by Irene Carr
The clerk answered, ‘Mr Parnaby is waiting in your office, sir.’
Victor Parnaby was lounging in an armchair but he jumped to his feet when Forthrop entered. Max closed the door behind him then crossed the room to sit in the swivel chair behind his desk. ‘All right,’ he demanded, ‘what have you got?’
Parnaby held up one hand, fingers spread, as a reminder. He ticked off the fingers one by one as he spoke: ‘Cutlery – four dozen items, all silver; lady’s jewel-box, with contents; gent’s gold cigarette case, tie pin, shirt studs, cuff-links; set o’ chess men in ivory in box with board; half-dozen silver cups – they’ll melt down. I gave thirty quid for the lot. They should fetch three or four times that amount in London.’
Forthrop grunted his satisfaction. ‘Good business. We’ll go tomorrow.’
Parnaby would travel down to London with two or more suitcases packed with the stolen property and sell it to a receiver there. Forthrop would travel separately. He knew how much money he had paid Parnaby for the goods but he also wanted to know how much the fence paid. He would be there to see.
The ‘business’ was headed by Forthrop because he had thought it out, organised and funded it, the last with Sylvia Forthrop’s money. But he stayed in the background, incognito. The fence would not hear his name or see his face. Forthrop identified possible ‘suppliers’, thieves he had defended in court, and they would be approached by Parnaby, finding in him a ready market for the pieces they stole. Sometimes Parnaby would tip them off as to where desirable items could be found, information given to him by Forthrop, who obtained it in the course of his socialising. More than one hostess had lost her jewellery soon after Forthrop saw it as a guest in her house.
Now Parnaby rose and made for the door. Forthrop leaned back in his chair and called after him, ‘Another bit of good business – I’m buying the Railway Hotel!’ He laughed as he saw the surprise succeeded by respect on Parnaby’s face. Forthrop had bought five public houses in the past year. He was building his empire and his plans were coming to fruition.
As Parnaby left the office, Forthrop caught a glimpse through the open door of the girl bent over her typewriter. He had plans for her, too, once he owned the Railway. But the hotel and that innocence could wait until he returned from London.
When Chrissie left her work at the Palace that evening she made a detour to pass by the Railway Hotel. It stood in the High Street, opposite the main entrance to the station and she paused outside, looking up at its grimy face. It was a solid, square building, but drab. All the woodwork needed a coat of paint and Chrissie eyed the curtains and muttered, ‘They need washing – or tossing away.’ The brasswork on the swinging front doors was dull. She pushed through them and ventured inside.
A threadbare carpet covered the floor of the foyer, potted ferns lurked in dark corners and doors to the different bars and the dining-room opened out of it. A staircase to the upper floors climbed up one wall and a reception desk stood against another. The walls were clad with dark oak panelling and there was a general air of shabbiness and gloom. A fireplace had been cleaned but no new fire had been laid and it was cold and empty.
A door at the rear of the foyer, glass-panelled and labelled ‘Office’, opened. A stocky man in his early forties came out, pulling on the jacket of his suit. He smoothed down his sandy hair with one hand, smiled at Chrissie and asked, ‘Can I help you, miss?’
Chrissie asked, ‘Are you the manager?’
He nodded, ‘That’s right, miss, Tommy Johnson. What can I do for you?’
Chrissie made her decision. ‘I might be able to do something for you.’
When she walked into the Bells that evening Lance Morgan looked up at the clock and said, ‘You’re late, lass.’ Not in reproach but surprise; it was a rare event.
As Chrissie hung up her coat she explained, ‘I had to make a call on the way.’ Then she asked, ‘Can I have a word with you, please, Mr Morgan?’
‘Aye. Look after the bar for a minute, Millie.’
‘Yes, Mr Morgan.’
And when he faced Chrissie in the kitchen behind the bar, she told him, ‘The Railway Hotel is up for sale.’
‘Is it?’ He sniffed. ‘I’m not surprised. It’s gone downhill over the years.’
‘That’s because of the owner.’ Chrissie explained how Forthrop had said he knew the hotel was coming on to the market. She carried on, ‘I went round and saw the manager, Tommy Johnson. That’s why I was late. He didn’t want to talk at first because he was annoyed with Forthrop for not keeping his mouth shut. But after a while he said this owner lives in Liverpool, gambles a lot and he’s milked the Railway for every penny he could squeeze out of it and spent nothing on it. That’s why it’s run down and Tommy showed me the books to prove it. He’s fed up. Anyway, now the owner wants to sell up in a hurry. Tommy reckons he’s got into debt with the bookies and needs the cash quick to settle up.’
Lance put in, ‘Here! How did you get all this out of him?’
‘I told him I thought I knew a way he could keep his job.’
‘Oh, aye? How?’
‘I’m just coming to that. The sale hasn’t been advertised yet but it will be any day now. Forthrop hasn’t put in a bid yet. Probably he thinks he has plenty of time because he is the only one in the know.’
Lance poked his head around the door to peer into the bar. He called, ‘Are you all right, Millie?’
‘I can manage, Mr Morgan.’
Lance turned back to Chrissie and asked, ‘But what did you want to see me about?’
Chrissie had kept Lance’s books for more than three years. She had also listened to his chatter. She knew he owned the Bells outright, lock, stock and barrel and free of any mortgage, as he had owned the Frigate and the Halfway House. Also that he had been a successful publican for thirty years and his standing at the bank was first class – she knew that from the way she was treated there when acting on his behalf. She had a very good idea of what he was worth – and what he could borrow. ‘Buy it, Mr Morgan.’
‘What!’
Chrissie soothed, ‘Just sit down, Mr Morgan, while I make some tea.’
‘Me? Buy the Railway Hotel? Never!’
But she got him to pull a chair up to the table and made a pot of tea for the two of them. ‘This is the chance of a lifetime. Tommy told me how much the owner wants . . .’
‘You little bitch!’ Forthrop had shoved in through the swing doors of the Palace and stalked across the foyer to bang his fist on Chrissie’s desk. He glared down at her.
She had been expecting the attack, dreading it, but was prepared; the owner of the Railway Hotel had jumped at Lance Morgan’s offer. Chrissie sat back in her chair and met Forthrop eye to eye. ‘I’ll thank you to withdraw that remark.’
‘What!’
‘I said—’
‘I know what you said! I know what you did! You talked to that bloody Tommy Johnson behind my back and then told that bloody Morgan! Nobody else but you knew that the Railway Hotel was being put up for sale!’
Chrissie met his glare with that same cool stare and without flinching. ‘You went behind Mr Ferguson’s back when you offered me a bribe to leave him and work for you. Five shillings a week, remember?’
‘That was business!’
‘So was this. I think that’s how people would look at it.’ She added deliberately, ‘I mean the business people of this town, like the ones you lunch with here. And I wonder how they would take it if they heard that a lass like me had beaten you?’
Forthrop lifted his clenched fist and Chrissie slapped her hand quickly on the bell mounted on her desk: Ting! Ting! Ting! The porter appeared on the other side of the foyer and Chrissie called, ‘Just wait there a minute, Billy!’ That gave Forthrop pause, knowing that there was now a witness to his actions. Chrissie said, ‘I’ve told Mr Ferguson.’
‘What?’ His fists shook white knuckled on the desk before her.
Chrissie went on, calm and matter-of-fact, ‘I’v
e told him that I’m leaving here. I’ve put in my notice. That’s all – so far. But if you don’t leave me alone I’ll tell him and the rest of the town the whole story.’
Forthrop still stood for a moment, his fist raised, breathing rapidly. His gaze shifted from the curious Billy, standing out of earshot, to the girl who faced him seemingly unafraid. Then he said, ‘I’ll settle with you for this one day.’ And he stormed out of the hotel.
Chrissie drew in a deep breath and said, ‘That’s all right, Billy. I thought we might be needing you but Mr Forthrop changed his mind.’ But she had not got her apology, though she had never expected she would. And she knew she had made an enemy.
Max Forthrop tried to vent his anger on Della Roberts. He went to her small house in Villiers Street near the river, that was paid for by him. The rooms were unclean, with a kitchen table piled high with dirty crockery and he glimpsed the unmade bed in another room. Della wore a silk dress he had bought her, that was almost new but was stained and wrinkled.
Forthrop shoved his hand inside it and twisted but she kicked out at him, pulled away and snarled, ‘Let me alone, you bastard! I’ve put up with too much o’ that!’ In the past two years she had suffered it, for the sake of the money, but with increasing loathing. ‘Try that again and I’ll shout the place down!’
Forthrop did not want that and stood back. He came to Della’s rooms only late at night and left before morning. Her neighbours knew nothing of him. He intended to keep that anonymity, would not risk it by her shouting bringing those neighbours in to investigate the cause. So he fought down his anger – for the moment.
He had been thinking about Della Roberts for some time. The buxom girl had grown into a blowsy woman. She had always liked a drink but now he rarely found her sober. There was a half-empty bottle of whisky and a dirty glass on the table now.
Della saw him glance at them and laughed, lips loose. ‘I’ve been celebratin’.’ And when he stared she explained, ‘I’m in the family way. You’re goin’ to be a daddy.’
Forthrop had already decided he would have to deal with Della and how he would do it. Now the time had come. He forced a smile and said, ‘That’s marvellous!’
Della’s drunken grin slipped away and she snapped, ‘You’re a bloody liar! You didn’t want the others, made me get rid of them. But I’m not going through that again. I’m carrying this one and you’ll be named as the father – unless we come to some arrangement.’
Forthrop shrugged. ‘If that’s what you want, but it’s not what I planned. Look, I’m fed up with this hole-and-corner life. I did it because I had to pretend to be in mourning, but now that’s finished. It’s been two years! So what do you say to us getting married as soon as we can? We can go on holiday to France and Italy. You can have the baby there and we’ll bring it back when it’s a few months old. Then nobody will know that we jumped the gun.’
Della stared at him, disbelieving. ‘France? Italy?’
He nodded, laughing now. ‘I was in a filthy temper when I got here because a business transaction had fallen through. But another one didn’t and if you’ll put on your coat I’ll show you what I mean.’
She asked suspiciously, ‘Show me what? Where?’
‘A ship. In the river. I’ve bought it. It’s mine.’
‘Never!’
‘On my life. Here, let’s have a toast.’ He took another glass from the dust-covered sideboard and slopped whisky into her glass and his. But while Della’s was full, his hand wrapped around his hid the fact that it was nearly empty. He lifted it: ‘To our honeymoon cruise!’
They drank and Della wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. She said, wanting to believe him, ‘You’re having me on.’
Forthrop shook his head. ‘No. I’ll prove it. Come on, drink up and fetch your coat. I’ll show you the ship. She’s leaving tomorrow but in a month’s time she’ll be sailing from here again, calling at Bordeaux, Lisbon and Naples. And we’ll be aboard her.’
Della emptied her glass and objected faintly, ‘It’s nearly midnight. Everybody’s abed.’
Forthrop leered, ‘We can get down to that afterwards.’ She giggled and he held her coat so she could fumble her arms into the sleeves, handed her the wide-brimmed hat trimmed with imitation flowers which she pinned on crookedly. She lurched as they stepped out into the street and he gave her his arm. They were both giggling now.
The night was dark but he knew his way. And in the last two years he had come to know the routine of the patrolling policemen and so avoided them now. They walked down the empty High Street to the river and then along the quay to a point where they were distant from houses and shipyards with nightwatchmen. At their backs was a line of warehouses with locked doors and blank windows. The river rolled black and oily, the tide just on the turn so its surface swirled some twenty feet below the level of the quay.
Forthrop pointed, ‘There she is.’ There were always ships in the river. Half a dozen could be seen from where he and Della stood now, black silhouettes of vessels picked out with riding lights or the glow from lit portholes.
Della peered into the darkness and asked, the words slurred, ‘Which one?’
Forthrop stepped to the edge of the quay and pointed again with his free arm outstretched, taking her with him in the crook of the other. ‘That one – with the smoke coming from her funnel. She’s getting up steam. I told you she was sailing in the morning.’ He looked left and right but saw no one, just the bare expanse of the quay.
Della said, ‘I can see it now.’
And he pushed her over the edge.
He did it with a hand in the small of her back and one foot thrust in front of hers so that she tripped and fell head first. Because of the whisky she was slow to react, had almost reached the water before she began to scream and then that was cut short. She surfaced only once and then some way from the quay, the current taking her. She let out a cry then but it was feeble and ended bubbling as she sank again.
Forthrop waited and watched for some minutes but saw nothing more of her. Then he went home to his bed.
A week later the coroner delivered his verdict. Neighbours said a man had been seen sometimes entering Della’s house late at night – but not near the time of her death. She had boasted of having a wealthy man friend, but no one had seen a face or knew a name. And Mrs Garrity, Forthrop’s former cook, who knew of his affair with Della, was dead. Chrissie never saw the report of Della’s death. There was no evidence of foul play. The coroner privately thought that there was more than a suspicion of suicide as the woman was single and pregnant, but he settled for ‘accidental death’ to free the poor soul from stigma.
Lance Morgan stood in the gloomy foyer of the Railway Hotel and shook his head in despair. ‘My God! What a state it’s in! And I’ve put myself up to my neck in debt for this.’
Chrissie forbore to remind him that he had viewed the hotel before he bought it and knew its condition. She said, ‘We’ll soon knock it into shape, Mr Morgan.’ But the task was daunting. Only half of the twenty rooms were fit to let and they were spartan. The others were shut.
Tommy Johnson apologised miserably, ‘I was never allowed the money to pay enough staff or to get the place decorated.’
‘We’re going to change all that. Aren’t we, Mr Morgan?’ Chrissie glanced at Lance, who nodded glumly. Florence, his wife, had countered all his doubts and objections with happy confidence: ‘Chrissie Carter’s never let you down yet. Didn’t she get you out of that mess with the Halfway House? Well, then, you take her advice. She’s got her head screwed on the right way, that one.’
Now Lance picked up his newspaper and said, ‘Well, I’ll get back and see how Millie is coping.’ He had borrowed to buy the Railway Hotel and still owned the Bells. Although this was not the football season he had kept enough of the trade it stimulated to continue making a fat profit.
He glanced at the headlines and said, ‘Did you see this bit about an Archduke Francis Ferdinand being shot? In some plac
e called Sarajevo.’
Tommy said absently, ‘Never heard of it.’
He and Chrissie were already planning: ‘We’ll need to clean and decorate some of the closed rooms and open them up before we can start on the ones open now.’
Chrissie put in, ‘And we’ve got to start getting some of the passing trade from the station, commercial travellers and so forth. And do’s – wedding receptions and dances . . .’
Lance Morgan left them to it.
Chrissie contracted with and instructed decorators, renewed furnishings, interviewed additional new staff, cooked, cleaned, served behind the bar and planned, planned, planned until she fell asleep each night. The Railway Hotel was ready for its celebratory re-opening on Saturday 1st August, 1914. Smart new paint, sparkling windows and clean, bright curtains had transformed its face. Inside lay thick carpets on floors polished until they reflected the light from the chandeliers hung from snow white ceilings. Chrissie had said, ‘I think it should look warm and comfortable, make you feel glad just to come in.’
Lance Morgan told her, ‘I want you to be assistant manager. Will you do it?’
The offer took her by surprise. In the whirl of work she had never considered what her position would be. But now? She thought for a moment then said, ‘No, I won’t. But I’ll be manager.’
Lance shook his head. ‘You can’t have a woman manager. Tommy Johnson and the other men won’t stand for it.’
‘Most of the people working here are women. And Tommy won’t mind if he keeps the same money – and if he is the one who is wearing the manager’s jacket and seems to be giving the orders. The other men will follow suit.’ And when he still looked doubtful, Chrissie offered, ‘Do what you did when you first took me on and give me a trial for a month. Please, Mr Morgan.’
‘I’ve never had cause to regret that.’ Lance hesitated a moment then agreed, ‘Right you are, lass. We’ll see how it goes.’
