Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  "Lewis! Just the money, eh? Like how much is left?"

  His scowl etched deep lines in his face and tiny beads of sweat gathered at the edge of his hairline. He shuffled his papers and when he spoke it was to the desk, not to me.

  "It's hard to understand how a fortune like yours can collapse. Of course when the business went into receivership your entire investment was lost - but even outside the business you were a rich man. Property, cars, jewellery-"

  "Kay had the jewellery. It was part of the settlement. Along with half the proceeds from the sale of Ashley Grange."

  "Sure, she got her half," he said bitterly. "Yours went on personal guarantees and legal costs, along with most of your bank account. Right now you don't even own a motor car."

  "What do I own?"

  "Well-" he brought his eyes up to mine and managed to hold the look for a moment. "You've still got the mews cottage. I had it valued a month ago. Thompson's reckon it would fetch sixty thousand on today's market - and that's excluding contents." "He look pleased. "If I remember right there're some nice pieces there — that William Kent writing desk would fetch five or six grand at Christies."

  "There's also a mortgage," I pointed out.

  "But paid up to date," he announced triumphantly.

  Part of his stewardship had been to make sure of that. Even so I breathed a sigh of relief. At least I had somewhere to sleep.

  He ran a finger down a column of figures. "I got a settlement figure at the end of last month - twenty-two thousand. So there's a slice of equity if you sell. And like I said, some of the furniture." . "Cash, Lewis," I said firmly. "How much money is left to my account?"

  Nervousness slid round his eyes like an animal looking for a bolt hole - but eventually he admitted, "It's thin, Sam. It's earned interest of course. The money market's been hungry recently and we've added to-" he licked his lips, "to what was left."

  I watched and waited in silence. I knew it would be like this. I discovered the weakness in Collins two years ago. The weakness and the greed. Discovered it just in time to be just too late. But even afterwards, when I was committed to prison, I had given him power of attorney over my affairs. I may as well have given the key of a safe to a burglar. But at the time I no longer cared. I was as tired as death and sick of life. Nothing seemed to matter any more. What with the business crashing, the police investigation, the accusations, the trial and committal. And Kay petitioning for divorce on top of everything else. There seemed nothing left to live for.

  "I had the ledgers summarised last night - guessed you'd be in today," Collins said softly. He dabbed the film of sweat on his upper lip with his handkerchief. Then he turned a page in his notes, took a deep breath, and said "As of yesterday your balance stood at eight thousand, three hundred and twenty-eight pounds."

  Temper tore through me like a stab of pain. I almost snarled in outright protest. Even knowing Collins for what he was had failed to prepare me - like knowing someone is going to die, it's still a shock when it happens. I took a few deep breaths but when the telephone rang it was a relief for both of us.

  "Sheila, I told you - no calls while Mr Harris is here." Collins spoke sharply, mainly for my benefit, then he listened and covered the mouthpiece. "The press are outside, Sam. Two reporters and a photographer. What do you want us to do?"

  I swore. I had run the press gauntlet earlier, when I was released from Brixton. After that I had shaken them off, at least I thought I had, but here they were again - baying like hounds on the scent of a fox. I said, "I'm not here, Lewis - and tell that girl of yours she's never seen me."

  He repeated the instructions into the telephone, listened for a moment, then said, "No, I will not grant them an interview. I'm engaged with a client. No - Mr Harris has not authorised me to make a statement on his behalf." He slammed the telephone into its cradle with a show of bad temper which just failed to mask his true feelings. Secretly he was pleased - pleased for a chance to act again - Lewis Collins protecting a client, showing his famous sense of concern. It was a good act. It had convinced me once. A long time ago.

  "You've paid your own fees from my account?" I asked, stony voiced.

  His eyes rounded in a plea for belief. "Cut them to the bone, Sam. Least I could do - but the expenses! Counsels' fees, research work, the sheer administration of running the action-"

  "All of which you've itemised?"

  "In detail, Sam - in detail! What else would you expect? It's being typed up now," he glanced at his watch. "Want to see if it's ready?"

  "May as well. And Lewis - get your accounts people to write me a cheque for the balance, will you? Payable to cash."

  He was surprised and showed it, but accepted the instruction and passed it down the line via his secretary. After which he was at a bit of a loss so he went to the sideboard to replenish his drink, my glass was still full, and when he returned to his desk he asked, "What will you do now, Sam?"

  What ideas I had were pretty vague, but had they been crystal clear Collins was the last man in London to discuss them with. I shrugged. "Lick my wounds, I suppose - and start again from scratch."

  He shook his head. "You'll need a lot more capital than you've got. Besides there's another complication."

  My eyebrows rose as I waited, watching him squirm in his chair like a stricken schoolboy.

  "Sam, I figured I'd tell you this over lunch. But I've had the police onto me. They wrote a few weeks ago, and phoned yesterday to make sure I could read."

  "And?" Hair prickled on the back of my neck - whether from fear or foresight I'm not quite sure.

  "I quote," he extracted a letter from his file, "Should Mr Harris endeavour to re-open a casino in the Metropolitan area, we feel it proper to warn you that we shall most strenuously oppose the granting of a gaming licence to him, on the grounds that he is not a fit and proper person to hold such a licence."

  That was bad enough but I was even more shocked when he added, "And Davis phoned yesterday to make sure there were no misunderstandings. The police will oppose the granting of a licence to you, or any associate of yours, or any front company set up by you, or any organisation taken over by you."

  I knew who Davis was. Chief Inspector Davis, Club's Squad, New Scotland Yard.

  Collins went on: "The same applies to restaurants, clubs, pubs or bars. Any application by you to obtain a licence to sell spirits will be opposed on identical grounds." The fake transatlantic twang deserted him for a moment. "I'm sorry, Sam," he said softly. "Sorry as hell." And for a moment I believed him.

  Then the girl came in with the cheque and half a dozen closely typed sheets of figures relating to the way Collins had spent my money. I took the cheque, examined it, and slipped it into my pocket. Collins sealed the sheets into an envelope which he handed to me. "Any queries, give me a buzz, Sam. I'll be glad to answer them." He stood up, relieved that the meeting was over, collecting my coat from the wardrobe and smiling sympathetically. "Take it easy for a bit. Don't rush things. Have a rest. Then when you're ready to start again come and talk things over - just like old times, eh?"

  But only a fool makes the same mistake twice. I accepted the coat and said, "I'll go out the back way, Lewis, just in case." He nodded his understanding and led the way to a door opening into one of those little alleyways which criss-cross Lincoln's Inn. As I stepped out I said, "There's just one more thing you can do for me, Lewis. Those reporters - I bet they're still camped in your lobby."

  He brightened at the prospect of a press conference. There was even a photographer, which meant the chance of his face in tonight's Standard.

  "Invite them in for a drink. Have a chat with them. Then say you no longer act for Sam Harris in any capacity whatsoever."

  "Sam!" he protested, but I was already walking away.

  "Goodbye, Lewis," I said as I turned the corner.

  I walked through the back streets and into Fetter Lane, where I caught a cab outside the Daily Mirror building. The rain had stopped and the sun shone f
itfully in the half-hearted way it does above London at the end of September. We trundled westwards; into Trafalgar Square, along Pall Mall, past Overton's in St. James's, into Piccadilly and along past the Ritz. For a moment I was tempted to stop for a drink, or walk through Mayfair to look in at Annabelle's before lunch. But the moment passed. Meeting people, some people, might be difficult - either for them or for me. I wasn't ready to face that yet. The suit I wore felt uncomfortable and I knew it was important to look smart when I went back. When I went back! That was all I had thought about for months. Going back and taking the West End by storm the way I did before. But according to Collins it would be harder this time. Lack of money was bad enough, but a concerted effort by the police to keep me out of the gaming trade was worse. Hell, it was the only business I knew. Could they do that? Wasn't that restraint of trade or something? I remembered the sneer on Davis's face when he climbed out of that Black Maria. Davis could do it - one way or another.

  We drove through Hyde Park, not the most direct route to Battersea but the way I wanted to go, and the cabby was ready to oblige a fare-paying customer. Then we turned east along Oxford Street and through Soho's back doubles into Piccadilly. For a while I forgot all about Davis. I just drank in the sights like a boggle-eyed tourist. Funny, but I've never wanted to travel. London has always been my place. When I was a kid all I ever wanted to be was someone important in London. Just that. Important at what never mattered - just as long as the place was London. Now every street is alive with memories. There's not a restaurant worth mentioning where I haven't eaten, not a bar where I haven't had a drink, or a decent nightclub I haven't owned - or had a share in - or been on the verge of buying at one time or another.

  After a final lap around Leicester Square we drove across the river to the other world of Battersea. A grey, drab world by comparison. There I paid the cabby and went in search of Jack, who was where I expected him to be, propping up the bar in the Blue Posts. The lunchtime trade was thinning out and he was at the end of the counter beside an empty stool. His face split into a grin like a crescent moon as he eased his eighteen stone down from the stool.

  Then he gripped my hand until my bones ached. He didn't say anything, not even hello. He just stood there, looking me up and down, and grinning from ear to ear, until he raised his glass: "Cheers, Sam," he said, and stood aside to reveal a large scotch, the ice already melting and a water jug next to it on the bar. I might just have come back from the gents instead of two years in Brixton.

  I could say a lot about Jack but he might read this one day and it would embarrass him. The truth is we are as close as two men can be without turning queer - and there's nothing like that about either of us. We grew up together in Battersea: same school, same girlfriends, same mob in the army, and when we came out we even went into the same line of business - restaurants and clubs and pubs. We were even partners for a while, but it never worked out. Our ambitions were different, Jack wanted to stay on the small side and I was out to conquer the world, so we split up. There were no hard feelings, well not for long anyway. I was a bit put out at the time but I got over it, and we were better pals than ever afterwards. In 1964 I gave Jack the money to start his restaurant - sixty thousand pounds, which was a lot of money in those days. But I had it then. I just wrote a cheque and said it was for old times' sake. Of course Jack insisted on repaying me and a year later he did, though he needn't have done - not as far as I was concerned - but his pride would never let him accept it as a gift. Odd, the way things work out. According to the papers I was worth over a million then, and all Jack had was his two little pubs in Battersea.

  Now, all these years later, I was as good as broke and Jack owned the Blue Posts and the Golden Lion and his restaurant, plus a bit of property in the West End. He ran a Rolls-Royce and I didn't even have wheels. He had a beautiful wife and I was divorced.

  "I expected you earlier," he said.

  "I stopped in to see Collins."

  He pulled a face, the kind people pull when they smell bad fish. "Count your fingers, did you? After you shook hands. Hope you took a witness."

  "No need. Not this time. It doesn't take two people to listen to a catalogue of disasters."

  "Money?" he asked softly, watching a barman ring some into a till.

  "Or the lack of it."

  "Cleaned you out, did he? He always was a little bastard. Always was and always will be."

  I smiled. Jack has never trusted lawyers, least of all Collins. More than once in the old days he called me a bloody fool for confiding in Collins the way I did. It's too late now to say I should have listened, but it boils down to that. I said, "And worse. Davis phoned him. Apparently the police will oppose any application I make to get my licences back."

  Jack smiled sadly. "That was always on the cards. But I knew Davis was spreading the word."

  "You knew?"

  "He was in here last night. Five minutes before closing time. Full of himself. Asked if I expected to see you."

  I whistled. Spreading the word was right. If Davis had called on Jack, where else had he been?

  Jack was still smiling his sad smile, watching the great British public spend its money up and down the counter while he talked to me. "I told him my crystal ball was on the blink, so I couldn't say when I'd see you. But he left a message. Said you'd never run a casino again - not while he's on the force." He cocked an eyebrow. "Is that what Collins was on about?"

  I nodded: "Did Davis say anything else?"

  "Never had a chance. It was closing time then so I saw him off the premises. Nothing personal, I said - just I've got my own licences to worry about." He gazed back down the bar, a slow smile spreading across his face.

  "Watch yourself, Jack - he's a spiteful devil."

  "Don't we know it," he said. Suddenly his eyes narrowed. Then he leapt from the stool and shouldered his way through the crowd to the far end of the counter. As soon as I heard him speak I realised he had been waiting and watching for something. "Excuse me, sir," he said, "but did you check your change just now?"

  A small, sandy-haired fellow almost dropped his beer as Jack's hand fell upon his shoulder. "Change?" the man said. "Er - why? I mean I dunno - should I have checked?"

  "Can't be too careful - not when it comes to money," Jack smiled down at him.

  The man glanced quickly at one of the barmen. It was a dead giveaway but he still tried to bluff it out. "Oh, there's no need to check. I mean, not in here-"

  "Anyone can make a mistake. Even in one of my pubs. Now then, sir - how much change did you get just now?"

  The man put his pint and sandwiches down on the table and started to fumble through his pockets. His face turned pink as he eyed Jack nervously. I climbed down from my stool and ambled to the end of the counter - just in case the barman made a run for it.

  "The other pocket," Jack said. Nobody else was talking and every eye in the place was on the flushed-faced man with Jack. Every eye except mine. I was watching the barman. It was a very long counter manned by four men, all of whom cashed up into individual tills. It was all I could do not to laugh. Fancy them trying that old chestnut - especially on Jack. He would be furious. It's as old as the badger game - the barman pads the bills and short changes customers until he builds up a surplus in his till. Then just before closing his accomplice comes in, orders a beer or something, pays with a one pound note and gets the change of a tenner.

  "Ah, there you are, sir," Jack said triumphantly. "You've got too much there, haven't you? All that change from a one pound note."

  "But it was-" the sandy-haired man began. Then his courage ran out. Not surprisingly really. Jack is six feet two tall and built like a Sherman tank. And the look on his face would have blistered paintwork.

  The man nodded sadly. "It must have been a mistake. I didn't notice, you see-"

  "Of course you didn't," Jack's face softened and but for the sarcasm he might have been comforting a baby. He scooped the notes and silver up from where the man had pu
t them on the table, then turned back to the counter. The barman was a few yards from me, hemmed in by two other lads who had worked for Jack for years.

  Jack said, "We'd better check your till then, Ronny, hadn't we? You'll be a bit short after your mistake with this gentleman."

  Ronny went white. The cash till roll would tally with the tills contents. We all knew that. Jack scowled, then turned to the watching crowd. "A little mistake, gentlemen," he said with sudden cheerfulness. "And we can't have that in a Jack Green pub, can we? So perhaps you'll all have a large whatever you're drinking - on the house, before you go."

  That started a buzz of conversation. One or two called out "Cheers Jack" and "Good old Jack"; that sort of nonsense. Jack smiled and returned to my end of the bar. When he saw where I was standing he said, "All right, Sam - finish your drink. Ronny's leaving now anyway - Mick will see him safely off the premises."

  I eased away from the end of the counter and Mick took Ronny by the elbow, ushering him firmly through the door at the back of the bar.

  Jack caught my eye and smiled sadly. "Mugs. What do they take me for? Christ, I've been in this business twenty years and-" he broke off at the sight of the sandy-haired man leaving by the front door. "Oi!" he shouted. "You've left your beer - you daft whatisname!" There was a roar of delighted laughter from the crowd at the bar and the incident was over.

  "Come on, Sam," Jack said, "let's go home to lunch."

  On the way to the door he pulled Johnny Matthews, his manager, to one side and very quietly bawled him out. "When I employ a watchdog, I don't expect to bark myself. You should have spotted that dodge a mile off. You're getting old, Johnny — or careless."

  Matthews flushed. He was a man of about fifty and as straight as a die. He worked for me at one time, before joining Jack, and I remember giving him a reference. "I'm sorry, Jack," he said, "I've had my doubts about Ronny for a week now. I've been keeping an eye on him - off and on like-"