Mask of the Verdoy

by Lecomber, Phil

  Harley followed him and before long they had made it to the front row. By now numerous brawls had broken out both in the aisles and in the stalls themselves. For the most part the anti-fascists seem to be coming off the worst, greatly outnumbered as they were by the uniformed stewards. As he looked back across the auditorium Harley could just make out a line of CID men making their way down the central aisle.

  ‘Come on, Sol! We really need to be out of here!’

  He jumped down into the space at the front of the stage and turned to confront two young but burly Blackshirts, one of whom was holding a truncheon above his head.

  ‘Put it down, son, I don’t wanna have to—’

  But before Harley had time to finish his sentence the steward lashed out with his baton. However, a swift interweave of arms and a powerful thrust into the youth’s chin had soon rendered him harmless.

  ‘That’s all that fancy trench-raiding stuff, is it?’ said Rosen, coming up behind and picking up the discarded truncheon. ‘Impressive … But I don’t know why you always have to try to talk to ’em first, George.’

  He demonstrated the difference in his own approach by driving the truncheon hard into the stomach of the second steward, who promptly fell to his knees, gasping for breath. A vicious, left-handed swipe with the rubber cosh finished the lad off, laying him out cold on the floor next to his colleague.

  ‘Come on—over ’ere!’ said Harley, leading Rosen into the darkened wings at the side of the stage.

  Harley’s gamble seemed to have paid off. Apart from a couple of startled stage-hands, they went unchallenged as they weaved their way through a maze of backstage corridors, finally making their escape through a fire exit which opened out onto the main concourse. However, the scene outside the Albert Hall was even more chaotic than the one they had just left behind inside.

  A full pitched battle had erupted. To the right, with their backs to the building, a troop of Blackshirts were gathered around crates of empty milk bottles, hurling the glass missiles into a throng of anti-fascist protestors who had swarmed around the base of the statue of Prince Albert—from which there now hung a large communist banner. Further down the concourse a squad of uniformed police was making a baton charge against a flank of anti-fascists, who were doing their best to hold their vantage point on the steps. To the left, amongst the stone balustrades and topiary hedges, Blackshirts and anti-fascists were brawling in smaller groups, some of them wielding lumps of wood and iron bars.

  ‘Jesus Christ! Look at this mess!’ said Harley, ducking swiftly as half a house brick sailed over his head to shatter on the floor behind him.

  ‘Look down there!’ said Rosen, rolling up his sleeves. ‘There’s Mori and the boys—I’d better lend a hand. I’ll tell ’em about the bogeys inside …’

  And with that he was off, running with a lolloping gait towards the melee. Harley stood for a moment and contemplated his next move, knowing that if he got arrested it would seriously compromise his investigation. However, the decision was soon out of his hands as he found himself swept along in a surge of anti-fascist protesters, who were now streaming around the outskirts of the building to avoid a charge by mounted police.

  He almost lost his footing, but somehow managed to turn with the crowd and begin to run with the tide, accelerating as he heard the sound of hoof-beats growing louder behind him. The protesters around him scattered as the lead police rider drew closer, the sound of the horse’s snorting now audible above the clatter of its shoes on the paving.

  Harley’s wartime training immediately took over. He began a random zigzagging as though he were sprinting across no-man’s-land, forcing the pursuing policeman to choose a slower victim, who promptly received a punishing swat with the service baton and went down with a bloodied scalp.

  A second flank of anti-fascists now swarmed up the steps on the far side of the statue, quickly surrounding and isolating the mounted policeman, whose horse began to stamp the ground and whinny in anxiety at the jeering mob. Harley pushed his way through the ring of men just in time to see the unmistakable pallor of Benny Whelks’ face emerge from the crowd. He watched as Whelks made his way to the front, pulled his hand from his jacket pocket, and rolled a number of large ball-bearings towards the horse’s hooves. The terrified beast—its chestnut flanks flecked with foaming sweat—reared up onto its hind legs, immediately dismounting its rider before coming back down on all fours to lose its balance on the ball-bearings. It crashed to the floor with a sickening thud.

  Harley shouted out above the clamour as he saw Whelks purposefully approaching the injured policeman who lay writhing, clutching at his thigh.

  ‘Benny! No!’

  Whelks looked up dispassionately at Harley.

  From somewhere above the commotion there came the sound of breaking glass, causing the majority of the crowd to look up and cover their heads. But Harley kept his eye on Whelks as the chiv-man slipped a wiry hand back into his pocket. This time he produced something that offered the briefest of glints as he knelt and drew it quickly across the wounded policeman’s cheek. Before the blood had had chance to splash onto the flagstones Whelks had already disappeared back into the crowd.

  Harley now struggled forward, trying to assess the condition of the injured officer, but he was pushed back as the crowd surged away again, moving him back out towards the stone balustrade. Losing sight of the stricken rider Harley turned his attention to the terraces amongst the hedges where he spotted Mori Adler, Pony Moore, “Big” Terry Lampton and a few of the other mobster’s crew taking on all-comers. Lampton looked particularly effective—spitefully dispatching policemen and Fascists alike with a large rusty bike chain. But there was no sign of Solly Rosen.

  Now came a shout from the back of the mob: ‘Saint Clair!’ The call was soon taken up by others in the crowd and before long two large groups of anti-fascists had relinquished their ground and were now streaming down the steps, away from the building.

  Reluctantly Harley followed, realising that unless he went with the crowd he would be left stranded, easy-pickings for either the police or the Blackshirts.

  Another shout now emerged from the running pack: ‘He’s in Kensington Gore! Kensington Gore!’

  The anti-fascists swarmed left and fanned out into the road. As Harley rounded the corner he heard a roar of anger swell up from the crowd in front of him. He ran to the pavement and jumped up on a low brick wall just in time to see an open-topped car accelerate away from the venue, quickly followed by a salvo of stones and other impromptu missiles which clattered ineffectually onto the road behind it. The mob began to bray and whistle as the unmistakable figure of Sir Pelham Saint Clair paraded past them in the black cabriolet, standing tall in the back seat and offering them the Fascist salute as he was whisked away in the direction of Knightsbridge.

  Shrill bells filled the air now as a fleet of Q cars and Black Marias arrived to provide backup. At the sight of these reinforcements the horde of protestors began to close ranks again, but Harley noticed that a small group had splintered off and were now making their way purposefully around the curved exterior of the building. Still keeping an eye out for Rosen the private detective jumped down off the wall and followed the group, soon catching up with them as they thronged around a set of double doors that formed a fire exit from the auditorium.

  A sudden shout from above their heads drew the attention of the crowd to the sight of young man clinging desperately to the stone parapet, two storeys up, his feet scrambling frantically against the brickwork as he tried to get enough purchase to push himself back up to the curved walkway above.

  ‘Fetch him up, you cowsons!’

  Harley immediately recognized the voice and turned to find Solly Rosen behind him, bellowing at the balcony.

  ‘Hold on, son—we’re coming for yer!’

  ‘What’s going on, Sol?’

  ‘The kid was inside with us earlier, I saw him mixing it with a steward as we were taking stoppo. Perhaps they’d cha
sed him up to the next floor, I dunno … Anyway, we’re all down here, watching Saint Clair make his getaway, when there’s this big schlemozzle from up above. I look up and see a couple of Blackshirts inching towards the lad on the balcony, taunting him like—I saw it meself. Scared out of his wits, he was. It all happened so fast … I dunno where he thought he was going, but he climbed over the balcony to get away from them. Now the sods have just gone back inside and left him dangling.’

  Rosen moved closer to the building, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted again.

  ‘Open up, wontcha? Pull the kid in, you bastards!’

  But there was no movement from the shadowy outline that could just be seen behind the glass of the French windows.

  ‘They’re up there, the cowsons! Just watching him suffer. We gotta get a ladder or something.’

  ‘It’s too high, Sol. We need to get up there—he can’t hang on like that for much longer.’

  Harley scanned the small crowd around him, shouting out as he saw someone he recognized.

  ‘Oi! Charlie! Muster some blokes to search for something to break his fall. Maybe a couple of them banners, stretched out? We’re gonna try to get up to him.’

  Now a ripple of encouragement passed through the crowd and Harley looked up to find that the lad had summoned the energy to swing a foot onto the ledge of the balcony. To cheers and applause from the onlookers he began to haul himself slowly up to safety … but just when it looked like he was in the clear the young man lost his grip on the stone baluster. He dangled for a moment from one hand, the crowd below now silenced enough to hear his frantic breathing … and then he fell, with a piercing, unfinished scream.

  Harley and Rosen rushed to join the group gathering on the paving below the balcony—but within a few feet it was obvious from the gore around the lad’s head that he was beyond saving.

  ‘Bastards!’ shouted Rosen as he set off towards the fire exit doors.

  ‘Solly! Wait up!’

  But Rosen ignored his friend, pushing aside the protestors packed around the doors. He grabbed a brick from the ground and began to smash his way through the small panes of wired glass.

  ‘Come on, Smokey! We need to leave—there’s more coppers arriving. There’s nothing more to do here!’

  ‘You go, if you want. I’m not letting the bastards get away with that.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid! They’ll be long gone, won’t they?’

  ‘I saw one of them though, didn’t I? It was your little Italian—the one with the scar.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Hundred per cent.’

  Rosen reached his arm through the hole in the glass and opened the doors.

  Jeers and shouting to their left had them turn to look up at the balcony where, for the briefest of moments, Ludovico Girardi’s scarred face could be seen peering over the edge at his victim’s body. Soon the verbal taunts were replaced by a hail of sticks and half-bricks as the Italian swiftly withdrew.

  ‘What did I tell yer? Now you coming?’

  Rosen rushed forward into the corridor, followed by a pack of angry anti-fascists, bent on revenge.

  ***

  In the second floor office Ludovico Girardi closed the French windows and walked over to examine the chair in the middle of the room.

  ‘You didn’t think it necessary to bind him, sergeant?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said a tall, blond Blackshirt, looking nervously to his two subordinates for reassurance. ‘We didn’t think there was anywhere he could escape to … we had the door covered … there were three of us and—’

  ‘Well—you’ll know for next time, yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Is he dead, sir?’ asked one of the two BBF privates standing guard at the door.

  ‘From that height? Onto stone floor? Of course he is dead … But no matter—I doubt he had anything of real value to offer. He just came along for the … the fun, don’t you think?’

  The Italian offered them his alarming smile.

  ‘Tell me—did Sir Pelham get away safely with the Elite Bodyguard?’

  ‘Yes, sir. There were five cars in all.’

  ‘Lord Daubeney?’

  ‘In Mr. Boyd’s car, sir.’

  ‘Good, good—all as planned, then.’

  A cheer from outside had the sergeant venture over to the window, where he pulled aside the curtain.

  ‘They’ve managed to force the fire exit, sir. There’ll be a mob up here in no time.’

  ‘No doubt … but we have the police downstairs, remember. The law is on our side.’

  Girardi joined the sergeant at the window, opened it tentatively and then took a step out onto the balcony again.

  ‘What do you think, sergeant—these men?’ he said, peering over the edge at the few stragglers left below. ‘Communists, mostly? Jews?’

  ‘Erm, I’m not sure, sir,’ said the young man, nervously looking towards the door as the sound of shouting from the lower floors began to get louder. ‘Shouldn’t we be going, sir?’

  The Italian leant over the balcony.

  ‘They’ve moved the poor idiot that fell. There’s only a few of them below now … most of them are gathering in the street.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I think a lot of them are on their way up here,’ said one of the privates, inching open the door and then quickly slamming it shut again. ‘I can see them on the stairs.’

  ‘We really need to go, sir!’ said the sergeant, beginning to work his fists.

  Girardi returned to the room.

  ‘Of course, sergeant. As you wish … You are armed?’

  ‘Just our truncheons, sir.’

  ‘Ah—then let me give you this.’

  Girardi unholstered his Beretta and offered it to the sergeant who took hold of it tentatively, weighing it in his hand.

  The sound of heavy footsteps could now be heard out in the corridor.

  ‘But won’t you be needing it, sir?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so … You see, although their chances are slight, I really must not be caught. It would be … embarrassing. So—addio!’

  With that he turned, walked back out onto the balcony, hopped up onto the coping and dropped out of sight.

  The three Blackshirts had no time to react to Girardi’s strange disappearance because just at that moment the timber frame of the door gave way to the irresistible force of Solly Rosen’s boot.

  The sergeant immediately turned and pointed the pistol at Rosen’s chest.

  ‘Get back! Back! … All of you! Back now!’ He raged at them in his fear, his fair skin flaring up in a violent blush around his throat.

  The two privates drew their batons and gathered in behind him.

  ‘That’s a very silly thing to do, son,’ said Rosen, smiling at the nervous young man as he took a step into the room. In turn the sergeant took a faltering step backwards, bumping into the men behind him. He swallowed hard and placed a second hand on the gun to stop it shaking.

  ‘My mate’s right, of course,’ said Harley, having now pushed his way through the crowd taking shelter in the corridor. He took out a couple of Gold Flake, lit them both and gave one to Rosen. ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you should only point a firearm at someone if you’re prepared to use it?’

  ‘Who says I’m not prepared to use it?’

  ‘Oh well, I think if you were about to shoot us you’d have taken the safety catch off first, don’t you?’

  The momentary distraction as the sergeant looked to the workings of the pistol was enough for Rosen to launch himself forward and pummel him into unconsciousness, pocketing the Beretta as it started to fall to the floor. Within seconds Harley had also overpowered one of the privates, while the third Blackshirt gave up immediately, collapsing to his knees where he began to sob noisily.

  ‘Shut it!’ said Rosen, grabbing the snivelling Fascist by the collar and lifting him a few inches off his knees. ‘Now—where is he? Where’s that fucking Italian with the
scar?’

  The youth wiped his nose on his sleeve and pointed to the open French windows. Rosen tossed him aside and strode out onto the balcony closely followed by Harley.

  They scanned the surrounding area. At first there appeared to be no sign of their quarry, but then Harley pointed to the road lying beyond the trees. Running along the roofs and bonnets of a line of parked cars—dodging the volleys of stones being thrown by a mob of jeering anti-fascists—was the unmistakable lithe figure of Ludovico Girardi.

  ‘How the hell did he do that, George?’ said Rosen, peering over the parapet at the ground some thirty feet below.

  Harley walked a few paces around the balcony and leant over.

  ‘Down there,’ he said, pointing to a flag pole attached to the side of the building. ‘He must have jumped across and then lowered himself down on the flag. The drop’s doable from there.’

  ‘Jumped across? Get over! What d’you think he is—some kind of sodding cat?’

  ‘Not a cat, Sol—a circus acrobat. Used to be his day job.’

  ‘You’re sprucing me!’

  ‘Straight up! Ludovico Girardi: acrobat, murderer, Mafioso, Fascist—all-round Mr. Nice Guy. And I reckon he’s just escaped the same way he did when he creased Aubrey at my gaff.’

  ‘Right!’

  Rosen now stormed back into the room and grabbed the Blackshirt private from his knees, dragging him out onto the balcony. One of the mob from the corridor followed him out.

  ‘You’d better scarper, Smokey! The bogeys are on their way. We’re all calling it a day.’

  ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘Suit yerself,’ said the man, tipping his hat at Harley as he hurried back out to the corridor.

  ‘Right you,’ said Rosen grabbing the cowering teenager firmly by the back of his collar and his belt to stop him squirming. ‘Thought it was a laugh chasing that kid out over the top, eh? Well, let’s see how you like it.’

  With that he hauled the terrified Fascist up and over the edge. The boy immediately stopped wriggling, his face fixed in a rictus of fear as he dangled above the fatal drop.

  ‘Easy, big boy!’ said Harley, moving slowly towards his friend and placing a gentle hand on his immense shoulder. ‘Put the lad back now, Sol … Let’s talk about it.’