Page 33 of Courier of Death
Bloom’s amused façade vanished. “Are you accusing me of paying your bobby to look the other way?”
“Was he receptive?” Jasper replied, feeling a touch of hedonistic pleasure at being able to rile Bloom.
“I’m offended. I don’t have a thing to cover up around here.” He came forward a step. “It’s your bobbies who might have an indiscretion or two to hide.”
Jasper took the dangled bait. “Lloyd specifically?”
Bloom shrugged. “Tell me about this other bloke,” he said, avoiding the question. “What was his name?”
“Niles Foster,” Lewis said. “A parliamentary aide.”
Bloom crowed a laugh. His serving staff, still looking on, did the same. However, Jasper couldn’t tell if they were genuinely amused or if they only knew it was wise to follow their boss’s lead.
“My place attracts all sorts these days,” he said. “How would I have known him?”
“Mr. Foster was ejected from your back room about a week ago,” Jasper answered. “He was forcibly thrown out by another man, described as being tall and fair-haired, his left eyelid drooping lower than the right.”
In his peripheral vision, he saw Lewis shoot him a startled look at the precise description.
“Is the man I described employed by you?” Jasper asked.
Bloom started for the bar along the wall, where his bartender was polishing the top with a rag. “He’s not one of mine. You’re talking about Olaf,” Bloom said, tapping the glossy walnut to order a drink. The bartender produced a shot of whisky in a blink.
“A German?” Lewis asked.
“A Swede,” Bloom answered, tossing back his drink. “A heavy for Barry Reubens.”
The name lit an unexpected spark in Jasper. Barry Reubens was the head of a motley gang out of Spitalfields, known as the Angels.
“You associate with the Angels?” Jasper asked.
Bloom shrugged. “I’ve got nothing against them or any other outfit, so long as they don’t do business or cause trouble at my place. These are established rules, Inspector.”
Two months ago, when Andrew Carter’s new wife was poisoned at Striker’s Wharf, tension between Bloom and the Carters had ensued. But the truth—that her murder had been planned by someone wholly unassociated with any crime syndicate—seemed to have alleviated that tension.
“What complaint did Olaf have with Niles Foster that night?” Jasper asked.
“No idea. Whatever this Foster bloke did to get on Olaf’s bad side, it’s nothing to do with me. You’ll have to ask Olaf.”
Approaching Barry Reubens, however, wouldn’t be simple. Spitalfields was a den of thieves and criminals. Police officers patrolled there in pairs, sometimes as trios, for their safety. While the Carters had worked to elevate themselves in society, the Angels had stayed true to their cutthroat roots. By Bloom’s smirk, he knew as much.
“I’d like to speak with your dealers to see if they can recall PC Lloyd at their tables three nights ago,” Jasper said. He’d inquire about Niles Foster as well, but it would be a waste of time. If Bloom instructed them to stay quiet, they wouldn’t go against him.
“They’ll be here tonight, Inspector. Do come back and enjoy yourself,” he replied with a falsely bright grin.
Thanking Bloom for his time, they left, emerging onto the wharf in quickly warming sunshine. The briny scent of the Thames held a note of rot and waste.
It illustrated Jasper’s thoughts on Eddie Bloom perfectly.
Chapter Twelve
Carlisle Street was part of an upscale neighborhood near Soho Square, just south of Oxford Street. As Leo approached the front door to the Stewart household, she felt as out of her depth as she had the previous evening. This time, however, the house was serene, bathed in afternoon sunlight, without the busy murmuring of voices emanating from within.
After Geraldine’s dramatic arrest and the horrific charges levied against her, Leo wondered how many of the women who were present last night would continue in their support of her and the WEA. As much as some ladies believed in the vote for women, they believed more devoutly in decency and decorum. For many, having their leader carted away in a police wagon would be insupportable.
Not for Dita, however. Before Leo had left her, she’d written a brief note to Geraldine. In it, she reassured her that she did not believe the WEA leader was involved in any way with the bombing that had taken John’s life and that she would support her publicly whenever the time called for it. “It isn’t much,” Dita had said tearfully. “But I want her to know she still has friends.”
It had given Leo a good reason to stop by the Stewarts’ home. If she could ask about the valise that had been stored in the attic, all the better.
