The Red Ribbon

by H. B. Lyle

  “Not army?” He shot a delighted glance at Kell.

  Constance went on. “I wanted him to see the best, in action, as it were.”

  “Wasn’t there enough butter with the parsnips?” Quinn teased.

  “Patrick, are we away?” Lady Quinn glared.

  The telephone rang. It leapt and jangled on the side table. They all looked at it, startled. “That’s our cue, what?” Soapy said, stepping to the door. “Good-bye, old man . . . Constance.”

  “I’ll get that,” Kell said at last and stepped to the receiver.

  Alice and Lady Quinn went out, and Soapy followed them. Quinn, the last to leave, turned on the doorstep and regarded Constance.

  “May we visit?” she said, imploring him one final time.

  He pulled his gloves on, slowly, then fixed her with a steady gaze. Suddenly, all the life and jollity and drunkenness drained from his face, and his eyes were clear and crisp as a winter’s morning. “I’m sure we at the Branch will be seeing you soon, Mrs. Kell, to be sure. Good night now.”

  17

  “It’s a fucking setup!” he bawled into the telephone.

  “Calm down.” Kell’s voice was a reedy crackle. “Not now. I have guests.”

  “Not now, not fucking now! There’s boys dying out there,” he cried as he stood at the bar. Heads turned, but Wiggins didn’t care. “Fucking rozzers!”

  “Do not swear at me. I am in no mood for insubordination.”

  “Insubord-a-fucking-nation? They’s killing folk.” He took a breath and glanced around at the rest of the pub. As one, they turned back to their glasses, their conversation, their newspapers. Wiggins realized he must have looked a dreadful sight, shouting into the horn, clothes torn and trampled, hand shaking. He gripped the receiver hard and braced his foot against the wall. “I ain’t doing it,” he said in a hissed whisper. “I ain’t ratting anyone out, and I ain’t telling you or any of your bloody mates nothing about no union. Ever.”

  “Ratting people out?” It was Kell’s turn to raise his voice. “Who the hell do you think you are? What is it you think you do? Get back to Ranleigh Terrace, as planned. Get back to your job. And never, ever call me at home.” The line went dead.

  Wiggins stretched his back and felt again the tender part above his hip. He looked back down onto Ranleigh Terrace, at the dark Embassy doors, and wondered whether anything would change. They’d kept watch round the clock on the whorehouse for over a month and the place was as tight as the proverbial.

  He’d said as much to Kell the previous week, but the man wouldn’t listen to sense. There was only one way to crack open the place as far as Wiggins could see, but Kell wasn’t man enough for it. He wasn’t man enough for the truth neither.

  After the police charge at the warehouse, Wiggins had escaped. He’d copped a horseshoe in the back before scrambling into a side road that led down to the river. It was there, in the crush and panic and mauling, that he looked back for an instant and saw the young father trampled, then beaten. Wiggins tried to turn back, but was swept away by another mounted charge. By the time he looked up, the boy was gone.

  He’d stumbled down an alleyway leading to the river, where friendly boatmen were ferrying fleeing dockworkers to safety. From there, Wiggins jumped a tram to the Elephant and Castle. He walked straight up to the barman, ordered two double gins, a pint of half-and-half, and a counter for the telephone, which hung just to the right of the bar.

  He and Kell hadn’t spoken of it since that telephone call in the pub. Instead, the next night and the night after that and so on, Wiggins relieved Simpkins at six and waited, watching men enter and leave that house of ill repute. He still hadn’t debriefed Kell about the docks; he would not do it. There’d been nothing in the papers about it—there rarely was—but he’d heard rumors, down the docks and around, about trouble all over the country. It was a battle. And whose side was he on?

  All of a sudden, Tommy appeared on the street. His huge form cast shadows left and right, pinned by the two streetlamps. He didn’t move. Instead, he waited on the pavement, one arm stretched back toward the Embassy steps. Wiggins crouched forward. This wasn’t his night for the Ax, and he wasn’t going out alone.

  A moment later, a woman tapped down the steps and took his arm, ever the lady to his hulking gent. She turned her face up to Tommy, in the lambent glow of the lights. Wiggins started in surprise. Martha. It was too dark for a photograph, but it was Tommy and Martha all right. They set off northward, on foot, like a courting couple.

  Wiggins hesitated. The Embassy still had another night of business ahead. More names to note, more license numbers to take, another twelve hours of data. He took the back stairs two at a time. He pulled on his cap and ran down the garden, out into the mews. If Tommy and Martha were heading into town, they’d be on the road soon enough. He sprinted, slithering to a halt at the corner.

  A small crowd gathered around a brazier, selling sweetmeats and roasted chestnuts, and Wiggins shrank into it, waiting for his turn. Sure enough, a minute or so later, making stately progress, his marks ambled by on the other side of the street, heading into Victoria. They looked for all the world like lovers, with Tommy’s head bent down to catch Martha’s words. Pantomime lovers, Wiggins hoped.

  He pulled his scarf up around his face, shoved his hands into his pockets, and set off after them. If they nipped a bus or tram, he wouldn’t have a hope. Tommy might be interested in Martha, but he was still an ex-Irregular; he was still sharp enough to spot Wiggins in an enclosed space.

  As they broke through Grosvenor Square and then into the hustle and bustle around Victoria Station, Wiggins moved closer. Taxis whizzed by, the trams clattered and sang, and the buses belched and groaned. Pedestrians zigzagged across the roads, streaming to the mainline station in the evening rush. But Tommy was too big to miss, even in such a crowd.

  He shepherded Martha across the road. Wiggins realized where they were going, an almost impossible tail to pull off. ROYAL STANDARD MUSIC HALL blazed out in lights. Beneath, in black letters, Last Night.

  Tommy shoved Martha through the crowded front of house. It took Wiggins a little longer. Sold Out signs crisscrossed all the posters. It was the last night before the place was due to be demolished and rebuilt. This meant he had to dip a ticket from a singleton. (No use stealing one ticket only to find yourself sitting next to his mate, or her husband, or some likely lad with half a bottle of gin in him and a Lonsdale Belt.)

  The way Martha and Tommy were dressed, nines, suggested they’d be upstairs in the posh seats. He lost sight of them as they joined the throng funneling through the main double doors.

  Large posters were plastered on every available wall. Wiggins jostled in amongst the crowd, pretending to read as he looked for a mark.

  The Queen of Comedy MARIE LLOYD

  The 3 Laurels

  The 4 Figaros

  The 5 Hunters

  THAT BRUTE SIMMONS

  And slashed across each poster: SURPRISE GUEST STAR.

  “It’ll be that greasy dago Espinosa,” a large man bawled to no one in particular. He peered at the poster. “Or else that skinny bitch Florrie Forde. Bet you.” He looked around, satisfied with his own ignorance. “Any money?”

  “I take that bet,” Wiggins said. “A general?”

  The big man twisted around, eyeing Wiggins warily. “Make it two,” he said. “Back here, after the show. I’ll take my buck.”

  “Good man.” Wiggins grinned and tapped him on the side in comradely fashion. Then he melted back into the crowd. There wasn’t a chance the loudmouth would turn up if he lost the bet, of course, but that wasn’t the point.

  Two minutes later, Wiggins entered the hall using the big man’s ticket—easily nipped from his inside pocket, like taking sweets from a child. The lobby teemed with excited theatregoers, a hodgepodge of classes, clothes, and accents. Laughter, chattering, pulling and shoving and all sorts. A young girl was crying somewhere, unseen. Jaunty lads broke into song.
A glass broke. A cheer. The usual Saturday night out.

  Wiggins looked up at the staircase in front of him, up to the circle, all top hats and dinner jackets. The Royal Standard was a mixed bag, not like the music halls he used to go to as a kid, which were full of trash, wall to wall. The Standard took in some quality, albeit quality looking to slum it for the night.

  He joined the line filtering into the auditorium. The band had already struck up, and harassed waitresses toted drinks through the throng.

  The house rocked. Wiggins squeezed into his seat six rows back. A warm-up man leapt onto the stage. He rapped out a few gags, and the audience roared with laughter and booze and a desire to be entertained by whatever appeared in the footlights.

  Wiggins slumped back and circled the theater with his eyes. Around him, everybody smoked and drank, except the women, who just drank. Great clouds of smoke hung over them. Behind him, the circle sagged down low over the back of the stalls. He could make out the faces of those in the first few rows. Boxes ran down either side of the house, the top seats. Wiggins scanned as the MC went on.

  “Enough of this malarkey, no, please. Enough, I say.” The MC waved his hand at the audience. “You’ve seen the posters, haven’t you? Have you? Missus, please.” Another roar from the stalls. He went on, listing the forthcoming acts. “Oh, I near forgot. Mr. Memory will be on too.” More laughter. More drink.

  “But first . . .” the great man up in the lights opened his hands stage right “. . . the Four Figaros!” On bounced four gussied-up male singers, yodeling for all they were worth. A few cheers went up as the band struck a tune, a few groans too.

  Wiggins glanced up to his left and there in the second box sat Martha, caught for a moment in the upturned glow of the stage lights. Straight-backed, stately, her face impassive. Tommy appeared at her shoulder, standing, one hand pinned to the base of her neck. His eyes flitted across the crowd, around the circle, back into the pit—never at the stage. Wiggins followed his gaze.

  One by the front exit, standing, pulling at his knuckles.

  Another at the stalls bar, sipping a half.

  A third, arm hanging over the balcony, like a great ape at London Zoo.

  He’s come tooled up, Wiggins realized with a thrill. This ain’t no visit to the halls, Tommy ain’t here to be entertained. He’s here for business. Wiggins tensed. The next act was up onstage now, the crowd near hysteria, a cackling in his ear. He looked up at Martha, a rictus on her face—fear, pain? Tommy’s hand pinned to her neck.

  Then suddenly a movement in the back of their box, a flash of another dinner jacket, another man, though Wiggins didn’t see a face. Tommy dipped out of the box.

  “Where’re the lavs?” Wiggins asked as he tried to push toward the aisle, amid the catcalls and the banter.

  “The lavs?” a woman burst out loudly.

  “Here, hark at him and the lavs—I’m using me bottle!” the comic on the stage cried, setting up another great roar.

  He shot a quick glance up to the box. Martha was staring down at him, shocked. Not the best time in the world to be pointed out as a heckler. But Tommy wasn’t in sight. Wiggins dodged out of a side door beneath their box and took the stairs two at a time. It was his only chance before Tommy returned.

  Wiggins pulled the heavy curtains aside.

  “Get out of it,” Martha hissed, barely turning around. “It’s dangerous.”

  “Come wiv me,” he urged. “Tommy’s bad medicine. Come.”

  “You don’t understand anything.” She swiveled around to stare at him. “Get out, now, before he comes back.”

  Another burst of laughter from the audience. Wiggins crouched down beside her, out of sight of Tommy’s lookouts. “It ain’t safe there no more,” he said, pleading with her.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I can save you,” he said.

  She turned her head away. A great barrage of applause from the crowd. Wiggins’s eye snagged on a handkerchief on the floor, a flash of a monogram. “You can’t,” she said.

  “Will you let me know you’re safe at least?”

  “You’re watching the Embassy?” she said in surprise.

  “Jacko!” Tommy shouted from somewhere down the corridor.

  “Something bad’s coming,” Wiggins said. He wanted to tell her more, to tell her that soon the whole place could be raided, that if Tommy got wind of it, he might do anything to anyone. But all he said was, “Please.”

  Martha looked around, then down at him. “Top right window, look for the red ribbon. If it ain’t there . . .”

  He nodded and stood up.

  Suddenly a short man in top hat and tails barreled into him with a loud shout. Heads turned. The audience rippled. The comedian on the stage looked up at the box, and stumbled in his delivery. The short man grabbed Wiggins by the lapels. Clearly quality, judging by his evening wear, he was nine sheets to the wind, and then some. “Excuse me,” he said. “Doyouknowthewaytothebar?”

  Wiggins just stared at him, pinned by surprise and indecision.

  The drunk lurched, one way then the other, clinging on to Wiggins as he did so. Behind him, Tommy suddenly appeared at the curtain with a heavy in tow. He gave an involuntary yowl when he saw Wiggins.

  Just then, the sozzled toff tumbled sideways toward the box’s balcony. Wiggins caught hold of his collars, but the man flipped over anyway. Wiggins clung on. They fell the five feet to the running board that led to the stage, in full view.

  The audience gasped.

  The comedian onstage berated the drunk. Out of the corner of his eye, Wiggins saw one of Tommy’s men hurry toward them. Tommy himself glared over the box at him in outrage. The drunk had somehow leapt to his feet before Wiggins could and had now stumbled onto the stage proper. He circled the comedian in a seemingly drunken daze. The audience was beginning to laugh.

  Wiggins ran onto the stage and dived into the wings. As he did so, he saw Tommy drag Martha away.

  The Five Hunters scattered as Wiggins tumbled backstage, casting around for the exit. Gusts of laughter cascaded down from the audience now, clearly in thrall to the drunk’s act.

  Wiggins turned left down a corridor but a commotion at the far end put him off. Instead, he dodged right, behind the stage scenery itself. But before he could make good his escape, he caught sight of the heavy from the bar pushing backstage on the other side. Pinned.

  At that moment the drunk crashed through the paper backdrop just to his left, a perfectly executed pratfall met with hysteria. The drunk looked at Wiggins with the brightest eyes he’d ever seen. They shone and danced beneath his craggy brows. And in the instant they met Wiggins’s, the eyes flicked skyward, and then at a set of guy ropes gathered on their hook.

  Wiggins leapt to the ropes and in one swift movement unspooled the heaviest one. He held on as it ascended to the rafters, while a heavy backdrop whistled down to the stage. The drunk sprang to his feet just in time to avoid being bisected by the falling backdrop. The audience went wild.

  As the act continued, Wiggins jammed his feet into a stanchion and hooked his arm around the rope. He looked down as first one of Tommy’s men, then another, appeared backstage, hustling fey performers aside in a futile search. Wiggins waited in the flies. It didn’t take them long to conclude that he must have done a runner. They hurried off, no doubt out to the stage door.

  The audience roared again and Wiggins saw the MC bounce back onstage. “My lords, ladies, gents, please show your appreciation for the Inebriate—otherwise known as the one, the only, Charles Chaplin!”

  Chaplin waved as he walked off to deafening cheers, which echoed and blasted all around Wiggins in his lair. He watched as the small drunk, now looking so lithe and youthful, reached the wings. As he did so, Chaplin looked up high into the flies at Wiggins, and winked.

  He had to get inside the Embassy. Martha had death in her eyes. Tommy was deep in the darkness now, and she’d be dead if he didn’t do anything. He wouldn’t let that happe
n twice. Not after Poppy.

  Forget Kell’s secrets, forget the randy politicians, the perverted diplomats, the wizened old bishops limping up those steps. People were dying in that place; Martha could be next. They had to get inside.

  “No sun—no moon, eh?”

  “No morn—no noon—”

  “No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day.”

  “No—oh, dash it all, I’ve forgotten the rest.” Kell rapped the table with his knuckles.

  Harry Moseby-Brown sat down opposite. “I won’t hold it against you, sir.”

  “You can drop the ‘sir,’” Kell said, and whistled at the waiter.

  “Nothing for me, thanks. Can’t stop.”

  They were in the Stranger’s Room in Kell’s club, on a dull November morning not long after Kell’s disastrous dinner with Quinn and his wife. He hadn’t even spoken to Wiggins since their row over the telephone, and he now had Churchill in his ear wanting a full report on the dock disturbance, a report that Wiggins had resolutely refused to supply. To cap it all, he hadn’t gotten to the bottom of Constance’s strange behavior. First she turned up at the office—his secret office—unannounced, then she invited Quinn for dinner, and then she had tried to charm the lecherous rogue.

  As soon as the door closed on Quinn that night, though, the mask had dropped and she went back to the cold shoulder, or rather, she retreated once more into her own personal cocoon, which only the most banal of inquiries could penetrate. He said nothing to her, nothing of any importance, because he couldn’t. Perhaps Lady Quinn was right, perhaps if the bill passed granting limited suffrage, then a thaw could begin.

  “Sorry I haven’t more for you, bit rushed actually,” Moseby-Brown continued. “So if you don’t mind . . .”

  Kell shook his head. “I beg your pardon, my mind drifted. Nothing more to report?”

  “No.”

  Kell looked out across the room. Browns and dark reds dominated—the leather wing chairs, the never-read books on the high shelves. It was November all right. “Tell me,” he said suddenly. “Are you married, Moseby-Brown?”