The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis (11 page)

“It certainly isn't a good idea to drink gin in the morning.” I entered, pushing my way past a clump of cab drivers. “I should expect it finishes you off for the rest of the day.” I noticed Ahmed was not following me, but had halted at the door as if scared to enter.

“Come on,” I said, gently tugging at his sleeve. “Don't be afraid. We'll go to the bar. I've heard the pot-boys in these places are a wonderful source of gossip.”

We passed a pot-boy in a grubby apron taking several large tankards to customers. I thought it foolish to make inquiries before buying ourselves some drinks with the pennies I had remaining in my pockets—the ones the thief had not managed to steal. As we fought our way to the bar we came up behind a person with carroty hair who was talking in a loud voice. The landlady, busy dispensing glasses of gin, did not seem much interested.

“Nah,” Carrots was saying. “Them ole tales don't frighten me. People say to me, they say Bob me ole son, you'd be right tickled if you—”

“'Old on a mo,” the landlady turned round to serve someone else, then smiling she asked: “'Ow's Velvet? Haven't seen 'er for ages. Too good for us now, is she?”

“Movin' up in the world is ole Nell.” The landlady hadn't waited for his reply, but moved away to serve someone else. However the red-haired boy continued in a loud, bragging voice, not seeming to care if anyone was listening. “Hardest master in the game is Velvet Nell. She'll not take no lip from no one. Some people fink she's soft just cos she's a gel but they couldn't be more wrong. A monster that's what she is!”

“He spiks different English to you,” Ahmed whispered to me. “A different sound.”

“It's called a Cockney accent. It comes from East London,” I explained.

“Strange,” Ahmed said, with a grin. “Maybe I should learn to spik Cockney.”

“Don't you dare,” I hissed. “Aunt Hilda would never forgive me!”

Meanwhile the youth was still blabbering: “Yer want sumfink to frighten the little kiddiwinks, don't bother with fairy tales. Them monsters and fings, yer know, made up fings like Spring Heeled Jack, they ain't
frightenin.” Yer send them to Nell.'

“I wouldn't wish that on any brat!” the landlady grinned, finally taking some notice of the red-haired boy. “That'll be ha'pence,” she said to another customer, a grinning old woman wearing a straw hat from which draggled a floppy artificial rose. The old dame weaved away unsteadily, gin slopping down the side of her glass. In fact the pitted pewter counter was awash with gin. Some of the drinkers were so beside themselves they spilled as much of their precious liquid as they drank. I had heard that thrifty landlords collected these leftovers—made up as much of spit as gin—and resold them as “All-Sorts.”

“Here, wot's this I heard on the grapevine about Velvet branchin' out?” the landlady asked the chattering redhead. “I 'eard she's moving on, she is, going to get herself into a whole new game.”

“That's wot I bin trying to tell you, if you'd only bin listening. Too good for you, I'll be soon. You won't catch me 'ere no more but down one of them gent's clubs in Pall Mall,” he replied.

“They wouldn't let you in, not till you had a scrub-up and got yourself a new set of threads.” The landlady looked him up and down. “Nah, I don't fink them toff's club would ever let you in.”

“Less lip.” From behind we saw the youth lean forward
on the bar. “Give me another glass o” your finest gin, there's a dear.'

“Not yer usual All-Sorts? What's this, Jabber? Nell given you a pay rise now you're leaving Petticoat Lane behind?” The landlady smirked as she filled his glass.

I froze. Two things had galvanized me. The mention of Petticoat Lane and if I'd heard right the landlady called this youth, whose face I couldn't see, Jabber. Jabber Jukes, the criminal apprentice we sought! If so, I understood how he had earned his nickname. He was jabbering on, prattling away non-stop. Judging by his back view, the boy looked rather stringy and insignificant. Shorter than either Ahmed or me.

I tapped the red-haired youth on the shoulder and he turned round, all indignant.

“'Ere, wot do you think—” he began.

“Are you Jabber Jukes?”

“Eh?” the boy scowled. His skin was as carroty as his hair. A snub nose, a blaze of freckles, beady, darting eyes. He was wearing an oversize man's coat that swamped his tiny body and the uniform of a swaggering criminal: peaked cap, white neckerchief, red waistcoat and huge trousers fastened with a fancy metal studded belt. He was dressed tough, certainly, but was this little rascal really the person who had so frightened the greeners?

“Jabber Jukes?” Ahmed repeated.

“'Oo's your posh friends, Jabber?” the landlady asked, smirking.

So we were on the right track, “Jabber” was too much of an unusual name for it to be a coincidence. I moved toward him, intent on questioning him, while he regarded us with a cocky smile.

“Do yer want a drop o' gin?” he leered at me. “'Ave one on the handsomest boy in the Norfolk Punch. It'd only be right to treat a pretty lady like you.” Poking a dirty thumb at Ahmed he added. “Yer pal will 'ave to pay for hisself.”

I ignored the less-than-generous offer and looked him straight in the eye: “I've heard all about you, Jabber Jukes. Does the name Moses Zwingler mean anything to you?”

He met my eye with an insolent smirk.

“Perhaps you'll remember a mummy made of twigs?” I continued.

My words hit their target. Immediately a change came over the boy, his cocksure air dropping away. He jumped off his stool, as the landlady looked on, clattering into me and making me stagger backward. With one hand he seized my arm and tried to pull me through the pub. In his left hand Jabber was carrying a package, about the size of a family Bible—though I
doubt its contents were in any way holy.

“Get off!” I yelled, while Ahmed tried to push him away. It wasn't easy. Jabber was far stronger than he looked.

“Shush!” the strange boy begged. “Please shut yer mouf, ladyship.”

“I certainly will not.”

“Please, not 'ere.”

Jabber looked so frightened all of a sudden, I relented. He dragged me to a dark corner that was shaded from the gaslight that made the rest of the gin palace so dazzling. Ahmed followed, glaring at Jabber angrily.

“Yer gotta go. Right now. I know who yer are. If I'm seen with yer I'm dead,” Jabber explained as he tried to push me down on a wooden bench that stood behind a table, in a shadowy corner of the room.

Theories flashed through my mind as he talked. He knew who I was. How? Had the gang heard about our inquiries at Zwinglers? Had they followed Baruch and seen us with the greener? Were the gang on the lookout for us? If so they must have a fearsome organization. After all, it was only yesterday that the five of us had visited Moses Zwingler's shop. There were so many possibilities. It was as if I was blindfolded and playing a game of badminton against a far superior opponent. I had to admit it to myself, for the first time
I felt out of my depth.

“I'm not going anywhere,” I said. “Not till you answer my questions, Jabber Jukes.”

“'Ow do yer know that?” he yowled, he was towering over me as I sat on the bench. “Me moniker is sumfink between me and me maker.”

“Pardon?” I asked. This boy's speech was so foreign to me he could have come from the wilds of Africa rather than the capital city of my own country.

“'Ow do yer know me?” Jabber said. He sat down on one of the stools opposite me, besides Ahmed.

“He wants to know how you know his name,” Ahmed intervened. Brilliant! An Egyptian understood this hooligan better than I did!

“I have my sources.”

“Bet yer just makin” it up.'

“I'll come down to Petticoat Lane looking for you,” I said with a burst of inspiration. “I'll say you're my friend. I'll tell everyone you were jabbering on. That you couldn't stop telling me your secrets. I'll tell them I saw you talking to the police.”

“I ain't no blower,” he protested indignantly.

“Pardon?” He'd lost me again. Blower? What could he mean?

“I ain't about to nose to the rozzers.”

Finally! Something I could understand.

“I'm not asking you to speak to the police. I just want you to answer my questions.”

“'Ow did yer find me, anyhow?” All the time we were talking Jabber's eyes were darting around the gin palace, as if to check that no one was watching us. I resolved to capitalize on his unease, by hitting him with all I knew.

“I have my ways. Understand? Now listen, Jabber, I know that you are part of a filthy, rotten criminal gang. I'm sure the police will be very keen to hear all about it. I know you take protection money from the shopkeepers of Raven Row—”

“That ain't for me—” he interrupted. “That's for the captain.”

“What captain? Who are you talking about?”

“It's wot you 'ave in the navy,” he replied, with a smirk, as if I had somehow shown myself up.

“Who's ‘the captain,' Jabber? I'll warrant your ‘captain' has never been to sea. Remember I can make things very hot for you.”

“'Is name is Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“Don't you play the fool with me.”

I had lost my advantage somehow, in some way that I didn't understand. Jabber seemed to relax a bit, he leaned forward, a honeyed smile spreading over his face: “You're pretty, miss, close up.”

I flushed, and then, cross with myself, scowled.

“A right beauty you are, miss.” He arranged his brown teeth in what he probably thought was a charming smile. “Though if you don't mind my saying so you could do with a dash of powder.”

There was a caricature of a disgusting old man in Jabber's manner as he simpered at me. He must believe he was being smart and manly. It was all I could do not to laugh in his face. No one has ever called me “pretty” or begged me to wear powder. Not even my dear papa, who would love me to be a little more ladylike.

I was just contemplating giving Jabber a smack across the face for his presumption when suddenly a whistle screeched. With amazing speed the gin palace filled up with blue uniforms. Conical helmets towered above the top hats, bonnets and bowlers. Stout boots tramped upon the floor. It was a sight to instill fear into the hearts of wrongdoers, who miraculously melted away. If Ahmed had not grabbed Jabber by his arm, our young friend would have vanished too.

“The bluebottles,” he yelped, struggling to get out of Ahmed's grasp.

“I know.” I nodded. I was getting the hang of Jabber's way of talking. “The rozzers are here.”

“Let me go, gerroff me.” Jabber had wriggled out of
his coat but Ahmed had grabbed him by the arm. “It's a raid, you ignorant heathen.”

There was a policeman a few feet from our table. A tall young man, carrying a stout truncheon and a pair of handcuffs. A grin adorned his rosy face, which became larger as he saw our scoundrel friend. He just had to pass through two men, actors covered in greasepaint, and he would be upon us.

“I'm for the block house,” Jabber moaned, seeing the policemen advance and realizing that this time there was no way out. “Yer gotta help me.”

He collapsed on the table, his head in a pool of beer. Meanwhile under the table something banged into my skirt. My hands knew what it was before my brain did. It was the package wrapped in cloth which Jabber had been carrying. Calmly I took it, though my heart was beating fast. My hands trembling slightly, I placed it in my bag, careful to show nothing on my face.

“Gin? At this time o' the morning!” the policeman towered over our table. “Watch out, Jabber, or you'll end up in the workhouse like your ole ma.”

“Jus' a drop o' ale to wet me tonsils.”

“Come on, lad, I'm taking you in.” Sullenly Jabber stood up and the policeman clapped a pair of handcuffs on him. Then he noticed me. “This rascal not been bothering you, miss, has he?”

“Not at all,” I said, calmly. “I've had a hard morning shopping and was feeling rather faint so I came in here to sit down. Rather a strange place.” I looked around the gin palace with an innocent air.

My act had worked. “You shouldn't come in here, miss,” the policeman said, in a fatherly tone. “I can see you're a respectable young lady. This is no place for you. The Norfolk Punch attracts a bad lot. In fact, miss, we've had a tip-off about this 'ere gin palace. It's a den of thieves.”

“Thank you. I am just leaving.” I rose, Ahmed following suit.

“Hang on.” The policeman looked Ahmed over, taking in his foreign looks. “Who's this?”

“My friend and guest, officer.”

“How long you known 'im?” The policeman was scanning Ahmed up and down, taking in his good clothes. Perhaps they were too good? “See, the thing is we been warned about bad elements in the Punch,” the policeman continued.

“Ahmed's not a bad element.”

“He's a foreigner.”

“So?”

“You can never be too sure wiv foreigners.”

The policeman hadn't taken his eyes off Ahmed while the whole exchange was going on, a scrutiny I
could see was making the Egyptian boy very nervous. Suddenly Ahmed bolted, leaving my side and trying to dash past the policeman to the door. The fool! He had no hope of making it, the Punch was far too crowded. The policeman put out a hand and caught him by his coat-tails, causing Ahmed to crash to the floor. Bending down, the policeman produced a second pair of handcuffs and in a moment Ahmed was stoutly cuffed as well. That scoundrel Jabber was smirking as he watched the scene.

“How dare you!” I raged to the policeman.

“If he's not a bad 'un why'd he try to scarper?” the policeman asked.

“You frightened him,” I snapped. Poor Ahmed did look terrified, his wrists shackled to a chain which the policeman carried. His doe eyes flitted around wildly, searching for a way out, but finding none. They came back to me and I couldn't resist the pleading in them.