CHAPTER 14 #2
Sal glared at him, then shouted, “Yee! The inspector’s leaving.”
Tennant stood and scanned the man up and down. The inspector stood a head taller, but he wouldn’t want to tangle with Yee on a foggy night.
Tennant looked back at China Sal. “A few words of advice. Women are dying, so keep this fellow close.”
Yee escorted Tennant to the door and watched until he turned off the Causeway. The inspector retraced his steps to the West India Dock Road and looked for the blue lamp of Limehouse Police Station. He spotted it at number twenty-nine.
Tennant asked the duty sergeant if he’d heard any talk on the street about Chinese girls brought into the country for prostitution.
“You’d need two sets of ears for two lines of talk, sir.”
“Meaning?”
“Chinamen over on Ming Street haven’t a clue what they’re saying down on the Causeway. Different parts of China, different languages. Still, I haven’t heard a squeak about the thing you’re talking about.”
“I’ve just come from China Sal’s. She claims to know nothing either.”
“You think she’s involved?”
“I suspect Sal’s establishment is a way station only.”
The sergeant grinned. “Did you meet that thug of hers, Yee?”
“Yes . . . What’s the significance of that triangular tattoo on his fist? Anything?”
“Means he belongs to one of the triads, one of the Hong Kong gangs with fingers in a dozen illegal pies.” He paused. “So far, Sal seems mostly on the up-and-up.”
Tennant asked the duty sergeant to keep an eye on China Sal and keep him informed.
* * *
Sergeant O’Malley eased his bulk into Tennant’s office chair, stretched his legs, and winced. “I’m knackered and mad to be out of these boots.”
“And Stackpole?”
“He legged it straight for the Bunch of Grapes on Narrow Lane. Got drunk as a lord and staggered off to a rooming house three doors down after asking everyone in sight if they knew of a ship taking on a crew.”
“Sounds as if he’s packing it in.”
“I’m thinking he hasn’t a clue about Rawlings’s whereabouts or what’s happened to the Chinese lasses. He’s cutting his losses.”
“Damn it, Paddy. Without the girls, we have no reason to hold him.”
“What was China Sal saying for herself?”
“Would you care to guess? She knows nothing, of course. And she’s about as Chinese as I am. Born in Poplar, I’d wager, not Peking.”
“Trading everything but information for the police.”
“Sal gave me one thing,” Tennant said, smiling grimly. “Another reason to pay a call at the Topkapi Club.”
“She knows of the place?”
“Not by name, but she said Margot had dealings with ‘the toffs’ at a gentleman’s club.”
“You don’t say, now.”
“I think we can guess which club.”
* * *
The exotic began at the Topkapi Club’s entrance.
The doorman might have served an Ottoman sultan.
His conical red fez made the towering man look taller still.
The ruby lining of his cream-colored cape gleamed in the morning sunlight when he reached to open the carved bronze door for Tennant.
Polished black boots and a stiff, red-and-gold collar gave the man a military air as if he were an adjutant to some foreign potentate.
Tennant asked for the club secretary and followed the doorman down a corridor, his steps cushioned by a russet-and-gold runner on the tiled floor. It led to a domed hall whose iron-and-glass ceiling arched overhead. Three wings joined the entrance hallway, boxing in the central rotunda.
When the doorman left to find the club secretary, Tennant walked to the middle of the space and took in his surroundings.
Outside, the morning was cloudless, and the room flooded with light.
A series of columns with geometric capitals defined the square area beneath the dome.
Tiles covered in a floral arabesque of blue, cream, and gold ran around the room from the floor to about shoulder height.
A horseshoe arch along the far wall opened into a hallway.
A walnut bench with a filigreed back sat next to the entryway.
Tennant opened his folder to the picture on top, Griffiths’s erotic version of A Slave for the Harem. He smiled and closed the cover. Spot-on.
The inspector turned at the sound of a tentative cough and faced a slight, bespectacled man. His pink-rimmed eyes and twitching nose gave him a hare-like aspect that added to the inspector’s sense that he’d tumbled down a rabbit hole into Wonderland.
“Marvelous, isn’t it?” the man said. “From where you’re standing, ‘every prospect pleases.’”
Tennant finished the quotation, “‘And only man is vile?’ You are the club secretary, I presume?”
“That is correct. Arthur Stewart.”
“Detective Inspector Tennant of Scotland Yard. I have questions about an ongoing investigation. May I have a few moments of your time?”
“Er . . . of course.” He hesitated and glanced around the hall as if he’d forgotten his way. Finally, he said, “Come to my office.”
“Through here?” Tennant extended his hand toward the horseshoe arch. It led to what Tennant guessed was the back wing of the building.
Stewart shook his head. “This way.” He led the inspector in the opposite direction along a carpeted, paneled hallway.
The Topkapi’s exotic impression proved only skin deep.
Stewart named the interior chambers in a clipped staccato.
They were rooms typical of most gentlemen’s clubs: hushed, plush, and well-upholstered.
Wide doorways opened into a lounge, billiards room, and library furnished with familiar Western comforts.
Oil lamps lighted thick carpets, deep leather chairs, and polished mahogany tables.
Tennant asked, “Have you followed the fashion of the Reform Club? Do you have chambers and suites available for your members?”
“Yes . . . some clubmen . . . they have rooms . . . ah, residential premises . . . in the opposite wing.”
Stewart’s phrases darted and halted as if he wanted to consider, and possibly retract, each utterance before he chanced another.
The beginnings of a portrait gallery lined the wall opposite the library door.
“Our chairmen,” Stewart said. “Two to date. Mister John Aubrey and Mister Reginald Bruce. He heads the club today.”
Bruce, a Scotsman, had been painted in resplendent tartan evening wear.
He wore a red-and-green kilt crisscrossed with white and yellow lines, a snowy lace neckcloth, and a black jacket with gold buttons running up the cuffs and chest. His attire overwhelmed the man: gray eyes, thinning brown hair, and doughy features formed a forgettable face.
The club secretary opened the door at the corridor’s end. “After you, Inspector,” Stewart said. “Please take a seat.” The secretary sat behind his desk, blinking rapidly. “Now, how can I help you?”
Tennant settled in and smiled. “I won’t take up too much of your time. The Yard is investigating a case that involves art . . . well, forgery, for lack of a better word. And I’m afraid we’ve uncovered a range of other crimes.”
“Heavens.”
“Do many club members have connections to China?”
“China? Odd question.” Stewart cleared his throat. “Well . . .”
“I’ve spoken with one of them, Doctor Preston Scott. I know of two others who collect art from the East. Indeed, they have all lent items to the exhibit at the South Kensington Museum.”
“Yes. Mister Bruce, our chairman, and Colonel Cedric Hamilton. I organized the handing off.”
“Directly to the museum?”
“To a publishing house for the museum catalog.”
“Allingham and Allen?”
“That is correct, but . . . is there some question? Do you doubt their authenticity?”
“Not precisely. I know Doctor Scott served in the First China War. What about the others?”
The secretary shrugged. “I can’t fathom the relevance, but I believe Colonel Hamilton fought in the Second.”
“And Mister Bruce?
The secretary’s pale, pink-rimmed eyes flickered. “He was the late Lord Elgin’s great-nephew.”
“And the late Lord Elgin was—”
“Appointed by Her Majesty’s government as High Commissioner for China. Mister Bruce traveled there and served as his secretary.”
“What is Mister Bruce’s London address?”
“Here, actually. The chairman of the club has a suite of rooms.”
“Tell me, is the artist John Frederick Lewis a member here?”
“No, but . . .” He narrowed his eyes as if straining to remember. “He made some sketches for a painting in our rotunda. Seven or eight years ago if memory serves.”
“This one—A Slave in the Harem?” Tennant held up Griffiths’s version.
Stewart’s eyes widened, and he pointed a wavering finger. “That’s not the painting the artist showed us. Lewis painted his wife fully clothed, not . . . not that naked creature. Mrs. Lewis was here when the artist displayed the finished picture in our hall.”
“How puzzling. Would it also surprise you that the model who posed for this picture said it looked like the Topkapi?”
He blinked. “The Topkapi? Why I—”
“Are women—other than kitchen and cleaning staff—allowed in the club?”
He hitched his shoulders. “Certainly not. She . . . this woman . . . a model, you say? Perhaps she saw illustrations of the Topkapi Palace. In Constantinople. At the artist’s studio.”
“That’s where the sultan housed his harem of sex slaves. And yet the background of this picture—the russet carpet, the arch, the tiles, the decorative bench—they’re not in a Turkish palace. They’re in your rotunda. That’s the scene she recognized.”
Stewart’s hand shook as he poured water from a carafe and drank. Then his shoulders relaxed. He looked up with a rictus of a smile.
“This female must have worked on the cleaning staff. It’s the only possible explanation.”
“Yes.” Tennant nodded. “Undoubtedly, you’re right. Still, my chief wanted me to follow up. Several artists who suffered parodies of their work made a fuss.”
Stewart said, “Not . . . not the artist who painted here?”
“No. And I see no point in telling him. Well, it’s a tempest in a paint pot, in my opinion. Especially when I have more important matters on my plate.”
“Yes. Of course. I am sure you do. Well . . .” The secretary cleared his throat. “Is there anything else, Inspector?”
“I think that’s all.” He took a last look at the painting before tucking it away. “A slave in a harem. Nice arrangement, for some.”
Tennant exited the club and turned right. He followed the club’s eight-foot brick wall and stopped at a carriage gate near the end of the property. A pair of bolted oak doors guarded the entrance. For tradesmen? No. He’d noticed that entry to the right of the front door.
Gates that opened into a courtyard. It matched Kathleen Morris’s recollections of where they’d taken her. Tennant crossed the street. From there, he could see the top of a portico over the wall. A covered entrance to the back of the club? She’d described that to Julia as well.
Tennant spotted a constable near the corner of St. Martin Street. The inspector approached him, pleased that the man looked like a seasoned copper.
Tennant identified himself and showed the officer his warrant card. “Have you walked this beat long, Constable?”
“Fourteen years, sir. Give or take a few months.”
“What can you tell me about the club on the corner? The Topkapi.”
The copper scratched at grizzled, graying side whiskers and considered the question.
“They pulled the building to bits about ten years ago and rebuilt it. Queer sort of place with all those arches, turrets, and blokes out of the Arabian Nights standing out front.”
“Those oak doors leading to the rear of the building . . . that entrance doesn’t seem to have a purpose.”
“That’s what I’d have said, guvnor. Nothing much in and out.
Still, back in the day, I’d spot the odd carriage or two coming and going late at night, but it’s been a while since I’ve walked the graveyard shift.
” He tapped his temple. “That’s a lark for young lads with sharp eyes, not old blokes like me.
I’m nodding over me fire by nine o’clock these nights. ”
“Who’s on night duty now?”
“Gordie Havers. Bright lad.”
“All right, Constable. I’ll clear it with your divisional chief, but I’d like you and Havers to keep a sharp eye on the place. Note any unusual activity—any uncharacteristic comings and goings. But keep your interest quiet.”
“Can I know what it’s about, guv?”
“So far, there are only suspicions, but we may be looking at abduction and the trafficking of young girls for prostitution. And possibly the murder of a woman who procured them and the death of another.”
His face hardened. “I take great exception to that happening on my watch, sir. I have three daughters at home.” He nodded. “You can rely on me.”
“Thank you, Constable. Keep your eyes peeled for the next few days.”
An hour later, Tennant concluded an interview with the local chief inspector and left the station house with his full cooperation.
The inspector hoped his interview with the club secretary had achieved its goal.
After rattling Stewart, the inspector wanted him to believe he was satisfied with the secretary’s explanations.
Tennant sought to ruffle the fellow’s feathers, not pluck them.
He didn’t want the cats inside the coop prematurely, only prowling nearby.
Can’t have our pigeons flying off.