The Tiger in the Well (27 page)

"They don't respect you because you're middle-class, for

goodness' sake, Angela; they respect you because of what you are yourself. You're a doctor. How many doctors choose to work here.'' Think how valuable that is! And you're a woman who struggled to become a doctor—and people know how difficult that is and how determined you must have been to do it. You know how valuable your work is. And you know how well you do it. Don't you.? Don't let them comer all the pride. You've got things to be proud of too."

"Them.?"

"The enemy. The landlords, the factory owners."

"The capitalists?"

"Yes. Including me, I know. But I'm not one oi them. And I'm learning all the time."

Angela nodded, blew her nose again, and smiled briskly with her red-rimmed eyes.

"Now, what's the matter with Harriet.?" she said. "Let's go and have a look."

Bill was busy. The melamed, Mr. Kipnis, had found a surge of energy in some bottle or other and was making Bill work hard at his tattered copy of Webb, Millington, and Co.'s New Indestructible Pictorial Lesson Book.

"I bought that for you personally," he said for the tenth time in their acquaintance. "I went looking down the Farringdon Road. Spent hours till I found it. Cost me threepence. There's a lot of wear in that book. Do your best, now. Do that one there, that wossname, that bird."

His trembling fingers fumbled the book open. Bill looked down at a picture of an owl and frowned as he tried to make out the words below it.

''The . . . that's an owl, innit.? The owl—is to be—found— among—old . . . old ... I can't do that one, Mr. Kipnis."

"Giss a look." The old man peered at it. ''Ruins, boy. See, there's a bloody great R, then you go oo, and then you got ins. Ruins. Go on. You do it."

"Ruins, and in — holl. . . hollow trees." Bill felt a sense of relief at every full stop; it meant he'd got a bit further. Al-

ready the little words were becoming transparent: he could see through them into the text, like a lot of little windows into a house. And day by day more light got in, so that the big words were beginning to look familiar too, and he felt more able to guess what they might be, and got more of his guesses right. It wouldn't be long now before he'd be able to go straight to the Communist Manifesto. ''It feeds on . . .on . . . young . . . hanes, rabbits —here, look, Mr. Kipnis, there's rabbits on this page and all. That's rabbits, innit.'"'

"That's right, boy. You're doing well. It's a good book, this 'un. Lot of wisdom in this book. Here ..."

Mr. Kipnis looked around blurrily. They were in the lodging house in Dean Street, and Goldberg was out. The me-lamed beckoned Bill closer and leaned over to say quietly: "Summing I heard today. You tell Mr. Goldberg they're looking for him. The coppers. He ought to lay low for a bit. They're after him, that's what I heard. You tell him, all right.?"

"The coppers.? What for.?"

"I dunno that, do L? But he wants to keep out of the way. No sense in provoking trouble if you can run and keep out of it."

"Suppose he don't want to run.?"

"That's what Jewish people always have to do, son. We're not wanted anywhere. The best we got to hope for, it's just keeping down, keeping out of trouble. Course, it'd be different in Jerusalem. In Eretz Israel. But that's not for the likes of us, not in our lifetime." He sighed melodically; his ancient eyes were moist. His fingers fumbled for the tin flask in his pocket, and he nodded to the book. "Go on, boy, that whatchamacallit, that owl. Don't stop."

Frowning, Bill picked up the book again. Running away, keeping out of trouble—that didn't sound like Goldberg. Or Kid Mendel. There must be Jews who didn't run away. What kind of respect would the great Bridie Sullivan of Lambeth Walk have for him if he turned and ran.? She had fellows like Liam to compare him with.

"Don't forget, now," said Mr. Kipnis. "You pass it on, what I said."

"All right, Mr. Kipnis. But he won't run—^you watch. // feeds on . . . young hares, rabbits, rats, mice, and birds. It— seeks its food when — night comes on. ..."

At eight o'clock that evening, the maid opened the door of the office where Sally was filing some letters and said, "Lady to see you, miss."

It was Margaret. Sally gave a little gasp, and then embraced.

"Did you get—did he come— V

"Oh, Sally, you've no idea—"

Margaret's expression was troubled. Sally pulled out a chair and let her talk.

"Ever since Thursday—all yesterday in fact, and all this moming—there've been men in the office, accountants, going through everything—every letter, every file, every single thing. They came first thing yesterday moming. They were going to take it all away. They had a warrant, but I read it very carefully, and it didn't say anything about taking things away, so I ran down and got the porter to lock the door while I ran next-door to that odd little lawyer—^you remember him, the man with the limp.'' He was excellent. He came straightaway and looked at the warrant. They were about to smash the door down, and he said if they'd done that he'd have sued them for damages. At any rate, I engaged him at once, and he made sure they didn't take anything away, but had to do all their searching there. Sally, they're taking our business to pieces! Mr. Wentworth—^he's the lawyer—he's discovered that it's not just your money they're after. It's the business itself, and according to the papers he's seen, they're applying for some order to make us stop trading on the grounds that the company's improperly registered. It all comes back to the marriage claim. The idea is that since you didn't reveal that you were trading with your husband's money, all our activities are illegal. They're just—helping themselves. . . . I've

been there all day trying to answer questions, trying to stem it, and I think they've done all they can for the moment. Mr. Wentworth has been wonderfully industrious; he's understood everything and worked as quickly as anyone could hope. He's applied for every kind of stalling process—injunctions, writs, I don't know, everything possible—and it's held them up until Monday. But he can't do any more without your authority to act. If he can look at the papers in your case against Parrish, he might be able to find another way through. But, oh, Sally, they were so arrogant. They seemed to think they had the right to just walk in and take anything they wanted. I know now how you felt—corrupted, invaded—it's horrible. ..."

Cool, ironic Margaret, talking like this, showing her helplessness. Sally was shaken.

"But what's been happening to you.'*" Margaret went on. "How did you get here.'' What is this place.? Who's the man who came to the office.'* Oh, don't worry, we didn't speak in front of the men. And how's Harriet.'"'

Sally told her everything that had happened. Only a couple of days, and it felt like an epic. She finished with the strange, unsatisfactory, but tantalizing interview with Mr. Beech and the revelation about opium.

"Margaret, I don't know why, but I keep coming back to that. There's something there that's not right. But would this lawyer, Mr. Wentworth, would he really be able to take on my case.f* Do you trust him.?"

"Yes, I do. He's quick and he's clever and he's honest. He hasn't got many clients, I think. I mean, he's not very prepossessing. Perhaps people choose their lawyers for their looks; and his office is very shabby. But, yes, seeing what he's done, I'd trust him with anything now. The only thing is this: You'll have to give yourself up to the police."

"But—absolutely not! I couldn't possibly—"

''Listen. He can't help you if you're in hiding. He'd only get into trouble himself, and then it would be impossible. He's got to act within the law. But if you once give yourself

up and appoint him, he can get you bail for the gun business—^you know, in the tea shop—get Harriet made a ward of court to keep her safe from Parrish for the time being, get all the papers from your previous solicitor and start work right away. Unless you do that, he can't act."

Sally got up and walked to the window. It overlooked the street, and there was nothing but darkness out there now, with one or two dim gas lamps to hold it back. Much of Whitechapel—the main streets, at least—^was lively during the early evening, with pubs and market stalls doing a fine trade, but this was a quiet street, and no one was out at all.

She leaned her forehead on the cold glass. If she had a good lawyer working for her, he might be able to fight it off, this evil craziness. Parrish's claim would be dismissed, Harriet would be safe, she'd get her money back, the business would be rescued.

But farther off in the darkness lay the Tzaddik. He was the source of it. If Parrish were disposed of, it wouldn't make any difference; the Tzaddik was too well concealed, and there wouldn't be the slightest trace to connect him with Parrish. Furthermore, he'd be warned by what happened and withdraw even farther.

And out there in the dark, he'd be able to mount another attack. And like this one, it would be so well prepared, so long in coming, that the blow, when it fell, would be deadly. Perhaps there was another trap already prepared in case this one failed; from the thoroughness with which he'd set this one up, she didn't think he'd fail to cover every possibility. Her life might already be surrounded invisibly by dozens of traps, all ingenious and deadly and just waiting to be sprung.

No: her fight was with the Tzaddik, and her best chance of winning it was to stay in hiding and for the moment let Parrish do his worst. If it were just her property, though, she'd give it up without a thought; but there was Margaret to consider; and if once they found out where Harriet was . . .

She turned around, intending to say . . . she didn't know

what—tell Margaret about the Tzaddik, perhaps; but before she could speak, the door opened, and there stood Goldberg.

And having seen Goldberg, she looked back at Margaret and realized, from Margaret's expression, what look there was on her own face. And she was swept by confusion and blushed as she'd never blushed before.

Goldberg nodded courteously to Margaret.

"Good evening," he said. "Your lawyer Mr. Wentworth is a good man. I have spoken to him. But later for that. Miss Lockhart, you're needed now. Down on the river. Is the child safe here.? Then come. Miss Haddow ..."

Another nod and he went out, leaving the door open for Sally. With a helpless look at Margaret, she followed.

\9

Rebecca's Story

They walked down Royal Mint Street toward the Tower of London. Goldberg was urgent and preoccupied, and in answer to her questions he said only, "We're going to meet a ship. I'll tell you more when we're on the river."

The streets were crowded, and the pavements narrow, and he took her arm as if he had a right to, walking steadily and swiftly beside her. She was aware, through her hand pressed against his side, of his tension, and of his strength, too; there was something implacable about him. She felt baffled by the strength of her own feelings, and even more baffled as to what those feelings were.

They turned down toward the river. The great bulk of the Tower of London rose darkly on their right. At the end of the street, before it turned left, a narrow opening led to a flight of stone stairs that went down to the water. Before they went through, Goldberg stopped and pointed toward the dock gates farther down the street.

"See all those cabs.'*" he said. "And the hangers-on.'"'

Sally could see that the road was blocked. A policeman was trying vainly to organize the cabs into a line, and people were jostling and shouting. They looked like a flock of greedy vultures eager to get at a kill, and she said that to Goldberg.

"Exactly what they are," he said. "They're waiting to prey on the Jews who come ashore. The first boats will be arriving very soon; we'd better hurry."

He led her through the opening and down the steps. They were lit only by a feeble gaslight at the angle of the ware-

house that stood on the left, and the steps were wet and slippery. She took Goldberg's hand.

At the foot of the steps a man was waiting in a rowboat. He had an old-fashioned horn lantern, and he held it up as they came down toward him. Sally saw a dirty, gray-bearded face and caught, even before she was close, a powerful drift of spirits.

"Evening, Mr. G.," said the boatman.

"Evening, Charlie. We're going to bring back one passenger, and we want to come ashore here."

"Right you are, sir."

The old man held the boat steady as Sally got in. Goldberg settled himself down with her in the stern, and then the boatman fixed the lantern on a pole at the bow and took up the oars.

"Where are the crimps working from.-^" said Goldberg.

"Off the Pier Head, sir. St. Katharine's Basin. See, there's sixty, maybe seventy people to come ashore, maybe more. They offload 'em at the Pier Head, then they can get away straight up Little Thames Street. You seen all them cabs.'' The cabmen got wind of this trade in the last month or so. They put a copper there regular now, to control 'em. There was nearly a hundred there last week."

He pushed off, then slipped the oars into the oarlocks and started to pull away with short, light strokes.

"What are crimps.'*" said Sally.

"Parasites," said Goldberg. "Swindlers. Minor criminals. Those vultures you saw back there."

Their voices sounded different on the open water, away from the enclosing cliffs of brick.

"Them cabs," said the boatman, "they're the worst. Even if they got somewhere to go to, the people coming in, they can't speak English, most of 'em, so they just repeat the address till the cabbie gets it. Then they're off. Some of them cabbies'll take 'em all over the place, out to Walthamstow, Leyton, Wanstead Flats, drop 'em there and charge a fortune. There'll be plenty of that tonight, this being

a Rotterdam boat. They don't bother with the Hamburg ones. It's the sweatshops that do for the Hamburg passengers. Looking for greeners."

"This is a new language to me," said Sally. "What are greeners.'"'

"Newly arrived workers. Blokes without jobs who don't know their way around. Green, yer see."