The Tiger in the Well (29 page)

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, Esq.

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, gnomelike 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 he took refuge here, would he 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 offense 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 skeptical. 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."

"Habeas corpus.'"'

"It's a writ requiring the jailer to produce the prisoner in person and state the reasons for holding him. If the court decides the reasons aren't good enough, he goes free. What it'll do in this case is to delay the whole process and give us time to establish a political motive."

He got to his feet and solemnly shook Harriet's hand.

"And as I said a few minutes ago," he said, "there's an uncommon number of policemen about this morning. That's all."

He shook Sally's hand, nodded to both of them, and limped out as briskly as he'd come in. She realized with surprise that he hadn't once said how difficult it would be, how awkward it was to take on a case like this, what a problem she was

causing him. Anyone less like the helpless Mr. Adcock was hard to imagine.

Mindful of his warning, she slipped out of the church by a side entrance and looked both ways before turning left into Lime Street and setting off back to Spitalfields.

At the mission, there was work to be done. Someone had brought in a vast pile of old clothes, and Miss Robbins wanted someone to go through them and sort out the wearable from the worthless. Sally spent the moming doing that, with Harriet playing busily nearby, and wondered all the time about Mr. Wentworth and extradition and habeas corpus; but even more about something else.

After their lunch of bread and cheese, and after washing the dishes for the three or four women and children who were there with them, Sally took Harriet upstairs for her nap. When the child was in bed, Sally sat down beside her and stroked her head.

"Hattie.?"

"Mmm."

"You're being a good girl. Can you be a brave girl, too.^"

Harriet lay looking up at her, right thumb in mouth, left hand tugging gently at her right ear: her sleepy posture. Sally knelt down and laid her own head beside Harriet's on the pillow. She whispered, "When Mama was a little girl like Harriet, her papa would take her into the forest or up in the mountains, and we'd live in a little tent, and we'd cook our food over a campfire and drink water out of the river. And both of us had to be very brave because of the tigers and the snakes and the wild monkeys. But even when Mama couldn't see her papa, she knew he was there, close-by, and she wasn't afraid. Now, Hattie, my sweet, you're going to be brave too, aren't you.^ Because Mama is going to go somewhere else for a while. But we'll take you to a friend who'll look after you. And you won't see Mama, but she'll be there, close-by. And soon afterward we'll go home. ..."

Harriet was asleep. Sally's voice faltered. Very gently she stroked the hair off Harriet's face and looked at the child for

a minute or so, marveling at that intense firmness, even in sleep, the concentration, the Harriet-ness.

Sally bent to kiss her, and then got up quietly, wrote a note to Angela Turner and another to Miss Robbins, and set off for the bathroom.

"But Sally —^what have you done? Your hair— dein schones Haar. . ."

"I want to change my appearance. But cutting it short isn't enough—I want to change the color, too. I wondered if you could help me.'*"

Rebecca turned to Mrs. Katz and her daughter Leah, who was holding Harriet, and they spoke rapidly. Sally heard the words mit Henna farben, and Mrs. Katz nodded and went out.

"With . . . henna.'' I don't know the word," said Rebecca. "It will make it red, maybe. Browny-red. Yes, we can do it. But why, Sally.'* What are you going to do.^"

Seeing that Harriet was occupied with a little wooden dog, Sally spoke quietly. "It's what you told us yesterday. I had an idea after I left, but I'll need to disguise myself. And I'll need somewhere safe for Harriet to stay. I can't leave her in the mission; they're too busy, there isn't anyone who can look after her. But I thought perhaps you might be able to . . . and Mrs. Katz and Leah are so kind ... I don't like to ask. But I can't think of anything else."

It was the first time in her life she had asked for something without being able to pay for it. She felt quite naked, and not only because of her newly cropped head. Rebecca looked at Leah, and the other girl, small and birdlike and lively, nodded at once.

"Of course," Leah said. "Of course we can. But what are you going to do.?"

Sally felt sick. Each time she thought about it, it felt worse; but she was set on course now, and she wouldn't turn back.

"I'm going to get into his house. I want to see him for myself. If I can do something to stop him, then I will. But I need to look different. He knows what I look like—or Parrish

I

does—and they won't be expecting someone dark-haired. They won't be expecting anyone at ail. So . . . well, that's what I'm going to do."

They looked at her without speaking. She thought for a moment that they hadn't understood, but Leah's English was good, and Sally had tried to translate as she went along anyway. No, they understood all right.

"But^otB?.?" said Leah.

"I don't know yet. I'll find a way. But it might take me some time, and that's why ..."

She looked at Harriet, who was oblivious to everything except the little wooden dog. Rebecca stooped and picked her up, taking Harriet on her lap.

"She'll be safe," she said. "We'll take care of her. But have you really made up your mind.^"'

They were understanding each other more easily now— half in German, half in English. Sally nodded.

"Absolutely. I must. Not only for Harriet and me but for Mr. Goldberg. I've thought it through. Why should they suddenly want to arrest him now.^" He hasn't been in hiding; he's a journalist, he's well known. It's only now he's started investigating the Tzaddik that the police come after him. No, Rebecca, I've got to do this. But I need you to tell me everything you can remember—every detail —about him, his servants, his habits . . . everything."

Mrs. Katz came into the room with a bowl of hot water, a towel, and various things in a brown paper bag. She said something to Leah, who translated: "It will take two hours. You have to put up with hot water, says Mama. And your hair is so blond that it might not go very dark. But we'll make it as dark as we can. You'll need to loosen your dress— put this towel around your neck so it doesn't stain. . . ."

As Harriet watched, curious, Sally bent forward over the bowl and Mrs. Katz began to work.

And Rebecca told her everything she remembered. The maid she had known was a Russian girl, and she had been on the

permanent staff of the house, not the Tzaddik's personal staff. Like a monarch, he traveled with a court. There was his secretary, a German called Winterhalter; his cook, a Frenchman whose name Rebecca didn't know; his personal physician, also a German, Dr. Strauss; his coachman and the servants who dealt with the business of moving him about; and, most important of all, his valet, Michelet.

It was Michelet's job to see to dressing and washing the Tzaddik and to all his other personal needs. He was the most powerful person in the household apart from the Tzaddik himself. He was a vain man, Rebecca thought, trying to remember what she'd heard; capricious and plump and greedy for chocolates and little sweetmeats and scented cigarettes. He was the only person in the household who could manage the monkey, which bit anyone it wanted to without punishment. It had fastened its teeth into Michelet's hand once, and instead of trying to shake it loose or pry its jaws open, he had calmly puffed at his cigarette to make the end glow and then stubbed it out on the monkey's head. The monkey had screamed and fled, and had been terrified of him ever since.

And as for the monkey itself . . .

"It's evil," said Rebecca, as she rubbed something pungent into Sally's hair. "I don't care what they say about animals being innocent, not knowing good or evil, Adam and Eve, the tree of knowledge, blah blah—that monkey is not innocent. It knows evil, and it does evil. If I believed in all that folklore stuff about dybbuks and golems, I'd think it was an evil spirit, not an animal of flesh and blood. When the Tzaddik wants to punish a servant he sometimes tells the monkey to attack him, and it does. The servants daren't defend themselves—except Michelet that one time. And one other thing she told me, the maid Olga: she said the monkey is getting old. The Tzaddik has tried to replace it by training younger ones, but they won't take to it. One day soon it will be too old to do anything, and then it'll die, and what he'll do then, God knows . . . there. Now we rinse again. Put your head over the bowl."

Sally absorbed it all, letting Mrs. Katz and Rebecca rub and rinse and dab on the paste and swathe her in towels and rinse again. Mr. Katz came in halfway through, threw up his hands, and went out again, but came back to play with Harriet.

Time went past, and they had some supper of beetroot soup and pickles and black bread, and then Sally (with her head still turbaned) took Harriet up to bed in the cot they'd made up in Rebecca's room. Mr. Katz had often sheltered refugees before; his business was prospering, and there was always room in the house for anyone in need of help. Besides, he liked children.