That fate nearly befell Lieutenant Edward Fabian, a handsome medical graduate of Cambridge University who served his country with great distinction in the Far East. Lt. Fabian, who is 29, was awarded the Military Cross for conspicuous bravery in battle yet, rather than being clasped to the breast of a grateful nation upon his demobilisation two months ago, he found himself without any money or accommodation. Thank goodness, then, for kind-hearted local businesswoman Violet Costello who took pity on Lt. Fabian and offered him a job selling cars in her West London showroom…
The Star, 29th July:
GANG WARFARE IN SOHO
Stern warning was issued to gangland by an Old Bailey judge when he sentenced Patrick Jeremiah Harrigan (25) to 7 years’ penal servitude for razor slashing. “If this is gang warfare then let the rest of the gang take notice,” said the judge grimly. He was told that Kelly, the man slashed, had asked police to let him “fix this mug my own way.”
There was speculation that Harrigan was working for the notorious “Spot Gang”, a criminal organisation rumoured to be in conflict with the Costellos, the Italian family alleged to have been in command of the underworld for many years.
The Star, 21st August:
YARD HUNTS KILLER GANG
Police and detectives in squad cars today scoured London's underworld haunts for three men who took part in the “Chicago-type” murder last night of a West End gambler. London newspapers said police believed the murder was the result of a sudden flare-up in London's gang land warfare.
The gambler, Leonard Masters, 45-years-old, was shot in front of several women. Newspapers said three men strode into an illegal betting club in Soho, central London, and shot Masters in front of other gamblers and ladies who were found there. The killers ran to a car where another man waited with the engine running and escaped.
26
THE DAYS FOLLOWING THE MURDER of Lennie Masters passed quietly. Edward had no wish to be with Joseph and the others until the immediate aftermath had settled and so he retreated to his bedsitter with a handful of books he had stolen from Foyles and lost himself in their pages. The atmosphere on the street outside his front door appeared normal, unflustered and unchanged, and yet there were signs of discordance if you knew where to look. There were more uniformed police on patrol and Edward had noticed plainclothes men interviewing the owners of the businesses near to the spieler when he went to buy milk from the Welsh Dairy. The Costellos had reacted by bringing more of their muscle into the area, and it quickly became a common sight to see men straight out of Damon Runyan speaking through mouths full of iron filings on the street corners. If Jack Spot had a plan for following the murder then nothing was apparent but then, Edward reasoned, there was little that he needed to do. He had made his point and he would have seen nothing in the Costello’s reaction to make him suspect that he had been wrong in his assessment of them: weak, rudderless, and ready to be driven out. Edward tried not to think too much about it. The frustration at Violet and George’s inane response––which was hardly a response at all––gnawed at him until it was an almost tangible ache.
Edward received a letter from Joseph on the third day after the murder.
Dear Doc,
I understand that it is necessary given the circumstances but being cooped up like this is driving me mad. To stop me from completely going around the twist, I have arranged an appointment for us both today (Wednesday) in Mayfair. There is a pub on Park Street. I’ll meet you there at 3p.m. Don’t be late. Bring an open mind.
Regards,
Joseph
Edward was beginning to feel claustrophobic and depressed in his awful garret and did not need much persuasion to leave it. He took the tube to Mayfair and met Joseph at the pub. The rendezvous was not for the drink that Edward had expected. Instead, Joseph suggested that they should go for a walk. They set off, Joseph leading the way until they reached a grand red-brick Gothic mansion block on the corner of Green Street and Park Street. Edward asked what they were doing there. Joseph smiled and told him to follow. He led the way to the pillared entrance and went inside. Edward asked again what was going on. Joseph grinned even more broadly and set off up a grand staircase that wound its way directly up the middle of the building. He stepped onto the landing on the fourth floor. Two doors led off it, numbered ten and twelve. Joseph withdrew a key from his pocket and unlocked the door for number twelve.
Inside was a beautiful apartment. The wide sitting room featured polished wood floors, a large fireplace and wide French doors that opened out onto a terrace that offered views over Hyde Park. Joseph led the way into a generously-proportioned bedroom, and then opened the door to a second. The room had a wide bed and a chest of drawers and wardrobe that were already full of Joseph’s lovely clothes. There were several packing crates stacked against the wall and one of them was open, revealing a collection of novels. They were penny-dreadfuls, for the most part, but Edward found them rather surprising. He had assumed that Joseph was a young fellow who was cunning but not particularly intelligent, more likely to be out drinking and womanizing than reading. Perhaps he had misjudged him.
“And the kitchen?”
Joseph showed him through to the spacious kitchen. Edward went back through the rooms again, casting about with hungry eyes.
“What do you think?” Joseph said, beaming proudly.
“It’s fabulous. It must cost a fortune.”
“It ain’t cheap.”
He was bubbling with enthusiasm. Edward did not want to think how much a place like that would cost, but he did not want to spoil his mood. “That’s capital,” he said. He thought about his own place, the malodorous bathroom with the door that did not lock, the grimy attic room that looked like it had been lived in by a thousand different people who had never lifted a hand to clean it, and he felt jealous.
“Big, ain’t it?”
“Huge.”
“Reckon it’s too big just for me. Thought you might like it, too? What do you reckon? Me and you?” For once, Edward did not have to fake his reaction: he spluttered in helpless surprise. Joseph seemed taken aback by his response. “You don’t have to, just… you know, if you like?”
He regained his composure. “How much is it?”
“Twenty-five a week.”
“I can’t afford that,” he said, even as he worked out the sums in his head, and wondered whether, if they turned over a few extra houses now again, perhaps, maybe, he could afford it.
“Forget the money. Do you like it?”
“Of course I do. How could you not like it? It’s beautiful.”
“Perfect spot, too. Right where the action is.”
“Joseph––be serious. It’s too much.”
“You worry too much, Doc. Money’s not a problem. We’re going to be well off.”
“With the nonsense from Jack Spot?”
“That’ll get sorted out.”
He had expected that that would be how Joseph reacted to the threat from Spot. He was an optimist and he usually assumed the best. That was naïve. Edward was pragmatic and he suspected that this particular problem would require careful solving. He had heard the rumours the same as everyone else: Spot was upping his game, becoming more aggressive and more acquisitive. The newspapers had reported a spate of attacks on businesses aligned to the Costellos.