September Song (18 page)

I suddenly wondered how Philip Graham had managed to get in. When Peter barred people, they usually stayed barred. Perhaps that particular piece of information hadn't made it to Bill on the door. Or Bill just hadn't recognized him.

And I wondered at Lee turning up as though nothing had happened. He probably reckoned he was safest in a crowd. And, just maybe, he thought that by acting as though nothing had happened he could make it so. I'd seen men try that in the war.

The smell of unwashed bodies, including my own, seeped through the thin overlay of Brylcreem, Evening in Paris, Amami, Old Spice and the reek of ancient cooking oil from the Acropolis. It was hot, and I took off my jacket and leaned back against the cool wall, letting Jeannie Summers' rich, warm voice wash over me. She wasn't as affecting as Lady Day. But who is? And her phrasing wasn't as perfect as Ella's. But, again, whose is?

All the same, she definitely had that something special that could move you.

I closed my eyes and listened.

I must have dozed off because all kinds of jumbled thoughts came into my head: sharp, jagged images of France during the war – creeping up behind a young German sentry guarding a goods yard; Ghislaine and Big Luc picking up windfall apples in an orchard – and bleak memories of aimlessly wandering through London in the cruel winter of '47, treading warily across treacherous frost-bitten bomb sites for no reason, chilled to the bone even through the big smelly greatcoat I'd come home in.

I jolted awake as Jeannie Summers soothed and swayed her way to the end of ‘The Man I Love'. She looked across at Lee briefly, and when she turned back to acknowledge the applause her eyes were full of tears.

They both left the stage, and the lights came up.

I still couldn't see Philip Graham or Ricky Mountjoy through the crowd. People were standing up, stretching or heading for the bar before Peter and the boys came back on.

I yawned and put my jacket back on. It was time to make my way backstage and give Lee the good news that Inspector Rose of the Yard would love to see him. I glanced around for Ricky and Philip. Puzzlingly, they didn't seem to be around.

I pushed my way apologetically through the crush at the bar until I was standing by the stage. I had one long last look. The lads had clearly left. Ah, well. One less thing to worry about.

I made a mental note to suggest that Les have a word with his boy. It might have seemed a bit harsh to young Philip, but Les definitely wanted him tucked up in bed in the nice hotel Hoxton Films was paying for, with a nice polite Agatha Christie mystery at this time on a Saturday night, not gallivanting around Soho jazz clubs with a nasty little razor-wielding hooligan.

Over the hubbub at the bar, I heard the unmistakable sound of the band arriving back on stage: a cymbal singing, a few bluesy chords on the piano, a rumble from the double bass.

‘Any requests, Tony?'

I turned to see Peter Baxter beaming at me. Well, it was the nearest Peter ever gets to beaming at anyone. It was more of a scowl really.

I shook my head. ‘I could live without “The Sheik of Araby”,' I said.

‘Duly noted,' he said, ‘but you've just brought my premature retirement from the music business that much closer.'

‘Sorry,' I said, not meaning it. ‘Listen, is it all right if I go backstage for a word with Lee? The
gendarmerie
would like him to turn up and give a statement. They've asked me to convince him.'

Peter shrugged and scowled (or beamed) at me again. ‘Sure. Why not? That was their last set for us. They can keep him in overnight for all I care now. Might do him some good. Keep him off the junk. That would be a consummation devoutly to be wished.'

Sometimes, Peter sounds very like Jerry. But then they did go to the same kind of posh private school.

I nodded at him and ambled across the stage to the dingy corridor beyond, just as the lights in the club went down and the band started belting out ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo'.

I knocked gently on the door of the dressing room and announced myself.

The quiet voice of Jeannie Summers drifted out. ‘Just a minute. I'll make myself decent.'

I turned away from the door and started tapping my foot to the rhythm. They really were quite a good Saturday night band. In one of the big cathedrals to dance, the kids would be out on the floor, jiving and jitterbugging – or whatever they did these days – away. Of course, to fill one of those places with sound, Peter would need a lot more of a brass section to back him up. It probably suited him very well to be soloist and vocalist in a small club.

I heard the door open behind me, and there was Miss Summers wearing a dressing gown and looking very tired.

‘That was a great set,' I said. ‘Really very good.'

She lowered her head modestly. ‘Thank you,' she said. ‘I'm glad you enjoyed it.'

I started to feel a little guilty about nodding off and hoped she wouldn't ask me to expand on my comments.

‘I'm afraid that I need a word with Lee,' I said. ‘About last night.'

‘Oh,' she said but didn't move. Then she looked up at me and gave me a fake, bright smile. ‘I'll send him out.'

The door shut behind her, and I heard the low murmur of conversation.

The band pleaded to be carried home and then stopped dead, more or less at the same time. There was some enthusiastic clapping and whistling before a sprightly up-tempo account of ‘Someone To Watch Over Me' echoed down the corridor.

The door to the dressing room swung open, and Lee stepped out, wiping his face with a grubby towel. He pulled the door to and then leaned back against the wall. He jerked his head towards the club. ‘Doesn't have much of a left hand, that piano player,' he said.

I shrugged. ‘Ah, he does for us,' I said. ‘We're not that sophisticated an audience.'

He nodded. ‘I guess not,' he said. ‘You put up with me playing like I've got arthritis in my hands.'

He held out his right hand. The long, slender fingers were about as removed from the gnarled and knotty digits of an elderly arthritis sufferer as I've ever seen.

‘I've not been at my best the last few days,' he said. ‘Need to get clean.' He mumbled like he was talking to himself. Maybe he was, because he suddenly looked across at me. ‘Jeannie says you got something you want to talk about.'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘The police here would really like to talk to you about last night. They know you were in the alley where those boys were killed.'

‘Yeah,' he said. ‘Pity I can't tell them anything on account of being unconscious at the time because “those boys” had just roughed me up.'

‘All the same,' I said, ‘they need a statement. Just tell them that. The inspector in charge is a good egg. He wants to ascertain whether you know anything or not.'

‘Sure he does,' he said. He stood up straight, shook his head and made to go back into the dressing room. ‘I don't know anything.'

‘I think you should go to see him,' I said. ‘Voluntarily.'

He paused with his hand on the door knob, but whatever he was about to say was lost as the outside stairs to the Acropolis rang with the sound of many feet and the door that led on to the yard where the dustbins nestled was flung open with a crash.

Malcolm Booth and his mate, the bloke I'd tangled with that afternoon, strode into the corridor, followed by three other tough-looking guys. As I suppose I should have expected, Ricky Mountjoy and Philip Graham were nowhere near the vanguard but sauntered in, well to the rear, like staff officers keeping an eye on the troops, don't you know.

‘We need a word with your mate,' Malcolm said.

‘What about?' I said, stepping in front of Lee.

‘Come on,' Malcolm said, ‘you're not stupid.'

‘He doesn't know anything,' I said.

‘Look, I don't want to have to sort you out,' Malcolm said, ‘but you protect him and I will.'

‘You can try,' I said.

His mate stepped forward and swung the sort of roundhouse punch you only ever see in Westerns. I stepped back and watched it labour past. He was completely off balance, with his back to me, so I just gave him a little dig in the right kidney and then pushed him into the other members of his team.

Malcolm neatly stepped around him and came towards me, fists cocked. He looked useful. ‘This isn't personal, Tony,' he said. ‘I hope you understand that.'

He pushed out a straight left which caught me on the temple and stung a bit, but not as much as the big right he followed it up with, which felt like it might have cracked a rib. All the same, he knew I wasn't out of it yet and followed me as I backed off down the corridor. He also knew that I was no boxer.

What he didn't know, though, was that I'd been taught how to hurt people during the war, and some of it had stuck.

Go for whatever's unprotected had been one of the maxims drummed into me. And, perhaps the most important piece of advice, don't be half-hearted, always do it like you mean it.

So, when Malcolm planted himself in front of me and prepared to knock seven bells out of me, I tapped him quite hard on the left ankle. I wasn't wearing battered old brown suede shoes but decent black English Oxfords, and I felt the impact all the way up my leg, so it must have, as Bernie Rosen was very fond of saying, hurt like a bastard. The ankle all but gave way under him, and he lurched to the side. As he did so, I swung a left down into the side of his head, and he fell heavily against the opposite wall, banging his head again.

‘Nothing personal, Malcolm,' I said, rubbing the bruise that was already coming up on my chest. The rib didn't give at all so maybe it wasn't broken.

I looked across and saw that the other blokes hadn't hung about and were holding Lee pretty much immobile. Jeannie Summers had appeared at the door to the dressing room, and, to my surprise, she wasn't screaming hysterically but beating at the back of one of the bigger men roughing up her lover man. Her blows were pretty much ineffectual, but at least she was doing something, unlike Lee. The thug who I'd thumped earlier grabbed her and pulled her away none too gently, and I decided I'd better intervene. But I'd underestimated Malcolm, who wasn't out cold, as he should have been. As I moved past him, he lashed out a leg, which caught me on the shin. I stumbled to my knees, and one of the guys I'd never seen before peeled away from the melee around Lee and, closely followed by Ricky Mountjoy, came towards me. Then they were on me like jackals.

I rolled up into a ball, and as the first blows came in I was only too aware that Peter and the band were still playing at full volume. It would be just my luck to take a kicking to the sound of ‘The Sheik of Araby'.

In the event I didn't.

They were playing ‘Tiger Rag'.

And, just like in the pictures, the Seventh Cavalry turned up in the nick of time.

The first I knew of it was Ricky Mountjoy haring off towards the rear exit as if Bill the doorman's yell of, ‘What the bloody hell's going on?' was the starting gun for a hundred yard dash.

There must be something catching about a panic-stricken retreat, because Ricky's flight out the door and up the Acropolis's stairs took two others with him.

Which left only four – including Philip Graham, who didn't count, and Malcolm, who was still lying on the floor – and that was reduced to three by an impressive left and right combination from Bill that left the bloke assaulting me lying next to Malcolm. At that point, the last bloke holding Lee, Malcolm's oppo, reflected on the situation, decided that discretion was the better part of valour and hopped it double quick too before Bill could get to him.

Philip Graham was looking to sneak out when Bill's stentorian bark of, ‘Oi, you! Come here!' stopped him in his tracks. Jeannie Summers hugged Lee tightly, but he looked very uncomfortable about such a display of marital affection. And he definitely didn't reciprocate. She was holding him, but he wasn't holding her.

Malcolm Booth stirred, started to get up but stopped and held up a placatory palm when Bill took a step toward him, fist cocked. ‘It's all right,' he said. ‘It's all over now. Finished. Done with.'

‘You're right,' Bill said. He pointed to the slumped heap next to Malcolm. ‘Now get out and take him with you.'

For a bloke thickening round the middle and nudging up towards fifty, Bill's a daunting prospect – he has the look of someone who knows he can take your best shot and still be standing – and Malcolm scrambled to his feet, shook the bloke next to him into something approaching consciousness and helped him down the corridor, out into the yard, and we heard them clanging their way slowly up the stairs.

Philip made to go after them.

‘Not you,' I said. ‘We need to have a chat.'

I could see the start of a monumental sulk coming on.

‘I've nothing to say to you,' Philip said, ‘and I'm going now. If you try to stop me, Mr Jackson will be informed.'

Bill looked at me and smiled. ‘You want me to give him a slap, Tone?' he said.

‘I don't think that'll be necessary, Bill,' I said. ‘Because I'm going to slap him myself, if he doesn't start to behave.'

Well, after we'd taken up residence in Jeannie Summers' dressing room, with Bill firmly planted outside the door, young Philip did start to behave, after a fashion, but not until I explained the facts of life to him. I don't know that in his heart of hearts he believed me – the boy had a very high opinion of himself – but when I told him that Les Jackson didn't like him any more than I did and Les might well decide to suffocate his career before it had really got off the ground he did sober up a bit, calm down and at least pretend to be cooperative. But it was all with a very bad grace. And it may have had something to do with the fact that he could see that I really would have given him a slapping.