Ring of Terror by Michael Gilbert Page A

from an old-fashioned iron stove into which the widow was trying to push a sheaf of papers. When she saw her visitors she screamed, but did not stop what she was doing.
    ‘Grab her,’ said Luke.
    Joe sprang into action, twisted the widow’s left arm behind her back, frog-marched her across the room and banged her right wrist down on the corner of the desk, loosening her hold on the papers which fell on to the floor. In her anxiety to get rid of them, the widow had rolled them into a sheaf which was too large to go between the bars of the stove. All she had succeeded in doing was charring the ends of them.
    ‘Sit her down in that chair,’ said Luke.
    ‘Tie her up?’
    ‘No need. She won’t run away.’
    The events of the last few minutes had knocked most of the fight out of her. She sat in silence as Luke gathered up the papers. He said, ‘Now listen to me, Mother Triboff. Do you know a man called Weil? Molacoff Weil?’
    The widow started to shake.
    ‘I see that you know the sort of man he is. All right. Unless you answer a few questions I’m going to let him know that you handed over these papers to us, to get yourself out of trouble. And that you let us take them away. So what do you think he’ll do to you?’
    ‘Feed her into the stove, like as not,’ said Joe. But the widow took no notice of him. Her eyes were on Luke and on the papers, which he had unrolled and started to examine. Her lips were working.
    Finally she said, ‘What do you want?’
    ‘I want to know where the messages are that came last night.
    You can’t have sent them on yet, because no one has left the house. Also I want to know who’s the man who uses this room.’
    ‘And if I tell you, you won’t—’
    ‘If you tell us, that’s the end of the matter.’
    ‘You’ve got the messages there.’
    Most of the documents were anarchist literature, handbills and circulars, printed by the Anarchist Press in Jubilee Street. From among them Luke extracted two grubby envelopes, neither of them sealed. The notes in them were in Russian, unheaded and unaddressed. The first said, ‘The usual place, tomorrow. Bring your two friends with you.’ The second said, ‘When you go to your workshop watch your back. This is important.’
    Luke said, ‘What’s this “usual place” and this workshop they talk about?’
    The old woman shook her head. She knew nothing. All she had to do was pass on messages to people who came to collect them. This seemed reasonable. Luke changed tack. He said, ‘Tell me about the man who uses this room. He seems to have made himself pretty comfortable. He must have been here some time.’
    ‘Trout. His name was Trout.’
    ‘Sounds fishy to me,’ said Joe, predictably.
    ‘Is that all you can tell us?’
    ‘I know nothing more. He came, he paid his rent, he hobbled away.’
    ‘He had some difficulty in walking?’
    ‘Yes. He was lame.’
    Looking through the printed papers whilst he was talking, Luke had spotted one that was handwritten. It seemed to be a receipt of some sort and the important thing was that it had an address on it. 22, Cundy Street. Careful not to seem too interested in it he pushed it into his pocket with the two messages, rolled up the anarchist literature and gave it to Joe. The widow watched him, blinking fearfully.
    ‘If he—if anyone asks,’ she said, ‘you will tell him that you took the papers by force. That I tried to burn them, but you prevented me.’
    ‘Very well. That shall be our story. Only changed a little. You didn’t try to burn the papers. You succeeded. That puts you in an even better light, yes?’
    The old lady nodded. Now that Luke had started to speak in Russian she was following what he said closely, her button eyes gleaming.
    ‘Second point, if Mr Trout reappears, you get the news to us at the police station in Leman Street. You know it?’
    ‘The police house, yes.’
    ‘Good. Then, for the moment, goodbye.’
    ‘What next?’ said Joe, as they slammed the