And Liam lifted Harriet on to his lap and sat there glaring at his companions as the carriage rolled on towards Lambeth. Harriet just went on gazing at them all, thumb in mouth. Then she yawned, and with the air of a duchess conferring a favour on a footman, she laid her head on Liam's shoulder and went to sleep at once.
Goldberg lay on the kitchen floor, listening carefully. Although his shoulder hurt like the devil, the rest of him was unharmed, and his head was clear.
They were talking in the front room. He heard Parrish's voice ". . . Solomons' bakery in Holywell Street. At the corner there - Brick Lane end. That's it, yes. Burn the bloody place down. There's a painter and decorator's store just behind it - full of kerosene. Get the mob out there - stir 'em up. I want the whole bloody street on fire, get it? Early, before they wake up. Now go, go on, move. The rest of you get packing. Charlie, run and fetch a cab from the jobmaster's. Wake him up. Yes, we're moving out, soon as the coppers take that Yid away. Is he safe in there?"
Another voice said something inaudible, and someone laughed. Parrish snapped; being laid low with a chamberpot had done nothing for his authority. Goldberg looked around. He could see chair legs and table legs and a coal scuttle, but nothing that could serve as a weapon. Could he get to his feet? Find a knife, perhaps? Or even a broomstick?
He moved, and nearly groaned aloud. But then there came a thunderous knocking at the front door, and a man ran to open it, and there were the police.
Goldberg pulled himself upright before they did it for him. A sergeant, two constables and a police carriage - lanterns - truncheons - explanations, accusations - handcuffs.
Here he shook his head.
"I'm bound to come quietly," he said to the sergeant. "But I'd be obliged if you'd leave off the handcuffs; I'm wounded."
He held up his bloodied left hand with his right in a way that suggested it was the wrist that was injured, and the sergeant nodded.
"All right," he said to the constable with the handcuffs. "He won't make any trouble. Put him in the van."
"Excuse me, sergeant," said Parrish. "This man is extremely dangerous. I've already told you he's wanted for a political offence - he's escaped from prisons in Russia and Germany--"
"There aren't any political offences in this country, as far as I know, sir," said the sergeant. "Did he cause that lump on your head?"
"Not directly -"
"And who shot him?"
"I did. As I'm entitled to do in order to protect--"
"No doubt, sir. I'll stay behind and take full statements from you and the other gentlemen. Take this man to the station, constable."
A fair man, anyway, thought Goldberg as he climbed stiffly into the police van. And at least I haven't got handcuffs to think about. . .
The driver shook the reins.
And as the van began to move away, two bedraggled figures scuttled out from the shadows and clung to the back of it. There was a step there for policemen to stand on when they were being brought in to control crowds, and it made a fine platform for two twelve-year-old boys, especially the two who'd been hammering at the back door of the house, frantic with impatience, during the fight.
"Ye all right, Tony?" whispered one.
"I'm with ye, Con," the other whispered back. "We'll have a bit of a barney yet. Hold tight now. Don't fall off. . ."
Moishe Lipman rubbed his heavy jaw. He was sitting in a four-wheeled cab at the corner of Fournier Square with three of his men. There was a lot of activity going on in the house - lights being carried here and there, curtains being carefully drawn shut - but no sign of a child. One of the men had slipped across the road and listened outside the kitchen door, but had heard nothing, and another three had been around the back, where the tall old houses of the square looked out on a churchyard, but again come back without any sign of the child they'd been sent there to look for.
"What d'you reckon, boss?" said one of the men in the cab.
Lipman said nothing. He wasn't a thinker, and he couldn't see through bricks, but he knew about fighting. Stay canny for a bit; hang back, let the other man commit himself. If you rush in like a headstrong kid, you'll get a bang that'll lay you out.
The problem was, he also knew the value of a surprise attack. Whoever was in the house didn't know they were being watched, and if Moishe flung all his men in at once, they could take the place in less than a minute. But less than a minute would still be plenty of time to point a gun to a child's head. . ."
"I reckon we sit tight," he said.
He gazed stonily through the rain. Such rain. . . You could hardly see the difference between the pavement and the road, there was such a torrent sloshing along the gutter. It was clogged by a bit of rubbish, a dead dog or something, and the water swirled around it like the rapids on the Pecos River in the Deadwood Dick story Moishe had one of his boys read to him in the evenings. Bits of scum and foam and papers and scraps of anonymous filth were borne along like Deadwood Dick's raft. . .
The front door opened. Moishe blinked and tapped the man opposite on the knee.
"Wake up," he said. "Look."
The other man started and leaned forward. Out of the narrow cab window they saw two figures in the doorway - one in waterproof and hat, the other in what looked like a dressing-gown.
Waterproof set off, Dressing-gown called him back and spoke briefly, Waterproof set off again, holding the collar high around his neck. Dressing-gown shut the door.
Moishe said, "Get him."
The three men in the cab jumped out at once. Waterproof didn't look back, but hurried on, head down against the lashing rain, and the sound of it on his oilskin hat prevented him from hearing footsteps behind him; so it wasn't long before they caught up with him.
Lipman had ordered the cab to follow at walking pace, and within a minute of leaving the house, Waterproof was bundled inside, struggling. When they pulled his sou'wester back, Sally would have recognized him: it was the secretary, Winterhalter.
"Who are you? What do you want?" he said.
"Never mind that," said Lipman. "What's going on in there?"
Winterhalter stared in astonishment. "How dare you? What do you want with me?"
"Answer the question," said Lipman. "What's going on in that house?"
"How can I answer a question like that? You must be an exceptionally stupid man. Let me go at once -"
He struggled to get up. Lipman shoved him back.
"Is the child in there?" he said.
Winterhalter fell still, and a complicated understanding came into his eyes.
"I see. That makes it clear," he said. Lipman watched him narrowly. "I think the best thing would be for you to talk to my employer directly. You understand, I am only his private secretary. I am sure that--"
"Cut it," said Lipman. "What are you doing, then? Where are you going?"
"For a doctor," said Winterhalter smoothly. "One of the servants has been injured in a domestic accident."
"Why not send another servant out? Why's it you going out in the rain?"
"Because I happened to be still up and dressed. Now let me do two things: first, go and communicate your concern to my employer. He will be pleased to give you any information you wish about a child. And second, complete my errand to the doctor. It is not a matter of life and death, but it could have serious consequences for the poor man's sight. I am sure you would not wish that on your conscience."
And now Moishe Lipman was troubled. He'd done something wrong, but he wasn't sure what, and he wasn't sure how he could undo it, either. He knew what he should have done: have the man followed, not catch him. Too late now.
Still, if he let the man do what he suggested, he could get into the house without a fight. And that would give his boys the chance to look around. . . Not even Kid Mendel would have managed that. That would be really clever.
"All right," he said. "You go and tell your employer we'll come in and talk. Then you can go and fetch the doctor."
Winterhalter nod
ded and pulled his sou'wester back on.
"You understand it will take my master a few minutes to dress and get ready. The butler will come out to tell you when he will be able to receive you."
"All right," said Lipman. "No tricks, mind."
"No, no, no," said Winterhalter. "Of course not."
He left the cab and ran back to the house.
When he'd gone in and shut the door, one of Moishe's men said timidly, "Boss? You don't suppose he's going to call the rozzers, do you?"
"How?" said Lipman. "Carrier pigeon?"
They laughed dutifully, and he said it again, in case they hadn't caught the full richness of the joke; but nobody laughed five minutes later, when the police did come.
"So Parrish has got the child," said the Tzaddik to Winterhalter. "Of course. And these foolish men were watching the house in case he'd brought it here. . . Which means that although they know he's got it, they don't know where he's gone. If they were as foolish as you say, though, how did they know this address? They must be connected with the Lockhart girl."
"They didn't mention her," said Winterhalter. "There might be someone else organizing them."
"Goldberg, perhaps. . ."
"They were Jewish."
"In that case, certainly Goldberg. Well, this alters things, Winterhalter. Parrish has got the child, and he has not brought it here; so he is going to bargain. There is no point in your going to see him, then. We shall save you a wet journey and let him come to me. Have the police come yet?"
Winterhalter looked out of the window.
"They are taking them away now, Mr Lee," he said.
"Excellent. What a fine thing it is to pay one's rates and taxes and have the protection of the police. Well, if Parrish has the child, I have the mother. I want to go down and interrogate her. Send Michelet in to me, please."
"Dr Strauss said he was to rest his eye, sir. . ."
"Send him! I need him!"
Winterhalter went into the valet's room. Michelet groaned and sat up.
"I heard. . . Very well, I shall come. . . What is the time, Herr Winterhalter? I cannot see my watch. . ."
"Two o'clock in the morning. I have every sympathy with you, Michelet, but Dr Strauss has done all that is necessary, and now Mr Lee needs your help."
Michelet pulled on his dressing-gown, shivering pitiably.
"I cannot do it on my own . . . I need the other manservant. . ."
"I shall help you. Mr Lee wants to go down to the cellar. I have no doubt he will need you to go with him."
Michelet's good eye, bloodshot, peered curiously under the swathe of white bandage at the secretary, whose face remained closed. The valet licked his lips and went through to his master.
"Yes, Mr Lee? You wish to dress fully, sir? Shall I shave you first? It is very early, but no doubt you will feel the better for it. . ."
"Show me your hands."
The valet held them out. They were shaking badly.
"No. Shave me later. Wash me and dress me now."
"Very good, sir," said Michelet. He sighed heavily, the picture of dutiful misery, and pulled back the covers.
Running from side to side under the lower sheet were three wide leather slings, the ropes at each end of them terminating in hooks and tucked out of sight behind the valance of the bed. Michelet brought them out and hooked the ends of the top sling to a block and tackle on the iron frame, and began to wind a handle near the head of the bed. The rope tightened, and little by little the top half of the Tzaddik's body was lifted off the bed.
Michelet made the tackle secure and removed the man's nightshirt. Then he fitted the other two slings to similar blocks and wound them up until the Tzaddik's body was completely clear of the bed, and laid a mackintosh sheet over the linen one before running some hot water into the basin.
As Michelet was about to lower the Tzaddik on to the bed again, his employer spoke.
"Winterhalter - a marron glace."
The secretary found the box beside the bed, and put one of the sticky sweets into Ah Ling's mouth with a pair of little silver tongs. The Tzaddik chewed it slowly as Michelet washed him from head to toe, turning him over by manipulating the slings halfway through so as to clean him behind and dress the sores on his thighs and buttocks. He took off the plasters, washed the flesh gently, dried it and applied a mineral lotion before putting fresh plasters on. Winterhalter had never seen this process; he was appalled at the extent of these sores, new ones eating into old ones, crusts and scabs and pus on the places which bore the man's vast weight all day long.
When the dressings were changed, Michelet dusted the great body all over with talc.
"Leave the room please, Winterhalter," said the Tzaddik. "I want to empty my bladder."
When Winterhalter came back, Michelet was putting silk underclothes on his master, easing them gently over his heavy feet and little by little upwards. By manipulating the slings and the pulleys, making little adjustments here and there, Michelet dealt with the man's great still weight as easily as a nurse deals with a baby, and he had the same close and fond and tender control, teasing and even grotesquely seeming to flirt a little. One damaged man tending another more damaged one: how much they needed each other, Winterhalter thought, like crocodiles and those little birds who pick their food out from between the reptiles' teeth. The Tzaddik was all dignity, and even at the most undignified moments, his impassivity and cold command never left him; whereas Michelet was all servility.
Winterhalter wondered again, as he had done many times, what would happen to the child. It was difficult. Clearly his employer needed someone to perform these degrading duties, and clearly they would be beyond the powers of the child for some years; but there would come a time when the child was fully competent, and as necessary as the monkey. Whoever controlled the child then would have the key to everything. No, he couldn't afford to let Michelet have charge of her. There was an unhealthiness about the man. It would be better without him. The secretary made a mental note to find a nursing agency.
He wheeled the chair beside the bed to the spot Michelet indicated, and the two of them lifted the Tzaddik, with the help of the slings and the gantry, and set him down in the seat.
Finally Michelet took a jar of pomade from the dressing-table, spread some on his palms, and smoothed it over the Tzaddik's reddish hair before brushing it down flat and glistening.
He wiped his hands, adjusted his master's tie, and settled a rug over his knees. Then he whimpered with pain and put his hand to the enveloping white bandage over half his head.
"Please, sir, may I lie down?" he said. "My eye is so painful. . ."
"Later. I want you to take me down to the cellar. Thank you, Winterhalter. I shall not be needing you again tonight."
The secretary bowed stiffly and withdrew.
Michelet opened the double doors and wheeled the chair out on to the landing before opening the doors of the lift. The house was silent around them as they sank smoothly down into the cellar where Sally was lying in the dark.
The police van slowed. Tony, the elder of the two boys clinging to the back, said, "Watch out, now. Here we go."
As it came to a halt, they dropped off the back and crouched behind it, Tony watching around the side for the chance they'd planned for.
Above them the blue POLICE light glowed over the steps leading up to the station entrance. As long as the desk sergeant didn't come and have a look. . . No, it was too wet, he was in by the stove with a cup of cocoa.
The van door opened. Con clutched the dripping, gritty edge of the wheel ready to swing himself round. Another second or two and -
"Go!" said Tony, and the two of them darted out like greyhounds and sprang for the legs of the startled policemen, who fell in a crashing, cursing tangle to the pavement, leaving Goldberg upright and free.
"Run, you bugger!" yelled Con, before a heavy official hand grabbed his hair and another reached for the nearest limb.
But Tony was equal to that;
he sank his teeth into the hand, and the policeman let go with a yell.
Both boys were up in a moment, and together with Goldberg they reached the corner of the street and were away before the two policemen, bruised by their fall, soaked with the water they were sitting in, could do anything to stop them.
Even the driver was helpless; jumping down to try and grab them, he'd caught his waterproof in the shafts and was twisting around trying to free himself.
The desk sergeant had heard all the commotion, and stood at the top of the steps, cocoa in one hand and bread-and-butter in the other, grinning all over his face at the sight of three large men tangled helplessly in the downpour.
"Well, at least you've drawn your truncheons," he called down. "Why don't you hit each other and finish it off?"
They told him what to do with his cocoa.
And two streets away, ashen with pain, Goldberg hurried along in the dark, his two crowing rescuers capering like imps beside him.
Chapter Twenty-six
BLACKBOURNE WATER
Arthur Parrish had found the police sergeant abominably persistent and confoundedly curious. The way he'd raised his eyebrows when he saw the room the child had been in wasn't pleasant either.
"Forgive me for asking again, Mr Parrish - this is your daughter we're talking about?" he'd said, his eyes taking in the bare boards, the rusty bedstead, the soaking mattress, the absence of sheets and blankets.
Parrish forced himself to be patient. The law was with him, after all, even if this minion wasn't.
When the sergeant finally left, he called his men together. His head was throbbing, but there was nothing he could do about that now.
"They're asking for trouble," he said. "Well, they're certainly going to get it. You - Harvey - go down to Whitechapel after Gorman. Make sure he whips 'em up well. Cropper, you stay on here till the police come back with the kid."
"Think they will, Mr Parrish?"
"I know they will. Take no notice of that sergeant; I've got an Assistant Commissioner in my pocket. Like I said, stay here till they fetch the kid back, then tell 'em to bring it on to me in Twickenham. That's where I'm going now."
He threw some things into a carpet-bag. The man seemed unconvinced.
"But what about Mr Lee?" he said.
"What about him?" said Mr Parrish, looking up. This ordinary, dapper, clerk-like little man had a ferocity in him which he seldom unleashed. When he did, as now, hardened criminals, graduates of Pentonville and Dartmoor, quailed. "He's put himself out on a limb, Mr Lee has, trusting me," Parrish went on. "I'm going to make the most of it - and there's not a bloody thing in the world he can do about it, because the kid's legally mine and always will be. Come on, hurry up, get moving."