those of half-cut bankers, brokers and jobbers – examining her assets. Miss Taylor was too much of a catch to let slip through his fingers. He must find a good reason to see her again.
“Hello stranger!”
It had been over a year since Cecil Zick – brothel-keeper, pornographer and extortionist – had seen his fellow purveyor of smut, Henry Simkins of the Daily Chronicle. It was not a fond reunion.
“Don’t be like that, darling. We make a good team.”
“Keep your voice down.” The wooden walls of Ye Olde Mitre were thin but Zick, a stickler for keeping up appearances, still went to the trouble of hiring a private room. “What brings you back this time?”
“Herr Hitler. I don’t trust a word the ghastly man says. The sooner someone exterminates the jumped-up little man the better. In the meanwhile I’m going to hide behind Britannia’s voluminous skirts.”
“Where exactly?”
“I’ll let you know soon enough. Everything’s almost ready. The show must go on.”
“If word gets out, you’ll wish you were in back in Potsdamer Platz.”
“I know. I know. That’s where you come in.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Whatever you wish. A new pair of balls?”
“Very droll. It’s always someone else who pays the price, isn’t it? You’ve a remarkable talent for survival. One of these days your luck will run out.”
“Not if I can help it.” Zick coughed discreetly. “I was sorry to hear about your little accident …”
“It wasn’t a fucking accident. It was deliberate!”
A psychopath – an amateur surgeon who abjured the use of anaesthetic – had deprived Simkins of his crown jewels the previous summer. If it hadn’t been for Steadman, his arch-rival, he’d have lost a lot more.
“Yes, indeed. You do understand it was impossible to visit. Let me make it up to you. Can you still …?”
“Rise to the occasion? No – but there are other sources of pleasure.”
“Indeed. I should know. However, let’s not forget that pleasure doesn’t equal happiness.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
“Revenge can be almost as satisfying as sex. The longer it’s deferred, the more glorious its consummation.”
“So that’s what you’re after.”
“Detective Constable Turner is not a man for letting bygones be bygones.” Zick put down his glass and, as if the champagne had turned to battery acid, grimaced. “I hardly touched his wife. How was I to know she was pregnant? I only detained her so that Turner would do what was required. Once again he represents a serious impediment to my business plans.”
“What’s it going to be then? Bribery or butchery?”
“Much as the latter would be fun, the former would be more expedient.”
“Why not have a word with the Commander?”
“The less he knows the better.”
“At the risk of repeating myself: what’s in it for me?”
“Don’t you want to get one over on Steadman?”
“He saved my life!”
“But not your balls, alas. And it seems that’s not all you lost. Where’s the Machiavellian streak that’s got you this far?”
“I don’t have to prove anything to you. He did set me up though. Have you still got the photographs?”
A couple of years ago both Matt and Johnny – on separate occasions – had been drugged and molested while a camera recorded the criminal depravity. So far they had succeeded in preventing the attacks becoming common knowledge.
“Bien sûr, mon petit choux. I knew it would be a mistake to destroy them.”
“So you didn’t keep your word?”
“You saw me burn the negatives, didn’t you? I recall how pleased you were to be able to tell Steadman the good news. Didn’t get you anywhere with him though, did it?”
Simkins scowled. “Get on with whatever it is you want to say.”
“Be like that then. Our old friend Timney, hearing that I’d returned to the Smoke, crawled out from whichever stone he was hiding under and made himself available to me. I was delighted when he told me that – against my direct orders – he’d kept a copy of the negatives. That’s why I need you. Steadman is the simplest way to put pressure on Turner.”
“You mean blackmail him.”
“Such a nasty word.” He waved his hand as if to disperse a bad smell. The ruby on his finger flashed in the candlelight. “Still, it worked last time – if not quite in the way we’d hoped. I can’t approach Steadman, but you can. Tell him the truth – you need his help.”
“To do what? He’s not a fool.”
“You’ll think of something.”
“And if I don’t?”
Zick got to his dainty feet. “Remember what a sticky end is? You used to like nothing more.”
The champagne – still in its glass – smashed against the door. Wisely, he’d waited until his nemesis had gone.
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
