Gordon, Moira, Bernie and I left the house straight after that. Moira was wearing a black fur coat and an elegant hat. We crossed the Broomielaw under the railway bridge and waited for Simmons and his steam launch in the shadows by the quay. Bernie, as usual, started to tremble when it was his turn to climb down from the quay into the launch. But I noticed he was trying harder than usual to hide his fear. Presumably because Moira was present.
But on that particular night on the launch, it wasn’t Bernie who was most scared. It was me.
I knew I should warn Moira and Gordon that Tarantello might hit the meeting, but how could I possibly do so without revealing that it was me who’d betrayed them.
334The temperature had dropped during the evening and there was no wind. Veils of sea mist hung over the dark waters. A big moon threw its white, icy-cold light down on the roofs of the houses and on the shipyard cranes. There was little traffic on the river at this time of day. The only things we encountered were a couple of barges and the ferry that crossed between Mavisbank Quay and Finnieston.
After half an hour or so Simmons cut the engine and we steered in to the south bank of the river. We were now outside the port and the city proper and the bare trees on the riverside stood out as black silhouettes against the bright grey winter night.
Simmons had aimed at a solitary light, which turned out to mark the channel into what I initially thought was a bay but turned out to be the mouth of one of the smaller rivers that flow into the Clyde.
The tide was on the turn, so the current wasn’t particularly strong as we steered carefully up the narrow side-river. Once we were round the first bend, I saw the reflection in the water of the lights of a cluster of buildings up ahead.
The buildings were constructed on piles close to the riverbank. One of them had a ramshackle veranda that hung out over the water. It was marked by a crooked sign bearing the words:
the black cart inn
Public House
We drew alongside a very basic, floating landing stage, built of rusty oil drums and rough planks. While I took care of the mooring ropes, Moira and Gordon climbed the steep set of wooden steps leading up to the veranda. Someone opened the door from the inside and let them in.
A couple of minutes later, the light from a single lantern showed up at the mouth of the small river and, when the moon came out from behind two clouds, I saw it was an open workboat, black smoke pouring from its funnel. It was heading straight for us.
Then I heard a whining engine noise from the same direction. A small motorboat was also coming our way.
Simmons stood up and peered into the darkness. He then lifted the lid of one of the seats at the stern and took out a double-barrelled shotgun. He checked there were cartridges in the breech while muttering to himself, “Best be prepared for the worst…”
A few minutes later a fast motorboat drew alongside the landing stage below the Black Cart. A ruddy-faced, lanky man jumped ashore. He was wearing an oilskin coat over his suit. 336
“This one’s Dolan Duffy,” Simmons said in a low voice. “The Irishman from Queen’s Dock.”
When Duffy told one of his men to accompany him up to the pub, I could tell from his accent that he was from Ireland.
Next to arrive was the old workboat. It moored at the landing stage in a cloud of coal smoke. All the men on board looked like tough dockers with long, hanging moustaches, battered caps and filthy kerchiefs tied round their necks. The landing stage lurched and pitched when one hefty fellow stepped ashore. He had the neck of a prize bull and a beer belly that almost reached his knees.
“That’s William Turnbull,” Simmons said. “He controls all the dodgy business around the Prince’s Dock wharves.”
No sooner had Turnbull puffed and wheezed his way up the many steps to the veranda than a third boat drew alongside. This was Alfie Cohen from Kingston Dock. With his round spectacles, clean-shaven cheeks and worn briefcase, Cohen looked more like an office worker than a gangster. All the men accompanying him, however, were the kind of thugs you would take a long detour to avoid if you saw them on the street.
Alfie Cohen and one of his men proceeded up the staircase and disappeared into the veranda of the pub. That meant that all four gang bosses from the riverside area were now assembled in the Black Cart. 337
The meeting could begin.
For Simmons, Bernie and me it was now just a matter of waiting, so we settled down close to the boiler to keep warm. But frightened thoughts kept racing round in my head.
What if Tommy Tarantello has put a bomb under the pub?
A bomb that could explode at any moment!
Or if his armed thugs are on their way here to gun us all down?
I peered around, searching the dark banks of the river. Maybe they were already here? Maybe they were hiding in the shadows, ready to attack?
There was no way for me to escape. The only way of getting ashore was through the pub. And, since I couldn’t swim, jumping in the water wasn’t an option.
The minutes ticked slowly by. Nothing happened, except for the crews of the various boats glaring suspiciously at one another and exchanging the occasional insult.
All of sudden I picked up a sound in the distance. There was another boat approaching and it was travelling at high speed.
I nudged Simmons’s shoulder hard and pointed.
He reached for the telescope that was hanging beneath the half-deck and adjusted its focus. 338
“It’s not the port police, anyway. Looks more like a taxi boat.”
The crews of the other boats had also discovered we were about to have company. I could hear the metallic clicks as they readied their guns.