Prized Possessions (39 page)

The question of what to do about Rosie Conway's future had been on Mr Feldman's agenda for some time. Rosie was by far the brightest and most promising of final-year pupils but come June she would be too old to remain at the Institute for even one more term.

The trustees and Mr Feldman between them usually managed to find work for ‘graduates' of the Institute, no matter how severely impaired. Copy typists, storemen, cleaners, ground-level bricklayers, apprenticeships in skilled crafts like book-binding or French polishing, one bright boy in the chemical laboratory of the Russia Road Chemical & Dyeworks, one bright girl sewing costumes in the Princess Theatre, another learning hairdressing: wherever his students wound up they had to take their licks, alas, suffer taunts and abuse and be treated as if they were not just deaf but daft.

The master did his best to instil into them a realisation that the faults lay in the prejudice of their tormentors and whatever anyone said to or about them they must hold on to both pride and temper and prove themselves not just capable but superior to those around them.

Rosie needed no such inspiring talk to put the pepper into her. She had always been sure of herself, too sure perhaps. When he'd discussed the prospect of employment with her, for instance, she had been confident that the world would be waiting to welcome her talents with open arms.

Mr Feldman knew that Rosie's sisters were employed, one by the CWC, the other by the burgh council, but it was not until he saw Rosie being led away by one of Manone's henchmen that everything clicked into place and he realised to his horror that Elizabeth Conway's crooked connections had not been severed after all, that Manone or one of his ilk had been paid to obtain the sisters work and that Rosie might be destined to follow the same route and be drawn into marriage or worse with one of Manone's thugs.

The notion of Rosie, his star pupil, sliding into that murky region made Mr Feldman pretty mad. And Mr Feldman pretty mad was not a pretty sight. His poor wife and three grown children bore the brunt of it, for teaching at the Institute was suspended for the holidays and Mr Feldman had to bide his time before he could do what he did best: take remedial action.

Oswald Shelby, Sons & Partners, Books, Rare Books, Bindings & Manuscripts – which if you ever happened to get young Miss Florence Shelby, a reformed flapper, on the telephone emerged as one unintelligible word – had been at the centre of the book trade in Glasgow for the best part of seventy years. In that time their premises had shifted from a handcart at the top of old High Street to a shop at the bottom of Queen Street and, just before the war, to their present august location in Mandeville Square, a stone's throw from the Royal Exchange and no more than sniffing distance from their main rivals, John Smith's, just around the corner in St Vincent Street.

In terms of style and stock Shelby's had Smith's knocked into a cocked hat. There was an air of distinction about Shelby's that no other booksellers, not even Smith's, could match. And as far as pedigree went there were Oswald Shelbys going back and back; all of the old beggars, except the very first, still alive and kicking and dabbling about in the trade, so much so that it was not entirely unknown for Mr Shelby Very Senior to be bidding against Mr Shelby Slightly Junior for the same desirable lot in one of Edmiston's Wednesday morning auction sales.

‘Mr Shelby, please.'

‘Which Mr Shelby would that be, sir?'

‘Mr Oswald Shelby.'

‘Which Mr Oswald Shelby?'

‘How many are there?'

‘Four, sir. And Robert.'

‘Robert? Who's Robert?'

‘Oswald the sixth. We generally call him Robert.'

‘Why do you call him Robert?'

‘To avoid confusion, I think.'

Mr Feldman suffered no confusion as to who was who in the Shelby dynasty or who it was that managed the shop these days. He had been acquainted with Oswald Shelby Junior for the best part of thirty years and the boy, Robert, since he'd first appeared, seated like an ornament on the cataloguer's desk, sucking an ebony pen-holder.

On Saturday, the first full day of business after New Year, Mr Feldman tracked Oswald Shelby to his lair on the third floor of the elegant building. This was not the top of the house by any means; the art deco elevator ground up another three floors into teeming attics where binders and repairers laboured at long tables under the skylights and the odour of glue was heady, to say the least of it. Mr Feldman had already placed several boys with Shelby's, a couple in the packing and dispatch department and three in ‘binding'.

After a preliminary handshake and a cordial exchange of Ne'erday greetings, therefore, Oswald Shelby was not entirely surprised when his old acquaintance eased into a familiar spiel.

‘A girl, you want me to take on a girl?' Mr Shelby said.

‘She's a perfectly respectable young lady,' Mr Feldman said.

‘I have no doubt of that,' said Mr Shelby. ‘But she is none the less … a girl.'

‘You have girls. You have daughters.'

‘This is a recommendation?' said Mr Shelby.

‘I would like you to train her.'

‘As a binder?'

‘As a cataloguer.'

‘A cataloguer?'

‘What's wrong with that?' said Mr Feldman. ‘She may be hard of hearing but she isn't blind.'

‘I do not need another cataloguer.'

‘Is it because she's female?'

‘I have no such prejudice.'

‘Then you will take her?'

‘I did not say that.'

‘But if you have nothing against—'

‘Whoa,' said Mr Shelby. ‘I will not be bullied into anything.'

‘She writes a fine clear hand and is certificated on the typewriting machine at forty words per minute. She is neat and personable.'

‘All of this I do not doubt. But I have no opening for a gir— for a cataloguer at this time.' Mr Shelby was as small as Mr Feldman was tall. They were, however, of an age, and had played against each other so often at the Glasgow Chess Club that there was between them an intangible rapport that dispensed with the need for tact. ‘I am not going to be flanked on this, Abe, you need not think it.'

‘Her name is Rosalind Conway.'

Mr Shelby sighed. He was a neat little man with fine, silvery hair and trim, rather foxy features. He dressed as his father did, in high collars and prominent cuffs and a nice line in morning coats, not to mention a watch-chain and breast-pocket handkerchief. He had none of Mr Feldman's bear-like assertiveness, however; his manner was sharp, like peppermint.

‘How old is she?'

‘Sixteen.'

‘Is she mute?'

‘No, she has the sort of hearing loss that might one day be cured. There are interesting developments in surgery that might—'

‘Is she intelligible?' Oswald Shelby interrupted.

‘Perfectly. Given her handicap she is exceedingly articulate.'

‘Hmmmmmm.'

‘Does that mean you will take her on?' said Mr Feldman.

‘We can always find room for another cleaner, I suppose.'

‘NO,' Mr Feldman declared, far too loudly. ‘I mean – no. She's far too intelligent to be stuck with a mop or feather duster. I'm offering you a good girl here, Oswald. Given the miserable wages you pay your staff I'd have thought you'd be glad to have another willing victim. Besides…'

‘Besides? I knew there would be a “besides”,' said Mr Shelby.

‘I'd like her to work here.'

‘Why?'

‘I'd prefer her to work for you, not – not someone else.'

Mr Shelby paused. ‘Are you flattering me?'

‘Certainly not,' said Mr Feldman. ‘Better the devil you know, etcetera.'

‘Who is this someone else you do not want the girl to work for?'

‘Dominic Manone. Do you know who that is?'

‘I know who that is.' Mr Shelby paused once more. ‘I'm running a business here, Abe, not a mission for potentially wayward females.'

‘When will you see her? Friday?'

‘I have to be in London on Friday. It's viewing day at Christie's for an assortment of old Gaelic manuscripts in which we have an interest.'

‘The Macpherson Collection?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do Shelby's have a client?'

‘We do. Ten items in particular if, that is, they prove to be genuine.'

‘Is there doubt?'

‘There is always doubt,' said Oswald Shelby. ‘The girl, send her in for interview at half past two o'clock one week on Thursday. I make you no promises, however. I give you no guarantees. Understood?'

‘Understood,' said Mr Feldman, and smiled quietly into his beard.

*   *   *

There were two men at the top of the steep wooden staircase that led to Chick McGuire's office. Neither of them gave any sign that they were impressed by the unexpected visitor or that they were aware who he was.

They were runners, both of them. They would be out on the streets by half past eleven, taking up posts on corners near the gates of Harland & Wolff's shipyard and, a little later, at the doors of the Clyde Foundry. They were out of the same pack as Alex O'Hara but older, and taller. They would be paying out winnings on the results of Saturday's Churches League fixtures as well as the full Scottish card and receiving bets on the evening's programme of greyhound racing at Carntyne, the Albion and White City.

As he entered from the seedy back street Dominic experienced an unusual tightening in the muscles of his stomach. It was not the sight of the two heavyweights peering down the dimly lit staircase that brought it on but rather the thought of Tommy Bonnar and how often Tommy must have slipped secretly up these same stairs. He wondered just which dogs Tommy would have backed tonight: Mother's Double, Diamond Dick, Brickey's Boy? Sure losers, every one. He, Dominic Manone, had backed a loser in Tommy but he would never admit that to anyone, not now the poor wretch was dead.

He approached the top of the staircase. He looked up at the heavyweights. They were stationed directly at the top of the stairs. There was a landing of sorts, wooden-floored, a skylight, a lavatory with an open door and one door amidships, closed.

Dominic said, ‘You know who I am. Tell him I'm here.'

‘Whut fur ur ye here, but?' one of the men said.

‘I don't talk business with runners,' Dominic said softly. ‘Open the damned door. I assume he's in there?'

‘Whut if he is, but?'

Dominic took his hands out of his overcoat pockets. He flaunted no weapon, none at all. He stood below the men, disadvantaged by his position. He let his hands hang loosely by his sides and contemplated the runners passively for a moment or two. Then he snapped out his hands, caught the larger of the men by the foot and with a swift savage little jerk twisted foot and ankle against the natural limit of the joint. Dominic heard the man scream. Ducking and stepping to one side, he pulled the man off balance and heaved him head first down the staircase. He looked up. ‘Now will you open the door, please.'

A second later he stepped into Charles McGuire's cluttered little office and, turning, shot the bolt on the door behind him.

McGuire wore tweeds and a Fair Isle pullover in a fancy pattern. He had been sipping tea from a floral cup and barely had time to put down the cup and scramble from his chair behind the desk before Dominic was upon him.

‘Now wait,' McGuire said. ‘Just wait, just hold on.'

‘No,' Dominic said. ‘I prefer to pay you now.'

‘Pay me? Pay me for what?' He had turned an odd colour, not white but pink; the shade, Dominic thought, of imported tinned salmon. ‘You don't owe me anythin'.'

‘I think I do,' said Dominic.

He stood at the edge of the desk. He could have touched McGuire without stretching his arm out by more than six inches. Between them was a strew of race cards, newspapers and the beige-wrappered notebooks in which McGuire kept records of odds and form. Also two telephones and a stubby, powerful-looking wireless set with silver knobs and three convex glass dials.

Dominic didn't know much about the art and craft of making book. He had been to the track a few times with Guido and kept an eye on the form of horses, dogs and football teams but he had no taste for gambling and left the management of the five agencies in which he had a financial stake to Tony Lombard and Irish Paddy who kept peace between rival gangs of touts and paid a handful of police constables to look the other way from time to time. Even so, there had been trouble at the horse tracks last summer, blood shed at Ayr and a dozen arrests made after a fight at Lanark; nastiness on the streets too, involving bludgeons, knuckle-dusters and the ubiquitous razors. Dominic didn't doubt that Tony had it right when he said that McGuire was flexing his muscles.

McGuire had control of himself now. He sat down in the squeaky swivel chair and drank a little tea from the floral cup. He tried to smile his Irish smile, full of cocky charm and blarney but he was still too unsure of Dominic's intention to be at ease.

‘What is it you think you're owin' me then, Dom?' he said. ‘I'll be takin' anythin' that's offered me, you know that.'

‘I've come to square you for Tommy Bonnar.'

‘Ah-hah, yes. Poor owd Tommy, eh?' McGuire said. ‘Never did have much luck about him. God rest him, though, it was a heck of a way to die. I knew those ciggies would kill him one day but I never did think it would be like that.'

‘How much was he into you?'

‘Nah, nah. I wouldn't dream o' takin' money from a dead man. I'll be happy just for to write it off.'

‘Tommy would not have wanted it,' said Dominic. ‘He might not have been much good at picking winners but he was punctilious when it came to paying his debts. Did you not find that?'

‘Punctilous?' McGuire laughed. ‘There's a word you'll not be hearin' much of round the midden-head. I never found owd Tommy much of anythin', to answer your question, Dom. I never had much by way of dealin's with him.'