The Mammoth Book Of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits Part 10

Two weeks earlier, Hampstead Albert Potter was deep in the conundrum at the core of the book he was reading, when Rosalind, his wife, entered the study that evening. Some years older than he was, she was causing him concern. This very morning she had said something very curious.

"I feel as though I am packing up," she had suddenly said over the toast and marmalade, "so that I am ready to depart when the time comes."

That was all, nothing more. And she had refused to elaborate, leaving the room with some dirty dishes in her hand, and an unspoken errand on her mind. Thinking about what on earth she meant made Albert shudder. They hadn't any trip abroad planned, had they? So, the p.r.o.nouncement sounded more ominous than that. He had therefore been quite distracted when, on entering the study, Rosalind spoke only to announce an unexpected guest.

"Darling. Junius has called. He says it is most urgent that he speaks to you."

"Didn't you tell him I was er working on the book?"

Rosalind raised an elegant and well-plucked eyebrow. The accusation inherent in that slightest of gestures pierced Albert to the heart. She knew the slim volume of fiction in his hand was in no way going to contribute to their ma.s.sive joint project on the history of the Poor Law. Crushed by the silent rebuke, Albert sighed and gracefully accepted defeat. Reluctantly, he put the newly published murder mystery aside, and stood up to welcome his fellow MP.

Fellow MP. It had a good ring to it.

Albert Potter still felt like a new boy in his first term at a public school. Elected a Labour MP for North Battersea in November 1922 at the age of sixty-three, even after six months he wasn't used to this change in his status. A n.o.ble status at odds with his physical form. At five foot four inches, and with a large head whose size was further exaggerated by his p.r.i.c.kly bush of hair, which was greying now, he had never been patrician in dimensions. He had also soon learned that the longer-serving Members of Parliament, including many in his own Party, had cruelly christened him 'Tadpole'. Well, one day he would show them he was no tadpole, but a frog with a pretty loud croak.

The man who Rosalind showed in was small-framed with slicked-down black hair, and dark brown, bloodshot eyes framed with long, almost feminine lashes. His elegant suit, with the most stylish of cuts, fitted his lithe form perfectly. More spectacular were his aristocratic features, which were carved into a face of the darkest brown, almost teak-like hue. Junius Premadasa had been born in Ceylon to a very wealthy Sinhalese family, and had been sent to Britain in 1905 for an education. Despite his background, Premadasa, soon after leaving Oxford, had eagerly dabbled in first the Communist Party and then the Labour Party, eventually becoming an MP for the latter in West Ham, South. Today, his normally elegant demeanour was shattered by an obvious distress.

Albert self-consciously pushed the popular novel with its lurid yellow wrapper further under the cushion of his chair.

"Why, Junius! What is the matter?"

The same day. The Grapes public house, Battersea No-one would have given Harry Rothstein a second glance. His stringy frame was clad in dusty, patched working clothes, matching most of the clientele of the pub. And his drawn, sun-reddened face was typical of an out-of-doors labourer drained of all energy by a full day's toil. He looked as if he had dropped in the pub straight from a building site. Which indeed he had. But Harry Rothstein was more than an anonymous member of the proletariat. He was one of Moscow's secret weapons. Not that that helped him make any more sense of the letter in his pocket. That is, he could understand what was written in the doc.u.ment, but the exhortations themselves were extraordinary, inconceivable. He was used to Moscow using such words as cadres, vanguards, and comrades. That was normal, and it was left to him to translate them into euphemisms the fellow Party members of his branch were more comfortable with. But this took the biscuit.

As soon as he had got the letter, he had confided in Prem, who happened to be in the local Party office. The elegant, little black man was a virulent anti-imperialist, which is what had brought him into the Party despite his social standing. But at first, even he could not believe his eyes.

"They're mad."

Premadasa poked a long, aristocratic finger at the letter. "Listen to this. 'Stir up the ma.s.ses of the unemployed British proletariat.' And . . ." His dark eyes slid down the page seeking out another phrase. "Here it is . . . 'a successful rising is required in any of the working districts of England.' Fat chance, old man."

Harry Rothstein always marvelled at the black man's command of English vernacular. Except the words were oddly out of place expressed in such cultured tones. He sighed. "Doesn't Moscow know that our members are still British first and foremost?"

"Apparently not, if this letter is to be believed." His big, brown eyes clouded over at that moment, as he gazed into some far Pa.r.s.ee distance. How he squared his religion with his Communist beliefs, Rothstein wasn't sure. The black man was an enigma. So he wasn't surprised at Premadasa's next utterance. "However, there is something we can do about it."

"Like what?" Harry Rothstein thought he could not feel any more downhearted. But Premadasa's proposal weighed him down like an albatross round his neck. Such a risky action, and at the FA Cup Final, too. Reluctantly, Harry had made a telephone call, and then resorted to The Grapes. Where he managed to down three pints in quick succession without his sense of foreboding lifting.

Boleyn Football Ground, West Ham Tommy Fields slung his kitbag over his shoulder and, without a word to the rest of the team, slipped out of the dressing room at Upton Park. He had played badly in the training session today, and the manager, Syd King, had given him a peculiar look as he changed out of his sweat-stained kit and back into his street clothes. He pulled on his thick roll-neck pullover, still not sure whether he would be included in the team for the Cup Final against Bolton Wanderers. Being a Lancashire man, there had been some muttering from other West Ham players about his loyalties. Hufton, the goalie, had dived at his feet during training, and somehow got tangled in his legs. Fields had fallen awkwardly, feeling a sharp pull to his left ankle. He had limped for the rest of the session.

As he exited the football ground, he saw an omnibus pulling away from the stop at the corner. He knew he would be late if he didn't catch it, and sprinted down the road in pursuit. The pain in his ankle returned, shooting up his leg, and he stumbled, almost falling. The conductor saw the fit-looking man stumble, and held out a helping hand. With his aid, Fields managed to haul himself on the rear platform, still clutching his kit-bag of muddy gear. The conductor, a stringy man with yellowing teeth peered at him, a frown on his pinched features. Then recognition dawned as he put a name to the handsome, broad face, topped with its unruly quiff of blond hair. Fields knew what was coming next.

"Tommy Fields, ennit? Yeah, course it is. I hope you can run a sight better than that down the wing on Sat.u.r.day next. I've got a wager on the Hammers."

Fields allowed a thin, polite smile to cross his lips, as he slumped in the hard wooden seat. He still wasn't used to being recognized, and didn't know how to cope. It hadn't been long since he had been just another worker in a Lancashire boiler-making factory. Professional footballer and recognition were both virgin territory to him. Football the people's game. Sometimes he wished he was back at the factory, despite the better money he earned as a footballer. Except the factory had closed down now, and lots of his mates were out of work. And here was the bus conductor, moaning about a little bet on the result of a football match.

"You think you've got problems, mate," he muttered.

The Grapes Harry was surrept.i.tiously reading the letter again, when a man slid on to the worn red plush of the bench next to him. Harry took in the well-built torso, and the broad features.

"Tommy Fields, as I live and breathe! Glad you got my message. Let me buy you a pint."

Harry should have been happy to see his old friend again. But he knew what he was about to ask of him. He didn't like to use people's weaknesses, even for the best of causes. And this was far from a good cause in Rothstein's mind. But he knew he was committed. He rose from his seat to get the drink. Fields pushed his kit-bag under the seat, and laid a hand on Rothstein's arm.

"Just tell me what you want, Harry. I'm in a hurry."

Rothstein looked hesitant to him, as if what he was about to say was too much to ask a friend he had not seen in over a year. His hesitation made Fields suddenly concerned, and not a little sickened. Harry Rothstein did not like making himself beholden to anyone. Nor did he like using people. But it looked like he was going to. Hadn't he got enough problems?

Harry looked closer into Fields' own eyes. Saw the doubt.

"Let's add a chaser to the beer. You're going to need one. Then maybe we can help each other."

Some days later, Scotland Yard "Have you read this, Banksie?" Superintendent O'Nions was waving a sheet of duplicated paper in the air, as he stormed into his office. Sergeant Banks stood respectfully in front of his guv'nor's desk in the at ease posture that came naturally to the old soldier. He waited in silence. From long experience, he knew that O'Nions's question did not require an answer. He was going to be told what was in the missive whether he wanted to know or not. And O'Nions did not disappoint him.

"This is a circular message from BT." The initials were all that was necessary to identify the autocratic head of the CID. The sergeant knew what was coming. BT's obsession with the Labour Party and its links with those hotbeds of revolution, the Trade Unions, always coloured his thinking of late. Some would say clouded it. Banks thought himself lucky that there was no longer any record of his partic.i.p.ation in the Police Strike of 1918. He had O'Nions to thank for that. It was a tie that bound the two men uneasily together.

O'Nions slumped behind his desk, c.o.c.king his feet on the battered surface.

"Listen to this. He reminds us that in the War, we saw the rise of Pacifist Societies, and that now Pacifism, anti-Conscription, h.o.m.os.e.xuality and Revolution are all now inextricably mixed." He poked a finger at the slender sheet, quoting from it. " 'The real object of these people is the ruin of their own country.' "

As O'Nions read from the memo, Banks could hear the capitals dripping off the page. BT was very fond of capitals. Probably because his own men identified him by two of his own.

"Very interesting, sir," he murmured noncommittally. It was best to keep his feelings to himself, until he saw how his guv'nor was going to respond. You never knew how he would take one of BT's memos. O'Nions read silently through the rest of the screed, finally summing its contents up for his sergeant.

"He wants all his officers and that includes me, Banksie to bear in mind the following organizations in their investigations."

O'Nions flicked the thin sheet over his desk, and Banks caught it before it fluttered to the floor. Where it would have nestled with several other sheets of a similar origin. He ran his eyes over the list of suspect organizations. Predictably, it included the usual Trades Unions. Especially those lined in the so-called Triple Alliance, that is, the Miners, Transport Workers and Railwaymen. Also on the list were such august and, in Banks's eyes, totally ineffectual bodies as the Fellowship of Reconciliation and the Council for Civil Liberties. Banks realized he too was beginning to think in words with capital letters. He preferred one of his own for the missive. Barmy with a capital B. Despite his lowly status, and common exterior, Banks was a thoughtful man. He knew working people were still war-weary and disillusioned, resentful of the new hedonism of the rich. But in a mood for revolution? Even those out of work were too close to the horrors of trench warfare and poison gas to even contemplate the violence that revolution, and street fighting would engender.

"It's daft, guv'nor."

"Of course it is, Banksie. File it with the rest of the rubbish."

Just as the sergeant went to drop the memo on the floor, the big, black telephone jangled on O'Nions's desk. The heavy-set man yanked the receiver off its cradle. Banks watched as his guv'nor spoke quietly into the mouthpiece, listened in his turn, then slowly replaced the receiver. He could see a gleam sparkling in the guv'nor's piggy eyes. Was this going to be another leap of deduction? O'Nions in fact was experiencing a revelation. But it was not one of deduction, but naked ambition.

"Here. Give me back that memo, Sergeant."

He took the thin sheet from his perplexed a.s.sistant, and scanned it more carefully this time. He suddenly realized that, if he could link the phone call to any of this Red Peril stuff (decidedly in capitals in his mind), the post of superintendent would be nothing. The sky would be the limit. His heavy brown boots clattered to the ground.

"Come on, Banksie. We're going to have a little chat with someone I know."

Albert Potter was worried. Worried and confused. It had been four days since the perturbed Junius Premadasa had burst in on him. Four days in which Albert had been unable to discover anything and now, to cap it all, Premadasa had disappeared. It was not as though at the time, the Sinhalese had exactly made clear what it was that concerned him. When Rosalind had ushered him in, Albert had at first offered a drink, but the Sinhalese had declined.

"No thank you, Potter. I do not want a drink."

Albert blushed, wondering if he had offended some religious proscription of the man's. He knew so little about Ceylon and its customs. Premadasa had until now seemed so European in his ways that Albert hardly considered him anything other than a fellow Englishman. He been to Oxford, after all. Now, he realized he didn't know the man at all well. He did know he was a member of the Communist Party, though. Maybe he could recover from the drinks embarra.s.sment by asking Premadasa about the situation in Moscow.

"Tell me. Have you heard about the state of Comrade Lenin's health?"

It was more than a polite enquiry. Potter had actually become acquainted with a little man then calling himself Richter many years ago in London. He had been about Potter's height, and sporting a similar goatee beard. But unlike Potter, whose head was topped with a wiry thatch, Richter had already been completely bald. It had been a matter of some surprise for Albert to later identify the quiet and polite Mr Richter as the outspoken Chairman Lenin, the charismatic leader of the Soviet revolution. He knew that recently, Richter he would always think of him as such, not as the Man of Iron had suffered a mild stroke.

Premadasa looked no more pleased by Albert's enquiry than he had done by the offer of alcohol. His eyes narrowed, and his brow furrowed with a worried frown. His full lips pursed into a disapproving moue.

"And why would I know anything about Lenin that you can't read in the papers yourself?"

"I . . . er . . . I." Albert was nonplussed. He appeared to have put his foot in it twice in as many minutes. Maybe he should just keep his mouth shut. For a moment both men sat in silence, their heads bowed. Albert's new approach seemed to work. Suddenly, Premadasa groaned, and patted Albert on the knee.

"I'm sorry, old friend. I'm a little frazzled at the moment." Potter noticed once again, how much Prem liked his little anglicisms. "I think I will take you up on that drink."

"Of course, what would you like?" Albert was fully prepared to play it safe and offer tea. But Premadasa pre-empted him.

"Whiskey, please. A large one."

Potter poured a generous measure, and with the drink in his hand, Premadasa became a little more emboldened.

"It was quite prescient of you to speak of . . . our mutual friend. Moscow has been figuring quite large in my thoughts recently."

"The poor man is ill, then."

Premadasa shook his head.

"I don't really know, old man. And even if he were dead, the Comintern wouldn't tell us. No, it's a more pressing matter than the state of one man's health." He hesitated, unsure what to say next. Then he managed to marshal his thoughts. "But closer to home, you might say."

"Home." Albert meant it as a question, but Premadasa clearly took the comment as an affirmation of Potter's understanding. A big tear squeezed itself from his big brown eyes, and he nodded eagerly.

"Yes. I knew you would understand. You know how the land lies at present. But it's entirely unfair of them to make such demands. You do follow my meaning."

Albert nodded sagely, wishing he had the first idea what the other man was referring to. He was beginning to frame a polite question that would not reveal the full depth of his ignorance, when Premadasa suddenly rose, and held out his hand. Bewildered, Albert got up from the sofa too, and took the proffered appendage.

"Excellent," said Premadasa, a smile lighting up his formerly clouded features. He sort of squinted with one eye in a grotesque manner, and Albert realised he was essaying a complicit wink. "Now you will pa.s.s on my concerns to that friend of yours."

"Friend."

Once more, Albert fell into the trap.

"That's right. That friend of yours. The one with the funny name. Tell him what I have said, but please . . ."

"Yes?" Now Albert was utterly lost. As lost in a fog as he had been that time in the Alps, when he nearly fell off the edge of the glacier near Zermatt.

"Please. No mention of my name. It could prove fatal."

With that, Junius Premadasa had turned on his heels and exited the room, leaving Potter with a puzzle and an untouched gla.s.s of his best whiskey. He watched at the window as Premadasa climbed into the driving seat of his car, and sped off. Potter was surprised that Thambyah, his constant manservant, wasn't there to drive Junius. He had followed his master all the way from Ceylon. Premadasa must have really wanted to keep his visit secret.

Now, four days on, he was still none the wiser. But at last he had decided to take some action. It had taken nearly that long for Albert to work out to whom Premadasa was referring when he mentioned the friend "with the funny name".

"Darling, Mr O'Nions is here."

Albert Potter was abruptly brought back to the present by the mellifluous tones of Rosalind. Who still had not explained her doom-laden utterance of four days earlier to him. That morning of Premadasa's arrival, and subsequent sudden disappearance. Why had Albert not seen immediately that he had meant O'Nions? Well, he was here now. But what was it that he was to tell the superintendent? Before he could properly marshal his thoughts though, the man himself entered Albert's study.

It had been a number of years since the two men had met, and Albert saw that the pa.s.sage of time had not been kind to O'Nions. His face had become bloated and florid, and his hair, once the brown bowler was removed, appeared to have fled his brow. The obvious weight he had put on his girth the result of too many Sunday roasts at home, no doubt pressed down on his fallen arches. And as the man strode into the room, his hand outstretched, Albert noted a heavy gait where before the man had been nimble on his pins. He also took in the familiar brown boots, and surmised that O'Nions's elevation to Superintendent had not improved his sartorial choices any. He still had a presence, however, and as he shook the man's hand, Albert almost missed the quiet, intense little man who dogged his master's heels. Until O'Nions introduced him.

"This is Sergeant Banks, Mr Potter. Banks, this is Mr Albert Potter. He's . . ."

"A member of the Fabian Society, and a Labour MP, sir."

Albert smiled modestly. It was so invigorating to be recognized, especially by Special Branch. It made him feel a desperate character. O'Nions quickly shattered his cherished a.s.sumptions.

"Of course. You would know him." He turned to Albert again. "Bolshie Banks, we call him in the Force. On account of his leftish leanings."

Albert could see the sergeant stifle a grimace. Whatever sort of joke his boss made of his politics, Banks clearly took them seriously. Unusual for someone in Special Branch. Albert shook his firm, callused hand, and was about to enquire of the man's leanings, when O'Nions interrupted.

"Potter, you said you needed my help."

"Yes, Superintendent. I have a request to make of you. But I don't quite know if any of what I have to say will make sense." He was thinking of Premadasa's cryptic remarks, wondering how to express them. "I have a . . . friend, who shall remain nameless. He feels the government needs to be aware of, shall we say, unpleasant moves afoot in his world that . . ."

O'Nions cut across Albert's hesitancy.

"You're talking about some gang of ex-officers and h.o.m.os.e.xuals in the army and navy, sprinkled with some undergraduates at Oxford and Cambridge, no doubt. Wetting themselves at some new orders from Moscow."

Albert Potter winced at the detective's forthrightness. He glanced at the man's sergeant, looking for sympathy. There was none on offer.

"Parlour Bolsheviks, we call 'em, sir." It was Banks's hard response that shocked Albert most. He had thought Banks more sympathetic. Discomfited by both men's frosty faces, he felt himself between a rock and a hard place. Surprisingly, O'Nions features reformed themselves into a smile. A venal leer of a smile, but a smile nevertheless.

"I think we are in a position to help each other, Mr Potter."

"Oh? How is that, O'Nions?" Albert wasn't sure whether he should feel relief or concern at O'Nions's oily come-on. On balance, he thought concern.

The Grapes was a pub for hard-drinking men and loose women, and Harry Rothstein found the atmosphere intoxicating. Without even taking a drink. He loved the place, and the people who frequented it. His people. He looked round the smoke-laden bar at the faces surrounding him. The men he saw were young, but already bore the lined faces of people made old before their time by war and unemployment. The rosy faces of the women were painted on, and hardly hid their pinched nature, caused by the vicissitudes of their trade and their hard, fast life. Of course, respectable women would not be seen dead on their own in a public house. So it was obvious what these women were up to. Not that Harry Rothstein condemned them, drinking and smoking and laughing edgily with their potential clients. He himself was a wh.o.r.e to Moscow, wasn't he? Taking money from an increasingly impoverished Bolshevik government, while pretending to pleasure their desires. And he couldn't stop. Their money paid for his weakness. The recordings he bought, and played in private on the portable gramophone in his solitary lodgings.

He had become fascinated by the new sound of jazz when he had heard the music of the Original Dixieland Jazz Band. The live music had filtered through to the hot, stinking kitchens of the club where he had worked washing dishes as a boy. Its sweet abandon stirred something in his youthful heart. The other workers called it rubbish, the stuff the toffs cavorted to. So he had kept his decadent enthusiasm to himself. Over the years, as his collection grew, so did his scholarly interest in the music. But he never lost the sense of excitement when he played the precious sh.e.l.lac to himself.

A burst of harsh laughter from a group of men in the corner of the bar broke into his reverie. Suddenly he saw everything around him differently. All he could see now was a mood of desperate determination. As though everyone was clamouring to beat the greyness of their lives, if only for a brief moment. He took another pull at his pint, and patted the left breast pocket of his jacket. The letter in his inside pocket felt like a heavy weight against his chest. He knew he would have to do something about it. But first he had a meeting with a new recruit.

He had been surprised to get a message about him from Albert Potter of all people. Potter was Labour, and the Labour Party was going respectable. It didn't approve of the Communist Party any more. But he was prepared to see the man for Potter's, and old times' sake.

Right on cue, a small, neat man slipped through the heavy, bra.s.s-handled doors of the pub, and looked cautiously around. His clothes were clean, if a little worn round the edges, and he wore a black bowler squared soldier-like on his head. A tattered copy of a newspaper stuck up from his right-hand jacket pocket. He crossed over to the bar, and examined the coins in his pocket carefully before ordering a drink. He was obviously out of work. Harry watched for a while, and marvelled how inconspicuous the man seemed. He just blended into the background. Just the sort of man he needed, as long as he measured up. Harry wormed his way through the noisy throng, and squeezed in beside the newcomer at the bar. The man was sipping at his pint. Harry waved his empty pint gla.s.s in the air, and got a refill. He turned to his target.

"Can I see your paper, chum?"

"Sure." The man pulled out his copy of the Daily Herald and pa.s.sed it to Harry. "If you like your news straight from Moscow."

Harry chuckled. The Establishment saw the Herald as the cats-paw of the Reds. "What other sort of news is there?"

Sergeant Banks stuck out his callused hand. "John Banks. You must be Harry Rothstein."

Banks was surprised how easy it was to get into Harry Rothstein's offices. He could have walked in off the street, and would have been welcomed with open arms. The nerve centre of the Communist movement in this part of London was nothing more than a small, dingy shop-front in the East End. Old advertising boards filled the walls, curling slowly into oblivion. The scarred mahogany counter still stood in place, and a cheerful young girl with auburn curls sat behind it. She was bashing the keys of an old typewriter that, from her muted curses, was proving an uncooperative agent. Pamphlets were strewn across the rest of the counter. There was clearly no intention to hide any seditious material.

"h.e.l.lo, Amy. I'm just taking this gentleman into the back for a chat."

Banks strode up the counter, and stretched a friendly hand across its surface towards the girl. "John Banks."

"Amy Clark." The girl clasped his hand, returning his frank look. Then she returned to her battle with the ancient machine. Not only was the literature openly available, so were the names of the staff apparently. Rothstein raised a flap at the end of the counter, and held it open for Banks.