‘And I guarantee he will be. Why, this very night, my Lord, the last piece of the jigsaw will be dropped into place.’
‘Nothing that can be traced back to The Party, I hope?’
Quigg gave an obsequious smile. ‘With respect, Lord Daubeney, a man with my experience and contacts—’
‘Take me through the scheme.’
‘But I understood from the Home Secretary that you both wished to keep a certain distance between yourselves and the parties involved.’
‘Things have changed, Quigg—as they often do in matters of state. We are too close to our goal to be thwarted by a lack of preparation on your part. Granted, removing Max Portas from his public soap box is of lesser importance than some of the other necessary stages in the plan, but nevertheless, it still has to be executed in the appropriate manner. The Home Secretary insists you’re still the man for the job—I’m yet to be convinced. Now, tell me what you have planned. I trust you’ve included the Soviet angle?’
‘Indeed, my Lord.’ Quigg paused to brush off a little of Daubeney’s cigar ash from his knee.
‘Well, come on then, man—out with it!’
‘Very well, here it is … I have arranged that before this very night is out, Portas’ father—“Red” Jack, retired shop steward and Communist Party member—will be found dead in Soho in the bed of a common whore.’
Quigg paused, waiting for a suitable reaction from the aristocrat; when it wasn’t forthcoming he cleared his throat and continued.
‘Certain paraphernalia found at the scene—and of course any subsequent toxicology report—will attest to the cause of death being attributable to an overdose of morphine, injected into the arm. Among the deceased’s effects will be discovered a large amount of cash and a letter from a certain Piotr Vasilevich. Further examination by the appropriate parties will point to said individual being Red Jack’s Soviet controller. This unfortunate incident will occur above a particular Soho nightclub of ill repute. By sheer chance a reporter and photographer from The Daily Oracle will be visiting the club for a previously arranged interview with one of the musical acts. Well, my Lord, you know how these journalists are … even before the attending officers have had chance to write up the report the papers will be running the scoop—Jack Portas: Drug Addict and Soviet Spy, etcetera …’
Earl Daubeney pulled on his Havana and ruminated for a moment.
‘Well, I must say, it sounds plausible, Quigg.’
‘Oh, I think it’s a little more than plausible, sir. After all, following such a revelation who in their right mind would listen objectively to Max Portas’ allegations of a Fascist conspiracy?’
The Earl nodded.
‘Quite so, quite so … You have competent operatives involved, I trust? The father—I know he was an agitator, but will such a scenario be credible?’
‘Oh, the scene has been set meticulously, my Lord. That is what has taken the time, you see. By now there will be numerous witnesses who can attest to Red Jack’s recent change in behaviour: dressing ostentatiously, throwing his cash around—why, he’s even been seen in the company of this same whore on a number of occasions now.’
Daubeney’s formidable countenance relaxed a little.
‘Very good. I approve of your little plan, Quigg—it shows a level of imagination. And if it’s executed without any hitches, well, it can’t help but improve your future standing in The Party.’
‘Why, thank you, Lord Daubeney! You know, I’ve always believed that a man of my experience, one who has spent his years policing the rookeries and the slums, keeping in check the great unwashed, the criminals and the perverts—’
The aristocrat interrupted Quigg’s flow by tapping on the partition glass to catch the attention of his chauffeur.
‘Masters! Mr. Quigg is leaving us now.’
A little taken aback, Quigg struggled for a moment to get out of the deep leather seat and through the door which was now being held open by the chauffeur.
‘I look forward to reading tomorrow’s newspapers, Quigg,’ Daubeney called out after him. ‘Do make sure it’s good news now, won’t you?’
The Detective Inspector stood alone in the damp night air and watched the tail-lights of the Phantom disappear into the swirling eddies of the smog which was beginning to thicken again on the streets of the West End. As he stood smoothing the wrinkles from his kid gloves he contemplated the fate of the communist Jack Portas, who, at that very moment, he imagined, would probably be sprucing himself up in his shabby finery, making himself ready for the whore Sally Highstead. He envisioned the old man in front of a flyblown mirror in some dismal room, tying a knot in his grubby neckerchief and whistling a popular music hall ditty, the lust quickening in his old veins. The thought brought a cold smile to Quigg’s thin lips.
He now strode off towards Oxford Circus, and feeling once more the fate of a fellow human clasped tightly within his grasp, as was his want, he quoted a little Chaucer to the night:
All in thy bed they slew thee on a morrow.
And thus does Fortune’s wheel turn treacherously,
And out of happiness, bring men to sorrow!
***
‘Hello? What’s all this then, Sal?’ said the barmaid as she surveyed the cluster of empty glasses on Sally’s table. ‘You’re going it a bit strong tonight, ain’t yer?’
Startled from her reverie, Sally raised her head and contemplated the question.
‘The funny thing is, I shouldn’t be drinking anything! That was me rent money, that was—now I ain’t got a ha’ppenny to scratch meself with.’ Sal began a half-hearted laugh which soon petered out as she began to rummage through her clutch bag. Then, with a triumphant grin she pulled out a coin. ‘Ha! Thruppence! And that’s going on another half of mild.’
‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough already, dear?’
Sal snapped her head round.
‘Garn, with yer! What would you know about it? It takes more than a couple of shants of bivvy to get me lit up!’
‘Alright, keep your hair on! Listen … you stay put—I’ll bring it over in a mo’.’
‘Much obliged.’
‘’Ere, really though, Sal—you alright? You’ve been looking a little down in the mouth lately.’
Sally felt the knot of anxiety tighten once more in her stomach. She looked away, trying to hide the gathering tears.
‘Sal?’
‘Oh, it’s nuffin’ particular—I’ve just had a basinful of it all, ain’t I.’
‘Well,’ said the barmaid, placing her tray on the table and sitting down to take the weight off her feet for a moment. ‘That don’t sound like the Sally Highstead I know. It can’t be all that bad now, can it? You’re usually the one with the breezy outlook, the little ray of sunshine. Come on now, you gotta keep your pecker up!’ She reached across the table and took hold of one of Sally’s hands.
‘That’s all very well, I’m sure,’ said Sally, snatching her hand away. ‘But if you ain’t got no socks, you can’t pull ’em up, can yer?’
The barmaid cast a glance around the bar and then pulled in closer and lowered her voice.
‘Is it that Vern Slater? Has he been knocking you about? I dunno what you see in him, really I don’t. He’s no good, that one. ’Ere, hold on—you ain’t been caught out, ’ave you?’
‘Knife it! Won’tcha? Course I ain’t been caught out! What d’you know about it, anyway? You’re just like the rest of ’em—always bad-mouthing Vern any chance you get. It’s jealousy, that’s what it is—just coz he’s got ambition. You just wait to his ship comes in, then you’ll see … He’s got plans, has my Vern.’
‘Yes,’ said the barmaid, standing up and stacking the empties on her tray. ‘And I can imagine what kind of plans they are, as well. I’ve seen you sniffing around old Jack Portas. No doubt that’s one of Vern’s little plans an’ all—you wanna be careful, my girl.’
Sally glanced around her to see if anyone else had heard the comments.
‘Yeah, right! You should be ashamed of yourself—decent old bloke like that. He’s worth a hundred Vern Slaters, is Jack Portas.’
‘No wait, you see I—’
But she was already off, collecting the empties from the rest of the tables.
Sally closed her eyes and drifted back into her blue funk. The truth was the barmaid had guessed correctly—she had been caught out. She’d known for a few days now. At first she’d put it down to an unfortunate run of particularly severe hangovers; but the nausea on waking had continued even on the days when she’d had little or nothing to drink. And now she was a week overdue—and usually regular as clockwork.
Of course, she hadn’t told Vern yet—how could she? He’d be furious. It made her shudder to even contemplate the conversation; just as it made her shudder to think of that procession of grey travelling salesmen and overweight businessmen, any one of whom might be responsible for the squirm of life now residing in her insides. That’s how she imagined it—a blind, squirming thing; more zoological than human. It was easier that way. After all, there was no way she’d be keeping the little brat—she’d be off to Maltese Ada with her crotchet hook and her boric acid as soon as she could stump up the necessary for the visit. She’d accompanied one of her pals there once for moral support. It was an experience still etched on her memory: the pungent reek of foreign food, the rubber sheet rolled out on the kitchen table, the urgent mewing of the cat scratching at the door, excited by the smell of the gore in the enamel basin.
And then Sal’s thoughts turned to Jack Portas, and in her mind’s eye she saw him comforting her, like the father she never really knew, whilst she confessed her sin to him. She began to shed a few silent tears at the shame and squalor of it all.
‘He is though, ain’t he?’ she murmured to herself, tapping nervously at the tabletop with the thruppence. ‘He is a decent old bloke …’
She opened her eyes and looked across at the opposite table, where two regulars were obviously sharing a joke at her expense.
‘What you looking at? ’ad your money’s worth, ’ave yer?’
Sal wiped her cheeks dry, grabbed her bag and forced her way to the bar.
‘What’ll it be, Sal?’ asked Stafford Johns, attempting a shine on the bar top to match his ruddy cheeks.
‘Half a mild, ducks, ta!’
Perching on one of the tall stools Sally now positioned herself so as to keep an eye on the door reflected in the engraved mirror, proclaiming Burton Ale as a panacea for all ills in flowing Art Nouveau letters.
‘Expecting someone?’ asked Johns in his sing-song valleys accent, placing the foaming glass of ale on the bar top.
Sally handed over her thruppence.
‘Not especially.’
‘Only, someone was asking after you earlier.’
‘Oh yeah? Who was that then—the Prince of Wales?’ said Sally, wiping the foam from her top lip onto her sleeve.
‘No,’ said the landlord, chuckling as he rang up the sale with a customary twist of his mutton chops. ‘Just some jolly Jack Tar—big ol’ lad, he was.’ Having finished with the till he turned around and placed his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. ‘Looked like he’d been through a few scrapes in his time, he did.’
Sally’s face lit up with excitement.
‘A sailor boy?’
‘That’s right. Like I said—a big lad.’
Sally scrabbled about in her bag for the dog-eared photograph.
‘Did he look like that?’
‘Yes, that’s him! Who’s that then, Sal? An old flame, is it?’
‘No—that’s my big brother, Charlie!’
‘Ah! Back for a visit then, is it?’
‘That’s right—on leave. When was he in?’ said Sally, looking eagerly around the pub’s clientele.
‘Oh, you’ll not find him here now; they left a good while ago.’
‘They?’
Johns nodded.
‘Him and Benny Whelks.’
‘Benny—of course! Did they say where they was headed?’
‘No. But I overheard Benny explaining about your job at the Cat’s Whiskers, so maybe they went there to try to catch up with you? From what I’ve heard tell, I’m sure there’s plenty at that club to keep a sailor boy entertained while on leave. Am I right?’
The landlord moved off to serve the next customer as Sal took a sup of ale and grinned to herself at her good fortune. Such was her butterfly mind that it now fluttered up from the gloomy depths of dire prospects to settle on this bright new hope—her instant salvation at the hands of her big brother Charlie. And although she’d hadn’t quite worked out the boring details yet, it was certain that with Charlie’s experience of the big wide world she’d soon be heading for pastures new and leaving all her cares behind her in the damp, smog-choked streets of London Town. And what better time to start than right now?
She downed the remains of her beer and jumped off the stool—immediately bumping into Jack Portas, who was standing directly behind her, about to tap her on the shoulder.
‘Steady on there, gel!’ he said, bending down to pick up his bowler hat from under a nearby table. ‘Cor blimey, you’re keen, ain’t yer?’
‘Gawd—sorry, Jack! I didn’t see you there.’
Sal looked at the old man standing eagerly before her in his Sunday best and blushed a little as she recalled her imagined confession.
‘Well, no harm done,’ he said breezily, placing his hat in the crook of his arm. ‘So, you ready for a night out with yer Uncle Jack, then? Mind you, I think we’d better steer clear of the vino this time—my insides weren’t right for a good two days after last time; went through me like a dose of salts! I s’pose it’s summit you gotta get used to, right?’
‘Oh, Jack—I’m ever so sorry! Only, I can’t make it tonight now.’
‘Why ever not, Sal?’ said Jack, unable to disguise his disappointment. ‘We’ve had it planned for days—I’ve been looking forward to it.’
‘I know … but, you see, I had word that one of the girls that work the tables is sick. They want me to fill in—if I do well it’s my chance for a promotion, you see. You wouldn’t want me to miss out on that, now—would you?’
Jack fingered his hat, brushing some imaginary dust from the rim.
‘No, I s’pose not … You’d better get on—that’s probably where you was rushing off to him when I came in, was it?’
‘That’s right, Jack—I mustn’t keep ’em waiting, see. Ooh, but you are a good’un, Jack Portas!’ she said, pinching his freshly-shaven cheek and delivering a quick peck of a kiss. ‘A real decent sort!’
And with that she was out the door, off into the gathering night.
***
‘Hello, Sal,’ said Big Jonno in the lobby of the Cat’s Whiskers, gazing past her up the entrance steps. ‘You on your own, then?’
‘That’s right, shouldn’t I be?’
Jonno shrugged his huge shoulders and heaved himself back up onto his stool.
‘No skin off my nose. Only I was told to expect you and a certain guest tonight.’
‘Oh that,’ said Sal, giving a dismissive wave with her hand. ‘No, that’s all off now. Something else has cropped up.’
The doorman nodded slowly as he picked up the receiver of the telephone on the small table by his side.
‘Does Vern know?’
‘Oh, I expect so,’ said Sal, beginning to make her way into the small corridor leading to the club.
‘We’ll just make sure, shall we?’ said Jonno, holding out his hand to bar her way. ‘Hello, Vern? Yeah, she’s here … Only she’s on her own … Nope … uh uh … You got it.’
Jonno placed the receiver back in its cradle and stood up again, looming over Sally who was tr
ying desperately to hide her nervousness.
‘Oh, come on, Jonno,’ she said, reaching up to place a hand on the side of his handsome face. ‘Be a sport! I just wanna slip inside and see if my big brother’s here. Then I’ll go and see Vern afterwards.’ She stood on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. ‘We’ve always been mates, ain’t we?’
‘Sorry, Sal,’ he said, dwarfing her hand in his and leading her off towards the stairs. ‘But this is business.’
As she began a half-hearted struggle Jonno cupped his hand over Sal’s mouth and threw her over his shoulder. He hoisted her up two flights and knocked on one of the doors, which was immediately flung open by Vern Slater. Jonno ducked to get through the doorway, dumped his burden unceremoniously on the bed, received a tip from Slater and was out again in an instant and back down the stairs to mind the door.
The wide-boy turned the key in the lock. When he finally spoke his voice was quiet and menacing.
‘Where the fuck is he, Sal?’
‘Who’s that, then?’ said Sally, sitting up and pulling her compact out of her bag to attend to her dishevelled hair.
Slater was across the room in a couple of strides. He snatched the compact from her hand and crushed it beneath his heel.
‘Jack Portas, you stupid bitch! You were under strict instructions not to turn up tonight without him! Now—where the fuck is he?’
‘I dunno—I left him at The Star … he’s probably still there for all I know.’
As Slater grabbed her by the hair Sally let herself go limp, prepared by previous experience for a short, frenzied beating; knowing that it might be prolonged by any form of resistance. But when she glanced briefly into Slater’s eyes she saw something new there, something that he hadn’t let her see before; and something that disturbed her far more than the expected rage—his fear.
‘You stupid mare! D’you realize what you’ve done? This was my last chance—my last chance! Have you any idea what he’ll do to us when he finds out you’ve fucked up again?’
Sally had just managed to purse her lips to pronounce who, when there was a loud knock at the door.
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