A Question Of Honour: A Harry Royle Thriller (10 page)

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.

"Shall we Mr French? Gentlemen. A pleasure as always. Sergeant."

They left together and as the door closed, Sergeant Oliver Jenkins slammed his palm down on the desktop in front of him.

"That slimy bastard, I swear one day I will swing for that one. Take a note of that French character. How old is he? Twenty-four, twenty-five? And he had over thirty quid in his pocket. Not at The Savoy mind, but in a dingy little backstreet jazz joint. Smart suit, keys to a motor, and an identity that is so perfect that it makes my bunions ache. I tell you, lads, this one is either a ponce or a smash and grab merchant. And considering that old Oily Moncrief is his brief, well what does that tell us?"

The men standing around all answered as one.

"Mangusco, Sarg."

Jenkins nodded.

"Johnny, sodding, Mangusco, the one and only. Our very own Hollywood gangster. We need to be very careful if we're to catch him before you, Tullis start drawing your pension."

This last comment raised a hearty laugh all around, as Steve Tullis was the youngest officer serving in the station.

The drive to Mangusco's White Cat Club was quiet, Harry simply looked out of the window and smoked. His thoughts were confused and the sheer relief had taken his breath away. Another ten minutes and he was standing in front of Johnny Mangusco, who was grinning from ear to ear.

"I told you, Harry, I look after my people. You're one of mine, they hurt you, they hurt me. It's that personal. Coppers they're getting everywhere these days. Can't trust the buggers and not enough of 'em are bent and that's not good for business. Now one thing, watch yourself, they now know you're with me, so gently does it."

Harry nodded, and Johnny continued.

"Now, I have something very tasty coming up and trust me you'll not want to miss this one. You, my friend, are going into the jewellery business. I've got a beautiful little tickle lined up for you, South Kensington way."

"What?"

Royle took a step back. Mangusco grinned even wider and holding his hands up, continued.

"This is what you've been waiting for, no messin', straight in and out and you'll walk away with a small fortune."

Harry shook his head and held a hand up to stop Johnny.

"Look, Johnny, I know I did the ironworks job, but robbing shops is not my style."

Mangusco stiffened and stopped smiling.

"Look, Harry, I've been good to you and looked after you like one of my own, you've gotta give me something back."

Royle mulled this over for a brief moment and then answered.

"Alright, what if I could give you more weapons than you would ever need and all from just one job. Would that interest you?"

The smile returned to Johnny's face.

"Now you're talking, you've got my attention."

"My old outfit was the army, but really they're just a bigger gang than we are and their boss is the most corrupt gang-boss on the planet, the government. More men and more guns that's what the difference is. You see we need guns and they've got them, armouries full of them, just waiting to be taken. We've got men to do the job, but we need a man on the inside, and that's where I come in. I know the layout of that camp inside and out, every guard post, where sentries are posted, the whole lot."

Johnny Mangusco clapped his hands.

"Harry if you come through on this one, I'll give you that ponce, Mandell's head on a silver platter, just as a bonus."

Royle smiled and nodded.

"I gave the army everything and when I needed one thing, they walked away and left me to rot. I've had enough and one way or another I think I'm due some back pay, don't you?"

The two men walked out of the backroom and across to the bar. Johnny himself flipped the lights on and poured drinks for them both, in way of a modest celebration. He made certain the drinks flowed for the next few hours.

Ruth was at home and flew into Harry's arms as soon as he walked through the door. She slapped his arm.

"You daft sod, you really are. When I heard you was pinched, I could have died. I thought they really had you and you will hang if they catch you proper."

He kissed her and held onto her tightly.

"Don't worry, they had me and that would have been it if it hadn't been for Johnny. Well, let's not think about it now. I'm free and we've come up with a plan."

Over cigarettes and a nightcap, Royle explained all that had happened during the previous hours.

The next morning he got a message to meet Johnny at Battersea Bridge. As Harry approached the bridge, he noticed that Johnny was standing beside a dark saloon car with two other men, both looked well dressed and Royle recognised one of them from a very unlikely setting. Seeing him, Mangusco waved Royle over. Reluctantly joining the men, Harry looked to Johnny for a cue, it came quickly.