We alighted from the cab in Wentworth Street. When Mr. Hardy came to the door, I noticed he was wearing a shirt and jacket, attempting to look at least somewhat respectable. He nodded us through.
Mr. Soft had undergone a transformation of his own. He wore a green velvet jacket closed with frogs and a soft-collared shirt with an ascot. Atop his downy curls was a tasseled fez. I wondered if he’d purchased the outfit with our ten pounds, and had a good mind to demand our money back on the grounds of poor taste in fashion.
“Welcome, gentlemen, welcome!” he exclaimed. My first impression, that he was a mouse in human form, bore up under a second scrutiny. No doubt he thought he looked cultured, and for all I know, he did. I didn’t attend many salons these days.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Soft. Is all in readiness?” my employer asked.
“To the letter, sir, to the very letter. We have not stinted on the plate or the comestibles. All awaits your inspection.”
The room in which the trapdoor lay open had been done up with a carpet leading to the very edge and oilcloth lining the rough hole in the floor. It looked vaguely theatrical, as I suppose did Mr. Soft. Perhaps even Mr. Hardy himself was in costume when one considered his everyday attire.
A hundred feet below, the table had been set on a large Persian carpet surrounded by a ring of chairs. Shaded oil lamps had been set on the table at each end, and a sideboard with food and liquors lay behind. It certainly wasn’t normal East End fare. The light flickered on the rough tunnel walls, a mixture of natural stone, concrete, brick, and dirt.
At six o’clock, they began to arrive. The first was Patrick Hooligan. Barker nodded when he heard the young man’s voice.
“Go down there? Are you barmy? I dunno what’s down there!”
“Then leave, Mr. Hooligan.” Barker’s voice echoed and filled the chamber we were in. “You solicited us, not the other way ’round.”
“That you, Barker?” Hooligan called down.
“It is.”
“How do I know you don’t have a hundred coppers down there?”
“I don’t need a hundred coppers, you rascal,” the Guv growled, “just a bag to put you in!”
Hooligan chuckled. “Fair enough,” he called, and swinging a leg over the side, began to descend. “How many at this church meeting?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Barker responded, and for once the young gang leader agreed, sitting down in one of the chairs.
Our second guest to arrive was Ben Tillett. He alone was not a member of London’s underworld, though as a union organizer, I imagine he missed it by only a small margin. He had had to be convinced to join us.
“What is this place?” he demanded. “Why can’t we meet at a cafe or public house like everyone else?”
“This is my get-together, Mr. Tillett,” the Guv explained. “My game, my rules. I value my privacy.”
“But it must be a hundred feet down. I’m afraid of depths.”
“Don’t you mean heights?” I asked.
“No, if it’s a lookout you want, I’ll swarm up to any crow’s nest you can name. But I don’t like holes in the ground.”
“I’m not going to call out everything to you up there,” Barker said. “It’s here or good night to you.”
Tillett grumbled but slowly began to descend. The next I knew, another man was coming down after him. I couldn’t see his face from below, merely his wide shoulders. He did not move quickly, but then he couldn’t with Tillett going slowly below him. After a moment I could see that it was Robert Dummolard. He looked tense and alert. Perhaps it was a quality his whole family possessed.
“Bonsoir, m’sieur,” Barker said.
“This had better be worth my time,” the Frenchman said irritably.
“Here now!” Hooligan objected. “Have you brought the Frenchies in? We got enough lads of our own without bringing in apaches!”
“His brother was injured by the Sicilians,” Barker explained. “He and his other brothers have come all this way from France to defend him. I have decided to make use of them. We are all assembled, then. Gentlemen, there is a sideboard stocked with food. We also have water and wine and beer.”
“What, no gin?” Hooligan put in. “You really are a nonconformist, Barker.”
My employer ignored the gibe. “Pray help yourselves and we shall get down to business in five minutes.”
I had to hand it to Mr. Soft: he set a good table. I wondered how many trips it took his associate to bring these items down, one by one. Aside from the sliced beef and cheeses, there was fresh bread and a cold prawn salad I could eat every day of the week.
“Very well, gentlemen-”
“ ’Scuse me, sir,” a voice filtered down from above.
Barker looked up over his head. “Yes, Mr. Hardy?”
“There’s a tyke up here what says he’s part of the meeting. Shall I send him down?”
“No, sir. He is definitely not a part of this meeting. You may toss him into the street and tell him to go home.”
A minute later, I heard the indignant voice of Mr. Soho Vic, Esquire, protesting vehemently. I couldn’t help but think the cries he uttered while being tossed out the door were more pleasing to my ear than a concert at Covent Garden.
“Very well, gentlemen, let us begin,” Barker said, circling the table. “All of you are aware of a number of deaths in the city recently, which can be put at the door of a Sicilian organization known as the Mafia. It would appear that this group, led by an unknown individual, is attempting to establish itself in London, particularly in the area around the docks, in Soho, and in Clerkenwell. Many Black Hand notes have been issued; I have received one myself and my assistant, Llewelyn, has as well. Two men, Inspector Pettigrilli of Palermo and Victor Gigliotti, ignored these notes at the cost of their lives. My sources inform me that the unknown mafiusi leader is organizing some of the Sicilians in the area. In an effort to forestall any further plans this leader might have, I will issue a challenge to his people, a fight at the docks to determine who is the strongest. I do this because I believe the presence of the Sicilian mob would alter crime in London forever.”
“Alter in what way?” Hooligan asked. He’d pushed back his plate and was now smoking a villainous cheroot that looked like a piece of tarred rope.
“Escalated violence, extortion, weapons smuggling, murder, and vendettas.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Hooligan said.
“There would be a public outcry, and Scotland Yard must react. How would you like to see twice the present force on the streets and more severe sentences for every crime? And how long before the Italians are against the Irish, and the French against the Chinese, and one man wishing to be head over all London, through murder and intimidation?”
“This must really stick in your craw, Push,” Hooligan stated. “A nice gentleman like yourself having to associate with us base criminals. You must want these Sicilians very bad.”
“Yes, I do, Mr. Hooligan,” the Guv said, refusing to be baited. I imagined that the gang leader had been a disruptive force wherever he was since he first learned to crawl. I wished we had not used his gang and had been in league with the Italians instead, but I understood that Barker did not wish to turn this strictly into a Mafia-Camorran feud.
“How do you intend to accomplish this?” Tillett spoke up. Like me, he wanted to see this meeting firm on its track and trundling along.
“I will issue a challenge in an hour or two for six o’clock tomorrow evening, at the docks. At this point, we have no idea how many men the Sicilians can muster. If we are overwhelmed, we must have reserves. If their force is small, we will have the advantage. This is too important to give them a fair match. They must be brought down, but I don’t want a bloodbath if at all possible.”
“What if they bring guns?” Tillett continued. I had to admit I was thinking the same thing.
“If they are well armed, we will disperse before anything happens. I don’t want a full-scale war, merely the opportunity to discourage the Sicilian Mafia from thinking it can do as it likes here in London.”