Читать книгу The Wicked Mr Hall - The Memoirs of the Butler Who Loved to Kill - Roy Archibald Hall - Страница 9

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RICH PICKINGS

Living the life that I led on my short breaks in London provided its own opportunities. On one occasion, after coming out of the Turkish baths in Jermyn Steet, I stood on the steps and hailed a taxi. A well-dressed man a few years older than myself appeared next to me just as my cab drew up. He asked me where I was going, and whether he might share the taxi? His destination was Belgrave Mews, mine Knightsbridge. I agreed, and we both climbed in. On the journey I could feel his eyes on me, I could now recognize a gay ‘come on’ at twenty feet. As he got out of the car, he asked me whether I’d like to come inside for drinks – I accepted. We drank and chatted for a while. The window to his neighbours’ flat was opposite his own bedroom window, with a gap of only a few feet in between. I steered the conversation on to the close proximity of the two homes. Eager to please me, he told me all about his neighbours, rich people, very quiet, no trouble at all. They were keen theatre-goers, and he was to be their guest at the opening night of a forthcoming West End show.

As the drinks went down, the eye contact and his real intentions became more evident. He went through to the bedroom and after a minute, he called me. He was lying naked, face down on the bed. In his hand was a bushel of twigs, not unlike a witch’s broom. He asked me to beat him with them. Lifting my arm, I started to thrash him. Sado-masochism does nothing for me, I find it crazy. The man on the bed obviously didn’t – he kept screaming ‘Harder, harder’. I beat him until my arm was tired, quickly had sex with him, then left. On the way out I noted the types of locks on his door.

When ‘the man who liked to be spanked with twigs’ was attending the opening night of London’s latest musical, I entered his flat. Exiting through his bedroom window I climbed along the roof, crossed from his building to the neighbours via a parapet on the adjoining wall. I entered his neighbours house through a bedroom window, and robbed them – a most satisfactory evening.

On my return to Glasgow I pondered new ways to make a living. The estate agents scam had run its course and was now too dangerous. I had a bit of capital and, after some deliberation, decided to open a second-hand shop. I found suitable premises in Ibrox. My mother was keen on my suggestion that she become manageress, and I set about visiting markets and auctions buying cheap stock.

At one auction, I made the acquaintance of a small, dapper, middle-aged woman. I could see by her clothes and jewellery that she had class. Her name was Esther Henry. I had heard of her before, she was rumoured to be friends with Edward the VII’s mother, old Queen Mary and she owned Edinburgh’s most prestigious antique shop. We chatted for while and I flirted and flattered her. I knew she was rich. I gave my name as Roy Salvernon, and hinted that my family were involved in shipping. As I had hoped, she gave me her card and invited me to visit her shop. I smiled at her and told her I most definitely would pay her a visit. I didn’t know on that first meeting that our association would go on for many years. Robbing Esther would eventually give me my first taste of notoriety.

Soon the shop in Ibrox was up and running, all clothes were laundered, ironed, and hung on rails. The bric-à-brac was cleaned, polished and nicely displayed. Trade flourished immediately. Within a few months I had acquired the lease of the empty shop next door, which gave me two windows to display my wares and trade increased again. Because of long-nurtured criminal contacts, goods that would not be taken to most shops would end up on my counter, with young thieves asking for a cheap price. I took full advantage of being on ‘the other side of the ‘fence’, so to speak. By the time I celebrated my twenty-first birthday, I was a successful, legitimate businessman.

A young Jewish doctor came into the shop one day to sell me some odds and ends. We were of a similar type, and within days were socialising together. He would give me the names and addresses of former patients who had recently died, and it was on his advice that I started visiting bereaved families. When people are in a state of grief their business acumen suffers considerably. I would make an astute offer for the deceased’s belongings. With the air of a professional mourner, I would urge their relatives to get rid of all sad memories. The money that I gave them could be spent on the living. Many useful acquisitions were gained in this way, and the stock of my shop continued to rise.

My sexual appetite has always been voracious. My doctor friend was homosexual and he introduced me to Benzedrine, an amphetamine that would keep me awake for hours on end. With seemingly endless energy I would make love to him all night long. Madame Vogely was a friend of the doctor’s and soon became a friend of mine. Even allowing for my sexual excesses, my association with the Vogely family still stands out in my memory. The Madame was in her fifties, her daughter twenty-one, and her son nineteen. In one twenty-four hour period, I ‘serviced’ the mother during the night. Then the next morning, after she had left the house to go shopping, her daughter, who brought me breakfast in bed, enquired whether or not I liked only older women. I told her to get in beside me and see. She did and by the time she got out she knew the answer. After her departure I showered and, wearing only a bathrobe, started to shave. The nineteen-year-old son then entered the room, and while I finished shaving he went on his knees and took me in his mouth. The Vogelys were very much a ‘family affair’.

In spite of the continued success of the shop, it began to feel like a millstone round my neck. The day-to-day running of it was left more and more to my mother. Occasionally I would rob somewhere just to keep my hand in. Crime and sex made me feel alive. An ordinary job, even if it was my own business, just left me feeling trapped.

Every few weeks I would travel south, and enjoy London’s gay scene. I eventually got it together with Terence Rattigan. To have a man whom the Queen would eventually knight willingly go on his knees before you is a good feeling. I slept with the people society gossip columns wrote about. Today, sitting alone in my prison cell, it gives me pleasure to think about it. It is good to remember that my life hasn’t always been as empty as it is now.

It wasn’t often that customers came into the shop and invited me to rob them, but the Shorts stand out in my memory for doing just that. True, they didn’t actually invite me to steal their belongings but, to a man like myself, if someone fairly wealthy lets you know that they will have a room full of silver gifts, and they tell you where they will be at a certain time on a certain date, they might as well have asked me to take it. The Shorts were a well-known theatrical couple, the parents of Jimmy Logan, a well-known Scottish comedian of the time, and Annie Ross the jazz singer. They also had a daughter Ella, who had emigrated to America and become a Broadway star. Ella would send her parents fur coats and other luxurious items, which were easier to obtain in America than here. What Mrs Short had no use for, she would sell to me. She became a regular customer and, as her twenty-fifth wedding anniversary loomed, she told me and my mother what a grand affair it was going to be. She gave me the time and place of the party, which was to be held in one of Glasgow’s finest hotels. On the evening of the celebration, I broke into their house and stole all the anniversary gifts. The twenty-fifth is traditionally ‘silver’, and I was quite sure that a couple like the Shorts would indeed be given only genuine silver gifts. One of the mementoes that I stole was a solid silver cigarette case given to them by Sir Harry Lauder, who gave the world the caricature of a Scotsman being a kiltwearing, drunken skinflint carrying a wobbly walking stick. The Shorts continued to patronise the shop, and I was never questioned or suspected of being the thief.

During the summer of 1945 the War ended. Everybody, myself included, was in high spirits. I decided to close the shop, and celebrated by going to Perth and robbing a large house. Among the items I stole that day were a jade and diamond necklace and earrings. Jade was unknown to me, I had never robbed it before. Guessing that these two pieces were valuable I decided to sell them in London. I bought my usual first-class rail ticket and headed south.

The two assistants in Benson & Co seemed unsure about what to do and the elder of the pair disappeared into the manager’s office. As the seconds ticked by I became more and more uneasy. My instincts were now on edge and I felt I should leave, but they had my jewels. I had come a long way to leave empty-handed. A well-dressed man wearing a bowler hat came in, and walked straight into the manager’s office. I had been a thief for six years and during that time I had learned not to panic and never to flap. But distinguishing between panic and following your intuition can be a fine line. My instincts said leave, cut your losses. My experience said stay cool, don’t leave without the jewels or money. That day I paid the price for not listening to my inner voice – I would have twelve months in the hellhole that is Barlinie to rue that decision.

The bowler-hatted gent was the first to emerge from the office. He came straight over to me and told me he was a police officer from West End Central. He asked for ID and I tried to give him a story. He stared at me impassively. My one fear, the fear that dogs every criminal, was coming true right before my eyes. I was cornered by the police. There is an old saying ‘What goes around, comes around’. I knew that the circle of my early life was then complete.

My next seven days were spent in a prison cell in Wormwood Scrubs. My parents made the four hundred-mile journey to visit me. When I appeared at Marlborough Street Magistrates Court, the Prosecutor told the Judge that he was offering no evidence in this case, as two Scottish police officers were waiting to re-arrest me. At seven o’clock that evening the two plain clothes detectives ushered me into a reserved compartment of the London to Glasgow train leaving from Euston Station. This was my first ‘pinch’, I had no criminal record yet. The detectives viewed me as a young criminal unlikely to be trouble to them. Showing me the handcuffs, they asked me whether I was going to behave myself. I assured them I would. As a boy in Glasgow I had heard many frightening tales of Barlinie, and my brief taste of the Scrubs had done nothing to allay my fears. I had encountered a menacing and brutal atmosphere, previously unknown to me. With each mile my dread increased.

I asked to go to the toilet just as the train was pulling into Carlisle. The Scottish border country loomed. From inside the small loo I could see the shapes of bodies boarding the train. When you are in a stressful situation, your only solace is in stolen quiet moments when you pray for strength or release. I stood in the toilet and for a few minutes I breathed deeply and wished I could relive the last few days. I cursed myself for not running from that shop, I cursed myself for taking that fateful journey south a week ago.

When I stepped out of the toilet, Carlisle station was receding into the distance and the train pushed forward into the black northern night. My two captors were standing further down the corridor, we were separated by busy luggage-laden passengers anxious for seating and rest. I must have been in a daze, because it wasn’t until I saw the panic in the eyes of the detectives at our enforced separation that the possible significance of the moment hit me. My attention and theirs was on the two middle-aged women who stood between us. Their suitcases prevented me from stepping towards them, or them towards me. To this day I cannot remember having a clear thought that I would jump. But that is what I did. I felt the cold night air and the fear of the unknown as I threw open the door and leapt into the freezing void. The thrust propelled me forward and down, the ground was soft and wet. I lay face down on the earth, my heart was beating so loudly it was difficult to hear the train. I was listening for the screech of brakes and the shouting voices that would mean the chase. I lifted my head to separate the pounding of my heart from the rhythmic thunder of the train wheels. I dared not stand. I fought to control my breathing. In what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was just seconds I realised the roll of metal on metal was becoming more distant. The train continued its journey. I was free.