‘Perhaps he had a torch,’ Sinclair suggested. Finding that the pub was out of whisky — an occurrence all too common these days — he had settled for a gin flavoured with bitters.
‘No, I don’t think so. You remember those burned-out matches Billy found by the body? It sounds as though Marko was fumbling around in the dark himself.’
The chief inspector ordered a fresh drink. Around them the pub was filling up, growing noisy, as a steady stream of customers, many of them in uniform, drifted in from the street. A ripple of notes from a hidden piano proved to be the prelude to a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’. It was followed by an even louder rendition of ‘Why Was She Born So Beautiful?’
The two men eyed each other.
‘Shall we …?’ The chief inspector picked up his glass.
In search of quiet they found a small ‘snug’ bar at the back of the smoke-filled taproom separated from the public area by a half-glassed partition and as yet unoccupied. Commandeering the single table it contained, Sinclair sat down with their drinks, and while Madden went in search of something to eat — they had decided to forgo dinner in favour of a sandwich — the chief inspector assembled his thoughts. It had been an exhausting day. The translation of the dossier had only marked the beginning of his labours; later he had had lengthy meetings, first with the detectives assigned to the case, then with Bennett. But tired as he was, he had much to relate, and as soon as Madden returned, plate in hand, he set out to enlighten him.
‘It’s too bad about the name. But we’ve not come up empty-handed. Duval’s compiled a long report separate from the evidence they’ve collected and he only gave us the bare bones yesterday. For one thing it’s clear now how the Wapping robbery came about. The same kind of trick was played on that furrier Marko murdered. First he was sold the diamonds, then he was robbed of them. The aim was identical in each case: to get both the money and the stones.’
Sinclair paused as a chorus of voices burst into song next door. Forced to wait until the noise died down, he sampled one of the cheese sandwiches his companion had brought from the bar. They were sitting facing each other across the table, and as the last notes faded, Madden leaned forward.
‘Was it Marko’s idea?’ he asked.
The chief inspector shook his head. It was cooked up by a Dutch diamond dealer called Eyskens. Although he was based in Paris, he had links with Hendrik Bok going back years, and was part of a diamond-smuggling operation which Bok started after he got control of the Rotterdam docks. He brought in illegal stones from West Africa and Eyskens used his business to feed them into the European market. The French police knew he was crooked, but what they didn’t know was that he was effectively Bok’s man in Paris. Nor that he’d been instrumental in setting up the Lagrange murder. He’d provided Marko with a plan of the villa at Fontainebleau which he’d acquired somehow. He was one of the few people who’d actually met him.’
‘How did the French police come by this information? Did they arrest Eyskens after the Sobel robbery?’
‘They meant to. But when they went to pick him up they found him dead. Marko had got there first. Most of what I’m telling you now came from Bok’s wife. Widow, rather. Bok himself died in 1941, of natural causes. He had cancer. She made a long statement to the Dutch police which they sent to Paris. It fills in some of the blanks.’
A burst of loud laughter from beyond the partition interrupted him again, and Sinclair took advantage of the moment to finish his sandwich, stifling a yawn as he did so. Madden waited patiently until he was ready to resume.
‘Bok’s wife was also his book-keeper, and after he died the Dutch police got hold of some of his ledgers, which were in her hand. It gave them a lever to use, and she was persuaded to tell them what she knew about her husband’s activities and his relationship with Marko. We don’t know for certain how they met, but Bok had dealings over the years with a number of other European gangs, and at a certain point when he was battling for control of the docks he went looking for help. His wife was clear on that point. He was shopping for a killer. Where he found him — how they were put in touch — she didn’t know, but towards the end of 1927 Marko turned up in Rotterdam. Strange to say, there’s a record of their meeting, a photograph no less. They were only snapped by chance — they happened to be in the picture — but the Dutch police managed to get their hands on a copy of the photo and I’ve brought it along for you to look at. Not that it’ll be of any use to us.’
While he was speaking, Sinclair had been searching in his pocket, and, having fished out a photograph, he passed it to Madden, who held it up to the light and squinted at the glossy print. The subjects of the snapshot were a young couple sitting hand in hand at a table in a cafe. But it was the pair of men behind them that Madden fixed his gaze on. They were seated at another zinc-topped table, this one bearing a bottle, half-empty glasses and an overflowing ashtray, and the head of one of them had been circled with a pen. He was the least visible of the duo, appearing to have turned away at the moment when the photograph was taken, and only one side of his face could be seen; the image was further marred by the hand which he had raised to his temple. His companion, fair-haired, and with a thick moustache, sat sprawled in a careless pose, legs thrust out, and there was more than a hint of aggression in the way he held himself. Not so the other. Lean and alert-looking, he had not been taken by surprise, Madden saw. The lifted hand, the quickly turned head — everything about his pose suggested a swift reaction.
‘The one with the moustache is Hendrik Bok,’ Sinclair explained. ‘He had a bodyguard called Graaf, who ended up in prison, and Duval arranged with the Dutch police to interview him. According to Graaf, the snapshot dates from the day Marko arrived in the city. He said he’d accompanied Bok to the cafe where the rendezvous took place, but was told to wait outside and keep watch. He didn’t actually set eyes on Marko, but quite soon after this meeting, the cull of Bok’s enemies started and word spread about a Serbian killer he had working for him.’
The chief inspector took the photograph back from Madden and returned it to his jacket pocket.
‘Bok’s wife never met Marko, incidentally, though she knew all about him, and she believed the story Bok put about — that he’d been a member of the Black Hand. And she said an interesting thing. She thought her husband was afraid of him.’
‘Even though Marko worked for him?’
‘And even though Bok must have come across some bad actors in his time. He was one himself. It makes you wonder whose idea it was to keep Marko out of sight; to produce him only when he was needed. Perhaps it suited them both. Marko didn’t want his face known and Bok may have been relieved not to have him around.’
‘One to stay away from.’ Madden murmured the words to himself.
‘What was that?’ Sinclair cocked an ear.
‘Something Florrie Desmoulins said. Men were her business; she knew he was dangerous.’ Madden was silent for a moment. Then he asked, ‘ about the Sobel robbery? ‘What did Bok’s widow have to say about that?’
‘Very little. Only that when Bok heard about it later — when the Dutch police questioned him — he had laughed and said that some people were too greedy for their own good. Later he told his wife he’d had nothing to do with it. It was Eyskens’s own idea. Marko himself had quit Holland some time earlier. The war had put an end to his partnership with Bok, who was dying anyway. Although he didn’t say where he was going, his only escape route lay through France, and he must have got in touch with Eyskens as soon as he reached Paris. I say “must have” because what follows is supposition on Duval’s part, though it seems to hang together.’
The chief inspector emptied his glass. He took a deep breath, trying to shake off his drowsiness.