Shadows in the smoke, p.10
Shadows in the Smoke, page 10
People said that it was the grateful parents of a young deck-officer he’d saved who gave Doris the money to set up his club in Soho. Didn’t know if it was true or not, but someone put up the money, and a pretty-penny it must’ve been, too. What I did know was that if there was anyone in queer London who knew what was what, it was Glover, hence my need to find The Blueboy.
Glover—or Doris I should say—hadn’t seemed to have aged much. Or perhaps it was just the lighting again, along with the best wig and make-up money could buy. As I’d hoped, he—I mean she—welcomed me into her private withdrawing room with open arms.
“Hello, Jethro, you bona omi, you,” she said in a voice made purposefully low and gravelly before resuming her trademark breathy Irish lilt. “Long time, no vada, darling. What fair wind, pray, has brought you washing up my shores I’m glad to say?”
“Nice to see you, too, Doris,” I said. “You’re looking very lovely.”
She pretended surprise, but as with women the world over, she much appreciated the compliment. I meant it, too. She looked as unashamedly resplendent as ever she’d done, as if she’d just stepped off a music hall stage to rapturous applause. She wore a long-sleeved, floor-length, sea-blue velvet evening number that complemented her red hair beautifully and accentuated a womanly figure that was a tribute to British corsetry and padding.
She stopped, mid-bustle, and peered at me. “You look worried tonight, darling. Whatever is the matter with you? If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you looked scared. Haunted, even. And that’s not at all like you, is it, dear.”
I nodded. “There’s never keeping any secrets from you, Doris.”
“It’s my stock-in-trade, Jethro, dear. You know that. So as much as I know you love me for who I am, I also know you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t already up to your neck in shinola. So, come on. Out with it, pronto.”
“That’s the trouble,” I said. “I’m boxing shadows at the moment. All I know is, someone’s trying to put me in the frame for something that could well get me hung. You know I don’t mind a fight, but when you can’t see who or what it is you’re fighting, it’s as bad as being on the convoys. You never know if the next moment’s going to be your last.”
The image of feminine softness so artfully contrived suddenly hardened into steel inside a blue velvet glove. She made a sign with her hand to ward off the evil eye. “Well that’s me all over: your friendly port in a storm. I promised you I’d always do anything for you. You just tell your Auntie Doris how she can help.”
“Someone’s trying to stitch me up for the death of Nigel Fox, the MP that died in questionable circumstances. And I had nothing to do with it, Doris; God’s honest. But as no one’s ever going to believe me if it all goes to shit, I’ve got to try get to the bottom of it myself. I need to find out if there’s any truth in any of those nasty rumours about him. A public figure that high up, dropping money or his trousers on a regular basis, someone, somewhere, is bound to have heard something.”
She threw me a look. “I’d have taken you at your word, Jethro. No need to bring the Almighty into it; life’s complicated enough as it is. Anyway, just consider it done, dear. If the gentleman in question was baddering the palone anywhere in the Quarter or was after fresh young chicken or a bit of rough over Mayfair, Belgravia, or Chelsea way, I’ll be sure and find out. What’s the best way for a girl to get in touch with you these days?”
I produced some more picture postcards of London from out my jacket pocket and handed them to her. She studied each of them in turn, front and back. “Bit daring, these. What you trying to do, put saucy French pictures out of business? I can see you’ve already stamped and addressed them. How very thoughtful, save me the trouble. And don’t tell me, but if Fox was queer I send the picture of the man in the skirt, the beefy Beefeater, and if he’s in the clear, a proper omi, I send the wide open spaces of Trafalgar Square?”
“You always were a step ahead, Doris.”
“The heels I wear, darling, I have to be, or I’d end up dealing with more than a run in my nylon stockings. Now, how about a little drinky-poo? I need one after all this, Jethro, dear, even if you don’t.”
“I owe you, Doris.”
She batted her heavily black mascara-covered eyelashes, each one as long as the hairs on a long-handled sable watercolour brush. “No, no, Jethro, you’ll never owe your Auntie Doris a thing. If it wasn’t for you fighting off that awful mob of wild crazies looking to cut off more than my red hair that time near 42nd Street, in New York, I’d have lost more than my good name.”
“It’s the same with narrow-minded people the world over, Doris. They’re always best avoided. I’ll have a Whisky if you’ve got one.”
She opened a Chinese lacquered cupboard that probably had a twin in the Victoria and Albert Museum and held up a bottle of single malt that most men in London would’ve given up their eyeteeth for. “Only the very best for our Jethro. Now come sit down and tell me more. A girl in my position needs to know who and what she might be up against one day.”
So I told her as much as I dared, which was more than enough it seems, as she turned round and lifted a blue tea-cosy from off a side-table. Underneath, there was a red telephone without a dial, like the ones I’d seen used by Colonel Walsingham of MI5. It was a direct line to a special exchange for the exclusive use of very, very important VIPs. “Bloody hell, Doris. How on earth did you get your hands on one of those?”
“I never know which will get me the bigger laugh: saying it goes with the décor or that it matches my hair. Suffice to say it was put in for one of my very special regulars, so he can be contacted if there’s ever urgent need. Much more discreet than sending someone round from Special Branch.” She got up in a swish and a swirl of velvet and went over to a small antique desk, uncapped a blue onyx fountain pen, and wrote something on a blue note-card. She waved the ink dry as she walked back towards me. “Call if it’s life or death, and if it isn’t me that answers, just say you have news my sister is ill and needs to see me.” At the top of the card was a letter ‘D’ printed in dark blue. Underneath, in ultramarine ink, Doris had written three lines of numbers and letters, all meaningless. I looked up at her, the obvious question plastered on my face. “It’s all backwards, like back-slang,” she said. “First line is the private telephone number here. Next is the number of the house, the street name and district, where I live. Bottom line is my home telephone number. Easy enough to read, but it’d look like gibberish to most people.”
I looked at the card again, and nodded. “I see,” I said. “I’m only surprised you didn’t translate it into Morse code, as you were, without doubt, one of the very best radio operators ever to sail the Seven Seas.”
“Dot-dot-dit-dot. Dot-dot-dit. Dit-dot-dit-dot. Dit-dot- …”
“F.U.C. beginning K. Yes, I get it, Doris,” I said. “And I love you, too.”
THE ONCE COMING MAN
Ray always said you could glean a lot from the better linens as long as you always made allowances for each newspaper’s political bias and then separated likely fact from probable fiction. Do that, he said, and you stood a pretty good chance of getting hold of a real fact or two, maybe more. The million-dollar question then being, of course, whether or not the Right Honourable Nigel Fox, Member of Parliament for Gonerby North, truly was the feckless, immoral and adulterous bastard of journalistic record.
From the pictures you saw of him in the linens and all the society magazines, Nigel Fox MP wasn’t what you’d call handsome. He was broad in face, stocky of body, and looked more like a farmer than a politician, especially with his ruddy complexion and shock of unruly fair hair. Yet once he started speaking his mind on the matters of the day, he was magnetic to men and women alike, and loved and loathed in equal measure.
The political pundits and cartoonists had a field day with him and likened him and his early rise to prominence to everyone from Lloyd George to the young Churchill, even the young Sir Oswald Mosley. Some called him a flagrant opportunist; others said he was nothing but a publicity-seeking cad. The one point everyone seemed to agree on though was that he was a young man in a hurry. What set him apart, too, was that other than the good people who resided and voted in Gonersby North, Nigel Fox’s self-elected constituency was the professional working man, be he managing director, bank manager, doctor, solicitor, or chartered accountant.
As an avowed Tory and a member of His Majesty’s Government in Opposition, Fox had little truck with Labour’s drive to nationalise everything. As far as he was concerned, the Nation’s businesses were much better off kept in private hands and the only sector of public life where the Government had a duty to intercede was in the case of law and order. A cause he’d been strongly associated with ever since he himself had been attacked and robbed after attending a late-night session at the House of Commons. The fact that it occurred on Tothill Street, in the very shadow of Westminster Abbey, gave him his bully pulpit, and his persistent bating of Clement Attlee during Question Time on issues relating to crime in the capital soon became—as the newspapers all dubbed it— ‘a festering thorn in the Prime Minister’s side.’ The thrust of Fox’s questions, admonitions, and rebuttals always hit on the same sore point: Why had the Labour Government failed so lamentably to adopt all necessary measures to combat the marked rise of crime in the nation’s capital? Was the Prime Minister—or for that matter his Home Secretary—aware of public concern with the alarming increase in cases of robbery with violence by armed men in London? How many such cases had been reported since the end of the War, and in how many instances had the culprits been convicted? Was it not really astonishing that so many crimes of this nature should escape solution? Could nothing be done to tighten up public security in this regard? He was relentless with it.
Fox was always so effective in making his points, it was rumoured that Winston Churchill had regularly sent him handwritten notes on how to further press home his arguments. Naturally, Fox very quickly became the darling of both the Metropolitan and City police forces, as well as the favourite politician of all involved in finance on a large scale—whether it was the acquisition of it, the banking of it, or simply the moving of it from point ‘A’ to point ‘B.’ Burglaries, bank robberies, and wage shipment heists were all too common occurrences in the Smoke and in and around the Home Counties, the majority of them unsolved, and all of them very discomforting to the gentlemen who ran the huge insurance companies that had to pay out on all the losses.
Personally, I could’ve cared less for his politics or his ‘new policing’ bills. It was the posh dinners and society balls he went to that interested me, especially the big important dos with all of London in attendance—the ones always reported on in the linens and upper-crust magazines—as that invariably meant he’d be partnered by his wife, a tall blonde lady, who not only brought the lustre of inherited wealth and influence to her husband’s future political prospects, but who always made sure to catch all eyes with the radiance of her jewellery and her dazzling smile. She was extremely good looking, too, though I didn’t fancy her myself. She seemed a little too cold and aloof for my taste. Too overly tailored and wholly unobtainable, like Greta Garbo in her prime.
I’d be lying too if I didn’t also cop to the fact that the brass cheek of doing the drum of England’s rising star of ‘law and order’ and of half-inching his beautiful wife’s cache of top-grade tomfoolery, at one and the same time, very definitely had its attractions. I mean, what a way to prove to myself—and to Ray—that I was back in business and at the very top of my game.
Anyway, it’d all seemed like a very good idea at the time.
But as the old Yiddish saying goes, “If you want to make God laugh, make plans.” Life being what it is, it’s never too long before a tailor-made bolt of lightning comes right out of the blue and sends you for a Burton.
MEMORIES OF TIMES GONE BY
I had reason to go for a drink after that Saturday night’s performance of Harvey. What with Sylvia, Lily, and Glover all agreeing to help, I was feeling better than I had in weeks. I was still a mere pawn in the game, but at least I now had three extra pieces on my side of the board, though whether any of them would turn out to be knights, bishops or castles I couldn’t say. I tried to remember how many queens a player was allowed to have.
That’s the trouble, though. Let your mind wander for a single second and life slaps you smack in the face with a wet fish. I’d just turned the corner opposite the Comedy Theatre when two shapes stepped from out of the shadows, and by the cut of their suits and style of their hats they were both from West End Central’s not so plainclothes division. “A little word with you, sunshine.” I looked round and noticed a police car parked up the street, but the coppers didn’t usher me in that direction, they just pushed me up against a nearby wall. There was no show of warrant cards, just names and ranks ground out between tightly clenched teeth. Detective-sergeant this, detective-constable that, all to impress upon me the fact that this was their manor I was treading on.
The smaller of the two men spoke first.
“It’s Jethro, isn’t it?” It wasn’t a question. “We’ve been meaning to have a word with you about the rumour you’re back in the game and did a tasty little jewel job that could well have you swinging from the wrong end of a rope.”
I looked from one to the other of them, my face a blank.
“Don’t be a smart arse,” said the big one. “You know the job we’re talking about. That big block of luxury flats in South Kensington.”
I just stared back at him so I’d be sure to remember his face. “So we’re going to play the old dumb routine, are we?” He half turned away, then swivelled back, and punched me hard in the stomach.
I doubled up.
He brought his knee up fast in an obviously well-practised movement, but being equally well practised I leaned to one side just enough to take the blow on my shoulder rather than full in the face. “Got your fucking attention now, have we, toe-rag?” he sneered.
I just kept my head down and grunted.
Detective-sergeant short arse leaned over and said, “We can make it all go away for a price. We was thinking a couple of hundred quid should do for starters. More as we get to know one another better.”
The big sod went to knee me again, but I saw it coming and just fell backwards onto the pavement, which almost caused him to lose balance. He covered it well though by swinging his body round. Then, balance regained, he stood, feet firmly planted, and rolled his shoulders and took off his hat and did smart-looking things to the brim. “That’s the proper place for you, you piece of shit. Down in the gutter. So just you remember, we know where you work and we know where you live. You can expect to see a lot of us.”
“Count on it,” piped in short arse.
Then they both strolled away.
I stayed on the ground till they got back into the police car. Then I got up and dusted myself down. The street was as deserted, as if a bomb had just fallen. “Tossers,” I said to the chill night air. “West End Central must really be going downhill if that’s the best they can muster.” Shaking my head at the folly of amateurs I continued on down Panton Street, crossed over the Haymarket, in search of a good drink.
Young Bob Miller must’ve noticed the look on my face, if not my dishevelled appearance, because he immediately came over and offered to buy me a pint, which I of course accepted. He seemed very keen to know my plans, whether I was going to stay on the team for the rest of the run. “What? Me leave a hit show where I get to see Sid Field perform every night? I should cocoa,” I said. “What about you? Still fancy being an electrician, do you?”
He said he’d settled to being a stage-hand and that if he got his full ticket he’d stay on the team for the duration too.
I asked him what his girlfriend thought about it all.
He paused a moment and said she was very pleased he’d managed to get himself squared away so well in London. Out of the blue he suggested that one night maybe he and his girl could meet up with me and mine, and all of us go have a drink somewhere. “That’d be nice,” I said, already thinking how to tango out of this without giving offence. “Ah, but there’s the rub, isn’t it?” I said with a chuckle. “How do I decide which lovely lady to bring, there being so many? I’ll have to sleep on it and get back to you.”
And with that I downed my pint, waved a cheery ‘cheerio’ and hoofed it out the door. I kept a wary eye out, but as I did most nights after a stint at the Elizabeth, I turned up Lower Regent Street making a beeline towards Piccadilly Circus and a Bakerloo Line train back home. I had another long night ahead of me in Kensal Green Cemetery, and I wanted a quick wash and some cups of coffee before I hit the road again.
I even remember thinking I should oil the bicycle-chain, help keep it from rusting.
Of course, even with the old saw, “bad things happen in threes,” you never see the second one coming. There was no screech of tyres, no telltale brake lights, just a long black motorcar seen out the corner of my eye, the sound of footsteps on the pavement behind me, a black bag thrown over my head, and the speedy application of a leather cosh. “Here we go again,” I said to myself, wondering who in hell was going to be the dark at the end of this tunnel.
