Blackstone and the Burning Secret (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 4) Read online

  Of course he didn’t object, Blackstone thought. He didn’t object because he’d already achieved his aim—whatever that was!

  ‘When you caught him, did you notice anything unusual about him?’ the Inspector wondered.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Did he look any different to the way he had when you’d last seen him in the workroom?’

  ‘I noticed he’d ripped his jacket, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘Tell me more,’ Blackstone coaxed.

  ‘The regular inmates get issued with a uniform,’ the warder said, ‘but since the casuals are only here for a couple of days, they wear their own clothes. Now this particular bloke was wearing what must once have been a good jacket—tweed, if my memory serves me well—but sometime between him disappearing from the work room and me finding him again, he’d managed to rip it.’

  ‘Exactly how had he ripped it?’ Blackstone asked. ‘Had he torn the sleeve or the lapel?’

  ‘No,’ the warder said. ‘It was the lining which had got torn. It was hanging down below the edge of the jacket.’

  Of course it was, Blackstone thought.

  *

  The German Consul-General had a heavily waxed moustache, a monocle firmly wedged in his left eye, and cuts on his cheeks which Patterson could only assume were duelling scars. He wore his severe dark suit as if it were a uniform, and had an air of brisk efficiency about him.

  ‘How can I be of assistance to you, Sergeant?’ he asked, in heavily accented English.

  ‘I was wondering if you had some information on a German we’re interested in who is living in London,’ Patterson said.

  ‘Yes, of course I have,’ the Consul-General replied without hesitation.

  ‘But…but how can you say that when I haven’t even told you his name yet?’ Patterson exclaimed.

  ‘We are an orderly people,’ the Consul-General said. ‘If he is here, I will know about him.’

  ‘Are you telling me that you have files on every single German citizen in London?’

  The Consul-General shook his head. ‘We do not run a police state, any more than you do,’ he said, with a slightly rebuking tone in his voice. ‘It would be wrong of us to keep files on our citizens.’

  ‘Well, then…?’

  ‘But we do have records of them.’

  ‘And how do you go about collecting these “records”?’ Patterson asked, fascinated that any organisation could—apparently—be so efficient.

  ‘Our citizens provide them themselves,’ the Consul-General said, as if it were so obvious a point it was hardly worth making.

  ‘They do? How?’

  ‘Take, for example, our young men who come here to work or to study. They know they will eventually be called up to perform their military service, so naturally they provide us with an address at which they can be contacted.’

  ‘And what if they don’t?’ Patterson asked.

  ‘If they don’t?’ the Consul-General repeated, mystified. ‘But it would never occur to them not to register. It is their duty.’

  ‘What about the ones who don’t need to register for military service?’ Patterson asked. ‘How do you keep in touch with them?’

  ‘Through the various organisations to which they belong,’ the Consul-General said, again as though explaining the obvious. ‘Those who have served in the Army will join a Militarverein.’

  ‘That would be a military something-or-other,’ Patterson guessed.

  ‘Exactly,’ the Consul-General agreed.

  ‘And verein means?’

  ‘It is hard to explain in English. It is neither a club nor a union, as you would understand those terms, yet it is both—and much more besides. It is said that wherever a dozen Germans meet, there is bound to be a verein of some sort. Take, for example, the Deutscher Gewerhe and Theatre Verein—the German Industrial and Theatre Club. It holds dances, concerts and dramatic recitations every week, but it is also the base for the vereins of typographers, bicyclists and chess players. It is a drinking and dining club. It is also a benefit society which provides for the sick and out-of-work, and for the burial of the dead. It has many members—’

  ‘It would have,’ Patterson interrupted.

  ‘…and all its members are registered with both the verein and with the Consulate. Then there are the heims—homes, if you like. They provide subsidised food and accommodation for the poorer German workers. The Kaiser himself makes a generous donation towards their maintenance. They are very popular, and all the men who use them are, of course, properly registered.’

  ‘It all seems highly organised,’ Patterson said.

  ‘We are an organised nation,’ the Consul-General said. ‘We would never consider being anything else.’ He paused for a second. ‘So tell me, Sergeant, which of my compatriots are you interested in?’

  ‘The man’s name is Rilke,’ Patterson said.

  ‘You have a first name for him?’ the Consul-General asked.

  ‘My informant said his first name was Fritz, but I’m not sure how much we can rely on that,’ Patterson admitted.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ the Consul-General told him, off-handedly. ‘Rilke is not a common name. There cannot be more than a few of them residing in London, and it will not take us long to narrow down the shortlist to the one you are particularly interested in.’

  The American Consul-General had had one ledger from which to consult. The German had at least a dozen to choose from, but seemed to know exactly which one to select.

  ‘I told you there would probably only be a few Rilkes,’ he said, after he had scanned the ledger. ‘In fact, there is just one Friedrich Rilke—Fritz is a shortened version, so he is registered as Friedrich.’

  The Germans really knew how to run things, Patterson thought admiringly. ‘I’d like any details you have on Rilke,’ he said. ‘And if you could also supply me with his address, that would be a bonus.’

  ‘Naturally, I can supply you with an address,’ the Consul-General said. ‘He lives in Kensington—with his mother!’

  ‘With his mother?’ Patterson repeated, dumbfounded.

  The Consul-General closed the ledger, carefully but firmly. ‘Would you mind telling exactly why you are interested in this Fritz Rilke?’ he asked.

  ‘He runs a gambling club in Soho.’

  ‘Does he, indeed?’

  ‘And we suspect that he may also be involved in several other criminal activities—possibly even prostitution.’

  Unexpectedly, the Consul-General began to chuckle, and then the chuckle turned into a full-bellied laugh.

  ‘That is extraordinary,’ he said, when he’d eventually calmed down. ‘Who would ever have thought that a five-year-old boy could become involved in such things?’

  *

  The ‘private apartments’ that the workhouse offered were no great shakes in their own right, Blackstone thought—but in comparison to the rest of the grim institution they looked almost like little palaces. Each apartment consisted of only one room, but the rooms were brightly painted, and these inmates—unlike the younger, more vigorous ones—were permitted to have a few personal possessions like photographs and knick-knacks.

  ‘I never dreamed we’d ever be lucky enough to end up in a place like this,’ said the wizened old man sitting at the table. ‘See, we’ve got our own chest of drawers!’

  ‘Very nice,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘And there’s a room at the end of the block where we eat our meals,’ the old woman sitting next to him chipped in. ‘That’s very nice as well.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘You remember I said I’m a policeman, don’t you?’

  ‘Detective Inspector, you said,’ the old man replied.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘We used to know some of the local coppers on the beat when we lived on the outside,’ the old man told him. ‘Nice enough geezers to pass the time of day with, they were, but—you know—just ordinary. Not like you. We’
ve never talked to a detective inspector before.’

  Dear God, what is it about authority which impresses people so, thought Blackstone—who had never suffered from that particular failing himself.

  ‘Would you like to know why I’m here?’ he asked.

  ‘We don’t get many visitors,’ the old man said. ‘I can’t remember the last one we had.’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ his wife said. ‘It was just the other—’

  She stopped suddenly, and put her hand to her mouth. ‘Why don’t you tell me about this visitor you had the other day,’ Blackstone suggested.

  ‘Don’t listen to her. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,’ the old man said, in a harsh, yet squeaky, voice. ‘Her mind wanders a bit, you know. It does, when you get to our age.’

  Blackstone produced the sketch from his pocket and held it out. ‘Is this the man?’ he asked.

  ‘Never seen him before,’ the old man said, not even looking.

  ‘You don’t recognise him from your life outside?’

  ‘I told you, we never saw him,’ the old man protested.

  ‘Why was he here? Did he want you to give him something?’ Blackstone persisted.

  ‘What could he have wanted from us?’ the old man asked. ‘We don’t have nothing more than what you can see for yourself.’

  Then it was just as Blackstone had suspected. ‘Ah, then if he didn’t want to take something, he wanted to leave something,’ he said. ‘Was it a package? A thin package?’

  Thin enough to have been stored between the outer cloth of his jacket and the lining. Thin enough to have escaped detection when the porter searched him at the main gate.

  ‘He said it would be all right,’ the old woman said.

  ‘Shut up, Betty, you fool!’ the old man said, in a panic. ‘You’ll get us into trouble!’

  ‘There’ll be no trouble,’ Blackstone promised. ‘None at all. Just tell me what happened.’

  ‘He came knocking on the door in the middle of the morning. He said he had something he wanted kept safe,’ the old man admitted.

  ‘Why do you think he came to you, rather than anybody else?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘He said he’d been asking around, and everybody he’d talked to thought that we were the most reliable couple in the whole workhouse,’ the old man replied, with a certain pride.

  And the meekest, Blackstone thought—the most easily intimidated, the most easily persuaded.

  ‘I’m sure your visitor made the right choice,’ he told the old man. ‘If I had a package that I needed looking after, you’d be the first people I’d come to.’

  ‘And it’d be as safe as houses,’ the old man told him.

  ‘But I’ll still need to look at it,’ Blackstone said gently.

  ‘We promised him,’ the old man whined. ‘We gave him our word that we’d keep it safe.’

  ‘There’s no shame in breaking your promise when there’s no choice in the matter,’ Blackstone said. ‘Not when a detective inspector asks you for it. Besides, I have reason to believe this man to be a criminal. It’s your duty to hand over whatever he gave you.’

  ‘What if he comes back?’ the old man asked worriedly. ‘What if he comes back and asks us for it?’

  ‘He won’t come back,’ Blackstone said. ‘With the help you’re about to give me, he’ll probably he safely behind bars a few hours from now.’

  The old man thought for a moment—Blackstone could read the indecision on his face—then, with an effort, raised himself from the table and hobbled over to his precious chest of drawers. He slid the top drawer open, put his hand inside, and with-drew the package.

  ‘This is it,’ he said, placing it on the table with great care.

  It was long and thin—as Blackstone had suspected it would have to be in order to be smuggled in—and was wrapped up in oilskin material.

  ‘He said it was very valuable,’ the old man said.

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ Blackstone replied, picking the package up and slipping it into his pocket. ‘So valuable, in fact, that it may well save the Government a hundred thousand pounds.’

  22

  The Blackstone whom Patterson found sitting behind his desk at the Yard—and gazing down at his ink blotter as though he thought he’d find some message hidden in it—was a very different one to the man the Sergeant had seen only a few hours earlier. This Blackstone seemed distracted, Patterson thought—this Blackstone seemed positively worried.

  ‘Is anything the matter, sir?’ he asked.

  His words startled the Inspector out of his trance.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I asked if anything was the matter?’

  ‘Yes, there is,’ Blackstone said heavily. ‘I don’t like the direction that the evidence we’re uncovering is pointing us in. I don’t like it all.’

  ‘Is the problem something you found out at the workhouse?’ Patterson guessed.

  Blackstone nodded gravely. ‘But before we get to that, let’s hear what you’ve got to report,’ he said, sounding a little more like his old self.

  ‘I don’t know what Mouldoon and Rilke’s real names are, but unless the German’s much younger than he looks, they’re not Mouldoon and Rilke,’ Patterson said, sitting down opposite his boss. ‘And men rarely use aliases unless they’ve got something to hide.’

  He told Blackstone about his visits to the two consulates—about how the American Consul-General had said that Mouldoon looked familiar, and the German Consul-General had said that the only Rilke in London was a child.

  When he’d finished, Blackstone nodded again, then said, ‘We’d better have the Austro-Hungary Club watched.’

  ‘It’s already under observation,’ Patterson said. ‘I assigned two of our best men to it half an hour ago.’

  ‘Good,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Now do you want to tell me what’s bothering you, sir?’ Patterson asked softly.

  The workhouse was bothering him, Blackstone thought. The idea of ending his days in a place where the only emotion he would be allowed to express was gratitude was bothering him. And the knowledge that the evidence he’d discovered could cost him his job—and take him one step closer to the work-house—was bothering him most of all.

  ‘Sir?’ Patterson said worriedly.

  Blackstone sighed, and laid the oilskin-wrapped parcel which he’d taken from the old couple on the desk. ‘Have a look at this,’ he said.

  Patterson unrolled the package. Inside it—and wrapped up in a thick sheet of plain white paper—were some bank notes and an official-looking document.

  The Sergeant wet his finger and quickly counted the notes. ‘There’s five hundred pounds here!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘That’s right,’ Blackstone agreed.

  Patterson picked up the document. ‘And this is a passport,’ he said.

  ‘Probably a fake.’

  ‘So what we seem to have here, sir, is “running away” money,’ Patterson said.

  ‘That’s exactly what it is. If things started to go badly wrong, our firebug planned to take shelter in the workhouse for a couple of days—and who’d think of looking for him there? Then, when things had cooled off a bit, he’d simply retrieve his package, and leave the country.’

  None of which explained Blackstone’s dark mood, Patterson thought. The package wasn’t a major step forward in the investigation, but it was a step forward—so why was the Inspector looking so gloomy?

  ‘You’ve missed something,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Sorry, sir?’

  ‘When you were looking at what I retrieved from the work-house, you missed something.’

  ‘I did? What?’

  ‘Whoever gave the firebug the money and the passport wrapped it up in that sheet of paper.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘What you’re looking at is the back of the paper. Why don’t you see what’s on the other side?’

  Patterson turned the piece of paper over, and smoothed it out. It was standard—if
expensive—writing paper. There was nothing actually written on it, but there was a crest embossed at the top of it—the crest of the House of Lords.

  ‘Jesus!’ Patterson said.

  ‘Jesus!’ Blackstone agreed.

  *

  The Minister of War had requested yet another urgent meeting with the Prime Minister at ten o’clock that morning, but it was not until early afternoon that Salisbury agreed to see him.

  It was a stormy meeting from the start. Lansdowne burst—rather than walked—into the Prime Minister’s office, and though he was invited to sit down, he chose to pace the floor instead.

  ‘Do you realise the amount of damage that would have been done if that bomb had actually gone off as it was intended to?’ Lansdowne asked the Prime Minister.

  ‘I imagine it would certainly have meant closing the bridge for a time,’ the other man replied.

  ‘Closing the bridge!’ Lansdowne repeated. ‘Closing the bridge. That bomb could have demolished the bloody bridge! Or, at least, one end of it.’

  ‘I remember watching that bridge being built,’ the Prime Minister said, attempting to sound sanguine. ‘It was an immense project—a miracle of engineering. It took eight years to build, I need not remind you, and a huge amount of concrete and steel was used in the construction. I doubt that any bomb, however large, could have actually demolished it.’

  ‘I did not know you were an expert in such matters, Prime Minister,’ Lansdowne said witheringly, continuing to pace the floor.

  ‘Nor I, you,’ Salisbury countered.

  ‘I’m not. But I’ve seen the preliminary report.’

  ‘And which report might that be?’

  ‘The report of the Army bomb-disposal experts.’

  ‘Which is more than I have,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘That report should have gone first to the Home Secretary. How did you manage to get your hands on it so quickly?’

  ‘Does that matter now?’ Lansdowne asked exasperatedly. ‘The point is that the effect of the bomb—had it gone off as intended—would have been devastating. And it would not only have done physical damage to our war effort, it would have done great psychological damage as well.’