It all happened so quickly.
Downstairs, Djugashvilli and Piaktow, almost on cue, having got hold of Betsy Gershon, threw her, closely followed the skirt, out into the street. Her abrupt entrance was met by a chorus of cat calls, jeers and cheers. Upstairs Svaars replied to the voice.
'
Hey Meester, you knows where you and King George can stick it!'
Wh
ilst Fritz was saying his piece to King and Country, a slate fell off of the roof and passed within a cat's whisker of his hand, as he was throwing the handkerchief out the window. Momentarily distracted, believing that a policeman might be on the roof, Fritz Svaars instinctively leant forwards to look. This was to be the last move the Latvian ever made. Over on the far side of the street a guardsman fixed him, firmly, within his sights and effortlessly pulled the trigger. The force of the bullet threw him backwards and into the far wall. By the dumbfounded expression on his face the poor Latvian never knew what hit him!
Trassjohnsky and Milstein, as they were busying themselves setting fire to the curtains in the front parlour room, were thrown to the ground as an artillery shell slammed into the outside wall, somewhere between the ground and first floor.
The concussion, from the six-pounder-round, rendered both unconscious.
For Josef Djugashvilli this was the opportunity that he
'd been waiting for. On the pretext of getting more ammunition he decided to make a break for it. He scrambled up through the hatch and into the attic. It was pitch-black inside; it took a moment for his eyes to readjust. He knew exactly where Gardstein had hidden the precious stones. He removed the section of the joist and there they were. He grabbed them and stuffed them into his trench coat pocket. Then he wrote something down on a tiny sheet of paper and then placed it into the space the stones had, only moments before, previously occupied. With that he headed down to the far end of the attic. He squeezed past the chimney stack and into the attic of the next door house. He repeated this manoeuvre a further half dozen times, until he felt sure that he had found the right place. Cautiously he lifted the hatch and lowered himself down into the house. As he rightly guessed the house was empty. Carefully shutting the hatch behind him, he made his way down the stairs and peered out from the safety of the net curtains.
After the blast
and somewhat dazed, Peter Piaktow quickly regained control of his senses. Looking around him, he could see that the staircase was partially wrecked. He could hear voices outside, they were coming closer. He shinned up what was left of it, and up through the skylight on the third floor. Once his eyes adjusted to the light, he headed to the place, where moments before the Georgian had been. Still disorientated from the blast, he stopped before he reached the joist. He turned around and returned to the hatch and shouted the Georgians name out. There was no reply, so he shouted it again. Listening carefully, he thought he heard something stirring down below. Piaktow lowered himself down onto the third floor. Again he shouted out the Georgians name, there was no reply. But he could definitely hear movement down below and the sound of English voices was getting louder. No sense in hanging around, Peter mused, but there was one more thing that he needed to do, it was a last farewell to his comrade George Gardstein. He lifted the sheet and kissed George's lips and then he placed Gardsteins hands across his chest. Pulling the cover back over the corpse, he walked out onto the landing and hauled his body back up into the attic.
Quietly replacing the hatch Peter Piaktow cautiously made his way through the dusty attic, to the place Gardstein had told him about.
He removed the joist and fumbled around with his fingers. He swore and swept his fingers around the aperture to make certain. There was a small piece of paper inside. He picked it up and read it and stuffed it into his coat pocket. Voices were coming from down below and they were definitely much nearer, it sounded like whoever they were, they were already up on the first floor.
He swiftly
crossed into an adjacent loft but, unbeknownst to him, he was going in the opposite direction to 'The Georgian'.
From the safety of his vantage point Josef Djug
asvilli watched the shenanigans going on further up the street. The police had gained access to number one hundred. The guardsmen were lining up in the street and the artillery piece was being removed. His attention turned towards the house again. A body was being carried out on a stretcher. That must be Gardstein's body. They were followed by the two, albeit dazed, women. That was three, so where was Peter? By his reckoning, old Betsy would have told them how many people were actually in the house; so that was the reason why they had used excessive force to gain entry. He watched several gentlemen talking outside of number one hundred. Then turning away Josef Djugashvilli felt the lump in his inside coat pocket, smiled, turned up his collar and discretely made his way out of the house, via the back garden and out onto the street. He milled around for a while, in the crowd and then took himself off towards Surrey docks. No one asked him why he was covered in brick dust!
Peter Piaktow had to wait a little bit longer.
He hid out for three days, inside a very spacious, Victorian wardrobe. On the fourth day having almost succumbed to a mixture of unbridled anger and claustrophobia; he quietly, in the middle of the night, made a discreet exit from the building. Every time he felt the anger subsiding he pulled out the note and read it. But one thing was for sure, he was going to catch up with and, when he did, he was going to kill that 'Double Dealing' Joseph Djugashvilli, even if it was the last thing he ever did.
Cooey,
Finder keepers, loser
's weepers!
Love
Koba xx
Like his former associate, before him, whom he was now most anxious to catch up with, when the moment arose he too made his way down to the docks. After all Peter Piaktow now had a score to settle. Little did he know it would take him eight and a half years, one World War, and two revolutions before he'd get an opportunity to settle it. But settle it he would!
The Evening Voice.
By Hieronymus Plugg
Today your roving reporter Hieronymus Plugg found himself at the centre of an almighty
'Shenanigan'. As you know readers, your roving reporter likes nothing more than a good story and an altercation with the law. Both of these were to be found in Sidney Street.
I sensed and rightly smelled that by nightfall the blood of these dastardly, foreign anarchists
, was going to be flowing along the gutters of Sidney Street!!
The Right Honourable Winston Churchill, a man who needs no introduction, was there. He took personal charge of the situation. The Guards and the Royal Artillery were there. He issued instructions for them to be called up from The Tower of London.
Acting on a tip off, two hundred policemen surrounded a house in Sidney Street. Prior to this all persons in the line of fire were evacuated. At 10 am sharp three gallant members of the local constabulary knocked on the front door. There came no reply, so they knocked again. Also, from my vantage point behind the cordon, I could see officers working their way along the rooftops. The officers on the street knocked again. A window in the house opened, and they were met by a savage volley of shots. One of the constables was hit. He fell back on the pavement and was assisted by the other two who eventually got him to safety.
The whole spectacle was beginning to draw a crowd.
I looked around and urchins and guttersnipes were watching from rooftops and people were leaning out of their windows. After the initial drama and the shooting of another policeman, a stalemate seemed to set in. It was obvious by the titbits of information that these were the villains of the piece responsible for the Houndsditch murders. They had gone to ground here at number 100 Sidney Street.
It also seemed that
, after the largest manhunt ever conducted in the East End, these foreign nationals – Russians – had led the police 'a right old merry song and dance'. Acting on information received the police led by the able Reginald Twist, traced them to this address.
But the brouhaha did not really get going in earnest until the arrival of
the Rt. Hon. Winston Churchill.
Prior to Mr Churchill
's arrival, it was becoming patently obvious that the police, having first surrounded the house, were not getting very far. Every two or three minutes everybody would dive for cover when a window would open and a hailstorm of lead would come out of number one hundred. The police also seemed to be at a loss as to whom, or how many, they were up against.
Once the member for Dundee had arrived, and after a near miss when his
'Titfer' was hit, it was clear to all and sundry that the nature of the operation had changed. 'Firm hands; produce firm results', as my father used to say. Positioning myself as close as I could to the Honourable Gent, I found myself in a unique position where I could hear what he had to say. The first thing he did was send for the guards and the second was for an artillery piece. Needless to say these produced the right results. The army snipers did what the police could not, they poured lead into the house and, finally the bringing up of the field gun, turned the tables. It was clear that everyone would be home in time for tea.
Soon number 100 was on fire
and constables were inside the building. The strange thing was they only brought out two women and one man. If there were others, it seems that they had long scarpered. It almost beggars belief that two women and one man could tie down the police for the better part of a morning and afternoon.
But for old Hieronymus Plugg
's money, the real hero of the day was the Right Honourable Winston Churchill. He turned towards me and exclaimed, 'This is fun isn't it!'
Readers of Stepney take note that
, in these troubled times, constant talk of war with Germany and rumours of Civil War in Ireland, we need men of his calibre, men such as Winston Churchill. They do what weaker men do not, they act and, when they do, they act decisively. But these men are few and far between. I predict that we have not seen the best of, or last of this man, and that his greatest hour is yet to come. This man is definitely a Prime Minister in waiting.
So readers you can take comfort in the fact that as long as Mr Churchill is around
you can sleep safely in your beds and no harm will ever come to 'Olde' Albion.
Chapter Twenty Four
Arthur Balfour put
The Evening Voice
down. He had read enough 'Bloody Self Publicist', he thought. The leader of the Conservative Party picked up the phone and made a call. The voice at the other end of the line liked what he heard. He put the receiver back on the hook. He would corner the member for Dundee at parliamentary questions; and as well he knew, it was going to take all of his public speaking skills and theatricality if he was going to upstage this 'Young Buck!'
The following afternoon t
he House of Commons chamber was full.
The speaker was shouting
, 'Order! Order!' Then he said, 'The Right Honourable member for 'The City of London', Leader of The Opposition, would like to say a few words ... Order!' Ordahh!!'
'
Honourable gentlemen I would like to take this opportunity to thank The Home Secretary for his swift and decisive action in Sidney Street!' One member later confided that you could hear a pin drop in the chamber on that day. The Honourable Member for Dundee sat there with a bemused grin on his face.
Arthur Balfour carried on,
'It would seem that the Honourable Member handled the affair with all his usual style and panache. Yes! Those of us that remember the Tonypandy debacle will remember that our Honourable friend was criticised for acting indecisively. I suspect that our friend, The Honourable Member for Dundee, stung by these comments, decided what was needed here was a complete tactical change. If he could not quite so easily get to Wales, he might find it easier to jump into a cab at 'The Savoy' and make his way to Stepney!' Balfour paused and looked around him. He knew that he had the chamber in the palm of his hand. He would milk it for all it was worth and give 'Randolph's Brat' a good drubbing in the process. 'So it was on Monday January the third that our 'Honourable' friend found himself in Stepney with a photographer. Now, for the life of me, I can understand what the photographer was doing, but what was the Honourable member doing there? I ask the question again, what was he doing there?'
'
He'd gone to get a close shave,' a member shouted out!
'
I will tell you why he went there gentlemen,' Arthur Balfour paused and then went on with his speech. 'I believe the member for Dundee is of a new breed altogether, he has adopted a new methodology, and it is called 'The Hands On' approach in dealing with criminals and crime. I would wager that he is of the opinion that nothing gets done unless he is physically present. But I tell you this Gentleman; that if this is the case; then this is a sad day for Parliamentarians and democracy! I will tell you why. When our Honourable friend took it upon himself to order in the military, he was sending out a clear message to those public servants who go quietly about their business in the pursuit of their day to day jobs. Indeed it seems that the people of Tonypandy are lucky, they got off lightly! The Metropolitan Police and the residents of Sidney Street did not!' More laughter. 'Now it is my belief that the honourable gentleman has set a precedent and that the precedent is this. In future all Home Secretaries will assist the constabulary in the arrest of felons; they will also assist the Fire Service in the extinguishing of fires, they will be there ready and waiting for him! All ministers of war will fix bayonets and lead the charge! But maybe! Maybe I'm not making myself totally clear, whatever I think doesn't really matter, or maybe it does. If it does gentleman it is this; was this an entirely reckless act, or was it an act of bravery, or was it an assault on parliament and the way we conduct our business here? If it is, and we apply his criteria to the way we do things; in the future, holders of government portfolios will have to apply, and rigorously adhere to, the Churchill maxim, 'Roll up your shirt sleeves, and get your hands dirty;' or, should we carry on as before? Listen to the advice of those best qualified to advise, and then act accordingly. I suspect the residents of Sidney Street would choose the lesser of the two evils! But maybe I should make myself clearer. When I say that the right honourable member is a new breed of politician, maybe we need to clarify exactly what this new type of politician is! I say that this type of politician always travels with his photographer by his side; he is always in touch with the editors of the daily newspapers, but this new breed of politician is definitely of a new type, a type we have not seen before! He is, Gentlemen, a populist, he cannot bear to secrete himself away in Whitehall, he has to be there at the coal face, no pun intended, he has, in order to justify to himself, to be seen to be doing something. And that something is purely for the public record! Gentlemen, Honourable friends we have been made, that is all of us; we have all been made redundant, by simple virtue of the fact that the Right Honourable Home Secretaries actions have ushered in a new era in politics, that is, the era of the 'Self Publicist! What is he you may ask? I will tell you, he is a person who sells newsprint to further his own political ends. He will say that he will do anything for anyone, but has no intention of doing anything, honourable friends, unless it furthers his own career!'