At that point, they abandoned all attempts at stealth. Bolts screeched, gates banged, and boots pounded up the drive.
The doorman’s head jerked up. “What the bleeding—”
An officer knocked the man’s pipe from his teeth, and his partner seized the doorman by the shoulders. Two others dragged the coachman from his seat while Tennant, O’Malley,and a third constable cornered a gaping man with a cleft lip. The sergeant clapped him on the shoulder.
“Good evening, Mister Rawlings,” Tennant said.
O’Malley twisted the man’s arm behind his back. “Sure, we’ve been searching for donkey’s years, and here you are at last.”
“Hand him off to the constables, Sergeant. Mister Rawlings can sit in the police wagon, contemplate his many sins, and meditate on the virtue of cooperation.”
The acrobatic duo who had scaled the wall frog-marched Rawlings to the police wagon.
“And now you, boy-o,” O’Malley said to the doorman. “You’ll be directing us to the girls inside if you know what’s good for you.”
The man swallowed hard. Then he led them through the back entrance and down a carpeted hallway, where he pointed to three doors.
Tennant asked, “Are they locked?” The doorman shook his head. “Which room belongs to the club chairman, Mister Bruce?”
The man pointed a shaking finger at a fourth door. “Bruce isn’t here tonight.”
“Hell and damnation,” Tennant muttered. He waved O’Malley and three pairs of constables forward. “All right, Sergeant.”
“Now, lads,” O’Malley ordered, and the lead constable threw open the doors.
Ten minutes later, constables escorted three stunned girls from the rear of the Topkapi Club and into a second police wagon. They’d found two young women in stages of undress, so the officers told them to gather up their clothes and wrap themselves with blankets. The third girl told O’Malley she was thirteen, but he doubted she was that old. He found her alone in her room, dressed and waiting on the bed.
The cooperative doorman said, “Her gent never turned up. Surprising, since he ordered the girl for tonight.” The manlowered his voice. “He’s a member of Parliament and likes ’em young. He’s always here on Fridays and Saturdays when the House of Commons sits.”
They arrested the two men they found with the girls. Since sex with a prostitute wasn’t against the law, the charge would be kidnapping. They’d appear in magistrate’s court and be held overnight for further questioning.
The men, braces hanging, trouser bands clutched in one fist and shoes in the other, shuffled into the police wagon in stocking feet. Rawlings and the coachman waited inside. Tennant had sent a pair of constables to the club’s front office to arrest the chairman’s secretary. They marched him handcuffed, looking like a terrified rabbit cornered by yapping hounds, his round, staring eyes magnified by fear and his spectacles.
O’Malley slammed the wagon door. “Are we thinking they’ll face the music or walk free?”
“We’ll do everything in our power, Paddy,” Tennant said. “And, more immediately, they’ll face a tune of a different sort.”
“And what would that be?”
“At lunchtime, I ran into Johnny Osborne at his local on Fleet Street, so I stood him a pint. I wouldn’t be surprised if our newspaper friend appears in magistrate’s court tonight.”
“The buggers will be roasting on the grill of public opinion before long.” O’Malley grinned. “Never thought I’d be saying it, but God bless Johnny Osborne and the free press.”
* * *
On Saturday morning, the raid on Sidney Allen’s printshop and warehouse proceeded as planned. Allingham’s lewd art-books proved to be a tiny province within an expansive pornographic empire. Constables seized and carted off boxes of books, prints, and picture postcards of the “French” variety. Then the police arrested the manager and padlocked the premises.
Later in the afternoon, Tennant returned to the Yard to report the operation’s many successes. But Chief Inspector Clark was livid about a pair of failures.
“What about that Parliament sod who slipped through the net at the Topkapi?”
“The Honorable Alistair Gathorne-Hardy,” Tennant said. “The doorman expected him, but he failed to show up. Interesting that Gathorne-Hardy shares his unusual surname with the government’s home secretary.”
“They’re bloody cousins, damn it, and the Yard reports to the blighter.” Clark clenched his jaw. “I hate this shite, this old boy’s bollocks.” He looked Tennant up and down. “All right for some,” he said, and threw himself into his chair.
Tennant said, “There’s no way to prove he warned his cousin.”
“And if we make an unsupported accusation against the home secretary . . .” The chief slammed his fist on his desk, rattling everything on it. “It will mean our heads.”
