Mask of the Verdoy (28 page)

‘I know, George. But the way he’s reacting to this Blackshirt meshugaas—I have a bad feeling about it. Something tells me it will end badly … Ah, it’s probably just an old man worrying about nothing … but, well, maybe you could keep an eye on the situation a little? Make sure Solomon doesn’t do anything foolish?’

‘Well, I’ll try my best, Nate. But frankly, with Solly Rosen that’s gonna be like trying to plait jam.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Ludovico Girardi stood for a moment in the private box at the Albert Hall to survey the packed stalls in the arena below, before turning with a smile to take his seat again beside Earl Daubeney.

‘I notice you are not wearing your uniform, my Lord,’ he said, above the excited buzz of the crowd. ‘Why is this? Are you not proud to be a part of … of all this?’ The Italian raised his hand to the vast auditorium, adorned with fascist banners, the criss-crossing blades of a dozen searchlights sweeping over the amassed ranks of the audience below.

‘Of course one’s proud—who wouldn’t be? Why, the turn-out alone is staggering. There must be at least five thousand here, wouldn’t you say? I mean, the spectacle of the thing—pure theatre! And, of course, Sir Pelham will be in his element here. The man’s oratorical skills go unrivalled.’

‘And then—why aren’t you in your uniform, Lord Daubeney? Why aren’t you down
there
with your comrades?’

Girardi pointed to the podium flanked by two large British Brotherhood of Fascists standards.

‘Well, Ludovico … You see, the
timing
is crucial with these things. One mustn’t lay all of ones cards on the table immediately.’

‘Ah yes—this is the English way, of course. I was forgetting,’ said Girardi, with a little sardonic smile and a nod.

‘Your man Boyd there, for example,’ said Daubeney, raising his opera glasses and scrutinizing the line of uniformed men standing to attention on the stage. ‘Do you really think it’s wise to expose him to such scrutiny?’

‘He was keen to be a part of it—to feel really involved. It is good for his loyalty, I think.’

‘Maybe so. But if he’s recognized later?’

‘Let me worry about that, my Lord.’

Daubeney lowered the opera glasses and regarded the Italian.

‘We have a considerable amount riding on your little endeavour, Ludovico; I sincerely hope you fully appreciate that.’

Girardi’s scarred face offered back a lopsided grin.

‘Don’t worry, Lord Daubeney, I am, how you say,
up to the job
.’

The Earl gave a sigh and refilled their champagne glasses from the bottle resting in the ice bucket.

‘And Boyd? Is he up to the job? Do you still insist that you require no other manpower on the night? You really think it can be done with just the two of you?’

‘Boyd is more than capable. He has the heart of a lion and the body of an ox. Besides, our particular role in the Correction depends upon an element of
surprise
. It would be foolish to let too many people in on the exact details of the plan. Of course, you are correct—now that we have lost Kosevich we will need a third man for the night itself. But I have someone in mind for a replacement; a fellow countryman, someone I have worked with in the past. This man is a professional, you understand—reliable, resourceful … I have already wired Rome to see if he is available—’

‘I’m afraid Sir Pelham has other ideas, old man.’

‘
Scusi
? I don’t understand.’

‘He came to see me this morning over the matter, Ludovico. He sees appointing Kosevich’s replacement as an opportunity to begin to forge a certain legacy for the party.’

‘Please explain.’

‘Sir Pelham insists on having one of his own with you on the fifteenth. He thinks it will be useful in the future. It would appear that he is already composing the legend of the Correction for future generations. He means to ensure that he is intrinsically linked with all aspects of the founding of the new state. Damned clever really. You must admit—he has a certain knack for such things.’

‘And do I get to have a say in this matter?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

Girardi’s face darkened. He stood and leant on the balcony, his back to the Earl.

‘Who is this new man?’

‘Sir Pelham’s cousin—Hugo Carstairs. I must admit he’s a game sort of bird; always up for a challenge. Damn good shot, races cars at Brooklands … I believe he flies as well. He’ll have the pluck for it, I’m sure. Young though—just turned twenty-two … Still, there’s been many a hero through the ages younger than that. Richard the Lionheart was just sixteen when he took command of his first army, you know.’

‘It is not a lion that I need, my Lord, but a
wolf
—cunning and loyal. You understand the difference?’

‘Well, I’m sure he’s a fast learner. I’m afraid the decision has already been made for you, Ludovico. I’ll organize a meeting soon, so as you
can get the measure of the man. Don’t worry—I’m sure he’ll perform admirably on the night. After all, he’s from good stock.’

‘Let us hope so—for all our sakes.’

‘Is there anything else you need for the big day?’

‘Oh, we may have need of a little more money,’ said the Italian, taking his seat again, still mulling over Daubeney’s revelation. ‘Yes, perhaps a few more things, some weapons—but I will contact you if this is necessary.’

Girardi now stood again and held up his glass as the band played the opening bars of a stirring anthem.

‘You know this one, Ludovico?’

‘Of course! “La Giovinezza”—Il Duce’s anthem!’

***

Down in the stalls the members of Harley’s row were also standing—not to show respect to the Italian Fascist anthem (which of course none of them recognized), but to allow Solly Rosen to make his way to his seat.

‘Alright, George.’

‘Oh—so you’re talking to me again, are yer?’

‘’Course!’ said Rosen, sitting down and pulling his flat cap down over his eyes.

‘Nice disguise,’ said Harley, earning himself a nudge in the ribs.

‘Shush! You don’t know who’s earwigging, do yer?’

‘I shouldn’t worry too much, Sol.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well, look: the geezer next to me is Jim Bates—he’s a dockers’ shop steward from Canning Town—and the two blokes to his right are from the London District Committee of the Communist Party.’

Rosen arched his neck to peer past Harley down the row.

‘How d’you know for sure?’

‘Jim used to drink in The Star—and he’s just introduced me to the other two.’

Rosen leant over to whisper in his friend’s ear.

‘Yeah, but we don’t know who
I’m
sitting next to, do we?’

‘Yes we do,’ whispered back Harley. ‘That’s Monty Bomberg, Rabbi Bomberg’s eldest.’

Rosen looked in astonishment at his neighbour, who was wearing an identical flat cap to him. The young man smiled back sheepishly and they shook hands.

‘Blimey,’ said Rosen. ‘Ain’t there any sodding Blackshirts here?’

It was Harley’s turn to deliver a nudge in the ribs.

‘Keep it down, won’t yer? Of course there are. For a start there’s one at the end of every row.’ He nodded to indicate the burly uniformed steward seated next to the aisle. ‘And there’s gotta be a good few thousand in here, wouldn’t you say? Granted, they’re not all going to be card-carrying party members, but the majority of them have probably got a soft spot for Saint Clair.’

‘Well, there’s a big show outside. I’d say our lot outnumber the coppers three to one.’

‘Maybe, but not in here … How many wrongo tickets did Mori get printed?’

‘Dunno—probably a few hundred.’

‘There you go then. We’re in the minority in here, my son. It’s just that we’re all clumped together—which probably ain’t the cleverest strategy, when you think about it.’

Harley looked at Rosen’s headgear and then scanned the rows of audience in the nearby stalls.

‘I’d say you could probably get a good idea of the turn-out of our lot by counting the Argyle flat caps. What happened? Did you all take a consensus on what the Fascist in the street was wearing this season?’

‘Mori warned us not to dress too flash, like. Ronny the Runt was handing these out at the club; he had a job lot of ’em from the market.’

‘Don’t tell me—Sonny Gables? Jesus! Only Sonny could make a profit out of a riot. Take it off—you mug! You stick out like a sore thumb!’

Rosen slipped his cap into his jacket pocket and had a quiet word with Monty Bomberg who quickly followed suit.

‘D’you bring yer knuckler, George?’

Harley nodded. ‘You?’

‘Corporal Dunlop,’ said Rosen, lifting his trouser leg to reveal a short rubber truncheon stuffed into his boot.

‘I thought you was gonna stick to your dukes? You think we’ll need ’em?’

‘Hope so,’ grinned the ex-boxer.

Harley reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a miniature telescope which he snapped open. He put it to his eye and scanned the auditorium, coming to rest on the podium ahead of them.

‘’Ere, Sol—any idea who that big lump is? Up there on stage, second from the end on the right.’

Rosen took the telescope and peered at the row of Blackshirts.

‘Well, well, well! That’s “Iron” Billy Boyd … Used to ride with the fairs, fighting in the old boxing booths. You know the schtick—go three rounds and win a pound. Hard as nails, that one … He tried
to break out into the professional game; but old Billy there had his own interpretation of the Queensberry rules, if you know what I mean. That’s probably where you remember his boat from—one of his professional bouts.’

‘No, that ain’t it, Sol. He was one of the cowsons that left that kid Aubrey for dead in the alleyway that night off the Dilly.’

‘What, the lavender that was creased at your gaff? You sure?’

‘Pretty much. I mean, he looks a lot different in his Blackshirt getup—the couple of times I’ve seen him he’s been wearing a billycock, so it’s the first time I’ve seen him bareheaded … but still.’

‘You’ve seen him again, then? Since the kid got done over?’

‘Yeah, I think so. With the same sidekick—a little wiry Italian with a big ol’ nark’s mark running up the side of his mooey. Ring any bells?’

Rosen thought for a moment.

‘Nah—can’t say that it does.’

‘Billy Boyd, eh? So he’s an old prize fighter, is he? Well, looks like he’s taken up a new hobby now. He’s gotta be part of Saint Clair’s bodyguard, or something, to be up there on stage like that, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Yeah, well—whatever he is, I’d steer clear of him when it starts to get a bit naughty, George. Even I’d have to think twice about mixing it up with the likes of Iron Billy Boyd.’

Just then “La Giovinezza” came to an end with a clash of cymbals. There was a moment of expectant silence as the large spotlights turned to home in on the central aisle, highlighting a phalanx of Blackshirts lining the red carpet with an avenue of straight-armed Fascist salutes.

Out of the hushed murmuring a timpani roll began to grow, reaching its crescendo with a brash fanfare of horns. All eyes now turned to the bright circle of light at the head of the aisle.

A loud cheer broke out at the first sight of Sir Pelham Devereux Saint Clair, resplendent in his crisp black uniform and polished riding boots. As the Fascist leader began to stride purposefully towards the podium—nodding curtly left and right to accept the plaudits of the faithful—the auditorium erupted with the deafening chant of:
Saint Clair! Saint Clair! Saint Clair!
The spotlights tracked the baronet as he now mounted the steps and shook hands with a number of the uniformed men and women standing to attention on the stage.

Sir Pelham took his position at the large microphone behind the lectern bearing the insignia of the BBF—a black fist clutching a lightning bolt. The aristocrat’s handsome, aquiline face was framed by the stark spotlight as the house lights dimmed. A casual sweep of slender fingers checked the wave of Brilliantined hair … and there he
waited for the murmuring to cease; serene, confident, patriarchal—an officer and a gentleman.

‘Fellow Britons …’

The crisply enunciated words bellowed through the loudspeakers, echoing around the hall.

‘Brother Blackshirts …’

This produced a wave of applause which Sir Pelham silenced with a raised hand.

‘Comrades in our struggle … For yes, today we face a grave struggle, one which threatens to rend the very fabric of our great nation. And I warn you—the fight won’t be easy. Oh no! For we strive for something of great importance—and such things are not easily won.

To achieve our aim we must, each one of us, possess the character of the revolutionary. Because, I tell you now—the old ways have failed us.’

Saint Clair paused for a moment, a slight proud upturn of the chin soliciting an enthusiastic round of applause which he suffered for just long enough before raising his hand again.

‘Yes, I tell you! The old ways have failed us, my friends. Our wheezing, flabby parliamentary system has all but exhausted its options. I ask you to look to the men of straw in Westminster; to our government—that bastardized mongrel, paralysed by its petty internal feuding; and to the opposition, wracked by internecine squabbling—Labour against National Labour, Liberal against Liberal National. Such is our famous British democracy—such is the example we set the world.’

The measured, aristocratic voice—a voice of entitlement and conviction—reverberated through the hall, growing now in rhythm and passion.

‘Over the years our incompetent leaders have weakened this nation’s natural defences, leaving her sick and ailing. Three and a half million of her sons unemployed; thousands of men—men once able, honest and hardworking—forced to tramp the highways on hunger marches. And to the shame of us all, our old soldiers, proud to have served their country in the war, men who fought shoulder to shoulder with a quarter of a million other poor souls—the cream of a generation—who never made it back … these proud warriors now reduced to begging in rags on the grubby streets of our cities. Oh yes! Those donkeys of Westminster should hang their heads in shame—for who else is responsible for such moral and physical degeneration?’

There was strong applause now, with some of the more enthusiastic party members taking to their feet.

‘Did you know that in the last decade we have lost over a quarter of a million agricultural labourers? Since the war suburban development has been allowed to spread across this once green and pleasant land like a virulent rash. And as our urban population continues to deteriorate, a sub-class is engendered—a bloodless and enfeebled generation, raised on inferior imported tinned goods and the morals of the foreigner.’