Sixty Days to Live (16 page)

A few tables away a man had a girl pulled back across his chest and was kissing her neck. At another, two men were attempting to fight, while a flaxen-haired young woman screamed drunken curses at them as she endeavoured to pull them apart.

Lavina could see perfectly well what was going on around her and knew that she ought not to remain there any longer; but she was now a little tight herself and in one of her pig-headed moods in which she was capable of almost any folly rather than submit to anyone else’s dictation.

‘Come on,’ said Derek. ‘If we stay here, we’ll get mixed up in some rough-house or other.’

She impatiently shook off the hand he had laid on her arm, and stood up. ‘I’m not going I tell you. Let’s dance.’

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m taking you home.’

‘All right. I’ll dance with Roy, then.’ She swung round and held out her arms to her cousin.

Roy was a little unsteady on his legs from the considerable amount of whisky and champagne he had consumed and his mouth hung slackly open, but he pulled himself together. Before Derek could say anything further, the two of them had glided off together into the crush.

Derek wished now that he had begged Lavina to come home instead of trying to order her to do so, and determined to try persuasive methods directly she got back to the table. In the meantime, he followed her golden head with an anxious eye as far as he could among the bobbing jam of people.

She and Roy had very nearly completed the circuit of the restricted dance-floor three times—but were hidden from Derek for the moment—when a dark-complexioned, tight-lipped man
jumped up from a table and laid a sinewy hand on her shoulder.

‘I want to dance with you,’ he said. ‘My name’s Finnigan and any of the boys’ll tell you that I’m an ace-high picker of good-looking women.

Lavina met his insolent stare with a glance that would have shrivelled most men, but it had no effect whatever on the forceful Mr. Finnigan. With his left hand he gave Roy a violent push in the chest and with his right he wrenched Lavina round to face him.

‘Take your hands off me,’ she snapped, white with rage; but Finnigan only grinned at her.

‘I like a girl with spirit,’ he said, and, grabbing her small waist, jerked her to him.

She was not in the least frightened, but absolutely beserk with rage. Her eyes became hooded—mere slits in her pale little face—and the corners of her small mouth turned right down at a sharp angle. Raising her right hand she smacked Mr. Finnigan with all her force across the face.

As he jerked back, surprise gave place to black anger in his dark eyes; but before he could do anything further Roy had recovered and hit him an ineffectual blow which grazed his cheek.

In a second, Finnigan braced himself, swung round, and struck out with deadly precision. His fist took Roy under the chin and he went sprawling to the floor among the dancers.

Someone laughed hysterically, a woman screamed, but Finnigan took no notice. Completely unruffled, he turned back to Lavina and said smoothly:

‘Now that’s settled, we’re going to dance, and I’ll teach you how to smack people a bit later on this evening.’

As Finnigan grabbed her again she looked wildly round for Derek but could not see him. Then, on her right, she suddenly caught sight of the big bald man with the horse-shoe tie-pin.

‘Half a minute! What’s all this?’ he exclaimed, advancing on Finnigan.

‘You keep out of this, Harris, or I’ll put my boys on to you,’ snapped the Irishman. ‘This little floosie’s my pigeon.’

‘Oh, no, she’s not,’ declared Harris. ‘As for the boys, there’s plenty of mine here, too.’

Finnigan still had hold of Lavina by one wrist but Harris
put an arm round her shoulders from behind. Pulling her to him he gave her a sloppy, wet kiss which landed under her right ear.

‘Oh, no, she’s not,’ he repeated. ‘We’re acquainted already—been neighbours all the evening. I’ve only been waiting my chance to have a dance with her until the party got going.’

‘Stop it, both of you!’ Lavina’s voice came hoarse and unnatural. ‘Let me go! I don’t want anything to do with either of you.’

So many quarrels over women were now taking place that the squabble for Lavina had passed almost unnoticed. Everything had happened so quickly that Roy was still sitting on the floor dazedly fingering his injured chin, while the dancers continued to jig all about them.

Suddenly Finnigan released Lavina’s wrist, thrust his hand under his arm-pit and withdrew it clutching a razor; the sharp edge uppermost across the back of his knuckles.

He made one slash at Harris but the big man was extraordinarily agile. Thrusting Lavina aside, he ducked; and next second he had also whipped out a razor.

Both men began to shout at the top of their voices and almost immediately their respective adherents came charging through the crowd towards them.

Within a moment a gang battle was in full progress. The dance-floor became a scene of wild confusion. Screaming women fought their way from it between the nearest tables. Bottles and glasses were being hurled; blood was flowing from ugly razor slashes. Lavina missed one right across her face only by inches and another in the neck because she tripped and fell.

Derek had jumped to his feet directly the shouting started. Using his elbows indiscriminately on men and women, he forced his way forward until he saw Lavina. As the floor cleared of non-combatants he made better progress and began to hit out savagely at any of the men who barred his path.

Roy had staggered to his feet again but he was still half dazed. Harris and his men were getting the best of the battle. Finnigan and his boys were being driven back. Derek was still some distance off, fighting with a fleshy, craggy-faced man.

In a gallant attempt to save Lavina, Roy plunged into the whirling mêlée. In doing so, he blundered into Finnigan from
behind and threw him off his balance. With a blasphemous curse the Irishman fell to the floor.

Stooping, Roy grabbed Lavina and dragged her to her feet. Finnigan was up again, but in his fall he had dropped his razor. Reaching behind him, he snatched up an empty champagne bottle, and, raising it aloft, he brought it down with all his strength on the back of Roy’s head.

At that moment Derek reached them. As the blow fell he lashed out with all his force and, catching Finnigan full under the jaw, sent him flying backwards among the tables.

Whipping round, Derek stared at Lavina. She was kneeling again now and held Roy in her arms. The whole of the back of his head was shattered and blood was pouring from it all over her light summer frock.

The mêlée of gangsters had swayed away from them. Derek knelt down beside her and saw that she was weeping hysterically.

‘He’s dead,’ she moaned. ‘He’s dead. And it’s all my fault. Oh, how wicked I was to insist on staying here.’

A fresh din of shouting was now coming from the lounge outside. A moment before, the Restaurant doors had been jammed by a solid mass of people trying to escape from the gangsters’ razors. Now they had turned and were streaming back into the room, yelling as they came: ‘The Police! The Police!’

Derek realised at once that the hotel management had at last succeeded in getting aid from the authorities to clear the place. One drunken man was lying on the floor nearby, apparently oblivious to all that was going on except for the presence of the equally drunken woman in his arms over whom he was slobbering. But others, wounded, unconscious, dead, were strewn about the floor among the broken glass. The rest were clambering over the chairs and tables in a desperate attempt to escape by way of the windows.

A phalanx of police, pressed shoulder to shoulder, burst their way through the crowd in the doorway. Their batons were drawn and they were in no mood to be trifled with. Several had lost their helmets and others had cuts upon their faces from missiles that had been thrown at them as they had fought their way through the hall.

For a moment Derek thought of trying to get Lavina out through one of the windows; but, although poor Roy was dead,
his blank eyeballs upturned and protruding, they could not leave him.

The gangsters had ceased their fighting and turned upon their common enemy. Those who had not already fled began to hurl bottles and chairs at the advancing police, but scores of Specials were now pouring into the room behind the shock column of hardened regulars.

At a sharp word of command, their formation broke into two wings, each of which swept sideways, encircling great batches of the riotous crew. People were now stumbling back through the windows, driven in by more squadrons of police who were lining the pavements outside. The gangsters were being forced into corners and beaten to their knees.

Suddenly a big Sergeant, with an angry eye, charged across the floor and, seizing Derek by the scruff of the neck, shouted:

‘Come on, you!’

At the same moment a young Special grabbed Lavina with a yell of ‘Keep your claws down or I’ll have to hurt you.’

Before they had time to exchange a word they were hauled to their feet and dragged in opposite directions.

‘Steady on, Sergeant!’ gasped Derek. ‘I haven’t been throwing any bottles.’

‘You can tell that to the magistrate in the morning,’ the big man panted. He had an ugly bruise over one eye and no cause whatever to feel tolerant towards the rioters.

‘I didn’t assault you and I’m not drunk. You’ve got no right to arrest me.’ Derek struggled to free himself from the iron grip of his captor.

‘Oh, yes, I have—participating in riotous assembly; and I’ll add “resisting arrest” to that if you’re not careful.’

‘All right, then. But hang on a minute.’

Lavina had been pulled a dozen yards away by the young Special. She was still weeping hysterically and making little resistance, but Derek pointed with his free hand anxiously towards her.

‘Listen, Sergeant. That lady I was with—she’s Lady Curry. For goodness’ sake don’t separate me from her at a time like this.’

‘I don’t care if she’s the Duchess of Dartmoor’ grunted the Sergeant with heavy humour. ‘Men one way and women the other. That’s the order.’ He gave Derek a violent shove towards two constables. ‘Here! Keep your eye on this one. I found him kneeling beside a chap who’d had his head bashed in.’

A number of the police had now formed two lines. Behind one they had penned a large number of their male captives and behind the other, at the far side of the room, the women. They were rapidly sorting out the rest of the mob and clearing the centre of the ballroom.

Derek found himself among a motley crowd that now looked less than ever like regular patrons of the Dorchester. Most of them were drunk, many had cuts and bruises, torn clothes, ruffled hair and blood upon their faces.

On glancing down he saw that his own hands and shirt-cuffs were bloodstained from having raised poor Roy’s battered head off Lavina’s lap. He peered anxiously between the shoulders of two stalwart Specials but could see nothing of her.

A few moments later the police began to march their prisoners off in batches. Craning his neck, Derek caught one glimpse of Lavina. She was being hustled along in the midst of a group of drunk and cursing women. At that moment she looked across and, with a shrill cry of ‘Derek! Derek!’ made a desperate attempt to run towards him; but a policeman firmly thrust her back and she was forced to leave the ballroom with the others.

When the women had all gone, the men were shepherded out in groups of about a dozen. The lounge was now clear except for little knots of police and some harassed-looking members of the hotel staff. Outside the entrance of the hotel a line of small Ford vans was drawn up. Derek and his companions were hustled into one. The doors were slammed, locked, and the van drove off.

It was completely dark inside. Some of the drunks were jolted off their feet and the others were badly jostled, but their drive was a short one. When the van came to a halt, and its doors were unlocked, Derek tumbled out of it to find himself standing on grass in the fresh night air. After a second he recognised the lights of Grosvenor House and the skyline of Park Lane, above the trees in the distance, and realised that he was in Hyde Park.

On looking round he saw that they were outside a barbed-wire encampment, which was guarded by soldiers in khaki. There were many police and military about, but Derek did not have long to observe them as he and his companions were hurried into a large wooden hut just by the entrance of the barbed-wire enclosure.

Inside it a Guards Captain was seated behind a trestle table. Beside him was a Corporal, busily writing upon a stack of forms. Two or three orderlies stood near, besides a double row of policemen who had participated in the raid on the Dorchester.

One by one the men in Derek’s group were pushed forward, and when particulars of each had been taken down by the Corporal, they were handed over to the military and marched outside again.

When it came to Derek’s turn, the Captain asked: ‘Name?’

‘Derek Burroughs.’

‘Address?’

‘The Old Mill, Stapleton, Surrey.’

‘Charge?’ The Captain looked interrogatively towards the group of policemen, and the big Sergeant stepped forward.

‘Riotous assembly, sir. And would you add to that—when arrested, was kneeling beside the body of a fair man, aged about thirty, who had had his head bashed in.’

The Officer nodded and signed to Derek to move away so that the next prisoner could come forward, but Derek stood his ground and said quickly:

‘Look here, this is all an awful mistake. I was in the Dorchester having supper.

‘I know,’ interrupted the Captain wearily. ‘They’re all saying that.’

‘But listen,’ Derek insisted. ‘I’m not drunk. I was with Lady Curry but we were separated and I’ve simply got to find her.’

‘Sorry,’ The Guards Captain fingered his small, dark moustache. ‘I’m afraid I can’t release you because, you see, you’ve been charged. We’ll have to hold you with the rest until the morning.’

‘But I’m not a rioter. We got mixed up in this affair,’ Derek protested.

‘Well, that’s your fault, isn’t it? The Government has appealed to everybody to stay indoors so as to prevent this sort of thing happening. Anyhow, you’ve no need to worry. They’ll probably let you off with a caution to-morrow.’