by KJ Charles
Finally, too soon, the music came to a stop and they halted in a swirl of silver and crimson. Maisie beamed up at him.
“Excuse me.” It was a woman standing next to her. “May I ask, where did you get that divine frock?”
“Maison Zie,” Maisie said immediately. “This is an early model.” She spoke in cut-glass English, disturbingly like Phoebe’s accent, with no hint of her usual Welsh lilt. Will clamped his expression into the poker face he’d learned in the army.
“Really. And where—” The other woman leaned in to ask more, her attention clearly snagged, and a couple of other ladies gathered round. Will glanced over to see the musicians taking a well-earned breather. He caught Maisie’s eye, jerked his head to indicate he was going off to find the lavatories, and received a tiny nod.
He wasn’t sure where the facilities were, so he headed towards the back of the building. It was crowded, and very noisy. He weaved his way through the crowd, glanced around involuntarily as someone shrieked in his ear, and almost walked into one of the horribly-jacketed waiters. The man uttered a muffled curse and staggered back, grabbing at his salver to prevent the bottles on it from going flying.
“Sorry!” Will said. “I’m awfully sorry, that was my— Sir?”
The waiter’s eyes snapped to his. They stared at one another with horrified recognition.
“Good God,” the waiter said. “Darling? I mean, I beg your pardon, sir.”
“Don’t.” Will had no idea what else to say, because the man in front of him, weary-eyed in his garish coat, was Lieutenant Michael Beaumont, who he had served with in Flanders.
He’d been a friendly young soul when he arrived in the trenches in ’16, as naive as any other boy fresh from public school, but not too proud to learn from hardened men like Will, who was older by two years on paper and, by then, about two decades in experience. Beaumont had made a reasonable fist of things, and been a good fellow as brass went. But he was still an officer, a giver of orders, of a different class to the enlisted men. And here he was now, working as a waiter while Will drank champagne.
He wanted to say What happened?, but he could doubtless guess. Times were hard, jobs were scarce, land taxes and death duties had hit the upper classes to shattering effect. You heard stories of men getting into taxis driven by their old commanding officers, or going to a West End theatre for a night out and seeing them dancing on the stage. This was the first such encounter for Will, and he felt embarrassed on Beaumont’s behalf and his own.
Beaumont gave him a brief, awkward smile. “You look well.”
“Thanks. Yes. I, uh, I have my own business now.”
“Congratulations.”
Will scrabbled for something polite to say in return. “Have you been working here long?”
“A year or so. Needs must.”
“It’s rotten finding anything these days. I had a devil of a time before I got my shop.”
“You look prosperous enough.” Beaumont winced, as if he’d realised that sounded ungracious. “Which is jolly good. Look, I must dash, old chap—sir. The customers want their fizz.”
“Wait. Can you stop for a drink?”
“More than my job’s worth, I’m afraid. I can’t just stand around and chat.”
“How about lunch?”
Beaumont blinked. Will would have blinked in his position. He hadn’t been a how about lunch? sort of man back in the trenches; he’d have suggested a pint, if anything, but probably he wouldn’t even have thought of asking because Beaumont had been his superior. This was what mixing with the upper classes did to you.
“Well,” Beaumont said. “Yes, why not?”
They quickly fixed up a time, choosing dinner rather than lunch because of Beaumont’s peculiar schedule, and he went off with his silver salver laden with bottles. All champagne, Will noted, and the club charged thirty shillings for a bottle of the sweet, tinny stuff that couldn’t have cost them ten. Nice work if you could get it.
He made his way to the gentlemen’s facilities. The band had struck up again when he returned, and Maisie was dancing with a very youthful-looking man. Will didn’t feel quite like finding another girl; he was uncomfortable and self-conscious knowing his old officer was heaving trays around, pouring champagne for other people. He filled his glass and watched for a while, then decided to head up the stairs for a nosey around the balconies.
He went up at a leisurely sort of pace. The lower balcony was busy with chattering groups, except for a clear space between the staircase and the door of the office room. The tables up here were swanky marble-topped ones, heavier than the flimsy things downstairs, presumably in order that people didn’t move them around. Will carried on up to the higher balcony.
This was a lot less crowded, and a lot of the conversations up here seemed to happen with heads together. It looked to be where Maisie’s desperate characters gathered: there were some obvious tough customers, including a group in flash check suits talking louder than they needed to, much as if inviting other people to be annoyed by them.
Will took an empty table and sat down with his champagne to watch. The flash lot laughed raucously. A smarmy-looking bloke at the far end of the balcony was visited by three separate Bright Young People in ten minutes, each of them looking as though they wanted something rather urgently. It was fascinating people-watching, and he was startled when a voice by his elbow said, “Good evening, sir. May I join you?”
Will turned to see a tall, broad, powerfully built man of about forty, with a raddled look that spoke of late nights in smoky rooms, and the sort of very even, very white teeth that came out of a cardboard box. Will gestured to a free chair without enthusiasm, wondering if he was about to be touched for a drink.
“Thank you. My name’s Fuller, Desmond Fuller.”
“Evening,” Will said, not troubling to sound welcoming. He’d taken against the teeth.
Fuller pulled out the chair and sat, apparently unsnubbed. “This is your first visit, I think?”
That suggested either Fuller was a habitué of the High-Low, or he worked here. “That’s right. I heard good things of the band. All true.”
“Mrs. Skyrme prides herself on quality in all she does. No expense spared. She looks after her customers, and I look after her.”
That sounded slightly like a threat, somehow. Will gave him a neutral sort of nod. “Is that the proprietor?”
“That’s right. She takes a close personal interest in every part of the club.” Fuller smiled, revealing his white teeth again. “I’m sure you’ll meet her later. It’s a busy night.”
“I’d be glad to make her acquaintance. Are you management?”
“The floor manager. Second in command, though not a close second.” Fuller gave a practised chuckle at what was clearly a standard line.
“Floor and balconies, I suppose,” Will said, since they were doing weak jokes. “Interesting layout this place has. Did Mrs. Skyrme have it done?”
“The building was being gutted anyway. She’s a remarkable thinker. A born night-club proprietor, nothing but the best. And you, sir. Are you here for the dancing?” Will nodded. “With the young lady in the remarkable dress.” Fuller glanced down at the floor, where Maisie was happily shimmying with a different young man. “Is she a regular partner of yours?”
Will prickled instantly. It was something in the man’s tone, the hint of quotation marks around ‘partner’. “What’s it to you?”
Fuller gave him a men-of-the-world smile. “We like to get to know our guests. It helps us provide what you want.”
That sounded like an offer. Of girls, or perhaps dope: Will wouldn’t put much past this chap, based on very little more than the instant personal dislike. “All I want is a place to take my girl dancing and have a drink without watching the clock.”
Fuller’s smile suggested complicity. “We remain hospitable at all times.”
“How do you manage that? Because I’ve no desire to find myself in the dock in the morning.�
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“We take great care to keep on the right side of the law. No need to worry, Mr...?” He paused invitingly.
“Darling. Will Darling.”
Fuller’s eyes snapped to his. “Mr. Darling. I see. How good to meet you, Mr. Darling. And are you here on business?”
Will looked around. It was still a night-club. “I’m here for an evening out. Is that a problem?”
“We encourage a little separation between the levels. Private conversations on this balcony. So if you’re just here for the dancing, you can rejoin your young lady now.”
Well, that was him told. Will had absolutely no desire to move now he’d been ordered to, but he could see Maisie heading back to their table down below, so he made himself nod and stand.
Fuller gave him a toothy smile, and followed him back down to the ground floor where Maisie waited. He greeted her with ostentatious politeness. “Good evening, miss, and may I say how delightful it is to have such a fashionable young lady here. I hope you’re enjoying the High-Low.”
“It’s lovely, thank you. I’m having the most delightful time.”
Fuller stayed for a few moments more, larding her with fulsome compliments interspersed with enquiries about what clubs she usually frequented. At last he left, shaking Will’s hand and bowing to Maisie.
She scootched her chair closer so she could speak in Will’s ear. “Who was that ghastly man?”
“The manager.”
“What was he up to?”
“Not a clue. He chucked me off the upper balcony. Well, not off. Out of.”
“You wouldn’t want off,” Maisie agreed, glancing up. “Why?”
“That’s where the trouble is. There’s a dope dealer at work, plain as day, and a set of racecourse terrorists if I’m any judge.”
“No!”
“And the manager fellow knows all about it. He came to snout out what I was doing up there and gave me my marching orders when I said I wasn’t on business. This place is a pit.”
“How shocking! Goodness me.”
She looked thrilled, which was fair enough. Half the fun of this sort of evening was seeing people behaving badly, at either end of the social scale. “Apart from that, how’s your evening?”
“Wonderful. I’ve had five compliments on my dress, three requests for the name of the designer, and two indecent proposals.”
“What?”
“Don’t get on your high horse. Except if a fish-faced twerp in a blue blazer comes over here, you can get on your high horse with him any time. How about you?”
“I served with one of the waiters. He was an officer of my battalion.”
“Goodness! Really?”
“Lieutenant. I used to call him sir, and now he’s serving the champagne and I’m drinking it. It’s pretty odd. I’ve arranged to have dinner with him. He couldn’t stop and talk.”
“Well, no, not while he’s working,” Maisie said. “We don’t all have customers who like us to be rude. Shall we have another dance?”
They had several. Will was thirsty when they returned to their table at last, and tired of the cloying champagne. He ordered a beer, and a gin and tonic for Maisie. These arrived shortly, and so did a woman—middle aged, with brass-blonde hair, many strings of clashing beads, elbow-length satin gloves, and a frock made of layers of satin and net. She sat down uninvited, announcing, “Hello, I’m Theresa Skyrme,” and smiled, red-lipped, at Maisie.
“Mrs. Skyrme?” Will said. “The owner here, yes?”
“That’s right. So nice to meet you, Mr. Darling. And this is Miss...?”
“Jones.”
“Miss Jones,” Mrs. Skyrme said, giving a strong impression of amusement at a lazily chosen alias. “I don’t think we’ve seen you here before, Mr. Darling?”
“First time.”
“How charming of you to honour us with your custom.”
She was still smiling, but Will would have put money the words were sarcastic. He could see Maisie’s brows drawing together. “You’re welcome,” he said, and wondered what the hell sort of place they were in.
“Mr. Fuller tells me you were on the upper balcony,” the lady continued. “Some people prefer the view from up there. Was there anything you wanted to see?”
“I like watching people. You’ve got an interesting sort of clientele here.”
Her lips curved, but her eyes sharpened. “Oh, we have some wonderful visitors from all walks of life. Were you hoping to meet Brilliant Chang? Wally Bunker, perhaps? You never know: you might even bump into Tommy Telford some time.”
Will met Maisie’s eyes. She gave a tiny, baffled shrug. “Sorry, I don’t know any of those people.”
“What is it you do, Mr. Darling?”
“I run a bookshop.”
“A bookshop,” she repeated. “How lovely. And you like watching people. Do you have the chance to do much of that in your bookshop?”
“You’d be surprised.” She was giving him the same grating feeling he’d had from Fuller, a sensation of hostile cross-examination. Maybe they had to be careful about their clientele; he didn’t care. “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Skyrme, but we won’t take up any more of your time. Goodbye.”
Mrs. Skyrme took that heavy hint and left with more protestations of how delightful it was to meet them both, and a last pat on Will’s arm, assuring him, “I hope you’ll tell your friends all about us.”
Maisie took a long swallow of her gin and tonic. “What a dreadful woman.”
“Rotten,” Will agreed. “I don’t like this place, Maise. The band’s good, but I don’t care for the management one bit.”
“Let’s not come here again. Are you sorry I picked it?”
“Course not. As long as you’ve had a good time, that’s what matters.”
She smiled at him. “It’s been marvellous.”
Chapter Two
Will met Beaumont for dinner a few days later. He looked worse under the brighter lights of the Lyons Corner House: the youthful good looks Will remembered from Flanders had been defeated by time and the ravages of late nights and cigarette smoke. Still, he wore a genuine smile as he approached the table, and they shook hands like old friends.
The conversation started off in the usual manner: listing of the dead and the scattered living, with suitable noises of commiseration.
“Do you recall Bill Taylor, Captain Taylor?”
“Poor old chap. Didn’t he go to some shell-shock recovery place?”
“It didn’t do much good. His family got him a couple of posts when he was out of hospital but he couldn’t hold anything down. Blew his brains out at the end of last year.”
“God.”
“Not the land of milk and honey we were promised, is it?” Beaumont made a face. “I’m glad to see you well. How did you come to have a bookshop? I didn’t have you down as a reading man.”
Will gave a brief account of the miseries of his long unemployment, and the stroke of luck that had been reconciling with his long-estranged uncle. “He was delighted to see me. He was old and ill by then, and he’d never married. He gave me work, and said he’d teach me the trade, but then he fell sick.”
“That’s a shame.”
“It was. I wish I’d known him better. But I was there to look after him in his last days. And he left me everything.”
“I say!”
“Not that it’s untold riches,” Will hastened to add. “But the shop’s a going concern and he owned the building, so I’ve a secure roof over my head. I’m blasted lucky.”
“All right for some. Remember Captain Yoxall? He’s an earl now, lucky blighter. I wish I had a wealthy relative on his deathbed.”
Will wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Beaumont made a face. “Sorry, I’m sure you weren’t glad your uncle popped off. All the same, though—”
“I know what you meant,” Will assured him, rather than waiting for him to dig himself further into that hole. “What’s it like at the club?”
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�Oh, I make ends meet. Awful hours, and the pay’s only adequate, but the tips are astonishing. Bring some American bootlegger or South African diamond nabob a bottle of sweet fizz, bow and scrape a bit, and he might leave a fiver on the table. Not what I thought I’d be doing after the war but needs must.”
“It seemed a bit of an odd place,” Will suggested.
“How’d you mean?”
“Well, I can’t say I took to that chap Fuller.”
“Oh, God, who would.” Beaumont gave a short laugh.
“And I went up to the top level and there were some pretty unsavoury characters there.”
“It’s a sink. A classy sink, one of the classiest, but there’s night-clubs and night-clubs, and the High-Low is definitely the latter, if you follow me. There’s two dope dealers who work alternating nights so the Smart Set can get their pick-me-up, and there’s always one East End gang or another sniffing around looking for trouble.”
“I saw some of them. Isn’t that a bit of a problem?”
Beaumont puffed out his cheeks. “Not so much now. Those chaps you saw are Wally Bunker’s lot, Mrs. Skyrme’s pet gangsters. She has them around because of last year. We had a pack of thugs descend on us, smashed up the place one Saturday, and swaggered in the next to demand drinks on the house all night if we didn’t want them to do it again. It’s a hazard of the business, but they didn’t reckon with Fuller. He had a set of his own thugs waiting for them and there was the devil of a scrap. He was wielding an iron bar, for God’s sake. Caught one chap and broke his arm in three places.”
“Are you serious?”
“Damned right. We didn’t have any more trouble out of them, and Mrs. Skyrme brought in Bunker and his pals as regulars so it didn’t happen again. Even she thought Fuller had gone overboard.”
“Sounds nasty.”
“He plays the smarmy floor manager well enough but he’s a mad dog when she lets him off the leash. I recall when he found out some scrap of a barman was pocketing change—a matter of shillings, but it took two of us to pull him off the poor little sod. Flanders was a rest cure by comparison. I must say, I envy your bookshop. It would be nice to have a bit of peace and quiet.”