“My George, my old college chums!”
And so superb was the man’s acting that there was no-one in the Dress Circle Bar but thought that here was a chance meeting between old friends.
“Howdy, Boss,” said Sawn-off Carlo.
The Professor scowled terribly, but ignoring Sawn-off Carlo continued,
“This is indeed a surprise, by Jove! Heigho, how long it seems since our mad-cap student days at Oxford University!”
A look of perplexity dawned on Sawn-off Carlo’s good-natured face.
“Say, Boss, I ain’t never been a student no place.”
“Tush, Carlo,” the Professor hissed beneath his breath, “you grow more stupid every day.”
Sawn-off Carlo obediently fell silent. But he was hurt. The Big Shot sure always got him wrong. Maybe it was his own fault. He wasn’t so good at this super-criminal stuff. He was just a great big simple-hearted gangster with an old mother who wept over him in a bum apoitment house way back home.
“We must drink, my old chums,” the Professor continued, “to celebrate this happy reunion. Ho there, mine host, three glasses of foaming English ale!”
When the drinks were brought the Professor led his companions to a quiet corner. But not as yet did he drop his impersonation. He raised his glass, crying,
“Cheerioh, my companions! A health, as we old students say, to our Alma Mater.”
The toast having been drunk, he lowered his voice.
“Well, my friends, our plans are in train. You brought it over safely, Ralph?”
“Yes.” Ralph answered also in a low voice. “It’s where we arranged.”
“Excellent, excellent. For the moment I shall say no more. We shall be joined presently by a lady.”
“Gee, a doll, huh?” exclaimed Sawn-off Carlo. “Say, what’s the big idea of this frail, Boss?”
“That will unfold itself. Suffice it for the moment to say that the co-operation of Flash Alice is essential to my plans.”
Almost as he finished speaking, there came across the Bar towards them a flamboyantly dressed young woman with hair of flaming red and immense violet eyes. She walked with slow feline grace, one hand resting negligently on her hip. Cheap jewellery blazed all over her. Gee, thought Sawn-off Carlo in his tough simple fashion, has that doll got swell curves or has she? He guessed she was the kinda dame he could fall for in a big way.
It was easy to see at a glance that Flash Alice was not a splendid radiant girl like Monica. Flash Alice was not, in fact, a splendid girl at all; on the contrary she was, despite her glamour, Bad all Through. Her downward career resembled that of Ralph the Disappointment in that she had been born of respectable parents, who dwelled in fact in Golders Green. She owed her downfall, however, not to a youthful crime but to the fact that at an early age she had become a Beauty Queen. Seven years ago she had been acclaimed Miss Bogpool-on-Sea, and photographed in her bathing costume standing beside the Mayor. As is well known, early prominence of this nature inevitably gives a girl a taste for champagne, cocktails, jewellery and bad companions generally. And so it was with Flash Alice. Almost immediately she had quitted Golders Green, leaving her respectable parents heartbroken, and started upon her career of shame. Flash Alice’s name was never mentioned now in Golders Green; only that regrettable photograph of her standing beside the Mayor reminded her parents of what might have been.
The Professor welcomed her loudly.
“My hat, my delightful niece! This is indeed a surprise. Allow me to present to you, my dear, my old college chums.”
“’Evening, boys,” said Flash Alice. “Gin and tonic for me.”
“Glad to know you, sister,” said Sawn-off Carlo. “Sit down, honeybunch.”
Ralph the Disappointment greeted her wistfully. He recognized a fellow-outcast when he met one.
“And now, my friends,” the Professor spoke with lowered voice, “to our business. I have devised a plan. Or rather I should say three plans. They are, if I may say so without vanity, probably the most subtle and far-reaching plans that even I have ever devised. Let us call them Plan A, Plan B, and Plan C. I will explain to you now Plan A …”
For a few minutes he spoke in clear concise terms. So masterly was his exposition, so clear-cut in every detail, that before the Bar began to clear for the second half of the performance his companions understood precisely what was required of them under Plan A.
As soon as the exodus began the Professor gave the signal for the party to break up.
“Au revoir, chums of my boyhood!” he cried for all listeners to hear. “How I have enjoyed reviving the memory of old pranks!”
“So long, Boss,” said Sawn-off Carlo. “Say, honeybunch, I’ll be seeing you.”
“Certainly not,” snapped the Professor. “As soon as Plan A is completed Flash Alice will disappear. That is essential.”
“Aw, Boss, that’s tough. I guess me and this frail could get together in a big way.”
“Listen, Carlo,” said the Professor, and his voice was soft and full of menace, “am I the great brain behind this organization or are you?”
Carlo grinned amiably.
“Okay, Boss, I guess the dame has gotta disappear.”
The party dispersed and returned to their seats. The stage was occupied now by the first turn of the second half of the programme, Les Tuck and his Hot Swing Boys. They were playing another of the popular successes of the day, The Little Old Garage in the Village Square. Into the microphone Mr. Les Tuck’s hot boy vocalist crooned the words of the refrain,
“Little old angels hovering there
Round the garage in the square
In the evening sweet and calm
Guard the baby cars from harm …”
The great audience listened enraptured.
* * *
The days passed; the date of the great match approached. On the Thursday Lethbridge scored 279 not out against Chalkshire. England sighed and waited.
* * *
Where are you going, Cricket fans of England?
(Oh my Fry and my Hayward long ago!)
We’re going to the Oval, we’re going to the
Test Match.
(Oh my Hobbs and my Sutcliffe long ago!)
What do you pray for, Cricket fans of England,
Marching along with your sandwiches and beer?
We pray for the sunshine, for boundaries and
overthrows,
Which, though we can’t explain it, always make
us cheer.
(Oh my Woodfull and my Ponsford long ago!)
Card o’ the match, Card o’ the match, Card o’ the
match!
Here’s luck to you all then, Cricket fans of England,
Forming a queue with your sandwiches and beer.
Fate send you sunshine, boundaries and overthrows,
Though why the last excite you was never very clear.
(Oh my Brown and my Fingleton long ago!)
Card o’ the match, Card o’ the match, Card o’ the match!
A soft seat all day for threepence.
Ballad
Plan A
Long before dawn, that memorable day, the queues began to form outside the Oval. Steadily, as the hours passed the numbers increased, swelling into a great patient multitude. From all parts of London, from all parts of the British Isles they came, these patient lovers of cricket, to witness the great match. A sky of cloudless blue promised a perfect day and a plumb wicket. Surely there must be mighty deeds done that day. Would there be a century from Norman Blood, a great stand by Hugh and Crigh, a dashing display by young Gayheart, a mammoth score by Lethbridge? Who knew? Such things were on the knees of the gods.
Presently the great waiting crowd began to file slowly through the turnstiles. It was then that a somewhat unusual incident took place. A large man, whose jaws worked unceasingly, was heard to inquire of his neighbour,
“Say, is this the right joint for the ball-game, buddy?”
; He was taken for a madman and not molested. Thus one more ugly incident was avoided by the traditional good-humour of an English crowd.
As the hour of play approached, the ground was packed. In the more expensive stands men and women famous in the national life were seen to be assembling, for all the world as though this were a fashionable first-night. In the pavilion Sir Timothy was to be seen greeting other veterans only slightly less celebrated, men whose initials have passed into history. Sir Timothy, who was wearing the tie of the Merry Moonrakers, was in optimistic mood.
“We shall beat them,” he observed to Q. E. D. (“A wicket an over”) Marjoribanks, who was wearing the tie of the Eastshire Emus. “I have a distinct whathisname that we shall beat them.”
Q. E. D. Marjoribanks said that he hoped so, but that in these new-fashioned timeless tests there was no knowing what would happen, and R. S. V. P. Hatstock (tie of Westshire Woodlice) said that with modern bowling and modern wickets it was a wonder any match was ever finished.
In the Press-box were other men with great names. Old cricketers, both English and Imperian, gripped their pencils. Twenty-five of them had already written that Old Sol was in the ascendant, and seventeen that the wicket resembled a billiard table. Mr. Beetling Grim was in his place, though he was in rather a bad temper because his new novel, Filthy Luka (the story of a Bulgarian dancing girl), had received an adverse review in the Saturday Gazette. However, he cheered up presently because the sight of the gas-works gave him an idea for a new novel altogether. A story of the Gas Light and Coke Co.—Within Seven Days. Stern old John Therm, ruthless both with his employees and consumers, refused to admit the new methods advocated by his son. He ground his workmen in the dust. Despite strikes and powerful scenes with his son and incredible suffering on the part of a number of minor characters, he went relentlessly on his way. The whole would end up uproariously with a terrific explosion which blew thousands of people to bits, together with the suicide of old John. Just the kind of thing Mr. Beetling Grim could do to perfection.
Miss Felicia Portcullis was there, and her, too, the gas-works inspired with a new theme. Love’s Meter. Sally Truegirl, misty-eyed and courageous, went as a typist to a branch of the Gas Light and Coke Co. She was very poor and sighed for silk stockings and Life. Cyril Mesurier, the handsome young branch manager, was a rotter where girls were concerned, whereas John Humble, who was merely an honest young workman, was true all through. One evening, when Sally’s urge for silk stockings became almost intolerable …
In his own little private box John Beltravers waited, John Beltravers, whose voice was to bring to all that part of the population of England which could not be at the Oval the story of this mighty match.
The Prestwick parents could not afford to stop wringing a bare living from the soil for one day; moreover, they were so rude that they would not have understood what was going on. But Monica and her saintly old father, who had been invited to stay for the duration of the match at the Blood town house in Mayfair, were seated in one of the stands. One thought was uppermost in Monica’s mind, as she gazed out over the great green field, and more than once she gave voice to it,
“If only Joe is playing, Father!”
The saintly old Vicar looked doubtful.
“It is hardly a spin-bowler’s wicket, my child. Dear me, I almost wish I had prayed for a little rain. That wicket looks to me just the kind on which Lethbridge might stay in for several days.”
Not far from Monica and her father was seated a short figure, with a great dome-like forehead who gazed out over the crowded arena through enormous spectacles. He was attired in the same manner as upon his former visit to the Oval, grey bowler, check suit, glasses slung about him. A typical member of the Sporting Fraternity. It was characteristic of his greatness that he showed no sense of strain at the approach of the climax of his long matured plans. Indeed, a kind of icy detachment appeared to possess him as he smoked his thin cigar, as though he alone among this vast crowd cared nothing for the outcome of the match.
Presently it was seen that Norman Blood and Lethbridge had come out to toss. The news went round that England had won. And shortly afterwards appeared men, bearing boards, on which were written the names of the chosen players. Monica had much ado to bite back her tears, as she read that Joe was twelfth man.
“But I must remember,” she told herself, “that it is England that matters. I must just be a splendid English girl and keep a stiff upper lip.”
The ground was cleared, bells rang, the umpires appeared. And then punctually at half-past eleven the yellow-capped men of Imperia, led by great Lethbridge, descended the pavilion steps. Photographers rushed to photograph them. In the Press-box thirty-eight journalists simultaneously wrote “a battery of cameras”.
Then came a mighty roar, as England’s opening batsmen Hugh and Crigh were seen to emerge and walk towards the wickets. Many in that vast throng must have wondered what the two said to each other during that long walk, so heavy with a sense of destiny. They would, no doubt, have been considerably astonished, if they could have overheard the conversation. For what Hugh said to Crigh was,
“How are you feeling, Bill?”
And Crigh answered, “Well, it’s an extraordinary thing, Fred, but I feel sleepy.”
“It’s an even more extraordinary thing, Bill,” rejoined Hugh, “but so do I.”
* * *
There can be few periods in our national life, so tense, so fraught with solemnity as the opening overs of a Test Match. A great hush, as though Time itself waited upon the unfolding of historic events, lay over the Oval, as Hugh, having taken guard, scanned the disposition of the fieldsmen, patted the pitch, and caused the sight-screen to be moved, prepared to face the first ball. Almost at his feet crouched the four short legs, silly point and three slips who prayed that the ball might snick off the bat into their hands. Bumper, the Imperian shock bowler, began his long run from the Vauxhall end.
Nor was it only to the thousands packed about the Oval that the solemnity of these first moments communicated themselves. All over England, to the teeming millions of great cities, to the lonely shepherd, temporarily ignoring his sheep, went the voice of John Beltravers.
“Bumper is running up. One, two, three, four. Hugh waits, solid, majestic, like a king awaiting the deference of his subjects. Eighteen, nineteen. Bumper is still running. A hostile bowler, this Bumper. Tall, strongly built, full of menace. There is an enormous crowd here today. Men in panama hats, girls in bright dresses. Bumper still running. Forty-four, forty-five. Hugh still waiting like a king. The Imperian fielders in their yellow caps all crouching. Sixty-five, sixty-six. Bumper is nearing the wicket now. He’s there. He bowls. Outside the off-stump. Hugh moves across, full of majesty, smiles contemptuously and leaves it alone. Bumper starts walking back …”
Half an hour passed, an hour, with the tensity undiminished, the solemn hush still unbroken. Once again at twelve-thirty the voice of John Beltravers brought news to waiting England.
“There is no score yet. Hugh not out nought, Crigh not out nought. Total nought. Grim back-to-the-wall stuff, this cricket. Every ball full of drama. The fielders still crouching there full of menace …”
As the minutes passed, some thoughtless members of the crowd began to shout derisive encouragement. Once or twice the little man with the dome-like forehead startled those about him by shouting “Long live Sir Sutcliffe!” and “Chukka and Tiffin!”; but for the most part the struggle went on in the grimmest silence. Time crept on. Twelve-forty-five. And still no score. In the pavilion, Sir Timothy could be heard maintaining that in his day England would have scored at least ten by now.
And then something did happen, the first indeed of the series of unusual incidents which were to make this match one to be long remembered in the annals of Cricket. A fast ball from Bumper inadvertently struck the edge of Hugh’s bat. The ball trickled between the slips. No fieldsmen near. Hugh began to run.
The crowd began to applaud
the first score of the match, but the clapping died away when it was observed that Crigh had toppled gently over and lay at full length upon the grass. A gasp of amazement went round the packed ground. What could this mean? Imperian fielders gathered about the prostrate man. Crigh lay with his eyes closed, and as they bent over him the bewildered Imperians heard the sound of a snore.
It was Lethbridge himself who put into words the idea which had formed in the minds of all.
“He seems,” said the great man, “to be asleep.”
The umpire bent down and shook him.
“Here, come on, wake up.”
No result. The umpire, greatly astonished, turned to confer with his colleague at the other end. Then it was observed that Hugh also lay at full length upon the ground, breathing stertorously.
“Gosh,” exclaimed the astonished umpire.
“He’s asleep now.”
In the strange telepathic way that news travels about a cricket ground the tidings reached the pavilion that England’s opening batsmen were fast asleep.
In the pavilion Sir Timothy exclaimed indignantly,
“A man can’t go to sleep while batting for England. The thing is unheard of.”
“It’s this new-fangled off-theory and leg-theory,” growled R. S. V. P. Hatstock. “I always knew a man would go to sleep one day.”
“Nonsense,” snapped Q. E. D. Marjoribanks, “it’s these timeless tests. I’m dashed if I see how fellows can be expected to keep awake.”
“If you ask me,” said P. T. O. Brown, “it’s this modern craze for averages. Men start doing mental arithmetic at the wicket and this is what happens.”
Out in the middle, meanwhile, a hasty conference was held. An excited buzz went round the Oval, as it was seen that the fieldsmen were carrying the unconscious forms of Hugh and Crigh back to the pavilion. There they were laid gently to rest.
“Well, well,” exclaimed Sir Timothy, who almost came to believe that his oft-repeated wish had come true and that at any rate a portion of the English team lay dead at his feet, “this is most extraordinary. Most extraordinary.”
The Amazing Test Match Crime Page 6