Cynthia Manson (ed) (31 page)

Lester was drinking whiskey too.
although he didn’t really like it. Perhaps, but for the whiskey, he would never
have said, “Supposing I had money?”

“What money? Where would you get
it—draw it out of the Savings Bank?”

“I mean a lot of money.”

“Lester-boy, I don’t think in penny
numbers. I’m talking about real money.”

The room was thick with smoke; the
Whizz Fizz Kids were playing. Lester leaned back and said deliberately, “Next
week I’ll have money—thousands of pounds.”

Lucille was about to laugh. Then she
said, “It’s my turn to buy a drink, I’m feeling generous. Hey, Joe. Two more of
the same.”

Later that night they lay on the bed
in his one-room flat. She had let him make love to her, and he had told her
everything.

“So the stuff’s going to a man
called Lambie in Greenly Street?”

Lester had never before drunk so
much in one evening. Was it six whiskies or seven? He felt ill, and alarmed. “Lucille,
you won’t say anything? I mean, I wasn’t supposed to tell—”

“Relax. What do you take me for?”
She touched his cheek with red-tipped nails. “Besides, we shouldn’t have
secrets, should we?”

He watched her as she got off the
bed and began to dress. “Won’t you stay? I mean, it would be all right with the
landlady.”

“No can do, Lester-boy. See you at
the club, though. Tomorrow night. Promise.”

“Promise.” When she had gone he
turned over on to his side and groaned. He feared that he was going to be sick,
and he was. Afterwards, he felt better.

Lucille went home to her flat in
Earl’s Court which she shared with a man named Jim Baxter. He had been sent to
Borstal for a robbery from a confectioner’s which had involved considerable
violence. Since then he had done two short stretches. He listened to what she
had to say, then asked, “What’s this Lester like?”

“A creep.”

“Has he got the nerve to kid you, or
do you think it’s on the level, what he’s told you?”

“He wouldn’t kid me. He wants me to
live with him when he’s got the money. I said I might.”

Jim showed her what he thought of
that idea. Then he said, “Tuesday morning, eh. Until then, you play along with
this creep. Any change in plans I want to know about it. You can do it, can’t
you, baby?”

She looked up at him. He had a scar
on the left side of his face which she thought made him look immensely
attractive. “I can do it. And Jim?”

“Yes?”

“What about afterwards?”

“Afterwards, baby? Well, for
spending money there’s no place like London. Unless it’s Paris.”

Lester Jones also reported on Monday
night. Lucille was being very kind to him, so he no longer felt uneasy.

Mr. Payne gave them all a final
briefing and stressed that timing, in this as in every similar affair, was the
vital element.

Mr. Rossiter Payne rose on Tuesday
morning at his usual time, just after eight o’clock. He bathed and shaved with
care and precision, and ate his usual breakfast of one soft-boiled egg, two
pieces of toast, and one cup of unsugared coffee. When Miss Oliphant arrived he
was already in the shop.

“My dear Miss Oliphant. Are you, as
they say, ready to cope this morning?”

“Of course, Mr. Payne. Do you have
to go out?”

“I do. Something quite unexpected.
An American collector named—but I mustn’t tell his name even to you, he doesn’t
want it known—is in London, and he has asked me to see him. He wants to try to
buy the manuscripts of—but there again I’m sworn to secrecy, although if I
weren’t I should surprise you. I am calling on him, so I shall leave things in
your care until—” Mr. Payne looked at his expensive watch—”not later than
midday. I shall certainly be back by then. In the meantime. Miss Oliphant, I
entrust my ware to you.”

She giggled. “I won’t let anyone
steal the stock, Mr. Payne.”

Mr. Payne went upstairs again to his
flat where, laid out on his bed, was a very different set of clothes from that
which he normally wore. He emerged later from the little side entrance looking
quite unlike the dapper, retired Guards officer known to Miss Oliphant.

His clothes were of the shabby
nondescript ready-to-wear kind that might be worn by a City clerk very much
down on his luck—the sleeve and trouser cuffs distinctly frayed, the tie a
piece of dirty string. Curling strands of rather disgustingly gingery hair
strayed from beneath his stained gray trilby hat and his face was gray too—gray
and much lined, the face of a man of sixty who has been defeated by life.

Mr. Payne had bright blue eyes, but
the man who came out of the side entrance had, thanks to contact lenses, brown
ones. This man shuffled off down the alley with shoulders bent, carrying a
rather dingy suitcase. He was quite unrecognizable as the upright Rossiter
Payne.

Indeed, if there was a criticism to
be made of him, it was that he looked almost too much the “little man.” Long,
long ago, Mr. Payne had been an actor, and although his dramatic abilities were
extremely limited, he had always loved and been extremely good at make-up.

He took with him a realistic-looking
gun that, in fact, fired nothing more lethal than caps. He was a man who
disliked violence, and thought it unnecessary.

After he left Mr. Payne on Monday
night, Stacey had been unable to resist having a few drinks. The alarm clock
wakened him to a smell of frizzling bacon. His wife sensed that he had a job
on, and she came into the bedroom as he was taking the Smith and Wesson out of
the cupboard.

“Bill.” He turned round. “Do you
need that?”

“What do you think?”

“Don’t take it.”

“Ah, don’t be stupid.”

“Bill, please. I get frightened.”

Stacey put the gun into his hip
pocket. “Won’t use it. Just makes me feel a bit more comfortable, see?”

He ate his breakfast with a good
appetite and then telephoned Shrimp Bateson, Lucy O’Malley, and the Canadian,
to make sure they were ready. They were. His wife watched him fearfully. Then
he came to say goodbye.

“Bill, look after yourself.”

“Always do.” And he was gone.

Lucille had spent Monday night with
Lester. This was much against her wish, but Jim had insisted on it, saying that
he must know of any possible last-minute change.

Lester had no appetite at all. She
watched with barely concealed contempt as he drank no more than half a cup of
coffee and pushed aside his toast. When he got dressed his fingers were
trembling so that he could hardly button his shirt.

“Today’s the day, then.”

“Yes. I wish it was over.”

“Don’t worry.”

He said eagerly, “I’ll see you in
the club tonight.”

“Yes.”

“I shall have the money then, and we
could go away together. Oh, no, of course not—I’ve got to stay on the job.”

“That’s right,” she said, humoring
him.

As soon as he had gone, she rang Jim
and reported that there were no last-minute changes.

Straight Line lived with his family.
They knew he had a job on, but nobody talked about it. Only his mother stopped
him at the door and said, “Good luck, son,” and his father said, “Keep your
nose clean.”

Straight went to the garage and got
out the Jag.

10: 30.

Shrimp Bateson walked into the Fur
Department with a brown-paper package under his arm. He strolled about
pretending to look at furs, while trying to find a place to put down the little
parcel. There were several shoppers and he went unnoticed.

He stopped at the point where Furs
led to the stairs, moved into a window embrasure, took the little metal
cylinder out of its brown-paper wrapping, pressed the switch which started the
mechanism, and walked rapidly away.

He had almost reached the door when
he was tapped on the shoulder. He turned. A clerk was standing with the brown
paper in his hand.

“Excuse me, sir, I think you’ve
dropped something. I found this paper—”

“No, no,” Shrimp said. “It’s not
mine.”

There was no time to waste in
arguing. Shrimp turned and half walked, half ran, through the doors and to the
staircase. The clerk followed him. People were coming up the stairs, and
Shrimp, in a desperate attempt to avoid them, slipped and fell, bruising his
shoulder.

The clerk was standing hesitantly at
the top of the stairs when he heard the
whoosh
of sound and,
turning, saw flames. He ran down the stairs then, took Shrimp firmly by the arm
and said, “I think you’d better come back with me, sir.”

The bomb had gone off on schedule,
setting fire to the window curtains and to one end of a store counter. A few
women were screaming, and other clerks were busy saving the furs. Flack, one of
the store detectives, arrived on the spot quickly, and organized the use of the
fire extinguishers. They got the fire completely under control in three
minutes.

The clerk, full of zeal, brought
Shrimp along to Flack. “Here’s the man who did it.”

Flack looked at him. “Firebug, eh?”

“Let me go. I had nothing to do with
it.”

“Let’s talk to the manager, shall
we?” Flack said, and led Shrimp away.

The time was now 10: 39.

Lucy O’Malley looked at herself in
the glass, and at the skimpy hat perched on her enormous head. Her fake-crocodile
handbag, of a size to match her person, had been put down on a chair nearby.

“What do you feel, madam?” the young
saleswoman asked, ready to take her cue from the customer’s reaction.

“Terrible.”

“Perhaps it isn’t really you.”

“It looks bloody awful,” Lucy said.
She enjoyed swearing, and saw no reason why she should restrain herself.

The salesgirl laughed perfunctorily
and dutifully, and moved over again toward the hats. She indicated a black hat
with a wide brim. “Perhaps something more like this?”

Lucy looked at her watch. 10: 31. It
was time. She went across to her handbag, opened it, and screamed.

“Is something the matter, madam?”

“I’ve been robbed!”

“Oh, really, I don’t think that can
have happened.”

Lucy had a sergeant-major’s voice,
and she used it. “Don’t tell me what can and can’t have happened, young woman.
My money was in here, and now it’s gone. Somebody’s taken it.”

The salesgirl, easily intimidated,
blushed. The department supervisor, elegant, eagle-nosed, blue-rinsed, moved
across like an arrow and asked politely if she could help.

“My money’s been stolen,” Lucy
shouted. “I put my bag down for a minute, twenty pounds in it, and now it’s
gone. That’s the class of people they get in Orbin’s.” She addressed this last
sentence to another shopper, who moved away hurriedly.

“Let’s look, shall we, just to make
sure.” Blue Rinse took hold of the handbag, Lucy took hold of it too, and
somehow the bag’s contents spilled onto the carpet.

“You stupid fool,” Lucy roared.

“I’m sorry, madam,” Blue Rinse said
icily. She picked up handkerchief, lipstick, powder compact, tissues. Certainly
there was no money in the bag. “You’re sure the money was in the bag?”

“Of course I’m sure. It was in my
purse. I had it five minutes ago. Someone here has stolen it.”

“Not so loud, please, madam.”

“I shall speak as loudly as I like.
Where’s your store detective, or haven’t you got one?”

Sidley, the other detective on the
third floor, was pushing through the little crowd that had collected. “What
seems to be the matter?”

“This lady says twenty pounds has
been stolen from her handbag.” Blue Rinse just managed to refrain from
emphasizing the word “lady.”

“I’m very sorry. Shall we talk about
it in the office?”

“I don’t budge until I get my money
back.” Lucy was carrying an umbrella, and she waved it threateningly. However,
she allowed herself to be led along to the office. There the handbag was
examined again and the salesgirl, now tearful, was interrogated. There also
Lucy, having surreptitiously glanced at the time, put a hand into the capacious
pocket of her coat, and discovered the purse. There was twenty pounds in it,
just as she had said.

She apologized, although the apology
went much against the grain for her, declined the suggestion that she should
return to the hat counter, and left the store with the consciousness of a job
well done.

“Well,” Sidley said. “I shouldn’t
like to tangle with her on a dark night.”

The time was now 10: 40.

The clock in the Jewelry Department
stood at exactly 10: 33 when a girl came running in, out of breath, and said to
the manager, “Oh, Mr. Marston, there’s a telephone call for Mr. Davidson. It’s
from America.”

Marston was large, and inclined to
get pompous. “Put it through here, then.”