Murder of Innocence

By Bryan Lightbody

Summer 1914: a calamitous war has just begun in Europe, but just how close did celebrated detective Chief Superintendent Robert Ford come to changing history?

Europe, Summer 1911 and Robert Ford, head of Londons Metropolitan Police Special Branch, is assigned on the Kings directions as personal protection officer to Prime-minister Herbert Henry Asquith. Ford has been chosen due to a series of assassinations of politicians attending gala events. No one knows who is conducting such a campaign, but it is suspected whoever it is their goal is clear; destabilize the old alliances and bring about war. Ford breaks the first lead in the case when he foils an assassin in Paris.

However, Ford is discouraged from any investigation by cabinet Minister William Olivier who claims it has been the work of a lone gunman and no one else. Olivier is a member of the Intelligentsia whose intention is to destroy the current European order by war to further their own economic ends, with his conspirators they must find a new group to finance to bring about their ambitions. Enter Major Tankosic, deputy head of Serbian military intelligence, co-founder of Black Hand and sponsor of radicals Danilo Illic and Gavrilo Princip, founders of the Young Bosnians.

Spring 1914. A member of Fords unit infiltrates the Intelligentsia as its founders butler. But, he is discovered by his employer Lord Charlton Boyd just as he gains one tantalizing piece of information for Special Branch. Before passing this intelligence on he disappears. Ford tries to convince Asquith to allow him leave from his London duties to break the case within the Austro-Hungarian Empire in Europe. Olivier has Asquiths ear and convinces him Ford has no place being involved in protection duties within a competing and hostile empire.

However, Ford finds a way and travels to the heart of Balkans and eventually to the service of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. Time is ticking away and the conspirators are already in Sarajevo. They know the Heir Apparent is coming and his murder will be their catalyst to spark a revolution. Major Tankosic seems to always lag one step behind. How have these simple student boys had the money and wherewithal to move so easily around the country?

June 1914, Ford certain about the conspiracy, cannot persuade the Archduke to take his personal safety seriously. Ford insists that he travel as protection officer with the Archduke or at least as his driver. His request is refused.

Gavrilo Princip stands in wait. Soon Ford will discover a shocking truth about British military intelligence and the Sarajevo conspiracy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524668372

Bryan Lightbody

In 1888 a series of notorious murders were perpetrated by an enigmatic killer known only as Jack the Ripper who terrified the Whitechapel district of East London. Six women were murdered in a four month period with the killings ending as suddenly as they began with an unknown motive. Whitechapel tells the story of these killings through the eyes of Robert Ford a young uniform constable working in the district during the reign of the horrific crimes. The fictional story of his involvement with the investigation presents a plausible explanation of how and why the killings were perpetrated; how and why Jack the Ripper was never caught and how members of the British establishment perverted the course of justice for their own selfish ends. It is also a story of love, duty, romance, tragedy and ultimately revenge that spans the late 19th Century in America, London and Paris through to the early 20th Century returning to St Louis, Missouri. Not only does it present a compelling read as a thriller but also serves as a history lesson about the Jack the Ripper murders and about social deprivation in London during the late Victorian era. Although in reality the mystery of the killers identity remains, Whitechapel draws a conclusion on why and who committed these ghastly crimes.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

W hen the grave of Bogdan Zerajic was opened in 1920 the inquisitive parties found that the skull was missing from the body. It was discovered very shortly after that the skull had been retained in the Museum of Criminology in Sarajevo, where the two parts were eventually once more reunited. At the time of Zerajic’s death in 1910, the Austrians were influenced by the studies of Italian criminologist Cesare Lombroso who theorised that criminals could be recognised by inherent defects in their appearance. In particular they were thought by Lombroso to be recognisable by their larger jaws, high cheekbones, handle-shaped ears, hawked noses and fleshy lips.

Zerjic’s skull had evidently been removed in pursuit of this early attempt at eugenics. He was widely described at the time as a ‘lunatic’ or more politely a ‘lone anarchist’. The skull eventually found use on the desk of the Sarajevo chief of detectives Viktor Ivasjuk as an inkpot and also an instrument of psychological torture. When threatening the Young Bosnians he was interrogating he would hiss at them, ‘If you do not admit everything I shall make inkpots out of your heads, just like Zerajic.’ The threat seemed not to diminish the resolve of these young anarchists, but very probably lionised the legend of Bogdan Zerajic.

Zerajic was born in 1887 one of nine children in a peasant family. So poor was he throughout his adolescence that he had to abandon law studies at Zagreb University as he could not support himself. This led him to become a primary school teacher in Serbia where he became politicised reading Russian socialist works such as those of anarchist Prince Kropotkin. He was one of hundreds of young men who flocked to join the Serbian Komite after the Austrian annexation of Bosnia in 1908, when it was suspected that Serbia was about to be invaded. ‘We must liberate ourselves or die,’ said Zerjic. He despaired of the news of the Serbian government’s acceptance of Bosnia’s annexation and was disappointed that the Bosnian Serbs did not rise up as they had done in the 1870s.

Zerajic became an active ‘Young Bosnian’ agitating for change and borrowing a pistol that he described as ‘a little thing that would not be wasted.’ The legend of Bogdan Zerajic was cemented after his death by the writings of his long-term friend Vladimir Gacinovic who canonised him as a martyr. As close friends Gacinovic knew all about Zerajic’s plan to assassinate the Austro-Hungarian Emperor Franz Josef, uncle to Franz Ferdinand, when he made a state visit in 1910 to celebrate the annexation.

Gacinovic wrote, ‘I accompanied Bogdan to the railway station when he set off on his mission to assassinate. He grabbed me by the arms as if he were seeing me for the last time. He was silent until the bell rang for the departure of the train. Then he spoke in a forthright manner. Youth must prepare for sacrifices! Tell them! He departed quietly, nobly and unobserved.’ Zerajic later inspired Gacinovic to write, ‘We the youngest have to make a new history; into our frozen society we have to bring sunshine, we have to waken the dead and cheer up the resigned. Having a belief stronger than life and a love that is capable of lifting people out of the grave, we shall win!’

Zerajic shadowed the Emperor for much of his visit and got so close on some occasions that he could have touched him, especially at the Mostar railway station. But for some reason he could not take his gun out and shoot Franz Josef, and therefore in the process become a hero. At the end of the state visit the Emperor told the Bosnian governor General Varesanin, ‘I can assure you that this visit has made me feel twenty years younger.’ The Austrians set up a puppet parliament called ‘the Sabor’ in Sarajevo that was officially opened on 10th June 1910 by the governor.

As Varesanin was travelling home in his carriage he passed along the Appel Quay, where Gavrilo Princip would be standing four years later. As the carriage turned onto a bridge over the Miljacka River, Zerajic was stood waiting and stepped forward firing five bullets at Varesanin all of which missed. He turned the gun on himself and fired the last bullet into his head. The coach stopped and the General walked back to observe the body of his would-be assassin who was ‘lying across the bridge in his death agony, thick blood flowing from his mouth.’ Gacinovic recounted that ‘Varesanin walked up to the dying Zerajic and kicked him, then spitting at him with the comment you scum.’ This act and those two words engrained themselves in the hate-filled sentiments of the Young Bosnians.

The Austrians tried to suppress his martyrdom by burying Zerajic in secret, among suicides and vagrants in St Mark’s Cemetery. His grave was very quickly found and properly marked with a cross and flowers by the Young Bosnian membership. Nedjo Cabrinovic carved the cross, and Gavrilo Princip took other flowers to decorate his role model’s grave.

One day, they would all end up together in the same memorial underneath the Vidovdan chapel.

ONE

Sarajevo, June 28th 1914

G avrilo Princip stood on the pavement of the Appel Quay opposite Moritz Schiller’s deli shop right on the junction of Franz Josef Street, mixing with the expectant crowds. His name was shortened to Gavro from childhood, and physically he was little more than a mature youth. Anyone watching him with half a notion of unusual but perhaps focussed behaviour patterns would have watched this frail, sickly looking individual and thought he appeared out of place. He was clearly on edge, expectant, despite his best efforts. Gavro paced up and down from time to time, and when he could bring himself to be stationary he shifted his weight from side to side, bouncing from one foot to another. He sporadically tapped down his left side with both his hands in turn. A very odd pattern of behaviour to observe, although not so if one gave consideration to this individual reassuring himself of an item of property still being tucked securely into the waistband of his trousers. The semi automatic pistol he had cherished for so many weeks, concealed, cleaned and practiced with on a very limited basis due to the scarcity of the ammunition for it, sat ready for him to draw crossways. Left side just by his hip, handle facing forward, ready for his right hand to grasp it and pull it free. He was comfortable with his mission parameters, despite this nervous appearance. He would take the life of the Heir Apparent of the Austro-Hungarian Empire with the intention of bringing about the end of the empirical tyranny of Bosnia. He comforted himself in becoming a martyr, just like his historic idol Zerajic.

Gavro was ready. Unlike some of his conspirators, all with positions along the processional route, and all with different methods of assassination by virtue of their weaponry to make attempts on Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s life. He knew nothing of Nedjo Cabrinovic’s failed attempt or of the cowardice of some of his co-conspirators. The element that set Gavro apart in particular was his resolve to see the end of his journey to this point in his life through to its very obvious conclusion. He had no intention of escape, nor indeed for capture. Cyanide tablets in one of his grubby suit pockets should ensure that. If he had the chance then he could swiftly turn the pistol upon himself before capture if he was certain that he had achieved his objective.

10.45a.m. Pinkerton’s agent, former Detective Chief Superintendent Robert Ford sat impassively in the rear seat of the Archduke’s ‘back-up’ protection car. There was now only one car travelling ahead of the royal couple, Archduke Franz Ferdinand and Duchess Sophie Chotek, which contained the Lord Mayor and Dr Gerde, Sarajevo chief of police amongst others. Ford had been an observer of this poor standard of protection operation for far too long, and he was feeling expectantly unsettled. He had been on his feet too little and in his seat too much, forced to be disengaged by the local operatives and Habsburg detectives. Clearly feeling threatened by the presence of this celebrated London detective, misplaced arrogance in the strength of their protection protocols and methodology deliberately kept Ford sidelined. He was almost less than an observer and was not heeded as an advisor. To this point no one had been prepared to take his recommendations on board. Now quite clearly Franz Ferdinand was at risk of becoming a victim of foolish pride.

They travelled behind the Archduke’s Graf and Stift Phaeton limousine, belonging to nobleman Count Harrach, in a standard protection two-vehicle package as they made their way from the town hall amongst a larger vehicle procession. Ford was still on edge, in a high state of alert expecting another attempt at any moment. Ford knew the earlier bomb attack had been foiled by sheer good fortune and although they decided to vary the Duke’s original itinerary he was conspicuously aware of the fact he had been warned of as many as seven assassins. If some of them had the same poor resolve as Nedjo on the Appel Quay and probably aware of the bomb’s failure they may have withdrawn. But Ford knew that one amongst their midst was single-mindedly focused on becoming part of Bosnian folklore; the one who he only knew from his sources as Gavro. Ford still thought he didn’t know what this terrorist looked like and could only suspect that he was intent on murder either with another bomb or possibly a pistol. He had absolutely no inkling that he had already encountered this young man.

The car journey began. The vehicles passed Trifko Grabez’s location on the Emperor’s Bridge without stopping; Trifko’s assumption was immediately flawed. They were not to pass him crossing the river by the Emperor’s Bridge after all. The vehicles continued towards the Latin Bridge almost following the original route. As they got to Franz Josef Street the protection plan discussed and agreed by the Habsburg detectives and Governor Oscar Potoriek suddenly unraveled. The Lord Mayor’s car turned right in Franz Josef Street and continued on.

Ford watched the Archduke’s car ahead, a distance of around thirty yards from his own. At the slow speed at which they were travelling it was too far. Neither he nor the other protection officers from the Archduke’s staff would be able to react spontaneously enough to come to the aid of Potoriek or Harrach or the Archduke to provide effective body cover in the event of another attempt. Harrach, the Phaeton’s owner and a man plagued with excessive hubris, now riding on the car stood on the running board next to Franz Ferdinand and only shielded the Archduke from one side against attack. He was no trained bodyguard either, the chance of him reacting quickly enough to prevent any form of hostile intent were slim.

‘Petar, we have to close up on the Archduke’s car,’ said Ford leaning forward to be heard whilst watching the crowds that thinly lined the streets.

‘We can’t,’ said Dankovic, ‘You know his Royal Highness doesn’t like the car too close.’

‘You can’t honestly believe the principal’s wishes on this occasion outweigh the need to provide effective protection, for God’s sake. There’s already been an attempt and others have fled leaving weapons behind. Get up there!’

‘Mr Ford, you are guest advisor. Your comments are noted.’ Ford sat back in his seat transfixed on the principal car. He then noticed it began to slow, the wheels looked like they were beginning to turn. He felt suddenly sick with apprehension and had a moment of dizziness with the sickening realization of what he was seeing. It was simply about to follow the Mayor’s car.

As the Phaeton made the turn, Potoriek instantly realized the driver’s mistake and shouted indignantly at him. ‘What is this? STOP! You are going the wrong way! We are supposed to go via the Appel Quay. Did no one tell you?’ Driver Leopold Lojka looked at Potoriek as he was about to engage reverse gear.

‘No, nobody told me anything.’ As fate would have it, they stopped immediately adjacent to Gavro, a mere five or six paces away. It is believed possibly even less.

‘Tell me that someone briefed the drivers about the change of route and itinerary?’ Asked Ford. Dankovic looked at his driver who returned his glance.

‘Well?’ said Dankovic.

‘Don’t look at me, boss. I assumed you or Kropotkin told him.’ Ford could see the car make the right turn as if continuing on the original scheduled route. Then he saw it stop at the junction of Franz Josef Street. Ford was out of the car as quickly as he could be and running as if his life depended on it. By God did his slightly arthritic hip joints feel sore after all the sitting around. A legacy of his motorcycle accident road racing at the Isle of Man TT. But it was a sensation that was rapidly blanked off from his mind. He was now scanning the crowd adjacent to the Archduke’s car as he sprinted for his life. He noticed a young man forward of the rest of the crowd. He thought he recognized him, but could not be sure until he was closer. Ford drew his Colt .45 semi automatic pistol as he ran.

Gavrilo Princip thought that he was prepared for this moment, facing down the imperialist enemy and being ready to take the Archduke’s life. But in truth he was far from ready. Having seen the Phaeton approach he had his hand on the stock of the pistol but still concealed inside his jacket. The cars moved closer. Gavro knew not what they were going to do. He certainly wasn’t prepared for them to stop, especially not the Archduke’s. The first car carrying the Lord Mayor made the turn into Franz Josef Street. He keenly observed its speed, it was slow, not much over walking pace. If the second car did the same he was confident he would succeed in killing Franz Ferdinand.

As the second car approached driven by Lojka, Gavro noticed a man with a feather-plumed hat stood beside the Archduke on the car’s running board. He was the opposite side of the car from Gavro so he would not obstruct the shot. The car began to make the turn, and as it did so he heard raised voices from it. Then it stopped right in front of him. He was slow to draw the gun as he didn’t expect it to stop, and he became slightly transfixed with Duchess Sophie.

She was looking radiant dressed in pure white with her bonnet and parasol. He had a thought about Vukosava Cabrinovic, his forever-unrequited love. But this moment in time, in world history, held no room for romantic sentimentality and it was his and his alone to meet and complete his destiny. He pulled the gun from under his shabby suit jacket and made eye contact with Franz Ferdinand. He was aware as he did so of a man running towards him from the next car following. Gavro was composed enough to know that he would not reach him before he had fired his shots.

Then, Duchess Sophie caused him a moment’s hesitation. She screamed, Franz Ferdinand looked passively, arrogantly indignant, and it looked as if he was about to stand. The Archduke looked across at the pavement on the side that was not obstructed by the ineffective figure of Count Harrach. He saw the youth stood looking at him from the pavement that he had encountered in the Carsija only a few days before. ‘How peculiar,’ thought Franz, ‘such a small world to see this sickly looking young fellow again.’ Then he noticed why the boy was staring at him, completely transfixed with the Archduke. A young man whose name he would never know was pointing a pistol at him about to take his life.

No one else in that car reacted other than Sophie, then attempting to lean across and shield the Archduke. Gavro was aware that a gunshot passed by him from the direction of the man bearing down on him, where it impacted he had no clue.

Ford had stopped to take as carefully aimed shot as he could. He was breathing heavily and shaking just very slightly, and under the stress of the engagement, his pistol shooting then suffered from his old marksman’s foibles; trigger control and over gripping. The shot went wide. Just. Ford had a terrible backdrop of innocent people beyond the assassin and couldn’t risk another shot. He could tell it was too late as he heard two shots then saw Gavro knocked to the floor by a member of the crowd. He recognized the youth instantly.

When Gavro fired the first shot, he could see from Sophie’s pure white outfit that she had been hit by this first bullet. She slumped back into her seat as Gavro fired again with the Browning pistol. It found its target. Then the figure running was almost upon him.

No matter how fast Ford tried to run the world seemed to slow down around him and his legs felt as if they were trying to make head way through waist deep mud. He’d seen the skinny young man, dare he actually describe him as nothing more than a callow youth, stood in front of the crowd before. He looked no more than sixteen or seventeen years old. He had a sunken, tired and fearful gaze to him and wore scruffy ill-fitting clothes. However, he had raised his right arm and was holding it straight out in front of him at ninety degrees at shoulder height, almost in a classic dualists stance, and he was pointing an automatic pistol at the car. Ford found it incredible it was the very fixated youth he dealt with only days before shaking hands with the Archduke. He was looking at the face of the assassin that he believed he had not yet seen. He reached back inside his jacket to holster his Colt .45. The youth was now on the floor, about to be beaten by a baying mob.

TWO

Houndsditch, City of London, December 1910

N umber 119 Houndsditch belonged to wealthy and successful jeweller Mr Henry Samuel Harris. It was a single fronted, typical high street retail premises with the addition at night-time of barred windows and a heavily secured door. Its sole remarkable feature to most was the potential to criminal elements of the community for the value of the stock it contained that ran hand in hand with it’s proprietors’ thriving business. Situated only on the edge of the worst that the East End had to offer, and within the more thoroughly patrolled streets of the City of London, Harris had never had any cause for concern.

The rich pickings that this one shop offered to the criminal underworld did not go unnoticed by a completely different group of individuals with their drive to ‘expropriate’ wealth. Exiled from their homes in Eastern Europe from Russia through to countries like Latvia, many made a settled life for themselves in the squalid East End of London. Here these individuals driven by Marxist and anarchist ideals came to believe heavily in the principle of the expropriation of property to fund their insular émigré clubs. Groups of these allegedly idealistic socialists would meet at venues such as the ‘Anarchists Club’ in Jubilee Street, Stepney where they would drunkenly expound their ideas to each other and devise plans of how to liberate wealth for themselves.

This socialist viewpoint was nothing but a cover for criminality that would provide them money to avoid working regularly. Chief Superintendent Ford’s Special Branch were aware of these individuals and their low level criminality, but until an audacious robbery they were to commit imminently within the City of London, SB could not have imagined they might be so well armed and ruthlessly violent in the pursuit of their goals.

Situated at the rear of the properties of Houndsditch were the ‘Exchange Buildings’. It was a group of shabby, pollution stained Victorian terraced buildings in a cul-de-sac, the windows of which with their sagging frames seemed to dip like the eyes of the many poor and unfortunate residents. Number 10, that backed directly on to Harris’s shop, was currently unable for rent it seemed, an issue that effected the nefarious planning of Crimean jewellery thief Max Smoller, who was forced to rent number eleven whilst an accomplice Fritz Svaars took out a rent on number nine. The proximity of these buildings was not ideal for the gang of thieves but it was adequate, there was the potential for the taking of up to £30,000 of precious gold and gems from the jeweller and so they would make it work.

The gang, to be able to work in two shifts to break into Harris’s shop was sizeable. As well as Smoller and Svaars, there was also William Sokoloff, Jacob Peters, Karl Hoffman and John Rosen. Some of these names were aliases and all of them had dubious histories from terrorism to industrial agitation to criminality in their home countries. The ringleader of this gang was a man known as George Gardstein, a man who had been accused of murderous terrorist acts in Warsaw. Others have been linked to this group of revolutionaries, who were in truth just criminal thugs, including the infamous Peter Piatkow, known as ‘Peter the painter’.

The team, following the securing of their rental properties, began moving industrial equipment into the premises during the first two weeks of December, meaning come the night of the 16th December they were ready to commence their work. They ensured they had everything from manual digging and cutting tools to diamond tipped drills and compressed gas cylinders and hoses.

Svaars, Sokoloff and Peters were the men working from 11 Exchange Buildings on the fateful night of 16th December, and as luck would have it for them number 10 had been vacated four days previously. It seemed the devil did indeed ‘look after his own’.

The three criminals were working hard to break through the wall at the rear of Harris’s jewellers shop at just after ten at night when Max Weil the owner of 120 Houndsditch was returning home. Hearing noise from his neighbour’s property and with concerns about the obvious articles held within it, he decided to go to look for a local constable.

Almost immediately he came across PC Piper from the City Police. ‘Constable, would you come and investigate some noise from the jewellers please? There’s a hell of a racket going on, and it just isn’t right.’ Always in the market for an early collar on a cold December night duty, Piper was more than happy to oblige.

On arrival, even from outside of 119 he could hear what sounded like building type activity, so then gaining access to both numbers 118 and 121 where he could hear even more curious sounds, Piper decided to investigate further by going to visit Exchange Buildings.

‘Mr Weil, get back in your house for now, sir, and leave this with me.’ Piper made sure Weil went back inside number 120, then quietly walked around the corner and entered the cul-de-sac that was Exchange Buildings. Now just after eleven at night he saw only one property with a light on, it was number 11 and Piper was drawn immediately to it. Piper knocked on the door and stood back from it a pace or two as he heard footsteps from within walking towards it. The door opened, but only very slightly and a guarded and suspicious looking man with a drawn complexion and soulless eyes looked around the door. This was Sokoloff, and in seeing the policeman he became instantly more furtive, unusual for an experienced criminal but he had not had direct contact with the British police before.

Piper was as uncomfortable with the man at the door as this individual seemed to be to him. He looked him up and down with obvious contempt that he couldn’t disguise and then spoke. ‘Is the missus in?’ It was the first question he could think of, although not exactly brilliant, granted. Sokoloff answered in broken and nervous English.

‘No. She out, back later.’

‘I see. I’ll come back another time.’ Piper withdrew, and once he heard the door shut he quickened his pace, although he was aware that there was someone lurking in the shadows. Piper stopped and turned towards him but the man disappeared into the darkness before Piper could identify where he had gone. Piper exited back into Houndsditch to look for constables who would be patrolling the adjacent beats. He found two colleagues, PC Woodham and PC Choate, who then took up observations on 11 Exchange Buildings and the shop fronts in Houndsditch respectively. In the meantime Piper went briskly to Bishopsgate police station for additional support. Relaying the facts to a sergeant within, PS Bentley.

By just after 11.30pm Sergeants Bentley, Bryant and Tucker joined PC Piper and returned to buildings that were still under observations by PCs Woodham and Choate. Everyone was armed with their wooden truncheons and more than ready to draw them if necessary.

Word had been sent of the police interest by the gang in Exchange Buildings and swiftly George Gardstein arrived there to bolster their numbers and to take charge. Gardstein was the leader of the band criminally motivated revolutionaries. Svaars, Sokoloff and Peters had become unnecessarily edgy. Gardstein heard a knock at the front door. He knew both Sokoloff and Peters were now armed; Sokoloff had possession of a Mauser C96 automatic pistol whilst Peters had a Dreyse 1907 automatic pistol. The calibre of these weapons was substantial and they were about to be used by men who came from a culture where life was cheap, and the authorities they were used to dealing with would shown them no mercy.

It was Sergeant Bentley who was wrapping his left knuckle on the door of 11 Exchange buildings whilst holding his truncheon in a low profile manner behind his right leg. Gardstein opened the door and confronted Bentley with an aggressive scowl on his face. Bentley spoke.

‘Evening, chum. There’s been some curious noises heard from here and I’d like to know if you’ve got some works going on?’ Bentley was trying to look past Gardstein as he spoke. Gardstein looked him up and down and said nothing. He stared at Bentley and then pursed his lips turning the edges down as he did so. ‘Listen, chummy, go back in and get someone who speaks fucking English can you?’ Gardstein disappeared back into the premises. Stood within a couple of arms length of Bentley were PS Bryant and PC Woodhams. Bentley looked back at them and nodded towards the door, he then stepped inside. Woodhams and Bryant quickly followed him.

Initially in the darkness they couldn’t see anyone, but quickly it became apparent that someone was stood at the top of the stairs. As their eyes became accustomed to an environment that was even more dimly lit than the street outside they could make out a pair of trouser legs. They felt uncomfortable and it was Bentley who called out to this partially obscured figure. The figure was that of Sokoloff.

‘Mate, can we get through to the back?’ As Bentley finished this question they heard what sounded like a door at the back of premises forced open and a gunshot from this direction rang out towards them. It was followed up rapidly by another gunshot from inside the premises. Gardstein had fired a shot as he ran out of the rear along with Peters and Svaars. Gardstein’s shot hit PC Woodhams in his right leg and he fell to floor clutching it in pain and screaming out. His femur had been shattered. Sokoloff knowing his path was barred opened fire with the Mauser pistol held in his right hand.

Whether it was his marksman’s ability or just luck no one will ever be able to determine. Bentley was shot in the shoulder and neck, the second round severing his spine. He died almost instantly. PS Bryant was shot in the arm and chest, heavily wounded like Woodhams and left completely incapacitated. He also writhed and screamed in agonizing pain. Woodhams and Bryant survived but never fully recovered from their injuries.

Sokoloff now bolted for the rear exit to join Gardstein and the other two accomplices. In the cul-de-sac of Exchange Buildings they were confronted by more unarmed police bearing only truncheons. Peters opened fire as soon as he saw them with his Dreyse pistol hitting PS Tucker in the hip and then fatally in the heart. PC Choate out of the shadows grabbed Gardstein and tried to wrestle a Mauser pistol from his grasp. His Russian adversary was equal to him with violent military experience behind him. He easily kept him at bay and shot him in the leg putting him to the floor. Svaars and Sokoloff saw this violent struggle taking place and before Choate disengaged from Gardstein they both began to take shots at the policeman. Svaars was armed with another Dreyse pistol and his first shot actually wounded Gardstein who hyped up under stress and with adrenalin flowing initially was unaware he had been hit. As Choate fell away from Gardstein, Svaars and Sokoloff continued to shoot him. He was struck with an additional twelve bullets.

With police interference finished with the Émigré gang caught their breath for a moment as the smoke from their discharged firearms permeated the air and then gradually dissipated in the dark. With the commotion the guns had caused they had to make good their escape. Then Gardstein collapsed and began to lose consciousness. He had been shot in the chest. The other three carried him away from the scene making for Svaars lodgings that he shared with the notorious anarchist Peter the Painter. It was in Grove Street just off Commercial Street.

Arriving at the lodgings, Peters hurriedly opened the door with Svaars