“Thanks, darling, you’ve been ever so generous. This way. Mind how you fall.”
The street lights threw dim shadows. There were a few dark figures standing in doorways. Most of them were women. The red glow of cigarettes indicated where other people, hidden in the darkness, were standing. A few men loitered in the street, hesitating—suspicious.
Together the blonde woman and the little man walked across the square and through another alley. It was so dark there that the little man paused.
A thread of light stabbed the darkness. He could see now. They were in a narrow passage that was abruptly terminated by a high brick wall. Halfway down the alley was a door set in the wall. In the light of the torch, the little man saw that the paint was peeling from the panels and the great iron knocker was rusty.
“That’s it,” the blonde woman said. “Don’t blame me if they don’t let you in.”
“Thank you,” the little man returned. “You can go now. Thank you very much.”
Rollo—no one had ever heard him called by any other name—was an immense man of fifty odd years. He was four inches over six feet, bulky fat with a great soft egg of a belly and pendant cones for arms and legs. His eyes made small by fat puffs around them were, by turns, bland, shrewd, vicious and lustful. As mall waxed moustache graced his upper lip and his immense fat hands, like bleached spiders, were never still.
No one really knew what Rollo did, apart from owning and directing the Gilded Lily Club. He was suspected of having his fingers in every dubious pie. Some said that he controlled the red light district of Shepherd Market. Some said that he dealt in stolen motor cars or that he was the biggest receiver of stolen property in the country. Others winked knowingly and hinted that his income came from a profitable traffic in drugs, while others whispered, “murder.” But no one really knew.
The Gilded Lily was the most exclusive night club in London. Its six hundred members had one thing in common—they all lived by their wits. Some of them were more dishonest than others, but none of them, even the richest and most influential of them, could ever have been called honest. They ranged from an armament king to a pimp, from a male impersonator to a high-class prostitute, if there is such a thing. Between these degrees of degradation, the club membership consisted of motor car thieves, confidence tricksters, share pushers, society women with kleptomania, blackmailers and drug traffickers and the like. Over them all, Rollo reigned supreme.
The Gilded Lily Club comprised one large ornate room with a surrounding balcony. Only a favoured few ever went up on the balcony. It was Rollo’s favourite observation post. Most evenings, soon after midnight, he could be seen, standing with his white, hairy hands on the rail, looking down at the dancers and diners, his little eyes alight with speculation.
Rollo always looked imposing. On his egg-shaped head, which was as hairless and as smooth as a billiard ball, he wore a red Turkish fez. His gross body was dressed in a black cutaway coat, black waistcoat with white piping. A black satin Ascot tie hid his thick neck, striped grey worsted trousers covered his massive legs and patent leather shoes adorned his flat, splayed feet.
As you entered the large room you automatically looked up at the balcony to see if Rollo wished to speak to you. If that was his wish, he would make a sign with his fingers and then disappear into his office.
You would not go up immediately. There was no point in letting everyone know that Rollo wished to talk to you. It usually meant that something was on and that something was best kept a secret.” You would go first to the long bar at the far end of the room, order a whisky and speak to the barman. While you drank the whisky you watched the Greek waiters as they served the expensive dinner. Then you would wander down the left-hand aisle between the tables and the miniature dance floor and pause for a moment to listen to the excellent four piece dance band and, perhaps, marvel at the astonishing technique of the negro drummer. Then with all the indifference in the world, you would step behind a black velvet curtain that concealed the stairs leading to the balcony.
Butch would be there, guarding the staircase. He was a tall, thin creature with a deadpan face, dressed in black, a black slouch hat, black shirt and a white silk tie usually decorated with red and yellow horseshoes. Butch would be leaning against the wall, picking his teeth with a goose quill on the traditional lines of a movie gangster. You would nod to him but he would ignore you and you passed on, knowing that if Rollo did not wish to see you, Butch would be planted before you and in his soft American voice, threatening and cold; he would order you back into the restaurant.
Rollo’s office was quite magnificent; oak-panelled, concealed lighting, heavy Persian rugs, a big glass-topped desk, elaborate ornaments, large green leather armchairs and a huge settee.
Rollo would be behind his desk, a big cigar between his large yellow teeth and a sleepy expression on his face. You never saw any papers on his desk. He would simply sit there, his hands folded on the green blotting-paper and stare at you as if he were surprised to see you.
Celie would be standing by the fireplace. She seldom spoke, but her great black eyes missed nothing nor did they leave your face while you were in the room.
Celie was a Creole. She looked like a pale bronze statue. She had big, sultry black eyes, a wide, short chin, cobra-like cheek bones, a mouth like a slashed red fruit. Her figure was outrageous.
She was tall and, as she faced you, she seemed incredibly narrow. In profile, her feminine lines might have been drawn by a lascivious cartoonist. She hid her crinkly black hair in a scarlet turban and no one had ever seen her without some kind of head covering; for Celie was ashamed of her West Indian blood. Her evening gowns were always vividly coloured, cut to emphasize every line of her figure and she disturbed all male visitors with her overpowering sensuality. She was Rollo’s mistress.
In this room, with Rollo at his desk and Celie behind him, watching you, you would conduct your business, make plans, agree about money and then go away. You did not know that when you had gone, Rollo would glance over his shoulder and raise his eyebrows. Then Celie would say whether you were to be trusted or not. She had an uncanny gift of reading men’s thoughts and many a time she had warned Rollo to take care. It was not easy to double-cross Rollo. In fact those few who had been foolish enough to try, had invariably come off second best. One or two of them had been fished out of the lower reaches of the Thames by the river police, while others, less dangerous, had been rushed to Charing Cross hospital with cracked skulls. It was considered extremely unhealthy to double-cross Rollo and once it became known, few, if any, tried it on.
A tap sounded on the door and Butch came in.
Rollo said, “What is it?”
“There’s a guy asking for you,” Butch said, his eyes straying for a moment to Celie and then back to Rollo. “I’ve never seen him before. He’s not a member.”
“What does he want?”
“He didn’t say.”
“I don’t want to see him.”
Butch nodded. “He guessed that.” He took an envelope from his pocket. “He said he wanted you to have this.”
Rollo’s eyebrows went up. He took the envelope and glanced at Celie, then he opened the envelope and pulled out a treasury note.
There was a sudden silence in the room. The faint sound of the dance band drifted up from the restaurant.
Rollo unfolded the note and spread it out on the blotter.
“A hundred pounds.”
Butch and Celie leaned forward.
“A hundred pounds,” Rollo repeated and pushed back his chair. He picked up the envelope and glanced inside. “A nice visiting card.” He touched the treasury note with his fingertips. “Who is he?”