Two Crafty Criminals!

by Philip Pullman

What would Sexton Blake do once he’d found that out? Make a note of it, probably. Benny tore a page out of the back of his history exercise book and wrote:

  Clue number 1

  Sweedish match. Probly used for lighting cigarette or candel.

  Then he remembered something else, and wrote:

  Clue number 2

  Blob of wax on windersill of burguled premmiss’s. Probly from a candel.

  In a frenzy of enthusiasm he went on:

  Clue number 3

  Dent like what a jimmy would make next to winder.

  He thought about the yellow mud, but that wasn’t a clue in itself. It would only be a clue if he saw some on someone’s boots. Finally he wrote:

  Clue number 4

  Mr. Whittle has been in Sweeden.

  That made him wonder what Sexton Blake would do about Mr. Whittle. What he’d probably do, Benny thought, was disguise himself and watch him like a hawk. The criminal always returned to the scene of the crime—everyone knew that. So if Benny saw Mr. Whittle slinking back guiltily to Gas-Fitters’ Hall, he was as good as caught.

  The trouble was …

  The trouble was, Mr. Whittle was a nice man. He always shelled out generously when Guy Fawkes’ Day came round; he’d seen the New Cut Gang once playing a game of street cricket against the Lower Marsh mob during one of their rare truces, and he’d rolled his sleeves up and joined in, bowling out Crusher Watkins with a cunning offbreak; and he always had his suits made at Kaminsky’s, despite being rich enough, said Benny’s father, to go to Savile Row.

  However, a detective’s duty was to detect, and Benny couldn’t shirk it. As soon as school was out the next day, he told Thunderbolt what he was going to do, and gave him solemn instructions about the future of the gang if he didn’t come back.

  Thunderbolt gaped. “Do you mean—”

  “What I mean is, this is a secret and dangerous enterprise what could easily go wrong,” said Benny grimly. “He could be the head of an international gang of desperate robbers. He could’ve been acting the manager of the Gasworks just in order to lull everyone’s suspicions. I bet he’s just carrying on acting it for the time being till everyone forgets about the robbery, and then he’ll be off to Monte Carlo to spend the money. Like as not, Miss Whittle ain’t his daughter either.”

  “I think she is,” said Thunderbolt doubtfully.

  “I bet she’s really called Diamond Lou or Six-Gun Betsy. She probably done the robbery with him. She’s probably got one of them little guns in her stocking, a derringer, like Madame Carlotta had in the last Sexton Blake. She’s probably waiting for you to make a trigonometry mistake and she’ll plug you. I bet she’s killed half a dozen—”

  Thunderbolt knew the signs; this was where one of Benny’s fantasies was leaving the ground.

  “But what you gonna do?” he interrupted.

  “Foller him everywhere,” said Benny. “Like a shadder. He won’t know I’m there, ’cause I’ll be in disguise. You watch.”

  Benny’s idea of disguise was a comprehensive one. Finding clothes wasn’t too difficult, because his father’s workshop was usually full of suits waiting to be altered or paid for. He managed to borrow a smallish one in a vivid check, which had been waiting six months for its owner to come out of prison, and which he was sure wouldn’t be missed. It only needed the trousers rolled up nine inches or so and the jacket padded out with newspaper. The sleeves were a bit long, but he could always pretend to have lost both hands in a fight with a shark. To go with the suit, he had borrowed a brown bowler hat from his sister Leah’s young man Joe.

  Once the suit was on, he set about coloring his hair gray with a handful of flour, painting on a vast and sooty mustache with a burnt cork, and giving himself a hideous bright red scar from forehead to jaw. He turned his face this way and that in the broken little bit of mirror they had in the hideout, and which they normally used as a periscope, when it wasn’t being a heliograph. He couldn’t speak; he was lost in admiration.

  “What’s the matter?” said Thunderbolt after a minute. “It’s not so bad. You just need to—”

  “You know what?” said Benny suddenly. “I oughter go on the stage.”

  “Like Four-Ball?”

  Danny Schneider, the gang member who’d been condemned to a month in Manchester, was known as Four-Ball because of his juggling skills. There was no doubt that he’d be topping the bill at the Music Hall one day, but that wasn’t what Benny had meant.

  “No,” he said. “Like Henry Irving. They oughter do a play about Sexton Blake, and I could play him. And then, when he was tied up in a cellar or summing, I could play Dr. Skull, the mad scientist. Then, when Dr. Skull gets killed by one of the evil ape-men, I could play a good ape-man and rescue Sexton Blake, and then I could play him again. And then—”

  “But what are you going to do about Mr. Whittle?”

  With a mighty effort, Benny frowned, shook his head, and brought himself back to the present.

  “Eh? Oh, him. I’ll just foller him after he leaves the Gasworks. He’s bound to return to the scene of the crime, ’cause they always do. Then, when I see him do that, I’ll make a citizen’s arrest.”

  Thunderbolt opened his mouth to point out that Mr. Whittle was a leading member of the Board of the Worshipful Company of Gas-Fitters, and he was bound to be visiting Gas-Fitters’ Hall before long anyway; but you couldn’t argue with Benny, somehow. Thunderbolt watched his leader saunter off in his voluminous checked suit, hitching up the trousers for the tenth time in twenty paces, pushing up the bowler hat from the bridge of his nose, a drift of flour trailing behind him, and felt nothing but honest admiration.

  Dick came out of work in a savage mood. He’d been feeling cross all day, and late that afternoon he wrenched so hard at a Wilkins’s Excelsior New Improved Patent Self-Adjusting Pressure Tap that he broke the flange and had to pay for a replacement, which didn’t improve his temper one bit.

  So when Angela and Zerlina saw him coming, they were glad they were in the company of their new friend, the Mighty Orlando. He was off duty, so he wasn’t wearing his leopard skin; he was looking very smart in a striped blazer and a Panama hat. He had stopped at Alf’s ice-cream stall for a refreshing gallon of strawberry-and-vanilla, and the twins had been hanging about there too, and Orlando had kindly bought them a lump each; and they were strolling along together past the Gasworks in the sunshine when Dick came out with a face like thunder. Orlando was big enough for both the twins to hide behind him, but they were too late.

  “Wotcher, gals,” Dick said gloomily.

  They looked at each other quickly. Perhaps he wasn’t cross with them after all.

  “Wotcher, Dick,” said Angela. “This is the Mighty Orlando.”

  “He’s a friend of ours,” said Zerlina meaningfully.

  “And this is Mr. Dick Smith,” said Angela to Orlando.

  “How d’you do, mate,” said Dick, holding out his hand.

  “Please to meet yer,” said Orlando. “No—I won’t shake your hand. Shall I tell you why?”

  “Yeah, go on,” said Dick.

  “ ’Cause this hand can crush rocks,” said Orlando solemnly, pointing to his right hand with a left forefinger the size of a cricket-bat handle. “Find a rock—go on. Any rock. I’ll show yer.”

  “No, I believe yer,” said Dick, impressed. “Cor.”

  Feeling a little safer now, the twins told Dick about meeting Daisy in the Music Hall the night before. Dick looked embarrassed.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I s’pose I must’ve got it wrong, all them things you told me to say. I s’pose Daisy’ll never want to see me again. I s’pose Mr. Horspath’ll have her all to hisself from now on.”

  And he sighed like a “Thunderer” Pneumatic Drainage Pump, and sat down wearily on the edge of the nearest horse trough.

  “I knows how yer feel,” said Orlando. “Mind if I join yer?”

  Dick moved up to make room. “You had love trouble as well, mate?” he said.


  “Not half,” said Orlando.

  The twins perched on the horse trough and listened, enthralled.

  Orlando fanned himself with his hat, and went on. “Oh, yus. I was in love and all, same as you, only I could never work up the nerve to tell her. I done all kinds of things to please her, like tearing books in half and crushing rocks and bouncing cannonballs off me head, but I could never come out with saying I loved her.”

  “That’s just the same as me!” said Dick.

  “And by the time I found out what to do, it was too late. Fate had passed me by.”

  “You mean you did find out what to do?”

  “Oh, yus. I know what to do now, all right. Only, like I say, it’s too late.”

  “So what is it? What’s the secret?”

  “The secret of love,” said Orlando, “was told to me by a Spanish acrobat in a circus what I worked in once. And he oughter known, ’cause he had six wives at least. In different countries, of course. What he said was, you take a deep breath, close your eyes, grab hold of her hand, and cover it with burning kisses. About a dozen, he said. Once you done that, you feel quite different. Telling her you love her’s easy after that.”

  “And have you tried it?”

  “No, I ain’t,” said Orlando, “ ’cause of my undying love for the lady what I never done it to in the first place.”

  Dick was nodding. There was a strange light in his eyes.

  “Take a deep breath …” he repeated.

  “That’s it.”

  “Close me eyes …”

  “Yus.”

  “Grab her hand …”

  “That’s the style.”

  “And cover it with burning kisses.”

  “About a dozen,” said the twins together.

  “And if you do that,” said Orlando, “I guarantee you’ll be able to ask her to marry yer, and she won’t have no choice but to say yes, because she’ll be bowled over by your passion. Try it and see.”

  “I will!” said Dick. “I’ll do it! Thanks very much, Orlando. I’m obliged to yer, mate.”

  Orlando stood up to leave, and held out his hand to wish Dick good luck, but took it back before Dick touched it.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “Better not. This hand can crush rocks. Cheerio, Dick, and the best of luck.”

  Meanwhile, Benny was prowling up and down opposite the Gasworks entrance, waiting for Mr. Whittle to come out. His disguise made him impossible to recognize, of course, and he was almost invisible anyway because of the catlike silence and swiftness of his movements. Only two nervous horses shied at his appearance, and only half a dozen ragamuffins with nothing better to do jeered at this strange painted figure with the flapping sleeves and the immense bowler hat; but he ignored them majestically. He was a tiger stalking its prey, and tigers take no notice of jackals.

  Finally, at five past six, Mr. Whittle appeared. Benny pressed himself back into the shadows of the alley opposite the Gasworks entrance, and watched with narrow eyes from under the brim of his hat as Mr. Whittle stopped for a word with the watchman at the gate. The watchman touched his cap. Mr. Whittle raised his cane in salute, and set off—towards Gas-Fitters’ Hall.

  Benny felt a thrill of excitement. Hitching up the trousers, which had started to unroll during the catlike movements, and wrinkling his nose to keep the hat brim up, he darted from the alley and crouched in concealment behind a dustbin, watching Mr. Whittle like a hawk.

  And so began a strange procession up Southwark Street, under the railway bridge, and left into Blackfriars Road. Mr. Whittle sauntered along, looking the picture of innocence. You’d never think he was a desperate criminal. He raised his hat to Mrs. Fanny Blodgett and Mrs. Rosa Briggs, who were enjoying the evening sunshine outside Mrs. Blodgett’s tearooms; he bought an evening paper from Charlie Rackett on the corner of Blackfriars Road; he even stopped for a genial word with P.C. Jellicoe.

  But always behind him, darting from dustbin to horse trough to cabstand like a phantom of Vengeance, came the strangely garbed figure of Benny Kaminsky.

  And with every step, they got closer and closer to Gas-Fitters’ Hall. When they were nearly there, Mr. Whittle stopped and looked around, as if he were suspicious that someone might be following him. Benny was ready for that. He was only about ten feet away and there was no dustbin to dodge behind, so he sauntered on past without making the slightest sign that he’d even noticed Mr. Whittle.

  Once he’d reached the bow window of the draper’s shop a bit further along, he looked in it for the reflection of what was happening behind, and to his delight he saw Mr. Whittle look around once more and step into the alley right next to Gas-Fitters’ Hall. Benny could hardly contain himself, for that was the very alley in which they’d found the match.

  Forgetting about the catlike movements, he turned and pelted back to the alley at top speed, stopping just in time to peer round the corner first, in case Mr. Whittle was waiting with a drawn revolver or a blackjack or a stiletto. But he wasn’t. Instead, Benny saw his legs disappearing up a flight of iron stairs at the other end of the alley.

  Almost yelping with excitement, Benny followed.

  It seemed to be a kind of fire escape. As far as Benny could see, it went right to the top, and he could hear the measured tread of Mr. Whittle’s boots ringing on the iron and moving up without a pause. He followed as quietly as he could, looking up all the time through the grille-like steps, and only twice fell over the unrolling trouser legs. The second time, though, the bowler hat rolled off and nearly fell through the steps down to the alley below.

  He grabbed it just in time and turned back upwards. Mr. Whittle’s footsteps weren’t making any noise on the iron, and as Benny peered upwards through the gaps in the staircase, he couldn’t see the shape of Mr. Whittle’s body against the blue evening sky. Obviously he was lying in wait. Benny felt a tremor of apprehension. He tiptoed up the last flight of steps, which seemed to lead directly onto the roof. With enormous care he moved up until his eyes were level with the edge, and squinted from under the hat brim with the hawklike gaze of an Apache warrior.

  The roof of Gas-Fitters’ Hall was flat, with a low brick parapet around the edge. In the middle of the roof was a curious little hut, and outside the hut the great criminal was sitting on a wooden seat, stroking a pigeon which he held against his breast.

  A sound of soft cooing came from behind him.

  “Hello, Benny,” said Mr. Whittle.

  “Er—I ain’t Benny,” said Benny. “He’s—er—he’s dead. I’m—er—someone else. Fred,” he said, inspired. “Fred Basket.”

  Somehow the second name wasn’t quite as good as the first, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Mr. Whittle removed his hand from the pigeon and held it out solemnly. Benny cautiously shook it.

  “How d’you do, Fred,” said Mr. Whittle. “Sorry to hear about Benny.”

  “Yeah,” said Benny. “They’re all dead, all his family.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. The—er—the roof fell in and squashed ’em. They couldn’t even tell which was which, they was so squashed.”

  “Dear oh dear,” said Mr. Whittle. “I shall have to go somewhere else for my suits now. That’s a great pity. Squashed, you say?”

  “Yeah. There was blood and guts and bones all over the place. But they could tell which one was Benny, just.”

  “Oh? How was that?”

  “They found him holding up the roof. Or trying to. He was holding it up so the others could get out. Sorta like this …”

  Benny demonstrated someone of gigantic strength struggling to resist an overpowering weight on his shoulders. He staggered—he groaned—he sank to his knees—he tried to rise again, but finally fell with a piteous cry. The bowler hat rolled off and lay unnoticed by the door of the hut.

  “A heroic deed,” said Mr. Whittle. “How did they know it was him if everyone was squashed, though?”

  “ ’Cause just his face was left, sticking out th
e rubble. Here, Mr. Whittle—”

  Benny was becoming more and more intrigued by the pigeon sitting placidly in Mr. Whittle’s hands. He scrambled up, the squashed Kaminskys forgotten, and came to look at it.

  “—is that a carrier pigeon?” he asked.

  “It’s a racing pigeon,” said Mr. Whittle. “I’ve been a little worried about this fellow. He’s been off his food, but I think he’s better now. Would you like to see the others?”

  “Cor, yeah,” said Benny.

  “Hold this one, then,” said Mr. Whittle, and passed it to Benny, who held it gently against his chest as Mr. Whittle opened the door of the hut. “I’ve always kept pigeons,” Mr. Whittle went on. “I couldn’t keep ’em at home, because they used to make my wife sneeze. When she died a few years back, I suppose I could’ve moved the loft over to my house, but this arrangement seems to work pretty well. I pay a bit of rent to the Gas-Fitters’ Company and everyone’s happy. Here we are, then …”

  The pigeon loft was dark and warm and full of birdlike smells and noises. There was a row of neat little cages on each side, and about a dozen pigeons sat plumply on their perches.

  “You want to help me feed ’em, Ben—er, Fred?” said Mr. Whittle.

  “Yeah!”

  Mr. Whittle took the pigeon from Benny and put it in its cage before giving Benny a little tin cup to scoop birdseed out of a sack.

  “About a half a cupful each,” said Mr. Whittle.

  “Here, Mr. Whittle,” said Benny, “I bet you could train ’em to carry messages. They’d be a whole sight quicker’n the Post Office. Quicker’n a telegram, even.”

  “I daresay,” said Mr. Whittle.

  “And much quicker’n a cab. You could have ’em flying all over London. They could deliver messages so quick you could make a fortune, probly. You could charge a penny a go. Or you could train really fast ones for threepence. Or you could train ’em to go and recruit other ones from Trafalgar Square! Or train a dozen of ’em to fly together and carry parcels … And every shop and company and factory could have a pigeon loft on the roof, and they’d have to pay rent for ’em, like a telephone. Then you could start training some extra-long-distance pigeons to fly to Paris and the Continent. And—and seagulls to fly to America. Or albatrosses, probly. You could have an albatross post office for across the sea and … Or even fish,” he said, completely carried away. “You could train haddocks and that to swim with little waterproof bags. In a war, that’d be dead useful, ’cause a haddock could go into an enemy harbor and take messages from a spy. You could train ’em to come to a special underwater whistle … Probly get a medal for it from the Queen,” he said. “Distinguished Haddock Cross.”