Smiling Willie and the Tiger

by John Harris

  She edged round the table as he advanced towards her, until he felt so frustrated he could have thrown the teapot at her.

  ‘When are we going to get married?’ he offered in desperation.

  ‘Never. Not if I can help it.’

  His jaw dropped. ‘What’s happened? Gone off the boil or something?’

  He jumped at her again, but she dodged away. ‘What’s stung you?’ he demanded.

  ‘A girl can change her mind,’ she said, panting from the exercise of evading him. ‘Especially with a feller that shows no initiative.’

  ‘I do show initiative,’ the Tiger stormed, losing his temper. ‘I’m showing it now.’ He stopped and gestured. ‘I got you this house, didn’t I?’

  ‘This? A house? A dog kennel, more like.’

  ‘I’m not grumbling.’

  ‘Well, I am. With all that money you’ve got, we could live in a palace.’

  ‘I haven’t got the money!’ the Tiger said. ‘God’s truth, I keep telling you, don’t I?’

  ‘I get sick of you telling me.’

  ‘What do you want me to do? End up in chokey just to prove it can’t be done?’

  ‘I bet I’d do it.’

  ‘Oh, Lor’!’ The Tiger passed a hand over his face and made another lunge at her. She slipped out of his reach and, picking up the teapot, hurled it at him as hard as she could. It broke against the wall and he stared at the brown liquid draining to the floor.

  ‘What’s the matter with me?’ he complained. ‘I’ve not got mange, have I?’

  ‘You look as though you might have.’

  The Tiger glared and she edged away. ‘What’s come over you?’ he demanded. ‘Why’d you keep tearing off like that every time I come near you.’

  ‘I’m tired. I think I’ll go home to Ma.’

  ‘You’re always tired these days.’

  ‘It’s the heat. It puts me off.’

  ‘Last year you always said it made you more jumpy. Jumpy-into-bed.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t this year, saucy, so there!’ And she burst into tears and fled to the bedroom and locked the door.

  ‘Tiger’s low,’ Willie said to Poll as he picked at cold chicken and drank leftover champagne in her office. ‘Doleful as a shop with the shutters up.’

  ‘He needs a job of work,’ Poll said tartly. ‘Pansy can’t live off air. Come to that, you need a job, too, ’stead of living off me.’

  Willie looked up. ‘Aren’t all that many jobs, Poll,’ he pointed out.

  ‘I’d give you jobs.’

  Willie beamed. ‘Co-director? Manager? Something like that?’

  Poll shrugged. ‘Waiters,’ she said.

  ‘Waiters!’ Willie was shocked. ‘That’s a Kaffir’s job, Poll.’

  ‘I could always use somebody discreet. We have some funny types here wanting to do business.’

  ‘Diamonds?’

  ‘What else? The war’s over now.’

  ‘But waiters, Poll! Waiters! Can’t do that!’

  Polly sniffed. ‘Then it looks as if you’ll just have to starve, don’t it?’ she said tartly.

  Though Willie’s situation wasn’t economically sound, Captain Mace’s efforts weren’t exactly showing dividends either.

  Since the explosion at Reinhart he had been gloomy with defeat. He had finally run out of steam.

  ‘Cross as two sticks,’ Instant told Sarie Prinsloo as they clutched each other in the warm stables behind the freight carrier’s premises. Prinsloo was away again and Sarie was a loving type who needed a man’s strong arm to lean on and it gave Instant a lot of leeway. ‘Worried sick he’ll be posted ’ome before he nobbles ’em.’

  ‘You’d think it wouldn’t be hard to find three kêrels like them,’ Sarie said.

  ‘These is clever fellers,’ Instant pointed out. ‘Cleverer than old Macey. Very fierce fellers, too. We never go far without our arms.’

  ‘Except here!’

  Instant grinned. ‘I carry my weapon with me everywhere I go,’ he said.

  She gurgled with laughter. ‘You are a skellum, Harry Instant.’

  And so he was. But with Mace, the sly, bold young man who had swept Sarie Prinsloo off her feet was concerned, anxious, eager to please and sympathetic.

  ‘We’re not exactly doing very well, are we, sir?’ he said to Mace as they went over the meagre reports they received.

  ‘What?’ Mace had suffered a little from deafness since Reinhart.

  ‘I said’ – Instant raised his voice – ‘that we haven’t been doing very well lately, have we?’

  ‘No.’ Mace scowled at the reports. From time to time they heard rumours. The man called Willie had helped himself to a span of trek oxen that didn’t belong to him and sold them to a Dutchman who’d promptly been arrested for theft. The man called Tiger hadn’t been seen by Mendel for some time. A Boer farmer had complained of the man called Fish selling watches without works again. He knew they were around somewhere but the area had too many small towns and he was always in the wrong one. And with Chichester Junction full of troops on their way home, he was terrified that he, too, would depart with his job still not done.

  He and his little unit had been expecting their departure for weeks now, holding their breath every time a signal arrived; and when the news finally came that General Wickover’s division was to leave for the Cape within three days, they all, except Mace, sought means of celebrating.

  ‘I’m going to get shocking drunk,’ Wooden announced. He looked almost cheerful.

  ‘What on?’ Instant demanded maliciously. ‘We haven’t been paid for a fortnight,’ and the sour face that Wooden pulled gave him enormous pleasure.

  The orders that came for Mace to report to General Wickover’s headquarters were not unexpected. Mace gloomily assumed the summons was to receive instructions to wind up his unit and terminate his private feud with the pay robbers, and it seemed the end of everything to him. He had lived with the thought of vengeance so long life without it seemed an arid desert.

  Colonel McGuinness greeted him cheerfully. ‘We’re going home,’ he said gaily. ‘I’ve been dispensing with all my animals and equipment. Made quite a fortune out of candles.’

  Mace wondered how much he’d raise out of his paltry equipment. He seemed to have been chasing round the countryside for so long that, with Wooden’s ham-fisted assistance, he hadn’t much equipment left beyond what he stood up in. He’d certainly not managed to acquire any cases of Cape brandy or strings of polo ponies as some officers had. The only thing he’d acquired was a touch of deafness, a deathless urge to pull off an arrest, and an undying hatred for Major Southey who’d caused it all.

  McGuinness was watching his changing expressions, wondering if there were something wrong with him. ‘You know why you’re here, of course,’ he said.

  ‘Orders for home, I suppose, sir.’

  McGuinness laughed. ‘Not likely, old boy. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but the general’s busy just now. He’s trying to wind up that bloody nonsense about the War Graves Commission. Tidying things up. Making things pretty and having photographs taken for the widows and orphans to see. You know the sort of stuff. He told me to pass on the good news to you on his behalf: You’re not going. You’ve got to stay and catch the buggers who pinched the pay!’

  McGuinness burst into such a roar of laughter it was some time before he realised that Mace’s face had not fallen and that instead of gloom his eyes showed a bright new glint.

  McGuinness gaped at him. ‘You don’t seem very worried,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘No.’

  McGuinness pulled a face. ‘With a bit of luck we’ll he home for the last of the London season and in plenty of time for the Flat,’ he pointed out.

  ‘I’m not much of a man for the social life,’ Mace said, his heart light once more. ‘And I was never one for racing.’

  ‘Well, every man to his taste, I sup
pose.’ McGuinness had long since committed the solitary and dedicated Mace to outer space with all the other bloody fools who didn’t know how to enjoy life. ‘Anybody’d think you were keen to stay.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You got keen or something over this little crusade of yours?’

  Mace’s eyes glinted and his voice became harsh. ‘I said at the time it happened,’ he pointed out, ‘that I was going to lay my hands on the man who lifted that money from Southey’s cart if it was the last thing I did. If necessary I shall resign my commission and join the South African Police. They’d give me a job. I’ve got a good record.’

  ‘Not lately,’ McGuinness said. ‘Not with those fellers who pinched the pay still at large.’ He regretted his words immediately because of the gleam of sheer hatred he saw in Mace’s eyes. McGuinness hadn’t lived with Mace’s problem, hadn’t suffered Mace’s humiliation or his hatred of Southey, and knew nothing of the burning desire for revenge that was in him.

  ‘Well,’ he said uncomfortably, ‘you’ll get your ambition. You’re going to work with the police as much as you can.’ He tossed sheets of instructions across the desk. ‘Part of your job’ll he picking up wangle-workers and deserters and, God knows, there are plenty of chaps who’ve decided that this place offers more opportunity than being unemployed at home.’ He stared at Mace. ‘You’re sure you’re happy about the orders?’

  ‘Nothing could give me greater pleasure,’ Mace said earnestly.

  ‘Well’ – McGuinness shrugged – ‘rather you than me. The general decided that since you’d been handling this thing for so long, you’d probably have plans you didn’t want interrupting.’

  Mace had no plans at all at that moment. He’d run out of them long since, but he was cheered by the fact that he’d been given breathing space to work up a few new ones.

  ‘Your chaps’ll be staying with you,’ McGuinness went on. ‘None of ’em are time-expired soldiers and a few of them have actually seen the hares haven’t they? One other thing. The general’s recommending you for a medal. The usual.’ He made it sound very ordinary. ‘For distinguished service and devotion to duty.’ In actual fact the medal had been suggested to still the shrill cries of protest they’d confidently expected from Mace.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Mace said coldly. He had bigger things on his mind than medals.

  McGuinness shrugged, surprised at his lack of enthusiasm. ‘There’s to be a parade here tomorrow,’ he went on. ‘The general’ll be presenting them before he leaves. And as a sop to your unit, he thinks they should have one, too, to make up for not going home. It took a lot of getting because there’s a pension with it and the army’s not keen on too many. Upsets their accounts. He’d like you to recommend someone and have him ready before he entrains.’

  Mace’s pleasure at staying behind was turned sour almost immediately he returned to his quarters. He had been worrying all the way back about who to recommend for the general’s medal. He wasn’t interested in the damn thing, he decided – not even in his own, for that matter – but he supposed someone would have to have it and it would he best to get it out of the way before he got down to work again. When he arrived, however, Instant was looking ill-at-ease.

  ‘It’s Wooden sir,’ he announced.

  ‘Oh, God, what now?’

  ‘Drunk, sir.’

  ‘Before pay-day?’

  ‘’Fraid so, sir.’

  Mace thought maliciously that when he heard the news that he wasn’t going home, Wooden would get drunk again. Probably Instant would too. He broke the news.

  For a moment Instant was silent, then he nodded briskly. A bird in the hand was always worth two in the bush. When he’d left England, Instant had been a shy young man with no experience of women or the world. He had advanced rapidly along both lines. He had a girl and was beginning to acquire money. He was in no hurry to leave.

  ‘To catch them fellers, I suppose, sir?’ he said.

  ‘You’re pleased to stay, Instant?’

  ‘Not displeased, sir.’

  Mace could have embraced him. To have someone as loyal and ardent in the cause of justice as Instant touched his heart. He felt he could almost deal with his problems.

  ‘Let’s go and look at Wooden,’ he said.

  Wooden’s method of getting drunk was to swallow everything he could lay his hands on as fast as he could fling it down his throat, and to continue until he passed out. He was lying on the straw in the forage hut, which was all the small unit had in the way of a cell. His khaki was soiled with vomit and his face was bloody, either because someone had hit him or because he’d walked into a wall.

  ‘Where’d he get it?’ Mace demanded.

  ‘Hotel, sir. They sent a wog down to us to ask us to go and collect him off the pavement.’

  Mace stared down at the unconscious Wooden, watched by a circle of Wooden’s comrades who waited with keen interest to see what would happen to Wooden this time.

  ‘Do I put him on a charge, sir?’ Instant asked.

  ‘I expect so. Lock him up. I’ll deal with him when he’s sober.’ Mace paused and frowned. ‘Did he pay for the drink?’ he asked.

  Instant nodded.

  ‘Odd, isn’t it? With pay-day due. Have a look in his pockets.’

  Instant turned out Wooden’s pockets. There were three broken cigars in a battered cardboard packet and two sovereigns. Mace studied them.

  ‘Two sovereigns?’ he said. ‘Where did Wooden get two sovereigns? And three cigars? Did he usually smoke cigars?’

  ‘No, sir. Clay pipe.’

  ‘Where did he buy ’em?’

  ‘Only one place in Sinai I know, sir. Vechter’s store.’

  Mace was frowning deeply. He had a suspicion Wooden was going to be his first victim under the new regime McGuinness had set up.

  ‘Let’s go and have a word with this Vechter,’ he said.

  Vechter was a fat bearded Dutchman and it was obvious as soon as they opened the door that he was nervous. Mace eyed him with interest, suspicious at once.

  ‘You know Jeremiah Wooden?’ he asked briskly.

  The Dutchman’s face sagged. ‘Ja, ja.’ He nodded. ‘I know this Vooden. Corporal, iss he not?’

  ‘He is,’ Mace agreed. ‘But he won’t be much longer.’

  Vechter’s eyes rolled and he flapped his hands agitatedly. ‘Ag, man, I tell him no,’ he said. ‘Always I tell him no.’

  Mace eyed him. His whole attitude was one of terror. He probed. ‘You tell him no what?’

  Vechter’s fat cheeks shook. ‘I tell him no I cannot. But the schelm say if I do not he vill tell about the other things.’

  ‘What other things?’ Up to that point, Mace had been interested only in the cigars and the money, but it seemed the Dutchman had something else entirely on his mind, and he decided the cigars and the money could wait.

  The Dutchman hung his head. ‘Alamachtig, the other things he bring to my winkel.’

  ‘What other things he brings to your shop, dammit!’ Mace was still only fishing but he was growing angry now.

  ‘The milk. The bacon and egg.’

  Mace’s eyes narrowed. ‘Army milk? Army bacon and eggs? In tins?’

  Vechter nodded, unable to speak.

  ‘You bought them from him?’

  More frantic nods.

  ‘And this time? What was it this time? It must have been something good. He still had two gold sovereigns on him.’

  ‘Ham. A case of tinned ham. And a case of camp pie.’

  Mace’s eyes gleamed. ‘Whose tinned ham?’ He knew it wasn’t his, because only higher-ups got delicacies like ham and camp pie. People like himself who lived away from headquarters lived off bully beef and tinned stew, with biscuits. He had eaten tinned stew – known to the troops as dog’s vomit – till he felt it was running out of his ears.

  ‘Not yours, Mynheer Captain.’ Vechter’s fat hands flapped. ‘It come from Chichester Junction. I give him four sovereigns and he go
to the hotel. I am afraid. I know he vill get drunk.’

  ‘You were right. He did.’ Mace decided he was on the brink of another new swindle that ought to be exposed. Even if he were no good at catching payroll-robbers, he’d had a few successes in army swindles, and he might as well rope in everybody connected with this one. Half of South Africa had been living off army rations for the last two years.

  They inspected a few cases Vechter still held, stored in a shed behind his store and covered, curiously, with canvas painted with plantations and views of Cawnpore that puzzled Mace a little.

  ‘Where does it go?’ he demanded. ‘You obviously don’t sell it across the counter. You daren’t. It’s marked.’

  ‘That iss richtig. I think it goes to Poll’s.’

  ‘Poll’s? I’ve never seen her in Sinai.’

  ‘She do not come herself, Mynheer Captain,’ Vechter said gloomily. ‘She send one of her fancy-men. The one with the big smile.’

  ‘The big smile!’ Mace almost had a heart attack. After all this time, after all the torment he’d been through – imprisonment, concussion, deafening – luck was running his way again. They were back at Poll’s once more.

  He turned to look at Instant and found Instant looking at him. ‘You know who that is, Sergeant, don’t you?’

  ‘Yessir. The one they call Smiling Willie.’

  Mace turned to the Dutchman again. ‘Has this swine been here before?’

  The Dutchman tried to look repentant. ‘He do not come here, sir. I meet him in Balmerinostad.’

  Mace smiled and Instant was pleased to see that he was more excited by the news of his quarry than by the uncovering of the swindle. It gave him time to get a message to Sarie Prinsloo that their own small enterprises had best be left fallow for the time being. He had long since lost interest in recovering the army pay but he composed his features to suggest that picking up the culprits was his one ambition in life and being frustrated was giving him violent pains in the head.

  ‘Herbillon,’ Mace was saying, staring at the name on the receipts the Dutchman produced. ‘William Henry Fitzjohn Herbillon.’ The name had a fine dignified ring that shocked him. The discovery that even people who appeared to have had the advantages of education and breeding also indulged their baser instincts left him speechless with disgust.