Chapter 3
It was not until three days later that Hartnell was taken by Dora to a bar in Soho where he was to meet a man named Johnny, who was to look him over before the "boss" saw him.
In the meantime he had stayed on at Dora's place, finding her generous in every respect and seeing no need, as she was obviously fascinated by his company, to move back to his old lodgings.
The bar where they met was the private one of an unostentatious public house. Johnny was the only occupant. Having introduced them, Dora left, saying she'd see them later.
Johnny proved to be a shrewd and skinny little man, whose bright brown eyes never left Hartnell's as they talked. He wanted to know the broad outline of his history, how it was he couldn't get a job, whether he'd ever been charged in court, whether he should have been and what his attitude was to a little harmless black market in which there was no danger and plenty of money.
Hartnell answered his questions honestly until the last, when he said he was not concerned how he made a bit of cash, but made the mental reservation that the black market would have to be really "harmless" for him to be interested.
He bought Johnny another drink with his dwindling funds and then the little man said they'd better go as he didn't want to keep the boss waiting. They left the bar and got into a little green van which Johnny indicated. When they were weaving expertly and surprisingly quickly through the London traffic, Hartnell asked:
"What's he like, this boss of yours?"
"Francie?" said the little man as if to establish his identity. "Oh, he's a rum 'un. Likes to think he's class, you know, very fond of that line. Course he's no more class than I am - but it wouldn't do to let him see you thought that 'cos he's tough."
He glanced quickly, sideways at Hartnell.
"That's where you got a big advantage on him - you got what he hasn't so he's going to think of you as birds of a feather."
Johnny chuckled for a while, thinking of his boss, as they raced through the dismal streets of the East End.
"Where are we going?" Hartnell asked. "The boss's place?"
"Christ no," said Johnny. "He lives in a posh spot. No, we're going to one of the hideouts - that's all."
After a while he wasn't even sure where they were anymore. The streets had all become gray and bleak with little alleyways crisscrossing and children playing on bomb sites and thin stray dogs running around in twos and threes.
"'Ere we are," said Johnny, at last, turning sharply into a narrow side street, sharply down an even narrower one and sweeping into a double garage with a fraction of an inch to spare between the wall and the big lorry which was already there.
They got out and Johnny led the way down some stone steps at the back to a big iron basement door. He knocked and a grid opened.
"Johnny," he said.
After a moment the door opened for them and he followed Johnny into a cold, stone basement room lit by one naked bulb on a table.
The room was big and another one led off it. There were several chairs and a couple of narrow beds with old blankets against the walls. Lolling on the beds were a number of men while a surprisingly beautiful girl was sitting on one of the plain wooden chairs.
This he had time to take in with a glance before three of the men stood up - not, he thought grimly, from politeness, but probably to make sure he didn't pull a gun on them.
"This is the gentleman, Francie," Johnny said and he seemed to get some private pleasure from emphasizing the word "gentleman" ever so slightly.
"Well, come in, make yourself at home." The words came in a clearly enunciated twang of London accent. There was a slight mince to them - and there was also restrained violence.
Hartnell shook the hand that was extended to him and looked at the owner in the dim light. He was a tall man, slim with rather "spiv" square shoulders, long blond hair and an oblong face which was strong and rather sensual. The eyes were a bright, hard blue and Hartnell decided there was a shade of madness in them.
"I'm Francie," the other said, in his cutting twang. "I run this outfit. So, you're looking for a job. Have a whiskey, will you?"
Hartnell nodded.
"Jim," Francie said. "Pour Mr. Hartnell a whiskey."
A big, sullen-faced bruiser heaved himself from the bed and took a whiskey bottle and glass from a cupboard. Hartnell noticed they all had glasses. Whiskey was expensive and still not that easy to get. He was poured a generous shot.
Francie's eyes had not stopped taking him in and now he began to repeat several of the questions Johnny had asked earlier. After every answer he glanced at Johnny, as if checking.
"Well, you got class like me," he said eventually. "And we need a bit of class sometimes. Always good to have around. Can you drive a lorry?"
"Sure."
"Well, that's about all we'll want you to do."
"What's the line you're in?" Hartnell asked. "It seems like most people could drive a lorry."
"Oh, you'd be surprised," Francie said airily. "When it comes to a bit of illegal business there aren't so many and those there are have a tendency to get cold feet at the wrong moment. They haven't got the old school courage." He chuckled, as if sharing a joke with a former school friend.
"As for the business," he went on. "It's just a question of a little transaction in whiskey and 'fags.'"
Hartnell raised his eyebrows.
"It's a very paying game," Francie continued. "And there's practically no risk. We're doing a fiddly with a certain military gentleman who looks after some big stores. Now you know that in the NAAFI stores you can get whiskey and 'fags' dirt cheap. Well, we give him more than dirt and still have enough in hand to sell for less than the civilian price. You could almost say I'm a modern Robin Hood. 'Cos the boys in khaki don't even want all their rations and it's a terrible waste."
Hartnell grinned. He was genuinely amused at Francie's reasoning.
"How about the military gentleman?" he asked. "Isn't there quite a risk that he'll be discovered?"
"Nuts." Francie dismissed the possibility. "He's got everything in his palm. He's the big noise, knows just how far he can go and when to ease off. Nobody likes the military for not knowin' what's going on in their inner workings."
"Certainly something in that." Hartnell grinned again. It didn't seem such a bad business. He needed money badly and he'd been ready, at least, to consider something much worse.
"Well, your bit is simply to drive a lorry to a certain warehouse to pick up the stuff. We'll all be there, but we need a cool hand at the wheel."
"Sounds okay to me."
"Good," Francie said. "I knew it wouldn't take an ex-pilot long to make up his mind. 'Ave another drink and meet the boys."
Dropping one "h" in about every fifty, Francie chatted on to Hartnell, obviously rather pleased that a little "class" had been infused into his companions. He had a certain bumptious confidence and Hartnell realized that most of the time he actually considered himself as an old-school-tie type - or at least thought himself quite equal to the quality.
They were seven in all - excluding Hartnell himself. Apart from Johnny and Jim, there were two other big, sullen-faced bruisers named Jake and Bill, a bright-looking youngster of twenty or so named Lucky and a stocky fellow named "Smiler" who turned out to be the new financial brains of the gang. And, finally, there was the girl, who hardly looked at him, seeming to withdraw from the whole group.
"This is Gracie," Francie said proudly. She looked listlessly past him.
"Gracie." There was the trace of a snarl in his voice, which disappeared as soon as she looked at him. "This is Roger Hartnell. Nice company for you. He's got class - what poor old Slim tried to give you."
Hartnell glanced sharply at Francie and then looked back at the girl. She had flushed slightly, but when she put out her hand and said "How do you do," her voice was even.
Hartnell's heart went out to her in that moment. This was the girl Dora had told him about and the unhappiness was there on her hazel eyes as if it would never be erased. Her long blonde hair curled in at her shoulders and her features were firm and regular, which added to her beauty. Apart from her physical appearance there was about her an aura of dignity and tenderness which lingered even now. And her body in the gray woolen dress was slim, well formed without any outsize sexiness.
"How do you do," he replied, and for a second she glanced up at his eyes. Then her face had turned listlessly away again.
"Gracie has things on her mind," Francie explained with a grin. "She's not satisfied with life." His voice bordered on a snarl again, an elusive tone which left Hartnell wondering whether it had been really there right after the grin. "But, she'll change," Francie added.
"How do you find Dora?" he said suddenly, and without waiting for a reply, went on: "Very nice girl Dora. A little difficult at times, though. Hasn't got top quality." He looked down at Gracie, eyes narrowed and then he grinned once again with his sensual, mobile mouth which could change its expression so rapidly.
"Well let's have another drink and beat it," he said. "No point in hanging around."
He looked at Hartnell and there was no telling what was in the bright, hard blue eyes.
"Johnny'll drive you wherever you wanta go," he said. "We'll get in touch with you in a couple of days."
He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small wad of notes.
"And here's a little on account," he said.