It was disastrous. Even the memories are painful. I went to the Lucky Seven first. It's a club just off Bond Street. Not one of the bigger ones but I planned to work my way up during the evening. And I knew Charlie Dyson from the old days. He had been my head waiter at Winston's before branching out on his own. But minutes after I arrived Charlie came into the bar and asked me to leave. I was astonished. "Leave? But Charlie I only just got here-"
"Your membership expired," he said, stony-faced. "The doorman shouldn't have let you in."
I didn't stay to argue. What was the point? Dammit, I only went to see how he was! I climbed back into the car, hot with temper, and drove away. Charlie Dyson was a nothing! Last I heard he was up to his ears in debt and barely making a living. The nerve of a man like that to throw me out!
I was still seething when I reached The Captain Morgan in Piccadilly. The doorman was new and we had never seen each other before, so he delayed me in the foyer while he sent for Ron Brown. But Ron was nowhere to be found and with no-one to vouch for me I was refused admittance. Even then it never clicked. I tried the Grasshopper Club only to find that Terry Wickens had sold it the year before and the new people didn't know me from Adam - and then, at Gaston's, I was turned round in my tracks by two big fellows who appeared either side of me as I crossed the threshold.
"Sam Harris, isn't it?" One of them asked, peering into my face as he took my elbow.
"That's right - who are you?"
"Doesn't matter, Mr Harris. Membership's full. That's all that matters." Six strides took us back to the Rolls. "Nice motor you've got there, Mr Harris. Don't park it here and you'll keep it that way."
His sneer infuriated me. He was inviting me to take a swing at him. I looked over his shoulder at his mate a yard away. Gaston's is in a cul-de-sac. The lighting is poor except for the blaze of neon around the club entrance, and we were clear of that and in the shadow. To take them both on was asking for trouble. I climbed back into the car and drove away trying to forget the contempt in their eyes.
I went to see Tony Fields at The Green Door. Tony owned Silver Bells as well and was in a big way of business. Not as big as I once was but big enough. He stood me a drink at the bar and seemed genuinely pleased to see me. He was sympathetic about the trial and went on to talk about some of the things that had happened while I was inside. A company called Tuskers had bought my club and restaurant chain from the receiver - for about ten per cent of what they were worth. I knew that of course. Even in prison you get to read the business pages. Besides Collins had been to see me once or twice, with the odd document which still required my signature. But who were Tuskers?
"Who's running the show, Tony? Anyone I know?"
He shook his head. "They came from nowhere. Provincial crowd - started in Cardiff I think. Never thought they had the bread to buy half the West End - but that's what they're doing."
We had another drink, but I sensed he was uncomfortable. Some people came in and threw odd looks in our direction, until eventually Tony asked me to step across to his office. He freshened my drink and set me on a studio couch, then he said, "A lot's changed, Sam. Matter of fact I'm thinking of getting out myself."
"If you're saying I'd be a fool to come back, I've heard it all evening - one way or the other."
He sipped his drink and concentrated on avoiding my eye.
"Who's been to see you - Davis?"
He half smiled at that. "Yes, Davis was in last week, he said you'd be out today." He paused, as if wondering what to say next, then he asked, "Bad inside, was it, Sam?"
"At least people talked to me. Tonight I've got the plague."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Word's out on you, Sam. It's as simple as that. Everyone's had a touch of the frighteners. Anyone helps you and he'll be in dead trouble."
"Who says so? Davis?"
He shrugged. "Davis ain't helping - but he's not the real pressure."
"So who is?"
He finished his drink and refilled his glass at the sideboard. "We're having a hard time right now. The money's not about any more. They buried the swinging sixties a long while back."
"Come off it, Tony - the casinos are taking a fortune. Those Arabs still lose an oil well a night."
"Casinos are okay - not what they were, mind you, but still okay. But restaurant and club trade is down."
"It'll come up again," I said confidently. "You can't break records every year."
He shook his head. "You don't understand. Taxation's changed the police are more difficult - this Tusker crowd wants the bed to itself, and-" he hesitated for a long moment, and I was about to ask a question, when he said, "and most of us are bled dry for protection just to open the door at night."
I whistled. The club trade has never been easy. Every year or so some very rough people think it would be fun to run a nightclub so they try to steal one. London has been lucky on the whole compared to New York or even Paris - the police and professional club owners close ranks to keep the real villains out. At least they do for most of the time.
There was no point in beating around the bush so I asked how much he was paying.
He put his glass down and spread the fingers of both hands. "Every week," he said.
Ten thousand a week! I tried to imagine his cash flow. Even with clubs the size of The Green Door and Silver Bells the effect would be crippling. "What about the police?" I asked. "You said they were hopping about."
"They stick us to the rule book, that's all. They're attentive - not protective."
"Have they been asked?"
"Eric Blockley asked. And a week later he was killed."
"I read about that. Wasn't he killed in a boating accident?"
"That's what the papers said. They also said you were guilty. I never believed that either."
I was grateful for that and said so. He was getting a bit fidgety by this time, no doubt anxious to get back to his club and not quite sure what to do about me, but I pushed him to answer a couple more questions.
"Who's putting the bite on, Tony?"
He shook his head. "We never see the same man twice. They're well organised." Then he said the most amazing thing. He looked me straight in the eye and lowered his voice: "Some say it's you, Sam. You must have heard that."
I was astonished. I've never been more surprised in the whole of my life. "For Christ's sake - why me! I've never been mixed up in anything like that-" -
"You were convicted of a brutal crime," he said simply.
I was stunned, I felt bitter and angry, and a little bit sick. I put the glass to one side, unable to finish my drink, and just stared at him.
He spread his hands, deflecting my attention from his embarrassed expression.
"If it's any consolation, I never believed it - and I've said as much." He shrugged. "Believe it or not."
"I believe it," I said, and I did. I took a deep breath and then asked, "Were you serious, about selling?"
"I'd like to — that's the truth. It's no fun these days. Trouble is finding a buyer. It ain't easy. There's only one outfit buying-" he pulled a face, "correction - prices they're paying - that's stealing."
"Tuskers?" I guessed, and when he nodded I asked, "Tony, would you sell to me? If I could raise a decent price?"
His eyes filled with a look of complete incredulity. "You're not listening, Sam. Don't you understand? Did you hear what I said? Word's out on you. I'm not even supposed to sell you a drink. Sell you the clubs and we're both in the boneyard." He paused long enough to let that sink in, and then his face slowly relaxed into a smile. "Besides, what's the point? You've got other problems. From what Davis said the police will oppose a dog licence with your name on."
I was too sick to smile. Two years ago a door had shut me in prison. Now another one was keeping me out of the West End. Was I really that bad? To be treated like a leper? And who was shutting the door anyway?
Tony cleared his throat. "Sam, about membership of the club. I hope you'll understand - see it my way
-"
I spared him the embarrassment. "It's okay, Tony. I must be going anyway."
Relief showed in his eyes and he put an arm across my shoulder as we walked to the door. "Something will break for you, Sam. It's got to - a man like you-"
"Sure, Tony." We shook hands inside the office so that nobody would see, then he opened the door and ushered me past the bar and into the foyer.
I drove around town for the next hour. Just round and round. I parked in Berkeley Square once, planning to call on Billy Rose at The Top Hat, but I lost my nerve at the last moment. If a friend like Tony Fields was worried about being seen with me, Billy Rose would have a coronary on the spot. So I cruised down Berkeley Street and into Piccadilly, across the Circus into Shaftesbury Avenue and then up into Soho. Miles and miles of flashing neon, dozens of clubs and bars and restaurants owned by friends of mine. I cursed them all and turned northwards into the Euston Road.
I found the place Jack had spoken about quite easily. It was almost opposite Baker Street Station. A tired sign said it had been The White Rose Restaurant at one time. I had never heard of it. The place had obviously catered for the lunchtime trade, not the smart, free-spending night life I was after. I grunted. It was in the wrong part of town and looked as dingy and derelict and as broke as I was. I drove back to Rex Place, feeling sorry for myself and thinking it was a hell of a way to spend my first night of freedom.
Once back in the cottage I flung my jacket over a chair and poured myself a drink - and I was sitting in my shirtsleeves, staring moodily at the Klee sketch - when the doorbell made the most welcome sound of the evening. Cheerful and friendly. Somebody wanted to see me! I felt sure it would be Jack and Maria, and found myself hoping Lucia would be with them. But when I opened the door, Chief Inspector Davis stood on the step.
"Hello, Harris," he said.
Disappointment flared to anger. "It's Mr Harris to you! And what the hell do you want?"
"Can I come in?"
"Got a warrant?"
He smiled and shook his head. Davis is about my height, five foot ten, but heavier, say around fourteen stone. As always he was well dressed in a Savile Row suit and Gucci shoes which had only been inside a police quarter master's office when Davis was wearing them. A silk foulard tie spread across an Egyptian cotton shirt and I caught the glitter of diamond links on his cuffs. I stared at the sallow-skinned, dark-haired man who had helped send me to prison, noticing again that he wore the kind of permanent five o'clock shadow some men get when they shave twice a day. At some time in his history someone had broken his nose and whoever had set it had bodged the job because a blue kink showed half way down.
"Well?" he asked. "Do I get asked inside?"
I couldn't trust myself to reply, so I turned back to the sitting room and he followed, leaving the front door slightly ajar. Without asking he sat on the chesterfield and let his gaze fall to the whisky next to my chair. "You're not going to offer me a drink?"
"That's right - I'm not. What's all this about, Davis?"
"Inspector Davis," he corrected. "Chief Inspector Davis."
I sat down and picked up my glass, looking at him the way I might a piece of bad cheese.
"You're a client of mine," he smiled. "I like to keep in touch. See how things are going."
"Fine till I met you. And they'll go a damn sight better when you get off my back."
When he smiled a gold tooth showed where his upper incisor had been. "Oh, but I can't. This is my manor and I worry about it. Especially when a man comes out of jail."
"A man sent there by a bent copper," I snapped.
"I hope you won't say that in public," he said quietly.
"I bet you do."
He smiled again. "Let me give you some advice, Harris. This town is closed to you. Why not make a fresh start somewhere else?" He waved a hand at the room. "Sell up here and use the money for a new venture - somewhere a long way from London."
"How many men have you got outside, Davis?"
"Men - outside?"
"Come off it - this is harassment. Provocation. You're hoping I'll poke your eye out. That's why you left the door open. Then your heavy mob will charge in here and-"
"My dear Mr Harris." He threw his hands up in mock horror. "What a lurid imagination. Things like that don't happen in London-"
"No? A bloody sight worse happens from what I've heard tonight."
"Meaning?"
"It's your manor - you worry about it." I finished the drink at a single gulp. "Okay, Davis - I've got the message. Loud and clear. You want me out of town. Well that's your hard luck. I'll go or stay as I please - but I certainly won't be shoved by the likes of you. Now get out."
He rose and took a couple of paces in my direction. For a moment I expected him to punch me. I looked up, tensed and ready to defend myself. But he got his temper under control, then scowled furiously and turned for the door. "You've been warned, Harris. Step out of line and you'll be back inside so fast your feet won't touch the ground."
"Do yourself a favour. Go and lean on the little girls in Shepherd's Market - they frighten more easily than me." He was about to reply so I picked up the newspaper and pretended to read. "And close the door after you," I said over my shoulder. "You can't trust the police in this town anymore."
He snorted like a stuck pig and slammed the door on his way out. I put the paper down and went out to the kitchen to make some coffee. My hands trembled slightly. I wondered whether from fear or from temper. A bit of both probably. I made the coffee strong and carried it back to the sitting room. I was too agitated for sleep and the night stretched ahead of me like an empty road. But I had plenty to think about.
I started in business when I came out of the army. Jack and I were demobbed on the same day and we travelled down on the train together from North Wales.- We were both full of plans for the future. National Service had wasted two years of our lives and we were in a hurry to make up the lost time. Another pal, Bill Corcoran, the camp's light-heavyweight boxing champ was with us. The three of us had been almost inseparable during that time in the army.
We knew that train journey off by heart. Every six weeks we got a long weekend pass and we always went home to London. It took hours to reach Paddington and we played cards to pass the time. Anyway, on that particular day, two American soldiers got in at Oswestry. We took no notice and carried on playing cards and telling stories, until after half an hour one of the Americans asked if we played poker? Jack looked at me and I looked at Jack, and I think Bill Corcoran looked out of the window. "Poker?" Jack said, as if it were a foreign language.
"That's right," the American nodded eagerly. "Poker. Best card game in the world. You wanna learn?"
Jack said it was okay with him if we agreed. Bill turned back from the window and shrugged. "What the hell - we've got three hours to kill - let's learn a new game."
It was unfair really. We played poker all night long in camp. There's not much else to do half way up a Welsh mountain. So when it came to poker we were like fighters in training, and by the time we reached Paddington I had won fifty quid and Jack and Bill almost as much.
That was my first bank roll. Along with my savings of thirty-eight pounds I had a starting capital of nearly ninety pounds, and a week later I went into business. 'Sam's Place' I called it. It was nothing to look at - a crack in the wall at the cheaper end of Oxford Street, just before the junction with Tottenham Court Road. Still, Charlie Forte had started with a milk bar in Regent Street and he wasn't exactly starving to death.
Jack was astonished when he saw it. "What are you going to sell in here - midgets?"
He had a point. Sam's Place measured twenty feet by six and a half. "It's going to be a sandwich bar," I said. "Lunchtime trade only - take-away sandwiches for clerks and typists."
"Take away where? Where are they going to eat them?"
"I dunno - anywhere they like, but they can't stay here - there's no room."
He shook his head. "If they're ea
ting sandwiches they'll make them at home in the morning, and bring them with them."
"We'll see."
I did the place up myself. Laid Lino on the floor and painted the walls and ceiling. Then I met a bloke who was in the demolition business. He was knocking down a bombed out pub in Bermondsey and he offered me the bar counter and one or two fittings - ten pounds the lot, including transport door to door. But ten pounds was too much capital going out for my liking, so I offered to work for him for a week instead, helping to knock this pub down. It was hard work but that's how I got my counter. Oak it was and as solid as a battleship; filthy dirty when I got it, but I scrubbed it down to the original wood and it looked really handsome in Sam's Place.
Funny how hard you'll work when you want something badly enough. My old Mum was alive then and I lived with her in Battersea. I used to get up at four in the morning and go straight to Smithfield. Not that I was buying in a big way, but the prices were better at the market, and at least my bits and pieces of ham were fresh. They had to be because there was no fridge in Sam's Place, at least not to start with. As well as ham I would buy joints of pork and beef, and take them home to Mum to cook. Then I went to Covent Garden and bought tomatoes and lettuce and cucumbers, and a few green peppers when I could get them. Butter and cheese came from a local wholesaler, and bread and doughnuts were delivered to Sam's Place at half past eight every morning. That was when the real work started. The idea was to get everything ready by eleven. Then I made a cup of coffee and waited for the rush. And rush they did. You would never believe how much food an eight stone typist can put away - even if it is brown bread and less fattening.
I used to finish at Sam's Place at about three o'clock. At least that's when I shut the door and hung up the closed sign. Then I
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 38