Gaslight (6 page)

Scarpello looked up.

“What are you doing?”

Harry pulled the trigger. The first shot drilled a hole through Scarpello’s throat, an obscene squib of blood spraying across the table and splattering over Harry’s clothes. Scarpello put a hand beneath his chin, the blood pumping through his grasping fingers, and Harry shot him again in the head. He jerked backwards on his chair, a fine spray of skull and brain scattershotting across the room, small pieces of bone embedding into the wood panelling, gobbets of brain splattering across the carpet. Harry stood over Scarpello as his legs jerked spasmodically; the left stopped and then, a moment later, so did the right. His breath whistled in and out through the hole in his gullet until that, too, was silent.

The room seemed to have been stilled. The two reports from the pistol had seemed excruciatingly loud, enough to silence the Saloon Lounge and, beyond that, the thronged Saloon Bar and Public Bar. Scarpello’s final breath seemed to be the release: it triggered screaming from the other rooms, the sound of drinkers scurrying for the exits. Harry looked up and saw George in the doorway, his face a white mask of dismay and horror. Harry shortened the focus of his eyes, keenly aware of the incipient threat of violence from Benneworth and Scarpello’s other cronies. Trimmer had fumbled his knife into his hand and he had already taken a step in Harry’s direction.

Harry shot him in the gut.

He dropped to his knees and then slumped over onto his back.

Harry waved the gun at the others.

“Don’t do anything you’d regret, lads. I’ve got three more in the cylinder. And I won’t miss from here.”

They returned to their seats. Some raised their hands, palms up, entreating.

“Harry––” George said, his voice thin and reedy.

“A word to the wise,” he said, tracking the barrel across each of them in turn. “That’s what happens to blokes who get the idea that they can take what doesn’t belong to them. Things that others have worked hard to get. Spread the word, boys. My name is Harry Costello for those of you who don’t know it. Harry Costello. I want you to tell everyone you know. And when you do, and when they ask about me, you tell them I’m not messing around.”

Benneworth was still squirming on the floor, his arms wrapped around his gut. He was between Harry and the door to the Saloon Lounge and so he walked towards him, paused, aimed blind and put another bullet into him, this one into his head, then walked out to join his brother as the blue smoke was still uncurling in languid corkscrews from the small dark mouth of the gun.

A SWIFT WALK across the cobbles of Clerkenwell’s darkened, crooked streets. Harry moved quickly, with quiet and unobtrusive determination. He passed constables going along their rounds and kept his eyes fixed to the pavement, one step in front of the other. He stopped in the public baths on Ironmonger Row. He paid his penny to the attendant and went through into the bathroom. He took off his overcoat: his suit and shirt were splattered with blood. He held his hands to his face and turned them over; there was blood on his fingers, sticky and glutinous. He had no idea how it had got there. He closed his eyes and let it all play back again. It had been different, this, to the things he had done during the war. It was something to shoot a German across a hundred yards of muddy wasteland. It was something, too, to leap into a trench and plunge a bayonet into the guts of the man before you. Neither of those memories, vivid though they were, were quite the same as this. He remembered the change in the expression on Scarpello’s face: superiority to confusion to fear and then, at the end, to pain. And then peacefulness.

It was distasteful but necessary.

Scarpello had taken things too far.

He had shown no respect.

Harry couldn’t abide that.

He wet a towel and mopped the blood from his clothes as best he could. The stain spread out, blooming even as the water diluted it. It was no good; the clothes were ruined and he was going to have to get rid of them. He remembered the rest of the money that they had made. There was no need to nurse his funds with the same amount of care as he was used to; he could spend the money however he saw fit. There would be more now, after all.

Where was the harm?

HE MADE HIS WAY back to the lodging house. A tram glided groaning over the cobbles, and in its wake the wind swept up an eddy of trampled leaves. The leaf stripped poplars that lined the pavement bowed sharply as the wind caught them. It was a raw wind, blowing in from the north, the glowering skies promising foul weather. The wind thrummed with a threatening note as it swept through the shallow canyons of London’s streets; it was the first snarl of winter’s ire.

Isabella was waiting for him, sitting on the edge of the bed. The room was freezing cold and she had wrapped herself in the stained, flea-bitten blanket that Mrs. Weaver had provided. Her face was bloodless with worry.

“Are you alright?” she asked anxiously.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“Did you––”

“It’s done.”

“Scarpello?”

“And Benneworth, too.”

“Oh God.”

He sat down next to her and took her hand in both of his. “It’s alright. It’s over now. It’s finished.”

“What about the police?”

He shook his head. “You don’t talk to the police, Bella. No-one talks to the police. You know that.”

“I know, but––“

“No-one is saying anything,” he reassured her firmly. “Now, then––did you see Mrs. Weaver when you came in?”

“I let myself in and came straight upstairs, just like you said.”

“That’s good. She won’t be happy if she finds out you’re here.” She was shivering beneath the blanket. “Look at you––you’re freezing.”

“A little.”

“Then you should have put on the heat, dear.”

She responded to his extravagant suggestion with surprise. “You can’t afford to be doing that.”

“Money’s not such a problem now. I’m going to provide for us properly. Somewhere nice to live, a proper place: a separate bathroom and a kitchen, nice and warm.”

“Us?”

“That’s right.”

Her expression was a heartbreaking mixture of hope and confusion. “What are you talking about?”

He looked into her dark, smouldering eyes. It was so easy to lose yourself in them. “I know we’ve only known each other for a little while––a few days, really. But I think you’re a capital girl. And such a dancer!”

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

“You might think this is sudden, and probably it is, and we don’t have to hurry things, but––”

He paused again, a foolish lump in his throat, and then lowered himself from the bed to the floor. He settled on one knee.

“Oh Harry,” Bella said, her eyes wide in surprise.

“But,” he said, pressing on before he lost his nerve, “but I was wondering, Bella, you know, if you were similarly minded, of course, I wondered whether you and I might maybe get married?”

Her mouth fell open and her hands flew to her breast.

“What do you say?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

HARRY HAD just finished a meeting with their fence when he noticed the two men. The fence had an office in an alleyway in Soho, behind the grocer’s shop that the man’s wife ran for him as a front for the illegitimate business that made the serious dough. He had stepped out of the office into the teeth of a freezing, wind whipped evening, and he had noticed the Austin parked by the kerb, its engine idling and its headlights slicing through the mist. A man was standing on the pavement next to the car, the brim of his homburg pulled down tight across his forehead, obscuring his eyes. Another man was in the car. Harry set off towards the man on the pavement, almost experimentally, and was not surprised when he stepped into his path.

“You have to come with me,” he said.

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“No, china, ‘fraid you do––Mr. Sabini wants to see you.”

Harry was bigger than the man. He could have subdued him but he chose not to. Here was an opportunity. The
next
opportunity. He allowed the man to open the car’s rear door for him and got inside. The driver was another large man, his hat obscuring his face, too. The first man settled into the seat next to Harry and closed the door. The engine revved and the car pulled out into the light traffic.

They drove him to The Griffin. He looked out of the window, his eyes losing focus so that he was hardly aware of the lamp-starred darkness streaming past. They stopped and the door was opened. The streets of Little Italy were gloomy and desolate. It was vilely cold, too, since the wind had risen as night had fallen. Harry allowed himself to be prodded forwards, into the warmth of the pub and then into the Private Bar where he had killed Scarpello and Benneworth. The table that had absorbed the gouts of Scarpello’s blood had been removed, and the bare boards onto which Benneworth had fallen had been scrubbed clean. The room was quiet, as if quailed by the echo of the gunshots. George was already there. There was a fresh contusion on his temple, a purple bruise already beginning to bloom. He had decided against coming quietly. Typical George, Harry thought. Couldn’t make a good decision if his life depended on it. Two men stood behind him, leaning insouciantly against the wall yet close enough at hand should interdiction be necessary. Both had the easy swagger of men with revolvers on their persons. Harry looked over at his brother, caught his gaze and raised an enquiring eyebrow; George nodded his head in response: he was nervous but otherwise alright.

Another prod in the back. Harry stepped further into the room and saw the man sitting in the corner. Darby Sabini was small with a neat, plump belly. His clothes were cheap, a little frayed in places, and Harry could tell that his shoes were holed just from looking at the uppers. He looked like a workman. His fingernails were dirtied with scuds of grit, his teeth were yellowed and crooked, his eyes gleamed with cunning. His hair was thin and grey. Harry guessed he was in his forties. He was smoking a cigar.

“Hello, lads,” the man said. “Do you know who I am?”

“Mr. Sabini,” Harry said.

“That’s right. You can call me Darby.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Sabini. What can we do for you?”

The black, nuggety eyes took him in: the cheap suit, the heavy shoulders and thick arms, the poor black shoes. “Let’s not waste our time, shall we, Mr. Costello? I’m a busy man and I’m sure you are, too. What do you say?”

“Of course. This is about Scarpello?”

“Yes. And poor Trimmer, too. We mustn’t forget him.”

Peals of raucous laughter came from the Saloon Bar, the sound of shattered glass as it smashed against the floor. Life going on just as normal.

“You want to know why I did what I did?”

“I do.”

“Benneworth embarrassed a serving girl here. An Italian girl. She turned down his advances and so he tore her dress.”

“I heard something similar. Are you an honourable man, Mr. Costello?”

“I don’t know about that.”

“No, I believe you are. You have certain moral standards, yes? That’s to be applauded––too few men do, these days, and more’s the pity. I don’t really care about Benneworth––he got what he deserved. What about Scarpello?”

“He was asking for something that didn’t belong to him.”

“You don’t think your response was a little excessive? All he was doing was collecting the taxes most men are happy to pay.”

“He was a bully, Mr. Sabini. And, in my experience, the way to stop bullying is to make an example of the bully.”

“By shooting him?”

Harry shrugged.

“I understand you told Scarpello’s men that they were to tell their friends that you were in charge in Little Italy now. Is that correct?”

“I told them to take us seriously.”

“You know Little Italy is ours, don’t you? Soho, too. It belongs to my brothers and I. Scarpello was working for us.”

“We meant no disrespect,” George said.

Sabini didn’t take his eyes off Harry. “Did you, Harry? Did you mean to disrespect us?”

“I don’t know you,” he said. “How could I?”

Sabini looked at him, his face impassive and, then, the side of his mouth creased in a smile. “No,” he said. “You don’t. And I don’t consider your behaviour to be disrespectful. I can use men like you and your brother. Scarpello was unreliable. He didn’t have the stomach for some of the things that a man in my position needs to happen. I’m not talking about making rounds and collecting money. Frankly, Harry, I could send my fifteen year old son to do that––my name means enough that everyone would pay without question.” He looked at Harry and smiled again, correcting himself, “Well, almost everyone. Not you, perhaps.”

Harry held his gaze. “What are you trying to say?”

Sabini held his hand very still, keeping the cigar ash––quite a long ash now––suspended. “The real money is on the racecourses. There are thousands of men back from the war, people are starting to find a little money and they all want to be entertained. Gambling is where a man can make his fortune these days. We organise protection for the bookies. They pay us a small premium and we make sure that they can conduct their business without fear of disruption. We have a monopoly of all of the courses in the south: Brighton, Newmarket, Epsom, Kempton, Goodwood.” He stood, closed the distance to Harry and put his arm around his shoulders. “There is a lot of money to be made, Harry. An awful lot. A vast amount––more than you could imagine.”

“I have an excellent imagination.”

“I’m sure you do.” He flicked the cigar and the ash fell to the floor. “I have a problem. Have you heard of the Brummagem Boys?”

“No.”

“I have,” George interjected. “The blokes from Birmingham?”

“They are influential all across the Midlands. There is more than enough to go around for us both and you would hope that they might have been satisfied with that, but it appears not. They are greedy, Harry, and they have started to make a nuisance of themselves on our courses. I am looking for strong boys to persuade them to put their plans aside and leave things as they are.”

“What’s in it for us?”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”