‘And you’re on until dawn?’ Raymond’s eyes found the mug of tea sitting half-empty at his side. ‘I’ll wager that’s stone cold, is it?’
The boy nodded.
‘And it’s a long winter night.’
‘Six days until Christmas. My folks are travelling out west today. We have an aunt in Cornwall. I’m to follow, but not until Christmas Eve. They booked me on a train. I never took a train on my own, Mr de Guise.’
Raymond clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Go and make yourself more tea. Make yourself a whole pot. It’s cold down here. Don’t worry, boy. I’ll look after the door while you’re gone.’
The boy’s face creased. ‘You’d do that for me, Mr de Guise?’
‘I’m not one of those who think they’re better than you. But hurry – it’s late enough as it is. It’s time for my bed.’
After the boy was gone, Raymond opened the door for a frozen Artie and bustled him through.
‘I thought you said you was banished?’
‘Maybe the story hasn’t got around to the porters. Who knows? But Artie, we haven’t got much time.’
Raymond shepherded Artie through the interior door, directing him to one of the housekeeping stores where he waited in darkness for Raymond to return. With the boy back sitting slumped at the door, his hands wrapped around a steaming hot cup of tea, Raymond pulled Artie back out and together they headed up and out of the housekeeping hall.
This wasn’t robbery like any Raymond had ever known. This was more like their Aunt May with her fingers in the till at the butchers where she cleaned on Friday mornings. An inside job. For a moment his resolve wavered. The Buckingham had been his home, his sanctuary, for so long; he had made so many happy memories within these walls. But, he thought, his heart hardening, that had all changed. This was not the place he had known – the Buckingham had turned on him and others like him. There were people here who were the very worst of human kind, and there were those who stood idly by while evil took hold in these halls, in his ballroom. And that hurt like a knife to the ribs.
The reception hall, rich with the fragrant scent of the Norwegian fir, was empty at this time of night. One of the hotel pages appeared, then disappeared just as quickly. Raymond and Artie lingered in the hallway behind the lifts, peeking out only to see one of the night managers poring over his ledger, then pacing back and forth. On occasion he disappeared through a door, to make some phone call or cross-reference some other ledger – and it was in one of these lulls that Raymond took Artie by the arm and marched him behind the vast sweep of the reception desk itself. Here another door led down to the bookkeeper’s office and the door of the hotel director’s office beyond.
Raymond looked up the barrel of the corridor. He reached for the door handle. Of course it was locked.
‘Do your thing, Artie.’
Artie dropped to his knees. In a pouch on his belt, buried beneath his woollen coat, was a set of their father’s tools. He splayed open the bag and withdrew a series of narrow metal picks, each with a tiny barb at the end.
‘It’s all in here, is it?’
‘I said it was, didn’t I?’ said Raymond. ‘Just hurry up . . .’
It was the work of a moment to pick the lock. Artie swept up his tools and together the Cohen brothers tumbled through, pulling the door quietly closed behind them.
The office looked small in the dark. Raymond fumbled to light the lamp on Maynard Charles’s desk. Good Lord, the man was idiosyncratic. All of his pencils were arranged in a perfect row. His folders stood to attention on the deep walnut shelves that lined every wall. On the desk was a photograph, framed in silver, of some old army battalion; another image – of some army base or barracks – was scrawled with the signatures of a dozen men.
‘Well?’ said Artie.
Raymond heaved Maynard Charles’s desk aside, revealing the little safe built into the brickwork behind it. Maynard ought to have been more careful; the thing had practically dangled open the last time Raymond marched in here. ‘It’s where he keeps the crown jewels—’
‘What are you talking about, Ray?’
‘When there’s royalty in, and Hélène’s to dance with some prince of the realm or other, he dresses her up in the Buckingham’s finest. This world, Artie, it’s all about appearances. You can’t dance with a nobleman unless you’re dressed like a noble lady. That means diamonds. It means silver and gold. At the masquerade ball this New Year, he’d light Hélène up in it, make her shine like a star. All so that Edgerton’s dogs can ogle her all night. Well, not this year, Mr Charles. Your fascist dogs will have to look elsewhere.’ He paused. ‘You think you can handle it, Artie?’
‘You might be a master in the ballroom, Ray, but I’ve got my own talents too.’
‘Then quick to it. The faster we’re out of here, the better . . .’
‘Why don’t you rough some stuff up, Ray?’ Artie said, pushing past and dropping to the floor to investigate the safe.
‘On what grounds?’
‘It isn’t a robbery if you don’t rough the place up. Stands to reason.’
Raymond shook his head, but couldn’t suppress the grin that spread across his face. ‘And you wonder why you spent so many years locked up, Artie? Have a little class. If they don’t know we’ve been here at all, it’s the highest form of robbery there is. You wouldn’t know a little elegance if it looked you in the face.’
Artie threw Raymond a wolfish grin. ‘You still got that sharp tongue o’ yours, Ray. They haven’t completely turned you into a gent up here.’ He laughed. ‘It’s good to have you back.’
As Artie set to work, Raymond paced the room. Yes, he thought. This is . . . right. His doubts melted away now. Look at these plaques on the wall. The rewards for service. The golden carriage clock, a gift of the hotel board – the same board populated by Edgerton, by Astor, by poisonous, dangerous men just like them.
You’re their servant, Maynard. Taking their coin. Well, tonight that ends. And tomorrow there’ll be some richer tradesmen in the East End. Anyone whose son or daughter or brother or wife was roughed up on Cable Street. Anyone who’s had to struggle to survive while here we dined on venison and pheasant and caviar and champagne. There are going to be some lucky people at home tomorrow . . .
Something clicked. Artie was hunched over the open safe.
‘I thought you said there was jewels in this?’ Artie was frozen. ‘Papers? Ray, you stupid fool, you’ve had us come all this way, risk all of this, for . . . papers?’ Artie turned around to his brother. In his hands, where there should have been the glittering necklace Hélène wore each New Year night, the pearls that would have hung in her ears and the charms that would have dangled from the bracelets on her wrist, there were bundles of paper tied up in string, and yet more tucked inside a brown leather folder.
Papers? thought Raymond. But where are the pearls, the brooches, the diamonds . . . What use are papers? What could papers possibly be worth?
Raymond was about to take them from his brother’s hands – but another noise stopped him dead: the telltale of rat–a–tat knuckles being rapped on a door.
Raymond spun.
A familiar voice came from the other side. ‘Mr Charles, is that you?’
Mr Simenon. Raymond cringed.
‘Mr Charles?’ The knuckles rapped again – and now, to Raymond’s horror, he could see the door handle vibrate where, from outside, Mr Simenon’s hand had fallen upon it. ‘Mr Charles, it’s one thing for us mere minions to be up at every hour, seeing to the bidding of our guests, but . . . the days when you’d have to stay up all night, every night, just to make sure the hotel woke up in the morning – aren’t they over, Mr Charles? Mr Charles?’
Raymond and Artie exchanged a look, but before either one of them whispered a word, another noise silenced them both: the click of a key turned in a lock.
‘Mr Charles, are you really asleep at your desk again?’
Instincti
vely, Raymond lurched forward – but the door was opening, too far away for him to force it shut – and there, in the doorway, appeared the sallow face of Mr Simenon. The jaw dropped. The eyes widened. ‘Raymond de Guise,’ Mr Simenon breathed, ‘what is the meaning of . . . ?’
Then his eyes took in the rest of the room: Mr Charles’s desk heaved out of its place; the man on the floor behind it; the safe in the wall, its door hanging open . . .
Think, Raymond! THINK! He knows you’re expelled from the Buckingham but he doesn’t know who you really are . . .
‘Mr Simenon,’ Raymond began, adopting his old airs, ‘let me explain.’
But whatever Raymond would have said next was lost. The door slammed shut, Mr Simenon behind it. Raymond leaped forward – but then came the telltale click again, as a key was forced into the lock from outside. Raymond heaved at the handle, but the door held fast. Then he heard the clatter of panicked footsteps retreating, as Mr Simenon fled up the hall.
Artie scrambled to his feet. ‘Ray, you bloody fool.’
Together the brothers threw themselves at the door.
‘But you can pick the lock, can’t you? We got in that way. You can—’
Artie barged him with his shoulder, gathered up his tools. ‘Out of my way, Ray. You got us into this mess – and for what? some papers! I guess it’s up to me to get us out.’
As Artie needled in the lock, Raymond stepped back, ran his fingers desperately through his hair. The office windows looked out onto the delivery yard behind. If they could get out that way, then perhaps . . .
He lifted a paperweight from Mr Charles’s desk. They knew it was him now, of course. They could come looking. But Raymond had reinvented himself once before. He could do it again.
Artie’s fingers trembled as he tried to force the lock. Something wouldn’t give. ‘He’s left the bloody keys in,’ he roared. ‘If I can only . . .’
Artie’s voice fell dead. Raymond turned slowly around, dropping the paperweight from his hand. ‘What is it?’ he whispered.
‘Don’t you hear?’ said Artie, cocking his head. ‘Footsteps. There’s two of them now. But we can take two, can’t we? Us Cohen boys. Don’t you remember the Wellhorn Yard in ’25? Me and you, and those Darling boys from down in Limehouse. Come to take off with those railway sleepers – and we saw ’em off, didn’t we, me and you together? There’s nothing that can stop us if we fight together. Besides, I fought more bastards than this on Cable Street – and that was on my own . . .’ Artie leaped to his feet as his tools clattered all around. ‘Back to back, Ray – just like in the old days. I’m not . . . I’m not going down again.’
Outside the door, the footsteps tolled. Raymond lifted his hands, clenched into fists. ‘You’re not going anywhere, Artie. Let me do the talking.’
‘Talking? . . . Talking?’ Artie repeated, as if he’d never heard a more ridiculous thing. ‘There isn’t going to be any talking, Ray. Talking’s the—’
The door flew open.
Artie staggered forward. Lurching into the open door, he was quickly stopped short – for there was Maynard Charles himself, a broad barrel of a man, his evening jacket heaved shut over a dressing gown of burgundy and gold. Behind him stood Mr Simenon. Artie was driven back inside.
Maynard Charles’s eyes looked past Artie, to where Raymond was standing. ‘Good Lord, de Guise! What in the name of all that’s holy do you think—?’
Raymond could only look on in horror as Artie took his chance. Noble fighters lost every time. Bringing his fist back, he swung right. Maynard Charles saw it early – but it had always been a feint. Artie swung past him, wrenched his body up and threw himself into Maynard Charles as he sought to retreat. The older man staggered backwards, leaving only the beanpole Mr Simenon in the door. Buoyed up, Artie threw himself directly forward. It took only a fraction of a second to realise that Simenon was no fighting man. He was almost stepping aside as Artie threw a punch – this one for real. His knuckles piled hard into Mr Simenon’s chin, snapping his head around. The shock of it was all Artie needed. In moments he was through the door and away.
Maynard Charles picked himself up from the floor. ‘Well,’ he roared, ‘after him!’ But in the end, it was Maynard Charles himself who gave chase.
Artie Cohen had already erupted from the passageway, vaulted over the reception desk and was loping past the Norwegian fir by the time Maynard Charles burst into the reception hall. A gentleman guest and his lover, elegant in a sapphire gown bedecked with pearls of preposterous size, looked aghast as the ruffian launched himself into the revolving doors, then disappeared into the ribbons of snow still curling down.
Maynard Charles lingered on the hotel threshold. Through the glass, the night doorman mouthed the words, ‘Is everything well, sir?’, but Maynard Charles uttered nothing in reply. Instead, he tur-ned on his heel, took a deep breath, and stomped back to his office.
*
Raymond was waiting, the panic pulsing through his veins, when Maynard Charles reappeared and dismissed Mr Simenon with a single, unutterable bark. The look on the hotel director’s face was one that could only be classified as ‘dignified scorn’. He ignored Raymond’s stance, pulled out the chair from his desk and, swivelling it around, proffered it to his ‘guest’.
‘The open position is not a fighting stance, Ray. Let’s stop pretending you’re still a street fighter, shall we? You gave it up long ago, in exchange for your dancing shoes, and there’s no going back.’ When Raymond did not move, Maynard Charles shrugged, took the seat himself, and directed Raymond to one of the hard wooden stools on the edge of the room. ‘I can summon the Metropolitan Police. But neither of us would enjoy the scandal, would we? So let’s try something else, Raymond . . . and talk.’
Raymond dropped his fists. Maynard Charles was right; just because he’d been clenching his fists did not mean his heart was in the fight. Reluctantly, he sat.
‘Care to explain what you’re doing here, Raymond? Or should I make some assumptions?’
‘Assume away, Maynard. You people always do.’
‘Dragged one of your old “mates” along for a little petty revenge, is that it?’
‘My brother—’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Maynard, a nasty glimmer in his eye. ‘Back in the family trade, then?’
‘Don’t you judge my family, Maynard. My brother stood up to your facist friends on Cable Street. And that was just the beginning . . . So, what are you going to do with me, Maynard? There’s a tele-phone right there. If you’re going to do it, do it.’
Maynard stood, made certain the door was closed and that Mr Simenon no longer lurked outside, and marched back to his seat.
‘Believe it or not, I am glad that you came here tonight. Not glad, perhaps, that you’ve seen fit to rifle through this office’s safe, but glad because . . . Well, we’ll get to that. First things first. If you are to continue looking at me in that baleful manner, this situation will end now. If you want to be treated as the gentleman you’ve pretended to be all these years, why, you can start acting like it. Understand?’
Raymond resisted as long as he could. Then his lips curled and he spat, ‘At least I’ll admit to my pretence. You just sit there, pretending to be a good upstanding citizen, and all the while eating out of the lap of those union bastards—’
Maynard Charles shook his head sadly. ‘You see, this is why I’m glad you’re here. I have wanted to explain ever since I banished you from these halls.’
‘What’s to explain? Lord Edgerton says jump, so you jump. Nathaniel White wants to dance in my ballroom, and he gets to. We’ve been entertaining these brigands for years. Don’t you know what’s going on outside – in London, in England, in Europe? Don’t you ever look beyond your precious hotel walls? Fascists on the rise everywhere – even on your own city streets. And the Buckingham gives them a home. Artie and I came here tonight to teach you a lesson – to take what you have here in your perfect lit
tle world, and give it to them who need it. Those curs invaded our homes. Well, we can invade yours—’
‘Listen to yourself. You’re cleverer than this, if only you’d stop and think. I want you to listen carefully, Raymond, because I will say this once. If any of this is repeated beyond these walls – even to that reprobate brother of yours, wherever he’s gone – I shall have no choice but to report this to the police – and, when I do, the ruse of Raymond de Guise will forever be exposed. Everything you accomplished. All the championships and victories you won. All the lives you touched with your dancing. Your secret will come out. Yes, the Buckingham will suffer. And, yes, I shall likely lose my livelihood. But it is what I shall do, if the occasion demands it. Do you understand me, Raymond?’
Raymond. At least he still calls me by my chosen name. That has to mean something.
‘I understand.’
‘There is a reason I cannot simply eject Nathaniel White from the ballroom, and it is not – as you seem to think – my slavish devotion to Lord Edgerton and his friends in the British Union of Fascists. White is here under their patronage, yes, but it remains my ballroom and my hotel. It may take a little management, yes, and sometimes members of the board – Lord Edgerton included – demand a little persuasion. But I have not lasted near twenty years in charge of an institution as vast as the Buckingham Hotel without learning how to get the very best.
‘Nathaniel White is here because I want him here. I want him here because his family want him here. It is in my interests to please these people, Raymond, but not in the way you have imagined. Here. It is, perhaps, best if I show you . . .’
Maynard turned to crouch down at the safe and, cursing under his breath at the broken mechanism, lifted out the bundles of papers inside.
‘I haven’t used this safe to store the Buckingham’s jewels for two whole years, Raymond. I’ve needed this space for something so much more valuable.’
One Enchanted Evening Page 26