William_the Dictator

by Richmal Crompton

  “So sorry,” he said, as he handed it back. “It’s my wretched motor-bike. It oozes oil at every pore, nowadays. Well, I’ll be getting along.”

  He departed, leaving the detective staring open-mouthed at the sheet of paper that had just been put into his hand. For there, quite unmistakably, were the thief’s finger-prints, the prints that had been found on the hairbrush upstairs. There was even the zig-zag scratch on the thumb that Robert had got when experimenting with a patent tin-opener a short time ago.

  * * *

  William was sitting astride the roof of the tool-shed, surveying the prospect through an imaginary telescope, when Sheila arrived, breathless and without a hat.

  “Where’s Robert?’’ she panted.

  “Dunno,” said William, turning the telescope in the direction of the church spire, which he saw as a gigantic privateer bearing down on him. With a quick movement of his arm he trained his guns on it.

  “Steady, my hearties,” he admonished his men.

  “Do come down,” pleaded Sheila tearfully. “Robert’s in danger, terrible danger.”

  That sounded rather exciting, so William abandoned his impending sea-battle for the time being, and scrambled down from the tool-shed roof.

  “How’s he in danger!” he demanded. “Is a lion after him, or somethin’?”

  “No, no, of course not,” said Sheila. “But there’s been a burglary at home, and they’ve proved that Robert did it.”

  “Gosh!” said William, amazed. He thought of Robert’s dull, placid, law-abiding existence. “Not Robert. He couldn’t have.”

  “But he did. They’ve got proof.”

  “What proof’ve they got?” said William.

  Sheila made a gesture of impatience.

  “Oh, what does that matter! I haven’t time to go into all that. Every minute’s precious. He doesn’t know that he’s even suspected. We must find him and warn him quickly. We must hide him. We must get him out of the country . . .”

  Sheila was enjoying the situation, though she imagined herself to be heart-broken. Robert had risen immensely in her esteem. He wasn’t, after all, the shy and awkward youth he had appeared to be. He was a daring criminal, a king, perhaps, of the underworld. His shyness and awkwardness was a blind. He controlled vast, international organisations. Criminals moved hither and thither at his bidding. He was the mysterious “chief’ whom probably his underlings had never even seen, but whose every word they obeyed at peril of their lives. It was Robert who inserted those cryptic messages in the personal columns of the newspapers that were, she had always been told, directions from kings of the underworld to their subjects. Oh, how she had misjudged him! How wrong she had been to find him dull and boring! . . . The Scarlet Pimpernel . . . Raffles . . . It was all in the tradition, of course. And she, on her side, would be one of those cool, dauntless heroines, whom she had so often seen on the pictures, who risk their lives several times a day to save their lovers from justice. But, of course, the first thing to do was to warn him, and she couldn’t do that till she knew where he was.

  “Gosh!” William was saying. “Fancy ole Robert!” There was a new respect in his voice, too. “Has he done other ones as well?”

  “Oh, I expect so,” said Sheila. “I expect he’s been doing it for years. They do, you know, and then they make one slip, and the police are on to them. They’re on to Robert now, and we must save him.”

  William thought over all the burglaries in the neighbourhood that he could remember—the theft of Mrs. Bott’s diamond brooch, of Mrs. Monk’s fur coat, of General Moult’s car. And to think that Robert had done them all—that Robert, apparently intent on playing games and working for exams, in the intervals of a series of harmless flirtations, had really all the time been carrying out these daring coups. William wished he’d known. He’d liked to have had a hand in them, too. Still, as Sheila rightly pointed out, the thing to do now was to save Robert from jail. There was not, as she said, a moment to be lost.

  “If only we knew where he was,” she groaned.

  “I wonder how they found out,” said William. “I bet that gardener told ’em.”

  “What gardener?”

  “Your gardener. I—I—er—passed the house when you were away an’ he was there an’ I bet he saw Robert do it an’ told them. He’s a nasty sort of man.”

  “But he couldn’t have been there while we were away,” said Sheila. “Daddy had given him the sack before we went away and told him never to go near the place again. He’d been stealing vegetables and selling them.”

  “Well, he was there, anyway,” said William.

  It was at this moment that Robert returned. He was feeling rather disappointed. He had been for a ride on his motor-cycle, like the hero of the story, but no solution of the mystery had occurred to him. He left his cycle by the side door and came round to the back garden. His face lightened as his eyes fell on Sheila. She’d come to talk over the affair with him. How jolly decent of her! Together they’d thrash it out . . .

  “Oh, Robert!” she cried hysterically, as soon as she saw him. “They know . . . they know everything.”

  “Do they?” said Robert, slightly disappointed. “How did they find out?”

  Sheila couldn’t help admiring him. So calm and debonair—like all real heroes in the face of danger.

  “Never mind that now,” she said. “There’s no time to go into all that. But they know. You must fly, Robert. Fly at once.”

  “Me?” said the astounded Robert. “Fly? Where? What? Why?”

  “Anywhere. We’ll help you. Well try to put them off the scent till you’re safely away. Now that they know you stole the silver, they—”

  “Me?" interrupted Robert wildly. “Me? Stole the silver?”

  They looked at him in silence. Even they could see that he wasn’t acting. He hadn’t stolen the silver. He wasn’t a world-famous criminal. Sheila was torn between relief and disappointment, and, on the whole, relief won. After all, it would have been rather a nuisance having to shield a famous criminal indefinitely. It would interfere so with one’s normal activities.

  “Di’n’t you do it, then?” William was saying, frankly disappointed.

  “’Course I didn’t,” snapped the flustered Robert. “Don’t be such a damn little fool.”

  “Well then we must prove you didn’t,” said Sheila. It was, after all, almost as exciting. The wrongly suspected lover. The brave girl, giving herself no rest till she had proved his innocence. William, too, was reconciling himself to the slightly less-alluring position. Poor old Robert—wrongly suspected! Yes, they must do their best to save him.

  “Well, then, we’ve gotter find who did it,” he said.

  “B—but why should they think I did it?” gasped Robert. “I’ve never been near the place.”

  “They’ve found your finger-prints,” said Sheila. “I’m afraid they’ve got a very strong case against you. Oh, don’t stand there arguing,” as Robert opened his mouth to protest. “There’s no time. They may be here any minute with—with bloodhounds and things. We can talk afterwards. The thing to do now is to get you out of the country.”

  “But I never—never in my life—” stammered Robert helplessly, his eyes agog with horror, his mouth hanging open loosely. William and Sheila looked at him. Far indeed, was the cool, daring, master criminal of their imagination. But his horror and dismay roused their protective instinct.

  “We’ll stand by you to the end, Robert,” Sheila assured him stoutly.

  “B—b—but, I say, you do believe I didn’t, don’t you?” pleaded Robert.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, look here,” said William, “if Robert didn’t, someone else did. And—I say—that gardener man might have seen someone hanging about. He was there the day I—er—came along. He might’ve noticed someone sort of hanging about.”

  “Why, yes,” said Sheila, relieved by this definite suggestion. It sounded grand and resourceful to talk about getting Robert �
�out of the country”, but she hadn’t the faintest idea how to set about it. “Yes, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll hide Robert here and we’ll go to the gardener’s cottage—I know where he lives—and ask him if he saw anyone hanging about. Where shall we hide Robert?” She glanced round the garden and noticed the coal-shed just beyond the tool-shed that had been William’s galleon. There was a key in the lock. “Let’s hide him there, and lock him in. They won’t think of looking there, and, even if they do, it will take them some time to break open the door. You’ll keep well under the coal, won’t you, Robert? So that if they look through the window they won’t see you.”

  The unhappy Robert, still protesting, was pushed into the coal-shed and the key turned on him.

  “Here!” he shouted through the door “Here! Wait a minute. I don’t understand. Why should they think I did it? I never—”

  But Sheila and William were already out of earshot, running quickly up the road in the direction of the gardener’s cottage. At the end of the road could be seen the figures of a policeman and Mr. Barron. They were evidently coming to interview Robert.

  “Oh, dear!” gasped Sheila. “I do hope he keeps well underneath the coal. At any rate, they evidently haven’t brought any bloodhounds—”

  When they were near the cottage, they slackened pace.

  “We’ll have to be very careful,” said Sheila. “He’s an awful-tempered man.”

  “I know,” said William.

  “He had an awful row with Daddy, when Daddy gave him the sack. We’ll have to be very tactful or he won’t tell us anything. I haven’t even any money to tip him with, have you?”

  “No,” said William.

  “Well . . . Let’s knock, anyway.”

  They went up to the little green door and knocked. There was no answer. They knocked again. Still there was no answer.

  “Bother!” said Sheila. “He’s out.”

  “I thought I saw him in the kitchen,” said William.

  “You couldn’t have . . . Oh, dear what shall we do now? I suppose we must go back to Robert and try to get him out of the country.”

  They walked back disconsolately down the road. Then William said: “I’m sure I saw him in the kitchen jus’ before we knocked.”

  “You couldn’t have,” said Sheila again. “Oh, dear, what shall we do about Robert? I don’t know how people get people out of the country, do you?”

  “No . . . Let’s go back an’ try once more.”

  They returned to the cottage.

  “He must have been in,” said William. “The curtains are drawn now, an’ they weren’t drawn when we were there before. Let’s see what he’s doin’.”

  “We can’t with the curtains drawn.”

  “There’s a little chink at the top. If I climb that tree I bet I can see all right.”

  He climbed the tree quickly and silently. Through the chink at the top of the curtains he could see the gardener quite plainly. He had taken up several boards in the floor of his kitchen and made some sort of excavation beneath, and into this cavity he was carefully transferring from a sack the silver that had been stolen from Mr. Barron.

  * * *

  The tumult and shouting had died. The silver had been recovered. The gardener was safely under lock and key. Robert, rescued from the coal-shed, was hoarsely, from beneath a thick film of coal dust, demanding explanations of everybody around him. William, who had discovered the real culprit and fetched the police to the spot, was preening himself as the hero of the occasion. It had been his idea to go to the gardener’s cottage.

  It had been his idea to climb the tree Robert ought to be jolly grateful to him. Mr Barron ought to be jolly grateful to him. The police ought to be jolly grateful to him. Scotland Yard ought to give him a medal or something.

  “But why should you have suspected me?” Robert was demanding wildly.

  “Well, sir,” said the detective, “we found your finger-prints—they were quite plain—on Mr. Barron’s hair-brush.”

  “On Mr. Barron’s hair-brush!” echoed Robert faintly. “But I’ve never been near it.”

  William had collapsed like a pricked balloon. For the first time, he remembered the incident of the ebony hairbrush, remembered how carefully and gingerly he had carried it back by its bristles, realised that the fingerprints where Robert had innocently held it to brush his hair would still be there on its virgin surface, understood how the whole horrible misunderstanding had happened. He looked fearfully at Robert. Robert was not, after all, a daredevil criminal, a lord of the underworld, but he could be terrible enough for all that. His covering of coal dust made him look more formidable than usual. The whites of his eyes stood out horribly.

  William decided not to draw attention to his own part in the capture of the thief. He decided, instead, to fade from the scene as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. Sooner or later, he knew the story of the ebony hairbrush would be dragged from him and then he would have to face that dreadful coal-coloured figure of vengeance . . . But better later than sooner. It was long after his bedtime, and he thought the best thing to do was to go to bed. That would put off explanations till tomorrow. William always believed in putting off explanations till to-morrow. He murmured inaudible farewells, and withdrew very quietly from the circle.

  “I’ve no doubt that there’s some simple explanation of it my boy,” said Mr. Barron mildly, “but the fact remains that your finger-prints were found on my hair-brush.”

  Robert looked round the group, and noticed the figure of William quietly sloping off. It was eloquent in every line of a guilty desire to escape notice. And, suddenly, he remembered that when he came back from spending the afternoon with a friend a week or so ago, he had seen William on the landing, and had had a strong suspicion that he had just come out of his bedroom. He had hurried anxiously in, but found everything untouched—his precious ebony hair-brush quite safe. But had everything been untouched? He remembered thinking that the ebony hair-brush wasn’t just where it had been when he’d left it. The ebony hair-brush. That was evidently the key to the whole mystery, and, as usual, William was at the bottom of it. He sprang forward, clutched William by the collar, and dragged him back. “Now,” he said grimly, “you tell us all you know about this.”

  William, after a few experimental wriggles, surrendered to the inevitable with as good a grace as possible. It would have to be sooner, after all. He looked at the circle of tense and interested faces round him, and his spirits rose somewhat. He was the centre of the stage, and William always enjoyed being the centre of the stage. And, anyway, he could postpone Robert’s vengeance by spinning the tale out indefinitely. He was an expert at doing that. He assumed a bland and innocent expression.

  “Well,” he began, “it wasn’t really my fault, but the way it happened was this . . .”

  Chapter 7 – Aunt Louie’s Birthday Present

  The Outlaws had called at the Browns’ house for William. A half-holiday lay before them, every minute of it precious.

  They stood at the side door, discussing the best method of spending it.

  “Let’s go’n’ try ’n’ dam the stream by the ole barn,” said William. “I bet we could make a fine lake there. Right over the field.”

  “All right,” they agreed. “Come on!”

  It was at this moment that Mrs. Brown called: “William, dear,” from upstairs.

  Mrs. Brown was in bed with a headache—one of the devastating headaches that occasionally, very occasionally, laid her low. William mounted the stairs, assuming the expression of stern gloom that he considered suitable for a sick-room.

  He opened the door and tiptoed elaborately to the bedside where Mrs. Brown lay with closed eyes.

  “Yes, mother,” he said in a sepulchral whisper.

  “I want you to do something for me, dear,” said Mrs. Brown. “I’ve suddenly remembered that it’s the last day for the South African mail, and I haven’t got Aunt Louie’s birthday present yet. I forgot all about it till th
is moment. I wondered if you’d go down to Hadley and get it for me, dear, then I can post it this evening. Will you?”

  Aunt Louie was an old school friend of Mrs. Brown’s. She had been over to England a few years ago, and William remembered her well. She was fat and jolly and very understanding about Red Indians and smugglers and pirates. She’d been into the woods with him and helped him cook a mixture of sausages and sardines and bacon rinds over a fire. William felt that, if he had to give up his precious half-holiday, he’d rather give it up to Aunt Louie than to anyone else.

  “Yes,” he said, in his sibilant, sick-room whisper.

  “She’s coming over to England again next year,” went on Mrs. Brown. “And I shouldn’t like her to think I’d forgotten her. Now, listen very carefully, dear. I want you to get a tea-cloth that I saw in Hemmett’s in Hadley last week. It’s linen with filet lace let in, and it’s ten and six. If it’s sold, any of Hemmett’s white tea-cloths at ten and six would do. They’re all very pretty. About thirty-six inches square. Can you remember all that, dear?”

  “Yes,” hissed William gloomily.

  It was going to he a pretty mess-up of a half-holiday, he thought, going into Hadley for a tea-cloth instead of damming the stream and making a lake.

  But William, despite his many faults, had a kind heart, and it always distressed him to see his usually bustling, busy mother laid low.

  “My purse is on the dressing-table,” said Mrs. Brown. ‘Take out a ten-shilling note and a sixpence. If you bring it back all right I’ll give you sixpence for yourself.”

  William felt slightly consoled by this promise.

  “Thanks,” he hissed. Then he looked at her solicitously. “Would you like me to bring you somethin’ from Hadley, mother?”

  “No, thank you, dear.”

  “Not a nice cream bun?”

  A flicker of agony passed over Mrs. Brown’s features.

  “No, thank you, dear.”

  “Some sherbet?”