The Good Provider (25 page)

It was that time of a Saturday evening when at the end of a hard week’s work Glaswegians were at play. The streets were loud with the last of the shoppers and the first of the boozers, and factory girls and the office girls dolled up in warpaint were on the loose in search of sweethearts, and young men, by no means unaware of their value, were downing a few sweet pints before sauntering forth to the Temple or the Tivoli or up town for a taste of blood-and-thunder at the Grand or the Hippodrome; or, for those who hadn’t two bawbees to rub together, a ramble for free to the fish-fry at Anderston Cross where lots of liberated lassies congregated in the hope of swapping kisses for a poke of lukewarm haddock or a bag of peas and vinegar.

Even in Walbrook Street there was a certain Saturday clatter with cabs and carriages clopping off to concerts or supper parties or carpet dances or to ‘grand stag banquets’ at the Bodega or the Silver Grill.

Mrs Frew, all alone in her back parlour, was only dimly conscious of the hum of traffic from the streets outside, and of her loneliness. For a year or two after Andrew’s death Saturday had been a difficult and tearful day of the week until she had hit upon the idea – Hughie’s suggestion, in fact – of taking in guests, a favoured few with impeccable credentials, and had thus found purpose and a not-too-demanding routine. But that particular Saturday night her guest had eschewed the taking of dinner at her table in favour of a chop-house snack.

She had sent Cissie home. Later she would poach herself an egg, would go early to bed with a glass of sherry, perhaps, to help her sleep. Meanwhile she sat at ease by the fire, an old Kashmiri shawl draped across her thin shoulders, and immersed herself in the latest ‘Ouida’ to come her way, a two-shilling edition of
Puck
. Mrs Frew was as addicted to reading as was her brother but unlike Hughie, who displayed his library proudly on shelves all over the house, she kept her collection hidden in the left-hand side of her wardrobe. She was embarrassed by the fact that she enjoyed sensational, sentimental novels, and authors like Wilkie Collins, Justin McCarthy, Sarah Tyler and Walter Besant.

She had just reached a chapter entitled ‘His First Betrayal’ when the jangle of the doorbell made her start. Shedding her shawl, she hid it under the chair, went along the gloomy corridor and into the hall.

She called out, ‘Who is it?’

The answer came, ‘It’s me, Nessie. It’s Hughie.’

She opened the door and admitted him.

‘What is it? What’s wrong? Is it one of the girls?’

‘No, no, Nessie. Nothing like that.’

‘What is it, then? What are you doing here?’

‘I was just passing. Thought I’d drop in.’

He closed the door carefully and followed her down the hall and into the parlour.

‘Have you had dinner?’

‘I’m expected at home for dinner, Nessie.’

‘Oh!’

‘Sorry, old girl. I’d stay if I could.’

She turned, hands folded at the level of her waist and gave him the steady penetrating stare that all Afflecks had inherited from their formidable dam. ‘Not even takin’ off your coat, I suppose?’

‘You’re right, Nessie. It isn’t a casual visit.’

‘What is it, then? Come along, out with it.’

‘Now I don’t want you to worry—’

‘Worry? About what?’

‘About what I’m going to ask you to do—’

‘Ask me to do?’

‘– because it’s only a precaution and there’s no need to get yourself all upset about—’

‘All upset?’

‘Will you listen to me, Nessie, please?’

She pursed her lips. ‘I’m listening.’

‘In my professional capacity—’

‘Huh!’

‘Nessie! In my professional capacity it has come to my ears that a gang of villains has sussed out—’

‘In English, please, Hughie.’

‘A gang of villains has it in mind to rob this house.’

‘
What!
’

‘Be calm, be calm, Nessie, please.’

‘There’s nothin’ of value here.’

‘Oh, but there is, Nessie. It’s the silver they’re after, I think.’

‘Papa’s silver; I didn’t think it was particularly valuable.’

‘Take my word on it, Nessie, please.’

‘Am I to be murdered in my bed for Papa’s old soup tureen?’

‘That’s why I’m here, Nessie.’

‘How did you come by this information, Hughie?’

‘Via an informant.’

Mrs Frew understood perfectly well. From Wilkie Collins and other writers she had acquired a sizeable vocabulary of underworld terms and a knowledge of criminal methods that would have surprised her brother. The matter was clearly serious. She nodded curtly.

‘I can’t, of course, tell you my informant’s name. That isn’t on. But I can tell you that I have found this chap to be very reliable with his information in the past.’

Nessie Frew said, ‘The panels.’

Hughie frowned. ‘Eh?’

‘Not the silver, Hughie. It’s Andrew’s stained glass they’ll be after.’

‘Of course,’ Hughie said, smacking a fist into his palm. ‘That’s it. You’ve struck it. It isn’t the silver at all – though they’ll take that too if they do gain entry – it’s the stained glass they’re after.’

‘Worth a great deal more than silver.’

‘Yes, oh yes,’ Hughie agreed. ‘I should have thought of it. However, the important thing is that we have a very fair and accurate idea of their intentions. We know when they will make their strike, and how.’

‘
Modus operandi
.’

‘Exactly,’ said Hughie.

‘What do you require me to do?’

Nessie Frew had no great opinion of her brother’s character and had nurtured a grievance against him since he had dropped out of Edinburgh University and had chosen to be a policeman rather than a minister of the Gospel, but she was not altogether daft. Hughie had not risen to his present august rank without brains and the ability to apply them. She trusted him implicitly.

Hughie said, ‘I want you to go away for a night or two.’

‘Leave the house unguarded?’

‘Of course not; I’ll be here.’

‘Alone or with colleagues?’

‘With colleagues.’

‘To catch the crooks red-handed?’

‘That’s it, Nessie.’

‘Where shall I go?’

‘Beatrice will—’

‘I could go to Greenock and call upon Edith.’

‘I thought you didn’t rub along with Edith either.’

‘She is our sister, and she is old. Yes, I’ll go and visit Edith.’

‘I’m sure she’ll be pleased,’ said Hughie.

‘I’ll write to her tonight. When do you expect this – this thing to happen?’

‘On Friday.’

‘Will there be shooting?’

‘Good God, Nessie, no.’

‘Won’t they come armed?’

‘Not with pistols,’ said Hughie.

‘Shall I move the stained glass?’

‘I doubt if it’s necessary,’ Hughie said. ‘They’ll be grabbed and nabbed before they can do any damage, I promise.’

Mrs Frew sniffed. ‘I’ve heard your promises before.’

‘Look, we’ve been after this gang for months. Now we have a chance to catch them and put them behind bars. You would be doing a great service not only to the Glasgow Police but to the public at large.’

‘Friday? Next Friday?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll go to Greenock on a morning train and stay over with Edith.’

‘Guests?’

‘Only one.’

‘Will you find him alternative accommodation?’

‘You may leave that to me, Hughie.’

‘Don’t tell him – whoever he is – the truth; I mean, make an excuse, Nessie. I want no hint of this to leak out, not to anyone.’

‘What about Cissie?’

‘Tell her only that you’re going away for a couple of days. Send her home.’

‘Yes, that’s best.’

‘Not a word, now, not to a living soul.’

‘I’ll move St Andrew, I think,’ said Mrs Frew.

‘Good idea,’ said Hughie. ‘Put him in the attic for a while.’

‘Will you help me?’

‘Of course.’

She managed, one way and another, to keep Hughie with her until after eight o’clock. He was patient and obedient and, if she had pressed him, might even have risked the wrath of his wife, Beatrice, and taken off his coat and sat down and had supper with her. But she did not ask it of him. St Andrew was safe away in an upper room and the tall panel that dominated the drawing-room, which depicted in wonderful detail Jesus walking on the water of the Sea of Galilee, had been manhandled upstairs too.

Eventually Hughie had taken his leave, reassured that she would do all he asked.

She poured herself a little thimble of brandy as soon as her brother had gone. She was pleased with herself, pleased that she had given him no sign of the dreadful excitement that was in her at the thought that she would participate in bringing a ‘gang’ to justice, that her quiet sanctuary would become a battlefield in the war between good and evil.

Excitement fizzed and bubbled inside her and she did not return to ‘Ouida’ but sat, nursing a second thimble of brandy, and gazed into the parlour fire. She was flattered that Hugh had confided in her. She would not, of course, breathe a word about it to Cissie, to anyone; except perhaps to Kirsty who was her friend and could be trusted. She might just mention it in passing to Kirsty on the way home from church tomorrow.

But next morning Kirsty Nicholson did not turn up at St Anne’s though Mrs Frew waited by the steps until the last possible moment and, disappointed, had to keep the intriguing secret to herself.

Raw and rattled, Craig climbed the steps to the ‘office’ above the yard like a man going to the gallows. He was not in the least flattered that he had been chosen by Hughie Affleck to play a leading role in the capture of Danny Malone. His feelings towards Malone had been ambivalent all along and he still had respect for the man’s daring defiance of the law. As it was he had been forced into an alliance with the law. At least Affleck’s plot would keep him out of jail, though he could not imagine that Danny Malone would fall for it or be caught by plodding blue boys from the burgh.

If it hadn’t been for Kirsty he would not have shown his face near Maitland Moss, might have scurried back home to his mammy and told nobody his reason for returning to the life of the farm. But he could not take Kirsty back to Dalnavert, not in her condition, and he could not bring himself to abandon her.

Taking a deep breath Craig rapped on the weathered door.

Mr Malone was alone inside the office. Craig had watched and waited all morning for the boss to go up the steps and unlock the door. Now that he stood on the rickety wooden landing, though, he felt as if every eye in the yard was upon him and that
Treachery
was printed on his back in letters of fire.

‘Come in.’

It was a shabby tumbledown sort of room with a desk, a table, a high cabinet of open pigeon-holes, a wooden armchair and a kitchen chair. The fire, unlighted, was packed with cold ashes and the place stank of gas and horses. Danny Malone, puffing on a Delmonico, was seated in the wooden armchair behind the desk, feet upon the window ledge.

‘Can I talk to you, Mr Malone?’ Craig said, gruffly.

‘I’m all ears,’ Malone said. ‘Take a pew.’

Craig licked his dry lips. He had rehearsed what he was going to say but the words stuck in his throat now like dry oats.

‘What’re you so bloody scared about?’ Danny Malone swung his feet from the window ledge, the swivel chair shrieking, and planted them on the desk. ‘I’m not goin’ to eat you, lad. Out wi’ it.’

‘Remember,’ Craig began, ‘remember how I stayed in a lodgin’ in Walbrook Street, before – before I moved to the Greenfield?’

‘Aye, a posh place.’

‘I’ve been thinkin’,’ Craig went on.

‘About what?’

‘Silver.’

‘You mean money?’

‘I mean silver plates.’

‘In this house in Walbrook Street?’

‘Aye.’

‘What reason have ye got for tellin’ me this?’

‘I’m – I’m green, Mr Malone, but I’m no cabbage. I’ve an idea what goes into the vans I drive on those night jobs.’

Malone seemed neither surprised nor dismayed by Craig’s acumen. He puffed on the cigar, blew a wave of thick blue smoke over his nether lip. He squinted at Craig quizzically through the haze.

‘Has Bob been talkin’ out o’ turn?’

‘Nah,’ said Craig. ‘Bob never had to say anythin’.’

‘Have you seen the silver plate?’

‘Where?’

‘In this house in Walbrook Street?’

‘Aye. I never thought much about it at the time. But—’ Craig hesitated.

‘But what?’

‘I – I thought you might be interested.’