The Tiger In the Smoke Read online

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  His first conscious thought was that even for a nightmare it was extraordinarily cold and uncomfortable, and the noise was incredible. The sensation of being unable to speak was more familiar to him in dreams, and he moved his throbbing head restlessly, fighting as he thought with sleep. Soon he realized that he was awake, but in such an astonishing position that he doubted his sanity.

  He was wedged tightly into a little wheeled chair, midway between an invalid carriage and child’s go-cart, his arms pinioned to his sides under an old khaki mackintosh fastened behind him, and his cramped legs drawn up and strapped to the undercarriage of the chair. His mouth was sealed with a strip of adhesive plaster, which irritated abominably and paralysed the lower part of his face. He was wearing a knitted balaclava helmet which covered his entire head save his eyes, and he was being wheeled swiftly along a foggy gutter in the midst of a rabble of marching men, who kept time to the thin music of a mouth-organ.

  At this point he remembered what had happened to him up to the instant at which he had been knocked out, and he had the presence of mind not to attempt any violent movement which would have betrayed his return to consciousness. Having made certain that he really was helpless, trussed neatly by experienced hands, just able to breathe but no more, he concentrated cautiously on his kidnappers.

  There were ten or a dozen of them, drab, shadowy figures who kept very close to him, shielding him with their bodies from passers-by who could scarcely see their own hands in front of their faces in the brown mist.

  From where Geoffrey sat, very close to the ground, they towered above him, and lighted buses crawling by looked big as showboats and as remote. His head was spinning and he was still fighting with incredulity, but by this time the shuffling ghosts nearest to him had resolved into men and he noticed with a shock that there was something odd about each one of them, although for people with such emphasized disabilities they seemed to move with surprising freedom and lightness. The only heavy feet were those which stamped immediately behind his chair. The rest padded softly round him in the lamplit gloom, their clothes whispering and rustling in his ear.

  The man directly in front of him was leading the way. He was tall and made monstrously so by the fact that on his shoulders he carried a dwarf, a small man whose normal conveyance was no doubt the wheeled chair now occupied by the prisoner. It was the dwarf who played the mouth-organ. Geoffrey could see his small elbows moving in an ecstasy of excitement and pleasure. Geoffrey’s own dark hat, punched up into a billycock, sat on the back of the little man’s bulbous head, and from time to time he paused in his playing to jam it more securely in position.

  It was the tune which gave Geoffrey Levett the essential clue. He remembered it as a sentimental dirge of the Second World War called ‘Waiting’. He had been hearing it at intervals all the afternoon, played execrably by an ‘Ex-Servicemen’s’ band up and down Crumb Street. This was the same band.

  He made the discovery with a certain amount of relief, since it took him at least out of the region of pure fantasy and into the merely thoroughly outrageous, with which, as a modern, he was by now more or less familiar. The group had haunted him all through his nervous vigil outside the police station, pestering him with offhand importunities. But he saw now that it must have been his own quarry, the man in the sports jacket, for whom they had been waiting. They had certainly found him, but what they had done with him he had no idea. He did not appear to be with them.

  He decided that the business was doubtless some kind of minor gang warfare, and his own part in it must be entirely accidental. By some mistake he had been knocked down and collected instead of the man they had called ‘Duds’. Doubtless they were taking him somewhere now with the idea of questioning him.

  The Gaffer. The words returned to him suddenly. That was it, of course. He was on the track of Duds’ employer at last. In spite of his discomfort he felt a deep satisfaction. He had made up his mind to solve the mystery which had been upsetting his life, and he seemed well on the way at last. The method was bizarre enough, goodness knew, but at least he appeared to have landed in the heart of the matter. The thought that he might be in actual danger did not occur to him. London is still a comparatively law-respecting, if no longer conspicuously law-abiding, city, and in his time he had escaped from an Italian prison camp into a desert very much more alarming than this familiar bricky wilderness. He had every confidence that he would be able to deal with the situation, unless, of course, Elginbrodde proved to be alive.

  He flexed his muscles against his bonds and settled down stolidly, as he had settled down in that crowded Italian lorry long ago. Meg was necessary to him. He loved her very much. He was going to have her.

  Once he had felt the same way about liberty. In the end he had achieved liberty.

  In the meantime he had other worries. He remembered the call he had laid on to Paris with irritation. He hoped Miss Noble would use her head and not call out the fire brigade. His absence from the Pioneer Club dinner would take a little explaining, unless he could still make it. He had no idea of the time, nor even where he was for that matter. They had left the traffic and were swinging along a dark street which was almost deserted. He was aware of high buildings, but there was no way of telling if they were warehouses or offices closed and darkened for the night.

  The little procession halted abruptly. It took him by surprise and jerked him forward in the chair. The mouth-organ squealed and was silent, and he was aware of nervousness all round him. One man on his left giggled stupidly.

  A silver-crested helmet loomed out of the fog and the voice of the law, casual and consciously superior, drawled down at them.

  ‘Packing up for the night, Doll?’

  ‘That’s right, orficer. It’s a nasty night. Warmer at ’ome.’

  Geoffrey recognized the courage in the new voice, which came from behind him. It belonged to Heavy Boots, he decided, for he felt his carriage quiver as the hands on its rail trembled. Yet the tone was perfectly easy and ingratiating.

  ‘You’re right there.’ The law spoke with feeling. ‘What have you got there?’

  Geoffrey achieved a snort through his muffler and at once an iron hand closed on his shoulder. He became aware of the stink of fear reeking all round him, but Heavy Boots seemed quite equal to the occasion.

  ‘It’s only poor Blinky, orficer.’ And then with dreadful confiding, ‘Fits. ’E ’as ’em.’

  ‘I see. Very well.’ The law granted his permission to the ills of man with condescension, not to say haste. ‘Good night, all.’

  He moved on with steady dignity.

  ‘Good night, orficer.’ Heavy Boots showed no signs of relief, but his voice rose warningly to cover any signs of eagerness in the others. ‘Get along, Tom, can’t you. Strike up, ’Ercules. Blinky ought to be in bed, Blinky did.’

  The procession was moving at speed, and the dwarf, after much prompting, achieved a few scattered notes on his mouthorgan. Heavy Boots swore softly for a little while. He had an ugly vocabulary and a line in suppressed savagery which was startling. Geoffrey heard ‘the Flattie’ consigned to several sorts of perdition, some of them new to him. As an introduction, the incident was revealing. Geoffrey understood he had but one man to deal with.

  With the danger past, the temper of the band rose noticeably, and the man on the left who giggled showed signs of hysteria until he was silenced by a kick on the shins from Heavy Boots, who scarcely paused in his stride to administer it. The dwarf was playing merrily again by the time they turned out of the dark street into a lane, which despite the fog was ablaze from end to end with light and bustle.

  It was a market, Geoffrey saw, one of those small Alsatias which are still dotted about the poorer parts of the city, protected by ancient custom and the independence of their patrons. Ramshackle stalls roofed with flapping tarpaulin and lit with naked bulbs jostled each other down each side of the littered road; their merchandise, which ranged from whelks to underwear, was ope
n to the sooty air, while behind them tottering shops, open-fronted and ill lit, cowered odorously.

  The band kept to the middle of the road and closed very tightly round the chair. For the first time Geoffrey was aware of their faces and he recognized some of them from seeing them in Crumb Street that afternoon. The giggling man turned out to be a hunchback, taller than most of his kind but typical, with a jaw like a trowel and lank black hair which flapped as he moved. A one-armed man, his sleeve swinging mightily, strode close behind him, while a flying figure, festooned with picturesque rags and moving with amazing speed and dexterity, swung himself between a pair of crutches just in front. No one spoke to them. There were no greetings from the traders, no pleasantries. They passed by without a head being turned.

  The end of the journey came suddenly. At a gap between two stalls the group swung sharply and they plunged into darkness again. This time it was through a doorway beside a greengrocer’s shop, partly shuttered now, but still sprouting wilted leaves and damp straw all over the pavement.

  The hallway was narrow and chill and it smelt of dirt and damp and that particular stink of city poverty which is uncompromisingly cat. It was also pitch dark. But there was no delay. The procession dived like rats into a hole, and Geoffrey and his little chair were swept on and down until an inner door swung suddenly open and he found himself at the head of a dimly lit flight of cellar stairs. There he stopped, held precariously on the top step while the rest swept past him, bobbing and weaving down the dangerous way with the ease of long practice.

  He found he was looking into a vast shadowy cavern, warm and smelling unexpectedly wholesome and countrified, like a toolshed or a barn. He was struck first by its neatness. There was order, even homeliness in its arrangement. Its size was enormous. It took up the whole cellar of the building. It was very high, and although black and cobwebby as to rafters, the walls were clean and white-washed up to a height of ten feet or so. A mighty iron stove, gleaming with lead and very nearly red-hot, stood out in the room, and round it was a circle of seats, junk-shop chairs and settees covered with festoons of clean sacks. Three plank tables placed end-to-end, covered with clean newspaper and flanked by packing-case benches, stood waiting behind them, and far away against the farther wall a row of couches stacked with army blankets presented neat ends to the view.

  Geoffrey recognized it at once. He had seen places like it before, when a Company on active service under a good sergeant had dug itself in in some long-held position. Everywhere there were signs of discipline and a particular kind of personality. No rubbish or odds-and-ends were in sight, but all round the walls little packages of possessions, tied up in sacking, were hung neatly on nails, very much as one finds them in old-fashioned cottages or blacksmiths’ shops. It was a definite variety of bachelor establishment, in fact; primitive and wholly masculine, yet not without a trace of civilization.

  His scrutiny was cut short in a most terrifying manner. The men below him scattered. There was a shrill scream, wild and ecstatic, from the dwarf, and at the same instant the hands holding his chair were suddenly withdrawn, so that the little carriage began a dreadful descent down the steep stairs, while he was powerless to leave or guide it.

  The utter brutality of the gesture, its careless savagery and recklessness, terrified him much more than the physical danger. There was nothing he could do to save himself. His weight speeded the little wheels and he hurled himself backward, his spine arched, in an attempt to prevent himself from pitching head first on to the brick floor. By something which he dimly realized was not quite a miracle, but some peculiar adroitness in the method of launching, the chair did not overbalance, but it rocked wildly as it touched ground and sped through the whooping-crowd, to crash into a pile of paper-filled sacks stacked against the wall. Their position was far too lucky to be accidental. Without them, the chair itself, not to mention half the bones in his body, must have been broken, and he realized even before the dwarf had ceased his delighted yelping that this must be a cruelty which had been practised on the little man himself many times, perhaps every day.

  He felt deathly sick. The adhesive plaster was suffocating him, and in the warm air the knitted helmet irritated unbearably. Once, to his horror, he thought he was going to faint, but the heavy feet were clattering across the bricks towards him and he made a great effort at control. The newcomer approached and bent down.

  Geoffrey looked up and for the first time set eyes on his persecutor. He saw a big, shambling figure, stooped and loose-jointed, middle-aged but still very powerful. The startling thing about him was his colour. He was so white that he was shocking, his close-cropped hair so much the colour of his skin that the line of demarcation was scarcely visible. Black glasses which hid his eyes explained him. He was an albino, one of those unlucky few in whom the natural pigmentation of the body is entirely absent. He was seeing his prisoner for the first time. The dim light suited his weak eyes and he swung the chair round slowly to get a better view.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Secret

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  THE ALBINO PULLED the woollen helmet from the prisoner’s head and the others came closer. They were a strange company of whom perhaps six at most could possibly ever have seen service with the armed forces. Geoffrey particularly noticed the tall man who had carried the dwarf home. He was a thick-featured mild-looking youngster with a strangely dazed expression. The older, shorter man who was clearly his brother, since the resemblance was remarkable, and the ragged acrobat who had now laid aside his crutches and was moving with perfect ease without them, these could well be ex-Service. The rest were oddities, collected no doubt for their freak value. They clustered round the prisoner, inquisitive but unnervingly silent. Heavy Boots was the declared leader and main personality. There was no doubt of that. He conducted the proceedings with complete assurance and the same tidy methodicalness which was so evident in his surroundings.

  Geoffrey was liberated from all his bonds save the cord which bound his hands behind him and the plaster over his mouth. It was a long and deliberate proceeding. The albino rolled each strap and folded the helmet and mackintosh as he removed them, handing each item to the dwarf, who scampered off with it to some safe place before returning for the next.

  Geoffrey made an attempt to rise as his feet were freed, but he was too numbed and cramped to move, and was forced to sit where he was while the blood crept back again into his legs.

  As his good dark overcoat, his haircut and formal linen came into view, Heavy Boots hesitated, and for the first time the solid smirk of satisfaction which had been his only expression gave place to a certain thoughtfulness. He turned to the smaller of the brothers.

  ‘Now, Roly, who’s that? Who is it?’

  The man stepped forward and looked earnestly at the square pugnacious face of the captive.

  ‘I ain’t never seen ’im before.’

  ‘Ain’t that he? Ain’t that the Gaffer?’

  ‘No, no.’ The pronouncement, packed with contempt, came from the tall brother and caused something of a sensation. Geoffrey understood that it was unusual for him to speak at all.

  Heavy Boots frowned. ‘Bill, come you here, boy.’ His accent had broadened. Both he and the brothers were not speaking Cockney but a softer, more natural tongue from higher up the coast. ‘Now, look steady, who is it?’

  The rugged man, whose weak face was actually painted with shadows, Geoffrey saw, and who had a strange febrile gaiety of his own, minced forward, peered down, and laughed.

  ‘Search me. No one I know. Friend of Duds, I suppose. The Gaffer isn’t that type. If that was the Gaffer, I shouldn’t be here, I can tell you. You wouldn’t see me for dust.’

  Geoffrey made another effort and this time succeeded in rising to his feet. Heavy Boots thrust him back with a hand which had the strength of a horse behind it.

  ‘Set still, won’t ye?’ he commanded. ‘I reckon we’ll have to see who you be.’

  He ripped open the seated man’s ov
ercoat and thrust his hand into the breast pocket. The hunchback brought an upturned tea-chest over and, using it as a table, the albino set out the contents of the pocket neatly and expertly. Geoffrey was far too wise to attempt resistance. He sat quiet, waiting stolidly. He was not a man who carried a great deal about with him, and the search yielded little remarkable. He had a few pounds in his wallet, a cheque-book, his driving licence, and a small engagement book. There was also a handkerchief marked with his name, a pencil, a cigarette case, a lighter, and the letter he had taken out of the envelope which he had given to Duds.

  The only unusual item was a set of miniature medals. He had been due to wear them to the banquet and had remembered to collect them from the jeweller’s that morning. Heavy Boots studied these with great interest. It was clear that he understood the history they told, and he touched the purple-and-white ribbon of the M.C. with respect as his frown grew deeper.

  He laid them aside with regret and when the dwarf put out a hand for them, cuffed the small man’s large head with a force which made him yelp.

  Roly fingered his own collection, which were full-sized and included one for a campaign fought well before he was born, but he said nothing, and the rest, although they gathered round, kept well away from the box.

  There was no talking whatever. The albino continued his unhurried examination with the dignity which springs from complete authority. The cheque-book and driving licence interested him, but the trophy which turned the day was an unexpected one. The letter which had arrived in the envelope which Geoffrey had given to Duds happened to be a circular begging letter from the Royal Institute for the Relief of the Orphans of East Anglia. It was a dignified appeal, Roneod on fine paper beneath a heading which incorporated a list of patrons, led by royalty. ‘My dear Mr Levett’ was neatly matched in at the beginning, and the facsimile signature of Lord Beckenham, the President, who had described himself as both grateful and sincere, was printed in convincing blue ink at the foot. While not actually designed to deceive anybody, the document yet managed to present an impressive front to the uninitiated. The effect which it produced upon Heavy Boots was startling. He removed his dark glasses and held the sheet very close to his red eyes. His lips moved soundlessly as he read the words over and his pallid hand shook a little.