Ten Classic Crime Stories for the Festive Season

by Cecily Gayford

  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 lastminute 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 lastminute 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 organised 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 near by.

  ‘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 towards 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 emphasising 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 apologised, 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, I shouldn’t like to tangle with her on a dark night.’

  The time was now 10:40.

  The clock in the Jewellery 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 be pompous. ‘Put it through here, then.’

 
‘I can’t. There’s something wrong with the line in this department – it seems to be dead.’

  Davidson had heard his name mentioned, and came over to them quickly. He was a crew-cut American, tough and lean. ‘It’ll be about my wife, she’s expecting a baby. Where’s the call?’

  ‘We’ve got it in Administration, one floor up.’

  ‘Come on, then.’ Davidson started off at what was almost a run, and the girl trotted after him. Marston stared at both of them disapprovingly. He became aware that one of his clerks, Lester Jones, was looking rather odd.

  ‘Is anything the matter, Jones? Do you feel unwell?’

  Lester said that he was all right. The act of cutting the telephone cord had filled him with terror, but with the departure of Davidson he really did feel better. He thought of the money – and of Lucille.

  Lucille was just saying goodbye to Jim Baxter and his friend Eddie Grain. They were equipped with an arsenal of weapons, including flick knives, bicycle chains and brass knuckles. They did not, however, carry revolvers.

  ‘You’ll be careful,’ Lucille said to Jim.

  ‘Don’t worry. This is going to be like taking candy from a baby, isn’t it, Eddie?’

  ‘S’right,’ Eddie said. He had a limited vocabulary, and an almost perpetual smile. He was a terror with a knife.

  The Canadian made the call from the striptease club. He had a girl with him. He had told her that it would be a big giggle. When he heard Davidson’s voice – the time was just after ten thirty-four – he said, ‘Is that Mr Davidson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is the James Long Foster Hospital in Chicago, Mr Davidson, Maternity floor.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will you speak up, please. I can’t hear you very well.’

  ‘Have you got some news of my wife?’ Davidson said loudly. He was in a small booth next to the store switchboard. There was no reply. ‘Hello? Are you there?’

  The Canadian put one hand over the receiver, and ran the other up the girl’s bare thigh. ‘Let him stew a little.’ The girl laughed. They could hear Davidson asking if they were still on the line. Then the Canadian spoke again.

  ‘Hello, hello, Mr Davidson. We seem to have a bad connection.’

  ‘I can hear you clearly. What news is there?’

  ‘No need to worry, Mr Davidson. Your wife is fine.’

  ‘Has she had the baby?’

  The Canadian chuckled. ‘Now, don’t be impatient. That’s not the kind of thing you can hurry, you know.’

  ‘What have you got to tell me then? Why are you calling?’

  The Canadian put his hand over the receiver again, said to the girl, ‘You say something.’

  ‘What shall I say?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter – that we’ve got the wires crossed or something.’

  The girl leaned over, picked up the telephone. ‘This is the operator. Who are you calling?’

  In the telephone booth sweat was running off Davidson. He hammered with his fist on the wall of the booth. ‘Damn you, get off the line! Put me back to the Maternity floor.’

  ‘This is the operator. Who do you want, please?’

  Davidson checked himself suddenly. The girl had a Cockney voice. ‘Who are you? What’s your game?’

  The girl handed the telephone back to the Canadian, looking frightened. ‘He’s on to me.’

  ‘Hell.’ The Canadian picked up the receiver again, but the girl had left it uncovered, and Davidson had heard the girl’s words. He dropped the telephone, pushed open the door of the booth and raced for the stairs. As he ran he loosened the revolver in his hip pocket.

  The time was now 10:41.

  Straight Line brought the Jaguar smoothly to a stop in the space reserved for Orbin’s customers, and looked at his watch. It was 10:32.

  Nobody questioned him, nobody so much as gave him a glance. Beautiful, he thought, a nice smooth job, really couldn’t be simpler. Then his hands tightened on the steering wheel.

  He saw in the rear-view mirror, standing just a few yards behind him, a policeman. Three men were evidently asking the policeman for directions, and the copper was consulting a London place map.

  Well, Straight thought, he can’t see anything of me except my back, and in a couple of minutes he’ll be gone. There was still plenty of time. Payne and Stacey weren’t due out of the building until 10:39 or 10:40. Yes, plenty of time.

  But there was a hollow feeling in Straight’s stomach as he watched the policeman in his mirror.

  Some minutes earlier, at 10:24, Payne and Stacey had met at the service elevator beside the Grocery Department on the ground floor. They had met this early because of the possibility that the elevator might be in use when they needed it, although from Lester’s observation it was used mostly in the early morning and late afternoon.

  They did not need the elevator until 10:30, and they would be very unlucky if it was permanently in use at that time. If they were that unlucky – well, Mr Payne had said with the pseudo-philosophy of the born gambler, they would have to call the job off. But even as he said this he knew that it was not true, and that having gone so far he would not turn back.

  The two men did not speak to each other, but advanced steadily toward the elevator by way of inspecting chow mein, hymettus honey and real turtle soup. The Grocery Department was full of shoppers, and the two men were quite unnoticed. Mr Payne reached the elevator first and pressed the button. They were in luck. The door opened.

  Within seconds they were both inside. Still neither man spoke. Mr Payne pressed the button which said 3, and then, when they had passed the second floor, the button that said Emergency Stop. Jarringly the elevator came to a stop. It was now immobilised, so far as a call from outside was concerned. It could be put back into motion only by calling in engineers who would free the Emergency Stop mechanism – or, of course, by operating the elevator from inside.

  Stacey shivered a little. The elevator was designed for freight, and therefore roomy enough to hold twenty passengers; but Stacey had a slight tendency to claustrophobia, which was increased by the thought that they were poised between floors. He said, ‘I suppose that bloody thing will work when you press the button?’

  ‘Don’t worry, my friend. Have faith in me.’ Mr Payne opened the dingy suitcase, revealing as he did so that he was now wearing rubber gloves. In the suitcase were two long red cloaks, two fuzzy white wigs, two thick white beards, two pairs of outsize horn-rimmed spectacles, two red noses and two hats with large tassels. ‘This may not be a perfect fit for you, but I don’t think you can deny that it’s a perfect disguise.’

  They put on the clothes, Mr Payne with the pleasure he always felt in dressing up, Stacey with a certain reluctance. The idea was clever, all right, he had to admit that, and when he looked in the elevator’s small mirror and saw a Santa Claus looking back at him, he was pleased to find himself totally unrecognisable. Deliberately he took the Smith and Wesson out of his jacket and put it into the pocket of the red cloak.

  ‘You understand, Stace, there is no question of using that weapon.’

  ‘Unless I have to.’

  ‘There is no question,’ Mr Payne repeated firmly. ‘Violence is never necessary. It is a confession that one lacks intelligence.’

  ‘We got to point it at them, haven’t we? Show we mean business.’

  Mr Payne acknowledged that painful necessity by a downward twitch of his mouth, undiscernible beneath the false beard.

  ‘Isn’t it time, yet?’

  Mr Payne looked at his watch. ‘It is now ten twenty-nine. We go – over the top, you might call it – at ten thirty-two precisely. Compose yourself to wait, Stace.’

  Stacey grunted. He could not help admiring his companion, who stood peering into the small glass, adjusting his beard and moustache, and settling his cloak more comfortably. When at last Mr Payne nodded, and said, ‘Here we go,’ and pressed the button marked 3, resentment was added to admiration. He’s all right now, but wait till we
get to the action, Stacey thought. His gloved hand on the Smith and Wesson reassured him of strength and efficiency.

  The elevator shuddered, moved upwards, stopped. The door opened. Mr Payne placed his suitcase in the open elevator door so that it would stay open and keep the elevator at the third floor. Then they stepped out.

  To Lester the time that passed after Davidson’s departure and before the elevator door opened was complete and absolute torture.

  The whole thing had seemed so easy when Mr Payne had outlined it to them. ‘It is simply a matter of perfect timing,’ he had said. ‘If everybody plays his part properly, Stace and I will be back in the lift within five minutes. Planning is the essence of this, as of every scientific operation. Nobody will be hurt, and nobody will suffer financially except – ’ and here he had looked at Lester with a twinkle in his frosty eyes – ‘except the insurance company. And I don’t think the most tender-hearted of us will worry too much about the insurance company.’

  That was all very well, and Lester had done what he was supposed to do, but he hadn’t really been able to believe that the rest of it would happen. He had been terrified, but with the terror was mixed a sense of unreality.

  He still couldn’t believe, even when Davidson went to the telephone upstairs, that the plan would go through without a hitch. He was showing some costume jewellery to a thin old woman who kept roping necklaces around her scrawny neck, and while he did so he kept looking at the elevator, above which was the department clock. The hands moved slowly, after Davidson left, from 10:31 to 10:32.

  They’re not coming, Lester thought. It’s all off. A flood of relief, touched with regret but with relief predominating, went through him. Then the elevator door opened, and the two Santa Clauses stepped out. Lester started convulsively.

  ‘Young man,’ the thin woman said severely, ‘it doesn’t seem to me that I have your undivided attention. Haven’t you anything in blue and amber?’

  It had been arranged that Lester would nod to signify that Davidson had left the department, or shake his head if anything had gone wrong. He nodded now as though he had St Vitus’s Dance.