Mask of the Verdoy (11 page)

‘Mori the Hat? Yes—he has a whole notice board dedicated to him at the station.’

‘He’d be chuffed to hear that.’

‘Plus, DI Quigg filled me in on some of his background—sounds like a dangerous individual.’

‘Well, he can be, that’s for sure … but that’s not the whole picture. Me and Mori go back a long way. Not mates as such—he’s a few years older, and we’ve never really seen eye to eye—but we grew up in the same manor, went to the same school; along with a lot of his crew.’

‘So are you? …’

‘Jewish? No, but I’m pretty tight with a lot of the boys. Now the thing about Mori is his pride, right? He’s not overly bright—in fact he thinks he’s a lot smarter than he really is—but he’s fearless, and he has this huge ego. If he thinks you’re slighting him in any way, then God help you. He’ll do anything in his power to return the favour—in spades. And he’s got this fixation with the American gangster movies—Edward G. Robinson, James Cagney, you know? But of course, his operation isn’t anything like that.’

‘Really? Quigg says that he’s into running prostitutes and protection rackets at the races, illegal gambling—is that the kind of thing?’

Harley smiled.

‘Can’t comment I’m afraid—but I’m sure Quigg has all the current intelligence. The thing is, what I’m trying to say is … well, it’s just that I’m no bogey, right? I’ve grown up with these blokes, lived and worked in their world for most of my life. Let’s just say that there are certain rules of survival. Don’t get me wrong—just like my old Grandad I have my own personal moral code that I’d like to think I stick to; but if I went around trying to apply those rules to this mob … well, you’d be fishing me out of the drink on Monday morning.’

‘But what I don’t understand, Harley, is how you can have some friends who are gangsters and others … well, that are Metropolitan Police Commissioners.’

‘As I said, I wouldn’t class Mori as a friend as such—people like Mori don’t have real friends. But there are fellas in his mob that are my mates, that’s true. As for FW—General Swales—well, he was my CO in France, and war throws together all sorts. We were in a trench-raiding squad. Got pretty hairy at times; that kind of thing gets you tight, you know? What I’m trying to say, Pearson, is that this is a different world to what you’re used to back home.’

‘You can say that again.’

‘And as such, the dividing lines are a little blurred. You’ll see other bogeys there tonight—some of them rotten, maybe some working, and others just enjoying themselves … but whatever happens,
you
can’t be a copper there tonight with me—understand? They don’t know you, and therefore they won’t trust you. And even though I’d be vouching for you, that wouldn’t be enough. It’s important you understand that—for both of our sakes.’

‘I think I’ve got it.’

‘Good. Let’s be off then—I’ll fill you in on the way.’

***

Half an hour later they were in a small back alley off Regent Street, standing at the door of a vacant tailor’s shop, its display window blocked out with old, yellowed newspaper.

‘Are you sure this is the right place, Harley? It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here for months.’

‘Well, you can never be absolutely certain with the Twelve Ten—but it should be still here.’

Harley yanked on the old bell-pull at the side of the door. A faint clanging could just be heard from somewhere deep inside, followed by the clump of footsteps on bare floorboards. A small hinged panel opened in the front door, revealing a crumpled nose set in a wide slab of face. The owner of the nose lowered himself down so that he could see out.

‘Yus?’

‘Here to collect a waistcoat,’ said Harley.

‘What colour?’

‘Green.’

After some sliding of bolts and dropping of chains the door was opened to reveal a giant of a man in a wide-check suit and a bowler hat that had seen better days.

‘How are you, Babe?’

Harley’s enquiry was met by a total lack of recognition.

‘Green waistcoat is it? You’ll ’ave to see Auntie.’

The man turned and walked to a door at the back of the empty shop.

‘
Babe
?’ whispered Pearson, following behind with Harley.

‘Babe O’Reilly. He was a wrestling champion in his time; but now he’s a bit …’ Harley finished his sentence by twisting his finger on his temple.

O’Reilly knocked at the door.

‘Fella here to pick up a waistcoat, Auntie!’

‘What colour?’ came the reply from within.

‘Green.’

A few moments later the door was opened by a diminutive old lady in a black dress with lace trimmings.

‘Yes, gentlemen—and what can I do for you?’

She held a lorgnette up to her eyes and scrutinized the new arrivals.

‘Oh, George! How are you, my dear?’ she exclaimed, dropping her assumed accent.

‘Fine thanks, Auntie—and yourself?’

‘Oh mustn’t grumble, ducks.’ She turned to O’Reilly. ‘It’s George, Babe—
George Harley!
Surely you remember George?’

O’Reilly retained his blank expression.

‘Oh, go on—be off with yer! You big lump! And take yer ’at off indoors! What have I told yer? I swear he’s getting worse.’ She turned to look at Pearson. ‘And who’s this with you, George?’

‘This here’s Mack, Auntie.’

‘Please to meet you, Mack.’ She shook Pearson’s hand. ‘And you can vouch for Mack, can you George?’

‘That I can.’

‘Right-you-are. You know the house rules … Now, green wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You sure you wouldn’t prefer blue? The girls are having a bit of a slow one tonight. And Dora’s got a lovely little blonde in, just over from the continent. Dutch I think she is—a right little brama, for sure. And quiet with it, an’ all—not like that French gillflirt in Maddox Street. I’m sure Dora could do you and your chum a special rate.’

‘No, green it is, Auntie—thanks all the same.’

‘Alright then, dear.’

Auntie walked over to a velvet curtain, which she now pulled aside to reveal the cage door to a lift.

‘There you go, George.’ She handed Harley two green raffle tickets. ‘You know the drill—take the lift to the second floor and it’s the door at the end of the corridor.’

She closed the gate on them and Harley pushed the button.

‘Like being at the fairground,’ said Pearson, as the lift trundled off, groaning and creaking all the way.

‘You could say that—and, of course, a blue ticket would get you an altogether different kind of ride.’

‘Yes—I gathered that. Don’t think Mrs. P would approve somehow. By the way—where did you get “Mack” from?’

‘Just a little tribute to your bogey’s gabardine.’

The lift came to a shuddering halt.

‘Here we are—let me go first.’

They walked down a corridor lined with old fashion advertisements, the hubbub of the club becoming louder as they approached the door at the end. Harley turned to Pearson and lowered his voice.

‘Remember—if anyone asks, your name is Mack; and you’re interested in becoming a sherlock, so you’re tagging along with me to learn the ropes.’

‘Sherlock?’

‘Private detective.’

‘Oh, right … Really?’ said Pearson, looking a little pale. ‘Only, I haven’t done a great deal of undercover work to date.’

‘You’ll be fine—just stick close and let me do all the talking. Chances are no-one’s gonna bother with you anyway.’

Harley knocked on the door, which was soon opened by a rough-looking individual who tore their tickets and ushered them into the noise and bustle of the Twelve Ten in full swing. Harley began to weave through the mob of patrons—mostly young men, rowdy with drink and jostling each other to get to the bar. A gramophone was playing ragtime in an adjoining room and Pearson caught a glimpse of two young girls in cheap party frocks trying to look impressed at the animated contortions of a drunken middle-aged businessman wearing a paper hat. At one table a jaded young hostess mechanically reapplied her lipstick while her punter vomited into an ice bucket on the floor.

Harley turned and grabbed Pearson’s arm, pulling him closer to shout in his ear.

‘Let’s go through into the next room!’

They squeezed their way into a larger, less busy room. Here the air was heavy with cigarette smoke; most of the clientele sat at tables—some noisily celebrating with hostesses, others hunched in conspiratorial huddles.

‘It’s like a Turkish Bath in here! … Let’s get rid of the coats,’ said Harley, leading the way to a small counter in the corner with a cardboard “cloakroom” sign. ‘Make sure you remove all your valuables from the pockets first.’

He collected Pearson’s coat and handed them both to the attendant.

‘There you go, Maggie.’

‘Righto, George—two is it? What about yer ’ats?’ said Maggie, the ash from her cigarette peppering the counter.

‘We’ll keep them with us, thanks.’

‘Probably wisest. What number you on, ducks?’

Harley showed his raffle ticket. Maggie took the coats into a back room, handing Harley a token when she returned. She then perched back on her stool and retrieved a half-eaten sandwich from under the counter.

‘I’d steer clear of the fish-paste, if I were you,’ she said, removing her cigarette just long enough to take a bite from the limp triangle. ‘Tastes a bit queer to me.’

‘Thanks for the tip … Is Mori in tonight?’

‘Out back, in a game.’

‘And Burlington?’

‘Yes, he’s in alright. But he slipped upstairs on a bluey earlier. Mind you—that was all of half-an-hour ago; knowing Bertie he’d have been at the finishing post a couple of minutes after he arrived.’

‘Now, now, Maggie—there’s no need for that,’ said Harley, chuckling.

‘Ooh—
speak of the devil and he doth appear
—he’s just walked in …’ Maggie pointed behind them with the wilting corner of her sandwich.

Pearson turned to see a tall individual in black tie and tails shooting his cuffs as he walked into the room.

Harley walked over to greet him.

‘Bertie, how are you?’

The man fitted his monocle and peered down at Harley.

‘Ah! Harley, you old scoundrel! How the bally hell are
you
?’

‘Can’t complain, Bertie—yourself?’

‘Oh, you know—fair to middling, Harley, fair to middling. Business is a little slack … but, you know, things always look a little rosier after the sweet ministrations of Dora’s Angels.’

‘Listen, Bertie—can I buy you a drink? I want to pick your brains about something.’

‘Ah! A spot of the old scotch and s? Sweet music to my ears, Harley.’

‘By the way, this is Mack.’

‘Mack? Charmed, dear boy! Walter Prescott, or
Burlington Bertie
to this rabble—on account of the song, don’t you know.’

‘From Bow?’ asked Pearson.

‘Saints preserve us, no! Dulwich, old thing, Dulwich. Now, Harley—I believe someone mentioned a drink?’

‘Sure—grab a table Bertie and we’ll be right over. Mack—could you give me a hand?’

Harley led Pearson to a small bar through an arch at the back of the room.

‘Blimey—this place is like a maze,’ said Pearson.

‘You’ve only seen half of it so far.’

Harley gestured to the barman, who was busy chatting up a short girl with a Louise Brooks bob.

‘So this Burlington character is the fellow you mentioned, right?’

‘Yes—Walter Prescott, AKA Walter Hounslow, AKA Burlington Bertie. He’s a confidence man and blackmailer specialising in victims from the upper classes; consequently he’s got the lowdown on all the gentry and nobility in town—like a walking Debrett’s. If there’s any dirt on the Right Honourable Freddie Daubeney then Bertie’s sure to know all about it.’

The barman appeared polishing a glass.

‘What can I get you, chief?’

‘Mori still shifting that snide scotch?’

‘Got a fresh batch in this afternoon.’

‘Ink still wet on the label—right?’

‘Only the finest at Mori’s place.’

‘Alright—let’s have a half bottle and some soda, and three glasses.’

‘Coming right up.’

Whilst the barman fetched the drink Pearson moved a little closer to Harley so that he could lower his voice.

‘This Burlington character—how much is he going to be able to let us know? I mean, if he’s a conman, he’s not going to want to incriminate himself, is he?’

‘But how is he going to do that,
Mack
? It’s not as if we’re bogeys now, is it?’

Harley raised his eyebrows at Pearson as the barman returned with the drinks.

Back at the table Harley poured three generous measures and topped the glasses with soda.

‘Your very good health!’ said Burlington, knocking his drink back in one.

‘Christ, Bertie! That’s gone where the flies won’t get at it. You look like you needed that.’

‘Hmm … Well, things are a little tight at the moment, Harley.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. But listen—I need a little info, and if it’s good enough there’s a few bob in it for you. Help yourself to another.’

‘Very civil of you. But fair’s fair, Harley; no need of remuneration on this occasion—I owe you, remember? That Stevenson affair? If
you hadn’t have smoothed things out with Mori … well, doesn’t bear thinking about. No, happy to oblige for gratis this time, old thing. Now, who is it you’re interested in?’

‘Viscount Chantry.’

Burlington poured himself another scotch.

‘Ah—Fast Freddie Daubeney, eh? And what exactly is it you want to know?’

‘Give me everything you’ve got.’

‘Well …’ Burlington paused and glanced over at Pearson.

‘Oh, don’t worry about Mack here—he’s staunch.’

‘Very well. Let’s see now, Viscount Chantry, eh? … Well, he’s the eldest son of the Earl Daubeney, and as such is entitled to use the courtesy title Viscount Chantry. Known to his friends as Freddie, Fast Freddie—or Faw-Faw.’

‘
Faw-Faw?
’

‘Yes—devil knows why. Often these things originate in the nursery. Faw-Faw is, of course, first in line to inherit the earldom when the old man snuffs it—although that could be some time yet. You see his father, the ninth Earl Daubeney, despite suffering a minor stroke some years back—which left him with a rather impressive partial paralysis to his face, giving the old fizzog a vaguely nightmarish quality—appears to be in robust health. He boxed for his regiment I believe, and still looks like he could see off most contenders … A rum individual—not the type a chap would want to get on the wrong side of, I’d say. Short fuse by all accounts. He was the Viceroy of India for a short while, of course—but his involvement in some diplomatic scandal saw him shipped back to Blighty rather swiftly. Not sure of the details—these things tend to get hushed up
tout de suite
. He inherited the title—and the rather stunning Chantry Hall estate—from his elder brother who died suddenly around … ooh, five years ago now.’