Mask of the Verdoy
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Authors: Phil Lecomber
MASK OF THE VERDOY
A GEORGE HARLEY MYSTERY
PHIL LECOMBER
DIABLO BOOKS
First published in Great Britain 2014
Copyright © 2014 Phil Lecomber
Phil Lecomber has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Original artwork and cover design by
SpiffingCovers.com
.
ISBN 978-0-9930472-0-6
ePub ISBN 978-0-9930472-1-3
Mobi ISBN 978-0-9930472-2-0
For Susie
.
The night bursts open. Blood and life soak into the sky. Torn at the edge by the black silhouettes of spiky spires and cold chimneys – polluted but bright, ragged but triumphant – dawn breaks over the city.
GERALD KERSH,
Night and the City
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In recreating Harley’s world I have tried to employ the authentic vernacular and idioms of 1930s London. As the poet Carl Sandburg once said: “
Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work
”, but essentially it is the language of the dispossessed, the marginal. As quickly as it is assimilated into the mainstream it slips its chains and reinvents itself. It is resilient and untameable—the voice of the city.
Within the pages of this novel the reader will come across characters speaking thieves’ cant, Polari, Yiddish, rhyming slang and street argot. Many of the phrases have their roots in the vulgar and the profane; but mostly it is a language of rough poetry, inventiveness and humour.
For clarification I have included a glossary of slang at the end of the book.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
London, March 1932
George Harley hopped off the No.13 as it slowed for the lights and started to push his way through the crowds. Piccadilly Circus was seething with Friday-nighters: wide-boys, jazz babies, straight-cuts and steamers—a congregation of pleasure-seekers “up West” for a little solace from the grey workaday week, all gathered beneath the neon hoardings proclaiming the gospel according to Bovril and Guinness.
A newspaper vendor grabbed Harley’s sleeve as he passed, pointing to the headline displayed on his stand.
‘’Ere—you seen this, George?’
Harley read the poster: FASCISTS TO MARCH ON THE EAST END. He pulled his own folded newspaper from under his arm.
‘Just read about it.’
‘What’s your lot gonna make of that then?’
‘My lot? Who’s that then, Bert?’ Harley smiled, ready for the ribbing.
‘Your bolshie mates … Oh, and your pal Solly Rosen and all them other ikey-moes.’
‘It’ll be a bloodbath I expect. But then I reckon that’s exactly what Saint Clair’s after.’
‘Don’t know what it’s all coming to, George—what with yer bleedin’ Blackshirts and hunger marchers, yer Fenians and Mahatma Ghandis. Seems like half the world’s raising Cain at the moment … What d’you make of these ’ere bombings? They reckon it’s anarchists, don’t they?’
‘Don’t think they really know who’s behind it yet. It’s this sodding Depression, ain’t it—everyone’s getting desperate.’
‘You know, I read somewhere the other day that it could last another ten years,’ said Bert, pulling a half-eaten sandwich from his pocket and taking a bite.
‘Could be worse than that, Bert.’
‘How’s that then?’
‘Well, the Great Slump? Might just turn out to be the death rattle of Capitalism.’
‘Oh—’ere we go!’
‘Seriously, you just think about it. Since the war people’s expectations have changed. And all that old gammon they gave us when we came back—’
‘
Land fit for heroes
, right?’
‘Exactly! What happened to all that then, eh? These Blackshirts? And the bombings? I reckon that’s just the start of it. Could be that the whole bloody house of cards is beginning to tumble. See, people want reassurance, don’t they? And someone to blame. So when our Fascist friend Sir Pelham Saint Clair turns up offering them a quick remedy—no matter how bitter the medicine might taste to some—well, they’re going to bite his hand off, ain’t they?’
‘Still, you’ve gotta look on the bright side George, ain’t yer?’ said Bert, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and screwing up his sandwich paper.
‘Oh yeah—what’s that then?’
‘Well, it all sells newsprint, don’t it?’
‘Well, you ain’t wrong there,’ said Harley, laughing. ‘Look after yourself, Bert.’
‘Right-you-are, George …
West End Final! Blackshirts to march on the East End! … West End Final!
’
***
Having finally won his battle with the box of matches the gent in evening dress re-ignited his Partagás and set off towards the glittering lure of neon light, reeling a little as he sang out in a faltering tenor:
I always hold in having it if you fancy it, if you fancy it, that’s understood!
And suppose it makes you fat—I don’t worry over thaaaat!
’Cos a little of what you fancy does you good!
Observing the drunk’s progress from beneath a streetlamp, Vera turned to her confederate and delivered a quick assessment.
‘’Ave a look at this one, Gracie—all made up like a hambone. He’s lousy with it, I shouldn’t wonder.’
She took a step out onto the pavement.
‘He’s a veritable Jessie Matthews, ain’t ’e?’
‘Very melodic, I’m sure,’ said the lugubrious Gracie.
‘And exactly what
is
it you fancy dear?’
The gent took a second or two to focus on Vera.
‘Eh?’
‘Well, it sounds like you’ve ’ad a good night up till now—how d’you fancy a little decent company to round it off?’
‘Oh, well I … if I were to—you know, as it were … I mean … how much would that, eh, how much would that be, exactly?’
Vera darted in closer, lowering her voice.
‘Alright—let’s not broadcast it to the nation! Don’t want the bogeys sniffing round now, do we? Half-a-bar, love.’
‘Half-a-bar?’
‘Ten shillings, dear—and I guarantee you’ll enjoy every penny.’
At the sound of approaching footsteps Vera took a step away from her prospective punter and started to rummage through her handbag, glancing nonchalantly at the new arrival—who, in his black tie and tails, certainly didn’t look like CID.
‘Rupert, you old scoundrel! What are you up to now?
Good grief, man!
You really are impossible! Come on—my driver has the car waiting.’
‘Ah! There you are, old chap. I was just, erm …’ The gent described a wobbly circle with his cigar by way of explanation.
‘Yes, I can jolly well see what you were doing. But … well, if you really are intent on a little extracurricular, we can stop off in Mayfair. There’s a little French filly just off New Bond Street who’s a little more …’ he turned to give Vera a disparaging once-over, ‘…
exclusive
.’
‘Mademoiselle, you say? Spot of the old officer’s blue lamp, eh? Sounds just the ticket, old boy! Well, what are we waiting for? Onwards and upwards!’
They linked arms and pushed on up Piccadilly.
‘Did you ever hear the like?’ said Vera, watching her ten shillings disappear into the night. ‘
More exclusive?
What, that soap-dodging frog in Maddox Street? Stuck up berk! I know his type—always shaking ’ands with his gentleman’s gentleman.’ She began to search through her bag again. ‘Lend us a smoke, Grace—I’m all out.’
‘You was in service once, weren’t you, Veer?’ said Gracie, passing her friend a cigarette.
‘Yes, and the less said about that the better. Up with the sparrow’s fart and chapped hands all round.
Yes sir! No sir! Three-bags-full sir!
That’s all you need to know about that lark, dear.’
‘It’d be nice though, wouldn’t it? Someone to cook and clean and tidy up after yer?’
‘Now, what ’ave I told yer about that, Gracie? Don’t you go wishing for things you ain’t never gonna have—that there’s a whole bucket of misery guaranteed. There’s them that has, and then there’s the rest of us—been like it for donkey’s years.’
‘But them Ruskies did it, didn’t they?’
‘Did what, dear?’
‘They had their little revolution—turned things on their ’eads.’
‘Russians?—
foreigners
, the lot of ’em. Fall for any old tosh, won’t they … Look at that palaver with wossisname, the mad monk—Rice Puddin’?’
‘
Rasputin
.’
‘That’s the fella. Well, he wouldn’t get a foot in the door at Buck House looking like that now, would he? Workers’ revolution? It’d never happen here, dear. Them Communists—and them Blackshirts too, if it comes to it—well, they can put up the fanny till they’re blue in the face, but you mark my words, they’re never gonna change things for the likes of you and me. Summit hot in yer belly, a snifter of gin to keep the chill off yer, and a tanner for the matinee at the flicks—that’s all the happiness you need wish for. And easily got an’ all … though not tonight, by the looks of things.’
Vera pulled her coat around her against the cold and surveyed the sparse number of potential punters on the street.
‘It’s this soup, ain’t it,’ said Gracie, looking up at the yellow smog clinging to the streetlamp. ‘Coming in thick and fast—bound to scare the punters off.’
Just then a teenage boy—fine-featured, but looking ill-nourished and anxious—crossed the road and stopped to glance around nervously.
‘Talking of buckets of misery, look at this article ’ere, Gracie—queer little thing, ain’t he?’
‘He’s one of the Green Fox mob, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘What, Gilby Siddons’ little chickens? Looks scared of his own shadow, don’t he.’
‘They’re all a little milky at the moment—on account of them murders.’
‘Those two lavenders? The way I heard it they topped themselves.’
‘That’s not what Gilby says. He reckons they were done for. ’Orrible to think about, ain’t it? A killer like that, out on the streets. Might be our next punter for all we know … Gives me the right willies.’
‘Well, it would have to, wouldn’t it? I mean—you ain’t got the right equipment dear, not if he’s after queanies. Besides, I don’t believe there is a killer. Sounds like one of Gilby’s little dramas to me. Those lavender boys are all so highly strung. No, I reckon they topped themselves like I say—if it were murder, it would have been in the papers, wouldn’t it? Stands to reason.’
The boy set off again, giving Vera and Gracie a wide berth.
‘Gawd! Look at him, Grace—he looks ’alf done in,’ said Vera, taking a step out after him. ‘’Ere ducks! How about a little nip of gin to keep out the cold?’
The youth stared back at her for a moment and then set off in the direction of Green Park at a faster pace.
‘Ooh, suit yerself!
Silly sod!
Out without a smother on a night like this—he’ll catch his death, he will.’ She took a swig of gin from her flask and then, a little reluctantly, passed it to Gracie.
***
The crowds began to thin now as Harley moved away from the Circus and into the Piccadilly thoroughfare. A few yards down he passed the chalk drawings of a screever pitched out on the pavement.
‘Spare summit for an old soldier, guv’nor?’
Harley stooped to drop a coin in the tin mug.
‘Gawd bless yer, son!’
‘You’re welcome, Larry.’
‘Blimey! Sorry, George—I didn’t realize it was you, else I wouldn’t ’ave tapped you up. You got a new hat? You look different somehow.’
‘That’s probably because you’re sober, Larry. Business must be bad.’
‘Tell me about it! It’s shice! I’ve ’ad a tanner between me and starvation most of the week—been living off dog’s soup and wind pudding … And this weather’s no good for the complexion, neither.’ Larry picked up the coin and pocketed it. ‘Still, this’ll get me a bite of something hot—much obliged.’
‘Alright, be lucky Larry.’
‘
Lucky?
Blimey! That’ll be the day, George.’
***
Leaving the streetwalkers behind him the boy continued stealthily down Piccadilly, checking the reflection whenever he passed a shop window, scanning for signs of danger.
He jumped at the sudden appearance of a heavily-moustachioed commissionaire, who stepped out from a doorway a few paces ahead of him.
‘Oi!’
The boy put his head down and turned around, quickening his pace.
‘
Oi you!
’
He hesitated, wondering if it would be better to dart down one of the side streets.
‘What’s your game, sunshine? You can’t be leaving that wagon there! You’re blocking the exit!’
The boy turned to discover the commissionaire approaching a carter who was busying himself with a nosebag for his horse. The breath from the weary old nag plumed about its master’s head in the damp night air.
‘I’ll only be five minutes, pal!’
‘Five minutes? Don’t give me that old madam! It was there half an hour last night!’
Relieved, the boy hitched his duffel bag up on his shoulder and turned on his heels to continue on his way—unaware of the figure watching him from the darkened doorway of Fortnum & Mason on the opposite side of the street.
Having finally spotted his quarry the stranger in the shadows completed his permanent half-smile—fixed there by a cruel scar bisecting the cheek—and turned to whisper to his accomplice.
***
‘Oh—look who it ain’t, Grace!
Up the workers, George!
’ said Vera, catching sight of Harley.
‘Fancy taking us for a wet, Georgie?’ added Gracie, slouching beneath the streetlamp. ‘There’s nix going on ’ere tonight.’
‘I’d love to ladies, but I’m on a job.’
‘Lucky devil—wish I was!’
With a grin and a tip of his hat Harley continued on his way, pursued for a while by Vera’s cackling laughter.
***
Now aware he was being followed, the pale youth hurriedly slipped off the main road into an alleyway. The fog lay heavier here and it wasn’t until he was halfway in that he realized his chosen route of escape culminated in a dead-end, stacked with refuse bins and littered with rubbish from a restaurant kitchen. He made to turn back but was confronted by the silhouettes of his pursuers emerging from the thick smog—a lithe, fluid figure dwarfed by the hulking outline of a giant in a billycock hat.
Panicking, the boy scrambled off to hide behind the bins.
“Iron” Billy Boyd removed his hat to mop the sweat with a grubby handkerchief. He’d let himself go a little since his prize-fighting days and even in the cold and damp the brief jog had begun to raise a lather.
‘’Ere kitty, kitty!’ he growled, still puffing heavily as he approached the bins.
‘Come now, my little friend,’ added his accomplice with the half-smile scar, in a thick Italian accent. ‘There is no danger … Just a little talk, yes?’
Still out of sight, shaking with fear and cold, the boy quietly pushed his duffel bag down into the bin, hiding it beneath a layer of potato peelings and cabbage stalks.
The enormous Boyd drew a little closer.
‘Come on, son! Don’t make me come in after yer … you’ll only make it worse for yerself!’
Now barely able to control his sobbing, the terrified youth stood up and stepped out from the shadows.
‘What do you want?’
‘
Want?
’ said the Italian. ‘Only what is ours—the things you have taken … You have them, yes?’
The boy looked to the floor, unable to hold the gaze of those cruel eyes.
‘I … I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he mumbled.
‘No? Maybe my friend here will explain a little better.’
Boyd stepped forward and backhanded the youth across the face, sending him spinning to the ground.
‘That clear enough for yer, sunshine?’
It was at that moment that Harley arrived at the opening to the alleyway, and on hearing the all-too-familiar sounds of someone being roughed up, the private detective stopped and peered into the fog. He was greeted with the dull thud of a boot, followed by a muffled scream. He looked at his watch—he was already twenty minutes late for his appointment. But the victim sounded like a girl, or a kid … he knew he had no choice but to get involved.