Текст книги "The Imposter"

Автор книги: Mark Dawson

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

The men of his battalion were dull philistines for the most part, and he had taken up with them in order not to be lonely and because they could offer him something for a while: conversation, such as it was, and the security of someone to look out for him. There had been moments of joy–watching sun rise above the golden dome of the Shwedagon Pagoda, the freshness of the jungle after the monsoon–but those had been fleeting. It had been a depressing time with his memories the only succour.

Long and tedious marches through the jungle were relieved somewhat by the vivid recollection of his European tour. A trek through France and Italy in search of art and culture, with the nearly unlimited funds of his companion and the benefit of her extensive connections, he perfected his language skills and mingled with the upper class of the continent. They had started in Paris, then moved on to Geneva, then took a trip across the Alps into northern Italy where they visited Turin and Milan. There was a month spent amid the wonderful atmosphere of Florence, a trip to Pisa and then on to Padua, Bologna and Venice. He remembered the sights and sounds of Rome, the masterpieces of painting and sculpture from the Renaissance and Baroque periods, the fabulous architecture. They diverted to Naples to sample Herculaneum and Pompeii, ascended Vesuvius and then, finally, hired a yacht and crossed to Greece before they returned north to Sicily. That was where Edward had made the error that had forced him to abandon the life he had grown to love. He had returned home and accepted his banishment to the Far East.

His reverie was disturbed by muffled shouting from the floor below. There was the sound of a scuffle followed by the unmistakeable retort of a shotgun.

“Old Bill!” Billy shouted, knocking over his chair as he stumbled upright.

The door to the spieler crashed open and a tall, well-built man came through. He was armed with a shotgun, cradling the weapon comfortably in both hands, the smoking barrel held level and aimed into the room.

“Don’t do anything stupid, lads,” he warned. His voice was deep and sonorous, yet unmistakeably threatening. He glanced around, pitiless eyes beneath a strong brow. Edward looked down. He was afraid of his eyes.

No-one moved. Another three men, these armed with revolvers, fanned around the room. The men were good, first checking that no-one was hiding and then ensuring that everyone was within their arc of fire. It was a routine that Edward had learnt and practised when clearing villages from laggard Tojo soldiers in Burma. These men were smooth and thorough, not a word passing between them.

Lennie Masters did not appear to be afraid. He held his ground and said, “This is a stupid move, Spot, even for you.”

“Alright, Lennie. Just take it easy.” He toted the shotgun. “No need for me to use this, is there?”

Joseph got to his feet. “Do you know who I am?” he said.

“I don’t, lad. Afraid you have my advantage.”

“Joseph Costello.”

Spot smiled, the corners of his thick lips angling upwards, his white teeth flashing. “The prodigal son,” he said. “I’ve heard a lot about you. You’ve been in Burma, fighting the nips. Good for you, lad, good for you. I’m Jack Spot. I expect you’ve heard a lot about me, too.”

“I’ve heard you’re a dead man.”

Spot’s laugh was deep and almost attractive, despite his oversized and discoloured teeth. “I see you have your old man’s temper. Pleased to meet you, lad. I’m the new guv’nor around here.”

“You’ve got to be kidding, Jack,” Lennie said.

“Like I say, Lennie, don’t do anything stupid. Let’s keep things nice and cordial, shall we? No-one needs get hurt.”

Everyone else was quiet, but Joseph stared Spot right in the eye. “You’re robbing from a Costello business, you bloody idiot.”

“Less of the salty tongue, lad. You’ve been away too long–your family’s on its uppers. No-one is scared of any of you any more, see? Your old man was something once, but he’s brown bread. His name means nothing now and without that–none of you mean nothing. I’ll tell you what–you be a good lad and deliver a message to your auntie Violet and uncle George and I’ll let you and your mates out of here without touching a hair on your heads. You tell them to clear out of Soho if they know what’s good for them. I’d rather you persuaded them to go quietly, but if they need something to help focus their minds, you be sure to tell them how serious I am.”

Without another word, Spot aimed the shotgun at Lennie Masters and pulled one of the triggers. The blast took off Lennie’s arm at the elbow. He spun around, blood spraying from the frayed stub that dangled from his lacerated jacket. Spot pulled the other trigger and blew Lennie back against the windows, tearing down the old black-out curtain.

There was a moment of shocking silence and then the women started to shriek.

Joseph took a step forward but Spot spun the shotgun around quickly, the barrel pointing directly at him again. “Tut tut, lad,” he said, grinning horribly. “You don’t want to get fresh with me.”

“Like I said–you’re a dead man.”

“You ain’t the one holding the shooter, son. Do me a favour–all that money on the table there, you bag it all up for us, alright?” He threw a canvas sack at him. “And anything else–watches, jewellery, anything behind the bar. All of it, double quick.”

Joseph’s face flushed the deepest crimson. The girls were crying, trying to stop the sobs and gulping air. One of them fainted. Edward watched carefully, drawing no attention to himself but absorbing everything. Spot flicked the barrel in Joseph’s direction and covered him as he dragged the pile of notes from the table and into the mouth of the bag, then went to the bar and emptied the till.

“Chop chop,” Spot said, waving the shotgun, “and your watches and jewellery, all of it. Ladies, too.”

Edward unclipped his watch and dropped it into the mouth of the bag. The others did the same. Spot was either unaware or uncaring of the deadly looks that were aimed at him.

“There,” Joseph said, dropping the bag at the feet of one of the other men. “Done.”

“Good lad. We’ll be on our way now. No hard feelings, but if I were you I’d keep out of Soho for a while. You and your family aren’t welcome here no more. Wouldn’t want the same thing to happen to you as poor Lennie there.”

25

LENNIE MASTERS’S BODY HAD LAIN THERE, half propped against the wall, the arm missing and blood starting to clot around the horrid, vivid wounds. The proprietor said they should leave, and that he would take care of calling the police. They did not argue. There would be awkward questions asked of those who were present. The place was illegal, for one thing, and there was a dead man slumped against the wall. The patrons and staff dispersed, gathering their belongings and hurrying down the flight of stairs and onto the street. No-one spoke. Billy and Jack went home. Joseph and Edward went straight to the Blue Arabian. George and Violet Costello were in one of the booths, locked in conversation with two beetle-browed heavies and a skinny man with buck teeth who was, Joseph suggested, “a big noise in America.” The room was jumping, a large crowd dancing to the Jock Salisbury Quartet, and the music and the smoke-heavy air made Edward’s head spin. They approached the booth, Edward waiting a respectful step away as Joseph waited for his uncle and aunt to acknowledge him. He dipped to George’s ear and spoke quickly. George’s expression darkened and he shared a quick word with his sister. They both made their excuses, leaving the table and hurrying towards the bar.

There was a door to a store room. George shoved it aside roughly and they followed him through: barrels of ale, bottles in crates, rows of empties. Violet looked out of place amid the detritus of the club. She looked glamorous, as always: dressed in a jacket with a high neckline, a knee-length tartan skirt and calfskin pumps with wedge heels. A tiny hat that must have cost a small fortune completed the ensemble. She took a cigarette from her case and screwed it into a holder.

“Not him,” George said roughly, pointing to Edward. “Family only.”

“He was there,” Joseph protested. “And I told you, he’s clever–he might be able to help.”

Edward stood silently, working out the angles.

“Let him stay,” Violet said.

“Fine,” George relented. “What happened?”

Joseph spoke quietly. “Jack Spot and three of his gypsies turned over the spieler on Manette Street. And then they shot Lennie. He’s dead.”

George’s face flickered from fury to confusion and then back to fury again. “Why? He wants a war with us?” He slammed his fist into the wall. The confusion and the frustration stayed, and for a moment he looked like a baffled toddler. He appealed to his sister, “Violet–what do we do?”

“What did he say?” she asked.

“That we’re finished in Soho. That we should clear out. He says he’s the new guv’nor.”

“And?”

“That’s it. He stole anything worth having and cleared off.”

Violet stared at the unlit cigarette but said nothing. She lit the cigarette slowly and carefully. Edward realised that she was as confused as George, but that she was better skilled at masking it. Joseph, too, did not know how to react. Edward had decided when they made their way into the club that he would keep his own counsel, regardless of what Joseph said. He had ideas but he did not want to speak out of turn in case they thought he was being presumptuous. But, watching them flounder, he realised that, in their own ways, they were all paralysed by confusion and doubt. They needed him. He saw the chance and he took it.

“He doesn’t want a war,” he offered carefully.

“Really?” Violet said acerbically.

“No. He’s weighed this up. It might have looked it, but wasn’t a spur of the moment thing. He thinks that shooting your friend is all it’s going to take to get what he wants. He was going to do that all along, it didn’t matter what he did or didn’t say. He thinks you’re weak. He thinks you’ll give up and step away.”

“Weak?” In a sudden movement, George was onto Edward, taking him by the lapels and shoving him against the whitewashed brick wall. He was prodigiously strong. “You don’t know him and you don’t know us,” he said, his face so close to Edward that he could see the bubbles of spittle forming on his bottom lip. “I’ve had people cut into little pieces for saying less than that to me.”

“Uncle,” Joseph said, his tone calm and even. “He didn’t mean it like that.”

“Let him go, George,” Violet instructed.

George pressed harder for a moment and Edward felt the points of his knuckles burying themselves deeper into the soft flesh beneath his shoulders. He released his grip. “Alright,” he said, taking a step back. “Go on then, explain, but watch what you say.”

Edward did his best not to patronise them. “Rational people don’t want to fight, not if they don’t have to. It’s messy and no-one ever ends up with everything they want. Spot is sending you a message that it’s not in your interests to take him on. There was no need to do what he did–Lennie wasn’t doing anything to provoke him and shooting him was gratuitous. That was the message he wanted to deliver–he’s saying that he’s dangerous and unpredictable, that he’ll do anything to get what he wants and if you want to fight him, you’ll have to fight on the same level. And he doesn’t think you’ll be prepared to do that.”

George folded his huge arms, his porcine eyes staring dead straight at Edward. “He’s wrong,” he said. “What a load of old bollocks.” Edward could see that it was just bluster.

Violet lit her cigarette, put the holder to her lips and drew in a sharp breath. “Fine,” she said, exhaling. “If you think you know what he’s doing, why don’t you tell us what we should do about it?”

“Start to close your Soho businesses down.”

“Shut them down?” George laughed harshly.

“And move out.”

“Run away?”

“Let him think he’s getting what he wants. Persuade him you’ve got no stomach for this, a scrap with someone who’ll shoot one of your men for no reason. Prove him right–make it look like you are weak.”

Because you are, Edward thought. Weak and lazy and ripe for the picking.

“And then?” Violet asked.

“And then you plan your next move. All warfare is based on deception. He needs to think that you can’t or you won’t attack him. You sit down. Plan the correct response. And then carry it out ruthlessly.”

“What a load of old bollocks, Violet,” George said dismissively. “We start to move out and every Tom, Dick and Harry will be onto us. They’re like damn sharks. They smell weakness–real or not–and you’re done for. They’d tear us to shreds. Sorry, Joseph, but your mate ain’t clever. He’s naïve. Wouldn’t last five minutes here.”

He knew that he did not have to persuade George. When it came down to it, he would do as he was told. It was Violet, shrew-like and wily, whom he had to persuade. She did not speak. She drew down again on her cigarette, her eyes on Edward and yet distant, as if calculating or toying with a difficult problem. She exhaled smoke up into the vaulted ceiling.

“Come on,” George said, straightening his jacket. His face was set now, his eyes bulging and the line of his jaw pulsing as he clenched and unclenched. “Best get you somewhere we know is safe. You need to think what we do next. I’ll tell you this, and I’ll tell you for nothing–Jack bloody Spot will rue the day he thought he could pull a stroke like this. I’ll have his eyes before the week is out.”

PART FOUR

September – December 1945

CALENDAR

– 1945 –

The Graphic, 25^th July:

SCANDAL AS RETURNING SOLDIERS ABANDONED

– NO JOBS, NO ACCOMMODATION, NO MONEY –

By Henry Drake

The leading London hotels are full of well-fed, well-dressed foreign managers, clerks, waiters, porters. In the Piccadilly Hotel I saw only one English employee, a crippled soldier, who ran a lift, and the messenger boys. Yet London is full of disbanded unemployed soldiers. It is pitiful to see hundreds of young Britons, their breasts covered with war medals, turning barrel organs, the organ having an inscription drawing attention to their services and the unfulfilled promises made them. Sometimes they have a wounded mate appealing mutely to the pity of the cruel city; sometimes a wife and children. Others work in parties of crippled men.

That fate nearly befell Lieutenant Edward Fabian, a handsome medical graduate of Cambridge University who served his country with great distinction in the Far East. Lt. Fabian, who is 29, was awarded the Military Cross for conspicuous bravery in battle yet, rather than being clasped to the breast of a grateful nation upon his demobilisation two months ago, he found himself without any money or accommodation. Thank goodness, then, for kind-hearted local businesswoman Violet Costello who took pity on Lt. Fabian and offered him a job selling cars in her West London showroom…

The Star, 29^th July:

GANG WARFARE IN SOHO

Stern warning was issued to gangland by an Old Bailey judge when he sentenced Patrick Jeremiah Harrigan (25) to 7 years’ penal servitude for razor slashing. “If this is gang warfare then let the rest of the gang take notice,” said the judge grimly. He was told that Kelly, the man slashed, had asked police to let him “fix this mug my own way.”

There was speculation that Harrigan was working for the notorious “Spot Gang”, a criminal organisation rumoured to be in conflict with the Costellos, the Italian family alleged to have been in command of the underworld for many years.

The Star, 21^st August:

YARD HUNTS KILLER GANG

Police and detectives in squad cars today scoured London's underworld haunts for three men who took part in the “Chicago-type” murder last night of a West End gambler. London newspapers said police believed the murder was the result of a sudden flare-up in London's gang land warfare.

The gambler, Leonard Masters, 45-years-old, was shot in front of several women. Newspapers said three men strode into an illegal betting club in Soho, central London, and shot Masters in front of other gamblers and ladies who were found there. The killers ran to a car where another man waited with the engine running and escaped.

26

THE DAYS FOLLOWING THE MURDER of Lennie Masters passed quietly. Edward had no wish to be with Joseph and the others until the immediate aftermath had settled and so he retreated to his bedsitter with a handful of books he had stolen from Foyles and lost himself in their pages. The atmosphere on the street outside his front door appeared normal, unflustered and unchanged, and yet there were signs of discordance if you knew where to look. There were more uniformed police on patrol and Edward had noticed plainclothes men interviewing the owners of the businesses near to the spieler when he went to buy milk from the Welsh Dairy. The Costellos had reacted by bringing more of their muscle into the area, and it quickly became a common sight to see men straight out of Damon Runyan speaking through mouths full of iron filings on the street corners. If Jack Spot had a plan for following the murder then nothing was apparent but then, Edward reasoned, there was little that he needed to do. He had made his point and he would have seen nothing in the Costello’s reaction to make him suspect that he had been wrong in his assessment of them: weak, rudderless, and ready to be driven out. Edward tried not to think too much about it. The frustration at Violet and George’s inane response–which was hardly a response at all–gnawed at him until it was an almost tangible ache.

Edward received a letter from Joseph on the third day after the murder.

Dear Doc,

I understand that it is necessary given the circumstances but being cooped up like this is driving me mad. To stop me from completely going around the twist, I have arranged an appointment for us both today (Wednesday) in Mayfair. There is a pub on Park Street. I’ll meet you there at 3p.m. Don’t be late. Bring an open mind.

Regards,

Joseph

Edward was beginning to feel claustrophobic and depressed in his awful garret and did not need much persuasion to leave it. He took the tube to Mayfair and met Joseph at the pub. The rendezvous was not for the drink that Edward had expected. Instead, Joseph suggested that they should go for a walk. They set off, Joseph leading the way until they reached a grand red-brick Gothic mansion block on the corner of Green Street and Park Street. Edward asked what they were doing there. Joseph smiled and told him to follow. He led the way to the pillared entrance and went inside. Edward asked again what was going on. Joseph grinned even more broadly and set off up a grand staircase that wound its way directly up the middle of the building. He stepped onto the landing on the fourth floor. Two doors led off it, numbered ten and twelve. Joseph withdrew a key from his pocket and unlocked the door for number twelve.

Inside was a beautiful apartment. The wide sitting room featured polished wood floors, a large fireplace and wide French doors that opened out onto a terrace that offered views over Hyde Park. Joseph led the way into a generously-proportioned bedroom, and then opened the door to a second. The room had a wide bed and a chest of drawers and wardrobe that were already full of Joseph’s lovely clothes. There were several packing crates stacked against the wall and one of them was open, revealing a collection of novels. They were penny-dreadfuls, for the most part, but Edward found them rather surprising. He had assumed that Joseph was a young fellow who was cunning but not particularly intelligent, more likely to be out drinking and womanizing than reading. Perhaps he had misjudged him.

“And the kitchen?”

Joseph showed him through to the spacious kitchen. Edward went back through the rooms again, casting about with hungry eyes.

“What do you think?” Joseph said, beaming proudly.

“It’s fabulous. It must cost a fortune.”

“It ain’t cheap.”

He was bubbling with enthusiasm. Edward did not want to think how much a place like that would cost, but he did not want to spoil his mood. “That’s capital,” he said. He thought about his own place, the malodorous bathroom with the door that did not lock, the grimy attic room that looked like it had been lived in by a thousand different people who had never lifted a hand to clean it, and he felt jealous.

“Big, ain’t it?”

“Huge.”

“Reckon it’s too big just for me. Thought you might like it, too? What do you reckon? Me and you?” For once, Edward did not have to fake his reaction: he spluttered in helpless surprise. Joseph seemed taken aback by his response. “You don’t have to, just… you know, if you like?”

He regained his composure. “How much is it?”

“Twenty-five a week.”

“I can’t afford that,” he said, even as he worked out the sums in his head, and wondered whether, if they turned over a few extra houses now again, perhaps, maybe, he could afford it.

“Forget the money. Do you like it?”

“Of course I do. How could you not like it? It’s beautiful.”

“Perfect spot, too. Right where the action is.”

“Joseph–be serious. It’s too much.”

“You worry too much, Doc. Money’s not a problem. We’re going to be well off.”

“With the nonsense from Jack Spot?”

“That’ll get sorted out.”

He had expected that that would be how Joseph reacted to the threat from Spot. He was an optimist and he usually assumed the best. That was naïve. Edward was pragmatic and he suspected that this particular problem would require careful solving. He had heard the rumours the same as everyone else: Spot was upping his game, becoming more aggressive and more acquisitive. The newspapers had reported a spate of attacks on businesses aligned to the Costellos.

A restaurant with a brick flung through the window.

A gang of gypsy heavies standing outside the Alhambra, scaring away all the passing trade.

The proprietor of a general store with a knife pressed against his throat, threatened with violence: stop paying the Costellos, start paying Spot.

Edward shelved his concerns for the moment and wandered across the parquet floor to the French doors. He opened them and stepped out onto the stone-flagged terrace. The streets of Mayfair spread out below him and then, beyond that, the green of Hyde Park, its broad fields still scarred in places with the fading green-brown slashes of anti-aircraft trenches. Edward stared across the vista, the hubbub of the city below full of the promise of excitement and opportunity.

“Come on, Doc,” Joseph said. “All we went through, the war, getting our arses kicked for the King, and they expect us to live like tramps in dirty bedsitters? That just don’t seem right to me. And it’d be fun here, you and me, wouldn’t it? We’d have a proper laugh–two bachelors, a bit of gelt to spread around, a nice place to call home. Think of the laughs we could have, think of the judies we could bring back, you can get a whole different class of girl if they think you have something about you. What do you say?”

Edward didn’t need much in the way of persuasion. “Alright,” he said. “You’re on.”

Joseph was in boisterous spirits as they emerged onto the busy street. He put his arm around Edward and squeezed. Edward’s mood followed his friend’s, and he returned the gesture, both of them laughing at a shared realisation: they were young men, with money and the prospect of making much, much more. Life had treated them harshly for too long, but now a corner had been turned, and things would be different.