People had believed that rationing would end, at least by a year after the war had finished, but no, it went on, as did the black market.
And life went on in Bella’s Pad according to the same pattern until 1950. Bella was now sixty years old, and feeling her age. Her boys, as she still called them, were in their fifties. Perhaps Joe and Carl were a little younger, and Reenee, she imagined, was about fifty. Bella had never been able to find out her real age when she first came to her. She guessed Reenee had been twenty-nine or thirty. Strangely, her face hadn’t seemed to alter, perhaps because of its fine bone formation; but the skin was tighter and paler. But what did worry Bella at times about her dear girl, as she still thought of her, was the habit she now had of sitting for hours staring ahead. Sometimes she would blink rapidly and press her lips tightly together, as one does when trying to remember or recall something. And another thing, too, was worrying: she was eating less. Her body, Bella thought, really looked like a skeleton underneath those clothes. In the winter she’d had to call in Dr Harle again because Reenee’s chest was so bad, but although Reenee tolerated him she still did not look at him unless she was forced to.
Dr Harle had not said anything to Bella about his patient seeing a doctor who could deal with her mind, but she knew that Mr Travis must have had a talk with him. It was odd, she thought, that the only man with whom her girl seemed completely relaxed was Carl. At times, she would give her hand to him, or pat his sleeve gently. These were times, Bella noticed, after she herself had scolded Carl when he had been out for longer than the two-hour walk-about, as he called it. Once she had said to him, ‘One of these days you’ll get done over by the villains. You’ll push your nose in so far that they’ll see you or guess at it.’ And it was at times like this that Reenee seemed to show concern for the small man with the disfigured face . . .
World events, even events in London, did not seem to penetrate the quiet routine and placidity of the life that went on at numbers 10 and 12 The Jingles. That was until 1955, when something took place that altered their lives for good.
It was a simple incident and it happened to Carl. He no longer played his flute in the street, but he continued to keep his eyes open, and once or twice had earned a few pounds from the police. But on that day he wasn’t looking around for the smallest detail that might have a bearing on something bigger, because a severe wind was blowing and he had his head bent and his cap pulled down over his brow.
He was walking along a residential street in which there were a few shops, a large public house and a hotel. A number of vehicles lined up along the kerb were delivering goods to different establishments, and he was both surprised and shocked when he found himself tripping face forward over a hatchway, and then, still face forward, sliding down into a cellar, there to hit his head against a barrel, which knocked him into blackness. He came round to a voice saying, ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ and another voice that seemed to come from above, shouting, ‘The silly bugger fell over the hatch. Is he out?’
‘Aye, I’d say he’s out. You don’t hit your head on a barrel and say “hello”.’
Another voice from somewhere said, ‘Give him a drink of beer.’ And the answer to this was, ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, I can’t tap a hogshead down here. Go an’ get a mug of water that’ll bring him round.’
He was round; he was lying with one side of his face flat on the stone floor, but his legs still seemed to be in the air. Someone took him by the shoulders and pulled him forward, and then, slowly, he opened his eyes and looked along what seemed to be a stone passage lined with barrels and, at the end of it, two men working. One of them yelled, ‘What’s all the commotion about?’
The answer came, ‘This idiot’s slipped down the chute. He’s out for the count.’
Carl gave no sign that he wasn’t out for the count; he had come round, but his eyes were fixed on the two men beyond the barrels, from one of which they were pulling things. He could see only half the barrel and the back of one man, and the things he was pulling from the barrel had wooden handles. But the light from a window caught the gleam from what must have been a metal tube attached to the handle. First one handle, then another came out before a voice above his head bawled, ‘Get that bloody lot back! He’ll be round in a minute.’
The barrel was pulled out of view and the other man disappeared with it. He now gave a gasp as some cold water drenched his face and head and a voice said, ‘That’s done it. He’s round all right. Sit him up.’
They sat him up, but he kept his eyes closed. ‘You all right, chum?’
He didn’t answer, only put his hand to his head as if it were aching, and it was. The man said, ‘What d’you mean by taking a slide down the barrel roll, eh?’
Still with one hand on his head, Carl said, ‘I think I’ve hurt me ankle.’
‘Well, let’s get you to your feet and see.’
When Carl limped towards the bottom of the chute the man said, ‘Can’t see much wrong with it. Can’t be sprained, else you wouldn’t be able to put it down. Well, now you’re goin’ out the way you come in. Lie on that board and stretch your arms upwards. Bill!’ he yelled. ‘Give him a hand out.’
Carl did as he was ordered. He lay face down on the slippery board, stretched his hands upwards and found them gripped; then his feet were pushed, and the next minute he was hauled into the street, with one of the men holding him, a man with red hair, saying, ‘D’you walk about with your eyes closed?’ And then, looking at him closely, he said, ‘I know you. You’re Pimple Face, the whistle player. Haven’t seen you about for ages.’
Carl took a deep breath before he said, ‘Lost me wind.’
A bellow came from the cellar: ‘Get on with it up there.
What d’you think we’re waitin’ for?’
The man who had been speaking to him gave Carl a slight push and said, ‘Well, get on your way and keep your eyes open in future.’
Carl got on his way. He had hurt his ankle but he hurried on until he reached the house where he told Bella of how he had tumbled down into a beer cellar because he hadn’t looked where he was going. He made no mention of what he had seen in that cellar. But the next day, although he was still limping, he went out against Bella’s protests for his usual walk-about. This time he took a different direction. It was towards a police station; but he didn’t go in, he went straight past it, and stood on the kerb about twenty yards away. Presently, a police car drew up outside the station and the policeman who got out happened to glance first one way, then the other down the street before he went in. A few minutes later, as Carl was walking slowly back and about to pass the station door, it opened and out came the policeman as if he had timed Carl’s arrival. Carl, looking up at him, said, ‘Nice day.’
‘It all depends what you’re doing,’ the policeman answered.
Carl smiled, he even laughed, but as he did so he said, under his breath, ‘Number six Boar’s Head, very important.’ Then he added, ‘Aye, it all depends what you’re doing. At present I’m limping because I’ve got a bad ankle.’
‘Get along with you!’ said the policeman, then got into the car, and Carl got along.
But that evening, after saying he felt like a pint, he went out again and along to the Boar’s Head. He sat on a bench near the wall some distance from the counter and sipped at his beer. The bar was full and the men were standing about in groups. He had almost reached the bottom of his mug when a man plumped down beside him. He was holding a pint mug in his hand, and after taking a drink from it he said, ‘That’s better. What a day! All sixes and sevens. There are days like that, you know, when nothing seems to go right.’
‘Yeah, I agree with you.’ Carl had to raise his voice above the din of the room as he added, ‘I’ve had one like that meself.’ Then he muttered, ‘Fell down into a cellar yesterday, wasn’t lookin’ where I was goin’, knocked meself out for a minute or so, and then I saw something interesting.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I’d hit a barrel wi
th me head and they thought I was knocked out and went to get water to bring me round.’
His partner interrupted, saying loudly, ‘D’you want another?’
‘No. No, thanks. I can’t see you getting to the counter for the next fifteen minutes or so and I must be off.’
Then he went on, under his breath, ‘The Phoenix cellar, unloadin’ guns from a barrel, what looked like a beer barrel the same as the rest. The delivery lorry was from the QX Breweries.’
The man sitting next to him took a long drink from his mug, then said, ‘Did they spot you?’
‘No, I was supposed to be out. They brought me round by throwing water over me. Then they pushed me up and out the way I had dropped in.’
‘You’re sure of this?’ The voice was very low and Carl answered, ‘Beer hasn’t wooden handles and steel pipes on the end.’
‘Sure you won’t have another pint?’ said the man.
‘No thanks; I’ve got to get back. I hurt me ankle yesterday and it’s still givin’ me gyp. Be seein’ you sometime.’
‘Yeah.’
Carl pushed his way through the crowd; then made his way back to The Jingles, knowing as he did so that this time he had unearthed something very worthwhile.
It was about three weeks later when there were reports in most of the papers that the police had caught a gang of arms smugglers, and that a naval patrol boat had stopped a cargo vessel. When it had been searched, the holds had contained what were supposed to be barrels of beer but were full of guns. Twelve men had been arrested. These included the manager of a private brewery and the owner of a hotel and public bar. The police were still looking for four men wanted for questioning in this affair.
Well, well. Carl had preened inwardly; he had really done something at last! What he had seen was gun-running all right.
He said nothing to anyone, but waited anxiously for the trial. They had caught three of the other suspects, who were now being held in custody, but the fourth was still to be found. Previously, two other suspects had had to be released for lack of evidence to hold them.
So important was the case that the result of the trials, three months later, again filled the front pages of the newspapers. Two of the ring-leaders were each given ten years. Of the others, sentences ranged from six to five years.
That night Carl sat on the form at the end of the bar and sipped at his pint. He wasn’t a regular at this bar, but he was recognised as dropping in now and again, and the barman would have a word with him.
As usual, it was full, and after a while a man looking for a seat came and sat on the end of the form. He gave a long sigh, and said. ‘Another day over; all sixes and sevens.’
To this Carl remarked lightly, ‘But there’s always a silver lining.’
His companion laughed and said under his breath, ‘It could be gold in this case.’
It was a promise, and it warmed Carl and confirmed that he had at last done something big.
After draining his mug, the man said quietly, ‘Bob’s tea stall Monday, round eleven.’
Then he rose slowly and said. ‘Be seeing you.’
Carl went on sipping at his mug of beer, which was only half full. It wasn’t so much the money he was pleased about, although he wouldn’t turn his nose up at it, it was the appreciation he had heard in the man’s voice.
This was Friday night. He’d have the weekend to get over, and it would be a good weekend, a happy weekend. He’d take in a few bottles for the lads then play cards with them.
He left the bar and walked along the street. There were two blocks before he’d have to turn into The Jingles, and these he could walk blindly, even on a black night like this.
He had reached the turning when a car drew up slowly at the pavement, and its lights brought his head up. A man had got out and was now standing in front of him. He couldn’t make him out, but he said, ‘What is it? What d’you want?’
‘Oh, we just want a chat, Mr Spotty Face. You don’t remember me, do you?’
The man now pulled him to where the light was shining from inside the car, and Carl, who felt his guts turn into a knot, was looking up into the face of the red-haired man who had pulled him out of the cellar and had recognised him as once playing the whistle on the streets. ‘Remember me now?’
Carl could not answer, and the man said, ‘Well, it doesn’t matter, chum, does it? Because you won’t remember very much after this.’ Carl found himself heaved up bodily and thrust into the back of the car, which immediately moved off swiftly. Another man was already seated in the car, and he said, ‘Hello, chum. Did you enjoy your chat with the disguised copper? We hope you did, because it’ll be the last enjoyment you’ll ever know,’ and immediately Carl felt a blow first to one side of his head, then to the other, and hazily heard a voice saying from somewhere in the distance, which might have been the front seat, ‘Leave him be until we get him there.’
And that’s all Carl ever remembered.
Bella was angry. She looked at the clock again, then said to Joe, ‘It’s eleven o’clock. He’s never been out as late as this before. Where d’you think he’s got to?’
‘If I knew, Bella, I’d tell you; and I’ve told you afore that all he said to me was that he was goin’ along for a pint. He’d be only half an hour or so, he said, and I didn’t say to him, like I’ve wanted to many a time when he’s been goin’ along for that pint, that if he wanted a pint so badly we would get a few bottles in. But, Bella, you know . . . well, you know yourself, he’s still doin’ that other business.’
‘Yes; and that’s what I’m frightened of. He’ll do it once too often and it’ll get him . . . Oh, dear God! Where is he?’ She turned to Reenee, who was sitting by the table. There was an anxious look on her face and she pointed, first at Joe, then to her eye, and he said, ‘I’m pickin’ up her meanin’, Bella. But where would we start to look, Reenee?’
‘Anywhere,’ Bella said irritably now. She did not add, ‘He’s likely lying in some back lane,’ but she went on, ‘Go and wake the lads and tell them what’s happened. Then go to the bar and ask what time Carl left.’
‘Aye, I could do that . . .’
Two hours later the men were in the kitchen. Nobody they had spoken to had seen Carl. The barman said he did not know at what time he had left, because the bar had been full and he hadn’t noticed him going.
‘Should we phone the police?’ said Tony.
‘I wouldn’t,’ said John. ‘If anything’s happened they’ll find out soon enough; they generally do. In the meantime he might come staggering in.’
They didn’t go to bed until three o’clock and Carl hadn’t come staggering in; and when they all met in the kitchen again the following morning, Bella said, ‘They’ve got him. God knows where he is, likely in the river. One thing I feel sure, we’ll never hear from him again. Poor lad. What he’s had to put up with. That face alone has been a drawback to him. He’d got a mind and could’ve used it in some business. But lookin’ like that, who would take him on? And he knew it.’
‘If he doesn’t show up before dinner-time,’ Joe said, ‘I’m going to the polis station.’
Joe had no need to go to the police station for at about eleven o’clock that morning there was a knock on the front door. When Bella opened it and saw two uniformed policemen standing there, she put her hands over her eyes and muttered, ‘I knew it. I knew it. Something’s happened to him.’
‘May we come in, Miss Morgan?’ said one.
‘Aye. Aye, come in and tell me the worst. Is he dead?’
They didn’t answer, but she led them away from the kitchen, where she knew Reenee would be standing pressed against the wall in the scullery, and into the parlour, and there one of them said, ‘I should sit down if I were you, Miss Morgan.’
She sat down, and they sat opposite, and she said, ‘Well, go on, for God’s sake, and tell me.’
‘We’ve found him, in fact he was dropped outside Wall Street police station at six o’clock this morning, wh
at was left of him, yet he is still alive.’
‘Oh, my God! My God! Where is he now?’
‘He’s in hospital, Miss Morgan,’ said the other man. ‘They’re doing everything possible to keep him alive. The last news we heard was that he was out of the theatre.’
‘Was – was he badly battered?’
The first man said, ‘I’m afraid so, Miss Morgan. They didn’t mean him to survive. He must have a very strong constitution under his frail exterior.’
‘May I go and see him?’
‘Yes; yes, of course. But he won’t be conscious for some hours.’
Her body suddenly stiffening, she said, ‘This is because he was workin’ for you lot, isn’t it? Now, isn’t it?’
They both looked away and then one of the men said, ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘You don’t suppose so at all, you know so.’
Again the man said, ‘Yes, Miss Morgan, you’re right. He . . . well, he was a great deal of help, more than that, in bringing those gun-runners to justice. Some of those still around were bound to take their revenge, for we cannot hope we have caught everyone concerned, but we’re all very sorry that the little fellow has had to pay for it.’
‘Aye,’ said Bella, brokenly now, ‘and he won’t get any medals for it, will he?’
Neither man spoke for a moment. Then one said, ‘No. I’m sorry, there’s very few medals given out in this business; but I can tell you one thing, he’s appreciated up top because, you know, he’s one of the few straightforward . . .’ he paused ‘ . . . helpers to the force. A lot of them are on both sides: they give so much away and, under that, they can carry on with their own line. Oh, we know all that. But we’ve always known that the Pimple—’ He stopped. ‘I’m sorry, but he’s been known by that name.’
‘His name is Carl.’
‘Carl,’ repeated the policeman. ‘Well, well. Anyway, I can tell you that all of us working on these very dangerous cases have appreciated his help. It’s been small at times but always straight, and we were always able to go on that. And now here’s one who hopes he . . . well, he lives to know that we appreciate him.’
The Silent Lady Page 23