Lucius the Club | Page 8

me. It's already arranged.'
*
Sunday night was two days away, and it's a good job it wasn't longer, otherwise I would have probably lost my nerve. But two days was sufficient for me to be occupied.
I went and had a few drinks at the Girliebar Club, where I knew a lot of the staff anyway. And I made a point of chatting to them, so that they would remember that I'd been there. And next Monday morning they would realise why I'd been there.
I also got Mama to explain her famous alibi. It was to be provided by a Judge, no less. The Judge, who had letched after Mama for years, and was a fairly regular visitor to our house, was coming to dinner on Sunday night. At a certain point in the evening, I would discreetly retire, as I always did on those occasions, and leave him and Mama alone. I would go and 'watch television'. But in fact, I would go down the road and kill a man.
*
Sunday night came.
The Judge arrived, and we all chatted over the meal - as if nothing unusual was afoot. It struck me at the time how ridiculously easy that was to do. And I realised that the idea of killing a man had a remarkably calming effect. Chilling, in fact. I wasn't remotely nervous - I had gone well past that, and I was in total control of myself.
Then, at about half-past nine, I went into the livingroom, where the television set was, and the Judge and Mama were left alone. In due course, once I was comfortably out of the way, Mama would take the Judge upstairs.
This was an arrangement which had been in force for some time. The Judge was an elderly man, not remotely attractive, but Mama provided him with certain services. As she often remarked, you never know when a High Court Judge is going to come in useful.
By ten o'clock Mama and the Judge had disappeared, so I put on my scarf and coat, picked up the loaded gun, and let myself out of the house.
I was wearing a mackintosh, one of those 1950s versions which had slits beside the diagonal pockets, so that a gentleman could put his hand through and extract a handkerchief, or some money, from his jacket pocket, without troubling to unbutton the coat. The shotgun was held against my right leg. My famous silver stick I left at home.
It was quite dark, of course, and Soho was deadly quiet. Sundays in Soho were quite different then from what they are today. In those days very few places opened on Sunday nights - the law didn't allow it - so the streets were silent and empty.
It wasn't far to the Girliebar Club. Three hundred yards, if that. And I don't remember seeing anyone. No one I knew, certainly.
When I reached the club entrance I paused. But the street was empty. I was wearing gloves, by the way. At that stage. And I tried the door.
I suppose I had kind of half hoped that it might be locked, in spite of what Mama had told me. But it wasn't. So I let myself in and closed it quietly behind me. Then I took off the gloves.
The stairs were dimly lit with bare 60-watt light bulbs on each landing. Stone stairs. So I had to be quiet.
I made my way up slowly, and as I went I began to feel as if I were in some kind of dream. I remember touching the stone wall to reassure myself of its solidity.
On the top floor there was no sign of life whatever. Only the closed door of the club. The famous Girliebar, before which many a provincial punter, about to see his first live stripper, had paused and trembled with anticipation.
I paused too, but then I told myself to get on with it.
I unbuttoned the coat, took hold of the shotgun properly, and tried the door.
It opened, so I went in.
The bar was an L-shaped room, and after my recent visit I knew where the poker players would be. Round the corner. And now I could hear a murmuring of voices, which meant that I could forget that last faint hope that tonight they had decided not to bother playing after all.
I went around the corner and found them all there. They were having a bit of a laugh, because the last hand had seen somebody do something foolish. But they stopped laughing when I appeared.
One of them saw me. I'm not sure now who it was. But it wasn't Billy. 'Wotcher, Luce,' the man said. 'Wot you doin' 'ere?'
I ignored him. And now they were all looking at me. I raised the shotgun and they all saw it. They went silent and still.
Billy Marwell was