‘’Scuse me, Guv’nor. Sorry to disturb you, but you said to remind you about the time, only it’s getting on for five, an’ you…’ The nervous man stood in the centre of a large, overly ornate room, his gaze studiously averted from the small group of scantily dressed women who were lazing around on plush upholstered chairs and sofas. A few men were sprinkled around, some looking relaxed, others, like himself, uneasy in their surroundings.
Frankie Buchannon seemed at home on a green velvet couch, one arm draped familiarly around the shoulders of a blonde. He glanced up at the man who had addressed him and appeared to do a double-take, then threw back his head and gave a hearty bellow of laughter. ‘For Gawd’s sake, Fred, sit down and have a drink. You look like you’ve just caught yer missus with the milkman.’
The man called Fred put one hand to the collar of his starched white shirt in uncomfortable confusion. His three-piece checked suit, like the shirt, was second-hand but good quality, and Fred Green wasn’t used to such finery. But if he wanted to remain on Frankie Buchannon’s pay-roll he would have to get used to wearing clothes like these. And he wanted to remain where he was. There was hardly a man alive in the East End who wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. Fred had been with Frank for over five years now, a goodly proportion of that time having been spent in prison. His last stretch, eighteen months for demanding money with menaces, had finished four months after Frankie’s sentence. The man himself had been waiting outside Wandsworth when Fred had emerged from the Judas gate. Frankie Buchannon was a good governor to work for, even if some of the tasks assigned were not for the faint-hearted. He was generous to his men and their families, and a reasonable man, provided you did as you were told and didn’t ask any questions.
Aware of the amused eyes of the women present, and especially those of his governor, Fred felt his cheeks burn and cleared his throat. ‘No, thanks, Guv’nor. I don’t wanna go home with me breath smelling of drink. Me old lady would kill me.’
Frankie’s smile broadened. ‘Come on, Fred. You ain’t scared of your missus, are you? Besides, I asked you to have a drink with me. Now, you ain’t gonna let me down in front of all these lovely ladies… are you, Fred?’ The handsome face was a picture of benevolence, yet there was no mistaking the sinister note in the seemingly innocent request.
Fred swallowed noisily. ‘Yeah, all right, Guv’nor. Thanks, I don’t mind if I do.’
‘That’s it,’ said Frankie. ‘You fill your boots… and I don’t just mean with the drink, eh!’ Another gale of laughter followed, eliciting a sickly grin of strained mirth from the ill-at-ease Fred.
Frankie picked up a glass from a green onyx table at his side, threw back the contents with one gulp and got to his feet. ‘Don’t worry, Fred. I’ll let you off this time. But, Gawd blimey, you should’ve seen your face.’ Turning to the blonde woman still sprawled on the couch he grinned disarmingly. ‘See you soon, Mabel. Next time I come I’ll make sure I’ve got more time to spare!’ He gave her a broad wink and strode through heavy rose-coloured damask curtains into an equally plush lobby and headed for the exit, his henchman close on his heels.
Out on the street, Frankie looked sideways at the silent man and said tightly, ‘What’s up with you?’
Coming hastily to attention, Fred mumbled, ‘Nothing, Mr Buchannon. I was just worried about you missing your appointment with that estate-agent bloke. Only you said it was important.’
Frankie took out a gold pocket-watch, looked at it and nodded. ‘We’ve got plenty of time. It don’t pay to let these people think you’re too eager, know what I mean? Then again, I don’t want to miss him. Look, there’s a cab. Quick, Fred – on your toes, man! What you hanging about for?’
Eager to please, Fred ran out into the road, his arm waving furiously to attract the black, horse-drawn cab. ‘Grantham Avenue, Bow. D’yer know it?’
‘Course I know it. I’m a cabbie, ain’t I?’ The Cockney driver grinned from his perch.
‘Number sixteen. And get a move on. I’m late already.’
‘Right you are, Guv.’
Frankie climbed into the cab, leaned back and thought about his journey – and the reason behind it.
It was just over a year since his release from prison, but it seemed a lifetime. In that relatively short time, Frankie had expanded his small empire almost beyond recognition. Gone were the small-time protection rackets, and in their stead had grown a large organised profit-raking enterprise that extended to the West End. The two poky sweatshops had grown to ten, and brought in a weekly sum of money that hitherto Frankie had not made in six months. All of these new industries had been financed by a string of bank robberies, so well planned and executed that, although the police had been suspicious, they had been able to do nothing. The first thing Frankie had done was to hire two first-class book-keepers, who exerted their expertise to account skilfully for all of their new employer’s worldly goods. Yet still the police kept sniffing round, hoping to trip him up.
They’d have a long wait: Frankie had been planning the bank jobs for years. Years of spying out the land, making sure that the men involved could be trusted, going over minute detail again and again. The untimely prison sentence had been unforeseen and unfortunate. Yet even behind bars he had continued to plan for the future, and the time he had spent inside had fuelled his desire to be out of reach one day of the law.
Over the years he had become expert in covering his tracks, learning, often the hard way, from his mistakes. And now, with a small but select few of the local police force and judiciary in his pocket, he didn’t anticipate any major problems in the future.
Lighting up an expensive cigar, Frankie inhaled deeply and with much satisfaction. It had been a long, often frustrating haul, but he had planned well and bided his time and was at last reaping the rewards. Now it was time to take a further step up the ladder to respectability.
For years he had lived in hotels and boarding-houses, preferring not to tie himself down to one place so that he could move quickly when the need arose. Those times were now in the past, and Frankie was on his way to see a vendor’s agent with a view to buying a house.
The traffic was heavy at this time of day, the rush-hour, and it was another forty minutes before they reached their destination. Waiting anxiously to greet them was a small, dapper man in an ill-fitting striped suit and bowler hat, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of a bulbous nose. ‘Mr Buchannon?’ He strode towards Frankie, his hand outstretched.
‘I ain’t got much time. Let’s get on with it, shall we?’ Frankie moved past the man to stare at the house before him, and came to an abrupt halt. The property in question was grander than he had envisaged and, for a brief moment, he felt overawed. The detached three-storey house stood in splendid isolation from its neighbours. The heavy oak door was flanked by two white stone pillars on either side that held up the porch roof, with three red-stoned steps leading down to an attractive, diamond-patterned tile path through the middle of a good-sized lawn, bordered with flower-beds and shrubs. Frankie raised his eyes to the top of the house, to the attic storey, which was adorned with prominent eaves and elaborate brackets that formed a horizontal band of stone projecting from the outside wall. Below this were three large windows, with intricate surrounds that matched the two on the ground floor at either side of the porch. Frankie felt his heart begin to race. This was the kind of house he had dreamed of in his youth, after a long day scavenging for food to bring home to his mother, and during all those years when he’d been forced to make money in any way he could. There had always been something inside him that had made him want to pay his own way: at night when he had crawled into bed, bone weary yet triumphant at having brought home some contribution to his upkeep, he had longed for a place like this. He had always known that he would make it some day, and now that day had arrived.
Conscious of the other men’s curiosity, he pulled himself together. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager. ‘Have you got the key?’ he asked the agent.
The little man, sensing a sale, brought all his experience to the fore. ‘Of course, sir, of course. I wouldn’t have asked a gentleman like your good self to travel all this way for nothing. Please, follow me.’ Preceding Frankie and the open-mouthed Fred, he clicked open the wrought-iron gate and led the way up the tiled path.
‘Bleeding hell, Guv’nor. It’s a bit on the posh side, ain’t it?’ Fred muttered.
Frankie turned on him. ‘What d’yer mean? You saying it’s too good for the likes of me?’
Fred shrank back in alarm. ‘No, Guv’nor, course I ain’t. Not for you. I was talking about meself. I ain’t never seen a house like this, never mind gone inside one. It’s smashing, ain’t it?’
Mollified, Frankie aimed a light punch at Fred’s shoulder. ‘Yeah, it ain’t bad. Ain’t bad at all. In fact, it might be just what I’ve been looking for.’
‘Mr Buchannon, sir, if you’d like to follow me?’ the little man called anxiously.
Beneath his breath Frankie mimicked, ‘To the ends of the earth, darling.’
Fred snickered, then at a warning glance from Frankie, was silent.
Once inside the house they were both quiet as the man took them round fussily. ‘You’ll note the marble surround of the iron grate, Mr Buchannon, and the moulded skirting.’ He was proudly showing his client the main reception room. ‘These are indicative of all the grates in the house. And, if you’ll look up, you’ll see the beautiful plasterwork on the ceiling.’ Both men’s heads turned upwards in response. ‘The rose design is central only to this particular room, but each room has its own individual design of ceiling mouldings.’ The man bustled round, eager to show off his knowledge. When they had seen all of the downstairs rooms, the agent said importantly, ‘Now, if you’d like to accompany me upstairs, gentlemen?’ As they followed him, Frankie ran his hand along the curved balustrade in wonder. They examined the four large bedrooms, with Frankie maintaining an air of aloofness, even though his heart was hammering inside his chest. Yet when the agent, his plump face etched in triumph, announced, ‘Here, sir, we have the pièce de résistance, the bathroom’, and threw open the mahogany door, the sheer opulence before him caused even Frankie’s breath to catch in his throat.
The gleaming white walls were tiled from floor to ceiling. In the centre of the room stood a huge claw-footed bath with gold taps and hand-rails, the like of which he had never seen before. The equally impressive wash-basin was framed by gilt-edged mirrors and a long, sweeping tiled ledge. In the far corner, discreetly concealed by a gold plush curtain, was the very latest design in indoor WC, looking far too grand for its functional purpose.
‘If you’ll allow me, sir?’ The agent, beaming with pride as if he’d designed the whole house himself, pulled at the wooden panelling beneath the sink to reveal a ceramic sink-like object, explaining effusively, ‘This is a bidet, sir. The very latest innovation for personal hygiene. The entire bathroom was designed by George Jennings, who also, may I add, won a gold medal at the Paris Exhibition in eighteen eighty-nine.’ At Frankie’s side, Fred Green’s open face was filled with undisguised awe. ‘Bleeding hell, Guv’nor. It’s too good to shit in!’
Frank whirled round and barked, ‘That’s enough. Wait downstairs!’
Fred, downcast, murmured, ‘Sorry, Guv’nor.’
‘Downstairs – now!’
‘Yes, Guv. Sorry, Guv.’
It was almost an hour later before Frankie left the house, his mind formulating ideas.
‘Did I mention the Italianate style, sir?’
Jerked from his reverie, Frankie said abruptly, ‘You what? I mean, pardon?’
‘The style of the external part of the house, sir. It’s Italianate, derived from the Renaissance palaces of Venice, Rome and Florence. It was established by Sir Charles Barry, most notably at—’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
The agent waited patiently, not at all taken in by his customer’s studied indifference. ‘If you’re not satisfied with this house, sir, I have many more I can show you.’
‘What? Oh, no, I don’t want to see any others just yet.’ Standing back a pace, Frankie looked hard at the house, his face impassive. ‘Before I make me mind up, I want to show me family. See what they think of it.’
‘Certainly, sir, certainly. And what time would be convenient for them, Mr Buchannon?’
Frankie considered, then threw back his shoulders and said confidently, ‘Flow about tomorrow? About eleven. I can have me family here then.’
‘Capital, sir, capital.’ The agent beamed delightedly, already spending the commission he would earn from the sale. ‘We’ll say tomorrow, then, at eleven o’clock. Good day to you, Mr Buchannon, and you, sir.’ He inclined his head towards Fred.
‘Right little arse-licker, he was, wasn’t he, Guv’nor?’ Fred said cheerfully, after the departing figure. But Frankie, absorbed in his own thoughts, didn’t hear him.