‘Just like your client’s relative?’ Jock Ferguson took his first sip of whisky.
‘That doesn’t mean it’s connected.’
‘What about this Bobby Kirkcaldy?’ asked Devereaux. ‘Jock here said you’re involved in some kind of case with him and it was when you were asking him about Kirkcaldy that you mentioned Largo.’
I waved my hand vaguely in the air. ‘No… that’s not connected in any way. It was just while I was talking to Jock that I thought I’d ask if he’d heard of this Largo. By the way, I have been asking all over town about Largo. No one has heard of him.’
‘That’s no surprise,’ said Devereaux. ‘Like I told you, Largo works on a different level.’
‘My point is, could we be talking about two different Largos? Like I said, I didn’t even have a first name for him until Jock mentioned it. Maybe it’s not John Largo at all.’
‘It could be,’ said Devereaux. ‘But we know he’s here in Glasgow and your mention of him is the only lead we’ve had in months.’
‘Aw, for God’s sake, Lennox…’ Ferguson suddenly vented his frustration. ‘Just tell us who your client is. All we have to do is go around and talk to Jimmy Costello and he’ll tell us.’
‘Then you’ll have got it from him and not from me. And I wouldn’t be so sure about Costello as a source of information.’ I sighed. ‘Look, I’ve told you all I can, which is about all there is to tell. So why not end the Mexican stand-off and you tell me what you know about Largo and what it is he’s involved in and I tell you if it fits with anything else that’s been happening?’
Devereaux stood up and put the straw trilby over his perfect, level lawn of hair. ‘Maybe we will. Thanks for your time, Lennox. Next time the drinks are on me,’ he said with his customary good-natured grin. Which was why I couldn’t work out why it sounded to me like a threat.
Ten minutes after they had left there was another knock on the door. Opening it revealed the figure of Fiona White. She was wearing a pale pink shirtwaister dress with capped sleeves. She was also wearing a disapproving look. It was an ensemble I’d become accustomed to.
‘Please, Mrs White, come in…’ I offered, knowing that she wouldn’t. She never did. Her pale green eyes glittered coldly but I noticed that she’d put on fresh lipstick before coming up.
‘Mr Lennox, I’ve told you how I feel about policemen coming to the door. After the last time you were arrested…’
I stopped her with a held-up palm, as if I were halting traffic. ‘Listen, Mrs White, you’re right that one of the gentlemen who called was indeed a policeman. But I’m sure you noticed that one of them was American. He’s in the same line of business as I am.’ I paused to let this impressive fact sink in: I was operating on the international stage. I looked at her face. It had sunk, without trace. ‘They didn’t come here to arrest me or question me, Mrs White. They came here as colleagues, to ask my opinion on a case. And as regards the last incident… I thought we were clear on that. A misunderstanding. A misunderstanding that you, yourself, were instrumental in clearing up.’
She looked at me coldly. I really, really wanted to warm her up, to find the last, faint ember of muliebrity and breathe on it until it caught fire again. And I think she knew it.
‘Well, I’d be obliged if you did not conduct business from this house.’
‘Detective Inspector Ferguson is a friend of mine, Mrs White. His visits to me are as much social as business. And, as you are aware, I don’t have a habit of having guests of any kind here.’ It was the truth. I never brought women there, and I had done all I could to keep this place separate from everything else that went on in my life. A refuge, almost. I sighed. ‘Please come in and have a seat, Mrs White. I’d like to talk to you about a couple of things.’
‘Oh?’ Something even colder and harder fell like a shutter across her eyes.
I seasoned my smile with a little impatience and indicated the sofa. Fiona White somehow managed to fill her acceptance brim full with resentment and marched past me. She didn’t sit on the sofa but in the armchair, perched on its edge in a stiff-shouldered posture that was no ease and all temporariness.
‘What is it you want to talk to me about?’
‘I’ve lived here for two years, Mrs White, and I’ve paid the rent regularly and without delay. Including the six months last year when I was out of the country. I don’t make noise; I don’t drink myself stupid and sing the ballads of ol’ Ireland into the wee small hours; I don’t bring young ladies up to look at my etchings. All in all, I consider myself to be a pretty model tenant.’
Fiona White looked at me silently with the same flinty defiance. If I had been expecting confirmation of my credentials as a tenant, it was not forthcoming.
‘It’s just that I get the impression that I somehow disappoint you as a tenant,’ I continued. ‘That you somehow wish that you hadn’t accepted me for the tenancy. If that’s the case, Mrs White, then tell me now and I’ll take it as notice to quit.’
‘It is entirely up to you whether you stay or go, Mr Lennox,’ she said, a hint of fire now behind the ice. ‘I really don’t know what you expect me to say. It sounds to me like it’s you who disapprove of me as a landlady. I apologize if my manner offends you. If that is the case, by all means you are free to leave.’
‘I don’t want to go, Mrs White, but I want to feel free to have the occasional caller, or for you to take the odd telephone message for me, without being made to feel that it is a huge imposition for you. Listen, I understand that you would not have chosen to divide your house up and let in a lodger. But you have and I’m here. And if it wasn’t me, it would be someone else. I’m not to blame for the circumstances that made this flat available.’ I stood up and went over to the sideboard. I took the same bottle of whisky and poured myself a glass. There was a bottle of Williams and Humbert Walnut Brown Sherry on the sideboard and, without asking first, I poured a glass for Mrs White and handed it to her. For a moment she looked as if she was going to shake her head. Instead she took the glass from me wordlessly.
‘If you want to stay, then stay,’ she said. ‘But don’t expect me to issue you with a merit badge just because you fulfil your contractual obligations as a tenant.’
She took a sip of the sherry. I could have been imagining it, but I thought I detected something easing in the rigid shoulders.
‘I like it here,’ I said. ‘I told you that. I also like being able to do anything I can for the girls.’ I referred to Fiona White’s daughters.
‘We don’t need charity, Mr Lennox. We don’t need anything from you.’ The thaw had been brief and false. She put the sherry glass down on the table and stood up abruptly. ‘If that’s everything, Mr Lennox, then I’d better get back to the girls.’
‘What is it you resent about me, Mrs White?’ I said. ‘Is it that I’m a Canadian? Is it my line of work? Or is it simply the fact that I’m here?’
That did it. We moved from a chill in the air to a positive Ice Age.
‘And just what is that meant to mean?’
‘I mean that I’m here. That I came back. I survived and your husband didn’t. Sometimes I think you resent me because I represent everyone who did come back from the war.’
She turned and headed for the door. I went over and placed my hand on the door handle. I was going to open the door for her, but she clearly misread my intent and pulled at my hand on the knob. It was a tight grip: warm, slim fingers strong on my wrist. She was close to me now, her body inches from mine. I could smell the sherry on her breath. The scent of lavender on her neck. We both froze for a moment, our eyes locked. She was breathing hard. I wasn’t breathing at all. It was a second that seemed to last forever, then she snatched open the door and stormed down the stairs.
‘Goodnight, Mr Lennox,’ she said, her back to me, her voice unsteady.
‘Mrs White… Fiona…’
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, and without looking round, she slammed the door of her flat behind her.
>
I went back into my flat and poured myself another whisky. Probably to celebrate my diplomatic skills and to commemorate the last time I had been in a situation so charged with sexual tension. I idly wondered what had happened to Maisie MacKendrie, with whom I’d danced at the Saint John Presbyterian Church Social when we were both fifteen.
But that wasn’t all I reflected on. I sipped at my whisky contemplatively. I had a lot to contemplate.
Dex Devereaux, for example. And how it was mighty big of the City of Glasgow Police to be so cooperative. To the point of subservience.
CHAPTER NINE
Some people relish the unpredictability of life; the never really knowing what’s ahead around the next corner. You wake up in the morning and engage the day, totally and blissfully blind to all of the things that may turn to crap within twenty-four hours. When I woke up, washed and shaved the next morning, I didn’t really get much of a chance to reflect on what was going on that was so big it commanded transatlantic interest. Other developments kind of took over my attention.
I got the news in the same way as any other Glasgow citizen. A headline in the Glasgow Herald.
SUSPECT ARRESTED FOR MURDER OF GLASGOW BOOKMAKER
I had bought a copy on the way into the office and I stopped for a coffee at my usual place on Argyle Street to read it. The article beneath the headline explained that Tommy ‘Gun’ Furie, a small-time boxer, had been arrested for the murder of James MacFarlane, a leading Glasgow turf accountant with suspected links to the Glasgow underworld. Reading on, I discovered that Furie was one of the tinkers camped up at Vinegarhill. I read small-time boxer as bare-knuckle fighter and I thought of the edifying spectacle at Sneddon’s barn hideaway.
Furie, the article said, was an Irish tinker. A pikey, as Sneddon would have described him. Being an Irish gypsy meant that Furie stood a very good chance of getting a fair trial. Much in the same way that I stood a very good chance of Marilyn Monroe throwing over Joe DiMaggio to come to Glasgow and live in squalid sin with me. Glasgow CID had told the reporter that, although Furie was helping them with their enquiries, they would continue to explore all other avenues of investigation. As I read that, the image of Marilyn washing my smalls in a Glasgow tenement steamie leapt to mind.
That seemed to be that.
I wondered how Lorna had reacted to the news — and if the police had had the sense to let her know before she read it in the newspaper. I finished my coffee and walked to my office. Glasgow’s weather had reverted fully to type and a greasy drizzle seeped from the steel-grey sky. When I got into my office, I ’phoned Lorna’s number but it rang out. Putting the receiver down, I decided to call in on her that evening. It had been a few days since I’d seen her, although I’d ’phoned every day. Each call seemed to elicit a cooler and cooler reception. I felt bad that I hadn’t been there more often but everything that had been going on had distracted me. And I still couldn’t give her what she wanted from me.
With the distraction of Small Change’s murder out of the way, I decided to drop the whole thing about what kind of deal he had had going with Bobby Kirkcaldy. The main thing was to find out who was trying to put Kirkcaldy off the fight. I knew it wasn’t anyone in the Schmidtke camp; they weren’t due in the country until the end of the week. Of course that didn’t mean they hadn’t recruited local talent, but somehow it didn’t seem feasible, and my money was on finding out who had a bundle riding on Kirkcaldy losing. I spent the rest of the day going from one bookie shop to the next. A tour of the public toilets of Calcutta would have been more edifying.
Lunchtime found me in the East End and I tried a cafe I hadn’t been to before. It turned out to specialize in viscosity: the bacon, sausage and fried bread I was served with were islands on a lipoid ocean. I decided to spare my bowels the violence and stuck to the coffee. Afterwards, I walked to a telephone kiosk and fed it copper and brass.
I tried Lorna’s number again but it still rang out. There was a telephone directory on the shelf, and I went through it until I found the numbers of the three hotels within walking distance of St. Andrew’s Square and in the kind of price range that the City of Glasgow Police would usually stretch to. Each time I asked to speak to Mr Dexter Devereaux out of Vermont, USA. Three strikes. I tried the Central Hotel and St. Enoch Station Hotel. No American called Devereaux. It turned out that I should have worked alphabetically: I tracked him down to the Alpha Hotel in Buchanan Street. The reception told me that Mr Devereaux was out on business and was not expected back until the evening. I said there was no message and I pushed the silvered buttons on the ’phone to break the connection. I released them and dialled the number I had for Sheila Gainsborough’s Glasgow apartment. Again nothing.
My next call was more successful, if you can call having to talk to Willie Sneddon a success.
‘Have you seen the news?’ I asked.
‘I seen it.’ Sneddon’s voice was flat. Neutral. ‘Fuckin’ pikeys. Can’t turn your back on the bastards for a second.’
‘Tommy Gun Furie… from what the papers said it sounds like he was a bare-knuckle boy. You ever come across him?’
‘Naw. Not that I know of. Maybes. No names no pack drill and shite. I don’t stamp their fucking insurance cards. Anyways, all that shite has got fuck all to do with fuck all. You got anything on Bobby Kirkcaldy?’
I took a moment to absorb the richness of English as it could only be spoken in the Mother Country.
‘No. I’ve spent the day going round bookies trying to find out who’s betting against him.’
‘They fucking tell you that stuff?’ asked Sneddon.
‘I’ve been using your name in vain… in vain… no one seems to know of any big bets.’
‘Means fuck all,’ said Sneddon. ‘The really big stuff won’t go through fucking street shops. Talk to Tony the Pole.’
‘Grabowski?’ I asked, but was prompted by the exchange to put more money in the pay ’phone. It was a reminder to be careful what you said from a public callbox. I fired a couple of brass threepenny bits in and hit the A button.
‘Grabowski?’ I asked again. ‘I thought Tony had given up the gambling business as well as opening doors.’
‘Naw. Fuck knows he’s made enough money to retire, but he’s still running the odd book. If anybody’s been touting a big bet around town then Tony the Pole will know about it.’
‘I’ll check it out. Can I keep using Twinkletoes for staking out the Kirkcaldy place? I’ve got my guy on it early evenings.’
‘Suppose. That it?’
‘There is something else…’ I hadn’t been sure if I was going to voice my suspicions, but I reckoned that Sneddon, as my client, had a right to know what was going through my head.
‘What?’
‘This may or may not be something to worry about. You know I asked you if you knew someone called John Largo?’
‘Aye, what about it?’
‘Well, I asked one too many people about John Largo and I got a visit from a police chum of mine last night. He brought company. A Yank claiming to be a private detective from Vermont.’
‘And?’
‘If he was a private detective then I’m Grace Kelly. He’s calling all the shots as far as the City of Glasgow Police are concerned.’
‘What’s it to me?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know that it’s anything to anybody, but it means two things: some heavyweight American law enforcement is in town and whoever John Largo is he’s a big, big fish. And Glasgow’s a small pond. Your pond.’
‘I take your point. I’ll ask around. Have you let Cohen and Murphy know yet?’
‘No, but I will. And I wouldn’t ask around too loudly. That’s what brought me to the attention of Eliot Ness.’
After I hung up from Sneddon I drove out of the East End, across the river and south in the general direction of Cathcart and Newton Mearns.
There was a lot about Glasgow, about Scotland, that itched at me like a nettle rash; but there was als
o much about the Scots I liked. One of their most redeeming qualities was the way they accepted different shades of Scottishness. Just as it was possible to call yourself an Irish-American, there were identities within Scotland that were unique, but taken as part of the Scottish identity: Italian-Scottish; Jewish-Scottish, the variation that had given birth to a totally unique cultural phenomenon of the bar-mitzvah ceilidh, where yarmulkes and kilts were required dress; and, since the end of the war, there had been a new Caledonian breed: the Polish-Scot.
Tony the Pole Grabowski was one of the thousands of Polish servicemen who had fought alongside the British Army or in the skies above Britain. Many had died defending an island they had only known for months. The vast majority of the British-based Free Polish Army had been stationed in Scotland. I had a soft spot for the Poles: the Polish First Armoured Division had been attached to the First Canadian Army and I had seen them in action. And having seen them, I had counted myself very lucky to have been on the same side as them.
After the war, like so many of his countrymen, Tony the Pole had decided he preferred the pattern on this side of the Iron Curtain and had become a resident alien, then a naturalized British citizen. He had married a Scottish girl and had settled down in Polmadie, in the south of the city. Polmadie was about as picturesque as its name suggested: a maze of tenements and 1930s’ Corporation semi-detached houses — mind you, in a city with districts called Auchenshuggle and Roughmussel, Polmadie was positively lyrical. And a semi-detached was a palace compared to a Gorbals slum.
Tony the Pole’s day job was as a greengrocer. Being Polish, he hadn’t understood that fruit and veg — unless they had been fried or were capable of being fried — were always at the bottom of any Glaswegian shopping list. Maybe that was why greengrocery had remained Tony’s day job. It was his night job that had brought in the real cash — Tony the Pole Grabowski opened doors, all right. He had been, without doubt, the best peterman in Scotland. There had not been a safe he couldn’t crack, one way or another. But the peterman’s life was a perilous one. There was always the threat of the missed foothold, the slip from a drainpipe, the fall. Or the danger of silent alarms, night watchmen, or patrolling bobbies with a soft tread. So Tony, when he had saved enough to keep his family comfortable and before he had been locked into a box himself, had quit the peterman business and had resigned himself to a world of wilting cabbages and wrinkling tomatoes. Except, every now and then, Tony would organize a card game or set up a book on a sporting event. Just to supplement the income from peas and sprouts.
The Long Glasgow Kiss l-2 Page 17
