Ramsay advanced down the stairs, followed by a reluctant Linwood and an enthusiastic Kitty. Linwood pulled aside the bombazine curtain and Ramsay, truncheon in hand, made an effort to understand the pandemonium in front of him. Apart from knocking a few heads together, there seemed little he could do. Perhaps he should just let the brawl play itself out, burn through the club like wildfire. Sometimes that was the best strategy.
There were several factions at play that, when combined, had produced a volatile set of circumstances, all related later to Ramsay by Betty, who had obtained a good view from the bandstand. The Huns, drunk on both cheap whisky and their evening’s successes—their commodious pockets were full of loot from a recent party in Berkeley Square—were ready to celebrate.
They had spent the evening taunting Frazzini, who was sitting quietly at his table, refusing to be ruffled by them, much to their annoyance. He even offered them chocolates from the box that Nellie had earlier sent to his table, an act that enraged them further. Frazzini knew what the Huns didn’t—that his own men, having got wind of trouble, were even now making their way through the secret entrance into the club, ready for the fray.
The tinderbox was sparked by one of the Huns, who had got into a spat with someone over one of the girls when they both claimed her for a dance. This girl, Ekaterina, a White Russian emigrée, was much sought after by the regular clientele. She had been lured from Paris, where Nellie had spent several months trying to launch the ill-fated l’Angleterre. Ekaterina was reputed to have danced at the Folies-Bergère, which naturally made her very popular in the Amethyst as there was always an expectation that she might shed her clothes at a moment’s notice. She never did.
The first Pierrot had thrown a punch, which acted as a signal for his fellow gang members to pile in, regardless of where their blows landed. The couples up from the suburbs cowered beneath their tables—this was taking their “bit of fun” too far. The hardened habitués, however, readied themselves for a good show, especially as the Frazzini hooligans had now arrived and were joining in the skirmish. It wasn’t long before half the dance floor was taken up with the melee, balloons and streamers hanging from the ceiling providing an incongruously carnival scene.
And then a Pierrot whipped out a revolver from one of the handily voluminous pockets in his white costume and proceeded to wave it around. Those nearest to him dived beneath the tables with admirable alacrity. A shot was fired, incredibly loud, even amongst the din in the club.
Ramsay did not know, of course, about the King of Denmark, who, as befitted a head of state, was accompanied by an armed retinue, primed to defend the Crown against all comers; they had now drawn their weapons and were aiming them in an alarmingly vague way at the centre of the crowd.
That first shot acted as a starter’s pistol. After a brief, startled silence, it was followed by a fusillade, as it seemed that anyone who had a gun began to fire at will. And many people did have guns, not just the roughs, for it was, after all, not so very long since a war. There were not only many “souvenirs” left over, but also plenty of men who had been taught by the Army how to use them.
The band, unfazed by anything that ever occurred in the club, started up with “Runnin’ Wild” at an alarmingly frantic tempo that only served to intensify the fracas. It was possible that was their intention. Nellie paid them three hundred and fifty pounds a week, which she regarded as outrageous, but they had her over a barrel—the Amethyst was many things, but it was nothing without dancing. The band were a resolute bunch, the sort that would go down cheerfully with the ship. A bullet was later found to have driven a furrow through the piano on the bandstand, but the pianist had not deserted his post.
Massacre at Soho Nightclub—Ramsay could see the headline now. That would definitely be the end of the club, if not the entire family. Where were the police when you needed them? They were always around when you didn’t. So much for Inspector Maddox and his “protection.”
And then suddenly Nellie conjured herself out of thin air as if there were a deus ex machina hidden in the bandstand. Where had she been all this time?, Ramsay wondered. She wielded her new stick like a lion tamer’s whip. Several members of the band ducked out of the way. It was quite extraordinary, the power she had. She was so short she was barely visible and yet, within minutes, the club had quietened, the anarchic behaviour had dissipated, the guns had disappeared, and several abashed roughs hung their heads in shame. The band changed to something that sounded suspiciously like Mozart. Nellie would have something to say about that later. In her opinion, even the merest hint of classical music could be the death of a club.
One of the King of Denmark’s retinue had a squealing Pierrot in a stranglehold. It could have been any one of the Hackney Huns as they were all in similar costume but it didn’t matter, he represented them all—a trophy. With the slightest nod of her head towards the parties involved, Nellie signalled that the Pierrot should be handed over to Frazzini’s roughs as a token sacrifice. Frazzini’s gang members proceeded towards the club’s secret exit with their condemned prisoner squawking his innocence, as if he were being led away towards the noose and the long drop.
It was a miracle, but somehow the bullets seemed to have missed all of the club’s guests, embedding themselves instead in the floor and the walls and the aforesaid piano, as well as popping most of the balloons, which now hung dejectedly limp from the ceiling. Lack of injuries aside, it still had the makings of a poor night for the club’s reputation. (“A bit of an understatement,” Edith said.) It was fortunate that Vivian Quinn had already departed for the Gargoyle and the incident would only appear in his column third-hand at worst.
To mollify her guests, Nellie clapped her hands and said words that had never previously been heard in any of her clubs: “Free drinks for everyone!”—an announcement that was greeted with a rousing cheer from the assembly. People emerged from beneath the tables and the dance floor filled once more with revellers. What a tale the couples from Pinner would have to tell on their return to their tidy mock-Tudors.
That was not quite the end of the night’s drama, though, for a solitary guttural cry, like a fox in heat, now rose from the corner of the room nearest to Ramsay. Not loud enough to stop the dancers, but enough to send Ramsay pushing his way through the once again convivial mob to discover what new horror awaited.
He found one of Frazzini’s men laid out on the floor, copious amounts of blood pumping from a wound in his chest.
Several people had gathered quickly round the fallen man, including both Nellie and Frazzini. Ramsay noticed the two of them exchange a look that was clearly significant but too subtle for him to interpret.
The rest of the Cokers gravitated rapidly towards the casualty. They were naturally drawn to trouble.
“We need a doctor,” Ramsay said, startled that no one else seemed to have voiced this imperative. Frazzini hissed something beneath his breath that sounded like no police and Ramsay saw that Nellie was biting her lip and gazing trance-like at the wounded man. This inaction on her part surprised Ramsay—was she just going to let the man die here, on the floor, without lifting a hand to help him?
Someone new pushed their way into the circle surrounding the injured man—a woman. She seemed to grasp the situation immediately and knelt down next to the victim’s inert body, placing a firm hand on the source of the spring of blood, careless of the gore. “For heaven’s sake,” she said to no one in particular. “Don’t just stand there, all of you. Go to the kitchen,” she ordered Shirley, “and ask them for clean cloths. And hurry up!” Shirley scurried off obediently.
“What’s his name?” the woman asked, and when Frazzini didn’t reply, she repeated impatiently, “His name, please?” like a firm teacher compelling a recalcitrant schoolboy.
“Aldo,” Frazzini said reluctantly.