by John Pearson
That night, Reggie’s divided life began again. He became thin-faced and his hunted look reappears in photographs. After a few gins he could usually convince himself that everything was as it had always been. He had his car, his friends, his money and his clubs. But however much he drank he never seemed able to bring back the future he and Charlie had planned so carefully together. In the old days he had been able to stand up to Ronnie. Now it was different. Ronnie was wilder; and once he was back with him all his other life seemed pointless and unreal.
In the late fifties London’s gangland battlefields were changing. Violence was building up in Paddington and Notting Hill as rival groups horned in to milk the gambling, prostitution and rent rackets of West London. These were not Kray lands. There was no money for them here and from the press exposés of the time it was clear the law would soon be cracking down.
But Ronnie had been thinking about Paddington. It appealed to him. It was ‘interesting’, with so many rackets, so many chances of new villainy, that the East End seemed quite tame by comparison. Just past the Edgware Road an authentic whiff of old Chicago hung in the air, with drinking clubs burned out with petrol bombs and tough young men in overcoats shooting at each other from moving cars.
Ronnie was planning an alliance of gangsters to control London – something more grandiose than the timid plans his brothers had had with the Italians. Ronnie’s idea was for a warlike federation, using violence to get power. One man would have to be the leader, somebody respected and feared so that his name was law. This was a worthwhile role at last for the admirer of Capone: with Reggie he knew he could do it, but not if they stayed tamely in the East End. One gang in Paddington required help; if the twins gave it, they would have instant allies and the chance to move on to the West End.
The planning and discussions of his great idea occupied the Colonel’s energies – deals, secret meetings, pay-offs, promises – and when the time for action came he kept his word, leading his cockneys into several of the bloodthirstiest gang fights West London had ever seen in the summer of 1959. Reggie complained that they were wasting their time, but he was always there when Ronnie needed him.
The Colonel felt his scheme was working; but financially it was a disaster. By alienating all those business-minded gangsters the Krays relied on for their income, Ronnie destroyed three years’ careful work in as many months. Certainly they had no chance now of the neat slice of Mayfair gambling they had hoped for. The billiard hall closed down; the takings from The Double R and the spieler in Wellington Way barely met Ronnie’s extravagances. The Colonel’s dreams of empire were expensive. The new gang needed to be paid, but Reggie’s richer clients stayed clear now, thanks to the twins’ new reputation.
Ronnie had his own ways now of making money. Often he just asked for it – a loan, a contribution, an investment – and since people were frightened of him, he invariably received. A publican, a shopkeeper, an illegal bookmaker – anybody who was vulnerable was likely to be tapped for £50 or £100 to pay for his evening out. One of his favourite methods was to ‘pawn’ his big gold watch with a publican for £200 and a week later to ask for the watch back. No one ever had the nerve to refuse him or demand repayment. This suited Ronnie as a means of money-grabbing; it kept life simple and flattered his vanity. But there were better ways of making money.
The twins knew all about capitalizing on violence: in the past they had peddled it like any other commodity. This had been Reggie’s speciality. If someone needed hurting or protecting, if a business had to be wrecked or a club destroyed, Reggie had arranged the details like a professional providing any normal service. The twins invariably gave value for money.
Ronnie gave his clients something more – excitement. Some businessmen enjoyed sharing the twins’ wildness. Ronnie cashed in on this and in the process some of these action-loving friends acted extremely stupidly.
Perhaps the stupidest of all was a man called Daniel Shay. In the summer of 1959 he owned his own car business and was living in an expensive flat in Edgware. He was not particularly honest. According to evidence later produced in court, he already had thirteen convictions for various types of fraud. But he was not a dangerous man. Quite the reverse. Everyone who knew him found him charming, perhaps a little too easy to do business with, and rather kind. He lived well, gambled, but not to excess, and was devoted to his wife. Then he met Ronnie Kray and began boasting of his friendship with the twins.
This suited Ronnie. He never minded businessmen using his ‘name’ provided they paid for the privilege; Shay paid. On several occasions Ronnie borrowed from him and the money never seemed to be returned. Then Shay began to change. This friend of the twins began believing he could act as they did. By then Ronnie was earning a considerable income each week from shopkeepers he ‘protected’. At the beginning of February 1960, kindly Mr Shay did something out of character.
At the Hampstead end of the Finchley Road was a small shop called Swiss Travel Goods run by a Pole called Murray Podro. Shay had already met him playing cards, and when he called at the shop and chose a briefcase, leaving his card and saying he would pay later, Podro permitted him to take it. A few days later Shay returned, bringing the twins and telling Mr Podro that he had taken a ‘diabolical liberty’ overcharging him for the briefcase. He grabbed him, hit him and demanded £100, otherwise he would be ‘cut to pieces’.
It was a bungling attempt. Shay was no gangster, and as soon as he left the shop Podro telephoned the police. Two days later Shay returned to collect his money. He brought Reggie with him; as they entered the shop they walked straight into the police.
At the Old Bailey Shay was romantically described as ‘running a Chicago-style protection racket’ and sentenced to three years’ imprisonment. Reggie got eighteen months. Ronnie was never mentioned.
And now with Reggie stuck in Wandsworth Gaol and Ronnie in command, the rampage started. The Double R lost money; the Firm was finally his private army; Fort Vallance was stocked up with arms. Nothing else mattered except the ‘little wars’. The Colonel was convinced that he would soon rule London through the rattle of machine-guns and the blood of rivals flowing in the streets. He was quite happy. Reggie was safe behind bars; no women could reach him there. Charlie did not worry him. No one interfered with the strange war game he acted out, as he gathered information, planned his next moves and prepared to lead his fighting men to battle. He lived at home with Violet and had all he needed. Life would have continued from one battle to the next but for what occurred that autumn. Ronnie met Peter Rachman.
Rachman was not yet notorious as the extortionate West London landlord making his unsavoury fortune from rack-rented tenants. But he was stuffed with money and was vulnerable. This made him interesting to Ronnie, who had heard about him in Paddington. He tried to meet him. Rachman avoided him, but finally through Dickie Morgan, who worked for Rachman, Ronnie and several friends gate-crashed a party Rachman was giving at the old Latin Quarter Club in Soho.
It was a memorable occasion. Rachman had begun the evening in high spirits; everyone was laughing at his table. When Ronnie entered, Rachman and his girls tried to ignore him. Ronnie and his friends wore dinner-jackets, sat at a table and simply stared at Rachman. None of them spoke, or drank. Slowly the conversation died. When Peter Rachman went downstairs there was a scuffle by the door. Several Kray men joined in. Ronnie Kray yawned, said nothing and waited as the sound of fighting floated up the stairs. Then Dickie Morgan came up to him, grinning, and whispered in his ear. Ronnie nodded and stumped from the room.
Downstairs a Rolls was waiting, Rachman at the wheel. As Ronnie came from the club Rachman opened the door and asked where he was going. ‘Vallance Road,’ he grunted, and heaved himself in beside Rachman. He had his meeting.
There were no polite preliminaries as the Colonel delivered his terms: £5,000 immediately. Otherwise his men would be in Notting Hill every night of the week and would drive Rachman’s rent-enforcers off the streets. Rachman shou
ld know that he could put him out of business in a month.
At Vallance Road Rachman was invited in to meet Violet and afterwards to discuss things over tea in the upstairs sitting-room. Rachman had considerable charm, thanked Violet for the tea, called Ronnie by his first name and made no difficulties, when his host demanded an initial downpayment. He had £250 on him in cash, and wrote a cheque for £1,000. They parted on good terms. Next morning the cheque bounced. When Ronnie heard he drew a Luger from the armoury and went in search of Rachman; he had vanished.
Trouble began in Notting Hill exactly as the Colonel prophesied. Rachman’s rent-collectors were methodically beaten up. Rachman’s thugs faced fiercer thugs. Rachman’s whole empire, which depended on intimidation of tenants, faced its one real time of crisis.
For Peter Rachman had made the mistake of underestimating Ronnie, thinking he would never have the skill or organization to upset his business. Now that Ronnie proved he had, something needed to be done. Rachman was a clever man. One thing he knew about was intimidation; and he knew that the more he tried to buy off Ronnie Kray, the more he would have to pay him later. Much money was at stake – rich influential people’s money as well as his own. He had no intention of risking it for Ronnie Kray. What he needed was something big to offer Ronnie as a final payment to divert him from Notting Hill for good. Someone suggested Esmeralda’s Barn.
NINE
Barn of Gold
On a fine autumn evening in 1960 a man called Stefan de Faye walked along Kensington Gore for an appointment with a retired naval commander at an address behind the Royal Albert Hall. De Faye was a tall, excitable man and was in something of a state: he knew that in the next hour or so he would have to make one of the most uncomfortable decisions of his life.
He was a club-owner, moderately rich, entirely honest and extremely smart. In his youth he had written a book entitled Profitable Bar Management and had recently secured control of the most promising gaming club in London. It was the sort of chance that comes once in a lifetime; being shrewd, Stefan de Faye had done his best to keep it to himself – not too successfully. Something had leaked out; there had been threats. Finally an invitation came from a certain ex-naval commander. De Faye knew all about him. He was a front man for a number of figures in the underworld. If he refused his invitation there would be less polite approaches later.
Had de Faye been a gangster or a gambler he might have risked this; as he was neither he continued walking down Kensington Gore until he found the address he wanted. He rang the bell.
The commander, a smiling gentleman with bright false teeth, answered the door and led de Faye into a long, brown sitting-room. Three men were waiting.
‘Mr de Faye,’ said the commander, ‘my good friend, Leslie Payne.’
A big man with pale hair and eyes rose and shook hands.
‘And these are the Kray twins, Reginald and Ronald. You’ll find them very useful friends to have.’
Introductions over, the commander departed; business started. The twins both smoked and remained silent. The man called Payne did the talking – softly and with a hesitant, apologetic charm. It was as if he hated having to tell de Faye how much he knew; he was extremely accurate. He had the whole story of his club, called Esmeralda’s Barn. It was in Wilton Place and had enjoyed a period of success as a night-club for the bright young things of the early fifties – Cy Grant was among the performers, the young Duke of Kent among the guests. What a waste to let a place like this go to seed. How very smart of Mr de Faye and his friends to see its possibilities now that the Gaming Act was law. The club looked very good, and with roulette and four chemmy tables in operation they should be clearing …
The big man paused, then named a figure so near the mark that de Faye could only nod in agreement. This was not all that Payne knew about the place: somehow he had gleaned details of the unusual company structure controlling it. He knew that there were four principal shareholders drawing profits from the gambling. He also knew the fact that caused Mr de Faye so much concern – that Esmeralda’s Barn was controlled in turn by a holding company called Hotel Organisation Ltd. Hotel Organisation had one effective shareholder – Stefan de Faye. As Payne explained this, both twins smiled.
Payne’s proposition was eminently reasonable. He had heard that Mr de Faye was no great gambler – why not exchange his vulnerable position for hard cash? In the long run it would save a lot of worry. Payne was offering £1,000 down. The sale could take place at once with a simple entry in the company minutes; it would be perfectly legal and would not affect de Faye and the two other directors, who could keep their directorships and profits from the Barn. Once de Faye relinquished his control he would be surprised what a weight would be off his mind.
If he decided not to?
Leslie Payne made no reply, but looked towards the twins.
Stefan de Faye decided to take his £1,000.
At this point Leslie Payne becomes a key figure in the rise of the twins, and it was natural for Ronnie to go to him for advice when Rachman offered the information about Stefan de Faye’s controlling interest in Esmeralda’s Barn. Reggie had only just come out of Wandsworth on bail after nine months of his sentence. Thanks to the skill of his lawyers and a dispute about the evidence on which he had been convicted, his case had been reopened. In the meantime he was free. While he had been away Payne had become Ronnie’s own personal adviser, fixer, front man and father figure. When Ronnie put his faith in anyone the trust was total while it lasted. Health, finance, sex life, business, law – whatever Ronnie’s problem and whatever time of day or night, Checker Berry would be sent off in Ronnie’s car and Leslie Payne, the omniscient ‘man with the briefcase, brought back to Vallance Road to confer.
And yet in many ways Payne was a most unlikely man to have been mixed up with the Krays – a cultured, humorous character with a sharp brain, very pretty wife and two small daughters all living cosily in a suburban house in Dulwich. But Les Payne and the twins saw something that they thought they needed in each other. At that time Payne was a bankrupt and had watched fourteen of his associated companies float off into liquidation. He could see the twins’ potential from the start. For Ronnie, who was often morbidly unsure of himself, Payne had the poise, the confidence and inside knowledge that he lacked. Some called him ‘Payne the Brain’.
***
At about ten o’clock that evening Stefan de Faye met Payne and the twins, and the new proprietors of Hotel Organisation Ltd drove to Wilton Place to see their property. Everything had been legally tied up and signed: Payne didn’t make mistakes. It was an interesting evening; interesting for the twins, who gazed with mounting avarice and awe as the earliest of the night’s gamblers seated themselves at the rich baize of the tables and the chips began travelling; interesting for the club’s manager and principal shareholder who was waiting to meet the night’s big punters, ignorant of what had happened; most interesting of all for Leslie Payne, who held the company minutes of Hotel Organisation Ltd in his ever-present briefcase, and was waiting for a good moment to tell the manager and his co-directors that they had some new and unexpected partners.
Payne did it very well: nothing disturbed the ritual of the gaming-room as he informed the manager that the ownership of his club had changed for good. The manager showed no emotion as he glanced at de Faye’s signature and casually remarked that he would fight the legality of the deal to the last lawyer in the land. Of course, said Payne (who had a pleasant smile for such occasions), by all means try, but he hardly thought that it would do much good. He had consulted the best company lawyers in London already.
He looked round him at the small bar, the softly lighted gaming-room, the restaurant where club members could eat well through the night, the roulette wheel in the anteroom. The place was filling fast now and he called a waiter, ordered a bottle of champagne, told him to put it on his account and asked his two friends what they’d like to drink.
The night the twins and Payne walked
into Esmeralda’s Barn the club seemed heading for success. It had been quicker off the mark than any other club when the new Gaming Act legalized gambling and had maintained its lead. Croupiers were still scarce – Esmeralda’s Barn had the best in London. Gamblers were an unknown quantity, but the manager’s personal friends, rich London restaurant-owners, were the one group who played big and always met their debts. The address was perfect.
This was the gold-mine that the twins suddenly found they owned a stake in. Payne and his lawyers soon restructured the business side of the Barn. De Faye’s name stayed on the directors’ list for two more years, but he never appeared and never collected a penny. The two junior directors were eased out, while the manager, the mainstay of the club and the one man to have invested real money in it, stayed on with a fifty per cent stake in the profits and the twins absorbed the rest.
During the first few months the twins made no great difference to the running of the club. For both of them it was a new toy. They had identical dark-blue dinner-jackets made in Savile Row and would arrive shortly before midnight, drink, order a steak in the restaurant, then watch the money roll in.
There were three chemmy tables, each with nine players, operating from 11 P.M. Until 3 A.M. each player paid at the rate of £3 per shoe to the house. From then to 6 A.M. shoe money rose to £6 each. After 6 A.M. it rose to £10. A good croupier takes roughly four minutes for a shoe. The senior croupier did it in less. Shoe money was straight profit to the house. When the twins came the Barn was drawing something over £10,000 a week from the tables. This meant that thanks to Rachman the twins suddenly possessed assured incomes of something like £40,000 each a year with nothing to do for them except wear dark-blue dinner-jackets.
