The Lights of London (18 page)

‘Business, you say?’

‘The two girls. The tall one and her partner. They interest me. I’d like to meet them.’

‘I’m no pimp,’ he glanced at the signature on the note, ‘Mr Tressing. And if that’s what you think you’ve got the wrong idea. But if it’s girls you’re after there are plenty around these parts. You don’t need to come to me.’

Tressing didn’t let his surprise show, but he’d have laid money that this shoddy-looking specimen would have sold his own sister for the right price. ‘It’s Dr Tressing, actually,’ he corrected him, ‘but you misunderstand me, Mr Fisher. What I think is that they have the makings of an interesting act. They could be
very successful with the right management.’

Jack narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He was confused. Was this Dr Tressing some sort of rival from another venue? These theatrical types called themselves all sorts: Professor and Maestro and what have you. But if he was, then what on earth did he want with those two? ‘You saw them,’ Jack said. ‘And you heard them. They can’t sing. They were terrible.’

‘Ah yes, but they have something about them, something hard to define.’ Tressing hesitated, thinking about how truly marvellous they had looked together and what fantasies had filled his jaded mind.

‘I don’t understand what you want.’

Tressing, his face a studied mask of indifference, shrugged carelessly. He had to be careful. He didn’t want to seem too eager or he might frighten off this naive young northerner. Having noted the man’s shabby clothes and thin-soled boots, Tressing decided on his approach. ‘As I said,’ he drawled in his refined high-society tones, ‘I believe they have something special. Something from which you could make a great deal of money.’

‘You do, do you?’

Tressing nodded casually. ‘Maybe I could, er, let’s say, invest a little money in the show. Get the girls some decent costumes. Some voice training.’

Now Jack was really puzzled. What was this man up to? Why would he be offering to invest money in those two? What was the catch? He needed time to work this one out. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said bluntly.

Tressing blinked back his astonishment. The man had made it clear that he wasn’t prostituting the girls, but he was offering him legitimate money, for God’s sake. ‘Very well,’ he said briskly. ‘Perhaps we’ll speak later.’ With that, he swept through the double doors with a
flap of his coat-tails and returned to his table.

Tressing pulled out a chair, sat down and glared at the stage, where the Amazing India Rubber Man was skulking about the stage with an exasperated scowl distorting his already ugly face.

‘You had as much luck with the young ladies as that fellow had with the audience, eh, Tressing, old chap?’ chirped Hunton with an inane snigger.

Tressing just stared ahead, watching as the Rubber Man picked up his mat and mouthed something obscene at the battling mob below that, by rights, should now have been applauding his talents.

Mayerton, hiding his amusement at Tressing’s failure to meet the young women he had assured them would be joining them for supper – at least – took the opportunity to have a sly dig at Hunton. He had never had much time for physicians, considered them cowardly namby-pamby prescribers, too feeble to cut off a limb or open an abdomen in order to sort out a problem in a manly sort of a way. He half turned to face his unsuspecting colleague. ‘You think Bartholomew’s lost his touch, do you, Cameron?’

Hunton nodded happily, pleased, as a newcomer to the august circles of the London Hospital, to be in on the banter. ‘I certainly do, Lucian. I’d heard you were a devil with the fair sex, Tressing, a real lady-killer.’ He looked at Mayerton and grinned broadly. ‘He must be spending too much time abroad, if you ask me. Losing that English charm I’d heard everyone talking about.’

Tressing felt the heat and colour in his face. He stood up. ‘If you’ll excuse me,
gentlemen
, I’ll be a few moments. I’m sure you can find something to amuse you in my absence.’

Jack, who had spent the last five minutes alternately panicking and fuming about Tressing’s suggestions, took a deep breath, raked his floppy fringe from his forehead with his fingertips and shoved open the heavy doors. There was nothing else to do. He had no choice. He had come all the way to London to make his fortune and this was probably his very last chance to make a go of it. He had to speak to Tressing, because if this carried on for another week he wouldn’t have a pub left to worry about.

Shoving past the few remaining customers, who were standing around in noisy arguing knots, Jack knew he was doing the right thing. As he walked over to the table, he practised what he was going to say and how he was going to say it. He’d be humble. He could manage that. If it meant saving his business he could manage anything.

But when he reached the table he was at a loss. Tressing wasn’t there. Damn it. He should have jumped at the chance when the man had mentioned investing in the show. Never mind losing his pub, he must be losing his grip. He took a deep breath, stuck on a smile and said to the two men who’d been with Tressing, ‘Your friend gone home, has he?’

Hunton looked up at him through bleary eyes. ‘No. Just popped out for a breath of fresh air, old man. Don’t think this part of the show was to his taste.’

Jack glanced over his shoulder and winced at the rather elderly, toga-draped ‘classical’ dancers who had made the inconceivable decision still to come on after the Rubber Man had stalked off the stage. The world really had taken leave of its senses. Did the stupid old hens honestly think he was going to have the money to pay them when he had all this damage to repair?

If he even bothered to try.

But he had to bother. This was all he had.

Swallowing his last grain of pride, he folded his arms and, sounding as smooth as he could, said to the two men, ‘I was a bit taken aback by what your friend had to say earlier and I might have come over as being a bit rude, so maybe I can buy you gentlemen a drink to make up for it.’

Neither Mayerton nor Hunton needed any persuading; both accepted his offer.

‘So,’ Jack began, as he poured them each a large measure from the bottle he’d brought to the table. ‘Your friend, Dr Tressing, is interested in my double act.’

Hunton snorted into his glass, sending a fine spray of port into the air. ‘Interested? That’s putting it rather mildly. I’d say he found the idea of those two charming ladies together – how can I put it politely? – rather stimulating.’ He grinned at Mayerton. ‘Isn’t that right, old man?’

Mayerton agreed, but decided to keep his own counsel.

‘I must admit,’ Hunton continued, ‘I found them rather stirring myself, if you see what I mean. But for Tressing it was more than that. The story is that the fellow’s been ill, you see. And the illness has, let us say, weakened him somewhat. Even heard rumours from one chap that he’d gone Uranian! Bit of a nancy boy tendency surfacing. But no. Your girlies have interested him. Definitely.’

Mayerton shook his head in wonder. The drink had turned the man from a bore into an idiot. If Tressing could hear him passing on all this gossip about him. And to a pub landlord …

Jack hadn’t actually understood half of what Hunton was going on about, but he nodded regardless. He needed money and these people had it. ‘He mentioned
something about investing in the show. Is he some sort of manager, or does he own another music-hall?’

Hunton seemed to find the idea wildly amusing. ‘No. He’s a doctor.’

‘What, at the hospital?’

‘At the London, actually,’ Hunton informed him proudly. ‘Same hospital as me.’

While his colleagues were inside with Jack Fisher, Tressing was outside, standing as far away from the light as he could manage, which wasn’t difficult in the seedy, ill-lit East End street. He reached inside his jacket pocket and took out a small engraved case. He opened it and, with shaking hands, snapped the top off a small glass phial. He drew its contents into a hypodermic syringe, tapped the barrel and plunged it into the crook of his bared arm.

Within moments, Tressing was back in the theatre, his mind artificially alert, his eyes bright and hard. He didn’t return to his seat immediately, but stood in the doorway watching Hunton prattling away to the landlord as though they were old friends. Intrigued, he moved closer and was infuriated to hear what the dull-witted physician was saying.

‘… not just any doctor, mind. A really famous surgeon. In fact, he’s recently received an award from the United States of America. Not the first, I might add.’

‘That’s enough, Hunton,’ Tressing said, suddenly appearing at his side. ‘You don’t want to bore the chap.’

Hunton had the grace to shut up.

‘My companions and I will be going now, Mr Fisher. But I presume you joined our table in order to tell me you’ve made up your mind about my proposal.’

Jack rose to his feet. ‘That’s right, Dr Tressing,’ he
said. And I’ve decided to accept.’

Tressing nodded. ‘I’ll speak to you soon, and we can discuss how much you need and the changes to the act.’

Fisher frowned. ‘Changes? But why?’

Tressing raised an elegant eyebrow. ‘I’d have thought that was obvious to a professional such as yourself, Mr Fisher. Now, if you’ll excuse us.’

As Tressing left, with his two companions in tow, Jack sat back down and wondered exactly what it was that these men – not only Tressing and his pals, but the men who had applauded them down in the bar – could see in those two girls. They were attractive enough young lasses, but nothing really outstanding. He rubbed his hands over his eyes. He was exhausted. Maybe that was why he couldn’t think straight. But what was important was that Tressing was impressed; impressed enough to spend money on them.

But how much? And when, exactly, were they going to discuss it? When was
soon
?

Jack leapt to his feet. He’d catch up with Tressing before he disappeared into the night and ask him. At least knowing that might let him get a decent night’s sleep.

Jack was standing in the pub doorway, looking left and right, trying to catch sight of his unlikely benefactor, when a man in an old-fashioned, flare-waisted coat stepped out of the shadows. ‘Jack Fisher?’ he asked.

‘What’s it to you?’

‘I’d like to introduce myself. The name’s Albert Symes. You might have heard of me.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Jack impatiently, looking over the man’s shoulder for a possible glimpse of Tressing.

‘I look after Tibs Tyler.’

That got Jack’s attention. The girls had said there was
a man Tibs used to work for, a violent type of a bloke, who had been worrying them. He’d guessed then, and was now sure he was right, that this Albert Symes was a pimp.

‘And I think we should have a little talk about it. Don’t you, Jack Fisher?’

Jack nodded. This was all he needed. The moment things seemed to be looking up, someone was going to come along and try to pinch half his double act. ‘Good idea, Mr Symes. I’ve just got a bit of business to attend to inside, then I’ll see you out here in, what, two minutes.’

‘In the alley next door, I think,’ Albert said with the smugness of a bully who had decided he had a victim neatly in his clutches. ‘Oh, and make sure you come alone, Jack Fisher. I’ll be waiting. And watching.’

Back inside the pub, Jack wondered what to do next. If he tried taking his chucker out, or even Archie, as reinforcements, Albert might just turn tail and leave before they could sort anything out. But from what Tibs had said, Symes could be a really nasty piece of work.

He was hoping that a bit of bribery might do the job of persuading him to let Tibs stay on, although how he was going to pay any sort of a bung was another matter, but he’d worry about that later. All he knew was that he couldn’t let Albert just muscle in and take Tibs away. But he didn’t fancy getting himself beaten up for his trouble.

With only minutes to think about it, Jack came up with the closest he could get to a solution. He rushed up to his room, woke the elderly Rex from his doggy dreams of chasing rats and buckled on a ferocious-looking studded collar that Jack had inherited from a far more vicious animal once owned by his father. He took
the dog’s hairy muzzle in his hands and stared into his sleepy, liquid brown eyes. ‘You, Rex, are about to play the part of a savage guard dog. Try and get it right, eh, lad?’

Jack stood at the top of the alley that ran along the side of the pub, with Rex kept firmly behind him, his intention being that the old mongrel would be his secret weapon.

‘You took your time,’ complained Albert.

‘I had something to do,’ replied Jack, moving his legs together so that Rex could, if necessary, slide by him to get to his quarry – Symes – at the other end of the walk-through.

Albert, whose eyes were accustomed to the gloom, immediately caught sight of the dog that Lily had warned him about. ‘So I see.’ He delved deep into his poacher’s pocket and produced his own secret weapon – a pink, juicy ham bone which he threw on the ground. Rex, rather than leaping for the pimp’s throat, wagged his tail and fell on the succulent morsel.

Albert grinned with amusement as he watched the supposedly fierce animal almost purring like a pussycat over the butcher’s scraps – he’d have done himself a better service if he’d kept his eyes on Jack.

Without a thought for the consequences, Jack pounced forward and punched Symes – crack! – right on the nose with one fist and then – smack! – right on the jaw with the other.

It was difficult to tell who was the most surprised as Albert’s nose began to bleed like a scarlet fountain: Jack, as the pain seared through his knuckles, or Albert who, thanks to Lily Perkins, had had Jack down as a coward; or the dog at being woken up, dragged outside and then being thrown a ham bone as if it were his birthday.

For all his talk and promises to the girls, Jack had never so much as laid a hand on anyone before. But he wasn’t going to let someone, anyone, take away this chance. And throwing the punch had exhilarated him. I’ve heard all about you, you spineless bastard,’ he sneered, waving the cosh that up until then he hadn’t even considered using.

Albert glared at Jack as he dabbed at his bloody face with his sleeve.