Tuppence to Tooley Street

by Harry Bowling

  On this particular Friday night the beer was flowing and the customers stood shoulder to shoulder. Tony had moved away from his two companions as planned. He had visited the pub on a few occasions with Danny Sutton and Johnny Ross, and he did not want to draw any attention to the two Italians who stood in one corner keeping their eyes on Mason. When Tony Arpino eased his way towards the piano, the bigger of the two nudged his pal. ‘C’mon, time ter go.’

  Tony had reached Jack Mason, who gave him a strange glance. ‘What you doin’ ’ere? Bit out of your way, ain’t it?’ he said in a malevolent tone.

  ‘I got a message fer yer, Mr Mason. It’s from Johnny Ross.’

  Jack Mason’s eyes glinted. ‘Where is that little rat? I’ve bin lookin’ fer ’im.’

  Tony gulped and prayed that his ploy would work. ‘’E’s outside by the oil shop. It’s urgent. Can yer meet ’im there right away?’

  ‘Why don’t ’e come in ’ere? What’s the matter wiv ’im?’

  Tony took a breath. ‘’E’s got some money fer yer. ’E said ’e don’t want anybody ter see it change ’ands.’

  ‘All right, I’ll be out in a minute.’

  Tony nodded casually but felt his heart pounding. If Mason brought anyone with him it would ruin the plan. He walked out of the pub and blinked as the darkness enveloped him. When he moved along to the oil shop Tony could see his two companions standing in the recess of the doorway. ‘’Old tight! ’E’ll be out in a minute,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Mario, you stan’ wiv me.’E’ll fink you’re Rossy. Al, keep back fer Gawd’s sake! If ’e sees yer ’e’ll know it’s a set–up.’

  The saloon bar door opened and Tony bit on his bottom lip. An old gent emerged and walked unsteadily past the shop without noticing the three who were lying in wait. Tony took out his pocket watch. It showed ten minutes to ten.

  Suddenly Mario nudged him. ‘’Ere ’e is!’

  Mason had emerged from the pub and was walking towards them with his distinctive gait. His eyes opened in surprise as he saw the three men facing him.

  Tony’s features were set hard. ‘We’ve got me ole man’s pay–off, Mason!’ he said, and he struck Mason full in the face.

  Mason staggered back a pace and blood started to drip from his nose. Like an angry animal he charged at Tony, but Mario tripped him and stood back. Mason fell against the shop doorway and reeled back in a daze. Mario brought his foot up hard against the villain’s jaw. Mason spat blood through his broken teeth and tried awkwardly to stagger to his feet, but Al stepped forward and grabbed Mason’s coat collar. With a huge bellow he threw the man against the shop wall and pummelled him in the face. When Mason put his hands up to protect his head, Al kneed him hard in the stomach. The attack was too fast and too vicious for Mason to respond, and he sagged against the wall. The big Italian finally grabbed at Mason’s coat–lapels and head–butted him across the bridge of his nose. The three looked down at the sprawled unlovely heap at their feet.

  Tony leaned over the groaning figure. ‘Keep away from Bermon’sey Lane, Mason. This is just a sample. There’s money bin put up. Try it on again an’ you’ll be goin’ fer a swim–wiv yer ’ands tied. Okay?’

  As the three started away from the doorway Mason rolled over onto his side and swore at them through his swollen and bloody lips. Al stopped and turned back. Tony winced as he heard a thud. Al walked back casually. ‘I fink ’e’s got the message at last,’ he grinned, and the three walked briskly out of the backstreet.

  Jack Mason’s beating had not gone unnoticed. A skulking figure had been standing in the shadows and watched the villain leave the pub. Cora was going to be the death of him, he rued. Five minutes later and he would have been caught with his trousers down. As he watched he noticed that Mason was not going to the buildings but towards some shadowy figures in the shop doorway. Johnny Ross held his breath as the assault took place. In the growing darkness he could recognise only one of the assailants. It was Tony Arpino. In seconds it was all over and he saw Jack Mason turn on his side and curse the three as they walked away. He saw the largest of the attackers turn back and bend over the sprawling figure. He heard the thump and saw Mason go limp. Only when the men had left the scene did he make his move. Slowly he walked over to the prone figure and looked down at him, an evil grin spreading over his pale face.

  The last tram rumbled past, and the hands of the church clock were nearing the hour. Amy Wheelwright and her friend Carrie Horscroft had left the sewing circle meeting and were dissecting their fellow members’ characters in a particularly brutal fashion.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind, Carrie, but she walks in the place like Lady Muck. She really upsets everybody wiv ’er fancy ways,’ Amy said with an expression of disgust.

  ‘You’re right, Amy. I ’eard she’s sweet on Billy Whybrow. You know Billy Whybrow, the one what does the books at the institute.’

  ‘Oh, ’im. ’E’s a dirty ole goat. Fair undresses yer wiv ’is eyes ’e does.’

  Carrie touched her confidante’s arm. ‘I know you won’t let this go any furver, Amy. I ’eard Liz Springett’s ’avin’ it orf wiv’im from the greengrocer’s in George Street.’

  ‘Not ’im wiv the funny eye? What can she see in ’im?’

  ‘Let’s face it, Amy, she ain’t no oil paintin’ ’erself, is she?’

  ‘Did yer see ’er the uvver night, Carrie? Proper madam she is, moanin’ about the biscuits. Did you ’ear what she said? “I only like Peak Freans.” She should fink ’erself lucky. She ain’t backward in comin’ forward, ’cept when it’s time ter pay ’er subs.’

  The two women reached the parting of the ways. Carrie stood with Amy on the street corner and was about to come to the juiciest tit–bit, which she had saved till last, when a hurrying figure pushed past them and disappeared into the night. ‘Well I never!’ Carrie gasped. ‘The manners of some people. Not even a “sorry”, “oops”, or “by yer leave”. ’Ere, while I fink of it, I mus’ tell yer . . .’

  Back in The Ferryman the merriment went on. The brassy blonde was feeling very put out. Her prey had somehow extricated himself and it seemed that all her efforts that evening had been in vain. She looked around the bar and realised she was going to have an early night after all. The usual crowd of drunks would no doubt be trying their luck at closing time, and the pawing would start in earnest. She finished her drink and decided it was home to bed and sod the lot of ’em. The cool air made her reel and she leaned against the wall of the pub until she recovered herself. Those drinks he had been plying her with must have been doubles. He needn’t have bothered, she told herself, he could coax me into his bed any night of the week. She walked on from the pub and almost tripped against the bundle lying in the shop doorway. A stream of blood had formed a pool in the gutter and had stained the pavement dark red. Lillie Stannard fell against the shop–front and let out a piercing scream. Curtains were pulled back momentarily, and the less drunken customers emerged from the pub. Soon a crowd had gathered. They took the hysterical prostitute to one side while someone threw a coat over the body.

  ‘It’s Jack Mason! ’E’s bin done in!’ someone said.

  ‘They’ve smashed ’is ’ead in!’

  ‘Quick! Tell the guv’nor ter ’phone the law!’

  ‘Gawd Almighty, what a sight! I was only talkin’ to ’im only’alf hour ago!’ said an old man, shaking his head.

  ‘Well ’e ain’t talkin’ now, Bert.’

  Chapter Twenty–Three

  The news of Jack Mason’s murder made the Saturday morning papers. The story was on everyone’s lips. There were very few sentiments of sympathy expressed, for most of those who knew him felt that he had had it coming. Mason had many enemies and someone had exacted vengeance. And there was concern for Kathy, who had still not heard the news, for Mrs Thompson was determined not to let her daughter know at least for a day or two. Her own feelings had frightened her when she had been told of the murder. It was as though a heavy burden had been lifted from her should
ers now that Kathy would not have to suffer any more at his hand. Mrs Thompson was a devout Christian who believed in the power of prayer and her pleas for Kathy’s recovery had been answered. She had prayed that her daughter would be spared the ill treatment she herself had been forced to endure. But her hopes were fulfilled in a way that she had not foreseen, and Violet Thompson felt very humble.

  When Danny walked into The Globe on that Saturday morning, the discussions raged around him. Eddie Kirkland was leaning over the counter talking to Biff Bowden. ‘’E didn’t come in ’ere much. ’E only used this pub on the odd occasion. It was The Ferryman ’e used. That’s where ’e was found, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, Eddie. It ses ’ere that a young woman found ’im. ’E was layin’ in a shop doorway. Accordin’ ter what it ses ’ere, someone went an’ smashed the back of ’is ’ead right in. Apparently ’e’d also bin done over, beaten about the face.’

  Eddie leaned over the copy of the Daily Mirror that Biff had in his hands. ‘What else does it say?’

  Biff squinted his eyes up and moved the paper away to focus the wording. ‘It ses a young man who was limpin’ was seen leavin’ the street in an’ ’urry by two ladies who ’ave given the police a good description.’

  ‘Bloody ’ell!’ laughed Eddie. ‘That could fit Johnny Ross!’

  ‘It couldn’t be ’im,’ Biff snorted. ‘Rossy couldn’t punch ’is way out of a paper bag.’

  Eddie pulled up a pint of ale for an old gent who was moaning about the quality of the beer. ‘It’s the ’ops, Fred, it’s bin a bad year fer ’ops.’

  When the old gent took his pint and moved away from the counter Eddie went back to talk to Biff. ‘Silly ole sod. ’E’s bin moanin’ about the beer fer donkey’s years. ’E still gets pissed on it though.’

  Biff grinned. ‘’Ere, Eddie, talkin’ about Johnny Ross, I ain’t seen ’im around ’ere lately. ’Ave you?’

  The landlord shook his head. ‘It’s funny, but Bonky come in’ere last night. ’E told me Rossy’s on the run from Mason. Over some money by all accounts.’

  ‘Well Rossy ain’t got ter run any more, that’s fer sure,’ Biff chuckled.

  Danny sat at the bar with a pint of ale at his elbow. He recalled the conversation he had had with Tony Arpino, but he found it impossible to believe that Tony could have been responsible for Mason’s murder. A good hiding was one thing but murder was another story. It couldn’t be Tony, he decided. Poor Kathy, how would she take the news? Did she still have any feeling left for Mason? Whatever she felt, it was still going to be a terrible shock for her.

  ‘Yer signed the pledge then, Danny?’

  The young cockney looked up and saw Bonky Williams standing next to him.

  ‘’Ello, Bonky, I didn’t see yer come in.’

  Bonky grinned. ‘I was watchin’ yer starin’ at that pint, an’ I ses ter meself, Bonky, ’e’s on the bleedin’ wagon.’

  Danny grinned. ‘Wanna drink?’

  ‘Ta, I’ll ’ave a nice pint o’ bitter, me ole mate.’

  Danny ordered the drink. ‘’Eard the news?’

  ‘Yeah. ’E’s in the shite, ain’t ’e?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Why, Rossy.’

  ‘’Ow d’yer mean?’ Danny asked impatiently.

  ‘They’ve got ’is description, ain’t they?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Bonky. That description could fit anybody.’

  Bonky glanced around the bar furtively and leaned forward until Danny smelt stale breath on his face. ‘It was ’im.’

  ‘What d’yer mean, it was ’im?’

  ‘It was Johnny Ross, the one the paper said was runnin’ out the street.’

  ‘’Ow d’yer know it was ’im?’

  Bonky looked around the bar again, then his voice lowered to a whisper. ‘Rossy was knockin’ one o’ Jack Mason’s birds orf, wasn’t ’e?’

  ‘I dunno, was ’e?’

  ‘Yeah, ’e told me ’imself. You know Rossy, ’e can’t keep anyfink to ’imself. Anyway, this bird’s called Cora. She lives in the buildin’s opposite the boozer Mason used. I told Johnny ter be careful, ’e’s in enough trouble as it is.’

  Danny looked into Bonky’s good eye. ‘You ain’t tryin’ ter tell me Rossy done ’im in, are yer?’

  ‘’Course I ain’t. What I am sayin’ is, it’s a pound to a pinch o’ shit that it was Johnny comin’ out o’ the turnin’ last night.’

  ‘Christ Almighty!’ Danny gasped. ‘They should lock Rossy up fer ’is own good. ’E’s a livin’, breavin’ disaster!’

  ‘They prob’ly will,’ Bonky said, picking up his drink.

  ‘Do yer know where Rossy is?’ Danny asked.

  ‘I ain’t seen ’im around. If ’e’s got any sense ’e’s scarpered. If ’e stays round ’ere they’re bound ter pull ’im in.’

  Danny finished his drink. ‘Well, I’ve gotta be orf. If yer see Rossy about tell ’im ter get in touch. Okay?’

  ‘Right. See yer, Danny.’

  Danny left the pub and hurried to the Arpinos’ shop. When he arrived Sofia and her husband Lou were serving some customers and he could see that they were trying to hide their anxiety. Lou waved Danny through to the back of the shop and followed him into the small room.

  ‘Danny, ma Tony’s in a lotta trouble,’ he said. ‘’E’s a gone away. ’E say the police they’re a gonna come for ’im. What’s ma Tony done, Danny?’

  ‘Ain’t yer seen the papers, Pop?’

  ‘I donna read so good. What’s a dis in da papers?’

  Danny took the old man by his shoulders. ‘Look, Pop,’ he said, ‘you’ve ’eard Tony talk about Jack Mason, ain’t yer?’

  ‘Yeah, I know dis Jack Mason. ’E’s da gangster what break up a ma shop.’

  ‘’E’s bin killed, Lou.’

  The old Italian bit on his knuckles and his face drained of colour. ‘Not ma Tony. ’E don’t kill nobody. No ma Tony.’

  ‘Where is ’e, Lou? Can I talk to ’im?’

  ‘’E’s a jus’ gone away. I swear I donna know where ’e’s a gone. Maybe ter ma family in Clerkenwell. Ma family dey look after ma boy.’

  ‘Whereabouts in Clerkenwell? ’Ave yer got an address?’

  Lou Arpino raised his hands to the ceiling. ‘I gotta no address. Ma family all over da place. Dey gotta shops in Clerkenwell. It’s all I know, Danny.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Pop, Tony’s clean. ’E didn’t kill Mason.’

  As he left the shop Danny thought about going straight to Clerkenwell, but he realised that he might be followed. It was evident that the police had not called on the Arpinos yet, but someone might have spotted Tony and given the police a description. He himself might have been pointed out as a friend of Tony and there might be a tail on him. But the more he thought about it the less likely it seemed. Surely the police would call on the shop first. If they were unsuccessful in finding Tony there then they might tail him, or even pull him in for questioning. Danny was getting nervous and it was becoming difficult for him to think straight. Still, he knew it would be better not to go near Clerkenwell until he could work out a plan. He hurried along to Ginny’s and found a few punters standing around waiting for him.

  ‘Where yer bin, Danny boy?’ one old gent said. ‘I’ve got a fistful o’ bets ’ere. ’Alf the street’s left ’em wiv me.’

  When it was a little quieter Ginny poked her head out from the parlour. ‘Danny, when yer finished can yer pop over ter see Vi Thompson? She wants a word wiv yer.’

  Detective Constable Stanley Stockbridge walked quickly towards Tony Allen’s offices situated off Jamaica Road. He was a worried man. Jack Mason’s murder had thrown his plans completely. The boys from the Yard were involved and the Station Inspector had made it plain that they were to get full co–operation. Stockbridge knew the identity of the man seen running from the scene of the crime. He had had his eye on Ross for some time, and his snout had informed him of the strained relations between Ross and Mason.
The detective was certain Johnny Ross was his man, but before he named his suspect he thought he should have a word with Allen the bookie. As he walked up towards the offices in Wilson Street Fat Stan saw Tony Allen standing at the door.

  ‘I’ve bin expectin’ you, Stan. Let’s go over the road fer a drink,’ Tony said.

  The Jamaica was almost empty at that time of the morning. There were only one or two regulars sitting around the small bar.

  ‘Give us a Scotch an’ soda an’ a gin an’ tonic, luv,’ Tony Allen said to the barmaid. ‘Oh, an’ can we use yer snug bar? We’ve got a bit o’ business ter take care of.’

  Doreen flashed Tony a smile. ‘I’ll unlock it,’ she said. ‘You’ll be okay in there.’

  When they had seated themselves and the drinks were in front of them Fat Stan looked hard at Tony. ‘Look, I can’t afford ter mess around, Tony. Murder’s way out of my league. The Yard are involved. You gonna put a name my way?’

  Tony Allen smiled. ‘I’d like ter ’elp yer, Stan. Jack Mason had ’is own little fings goin’ fer ’im. I ’ad nuffink ter do wiv’is killin’. I know we ’ad our differences, but ’e was straight wiv me. ’E wasn’t turnin’ me over, if that’s what yer fink.’

  The detective toyed with his glass. ‘You’ve read the papers? Yer know we’ve got a description of a man seen runnin’, or rather, limpin’ out of the turnin’?’