Sisters Three

by Jessica Stirling

  He was still several years short of fifty but drink had reduced him to a wispy, grey-haired wreck without relative or friend in the world, give or take the odd publican.

  Giffard had once been an upstanding citizen, sought by fine-press publishers for his ability to design and set their flagship productions. In the course of eight days in the winter of 1932, however, his wife and two half-grown sons had fallen victims to influenza. Back in 1918 he had lost his mother and sister to the same virulent disease but in those days he’d been too caught up in making money to grieve for long. Losing his wife and sons had pitched him into black despair, however. There was no redemption from that sad condition and soon he had little else to live for but his next mouthful of whisky.

  The stink of the close in Waldorf Street made Tony catch his breath and Penny snatch her scarf up over her nose. Foul air hung against the light from the shattered windows of the landing and the girl was careful not to touch the walls or bannisters as she picked her way between broken glass and the river of filth that flowed from the ground-floor lavatory.

  Dominic led the way. Tony followed behind Penny, his gaze fixed on her polished black half-boots and the brand-new leather attaché case that bumped against her calf. She’d refused to relinquish the case even for a moment, had sat in the rear seat of the Wolseley with her long arms wrapped around it as if it were a delicate child. He knew that the case contained the engravings from which Dominic’s team hoped to produce a million pounds in counterfeit English banknotes, even more if the product stood up to inspection and viable channels of distribution could be established and maintained. He was dazed by the scale of the operation, more scared than excited, but he was part of it now whether he liked it or not, and was relieved that Dominic still trusted him and that his affair with Polly had not been uncovered.

  They climbed past a third-floor lavatory that had no door at all.

  In the closet, knickers around her ankles, a small girl perched precariously on the overflowing bowl. She watched them pass without embarrassment.

  ‘Oh God!’ Penny murmured. ‘How can people live like this?’

  ‘Because they’ve no choice.’ Dominic’s voice sounded strange, screeching a little like chalk on slate in the dank tenement stairwell. ‘You may say that they do have a choice, Penny, but I can tell you that they do not. Have you nothing to match this in Vienna?’

  ‘Vienna?’ she said. ‘No, nothing like this in Vienna.’

  ‘Or Philadelphia?’ Tony asked.

  Penny did not answer.

  They lingered on the half landing to listen to the rat-like scutter of the child’s bare feet, heard a woman’s shout, savage as a battle-cry, a slap, a shriek and a door slam. In silence they climbed up to the fourth floor where Dominic knocked on one of the peeling doors.

  The letter-box had no lid. Through the opening Tony could make out a patch of worn linoleum covered with old newspapers. He could smell gas and the stench of a burnt frying pan and other odours, the old, undying breath of stark and inescapable poverty that he’d almost forgotten existed since he’d stopped collecting protection money in the backland tenements of Gorbals and Govan.

  ‘Is that you?’ said a voice from behind the letter-box.

  Trousers, stained and soiled. Dangling from a claw-like hand was a half-pint bottle of Old Highland Dew, the cheapest whisky on the market.

  ‘Yes, Douglas, it’s me,’ Dominic said. ‘I told you we’d be today.’

  ‘Have ye brung the stuff?’

  ‘I’ve brought the stuff, yes.’

  ‘Who’s that wi’ ye?’

  ‘Tony Lombard. And a friend, a lady. Are you decent, Douglas?’

  ‘Aye, ah’m decent.’

  The door opened abruptly, releasing a rush of sodden air.

  ‘Come on, come in,’ said Dougie Giffard, ‘afore y’ catch your death.’

  It had been a dozen years or more, Tony reckoned, since the kitchen had been properly scrubbed. The woodwork was layered with grease, the old-fashioned iron fireplace draped with vests, stockings and shirts as damp as the room itself. There was no fire in the grate, only a heap of cold cinders that spilled on to the newspapers on the floor. Curled on the cinder heap was a fat ash-grey cat. It opened one sleepy eye, surveyed them for a moment then leapt up and scurried under the bed in the alcove.

  ‘Frobisher,’ Dougie Giffard informed them. ‘I was settin’ a full eight-volume edition o’ Frobisher’s Travels for Mackenzie-Clark at the time I got her. She shouldn’t have a man’s name, I suppose, but the boys fair liked it. They ca’ed her “Frobe”. She slept on the foot o’ their bed. Not here, though. We was at a better place down near the Cross in them days.’ He knelt stiffly and scratched his nails on the carpet of newspapers. ‘Come on out, Frobe, say hullo t’ wur visitors.’

  But the cat would have none of it and remained hidden under the bed.

  Giffard lurched to his feet, and held up the bottle.

  ‘Fancy a wee snifter then?’ he offered.

  ‘No,’ Penny said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Ah’ve a cup somewhere.’

  ‘No. No, really.’

  ‘She your sweetheart, Mr Manone?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Douglas. She’s the lady I told you about.’

  ‘Penny?’ Giffard said. ‘Aye, well, is that not most appropriate?’

  Why had Dominic chosen to reveal his secrets to this grimy wee man, Tony wondered, and what role, if any, would he play in the deal that Dominic was putting together?

  ‘Nobody is going to drink with you, Douglas,’ Dominic said. ‘Put that damned bottle away. You can plaster yourself out of sight later if you wish but right now you’ve a piece of business to do for me and you’d better keep your head clear. How much have you had today?’

  ‘Half, just the half bottle.’

  ‘How much is that compared to a normal day?’

  ‘Half again,’ Giffard said. ‘I can stop any time I like, ye know.’

  ‘And the band played “Believe if it you like”,’ said Dominic.

  Giffard wore flannel trousers and a collarless shirt adorned with egg yolk and cat’s fur. There was no evidence of food in the kitchen, though, save for a frying pan half-submerged in a sinkful of water under the window and a chipped soup bowl filled with a lumpy white substance that may have been haddock-in-milk. The position of the bowl on the floor indicated that Frobisher at least was well fed.

  ‘I can do it, Mr Manone. I’ve done it afore, remember.’

  ‘Things were different in those days,’ Dominic said.

  ‘I done it for your old man. We never got caught neither.’

  ‘I know,’ Dominic said gently. ‘Put the bottle away, Douglas.’

  Tony watched the claw tighten on the whisky bottle, then Penny pushed the scarf from her mouth and held out her hand.

  ‘Give it to me, Mr Giffard. I will keep it safe for you.’

  ‘You’re a Jew, aren’t ye, lass?’ Giffard held out the bottle. ‘I done a Talmud once, y’ know. Set in Hebrew characters. Two rabbi leanin’ over me for weeks just t’ make sure it was right. By God, they were educated men. Fussy, though, so fussy I thought I’d never get done. Quarto page size on hand-made paper wi’ hand-cut capitals. Grand job when it was finished. The rabbis were fair pleased wi’ it.’

  ‘Are you a Jew, Mr Giffard?’ Penny said.

  ‘Not me.’

  She placed the bottle on the table behind her.

  ‘How can you tell that I am Jewish?’

  Giffard tapped his nose. ‘You might be a woman but you’ve the same clever look about ye that yon rabbis had. Okay, you’ve taken mah bottle an’ you’re carryin’ the case so sling it up here on the table an’ show me what you’ve brought.’

  Penny glanced at Dominic.

  He nodded.

  She lifted the attaché case, braced it against the table’s edge, and opened it.

  Tony looked to the window. The glass was so clouded that he could barely make out the adjace
nt tenements. No one could possibly see into the kitchen even if they were perched on the roof.

  He stepped closer as Penny lifted out the plates.

  She held the blocks, one in each hand, for Giffard to study.

  The printer’s vagueness vanished. He put a hand on Penny’s sleeve.

  ‘Who done these?’ he said. ‘Nobody from round here, I’ll bet.’

  ‘They were engraved abroad,’ Dominic said. ‘That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘I’m not just standin’ here for the good o’ mah health,’ Giffard said. ‘If I’m expected t’ manage the printin’ then I’ll need t’ have a closer look at those.’

  ‘Give them to him, Penny,’ Dominic said.

  Penny slid the blocks on to Giffard’s grubby palms.

  Some residue of professional pride stirred in the man. The agitated trembling in his hands ceased as soon as he touched the plates. He carried them to the draining board by the sink under the window and put them down. He opened a cupboard beneath the sink and fished out an old cardboard box, opened it and dug out a rectangular reading glass. He rubbed the glass on the sleeve of his shirt, sighted against the light from the window, rubbed again.

  It was so still in the kitchen that Tony could make out the clang of a shunting engine from the goods yard a half-mile away. He felt excitement tighten the muscles of his stomach as he watched Giffard go to work. All that had gone before, plus all the stuff he hadn’t been told about, hinged on the printer’s judgement. He had already guessed that Giffard was a forger who had done work of this kind for Carlo Manone. He wondered if it was Giffard’s efforts that had furnished Carlo with the stake he needed to buy his way into the American rackets.

  Giffard examined the face plate minutely through the reading glass. His thoroughness was reassuring. Tony noticed that the cat had come out from hiding and was squatting among the ashes, watching too.

  ‘Bloody Britannia!’ Giffard let out a wheezy chuckle. ‘By God, whoever done this got bloody Britannia right. I’ll need a lot more magnification t’ be certain but so far it looks prime. I’ll have it up to twenty-fold enlargement t’ compare against the genuine article but it seems t’ be a model engravin’ so far.’ He turned. ‘No one man done this. It’s a team effort. What’s your connection wi’ the team, lass, an’ why did they trust you wi’ somethin’ so valuable?’

  ‘I am only the courier,’ Penny said.

  ‘Did you know it was a workshop job, Mr Manone?’ Giffard said. ‘There’s a deal o’ money invested in producin’ a plate of this quality. Will that kinda money be invested in the printin’ too?’

  ‘What do you mean, Douglas?’ Dominic asked.

  ‘An accurate engravin’s only the start,’ Giffard said. ‘The plates’ll have t’ be doctored for mass-production. Paper an’ ink must be dead right too.’

  ‘I haven’t seen the paper yet,’ Dominic admitted.

  ‘British notes’re printed on paper manufactured from Turkish flax,’ Giffard said. ‘But it’s used flax, rags in other words. It’s bleached an’ washed for paper-makin’ an’ that’s what gives such a funny tint to the finished product. It’s bloody hard to replicate, believe me.’

  ‘What else will we need to do?’

  ‘Add chemicals to the ink. In circulated notes oil from the ink seeps into the paper, so we’ll need a suitable chemical to release the oil to give the forged notes the right look of age. It can’t be done mechanically.’

  He held the plate balanced on the tips of his fingers. His nails, Tony noticed, had been bitten to the quick and the fingers looked blunt and clumsy. Considerable dexterity would be required to alter the plates and hand-set the numbers. Numbering, he reckoned, would be a major problem if the print runs were going to be large enough to be profitable.

  He said, ‘What will you do about the serial numbers?’

  Giffard said, ‘Cut slots in the face plate an’ set the serial numbers in moveable type. Bulk runs’ll need several different sequences. We’ll need to cut a second slot for the Chief Cashier’s signature too, for it can be changed overnight. I take it, Mr Manone, this isn’t a tuppence-ha’penny exercise, like last time?’

  ‘No,’ Dominic said. ‘We intend to leak at least half a million notes into circulation over the next couple of years.’

  ‘Tall order,’ Giffard said. ‘Will you sell the notes through the black market or push them on the international exchanges?’

  ‘Both,’ Dominic said.

  ‘Then we’ll definitely need a perfect type face for the serial numbers.’

  ‘Do you know what that type face is and where it can be obtained?’

  ‘Aye, I think ah do,’ Giffard said. ‘If it can’t be got easily then I’ll cast it myself – if you’ll supply the equipment an’ a quiet place t’ work.’

  ‘How long will all this take?’ said Penny.

  ‘Longer than ten minutes,’ Giffard said.

  ‘Can we have marketable notes by Easter, do you think?’

  ‘Not a hope’s Hades, lass,’ Giffard said and with an apologetic little shrug, handed her back the plates.

  * * *

  The Wolseley, like the girl, had a mind of its own. Steering was heavy, the gear lever imprecise. Tony concentrated on maintaining a steady speed on the drive back to Breslin. Slumped in the broad rear seat, Dominic seemed half asleep. The girl, up front, knelt with her back to the windscreen, her arms on the seat back so that she could look directly at Dominic while she challenged him, bitching, Tony thought, like any wee Glasgow sweetie-wife with a grievance against the world.

  ‘You promised me you would be in production by Easter,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t promise you anything of the sort,’ Dominic murmured.

  ‘Why do you want to employ that filthy little fellow? He will be drunk all of the time. I will not have him in my house.’

  ‘It isn’t your house,’ Dominic reminded her.

  ‘He will bring the cat with him.’

  ‘Well, he isn’t gonna leave the cat behind,’ Tony said.

  ‘That filthy man, that filthy cat.’

  ‘Don’t you ever listen?’ Dominic said. ‘Didn’t you hear what he told us?’

  ‘Is he the best you can find?’

  ‘He’s the best there is,’ Dominic said. ‘He made over a hundred grand for my father just after the war. A single fast production run off plates that weren’t up to scratch. If you want an expert forger, Giffard’s your man.’

  ‘It is the past, you are delving into the past.’

  ‘That’s probably true,’ said Dominic.

  The light was fading fast now the sun had gone down. The distant hills had lost the pale rose glow that defined their contours. Trees and hedgerows were etched black against the skyline and the bungalows along the road to Breslin seemed more isolated in the wintry dusk.

  Through the steering wheel Tony could feel the road come up at him in harsh gulps. The girl rocked beside him, knees digging into the leather. He heard the scratch of a match, smelled cigar smoke, saw the glow of Dominic’s cigar in the overhead mirror, Dominic’s lips and cheek illuminated.

  ‘You are the wrong person,’ the girl stated.

  ‘For what?’ said Dominic.

  ‘To manage this thing.’

  ‘Well, maybe I am,’ Dominic said. ‘On the other hand, who else are you going to get that will put up with you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Grow up, kid,’ Tony said. ‘This is the best deal you’re gonna get on this side of the English Channel. Maybe you’re used to big wheels moving every time you shake your tail back in Vienna, but this is the deal Carlo Manone set up and this is the deal you’re stuck with.’

  ‘I am not living with that drunkard,’ the girl said. ‘I am not staying alone with him out there at Blackstone. There is no telling what he may do to me.’

  Tony laughed. ‘I don’t know Dougie Giffard from Adam but I reckon he’s about as interested in you as you are in Father Christmas.’

>   ‘You won’t be alone with Giffard,’ Dominic said.

  ‘You will be there?’

  ‘Of course I won’t be there,’ Dominic said. ‘Tony will.’

  The wheel gulped up at him. He dug his elbows into his hips to hold the big car steady. It had already crossed his mind that he might be put in as supervisor, his stint as nursemaid extended. He thought regretfully of his quiet, comfortable apartment, of the routine he’d evolved across the river that had allowed stolen acts of lovemaking with Polly.

  ‘Permanently?’ Tony said.

  ‘Yes, I think it better if you move out there,’ Dominic said.

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as you can.’

  ‘Before Christmas?’ Tony said. ‘I promised my father I’d…’

  ‘Do what you have to, Tony,’ Dominic said. ‘But I want Giffard installed and the machines up and running as soon as possible.’

  The girl turned her head and Tony knew that she was watching him, appeased by the irony of the situation. He should never have allowed her to draw him out of his shell. He felt a sudden surge of panic as he contemplated how uncomfortable it would be to live with one woman while he remained in love with another. He wanted to ask, ‘What about Polly?’ but horse sense told him that the question had no relevance now.

  ‘Tell me what Giffard needs,’ Dominic said, ‘and I’ll get it for you.’

  ‘And me?’ Penny said. ‘What about me?’

  Dominic drew in a mouthful of smoke. ‘From now on you’ll do exactly as you’re told, Penny.’

  ‘And if I do not?’ Penny said.

  ‘Then you won’t get paid.’

  ‘It is not you who will pay me,’ the girl said.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Dominic. ‘From now on you depend on me for everything.’

  ‘How much will you give me?’ Penny said.

  ‘Your fair share,’ said Dominic.

  ‘How much is that?’

  ‘More than you deserve,’ said Dominic.

  And to Tony’s surprise, the girl laughed.

  * * *