Десмонд Бэгли - The Spoilers

‘It’s no good,’ said Bryan. ‘I’ve talked to him. He said he didn’t realize the place would be used by drug addicts; he says his other tenants are complaining — they say it lowers the tone of the neighbourhood.’

‘God Almighty!’ yelled Warren. ‘One’s a strip joint and the other sells pornography. What the hell have they to complain of? What stinking hypocrisy!’

‘We’re going to lose our boys, Nick. If they don’t have a place to come to, we’ll lose the lot.’

Ben Bryan was a psychologist working in the field of drug addiction. Together with Warren and a couple of medical students he had set up the Soho Therapy Centre as a means of getting at the addicts. Here the addicts could talk to people who understood the problem and many had been referred to Warren’s clinic. It was a place off the streets where they could relax, a hygienic place where they could take their shots using sterile water and aseptic syringes.

‘They’ll be out on the streets again,’ said Bryan. ‘They’ll be taking their shots in the Piccadilly lavatories, and the cops will chase them all over the West End.’

Warren nodded. ‘And the next thing will be another outbreak of hepatitis. Good God, that’s the last thing we want.’

‘I’ve been trying to find another place,’ said Bryan. ‘I was on the telephone all day yesterday. Nobody wants to know our troubles. The word’s got around, and I think we’re blacklisted. It must be in this area — you know that.’

Something exploded within Warren. ‘It will be,’ he said with decision. ‘Ben, how would you like a really good place here in Soho? Completely equipped, regardless of expense, down to hot and cold running footmen?’

‘I’d settle for what we have now,’ said Bryan.

Warren found an excitement rising within him. ‘And, Ben — that idea you had — the one about a group therapy unit as a self-governing community on the line of that Californian outfit. What about that?’

‘Have you gone off your little rocker?’ asked Bryan. ‘We’d need a country house for that. Where would we get the funds?’

‘We’ll get the funds,’ said Warren with confidence. ‘Excavate that telephone.’

His decision was made and all qualms gone. He was tired of fighting the stupidity of the public, of which the queasiness of this narrow-gutted landlord was only a single example. If the only way to run his job was to turn into a synthetic James Bond, then a James Bond he’d be.

But it was going to cost Hellier an awful lot of money.

Warren was ushered into Hellier’s office in Wardour Street after passing successfully a hierarchy of secretaries, each more svelte than the last. When he finally penetrated into the inner sanctum, Hellier said, ‘I really didn’t expect to see you, Doctor. I expected I’d have to chase you. Sit down.’

Warren came to the point abruptly. ‘You mentioned unlimited funds, but I take that to be a figure of speech. How unlimited?’

‘I’m pretty well breeched,’ said Hellier with a smile. ‘How much do you want?’

‘We’ll come to that. I’d better outline the problem so that you can get an idea of its magnitude. When you’ve absorbed that you might decide you can’t afford it.’

‘Well see,’ said Hellier. His smile broadened.

Warren laid down a folder. ‘You were right when you said I had particular knowledge, but I warn you I don’t have much — two names and a place — and all the rest is rumour.’ He smiled sourly. ‘It isn’t ethics that has kept me from going to the police — it’s the sheer lack of hard facts.’

‘Leaving aside your three facts, what about the rumour? I’ve made some damned important decisions on nothing but rumour, and I’ve told you I get paid for making the right decisions.’

Warren shrugged. ‘It’s all a bit misty — just stuff I’ve picked up in Soho. I spend a lot of time in Soho — in the West End generally — it’s where most of my patients hang out. It’s convenient for the all-night chemist in Piccadilly,’ he said sardonically.

‘I’ve seen them lining up,’ said Hellier.

‘In 1968 a drug ring was smashed in France — a big one. You must realize that the heroin coming into Britain is just a small leakage from the more profitable American trade. This particular gang was smuggling to the States in large quantities, but when the ring was smashed we felt the effects here. The boys were running around like chickens with their heads chopped off — the illegal supply had stopped dead.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Hellier. ‘Are you implying that to stop the trade into Britain it would be necessary to do the same for the States?’

‘That’s virtually the position if you attack it at the source, which would be the best way. One automatically implies the other. I told you the problem was big.’

‘The ramifications are more extensive than I thought,’ admitted Hellier. He shrugged. ‘Not that I’m chauvinistic about it; as you say, it’s an international problem.’

Hellier still did not seem to be disturbed about the probable cost to his pocket, so Warren went on: ‘I think the best way of outlining the current rumours is to look at the problem backwards, so to speak — beginning at the American end. A typical addict in New York will buy his shot from a pusher as a “sixteenth” — meaning a sixteenth of an ounce. He must buy it from a pusher because he can’t get it legally, as in England. That jerks up the price, and his sixteenth will cost him somewhere between six and seven dollars. His average need will be two shots a day.’

Hellier’s mind jerked into gear almost visibly. After a moment he said, ‘There must be a devil of a lot of heroin going into the States.’

‘Not much,’ said Warren. ‘Not in absolute bulk. I daresay the illegal intake is somewhere between two and three tons a year. You see, the heroin as sold to the addict is diluted with an inert soluble filler, usually lactose — milk sugar. Depending on whether he’s being cheated — and he usually is — the percentage of heroin will range from one-half to two per cent. I think you could take a general average of one per cent.’

Hellier was figuring again. He drew forward a sheet of paper and began to calculate. ‘If there’s a sixteen-hundredth of an ounce of pure heroin in a shot, and the addict pays, say, $6.50...’ He stopped short. ‘Hell, that’s over $10,000 an ounce!’

‘Very profitable,’ agreed Warren. ‘It’s big business over there. A pound of heroin at the point of consumption is worth about $170,000. Of course, that’s not all profit — the problem is to get it to the consumer. Heroin is ultimately derived from the opium poppy, papaver somniferum , which is not grown in the States for obvious reasons. There’s a chain of production — from the growing of the poppy to raw opium; from the opium to morphine; from morphine to heroin.’

‘What’s the actual cost of production?’ asked Hellier.

‘Not much,’ said Warren. ‘But that’s not the issue. At the point of consumption in the States a pound of heroin is worth $170,000; at the point of the wholesaler inside the States it’s worth $50,000; at any point outside the States it’s worth $20,000. And if you go right back along the chain you can buy illicit raw opium in the Middle East for $50 a pound.’

‘That tells me two things,’ said Hellier thoughtfully. ‘There are high profits to be made at each stage — and the cost at any point is directly related to the risks involved in smuggling.’

‘That’s it,’ said Warren. ‘So far the trade has been fragmented, but rumour has it that a change is on the way. When the French gang was busted it left a vacuum and someone else is moving in — and moving in with a difference. The idea seems to be that this organization will cut out the middlemen — they’ll start with the growing of the poppy and end up with delivery inside the States of small lots in any given city. A guaranteed delivery on that basis should net them $50,000 a pound after expenses have been met. That last stage — getting the stuff into the States — is a high risk job.’