Gilded Edge, The (42 page)

The sheer Humphrey Bogart-ness of Billy Hill was uncanny, and for a moment Vince felt as though he was in a film. He couldn’t make out which one though, since they were all winners. The Burberry trench coat currently draped over a chair, with a brown felt fedora resting on top of it, all completed the Bogart look. But this was no time for Vince to romanticize Billy Hill or confuse fact with fiction. There were enough minions and sycophants ready to bow and scrape to him, like the two gunsels seated on the couch. They were like a Dobermann and a bull terrier ready to tear into Vince at the slightest trill of their master’s voice. And it was a raspy old voice, though not through barking orders or shouting to make itself heard, for Billy Hill didn’t need to do that, since people hung on his every word, every gesture. It was raspy through the constant irritant of Player’s cigarettes, a packet of which was gripped in his hand, along with a gold Ronson lighter. He lit one of them up and took a long gratifying sip, as if swilling the smoke around his gums, then blew it out of one corner of his mouth with what seemed like weary disgust.

After getting his much-needed nicotine hit, he looked at Vince with a slow, appraising gaze, then said: ‘You’ve been making yourself busy.’

‘It paid off.’

‘You could have seen me a long time ago. My boys offered you a lift home, but you did a runner.’

‘I thought I was out of the frying pan and into the fire.’

‘Nice way to treat two good Samaritans who saved your life and was just offering a lift to the hospital. Feelings were hurt. Right, fellers?’

The bull terrier nodded. The Dobermann said, ‘Messed up a nice car there, brother. A Wolseley 610.’

‘I fancied a walk and didn’t want to get my blood on your upholstery. Sorry it got smashed up, but it wasn’t yours in the first place. It was stolen. I’m glad to hear you both got home all right.’

‘No problem, brother. We just stole another one.’

Vince said to Billy Hill, ‘To be honest, if you already knew who I was, I’m surprised you bothered. Wouldn’t it have been easier just to have let them kill me?’

‘We all make mistakes,’ said Billy Hill. ‘Okay, copper, I’m here now. So what can I do you for?’

‘How did your boys know where to find me?’

‘Bernie called me straight after you left the Kitty Cat club. And if you’re worried about Bernie, he’s in Tangiers taking care of some business for me. I thought it was best because of that shit with the Montcler feller, Beresford, it upset him. Don’t get me wrong, Bernie Korshank ain’t soft – he was excavated from the side of a mountain! But he’s got his sensitive side, too. He’s a theatrical.’

‘Yeah, I saw him throwing the Saint down some stairs the other night.’

Billy Hill shrugged. ‘He probably had it coming.’ Vince frowned, genuinely not knowing if Hill’s last statement was meant to be a joke. If it was, it was delivered beautifully – as dry as chalk. The old gangster continued, ‘We’d been taking an interest in you since the first time you came to the Imperial. So when you went on the missing list, we had a pretty good idea who snatched you. We’d been taking a pretty keen interest in them, too.’

‘Why the interest?’

‘In you or them?’

Vince shrugged. Either way would do.

‘They’d been to the Imperial, cosying up with brasses and buying them drinks, expensive drinks, and asking them all sorts of questions. But never taking them upstairs. Then they came into the Kitty Cat, but they didn’t look like a pair of irons – just sat at the bar. So our interest was up. This was all before Scotland Yard got involved.’

‘Always one step ahead, eh, Mr Hill?’

‘Call me Bill. Most of you chaps do. As for being one step ahead, you better believe it, my fine friend. My liberty depends on it. Anyway, Mr Smith and Mr Jones here’ – he gestured towards the faithful retainers seated on the couch – ‘followed them to the farmhouse. Those fellows didn’t look like farmers, neither.’ Billy Hill shifted suddenly in his seat. It wasn’t Vince’s line of questioning making him uncomfortable, but something deep in his bowels. ‘It’s the weather that does it,’ he explained. ‘Every time I come back to this poxy country it gets irritable. The prostate needs a hot climate.’

‘I could do with a holiday myself.’

‘From what I hear, Treadwell, you’ll now be able to take one. The case is closed – and, even if it was still open, you’re off it. Maybe it’s time for you to start listening to your superiors.’ Billy Hill acquired a glint in his eye, pulling a spry smile that exposed a sturdy set of ivory smoker’s teeth. ‘I know a gaff in the kasbah that could make you forget all about that beating you took. Dusky maidens, my young friend, dusky maidens.’

‘I have a funny feeling I’m back to listening to my superiors right now. Come on, Bill, throw me a bone.’

‘Then you’ll lay off?’ Billy Hill didn’t wait for the detective to answer. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think you’re the laying-off type.’ He looked around at the two on the sofa. ‘Pretty cute, ain’t he? He gets us around to his flat, doesn’t offer us a drink, not even as much as a cup of tea. And has us answering questions, for a case that he’s not only not working on, but is officially closed. This boy gets just what he wants!’

The tall dark one said, ‘You want me to shoot him, Bill?’

‘No! I want to offer him a job.’ Hill’s eyes were firmly fixed on Vince now. ‘I’m impressed. You don’t handle yourself like a copper: all mouth and no trousers hiding behind a badge. You got brains, and I hear you can handle yourself too. Good with your fists. Can use a blade. Not scared. Yeah, you’ve got bollocks, chutzpah, or call it what you will.’ The wily old gangster’s eyes narrowed into a dissecting look. ‘I see violence in you, boy.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘I could use a man like you.’

‘I’m fixed just fine right now,’ said Vince, knowing the job offer was just to throw him off track.

‘I’m not just trying to throw you off track. I’m serious.’

Spooky, thought Vince, one step ahead and a mind reader. This omniscient old gangster really did know how to chill the spine.

‘Thanks, Bill, I’ll give it some thought. But whilst I’m still working for the other side, and knowing you’re not one to volunteer information to the likes of me, and you’re not going to tell me how you’re involved, maybe I can offer some more free thinking? My deduction?’

Billy Hill fired up another Player’s, did some shifting in his seat to settle in, then gave him the nod.

And Vince laid it out: ‘Before gambling became legal in 1960, you got to know James Asprey. The young Eton and Oxford man was bound to fall under your gaze when he started to ply his trade as a bookie, setting up a one-room office behind Oxford Street, in the West End. By the time he started his modest book in ’52, you had everything and everyone in the West End tied up.’

Billy Hill remained unmoved and unaltered by this information. Vince ploughed on: ‘Then we’ve got the Imperial Hotel connection. The way I see it, your name’s not above the door, Bill, but you run that place. Yet you’re not in the hotel business for the fun of it and, let’s face it, the Imperial lost its gloss in the ’30s. You’re not a pimp either, but you do take a cut from the working girls’ profits for their use of the place. And with your man on the reception keeping an eye on the cut, it’s a very profitable hotel. By the way, your man on the desk, Ali . . . that’s where I first saw the mackintosh men, the day Ali was killed.’

‘The mackintosh men?’

‘That’s what I call the two who snatched me.’

Billy Hill’s face flashed with anger at this news. He crushed out his cigarette in the small side plate he was using as an unofficial ashtray. ‘They killed Ali?’Vince gave him a solemn nod. ‘He was a good man, Ali,’ continued Hill. There was a mournful meditative pause, as if to assess his loss. Then he quickly sprang back to life as a thought struck: ‘Apart from that poxy-looking syrup on his head!’

‘Yeah, that was quite a rug he
almost
wore.’

‘Don’t think he didn’t earn a good whack working with me, because he did. He could have bought top-of-the-line syrups for every day of the week!’

‘I reckon the mackintosh men must have been trying to get information out of him.’

‘Like I said, a good man. Ali wouldn’t have stood for that. He’d have put up a fight.’

‘Well, he picked the wrong one with them.’

Billy Hill shot a glance over to the two sitting on the couch. They shrugged and shot him a defensive look back. Hill then returned his attention to Vince.‘A missed opportunity – we should have taken care of those bastards when we was taking care of you. Should have shot the pair of them!’ He shook his head: he was deadly serious about the lost opportunity, and it grated. He then looked at Vince and barked impatiently, ‘You think I’ve got all night?’

Vince cracked on. ‘In the mid to late fifties, Asprey was making quite a name for himself, becoming the man for big-money gambling parties – rummy, poker, Kalookie, but mainly chemin de fer. Chemmy was his game: fast, addictive, and favouring the house more than other games. James Asprey needed an address to run his chemmy parties, since he’d outgrown privately rented flats and the rooms at the Ritz. But somewhere west of Regent Street, for the area most of his punters would come from. The Imperial was perfect. That big dining room became one of the biggest gaming rooms in London. And the fully stocked bar. Brasses if the urge took them. The place had an edge about it.

‘And most of all, it had you. After all, gambling was illegal when Asprey started and, for all his rich and powerful friends, it would still leave him open to the criminal fraternity. So why not go to the top man? A reasonable man. A man you could do business with. And that’s how you met the Montcler set – at the Imperial Hotel. What happened next is anybody’s guess. But if it’s crooked and there’s big money involved, all roads inevitably lead to the great Billy Hill.’

The old gangster made a play of weighing up the detective’s assessment. After some arching of his eyebrows, pursing of his lips and some acquiescent and concurring nods of his head, he looked pleased with this appraisal. Especially with the last part. Vince knew he’d like it, and that’s why he dared to say it.

Billy Hill said, ‘Smart as the lash, Treadwell, and just about right on every count.’

Vince continued. ‘Asprey, amongst other things, is a snob. And being a snob is a twenty-four-hour job; and they don’t give it up for anyone. Asprey wouldn’t have anything to do with you personally, Bill.’ This was met with a glacial, hooded-eyed look, meaning Vince’s goodwill account had just been wiped out. His stock had fallen. Vince could feel the room frost over as he now crept across the thin ice. He tried to warm things up. ‘Asprey would be too scared to have anything to do with you, Bill, because Asprey’s smart enough to know he’s a snob, and smart enough to know that he couldn’t hide it from you. James Asprey himself comes from middle-class stock, and they always have something to prove; they’re always chippy and they make for the worst snobs. So he sent Beresford in to deal with you, his house player and his second in command. The Beresfords were proper aristos, feudal lords, as old as the hills they owned. Johnny Beresford wasn’t a snob; he was Johnny the Joker, a raconteur, full of hail-fellow-well-met bonhomie and charm. He was easy in his own skin and knew how to mix.’

Billy Hill agreed, and picked up. ‘Beresford used to run the games at the Imperial. Asprey used to run the smaller games, mostly in private flats. We’re talking serious money, with serious connections: heads of multinational conglomerates, heads of state, lords, prime ministers – and I heard rumours of a president. Fellows that really couldn’t afford to be caught gambling. Especially in a place like the Imperial. So I only met Asprey a couple of times, formally and with other people around. But I could tell, right off the bat, he was a real prick!’

Vince considered this. In lieu of a beard, he stroked the scar on his chin. The needle Hill had with Asprey was obvious. The way Vince pegged it, Billy Hill didn’t give a monkey’s about Asprey being a snob. But he did give a monkey’s about coming off second best, and not taking a cut from the serious money. That clicked into place for Vince. When gambling became legal, and Asprey opened up the Montcler club, he didn’t need Billy Hill’s services any more. So Asprey severed all connections. All the high-rollers from the Imperial followed Asprey to the Montcler, to mix in with the really high-rollers who previously couldn’t afford to be seen gambling. The Montcler club changed all that. To be seen gambling in the Montcler was a positive boon. It meant so many things on so many levels. Not only that you had money, but you had enough of it to lose. To be a card-carrying member was pure social enhancement and elevation.

‘What’s on your mind, bright boy?’

‘That you killed Beresford. Either as a warning to Asprey, or in revenge for getting cut out of his business.’

Vince watched as his house guest took this in his stride. He was a gangster after all, and Vince was a detective. So accusations and denials weren’t that unnatural, all part of the game.

After unflinching consideration, Billy Hill said: ‘I grew up dirt poor in the Seven Dials, a family of thieves, never had nothing unless it was stolen. Now I have more money than I know what to do with. I’m as rich as Croesus. And the worst thing about having all this money is that my accountant, crooked as he is, tells me that even if I lived as long as Methuselah, I wouldn’t even put a dent in it. So I had no reason to put the squeeze on Asprey. I’m retired and I got all the pensions I need.’

‘It’s never just the money with men like you, Bill. It’s the thrill of the chase. Getting one over men like Asprey – especially men like Asprey. Showing them the true nature of power, and who’s top dog. That’s what you thrive on.’

‘Ha!’ Hill barked, followed by a throaty chuckle. ‘You’ve got me pegged, smart boy. What can I say? Happy now?’

‘Happier.’

‘You’re a mendacious and tenacious little prick, Treadwell! You think you know me? Well, I know
you.
And I know you won’t let this go until you get some answers. So to get you off my back, and out of my business, I’m going to
give
you some answers. And then, from here on in, no more. First off, I didn’t kill Beresford. He was a pal of mine. He was a real classy act. He was also a cheat. A real classy cheat, if you will. And he cheated for me. We had the best card scam in London. Untraceable. And we made a lot of money. For me to kill Beresford would—’