Gilded Edge, The

by Miller, Danny

  Vince said to Billy Hill, ‘To be honest, if you already knew who I was, I’m surprised you bothered. Wouldn’t it have been easier just to have let them kill me?’

  ‘We all make mistakes,’ said Billy Hill. ‘Okay, copper, I’m here now. So what can I do you for?’

  ‘How did your boys know where to find me?’

  ‘Bernie called me straight after you left the Kitty Cat club. And if you’re worried about Bernie, he’s in Tangiers taking care of some business for me. I thought it was best because of that shit with the Montcler feller, Beresford, it upset him. Don’t get me wrong, Bernie Korshank ain’t soft – he was excavated from the side of a mountain! But he’s got his sensitive side, too. He’s a theatrical.’

  ‘Yeah, I saw him throwing the Saint down some stairs the other night.’

  Billy Hill shrugged. ‘He probably had it coming.’ Vince frowned, genuinely not knowing if Hill’s last statement was meant to be a joke. If it was, it was delivered beautifully – as dry as chalk. The old gangster continued, ‘We’d been taking an interest in you since the first time you came to the Imperial. So when you went on the missing list, we had a pretty good idea who snatched you. We’d been taking a pretty keen interest in them, too.’

  ‘Why the interest?’

  ‘In you or them?’

  Vince shrugged. Either way would do.

  ‘They’d been to the Imperial, cosying up with brasses and buying them drinks, expensive drinks, and asking them all sorts of questions. But never taking them upstairs. Then they came into the Kitty Cat, but they didn’t look like a pair of irons – just sat at the bar. So our interest was up. This was all before Scotland Yard got involved.’

  ‘Always one step ahead, eh, Mr Hill?’

  ‘Call me Bill. Most of you chaps do. As for being one step ahead, you better believe it, my fine friend. My liberty depends on it. Anyway, Mr Smith and Mr Jones here’ – he gestured towards the faithful retainers seated on the couch – ‘followed them to the farmhouse. Those fellows didn’t look like farmers, neither.’ Billy Hill shifted suddenly in his seat. It wasn’t Vince’s line of questioning making him uncomfortable, but something deep in his bowels. ‘It’s the weather that does it,’ he explained. ‘Every time I come back to this poxy country it gets irritable. The prostate needs a hot climate.’

  ‘I could do with a holiday myself.’

  ‘From what I hear, Treadwell, you’ll now be able to take one. The case is closed – and, even if it was still open, you’re off it. Maybe it’s time for you to start listening to your superiors.’ Billy Hill acquired a glint in his eye, pulling a spry smile that exposed a sturdy set of ivory smoker’s teeth. ‘I know a gaff in the kasbah that could make you forget all about that beating you took. Dusky maidens, my young friend, dusky maidens.’

  ‘I have a funny feeling I’m back to listening to my superiors right now. Come on, Bill, throw me a bone.’

  ‘Then you’ll lay off?’ Billy Hill didn’t wait for the detective to answer. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think you’re the laying-off type.’ He looked around at the two on the sofa. ‘Pretty cute, ain’t he? He gets us around to his flat, doesn’t offer us a drink, not even as much as a cup of tea. And has us answering questions, for a case that he’s not only not working on, but is officially closed. This boy gets just what he wants!’

  The tall dark one said, ‘You want me to shoot him, Bill?’

  ‘No! I want to offer him a job.’ Hill’s eyes were firmly fixed on Vince now. ‘I’m impressed. You don’t handle yourself like a copper: all mouth and no trousers hiding behind a badge. You got brains, and I hear you can handle yourself too. Good with your fists. Can use a blade. Not scared. Yeah, you’ve got bollocks, chutzpah, or call it what you will.’ The wily old gangster’s eyes narrowed into a dissecting look. ‘I see violence in you, boy.’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘I could use a man like you.’

  ‘I’m fixed just fine right now,’ said Vince, knowing the job offer was just to throw him off track.

  ‘I’m not just trying to throw you off track. I’m serious.’

  Spooky, thought Vince, one step ahead and a mind reader. This omniscient old gangster really did know how to chill the spine.

  ‘Thanks, Bill, I’ll give it some thought. But whilst I’m still working for the other side, and knowing you’re not one to volunteer information to the likes of me, and you’re not going to tell me how you’re involved, maybe I can offer some more free thinking? My deduction?’

  Billy Hill fired up another Player’s, did some shifting in his seat to settle in, then gave him the nod.

  And Vince laid it out: ‘Before gambling became legal in 1960, you got to know James Asprey. The young Eton and Oxford man was bound to fall under your gaze when he started to ply his trade as a bookie, setting up a one-room office behind Oxford Street, in the West End. By the time he started his modest book in ’52, you had everything and everyone in the West End tied up.’

  Billy Hill remained unmoved and unaltered by this information. Vince ploughed on: ‘Then we’ve got the Imperial Hotel connection. The way I see it, your name’s not above the door, Bill, but you run that place. Yet you’re not in the hotel business for the fun of it and, let’s face it, the Imperial lost its gloss in the ’30s. You’re not a pimp either, but you do take a cut from the working girls’ profits for their use of the place. And with your man on the reception keeping an eye on the cut, it’s a very profitable hotel. By the way, your man on the desk, Ali . . . that’s where I first saw the mackintosh men, the day Ali was killed.’

  ‘The mackintosh men?’

  ‘That’s what I call the two who snatched me.’

  Billy Hill’s face flashed with anger at this news. He crushed out his cigarette in the small side plate he was using as an unofficial ashtray. ‘They killed Ali?’Vince gave him a solemn nod. ‘He was a good man, Ali,’ continued Hill. There was a mournful meditative pause, as if to assess his loss. Then he quickly sprang back to life as a thought struck: ‘Apart from that poxy-looking syrup on his head!’

  ‘Yeah, that was quite a rug he almost wore.’

  ‘Don’t think he didn’t earn a good whack working with me, because he did. He could have bought top-of-the-line syrups for every day of the week!’

  ‘I reckon the mackintosh men must have been trying to get information out of him.’

  ‘Like I said, a good man. Ali wouldn’t have stood for that. He’d have put up a fight.’

  ‘Well, he picked the wrong one with them.’

  Billy Hill shot a glance over to the two sitting on the couch. They shrugged and shot him a defensive look back. Hill then returned his attention to Vince.‘A missed opportunity – we should have taken care of those bastards when we was taking care of you. Should have shot the pair of them!’ He shook his head: he was deadly serious about the lost opportunity, and it grated. He then looked at Vince and barked impatiently, ‘You think I’ve got all night?’

  Vince cracked on. ‘In the mid to late fifties, Asprey was making quite a name for himself, becoming the man for big-money gambling parties – rummy, poker, Kalookie, but mainly chemin de fer. Chemmy was his game: fast, addictive, and favouring the house more than other games. James Asprey needed an address to run his chemmy parties, since he’d outgrown privately rented flats and the rooms at the Ritz. But somewhere west of Regent Street, for the area most of his punters would come from. The Imperial was perfect. That big dining room became one of the biggest gaming rooms in London. And the fully stocked bar. Brasses if the urge took them. The place had an edge about it.

  ‘And most of all, it had you. After all, gambling was illegal when Asprey started and, for all his rich and powerful friends, it would still leave him open to the criminal fraternity. So why not go to the top man? A reasonable man. A man you could do business with. And that’s how you met the Montcler set – at the Imperial Hotel. What happened next is anybody’s guess. But if it’s crooked and there’s big
money involved, all roads inevitably lead to the great Billy Hill.’

  The old gangster made a play of weighing up the detective’s assessment. After some arching of his eyebrows, pursing of his lips and some acquiescent and concurring nods of his head, he looked pleased with this appraisal. Especially with the last part. Vince knew he’d like it, and that’s why he dared to say it.

  Billy Hill said, ‘Smart as the lash, Treadwell, and just about right on every count.’

  Vince continued. ‘Asprey, amongst other things, is a snob. And being a snob is a twenty-four-hour job; and they don’t give it up for anyone. Asprey wouldn’t have anything to do with you personally, Bill.’ This was met with a glacial, hooded-eyed look, meaning Vince’s goodwill account had just been wiped out. His stock had fallen. Vince could feel the room frost over as he now crept across the thin ice. He tried to warm things up. ‘Asprey would be too scared to have anything to do with you, Bill, because Asprey’s smart enough to know he’s a snob, and smart enough to know that he couldn’t hide it from you. James Asprey himself comes from middle-class stock, and they always have something to prove; they’re always chippy and they make for the worst snobs. So he sent Beresford in to deal with you, his house player and his second in command. The Beresfords were proper aristos, feudal lords, as old as the hills they owned. Johnny Beresford wasn’t a snob; he was Johnny the Joker, a raconteur, full of hail-fellow-well-met bonhomie and charm. He was easy in his own skin and knew how to mix.’

  Billy Hill agreed, and picked up. ‘Beresford used to run the games at the Imperial. Asprey used to run the smaller games, mostly in private flats. We’re talking serious money, with serious connections: heads of multinational conglomerates, heads of state, lords, prime ministers – and I heard rumours of a president. Fellows that really couldn’t afford to be caught gambling. Especially in a place like the Imperial. So I only met Asprey a couple of times, formally and with other people around. But I could tell, right off the bat, he was a real prick!’

  Vince considered this. In lieu of a beard, he stroked the scar on his chin. The needle Hill had with Asprey was obvious. The way Vince pegged it, Billy Hill didn’t give a monkey’s about Asprey being a snob. But he did give a monkey’s about coming off second best, and not taking a cut from the serious money. That clicked into place for Vince. When gambling became legal, and Asprey opened up the Montcler club, he didn’t need Billy Hill’s services any more. So Asprey severed all connections. All the high-rollers from the Imperial followed Asprey to the Montcler, to mix in with the really high-rollers who previously couldn’t afford to be seen gambling. The Montcler club changed all that. To be seen gambling in the Montcler was a positive boon. It meant so many things on so many levels. Not only that you had money, but you had enough of it to lose. To be a card-carrying member was pure social enhancement and elevation.

  ‘What’s on your mind, bright boy?’

  ‘That you killed Beresford. Either as a warning to Asprey, or in revenge for getting cut out of his business.’

  Vince watched as his house guest took this in his stride. He was a gangster after all, and Vince was a detective. So accusations and denials weren’t that unnatural, all part of the game.

  After unflinching consideration, Billy Hill said: ‘I grew up dirt poor in the Seven Dials, a family of thieves, never had nothing unless it was stolen. Now I have more money than I know what to do with. I’m as rich as Croesus. And the worst thing about having all this money is that my accountant, crooked as he is, tells me that even if I lived as long as Methuselah, I wouldn’t even put a dent in it. So I had no reason to put the squeeze on Asprey. I’m retired and I got all the pensions I need.’

  ‘It’s never just the money with men like you, Bill. It’s the thrill of the chase. Getting one over men like Asprey – especially men like Asprey. Showing them the true nature of power, and who’s top dog. That’s what you thrive on.’

  ‘Ha!’ Hill barked, followed by a throaty chuckle. ‘You’ve got me pegged, smart boy. What can I say? Happy now?’

  ‘Happier.’

  ‘You’re a mendacious and tenacious little prick, Treadwell! You think you know me? Well, I know you. And I know you won’t let this go until you get some answers. So to get you off my back, and out of my business, I’m going to give you some answers. And then, from here on in, no more. First off, I didn’t kill Beresford. He was a pal of mine. He was a real classy act. He was also a cheat. A real classy cheat, if you will. And he cheated for me. We had the best card scam in London. Untraceable. And we made a lot of money. For me to kill Beresford would—’

  ‘Would be to kill the golden goose?’

  ‘Pure gold, Treadwell. Twenty-four carat!’ Billy Hill laughed again, followed by an excavating clear-out of his throat, then he said: ‘Got anything to drink?’

  CHAPTER 43

  Vince was woken up by the bell. He scrambled into a pair of strides and a T-shirt and padded barefoot into the hallway. On his way to answer the front door, he looked into the living room and saw, on the coffee table, three drained glasses and a decimated bottle of Napoleon brandy. The remnants of a night spent with Billy Hill and his boys. He also had a fleeting recce of the mullered painting, now resting lamely against the wall instead of displayed on it boldly. Vince gauged the damage to be repairable, but he shuddered at the further expense involved.

  Whoever was at the door wasn’t going away, but was thumbing the bell with a determined urgency. Vince didn’t know what time it was, but it felt industriously early. So he opened the door, expecting to find someone in uniformed service such as the laundry delivery, his postman wanting him to sign for something, or the milkman wanting him to settle up. Instead he got Isabel Saxmore-Blaine. She didn’t look as if she’d just tumbled out of bed either. She looked primed and ready, sleekly dressed and as shiny as the polished buttons on her navy reefer-style coat. He didn’t know how he felt about her standing there. Even amongst all the pain he’d been put through recently, he could still keenly feel the sting of that slap on his cheek. He invited her in with a mock grandiose sweep of his right hand, and she silently accepted with a pleasing smile across her painted red lips.

  She took Billy Hill’s vacated seat in the living room, and Vince perked them some coffee. Then they sat in silence, savouring the strong brew. She broke the silence and commented that the coffee tasted good, the best she’d ever had, in fact. He told her why: it was Jamaican Blue Mountain, the best you could get. And he needed it. He hadn’t hit the hay until about 5 a.m. The clock in the kitchen had since told him it was 8 a.m. Three hours’ kip was not nearly enough after all the schlepping he’d done around dirty old London Town; and all the talking and listening and garnering that he’d done while sitting with Mr Hill.

  Isabel glanced down at the almost-drained bottle of booze on the table, with the three empty glasses to which she gave a special scrutiny. To Vince it looked as if she was searching for lipstick traces on them. A vanity on his part, perhaps, but to the naked eye there was very little else to view on them. She then turned round to look at the busted painting, and said, ‘Looks like quite a party you had last night.’

  ‘Just the four of us – more of a soirée, I’d say. What can I do for you, Miss Saxmore-Blaine?’

  ‘I’ve come to apologize for my behaviour the last time I saw you.’

  He yawned (completely involuntarily) and gave a purposeful nod.

  Undaunted, she continued, ‘I was in a bad space, not just physically but emotionally. I was operating on anger not reason. And you were an available target.’

  Maybe it was because he wasn’t fully awake, but these words sounded strange to him, like an overly constructed babble, the sort of words you pay a shrink reassuringly large amounts of money to spew at you. He suppressed another yawn. But he did manage another nod. It was a thoughtful nod, like Freud listening to a patient sprawled on his couch.

  ‘And I want to make it clear to you that, yes, of course I want Johnny’s killer found. And, yes, if Do
minic is innocent, of course he must be proven to be so.’

  ‘Why the change of heart?’ he asked, adding quickly, ‘Not that it’s not welcome.’

  ‘I suppose I was retreating into the past, knowing how all this would affect my father. I knew how he would . . . how he would view it. I thought it was only right that I stand by him and by his wishes.’

  ‘Just like you’ve always done?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I can understand the change of heart, as it’s not a very tenable position any more.’

  ‘Don’t be brutal, Vincent. I’m being as honest as I can.’

  ‘I’m not being brutal, just frank. Because the longer this goes on, the harder it will be to find the killer. But I do appreciate your honesty. Brutal honesty, that’s what’s called for, agreed?’

  ‘Agreed. And I’m also sorry for the way I treated you. You gave me shelter that night, and I didn’t even thank you.’

  Vince yawned again, lavishly this time. But this one was forced, and it was forced to disguise the tawdry smirk that he was pretty sure was crawling scurrilously across his face; because there was a good gag in there somewhere, but he wasn’t about to drag it to the surface and wag it about.

  Isabel sat on the edge of the armchair, her back as straight and as upright as a bookcase. Averting her gaze from him, her poised head was tilted towards her hands resting together on her lap. But, coy as she looked, Vince sensed that she wanted her last statement batted back. At last she wanted some recognition for what had passed between them.

  He obliged. ‘As it turned out, not a wholly altruistic act on my part. And I’m also sorry for my comments, the last time we met.’

  ‘Yes, and I apologize for slapping you.’ A smile gently tugged at her lips. ‘I’m glad you weren’t unduly troubled by it.’

  Vince smiled back; he liked this game. ‘It was a strange night, Miss Saxmore-Blaine, but a highly enjoyable one.’

  ‘Call me Isabel. I think you’ve earned the right, don’t you?’