Sowerbutt Quiz 28/04/13

1/ What is the name of Sowerbutt's favourite whiskey?
2/ At which famous hotel did Percy Faith and his girlfriend Maud work?
3/ Where does Polly's mother live?
4/ What is the name of the landlord of the Leather Bottle in East Hyde?
5/ What is the name of the SS Brigadefuhrer who landed near East Hyde?
6/  Where did the family of Jack Shakes originate from?
7/ What is the name of the champagne that Sowerbutt obtains for Winston Churchill?
8/ Where does Pop store black market food?
9/ Describe Churchill's favourite slippers.
10/ In which street does Brendan Bracken live?
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Sowerbutt's Nightmare

East India Dock Road was almost deserted by the time Sowerbutt and Spaghetti got there. A couple of familiar buildings had disappeared, flames licking at the ruins and rubble strewn across the road. A trolleybus leant drunkenly against a line of warehouses, the blast from a nearby bomb pushing it sideways. A couple of bodies on the pavement covered in bloody sheets were evidence of the mounting death toll. A solitary ambulance zigzagged along the road, bell ringing, heading for Poplar Hospital. As the two men looked around, the whistles of bombs falling and the steady crump, crump of explosions could be heard; rubble and smoke shooting into the sky. Daylight had become a black and yellow pall. The sky over the Docks was blood-red, criss-crossed by huge plumes of thick black smoke. The warm afternoon sun had disappeared; a commentary on the future, Sowerbutt thought, shaking his long hair.

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Sowerbutt's Parcel

Brendan Bracken frowned. “I need you or your men to escort a certain gentleman from the green fields of Hertfordshire to Dublin in the next couple of days. Fishguard and then ferry across to Rosslare is the shortest route. Ferries are running most of the time, unless the U-boats are about. There’s a catch which is why I’m prepared to pay you another £5,000 in small notes.

“First, you have to spring our friend from where he is staying. He’s being looked after by a couple of young idiots, so that job shouldn’t be hard and he’ll come willingly.  On the way to Dublin, you will be waylaid and your guest abducted. You must put on a bit of a show, not enough to stop the bully boys but enough to be convincing. Some fisticuffs, perhaps. There will be two of them, but they may well hire some friends.”
“Pass the parcel, Mr Bracken. I always enjoyed that game as a kid.”
Bracken nodded. “Something like that. Last time we met Sorbay, I mentioned the Official Secrets Act of 1911. That still applies, particularly as the gentleman you are escorting is a Jerry who is kindly helping us out with a few matters."
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Sowerbutt's Coffee

"You want me to lose all my customers, Mr Sorbay? Every time you visit, you order more clothes and my other customers have to wait. They will go to my slap-dash rivals across the road,” the dapper little man with brilliantined black hair smiled.

“No Jack, I am wearing your recent work as you can see. Dressed to kill some would say,” Sowerbutt said.
“I hope I am still a friend, not your enemy. But look at your beautiful jacket. It took me hours to cut and sew  and now a scratch on the leather of your sleeve. You must oil it like I showed you. Nobody ever listens to me.”
Sowerbutt laughed. He enjoyed his visits to Jack Shakes, born Yacob Shakhnarovich, in his shop off Whitechapel Road for the conversation almost as much as the workmanship. Jack, his parents and sister had fled Moscow in 1917 after the Russian Tsar abdicated. Most of the Russian exiles settled in Paris, waiting for the Romanov family to be restored to the Imperial throne. Jack’s father had no false hopes, starting a tailoring business in Whitechapel which quickly won a reputation across the City.
“Then you are here to sell me material, Mr Sorbay? I only deal with reputable suppliers who give me 60 days’ credit, you are a cash man. But that bolt of tweed you sent me the other day was superb, some of the best I have seen. I have made up some of it into a suit for a VIP. Even he, with his spreading stomach, looks good.”
“I simply dropped by for a cup of your excellent coffee, Jack. Or are refreshments only for your paying customers?”
“No peace for a poor tailor,” Jack muttered as he disappeared into the small kitchen, returning minutes later with two large cups of coffee and a plate of fresh Mandelbrot.
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Sowerbutt's Rules

One-Line, a giant of a man, held the skinny youth by the neck at arm’s length, his legs kicking in the air. “You’re strangling me, mister, I can’t breathe,” gasped the 17-year-old. “I haven’t done nothing wrong, I was just passing by.”

His groaning accomplice was lying flat on the pavement, Tipper’s knee firmly in his back.
“Check the suitcase, Nero,” Sowerbutt snapped. “Let’s see what wonder-boy is selling.”
Opening the locks of the battered suitcase., Nero said. “Petrol coupons, guv. Hundreds of them. And a few cards of knicker elastic.”
Sowerbutt walked over to the skinny youth, dangling from One-Line’s arm. The 17-year-old’s face was pasty white.
“You know the rules, son. I’m always ready to talk business with anyone. But no-one comes onto the Family’s patch without permission. If you are too young to know that, you shouldn’t be out alone on the street.”
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Sowerbutt's Journey

“The Jerry bombers are going to come for London and the Docks soon and the RAF can’t stop them. That means we will get it in the neck. What about that raid last weekend, the City and Millwall copped it. Just the start. I saw it in Guernica, death and destruction. You can’t imagine what it’s like.”

It was rare for Sowerbutt to show emotion, but he looked at his lady across the table, red hair and grey eyes twinkling. “I’ll do everything I can to help our lads and lasses who want to remain here. But you are not staying, I will not have you hurt.”
“Both of us are going then, Jimmy," Polly said "As you said to me once, I can’t leave you here alone, I don’t know what you might get up to.”
Sowerbutt smiled, he had been wondering how to tell Polly that they both should leave and soon. Dublin had not worked out, his new plans would.
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Sowerbutt In Ireland

Sowerbutt sipped his tea and ate the slices of honey cake that Polly had bought from the Refreshment Rooms in High Bob as the locals called Poplar High Street.

“We enjoyed our break in Dublin, didn’t we?”
“Yes, when we eventually got there, James,” said Polly, who had not been the same since their return from the Emerald Isle. She was worried about the talk of bombings and the imminent German invasion. His assurances about his Blackshirt contacts were one thing, but she and the girls could be hurt in the fighting.
“But it was disappointing, I admit,” Sowerbutt said. “With the Church there threatening eternal damnation, there’s just not the business. I checked the books for that half-share in the brothel we were offered, but it didn't add up. Not much business on the side either. The port is tiny and nothing much is coming in.
“Still it was good to catch up with the Blueshirts I knew in Spain and we’ll be getting some deliveries soon of Irish beef and butter.”
Polly smiled: “Be glad of some decent food. The rations are hopeless, that is if you can find anything. It is alright those politicians talking about fighting the Jerries on the beaches. We’re wasting away. Talk about slim figures, walking skeletons more like. Thank goodness for those tins of steak you got hold of.”
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Sowerbutt's Expansion

"We can buy a factory doing war work," Polly said. "Plenty of contracts around. A factory manager over at Dunstable - one of our regulars - says it is straightforward. They inspect your machinery and give you a contract. Good prices and you get the government cheque when you deliver. His only headache is that everything is needed yesterday."
Sowerbutt nodded, he had always thought of himself as a businessman but not with a factory.
"Farming too. You know how short food is and Cocker says his family in Essex are having real problems. No men with the call up and young girls having to do the ploughing. We can hide away our lads with call-up papers on the farm."
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Sowerbutt's Discovery

Sowerbutt held up the last file in the Ambassador's safe; it was unlabelled. More financial papers from the Kennedy business empire, no doubt. Opening the file, Sowerbutt could not make out the typed words on the flimsy sheets. He held his pencil torch closer to the file.
He muffled a gasp and turned to Spaghetti. The first sheet was typed in German, as was the second sheet and the third. Each bore the distinctive scrawled signature of Rudolf Hess.

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Sowerbutt's Talent

You could feel the numbers clicking rather than hear them, Sowerbutt thought as he sat in front of the Chatwood Duplex safe in Ambassador Kennedy's study. Tipper was standing by the partly-open door, watching the low-lit corridor. The sound of voices and the clinking of glasses could be heard from the room opposite, earlier the noises had been more basic. Spaghetti knelt in front of the mahogany desk presented by Queen Victoria to Ambassador Schenk in the 1870s, recognising the strong ties between the two countries. Privately, it had been a thank-you for the Ambassador's specially-printed rulebook for draw poker which the Queen and her Ladies-in-Waiting sometimes enjoyed. Her Majesty also had a soft spot for military men and Ambassador Schenk, a former Union general, had fought with distinction at Bull Run.
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Sowerbutt's Trade

Nero said: “New tramp in the East India, Mr Sorbay. Came in from Lisbon of all places with a load of Spanish iron and tungsten. Would have gone straight to the bottom if the Jerries had caught her. Ran an Eyetie flag until she got to the Channel. Any road, the crew have got some crates of tinned sardines to sell, they want English cigarettes or cash. Lovely on a bit of toast, I’d say, the sardines.”

Sowerbutt looked serious. “Do the deal when we get back, Nero. We’ve got plenty of Players to trade which can be in the Smoke in a couple of hours. Store the fish at Pop’s place, we’ve cleared out all the tinned steak he had.”
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Sowerbutt's Joke

Sowerbutt said: “The Jerry was swooning over poor Tipper. Hate to think what would have happened if he had tried anything on. I asked Mr Bracken about a medal for our Tipper - duty above and beyond. A frosty stare was all I got.

“So I said I’d make enquiries about an Iron Cross. The stare grew even frostier and he reminded me for the umpteenth time about the Official Secrets laws. No sense of humour, that bloke.”
Laughing, Spaghetti said: “Does it mean peace, guv? The Jerry’s visit, like.”
“I don’t know. I’d have my doubts with Winnie in charge,” Sowerbutt said. “They were talking about the bombing, apparently, let’s hope that finishes once and for all. It’s no good for the Smoke is it?"
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Sowerbutt's Concern

“I went back to see that Irish tart, Mr Sorbay. The one who lives near where those Haganah people were holed up. I took a half-jack of gin with me and I thought she might be a bit more accommodating. She laid into the gin, but I still didn’t get anywhere,” Nero said.

“Anyway, to cut a long story short, she’s shacked up with this big Irish bloke while her old man is stuck in the Jerry PoW camp. Eamonn is his name. She said people take advantage of him, especially some of the IRA supporters in Luton. She said a few of them are violent lads. Bombs and stuff.
“After a couple of glasses, she told me that first thing this morning, he was up at Luton Hoo with some IRA bloke who she doesn’t trust. She says he’s dangerous, a real mean bastard. She is scared, doesn’t want Eamonn to be locked up like her old man.”
Sowerbutt was on his feet, grabbing his leather jacket and strapping on his shoulder holster. “Christ, Nero. An IRA attack on Luton Hoo. An attack on the army base or do they know who is staying there? Why would they want to kill our VIP? Perhaps it‘s the Haganah again, pulling the strings.”
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Sowerbutt's Passenger

The drive from the airfield to Eastern Command HQ at Luton Hoo had gone without a hitch. Missionary rode a motor-bike 10 yards behind the Ford A-Model with one of Spaghetti's cousins in the sidecar. Both men were armed with revolvers, a shotgun was stashed by the cousin's feet. Sowerbutt sat in the back of the Ford and tried at first to make conversation with the visitor. But the man sat stiffly on the bench-seat, his sunken eyes staring out of the car window, not that there was much to see in the darkness. Only the occasional glimpse of light with the blackout.
Underneath his flight overalls which were left at the hangar, the visitor wore the black uniform of an Oberstgruppenführer in the SS which Sowerbutt had seen on the Pathe News was some sort of special bodyguard. He carried a black leather briefcase bearing a small golden swastika.
Nero slowed the Ford at the guard post at the main entrance to Luton Hoo. From the faint lights flickering inside the huts, they could see a beefy Redcap sergeant standing in the road, a Lee Enfield rifle slung over his shoulder, his right hand held up in a halt sign.
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Sowerbutt's Trademark

“You won’t get away with this, Sorbay, you bastard,” the hawk-faced man with a shock of black hair said. His right eye was already starting to close.

Sowerbutt nodded to One-Line, whose palm connected with the teacher‘s face with a loud smack. One-Line’s huge fist could kill a man at close range, but Sowerbutt had told his friend to be gentle.
Hardly pausing for breath, the hawk-faced man, known among the membership of the Stepney Communist Party for his long-winded speeches, spat out: “You’ve broken the truce. We’ll be after you ten-fold, we’ll sweep you Blackshirt bastards from the streets of Poplar like horse dung. Clear the place of you traitor Fascists, once and for all.”
Sowerbutt held his hand up to One-Line and leant down towards the teacher, bound securely to a chair in the blackened ruins of an East India Dock Road warehouse.
He opened his razor-sharp clasp-knife and began shaving stubble from the shaking teacher’s face. His icy voice said: “Traitors, are we? Haven’t seen you Reds do much for the war effort so far. Uncle Joe and Adolf kissing and cuddling together.
“You Reds broke the truce, sending your bully boys in to threaten my people.”
He ran the needle-sharp point of the blade gently across the teacher’s exposed throat, leaving a thin red line in its wake. It was a trademark he left on selected victims.
“Nobody touches my Family. Nobody. Especially a woman,”Sowerbutt shouted.
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Sowerbutt's Mission

“You will be pleased to know that our trip to view the lovely countryside around Barton in Clay was not in vain. We are expecting a visitor in the next few days, on Tuesday October 15 to be precise.

“Your people will seal off the airfield and surrounds as we discussed and escort our visitor from the heavens down to Luton Hoo. Twenty-minute drive, no more. Get yourself some extra coupons. Be good if your boys could drop by the airfield in the next day or so and find some places to burrow in.”
Sowerbutt nodded: “I’ll pop back to the Smoke, if the trains are running, and organise a few of the lads for you, John.

“You’ll meet your guest and do the honours, I presume. Or Mr Bracken?”

The military man smiled thinly. “Rather you did it yourself, old boy. There’ll be a small RAF team in the control tower and looking after the lights and so on. But they’ll be keeping themselves to themselves. You might like to pick up the parcel by yourselves and deliver it to us down at Eastern Command HQ at Luton Hoo where we’ll take over.”
Sowerbutt swallowed the rest of his Old Bushmills. “Am I being set up as the patsy if anything goes wrong?”
“Certainly not, old boy, wouldn't dream of it. You know the Old Man has a soft spot for you."
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Sowerbutt's Local

“Impressed on all my friends, old boy, that Luton has the best pubs. Rustic charm, good whiskey and friendly natives,” the military man smiled, sipping his Old Bushmills and glancing around the small bar.

“What do they say, John? Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” Sowerbutt replied. The two men were sitting at a bar table in The Engine in the centre of Luton, Tipper stood near the door to Bute Street, quietly drinking a pint. “They don’t stick their noses in here and the landlord’s missus is a top hand in the kitchen. What more do you want?”
“You are right, Sorbay. If the meals my man produces are anything to go by, I should send him up here for a few lessons. Remembering some of his exploits in the service, he’d do jolly well with your clientele here."
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Sowerbutt's Partner

“He’s retiring to Spain when the fighting is finished or so he says. Wants to end his days in the sunshine,” Sowerbutt shook his head and poured out three glasses of Old Bushmills. “Making money hand over fist. Medical exemptions by the dozen, petrol coupons, ration books, ID cards, even passports for the Jewish lads. You name it, the Scribe is raking it in.”

He put cubes of ice into the drinks and handed glasses to Spaghetti and Tipper. “I was wondering about going into partnership with him at one stage, but he doesn’t need us now. Says he’s working six days a week, nights too on well-paid rush jobs.”
Tipper sipped his whiskey. “He’s training up a couple of lads, I hear, guv. Perhaps we could pinch one of them.”
“Good point, Tipper, we’ll keep an eye on that,” Sowerbutt said.
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Sowerbutt's Wool

Nero nodded. “You asked me about the wool, Mr Sorbay. I found a warehouse where some was being stored. We’re buying up the whole Australian clip as they call it, these days. Any road, it went up a couple of nights ago. Most of the wool was a bonfire in a flash, what a stink. Couple of rooms at the back were alright. One or two bales singed but the rest were fine. It would do the trick for what we want.

“There were a few union blokes when I went there and they’d been told to charge sixpence a pound for the bales. No way, I said, that’s half what the wool sells for officially. I told the union bloke we weren’t going to pay that. The wool wasn’t theirs and they couldn’t stop us taking it.”
It was very quiet in the office behind the brothel’s downstairs bar. Nero could not keep still, his legs rising up and down and his hands were squeezing his tweed cap.
“The big union lad picked me up and put me against a wall. He said the wool was sixpence a pound, take it or leave it. He didn’t care who I worked for, the TGWU ran the Docks.”
Sowerbutt’s voice was sub-zero. “Did he hit you, Nero?”
“No, Mr Sorbay. He just told me to clear off and he’d sort me out if I showed my face again.”
Sowerbutt’s palm hit the desk with a resounding smack. “I will not have the Family threatened,” he shouted.
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Sowerbutt's Diplomacy

“What about the job you’re planning, guv?” Spaghetti asked.  “Two or three of us, Spaghetti, in a few days’ time at the new American Embassy. I’ve sent Nero down to Grosvenor Square to keep a look-out. Polly checked out the layout as far as she could - selling fancy hats to the embassy ladies, can you believe? She didn’t see inside Kennedy’s study, but we know where it is," Sowerbutt said.

“Nero was saying the security is not great. They’ve got a couple of fancy bovver boys walking around inside, looking the part. He didn’t think they’d be a worry. Bit of cold steel and they’ll go to water.”
He sipped his Old Bushmills. “We’ll do his study, that’s where he’d keep anything private, stuff he doesn’t want anyone else to see. His office would be the straight stuff, official reports, paperwork from the State Department and the like. I checked with Bracken and he’d be interested in any letters or papers from neutrals or even the Jerries. Apparently they do over his diplomatic bags, but you can’t keep frisking the diplomatic blokes coming in and out."
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Sowerbutt's Future

“Just like the old days, guv. Sitting here in the office, sharing a glass and planning some trouble. Can’t stay too long, if you don’t mind, guv. I’ll be in the dog house with Annie otherwise. Pop is making Stargazey Pie with the sardines. I’ve got to take round a couple of bottles of pale ale.”

Sowerbutt smiled at the idea of his tough lieutenant, who dropped Reds and roaring boys without a second thought, at the beck and call of pretty Annie. “There’ll be no more good old days, Spaghetti, whoever wins. If Winnie comes out on top, the shortages will stay and I suppose we’ll have some business as long as we can get supplies. They’ll start fixing up the bombed houses and putting up new ones - we might go into the building game. If the Jerries win, we’ll all be speaking German though you’ve had a few lessons. We’ll have to drive on the right and get used to their rules and regulations. King Edward back at the Palace, they say he’s a Jerry-lover.”
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Sowerbutt's Supplies

"Don’t suppose it will be much of a Christmas this year, especially if the bombs are still falling," Polly said. "But the lardy-dahs have plenty of money and are ordering hats for wives and girlfriends. And the ladies all want something special to wear when they visit their social circle. I don’t what we’ll do when clothes rationing comes in, everybody is talking about it.

“Our real problem is supplies. The wholesalers just can’t get enough stuff. We need wool and cotton.”
Sowerbutt nodded. “New area for us, but it shouldn’t be too hard to find. I’ll have a hunt round the Docks to see what's about and what’s coming in. Or if the worst comes to the worst, the lads and I can pay a trip up north to the mills and see what they’ve got handy. Your suppliers, the factories, won’t ask any questions?”
Polly beamed: “Nobody does these days, Jimmy. You take what you can get and keep quiet. You never know what’s going to happen tomorrow."
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Sowerbutt's Return

Sowerbutt was whistling, “We’ll Meet Again”, Vera Lynn’s popular song of the previous year, as he reached the Cheapside property. He was hoping Polly would be home from her trip to Bedford, but there was no sign of her as he turned the key in the street door.

He was looking forward to some time with his lovely lady; a quiet meal at the George Hotel, round the corner in George Street, was the plan. The manager, who was delighted with his call-up exemption papers and spare ration books, assured Sowerbutt that he would keep his eyes out for any business opportunities. The chef was past the call-up age but still passionate about his cooking. His liver dumplings with fried onions and roast breast of lamb with mint stuffing were legendary across Bedfordshire. Sowerbutt licked his lips thinking about the chef’s famous spiced apple fool.

Smiling, he opened the door to the upstairs flat to be greeted by two high-heel shoes followed by the local, thankfully thin, telephone directory. “Ooh, you bastard, I’m running out of things to throw at you,” Polly shouted. Fending off a succession of red, black and gold cushions from the settee, he made his way into the lounge-room. He never knew what to expect with Polly, anger or amore. He might as well toss a coin.
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Sowerbutt's Shotgun

Sowerbutt noticed out of the corner of his eye a clump of ferns rustling a few feet away. A ginger head slowly appeared and looked around followed by the black snout of a Tommy-gun. Another second and the .45 bullets would be thudding into his men on the track.

Sowerbutt and his sawn-off Ilsley shotgun were as one as a Spanish Nationalist Army instructor had taught him. He fired both 12-bore barrels almost simultaneously, the crashes echoing through the woods. At close range, the concentration of shotgun pellets found their mark.
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Sowerbutt's Fight

The huge fist swung around the trunk of the oak tree with the force of an LMS express train. Eamonn Kelly had no chance, the punch connected with his jaw and the big Irishman was lifted off his feet, falling back onto the file of armed men he was leading through the woods outside Luton Hoo. He was out for the count as was his cousin from Donegal beside him whose head received the full blow of Kelly’s elbow as he fell clumsily.

The small red-haired man immediately behind Kelly was a veteran of countless ambushes with the scars to prove it. Free Staters, Black-and-Tans, Special Branch and rival IRA groups had all tried repeatedly to eliminate Frank Richards. A split-second before One-Line’s fist connected, Richards threw himself into the thick broad buckler fern, spraying the oak tree and surrounding bushes with the Tommy-gun he had stolen from St Lucia Barracks in Omagh. Bullets hit two of Spaghetti’s cousins. One scratched an arm; the other lodging in thigh muscle, the cousin toppling to the ground in agony.
Sowerbutt, concealed behind a holly bush, watched in slow motion as One-Line charged the IRA line, bellowing like an angry bull. He had seen his friend run wild before; outside a pub in Whitechapel where some Reds drank. Three men had tumbled to the pavement like nine-pins, the other three fled. Inside the pub was pandemonium as drinkers dropped their pints on the floor, jumped the bar and raced through the kitchen, trying to escape the wild man.
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Sowerbutt's Ambush

“Why can’t the soldier boys shoot them, guv?” Missionary asked.

“We’re being hired for good money to be unofficial, Missionary. If our soldiers shoot Irish boys, it upsets the authorities in Dublin and it will affect our army recruitment over there,” Sowerbutt smiled.
“We’ll lay an ambush on the first track. The element of surprise should do the trick. Spaghetti plus four can look after the second track just in case. Spaghetti, get across to us if you hear any shots or shouting -  as long as you are all quiet. Three of you stay on the main road as a mobile reserve and also take care of their driver.”
Sowerbutt took a sip of his tea. “You all take your shooters, Spaghetti will check them. We’ve brought up some sawn-offs from the Smoke, just in case. Knives, coshes, knuckles, whatever you normally have.
“The go is fists and coshes. Deck them with your first hit or the second at the most. Only shoot if absolutely necessary and then make sure you get the mark. Dead men don’t point fingers. Nero will have rope in the side-car, so we’ll gag and truss them. Afterwards, we’ll disappear and the stoppers or the Redcaps can take over and make up whatever story they want."
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Sowerbutt's Supplies

Sowerbutt sat on a crate packed with copper wire that Old Man Shapiro, or Hercule Poirot as the locals knew him, had planned to send to the port of Riga in Russian-occupied Latvia. He was presently negotiating a deal for a couple of tons of copper wire with the de Havilland factory in Hatfield for a new hush-hush twin-engine bomber that the Air Ministry had ordered.

Like most companies, the factory was battling with the bureaucracy to obtain official allocations of raw materials.

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Sowerbutt's Patriotism

The scrawny little man hopped nervously from foot to foot, wringing his tweed cap in his hands. “It is this way, Mr Sorbay. A lot of valuable goods being stored at Shapiro’s. You wouldn’t see them in any inventory, I know, but I watched them being carted in at Regent’s Canal Basin. Be a shame to lose all that good stuff in a bonfire.”

Nero said: “Crates of machine parts and instruments, medicines, shooters and ammo, sacks of chemicals, bundles of copper wire, ingots. Serious money there. All ready to load on the neutral ships sailing to the Baltic, like.”
Sowerbutt nodded: “Excellent, Nero. Did you see anything that I asked about?”
“Yes, Mr Sorbay. A big black car with diplomatic plates. Humber, it was. I got quite close, they didn’t see me. They were speaking a funny lingo. Polish or Russian, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Old Man Shapiro is being a naughty boy smuggling scarce supplies out to the Russkies. We need the stuff for our war effort, our patriotic duty is to rescue it,” Sowerbutt laughed.
“We’ll create a diversion in that empty building next door to give his lads an excuse to leg it. We’ll tie him up, strip the place and load up our lorries, then drop a match. The silly bastard can hardly complain to the stoppers about his stuff being nicked, can he? It doesn’t exist."
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Sowerbutt's Message

“We must finalise plans for our Russkie friends. Small measures are a waste of time. The heavens need to fall in for their numbskull masters in Moscow to get the message. Whatever it takes to protect the Family.”

“You’ve got something worked out, guv?” Spaghetti asked.
Sowerbutt nodded: “We need the latest pair of Russkies to come and see Madame Komarovski again. Then a sequence of major disasters. Disaster after disaster after disaster. I’ll talk to the Scribe about forging something that will send the Russkies scurrying round to bother Madame Komarovski. Bees to the honey pot. Then we’ll tail and top them.
“We’ll drop one of them off near that club in Soho with some white powder in his pocket. Some of the Fleet Street lads will be there, no doubt. The other we’ll put outside Martins Bank in The Strand, a shooter in his hand and a diagram of the main safe in his pocket.”
Spaghetti grinned, the guv knew his stuff.
“We’ll have an encore. Shapiro’s warehouse in Millwall. Old Hercule has made a good few bob, shipping in bullion, artworks and Russian antiques. And he sends out machinery, shooters and medicines to the Baltic, I hear. He’s got to be a front man for the Reds. We’ll send him up in flames and leave some incriminating papers around, courtesy of the Scribe.”
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Sowerbutt's Apology

“Forgive me, Madame Komarovski, I have never had to do this before. I apologise to you. Nobody in the Family has ever been bothered so many times.What were the new muscle boys after this time?”

Madame Komarovski shook her head. “The same thing, Mr Sorbay. Any whispers about talks or a deal with the Jerries. Anything the girls might have heard in the brothel. I don’t know why they think VIPs visit our brothel, perhaps they have followed somebody. We have one or two, as you know, who like the excitement of crossing to the wrong side of the tracks. But they are not really important people.”
She smiled: “I haven’t seen any Russian government men in years, must be more than 20 years. Then four lots in a few days, they must be desperate for information to come and bother me. Or the evil ones at the Kremlin are insistent. Once an order is given, the knuckleheads press on, regardless.”
Sowerbutt nodded: “A 24-hour guard for you, Madame Komarovski. I won’t have any more visits. No-one touches the Family, no-one.”
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