colour of yer money, then.’
Harley placed the coin on the table.
‘Right, well … There’s a little gaggle of lavenders that work Soho Square. You’ll find ’em upstairs at The Green Fox, Charlotte Street, most nights, fawning over their Queen Bee—Gilby Siddons.’
‘What, Gilby Siddons the actor?’
‘You heard of ’im? Well, I don’t think he does much acting now—bit of an old soak, if truth be told. But he tells a good yarn. And the irons love ’im—bit of glamour I s’pose. ’Course, he loves having all that young chicken-flesh around him, too. Go and see Gilby Siddons—he should have the lowdown on your boy Aubrey.’
‘Much obliged, Vera.’
‘Any time dear—for the right sweetener of course,’ she said, pocketing the half-crown.
‘They’re a bit tight, mind,’ said Vera. ‘Don’t take kindly to strangers, that lot; especially with what’s been happening recently.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘ Murder —that’s what,’ said Gracie. ‘Two of them Green Fox boys have been creased in the last month.’
‘Now, hold on Gracie,’ said Vera. ‘You don’t know that. It’s just hearsay, George. I heard that they topped ’emselves.’
‘Hold on, hold on,’ said Harley, getting out his notebook. ‘Let’s start again from the beginning, shall we? Who topped themselves?’
‘Oh,’ said Sally a little nervously, suddenly looking up at the window. ‘Here’s Vern now. Come to pick me up, I expect.’
Harley turned to see Vern Slater entering the café. Slater was a skinny individual with hollow, pock-marked cheeks. He stopped at the mirror by the door to check the knot in his gaudy silk tie, before striding up to the table.
‘What’s all this then, gel? You should ’ave been home an hour ago.’
‘Oh, don’t fuss so, Vern—I’m just having a chinwag with the girls.’
‘Really? A chinwag with the girls, eh? That’s nice, ain’t it? And what’s he doing here, then?’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, love. George is an old friend, we were just—’
‘Shush!’ said Slater, placing his finger against Sally’s lips. ‘You know the rules—everything through me or the club, right? I don’t wanna see mugs like this sniffing around outside of business hours.’
‘I see what you mean, Sal,’ said Harley. ‘He’s a regular gent, ain’t he?’
‘Cheese it, Harley! No one’s talking to you.’
‘Well, well, you’ve certainly grown some balls since we last met, Slater.’
‘Yeah well, you ain’t got that big Yid Rosen with you now, ’ave yer? No offense, Johnny,’ said Slater.
‘None taken,’ said Johnny the Turk, who had twisted in his seat for a better view of the entertainment.
‘Wind your neck in Slater, before you make a mug of yourself,’ said Harley. He took a sip of his coffee, keeping one eye on Slater’s right hand which had begun to twitch in anger. ‘Oh, hold on—looks likeyou may have been saved by the bell,’ he said, nodding towards the door. ‘Bogeys, if I’m not mistaken … You been a naughty boy again, Vern?’
Slater turned towards the two men in gabardines who had just walked in.
‘Oh, come on, Mr. Webbe!’ he said to the lead detective, putting his hands up in submission. ‘Give a bloke a break—I ain’t done nuffin’.’
‘Stop your whining, Slater! For once we’re not interested in you.’ He turned to the table. ‘George Harley?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Detective Sergeant Webbe,’ said the policeman, flashing his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Quigg requests the pleasure of your company down at the station.’
‘How lovely! Am I being arrested, Detective Sergeant?’
‘Not at the moment—but I’m sure it could be arranged. Now, are you going to come quietly?’
‘A little tête-à-tête with Mr. Quigg? How could I resist? Just let me settle up first.’ Harley collected the newspaper and his cigarettes from the table and walked up to the counter. He handed Pietro some money and the
Harley placed the coin on the table.
‘Right, well … There’s a little gaggle of lavenders that work Soho Square. You’ll find ’em upstairs at The Green Fox, Charlotte Street, most nights, fawning over their Queen Bee—Gilby Siddons.’
‘What, Gilby Siddons the actor?’
‘You heard of ’im? Well, I don’t think he does much acting now—bit of an old soak, if truth be told. But he tells a good yarn. And the irons love ’im—bit of glamour I s’pose. ’Course, he loves having all that young chicken-flesh around him, too. Go and see Gilby Siddons—he should have the lowdown on your boy Aubrey.’
‘Much obliged, Vera.’
‘Any time dear—for the right sweetener of course,’ she said, pocketing the half-crown.
‘They’re a bit tight, mind,’ said Vera. ‘Don’t take kindly to strangers, that lot; especially with what’s been happening recently.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘ Murder —that’s what,’ said Gracie. ‘Two of them Green Fox boys have been creased in the last month.’
‘Now, hold on Gracie,’ said Vera. ‘You don’t know that. It’s just hearsay, George. I heard that they topped ’emselves.’
‘Hold on, hold on,’ said Harley, getting out his notebook. ‘Let’s start again from the beginning, shall we? Who topped themselves?’
‘Oh,’ said Sally a little nervously, suddenly looking up at the window. ‘Here’s Vern now. Come to pick me up, I expect.’
Harley turned to see Vern Slater entering the café. Slater was a skinny individual with hollow, pock-marked cheeks. He stopped at the mirror by the door to check the knot in his gaudy silk tie, before striding up to the table.
‘What’s all this then, gel? You should ’ave been home an hour ago.’
‘Oh, don’t fuss so, Vern—I’m just having a chinwag with the girls.’
‘Really? A chinwag with the girls, eh? That’s nice, ain’t it? And what’s he doing here, then?’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, love. George is an old friend, we were just—’
‘Shush!’ said Slater, placing his finger against Sally’s lips. ‘You know the rules—everything through me or the club, right? I don’t wanna see mugs like this sniffing around outside of business hours.’
‘I see what you mean, Sal,’ said Harley. ‘He’s a regular gent, ain’t he?’
‘Cheese it, Harley! No one’s talking to you.’
‘Well, well, you’ve certainly grown some balls since we last met, Slater.’
‘Yeah well, you ain’t got that big Yid Rosen with you now, ’ave yer? No offense, Johnny,’ said Slater.
‘None taken,’ said Johnny the Turk, who had twisted in his seat for a better view of the entertainment.
‘Wind your neck in Slater, before you make a mug of yourself,’ said Harley. He took a sip of his coffee, keeping one eye on Slater’s right hand which had begun to twitch in anger. ‘Oh, hold on—looks likeyou may have been saved by the bell,’ he said, nodding towards the door. ‘Bogeys, if I’m not mistaken … You been a naughty boy again, Vern?’
Slater turned towards the two men in gabardines who had just walked in.
‘Oh, come on, Mr. Webbe!’ he said to the lead detective, putting his hands up in submission. ‘Give a bloke a break—I ain’t done nuffin’.’
‘Stop your whining, Slater! For once we’re not interested in you.’ He turned to the table. ‘George Harley?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Detective Sergeant Webbe,’ said the policeman, flashing his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Quigg requests the pleasure of your company down at the station.’
‘How lovely! Am I being arrested, Detective Sergeant?’
‘Not at the moment—but I’m sure it could be arranged. Now, are you going to come quietly?’
‘A little tête-à-tête with Mr. Quigg? How could I resist? Just let me settle up first.’ Harley collected the newspaper and his cigarettes from the table and walked up to the counter. He handed Pietro some money and the
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