“The Amethyst?” Hawker asked, once Nellie was settled in the back of the Bentley.
“No, first go via the Foxhole. I have to warn them that there’s going to be a raid tonight.”
“Rightio.”
Nellie brooded as they drove. She didn’t like being taken by surprise. Azzopardi wasn’t after her clubs, she understood now. He was after revenge.
Pork Pie
Once Nellie had gone, Sergeant Oakes picked up the newspaper from the bench where she had left it. He opened it and appeared to find the day’s news fascinating. After a while, with rather good sleight of hand, he slipped a small envelope out of the newspaper and moved it into the pocket of his jacket. He didn’t need to look to know that it contained two five-pound notes. Ten pounds. Every week, Nellie Coker had promised. He’d be able to buy a house soon. He’d be able to buy a street.
He was the servant of two masters now. He was feeling very pleased with himself. No one in Bow Street suspected him, that was the funny thing. Good old Sergeant Oakes, the Laughing Policeman, always willing to lend a hand, do the donkey work, yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir. Ho, ho, ho, hee, hee, hee. They would see things differently when he and Maddox booted Nellie Coker out of her so-called kingdom.
He laughed and didn’t stop laughing until he reached home. Even then, his good humour persisted through the four bottles of beer he drank, one after the other. He rounded off the afternoon by giving his wife a split lip when she asked him where he’d been. And she’d get another smacking if his tea wasn’t on the table pronto.
* * *
—
After tea, Oakes went out again. He had another rendezvous, this time in a pub in Fitzrovia, where he joined the man who was standing at the bar, a pork pie and a pint of stout in front of him.
Maddox had enlisted Oakes in his scheme a few months ago. If he was to take over Nellie’s clubs he would need a reliable aide-de-camp by his side. There was a limit to how much ambition a man could handle on his own.
Oakes wasn’t the sharpest pin in the box. Although he had proved himself an enormous asset—there were no limits to the depths he was prepared to go to—unfortunately, Maddox was beginning to suspect that he might also be a huge liability. Still, Oakes was now in the perfect position to report to him on Nellie’s comings and goings, and in return she could be fed harmless information designed to mislead her and keep her out of their hair while they set about unseating her. He bought Oakes a whisky.
“Ta very much, sir.”
“And you’re quite sure,” Maddox said, “that she has no inkling that she’s being double-crossed?”
“The old bird’s too obsessed with this mysterious Azzopardi bloke to be suspicious of anyone else.”
“You told Nellie about the raid we set up on the Foxhole tonight?”
“Yep. Very grateful for the warning, said I was ‘earning my keep.’?”
“Good. Anything else?”
“Frobisher sent Cobb to nose about in Henrietta Street. Said he was looking for two girls. Mrs. D gave him short shrift. He ‘couldn’t see anything suspicious,’ Cobb said. I asked him—casual, like. The boy’s got farts for brains. And then—”
“What two girls?”
Oakes consulted his notebook again. “Florence Ingram and Freda Murgatroyd. The Ingram girl’s gone missing. It’s not just Frobisher making enquiries, little Freda’s been asking around about her too.”
“This Freda,” Maddox said thoughtfully, “is she a problem?”
“Not one that can’t be solved, sir.” He chuckled. “Little Freda’s easy to find. She’s a dance hostess at the Sphinx. Oh, can I borrow your car again, sir?” Oakes kicked himself mentally for the repeated “sir.” Outside of the station he preferred to think of Maddox and himself as equals, partners in the grand plan to take Nellie Coker to the cleaners. “I’ve got a package needs delivering up west. I’ll need to pick her up again later as well.”
“Time you got a car of your own, Oakes.”
“Well, I’ll be able to afford a fleet of them soon, won’t I, sir?” (Another kick.)
“Perhaps if you didn’t gamble so much, Oakes, you would have one already.”
“Nothing wrong with a little flutter, sir.” (Kick, kick, kick.)
Maddox drained his pint.
“Home to the wife, sir?” Oakes asked. “The old ball and chain.” Oakes was becoming over-familiar, in Maddox’s opinion. He worried that the sergeant was starting to act on his own rather than following orders.
Maddox dropped a handful of coins on the bar and made a move to leave, but Oakes said, “Hang on, before you go, sir. There’s more. I got a juicy titbit off Mrs. Darling. One of Nellie’s daughters—the eldest—”
“Edith?”
“Yeah, that one. She paid a visit to our Mrs. Darling as well.”
Maddox frowned. “Paid a visit? What does that mean?”
“You know. Needed the old crow’s services. The Coker bitch got rid of her whelp, as you might say. Nearly croaked afterwards, apparently. It even had Mrs. D worried. You all right, sir? You’ve gone pale.”
Once Maddox had left, Oakes appropriated the pork pie. “Waste not, want not,” he said cheerfully, winking at the barmaid as he took a huge bite out of it.
Pour le Sport
Gwendolen had adapted to her new role with surprising alacrity. And Nellie was right—to run a nightclub all you really needed was an orderly mind and to be capable in a crisis. The crises were small (No face powder in the Ladies’!) and frequent (Champagne stocks running low! The club’s patrons drank an inordinate amount of champagne) and were as nothing compared to the challenge of trying to keep a dying man alive. It was true she had a string of questions for Ramsay—Is this really the markup on beer? (Yes) Could I order better-quality soap for the Ladies’ Powder Room? (No, Nellie bought it wholesale)—and so on. It seemed to amuse him how intent Gwendolen was on running an efficient ship.
The only mishap so far was when one of the dance hostesses had suffered a sprained ankle, thanks to a clumsy partner. Gwendolen had bandaged her up and prescribed a stiff whisky. Otherwise, she was rather pleased with her new employment. She could only imagine what the Misses Tate, Rogerson and Shaw would make of it. And as for Mr. Pollock, his head would probably explode if he saw her in her role as mistress of the nightly revels.
The dance hostesses were pleasant girls who handled the clientele with easy grace and at the end of the evening seemed eager to return to their own beds rather than those of the men who had paid to dance with them. Gwendolen suspected that it may be different in the other clubs, particularly the Sphinx, which had a Stygian aura. “Not Greek, Egyptian,” Ramsay said when he had given her the tour. He talked a lot about the curse of Tutankhamun—surely he didn’t believe that nonsense?
Gwendolen had received her first week’s wages yesterday. Ramsay had brought her an envelope full of cash—ten times what she had been paid in the Library. (“You’re surprised?” Ramsay said. “Why else do you think people work for my mother?”)