The Tiger in the Well, Page 24

  Presently the door opened and Rebecca came in. She looked softer now, less tense, more tired, and she smiled at Sally and clasped her hands.

  "I've got to go," said Goldberg. "Morris, Miss Lockhart is going to stay and talk to Rebecca."

  He nodded to Sally, who watched him go, surprised as ever by his abruptness, the sudden shifts from warm to cold, friendly to distant, stern to vulnerable. She felt oddly diminished as the door closed behind him.

  Rebecca sat down at the table next to Sally. She was a strange mixture: she looked at first sullen and heavy-featured and slow-witted, and then her face would come alive with intelligence and feeling for a short while before it sank into immobility again. At those moments she was almost beautiful; for the rest of the time she could have been any Russian-Jewish peasant girl, accustomed to docility and deference. But all the time, sparkling or not, there were shadows in her eyes.

  In a mixture of Russian and Yiddish, which Morris Katz translated, and German, which Sally understood, she told them her story.

  She had come from the shtetl, from a desperately poor Jewish community in the Russian provinces. She was the daughter of a dairyman. When the rest of her family was killed in one of the waves of slaughter that swept that world, she became a maidservant in the household of a more prosperous Jew, a merchant, who bribed his way out of the province and settled in Moscow. As Rebecca grew she learned to read, and proved to be intelligent, and attracted the closer attention of the merchant; and eventually became pregnant with his child. That was the point at which she ceased to be attractive to him, so he dismissed her. She drifted into a circle of students and artists, earning a living as a painters' model. When her child was born she lived briefly with a student called Semyonov, a socialist, who was soon exiled to Siberia. Shortly afterwards the child died. But while living with Semyonov, Rebecca had absorbed some of his ideas, and begun to study for herself. She had read as much as she could - including Goldberg's articles, which were appearing in various forbidden journals.

  And like many others, she'd become aware of the shadowy figure of the Tzaddik, this brooding parasitical presence haunting the lives of those who wished to leave. All kinds of rumours swept the superstitious communities in the shtetl: the man was not human, but an animated mass of flesh brought to life by a corrupt rabbi; he had an evil spirit bound by magic to do his will; his agents enticed young girls into his house, where he ate them in an attempt to absorb their youth and strength. . .

  Sally remembered Goldberg's account of the girl in Amsterdam who drowned herself. It would be easy to believe crazy horror stories like that.

  And as Rebecca continued with her story, Sally found her respect growing for this quiet, unimpressive, stolid-seeming girl; for she had found out the Tzaddik's Moscow address, and found work with the neighbouring household.

  "I wanted to get close and see for myself. I'd thrown away superstition; I didn't believe in dybbuks and golems and all that old-fashioned folklore stuff. I just wanted to find out, and maybe do something about it. I made friends with one of his maidservants. And I found out that he had houses all over Europe, but that he spent most of his time in Amsterdam. He speaks many languages, but Dutch seems to be his native tongue.

  "I saw him go in and out once or twice. He always travels by night. He is huge - gross. And paralysed. He can speak and move his head, but none of his limbs. That's why he has that monkey; it goes everywhere with him. It sleeps in his bed. He has electric bells instead of a bell rope, so the monkey can press the switch to call the servants.

  "And he has one special servant - a valet called Michelet, who does everything for him that the monkey can't do, washes him, dresses him, and so on. He's an abominable man. Because he's so close to the Tzaddik, he's got power over all the other servants, and he uses it, especially on the women.

  "The servant told me all that. And she told me about the whistles."

  "The whistles?" Sally said.

  Morris Katz nodded. "I've heard those whistles. In Kiev and Berdichev, and other places too, the rioters who looted Jewish shops and houses are controlled by whistles. Someone blows a signal and what looks like an innocent crowd turns into a raging mob. Then the whistle blows again and they stop and melt away. Once you know what the whistle means, it's terrifying when you hear it. And he had something to do with it?" he said to Rebecca.

  "Yes," she said. "He dictated a letter to his secretary, to be sent to one of his agents in Byelorussia. He described the whole system. He dictated it in German and the secretary translated it, but the Tzaddik can't read Russian, and he doesn't trust anyone, so he got someone else to translate it back for him. The maid overheard. And then . . . she stole it and gave it to me. I've got it with me."

  Katz smiled, the smile of a man proud of a comrade's achievement. Sally found herself hoping for the chance to do something worthy of a smile like that; but Rebecca looked down as if she was ashamed. She went on:

  "But then the Tzaddik found out that the maid was speaking to someone, and had her punished. He gave her to Michelet . . . I don't know what he did to her, but I never saw her again. And I know they inflicted terrible punishments. The Tzaddik had one of his servants flogged with the knout. They hardly ever use that nowadays, even in government prisons. That man died, apparently. But no one lifted a finger to protest."

  She stopped to sip some tea, and went on:

  "I was friendly with that maid, and I wanted to do something to avenge her. I knew the Tzaddik was going on a journey soon, and I didn't have much time, so I broke into his house and. . . Well, I don't know what I thought I was going to do. His luggage was stacked in the hall. I'd only just found it when an alarm went off. Men came running from all over the house. They took me down to the basement."

  She stopped again. Her face was expressionless. Sally reached over the table and took her hand, and Rebecca held it tightly.

  "After a while they'd had enough, I suppose. They threw me out into the street. I never saw the Tzaddik, then or afterwards. So I'd failed. Except for--"

  There was a pounding at the street door, and she stopped at once. Sally felt through her hand a great bolt of fear strike Rebecca, and squeezed hard. They all sat frozen.

  Someone was shouting, but what language it was, Sally couldn't tell; and then footsteps ran along the hall, and the kitchen door flew open. Morris Katz said breathlessly:

  "Police - quick. The cellar - this way -"

  He shut the kitchen door and pulled aside a low curtain behind the rocking-chair. The pounding on the front door was getting louder, and shouts were coming: "Open up! Police!"

  Katz shoved Sally and Rebecca in front of him.

  "Down!" he said.

  Behind the curtain was a door about three feet high. Katz pushed it open, revealing a stairway down into darkness. Sally crouched low and followed Rebecca down the first couple of steps - and then there was a crash from somewhere outside.

  "The front door -" said Sally, turning back.

  But all she saw was Katz, outside, putting his finger to his lips, and then shutting the cellar door.

  Sally found Rebecca's hand, and they sat balanced uneasily on the stairs in the pitch dark, listening.

  A hectoring voice was saying, "Mr Morris Katz, I believe that you are sheltering a wanted person--"

  A torrent of Yiddish followed in Katz's voice, but the first man cut in:

  "Enough! I'm looking for a man called Goldberg. Is he in this house?"

  Sally gripped Rebecca's hand. She'd thought they were looking for her. . .

  "No, he is not," said Morris Katz. "And have you got a search warrant?"

  A rustle of paper.

  "Satisfied? All right, Constable Bagley, you take the upstairs. I'll have a look around down here. Did you know you'd been sheltering a fugitive from justice, Mr Katz? And a murderer, what's more. There's a death sentence waiting for him back in his own country. What do they do in Hungary, Mr Katz, d'you know? Do they hang 'em? Or is it the guillotine?"
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br />   Chapter Twenty

  HENNA

  "But what's he done?" Sally said, her voice shaking. "What's this crime?"

  It was half an hour later. Sally and Rebecca had sat in the darkness for most of that time, not even daring to whisper, as the heavy feet moved about overhead and the loud voices called up and down the stairs. Eventually, with a warning to Katz, the police had left, but he didn't open the cellar door for another five minutes.

  Sally couldn't think of anything except this new threat. What would she do if Goldberg was captured? And - her fear coming alive again - was he a criminal?

  "It's politics - not crime -" Morris Katz was trying to explain, though he didn't know himself exactly. "They say he's not legally in this country - he should - I don't know -"

  "But a death sentence?" She could hardly speak.

  "In England you don't kill people directly for politics. Other places . . . they pin any crime on you; it doesn't matter to them what the excuse is."

  "But they said he was a murderer. . ."

  "They would say anything. Goldberg is not like that. A fighter, yes, but -"

  Then Sally remembered something Rebecca had been about to say when the police arrived. She turned to her urgently.

  "Rebecca, when the police came you were telling us about what you'd done, and you said abgesehen von - except for. . ."

  "Abgesehen von - Ah! Der Tzaddik, ja?"

  "Yes - that's it - you said you'd failed, except for something. . . And then the police came. Remember?"

  Sally was clinging hard to Rebecca's story, because even through the mist of fear about Goldberg, she felt that something important was almost in reach, just beyond the edge of her vision.

  "Ah! I know what it was. I said I'd failed, except for one little thing. When I was in the Tzaddik's house, before the men came, I saw his luggage -"

  "I remember. And?"

  "And there were labels on it. That was it. I took one. I don't know why I forgot. I brought it all the way - it's here in my dress pocket. . ."

  A second later she found it. It was crumpled and torn, but still legible were the words H. LEE, ESQ., 12 FOURNIER SQUARE, SPITALFIELDS, LONDON.

  "So that's his name," Rebecca said, "or one of them. Lee. Esq. is not part of the name, no? And this address - Spitalfields. . ."

  The name sounded odd on her lips; all its sounds came from the front of the mouth, unlike the sounds in the words she was used to speaking. But Sally didn't notice that. Her fists were pressed together and she was shaking them back and forth as if that would help her remember.

  "Sally? What is it?"

  Then she had it. Mr Bywater, the solicitor's clerk, all that time ago, telling her about the case his friend had reported to him: Lee v. Belcovitch - how Lee had dispossessed the man Belcovitch of his business, and set Parrish up as manager - how Mr Bywater had said that that proved that Lee was the man behind Parrish. How had she forgotten that? And the address in the case - a square in Spitalfields with a French-sounding name that began with F -

  "It's him! That proves it!"

  More struggle then, to explain what she meant, and how she was involved at all; about Harriet, and Parrish, and her flight and refuge in the Mission. It took a long time, but Rebecca looked at her after it with a new understanding, and with a complex expression: part envy, part compassion. And Sally remembered that Rebecca had had a child, and it had died.

  But all the time part of her mind was desperately beating, frightened, at the question of Goldberg, and as soon as she'd finished explaining her own case, she came back to it.

  "We must find a lawyer. There might be a way to stop them sending him back. Has he got a lawyer? Do you know anything about him, Mr Katz? I hardly know a thing. . . But we must find a lawyer."

  Morris Katz shrugged. "There is a man at Dean Street in Soho - but whether they have a lawyer. . ."

  "Mr Wentworth!" Sally remembered the name of the lawyer Margaret Haddow had told her about - the one who'd helped, when was it? Only that day?

  She stood up - too suddenly, and she felt faint again and had to clutch at Rebecca's hand for support. The other girl stood too.

  "I'm going to find a lawyer for Mr Goldberg," she said after a dizzy second or two.

  She thanked Mr Katz for his help and then put on her cloak and bonnet. Everything moved too slowly - her shaking hands fumbled at the fastenings, and she felt paralysed with cold.

  Rebecca came to the door, and the two of them clung tightly and kissed like sisters.

  Bengal Court by moonlight looked ancient, villainous, and secret. Shadow lay like a great curtain across half the court, and Sally hesitated to enter it; but she had to. Her key turned in the lock.

  She climbed the familiar stairs in the dark and let herself into the office. There she lit a candle from the supply in the filing cabinet and scribbled a quick note to Margaret. Could she tell Mr Wentworth that Sally would like to see him on a matter of the most extreme urgency as soon as possible in the morning? She would wait for him (not being able to go to the office, in case it was still watched) in - she hesitated - St Dionis Backchurch, nearby just off Fenchurch Street.

  By going to meet him, she was risking her safety; she knew that he'd be obliged to insist that she give herself up to the police. But she'd deal with that later. Getting a lawyer for Goldberg was the most important thing now.

  She left the note, looked around for a moment, and noticed the large map of London on the wall behind Margaret's desk. It took her some time to find Fournier Square; it was only a street or two from where she'd been sitting earlier that evening, in Morris Katz's house. The street directory on the shelf confirmed it: at 12, Fournier Square, lived H. Lee Esquire.

  And where did that leave her? Better informed, was the answer. And with the germ of an idea that made her tremble. She blew out the candle and sat in the dark, thinking it through. The more she thought, the more frightened she became, and a great heaviness crept around her heart.

  After a while she left silently and went back to the Mission. She reached it as a nearby church clock struck two. Harriet resented being taken out of the warm bed to go to the lavatory, and grumbled and screwed up her face as she always did, and it was all so dear and familiar that when Sally cried herself to sleep, it wasn't for apprehension about Goldberg or fear of the mysterious H. Lee, it was for love of her child. The fear and the apprehension came later, in her dreams.

  St Dionis Backchurch was one of Christopher Wren's churches: tall and dark and dignified, and empty at nine the following morning. Sally brought Harriet with her, and they sat in a pew near the back and read the inscriptions on the nearest tombs.

  Only five minutes after they'd sat down, the church door opened and in came a short, shabby figure who removed his hat and then limped briskly to her pew.

  "Miss Lockhart - I'm Wentworth. This is Harriet? Good morning, Harriet. Uncommon numbers of policemen about this morning, eh? Noticed? Mmm. Now then, you've decided what you want to do?"

  "It's not about me, Mr Wentworth. My case can wait for the time being. It's about someone else."

  He nodded intently, like a bright-eyed bird. Harriet was fascinated by him. He had an ugly, gnome-like face with a wide mouth and bushy red eyebrows, and his hair was fiery too, but his expression was so lively and vivid that the effect wasn't ugly at all. He sat in the pew in front of them and hooked an arm over the back.

  "Go on," he said.

  "If someone was accused of a crime in another country - a citizen of that country - and they took refuge here, would they have to be sent back?"

  "Which country?"

  "Hungary."

  "Yes. There's a treaty of extradition between Britain and the Austro-Hungarian Empire."

  "But if he was innocent? If it was just a trumped-up charge, and they really wanted him for political reasons?"

  "The court here can't decide on the merits of the case; that would have to be decided in the Hungarian court. But if it was clear that the offence was
political, extradition would not be competent."

  "You mean. . ."

  "It wouldn't apply. They couldn't send him back."

  Sally felt a great rush of relief. She sank back against the pew for a second, realizing how tense she'd been. When she opened her eyes, the lawyer was looking at her calmly.

  "Consider carefully before you tell me anything," he said. "Remember I'm obliged to obey the law myself."

  Sally looked at him in return. She noticed that his cuffs were frayed, his collar dingy, but his eyes were clear and steady, and she felt the confidence she always felt in the presence of people who knew what they were doing.

  She took a breath, and told him everything she knew about Goldberg. He didn't speak except to ask for clarification, but jotted it all down with a pencil in a tattered notebook.

  When she'd finished he shut the notebook with a snap. Then he looked up at her, his gnome-face serious.

  "And the other business - your own problem? You're sure you want to do nothing?"

  "I . . . I've got one or two things to find out first. I think I know who's behind it. But if I move now it'll warn him, and he'll find some other way of attacking me."

  He looked sceptical. She went on:

  "It's a man who's responsible for defrauding and exploiting immigrants. And. . . And for enticing girls into prostitution. That's how I met Mr Goldberg, because he's investigating that side of it."

  "Hmm," he said. "I'll repeat what I said to Miss Haddow: I can't help you while you're hiding from the police. In strict honesty I should report you now; there's a warrant for your arrest on a charge of kidnapping, and if I don't turn you in, I could be considered an accessory after the fact. I won't, but I should. Now then, you know where my office is. Here's my card if you need to reach me at home. I'm going to look at my books and brush up on extradition. The moment you hear anything more - if Mr Goldberg is arrested, say - get in touch with me and we'll apply for a writ of habeas corpus."