could call the small square of paved space a shop, was sitting so close the Guv might have reached out and shaken him, but he ignored him totally for the moment.
“How’d you find this booth?” he asked Swanson over his shoulder.
“I do this for a living, you know,” Swanson replied. “You’re not the only one who has informants.”
“Has he told you from whence the togs came?” Barker continued, this time referring to the proprietor directly. He finally turned the black quartz lens of his spectacles upon him. The vendor was a jowly fellow with a pendulous, unshaven neck, and a bowler too small for his hoary head.
“He’s nae said a word,” the inspector replied.
“What have you threatened him with?” Barker asked.
“The usual-a hard questioning down at A Division.”
“Take a walk, Donald.”
“No, Cyrus. There’ll be no tossin’ suspects about while I’m in the area.”
Barker nodded, still squatting there, deep in thought. Then he reached out, plucked the man’s greasy tie from inside his moth-eaten waistcoat and slowly pulled the man toward him. He spoke to him in one ear, so low we could not catch a word. Then slowly, he loosed the tie and the man settled down back on the pavement.
“Ask your question again.”
“Your name, sir. State your full name and address,” the inspector demanded.
“Joseph Perkins, three eleven Flower and Dean Street,” the slovenly man muttered.
“Who sold you these clothes?”
“Didn’t give their names and I didn’t ask ’em.”
“Isn’t it customary to ask for names and addresses when purchasing clothing?”
“It may be down near Aldgate High Street, in the prime sites. We ain’t so p’ticular back here where the sunlight don’t get through.”
“Were you aware a girl was missing wearing just such clothing?” Swanson demanded.
The man shrugged his shoulders. “Girls go missing every day.”
“There is not an epidemic of missing girls in the East End of London,” Swanson stated, as if he were giving evidence in court.
“Suit yourself, then,” Perkins said with a shrug. “Don’t know nothing, didn’t see nothing.”
“You saw something, all right,” Barker growled. “Describe who sold you this sailor suit.”
“Were just a girl and her mum. She looked the right size for the clothes, though the frock she had on weren’t nothing to speak of. Family resemblance; had to be mother and daughter. Girl looked about twelve, her mum…It’s hard to tell in Whitechapel.”
“She was from Whitechapel?”
“Didn’t say that. I assumed. They was pretty draggle-tailed. Came in late yesterday and mum seemed nervous. Didn’t speak English much. She wore a ’kerchief round her head. I didn’t know about the sailor suit then or I’d a turned her down, but it is a beauty. Gave her a bob for it.”
“Do you remember a name?” Barker growled. He was still balanced on the balls of his feet, as solid as if he were cemented there.
The man was quiet a moment. He closed his eyes. “Yer. She called her by an odd name, the mum did. What was it? Orma? Una? No, it was Ona, I think. The girl had stepped over to look at that booth there selling ribbons, and her mum cracked the whip hard. ‘Ona, come, child.’”
“That’s all you can recall?” Barker demanded, looking as menacing as only he can.
“That’s the lot, Push. Honest.”
Barker stood then, slowly straightening his knees.
“You’re taking the clothes I shelled out for and not leaving a penny, aren’t you?” Perkins demanded of the inspector.
“Any time you want to visit them, you can see them in A Division,” Swanson replied.
“Like I’m gonna go to the Yard voluntarily,” the vendor grumbled.
“How long was your time?” Barker asked.
“Five years hard in Princetown for ’sault. Thought he was a bloke what owed me money. How was I to know he were a solicitor?”
By now the two women were dancing about behind us. Barker instructed me to give them each sixpence to send them on their way. They shot off like horses at Ascot. Finally, he had me pass a shilling to Mr. Perkins.
“You’re a gentleman, sir!” Perkins said. “Thank ye.”
“What you are,” Swanson corrected as he bent down to pick up the clothing, “is a soft touch.”
“‘Rob not the poor because he is poor,’” Barker quoted.
“I’ll see you two gentlemen again,” Swanson continued. “The commissioner will want to see these.” He disappeared down the lane, or almost. Being a head taller than most, we watched his bowler hat bob through the knots of shoppers.
“We must work a little harder to stay ahead of Donald Swanson,” the Guv said.
“He has informants.”
“Aye. Canny ones. Let us hurry.”
“Why bother?” I asked. “It seems certain now that Gwendolyn DeVere is dead.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Her clothes were right there. You’re not going to find two outfits by Rowes of Bond Street for sale in the East End, and I think it unlikely she is alive somewhere unclothed.”
“Perhaps, but we have a name at least. Ona. I believe it is Lithuanian.”
“Jewish?” We were in the heart of the Jewish quarter. In fact, we were surrounded by hoardings in Yiddish.
The minute we were away from the watchful eye of Inspector Donald Swanson, I pulled out my notebook and began flipping pages.
“Ona, Ona, Ona,” I repeated until I finally saw the name. “Miss Hill said she was the only girl Miss DeVere would speak to in the Green.”
“I believe we should speak to Miss Bellovich and her mother.”
“Perhaps. Let us return to the Charity Organization Society.”
“But, sir, it is Sunday. Surely they will be closed.”
“They have a smaller group of women working on Sunday, headed by Miss Levy. As she is Jewish, it is not her Sabbath and she can tend to the unfortunates who need aid when the society would otherwise be closed.”
We caught a cab back toward Bethnal Green. Once inside the C.O.S., Barker walked up to the attractive but tart Miss Levy and asked to speak to her privately.
Amy Levy looked hard at him, trying to come up with a reason to refuse, but finally stepped outside with us.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Barker?”
“Miss Levy, I would like to say a given name to you and perhaps you can supply a surname in return. Are you agreeable?”
She nodded hesitantly.
“The name is Ona.”
“Yes,” came the immediate response. “Ona Bell. Actually, it is Ona Bellovich. She was one of our charity cases here, along with her mother, Svetlana, when they first arrived in England six months ago. Ona was friendly with Gwendolyn, though I cannot say it was much reciprocated. She is a sweet girl. She acts as interpreter for her mother, who speaks mostly Yiddish. But how have you come across her name? Surely the Belloviches have not done anything criminal.”
“Perish the thought, Miss Levy. As enquiry agents, we must track down all leads in an investigation. Her name came up this morning. Perhaps she spoke to Gwendolyn the day of her disappearance. Is it possible that the charity might have their present address?”
Miss Levy held back. “You merely wish to question her, do you not?”
“Of course. Does Mrs. Bellovich have a husband or male relative I might speak to first?”
“No, the two are alone in England. Her husband paid their passage but has been unsuccessful so far in
