didn’t know if her intervention was an act of courage or if she truly was only interested in the fruit. Whatever the reason, Donny moved away and resumed smoking the fag, pulling down the red-hot tip as far as he could.
“What’s it to be then, Jack? The truth or …”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. The wound on Jack’s shin was already throbbing and he knew Donny was quite capable of following up on his threat.
He opted for the truth and gave up his secret. He betrayed his brother.
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 25
L EV K APLAN TURNED INTO THE NARROW COBBLED lane just past Corporation Street. The telephone booth was at the far end. A sign on the handle read OUT OF ORDER . He glanced around to make sure he was not being observed. The fog had lifted and the War Ministry’s campaign to make the population aware of questionable behaviour had been effective. He didn’t want to arouse suspicion. He squeezed into the booth. It smelled strongly of stale cigarette smoke and cat piss. What did they do, come in to take a leak?
He put a coin in the slot and pressed A.
“Number please?” said a pleasant female voice.
“Cypress 8184.”
“One moment, I will connect you.” While Kaplan waited he rubbed his painful shoulder. It probably got dislocated when he fell last night. The ligaments were too loose, and a good knock could put it out of joint.
Bloody kid
.
A soft male voice came on the phone. “Identify yourself, please.”
“Hitchcock. The lady vanishes.”
“Good morning, Mr. Hitchcock. This is John Grey speaking. How is the weather at your end?”
God, the British and their preoccupation with the weather
, Lev thought to himself. “Still foul.”
“What a pity. We actually are seeing some sun here.”
“Jolly good.”
The other man gave a genteel cough. “Quite so. Did you have your meeting?”
“Sure did.”
“And who was in attendance?”
“Same people as before, with one addition.”
“Describe please.”
“A youth, barely into long pants but obviously with a heart of steel, forged in poverty and cruelty. I wouldn’t want to run into him in a dark alley.” He winced as he twisted too quickly. “Come to think of it, I did run into him, literally. Or at least one of his kin.”
“What are you referring to?”
“Nothing important.”
The man on the end of the phone chuckled. “You Americans have such a poetic way with words. You’re saying he’s a little criminal already, this tender shoot of the Great Revolution?”
“I’ll bet he has a record as long as the Mississippi.”
“And his name?”
“His
nom de guerre
is Bolton.”
“Ah, how ambitious. One of Birmingham’s more famous citizens.”
“I’m sure he’d didn’t come up with that himself. The ponce assigns our names. He let slip the lad’s real name – it’s Donny. First name, that is. He is about five-four, thin, pasty-looking, brown hair, and a scar at the corner of his upper lip, right side. Pretty eyes.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“They’re the most distinctive thing about him: light hazel colour, dark lashes. Girl’s eyes.”
“Is he a homosexual?”
“I’d say definitely not. This little thug is the type that makes a notch on his belt every time he’s shagged some poor girl.”
“Good. Well done, Mr. Hitchcock. We should be able to trace him quite easily from your vivid description. Our recordson the other three men are quite complete now. Do you have something to write on?”
“Uh-huh.” Lev didn’t even try to get out his notebook. His shoulder was too sore, for one thing. Besides, it aggravated him that Grey didn’t trust him to remember. Probably because Lev was a Yank. Not from the right schools, don’t you know.
“Ready?”
“Go ahead.”
“Cardiff, as you might expect, is a militant Welsh nationalist, real name Ewen Evans. He works at the factory, in the canteen. Arnold, the ponce, as you call him, is a silly boy playing Sexton Blake games. He’s in way over his head.
“What’s it to be then, Jack? The truth or …”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. The wound on Jack’s shin was already throbbing and he knew Donny was quite capable of following up on his threat.
He opted for the truth and gave up his secret. He betrayed his brother.
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 25
L EV K APLAN TURNED INTO THE NARROW COBBLED lane just past Corporation Street. The telephone booth was at the far end. A sign on the handle read OUT OF ORDER . He glanced around to make sure he was not being observed. The fog had lifted and the War Ministry’s campaign to make the population aware of questionable behaviour had been effective. He didn’t want to arouse suspicion. He squeezed into the booth. It smelled strongly of stale cigarette smoke and cat piss. What did they do, come in to take a leak?
He put a coin in the slot and pressed A.
“Number please?” said a pleasant female voice.
“Cypress 8184.”
“One moment, I will connect you.” While Kaplan waited he rubbed his painful shoulder. It probably got dislocated when he fell last night. The ligaments were too loose, and a good knock could put it out of joint.
Bloody kid
.
A soft male voice came on the phone. “Identify yourself, please.”
“Hitchcock. The lady vanishes.”
“Good morning, Mr. Hitchcock. This is John Grey speaking. How is the weather at your end?”
God, the British and their preoccupation with the weather
, Lev thought to himself. “Still foul.”
“What a pity. We actually are seeing some sun here.”
“Jolly good.”
The other man gave a genteel cough. “Quite so. Did you have your meeting?”
“Sure did.”
“And who was in attendance?”
“Same people as before, with one addition.”
“Describe please.”
“A youth, barely into long pants but obviously with a heart of steel, forged in poverty and cruelty. I wouldn’t want to run into him in a dark alley.” He winced as he twisted too quickly. “Come to think of it, I did run into him, literally. Or at least one of his kin.”
“What are you referring to?”
“Nothing important.”
The man on the end of the phone chuckled. “You Americans have such a poetic way with words. You’re saying he’s a little criminal already, this tender shoot of the Great Revolution?”
“I’ll bet he has a record as long as the Mississippi.”
“And his name?”
“His
nom de guerre
is Bolton.”
“Ah, how ambitious. One of Birmingham’s more famous citizens.”
“I’m sure he’d didn’t come up with that himself. The ponce assigns our names. He let slip the lad’s real name – it’s Donny. First name, that is. He is about five-four, thin, pasty-looking, brown hair, and a scar at the corner of his upper lip, right side. Pretty eyes.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“They’re the most distinctive thing about him: light hazel colour, dark lashes. Girl’s eyes.”
“Is he a homosexual?”
“I’d say definitely not. This little thug is the type that makes a notch on his belt every time he’s shagged some poor girl.”
“Good. Well done, Mr. Hitchcock. We should be able to trace him quite easily from your vivid description. Our recordson the other three men are quite complete now. Do you have something to write on?”
“Uh-huh.” Lev didn’t even try to get out his notebook. His shoulder was too sore, for one thing. Besides, it aggravated him that Grey didn’t trust him to remember. Probably because Lev was a Yank. Not from the right schools, don’t you know.
“Ready?”
“Go ahead.”
“Cardiff, as you might expect, is a militant Welsh nationalist, real name Ewen Evans. He works at the factory, in the canteen. Arnold, the ponce, as you call him, is a silly boy playing Sexton Blake games. He’s in way over his head.
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