The Fallen Architect by Charles Belfoure

Author:Charles Belfoure
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks
Published: 2018-07-24T16:00:00+00:00

25

“It’s the first of the month, Dougie. Happy November.”

Guest had arranged a meeting at the corner of Fleet Street and Whitefriars, which was fine with Layton. He didn’t want to be seen with him around the Queen’s Palace, or anywhere else in Theatreland, as the West End theatre district was called.

Sighing, he handed Guest a plain white envelope, which the blackmailer stuffed in his pocket. He took out a cigarette and lit up, not bothering to offer Layton one. His next words were casual but pointed.

“You know, Dougie, London is a bloody expensive place to live. Even a pint costs a helluva lot more.”

“Yes, I know. I just moved here from Nottingham.”

“Then you know how tough it can be for a bloke to get by.”

“Especially a bloke that doesn’t wish to get a job.”

Guest’s thin lips quirked. “Honest work doesn’t suit me, Dougie. Maybe it’s in me blood. Me dad and his dad and me mum’s dad was all in the criminal line.”

“You inherited that inclination, Guest. I suppose you can’t fight nature. Just like you can’t fight your craving for small boys.”

Guest glared at Layton but kept his temper in check.

“Exactly. I knew me ol’ mate would understand.”

“But there’s plenty of big pickings here in London. A talented thief like you would do well. Like shooting fish in a barrel.”

“Oh, I’m reviewing my prospects, as they say. But I need some more working capital to set up.” Guest patted his pocket and took another long drag on the cigarette.

“I see. And you need some additional funding each month, eh?”

“That’s the ticket.”

“But a deal’s a deal. We agreed on twenty quid.”

“Forty.”

“Impossible.”

“You know why I asked you here?” Guest gestured expansively around. “Because Fleet Street is where all them London papers have their offices. See. The Daily Mail. The Daily Telegraph. All them would love to know that you’re in town, working right under their noses, at a bloody music hall, of all places.”

It was true; the Butcher of the West End’s whereabouts would sell a lot of papers. At least until people lost interest, Layton thought, as they always did.

“They’ll pay a pretty penny for that information, lad,” Guest said, pressing his case. “Or you could pay forty quid a month from now on.”

Layton smiled and pulled out a cigarette.

“Again, that’s quite unreasonable, Archie.”

“Sorry, Dougie. Forty, or your face will be on the front page of the Sunday Daily Mail. Think about it, mate. I’ll send a message as to where we’ll meet next.”

Layton threw down his cigarette, stamped it out, and watched as Guest walk down Fleet Street. There was a bounce to his step, like a man who was on top of the world.

The time had come. Layton knew what had to be done.

• • •

“Good to see ya, Doug. I was hopin’ we’d meet up again.”

Reggie Ash was a career criminal released from Mulcaster a year before Layton. A giant bear of a man with a shiny, bald head and light-blue eyes that almost seemed to twinkle, he didn’t look like he’d hurt a fly.

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