Queen of Thieves

by Beezy Marsh

  That got her attention. She sat up straight.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she gasped. ‘Mum would never take anything crooked…’

  Oh, I’m full of surprises. I just couldn’t wait to share them with Nell. My day was getting better and better.

  ‘That was before your dad’s gambling debts got out of hand,’ I said, matter-of-factly. ‘He had a bit more of a flutter after you left to have the baby, think he was quite upset. Likes the dog racing does old Paddy. Turns out he ran up quite a lot on tick.’

  ‘How much?’ a look of panic swept across her face.

  ‘About a tenner, plus interest,’ I said. ‘I stepped in, seeing as you are one of my girls, and I paid it off before the racing gangs could get to him, but he’s paying me back with interest, so I’ve been helping your Ma out, when I can, with a few extra coupons here and there. She lives over in the next building, with the rest of the people from round your way who got rehoused. I told her not to worry because you will make it up to me, won’t you, love? We’re just like one big, happy, family, ain’t we?’

  She swallowed hard: ‘Of course we are.’

  I was so glad that me and Nell were on the same page again. It can be tricky when one of my girls comes out of the nick. You never know if they’re going to have had the spark beaten out of them by the screws or whether fending for themselves has given them a bit too much of a gee, and then they’re like a wild horse, who just needs the bit and bridle to calm them down again.

  Having Nell’s family in debt to me was a nice touch, I must admit, and I hadn’t seen it coming. But then fate does sometimes put chances like that in your lap. I pick them up gratefully and wring every last drop I can get out of them. It’s the connections that matter in a place like the Elephant and Castle; how people all fit together and as Queen of The Forty Thieves, I make the most of that.

  It was a bit of a gamble helping them out because I guessed that Nell didn’t have much time for her dad, after he’d called her a little whore for getting up the duff, but every girl loves their mum, no matter what. So, of course Nell was going to do what she could to help her old ma out, wasn’t she?

  While Nell was still reeling from the shock of learning that her dad owed me money, Molly pulled open a cupboard which was stacked with tins of sardines, evaporated milk and sugar.

  ‘We’re on to a nice little earner, black-market food and goods and fake coupons,’ she said, pointing to the sideboard which was piled high with ration books and packets of silk stockings.

  ‘But things have been getting harder for us in the West End shops. They’ve been catching us at it when we’re hoisting. Seems that the management know we are coming even before we get there, which means someone is tipping them the wink.’

  I chipped in: ‘I reckon that our little sideline of fake coupons and things falling off the back of lorries in Waterloo might have upset a few faces over in Soho.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Nell. ‘Surely no one would be daft enough to cross Alice Diamond and The Forty Thieves? Word would get around and they’d get a belting, for starters.’

  ‘That’s nice of you to say but I have a feeling someone has been grassing me up,’ I said, stirring my tea.

  ‘But who?’ she leaned forward, with a look of real interest. ‘Who’s grassing you up?’

  ‘I have my suspicions, but I need to know more, which is where you come in, Nell. You’re a fresh face, no one over the water will know you are one of my girls, so I need you to go and be my eyes and ears in Soho.’

  ‘What does that involve?’ she said. She weren’t really in a position to say no in any case.

  ‘I want you to go and get a job in one of the clubs down there, it’s run by a fella called Billy Sullivan.’

  ‘Billy who?’

  ‘Calls himself the King of Soho,’ I said. ‘Quite a title but he’s cut a lot of people up West to get it and he runs protection rackets in the clubs, amongst other things.’

  ‘I’ve heard he likes blondes,’ said Molly, brandishing a bottle of peroxide she’d pulled from the sideboard. ‘So, first, we need to sort your hair out.’

  Molly sat by the kitchen sink and coated Nell’s head with a foul-smelling concoction and then covered the lot with an old showercap.

  After about twenty minutes, Nell started fidgeting and scratching her head.

  ‘Sit still,’ said Molly, ‘You’ll get it everywhere.’

  ‘But it’s starting to burn!’ she yelped.

  ‘Alright,’ said Molly, pulling off the cap, ‘let’s get it rinsed then we can put it in curlers for a bit of lift.’

  Nell sat in front of the fire with her hair in curlers for a good hour to help it dry. When Molly handed her a mirror she gasped at her reflection.

  Gone was the mousey brown schoolgirl who had been caught thieving stockings in Gamages. In her place was a platinum haired starlet, someone who wouldn’t look out of place in the Picture Post, stepping out on the arm of a famous actor.

  ‘Blimey, you’re a dead ringer for Jean Harlow,’ said Molly. I moved closer to get a proper butcher’s.

  ‘My, my,’ I said, pinching her cheek. ‘You’ve turned into a proper stunner.’

  She shook her head, as if she didn’t believe me.

  ‘Here,’ said Molly, pulling some make-up out of her handbag. ‘You’ll need to learn how to put this on.’

  Nell took the red lipstick, powder in an enamel compact case with a puff, and a block of black mascara with a little brush. Molly spat in it and it turned inky before she swirled the brush in it and carefully applied it to Nell’s eyes.

  Next, she showed her how to outline her mouth with the lipstick before blotting it on a handkerchief and reapplying.

  ‘That helps it stay put no matter how much you drink,’ she said. The fumes on Molly’s breath at close quarters were testament to that.

  All the months of misery scrubbing sheets in the prison laundry had melted away. The blonde hair set off her big, chestnut brown eyes, making her cheekbones stand out. Those lips, coated with red, were almost indecently kissable. When she smiled, the young woman in front of us lit up, as if she were breathing for the first time in her life. There was something beautiful about her, like a pearl when you hold it in the palm of your hand and it’s all sheeny. I felt a tingle that I usually get when I’m about to nick a particularly lovely fur. This girl was special.

  And what’s more, she was mine.

  ‘Right,’ I said, holding her by the shoulders and taking another good look at her, ‘let’s sort your wardrobe out.’

  She traipsed after me down the hallway like a little lapdog, to the front room, where the clothes rail was still chock-full of hoisted goods.

  There were day dresses in the finest wool cloth which looked so warm and stylish. I knew she couldn’t wait to try them on.

  I slapped her hand away: ‘No! You’ve got to dress the part. You’re supposed to just be a factory girl from the East End, who happens to be good-looking. Fancy clothes will make you stick out like a sore thumb. Here, this’ll do.’

  I pulled out a shapeless utility frock in a rough brown wool, which was every bit as drab as the wallpaper in the hallway.

  ‘Did someone nick that for a laugh?’ she said.

  Well, I wasn’t having that. She was getting above herself already.

  ‘You’ve no idea how hard it’s been! They’re even putting the furs in glass cabinets these days, so no it ain’t a joke. This is all some of the girls could get away with and they risked longer than you had in prison to do it. You’ll find people still willing to pay a decent price for stuff like this, with clothing on the ration.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she stuttered.

  ‘Count yourself lucky you ain’t on the streets,’ I muttered to myself, as I flicked through the rail: ‘Here!’

  I thrust a fair-isle cardigan at her and she took it without saying a word. Next, I gave her a pair of leather ankle boots and a set of fair isle mittens to match the cardigan.r />
  I topped it off with a belted coat in navy blue gaberdine and a navy wool beret to match.

  ‘Get that lot on then,’ I ordered.

  As Nell was hoicking her way into the dress, which was scratchy as hell, I filled her in on Billy Sullivan.

  ‘He owns a quite a few pubs and clubs but his favourite is The Windsor on Wardour Street. I will give you a few outfits for the club in the evening. You can say you got them on tick if anyone asks.’

  I pulled a black skirt and blouse from the rail, along with a polka dot viscose dress and a jacket with a nipped in waist. Her eyes lit up at the sight of those. I wanted her to have something to catch Billy’s roving eye.

  ‘What kind of work do you want me to do in the club?’ said Nell.

  ‘Oh, use your imagination,’ said Molly, lighting a fag. ‘Pretty girl like you will think of something, I’m sure.’

  ‘I see,’ she croaked.

  She’d just had a bun in the oven so the last thing I wanted was for her to get herself in the family way again.

  ‘Just be a bit creative,’ I said. ‘But keep one foot on the floor at all times. Take whatever job he offers you, be nice, and keep your ears open for any gossip but keep your knickers on.

  ‘He likes to have a meet with his fellas on Friday nights at the club. I’ll meet you in a week’s time for lunch at the Lyon’s Tea House on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and you can tell me what you’ve found out and where I can find you when I need to.’

  Molly gave her a handbag and slipped something into it – it was a billiard ball in a sock. ‘Just in case you need to defend yourself, Nell. A smack with that will fend off anything. Works a treat.’

  ‘But what if I don’t find anything out?’ she said. Nell was starting to panic now, even with a secret weapon in her handbag.

  I thought I’d better make myself clear.

  ‘You’d better find something worth saying. I’ve had enough of snitches and I want to know who’s been grassing me up.’

  ‘I probably ought to look in on my parents before I go,’ she said, picking up her suitcase.

  ‘There’s no time for family visits now and your dad ain’t too keen on you showing your face round here anyway from what I’ve heard. Word is, he thinks you are a little slut.’

  She stepped back, as if I’d punched her right in the kisser. I do like to keep my girls on their toes.

  I put my face right next to hers, so she could see into the depths of my eyes, which were narrowing like a cat’s: ‘You ain’t on holiday, you’re working for The Forty Thieves. Now, get going!’

  Chapter Sixteen

  NELL

  Soho, London, February 1947

  The lights of Soho glowed like an ember in the heart of the frozen city.

  People huddled together in doorways, sharing a ciggie and a laugh, while pubs overflowed with punters drinking to take their minds off rationing, food shortages and the relentless cold.

  As I made my way to The Windsor in Wardour Street I must have looked like just another new girl in town, who was down on her luck. Don’t get me wrong, I hadn’t been expecting an easy ride from Alice and The Forty Thieves, but the way she sent me packing had left me feeling a bit punch drunk.

  She had me and my whole family over a barrel but that only made me more determined to get my own back. I knew my plan was going to take some time, but I’d gone from the frying pan into the fire where Alice was concerned.

  It wasn’t even as if I cared about my dad, but I didn’t want Mum to suffer. She was putting up with enough from him without having The Forty Thieves making her life a misery down at Queen’s Buildings.

  Some folks would have thrown in the towel at this point, abandoning any hopes of getting even with someone as powerful as Alice Diamond. But as I picked my way through the filthy backstreets, I realised that this seedy place, full of people splashing their cash, might turn out to be the making of me. Here, I wasn’t the foolish teenager who’d got up the duff. On this side of the river, I was a blonde bombshell looking for an opportunity to shine – and the chance to outwit Alice into the bargain.

  Nothing ever gets handed to girls like me on a plate, I knew that well enough.

  So, as I went down the grimy staircase into the underground club, I took a deep breath and stepped towards my new life.

  A coat-check girl rolled her eyes when I asked if there was any work going. That didn’t put me off. I pushed through the double doors and into a room which was blue with smoke.

  It was like another world in there; it was packed with fellas, tables full of drink, raucous laughter, tunes being bashed out on the piano and on the stage, a row of scantily clad girls were high-kicking their way through a dance routine which left little to the imagination.

  ‘You here for the auditions?’ said the barman, who was bald as a coot and looked like he’d been polishing the crown of his head all afternoon.

  ‘I’m looking for work.’ I tried to muster some enthusiasm. I could hardly believe I was here, dancing to Alice Diamond’s tune.

  The barman looked me up and down.

  ‘You and half of London want a job at the moment,’ he scoffed. ‘You can have a try out after the next act, if you like?’

  I glanced over to the stage.

  ‘But I can’t really dance…’ That was an understatement. I’d always had two left feet.

  ‘In that case you can clear off home, blondie,’ he said, turning his back and running a dishcloth over some glasses.

  The image of Alice Diamond loomed large in my mind for a split second. I got in quick, before he turfed me out: ‘But I can sing.’

  ‘Alright,’ said the barman, turning to face me, revealing a gold tooth as he flashed a smile, ‘you’re on after the next act.’

  The dancers trooped off to a smattering of applause and a thick-set girl with raven hair tumbling to her shoulders teetered on to the stage. She was swathed in strips of white silk that looked like they’d been cut up from a wartime parachute and she was sporting a pair of long evening gloves which reached to her elbows. The silk was draped from her neck almost to the floor, which was quite a sight, and just her toes were visible, in a set of high heels.

  As she started to move to the music being hammered out by the pianist, she became fluid, like water. One by one, the punters stopped talking and turned to stare at her. She was mesmerizing as she shimmied across the little stage, framed by moth-eaten velvet drapes, performing as if it was her moment on the silver screen. When she started to unravel the silk scarves to reveal her creamy white flesh, jaws hit the floor. Her hips took on a life of their own, gyrating and grinding, and as she unwound the silk from her ample bust, she revealed a couple of tassels covering her nipples. She twirled them to wolf whistles of appreciation.

  After five minutes of stripping, this woman was standing starkers, except for a pair of long, black velvet evening gloves. She made a great show of peeling them down her arms and pulling them off before flinging them to her admirers. She finished her act with her back to the audience, giving them the full benefit of her peachy behind, before turning and blowing a kiss, to rapturous applause.

  ‘How the bleeding hell am I going to follow that?’ I said under my breath. I had no intention of taking my coat off in front of this bunch of perverts, let alone my underwear.

  I was just making my way to the stage when the whole club was plunged into darkness and there were a few muffled screams from backstage as the stripper tripped over the dancing girls.

  ‘Power-out!’ yelled a fella.

  Candles appeared from under the bar and matches were pulled from jacket pockets to light them.

  I stumbled up the steps at the front of the podium in the gloom, to shouts of ‘Get on with it or get off!’

  ‘Just get ‘em off!’ boomed another voice.

  ‘Show us your knockers, love!’

  In the flickering candlelight I could just about make out a room full of faces turning to look at me. I blushed crimson and
began to sing.

  My voice was clear as a bell: ‘We’ll meet again, don’t know where don’t know when…’

  And the piano player picked up the tune.

  I sang from the heart: ‘But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day…’

  A few blokes started humming along and when I finished someone at the back yelled: ‘Give us another one, then!’

  The lights came on again just as a stocky man walked in, wearing the smartest pin stripe suit I’d ever laid eyes on, with a silk handkerchief protruding from his top pocket. He had slicked back hair and a toothsome grin and was soon glad-handing blokes at the bar. He accepted a large whisky, lit up a smoke and turned to watch me.

  Well, I stood there, feeling like a complete idiot because when I opened my mouth, no sound came out.

  He sipped at his drink, a smile playing on his lips, his eyes boring into mine with such intensity it made me feel hot.

  ‘Come on, love. Give them something else, keep ’em happy,’ said the pianist, his fingers poised, ready to pick up the tune.

  The candlelight cast shadows up the walls and in that moment, I wasn’t in a Soho dive but back in chapel, singing to give myself hope.

  ‘Come on!’ hissed the pianist. ‘You haven’t got all day, or they’ll turn nasty.’

  I shuffled my feet for a moment, to find my footing on the stage, and then began to sing: ‘Ave Maria, grazia plena, dominus tecum in mulieribus…’

  People stopped talking.

  It was just me, and my voice, filling the room.

  About halfway through the song, I realised the bloke at the bar was still watching me intently. This time, I met his gaze and sang the rest. He glanced away.

  By the time I reached the last ‘Ave Maria’, my voice soared to the rafters and in the silence that followed, you could have heard a pin drop.

  The big fella in the nice suit started to clap first, and others followed, whistling and cheering.

  He whispered something to the barman, who came scampering over as I was leaving the stage, to rapturous applause. It was like being a star at the varieties.

  ‘Mr Sullivan says you have the voice of an angel, but you’d be better sticking to popular songs in his clubs.’