Читать книгу Robin Hood Yard - Mark Sanderson - Страница 12

Saturday, 29 October, 10.15 a.m.

The first report came in shortly after ten o’clock. Others soon followed. Five banking houses had been attacked: N. M. Rothschild & Sons, Samuel Montagu & Co., M. Samuel & Co., Seligman Brothers, and S. Japhet & Co. All of them were Jewish. Bottles of blood had been flung against the walls of the noble institutions.

The attacks couldn’t have happened at a better time. Johnny was making little headway with the double murders. Everything was too clean. Matt had wearily informed him that Chittleborough had no criminal record and the only fingerprints found in the flat had been his. No one had seen or heard anything strange on Thursday evening. The killer had shown a clean pair of heels.

“Someone’s not happy,” said PDQ. “Perhaps they’re blaming the Jews for dragging us – kicking and screaming – towards war. They get blamed for all sorts of things.”

“Perfect scapegoats,” said Johnny. “But Chamberlain’s flying to Munich this morning. Third time lucky.”

“I hardly think so, Steadman,” said Patsel. “Such – how do you say it? – yo-yo diplomacy is bound to fail. It demonstrates weakness, not strength.” He appeared gratified at the prospect.

“There’s been another one.” Tanfield, who had the desk opposite Johnny’s, brandished a telegram from Reuters. “The next Lord Mayor’s been hurt.”

Mansion House Street was to the City what Piccadilly Circus was to Westminster. It was the very heart of things, where no less than eight arteries met, and as such was usually clogged with traffic. On the map it resembled the head of a splayed octopus with one limb shrivelled.

Johnny stopped the taxi by the monumental headquarters of the Midland Bank. Lutyens had a lot to answer for. The naked boy wrestling a goose above him was a jocular nod towards the building’s location: Poultry. Ten years on, only the southwest corner, regularly lashed by rain, retained a hint of the Portland stone’s original whiteness.

Outside the Bank of England a City cop in reflective white gauntlets waved him and Magnus Monroe, a staff photographer, across the road. The Royal Exchange lay in the fork between Threadneedle Street and Cornhill. The Duke of Wellington and Copenhagen – cast in bronze from captured French cannon – gazed down at him with sightless eyes. The City thrived on making the man in the street feel small.

The Exchange had closed – or been closed – early. One of its constables – instantly recognizable in his blue-and-gold uniform – stood talking to a City cop beneath the portico. As soon as Johnny started climbing the steps, he raised his stick. Johnny kept going.

“Thus far and no further.” The bumptious beadle attempted to block his path.

“John Steadman, Daily News.”

“Sorry, sir. The Exchange is closed.”

“I can see that. Let me pass.”

He was tempted to knock off the beadle’s cocked hat. The old man – who had the power to arrest and detain him within the Exchange – waved his stick at him. Pop! Magnus set to work. It was always good to illustrate the risks a fearless reporter faced as he went about his business. The old soldier turned his attention to the photographer. As soon as he took his eyes off him, Johnny headed for the doors.

“Going somewhere?” The long arm of the law felt his collar. It wasn’t the first time – nor would it be the last.

“Yes.”

“No.” The constable let go of his collar but only to pluck the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Ouch! Fuck off, Watkiss.” They had met before. The Square Mile often felt as small as a bear pit or bullring. “Still a plain bogey, I see. You must miss Sergeant Turner.”

“Not as much as you.”

“He’ll be here in a minute.”

“Really?”

Johnny nodded. Several of his competitors were piling out of taxis. “Do me a favour – keep that lot out.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Go on then – and mind that you do.”

He pushed open the heavy swing doors and made a beeline for the man sitting on a bentwood chair in the middle of the empty courtyard. It was pleasantly warm beneath the glass canopy but a metallic tang hung in the air. The antique Turkish pavement was splotched with blood.

“It’s not mine – at least, most of it isn’t.” Leo Adler tried to get up but his legs gave way. A concerned minion dabbed at the cut on his forehead. “Let me be!”

“John Steadman, Daily News.”

The cop interviewing one of the gathered witnesses turned round but said nothing.

“How d’you do?” They didn’t shake hands. “Not fond of bankers, are you? I must say, I enjoyed your exposure of that wicked boy’s scam.”

A post-room worker had been removing foreign stamps from envelopes and selling them. As the recent pepper scandal had demonstrated – an attempt to corner the world market in white pepper had floundered because the perpetrators failed to realize that black pepper could be turned into white – there was no shortage of crooks in the City. However, it was generally those at the bottom who were caught. Those higher up the ladder remained at large. In Johnny’s eyes, anyone in pinstripes belonged behind bars.

“A reporter is only as good as his sources.”

“Much like a French chef!”

“What happened? Why aren’t you taking this seriously?”

“It’s nothing. A rough-looking gentleman sprayed me with blood then threw the bottle at me and scarpered. Fortunately, it didn’t smash. I saw stars for a minute but I’m right as rain now.”

“Red rain. Why blood?”

“No idea. Perhaps he was a communist protestor hell-bent on keeping the red flag flying. We’ll probably never know.”

“What did he look like?”

“As I said, rough. Not the type generally seen round here.”

The mayor-in-waiting gestured at the arcades that lined the court where commodities had been bought and sold for centuries. There were other exchanges nearby: the Corn Exchange in Mark Lane, the Baltic Shipping Exchange in St Mary Axe, the Metal Exchange in Whittington Avenue, the Wool Exchange in Coleman Street, the Rubber Exchange in Mincing Lane and, of course, the Stock Exchange in Threadneedle Street.

The motto of the City of London was Domine Dirige Nos – “Lord, guide us” – but it might as well have been Quid pro quo – “something for something” – or “anything for money”: timber, minerals, coffee, sex, information or access.

Magnus, the archetypal shutterbug, came beetling towards them. No doubt he’d slipped Watkiss a oncer to let him in. If Steadman’s profession was asking, Monroe’s was taking – usually without permission. Mouths opened in protest were more dramatic than thin-lipped smiles. Adler, though, was only too happy to oblige. No wonder he’d been elected Lord Mayor. His regular, tanned features represented the acceptable face of capitalism – even if he was Jewish.

Johnny had read interviews with the second Jew destined to become Lord Mayor of London. The first, David Salomons, had been elected in 1855. City folk, pragmatists par excellence, were less vocal in their anti-Semitism than some of the population. The size of a man’s fortune was more important than the size of his nose.

“You must have heard about the other attacks,” said Johnny. “They can hardly be a coincidence. This seems like the start of a hate campaign. It must be personal, anti-Semitic. You’re the only person to have been attacked.”

“I’ve just come from Rothschild’s in New Court.” St Swithin’s Lane was less than a minute’s walk away. “It won’t take long to clean up the mess.”

“Rothschild,” murmured Johnny. “Red shield.”

“What’s that?”

“Probably nothing. I was thinking aloud.”

“Come off it. Next you’ll be saying that murder spelled backwards is red rum.”

“Why would I? I like crosswords but no one’s been murdered – not here anyway. Are you sure you haven’t a clue as to who’s responsible?”

“If I had, they’d be under arrest already.”

Johnny believed him. After “The Silent Ceremony” at the Guildhall on 9 November – during which the outgoing mayor would hand over the sword, sceptre, seal and list of Corporations to him – Adler would be the Chief Magistrate of the City.

“Such publicity is bad for business,” he continued. “The sooner it stops, the better.”

“Why talk to me then?”

“Your opposition to the bowler-hat-and-brolly brigade is well known. If you say it’s nothing but a stunt, people will believe you. Outside the City I don’t have much clout.”

Johnny was flattered but not convinced.

“Adler. That’s a German name, isn’t it?”

“Yes. My grandparents were German, but both my parents were British. It means eagle.”

“Perfect for a high-flier.”

Adler’s laughter echoed round the Exchange.

“I need a drink. Care to join me? It’s almost midday.” He got to his feet and, this time, stayed upright. “Are we done now, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir, if you’re sure you don’t want to go to Bart’s.”

“Quite sure. I’ve had worse bumps. Got a thick skull. Let me know when you catch the blighter.”

It was all right for some. Lesser mortals would have been obliged to make a statement at Snow Hill police station.

Adler, having dismissed his entourage with reassuring noises, led them out of an exit at the rear of the building and thus avoided the scrum waiting at the front. Johnny was delighted. Monroe went off to develop his prints while he and Adler crossed the road and entered the maze of alleys that zigzagged between Lombard Street and Cornhill. Thirty yards down Birchin Lane they turned left into Castle Court.

The George and Vulture was one of Mr Pickwick’s favourite haunts.

“He dined here with Sam Weller,” said Johnny.

“I don’t have time to read for pleasure.”

“But you do read the papers.”

“Lord Beaverbrook, Viscount Rothermere and their cronies are powerful men. It’s not called the press for nothing. If they want something, they can exert great pressure.”

“Even they can’t stop a world war though. They’re more concerned about their livelihoods – the supply of newsprint – than the lives of their readers.”

“Agreed,” said Adler. He sipped the fine claret. “There’ll be no shortage of news though.”

“There will. Dora will see to it.” The Defence of the Realm Act was introduced in 1914. “The government is bound to tighten its grip on the flow of information.”

“The Nazis are fond of censorship as well,” said Adler. “The problems facing Jews in Germany are far worse than leaks suggest. They’re now being rounded up and expelled to Poland. Not only men of working age but women and children too.”

Johnny had long campaigned for the Daily News to highlight Hitler’s atrocious treatment of the Jews. However, he was a crime reporter. Foreign news was not his concern. Patsel dismissed such reports as gross exaggeration, propaganda spread by embittered refugees.

Fleet Street preferred to reflect public opinion rather than change it. Britannia ruled the waves but her citizens were insular in outlook. There was enough suffering at home without worrying about Johnny Foreigner. Only last week the Daily Telegraph had run an advertisement for typists with the proviso that “no Jewesses” need apply.

“Why d’you think Hitler hates Jews so much?”

“Fear. Paranoia. Perhaps he’s secretly afraid there’s a tincture of Jewish blood running in his veins. Self-hatred is even more corrosive.” He sighed. “It’s easier to blame other people for your own weaknesses, shift the responsibility away from yourself. Conspiracies are convenient ways of explaining the inexplicable. Otherness – difference – produces a primitive, instinctive reaction in the brain, but most people choose to override it.”

“A tribal survival mechanism.”

“Exactly. If there weren’t any Jews, new scapegoats would soon be found. Negroes, Catholics, Armenians, homosexuals …”

“And yet Jews invented the concept.”

“That’s right.” Adler raised his glass to him. “Which university did you attend?”

“I didn’t. Couldn’t afford it.”

“Ah, well it stems from the Hebrew word Azazel. You can find it in Leviticus: And Aaron shall place lots upon the two he-goats: one lot for the Lord, and the other lot for Azazel.”

“So why would someone select you as a scapegoat?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the attack has nothing to do with my being Jewish.”

“It must have. It’s Saturday – the Jewish Sabbath. The blood must be a reference to historic blood libels.”

“But I haven’t crucified any Christian kids or drunk their blood. I haven’t poisoned any wells.”

Suddenly the expensive Bordeaux didn’t taste as good.

“No, but you’re about to become the figurehead of the financial centre of the world. Many people see bankers as bloodsuckers. In their blinkered eyes, the fact you’re Jewish simply makes matters worse.”

“I’m not a practising Jew though. As you see, I don’t observe the Sabbath. I don’t have ringlets. I don’t dress entirely in black. I don’t work for a Jewish bank. You could say I’m totally unorthodox.”

“Why did you want to be Lord Mayor?”

“What financier wouldn’t? It’s an honour. Proof I’ve assimilated myself into a secretly hostile environment. Chairmanships and presidencies are all very well, but the mayoralty is a unique position. It’s a chance to do an immense amount of good – for both the companies and charities I’m involved with. And, of course, I’ll be able to help my friends …”

He topped up Johnny’s glass.

“What d’you want me to do?”

“Find out who’s behind this campaign. I don’t have much faith in the police. Ironic, isn’t it, that the top brass are based in Old Jewry? Did you know the Great Synagogue there was burned down before Edward I expelled the Jews …”

When Johnny, somewhat squiffy, re-emerged into daylight, the working week was over. The army of bank messengers, dispatch cases chained to their wrists, had marched off home, leaving the streets to the City’s “submerged tenth”: watchmen, sandwich-men, hawkers, beggars and bible-bangers. The lamps slung on wires above them swung in the strengthening wind. Plane trees shed their last few leaves.

Johnny hadn’t finished work though. He decided to walk back to the office to clear his head.

He preferred being on foot – relying on his own resources – to being driven by someone else. London was a never-ending variety show, every pedestrian a character in an impromptu promenade performance. It was impossible not to cheer.

Even so, as he strode down Ludgate Hill, St Paul’s standing proud behind him, his spirits sank. He’d two meaty stories to pursue, but what was the point if the country was waltzing towards war? His flat feet would keep him out of the army yet he was determined to make himself useful. Perhaps Adler could recommend him to the Ministry of Information when it was finally re-established.

He’d read too much to harbour any illusions about the reality of war. Chamberlain had declared there must be “no more Passchendaeles” – Johnny’s father had been killed in the battle in 1917 – but, for all his good intentions, he was a politician not a magician. Peace couldn’t be produced, like a rabbit, out of a hat. Before long, ignorant armies would once again clash by night. If Johnny couldn’t report on it he could at least help pick up the pieces: carry a stretcher or drive an ambulance. Matt, Lizzie and Lila Mae were the only family he had. It wouldn’t matter if he were blown to bits.

What bollocks! He shook his head to dispel the gloom. Evil had to be confronted wherever it lurked. He nodded to the commissionaire and headed for the lifts, noticing in passing that the sunburst ceiling, dazzlingly lit, made the doorman’s shoes shine.

A pall of silver cigarette smoke drifted over the stalls. Johnny, sprawled on the front row, smirked at the portrayal of hard-drinking, hard-talking newspapermen in I Cover the Waterfront. He could see why the American tale of people-trafficking had taken five years to reach these shores.

The ABC in Islington High Street had been the Empire until a few months ago. Movies had replaced music-hall turns in 1932. When he was a child his mother had often treated him to a Saturday afternoon show. In those days the Victorian concert venue had been known as The Grand. The more things changed the more they remained the same.

There was no food at home so he’d hopped off the tram at the Angel and bought a couple of stale rolls – at a discount – from the French & Vienna Bread Co. next door and smuggled them into the picture house.

If he was with a girl he usually steered her to the back row where, inevitably, the film took second place to smooching. However, when alone, he liked to be as close to the screen as possible so that the characters were literally larger than life.

Claudette Colbert, especially in the brothel sequence, was captivating – although he preferred her darting eyes in It Happened One Night – but Ernest Torrence’s evil sea-captain stole every scene. His best line came as one of the Chinamen he’d drowned was fished out of the Pacific: “Not more’n a day. Crabs ain’t got ’im yet.” The Scottish actor was dead now: gallstones.

As he cut through the crowd of couples dawdling in the foyer, reluctant to return to the real world, he regretted not asking Rebecca for a date. Once outside, all thoughts of her disappeared as torrential icy rain threatened to drown him.

His flat was not far away so he decided to make a run for it. Dead leaves made the pavements treacherous. Each time he skidded the gutters seemed to gurgle with laughter.

Key in hand, he turned into Cruden Street. There was someone huddled in the doorway.

“About fucking time,” said Matt.