by Laura Wilson
Her going away to America made it easier, somehow. Manning had been offered work in Hollywood where Diana, he supposed, would also find a job if she could get a permit. When they’d had dinner together that last time, she’d joked about becoming a housewife in Beverly Hills.
Still, he might buy the bracelet anyway, if he happened to be passing when the place was open. He couldn’t see the price on the tag, but surely it couldn’t be too expensive – not here – and Monica might like it. Yes, he’d do that.
He moved away briskly, keen to leave a clear boundary between himself and the fused mess of memories and emotions. Two days into his new job, his task was to concentrate on the present, not to indulge himself by getting tangled up in the cat’s cradle of the past.
Further down the street, he halted beside a poster in the window of the Coin-Op launderette. Put there by the Union Movement – whose office, he noted, was in Kensington Park Road – it advertised a meeting to be addressed by Sir Oswald Mosley: End Coloured Immigration Now. On a stretch of brick wall opposite the shop was daubed, in white paint, ‘House Britons Not Blacks’. He recalled reading somewhere that the Union Movement had grown out of the old British Union of Fascists and that its members wanted to turn Europe into a single nation, or something equally implausible. He suddenly thought of the stuff he’d seen on the newsreels about Germany in the 1930s, the slogans and smashed windows. Of course one couldn’t make a direct comparison – what happened to the Jews in Germany had been officially directed – but none the less …
*
The entrance to Perlmann’s office was in a side street. The office itself was a gloomy basement, reached down a flight of iron-railed stone steps. The door to the place was ajar, so Stratton walked straight into the main room. His immediate impression was one of immense disorder: piles of paper on every surface, cigarette packets with smudged columns of figures scrawled on them, overflowing wastepaper baskets and ashtrays as well as three metal buckets full of shillings presumably collected from gas meters, an adding machine, several half-eaten sandwiches and half-drunk, scummy cups of tea, and, in the middle of it all, a disembowelled typewriter, its ribbon spooled out over the keys. Such furniture as there was – two desks and three chairs – was chipped and shoddy; little better, in fact, than the stuff Perlmann afforded his tenants. Stratton, who’d remembered PC Jellicoe’s words about the man driving a Roller and having a mansion, had expected something altogether more impressive. For a moment he thought the place was empty, but then a man scrambled out from underneath one of the desks, muttering to himself in a language Stratton didn’t recognise. He coughed to indicate his presence, and the man, who was kneeling on the floor, apparently searching for something, raised his head. He had sleek black hair that flopped forward over his face, sharp, chiselled features, high cheekbones and a slightly hooked nose that gave him the air of a bird of prey, but there was an unmistakable look of strain about his eyes. His suit jacket was hanging on the back of one of the chairs, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to the elbow. Stratton supposed he must be about thirty, maybe slightly older.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’ The man got to his feet, and Stratton saw that he was broad-shouldered and almost as tall as he himself was. The accent was definitely foreign – somewhere behind the Iron Curtain, Stratton thought.
‘I’m looking for Mr Perlmann.’
‘He isn’t here.’
‘Are you expecting him?’
‘No.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Why do you want to know? If you have something to say to him, I can give a message.’ The tone wasn’t hostile but it wasn’t helpful either, simply resigned – although to what, Stratton wasn’t sure. When he introduced himself and explained the reason for his visit, the man said, ‘Danny – Mr Perlmann – he’s already spoken to the police.’
‘I have no record of a statement being taken.’
‘Well, he did speak to someone. I am sorry, but …’ He spread his hands in a theatrical gesture of helplessness, smiling placatingly as he did so. ‘We cannot do more.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Stefan Laskier. I keep the books here.’
‘And where is Mr Perlmann now?’
‘He likes to have lunch at the Daquise Restaurant in South Kensington. He is usually there until about three o’clock, and it’s …’ Laskier brought his arm up slightly to glance at his wristwatch and, as he did so, Stratton caught sight of a sequence of numbers written on the inside of his arm, just below his elbow. It took him a second to realise that he was looking at a tattoo.
Laskier saw the direction of his gaze and for a fraction of a second their eyes met. Then Stratton looked away, embarrassed, and Laskier continued, in a louder voice than before, as if trying to drown out what wasn’t being said, ‘… it’s a quarter past three now, so he’ll probably be on his way to the Kenco in Queensway or the Kardomah in the King’s Road. He prefers to do business in cafes and restaurants, and then he visits his clubs in the evening.’
As he spoke, a newsreel flickered across Stratton’s mind, from the end of the war. Belsen, Buchenwald, Auschwitz. Open mass graves full of socket-eyed almost-skeletons. The living, scarcely more fleshed than the dead, in striped pyjamas, waiting behind barbed wire … This man had survived those things. How old could he have been at the start of the war? Fifteen, Stratton supposed, or sixteen. Twenty-one or two when it ended.
‘So,’ he said, pulling himself together, ‘Mr Perlmann’s never in the office?’
‘Only for an hour in the morning, to make telephone calls. People know where to find him.’ Laskier looked a challenge at Stratton, then, with an air of deliberation, rolled down his sleeves and did up his cuffs.
‘Must make things rather complicated for you, surely?’
‘Mr Perlmann has an extraordinary mind. He never makes notes because he remembers everything.’
Which, thought Stratton, makes for chaos in the office.
‘I am sorry,’ Laskier repeated, ‘but—’
‘What do you know,’ Stratton asked, ‘about threats made to tenants?’
‘Threats?’
‘To persuade them not to go to the rent tribunal for a re-evaluation. To get their rent lowered,’ he added, by way of explanation.
‘I know what it means,’ said Laskier. ‘Look at this.’ He opened a drawer in one of the desks and pulled out a newspaper cutting. Stratton saw that it was from the Empire News. ‘Mr Perlmann,’ he read, ‘is probably London’s largest individual landlord for the coloured population … He says, “The Government does nothing to house these West Indians when they come over. Somebody must. That’s why they come to me. I take people as they come. Mind you, some white people do object to the coloured people when they move in. They don’t like the way they play jazz records up to 1 a.m. and always loudly. If white tenants complain, I help them to find another place. I give them financial assistance. Last year I gave away £2,000 to help white tenants buy their own homes.” ’
‘Very commendable,’ said Stratton drily. ‘I suppose he’s in business for his health, is he? As well as the good of mankind.’
Laskier shook his head and indicated the newspaper. ‘You can see it there. We’re giving a service.’
‘And you’re telling me that he’s never threatened anyone. Never offered to set dogs on them or throw them out or—’
Laskier put up his hands in a surrender-like gesture. ‘He uses the strong men – strong-arm. All landlords do this. Some tenants don’t pay when they should, so …’ He shrugged. ‘And some of the men have dogs, yes. A lot of money – they have to protect it.’
‘Yes,’ said Stratton. ‘He charges very high prices.’
‘As you said,’ replied Laskier, ‘it’s a business. We have bills to pay.’
‘Bert Hampton wasn’t a strong-arm man, though, was he? In fact, he told the coloured tenants that they could apply to the tribunal. I bet Mr Perlmann was none too pleased when he found out ab
out that.’
‘He didn’t know about this. Mr Perlmann has a lot of properties. He doesn’t know what is happening with each one. He is too busy for that. There are some landlords who’ll evict tenants if they are behind with the rent, but Mr Perlmann is a generous man. If someone’s in trouble and they can’t pay, then he gives them money to help them out.’
‘And he doesn’t charge them interest?’
‘Not the girls.’ Laskier’s smile looked tired, accepting. ‘He’s soft-hearted with women.’
A blonde on each arm, thought Stratton, remembering what Jellicoe had said. ‘Women like Vicky Allardice, you mean?’
‘Vicky …?’
‘The whore who lives at 19 Colville Terrace.’
‘I know nothing about this.’ Laskier’s face gave nothing away.
‘I understand that a number of your tenants are prostitutes.’
‘As far as I know,’ said Laskier, ‘we don’t rent to that sort of girl. In any case, one in a house doesn’t count as a brothel. You should be asking the Church Commissioners this question, not us.’
‘Why?’ asked Stratton, disconcerted.
‘They have a vast estate in Paddington – the biggest brothel in Europe.’
‘But they have nothing to do with this murder inquiry.’
‘Neither do we, Inspector. You have my assurance. And Mr Perlmann has given a substantial donation to the Police Orphanage.’
‘Has he indeed?’ said Stratton, hoping that this wasn’t going to prove to be connected to the absence of any formal statement from the man.
‘Yes,’ said Laskier, apparently missing the wry tone. ‘And he’s helped a lot of our compatriots too.’
‘Which country?’
‘Poland. He’s always tried to give them work, help them out with somewhere to live, money and so on.’
‘You’re very loyal to him,’ said Stratton.
‘He’s a good man.’
‘Clearly,’ said Stratton. ‘A saint, one might almost say.’
‘He can’t be a saint,’ said Laskier, deadpan. ‘He’s Jewish.’
‘How long have you been in this country?’
‘Twelve years,’ said Laskier. ‘Both of us came in 1946. We walked halfway across Europe to get here and spent most of the winter in a resettlement camp in Dumfriesshire.’ He grimaced. ‘The Poles didn’t want to know us because we were Jews, and the Jews didn’t want to know us because we were Poles …’ He shook his head.
Uncertain how to respond to this, Stratton said, ‘Well, your English is very good.’
‘Thank you.’ Laskier’s tone was sardonic.
‘I shall need to take a formal statement from Mr Perlmann. Perhaps you could let him know.’
*
Stratton decided to go down to the Kenco place Laskier had mentioned in Queensway, and see if Perlmann was there. Walking down Westbourne Grove towards the junction, he thought about what Laskier had said. He’d seemed genuinely to admire Perlmann … He said they’d arrived in Britain together, having walked halfway across Europe, so presumably Perlmann had been in a camp, too – perhaps the same one. An experience like that would forge strong bonds – and from all he’d read about concentration camps, you’d need to know every trick in the book in order to survive.
Judging by what Laskier had said, Perlmann was the type of man who softens the ugly reality of how he earns his living by individual acts of generosity and kindness and is thus able to see himself in a favourable light. Then there was the business about being ‘Mr Big’ to a coterie of Polish hangers-on – all part of the same thing, thought Stratton: a way of being generous and calculating at the same time, securing their obligation to him by helping them. Presumably Laskier, having arrived in Britain with Perlmann, was the first of these; he certainly seemed to fit the bill as favoured henchman or lieutenant.
As he turned into Queensway, Stratton saw a gleaming navy blue Rolls-Royce speeding away and heard women’s voices shouting, ‘Hey, Danny!’ and ‘Take me with you, Danny!’ A male arm, a thick glint of gold watch at the wrist and a fat cigar clasped in the hand, waved at them out of the car as it shot off towards Hyde Park, horn blaring. Stratton realised that he’d just missed Perlmann, and that the blurred impression of teased-up blonde hair in the passenger seat meant that somebody had, indeed, been taken with him, even if it wasn’t one of the whores who, though not out in force at four o’clock, none the less had a definite presence, parading up and down in their summer frocks, high heels clicking across the hot pavement.
*
Stratton located the Kenco cafe, found a table, and ordered a cup of tea. Spotting a copy of the Kensington Post unattended on a nearby chair, he picked it up. Two items caught his eye. The first, headlined ‘7 accused of stab attack’, was an account of a group of coloured men accused of causing grievous bodily harm to 21-year-old fitter George Edward Starkey of Stowe Road, Shepherd’s Bush. All of the accused had pleaded not guilty and been given bail. Next to this was an item entitled ‘No bail for 9 men on wounding charge’ about a group of youths who were charged with unlawfully and maliciously wounding a coloured man called Joseph Welsh with intent to cause grievous bodily harm. Further charges, Stratton read, would be made in connection with serious injuries caused to three other coloured men who were receiving treatment in hospital.
A third item, smaller and further down the page, was headed ‘Raid on Cafe’. Five youths, read Stratton, whose ages ranged from 17 to 23 were at London Session on Tuesday found guilty of causing malicious damage to a cafe at Shepherd’s Bush owned by a coloured man. They were each conditionally discharged for 12 months, ordered each to pay £40 compensation and to pay 10 guineas towards the cost of the prosecution. Proprietor Samuel Thomas said that the cafe was raided for five minutes by a gang of between 20 and 30 youths. ‘It was like an earthquake,’ he said, ‘I didn’t try to stop them because I would have been killed.’
With that many, thought Stratton, the ones who were caught must have been the ones who were too stupid to leg it in time. All of them local lads – Notting Hill, Shepherd’s Bush, Hammersmith and Fulham. Turning to the back of the paper he discovered, glancing through the advertisements for rooms to let, that there were quite a lot which specified ‘No coloured’, ‘Europeans only’ or even ‘English only’. A moment’s mental arithmetic told him that the ratio of these to the non-specific advertisements was approximately one to eight, and a spot more calculation confirmed that advertisements from landlords who positively encouraged black tenants (‘all nationalities’, ‘coloured welcome’, and so on) numbered about one in forty. When Stratton thought about it, he supposed that he had, in the past few months, seen signs saying ‘No coloured’ in the windows of several boarding houses, joining ‘No babies’, ‘No dogs’, and – depending on the area – ‘No Irish’. Of course, there’d be no guarantee that those who did not elaborate on their preferred sort of tenant would actually take a coloured one – in order to avoid an admission of prejudice, they could simply claim that the room was already taken.
He put down the paper and stared out of the window. Apart from an elderly man shuffling out of the tobacconist’s opposite, the only people he could see were the whores, each at her post, radar eyes scanning the street, hair sticky with lacquer, bare-armed and dressed in a frock with a nipped-in waist and pointy-toed shoes. Two more girls appeared and, when they stopped to buy milk from the machine across the road, Stratton saw that one of them was Vicky. Her companion was a few years older, stick-limbed, large-eyed and sharp-featured, with a pile of blonde hair – the roots of which, Stratton noticed, could have done with touching up. He wondered if this were the ‘friend’ – riffling through the pages of his notebook, he saw that her name was Marion Lockwood – that Vicky had mentioned. If so, she’d be able to confirm Vicky’s whereabouts on the evening of Hampton’s death.
Stratton paid for his tea and crossed the road to where the two girls were standing, smoking and drinking from the little cartons. Seeing th
at he was making a beeline for the pair of them, the blonde girl thrust out a hip and said, ‘Like a good time, darling? Three pound each, more if you want something—’
At this point Vicky, who’d automatically assumed an expression of coolly licentious promise that belied the dark crescents under her arms and the sheen of sweat leaching through her pore-clogging make-up, stiffened and put a hand on her companion’s arm. ‘It’s that copper. You following me or something?’ she asked Stratton. ‘What do you want now?’
‘Just a bit more information. Who’s your friend?’
‘Marion. She was with me that day. I told you, remember?’
Marion, who’d clearly been put in the picture about their interview, nodded in affirmation of this. ‘We was both here all afternoon. We went shopping and then we had tea in the place down there.’ She waved her milk carton in the direction of the Larchwood Café.
‘What time did you start work?’
Marion looked mulish and said nothing.
‘For God’s sake,’ said Stratton, ‘you’ve just propositioned me.’
‘I didn’t mean nothing,’ she said sulkily.
‘It’s all right, I’m not going to take you in.’
Marion and Vicky exchanged glances. ‘Do you usually work together?’ asked Stratton.
‘Only if it’s slow.’
‘But it was slow that night, wasn’t it? Vicky said she didn’t get her first pick-up until half past eight.’
‘I had to go and meet a friend—’
‘When was that?’
‘About half past six. But I saw Vicky when I came back at about eight o’clock, and we were having a chat when a man stopped to talk to us, so I went with him, and when I got back Vicky was gone. That’s right, isn’t it, Vick?’
