We Promise Not to Tell

by Albert Able

  “Perfectly,” I confirmed, “I’ll attend to it immediately and call you back.”

  “No don’t telephone; I’ll be in the club in one hour see me there.” The line went silent.

  As I arrived at the third floor, the paramedics were just manoeuvring a stretcher carrying the lifeless Louis Gatesby or Killip Obshina, as I knew him, into the lift.

  “Ah Mr Marcus, they want to know his name?” Tom the young porter I had sent to assist the paramedics requested.

  “Louis Gatesby; here” I handed the piece of paper with the details to the nearest paramedic.

  “Thanks” he said indifferently “I guess the police will be in touch.”

  “I expect so; oh and Tom, will you please accompany them to the fire exit and ensure that it is properly closed as they leave.”

  As the lift doors closed behind them, I slipped back into the room and closed the door behind me.

  The small battered case was on the dressing table; I tried the catch it was unlocked and snapped open loudly. Inside I found his toiletries and an electric shaver amongst some dirty socks and a couple of crumpled shirts. The smell of the dirty socks momentarily dominated my thoughts; grimacing I slipped my hands into the pile of dirty linen, lifted it out of the case and dropped it onto the bed.

  Underneath it all, was a manila file, which I picked up as gingerly as I had the dirty laundry.

  Inside the file I found an American Passport in the name of Louis Gatesby and a number of sheets of paper, with what appeared to be lists of horse racing results which I was about to discard but thank goodness I decided to examine each sheet individually because the last page was a list of the ‘silly syndicate’ and several other groups of names, no doubt other equally silly syndicates.

  I removed the page and returned everything else to the case.

  An hour later, I was drinking coffee with Max Harris in his office.

  “This is the list of names you needed to loose.” I passed the sheet over.

  “It is important that you tell the police that you opened the case. You can tell them that you were looking for identification; that will explain how your prints come to be all over the file, okay?” Max smiled.

  “I didn’t think of that” Then I started to wonder in what new drama I had embroiled myself.

  “You see Marcus” Max tapped the sheet of paper. “Your African American friend was ripping people off all over the district, including some of my own friends and that Marcus, breaks the rules. Understand?”

  “I hope so.” I replied not entirely convinced and then as I stood up to leave. “Does that mean that you?” I asked pointing upwards.

  “That you’ll never know my friend, nor I hope will anybody else.” Max smiled again.

  I shivered inside, I had all too clearly seen the consequences of crossing Max Harris and at that moment, I was glad that I was on the same side.

  The police called later that day and took everything away, checked the register and took statements from several of the staff, including me.

  Over the next few weeks, the police called a couple more times and re-checked a few things and that seemed to be the end of it.

  Some time later, Max learned that at the inquest it was shown that a Mr Louis Gatesby had suffered a heart attack and died in his sleep. ‘Death by natural causes’ was recorded and any suspicion of foul play had apparently been dismissed.

  The case was closed and my nightmares ceased at least for the moment.

  When I next saw Jim and Andrew, Jim’s only comment was. “It couldn’t have happened to a better man!”

  The ‘silly syndicate’ were left to face the massive debts they had so foolishly incurred. One of them could not face it all and tragically took his own life; two had their wives walk out on them and it took Jim and the others more than five years to pay back all their loans.

  Andrew on the other hand never forgot that simple old motto. ‘Take a modest profit and run’

  Chapter 4 - Connie

  I will always remember my first meeting with Marcus. In spite of noticing that he was tall, attractive and a very smartly dressed man. I had fully expected that like others before him, he would demand a sexual reward for assisting me. I can now confess that in fact when it turned out that he had no such thoughts; I mildly regretted missing the opportunity to pay. In that same moment in time, I also remember how grateful I was, to who-ever ‘up there’ organises fate and things, particularly as much of my life had been such a muddle of purely spontaneous events so far. Had I had not fallen off that bus, for instance and been fortunate enough to land at the feet of that lovely old tramp and had he not offered his help and the benefit of his wisdom, my life today would have been very different.

  It was later that same day that I learned not only that the old tramp’s name was Stan but also the heartrending story of how he came to be a ‘Gentleman of The Road’.

  It was just after I had settled into my humble room in the ‘staff wing’ and since I was not due to report for duty for an hour, I decided to see if I could find the old tramp again to thank him for his assistance.

  I looked up and down the street near the bus stop where he had helped me. However, there was no sign of him; eventually I asked the hotel ‘Doorman’ if he had seen the old man with white hair, beard and a pram.

  “You mean Stan?” The doorman smiled knowingly.

  “I do not know his name.”

  “Well it must be him, you don’t see him this side of the road much; he’s usually on the other side by the river bank.” The doorman pointed towards the river. “They live in cardboard boxes and the like you know,” he shook his head in wonder adding “must be a bit of a bugger when the weather gets colder?”

  Whenever I could during the next week, I slipped out of the hotel to look for Stan until I eventually found him sitting down by the river walk playing his mouth organ.

  As I approached, he looked up at me and smiled. “Ah there you are little lady I wondered how you were doing?”

  The other tramps sitting with him, which I assumed to be his mates, scurried away. “Don’t pay any attention to them,” Stan apologised “they’re not used to outside company.”

  “I am so pleased to have found you,” I stammered anxious to assure him that I did not mean to intrude. “I just wanted to thank you for your help last week and to tell you that because of you I have a nice job with accommodation.”

  “That is good news young lady.”

  “Connie, my name is Connie.” I offered him my hand.

  “Well nice to meet you Connie.” The old tramp took my hand; the grip was warm and firm. “Mine’s Stan.”

  “Look I hope you are not offended but I would like to give you this.” I offered the five-pound note Naomi had given me.

  Stan looked at the money. “Now that is a very nice gesture but I’ll bet that you need that at least as much as me,” he smiled and politely pushed the note back to me “so thank you but you keep it my dear; I can manage just fine.”

  Although I felt embarrassed, he made me feel at ease. I do not know what it was that drew me to the old man but somehow I knew that he was a good kindly soul with whom I shared a sense of family and affection. We chatted for a while and I returned to the hotel and after that, I would visit most days.

  The days were getting shorter, the weather getting colder and I had discovered that Stan had a passion for ‘Tomato Soup’ so with my first pay packet, I bought two thermos flasks.

  The chef showed no emotion when I explained what I wanted.

  “Ump.” Was all he said as he filled the flasks with piping hot soup but as I turned to go, he added. “Wait a minute,” and vanished into the larder “this’ll only go in the bin.” The chef reappeared wrapping a handful of sandwiches in some paper.

  “I’m grateful Chef.” I said sincerely.

  “Ump.” He tutted indifferently and returned to his preparation.

  “Two flasks of soup and sandwiches?” Stan was clearly delighted as he
stood up. “That is extremely kind of you. Will you excuse me for a moment please?” He walked over to some other tramps sitting under the bridge arch and returned moments later. “Would you mind if I hang onto one of the flasks until you call again?”

  I did not mind, that was precisely why I had brought two of them.

  Over the next few weeks I explained how I came to be in England and my dream to travel the world. Stan was a great listener and rarely interrupted or tried to compete with my conversation. Eventually he seemed to find the confidence to respond and so I learned about his own sad life and how he came to be homeless and drifting.

  “I’ve been on the road for almost ten years now, in fact ever since I lost my family. My eldest son Jamie was killed in Northern Ireland, in sixty-three and then my daughter was killed in a car crash in sixty-seven. My wife just could not come to terms with it. The coroner said it was suicide from an overdose but what ever he said. She died in my arms and I know that it was from a broken heart.” Tears filled the old man’s face and he looked away.

  I reached across and held his hand there was nothing I could say.

  Two weeks later, I called at our usual meeting place and for the first time since I had been making the visits Stan failed to appear. I waited for about twenty minutes and was about to leave when another ‘gentleman’ cautiously approached me. “You looking for Stan?”

  “Yes I am” I nodded.

  “A couple of hundred yards,” he pointed, “his mate’s not well”

  I walked along the embankment and found Stan with another man cradled in his arms.

  Stan was crying. “Oh Bill.” I heard him repeat in a whisper as he rocked back and forward gently hugging his friend.

  After a little while he became aware of my presence. “He’s gone.” Stan shook his head in disbelief. “I knew he was ill but?”

  I moved forward and felt Bill’s neck for a pulse but he was cold and quite obviously dead.

  “They want to put him in the river.” Stan gripped his dead companion protectively.

  I looked up as several more men gathered around.

  “That’s what we do!” One of them offered gruffly as an explanation for Stan’s reluctance to release his friend.

  “But you can’t just throw someone into the river?” I said in amazement.

  “You just keep out of it ‘cos that’s the way it is here." Another snapped aggressively.

  “Now listen, I only want to make sure that Stan’s friend is really dead.” I stood in front of Stan. “I’m going back to the hotel to get Mr Marcus, he’ll know what to do, Okay?” No one spoke. “Okay?” I repeated firmly.

  “Okay, but no police agreed?” The last speaker growled.

  “Agreed” I turned and ran back to the hotel.

  Panting I pounded on Mr Marcus’s office door.

  “Come in” a voice called.

  Marcus was sitting; telephone in one hand a sandwich in the other. “Hang on a minute.” He said into the telephone. “What ever is the matter?” He asked seeing my agitated state.

  As I explained he slowly replaced the receiver, the sandwich remained uneaten.

  “I know old Stan." Marcus acknowledged getting up from his chair. “Alright, you get the receptionist to call an ambulance. Tell her where it has to go.” Marcus grabbed his coat. “Oh and tell them someone has collapsed. They’ll come right away; if they know he’s dead, they’ll take all day!”

  I rushed out and had just given the receptionist the instructions when Marcus marched into the lobby. “Come on, you’d better lead the way.” He waved me towards the doors.

  It was the first time I’d actually talked to Marcus other than ‘Good Morning’, Here’s The House List’ or some other courtesy; once again in spite of the urgency of the moment, I experienced that ripple of excitement in my stomach.

  We found the little gathering of ragged tramps standing around Bill’s prostrate body, which they had wrapped in a worn out old raincoat and were obviously preparing to commit him to the river. Stan, head in hands was sitting away from the group.

  “Hey wait!” Marcus shouted as we ran up to them. “Now look gentlemen, don’t you think that it would be better if you let the authorities deal with this?”

  I went over and bent down to Stan. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  Stan looked up “They want to throw him in the river” he muttered helplessly.

  It was obvious from their stance, that the men were not amused by Marcus’s interference.

  “Wot’s it got to do wiv you mate?” One of the bolder ones asked.

  “I just think that he’s entitled to a proper Christian burial.” Marcus tried to sound conciliatory.

  Another of the men found a bit of courage. “He goes in the river, like the rest of us!”

  “Now look, if you just throw him in the river, he is sure to be washed up somewhere on the next tide. The police will get involved and who knows you could all end up on a murder charge?” Marcus stared and wagged his finger at each of them in turn.

  “It ain’t any of your business so just bugger off” A third man managed to blurt out before the wail of a siren sent all but Stan scurrying towards the protection of the bridge arch.

  “How long’s he been dead?” The first paramedic men asked cynically when they saw the parcelled body.

  “I’m not sure if he is dead. I think they just covered him up to keep him dry?” Marcus replied trying to sound suitably humble.

  The paramedic ignored the comment; they had seen it all before and without further comment lifted Bill’s stiffening corpse onto the stretcher.

  “His name is Bill, Bill Strasser” Stan placed a last farewell hand on his dead friend’s shoulder “he has no family and had only one friend” he choked back a tear and looked up at the paramedics “and he lived here, on the river with us.”

  Nodding understanding one of the paramedics jotted down the information.

  “Yes and I’m Marcus Detori, General Manager of The Riverside Hotel” Marcus passed over his card “perhaps you could note my name and number and let me know about any funeral arrangements?”

  “That’s got nothing to do with us mate; the council will sort all that out but I’ll put your number into the report.” The paramedic pocketed his notebook and followed the stretcher to the waiting ambulance.

  Marcus placed his arm around the desolate Stan’s shoulder. “Now listen my friend, you don’t have to worry any more I will make sure that Bill gets a proper funeral.”

  Stan was holding a small brown paper wrapped package and looked up at Marcus. “Thank you, Bill would have appreciated that” he looked at the parcel in his hands “you wouldn’t know but Bill and I took to the road together, almost ten years ago now; he had this parcel then, said it was for me, ‘something decent to bury you in’ he would always say jokingly.” Stan placed the parcel reverently in his old pram. “I better get going, got to find a new spot; it’s too risky staying around that lot now.”

  “What can we do for him?” I asked Marcus quietly as Stan headed away along the towpath.

  “There is precious little we can do, these kind of people are nomads and don’t usually have any desire to conform to the usual rules of society. After all that is why there here.

  However, I ran after him. “Stan wait!” I called; he stopped immediately and looked back. “How will I find you again?” I pleaded, “I will miss our little talks. It has helped me so much to understand the English way.”

  “I enjoyed them too” he smiled meekly “but I need a few days alone and then, I will find you little lady, don’t worry.” Stan smiled briefly and shuffled away.

  I did not see him again for several days; strangely, I really did miss our little walks along the river, chatting about life in general and so I was naturally delighted, when the hotel doorman told me that Stan had been asking for me.

  “Where is he now?” I asked looking towards the entrance.

  “I sent him around the back.” The Doorman rai
sed a knowing eyebrow.

  I thanked him and headed for the Manager’s office. I knew that Marcus had received a call from the Social Services that morning, concerning Bill’s funeral and was anxious to contact Stan.

  “Stan’s outside.” I blurted out. In those days I was still slightly nervous when addressing Mr Marcus. Mixing with such elevated members of the hotels hierarchy was a considerable mountain to climb for the majority of the younger, especially the lesser skilled members of staff.

  We found Stan waiting near the goods entrance complete with the old pram, which I assume contained all his worldly possessions. As we approached, he stood up from the box he was sitting on and placed a protective hand on the handle of the pram.

  “Hello Stan.” Marcus greeted him and offered to shake his hand.

  Stan looked suspiciously at the gesture before slowly reaching out and accepting.

  “The man from Social Services called me today, they are going to have Bill cremated at one o-clock tomorrow.” Marcus looked at me for a moment.

  “We thought you and maybe some of his other pals would like to attend?” I added.

  Stan thought for a moment and then asked abruptly. “Where is it?”

  “It’s over in Hammersmith. I could organise the hotel mini-bus; we would both like to go with you, if we may?” Marcus replied quickly and looked at me again to support for his impromptu plan.

  I nodded agreement smiling back and displaying a new sense of confidence.

  “How many of the others would want to go along?” I asked Stan as he fiddled nervously with the pram.

  “Don’t know; they were not really his pals, just travelling companions,” Stan sighed. “I was ‘his’ only friend and he was ‘my’ only friend” he paused and scratched his beard “the other problem is that they won’t want to leave their stuff unattended but I’ll ask.”

  “Yes of course, that would be very good if you can.” Marcus nodded acquiescing silently adding. “How about if I could get someone to guard their 'stuff'?”

  Stan stroked his beard in thought. “You can’t be expected to understand but you see, once you find a spot like theirs under the bridge arch. It’s pretty special and if you were to leave it unattended for even a few minutes, someone else would slip into it.”