The Charmer

by Allan Prior

Genres: Literary Fiction; Noir

Synopsis

Ralph Ernest Gorse, the suave but utterly heartless anti-hero of Patrick Hamilton's classic The West Pier, is here revisited by Z-Cars creator Allan Prior in the novelisation of his acclaimed 1987 television serial of the same name. In the late 1930s, the womanising Gorse insinuates himself into the life of a widow who falls head-over-heels for him. Donald Stimpson, the widow's would-be suitor, vengefully pursues Gorse when the unrepentant conman relieves her of a considerable portion of her wealth, but Gorse will stop at nothing to evade his enemy.

Release date: October 24, 2013

Publisher: Mulholland

Print pages: 288

Sample

A London taxi chugged into the quiet suburban street in Maida Vale.

The moon shone down on the rows of slumbering villas; the curtains were drawn in every house save one. The occupants were all perfectly respectable, and at this hour of the night – it was almost two o’clock – sound asleep.

Ralph Ernest Gorse was not asleep.

He was looking for Number Thirteen.

Number Thirteen had red curtains, and chinks of light showed from behind them. From the house itself came the faint sound of a gramophone, playing the most popular song of that balmy summer of 1938, ‘Red Sails In The Sunset’.

The taxi stopped and Gorse got out.

Ralph Ernest Gorse was a tall, golden-haired young man in his thirties.

He was dressed in an opera cloak, white tie, and tails, and he wore a white silk scarf thrown carelessly round his neck. He took from his pocket a gold cigarette case and popped a Turkish cigarette into his mouth.

‘Got a light, old boy?’ he asked a small, crumpled man of indeterminate age, Ronnie Shooter, his companion. Ronnie Shooter fumbled in his pocket and found a gold lighter. He was very drunk.

Gorse took the lighter, used it, and turned towards Ronnie, but Ronnie was searching in his pockets for the cab fare.

Gorse looked at him for a long moment.

Then he pocketed the gold lighter.

‘Got … got some change somewhere …’ gasped Ronnie, his face, like his clothes, a crumpled ruin.

‘Here! Try this!’ Gorse negligently held out a large white square of what looked like tissue paper.

It was a five-pound note.

The taxi-driver scratched his head. ‘Blimey, guv, I ain’t got change for that!’

Gorse waved his hand airily. ‘Keep it.’

‘D’yer mean it, sir?’

Gorse did not even look at him. There was something god-like about Gorse as he stood there, at the end of an evening on the town, in this year of our Lord 1938, his overcoat round his shoulders; and something devil-like too.

The taxi-driver fingered the banknote doubtfully. To him, it represented two weeks’ wages.

‘Too much! Here!’ Ronnie snatched the flimsy fiver back from the outraged taxi-driver and presented him with a silver coin.

‘’Ere, guv, that’s only half-a-crown! The fare’s two bob!’

‘Sixpence tip, my good man!’ retorted Ronnie, swaying slightly and fumbling for a cigarette.

The taxi-driver snorted. ‘Thank you, sir!’ He drove off in the rattletrap taxi.

‘Ralph! Here, old boy.’ Ronnie tucked the flimsy in the top pocket of Gorse’s dinner jacket. ‘I told you, my dear chap, this evening’s on me!’ He peered at the house in front of them. ‘I say, is this the place?’

Gorse smiled. Or rather, his lips moved. His eyes remained exactly the same. ‘Indeed it is, Ronnie, old boy, indeed it is.’

Ronnie Shooter swayed a little. ‘The best girls in London, did yer say?’

Gorse clapped him on the back. ‘In the world, my dear Ronnie, in the world!’

Ronnie shook his head in wonderment and, unlit cigarette in mouth, followed Gorse up the path to the front door. It opened as they neared it. A maid, not dressed in very much, opened the door. A blast of music came with her.

Ronnie Shooter goggled at those parts of the maid that were open to view. ‘I say!’

As they entered, Ronnie Shooter first, Gorse closed an eye at the maid; behind them the door closed on the dark night.

Gorse led the way into a rather over-furnished room full of people drinking and smoking. There were several girls in kimonos and very little else. Nobody looked round as they entered. The music was loud, the girls laughed even louder and occasionally a man and a girl paired off – and headed for the stairs. The Madam, a French-sounding cockney called Odette, moved to greet Gorse.

‘Ralph … How nice to see you … It’s been ages. Where have you been, you naughty boy?’

Gorse smiled politely. ‘Here an’ there, y’know, Odette. Here and there. Let me introduce an old friend of mine, Ronnie Shooter …’

‘Mr Shooter, enchanté.’

‘What? Oh. Yes. Quite.’

Ronnie Shooter swayed. Then he sat down abruptly on a sofa. Odette smiled at him. Then she looked questioningly at Gorse.

‘I think a bottle of your best, Odette …? The vintage …?’

‘Naturellement … and, what else?’

‘And then we’ll see, what?’ replied Gorse.

‘But of course, Ralph. Please sit down.’ Odette half-nodded to two girls. They promptly sat on each side of Gorse and Ronnie. Both wore kimonos and black stockings and suspender belts. Gorse looked at them. ‘I’ll be fine. Look after Ronnie, will you?’

The girls looked at Odette. She nodded. They moved over and sat, one on each side of Ronnie Shooter. Ronnie Shooter beamed. The champagne arrived at that moment and a tough-looking waiter opened it, with a loud pop, at which the girls laughed in mutual appreciation. Odette lingered a moment, to catch Gorse’s eye. ‘I will be free later, Mr Gorse.’ Gorse looked at her a long moment. Then he nodded. Odette smiled and moved about the room, greeting her clients, offering them cigarettes and cigars, now and again dropping her voice to give instruction or advice to one of her girls. None of them was over twenty-five years of age. Lazily, Gorse surveyed the scene. It was one he had seen many times before. He sipped his glass of champagne. It was the vintage. Odette knew him. She knew he would not accept less than the very best. Unless he had to. Well, often in the past he’d had to. 1938 was not an easy year in which to live. It absolutely bloody well was not. Not with four million unemployed breadwinners in the country. Not that Gorse thought of himself as a bread winner, exactly. He grimaced. Caviar, perhaps? A caviar winner? That was more his style. But lately things had been hard. Bumping into Ronnie Shooter at the Café Royal had been a godsend. A slice of luck the like of which he hadn’t had for a long while.

The thing, as ever, was to make the situation work for you. Just exactly how, Gorse did not yet know. That would no doubt be revealed unto him. It had better be.

The five-pound note he had offered the taxi-driver was all the money, apart from a few shillings of loose change, that Ralph Ernest Gorse had in the whole wide world.

The voice of Ronnie Shooter broke into Gorse’s reverie.

‘I say, Ralph, you were absolutely right.’ Ronnie Shooter beamed at the girls, one on each side of him. ‘Best girls in the world, what?’

Gorse smiled.

The boat train to the Continent stood puffing impatiently on Platform One at Victoria Station. Gorse and Ronnie Shooter were saying good-bye.

‘I must say, old fellow,’ declared Ronnie. ‘This is a sad send-off, what? Sure you won’t come?’

Gorse, who still had the five-pound flimsy in his pocket – just that between him and the poor threadbare man who, for a grateful threepenny bit, had staggered over with Ronnie’s bags from Gorse’s car, parked round the corner – smiled. ‘Nothing against Cannes and Monte and all that, Ronnie, but I do have a rather important meeting today.’

Ronnie Shooter’s face crinkled even more than usual. It had been a hard night at Odette’s establishment in north London. It had been an exhausting one for Gorse, too, but he was getting rather tired of Odette. Her tricks were wearing thin. It was all so mechanical with her. Couldn’t be anything else, obviously. The name of the game to Odette was money. Everything she did, she did for money.

Gorse sighed. Well, was he any different?

He had to admit he wasn’t.

Without money, there was nothing. Not in the middle of the Depression. Without money you sank without trace, down amongst the Great Unwashed. Gorse shuddered, despite the warmth of the day.

Ronnie Shooter asked, ‘You all right, old boy?’

‘Bit hung over, that’s all, old man.’

Ronnie looked solicitous. ‘Jolly decent of you to see me off like this, I must say. Never have managed on my own. Look here. What are your plans now?’

Gorse had no plans.

But he did not say that.

‘Have to find myself an hotel for a week or two, I’m afraid.’

‘I thought you had this meeting?’ Ronnie looked curious.

Gorse smiled, deliberately sheepish. ‘Well, I do. But it’s not exactly a business meeting, Ronnie. More … er … personal, do you see?’

Ronnie Shooter saw. Or thought he saw.

‘A woman? You’re meeting a woman! You dog!’

Gorse smiled, modestly.

Ronnie looked thoughtful. He delved in his pocket and produced a bunch of keys. He deftly detached one and handed it to Gorse. ‘Use my place. It’s in Reading. A bit inconvenient, I suppose, too far out of town?’

Gorse shook his head. For once he had no words.

‘All right. It’s yours, long as you want it.’ A thought struck Ronnie Shooter. He took out his wallet and extracted a business card. ‘This fellow’s my property man. Give him a call. Tell him you’re moving in.’ Ronnie looked along the platform. ‘Got to move myself, old boy. See you soonish, say a month or even two. I’ll drop a card. Must go, toodle pip!’

Gorse stood there until the boat train pulled out.

Then he walked away, across the station concourse, ignoring the awful spectres of the out-of-work beggars wearing their war ribbons; he brushed past their outstretched palms, not seeing them, not wanting to see them. They were the Great Unwashed and he did not wish to join them, he never would join them, not if brains and cunning and looking after number one would prevent it, by God no!

His step lightened as he remembered that he still had the five-pound note. It wasn’t much but it was something. Ronnie had taken care of the expenses of the night. As he reached his battered sports car, Gorse felt more cheerful. He glanced at the business card Ronnie Shooter had given him. It bore a name, Donald Stimpson, Estate Agent, and a telephone number.

Gorse decided he would telephone Mr Stimpson, somewhere on the road to Reading.

Things were looking better.

Not good.

But promising, certainly promising.

He started the battered little car and drove off westwards, out of the sunlit morning city.

Donald Stimpson stood amongst the garden gnomes at the front of Ronnie Shooter’s detached brick-built house in Reading. Mr Stimpson was soberly dressed, despite the warm sunny weather of that June of 1938, in a suit of dark worsted, with a waistcoat and a stiff white collar. He wore a Macclesfield silk tie and his black leather shoes shone brightly. A dark homburg hat sat squarely upon his head and his eyes glinted behind his spectacles. Donald Stimpson looked at his watch again. He was never late for an appointment and he did not approve of people who were.

This fellow Gorse was twenty minutes late already and there was still no sign of him along the tree-lined suburban avenue. Mr Stimpson, who was by profession an estate agent, and a very successful one (for even in 1938, even in those Depression days, young people still married and needed houses to live in), looked at Byron Avenue and liked what he saw. A row of excellent detached or semi-detached houses, solidly built some twenty years before, each well maintained and freshly painted, with trim front garden to match, and in many cases dotted with the stone gnomes that were such a feature of Ronnie Shooter’s own garden.

‘Blast this fellow Gorse, whoever he is,’ muttered Donald Stimpson. He had been disturbed by Ralph Gorse’s call. The whole business was irregular, and Mr Stimpson did not like anything irregular.

The sound of a motorcar engine disturbed the calm of Byron Avenue. No ordinary car engine either. A sports car, a two-seater of battered and ancient vintage, chugged into view.

The driver, Mr Stimpson saw at once, was a young man, with long fair hair blowing about in the turbulence caused by the Railton’s progress. Mr Stimpson, who knew little or nothing about motorcars, did not own one (he never had) and considered them a dirty and noisy nuisance, did not know that Gorse’s car was a Railton but it was information that Gorse imparted to him in the first moment.

‘Sorry I’m late, old boy,’ Gorse greeted Mr Stimpson. ‘The old bus pulls a bit. Lovely job, the old Railton, but she’s seen her best days, this particular one, what?’

Mr Stimpson studied Gorse. He did not like what he saw, not one little bit. He did not like Gorse’s camelhair travelling coat, which he wore despite the warm weather. He did not like the grey flannel suit that was revealed when Gorse threw off the camel coat. He did not like the battered and heavily stickered leather case that was propped in the back of Gorse’s sports car. He did not like Gorse’s voice, which sounded almost upper-class but somehow not quite. He did not like Gorse’s smile, which most people, especially women, found quite charming.

In fact, before they had even shaken hands, Mr Stimpson disliked Ralph Gorse in every possible way.

He was not to know that Ralph Ernest Gorse felt exactly the same way about him.

‘You said ten o’clock,’ observed Mr Stimpson, refusing Gorse’s apology.

Gorse seemed not to notice. He gazed at the house – the front door was ajar but revealed nothing. ‘Terribly sorry, old boy. As I said, the old bus pulls a bit these days.’

He sounded as if he did not give a damn what Donald Stimpson thought about anything. Mr Stimpson began to like him even less.

‘You have the keys, I believe?’ he said coldly.

Gorse jingled them in his hand. ‘Yes, actually … I do.’

Mr Stimpson felt he had to explain himself. ‘As you know, my name’s Donald Stimpson of Stimpson and Snell, Estate Agents. I act for Mr Shooter in all property matters.’ Gorse received this news with a marked lack of enthusiasm. Mr Stimpson went on, ‘There are dust sheets in most rooms but I take it you won’t be staying long?’

Gorse shrugged. ‘Not sure, but not terribly long, I wouldn’t think.’

‘Have you known Mr Shooter for some time?’ persisted Mr Stimpson.

Again, Gorse shrugged. ‘A while. Is that a garage?’

Mr Stimpson looked at the garage, which could not be anything but a garage. ‘Yes, but Mr Shooter’s Alvis is in there, I’m afraid.’

‘An Alvis?’ Gorse looked interested to hear that, anyway, Mr Stimpson noted.

‘I must say all this is a bit irregular, but Mr Shooter is a rather irregular man.’ When Gorse did not reply, ‘Will you need anybody to do for you?’

‘What?’

Mr Stimpson hated that upper-class ‘What?’

‘A maid or anything?’

‘No, no. I’ll just pig along on my own. I expect I’ll eat out a bit.’

Again, Mr Stimpson wondered. ‘What line are you in, Mr Gorse, if I may ask?’

The reply surprised him. ‘Private means,’ said Gorse briefly, taking the battered leather case from the back of the equally battered sports car.

Mr Stimpson looked at Gorse’s shirt, which was frayed at the collar. Gorse looked back at him steadily. ‘Private means? I see,’ said Mr Stimpson, who did not see at all.

Gorse made his way up the path towards the house. At the door he turned. ‘Isn’t there some place called the Friar I should pop into? Ronnie said something about it.’

‘It’s at the end of the road, turn right, can’t miss it.’

‘Jolly good. Thanks very much for your help.’

Mr Stimpson made an offer. ‘I can show you round inside, if you like?’

Gorse refused it. ‘Absolutely not, old boy, I’ll be fine.’

Mr Stimpson hated to be addressed as ‘old boy’. It smacked of public school, which Mr Stimpson had never attended. The local grammar school had had to do, and it had done very well. Just the same, there was something about the public school manner. Gorse had it. Mr Stimpson respected it. But he didn’t like it. ‘Well. If that’s all … Mr Gorse?’

‘Yes. I think so. Thank you, Mr Stimpson.’

‘You’ll let me have the key when you go? Whenever that is?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then I’ll say good morning.’

Gorse dumped the leather case inside the hall of Ronnie Shooter’s house. ‘Cheerio, old boy,’ he said.

Mr Stimpson stared at Gorse for a long suspicious moment. Then he walked back down the path to the gate. At the gate he turned back for a last look at Gorse. Gorse, still at the door, smiled. Mr Stimpson did not smile. He walked off down the road.

Ralph Ernest Gorse watched him go, all the way along the sunny suburban street.

After Gorse had closed the door on Mr Stimpson, he turned to see what kind of place Ronnie Shooter had lent him. It was fine, as far as it went, but a quick perambulation through the rooms of the house told him the sad story. There was nothing whatever, saleable or pawnable, in the place. Dust covers draped the furniture that was left. The rest, the ornaments and trinkets, all the small, valuable things that make up a house – clocks, cutlery, silver ashtrays, glassware, even the sheets and blankets – all gone, obviously, into store. Ronnie Shooter had given him a roof over his head but nothing else. It was a blow, a savage blow, but Gorse was used to savage blows. He lit a Player’s Perfecto, taken from his gold cigarette case, which he had stolen he could not remember where, and drew in a lungful of smoke. He could always pawn the case; and yet he couldn’t. The case was him. How many people, in the Depression, had a gold cigarette case? That was the last thing to go, that and the little sports car. If they went, he really was down amongst the Great Unwashed.

Gorse opened his suitcase. It was full of dirty washing: soiled shirts, rumpled pyjamas, odd socks. He selected a pair of socks and pushed his fingers into one of them. His finger poked through. Gorse sighed and took out his wallet from his jacket. He laid the ‘flimsy’ fiver on the hall stand and combed his pockets very thoroughly, finding odd coins. He added them up, looking at his own reflection in the mirror on the hallstand. Ralph Ernest Gorse spoke softly to his mirror image. ‘Five pounds, six shillings and threepence halfpenny … Something, old boy, will have to be done …’

The Friar Roadhouse was bad taste baronial. But as Gorse parked the Railton in the car park, he had a sense of familiarity. This was the kind of place he felt at home in, better class than a pub, but not quite a club. He straightened his striped tie and walked briskly towards the door.

In the Nook, off the main bar, sat Joan Plumleigh-Bruce. Joan smoked a cigarette in a holder, and listened idly to Donald Stimpson. Joan was fortyish, good-looking, blonde, plumpish, well-dressed, ever-so-slightly discontented; and she was a snob. In front of her, on the bar, was a Daily Telegraph, open at the racing page. She only half takes in what Mr Stimpson is saying. A Pekinese dog circles around her stool. This is Chinklywinkles.

Mr Stimpson is talking, and he is, for a change, somewhat animated. ‘I tell you, Joan, there’s something very odd about this Gorse fellow. Something very odd indeed, yes.’ He blinked through his spectacles at Joan. ‘Are you ready for another, dear?’ Joan’s reply sounded rude but it wasn’t really. It is her class manner to sound rude, except to her equals. She does not, strictly speaking, consider Mr Stimpson her equal; but she would not tell him that, ever. ‘Another what?’

‘Another libation, dear.’

Joan relented. The dear man. ‘Oh well, why not?’

Mr Stimpson, in his turn, spoke loftily to the barman, Albert. Albert was Mr Stimpson’s inferior. ‘For Mrs Plumleigh-Bruce!’ He turned back to Joan. ‘Ronnie Shooter let him have his place, so he says, for as long as he likes. Fortunately, there’s nothing valuable, it’s all in store.’

Joan Plumleigh-Bruce looked interested. ‘Didn’t he have a letter, this Gorse fellow?’

‘He had a card, from Ronnie Shooter, that’s all.’ Joan felt Donald Stimpson needed another lesson in how things were done. ‘Donald, gentlemen trust each other. My late husband would have done that. Sent a card. It’s very Army, that, the card.’

Mr Stimpson grimaced. ‘Is it? Well, I wouldn’t know about that, but I do know there’s something odd about our young Mr Gorse … Very odd indeed.’ Mr Stimpson felt a touch on his arm, turned round, and there, in closeup, was the face of Ralph Gorse. ‘Oh my God …!’ said Mr Stimpson. In turn, he touched Joan’s arm, and it jogged her drink. Joan reacted.

‘Donald! You’ve made me spill my drink!’ She saw Gorse. ‘Oh?’

Gorse smiled his most charming smile. Joan Plumleigh-Bruce found it very charming indeed. ‘All my fault, dear lady,’ said Gorse, easily. ‘Always creeping up on people. Awful habit, learned it in the Army …’

Joan smiled at once, as Gorse somehow knew she would.

‘The Army? Really?’

Gorse called across to Albert. ‘Barman, same again for these two good people, and I’ll have a brandy and soda.’ He smiled at Joan.

‘Yes, I was in the Frontier Scouts. Too young for the Big Show, so I had to be content with the Frontier, I’m afraid.’ He turned to Donald Stimpson. ‘Mr Stimpson, how are you?’

Mr Stimpson had hardly recovered but he rallied well. ‘May I introduce Mr Ralph Gorse … Mrs Joan Plumleigh-Bruce.’

Joan looked surprised. ‘Gorse? Really? We were only just …’

Mr Stimpson interrupted. ‘Yes. Quite … Quite.’ There was a silence. Gorse broke it, with an apologetic note. ‘I say, buying you that drink, a bit off really, I’m sorry. But one can’t go by rules and regs all the time, eh, Mrs Plumleigh-Bruce?’

Joan Plumleigh-Bruce looked at Ralph Ernest Gorse for a very long moment and saw all she wanted to see. ‘Joan, please. We don’t stand on ceremony in The Friar. Do we, Donald?’

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Mr Stimpson shortly. The barman served Joan with her gin and It, Mr Stimpson with his bitter, and Gorse with his brandy and a soda syphon. Gorse flashed his last fiver very obviously, holding it up for all to see. ‘Barman, I say, can you do this? I’ve no change, I’m afraid.’

Joan Plumleigh-Bruce looked at the note with warm approval, Mr Stimpson with deep suspicion. ‘I’ll just see. . .