Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [114]
“Do you?” Pricey was dubious. “That’s awful ’ard, Mr. Tellman, worse’n extortion, that is. Downright evil, I calls it.”
“So do I,” Tellman agreed. He thought of earning Pricey’s personal involvement as an added incentive. “It has to do with the bombings in Myrdle Street and Scarborough Street, if I’m right.”
Pricey let out a slow breath, and blasphemed carefully, emphasizing each syllable. “It’ll still cost yer!” he warned.
“Be at the Dog and Duck at seven o’clock this evening, and wait for me, however long it takes,” Tellman answered. “I’ll have the information for you then. I’ll keep the owner of the house busy somewhere else.”
“Why? I never bin caught, not so as yer could prove it, Mr. Tellman! You know that!” He grinned suddenly. “Not that yer ’aven’t tried real ’ard.”
“Dog and Duck, seven o’clock,” Tellman repeated, rising to his feet. It was later than he wished, and it was time he was at Bow Street.
Tellman had one of the worst days of his career, which by now spanned over twenty years. He spent the morning with his mind racing over every possibility he could imagine, however far-fetched, for him to draw Wetron away from his home that evening.
But before he did that, he must search Wetron’s office and see if the evidence was there, and Pricey’s intervention would be unnecessary.
Fortune favored him in that Wetron went out to luncheon, and Tellman overheard him say that he would be gone for the best part of two hours. He was meeting with a member of Parliament to give his advice on the new bill being proposed to arm the police. It occurred to Tellman that the member in question could well also be one of the Inner Circle, recruiting more votes to support Tanqueray.
As soon as Wetron had gone, Tellman prepared his story in case anyone should ask him, and went into Wetron’s scrupulously tidy office with its pictures of the Queen, and began his search. If questioned, he would use the forgery case involving Jones the Pocket, and his suspected connection with the Scarborough Street bombings. It was a subject the police should concern themselves with, since Special Branch was obviously not up to the job. As it turned out he was only questioned once, and received a broad grin of appreciation when he gave his answer.
“Somebody needs ter catch the bastards!” the other man replied. “Can I ’elp yer?”
“Could if I knew what I was looking for,” Tellman replied, his heart pounding. “I won’t know till I see it.”
“Got an idea, ’ave yer?” the constable stood in the doorway curiously.
“Don’t know,” Tellman said, more or less honestly. “But if I’m wrong, I’ll be in a hell of a hole. So let me get on with it before the superintendent gets back, eh?”
“Right! Yeh.” The constable backed out quickly, not wanting to take any risks.
Tellman went back to searching the papers.
It was only another ten frantic minutes before, with shaking fingers, he held a sheet of paper up and read it. He went through it again before he was absolutely certain. It was an oblique reference to a crime committed roughly three years earlier, and a note that all action was pending. No further notice was to be taken of the event without Wetron’s express direction. It was what he was looking for, and Wetron had left it where he could find it, not too easily, just with sufficient difficulty to be worth the effort, and allay suspicion. The proof would be in Wetron’s house, as Pitt had thought.
The event had happened three years ago, in a rooming house off Marylebone Road. The address was supplied. Now he had something specific to give Pricey.
The next thing was to find a way to lure Wetron away from home.
Tellman went out of the office and closed the door behind him. He was surprised to find that his hands were sweating and he could hear the beat of his pulse in his ears. He walked quickly down the corridor to the stairs and to his own small room. He sat down, shaking a little, and thought.
What would be irresistible to Wetron? Tellman had to keep him out all night, or at least until three or four in the morning, to give Pricey