A Question Of Honour: A Harry Royle Thriller (22 page)

"I'm still trying to work him out myself."

Harry quickly introduced the two women and to his great relief, Jean was very pleasant and did her best to make Jenny feel welcome. Royle got Jean a glass and she joined them, as Jenny moved aside, so Jean could sit beside Harry. They drank more, smoked and the two friends remembered Ruth. They made sure to include Jean in the conversation and told her stories connected to their mutual friend.

Sailor's death was never again mentioned and it didn't even make much of a stir in the news. It made it on to page four of The Illustrated, and then it was only mentioned in reference to in-fighting between gangsters, when they should be fighting that menace, Hitler. Royle finally learned that Sailor had threatened to tell Johnny everything unless Jenny performed certain tasks for him. She had frantically told Ruth in desperation. Ruth had gone to speak to the Frenchman, the night she disappeared. The new friendship between Harry and Jenny was put down to their shared experience during the raid.

Royle hadn't liked hiding the facts from Johnny and Jean, but he understood and respected Jenny enough to keep his mouth shut on the matter. And he also knew that Ruth would be happy in his silence over the night's events. As for Ruth, he wondered if he would ever know what became of her. He assumed that like Sally Hardacre, she had met a violent death, but he had his hopes, that one day he'd see her strolling through Soho, like the old days. He experienced a lightness following Sailor's death. A debt had well and truly been paid and a line had been drawn under the whole sad affair. He felt that he could now get on with his life with Jean.

The following Saturday he took Jean to The White Cat, as promised. That night she had more than her fair share of the bright lights of London and the dancing lasted into the small hours. Jenny had helped her choose a dress and Harry had been so proud to have her on his arm. Jean Griffiths had looked and felt like a Hollywood star.

Devon, of course, had the best moment of the night, as he opened that evening's performance, introducing his band and watching his friend's shocked expression, at his sudden rise in circumstances. The band had begun with Stardust for Jenny and later had played A nightingale sang in Berkley Square, for the beautiful lady on the dancefloor. Jean had been overwhelmed and so touched by this gesture, which had made her realise how happy she in fact was.

Chapter 13

14th October 1940

Two figures clung to the inside of a night-darkened shop doorway, as all hell broke loose. Harry Royle and Devon Jones had been on their way to The White Cat Club when the bombs had started falling. They had, as usual, ignored the sirens wailing, warning of the impending raid overhead. Only when explosions had begun to rip buildings apart, had the two friends ducked inside the closed butcher's shop doorway, for shelter. The men stood as far back in the doorway as possible, keeping their faces turned inward and their backs flat against the closed and locked door. Their bodies turned away from the blasts and their mouths slightly open, taking short, shallow breaths, a trick Harry had learned in the army and had taught his friend. Worse than the outer destructive force of an explosion, is the shock-wave which follows and those caught holding their breath, have enormous pressure forced into their internal organs.

After a few minutes, the curtain of destruction began to move, creeping slowly along in a slightly jagged line. A flash illuminated the doorway and then a series of detonations followed, deep and rumbling, but these were further off in the distance. They moved cautiously away from the perceived safety of the doorway and out into the middle of the street. Acrid smoke poured unchecked from more than a dozen fires. Slabs of building frontage filled the street. They broke into a run as they turned the corner. They made no attempt to talk, as both were all too aware of the constant background noise.

On a normal night in London, their footsteps would have echoed in the stillness, and would have almost certainly caught the attention of at least one police constable. On this night, the police were too busy and seriously undermanned, as so many of their number had been called to fight. Now the only good experienced coppers in the capital were the old veterans. Most of them had seen their own share of death and destruction during the last war. These older men had now been supplemented by women and boys. To keep the peace in London at the best of times was no easy task and during these dark times, unthinkable.

Harry and Devon continued as quickly as they could until Devon raised a hand. The two stopped and Jones pointed. Across the street was a small huddle of women, they were standing motionless in a circle. The bomb blasts and fire. The sheets of searing heat and the lightning bright flashes continued relentlessly, as the raider's aircraft thundered across the night sky, picked out by searchlight beams. The group opposite remained motionless. The men approached slowly. It wasn't until they came face to face with them that they realised the horrible truth. The women, they couldn't be certain as to how many, perhaps four or five, had been blasted together. Somehow their bodies had almost fused, as flesh and bone had stuck against neighbour at terrific speed and brutal suddenness. Worse than the injuries, far worse from the men's point of view, was that the dead looked as though they were simply passing the time of day with one another. All had wide eyes and mouths in smile-like poses.

The men turned as one and slowly walked from the scene, setting off at a faster pace than before, now with chill fear as their running companion. Within ten minutes, they had reached the club and pushed their way inside quickly. The doorman had nodded to them and moved aside, as they entered the interior of The White Cat. The men stood for a few moments confused by the scene which had greeted them.

The dancefloor was full of moving bodies, upon the stage the band was apparently in full swing, but no sound reached their ears, only the sound of explosions and the outer report of real world carnage. Then it happened, the inner world made itself known and the music crowded in, and crowded out the war. Jazz struck their ears and for the first time, left the men feeling hollow inside. They made their way to the office and having knocked and waited for an answer, walked inside. Johnny Mangusco looked up from his crumpled Daily Sketch and smiled.

"Hello, boys, glad to see you two, everything all right?"

The men exchanged looks and Devon Jones answered.

"Its hell out there boss, it really is. You know until tonight I had no idea, not really. Playing in here night after night, having fun and everything. Well, tonight we got caught in it, the war and everything, and I can't find the words."

Johnny pursed his lips, his fingers reaching for whisky and glasses. Harry nodded in agreement and added his own words.

"You know hiding is not what I'm made to do Johnny. Look I'm sorry, but I need to be doing something."

Johnny nodded, as he poured three large drinks and scooped some ice into them, from a lidded bucket. Shaking his head, Mangusco addressed the two friends.

"I know it's not very nice out there and we're living it up in here, but what can we do? You Harry, you want to join up again? You'd last five seconds. Both you and I know they'd 'ave you cleaning the flowery's with a soddin' toothbrush. And you my old mate, well they'd find a use for you, but it wouldn't be pretty, probably as target practice. You're both safe here with me and that's got to mean something. What would you have me do boys? I'm all ears, honest I am."

At first there was no answer and then Devon spoke up.

"I know what you're saying is right, but I wish we could do something to help."

Mangusco nodded.

"Harry, that how you feel?"

Royle nodded and looked down at the thick carpeted floor. Without pausing, Johnny continued.

"Listen, boys, I have had an idea and it's a Lulu. This war so far has been really good to me and do you know gentlemen, I think it's time I gave something back. Here's what I propose. We'll need some help, but I reckon we could do it. We set up our own rescue squad. We know we can get all the right papers we need. We'll do our own and that way nobody'll catch any of our boys out. We'll operate out of one of the warehouses, that'll be the base. I mean to do it proper. We'll nick uniforms and tin hats, you know the works. We've still got a couple of army Lorries under cover, we can use 'em for this. It'll be a good way for you boys to hide in full view and you can go out and play heroes. What do you think?"

He paused and the other two laughed.

"Johnny, you are one mad bastard, you know that?"

"Mr Royle that ain't right cos me I know who me mum and dad was and so does the old bill, cos they nicked 'em often enough."

"He's right though boss, you are crazy, but that's not saying I don't love the idea. So would we operate above board and everything?"

Mangusco smiled and raised his hands in injured innocence.

"Mr Jones, how could you think such things of dear old Johnny? Of course, we'd do things proper, not never shirk our duty. But and it is only a but. But, if an opportunity came knocking, sort of cap in hand, then and only then we might help ourselves to the odd little thing that might be there for the taking and we'd not be traceable if anyone got wind."

They laughed and Johnny poured several more drinks. The night grew as mellow as the companions. Jazz pushed the war away and the music was hotter than the flames licking the buildings just streets away from the club. Devon joined his band and his sound had a new edge to it. The Jazzman lost himself in music and the night.

It was to be several weeks before the plans laid that night, bore fruit. It was five o'clock on the evening of October the 17th when two army lorries rumbled from their warehouse base and out onto the busy London streets. The men in the vehicles wore the ubiquitous ARP overalls with yellow and black shoulder patches, which stated Rescue. They carried civilian duty respirators in their khaki haversacks and their steel helmets were painted with the ‘R' initial designating their purpose and supposed area of expertise.

Harry Royle sat next to Devon, who was driving, and skimmed the contents of the folded newspaper on his lap. Smiling at the antics of Jane, now in uniform herself, as she pelted the old officer with her parcels in her attempt to make a salute. He must have chuckled out loud because Jones shot him a quick glance, which he answered with a shrug. They drove for a while and later crossed the bridge near the docks. They knew that this was merely a trial run, just really to see if they could get away with the ruse.

They had been on the road for about twenty-five minutes, with their vehicle taking the lead when a uniformed arm sporting the telltale police duty sleevelet stopped them in their progress. The crunch, clatter and then the hiss of brakes informed the two units that the moment of truth was about to be faced. Jones remained behind the wheel, as Royle opened the door and pushed himself through the opening, lightly dropping onto the road beneath. Setting his shoulders and head back, Guard's style, he strode up to the waiting police officers.

Taking his papers from his pocket as he walked, he managed a broad smile for the benefit of the two grim-faced constables standing in the shadows. As he came face to face with them and was illuminated by a sudden burst of torchlight, the older one returned his smile and waved away his papers. The man offered Harry his hand and the two men shook hands. Waving his younger colleague off to the side, the man spoke.

"Sorry about the dramatic stop mate. Can't be too careful with so many lorries rushing about these days. The other day we nabbed an old army truck loaded with nicked furniture. It wasn't until I saw your tabs that I realised you were our own lads, so sorry, but them lads had overalls too, still we gave 'em some nice bracelets to go with 'em."

Harry laughed along with the joke and felt bold enough to offer the other man a cigarette, which he took. They smoked and swapped thoughts, jokes and ideas. Harry was able to tell the man about the group of dead women he had seen and this added much to the validity of his new cover story. In other circumstances, the two men could have been friends. They shook hands again as they parted, several minutes later. Royle climbed up into the cab again and gestured for Jones to start the engine, he waved to the officers and Jones pulled away.

"Damn Harry you are a risk taker."

Harry returned his friends grin with an even bigger one of his own.

"Not at all. In fact, my new friend has even taken down our details so that he can make sure we are not interfered with by any of his colleagues in the future."

"I take it back, you're a bloody marvel."

They drove around for a little longer and took a different route back to the warehouse base, where the lorries were put back under cover, to wait for the coming night and what it might bring. The outing had proved that if you dress the part, look the part and act the part, people will assume you are the real thing. Harry reasoned that it was a bit like someone wearing a white coat and acting officious, people would always assume that the one in the white coat was a doctor or scientist and would tend to follow that person's lead. Same with uniforms, put on a uniform and identity is nearly always assumed, without the need for paperwork. It is a dangerous part of the human makeup and the reason why sheep will so often follow anyone who carries a shepherds crook.

The men agreed to meet up at the warehouse later that night and parted in good spirits.