The Christmas Card Crime and Other Stories

by Martin Edwards

  “And who makes the phone call?”

  “Again, Stace, I hoped that you might be able to provide—”

  “I can do that.” Stacey drained his whiskey. “But what do you do?”

  Mr Payne’s lips, never full, were compressed to a disapproving line. He answered the implied criticism only by inviting them to look at two maps—one the layout of the entire third floor, the other of the Jewellery Department itself. Stacey and Straight were impressed, as the uneducated always are, by such evidence of careful planning.

  “The Jewellery Department is at one end of the third floor. It has only one exit—into the Carpet Department. There is a service lift which comes straight up into the Jewellery Department. You and I, Stace, will be in that. We shall stop it between floors with the Emergency Stop button. At exactly ten thirty-two we shall go up to the third floor. Lester will give us a sign. If everything has gone well, we proceed. If not, we call the job off. Now, what I propose…”

  He told them, they listened, and they found it good. Even the ignorant, Mr Payne was glad to see, could recognize genius. He told Straight Line his role.

  “We must have a car, Straight, and a driver. What he has to do is simple, but he must stay cool. So I thought of you.” Straight grinned.

  “In Jessiter Street, just outside the side entrance to Orbin’s, there is a parking space reserved for Orbins’ customers. It is hardly ever full. But if it is full you can double park there for five minutes—cars often do that. I take it you can—acquire a car, shall I say?—for the purpose. You will face away from Oxford Street, and you will have no more than a few minutes’ run to Lambie’s house on Greenly Street. You will drop Stace and me, drive on a mile or two, and leave the car. We shall give the stuff to Lambie. He will pay on the nail. Then we all split.”

  From that point they went on to argue about the split. The argument was warm, but not really heated. They settled that Stacey would get 25 per cent of the total, Straight and Lester 12 ½ per cent each, and that half would go to the mastermind. Mr Payne agreed to provide out of his share the £150 that Stacey said would cover the three diversions.

  The job was fixed six days ahead—for Tuesday of the following week.

  Stacey had two faults which had prevented him from rising high in his profession. One was that he drank too much, the other that he was stupid. He made an effort to keep his drinking under control, knowing that when he drank he talked. So he did not even tell his wife about the job, although she was safe enough.

  But he could not resist cheating about the money, which Payne had given to him in full.

  The fire bomb was easy. Stacey got hold of a little man named Shrimp Bateson, and fixed it with him. There was no risk, and Shrimp thought himself well paid with twenty-five quid. The bomb itself cost only a fiver, from a friend who dealt in hardware. It was guaranteed to cause just a little fire, nothing serious.

  For the telephone call Stacey used a Canadian who was grubbing a living at a striptease club. It didn’t seem to either of them that the job was worth more than a tenner, but the Canadian asked for twenty and got fifteen.

  The woman was a different matter, for she had to be a bit of an actress, and she might be in for trouble since she actually had to cause a disturbance. Stacey hired an eighteen-stone Irish woman named Lucy O’Malley, who had once been a female wrestler, and had very little in the way of a record—nothing more than a couple of drunk and disorderlies. She refused to take anything less than £50, realizing, as the others hadn’t, that Stacey must have something big on.

  The whole lot came to less than £100, so that there was cash to spare. Stacey paid them all half their money in advance, put the rest of the £100 aside, and went on a roaring drunk for a couple of days, during which he somehow managed to keep his mouth buttoned and his nose clean.

  When he reported on Monday night to Mr Payne he seemed to have everything fixed, including himself.

  Straight Line was a reliable character, a young man who kept himself to himself. He pinched the car on Monday afternoon, took it along to the semilegitimate garage run by his father-in-law, and put new license plates on it. There was no time for a respray job, but he roughed the car up a little so that the owner would be unlikely to recognize it if by an unlucky chance he should be passing outside Orbin’s on Tuesday morning. During this whole operation, of course, Straight wore gloves.

  He also reported to Mr Payne on Monday night.

  * * *

  Lester’s name was not really Lester—it was Leonard. His mother and his friends in Balham, where he had been born and brought up, called him Lenny. He detested this, as he detested his surname and the pimples that, in spite of his assiduous efforts with ointment, appeared on his face every couple of months. There was nothing he could do about the name of Jones, because it was on his National Insurance card, but Lester for Leonard was a gesture toward emancipation.

  Another gesture was made when he left home and mother for a one room flat in Notting Hill Gate. A third gesture—and the most important one—was his friendship with Lucille, whom he had met in a jazz club called The Whizz Fizz.

  Lucille called herself an actress, but the only evidence of it was that she occasionally sang in the club. Her voice was tuneless but loud. After she sang, Lester always bought her a drink, and the drink was always whiskey.

  “So what’s new?” she said. “Lester-boy, what’s new?”

  “I sold a diamond necklace today. Two hundred and fifty pounds. Mr Marston was very pleased.” Mr Marston was the manager of the Jewellery Department.

  “So Mr Marston was pleased. Big deal.” Lucille looked round restlessly, tapping her foot.

  “He might give me a raise.”

  “Another ten bob a week and a pension for your fallen arches.”

  “Lucille, won’t you—”

  “No.” The peak of emancipation for Lester, a dream beyond which his thoughts really could not reach, was that one day Lucille would come to live with him. Far from that, she had not even slept with him yet. “Look, Lester-boy, I know what I want, and let’s face it, you haven’t got it.”

  He was incautious enough to ask, “What?”

  “Money, moolah, the green folding stuff. Without it you’re nothing, with it they can’t hurt you.”

  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 grey trilby hat and his face was grey too—grey 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, humouring 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?”