“Folderol? Worried you’ll be in it?” Quinn said with a grin. “A minor character, perhaps?”
Quinn feigned a vague aristocracy, but Ramsay knew he was actually the son of a county auctioneer, as much a fraud as he claimed Kreuger to be. Ramsay hoped Quinn was wrong about the Match King. His mother took financial advice from the man, alongside Alfred Loewenstein.
“The Israelite,” Quinn said distastefully.
“Well, Belgian,” Ramsay demurred.
“He’s another crook.”
Was everyone crooked in some way?, Ramsay wondered.
“Do you fancy coming with me to a spieler next week?” Quinn asked.
“A spieler?”
A “spieler” was thieves’ slang for a card game. Ramsay liked cards, he’d liked them ever since the Bolshevists in Great Percy Street had taught him to play Preferans. He had been to a few spielers with Quinn in the past—small, low-key affairs, peripatetic to avoid the law, cropping up in flats in districts like Bloomsbury and Marylebone. The occupants were paid a sum to move out for the night and then the rugs were rolled up, the furniture pushed back and spindly little card tables brought out for Gin Rummy or Vingt-et-un. Women were there too, so it stayed pretty civilized, it wasn’t like a rugger crowd. A limit was put on bets, cheap wine and beer flowed and everyone had an increasingly amusing time before staggering home, a few pounds up or down. The stakes were low, Ramsay had never won or lost more than five pounds. It was hardly Biarritz or Monte Carlo. Nonetheless, Nellie would have been furious if she’d known.
Spielers were illegal, of course, but no one really cared. And anyway, one of the people who often joined them at the tables was a policeman, a jolly sort, not in uniform （that would have seemed like fancy dress）， who said, “What’s wrong with a harmless bit of fun? Everyone likes a flutter.”
“This one’s in Belgravia,” Quinn said.
“Belgravia?”
“Mm. Interesting people, quite a classy crowd, in fact. We’re lucky to be asked, to be honest.”
“Sounds like high stakes.”
“No, I don’t think so. They just play for fun. Well, think about it. I must be off. I’m going to the Gargoyle opening, I can get you in if you want to come with me.”
“No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.”
It had begun to rain and Quinn unfurled the umbrella he was carrying. “Well, ta-ta for now,” he said, sauntering away with a pretentiously casual air.
The umbrella, Ramsay noticed, was one of the ones purloined from the Amethyst.
* * *
—
When Ramsay returned to the Amethyst, not only were the doormen mysteriously absent from their post but his mother was no longer on her roost in the cashier’s box, having been relieved of her position by Kitty. The glass containing Nellie’s sherry flip had been drained and Kitty herself was looking particularly fresh.
“Where is she?” Ramsay asked.
“Dunno.”
She had, she admitted, inadvertently let in several members of the Hackney Huns who had capered past her, camouflaged in fancy dress as a Pierrot troupe. Some members of the Huns had lately adopted fancy dress to infiltrate the many costume and masquerade parties that seemed to happen every night in London. Ramsay thought of the Egyptian mummy and his friends last night. A gang of Pierrots might have seemed even more threatening somehow.
The Huns were clever, they tended to mingle anonymously amongst party guests, quietly relieving them of their valuables. The victims were so intent on enjoying themselves that they rarely noticed they had been robbed until it was too late.
“You’ll be in for it if there’s trouble,” Ramsay said to Kitty.
“I’m a child apparently, you’ll be blamed.”
As if on cue, there came the sound of a tremendous uproar from downstairs. Ramsay hesitated. The front doormen were still absent. Linwood, on the other hand, was now flying up the stairs. “Better come quick, Mr. Coker,” he gasped, “all hell’s let loose down there. The roughs are at each other’s throats. Someone’s going to get killed.”
As solemnly as if she were presenting a knight with a sacred sword, Kitty handed Ramsay the policeman’s truncheon that was kept out of sight in the cashier’s booth. Nellie had used it on more than one occasion.
“Into the lion’s den, Mr. Coker,” Linwood said.
Ramsay advanced down the stairs, followed by a reluctant Linwood and an enthusiastic Kitty. Linwood pulled aside the bombazine curtain and Ramsay, truncheon in hand, made an effort to understand the pandemonium in front of him. Apart from knocking a few heads together, there seemed little he could do. Perhaps he should just let the brawl play itself out, burn through the club like wildfire. Sometimes that was the best strategy.