Authors: Gordon Ferris
Tommy was so grateful he would have agreed to lying to the police on a warehouse full of bibles. There was no love lost between the East End and the law at the best of times. So an hour later,
when the squad cars squealed up outside, Tommy and I were alone, ready with a slightly tailored version of the facts.
“You say you were the night watchman, Mr McRae?” the inspector was asking. We were in Tommy’s office and Inspector Austen was tugging at his thick bottom lip. A sure sign that
he was weaned too early. I imagined him in private having a really good suck of that thumb.
“Temporary watchman, inspector. Mr Chandler asked me to help him stop the thieving. I’m a private detective – Finders Keepers
.
”
He didn’t like that. They don’t. Private dicks are seen by the boys in blue as only one shade lighter than the crooks themselves. I think it’s professional jealousy.
“And the gun? This is your gun?” Now he was mauling his mouth, trying to rub out his lips. No wonder his hair was thin and his skin so pale; this man needed a holiday, or a new
job.
I looked at Eve’s Beretta lying between us. “That’s mine all right. I have a licence.” That was a risk; I was guessing they wouldn’t check it out. Why would
they?
“You don’t have a licence to go round shooting people.”
“Self-defence. Look at what
he
had.” I pointed at the other weapon lying on the table. It was a .45, and looked like a Bazooka alongside mine.
“Where do you think you are? The Wild West? Beat him to the draw, did you?”
Just then I saw some commotion outside through the glass panels of Tommy’s office. The sound carried through. Inspector Austen looked pissed off, as though his brilliant interrogation had
been on the point of forcing an unwitting confession out of me. He got up and went to the door. He opened it and shouted out.
“What’s going on? I’m in the middle of taking a statement here.”
Then I saw her. Eve was standing in the middle of the warehouse in her normal clothes – beret, belted coat and shoulder bag – arguing with a policeman and scribbling in her little
black notepad. The constable was clearly past the point of being civil. His face was red and his collar looked two sizes too small as he ran his finger round it, trying to let blood through to his
small brain. Eve saw the inspector and her face lit up as she strode towards him.
I heard a soft “Oh Christ” from him.
From her: “Inspector Austen! I should have known you would be the one to nab these crooks! I’d like a few words for my readers.”
Apart from a hectic flush on both cheeks which accentuated the dark pools below her eyes, Eve was the innocent but far from retiring professional reporter. She saw Tommy and me, but there was no
recognition for either of us. Tommy reached for his fags, then realised he had one hanging from his lip.
“One of you two must be the owner. Mr Chandler?”
Tommy stuck his hand up like a school kid. Eve thrust hers out and shook his roughly.
“And you are…?” She stood in front of me, her eyes bright and challenging.
“Who’s asking?” Two could play her game.
“Eve Copeland, reporter from the
Daily Trumpet
, Mr…?”
I took a risk that Inspector Austen would play along with a wind-up of the press.
“Hamish MacTavish, night watchman.”
She squeezed her lips together to curb the grin. She shook my hand, and dug the nail of her pinkie into the palm of my hand. I don’t know if it was tiredness, or after-effects of the
fight, or too long without a woman, but I had a sudden and overwhelming wish that we were alone and I was biting those compressed lips.
The rest of the scene became an all-round farce: Austen trying to get rid of Eve and Eve trying to get the story she already knew from the inside. Tommy and I played along as best we could.
Behind us, the sorry-looking gang were marched off, glowering at me with a message in their eyes that I had just bought myself a heap of trouble. The wounded foreman was carted off moaning on a
stretcher, chest bound and face blanched.
Eve caught the late edition with enough tantalising hooks to ensure that the main morning run would sell out in minutes. It painted a picture of a plucky night watchman – one Hamish
MacTavish – and a few doughty storemen besting an armed gang intent on plundering a treasure house piled high with exotic silks. She even hinted at having witnessed the shoot-out herself
after a tip-off by underground contacts. This fearless reporter scaled the warehouse river-wall just in time to see the tail-end of the tussle. She referred to Hamish as the ‘humble hero of
the waterfront’.
The boys and me laughed about the first article that evening over a few drinks in the George. I’d come with their wages from Big Tommy. He’d been so pleased he’d added a bonus
tenner to each of us, and the way Midge and Stan were putting it away, they’d have nothing left in the morning except the mother and father of all hangovers.
“I thought you was a fucking magician, Hamish, the way you drew that gun,” Stan was slurring. “A fucking magician. Didn’t even see you move.”
Cyril butted in, slopping his pint over the already sodden table. His beard glistened with beer. “Then we saw it was the bint! Could hardly believe it. I know it was a pop gun. But
what’s she doing carrying it? And where did she learn to shoot like that? Have her in my unit any day, so I would.”
We were in a little corner of the lounge bar, a bit away from other customers but the lads’ voices were getting louder with every round.
“Keep it down, will you?”
“What’s it matter, Danny?” asked Stan, who’d chosen the tallest seat at the table and managed to look like an elf on a kiddie’s high chair. He could have done with
a bib as well, the state of his shirt.
“I just don’t want the world and his wife to know. You get names and photos splashed around and next thing the rozzers’ eyes are on you, or some prat decides to take you on to
prove he’s a big guy. Low profile, that’s best, then we can get more work. If you’re sober enough!”
“What? Us? Don’ you worry your pretty head, Danny boy,” said Midge through his thickening tongue.
I was suddenly aware of someone standing nearby. I turned. His shoulders were as thin as a rail and his spine humped under his shiny jacket. Sparse black hair was slicked down with too much
Brylcreem, and he kept passing a fag from one hand to the other taking a short suck in between. It was Fast Larry, a bookie’s runner of my acquaintance. When he saw I’d noticed him, he
smiled and edged a couple of feet closer. They can smell the money, these boys.
“No nags tonight, Larry. We’re just having a quiet drink.” Quiet? I glanced round at the ever-louder trio. Fast Larry was shaking his head and was now within three feet. He
signalled with a finger to his lip and pointed at me. I let him come right up. He bent over. I could smell his sour breath. I turned my head.
“The word’s out, Danny.”
“What word is that, Larry?”
“You and the boys, here. You done over the gang in the paper there.” He pointed at the evening version of the
Trumpet
soaking up the spillage.
“Not us, mate.”
Larry rubbed his oily nose. “Gamba put the word out.”
My blood started running faster. “Gamba?”
“Gambatti. Pauli Gambatti. He’s looking for you. Those were his boys you got nicked this morning. He’s not ’appy.”
The underworld grapevine never ceased to impress me. I looked at Fast Larry and wondered why he was telling me this. Loyalty to his regulars? Larry was only as loyal as the last bet. Ordered to
by Gambatti? A strange instrument. Or just malicious? His eyes were flicking all round the room. He was one of life’s parasites. Always on the edge of a crowd looking in. Seen as a
go-between, not a person in his own right. Breaking the news to me got him into my life stream, gave him existence. But I couldn’t, wouldn’t acknowledge it.
“You’ve got it all wrong, Larry. If you bump into your mate Pauli, tell him we had nothing to do with it.” I was conscious the others were listening now.
“Yeah, piss off Larry,” called out Stan, who felt he could lord it over at least one bloke who was in worse shape than him.
Fast Larry winced like he’d been struck. He turned and shuffled off. But he’d left behind a small cloud. I didn’t have to explain to anyone at the table who Gambatti was.
EIGHT
Nor did I have to explain to Eve. I found her the next night celebrating her scoop with her fellow hacks in the Coal Hole in the Strand. The pub was just far enough away from
Fleet Street to avoid bumping into the editor, but close enough at a slow stumble to put the evening edition to bed. Eve saw me and pushed towards me. None of her flush-faced cronies seemed to miss
her. Her face was rosy with drink and success. It was a big transformation in thirty-six hours.
She waved the front page of the
Trumpet
at me. “Read all about it! Fearless reporter scoops gang-bust!”
“I’ve seen it. A great story. Almost wish I’d been there.”
“It’s what we agreed, isn’t it?” Her voice dropped. She looked anxious, as though I was upset.
“I don’t need the publicity. Not with Gambatti out for blood.”
“He’s going to be my follow-up piece.”
“Are you daft?” I exclaimed. “Why get Gambatti even more upset than he already is? You can’t name names without proof.”
She drew me further away from the rabble at the bar. We were standing by a shelf running along the smoke-blackened wall. Her face was close enough for me to smell her scent. She pressed a hand
to my lapel and fingered the cloth. We got a hoot from her friends at the bar. She ignored them.
“Danny, this is my biggest scoop in years. I need to milk it for all it’s worth. I’m too public for Gambatti to do anything to me. He’d be the first suspect.”
“From what I’ve heard, that wouldn’t matter a toss. He’s a complete nutter. He had a waiter’s fingers chopped off for slopping soup in his lap. He made a fortune
out of the war. While the good folk of London were cowering in bomb shelters he sent his lads out on looting sprees. Lost a few of his gang in the air raids, but he never worried about it. Plenty
more deserters to chose from. Cleaned out whole streets, they tell me. Even nicked the poor blighters’ blackout curtains. Flogged them back to the owners on Saturday at the market. He’s
an all-round villain.”
“That’s what makes him so newsworthy.” Her eyes shone provocatively. And something in them – maybe a recognition of what we’d just been through – told me that
if I leant forward to kiss her she wouldn’t slap my face. Her smile grew and she shook her head.
“Not here. Meet me in an hour, Baker Street tube. Unless you’re too tired?” I wasn’t.
Nothing would make me too tired for a date with Eve Copeland. Which I guess this
was. Forty-five minutes later I was pacing around outside Baker Street station checking each entrance in case we missed each other. I stamped out my third cigarette, turned and saw her. She was
standing looking at me, her face quizzical, as though she was wondering why I was here. Or maybe why she was. Then she seemed to remember she’d summoned me but couldn’t decide what she
was going to do with me now. I wasn’t sure myself. She switched on the smile and walked towards me. She thrust her arm through mine, leaned up and pecked me on the cheek and led me off
towards her flat in Marylebone.
We lay on our backs, gazing at the ceiling, hips and legs touching in luxurious intimacy. I’d lit two cigarettes and given her one. Bergman and Bogart in
Casablanca
. It was the best cigarette in the world. We’d been clumsy and urgent at first; she seemed as deprived as me. Maybe she’d been telling the truth about boyfriends. Maybe
the dragon who rented the room to her usually did a better job of blocking visitors. I hoped so. Eve made me take my shoes off to climb the creaky stairs. I felt like a burglar sidling up the edges
of the steps in time with her. Halfway up she’d given me heart failure by shouting out, “Early night, for me, Mrs Gibson.” And got the reproving response above the sound of the
wireless, “Just as well, Miss Copeland, after last night! I don’t know what sort of job that is for a young woman.”
We swallowed our giggles. Fortunately we didn’t need much verbal foreplay when we snuck into her room. We tossed our clothes on to her one chair and dived under the blankets. Her mouth was
everything I’d anticipated: an erotic concoction of mint imperial, cigarette and alcohol. I couldn’t get enough of her full lips and tongue. Her mane of hair smothered me in smoky,
shampooed coils. I nuzzled the soft angle of her neck and under her chin and wanted to leave teeth marks all over her skin.
I would have kissed and held her for hours. Nothing more. It was all I thought I needed. But her demands overwhelmed us. OK, mine too. Our only constraint was the bed; its old springs kept us in
check, made me gentle, more careful. I wanted this to be the best for her. As it was for me.
Ages later when the house was asleep, she led me back down the stairs and pushed me reluctantly into the night with a final finger kiss to my sensitised lips. I slid my shoes on outside and
walked off in a state of grace down the quiet streets of Marylebone.
Where there’s food or romance, the French have a phrase for it. In the case of love there is c
oup de foudre
. I’d felt it the day she walked into my office,
but ignored it. It was stronger after our first dinner. The warehouse raid had underpinned it. Now I was hunched over burnt toast and a cup of cold tea, worrying if we’d gone too far too
fast. Wondering if she felt the same way or if it had just been that great charge, that release of tension after shared danger. All that adrenalin swilling about. Like me and one of my more
volatile girlfriends savaging each other after one of our shouting matches.
We weren’t seeing each other till the next day and I spent the next twenty-four hours oscillating between elation and panic. We met at the Lyons House in the Strand and when I saw her face
my worst fears flooded through me. She was flushed and jumpy. I took it for embarrassment and regret.