Brass Lives Read online

  ‘What do they want us to do?’ Harper asked. ‘They don’t have a warrant for him, do they?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then unless he breaks any laws here, he’s a free man.’

  ‘They’re tipping us the wink so we can keep an eye on him. His other reason for being here is to see his father. It seems he never made the trip to America with the rest of the family. It was just Mullen and his brother who followed their mother over there.’

  ‘What’s the father’s name?’

  ‘Francis Mullen. Goes by Franny. I had Sergeant Mason dig out his file. There’s not much to him, really. Petty crook, in and out of jail. Loves his drink. Never held a proper job in his life. Parents came over from Ireland during the famine.’ He shrugged and took a photograph from his pocket. ‘The New York people included this, sir. It’s Davey Mullen, from the last time they arrested him.’

  Harper studied the picture. It showed the man’s head, viewed full on. Thick, dark hair, glistening with pomade. A smile and straight, white teeth in a face brimming with arrogance, a young man utterly certain that the world belonged to him. On the back, someone had scribbled a few details. Mullen was a big man: six feet one, weight two hundred and ten pounds – fifteen stone, he calculated – carrying sixteen scars all over his body from knives and bullets. Next of kin was his mother Maureen. Mullen still lived with her, an address on West 47th Street. Behind it, in brackets, someone had added Hell’s Kitchen. An apt name for any neighbourhood that was home to a man like him.

  The waitress arrived with two full plates. ‘They’re hot, so don’t you be burning yourselves,’ she warned. ‘I’ll be back in a tick with your pot of tea.’

  No talking shop while they ate; that was the rule. No spoiling the digestion. It allowed a few minutes for pleasure, a pause for thought. A constant roar of noise rose from the market, the conversation of shoppers, traders calling out their wares. Eventually, Harper wiped a slice of bread around the plate to soak up the last of the juices, swallowed the final mouthful and washed it down with a swig of tea.

  ‘What did you have in mind for Mullen?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought Walsh and Galt could pay him a visit,’ Ash replied. ‘Just a quiet word, let him know his card is marked. Polite as a Sunday tea party. I’ll put someone to watch him too.’

  ‘The slightest breath of trouble, haul him in,’ Harper ordered. ‘We don’t want any murderers walking round Leeds like they’re God’s gift. Keep a uniform on him too.’

  ‘Not plain clothes?’

  ‘No, let’s make it blatant. We’ll show him he’s not welcome here.’

  ‘I’ll take care of it, sir.’

  ‘Anything else I should know about?’

  ‘Nothing much. Just the Boys of Erin trying to act up again.’

  They’d been a growing thorn in the side of the police for a year, ever since Johnny Dempster became leader of the gang. Harper thought he’d crushed them more than twenty years ago, but they were slowly creeping back. They wanted to be a force again, to rule the Bank the way they had a generation before. It was the area of Leeds where the Irish had settled when they arrived. Once it had been desperately poor, dirty, a place where disease thrived. Even now it was bleak. Annabelle had grown up there, on Leather Street. Many still living on the Bank today could trace their ancestors back to Ireland.

  ‘What have they been doing this time?’

  ‘Tried a little protection on shopkeepers. We’ve taken care of it. I’m keeping a watch on them. Dempster’s ambitious. I’ve a feeling he has big plans.’

  ‘Time to stamp them down again?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Not just yet, sir,’ Ash replied thoughtfully. ‘I want to see what they have in mind.’

  ‘Keep me informed.’ He stood and patted his belly. They always served up big helpings in the cafe. ‘And make sure this Mullen knows he’s being followed.’

  On Saturday morning he received a note from Ash.

  Mullen was quite open and polite when Galt and Walsh went to see him. Claims he’s come to see his father after all these years. The bobby watching him says he hasn’t done anything suspicious. He’s staying at the Metropole, flashing plenty of money around. Music hall and gin palaces in the evening. Spends part of the day with his father, but he already seems to have made several friends. Not exactly quality people – Dick Harrison, Bob Turnbull, Liam Byrne and the like. My guess is he has something going on, but I don’t know what it is yet.

  Harrison, Turnbull, Byrne: they all had long, long records for a string of mundane crimes. Not an ounce of imagination between the three of them, but they knew the jails better than most coppers. They were exactly the kind of characters to crowd round someone like Davey Mullen. They’d find a dangerous American exotic.

  He put it aside. Nothing in there to worry him, at least for now. This suffragist pilgrimage that Annabelle had talked about would be stopping overnight in Leeds and he needed to arrange police coverage. An afternoon meeting in Roundhay Park, then another in the evening on Woodhouse Moor before moving on the next day. All the applications were in order. He’d have two detectives circulating in the park, then six at the big meeting later. The chief constable had already assigned the constables. It didn’t look as if there’d be any real trouble.

  Harper didn’t even glance up at the tap on the door. Miss Sharp, his secretary. She was a pleasant woman, probably quite capable of handling most of his paperwork by herself. She’d quickly adapted to him, learned to speak into his good ear and made sure he had his tea first thing in the morning and in the middle of the afternoon.

  ‘There’s a Detective Sergeant Sissons here for you, sir. He doesn’t have an appointment.’

  ‘Send him in.’ He’d brought Sissons into plain clothes himself, back in ’99. The man had a quick mind, he could go far. But once he’d made it to sergeant he seemed quite content to stay there.

  ‘You look like someone with things on his mind,’ Harper said as Sissons gazed around the office, a little awestruck by his impressive surroundings.

  Sissons nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Fourteen years in plain clothes and he still looked like a string bean; no one would ever take him for a copper, something that had served him well in the past.

  ‘You know we have that American here, sir. The gangster.’

  ‘Mullen. I was just reading Superintendent Ash’s report.’

  ‘Well, it appears we have another one in town, too. I was talking to the super and he sent me down here to let you know.’

  ‘Oh?’ Harper sat upright, alert and suddenly very interested. One American in Leeds was unlikely enough. Two was definitely more than coincidence. ‘Sit down and tell me about it.’

  ‘Rogers – he’s a constable who started a few months ago—’

  Harper had seen the man. He was impossible to miss. Big and bulky, he played prop forward for Bramley rugby club in his spare time. Sharp, intelligent eyes. He’d graduated near the top of his class in training. ‘He heard someone with an accent and asked a few questions. All very discreet, sir.’

  On his own initiative? That was enterprising for a man on the beat. ‘How can he be so certain it’s an American voice?’

  ‘His uncle moved over there and did well for himself. Comes back and visits quite regularly. But he picked up the twang. That’s why Rogers noticed it.’

  Harper pursed his lips. It sounded plausible, as long as the constable wasn’t one for fanciful stories. ‘You said he made some enquiries.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I can get him in here if you like. I brought him with me.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Better than hearing it second-hand, and if it seemed genuine he could give the bobby some praise.

  Rogers was even larger than Ash had been when he was younger, well able to discourage any trouble with a sharp look. But for all his size, he was articulate and observant.

  ‘He’s staying in Mrs Hardisty’s lodging house down off Kirkgate, sir.’ The man stood to attention, helmet gathered unde
r his left arm, the fingers of his right hand pointing straight down the side of his leg. He stared straight ahead, exactly as he’d been taught.

  ‘You can relax, Constable,’ Harper told him with a smile. ‘You’re not on the parade ground now.’

  ‘Yes, sir, thank you,’ he replied, but didn’t move. Never mind; he’d learn in time.

  ‘What have you managed to find out about him?’

  ‘His name’s Louis Fess. He’s from New York, and he arrived here three days ago, sir.’

  Three days. Not long after Mullen. ‘You’ve seen him. What does he look like?’

  Rogers narrowed his eyes for a moment. ‘Tall, just a couple of inches shorter than me. Nowhere near as broad, mind. Fair hair, and he has a scar on his chin.’ He indicated with a finger. ‘I will say one thing, sir: the suit he’s wearing didn’t come from America. It was made down the road at Barran’s, or my name isn’t Harold Rogers. A decent bit of schmatter, but it’s definitely not new.’

  Now that was a very interesting piece of knowledge. ‘How can you be so sure?’

  A grin. ‘My dad works for them, sir.’

  ‘What about his shoes?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Boots, sir. They’re in fair nick, but they’re like the suit, broken in a bit. Before you ask, sir, it was Mrs Hardisty who told me his name. She won’t breathe a word.’ A quick smile. ‘We have an understanding.’

  Harper knew what that meant; Rogers would let a few minor offences slide at the lodging house.

  ‘That’s excellent work,’ Harper told him, and saw the man’s face light up. Exactly the same way his would have done all those years before, when he’d just started on the job. ‘How did you come to pay attention to him?’

  ‘I heard him asking someone for directions, caught the accent and noticed where he went. Later I saw him go into Mrs Hardisty’s and stopped there an hour or two later.’

  ‘Directions … Where did he want to go?’

  ‘Somerset Street, sir. He was no more than two hundred yards from it at the time. That’s what made me prick up my ears.’

  Somerset Street. Where Mullen’s father lived. No, this was definitely no coincidence.

  ‘Very good.’ Thank God for coppers who could think on their feet. ‘Keep your eyes open. I might need you again on this.’

  ‘Seems like it’s connected to Mullen, sir,’ Sissons said when they were alone.

  ‘It has to be.’ He rubbed his chin. This man Fess was trying to disguise himself with a second-hand suit from a local manufacturer and the kind of boots working men wore. Why would he want to do that? Maybe he believed he could hide his American accent. Still, it meant he was keeping his own clothes somewhere, and that wouldn’t be at Mrs Hardisty’s. Nothing was safe from pilfering hands in that place. Where would he keep them?

  ‘Go down to the railway station,’ Harper said after a second. ‘Talk to the left luggage office. Give them Fess’s description and ask if he left anything.’

  ‘And if it’s there, do you want me to take a look inside?’

  Harper grinned. ‘Oh yes, Sergeant, I’d like that very much indeed.’

  ‘Mr Fess has a travelling trunk with good leather straps and two locks at left luggage, sir.’ Sissons said when he reported back an hour later.

  Harper smiled. It had been a lucky guess. ‘What’s inside?’

  ‘Three well-tailored suits with New York labels, four cotton shirts, two more in silk, handmade shoes, some ties with fancy labels … and he even brought an overcoat.’

  ‘Curious that he’d prefer to look so shabby, isn’t it? Let’s have him in for a chat, shall we? Why don’t you ask him to visit Millgarth and see what he has to say?’

  ‘Gladly, sir.’ Sissons smiled and stood. Then he continued, ‘Fess had something else in his luggage, sir. A pistol and some ammunition.’ The sergeant reached into his pocket and took out a small cardboard box of bullets. ‘I thought this might be for the best, sir,’ he added as he put it on the desk. ‘I left the gun where it was. It’s unloaded now, he won’t be able to use it.’

  ‘Good thinking.’ Harper smiled. ‘I don’t imagine he has a licence for it. You’ve got a useful lever with that. And while we’re at it, contact the New York police and find out about this man. Since he’s already here, you’d better make it a telegram, not a letter.’

  THREE

  They sat with the windows open, a breeze softly billowing the curtains. There was nothing fresh or sweet about the air in Sheepscar, but it was still enjoyable as he sat with his collar and tie off and his suit jacket hanging on the back of the chair.

  Mary was out at the pictures with Len, gone to see Ivanhoe at the Rialto, with the promise of supper at Fairburn’s afterwards.

  ‘She won’t be back until eleven,’ Annabelle said. ‘Got to allow time for cuddling and kissing, too.’

  ‘I don’t know how she does it.’ Harper shook his head. ‘She’s out of here by seven every morning and never back until late.’

  ‘Young love,’ she replied with a grin and a wink. ‘You haven’t forgotten what that’s like, have you, Tom Harper?’

  She’d herded him on to dangerous ground. If he said no, she’d want details of who he courted before he met her; if he said yes, she’d call him a spoilsport. Whichever way he answered, he couldn’t win. It was safer to change the subject entirely.

  ‘I was going over the details for when this suffragist march passes through town,’ he said.

  ‘The Great Pilgrimage,’ she corrected him. ‘That’s the proper name. We’re hosting the group making their way down from Newcastle. Mrs Renton and Miss Ford have roped me in to help. I’m arranging tea at the Mansion in Roundhay Park.’

  ‘Very posh.’

  ‘They’ll have walked a hundred miles already. They deserve a slap-up spread after that.’

  ‘Have you made up your mind whether you’ll go to London with them?’

  ‘I’d like to,’ she answered after a moment. ‘It sounds like it’s going to be something quite wonderful. What do you think, Tom?’

  He laughed. ‘Since when did I have a say in things?’

  ‘Since right now.’ She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.

  ‘You go. You’ve done enough for them over the last twenty years, you deserve it.’

  ‘I’ll drive.’ Her eyes sparkled at the idea of the procession of women heading to the capital. ‘It’ll be fun. Who knows, we might even make a difference.’

  They wouldn’t. Deep down she knew that as well as he did. But he wasn’t about to puncture her balloon. Perhaps it was just as well Mary was out; she’d have made some comment.

  ‘Go on. We’ll be fine. A break will do you good.’

  ‘I think you’re right.’ Annabelle had never fully settled to anything since she stopped being a Poor Law Guardian, and that was a few years ago. She stayed busy enough, but the sense of vocation, of passion, had vanished. He’d be happy if she found it once more. ‘Of course, without Muggins here to cook, the pair of you will probably end up eating out every evening.’

  ‘Fish and chips.’ He was smiling as he spoke. She knew her family far too well.

  ‘So you haven’t forgotten what young love is like?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Good. We can have an early night and you can show me you remember.’

  Sunday morning and his car was parked outside the Victoria bang on half past seven. A Model T Ford; the uniformed driver let the engine idle until Harper was settled in the back seat.

  ‘Town hall, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  People stopped to stare. Children ran after the vehicle. It was the same every day. A motor car was still a rarity, especially in an area like this. The only other one in Sheepscar belonged to Annabelle. The way people gawped always left Harper awkward and uncomfortable. He fussed and fidgeted until they arrived at Great George Street.

  It wasn’t a work day, but he often popped in for an hour or two. It gave him a chance to whittle away
at the mountain of paperwork. Too conscientious, Annabelle called it. But he still felt as if he needed to prove himself in this job.

  The report sat at the top of the pile. Sissons and Ash had questioned Fess. He claimed he belonged to the Gopher Gang in New York, just like Mullen; they’d sent Fess to England to watch over him. Not exactly a bodyguard, he explained, but to make sure nothing bad happened. Everything was on the quiet; even Mullen didn’t know he was here, and he preferred to keep it that way. He didn’t want to interfere in Davey’s reunion with his old man. Fess wasn’t here to cause any trouble. Just the opposite; he was there to make sure none began. Yes, he had a gun, but he’d been careful to leave it in his luggage. If any officer wanted to go with him to the station, he’d gladly hand it over.

  Everything had been painstakingly typed up by a constable who couldn’t spell too well, with a scrawled note at the end in Ash’s writing: He sounds convincing, but I don’t believe a word of it. We don’t have enough to hold him.

  Paperclipped to it all was the brief telegram sent by the police in New York.

  Louis Herman Fess. Age 27. Member of Hudson Dusters gang. They shot Mullen 11 times. Known gunman. Violent. Dangerous.

  Short, simple, and to the point. Underneath, a little more from Ash: This arrived an hour after we let Fess go. He’s vanished from the rooming house, the men are searching for him.

  Dammit. An American gunman loose in Leeds. Someone who probably wanted to finish the job his friends had started with Mullen.

  By the time he left the town hall there was still no word of Fess. Harper had passed the word to every division. With his accent, an American shouldn’t be too hard to spot. If they hadn’t found him by morning, Harper would take charge of the hunt himself. Get Fess off the street before any trouble began.

  He’d finished his supper and poured the last cup of tea from the pot when Dan the barman came up the stairs to the parlour.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Tom, but there’s a man downstairs asking for you.’