Chapter 37
Both the News of the World and the Daily Herald printed stories describing the ‘shameless’ music halls of Malta.
‘English women lured to work in dens of iniquity’ the headlines proclaimed, then went on to assert that with promises of inflated remuneration these innocent young girls were enticed abroad and away from the safety of English shores.
They found themselves forced to live in filthy lodgings on scant wages and with not enough to eat.
These ‘poor’ English girls were expected to entertain the sailors privately in so-called ‘homes’ which were nothing of the kind.
‘Brothels’ the headlines screamed. ‘Nothing but brothels’.
They also claimed that ‘prudish’ Maltese locals loathed the girls and threw rotten food at them in the street.
With no money the girls found themselves imprisoned in a music hall industry that was really a cover for white slavery.
White slavery.
The words echoed around the world.
After the stories were repeated in the Daily Malta Chronicle Otto telephoned Riva and asked to meet.
He was still working for the pro-British newspaper, the Times of Malta, and nodded at acquaintances as they were led to their table in the window of the British Hotel.
‘It’s causing uproar here,’ he said after they had greeted each other. ‘Look at this.’ He pushed a copy of the Daily Malta Chronicle towards her.
‘Crikey,’ she said as she read. ‘The locals are furious.’
‘Spitting nails, and quite right too. I don’t believe any of the girls have had rotten food thrown at them.’
‘Well, I never had. It’s ridiculous.’
He told her he’d already published an article calling for the resignation of the minister responsible for the police. ‘He hasn’t done so of course,’ he added. ‘But now the Chronicle is demanding an enquiry and the word on the street is the minister has agreed.’
‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’
He twisted his mouth to one side as if he wasn’t sure. ‘Could be. Rather depends on whether the enquiry ends up being a whitewash.’
She sighed. ‘You think it might?’
He nodded. ‘Everyone is worried. People believe the repercussions of the cabaret scandal, as they call it, will destroy Malta’s good name, deter the visitors we need. The enquiry will probably be a cover-up.’
‘I wish I could help.’
‘You can. With your background in Strait Street, together we might be able to keep up a stream of articles to keep the police on their toes about what’s really happening there. What do you say to working with me on a more regular basis?’
‘In what capacity?’
He grinned, looking pleased with himself. ‘It wouldn’t be anything fancy, just a freelance role, as my assistant.’
She grinned. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
But time had passed since she’d worked in Strait Street and she didn’t know if any of her old contacts would still be there, however she decided to have a quick word with her old friend Tommy-O.
As she walked across the almost empty Evening Star, Tommy turned to look and patted the leather stool next to him.
She kissed him on his heavily powdered cheek then perched on the stool next to his, concerned about how old and tired he looked.
The venue hadn’t changed, still mirrored and painted in crimson and gold, lit only by gaslight, and smelling of cheap scent and stale beer.
‘I didn’t know if you’d still be here.’
‘Well as you can see, here I am. But I didn’t expect to see you. Thought you were working for our island’s most famous artist.’
She shrugged. ‘I was.’
‘You’ve seen the newspaper articles?’
‘Who hasn’t? That’s why I’m here.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Otto at the Times wants me to help him. You know everyone on the island. Is there any way you could you get me an interview with the chief of police, on the quiet I mean?’
He puffed out his cheeks and let the air out. ‘I can try. But it’s a big ask.’ He shook his head. ‘The police and the Church are looking into the scandal, but they’re looking in the wrong direction.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The girls at risk are not English. Even in the 1920s they were mainly from Italy and France, as you yourself were. Now they’re nearly all Hungarian. Not British. Ask in any of the bars, tabarins or music halls. Same story all over.’
‘Even if the girls aren’t British there’s still the issue of prostitution and exploitation.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, but they don’t care about that. The articles claim that it’s English girls who have been used in this way. The enquiry will have no difficulty proving that isn’t true.’
Gianni came in and nodded at Riva. He still hadn’t forgiven her for upping and leaving without notice.
‘Be careful, Riva,’ Tommy said and touched her hand.
A few days later Riva was sitting on a bench in the gardens overlooking the ocean waiting for someone.
She wasn’t quite sure who. She’d received a message from Tommy telling her to be there at ten but to keep her wits about her.
It was now half past ten and she was about to get up and leave when a bespectacled man walked across to her.
She studied the measured way he was walking and then his face.
His rust-coloured hair was thinning and with a spiky face and sharp chin, he looked like a predator of small creatures.
A gimlet-eyed weasel; she almost expected him to bare his teeth.
He gave a slight bow. ‘Miss Janvier?’
She nodded.
‘There is somebody who wishes to speak with you. Would you be happy to accompany me?’
‘You’re from the police?’
He nodded. ‘No names, if you don’t mind. We don’t want any trouble. Understand?’
‘I do,’ she said, aiming for nonchalance, although she wasn’t sure. Trouble from her? From him?
‘You may be aware that withdrawal of the Constitution is on the cards. If that happens the island will revert to being a British Crown Colony. Everyone would prefer to avoid that.’
She followed him into the centre of the town and then along a side road. ‘Is this a back way to the police headquarters?’ she asked, feeling increasingly apprehensive.
He laughed. ‘Sensitive matters are rarely dealt with at police headquarters. Ah, here we are.’
He unlocked a heavy wooden door and ushered her in and then up a wide stone staircase to a room at the back of the building.
He knocked, walked straight in, and held the door open for Riva.
She glanced around at floorboards polished to a high shine and paintings of wild animals hanging on cream-coloured walls.
‘Sir,’ he said.
A thin man with his back to them was staring out of the window. As he turned round another man who had been standing just inside the door coughed. Riva spun on her heels to see who was there.
‘Miss Janvier,’ he said, and with a sinking feeling she instantly recognised the man with salt-and-pepper hair and a walking stick. Stanley Lucas. ‘We meet again,’ he said and gave her a smile. ‘How delightful.’
She stood hands on hips. ‘I thought you’d moved away from the island.’
He waved the other two men off and they left the room.
‘For a while. As you may know the police cleared me of those scurrilous accusations of fraud.’
‘Corrupt police in your pay?’
He laughed. ‘I like your sense of humour. But there it is. If you have evidence to the contrary, be my guest.’
She inhaled deeply before she spoke, feeling uncertain, but despite that came out with it anyway. ‘I saw you.’
His eyes darted momentarily as if he hadn’t been expecting that. ‘Saw me?’
‘With young girls. The Russian girl, Anya, for example.’ She studied his face, then tilted her head to ask the question. ‘Did the police clear you of murder too?’
He bristled, puffed out this cheeks, and darted her a look of loathing. ‘I rather think you may be something of a fantasist. In the past women were put away for less.’
‘Your wife maybe?’
His face went red and then purple. ‘Ariadne died.’
There was a long silence while he turned his back, lit a cigarette. She wasn’t sure what to do. Leave now? Stay?
‘Anyway,’ he said, clearly having collected himself and coming back to face her. ‘Like you, I have made my home here. I am a collector.’
‘A collector?’
‘Of objets d’art.’
And people, she thought.
He waved his hand vaguely at the glass-fronted shelves behind his desk where a host of ornaments were displayed.
She looked and her heart lurched. A row of wooden dolls sat on his shelf behind the glass, among all the other ornaments. Anya’s old, rare Russian dolls.
She heard the girl’s voice in her head. ‘Matryoshka dolls. Mother has child inside and child has child inside. Many. All fit together. It is life.’
Riva stared at the largest doll – the woman holding a black rooster beneath her arm, the yellow and pink looking a little faded – and she felt sick.
‘I understand you are interested in the enquiry into these shocking allegations of human trafficking in the newspapers,’ Lucas was saying, but all Riva could think was that she needed to get out of there and fast. She took a sharp breath and struggled to reply.
‘Of course,’ she said, hearing the tremor in her own voice. ‘They’re absolutely dreadful if they’re true.’
‘And naturally you’d like to find that out. However, it is of the utmost importance to all of us here in Malta and to the British Government in England that this matter is dealt with as swiftly and fairly as possible.’
‘Of course.’ Her heart was racing as she spoke.
‘Under the circumstances it would be wise for you to step back and not attempt to delay things.’
‘Wise?’ she managed to say.
‘Well, you’re a pretty girl. And you know …’
In the stuffy smoky room, her skin began to crawl, but still she stood her ground. ‘I don’t respond to threats, Mr Lucas.’
‘Not a threat. Think of me as a well-wisher. There are shady characters mixed up in this. I wouldn’t want to see you hurt. Leave it to the police. They’ll do a good job. I understand the enquiry is due to report in February. Not long now.’
‘What’s your role in this?’ she asked, finding enough strength to stand up to him. Despite her fear, she knew this might be her only chance.
He frowned, raised his hands and shrugged in an open gesture of surprise.
‘I have no role, but I do have an enterprise. We are building a chain of hotels. Top notch, you see. Restaurants, casinos, tennis courts, swimming pools. You get my drift. Tourism will be our future once the military leave. We all want to wipe out this current blot on Malta’s reputation. ’
He was dangerous but still she couldn’t hide her disdain. ‘And you’re the man to do it.’
‘If you had known poverty, real poverty, you would understand. I will not permit you to destroy what I have built up.’
‘Poverty? What are you talking about?’
Clearly rattled, he shook his head. ‘I am originally Hungarian. My parents were poor and died from the Spanish flu … I became a homeless orphan.’
For a moment she almost felt sorry for him. ‘You sound British.’
He gave her a cold smile. ‘You do what you have to do.’
Riva narrowed her eyes. ‘But your name?’
‘Was Luká?. Zoltán Luká?.’
‘So, you’re not Stanley Lucas. Why are you telling me now?’
‘Your friend at the Times already knows. But I am not the only person using an assumed name, am I? Take good care, Miss Janvier.’
‘I’m free to leave?’
He smiled. ‘Naturally. I wish you well.’
As she walked away Riva’s heart was racing.
Back in Mdina, she roughed out an article for Otto in which she refuted the English newspaper claims that English girls were being abused but said the problem for foreign girls still existed.
And at least the police were now interviewing all the girls working in Strait Street and beyond.
Her next stop would be the Church authorities whom she knew were anxious to stamp out immorality on the island.
She was not going to let the likes of Stanley Lucas win.
He could threaten her all he liked; she wasn’t backing down.