To reach the escape hatch you had to follow a tortuous route that took you into the courtyard at the back of the club where the outside toilets were and then through an unlocked door into the backyard of an adjoining shop, an ironmongery (the ironmonger was remunerated on a weekly basis), through the ironmonger’s and thence through a door into the street. Many a Cabinet minister, peer of the realm and even the occasional bishop had escaped by this undignified means, like criminals on the run. It was not unknown for some to become confused and find themselves in the adjoining cellar of an Italian restaurant, stumbling around amongst the flagons of olive oil and Chianti.
Ramsey took out his cigarette case. It was chased gold with a ruby clasp, engraved inside with his name. From a shop in Bond Street, an unexpectedly generous twenty-first-birthday present from his mother. (“Cost a fortune,” Nellie said every time he took out a cigarette.) He plucked out a cigarette, lit it and inhaled, feeling his lungs inflate like a pair of leaky bellows. He smoked Balkan Sobranies, strong and tarry, bought on the basis that he was attracted to the exotic picture on the carton. They said smoking was good for you, but Ramsay wasn’t so sure.
He wasn’t allowed to enjoy his cigarette as Vivian Quinn rounded the corner and approached. “There you are. I was wondering where you’d got to, you old camp. Are you avoiding me, Coker?”
“No, Quinn. Of course I’m not avoiding you.”
“Give us a fag, then, will you?” Quinn said.
Reluctantly, Ramsay offered the cigarette case.
“A light?” Quinn prompted. Ramsay sighed and produced a box of matches. Quinn cupped his hand around Ramsay’s to shield the flame—the alley was always gusty. Ramsay wanted to shake him off, but he endured Quinn’s touch stoically to avoid one of his scathing responses.
“The Match King’s in,” Quinn said, prompted by the sight of the flame.
“Kreuger. I know.”
“The man’s a fraud, you know,” Quinn said. “Off-balance entities, gold debentures, derivative contracts. It’ll come crashing down eventually, you’ll see. House of cards.”
Ramsay had no idea what Quinn was talking about. Kreuger made matches, for heaven’s sake. A lot of matches. Possibly all the matches. Why else would he be christened king of them?
Quinn dragged on the cigarette and spluttered and coughed.
“Christ, Coker, this is hellish stuff.”
“Turkish tobacco. It’s an acquired taste,” Ramsay said. He couldn’t restrain his curiosity. “Is it true you’re writing a novel, Quinn? What’s it about?”
“About? Does a novel have to be about something?”
“Generally speaking.”
“How banal. Well, I suppose it’s about ‘Bright Young People become tarnished’ sort of stuff.”
“Does it have a title?”
“A rather good one—Folderol.”
Ridiculous title!
The thing was, no matter how much Ramsay denied it, he and Quinn were friends, albeit the kind of friends who didn’t like each other much. They had chummed up out of necessity when Ramsay returned from Switzerland and Quinn, who had just been employed to write his column, was looking for someone to knock about London’s nightlife with. Ramsay had been grateful to have a friend, even one who seemed only interested in his own advancement.
But then Quinn had made a clumsy pass at him in the cloakroom of the Sphinx, deep amongst the forest of furs and Crombies and men’s evening cloaks, and Ramsay had been forced to wriggle like a weasel to try to get away from him. It was only the sudden appearance of Gerrit, yanking aside the coats and saying, “Everything all right here, Ramsay?” that put an end to it.
“Oops,” Quinn had said, “we don’t want to make the Flying Dutchman jealous, do we?”
“I’m not like that,” a blushing Ramsay said to Gerrit when Quinn had gone, and Gerrit laughed and said, “You don’t know what you are, Ramsay.”
* * *
—
“Is it a roman à clef, Quinn?” Ramsay persisted. He couldn’t bear to say that stupid title.
“Folderol? Worried you’ll be in it?” Quinn said with a grin. “A minor character, perhaps?”
Quinn feigned a vague aristocracy, but Ramsay knew he was actually the son of a county auctioneer, as much a fraud as he claimed Kreuger to be. Ramsay hoped Quinn was wrong about the Match King. His mother took financial advice from the man, alongside Alfred Loewenstein.
“The Israelite,” Quinn said distastefully.
“Well, Belgian,” Ramsay demurred.
“He’s another crook.”
Was everyone crooked in some way?, Ramsay wondered.
“Do you fancy coming with me to a spieler next week?” Quinn asked.
“A spieler?”
A “spieler” was thieves’ slang for a card game. Ramsay liked cards, he’d liked them ever since the Bolshevists in Great Percy Street had taught him to play Preferans. He had been to a few spielers with Quinn in the past—small, low-key affairs, peripatetic to avoid the law, cropping up in flats in districts like Bloomsbury and Marylebone. The occupants were paid a sum to move out for the night and then the rugs were rolled up, the furniture pushed back and spindly little card tables brought out for Gin Rummy or Vingt-et-un. Women were there too, so it stayed pretty civilized, it wasn’t like a rugger crowd. A limit was put on bets, cheap wine and beer flowed and everyone had an increasingly amusing time before staggering home, a few pounds up or down. The stakes were low, Ramsay had never won or lost more than five pounds. It was hardly Biarritz or Monte Carlo. Nonetheless, Nellie would have been furious if she’d known.
Spielers were illegal, of course, but no one really cared. And anyway, one of the people who often joined them at the tables was a policeman, a jolly sort, not in uniform (that would have seemed like fancy dress), who said, “What’s wrong with a harmless bit of fun? Everyone likes a flutter.”
“This one’s in Belgravia,” Quinn said.
“Belgravia?”
“Mm. Interesting people, quite a classy crowd, in fact. We’re lucky to be asked, to be honest.”
“Sounds like high stakes.”
“No, I don’t think so. They just play for fun. Well, think about it. I must be off. I’m going to the Gargoyle opening, I can get you in if you want to come with me.”
“No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.”
It had begun to rain and Quinn unfurled the umbrella he was carrying. “Well, ta-ta for now,” he said, sauntering away with a pretentiously casual air.
The umbrella, Ramsay noticed, was one of the ones purloined from the Amethyst.
* * *
—
When Ramsay returned to the Amethyst, not only were the doormen mysteriously absent from their post but his mother was no longer on her roost in the cashier’s box, having been relieved of her position by Kitty. The glass containing Nellie’s sherry flip had been drained and Kitty herself was looking particularly fresh.
“Where is she?” Ramsay asked.
“Dunno.”
She had, she admitted, inadvertently let in several members of the Hackney Huns who had capered past her, camouflaged in fancy dress as a Pierrot troupe. Some members of the Huns had lately adopted fancy dress to infiltrate the many costume and masquerade parties that seemed to happen every night in London. Ramsay thought of the Egyptian mummy and his friends last night. A gang of Pierrots might have seemed even more threatening somehow.
The Huns were clever, they tended to mingle anonymously amongst party guests, quietly relieving them of their valuables. The victims were so intent on enjoying themselves that they rarely noticed they had been robbed until it was too late.
“You’ll be in for it if there’s trouble,” Ramsay said to Kitty.
“I’m a child apparently, you’ll be blamed.”
As if on cue, there came the sound of a tremendous uproar from downstairs. Ramsay hesitated. The front doormen were still absent. Linwood, on the other hand, was now flying up the stairs. “Better come quick, Mr. Coker,” he gasped, “all hell’s let loose down there. The roughs are at each other’s throats. Someone’s going to get killed.”
As solemnly as if she were presenting a knight with a sacred sword, Kitty handed Ramsay the policeman’s truncheon that was kept out of sight in the cashier’s booth. Nellie had used it on more than one occasion.
“Into the lion’s den, Mr. Coker,” Linwood said.