Read Online The Tiger in the Well by Philip Pullman - Free Book Online
Authors: Philip Pullman
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newspapers, with three or four people reading or writing silently; in another, three games of chess were going on, with spectators arguing in whispers; in another, a vastly bearded man was explaining the advantages of anarchism to a small group of students, none of whom seemed to be inclined to take his word for it.
Bill knocked at a door showing a line of light under it, and a voice shouted, ''JaP Immer hemnP'
Bill went in. The room was hot and smoky, and the lamp on the table shone on a clutter of books, papers, and journals that spread from the table to the floor and stood in piles around the tattered carpet.
Behind the table sat the man he'd come to see, and in front of it sat a man called Kid Mendel. Bill stood still, his eyes wide, and automatically took off his cap, for Kid Mendel was the acknowledged leader of the Jewish gangs in Soho. The Jews and the Irish and the Italians between them held a rough balance of power, and Kid Mendel was a statesman, a king among them. He was a man in his thirties, tall, beautifully dressed, with humorous eyes and a slightly balding forehead. He was known to have killed two men with his own hands and to have organized the Wellington Street bank robbery; even the police knew it. But he was too clever for
the police. He'd made it known that he intended to retire to Brighton in time for the new century, wealthy and respected by everyone, and then look for a seat in Parliament, and as he said that with a straight face, and as he was Kid Mendel, no one expressed any disbelief.
And if this great man was visiting Mr. Goldberg, the man Bill had come to see, it sent that gentleman up in Bill's estimation too.
Mr. Goldberg waved his cigar.
*'My friend Bill Goodwin," he said. "We've nearly finished. Bill."
"How do you do.'"' said Kid Mendel, and Bill came awkwardly forward to shake his hand. "Where do you come from. Bill.?"
"Lambeth, Mr. Mendel," Bill said hoarsely.
"Dan tells me you're a useful fellow. Perhaps we can have a chat sometime. Well, I must be going, my dear chap," he said to Mr. Goldberg, getting up. "Very interesting talk. Something promising there, if I'm not mistaken. Good-bye, Bill."
Bill watched him go, awestruck.
Goldberg laughed, and Bill turned back. The man behin< the table was younger than Kid Mendel, but that was all Bill knew about him. He was mysterious; he was a little devilish. Bill wouldn't have been surprised to see horns and cloven hoofs, and hear the swish of a snaky tail; certainly the fumes of his cigar were sulfurous enough. He'd turned up one day in the police court at Lambeth, where Bill was starring in a program that also featured a blackjack, a broken window, and a quantity of stolen silver. Bill had never seen him before, but he'd found himself so convinced by Mr. Goldberg's evidence that he began to remember quite vividly being with him on the day in question, helping at a Jewish orphans' outing to Hampstead Heath.
"I got it, Mr. Goldberg," he said, and laid the leather bag on the table. "And this."
He dropped the greasy notebook beside it.
"Good," said Mr. Goldberg. "Sit down. Have you counted it?"
"Course not." Bill seemed affronted at the very idea. "I ain't touched it. Apart from giving Liam his cut."
Goldberg cleared a space by sweeping the immediate clutter aside with an arm, and tipped the bag out. A cascade of golden sovereigns, silver, and bundled notes fell out. Goldberg counted it swiftly.
"Three hundred and thirty. Here's twenty for you, and ten to me for expenses, and that leaves three hundred. Now listen. You know the Jewish Shelter in Leman Street?"
"Leman Street—^what, down by the docks?"
*'That's the one. I want you to take this money there and hand it to the superintendent. Tell him it's from a donor who wants to remain anonymous. If he starts making a fuss, just ask him if he wants it or not."
"Right, Mr. Goldberg. What's the notebook for? I tried to read it, but I couldn't make anything out. Must be his
Bill knocked at a door showing a line of light under it, and a voice shouted, ''JaP Immer hemnP'
Bill went in. The room was hot and smoky, and the lamp on the table shone on a clutter of books, papers, and journals that spread from the table to the floor and stood in piles around the tattered carpet.
Behind the table sat the man he'd come to see, and in front of it sat a man called Kid Mendel. Bill stood still, his eyes wide, and automatically took off his cap, for Kid Mendel was the acknowledged leader of the Jewish gangs in Soho. The Jews and the Irish and the Italians between them held a rough balance of power, and Kid Mendel was a statesman, a king among them. He was a man in his thirties, tall, beautifully dressed, with humorous eyes and a slightly balding forehead. He was known to have killed two men with his own hands and to have organized the Wellington Street bank robbery; even the police knew it. But he was too clever for
the police. He'd made it known that he intended to retire to Brighton in time for the new century, wealthy and respected by everyone, and then look for a seat in Parliament, and as he said that with a straight face, and as he was Kid Mendel, no one expressed any disbelief.
And if this great man was visiting Mr. Goldberg, the man Bill had come to see, it sent that gentleman up in Bill's estimation too.
Mr. Goldberg waved his cigar.
*'My friend Bill Goodwin," he said. "We've nearly finished. Bill."
"How do you do.'"' said Kid Mendel, and Bill came awkwardly forward to shake his hand. "Where do you come from. Bill.?"
"Lambeth, Mr. Mendel," Bill said hoarsely.
"Dan tells me you're a useful fellow. Perhaps we can have a chat sometime. Well, I must be going, my dear chap," he said to Mr. Goldberg, getting up. "Very interesting talk. Something promising there, if I'm not mistaken. Good-bye, Bill."
Bill watched him go, awestruck.
Goldberg laughed, and Bill turned back. The man behin< the table was younger than Kid Mendel, but that was all Bill knew about him. He was mysterious; he was a little devilish. Bill wouldn't have been surprised to see horns and cloven hoofs, and hear the swish of a snaky tail; certainly the fumes of his cigar were sulfurous enough. He'd turned up one day in the police court at Lambeth, where Bill was starring in a program that also featured a blackjack, a broken window, and a quantity of stolen silver. Bill had never seen him before, but he'd found himself so convinced by Mr. Goldberg's evidence that he began to remember quite vividly being with him on the day in question, helping at a Jewish orphans' outing to Hampstead Heath.
"I got it, Mr. Goldberg," he said, and laid the leather bag on the table. "And this."
He dropped the greasy notebook beside it.
"Good," said Mr. Goldberg. "Sit down. Have you counted it?"
"Course not." Bill seemed affronted at the very idea. "I ain't touched it. Apart from giving Liam his cut."
Goldberg cleared a space by sweeping the immediate clutter aside with an arm, and tipped the bag out. A cascade of golden sovereigns, silver, and bundled notes fell out. Goldberg counted it swiftly.
"Three hundred and thirty. Here's twenty for you, and ten to me for expenses, and that leaves three hundred. Now listen. You know the Jewish Shelter in Leman Street?"
"Leman Street—^what, down by the docks?"
*'That's the one. I want you to take this money there and hand it to the superintendent. Tell him it's from a donor who wants to remain anonymous. If he starts making a fuss, just ask him if he wants it or not."
"Right, Mr. Goldberg. What's the notebook for? I tried to read it, but I couldn't make anything out. Must be his
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