‘Another of those damned dives!’ commented retired colonels from the depths of their saddle-bagged armchairs. ‘These bally places spring up in the night like mushrooms. Give it six months. Now I remember when I was in Delhi …’
But, under the judicious management of Mr. Tony Rivoli, the Medusa’s growth threatened to outpace even that of the despised mushroom. By now, it occupied the larger part of a complete building, and in addition to its public activities did a flourishing business in catering for private parties in superbly furnished rooms of all sizes.
True, you paid at least nine times the actual value for any food or drink at the Medusa, but, as Tony would point out to the very occasional protesting customer, one cannot run a place in Piccadilly without encountering the white man’s burden, termed by manufacturers with delightful vagueness, ‘overheads’.
Tony was always quite nice about these explanations. In his poorer days, he had been accustomed to his patrons arguing about charges. But if you dared hint that the Medusa Club’s reputation was not quite all it should be, you were quite likely to be submerged in a flood of Sicilian argot, spiced with lively phrases from half a dozen other languages.
Tony was determined to preserve the prestige of the Medusa Club if it cost him his life. It was his favourite enterprise, dear to him as his overspoilt son. The Medusa represented the fulfilment of Tony’s ambition of a lifetime. Already he had politely discouraged several dubious customers, either of whose combined bank rolls would have bought the club five times over.
And now Tony was just a little uneasy about a party that had been meeting a good deal during the past few months in Room Number Seven. Two of them, Lucky Gibson and Jimmy Mills, he knew had been mixed up with racecourse gangs some years ago, when he himself had gambled a fair amount on the turf. And he didn’t like the looks of that Mr. Brightman, who arranged about the room. Of course, the money was always paid promptly, and as far as he knew the party might have been merely an occasional forgathering of old friends.
Standing in the foyer one cool spring evening, Tony saw Lucky Gibson airily pushing his way through the swing doors.
‘Hello, Tony!’ called the little Cockney quite perkily, pushing back a shabby opera hat which completely negatived any sartorial achievement of his expensive suit.
Tony nodded rather coldly in response to the greeting. As a rule, he was just a shade too effusive with his clients – but Lucky was different. Tony did not intend to encourage him. He would have refused to let the party take the room, but for the fact that he knew Brightman was an influential man in the City, and might do him considerable harm where other clients were concerned.
Lucky dropped his cigarette end and ground it under his heel, an action which irritated Tony profoundly. Apart from the fact that his carpet had cost three guineas a yard, he blenched when he thought of certain distinguished members of his clientele who might have witnessed the occurrence.
‘Number Seven, Mr. Gibson,’ he murmured hastily, moving away to the dining hall to welcome a group of guests who had just arrived.
Having progressed leisurely up a heavily carpeted staircase, Lucky poked his head cautiously round the door of Number Seven. The only other person he could see was Jimmy Mills, who was reclining in a luxurious armchair and toasting his feet at the electric fire.
‘Hello, Lucky,’ said Jimmy casually, lighting a fresh cigarette from the end of its predecessor.
‘Isn’t Brightman here?’ demanded Lucky, in some surprise.
‘No,’ answered Mills calmly, leaning over to pour himself another drink from a decanter which stood on a tray beside him.
‘Mix me a drink,’ said Lucky, nervously licking his lips. He seemed far less self-assured now.
‘You sound sweet, I must say,’ commented Mills. ‘Anything wrong?’
‘I’ve had the jitters since last night,’ confessed Lucky.
‘Coo! What was the matter with last night?’ demanded Jimmy, in some surprise. ‘We ’ad ’em on the run proper.’
‘That police-launch was too damn near for my liking,’ admitted his confederate.
‘You’re losing your nerve,’ sneered Mills. ‘Here, drink this.’ He passed over a large tumbler, which Lucky grasped eagerly.
‘What’s the lay-out for tonight?’ he asked presently, when the drink had begun to take effect.
‘The Chief’s got something up his sleeve,’ scowled Mills.
Lucky paused with the glass half-way to his lips. ‘The Chief?’
‘I mean Brightman.’
‘Brightman isn’t the big noise behind this outfit. Don’t run away with that idea,’ advised Lucky.
Well, he is as far as I’m concerned,’ retorted Mills, nonchalantly flicking the ash off his cigarette.
Lucky eyed him shrewdly. ‘You know, Jimmy, I’ve been thinking—’ he began.
‘Yes, I know,’ nodded Mills. ‘And it isn’t always a wise policy. What you want to do, Lucky, is to make hay while the sun shines.’
‘That’s all very well,’ growled Lucky, aggressively, ‘but until I joined this outfit, I had a pretty clean record.’
This tickled Jimmy enormously.
‘A pretty clean record!’ he cackled. ‘Lucky Gibson! Oh! Oh! That’s rich!’
‘You know what I mean,’ said Lucky with an injured air. ‘I’ve never done nothing like last night. That feller we dumped overboard – I knew ’im. ’E was a decent sort was Chubby, and—’
‘My Gawd!’ Mills spat contemptuously. ‘You are in a mood!’
‘What do we get out of this?’ cried Lucky. ‘That’s what I want to know.’
‘What do we get out of it?’ echoed Mills, in a surprised voice. ‘What the ’ell are you talkin’ about? Didn’t you make nearly two thousand quid last month? You’ve never seen that much money in your life before.’
‘Money ain’t everything,’ protested Lucky.
‘Then what the ’ell is? That’s what I’d like to know.’
‘Security,’ blurted out Gibson.
‘What d’yer mean by that?’ queried Mills in a puzzled tone.
‘Listen,’ pursued Lucky hoarsely. ‘There ain’t a ’tec in London that wouldn’t give four years of ’is life, and ’is blinkin’ pension thrown in, to know who the Front Page Men are.’
‘So what?’ snapped Mills.
‘Well,’ Lucky paused meaningly, ‘suppose they found out. Supposin’ they got to know that the Front Page men are Brightman, Swan Williams, Jed Ware, Lina Fresnay and their old friends Jimmy Mills and Lucky Gibson. What do you think would happen?’
‘Why, it’d be the end of the Front Page Men,’ pronounced Mills. ‘That’s common sense, ain’t it?’
‘Would it be the end of the Front Page Men?’ reflected Lucky. ‘I wonder …’
‘What d’yer mean?’
‘There’s another man behind this racket,’ declared Lucky emphatically. ‘A man with brains and initiative. Front Page Man Number One!’
Mills shrugged his shoulders.
‘Who is he?’ cried Lucky in desperation.
‘Would you sleep any better if you knew?’ demanded Mills, sarcastically.
‘Yes, I would, and I don’t mind admittin’ it,’ retorted Lucky, not to be denied. ‘Why should we take all the risk? Don’t you see, this bloke – whoever ’e is – ’as only got to tip off the Yard about one of us and—’
‘Don’t be a damn’ fool!’ barked Mills. ‘Why should the Front Page Man go out of his way to do us down? We’re making ’im a pot of money, and feathering our own nests into the bargain.’
‘All the same, I’d feel a lot safer if I knew who he was.’
‘Well, if you want my honest opinion,’ said Mills, shifting his feet from one chair to another, ‘the feller behind the gang is Brightman – and nobody else.’
‘Then why should Brightman go out of his way to prove that there is someone else? At every meeting ’e tells us that ’e ’as received fresh orders from the Chief or—’
/> ‘It suits ’is purpose,’ argued Mills. ‘Brightman’s a pretty wise guy. ’E knows that ’e can get better results by keeping us in the dark.’
‘Well, I think you’re wrong,’ persisted Lucky. ‘I think that Front Page Man Number One is a woman.’
‘My Gawd!’ gasped Mills, with a comical gesture. ‘You are bright this evening!’
‘Yes,’ went on Gibson, unheeding, ‘a woman by the name of Andrea Fortune.’
‘Andrea Fortune? Didn’t she write the novel called The Front Page Men?’
‘She did. And in my opinion that’s why—’
‘Sh!’ hissed Mills suddenly, as a step sounded outside. ‘Here’s Brightman.’
It was very much the Brightman of old; brisk, self-assured, and a little too suave. He might have been attending a meeting of shareholders, for he was dressed in a severe black coat, striped trousers and a neat-fitting collar. He shut the door carefully.
‘Hello! Where’s Jed and Lina?’ was his first inquiry.
‘They haven’t arrived yet,’ said Mills, who was now on his feet.
‘We ’aven’t seen Swan either,’ supplied Lucky.
‘Swan is downstairs. He’ll be up in a minute,’ said Brightman, crossing to the fire.
‘Any news about Donovan?’ queried Mills tentatively.
‘Donovan? Oh, the police-sergeant. Yes, he died this morning,’ announced Brightman, in the same tone one would imagine he adopted in reading a balance-sheet.
‘D—dead?’ stuttered Lucky.
‘Yes. You pumped a fair amount of lead into him, Lucky, with that machine-gun of yours.’
Lucky was about to make some retort, but the door opened to admit Swan Williams, a dapper little man with a mincing gait, who was strikingly dressed in a suit of electric-blue material.
‘Sorry I’m late, boys,’ he apologised, in a peculiar falsetto voice. ‘Where’s Lina?’
‘She isn’t here yet,’ Brightman told him.
Williams went and helped himself to a drink, and settled down in one of the more luxurious chairs.
‘Jimmy, I want you to contact Mullins. Tonight if possible,’ ordered Brightman, who was obviously anxious to proceed with the evening’s business.
‘Mullins? You mean the fence?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s a difficult man to get hold of …’ Mills was beginning to protest, but Brightman promptly cut him short.
‘I don’t care if he’s Colonel Lindbergh. Get him!’
‘O.K.,’ said Mills, shortly.
‘What do we want Mullins for? We ’aven’t got any stuff on our ’ands,’ put in Lucky, curiously.
‘No, but we soon shall have,’ significantly retorted Brightman.
Jimmy Mills was interested at once.
‘What is it?’ asked Lucky Gibson, suspiciously.
‘The Falkirk Diamond,’ smiled Brightman, rubbing his hands gently.
‘I thought it was out of town,’ said Mills, who was usually well up in these matters.
‘It is,’ Brightman told him. ‘It’s at a small jewellers in Nottingham.’
‘Nottingham?’ echoed Mills, rather taken aback.
In spite of Brightman’s nod, Jimmy Mills seemed unconvinced.
‘Jimmy, have you heard of Lord Cresset?’ smoothly proceeded Brightman.
‘You mean Cresset the brewer? Yes, I’ve ’eard of him.’
‘Well, in spite of a somewhat alcoholic environment, his lordship’s weakness does not happen to lie in that direction. He has rather more noble aspirations.’
‘You mean ’e’s got a lady friend,’ interposed Mills.
‘He has a lady friend,’ murmured Brightman.
Swan Williams set down his glass. ‘The Falkirk Diamond has rather an interesting story,’ he informed them. ‘It was brought from America in nineteen thirty-four, and then …’
Brightman waved an impatient hand. ‘The Falkirk Diamond is worth a quarter of a million. That’s all the history that interests us,’ he declared.
The door was suddenly flung open to admit a striking young woman of twenty-five. Slightly above average height, the pallor of her regular features contrasted effectively with the sleek black hair, parted exactly in the centre. Most men looked twice at Lina Fresnay.
Behind her was the burly figure of Jed Ware, agile as a cat for all his fourteen stone. Indeed, Jed included cat burglary among his many dubious accomplishments.
‘Evening everyone! Sorry we’re late,’ smiled Lina, taking off her hat and flinging it carelessly on to a side table.
‘My God! What a journey!’ grumbled Jed, making for the decanter. ‘Anybody’d think Nottingham was in the north of Scotland.’
He appeared far more irritable than Lina, due, no doubt, to the fact that he had been driving continuously for eight hours in heavy traffic. She settled herself comfortably, took a case from her bag, selected a small cigarette, accepted a light from Swan Williams, and puffed contentedly.
‘Well, Lina – what do you think?’ demanded Brightman impatiently. Lina placidly contemplated her cigarette, her lacquered nails contrasting sharply with its virginal whiteness.
‘He’s right. It can be done,’ she announced at length.
‘Good,’ said Brightman, obviously relieved at the information.
‘They’re keeping the stone down there till Monday,’ continued Lina, in her almost expressionless tone. ‘If Cresset doesn’t buy, Simpson is bringing the stone back to Town on the eight-ten.’
‘Simpson? Who’s Simpson?’ asked Brightman.
‘He’s the insurance representative. Believe me, that stone is pretty well looked after. Our only chance is—’
‘They mustn’t get the diamond back to London,’ declared Brightman. ‘In that case we’re done for.’
‘They won’t do that,’ came the thick, coarse voice of Jed Ware. ‘It’s a perfect set-up.’
‘Good!’ applauded Brightman. ‘Now Jimmy, listen …’
But once again Lucky Gibson would not be denied.
‘I say, I don’t follow all this. What’s the Falkirk Diamond doing in Nottingham in the first place?’
Brightman shrugged impatiently. ‘I thought I’d explained that Lord Cresset has a lady friend. The lady friend has a weakness for diamonds. One and one make two; two and two make four. Good God, Lucky, pull yourself together!’ he concluded in angry tones.
‘How do we know that the Falkirk Diamond is in Nottingham?’ persisted Lucky, quite undismayed.
‘Because I have received information to that effect,’ snapped Brightman.
‘From whom?’ asked Lucky, who quite obviously liked to get to the bottom of everything.
‘You know perfectly well from whom I have received the information,’ retorted Brightman. ‘It came from the Chief—’
‘Yes, I daresay, but who is he?’ pursued Jimmy, his voice rising almost to a shout. ‘Who is he? That’s what I want to know!’
A sudden gesture from Ware reduced him to silence. Jed walked carefully to the door, placed a hand on the knob, and was about to open it, when there was a knock from outside. Jed flung the door open.
Tony Rivoli stood there.
‘Dinner is ready, gentlemen,’ he announced urbanely.
Brightman eyed him suspiciously, but Tony met his gaze blandly, and stood deferentially awaiting further orders.
‘Thank you,’ said Brightman, softly, and Jed Ware closed the door on Tony’s retreating figure.
There was a moment’s silence.
‘One of these days, Lucky, that tongue of yours is going to get you into trouble,’ declared Brightman, and there was a sinister glint in his eye. ‘Over dinner, I shall outline the Nottingham details,’ he proceeded. ‘Afterwards, Jimmy, I want you to contact Mullins.’
‘Yes, yes, all right,’ agreed Jimmy, who obviously did not relish the job.
‘Are you ready, Lina?’ asked Brightman. She had been watching the proceedings with a flicker of amusement, and now rose to accompany
Brightman, a queer little smile slightly distorting her highly sensual mouth.
CHAPTER XIII
The Falkirk Diamond
It was a pity that Swan Williams had not been allowed to enlarge upon the history of the Falkirk Diamond, for the Front Page Men, and Lina in particular, would have found it quite interesting.
In the first instance, the Falkirk Diamond had been bought from a negro by an Austrian Jew for three bottles of very indifferent whisky. The negro had smuggled the diamond out of the mines by the simple process of carrying the diamond in the palm of his hand. The officials, as usual, had made a detailed examination of the negro’s person, but had quite naturally overlooked the ridiculous possibility of him carrying the diamond out under their very noses.
The negro was more than pleased with his bargain – he had never received more than two bottles of whisky on any previous occasion. But he was no more delighted than the purchaser, though the latter concealed his ecstasy more skilfully. In fact, he was so overwhelmed, that he felt justified in taking a trip to America to dispose of the stone and to enjoy the proceeds.
There was no difficulty about this, for the diamond realised forty thousand dollars in Chicago without much effort on the part of the seller. After that it changed hands with amazing rapidity, and usually under very similar circumstances. In fact, the Falkirk Diamond began to get a reputation as a token of marital infidelity, a sort of antithesis of the Dunmow Flitch.
It circulated around New York’s exclusive Four Hundred for some years, figuring during that time in eight divorces and four affaires which were never the subject of litigation, but which were freely hinted at in the Yellow Press.
The diamond received its cognomen following a sensational case in which the principal was the Honourable John Falkirk, a ne’er-do-well member of the English nobility who had been sent to America in the vague hope that it would be the making of him. His main asset in life was a poker face which he used to such good purpose that he relieved an American millionaire of the diamond at the end of an all-night session. Before the month was out, it was adorning the person of Miss Betty Lemuir, of the Vanities chorus, who lost no opportunity of flaunting it, particularly in the presence of Miss Lesley Dane, its previous owner. But Miss Dane was soon to have her revenge.
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