It may be some men’s idea of heaven to live in a whorehouse, but if you’re a non-participant and all you can do is listen to the radio or do some handiwork around the place, it gets wearying. The perfume clings, making it difficult to venture out in case you got mistaken for a nancy boy. The hunt for me was still on but the initial frenzy had gone out of it. It was only once mentioned on the news; I just hoped my mother wasn’t listening. Occasionally I’d hear the clamour of the cars of the Flying Squad and wonder if they were heading this way. Police patrols had doubled according to Mary, and certainly there were more uniforms on the streets than I could recall. All bad for business said Mary.
So when the call – summons more like – came through to meet Jonny Crane I was on my way like a greyhound out his trap. But Mary’s advice rang in my ears.
“Jonny nasty piece. You keep back to wall and hand here.” She grabbed her crotch. “And no mention you was bobby!”
I mulled over the image of a girlie gangster as I started down the steep flight of stairs to one of Jonny’s hangouts in Wardour Street. I gave my name through the hatch and it was clear they were expecting me. The door was opened by a gorilla in a midget’s suit. He had mean eyes, maybe from having his nose broken so often. He pushed my face against the wall and smoothed his great mitts over me and grunted – with disappointment I think – at finding no weapons on me.
It had been getting dark outside, but it was darker down here until we came to another door. The gorilla pushed me ahead of him and I stumbled into a wide, well-lit drinking den. It was too early for customers but a barman ground away at a glass with a dish towel, clearly not worried if I had a drink or a coronary.
At a table on the left sat two men: one young and chewing gum and sitting back on two legs of a chair which could go over any minute; the other small, with glasses, his chin resting on clasped hands. He could be the young guy’s accountant. On the table in front of them – breaking the barman’s heart – were tea cups and a pot. A photo and an ashtray with a cigarette-holder lay between them. I walked over. The gorilla stuck to my tail. What did he think I’d do?
Chuck tea over them?
The young guy wore kohl round his eyes and his lips were red and wet. He shifted his gum to one side of his mouth and spoke. His voice was high and piping. I didn’t laugh.
“Mr Crane wants to know who you are and why you’re asking about this doll.”
Doll? Where did this jessie think he was, Chicago? “Can’t Mr Crane ask me himself?”
The accountant eased back and sat upright. Now I could see the heavy rings on both hands. He was much older than I first thought; his lined face was filled in with powder and rouge. His eyes bulged behind his glasses as he sized me up, maybe wondering how much concrete it would take round my feet to sink me.
“I’m asking. Who are you and why are you sending the word out on this bint?” His voice had all the depth and weight that his pretty friend lacked. He sounded like a sixty-a-day Capstan Full Strength man.
I’d thought about how to answer this if the time came. Suddenly I didn’t feel so confident about my story. But it was too late now. “I’m David Campbell. I’m a private detective. Hired by her husband. He’s been getting curious about how she spends her time.”
“You’re a Jock,” said Crane.
“That a crime?”
“Not necessarily.” The implication was that it depended which side of the bed he’d got out of that day. And who with. I hoped today was a love-your-fellow-man day regardless of predilection.
“Have you seen the lady?” I asked.
“Lady, is it? Sit down,” said Crane sucking on his cigarette then stubbing it out. He handed the holder to the boy, who refilled it, lit it and handed it back to him.
I sat. The boy rocked forward on to four legs and the gorilla scraped a chair up behind me. Now we were all cosy. Would they offer me tea?
I asked my question again.
“Depends,” he said.
I raised my eyebrows.
“On what you’re going to do with the information.”
“Do you care?” I asked.
His lengthened lashes blinked behind the glasses. “Let’s say, if I knew this bint, and if I’d done something for her, that would make her a customer of mine.
I look after my customers. If they look after me.” He sounded less like an accountant and more like a priest: one of the hard-boiled variety who taught the boys Latin and buggery.
“It’s not my business what my clients do with the information I provide,” I replied.
“I like that. I like compartments. Keeps things simple. In a complicated world, know what I mean?”
I shrugged. Spare me from amateur philosophers. “Mr Crane, this isn’t essential information to my enquiry. Just corroboration. I have enough to make my report, but this would… help. So I’m prepared to pay a fiver for answers to some simple questions.”
Crane turned to his companion and laughed. The boy broke into a high piping giggle. The gorilla spluttered behind me. Crane turned back to me.
“Campbell, I spend five quid on a round here. Is that all you’ve got?”
“It’s all it’s worth.” I could feel the sweat breaking out in the small of my back. I hoped it wasn’t showing on my forehead.
Crane sobered up. “I was forgetting; you’re Scotch.” His eyelids closed slowly for a moment as he thought; it was like a reptile blinking. He refocused. “Make it twenty and I’ll give you some answers.”
Twenty was a fortnight’s wages. “Ten is the limit.”
He shrugged. I reached in to my pocket, pulled out my little wad and counted out ten ones on Crane’s table. He reached to take them and I slapped my hand down on the money. The boy was on his feet in a second, a knife glinting in his hand.
Behind me the chair grated on the floor and I steeled myself for the blow.
“Easy, Sammy.” Crane’s command brought the boy to heel. He waved at the gorilla behind me and I felt the heavy breathing recede.
“You get three questions. Make ’em count,” said Crane.
I thought for a minute. “OK. Did you help the lady in that photo?” I pointed at the table.
“Yes. One.”
Shit. I already knew he did. Think harder. “What sort of help did you give her?”
The corners of his mouth lifted. “I gave her some contacts. Two.”
The bastard was playing with me. He was smiling. So was pretty boy. I wanted to hit him. I took a gamble.
“Did she come to you for an abortion?”
He looked at me for long second. “No. Three.” He reached out and took the money.
“We’re done. Now bugger off back to Glasgow, Campbell, or whatever your name is.”
Sod. If you could believe a grade one crook like Crane, my theory was out the window. I got up to go but couldn’t resist a shot in the dark, “Sorry about your girls, Jonny.”
The room went still. Even the barman stopped rubbing his glass. “What do you know about my girls, Jock?” he growled.
“Word on the street. Seems the Ripper was picking on you.”
“Is that so, Mister private dick? Is that so? S’none of your fuckin’ business, all right?”
“No offence, Jonny. I was just wondering if you’d been grilled by the lovely Inspector Wilson, that’s all.”
“Sit.”
I sat.
“You and him close, are you?” he asked.
“Let’s say my head and his fists got too close for my liking. An experience I won’t forget in a hurry.”
Crane’s hand stroked his red mouth. He had his cigarette holder replenished again. “Who are you, Campbell? Why you really here?”
I weighed up the odds. They weren’t good. If I told him the truth, it might put me on the same side of the
