‘No thanks, Georgie,’ said Vera. ‘Couldn’t spare a smoke though, could you dear?’
‘Blimey! Doesn’t anyone buy their own fags nowadays?’ Harley threw the box of cigarettes on the sticky marble-topped table. ‘There you go—help yourselves.’
‘Ta very much,’ said Vera, taking out a cigarette each for her and Gracie and then squirreling the box away in her glass-beaded handbag.
‘Oi! What’s your game?’
‘Times are hard dear—you wouldn’t begrudge an old nymph of the pave now, would you?’
‘And ten Gold Flake, Pietro!’ called Harley, shaking his head.
‘Bless you, dear!’ said Vera, blowing him a kiss.
‘So, come on then, Sal—how did you manage to wangle this job at Paladino’s place?’
‘Well, George, it turns out that Jerry’s an old friend of Vern’s,’ said Sally, having a little trouble focussing on Harley.
‘Vern?’
‘Vern Slater,’ said Vera and Gracie, in unison.
‘We’re walking out,’ added Sally, a little sheepishly.
‘Vern Slater? You’re knocking about with Vern Slater? Jesus, Sally!’
Pietro shuffled over to the table, gave the marble a cursory wipe with a greasy cloth and delivered Harley’s cigarettes and coffee, with the added bonus of half an inch of ash on the side.
‘Ooh—it’s just like the Ritz in ’ere, ain’t it?’ dead-panned Gracie.
‘Prego!’ said Pietro, shuffling back to his Racing Times.
‘So, apart from soaking the punters with over-priced cigarettes, what else has Vern got you doing at The Cat’s Whiskers?’
‘I dunno what you mean,’ said Sally, inspecting the chipped varnish on her fingernails.
‘I suppose you’re cased up with him as well?’
‘Oh, leave off George! Don’t you go getting all pound-noteish with ’er!’ said Vera, pulling her hip flask from her bag. ‘After all, a girl’s got to make a living somehow. Here, have a drop of eye-water in yer tea.’
‘It’s a bit early for me, Vera.’
‘Ooh—la-di-dah, ain’t we?’ She topped up her cup. ‘As I see it, a brama like Sally ’ere deserves to earn a bit from her looks. Yes, best you makes the most of it while you can, girl—gawd knows they’ll fade soon enough.’
‘Well, I dunno, Sal—personally I wouldn’t trust Vern Slater as far as I could throw him.’
‘Oh, but you’re wrong, George! He’s a real gent to me, honest he is.’
‘Well, it’s your funeral. Just remember I warned you … Can I have a look at The Oracle, Vera?’ said Harley, catching sight of the headline on the folded newspaper at the end of the table.
‘Ooh yes! Ain’t it awful, George? Look at this …’ She flattened the front page out in front of him. ‘Another one of those bombings. It’s disgraceful, is what it is! These bleedin’ anarchists coming over here from gawd knows where.’
‘Russia, ain’t it?’ said Gracie. ‘Or is that just the Bolsheviks?’
‘I don’t know, Gracie—and frankly I don’t care. Same thing, ain’t it? All bleedin’ foreigners wanting to cause trouble. Blew up a shoe factory in Plaistow this time—killed the night-watchman stone dead. Left a wife and three kiddies; poor little blighters.’
‘What is a Bolshevik, anyway? I’ve never really understood,’ said Sally, dropping her head on her arms as the drink finally caught up with her.
‘Have they caught someone, then?’ asked Harley.
‘It’s anarchists, I tell yer—the paper’s had a letter from them. Look ’ere …’ said Vera, turning the pages for Harley. ‘There you go—The Wild Cat International Anarchists’ Brigade. They reckon they’re gonna continue the campaign of proper … proper … Oh, you read it out, George.’
‘Propaganda by the deed … “the existing capitalist system will be quickest and most radically overthrown by the annihilation of its exponents. Therefore, massacres of the enemies of the people must be set in motion”. That’s Johann Most, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘What? You know these bleedin’ lunatics, do you?’
‘No, Johann Most—he was a German anarchist. Actually, he lived here for a while, in London. They’re quoting directly from him here.’
‘Ooh, George!’ said Sally, her head still buried on the table. ‘Marni told me you were a bit of a bookworm.’
‘Well, I don’t see how some poor old night-watchman is an enemy of the people,’ said Gracie.
‘I reckon that Sir Pelham Saint Clair’s got the right idea,’ said Vera, turning the page to an article printed below a photograph of the Blackshirt leader in full paramilitary uniform. ‘He reckons we should have more pride in our Great British Empire … says that Free Trade is ruining the country. It’s all down to foreign plutocrats, apparently.’
‘He’s right though, ain’t ’e?’ piped up Gracie. ‘When you look around—the state of things. Sometimes it’s difficult to believe that we actually won the bleeding war.’
‘Well, I’ll tell yer this for nothing,’ said Vera. ‘Sir Pelham will be getting my vote next time round. The rest of ’em are a complete shower if you ask me. It’s what we need—a bit of pride again in the nation.’
‘Be careful what you wish for there, Vera—you may be throwing the baby out with the bath water if you let that lot in. Don’t forget that it weren’t so long ago you didn’t have that vote—and it was hard fought for, an’ all. Saint Clair believes that women’s suffrage is an alien, revolutionary belief. He also reckons that democracy is enfeebling our nation. He’d have us all back working the land as serfs tomorrow if he could.’ Harley looked at his watch. ‘But listen, as much as I love a bit of political debate, I need some information.’
‘You paying, ducky?’ asked Gracie.
‘Maybe—it depends on the quality. What do you know about a young kid named Aubrey?’
‘You’re a sly one, George Harley! Didn’t know you had such exotic tastes!’
‘Very funny! Come on, this is serious—the kid’s dead. I need to find out who his oppos were, where he hung out—anything about him at all.’
‘Aubrey, you say?’ asked Gracie. ‘Young streak of lavender, shoulder-length hair, pale skin, bit heavy-handed with the Devon Violets?’
‘That’s sounds like him.’
‘That’s the milky kid we saw in the Dilly the other night, Veer,’ said Gracie.
Always quick to spot an opportunity Vera leaned towards Harley and lowered her voice. ‘I can tell you the who and the where, George. It’ll cost you a dollar though.’
‘Bit strong, Vera. How about we say half-a-crown?’
‘Let’s see the colour of yer money, then.’
Harley placed the coin on the table.
‘Right, well … There’s a little gaggle of lavenders that work Soho Square. You’ll find ’em upstairs at The Green Fox, Charlotte Street, most nights, fawning over their Queen Bee—Gilby Siddons.’
‘What, Gilby Siddons the actor?’
‘You heard of ’im? Well, I don’t think he does much acting now—bit of an old soak, if truth be told. But he tells a good yarn. And the irons love ’im—bit of glamour I s’pose. ’Course, he loves having all that young chicken-flesh around him, too. Go and see Gilby Siddons—he should have the lowdown on your boy Aubrey.’
‘Much obliged, Vera.’
‘Any time dear—for the right sweetener of course,’ she said, pocketing the half-crown.
‘They’re a bit tight, mind,’ said Vera. ‘Don’t take kindly to strangers, that lot; especially with what’s been happening recently.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Murder—that’s what,’ said Gracie. ‘Two of them Green Fox boys have been creased in the last month.’
‘Now, hold on Gracie,’ said Vera. ‘You don’t know that. It’s just hearsay, George. I heard that they topped ’emselves.’
‘Hold on, hold on,’ said Harley, getting out his notebook. ‘Let’s start again from the beg
inning, shall we? Who topped themselves?’
‘Oh,’ said Sally a little nervously, suddenly looking up at the window. ‘Here’s Vern now. Come to pick me up, I expect.’
Harley turned to see Vern Slater entering the café. Slater was a skinny individual with hollow, pock-marked cheeks. He stopped at the mirror by the door to check the knot in his gaudy silk tie, before striding up to the table.
‘What’s all this then, gel? You should ’ave been home an hour ago.’
‘Oh, don’t fuss so, Vern—I’m just having a chinwag with the girls.’
‘Really? A chinwag with the girls, eh? That’s nice, ain’t it? And what’s he doing here, then?’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, love. George is an old friend, we were just—’
‘Shush!’ said Slater, placing his finger against Sally’s lips. ‘You know the rules—everything through me or the club, right? I don’t wanna see mugs like this sniffing around outside of business hours.’
‘I see what you mean, Sal,’ said Harley. ‘He’s a regular gent, ain’t he?’
‘Cheese it, Harley! No one’s talking to you.’
‘Well, well, you’ve certainly grown some balls since we last met, Slater.’
‘Yeah well, you ain’t got that big Yid Rosen with you now, ’ave yer? No offense, Johnny,’ said Slater.
‘None taken,’ said Johnny the Turk, who had twisted in his seat for a better view of the entertainment.
‘Wind your neck in Slater, before you make a mug of yourself,’ said Harley. He took a sip of his coffee, keeping one eye on Slater’s right hand which had begun to twitch in anger. ‘Oh, hold on—looks like you may have been saved by the bell,’ he said, nodding towards the door. ‘Bogeys, if I’m not mistaken … You been a naughty boy again, Vern?’
Slater turned towards the two men in gabardines who had just walked in.
‘Oh, come on, Mr. Webbe!’ he said to the lead detective, putting his hands up in submission. ‘Give a bloke a break—I ain’t done nuffin’.’
‘Stop your whining, Slater! For once we’re not interested in you.’ He turned to the table. ‘George Harley?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Detective Sergeant Webbe,’ said the policeman, flashing his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Quigg requests the pleasure of your company down at the station.’
‘How lovely! Am I being arrested, Detective Sergeant?’
‘Not at the moment—but I’m sure it could be arranged. Now, are you going to come quietly?’
‘A little tête-à-tête with Mr. Quigg? How could I resist? Just let me settle up first.’ Harley collected the newspaper and his cigarettes from the table and walked up to the counter. He handed Pietro some money and the folded newspaper, in which he’d secreted his brass knuckles.
‘Thanks for the lend of the paper, Pietro,’ he said with a wink.
The silent Italian gave a curt nod and placed it under the counter.
Harley walked back to the table and raised his hat.
‘Ladies.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said Vera, offering her hand to be kissed. Harley gave it a peck and turned to Slater.
‘Always a pleasure, Vern. You look after yourself now, won’t you?’
‘Ha, ha—you mug, Harley.’
The policemen escorted Harley out of the warmth of the café and into the grey drizzle of the London morning, steering him towards a large black Wolseley parked at the kerb.
‘You be careful now, Mr. Webbe!’ shouted Slater, enjoying himself immensely as he stood watching from the café doorway. ‘He’s a bit of a wide-boy that one—he’ll be a hard nut to crack!’
CHAPTER FIVE
Harley stood at the Station Sergeant’s desk, flanked by the two plain-clothes detectives who had brought him in.
‘George Harley! Long-time-no-see. And to what do we owe the pleasure?’
‘Search me, Dick. There I was, minding me own business—’
‘I’ll stop you there, George, if you don’t mind—I’ve heard that particular song before … Well, Detective Sergeant, what’s the charge?’
‘No charge, Dick—not as yet, anyway. Mr. Quigg asked us to bring him in for a chat.’
‘Right-you-are—number two’s free. Mind how you go, George. I’m sure one of these nice gentlemen will bring you a cup of tea once they’ve got you settled. And I’d be grateful if you’d keep the language clean this morning—and that goes for you two as well—we’ve got a VIP on the premises. Off you go then lads, let’s be having you.’
Harley was shown into an interview room, bare apart from a scuffed deal table and two metal-framed chairs.
‘Take a seat, Harley. The DI will be with you in a little while.’
‘How about that cup of tea then?’
‘Don’t push your luck, sherlock! And no shouting, now—you heard the sergeant.’
Harley waited for Webbe to leave and then dropped his hat on the table and took a seat. He quickly flipped through his notebook, searching for anything that might be compromising to either himself or his associates if found by Quigg. Having erased a couple of surnames he replaced the book in his jacket and lit a smoke. He leant forward on the table and played with some loose strands of tobacco whilst pondering why Quigg might have pulled him in. After a while Webbe returned.
‘Look sharp, Harley—you’re wanted in the Chief Inspector’s office.’
‘Chief Inspector? What about Quigg?’
‘There’s no time to argue about it. And put that fag out! He’s got the new Commissioner in with him.’
‘Commissioner?’
‘Yes. The new Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. I know, I know—I’m as surprised as you are; but believe me, you do not want to keep them hanging around. Come on—look lively now!’
Now Harley really was puzzled, and more than a little concerned. Quigg he could handle, up to a point—but an interview with the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police? Well, that was an altogether different proposition. As he was escorted down the corridor his mind scrambled through his most recent cases, trying desperately to think what he’d done to warrant interest on such an executive level. He was still struggling to make sense of it all as Webbe knocked on the frosted glass of the Chief Inspector’s door.
‘Come!’
‘George Harley, sir,’ said Webbe, pushing Harley in and closing the door behind him.
To Harley’s left stood Quigg, for once devoid of his supercilious sneer, but still failing to acknowledge his presence in the room. Seated next to Quigg was a portly, balding man with a ruddy complexion, wearing the three pips of a Chief Inspector. Directly in front of Harley, sitting behind the Chief Inspector’s desk and sucking on his trademark Hungarian saxophone pipe, was General Sir Frederic Wilberforce Swales. Harley tipped his hat back in surprise.
‘Bugger me!’
The General kept his face set in mild consternation as he released a small aromatic cloud of pipe smoke up to the ceiling.
Quigg glanced at Swales, then at the Chief Inspector, and then back at Swales, trying to ascertain the mood of his two superiors.
Harley shook his head in disbelief.
‘FW? Don’t tell me they made you the new Commissioner.’
This was too much for Quigg, who now launched himself across the room and started to bundle Harley out of the door.
‘Wait!’ roared General Swales.
He slowly removed his pipe and placed it in a large onyx ashtray on the desk. ‘At ease, Inspector,’ he said, lowering his voice with a small nod at the policeman. ‘Bring him back, if you would.’
‘With respect, Sir Frederic—’ began Quigg.
‘Sir Frederic?’ said Harley. ‘Impressive!’
Quigg turned to Harley, incredulous at his impertinence. He took a moment to compose himself.
‘With respect, sir, this man … this man is an impudent scoundrel, with Bolshevik tendencies. You’ll get nothing but insolence from him. He has set himself up as some k
ind of champion of—’
Swales put his finger up to silence Quigg.
‘With respect to you, Detective Inspector, I don’t recognize your rather defamatory description at all. I know this man as Corporal George Harley DCM. That’s the “Distinguished Conduct Medal” if you’re not au fait with the terminology—a superior decoration awarded to this particular soldier for—amongst other things—rescuing three wounded comrades during a trench-raiding sortie; with complete disregard for his own safety. One of those wounded comrades, I might add, is now sitting before you as your new Commissioner. And, alas, that wasn’t the only opportunity this “impudent scoundrel” had of saving my life. My experience of Mr. George Harley, Detective Inspector …’ Swales consulted a piece of paper on the desk in front of him. ‘… Quigg, is of a man of integrity and intelligence. And if certain reports are to be believed, those are two qualities that the Metropolitan Police Force could do with holding in a little higher regard.’
Harley diplomatically hid his smirk behind a quick rub of his chin.
‘Now, Chief Inspector,’ continued Swales, turning to Quigg’s superior. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like the exclusive use of your office for twenty minutes or so—I have a little confidential business with Harley here.’
‘Of course, Sir Frederic,’ said the Chief Inspector, ushering the astonished Quigg towards the door. ‘Come on, man! You heard the Commissioner—stop dallying about!’
Once they were alone Swales stood up and offered his hand across the table, beaming at Harley.
‘George Harley—my God! How long has it been?’
‘Seven years—or there abouts.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m afraid so, sir.’
‘Sir? So it’s sir now, is it? In front of the ranks it’s FW this and FW that.’
‘Yeah, well I’m sorry about that—it was a bit of a shock, that’s all.’
‘I mean—sir—not exactly living up to your reputation now, are you George? How did he put it? Bolshevik tendencies, wasn’t it?’
‘Well,’ chuckled Harley. ‘As you well know, you’ve earned my respect.’
‘And you mine George, and you mine. So since we’re alone, let’s revert to FW, shall we? I like it—it’s … nostalgic. Now, sit down man. Sit! Sit! One thing I’ve learnt in my brief term as Police Commissioner,’ continued the General, beginning to hunt through the desk drawers, ‘is that one can usually find a … Ah—here we are!’ He produced a bottle of Dewar’s and two glasses. ‘Scotch?’
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