There were several factions at play that, when combined, had produced a volatile set of circumstances, all related later to Ramsay by Betty, who had obtained a good view from the bandstand. The Huns, drunk on both cheap whisky and their evening’s successes—their commodious pockets were full of loot from a recent party in Berkeley Square—were ready to celebrate.
They had spent the evening taunting Frazzini, who was sitting quietly at his table, refusing to be ruffled by them, much to their annoyance. He even offered them chocolates from the box that Nellie had earlier sent to his table, an act that enraged them further. Frazzini knew what the Huns didn’t—that his own men, having got wind of trouble, were even now making their way through the secret entrance into the club, ready for the fray.
The tinderbox was sparked by one of the Huns, who had got into a spat with someone over one of the girls when they both claimed her for a dance. This girl, Ekaterina, a White Russian emigrée, was much sought after by the regular clientele. She had been lured from Paris, where Nellie had spent several months trying to launch the ill-fated l’Angleterre. Ekaterina was reputed to have danced at the Folies-Bergère, which naturally made her very popular in the Amethyst as there was always an expectation that she might shed her clothes at a moment’s notice. She never did.
The first Pierrot had thrown a punch, which acted as a signal for his fellow gang members to pile in, regardless of where their blows landed. The couples up from the suburbs cowered beneath their tables—this was taking their “bit of fun” too far. The hardened habitués, however, readied themselves for a good show, especially as the Frazzini hooligans had now arrived and were joining in the skirmish. It wasn’t long before half the dance floor was taken up with the melee, balloons and streamers hanging from the ceiling providing an incongruously carnival scene.
And then a Pierrot whipped out a revolver from one of the handily voluminous pockets in his white costume and proceeded to wave it around. Those nearest to him dived beneath the tables with admirable alacrity. A shot was fired, incredibly loud, even amongst the din in the club.
Ramsay did not know, of course, about the King of Denmark, who, as befitted a head of state, was accompanied by an armed retinue, primed to defend the Crown against all comers; they had now drawn their weapons and were aiming them in an alarmingly vague way at the centre of the crowd.
That first shot acted as a starter’s pistol. After a brief, startled silence, it was followed by a fusillade, as it seemed that anyone who had a gun began to fire at will. And many people did have guns, not just the roughs, for it was, after all, not so very long since a war. There were not only many “souvenirs” left over, but also plenty of men who had been taught by the Army how to use them.
The band, unfazed by anything that ever occurred in the club, started up with “Runnin’ Wild” at an alarmingly frantic tempo that only served to intensify the fracas. It was possible that was their intention. Nellie paid them three hundred and fifty pounds a week, which she regarded as outrageous, but they had her over a barrel—the Amethyst was many things, but it was nothing without dancing. The band were a resolute bunch, the sort that would go down cheerfully with the ship. A bullet was later found to have driven a furrow through the piano on the bandstand, but the pianist had not deserted his post.
Massacre at Soho Nightclub—Ramsay could see the headline now. That would definitely be the end of the club, if not the entire family. Where were the police when you needed them? They were always around when you didn’t. So much for Inspector Maddox and his “protection.”
And then suddenly Nellie conjured herself out of thin air as if there were a deus ex machina hidden in the bandstand. Where had she been all this time?, Ramsay wondered. She wielded her new stick like a lion tamer’s whip. Several members of the band ducked out of the way. It was quite extraordinary, the power she had. She was so short she was barely visible and yet, within minutes, the club had quietened, the anarchic behaviour had dissipated, the guns had disappeared, and several abashed roughs hung their heads in shame. The band changed to something that sounded suspiciously like Mozart. Nellie would have something to say about that later. In her opinion, even the merest hint of classical music could be the death of a club.
One of the King of Denmark’s retinue had a squealing Pierrot in a stranglehold. It could have been any one of the Hackney Huns as they were all in similar costume but it didn’t matter, he represented them all—a trophy. With the slightest nod of her head towards the parties involved, Nellie signalled that the Pierrot should be handed over to Frazzini’s roughs as a token sacrifice. Frazzini’s gang members proceeded towards the club’s secret exit with their condemned prisoner squawking his innocence, as if he were being led away towards the noose and the long drop.