6

Luke was dreaming.

From time to time he grunted, twisting about in bed, unwilling to return to reality. Feeling a hand on his shoulder he opened his eyes.

Joe said, ‘You’ve bin imitating a pig for nigh on half an hour. Must have been a lovely dream. Something happening in a farm yard, was it?’

Luke said, ‘If it was, I’ve forgotten. I never remember dreams for more than five seconds.’ This was not true. He could remember it clearly. He had been dreaming about a girl’s body in boys’ clothes.

Joe, who was already dressed, said, ‘Arise and shine and tell me what’s on the menu for today.’ The rain, which had belted down all night, had stopped and the sun was shining. ‘It’s a lovely morning. Let’s go out and kill someone.’

‘We’ve got a job to do.’

‘Don’t tell me. I know we’re going to watch a house somewhere for someone who isn’t there.’

‘No. It’s what you might call a cleaning job. I told you last night that the boy I picked up turned out to be a girl. I didn’t tell you why she was forced to dress like that and how I found out.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Joe. ‘You found out when you laid your hand gently upon his heart to see whether it was beating and felt—’

‘Right,’ said Luke hastily. ‘That’s when I found out. Later on I discovered why she was going round dressed as a boy. It seems she and her brother needed jobs and the only ones they could get were at a sweat-shop in a place called Brownsong Court, wherever that may be. It’s run by a prime bastard called Solomon. If a girl entered his employment, one of the understood terms was that she would co-operate with him in every way. In every way. A session in his private apartment after the day’s work was done, is the usual arrangement.’

‘And if they refuse?’

‘They lose the job. Which is why Anna went on as a boy. She reckoned that Solomon would tumble to it sooner or later, but meanwhile she is pocketing her pay – which, as sweat-shop pay goes, is fairly generous.’

‘And you think we ought to make it clear to Mr Solomon that we consider his terms of employment irregular.’

‘I think it is our duty to do so.’

‘How did you propose to set about it?’

‘I hadn’t worked out all the details.’

‘What would be suitable,’ said Joe thoughtfully, ‘would be a boot in the crutch. That would keep him quiet for a week or so. Anyway, more fun than watching an empty house. Lead on.’

Brownsong Court, when they found it, proved to be an enclosed square in the Spitalfields area, south of the market. The approach to it was a narrow cobbled lane called Brownsong Passage. The whole area seemed to have been taken over by the Jewish fraternity. On the left, as they approached down Stratford Road, they passed the Jewish school and a modern synagogue. In Brownsong Passage, the right-hand side was lined with tiny shops that sold old clothes, sewing-machines and religious medallions. The left-hand side was occupied by the double frontage of Solomon Enterprises. Before tackling this, they looked into the square. On the right and on the far side, it was lined by one-storey houses, each of which seemed, from the boards at the front doors, to be the residence of half a dozen different families. To the left, behind Solomon’s spread, stood a branch of that monument to Jewish industry, the great Ghetto Bank.

‘Shonks’ corner,’ said Joe.

Luke found nothing to disapprove of. Like most Jewish quarters it was neat, functional and, after the recent heavy rain, clean. ‘Better than most Gentiles’ corners,’ he said.

The front door of Solomon’s shop was opened by the proprietor himself. Luke, who had expected a Jew in a greasy gaberdine, rubbing his hands together and smiling in a placatory manner, was taken aback to be confronted by a thickset dwarf, wearing a dark, well-cut suit and a scowl. When they had identified themselves as policemen, the scowl disappeared, to be replaced, as he understood the business they had come on, with a smile of seemingly genuine amusement.

‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Come in. Feel free to question all my boys and girls. They make up stories, you understand, to intrigue each other. They will have nothing to tell you that will embarrass me. Of that I am sure. Enlighten me. Who has made this preposterous accusation?’

This was difficult. He could hardly say, ‘One of your girls who was dressed as a boy,’ so he was forced to fall back on generalities. He said, ‘I have heard it from many sources.’

‘Indeed,’ said the dwarf. ‘But you know what girls are. As I said, they like to spread romantic tales. Me, I have no time for such frippery. I work as hard as they do. Or harder.’

By this time they were through the entrance hall and were looking into the two big rooms beyond. In the left-hand room, a number of men were working with sewing-machines. In the right-hand one, separated from it by a partition, twenty or more girls were sewing and pressing. When they peered through the door in this partition, most of the girls looked up and most of them smiled. None of them looked oppressed.

‘My happy family,’ said Solomon, beaming at them. ‘Though I fear that soon they may have less cause to be happy. Soon I shall be forced to close down part of my business. Maybe I shall retain one of these rooms and work only from the other one. I am being driven out by the large operators. I employ twenty or thirty workers. They use two or three hundred. With mass production they can afford to lower their prices. In the end, maybe, I shall have to close down both rooms.’

Luke decided to terminate what was turning out to be an unproductive visit. In an endeavour to maintain some part of the initiative, he said, ‘I may be back with some questions for you later.’

‘I shall always be glad to see you,’ said Solomon with a warm smile, as he closed the door behind them. When the door was shut the smile was shut off, too.

‘Didn’t get much change out of him, did we?’ said Joe. ‘Could be true about those girls. I mean, that they made the running, not him. It’s a funny thing about girls. I’ve noticed. The idea of having it off with a dwarf or a cripple or someone like that seems to titubate them. Do I mean titubate?’

‘I think you meant titillate.’

‘That’s right. Titty-late. Just the word I had in mind. You remember one-legged Jack, back at Bellingham. Girls round him like flies round a jam pot. ‘Ullo, who’s this?’

They had turned out into the main road and were passing the frontage of the synagogue, when the door swung open and a white-bearded man erupted from the door. He grabbed Luke by the arm, dragged him across the pavement and said, ‘You are of the Government, yes. Then you will do something quickly. Before worse occurs.’

He pointed to the spot where the forecourt in which they were now standing bordered on the road and Luke saw that water had flowed out of the two storm drains in the gutter and had formed a pool. It was clearly the residue of a much larger pool, almost a lake.

‘Come and look,’ said the old man. He had such a firm grasp of Luke’s arm that Luke could not have thrown him off without hurting him. When they got into the synagogue he could see that the flood, before it receded, had entered the building and covered a section of the floor.

Luke said, ‘Must have been the rain last night. Unusually heavy.’

‘Never before has such a thing happened. Rain we have had, yes. Storms, yes. But never before a flood. Our building is precious to us, you understand. We cannot stand idly by and see it ruined.’

With the idea of getting away Luke said, ‘I’d better report this to the sanitary authorities. They’ll know what to do.’

This qualified assurance seemed to satisfy the old man, who smiled for the first time, and said, ‘That is well. You will make a report. Something will be done. We are proud of our synagogue. It must not be damaged. Noble, is it not?’

Looking about him Luke saw an oblong, uninspiring interior, the only remarkable feature of which was the great window which filled the east wall. ‘A masterpiece indeed,’ said the old man. ‘It is the work of Elias Kazan. You will have heard of him, of course.’ Luke felt that it was safe to nod. ‘You will observe the motif. In the centre is the Prophet Moses, in his glory. At his feet the spirits of the damned, who are in Purgatory. Along the top, ten great benefactors and scholars. On the left you can see the blessed Chasdal ibn Shaprut and next to him the learned Johan ibn Janach. I could tell you the story of each one. My name, by the way, is Werfel. Joshua Werfel. I have the charge of this congregation.’

‘You are its pastor?’

‘I am its Rabbi,’ said the old man with a smile. ‘At your service.’

‘I’ll keep in touch with you,’ said Luke. ‘And when we have a moment you shall tell me the story of your window. Meanwhile, I must hurry away. I have much to do.’

One of the things he had to do, he realised, was to deliver his weekly report to Wensley. It was already a day late. He had written most of it the night before. He decided that he would hand it over as it stood, since their expedition that morning did not seem to have produced anything of importance.

When they reached Leman Street they were told that Wensley was in conference. He would see them as soon as he was free.

 

Wensley had known and admired Sir Melville Macnaghten since the days when Sir Melville was Chief Constable of the CID and he himself a detective sergeant. The admiration was mutual. Wensley’s subsequent promotions had been well earned, but it had done him no harm to have a friend at court. ‘A thoughtful man’, Wensley had once called Sir Melville and he was demonstrating his thoughtfulness at that moment by coming to Wensley’s office to confer rather than getting him up to Scotland Yard. He knew how busy the Clapham Common killing, added to his other preoccupations, had made his subordinate. He had brought Hubert Daines with him.

He said, ‘I wanted you to hear, at first hand, what he has been telling me.’

Daines said, ‘Our troubles stem, as usual, from the Tsar. A tiresome creature. If only he would stop swinging from left to right and right to left like a demented pendulum, we might know where we stood. One moment his troubles come from the moderates on the right, who want a constitutional government. The next moment from the revolutionaries of the extreme left. The main plank in their programme is the assassination of the Tsar, along with most of his ministers, and then, a constant source of irritation to him, there are the émigrés, particularly the ones who have reached this country. Protected by our well-known tolerance, they sit here like a line of rooks croaking out anti-Tsar propaganda. The Minister of the Interior, Peter Stolypin, is said to be temporarily in favour because he has promised to organise a series of outrages here in London that will force our government to come off the fence.’

‘Which they’re closer to doing than you might think,’ said Sir Melville.

‘The Opposition, I’m told, has already prepared a draft bill calling for the return of émigrés to their own country. In fact, it doesn’t need a bill. It could be effected by an Order in Council under the Aliens Act. The Cabinet is said to be spilt, but it wouldn’t take much to move them. If the anarchists’ recent plan to bomb the Lord Mayor’s show – aborted at the last moment – had come off, that would almost certainly have tipped the balance.’

‘So,’ said Sir Melville, ‘what do you think, Fred?’

Wensley, who had contributed nothing to the discussion so far, pondered for almost a minute. Then he said, ‘You ask for my opinion. So be it. What I think is that two very able men have been sent here to organise trouble. Casimir Treschau, or Trautman, and Janis Silistreau, who calls himself Morrowitz. Both well known in Russia. Treschau as a chemist, Silistreau as a poet. And if I had the smallest shred of evidence that they’ve committed, or were planning to commit, any criminal acts, I’d ask you to send them straight back where they came from.’

‘But you haven’t?’

‘Not yet. So far, they’ve kept clear of law breaking. It’s all secondhand. Organised for them by that bullying lout and gang-boss, Molacoff Weil. Recently, I hear, he’s been enlisting a regular private army, mostly young Russians newly arrived, who can’t get jobs and would starve without the pittance he doles out.’

‘Armed?’

‘No. They don’t normally carry arms, but I’m certain he’s got a cache tucked away somewhere that they can draw on. So, if trouble comes we’re going to find ourselves facing guns and bombs with wooden truncheons. There’s only one answer. We shall have to arm the police.’

‘The idea has been put to Winston more than once. He says it’s un-English.’

‘That’s his Liberal principles,’ said Daines. ‘With a capital “L”. They’ve become very marked since he crossed the floor of the House.’

Wensley said, ‘And it isn’t just a hard core of young toughs that we’re up against. Half the émigré population are passively on their side. They act as spies, informers, keepers of safe houses, hiders of arms and ammunition. What they’re best at is keeping their eyes open. I can’t leave my own office here without the news getting straight back to Weil’s crowd. There’s a man runs a fish stall at the High Street corner and another one who seems to spend most of his daylight hours sitting outside his shop at the south end of the street. I’ve no doubt they’ve got ingenious methods of passing the word to other watchers.’

‘But this is intolerable,’ said Macnaghten. ‘If a police officer can’t move about his own manor without spying and harassment—’

‘They don’t harass me,’ said Wensley with a grin. ‘They know better than to try anything like that. And I’ve got a very simple answer. I’m planning to shut my office here for the time being and move down to one of our other stations. Probably the one at Poplar. That area is full of sailors, who don’t love the Russians. If trouble’s coming, I like to operate from a firm base.’

‘And you really think,’ said Macnaghten, ‘that it will be the sort of trouble which will be difficult to handle.’

‘If I could arm my men, I’d handle it easily enough. Once Weil and his gang have been stamped on, the opposition will crumble.’

Macnaghten said, ‘I’ll put it to Winston, but he’s not an easy man to argue with.’ As he got up he added, ‘There was one other matter, Fred, and I apologise for raising it, knowing how busy you are, but I’ve had Sir Hector Durrance round my neck lately. It seems that his son, Lance, got involved in a street brawl which ended with his being charged. I’m not clear whether it’s breach of the peace or whatever. It could be worked up into something serious and if it ends in a prison sentence it will affect his future career. The witnesses are two of your men.’

‘Pagan and Narrabone. I heard about it.’

‘And it isn’t just Sir Hector. It’s his wife. Her father’s Viscount Rawley and he’s got a lot of pull in political circles. I’ve got so much on my plate at the moment that I’d like to clear this extra bit off.’

Wensley, who had a good deal on his own plate, said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

When his visitors had gone he sat for a few moments, thinking. He was busier at that moment than he could ever remember being. Two time-consuming matters had come together. The killing of Leon Beron on Clapham Common was exciting increasing interest. It had the dramatic touches calculated to appeal to the press and the public. The apparently motiveless murder. The laceration of the dead man’s cheeks. Above all the fact that it had coincided with the Sidney Street siege. Was there any logical connection between them? Had Beron been killed not because he had betrayed his Russian accomplices, but to prevent him from betraying them? And as a warning to anyone who might feel inclined to talk? It was just the sort of pre-emptive strike that would appeal to a trained anarchist.

When Luke and Joe were shown in, he pushed the other papers on one side and picked up their report. He said, ‘Those two letters you found in the Triboff house. They were in Russian. I see that you’ve translated them into English in your report. That sentence, “When you go to your workshop”, I wonder if you can remember what the word was in Russian.’

‘I could look it up. I’ve got the original at home. But I’m pretty sure it was “mastyrskaya”.’

‘Could that mean anything else? I take it the letter was meant for Treschau. He’s a chemist. Could it mean laboratory?’

‘Yes. Addressed to a chemist I suppose it could mean laboratory.’

Wensley resumed his reading. When he had finished he said, ‘I take it you investigated 22 Cundy Street.’

‘We found that it was a butcher’s shop. A kosher butcher.’

‘And didn’t that strike you as odd?’

Luke and Joe looked at each other. The truth was that as soon as they discovered that it was a butcher’s shop, and not a den of anarchists, they had lost interest in it.

‘Assume that these messages are meant for Treschau. He’s not a Jew. Why should he patronise a kosher butcher?’

‘It didn’t occur to us,’ said Luke. ‘Do you think it’s important?’

‘I haven’t any idea whether it’s important or not. But when you’re conducting an investigation and you come across something that seems odd, you don’t let it go. You follow it up. Would it be possible to watch this shop, discreetly?’

‘As it happens,’ said Joe, ‘it would be dead easy. Coolfin Road runs into Cundy Street and two of the houses at the end of Coolfin Road are a sort of boarding establishment for sailors off the “A” and “B” lines. They run it as a commune.’

‘Logical place for it,’ agreed Wensley. ‘Handy for the Victoria and Albert Docks. What did you mean by a commune?’

‘According to Bill Trotter – I told you about him, sir – it’s fairly informal. They club together for the rent and use it when their ship’s in dock. That means that it’s usually half empty.’

‘Then there might be a spare room in it? One that both of you could use.’

‘Actually, Bill suggested it.’

‘What’s the arrangement at your place in Osborne Street, if you wanted to get out?’

‘The office looks after all that sort of thing. I think it would just be a matter of giving a week’s notice.’

Wensley said, ‘Then get them to give it. Everything I heard today from Daines and Kell made me certain that we’re in for trouble. I’d feel happier about you two if you were tucked away down in the docks among a crowd of friends. One other thing. It seems we may be in for some difficulty over Durrance.’

‘You mean that young bully we gave in charge for knocking Anna Katz about? Has there been some trouble there?’

‘The trouble with Durrance is that his father’s an MP and his mother’s the daughter of a viscount. I’ve got so much to do that I’d like to clear this off. See what you can do.’

‘I wonder what he meant by that,’ said Joe, when they were by themselves.

‘Seemed clear enough to me,’ said Luke. ‘When we give evidence we’re to go easy on young Durrance.’

‘If that’s what Fred wants, I suppose we’ve got to do it. Seems a pity. A week or two on the treadmill would have done that blue-blooded nurk a power of good. If I’m to give evidence, you’ll have to tell me what to say.’

‘Play it by ear,’ said Luke.

It turned out to be easy enough.

For a start, the case against Durrance was weakened by the fact that Anna had refused to appear, on the grounds that if she had done so her masquerade as a boy would have come out. Luke, when questioned, agreed that the main assailant, who had been using his boot, had escaped and had not yet been identified. The one they did catch, the prisoner, had been smacking the boy’s face.

‘You mean,’ said the magistrate, ‘not punching with his closed fist, but smacking with an open hand.’

Luke agreed that this was what he meant.

The magistrate turned to the prisoner. ‘I understand that you have been invited to name the persons who were with you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And that you refused to do so.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You are aware that if you had been prepared to co-operate it would have had a beneficial effect on your case.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you still refuse?’

Durrance drew himself up like a soldier on parade and said, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good boy,’ said his father, from the back of the court.

The magistrate paused to consider the matter. He said, ‘It’s our job in these difficult times to discourage irresponsible behaviour of this sort.’ He addressed the prisoner. ‘In view of the fact that it’s a first offence and that your parents have come forward to give you a good character, I shall merely impose a fine. But let me make it clear that should anything of this sort occur again, I shall not hesitate to impose a custodial sentence. You will pay forty shillings and ten shillings towards the costs of the prosecution.’

Durrance, much relieved, left the dock to discharge his debts. His father was smiling happily. Everyone seemed pleased. The only person who was unhappy was Joe. As soon as they were alone together he voiced his displeasure. ‘Bloody nurk,’ he said, ‘standing there like the boy stood on the bloody burning deck. And incidentally, I didn’t know you was a capitalist lackey.’

‘I’m not,’ said Luke, amiably.

‘Then why did you come down so heavy on his side?’

‘Maybe because I’ve got better eyesight than you,’ said Luke, and would offer no further explanation.

Two days later they were sitting in their Osborne Street quarters, amicably enough, the slight coolness engendered by the Durrance episode having quickly evaporated. They had inspected and approved an attic in the Coolfin Road commune and had arranged to move into it at the end of the following week. They were both reading newspapers. Joe had a copy of Answers and was trying to work out one of the ingenious puzzles for which it was famous. Luke was leafing through the badly printed pages of Rank Pelnis, the immigrants’ newspaper. It was published in Russian and it was his job to extract from it any items of interest, translate them and include them in his weekly report.

‘Well, what do you know?’ he said. ‘Listen to this: “On Wednesday, at 2.30 in the afternoon, there will be held a meeting at the Free Working Men’s Club in Jubilee Street. The meeting is sponsored by the SRP and the MSD jointly.’”

‘And who the hell are they?’ said Joe, putting down his paper.

‘The SRP are the Socialist Revolutionary Party and the MSD are the Marxist Social Democrats.’

‘Add them together and what’ve you got? A crowd of windbags.’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Luke. ‘The interesting thing is that they should be getting together at all. Normally they don’t talk to each other much. The SRP specialise in assassination and bombing. The MSD are more moderate. They believe in expropriation – which is a polite name for robbery – but not in violence. If they’re putting together a common programme it should be worth listening to.’

‘Might be.’

‘But that’s not the really interesting thing. It’s the last paragraph: “The platform will be graced by the presence of Prince Igor.” As we all know, he crossed swords with the Tsar and got turfed out of Russia. “Also by Michael Morrison.”’

‘The one who calls himself the working man’s friend,’ said Joe.

‘That’s the chap. Communist candidate for Deptford at the last election, with as much chance of getting into Parliament as a grasshopper of getting into the Royal Mint. “The third man in this distinguished group on the platform”—wait for it—”will be Julian Spencer-Wells.”’

‘Well blow me down,’ said Joe, ‘not our own Julian, who used to bend our ears back in the public bar of the Suffolk Serpent?’

‘Must be,’ said Luke. He thought of the earnest young man who had sat beside him on the sofa and had wanted to kiss him. He had been much younger then. Infinitely younger. It was a lifetime away.

‘Looks like a meeting we ought to get in on,’ said Joe. ‘Might sneak in at the back somehow. But I’ve got a feeling it won’t be easy.’

‘Listen to this: “Entry is by ticket only. Tickets will be allotted, without charge, to paid-up members of the SRP and MSD, who should apply to one of the stewards (names and addresses below) at least one clear day before the date of the meeting.”’

‘Difficult,’ agreed Joe.

‘I wondered if maybe Anna’s father could help us. He’s a printer. If we could get hold of a ticket he could probably copy it for us. With a crowd going in at the door they wouldn’t be examined too closely.’

‘And how do you suggest we set about getting a ticket for him to copy? You’re not hoping I’ll put on a false beard and apply to one of the stewards, I hope.’

‘You’d lose more than your beard if you tried that. No, I’ll have a word with Jacob. He may have some ideas.’

‘Anything for an excuse to call on Anna,’ said Joe. But this he said to himself.

 

Next morning, when Luke called at the Katz house, he found Jacob at his desk, examining a page of script with a magnifying glass. He apologised for disturbing him. The old man said he was always welcome and sounded as though he meant it. Whilst they were talking Anna came in from the kitchen. She was wearing a boy’s shirt, open at the neck; her sleeves were rolled up and her forearms were speckled with flour.

She said, ‘You must excuse my appearance. I have been cooking one of my father’s favourite dishes – savoury pancakes. There is plenty for you, if you would condescend to share our midday meal with us.’

‘No condescension,’ said Luke. ‘A pleasure.’

Her father said, ‘Of course he must stay. I regard him as a member of the family.’

When Anna had returned to her cooking Luke explained the object of his visit. Jacob listened carefully, then moved across to a cupboard and brought out a cardboard box, full of tickets, neatly packaged,

‘Half for the SRP, half for the MSD,’ he explained. Noting Luke’s look he added, ‘You must not suppose that because I work for them that I approve of their objects. I do jobs for anyone who will pay.’

Luke examined the tickets. They were numbered from one to three hundred.

‘I doubt whether they will all be used. I have printed a hundred and fifty for each organisation. Nothing easier than to run off two more for you. Only, the numbering would have to be thought of.’

‘No problem,’ said Luke. ‘Pick two numbers at random. Say, eighty-nine and ninety. No one is to know that these particular tickets have been duplicated.’

‘Very well,’ said Jacob. ‘But promise me that when you have used them you will destroy them. I know these people. I would not wish to incur their displeasure.’

Luke said, ‘They shall be burned as soon as the meeting’s over.’

He thought this development so promising that he would not hold it back for his weekly report. He would let Wensley know about it at once.

When he got to Leman Street he was told that Wensley had moved. ‘Gone down to Poplar for a chance of air,’ said the desk sergeant. ‘Comes back here from time to time.’

‘Then I suppose Narrabone and I will be attached to the Poplar Station.’

‘If that’s what you think, you can think again,’ said Superintendent Joscelyne, who had come in and overheard them. ‘We can’t have you spending all your time chasing anarchists. There’s a lot of routine CID work piling up. And we’re short- handed in that department.’

This was true, since the CID contingent at Leman Street, apart from Joe and himself, consisted of a junior detective inspector, who was in hospital with stomach trouble, and two over-worked detective sergeants.

‘There’s no reason you shouldn’t tackle both your jobs. You’ll report here every evening at five o’clock and I’ll give you your instructions for the following day. Understood?’

‘It’s a swindle,’ said Joe when Luke passed this on. ‘A bloody swindle. One moment he tells us to spend all our time keeping an eye on the Russians. Next moment it’s back to the treadmill.’

‘It’s a hard life,’ said Luke. ‘Let’s go and look up the old weasel in his new burrow.’

They found Wensley installed in a room which looked south, over the West India Dock and the river. The Poplar Station was under Inspector Paine, who seemed to be proud to be housing the redoubtable DDI. Luke told him about the forthcoming meeting and about his plan for getting into it. As he was speaking, he noticed Wensley’s face relaxing into a smile and when he had finished and was waiting for some comment, he was awarded a laugh which seemed to start low down in Wensley’s stomach and rumbled on for some seconds.

As soon as Wensley could speak he said, ‘I could give you a lot of reasons against doing what you propose. I’ll let you have the first three that come to my mind. You realise that this meeting will be confined to people who’ve known each other for years. As soon as you showed your face you’d be spotted as an intruder and would be lucky to get out undamaged. Secondly, we know, or can guess, exactly the sort of nonsense that’s going to be spouted. Corrupt capitalistic façades that mask the exploitation of the lower orders by a spurious claim to a democratic electoral system. We’ve heard all that drip a dozen times. Thirdly, and perhaps even more important, the tickets, you may be certain, will be collected at the door and very carefully checked afterwards. Your duplicates will be spotted and since old Katz is the only person who could have printed them, he’d be for the high jump. Do you want any more reasons?’

Luke, whose face was deep red by this time, muttered, ‘No, sir. Three’s enough.’

‘But I’ll tell you what you can do. There’s a tobacconist’s shop in Jubilee Street almost opposite the working men’s club. The owner’s a Mr Passmore. He’s inclined to be helpful. I’ve used it myself more than once. You can get a good view of the main entrance to the club from his upstairs windows. I suggest you borrow a pair of binoculars from your Navy friends and make a particular note of anyone who seems to be there in an official capacity – guarding the entrance, vetting people going in, that sort of thing. Hubert Daines has given me a list of men that his outfit have identified so far. Names on this paper, with brief descriptions. If you can fit the names to any of the people you spot, that’ll be a lot more useful to you than listening to the hot air they spout in the hall. All the same,’ he added, ‘interesting about Spencer-Wells. One of the nobs from your village, is he?’

‘His father’s Lord of the Manor.’

‘And would you think his son was a dangerous man?’

‘No,’ said Luke, who couldn’t help smiling at his remembrance of their last encounter. ‘I wouldn’t call him dangerous.’