Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  "Which I was," I snorted.

  He sighed, as if I was behaving like an obstinate schoolboy and in truth I was beginning to feel like one. Tomlinson was nobody's fool and if he was not exactly right about the way I felt, neither was he exactly wrong. He spent a moment or two watching me from over the top of his glasses, then he took another tack. "You must realise by now that a plea of guilty means exactly what it says. An admission of guilt which lays you open to the full penalties of the law. There can be no question of reopening the matter now. Put it behind you and forget about it - that's my advice."

  "What about my licences?" I asked doggedly.

  His eyes betrayed a flicker of exasperation but he kept it from sounding in his voice. "Unfortunately your own actions have made that even more difficult. You have, so to speak, added another few hundred feet to Everest. To have fought the prosecution and won would have been one thing - but to have admitted guilt The police will make a meal of that, believe me. What more proof, they will ask, do the honourable magistrates require to find this man unsuitable?"

  It was all very depressing but I was determined not to show it.

  "So we're in for a fight - that's what it amounts to. I knew that anyway."

  "A fight you're unlikely to win," he said gloomily.

  "Well, I'll fight anyway. I want you to set up a meeting with the best QC you can get. After that -"

  "I wonder if that's wise?" he asked thoughtfully. "Cases in magistrates courts are generally dealt with by solicitors. For a barrister to appear is unusual - for a QC to appear?" His eyebrows climbed into his hairline. "You follow my drift? It might be better to instruct a junior - play it low key. A QC will alert the magistrates to the unusual aspects of this case -"

  "The police will do that anyway. No, I want the best QC available. Let's go in with all guns firing. The bigger the guns -"

  "The more resounding the defeat," he interrupted, and there was no doubt about whose defeat he meant. He looked at me steadily. "Then you're quite determined to go ahead - whatever my advice?"

  I nodded cheerfully, but in case I broke into a smile, he said, "It will cost money. I don't wish to be indelicate, but -"

  I took the cheque Collins had given me from my pocket. It was all the money I had in the world - apart from my share of Rex Place - but whoever said justice is cheap never fought battles in the Law Courts of London. "A thousand should cover it, shouldn't it?"

  He thought for a moment, and then nodded. "Take it out of this and give me a cheque for the balance."

  His eyes took in Collins' name printed on the cheque. "May I ask why you are changing solicitors, Mr Harris? Collins and Waterman are a well respected firm."

  That was a lie and we both knew it. I never met Waterman but Collins had never enjoyed the respect of his peers in the legal profession - now he didn't even enjoy mine. Tomlinson blinked like an owl, and then added, "After all, your former solicitors know the background so well -"

  "There are two reasons for changing. First they lost the big one for me, and even worse, they never believed a word I said."

  "And you think I do?" he enquired mildly.

  "It's no longer important. It would help if you did but it doesn't matter if you don't. You see, I understand the game now. Until my trial I believed in old-fashioned justice. That the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth would come out in court. All that kind of thing." I grinned at him. "Naive, wasn't it? Now I see it for what it is. An old style shoot out. The fastest gun wins. That's why I want the best shot in chambers."

  "It's not an analogy I entirely accept," he said, steepling his fingers again. "I'm more inclined to compare lawyers to tailors. Take some material to a tailor and he'll make you a suit. The better the material, the better the result."

  He came downstairs to say goodbye. "All in all it will take five or six weeks. We'll be in touch with Collins and Waterman as a matter of courtesy and I'll make immediate enquiries about retaining a QC. Meanwhile, I'll apply for a hearing - which will get it on the lists." He moistened his lips. "Unfortunately that will also put the other side on notice of our intentions, so no doubt the police will take a special interest in your affairs. Discretion had better be your watchword. Keep out of trouble yourself and don't mix with any undesirable characters." His severe look melted to a wintry smile.

  "In the unlikely event of your obtaining licences, you'll have to put up with more than the usual amount of police scrutiny. Your new club will need the Archbishop of Canterbury as head waiter and the Queen of England on the cash desk."

  Tomlinson seemed a doubtful candidate for a sense of humour and when I looked at him I knew I was right. He was perfectly serious.

  The Baker Street place looked just as bad in daylight. Of course I was still feeling depressed - after all, Tomlinson had been far from encouraging. But I let myself in and had a good look round. The basement had potential but that was about all. The ground floor was the wrong shape and the ceiling was too high. It would take all of Jack's hundred thousand to transform this place. And then there was the worry about location. It was too far from Curzon Street for my liking. Would the gamblers travel this far? But after pacing around for a while I began to feel more cheerful - or at least stopped feeling sorry for myself. So what if it was hard to start again? When had life been easy? Jack was willing to stake me and Maria was still fond of me, so I couldn't be all bad despite the cold shoulder around town last night. So after giving myself a good talking to, I looked at the place with a new eye - and it seemed very much better then.

  Jack had left the Blue Posts by the time I arrived. Matthews said he had gone to The Golden Lion, so I followed on there. When I arrived he was at the bar talking racing with some cronies of his, arguing the merits of Piggott and Breasely as if they were personal friends of his. Knowing Jack they probably were - all sorts eat at The Dog's Home.

  I waited until the others had drifted away, then I said, "You might have warned me."

  He grinned. He knew what I meant all right. "Last night? What difference would it have made? You'd have gone anyway - to see for yourself. Warning you wouldn't have stopped you."

  "You had any trouble?"

  "From this protection mob?" he shook his head. "Battersea's a bit out of the way for them. There's really only me down here, and the cash they'd take from me wouldn't be worth the fight they'd have taking it. Anyway, I'm small fry - those boys are catching bigger fish."

  "But you believe it? It's really happening?"

  "It's happening all right. Eric Blockley didn't die in no accident. That business on the river was murder. Even the Old Bill know that."

  Jack had always been on good terms with the law. Publicans and restaurateurs often are, but at times I thought Jack's relationship with the police went a bit beyond the normal professional contact. It was his business and I never gave it much thought - but he often seemed to have some snippet of inside knowledge which couldn't have been gleaned from the newspapers.

  "What else do they know?"

  He grinned. "They don't tell me and I don't ask. Why should I it's none of my business."

  "But it could be - if it spreads. Things like that -"

  "Never go looking for trouble. That's my motto. If it's got your name on it'll find you soon enough."

  "Some people are putting my name on it. Did you know that?"

  "I heard," he said softly. He gave me a long look, as if searching for the truth of something in my eyes. Then he chuckled. "Silly buggers. Believe anything, some will. Sam Harris - the Al Capone of the West End! Come off it - where's your sense of humour?"

  I laughed, but not enough to stop worrying. Mud sticks as I had reason to know. We finished our drinks and left The Golden Lion, and in the car I asked him about this new crowd - Tuskers.

  "Welsh, I think. Leastways they've got some clubs and things down in Cardiff." He pulled out to overtake a cyclist. "Buying your lot from the receiver got them started in the West End. Since then they've gone from strength t
o strength. Must have plenty of cash behind them."

  Jack lacks curiosity to an extent which amazes me. By the sound of it Tuskers were getting bigger every day, yet as far as he was concerned they could be operating in Moscow.

  "About the money," I said. "The hundred thousand. You were serious, weren't you?"

  "Ever know me joke about cash?"

  "Thanks." Then I told him about my meeting with Tomlinson, and my visit to Baker Street. And about what I planned to do. He pulled up outside The Dog's Home just as I finished. "And this Tomlinson?" he asked. "He reckons you're wasting time and money, does he?"

  I nodded, knowing I had to ask if he thought so too, even though I might not like his answer, but someone lending you a hundred thousand is at least entitled to an opinion. He climbed out of the car and locked the door. "What I think doesn't matter," he said, leading the way into The Dog's Home. "The money's yours anyway. Sam Harris will come again - whatever the odds. But it seems you're going the hard way about it. Why not operate from behind a front?"

  I shook my head. "Davis would get behind it. He'll know I'm involved because I'll have to work night and day to make a go of that place. If Davis queered things afterwards your money could be in danger. It's better this way. If I fight now and win, there can't be complications later."

  "And if you lose?"

  "You keep your money."

  Maria and Lucia were in the big sitting room upstairs. Two porters were with them; big, beefy types with sweaty hands and red faces twisted into expressions of exhaustion. The room had been completely refurnished. A Chinese washed carpet graced the floor, all pale blues instead of the strong reds of the kasham which had been there yesterday. Even the paintings had been changed, or at least most of them had.

  "Finished?" Jack asked cheerfully.

  Maria pulled a face in a pretence of indignation. "Wouldn't you believe it? Your timing's perfect. You're out boozing while Lucia and I are lugging furniture about."

  Jack's grin widened as he looked round the room. "You've done a good job, I'll say that. That goes well," he pointed to a Victorian bookcase made of tulipwood and satinwood. "And those oval medallions are good - they pick up the blue of the carpet perfectly." He turned to the porters. "And you've been supervising I suppose - letting the ladies do all the work?" He grinned and thrust a fiver at them. "Go on - get yourselves a beer at The Posts looks like you've earned it."

  Maria kissed me as the porters left and Lucia smiled hello from across the room.

  Jack said, "There was a feller in here last night who swore blind that the chaise longue - the one we had against the wall - was genuine eighteenth century. Swore blind! Said it was Georges Jacob. I told him it was a copy but he wouldn't believe me. Would he Maria?" She was on his arm, smiling up at him. Jack shrugged. "In the end I had to let him have it - just had to. Twelve hundred quid - cash this morning." He shook his head sadly. "Beats me where they get the money. Wasn't worth six hundred that - even at today's prices."

  "And what did it cost you?" Maria chuckled.

  Jack looked shy enough to blush. "Oh, I dunno. Forget hundred and eighty I think. Mind, it's been in stock for a while."

  Maria laughed. "At least three months."

  "And you do all this?" Lucia asked, part amused, part puzzled. She waved a hand at the room, "Whenever you sell something. Change a whole room?"

  "No," Maria admitted. "Not every time. But sometimes when a major piece goes it alters the whole balance of the place." She nodded thoughtfully, convincing herself. "It's all a question of balance, isn't it Jack?"

  "That's right - bank balance mainly," he said happily. "Come on, let's have a drink before lunch."

  Nobody can be depressed when Jack's in a good mood especially when Maria is sharing it with him, and Lucia added glitter, like tinsel on a Christmas tree. I had been worried sick when I left Tomlinson, even though I had tried to hide it - but after half an hour at The Dog's Home, all my troubles were forgotten. I was laughing as much as anyone. And when I wasn't laughing I was watching Lucia - and trying not to show that either. She was as delicate as - as - I don't know what? As lace, as delicate as a fresh rose, or Dresden China. Yet she had this sureness about her. Whenever she looked at me I sensed some hidden knowledge - some secret - some private awareness of what was going on which she was withholding from me. Beautiful eyes as clear as spring water, yet with a curious depth to them. Enigmatic - but not off-putting in fact just the opposite.

  So I spent a happy hour, laughing at Jack's stories and looking at Lucia; talking to her, admiring, smelling and occasionally touching her - while all the time warning myself against her. She was not for me. My old Mum used to say there was a time and a place for everything. Like when I got married. I was thirty-two then and top of the heap. Fit, young, wealthy and carefree. Running around with every chorus girl in town. It was fun for a while, but when you can't remember their names - not even when they are in bed beside you - it's time for something else. Like getting married. It was the time for it.

  But that was ten years ago. Now I was nearly broke. Struggling for survival. Magistrates courts - Davis - the heavy mob. It was time to fight - not a time to be distracted by someone like Lucia. And I was just resigning myself to that when she turned and asked, "Where are we going tonight?"

  I thought she was talking to all of us for a moment, then I realised she meant just me. "Tonight?" I repeated stupidly.

  "I washed my hair last night - remember? Especially."

  Her hair looked like Vidal Sassoon had combed it out an hour before, but that was beside the point. Especially when she added, "Didn't you say something about showing me the town?" She looked away. "But of course, if you've made other arrangements -"

  "No," I said quickly. "No - I haven't made other arrangements." She looked back at me and I was drowning in those clear grey eyes. I laughed shakily - unsure of what to say: "It's just that - well London is closed as far as I'm concerned. Off limits. I've been warned off - that sort of thing."

  She was sending me up because her eyes opened a mile wide and she said: "The whole of London is closed? You must be a very wicked man, "Mr Harris."

  The Mr Harris broke the ice. She had called me Sam ever since we met and Mr Harris sounded absurd. Anyway we all laughed and it gave me a chance to think of where I might take her. Eventually we settled on a show and supper afterwards, and despite my earlier reservations I looked forward to it. Then, just as we were about to leave the table, Maria reached across to grab my lapel. "Listen, Sam," she picked up a fruit knife and held it between her teeth like a pirate. "You treat my cousin but good, huh? Because she knows some very big men in the Mafia. So you give little Lucia -" she pronounced "Leetle" like a Mexican bandit, "a good time, eh?"

  I was nodding, laughing and wondering what Tomlinson would say to my squiring a Capo's girlfriend around the West End. Of course it was a joke, even though Maria followed it with a funny look and Lucia blushed furiously.

  I said, "I try to give my girls a good time." And Jack said, "That's what worries us."

  I left The Dog's Home at about half past three, still driving Jack's car. Keith Prowse have a theatre booking office in The Hilton so I went there first, to see what tickets I could get at short notice. Luckily they had two cancelled stalls for a revue at the Garrick, and with the tickets safely in my pocket I returned to Rex Place.

  Once back in the little sitting room I got to thinking about what Tomlinson had said about providing lawyers with good material. It was an obvious enough point perhaps, but it concentrated my mind on the case we had to present to the magistrates. No doubt Davis would paint me as the biggest rogue ever to walk the streets of London, using my trial and prison sentence as evidence against me - whereas we had to show those events as being quite unrepresentative of my life as a whole. Of course when I met the QC in chambers I would explain the background, but I wondered if I couldn't do better than that? Meetings in chambers are all very well, but at best they are question and answer sessi
ons, with counsel asking the questions which occur to him at the time. But suppose he never asks the right questions?

  I brewed a pot of tea, collected a scrap pad from the desk, and settled into an armchair. Remembering back over the years is difficult at times, but my restlessness the previous night had started the process - and Tomlinson's request for material was the only stimulant needed. So I began to search my mind for anything which might help them to see things from my point of view - until those very words - point of view, opened a floodgate of memories. After all, so much sprang from there.

  Running a nightclub is an education. At least it was for me. The Point of View was my university, much more than the army ever was. Oh, we met all sorts in the camp in North Wales, but that was different. People were playing soldiers there - the professionals willingly, and the National Service bods like reluctant schoolboys and there was a great deal of resistance to what the sociologists call class mobility. If you were ex-public school you got a commission - if you went to Battersea Secondary you were in the ranks with me. Not that I cared - neither Jack nor I ever saw ourselves on the General Staff - but it meant that although you met all sorts, you never actually mixed with them, not socially anyway.

  Whereas all types mix at a nightclub. All types and all sexes, and if you think there are just two you've never run a nightclub. And of course I was different. I was a nobody in the army, whereas I was the owner of The Point of View. I had grown up, matured, smoothed enough of the rough edges to acquire a certain amount of what they call polish. I was never Valentino, mind you, but neither was I a kid from Battersea any more. I said "Harris" instead of " 'arris" and could tell good wine from bad. And I had become a fair businessman, even though I say it myself. So I suppose I was turning into what I always wanted to be - 'someone important in London'.