Will Thomas - Some Danger Involved

The body lay beside a row of wagons on a siding near the tunnel wall. It was gloomy here but not dark, for the brief tunnel was lit by gaslight on the station side and by sunlight on the other. Nevertheless, the body was lit by a single lamp which lent a strange and macabre air to the proceedings, rather like limelight from a stage. The woeful form before me was a petite woman of indeterminate age, her face marred by bruising, and her aspect made even more bizarre by her hair's having been shorn close. Poole reached down by her side and lifted what I first took to be a scalp.

"It's a wig," Barker prompted. "Traditionally, married Jewesses cut their hair and wear wigs as proof against vanity. Have we any identification?"

"She had no bag, but there was a pawn ticket in her pocket."

The two detectives discussed the investigation, while I went down on one knee and looked at the victim more closely. Despite the pallor of death and contusions, she had regular features and might once have been attractive. She was not a young woman, perhaps thirty years of age. Her lids were half closed, and the eyes tinged a dark, rusty red. I leaned forward and closed them. They were cool and waxy. I took in her plain, blue dress and stout but serviceable shoes. The last thing I noticed before standing up was the furrow around her ring finger, where a wedding band had once rested.

"Raise the lamp, lad," Barker ordered.

I picked it up and lifted it high.

"How'd she die?" I asked.

"Back of her head's caved in. Someone gave her a good wallop with a rock or something. There may be more, but we're still awaiting the coroner, and I doubt he'll be stripping the body here."

The thought that a coroner would dare subject this poor woman's body to such humiliation I found revolting.

"Over here, lad. Bring the lamp over here," my employer insisted. "I want to see the message!"

"Sorry, sir!" I'd forgotten about the message. I stepped over to the wall and raised the lamp again. Against the soot-encrusted brick of the wall, the white chalk letters stood out in bold relief: "Lev. 20:10 The Anti-Semite League."

"Leviticus twenty ten," I read.

"What say you, Cyrus? Up to the challenge?" Poole asked.

Barker stood for a moment, sifting through chapters and verses in his mind. I've always admired people who would memorize long passages of scripture; a cold challenge to snap off a particular line seemed particularly hard. Finally, Barker spoke.

"And the man that committeth adultery with another man's wife, even he that committeth adultery with his neighbor's wife, the adulterer and the adulteress shall surely be put to death."

We all stood for a moment, taking in the implications of the verse. Then, Poole suddenly let loose a string of curses.

"Anti-Semite LeagueЧ there's no such thing! It's just one bloke with a grudge. Pokrzywa was sparking the old fellow's lady here, and he set up this whole charade to lead us all on a merry chase after Jew-hating phantoms! We're going to find this woman's name, and then we're going to hang her husband by his thumbs until he confesses. Hundreds of hours wasted patrolling Aldgate, trying to protect the Jews from an attack that will never bloody happen!"

"I think there's more to it than that, Terry," Barker said. "The East End is like a tinderbox, ready for a match to strike, and this fellow is the match. He's still out there, trying to stir up trouble. He shot at Thomas here. I think he's mad at the Jews, perhaps because of a real or imagined relationship between Pokrzywa and this poor woman. He's intelligent and resourceful enough to rattle the Board of Deputies and elude our collective grasp."

"Resourceful or not," Poole said, pulling a notebook from his pocket, "he's just one man. I'm alerting my superiors to issue a manhunt. Hoi! Over here!"

A young constable had come down the line, almost at a run. He pressed a piece of paper into the inspector's hand. Poole glanced at it and thrust it into his pocket with casual indifference.

"I believe we've seen all we need to see here," he suddenly announced, changing tone. "The railway police appear to have everything in hand, and this is not our jurisdiction. We shall leave them with the body. Shall we go, gentlemen?" Poole left, as if he were the living embodiment of the Criminal Investigation Department of the London Metropolitan Police Force. Barker and I followed behind him more slowly, as if we were merely headed in the same direction. We caught up with him again in the street.

"Her name?" Barker asked, hungry as a dog on the scent.

"Miriam Smith."

"There's your Miriam, Thomas, the one Miss Mocatta spoke of. And the address?"

"Three twenty-seven A Orient Street."

"Poplar. Not far from the church. Have you a vehicle waiting, Terry? No? Then let us take a growler. It appears Racket has picked up another fare."

We took the larger vehicle, Poole promising an extra half crown if we arrived in twenty minutes. As we were leaving, I noticed a few burly police officers in peaked caps arriving at the station cab stand with some speed. Poole had beaten the city and the railway police to the information. He looked pleased with himself.

"So, Mr. Llewelyn, how did you come by the name Miriam?" he demanded.

I looked at my employer.

"That information was obtained while questioning people who knew Pokrzywa," Barker said.

"I suppose asking what you discovered during the course of the investigation is out of the question."

Barker frowned, or seemed to, behind his spectacles. "You know I don't answer questions without the permission of my clients."

"We could compare notes," the inspector said, hopefully.

"The fact that you offer them so readily shows how little you have."

"I could drag you down to the station and sweat it out of you," Poole warned.

"You could try," Barker said.

This went on most of the journey. The two men were obviously friends but rivals when it came to work. Poole backed off several times and came in on a new tack each time, trying to pry information from Barker, but my employer was as impregnable as a clam. He wouldn't even give him information we knew to be useless.

"What about you, young man?" Poole said, turning to me. "We know about your little stretch in Oxford Prison. We may need to question you about recent events, perhaps have you spend the night in 'A' Division at Her Majesty's expense."

It was a good threat, but I was not about to be intimidated. "You know where to find me, sir."

"That I do!" Poole chuckled. "I could throw a sandwich from my window in Scotland Yard, and it would land on your office roof!"

The inspector alternately wheedled for information and crowed over his small triumphs. Barker balked like a stubborn bull, and I leaned against the cold window and thought of the poor thing that had until recently been called Miriam Smith. To think that days ago, the woman had been pretty enough to have a young scholar in love with her, a man who could have his pick of young women in the City. I pictured her brutal husband murdering her with some blunt instrument, destroying the skull of the woman he had promised to shelter and protect all his days. Who was this fellow? I had seen two bodies now, dead as a result of this man's hand. Obviously, the wretch thought himself justified in murdering for their betrayal.

When we reached Orient Street, Poole was out of the cab before the vehicle even stopped. Perhaps he hoped to catch the killer at home. The street was respectable, if a little down-at-heel. Number 327A proved to be a residence turned into flats. Our knocking at Smith's door brought many of the residents out into the hall.

"Has anyone seen Miriam Smith recently?" Poole demanded with authority.

"She gone to see her muvver days ago, now," a stout woman spoke up.