.M. You DARE not miss it!

From the open doors of the church came the steady pounding of hammer and nail. Work was being done on a new platform for the altar, and I noticed as we stepped inside that the old and musty pews had been augmented with temporary chairs. Attendance must be picking up. I followed Barker down the aisle, as he inquired about the whereabouts of the Reverend Painsley. We found him pounding on the platform, as preachers are wont to do, but not generally with a claw hammer in their hand. He stopped at our approach, rolled down the sleeves of his shirt, and came forward to meet us.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen."

"Sir, we are reporters for the Daily Dispatch, and we are investigating the recent unrest among the Jews."

"I'll gladly help in any way I can, sirs," Painsley said. He had a square jaw, blue eyes, and straight, crisp hair the color of straw. A cursory glance told me the fellow was going places and that this crumbling church would not hold him for long. There was high color in his cheeks from his physical exertions, and the strong hand he extended toward me was hard and calloused.

"A terrible tragedy, gentlemen, this crucifixion, but not totally unexpected. The Jews are making things hot for themselves here, flooding in like a Mongol horde from Eastern Europe. I fear the citizenry has grown tired of the steady influx of foreigners, and taken matters into their own hands. It is a mistake, I believe, for our government to leave the drawbridge down for all the refuse of Europe. A worse group of dirty, illiterate communists, anarchists, nihilists, and atheists have never crossed our borders before."

"You have a way with words, if I may say, sir. Are you getting this down, Mr. Llewelyn? Do you believe the Jews have brought this action upon themselves in any way?"

I had never seen Barker play a role before. This pushy, inquisitive reporter was so unlike his normal self, I had to keep from smiling behind my notebook.

"I do," Painsley asserted. "This is a common pattern for the Jews. They move in, as refugees, and there is a general feeling of sympathy for them for a while among the public. Gradually, they prosper and begin to charge higher and higher interest rates, as their natural avarice begins to assert itself. The sympathy fades, eventually to be replaced by disgust. The disgust boils over into anger and violence, and the Jews are driven out. Look at Russia and Eastern Europe. Look at our own history. It shall happen here, again, gentlemen. Mark my works."

"Do you think there will be a pogrom, then, sir?"

"Of course. I mean, I hope not, but I fear it is inevitable."

"So you believe this murder to be the work of citizens justifiably angry at the Jews for usury, or for coming in and stealing jobs?"

"Not necessarily. It is possible the Jews did it themselves."

"Themselves?" Barker almost spat out, letting his mask slip for a moment.

"Yes. Is this the kind of murder an Englishman would commit? Certainly not! A Celt or a Teuton might kill in the heat of anger or a fatal stroke of passion, but remember, it was the Jews who crucified our Lord and Savior."

"Are you keeping up, Mr. Llewelyn? Don't miss a word, now. And why would the Jews crucify one of their own, Reverend Painsley?"

"To gain sympathy, I suppose," the reverend said, breezily. "Or some internal struggle. There are many kinds of Jews, all with their own petty squabbles and hatreds. They carry their feuds for centuries, you know."

"How dastardly." Barker shook his head. "So, if England were to shut its doors to the thousands of Jews arriving from Eastern Europe, where would they go?"