by PR Hilton
Harry, opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. The other man smiled again and flipped open a wooden cigarette case on the desk. Taking one himself, he offered another to Royle, who took it silently. The man lit them from an ornate orange glass table lighter. The man continued talking.
"Me, I have contacts all over I heard about you from Jenny and Ruth. Now I thought at first you was two different men, then I tipples. I heard a whisper a while back, not much more, just a whisper. It was that this poor sod crossed a certain ponce by the name of Mandell and got put in the frame for his trouble. I filed it away, and then the I hears about the Manchester ironworks job, and now here you are."
He continued.
"We can and we will do business. I've got a few jobs in the pipeline, just cooking on slow right now. You'll be paid and paid well, I'm not like those Mancs you fell in with last time. I'll give you a motor, nothing special, but all above board, a decent runner. You'll get papers for it and some for yourself as well. And if you bide your time, I think we might just be able to sort out Captain Mandell. I'm an honest villain and I don't like Johnsons poncing off of the backs of girls, it ain't right. And the girls he runs, well they ain't nothing but slaves, it's disgusting and people like him need to learn to respect women."
He spat out the last sentence so hard that it left a little droplet of spittle at the corner of his mouth. The man wiped his mouth with a white linen handkerchief, taken from his suit top pocket. Harry had been listening to the man's outburst silently and at last decided to speak.
"I'm no Dillinger, this is just survival, you know the ironworks was a mess and I got nothing for my trouble."
"Look, Harry, call me Johnny, by the way. You might not like it, but you my friend are up a certain creek without the old proverbial. So like it or not you're a blagger. You done the Manc job nicely and I'm offering you a proper job. Like it or not you have two choices, give in and let em win, or be the villain they've made you and make the best of it."
Harry nodded slowly in agreement and took the offered hand, shaking it in an unspoken, unwritten contract.
Reaching into another pocket, Mangusco placed a roll of banknotes on the desk in front of Royle. He pushed the roll across to Harry, who carefully picked it up. As he did, he felt the other man's hand cover his own in a tight grip. Johnny spoke again.
"You don't need to count it, and you don't need no accountant telling you what to buy with it. Well do buy some decent clothes, but beyond that enjoy it. Plenty more where that come from. I promise that I'll always be straight with you, give you my word of honour on that and you can take that to the bank. Anything I want you to do, I'll explain what, where, why and when, what I call the four W's. I won't pay for any job, but keep you on firms pay instead. That way you won't feel like some cheap gunsel on the make. I'm offering a proper job, and Harry, I promise I'll look after you. What do you say?"
Harry, took his hand and shook it firmly. He had said very little during the conversation and had spent the time listening to Johnny's words, spoken in that particular brand of cockney, that might have once been suggested by some phonetics expert up West, as being a speech defect. This would, of course, have later been retracted and another expert agreed on it being just another form of local dialect and not a lisp at all.
Pocketing the money, Royle nodded and turned to leave. The man now sitting back behind the desk, told him that he would be in touch. Harry realised that the little office must have been soundproofed, because while he had been inside, the band had begun playing. The unmistakable sound of metal brushes stroking drum skins, and a thumping double bass pinning the beat to the bandstand, while a guitar blocked out chords in what sounded to Royle's untrained ear, to be some minor key.
A lithe blonde in a tight black dress oozed velvet from a voice of pure smoke. Jenny was at the bar and gestured for Harry to join her. The first whisky he'd seen in a long time sat waiting for his attention and he didn't want to disappoint it. It was three cigarettes down and during the second whisky that Harry decided to mention at least in passing, the meeting which had taken place. Jenny, waved the subject away, with a none of my business riposte. She did, however, laugh at his innocent comment about his smiling host of the evening.
"You mean to say that you think that's why he's called The Teeth?"
With this, Jenny Crosby had thrown back her head and roared with laughter, leaving Harry confused, until she regained control of herself again and explained that his nickname had been earned from his particular technique when using a knuckleduster in his youth. Unlike others, he wouldn't just merely aim for the face, but would always target the upper lip area, making certain to break at least four or five teeth in one blow. Jenny Crosby had gone on to reassure Harry that Johnny was, in fact, a nice man and a gentleman and all that was in the past when he ran a race track gang back in the twenties. Otherwise, she assured Royle, she would not be with him. But she went on to say, it helped keep up his reputation. These days, she said, Mangusco was a business man, more or less.
During the next week, Mangusco had been as good as his word and a car had been delivered to Poland Street, complete with paperwork. Harry had also been invited to a little bookshop, where the owner, a small middle-aged Russian, with an odd mix of a Russian accent, mingled with Cockney and Yiddish expressions had turned out to be a first-rate forger. In the back of the book shop three days later, the man had furnished Royle with a complete set of papers, these included insurance card, savings book and even a passport, complete with stamps from previous trips. His new identity was Joseph French, a name Harry was later to find out belonged to a famous fictional detective, who happened to be Mangusco's current favourite bedtime reading, after Agatha Christie.
The money and there had been a lot, had come in handy and Harry had bought new clothes and had taken Ruth out on the town twice, she'd loved it. He had wanted to get them a better place to live, but that suggestion had annoyed her and the matter was dropped for good. The woman seemed to Royle's mind, to be tied to not just the area, but to her lifestyle. He couldn't understand it. To his mind, a woman on the game wants to get out of it, not class it as a smart career choice. Harry decided that his view of the moral world setup must be more than a little cock-eyed.
Rules like, if you live with a woman, you must be married to her, but here he was slipping into a relationship with Ruth, a woman who was so fiercely independent and so set on staying on the game. Something Harry despised. The black mood held tightly to Royle, like a straight jacket. He had money and a car, somewhere to live and friends, but still he felt useless and trapped. Johnny had not come through with any work for him and he was beginning to feel like a sponger. He took to pacing the small flat, drinking too much and smoking endlessly. His life seemed to be one of endless waiting; waiting for Ruth to come home, waiting to hear from Johnny, waiting for his new life to begin. At the point when he thought things would never change, finally, a call came from Johnny.
The call had been short and to the point. Royle was to be at a certain warehouse at midnight on Wednesday. At the warehouse, he would be told the rest. Against all odds, Harry found himself actually looking forward to the job, whatever it was. Ruth was much happier with the return of the old Harry and they enjoyed a late supper together that evening, before she went on duty, as she termed it.
Feeling almost relaxed for the first time in months, Harry found himself at the warehouse in Wandsworth at a quarter to the hour on Wednesday night. The air was still and July sticky, just enough moisture to make it uncomfortable. He wished he had left the collar and tie at home and gone with his original idea of a sports shirt, but that was life and he would just have to put up with the discomfort. He reasoned the coppers would more trust a collar and tie any day of the week. The car was beginning to cool down and the engine was making a ticking sound, this together with the leather creaks of the interior, were all that broke the late hour's silence.
The driver's window was open and there were three cig
arette ends on the ground beneath. A flash of flame announced Royle's fourth smoke. He felt nervous, just waiting and not knowing why. The minutes ticked by slowly on the watch on his wrist, until with two minutes to go to the desired hour, the silence was broken by the sound of an engine. A car pulled up smartly, it showed no lights. Harry, startled, snatched the door handle and wrenched it open. Two men stood facing him in the shadows. The men stood motionless and gave no indication why they were there or what they wanted from him. Royle felt sweat begin to trickle down his neck. Before he could think of a plan of action, one of the men broke the silence and walked slowly towards him.
Chapter 6
July 1939
"Don't worry Harry, it's me, Johnny. Sorry for the ‘eavy moment."
Harry relaxed and released a long held breath, he managed a weak smile at the other man, now facing him. The second man remained standing by the driver's door of the other car. Johnny spoke quietly to Royle.
"I had to know if I could rely on you, Harry. I didn't do this just to mess with you, not my style. I had to know that if I asked you to do something, even after all this time, you'd do it, without question. You're a good soldier. Here's some spending money for your trouble, now go and have some fun. There will be a job soon, and I'll know that you'll be up for it, oh, better take this as well."
Johnny pushed a wad of notes into Harry's hand and passed him a brown canvas bag. Royle nodded and got back in the car. He purposely didn't look at the money, instead just shoved it into his inside coat pocket. The bag he dropped on the passenger side. The bag made a dull thud as it connected with the floor of the vehicle. The other car pulled away quickly, and Harry fired up his own car's engine and headed off towards the bright lights of Soho.
Just off Charing Cross Road he cut the lights and eased the car's speed to a slow crawl. As the car moved forward, a chorus line of girls came from the shadows, each a ghost of hopeful promise. Harry took in the faces, as he passed them and quickly applied the brake as he caught sight of Ruth. She at first looked startled and then gave a hollow laugh, placing both hands on her hips, as she smiled brightly through the car window. He pushed open the passenger door.
"I'll shout you a late supper, I've got some news."
The woman took no persuading and jumped in the car, which pulled away smoothly. He handed her a cigarette, lit from his own and turned on the lights.
"I thought you were working love?"
The man smiled.
"Got time off for good behaviour."
"Don't joke about such things, I'd hate for something to happen to you."
Harry patted her bare shoulder and grinned.
"Sorry, I'll tell you later. Let's grab some food first, I'm starving."
She smiled and nodded in agreement. Back in the flat over fish and chips, the conversation turned to the events of earlier that night. Harry told Ruth all that had happened and showed her the money, which he had forgotten about in the excitement. It was fifty pounds, and both of them could hardly believe their eyes at the amount Johnny had pushed into Royle's hand. It was just after that that he opened the brown canvas bag, it contained a weapon and two boxes of ammunition. Ruth looked at it and backed away, shaking her head.
"I don't like those things Harry; they're trouble."
He shrugged and tried to reason the harmlessness of weapons, from a professional point of view. He picked up the sawn-off shotgun without thinking and began examining it, as he talked.
"A gun isn't good or bad Ruth; it's the one pointing it. You know the man with his finger on the trigger. Good guys and bad guys, you know white hats and black hats."
The woman shook her head.
"which colour hat are you wearing now Harry?"
The remark hit home painfully, causing Royle to wince visibly and put the gun back in the bag. Ruth touched his hand gently. Looking up at her, he replied.
"You are so right; I only wish I knew where all this is leading? I seem to be damned if I do and damned if I don't. What would you have me do?"
Shaking her head slowly, she reached for a glass and swallowed the amber contents in one strong gulp.
"I only wish I had an answer love, honest I do. But shooters, that's got to be bad news, right?"
"With the money I'm on now, why don't you give up this career of yours?"
She stood and crossed to where her coat was hanging and took out a packet of Craven cigarettes, deliberately lighting one in silence. Royle knew at once that this was not a good choice of conversation. The atmosphere had become electric and he mentally cursed himself for mentioning it again. He had approached the subject several times before and each time the talk had ended badly. He hated Ruth selling herself, but to the woman it was her only independence and she resented his attempts at saving her. She turned and slowly crossed the room, tossing him a cigarette, she sat back down.
"Look, love, this is not on the cards for discussion, come on you know that. We've been here before. I know you mean well and you've got a great big heart, but I'm all right, honest I am. I know it doesn't square with your moral compass, but we're alright as we are, aren't we?"
He turned away from her and walked over to the table, opening the canvas bag. He pulled out the sawn-off again and laid it on the newspaper. Reaching into the bag, he brought out the ammunition and cleaning cloths. Leaning across him, Ruth snatched up the sawn-off shotgun and brandished it in mock hold-up style.
"What do you think? Could I be your Bonnie Parker, Clyde Barrow?"
He laughed in a brittle way and shaking his head, took the gun from her.
"Well just remember how that story ended."
No further words were exchanged and they both went to bed jaded and tired.
The radio and the newspapers suddenly became obsessed with the prospect of war. What began to unnerve everyone in Royle's circle was the sudden influx of soldiers seemingly all over the capital. As a former soldier, Harry had his own thoughts concerning whether a war might come, but the others were buying into the propaganda wholesale. Johnny had told him, that business would have to wait for just a little while. At least until people knew either way about this war business. Harry was happy, nothing to do and plenty of money, plus a city to play in. He had begun staying out most of the night and sleeping half the day away. Ruth had mentioned his sloppiness on a number of occasions, but her words fell on deaf ears.
It was Friday and Royle was out enjoying a jazz band, in a club just off Savile Row. The singer reminded him of Billie Holiday. Her smoky delivery was perfectly suited to the song. Harry was tapping his foot to the beat and losing himself in the alcohol-fuelled hazy moment, as he noticed the guitar player trying to catch his eye. Harry had met Devon at one of Johnny's parties and they had quickly become good friends. Harry had been shocked to learn that the coloured Jazzman had not come from some exotic country overseas but had in fact been born and bred in the East End. Harry's initial reactions to the news had caused Devon no end of fun and he'd greatly enjoyed pulling Royle's leg about it ever since.
The guitarist was now gesturing sharply towards the rear exit. Harry, lost in the music had taken too long to understand his friend's signals and before he could turn his head, a sharp police whistle pierced the air. The shrill sound tore through the smooth jazz and was quickly joined by a dozen more, as police officers came rushing through all of the club's doors. Harry jumped to his feet and was about to turn when a sharp voice from behind him stopped him in his tracks.
"Don't move son, not unless you want to feel the wood. Why the hurry anyway?"
Harry froze as he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. Royle looked around wildly for an exit, or at least a gap in the moving bodies around him, but found no avenue of chance. A second later, he felt the weight of a sixteen stone man push him over the table and felt strong hands force his wrists into handcuffs. He was pulled up and pushed forward into an area in front of the now quiet stage. Looking around, he saw another five men also in handcuffs. Two of the other men were
also white, the rest coloured. A uniformed senior police officer appeared from the gloom at the rear of the club. He walked up and stood just a few feet in front of Harry's face. He took off his cap and addressed the little group of handcuffed men.
"Look here you men, if you're innocent, you've nothing to worry about, even you coloured boys have nothing to fear. My men are here to do a job, I'll have no dealings with Mosley style bully boy tactics. However, looking at you, I'd say we have at least three deserters and your regiments might be missing you. Come along smartly and give my lads no trouble and we'll get along wonderfully. Sergeant, take them away."
He turned on his heel and vanished from Royle's line of sight. Harry and the others were led out through the front and straight into a waiting van. Harry could see at least ten officers standing in the street, all with truncheons poised, ready for action. It was a short drive to Savile Row police station. Hours had passed before the men were processed and put into two vacant cells. The senior officer had been as good as his word and none of the officers under his command had laid a finger on the men in the cells. There was no interview, just two meals and plenty of tea. Harry found himself sharing a cell with two other white men. Both of his cellmates were nervous and showing obvious signs of cracking under the pressure.
It was four in the morning when a click made Harry sit up on the bench still wrapped in a thin blanket. A fresh-faced young constable looked in and pointing to Royle, indicated that he was to follow him. Once in the outer office, Harry was greeted by a smiling sergeant and a thin old man in a dark suit. The man stepped forward and offered his hand in greeting.
"Mr French, I'm so sorry for this grave error on the part of these otherwise diligent and hard working officers."
The sergeant stepped up and offered Harry a somewhat abrupt handshake, which Royle made the most of and shook the offered hand in a generous and dramatic fashion. The man in the suit grinned and indicated the outer door with his index finger.
