Table Of ContentDesmond Skirrow - It Won't Get You Anywhere
CHAPTER ONE
THE streets are still filled with pushers, and the shop windows with dirty telephone numbers, but the Square
Mile of Vice, London Wl, is now too square to be very vicious. The out-of-work waiters, called extra ducks
by their working brothers, still stand under the No Waiting sign on the corner of Old Compton Street,
waiting for banquet day. In the French pub you can still slop Pernod down your tie and listen to them
remember Dylan Thomas, and all the old lags, will still touch you for a whisky and Guinness. The
telephones are out of order, the basements are filled with purple hearts and the coppers are all younger.
Frith, Dean and Greek still run into Shaftesbury Avenue or out of it, according to your desire, and the alleys
in between are filled with little clubs. The square mile is still there. But the vice has moved west.
Soho, however, still has good food. Salt beef with a big Jewish grin, chicken cacciatora with a Neapolitan
leer, Chinese curry and Pakistani chop suey. And good French cooking, like new francs, ten times the price.
Up the street past the shop that sells butchers' aprons for the girl who does everything, and round the corner
where Albert Dimes was knifed, is Le Masquoyard. A man must be not only rich, but also powerful, to get
through its shabby door and up its sagging stairs. Le Masquoyard serves meat, fruit, cheese, phallic ice-
creams and nothing else at all. It is dim, small and spacious and the man who dines there knows it.
Outside, in the alley, stood Musgrave. The evening was hot and dark and he was bored almost to sleep.
There was too little light from the Dean Street lamps to light his Evening Standard, and not
enough darkness to hide him from the chalky little Irish molly in the other
doorway. She was Patricia, Hostess No. 7 of the Gelbana Club and she had
Musgrave pegged for a. timid John thomas with a hard-earned fifteen or twenty
to blow on a couple of glasses of Quosh and a couple of hours' wishful thinking.
'O God,' said Musgrave to an empty bookshop. 'What's the belted bastard doing
up there?'
And upstairs in the deep red restaurant, Lord Llewellyn was finishing the finest
peppered steak in London. He looked at the girl who sat opposite and poured a
little more of the right red wine. She pouted, for she had expected champagne.
Lord Llewellyn squeezed her hand in his,
'Let's go,' he said.
'AH right,' she said.
'Good girl,' he said. And simply by desiring it, Lord Llewellyn got his bill. He
scribbled on it and led his pink and white girl over the carpet and into the night.
He looked neither right nor left though all the rich, powerful meat-eaters in the
place tried to catch his eye. For Lord Llewellyn, heavy and handsome, emperor
of Allelec and three hundred thousand loyal workers, was the biggest thing in the
City of London and behaved accordingly.
Down in the warm, boring night, Musgrave brightened alittle. He watched them
into the Bentley which had waited on the yellow line all the evening, and he
strolled across the alley to his Heinkel. Following was better than propping up
walls, even on a routine job like this.
Some routine, thought Musgrave. Like the rest of them, this one splits his
twenty-four hours right down the middle. Between making money and making
hay, he has no time for dabbling. And why the hell Greene, the toffiest-nosed
bastard in Addison Road, was squandering public funds watching half the randy
big wheels in British industry going round and round and up and down and in
and out, thought Musgrave, God alone knows.
He twisted his bubble car down Dean Street and into Shaftesbury Avenue. On
the way he coveted a leather overcoat in Cecil Gee's window and said,
'Bayswater. A brandy to a bitter lemon it's back to her place as usual. And that's
him until noon tomorrow. Some routine,' he said.
The Heinkel was rattling along behind the Bentley like a tin can on a wedding
car. Thank God for little Heinkels, thought Musgrave, the only way to keep up,
with drivers the way they are, though Christ knows what we'll do when all these
fast bloody underpasses are finished. Back to the old days, he supposed, and two
men for every job, with a bloody office Hillman round every corner. 'Thank God
for traffic planning and oneway Marples, too,' he said, as he shot under a 12 bus
and came up inside the Bentley at the Haymarket lights. He glanced to the left.
'The noble ram is already at it,' he said. 'Pray silence for a right old fumble and
it's all quiet to Queensway.'
And he rowed along on his gearlever, up Pall Mall, past the Palace and under the
trees to Hyde Park Corner, then through the park the long way, to Bayswater.
But Musgrave was not so good as he thought he was. Since it Was a routine job
he used his driving mirror only for driving, not, as he should have done, to
observe the big, black, bent Ford, two cars behind, also taking the long green
way to Queensway.
After Musgrave had griped down Dean Street, a man came out of the Gelbana
Club, goosed Pat the hostess and slid into a black Ford that was parked among
the ashbins. He was short, strong and dandy, and he smelled of gent's toiletries.
His black leather jacket was riveted in intricate copper patterns and his hair
gleamed like a Moscovy duck's behind. He was in no particular hurry since he
knew where the Bentley was heading and therefore where the Heinkel was
heading, too. But he roared across Old Compton Street out into Shaftesbury
Avenue because ■that was the way he liked to drive.
He took his place unobtrusively behind Musgrave, however, and drove quietly,
because that was the way he earned his living. And the three cars drove through
the park, past the trees and the barracks and the loveliest lake in London. At the
north gate, the Ford was held on the red but a fancy piece of weaving closed him
up again by the time they all turned right down Queensway.
Halfway down to Whiteley's, the Bentley disappeared left. Musgrave widened
the gap a little, so that by the time he was passing the camped-up house in
Cockburn Square, he could see Lord Llewellyn and his girl buzzing the lift. He
carried on round the one-way circuit to park by the pub as usual. It was near
closing time, but the hot weather had brought a few tables out onto the wide
pavement from which he could see the girl's flat through a gap in the trees.
If it's not a short time, thought Musgrave, it's all night. That's basic thinking, so
I'll give him one large Scotch, maybe two. If he's not out, I'll phone in and knock
off. He started wanting his drink. He left the key in the ignition since he would
be sitting near, on the pavement, and he pushed the door open in front of him. In
the Heinkel, the steering wheel swings out with the door. Musgrave started to
heave himself out of the front of his bubble.
He saw the big, black Ford coming round the square the wrong way from the
Queensway entrance. Christ, he thought, a drunk. No entry, no lights. And a
clapped-out old drag that'll get him done good.
As he watched it, half in and half out of the Heinkel, the Ford swerved in to the
empty stretch of kerb in front of him, mounted the pavement and swerved out
again.
Christ, thought Musgrave, what a stupid way to die.
And the heavy, projecting over-rider of the Ford, as delicately aimed as a billiard
cue, neatly closed the open front door of the Heinkel upon Musgrave's waiting
body. And the black car slid out of Cockburn Square into the soft centre of
body. And the black car slid out of Cockburn Square into the soft centre of
Bayswater. In Hereford Road its lights blinked on and it cut back into the
Bayswater Road and lost itself in the traffic.
Lord Llewellyn, swirling a little brandy in his glass, looked down from the big,
first-floor window at the crowd on the pavement.
'Some sort of brawl, my dear,' he said. T wish that public house was somewhere
else. Anyway, I'll pull the curtains, shall I? We don't want to share you, you
know.'
,'AU right,' said his girl, and continued to take her clothes off.
I nothing about Musgrave at the time, of course, or about Lord Llewellyn,
KNEW
except that his face looked at me from almost every newspaper I picked up. All I
knew then was what I still know now. They think they can pick you up by the
hair whenever they want to, and play you like a yo-yo. I was dozing at my desk,
in fact, and the telephone rang. So I picked it up and answered it.
'Brock?' it said.
'What?' I said.
'Can you lunch?' it said.
'Who is that?' I said.
'Stop it,' it said.
'Twelve (orty-five in the Trait,' I said.
They can play you like a bloody yo-yo. Once a year or so, they pick me up by
the hair and bounce me around the walls, but between times, I work in
advertising agencies. They are mostly in Mayfair, a nicer place to work than
Croydon or Ilford, right in the civilised furry bowler and velvet collar country,
though some agencies have delusions of grandeur and rent buildings near Fleet
Street.' I like working in advertising agencies. They are great carpeted palaces of
little problems and big solutions, filled with loose minds in tight dresses. They
bounce you around the walls too, of course, but they do it gently and pay for
their fun.
So I switched off the Test Match on my office telly, patted my secretary, and
walked up Jermyn Street to Piccadilly. They were waiting on the cool tiles of the
Tratt bar with two large whiskies.
'Campari tonic,' I said.
'Christ,' said Muir.
'I'm an advertising man,' I said. 'And I drink like one.'
'Jesus,' said Greene.
'You're a bit blotchy,' said Muir.
'Toothache pills,' I said. The Campari came and I paid for it myself.
'Look,' said Muir. 'You've no call to behave like a bloody Barnado boy. He never
quibbles over expenses, you know.'
Greene nodded and Alvaro brought the menu. And downstairs after eating,
Greene delivered his message.
'He wants to see you,' he said. 'God knows what He has in His mind that my lads
can't do. But you'll be doing me a service by coming to Addison Road for a drink
tonight.'
'He was fairly adamant,' said Muir. 'We knew you wouldn't : bothered, but He
was adamant.'
"Get stuffed,' I said.
We drank the rest of the dry white wine in silence. I wished it was sweeter.
Greene ordered three brandies. 'Tell him to get stuffed too,' I said. 'Righto,' said
Greene.
'Yes,' said Muir. 'But it's only fair to tell you that He asked me for your folder
before we left.'
'We won't be able to stop Him,' said Greene. 'See you tonight, Brock, old boy,'
said Muir. 'Seven sharp, He said,' said Greene.
So I got back to the agency in timefortheschoolsprogramme. I learned how to
listen to gramophone records. Then I speculated on the probable moral attitudes
of the kind of woman who might be persuaded to give her dog tinned liver-and-
bacon, and by five-thirty I was going round and Tound in a consumer-oriented
event loop which was turning into an ever-decreasing spiral. Instead of
disappearing, I invited a colleague across the road for a drink. I buy her drinks
whenever I can for she is the whole advertising business in one fat package. A
big solution to a little problem, a loose mind in a tight dress. She has a musical
name and she drinks pink gin like a commodore.
More than two hours later, I paid off the taxi in Holland Park and walked the rest
of the way as I was taught to do. I pushed open the front door in Addison Road
and walked past Det.-Sgt. Pratt.
But Pratt had been replaced, and a newer, bigger, keener copper shoved the thick
arm of the law across my throat. Muir or Greene should have told him. Judo,
unless played with a woman, is about as metaphysical as nine-card brag,
whatever Joe Robinson says. And as this new copper was a man, there was no
ambivalence about the pulling and the pushing. I pushed. He was confident as
well as keen, and he flipped as though he was greased. He had also composed
his mind to tell me all about it and was still about to speak when he hit the wall. I
grabbed his throat and dangled him against the panelling. His mouth was wide
open and grinning, I think, but nothing came out, not even a snicker. So I
punched him low and let him slide, and his supper came out.
'I'm Brock,' I said. T didn't want to come here, and I won't want to come next
time either.'
A door opened upstairs. 'Come on up,' it said. 'You're no later than you should
be. And ask the Sergeant to draw a brandy from supply. Greene will sign the
chit.'
I went up to see him. I had seen him before, of course, but not often.and not for
more than a year. He had neither dimmed nor withered, however. He had not
changed at all, still the same fat and rose-red swine, half as old as time.
I first met him in a Brighton pub just after the war. I was using it to get rid of my
gratuity and he was using it to wrap up the operation that would have won the
war without the Americans. I got into a bit of a brawl one night, lost my temper
and caused a good deal of trouble. After that we drank a lot together, or at least I
drank a lot in his company. We talked a lot too, and in the tough queer bars
under the arches on the beach he started playing me like a game. I had my theory
of perverse action at the time, just a matter of lowering your head and charging
in, instantly and at the unlikeliest spot. He was interested. There were still a few
razors about in those days, and a lot of heavy dealers resting after their war work
in London and Liverpool, so Brighton was filled with money and drink. The
O.K. Brighton drink was then brandy-and-benedictine and there was unlimited
trouble lying around to be picked up. He had a great way of picking it up,
handing it to me so that he could observe perverse action in action, and
disappearing.
After a week of it, I was banned from every pub and club in Brighton and Hove,
'Bucket of Blood' and all. He paid my damages, bought me a Dover sole and told
me he was going to take a chance on me and sign me up. I had a lot to learn, he
said, and it was a pity that I had wasted the war messing about in boats instead of
getting some worthwhile experience. But he had a feeling about me, he said.
And I told him to get stuffed.
But he meant it. I think he always means everything, though he never sounds as
though he does. Three days after I got back to London. to look for a comfortable
advertising job he sent Greene and Muir with enough chat and enough money to
lead me up Kensington Gardens to the big house with the white ensign and the
soldiers at the gate. And before I came out three months later I realised how right
he was. I had a lot to learn when I met him. Stiff fingers and steel soles, how to
burn down the Albert Hall with one damp safety match, how to take pictures in a
blacked-out room with nothing but a Ronson Vara-flame, how to drink vodka
without black pepper and how to match a Jaguar in a Hillman Minx. I learned
about Redland and Yellowland, about anomalies, perversions and benzedrine,
about the kiss of life; the kiss of death and the kiss of a Wren masseuse called Jo.
And while I was young and keen and stupid, the fat man gave me my first job. It
was completely unnecessary, highly illegal and minutely recorded in words and
pictures. And now, if he presses the button marked Brock, I will be instantly
transported in a plain wrapper to Germany to be electrocuted, then brought back
here to be hung. They will then ship me across the Channel to be decapitated,
and afterwards I will probably spend the rest of my life in the black hole of
Madrid.
On that first foolish job, I broke more laws on his behalf than I even knew
On that first foolish job, I broke more laws on his behalf than I even knew
existed, and all he said to. me was, let that be a lesson to me. So I pushed his
odious poodle out of its chair and sat down.
O of the nasty continuing things about-him is that he only drinks Calvados
NE
and offers nothing else. He sipped and waved his fat hand at the bottle beside
him. I walked across the room and poured an honest whisky from the bottle in
the cupboard. He sighed, for he keeps it for the Minister. I stood in the corner
looking at a print of the Battle of Balaclava. Greene found it in an old Illustrated
London News and Muir had it framed for the fat man.
T want you for a week or so,' he said.
'You can't have me,' I said. 'You took my passport away last year.'
'It's a domestic matter,' he said.
'Oh yes,' I said. 'No. I am now a permanent advertising man. I have the knack of
thinking weak and sounding strong. And you have had your money's worth out
of me.'
'You said that last time,' he said. 'Weak thinking and repetitive.'
'Like all good advertising,' I said.
He poured more Calvados and set the squat, reeking bottle down in a new place,
on a fat, striped folder. It looked like anyone's, but it was, of course, mine.
'I'm going to go on getting my money's worth, Brock,' he said, 'so long as I need
you. And this time I need you for a week or two.'
He must have been to the pictures, for I think he was about to tell me just what it
was that was bigger than both of us. But Greene came in with a signal. He took
it, read it and grunted.
'Pass it to Ballycuddy,' he said, 'and don't disturb me again.'
Ballycuddy, I remembered, was his code name for Paris. And .1 remembered
why. His wartime man there was Fiddler O'Dwyer from the Emerald Isle, a mad
mick who refused to learn French. He spent half the war talking Gaelic gibberish
to German soldiers, and most of the other half learning German in Auschwitz in
case he got out before he died.
The fat man sipped his drink and looked at me.
'All right,' I said. 'I can take a week, I think.'
He held out his fat hand and I shook it. Then he offered me another Calvados
and I poured another whisky. We satin silence while the poodle wheezed. To be
perfectly honest, all things being equal, I have always enjoyed sitting in this
room. Apart from me, my striped folder and possibly his poodle, there is nothing
in it later than 1910, nothing at all to betray the fact that George the Fifth has
been crowned and buried. In that rosy room, World War I is yet to come, the
Kaiser is still playing at
Cowes with randy old Edward and Melba is still inventing toast and ice-cream in
Covent Garden.
The room is filled with gleaming wood and bulging velvet, cosy little, vulgar
little Victorian chairs, tables almost everywhere, loaded with enough sequined
pincushions, cowrie shells, tiny wooden cabinets, glass eggs, Staffordshire
whims and fancy painted biscuit tins to sink the Portobello Road. The walls are
flocked with fleur-de-lis and the shelves are stocked with Dickens.
In this world of cold and shifting values it is the safest room I know, and sitting
in it is as dangerous as looking into his bright blue eyes. For then I am a little
boy again, sitting in grandfather's parlour on mummy's big plush lap, in the cosy
life where a refusal may offend. So I pulled myself together.
'It's not at all much,' he said.
'It never is,' I said.
'Just a few accidents,' he said. 'All fatal. Two of Muir's lads. And now one of
Greene's boys last night. Nothing important, all detail men. All working to the
book. But I don't know.'
'Were they all working to the same book?' I said.
'Oh yes, I think so,' he said. 'Looks that way. All on the road, mind you, but all
different. One, a straight German left-hand-right-hand holiday pile-up. Two, a
