The Yard (50 page)

“Aye, that’s exactly what he does. Very sneaky one, that.”

“I don’t mean to seem curious, but may I ask what’s in the blanket?”

“Blanket?”

“The one you’ve got over your shoulder.”

“Oh, you mean this blanket?”

“Yes.”

“It’s police supplies in here, ma’am. Constable Hammersmith was savin’ ’em fer me. Gotta get ’em down to headquarters.”

“It looks very heavy.”

“Well, they’re not lightweight supplies, I’ll tell you that, ma’am. Not the easiest thing to have slung on me whilst I stand about in the street.”

“I’m sorry. I’m keeping you.”

“Not at all. It’s a sheer pleasure talkin’ with you, and that’s for sure. Did I mention you remind me of me mum?”

“That’s very dear of you to say.”

“’Tis the God’s truth, ma’am. But now I’d better get this over to Scotland Yard afore it’s too late.”

“Too late?”

“Yes, ma’am. Big rush on it from the commissioner of police hisself.”

“Then I mustn’t keep you any longer. Only…”

“Yes?”

“Do promise you’ll come back for a visit.”

The rough-looking policeman grinned at Mrs Flanders and bowed slightly at the waist, keeping the bundle on his shoulders carefully balanced as he did so.

“I guarantee that I will, missus.”

And with that he tottered off down the road with his heavy burden and turned the corner into an alley halfway along the block.

Mrs Flanders put a hand on her heart and stepped back into the building. She closed the door to the street and went back up to her own cozy flat. Strange, she thought, that she hadn’t heard the second policeman leave. They were obviously very good at their jobs. She had not bought into all the recent condemnation of the police. It made her feel safe knowing that she had them as tenants in her own building.

She sat down with her novel and found her place again. She had read only two sentences when it occurred to her that the nice policeman had never actually told her what was in the bundle he was carrying. She made up her mind to ask him about it the next time he paid a visit to Mr Hammersmith.

D
ay looked over at Hammersmith, took a deep breath, and swung the carriage house door open. Something hot whistled past Day’s right ear and there was the sudden crack of a gunshot. He fell backward and waited for another shot, but none came. He crawled to the side, away from the entrance so that the building’s wall would block any more bullets that were fired his way. Hammersmith was already on the other side of the door, against the wall there.

“Cinderhouse?” Day said. “Stop shooting.”

He waited for a response. He was about to call again when the tailor answered.

“Have you been to my shop?”

“I have.”

“Did you find the boy?”

“Yes.”

“Is he all right? He was under that counter for quite some time. Longer than I intended.”

“He’s fine.”

“Good.”

There was another long silence.

“Who am I talking to out there?” Cinderhouse said. “Is that Inspector Day?”

“Yes.”

“Are you alone?”

Day shook his head at Hammersmith. He put a finger to his lips.

“I’m alone,” Day said.

“Good. It should be the two of us at the end. Cat and mouse. But which is the cat and which is the mouse?”

“I don’t take your meaning, sir.”

“Which of us,” Cinderhouse said, “I mean, which of us will come out of this. We won’t both live through this day, you know.”

“Why do you say that?”

“If I let you live, you’ll keep the boy from me. I can’t let that happen.”

“You plan to kill me, then?”

“I don’t think I have a choice.”

“But I have you trapped.”

“True.”

“So perhaps you should lay the gun down and come out where we can talk, face-to-face.”

“That won’t do, Detective.”

“Why not?”

“I told you. The only way I’ll get to keep the boy is if you die here.”

“Have you killed before?”

“No.”

“What about Inspector Little?”

“Who?”

“Or Constable Pringle?”

Day saw Hammersmith shudder and he shook his head again. He didn’t want Hammersmith’s emotions to get the better of him. Day still hoped that the situation might end without further deaths.

“It’s sad about Pringle,” Cinderhouse said. “I rather liked him. He was an excellent customer.”

“Then why kill him?”

“I didn’t. He was going to take the boy and so he had to go away.”

“Go away?”

“Yes. He disappeared. A shame, really. I had a new pair of trousers ready for him.”

“He didn’t go away, Mr Cinderhouse. You murdered him.”

“Certainly not. I did have to discipline him, of course. He was out of line. I only did what I needed to do to keep him from talking about the boy. He would have told everyone.”

“So he disappeared?”

“I haven’t seen him since.”

“Who else has disappeared, Mr Cinderhouse?”

“Oh, now … now, I don’t want to…”

Cinderhouse stopped talking and Day could hear a choking sound deep inside the carriage house. He wished he had a lamp, anything that might allow him to see farther than four feet into the building.

Quietly, he slipped his boots off and edged around the back of the carriage house. The building had no windows. The only way in or out was through the big door. When he got to the other side, he drew Hammersmith close and whispered in his ear. He handed Hammersmith his gun. The constable nodded and hurried, quickly and quietly, back around the
way that Day had come. He appeared momentarily on the other side where Day had been. They’d switched places.

Day got down on his stomach in the short brown grass and crept forward until the top of his head was even with the edge of the doorway. A few feet away, Hammersmith cleared his throat.

“Mr Cinderhouse, are you all right?” Hammersmith said.

The choking noise inside the carriage house tapered off. Cinderhouse sniffed.

“Detective?” Cinderhouse said.

“It’s me,” Hammersmith said.

Day winced. Hammersmith’s voice was huskier and more nasal than his own. Day didn’t have a broken nose. Fortunately, the tailor didn’t notice. The big empty horse stalls and vaulted ceiling served to flatten and amplify every sound.

“You don’t know what it is,” Cinderhouse said, “to have people disappear. People you care about.”

“I don’t know about that,” Hammersmith said. “I’ve known people who have disappeared.”

“Who?”

“My friend Pringle, for one.”

“That’s not the same. Mr Pringle was a grown man. They disappear all the time. But the children … That’s not fair, is it? My boys keep disappearing.”

“Your boys?”

“All the boys. Starting with my very first boy. His mother, too. Both gone. One day, just gone.”

“And that justifies all you’ve done?”

“You don’t understand.”

“I might. At least a little.”

Day was uncomfortable, his neck bent up so he could see and his elbows digging into the dirt. There was a small rock under his left elbow, but he was afraid to move it, afraid of the sound it might make. He kept perfectly
still. Hammersmith was doing a better job than Day had thought he would. If he kept Cinderhouse talking, there might be no need for more violence.

“No,” Cinderhouse said. “You can’t understand.”

Another shot. The carriage house held on to the sound of it and shook it, vibrated it. It seemed to Day that the earth under him trembled with the noise of the gun. He instinctively put his head down. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hammersmith drop to one knee and fire through the door. Day crawled forward and rolled through the doorway. He was almost instantly in the dark. He lay still inside the doorway, back against the wall, the light streaming past him and fading into nothingness.

“Did I get you?” Cinderhouse said.

“No,” Hammersmith said.

“I got this gun from the guard at the workhouse. I have no idea how many bullets it contains.”

“I don’t imagine you’ve got many left.”

“Then perhaps I should rush forward before shooting at you next time.”

“If you do, I’ll shoot you.”

“That might not be so bad.”

“I’d rather not do it.”

Either Hammersmith was playing the part of Inspector Day to a fault or he was considerably less violent than Day thought he was.

“You said you understood,” Cinderhouse said. “Just a moment ago, before I shot, you said that people had disappeared on you. Have you lost a child, too?”

Hammersmith didn’t respond. Day waited in the dark so long that he had almost given up and decided to make his move when he finally heard Hammersmith’s voice again, echoing faintly through the length of the carriage house and back again.

“No, not a boy,” he said. “My father has disappeared.”

“Your father?”

“Yes,” Hammersmith said.

“How sad. Were you a good son?”

“I hope so.”

“That’s all a father asks.”

There was another shot, but Day couldn’t tell whether Hammersmith had fired or Cinderhouse. While the shot still echoed, he moved forward in the pitch black. Another gunshot, horizontal lightning that left spots on his vision, and then a third shot, the noise covering the sound of his steps on the brittle old straw underfoot. There was no way for him to tell where the shots were coming from. Inside the carriage house, the racket was staggering. Blind and deaf, he stumbled ahead.

Something brushed against his leg, and impulsively he threw himself sideways. Somebody grunted and pushed back against him, and Day was suddenly wrestling with the tailor, still unable to see what he was doing.

“Hammersmith,” he said, “I’ve got him. Come quickly.”

He felt the guard’s gun in his ribs and heard a click. The gun was empty. Day lashed out and his knuckles hit bone. Cinderhouse yelped. The tailor abruptly jerked away from Day and Cinderhouse began screaming. Day reached out, but the screaming tailor was moving rapidly away, and knocked off balance, Day fell back against the wall.

In the patch of sunlight at the door, Hammersmith hove into view, his injured arm hanging useless, his other arm extended into the darkness. A moment later, he hauled Cinderhouse into the light, Hammersmith’s fingers jammed deep in the tailor’s nose. Day got his feet under him and hurried to the door. He grabbed Cinderhouse’s arms and twisted them behind his back. Hammersmith let loose his grip on Cinderhouse’s nose, which had already turned a deep purple color.

Hammersmith frowned at his fingers and wiped them on his already filthy trousers.

“His nose?” Day said.

“I was trying to get him by the hair,” Hammersmith said. “I forgot the bastard was bald.”

G
et behind me,” Blacker said.

He stepped in front of Penelope Shaw. She grabbed his shoulders, frightened, and despite the seriousness of their situation he felt an electric thrill run through his body.

“Put the pistol down,” he said.

The short woman laughed at him.

“You give me your pistol, mister,” she said.

“I know you won’t shoot me. You didn’t shoot any of the others, did you?”

“What do you know about the others?” This was the tall one talking, the one with the scar. She looked worried.

“Did you get them to sit still and let you shave them because you had the pistol? Or did you make them shave themselves?”

“How do you know that?”

“Don’t matter how he knows it, Liza,” the tall one said. “He won’t know it much longer.”

“I won’t let you shave me. And I won’t shave myself. I know that if I do, you’ll cut my throat. So you have no bargaining power here.”

“Then I’ll shoot you now.”

“Well, I suppose you do have that one bit of bargaining power,” he said.

He pointed at the arched entryway behind the two women. “Get back to the kitchen, Bradley.”

The tall woman laughed again. “You ain’t gonna fool me so easy,” she said.

“Leave him alone,” Bradley said.

Surprised, the short woman—the other one had called her Liza—turned around. The tall one glanced at her friend for a fraction of a second, but it was long enough for Blacker to make his move. He leapt forward, and as he did, he felt his pistol come free from his belt. He landed on the tall
woman, knocking her on her back against the floor. Liza attacked him, beating Blacker on the back with her fists. He ignored her and grabbed the tall woman’s arm, shoving it up and away as she fired the pistol. The bullet smacked into the wall by the staircase, and Blacker felt his stomach lurch as he looked for Bradley, afraid that he’d been hit.

A plain, dark-haired woman ran from the room beyond the arch and gathered Bradley in her arms. The boy seemed frightened but unharmed. Blacker heard Penelope’s voice coming from somewhere behind him.

“You! Stop hitting my friend.”

Blacker turned to see her holding his own pistol. She had it aimed at Liza.

The short prostitute backed away from Blacker and stood pouting against the wall. Blacker picked up the tall woman’s pistol. He stood up and moved away from her, keeping the weapon casually aimed in the direction of the two killers.

“Elizabeth,” Penelope said, “please take Bradley to the kitchen and get him something warm to drink. When you have a moment, send someone round to fetch the police. Ask them to bring a carriage.”

“My colleague is asleep in the wagon outside,” Blacker said. “Let’s wake him.”

“Beg pardon, but there’s no wagon outside, sir,” Elizabeth said.

“He’s gone?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“Well, fancy that. He’s an odd duck, Hammersmith is. I suppose you’d better send a runner after the police after all, then.”

Elizabeth mumbled something that Blacker couldn’t hear and took Bradley by the hand, leading him out of sight.

The tall prostitute stood up and brushed herself off. She moved over next to Liza against the wall and sneered at Blacker.

“Bet you liked that, eh? Up on top of me like you was?”

“Not especially,” Blacker said.

“You woulda had your way wiff me if she didn’t interrupt us. I saw you wanted to.”