Shadow of the Hangman(52)

‘Y’are a slut, a dirty, stinkin’, slovenly trollop who was born with ’er legs apart. Yes,’ added the first woman, waving a fist, ‘and thar swivel-eyed sister of yours is no better. The pair of you give the Irish a bad name, so you do.’

The argument quickly degenerated into a fierce fight that Paul had no wish to watch. As the women began to grapple with each other and a crowd formed to urge them on, he walked quickly past them and turned a corner, finding himself in a narrow court inhabited by screaming children, random filth and unwholesome vapours. A one-armed man of uncertain age was selling fruit from his barrow. Paul mingled with the knot of customers who were fingering the apples in search of some that were edible. When he heard the brogue of a young man beside him, he tried to sound casual.

‘D’you live hereabouts, my friend?’ he asked.

‘Why, so I do.’

‘Then p’raps you can help me.’

‘That depends.’

Tall, hollow-cheeked and hirsute, the man eyed him suspiciously.

‘Who’re you?’

‘My name is Paul Kilbride and I’m looking for someone.’

‘You sound like a Wicklow man.’

‘You’ve a good ear, my friend.’

‘I’ve a good nose, too,’ said the other with contempt, ‘and I can always smell a Wicklow man.’

‘What about an American?’

‘What about him?’

‘That’s the fella I’m looking for, so it is,’ explained Paul. ‘He’d be around my age. When I heard he’d come to London, I just had to seek him out. I remembered him telling me once that he’d family in Seven Dials so this is where he’d make for.’

‘Does he have a name?’

‘It’s Tom O’Gara.’

‘And when would he have come to the city?’

‘Oh, it would be within the last week.’

The man snapped his fingers. ‘Then I might be able to help you,’ he said. ‘There’s a newcomer called O’Gara who turned up out of nowhere the other day. As to his being American, I couldn’t say for I’ve not spoken to him.’

‘He’d be travelling with someone else, a black man.’

‘Then it has to be him. I’ve seen them both together. O’Gara and his friend are staying in the back room on the first floor. If you don’t believe me, go and see.’

The man turned away and began picking up the fruit to test its ripeness. Unsure whether he was being helped or misled, Paul glanced at the grimy tenement. If the missing sailors were inside, they’d not be the only criminals using the Seven Dials as their refuge. He walked to the front door and waited as a mangy dog came hurtling out and shot past him. Paul then climbed the steps to the first floor, shoes echoing on the wooden steps. The walls were bare and glistening with damp. The stench was ghastly. When he reached the room at the rear, he knocked hard on a door that was covered in stains and had the name of O’Gara carved inexpertly into the timber.

Paul waited for a full minute. There was the sound of commotion from inside then the door swung open and a massive, bearded man in his fifties stood there with his hands on his hips. He gave Paul a truculent welcome.

‘Who the devil are you?’ he snarled.

‘I’m looking for Tom O’Gara.’

‘That’s what he claims,’ said a voice behind Paul, ‘but I think he’s lying.’

Paul turned round to see the man to whom he’d talked beside the barrow. Before he could move, he was grabbed from behind in a bear hug and held by the bearded man who exerted steady pressure with his strong arms.

‘What’s your friggin’ game?’ he demanded.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN




Paul was trapped. His only hope of escape lay in taking immediate action against both of them. Otherwise, he’d be held by the bearded man, robbed by his accomplice then assaulted by the pair of them. He therefore responded quickly, kicking the young man in the stomach and making him double up in pain. Struggling against his captor, he flung his head back sharply so that he broke the man’s nose and elicited a howl of fury. At the same time, he rammed both elbows into his ribs then brought his heel down with full force on his toe. The bearded man had so many sources of anguish that he didn’t know which one to attend to first. He released Paul and put a hand to the blood dribbling from his nose. The young man started to flail away but it was a fleeting tussle. Paul pushed him backwards down the stairs and he rolled to the bottom where he lay in agony. As he fled from the building, Paul made a point of stepping on the man’s chest.

Before the two men could recover enough to pursue him and wreak their revenge, Paul trotted off through the narrow lanes and didn’t stop until he reached Covent Garden. The fruit was more enticing there and he felt much safer. Somehow he’d given himself away in Seven Dials and learnt a valuable lesson. He could at least cross the district off the list of places he intended to visit. Tom O’Gara and Moses Dagg were not there. Two such unusual visitors would not go unnoticed by the sharp-eyed young man he’d met beside the wheelbarrow. If they were there, Paul decided, the man would have sought money for offering his assistance. As it was, he’d chosen to take it by force with the aid of his bearded friend. The two men were criminals who worked hand in glove. It gave Paul great amusement to think that they were now comparing their injuries and bemoaning their bad luck.