Will Thomas: Some Danger Involved

"You saw her leave?" Poole asked.

"No. Her old man told me Tuesday. What you want wiv her?"

"Mrs. Smith was found this morning, dead at Aldgate Station!" Poole said. He seemed to enjoy causing a sensation. "What is Mr. Smith's first name?"

"John!" the chorus called out.

"Not a very original alias," Barker growled in my ear. "You'll find in the East End that people change names as often as we change suits. It is possible that Mrs. Smith was not even his legal wife at all. We are on the fringe of Anglo-Jewish society here, where Jewish-Gentile couples live, and the few fallen Jewish women ply their trade."

"When did any of you last see John Smith?"

There was a buzz of conversation, and an old fellow obviously in failing health spoke up. "Three days ago, near abouts."

"What was Mr. Smith's occupation?" Poole demanded.

Another murmur arose, accompanied by the shrugging of many shoulders. No words were forthcoming.

"Well?"

"Dunno, sir," the old man answered. "†'E told me 'e were in the sugar-making trade like, sir, but Jasper 'ere says Smith claimed to be an 'ostler. Reckon 'e changed jobs reg'lar, as people do, 'ereabouts."

"What were the Smiths like?" Barker asked.

"Kept to themselves," the plump woman said. "Bit high and mighty, if you ask me. I fink they was Jews, or at least she was. Been havin' rows lately. Shoutin' several times at night. Reckoned she'd packed up and gone home to mum. Looks like he done her in, he has."

"Does anyone else live in this flat along with the Smiths?" Poole continued.

"No, sir."

"And they haven't been here in three days?"

They all agreed neither had been there.

"Then I declare this flat abandoned. Is the landlord here?"

"Not 'im," the old man cackled. "†'E's absentee, every day but rent day."

"Very well!" Poole called. Turning, he raised his foot and brought it forward against the lock with great force. Barker had trained him well. Part of the door frame splintered, and the door swung open with a crash against the wall. The inspector stepped inside, we followed, and the residents of number 327A Orient crowded around the door and peered in.

It was a spare little working-class flat, though opulent by the standards I had once lived under. There were antimacassars on the backs of faded stuffed chairs and framed pictures pulled from magazines on the walls. Miriam Smith had worked hard to make the shabby apartment habitable. Everything was spartan but clean. The flat seemed unnaturally still, however, and I had to agree with Inspector Poole's assertion that it had been abandoned.

The room was divided by a screen and a blanket hanging from the ceiling. We moved into the back portion of the room.

"No blood," Barker noted, looking about. "She wasn't murdered here, unless Smith cleaned up afterwards."

"Search the drawers," Poole suggested, and we immediately began going through everything. Most of the dead woman's personal effects were still here, worn but carefully repaired. The suspect's clothing was gone, as was anything referring to him, save for a certificate of marriage on the wall, from a church in Brighton. There were no photographs and no evidence of where Smith might have gone.

"Scampered," Poole pronounced. "I'll have my men take this place apart board by board in the morning, but we're losing valuable time now." He turned to the crowd. "Can anyone describe John Smith?"

The crowd pushed forward a hesitant-looking Jewish fellow with long side locks and a cap he was twisting in his hand.

"Sir," he said gravely to the inspector, wringing his hat until it resembled a challah. "Sir, I am a street artist. If I could just go get my charcoal and some paper, I could sketch him in just a few minutes."

"Get your things, by all means," Poole agreed. The fellow ran downstairs and returned with a piece of butcher's paper and a charcoal pencil. We sat him down in one of the worn dining chairs and left him to reconstruct the man from memory, while we combed the flat for more clues. All we found of interest was Miriam Smith's Bible. It had no bulletin from the Poplar church, but her handwritten name on the dedication page was in the same handwriting as the notes we had, or so Barker pronounced. Miriam Smith was definitely the woman with whom Louis Pokrzywa had been passing messages.

"I've got it," the street artist called in triumph. The three of us crowded around him and looked into the face of our possible murderer for the first time. It was a square, clean-shaven face, a man of perhaps forty years with a birthmark on his chin. He had typically British features and gave the appearance of a stern, no-nonsense sort of person. It was an intelligent face, and not one I would associate with violent behavior. Most of all, though I did not recognize his face, I somehow felt I had seen him recently, if only I could place just where.

"He matches the description of the man in the park who Da Silva said was speaking against the Jew," Barker said, turning to Poole. "I believe this has answered your question, Terry. Whether the deaths were personally motivated or not, this fellow obviously has an agenda against the Jews. I still think he will attempt to force a pogrom if he can."

When we came out of the building, it was nearing six. Poole was anxious to take the sketch to Scotland Yard, and Barker and I were hungry, neither of us having eaten since breakfast. We parted company, and the Guv and I walked back to the station, where we were able to catch a hansom dropping a fare. I fell asleep in the cab and knew nothing until Barker shook me roughly to say we were at the Elephant and Castle. We were a couple of tired and hungry men as we passed down the lane behind Barker's home and reached for the latch of the back gate. All my thoughts were of a filling dinner and a warm bed. The last thing I expected was for us to be set upon in our own alleyway.

At least a dozen men came at us out of the gloom of the alley, their hands filled with staves, axe handles, and other makeshift weapons. I recognized none of them. Was this it, I wondered? Were we finally being set upon by the Anti-Semite League? Roughly, Barker thrust me through the gate and followed behind. With a ham-sized fist, he smacked a small brass gong which hung near the entrance. The sound reverberated around the small enclosure. At the far end of the garden there was a horrid screech. It was Harm giving the alarm. Without slowing his cacophony, he flew across the lawn, charging the first intruder. Pekingese, I have discovered, have absolutely no fear when it comes to protecting their property from invasion.

Harm sunk his razorlike teeth into the ankle of the first man, bringing a cry of pain to his lips. Before he could do any further damage, however, a second fellow caught the little dog full in the ribs, a savage kick that brought a yelp of pain from the poor animal, and sent him flying several feet into the bushes.

That tore it, as far as I was concerned. I saw red. Just who did these blighters think they were, coming onto our property and kicking our dog? There the big blackguard stood, his foot still in the air. Is it any wonder I seized the offending foot in my hands and planted my own full in the fellow's stomach?

Another scoundrel seized my lapel and raised a club, ready to strike me down. It was just like an exercise in Barker's class. I trapped his hand with my own, stepped back, and raised my other arm up hard, striking him in the elbow joint. I felt rather than heard the break, and the fellow went down holding his arm. At that moment, I was struck two different blows by men armed with staves, and I tried another trick that Barker had demonstrated in class: run when you are momentarily outnumbered.

As I passed him, Barker appeared in little trouble. He was mowing men down as if they were skittles. I saw him pick up one fellow like a doll and toss him into two more. Then he seized one of the others by the wrist, and flipped him so fast, he caught another in the jaw with the man's foot. My employer might have been out for a little light evening's entertainment, but I had a ringing head and a sore shoulder and was in need of a good wall to put my back against.