‘Well, lad…’ he said at last, and Cal knew he’d come to hate being called lad. ‘I do envy you. I learnt mine in Cottbus.’
‘Cottbus? What’s Cottbus?’
‘German prisoner-of-war camp, lad. Prussia. 1916-1918. I learnt it the hard way. I’ve picked up Polish and Czech on the streets of London. A damn sight more fun, I can tell you.’
Just a little, Cal felt humbled.
‘So,’ Stilton resumed. ‘He can pass for Swiss. He’d hardly be still using that as his cover though. What’s his next best ticket?’
‘Czech. Sudeten Czech. Bilingual. German-speaking as well as Czech. That could explain any oddities in the accent. He could maybe lose himself in a Czech district. Or Polish at a pinch. He could pass for a Pole to you and me, but I doubt he’d fool a real Pole. And of course Austrian. Pretend to be what he really is. You didn’t mention Austrians in your list.’
‘Oh there’s Austrians all right. Jews mostly. Could he pass for Jewish?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Cal. ‘What does a Jew look like?’
‘That’s rhetoric, I take it?’
‘Pretty well.’
‘Then I’d say it’s got a damn sight less to do with what he looks like than what he says and what he sounds like. If as you say he’s going to have to lose himself, he has to blend. I couldn’t blend into Jewish culture, could you?’
‘Probably not. I’d mess it up at the first “maseltov”.’
Stilton scribbled in his notebook with a pencil stub, mouthing the words as he did so. Cal felt as though they’d both just tested each other-and passed.
‘There’s one or two blokes I could get hold of this evening if you’ve the time.’
‘I’ve all the time in…’
The barman cut Cal off.
‘Stinker! Your man Dobbs on the dog an’ bone!’
The barman lifted up the wooden flap of the bar to let Stilton through.
“Scuse us, lad,’ Stilton said over his shoulder. ‘Telephone.’
Telephone? ‘Dog an’ bone’? He’d only just learnt ‘blower’.
He tipped the rest of his pint into the pot of a ragged aspidistra. It needed a drink more than he did. When he returned Stilton’s expression had changed. He was angry-controlling it, but angry.
‘Change of plan, I’m afraid. I’ve got to go to Hoxton. You’d best come with me. It’ll mean missing my Czech nark, but he’ll not say a dicky bird without me there. ‘Appen we can salvage some of the evening a bit later.’
He grabbed his hat and swept out, clearly expecting Cal to follow. ‘Dicky bird?’ Word? Word! Good God, that was it-the English talked in rhymes.
Out in the street, Stilton yanked open the driver’s door of a large four-door Riley Kestrel and pointed Cal to the other side.
‘Or did you think you were going to drive?’ he asked rhetorically.
He pressed the starter and the car jerked out into a street all but empty of traffic. They’d driven a mile before either of them spoke again.
‘What’s in Hoxton?’ Cal asked, hoping for an answer.
“Nother Jerry,’ Stilton said tersely. ‘An agent they’ve sent over. But we were on to him from the first. He’ll never get to do what he’s come to do.’
‘You think he’s a spy?’
‘Most of’em are. But not this one. This one’s a killer. Sent over to bump off some poor bugger.’
Cal wondered how to phrase the next question. A piece of the puzzle, the first, had just landed on the board. The last thing he wanted to do was alarm Stilton, risk him clamming up.
‘You sure?’ he said simply.
‘Oh aye, I’m sure. But we’ll stop him. Whatever it is, we’ll stop him.’
‘Why are we going to Hoxton now?’
‘My man Dobbs. He’s watching the boarding house. He rang to tell me there’s police in the building.’
‘Is that a problem?’
Stilton snorted with laughter. ‘Oh, it’s a problem all right. The last thing you want is the boys in blue trampling all over the shop in their size tens. Wot larx, eh?’
Cal let this one sink in. He thought he’d got the gist of it. The Branch were political police. And they regarded the criminal police as a nuisance. In this scenario, he and Stilton were the Feds, racing to lake over from a county sheriff in some hick town in the mid-west that had been lucky enough to trap Dillinger. Slang was OK. He’d get used to it. He was in the picture. The big picture. It might not be so bad after all. Stilton might not be so bad after all. But he’d no idea what the man meant by ‘Wot larx’. It didn’t seem to rhyme with anything.
§ 22
Hoxton Street was long, narrow and not particularly straight. It snaked its way from Shoreditch station almost to Dalston, fizzling out and changing names just short of the Grand Union Canal. Halfway up it stood the Red Lion public house, and opposite the Red Lion stood Mrs O’Grady’s Boarding House-its trade announced by a hand-written card in the ground floor window: ‘Furn. rooms avail, for respec. gents. No gippos.’ Outside the house was a small black car-a Bullnose Morris. By the Bullnose Morris was a nervous, pacing, slyly smoking policeman, a cigarette cupped between his fingers, the glowing tip facing backwards, as though this simple precaution might make his illicit action the less obvious.
‘Put that bloody fag out!’ Stilton roared as he and Cal got out of the car.
Dobbs dropped the cigarette and ground it underfoot. Stilton pointed at the Bullnose Morris.
‘Troy?’ he said.
‘Upstairs, boss. I couldn’t stop ‘im.’
‘Save it, lad. I’ll listen to your lies later.’
He led off, into the house. Cal followed. Inside the door, a large, stout, worried woman in a pinafore stood waiting, looking up the stairs. She turned when they entered.
‘Oh Mr Stilton, thank Gawd it’s you. What a to-do! What a to-do!’
Stilton ignored her display. Grief or fear or whatever.
‘First floor, is it?’ he asked, and headed up the stairs. Cal followed. Smiled at the woman. In return she told him once more what a to-do it was.
He stood behind Stilton, looking past him into the landing of the next floor, where a second staircase led to the floor above that. A man in a black cashmere overcoat was bending over the body of a big man-barefoot, vest and trousers-crumpled at the foot of the stairs, the arms, legs and neck jammed between the wall, the banister rails and the floor at unnatural angles-as though someone had picked up Pinocchio and just dropped him. The young man was talking to a white-haired man of sixty or so-a doctor, repacking his bag and looking at his watch.
‘All I’m saying is that nothing like this can ever be open and shut.’
‘It’s as simple as this, Sergeant. He’s at the bottom of the stairs, the carpets are worn to buggery and he’s got his neck broken. I can’t see the mystery in that.’
The younger man stood up. He looked tiny to Cal. No more than five foot six or seven-a mop of thick black hair falling across his forehead, so that he was forever sweeping it back with one hand, and shining, black eyes in a pale face. He looked like a freshman student. Far too young to be a cop.
‘You’re wrong,’ he said bluntly. ‘The neck isn’t just broken, it’s twisted. We need a full post-mortem to determine the cause of death. We need-‘
And there Stilton cut him short.
‘Thank you, Mr Troy. Good of you to step into the breach. But this is a Branch matter, and I’ll take over now.’
‘I was just trying to tell the doctor, sir-‘
‘I’ve spoken, lad. It’s my case.’
‘He’s one of yours?’ said Troy with a nod at the corpse.
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll leave you to it.’
Troy walked out. For a second they exchanged glances. Cal found himself looking straight down into the black eyes as he passed, ebony mirrors reflecting back at him-and then he was gone. Down the stairs, past Mrs O’Grady still lamenting such a ‘to-do’.
Stilton now bent over the body.