flight of stairs to the basement.
A fat man sat smoking at the kitchen table.
“The door was open.”
“I’ve made enough bleeding cups of tea. If you want one you’ll have to get it yourself.”
His head, encircled by receding hair, resembled a partly peeled boiled egg.
“Make a fresh pot, should I?”
“Don’t go to any trouble on my account. Who are you anyway?”
“John Steadman. Daily News. I take it you’re the landlord?”
“Nah, I’m ‘The Wacky Warbler’. Cwooorrr!”
Johnny was not a fan of Joan Turner. Impressionists left him cold. Professional parasites, they fed off other people – just like journalists. When it came down to it they were all in the same business: entertaining the masses.
Johnny refilled the kettle and set it on the range where a vat of soapy water burbled away. He leaned closer. What was that?
“It’s the only way to ensure they’re clean. Can’t live without my long johns.”
Johnny stepped back in disgust. Ensure? Johnny suspected that, behind the scruffy appearance, there lurked an educated man.
The fatty stubbed out his cigarette and punched his chest in a vain attempt to silence an evil cough.
“I wondered when you lot would get here. How much for an exclusive?”
“Tell me what you told the police and I’ll let you know, Mr …?”
“Yaxley. William Yaxley.”
“How long has Walter Chittleborough been your tenant?”
“I’ve been through all this already. I’m not a bleeding parrot.”
“So I hear. Your mimicry would be a lot better. Start squawking. If one of my rivals turns up you can kiss goodbye to any chance of remuneration.” Johnny offered him one of his own Woodbines.
“Ta muchly. Wally moved in about a year ago. Before that he’d been in digs in Whitechapel.”
“Hardly worth the effort.” The Ripper’s hunting grounds were only a few streets away. “Previous address?”
“If I did know I’ve forgotten.”
“Did he have a girl?”
“I’m sure he did – but rarely more than once. He wasn’t courting, if that’s what you mean.”
“What sort of chap was he?”
“An ordinary chap. He worked hard, liked a pint and was mad about football. Never missed a Hammers match. Spent more time at Upton Park than here.”
Soccer bored Johnny. One-on-one contests – battles of body and mind – were more exciting than team sports. The glory to be achieved was greater too.
“How would you describe his personality?”
“We weren’t close. We didn’t socialize.”
“Moved in different circles did he? Try.” So far Humpty Dumpty was not getting a penny.
“Unassuming, undemonstrative – unless he was stinko …”
“How d’you know if you didn’t socialize?”
“We bumped into each other on the doorstep a few times. You hear everything down here.” He glanced at the ceiling. “The more beer he’d had, the heavier his tread.”
“Very well. What was the other adjective you were going to use before I so rudely interrupted?”
His interviewee watched him waiting, pencil poised.
“Unintelligent.” He smirked. “A bathetic climax. Sorry.”
“So am I. Nice oxymoron though.” Humpty was playing with him, trying to distract him. What was he hiding?
The kettle lid rattled as the water reached boiling point. Johnny’s blood was not far behind.
“And the other tenants? Did Wally socialize with them?”
“Not so far as I know. The Sproats on the ground-floor have a six-month-old baby. The wailing never stops.”
“Seems pretty quiet now.”
“He works at the Royal Mint. She’s a cleaner. Leaves the brat with her mother in Shoreditch during the day.”
“Do the people above them complain about the noise as well?”
“Mr Tull is deaf as a post. Lucky old sod. You won’t get anything out of him.” He blew a stream of smoke towards the range. “The tea won’t make itself, you know.”
“So who completes this happy household?”
“Rebecca. Beautiful Becky Taylor.” He sighed. “She knows what Wally was like – inside and out, if you get my drift. She’s some sort of secretary at Grocers’ Hall. Talk to her.”
“I will.” Johnny slipped his notebook into a pocket. “Thanks for your time. Shouldn’t you be at work as well?”
“I am.” He hauled himself to his feet. “Looking after this place is an endless job. There’s no clocking off here.”
He rinsed out the teapot and spooned in four heaps of Lipton’s. It seemed there was no clocking on either.
“Who owns the house?”
“I do.”
Johnny, while Yaxley’s back was turned, slipped out of the kitchen. He was halfway up the stairs before the landlord noticed.
“Oi! Steadman! What about the money?”
“Send me an invoice.”
Even if the sluggard were to submit one he would see that it was never paid. Instinct told him Yaxley had concealed more than he’d revealed.
The first body had been found on Monday in Gun Square, actually a gloomy triangle off Houndsditch. Jimmy Bromet, nineteen, was a waiter at the Three Nuns Hotel next door to Aldgate Station. He, too, had been tied to his bed and emasculated, but not castrated. No one in the lodging house had a heard a sound.
On his way back to the office Johnny made the cabbie take a detour. Although entirely surrounded by banks, Grocers’ Hall, off Prince’s Street, had its own courtyard. Two covered entrances allowed vehicles to drive in and out without
