“We could use some eyes on the place.” O’Malley glanced over his shoulder and made a sharp intake of breath. “Mother of God. There’s the creature, now.”
Rawlings stood at the entrance to Denmark Court. He had his head down and his hands cupped, concentrating on lighting his cigar in the whipping wind. He took three long draws and flicked his match into the gutter. Then he turned right and walked away from them.
“Well, well,” Tennant said. “The man hasn’t emigrated to America after all.”
“Heading for Charing Cross Road.” O’Malley made to go after him.
Tennant grabbed his elbow. “I don’t want him to spot you. We’ve run our man to ground, and that’s enough for now. We’ll flush him out when we’re ready.”
“Rawlings is in our sights, at last,” O’Malley said. “You owe China Sal another two quid, I’m thinking.”
* * *
At the Yard the following morning, a livid Chief Inspector Clark laid into Tennant for not arresting Rawlings on the spot.
“Let me get this straight. You had the bleeding valet on a plate and let him go? By God, Tennant, the time you’ve wasted looking for the bugger, and he’s still in the wind?”
“Sir, when I brief you on our plan, I think you’ll agree to hold off on Rawlings.”
“You think so, do you?” Clark pulled out his pocket watch. “You have two minutes to convince me.”
“The plan is to bag all our birds at once. We have coppers on the spot, watching the Topkapi Club, Doctor Scott’s office on Harley Street, and the comings and goings from Denmark Court. In addition, Constable Williams is with the local clerk-of-the-peace, searching through the conveyance records for St. Giles.”
“For what purpose?”
“To identify a property transfer on Denmark Court, a deed that ties one of our suspects to the prostitution ring.”
“Explain how this helps us catch the sod who murdered the Riley girl and the Miller woman.”
“Thieves fall out. Once we’ve arrested them for prostitution—”
“The threat of a few months in the nick for running a brothel, and you think someone will turn Queen’s evidence and finger the killer? You’re dreaming, Tennant,” Clark sneered.
“With respect, sir, he’d face more than that. We have witnesses to kidnapping, trafficking girls from abroad, and procuring minors for prostitution. And Margot Miller’s death must be tied to these dark deeds.”
“All right, all right. Get on with it. But remember: a bird in the hand, Tennant. Don’t leave Rawlings hanging too long.” Clark snatched up some papers and waved the inspector out of his office.
Or I’ll be twisting in the breeze,Tennant thought. He hated to admit how much of his case was supposition.
But that afternoon, Constable Williams struck gold in a dusty office. Twice.
* * *
Williams unfolded two documents and spread them on Tennant’s desk.
“A beady-eyed little bugger in specs huffed and puffed about releasing the records,” the constable said. “Told him to hop it. They were wanted at the Yard.”
O’Malley leaned over the documents and whistled when he spotted the same buyer’s name on both deeds. “Our old friend Sidney Allen is after buying number two on Denmark Court. And he’s up to no good at an address across the way, at St. Giles Passage.”
Tennant picked up the second deed. “Number twenty-nine. . . it’s described as a warehousing and factory site.”
“St. Giles Passage,” O’Malley said. “Sounds like a nice, secluded spot for getting up to wickedness. And we’ll need eyes on Allen’s company on Paternoster Row.”
“And his house in Chelsea. I’ll see to it,” the inspector said. “Let’s talk to some of the local bobbies about the warehouse. Discreetly, for the moment.”
* * *
The St. Giles copper told Tennant, “It’s a printing business, guv. Been here six or seven years, I’d say.”
