Miller nodded. “I’ve got them.”
“The man at the front is Manchester Charlie Ford, followed by Frank Butcher. I sent him down for G.B.H. once. Three years. The little bloke with hair like patent leather is Sid Tordoff — a right villain.”
“They aren’t local lads?”
“Are they hell — Manchester. They’ve been imported specially — probably via a middle man. You know how it goes. A pound to a penny they don’t even know who they’re working for.”
They waited and a few moments later he nodded again. “I thought so. Arthur Hart and Martin Dereham — he’s the good-looking one with the buttonhole and the moustache. Tries to come the public school touch, but the highest he ever got up the educational ladder was class four at Dock Street Elementary.”
“Okay,” Miller said, getting to his feet. “I’m going in. Better put a call through to H.Q. We’ll have the heavy brigade standing by just in case.”
It was a quiet, well-behaved crowd, mostly moneyed people, the kind who’d run for cover and never come back at the slightest hint of violence or trouble of any sort. Miller scanned the faces quickly, noting that the gang had dispersed themselves, which probably indicated outbursts of trouble in several different places at once.
And then he saw Manchester Charlie Ford on the other side of the roulette wheel. Ford was of medium height with powerful sloping shoulders, the scar tissue beneath his eyes indicating that he had once been a prize fighter. He was wearing a surprisingly well-cut suit and pushed his way through the crowd with an arrogance that was obviously beginning to alarm several people.
He paused behind a rather attractive woman. It was impossible to see what actually happened, but she turned sharply and her escort, a dark-haired young man, rounded on Ford. “What’s the game?”
So this was how it was to start? Miller slipped through the crowd, arriving from the rear, and secured a grip on Ford’s left wrist before he knew what had hit him.
“Get moving!” he said softly into Ford’s ear. “Try anything funny and I’ll break your arm.”
Before the young couple could say a word, Miller and Ford had been swallowed up by the crowd. They came to rest behind a pillar, Miller still retaining his grip. Ford’s right hand dived into his pocket. As it came out again, Jack Brady arrived on the scene and relieved him of a wicked-looking spiked knuckle-duster.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my old friend Manchester Charlie Ford.”
Ford looked ready to commit murder and when Miller turned and glanced over the crowd, he saw the others making rapidly for the exit.
“Are they leaving you then, Charlie?” Brady said. “Isn’t that a shame?”
They hustled him into Lazer’s office between them and Miller shoved him down into a chair. “Who’s paying the piper on this little caper?”
“Why don’t you get knotted?” Ford said.
Brady dangled the knuckle-duster in front of him between thumb and forefinger. “Carrying an offensive weapon, Charlie, and with your record? Good for six months that.”
“I can do that standing on my head.” Ford turned as Lazer entered the room, a worried look on his face. “Are you Lazer?” He laughed harshly. “Had to bring in the bloody scuffers, eh? That’s your lot, boyo. I hope you realise that. You’re dead meat.”
“Why don’t you shut up?” Miller said and glanced at his watch. “I’ll have to go, Jack. I’ve got a date. Will you book him for me?”
“My pleasure.”
Brady yanked Ford to his feet and took him out through the side door and Miller turned to Lazer. “Don’t take any notice of that goon, Chuck. We’ve made a good start. They’ll think twice the next time.”
“Oh, sure — sure they will,” Lazer said, but his eyes were unhappy and Miller knew that he didn’t believe him for a moment.
The lounge bar of the Romney was only half full when Miller entered shortly after ten, but there was no sign of Harriet Craig. He sat on a stool at the end of the bar, ordered a brandy and ginger ale and lit a cigarette. When he glanced up, he could see her in the mirror standing in the doorway behind him.
She was wearing an evening coat in green grosgraine which hung open at the front to reveal a simple black cocktail dress and when she smiled on catching sight of him, she looked quite enchanting.
“Am I late?” she asked as she sat on the stool beside him.
“No, I was early. How about a drink?”
“Please. A dry martini.”
“How was the concert?”
“Fine — Mendelssohn’s
“Some — I’m a jazz man myself. How’s your father?”
“Fine — just fine.” She stared down into her glass and sighed. “Look, I’m afraid I’ve rather got you here under false pretences.”
“You mean you don’t want to chat after all?”
She nodded. “As a matter of fact I was hoping you might take me out.”
“Now there’s an attractive idea,” he said. “Where would you like to go?”
“I’d like to go to the Flamingo.”
“May I ask why?”
“Those murals Joanna painted for Vernon — I’d like to see them. The only other way would be to ask his permission and I’d hate that.” She opened her bag and took out a gold-edged card. “I’ve got a membership card — one of Daddy’s business friends arranged it for me and members are allowed to take guests in with them.”
Miller sat there looking down at the card for a long moment, a slight frown on his face and she put a hand on his arm. “Please, Nick? I’d feel safe with you.”
“You make a very appealing liar,” Miller said, “but I’ll still take you. In fact I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m sure it will prove more than interesting.”
The Flamingo had altered a lot since Miller’s last visit, but that had been in the old days when Harry Faulkner had owned it and it had been more a night club than anything else, with gambling relegated to a strictly illegal small back room. The Gaming Act had changed all that and now there was money to burn.
The small, thickly carpeted foyer had been decorated in excellent taste and the man who moved forward to check Harriet’s membership card was greying and distinguished and wore hunting pink. They went through a door at the end of a short passage and found themselves at the top of a flight of steps which dropped into the main casino.
“Oh, look, Nick! Look!” Harriet clutched at his arm.
The murals were astonishingly good. There were four of them in enormous panels, two on either side of the long room. They were all battle scenes, the Foot Guards figuring largely in each one, and had been executed in a rather stylistic seventeenth-century manner and yet had a life and originality that was all their own.
Miller shook his head slowly. “I just didn’t realise she was that good.”
“She could have been a great painter, Nick,” Harriet said. “Something special.” She took a deep breath and smiled as though determined to be cheerful. “Well, as long as we’re here we might as well have a look round.”
There were the usual games — Chemmy, Roulette, Blackjack and, in a small side room, Poker was on offer. But it was the clientele which Miller found most interesting. There was little doubt that Vernon was catering for the top people with a vengeance. The kind of money being wagered would have been sufficient to indicate that, but in any case, Miller recognised faces here and there. Wool barons, industrialists, the managing director of one of the world’s largest ready-made clothing factories. There were at least four millionaires present to his personal knowledge.
The whole place had the atmosphere of a West-End club, only a low buzz of conversation disturbed the silence and grave-faced waiters in hunting pink moved from table to table dispensing free drinks.
Manchester Charlie Ford and his boys would never have got past the door, but if they had, they would have closed the place down by just one visit. With the kind of clientele it catered for, a club like the Flamingo depended on its reputation. Take that away from it and it was finished.
