It was a miracle, but somehow the bullets seemed to have missed all of the club’s guests, embedding themselves instead in the floor and the walls and the aforesaid piano, as well as popping most of the balloons, which now hung dejectedly limp from the ceiling. Lack of injuries aside, it still had the makings of a poor night for the club’s reputation. （“A bit of an understatement,” Edith said.） It was fortunate that Vivian Quinn had already departed for the Gargoyle and the incident would only appear in his column third-hand at worst.
To mollify her guests, Nellie clapped her hands and said words that had never previously been heard in any of her clubs: “Free drinks for everyone!”—an announcement that was greeted with a rousing cheer from the assembly. People emerged from beneath the tables and the dance floor filled once more with revellers. What a tale the couples from Pinner would have to tell on their return to their tidy mock-Tudors.
That was not quite the end of the night’s drama, though, for a solitary guttural cry, like a fox in heat, now rose from the corner of the room nearest to Ramsay. Not loud enough to stop the dancers, but enough to send Ramsay pushing his way through the once again convivial mob to discover what new horror awaited.
He found one of Frazzini’s men laid out on the floor, copious amounts of blood pumping from a wound in his chest.
Several people had gathered quickly round the fallen man, including both Nellie and Frazzini. Ramsay noticed the two of them exchange a look that was clearly significant but too subtle for him to interpret.
The rest of the Cokers gravitated rapidly towards the casualty. They were naturally drawn to trouble.
“We need a doctor,” Ramsay said, startled that no one else seemed to have voiced this imperative. Frazzini hissed something beneath his breath that sounded like no police and Ramsay saw that Nellie was biting her lip and gazing trance-like at the wounded man. This inaction on her part surprised Ramsay—was she just going to let the man die here, on the floor, without lifting a hand to help him?
Someone new pushed their way into the circle surrounding the injured man—a woman. She seemed to grasp the situation immediately and knelt down next to the victim’s inert body, placing a firm hand on the source of the spring of blood, careless of the gore. “For heaven’s sake,” she said to no one in particular. “Don’t just stand there, all of you. Go to the kitchen,” she ordered Shirley, “and ask them for clean cloths. And hurry up!” Shirley scurried off obediently.
“What’s his name?” the woman asked, and when Frazzini didn’t reply, she repeated impatiently, “His name, please?” like a firm teacher compelling a recalcitrant schoolboy.
“Aldo,” Frazzini said reluctantly.
“Aldo,” the young woman said, addressing the injured man in a calm voice. “Aldo, can you hear me? You’ve been shot, but don’t worry, you’re going to be all right.”
A slight murmur came from Aldo’s bloodless lips.
Shirley came back from the kitchen with a pile of tea towels and the woman pressed one onto the man’s breast. It was almost immediately soaked in blood and replaced by another. The woman, too, was soon covered in blood. She seemed indifferent to it.
“I need hot water and iodine, or, failing that, carbolic,” she said. “Have you got a first-aid kit?” This addressed to Ramsay, who had no idea. Did they? They obviously should. “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she said, finding him seriously wanting. “Has anyone got scissors—or a knife?”
Betty silently, somewhat reluctantly, produced her penknife from her silver-mesh evening bag.
“You have to sterilize it in boiling water, can you do that?” the woman asked. She glanced up and noticed Kitty, who had now gone rather green. The colour du jour, Ramsay thought, unable to turn off his transcribing brain, even though he very much wanted to. His own nausea, not surprisingly, had returned.
“Are you going to be sick?” the woman said to Kitty. “If so, can you please move away?” A startled Kitty complied. She had expected sympathy, not dismissal.
To Nellie, the woman said, “We need to get him away from all this racket. Is there somewhere private?” Nellie, rather shocked to find herself being spoken to in a tone of authority that was not her own, gave a deferential nod, indicating one of the private rooms.
Niven appeared. He frowned at the drama in front of him. The club had been in jovial spirits when he left it earlier. What had happened?
Catching sight of him, the woman said, “Can you help move him? We have to be careful, I think his artery’s been nicked by a bullet.” Niven seemed momentarily dumbstruck and she said, more forcefully, “Mr. Niven? Will you help me?”