Sowerbutt's Supplies

Churchill growled into the telephone: "Our brothel-keeper and his men will take care of the IRA, you say. Any difficulties and we can release the story of a gang turf war or an IRA shoot-out. Yes, yes, I approve.

“The brothel-keeper’s well-equipped, is he? Where does he get his supplies from, I’d like to know? Should we lend him to the Beaver to get supplies flowing for our Hurries and Spitfires? Probably selling the Beaver materials already, you say. I don’t wish to know any more, Brendan.
“We may well say Mr Sorbay is the man who saved London. Inform me about your next round of talks at your earliest convenience, dear boy. Promise our guest anything to save London. If the little corporal can lie through his teeth, so can we.”
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Sowerbutt's Fears

“After a couple of glasses, the Irish woman told me that first thing this morning, her man 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,” Nero said.

Sowerbutt was on his feet, 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 or do they want to kidnap him? Perhaps it's the Haganah again, pulling the strings.”
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Sowerbutt's Early Rise

Polly put a plate of field mushrooms on toast and a mug of tea in front of Dorothy who was sitting at the  dining table in the Cheapside flat. “One of the few pleasures you can get off ration these days. Sorbay had some tinned Canadian bacon recently, but that went quick smart. If I ever see the dear gentleman again Dot, I’ll tell him to start leaving some stuff for you and the girls. You need feeding up, the rate you all work.”

“If you see him? He hasn’t gone and left you, has he?” Dorothy said.
“Just being sarcastic, Dot. Such an exasperating man. He came home in the wee small hours, waking me up, of course. Then about 4 o’clock, some idiot was banging on the door and Sorbay got up. The next thing I know, he’s grabbing his clothes and he’s disappeared. No explanation, nothing.
“But leave me, Dot? He wouldn’t dare, he knows I’d skin him alive.”
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Sowerbutt's Hopes

A civilian came down the steps of Luton Hoo to welcome the visitor as he alighted from the car. Not a word was said as the black-uniformed man walked stiffly into the grand house, carrying his briefcase which was marked with a small golden swastika.
"Talkative bastard, wasn't he guv?" Nero said as they drove away.
"Regular barrel of laughs," Sowerbutt smiled. "Let's hope he brings peace."
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Sowerbutt's Welcome

By the time the car reached the hangar, a tall dark-skinned man with thick black hair and sunken eyes was standing by the stationary aircraft. He was wearing a leather flight jacket and pale blue Luftwaffe overalls. “Keep me covered, just in case,” Sowerbutt whispered as he stepped out of the car. “Welcome to England, sir. I have been ordered to take you to Luton Hoo for discussions with our government.”

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Sowerbutt's Visitor

The aircraft slowly turned, lost height and made its final approach, its swastika markings clearly visible to the onlookers in the moonlight. The Hurricanes circled in the distance, their pilots watching every move. “OK lads, as soon as it lands we’ll head out and pick up the VIP,” Sowerbutt shouted.
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Sowerbutt's Luck

“I suppose you think you’re smart, Jimmy,” Polly smiled at her man, stretched out on the settee in their smart Cheapside flat.

Sowerbutt never knew what to expect from his lady. One of her slaps or a warm welcome. “Predictably unpredictable,” he once said to her, before ducking out the way as a shoe headed in his direction.

He rattled the ice in his glass of Old Bushmills. Planning a major robbery, breaking into the Savoy, selling women’s fashion; it had been a busy few days.
“Genial George was very excited. Prices, delivery dates, all that stuff. He loved the designs and said the workmanship was first-class. Well done to your girls.
“Marshall & Snelgrove will launch the new look, then the other department stores will tear their hair out to get into the action. Out in the wings, the exclusive milliner’s shops will be chasing around to place orders with you. You and your Luton ladies have arrived.”
Sowerbutt grunted as Polly jabbed him in the ribs, then put her arms round him. “I don’t know a thing about hats, Jimmy, apart from what I like and don’t like. You drag me up here, you bad man, and now I’m running a hat factory. Have you seen the warehouse, it looks so much better. We’ve turned a pigsty into a pleasant workplace for ladies."
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Sowerbutt's Robbery

Sowerbutt picked up his glass of Old Bushmills. “The weakest point, gentlemen, is when the money-bags are in the warehouse. That’s where we hit. The caretaker is in his office and the Post Office lads are probably away in the terminal again, filling their faces. We’ll take some girls with us, one in each vehicle. An older lady, perhaps dressed up as a cleaner, to distract the caretaker and two girls, dressed as passengers, for the Post Office lads in the terminal. Nero, try and find out if the caretaker is still up for a bit. Once his pants are down, he won’t notice what’s happening around him."

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Sowerbutt's Hats

Sowerbutt grinned: “My Polly has gone into millinery, George. She has taken over a hat factory in Luton, her war work. She has some very talented designers, I’m told.”

He carefully took an elegant toque out of its box and laid a well-cut turban as well on the cluttered desk.
His face a picture, the chief buyer at Marshall & Snelgrove took hold of the toque, bedecked with velvet flowers, and held it up. He gasped: “Oh my, Mr Sorbay, beautiful, just beautiful. I love it, I could sell this tenfold in seconds. It’s a sensation.”
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Sowerbutt's Jackpot

Sowerbutt roared with laughter as he and Tipper walked along Savoy Row. “I didn’t realise you found the briefcase, my friend,” he said, holding a white cloth bag that Tipper had just given him.

“Wasn’t much in it, guv. Some official-looking papers in Spanish, a couple of scented hand-written letters and £200 in fivers which are in my pocket. And the bag.”
Sowerbutt peered in the bag and put it into his jacket. “So that’s his game - smuggling in industrial diamonds. Probably flown in from Brazil on the Ala Littoria flights. These will be worth a few bob, Tipper. I know a couple of factories that could put them to good use.”
“A worthwhile visit then, guv?”
“You’d say so, old friend. Some cash, some vital information for Brendan Bracken and a small fortune in diamonds. We’ve hit the jackpot.”
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Sowerbutt's Punishment

A crowd was gathering in Commercial Street to watch the entertainment as the two Russians were stripped and chained to a lamppost outside Toynbee Hall. “Swear words, I’d say, guv,” Cocker said above the shouting as Spaghetti started painting the two struggling men with violet gentian.

“Didn’t know you were a budding Rembrandt, Spaghetti. Where did you learn to paint?” shouted a voice.
Spaghetti looked at the crowd and grinned. “These are the Russkie heroes who did those poor Finns over last year and now they are cosying up to Jerry. Food and steel for the bastards who are bombing us out of our homes every night.”
An angry roar swept through the crowd. As Spaghetti stepped away from the Russians, the first over-ripe tomato from a nearby fruit stall hit, then another and another. A couple of well-aimed stones from the street boys followed, accompanied by handfuls of mud from a burst water pipe.
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Sowerbutt's Trap

“The story is that two big beefy boys roughed up Jack Shakes and no-one touches my friends. No-one. They were after his tenant who may have scarpered to one of these addresses. It’s a question of checking where the roaring boys have visited, where’s left and springing a trap,” Sowerbutt said, handing over a list.

“Farewell them, guv. You are not worried about how they go?”
“No, Spaghetti, no goodbyes. Give them a beating they won’t forget, strip them and chain them to railings, a fence or whatever, and throw away the keys. Take a bucket of strong violet gentian with you and give them a good daubing. That’ll get them twitching. I’m sending a message to their boss, whom we can’t touch, that nobody pokes their nose into the Family’s patch.”

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Sowerbutt's Query

“Sorry, Spaghetti, how is your Mother? Safe and sound, I’m sure,” Sowerbutt asked.

“Thanks for asking, guv,” Spaghetti nodded. “Mamma is fine, spent a miserable night in her leaking air-raid shelter like everyone else. But she still refuses to leave the Smoke, she says no little Jerry pip-squeak with a silly moustache is going to force her out of her home. She is so strong. I’ll have to watch her if the Jerries come here, she’ll try and take them on.”
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Sowerbutt's Companion

“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," Brendan Bracken said.

“You may not repeat what I have just said to a soul, not even to your dear lady. I cannot save you from a long term of imprisonment if word gets out. And no chance of cooking the beak, as you and your friends so delightfully say.
“Talk pleasantries with our guest, reassure him about his journey, but nothing else. One more judgement call for you. Kill him instantly if he tries any nonsense of his own, I’ll take care of the body."
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Sowerbutt's Carelessness

“You want me to lose all my customers, Mr Sorbay? Is that it? 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, no clothes, I am wearing your recent work as you can see. Dressed to kill as some would say,” Sowerbutt laughed.
“Ay-yay-yay, I hope I am still a friend, not your enemy. But look at your beautiful jacket. It took me hours to cut and sew together and now a scratch on the leather of your sleeve. You must oil it carefully like I showed you.”
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Sowerbutt's Haul

Nero hopped 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.”

Sowerbutt was stretched out on the leather settee in the Cheapside flat. “Pour yourself a glass, Nero, and talk."
“Real good stuff, Mr Sorbay. Crates of machine parts and instruments, medicines, shooters and ammo, sacks of chemicals,copper wire, ingots. All ready to load on the neutral ships sailing to the Baltic, like.”
“Old Man Shapiro is being a naughty boy smuggling scarce supplies to the Russkies, he gets top prices, I bet. But 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 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. It doesn’t exist, does it?"
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Sowerbutt's Scheme

 

Sowerbutt nodded: “We’ll tail and top the Russkies. No debate, we’re past that.

“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. 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.  Good solid evidence of bad behaviour.”
Spaghetti grinned, the guv knew his stuff.
“We’ll have an encore too. Shapiro’s warehouse in Millwall. Old Hercule has made a few bob, shipping in bullion, artworks and Russian antiques. And he sends out machinery, shooters and medicines to the Baltic. He’s got to be a front man for the Reds. We’ll send him up in flames and leave some papers around, courtesy of the Scribe.”
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Sowerbutt's Anger

Sowerbutt said: “I take this very seriously, the gloves are off. We humiliated the first pair and they were sent home. The second lot disappeared, apparently murdered, and I thought the message was clear. Now you have been threatened again. 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. I haven’t seen any Russian government men in years. 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: “We’ll set the Russkies up and send them a message with such a bang that they won’t forget in a hurry. It will penetrate even their thick skulls. No-one touches the Family, no-one.”
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Sowerbutt's Washing

"As Jimmy used to put it, he was as clean as a whistle in '49," the retired writer for the East London Pioneer, who still has the notebook from his early 1960s interview with Sowerbutt, said. "With his eye for business, he invested in launderettes which were just starting in the Smoke. Most families didn't have a washing machine in those days and many housewives were working to make ends meet. So they were a good investment. But Jimmy had an ulterior motive. Being a cash business, the laundrettes allowed him to legitimise some of his ill-gotten gains from the war. Called money-laundering these days. It meant that the turnover and taxation went right up, but the Professor, what a genius, knew how to send deductible costs sky high. It all worked out in the end and it made investing in property and so on much easier in the post-war world. Who would have thought soap powder would build a business empire?"
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Sowerbutt's Laces

"This was a funny one in '46," the retired writer for the East London Pioneer, who still has the notebook from his early 1960s interview with Sowerbutt, said. "You couldn't get shoelaces in the Smoke for love nor money. I remember seeing people walking round with string, shoelaces with knots in, strips of canvas, all manner of stuff. Never got to the bottom of what the problem was. The factories had been supplying the Army and supplies for narrow goods - braids, crochet goods - had been cut to nothing. Blip in the system. As ever, Jimmy Sorbay saw an opportunity. A mate of his in Smithfield had been making narrow goods before the war and had been stuck with a big order for a customer who went bankrupt or disappeared. They were yellow with black stripes interwoven. Jimmy called them B-laces and they sold like hot cakes. The stall-holders and shoe shops were clamouring for them. Sold the lot at a good profit and gave away a few to the local families. You should have seen Londoners that year with their yellow shoelaces. What a laugh."
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