Two Crafty Criminals!

by Philip Pullman

  “What’s that?”

  “Make sure you get hold of the proper hand. It’s an easy mistake to make, especially when you’re flustered. I s’pect Dick was a bit flustered. That’s probly how it happened.”

  They were all speaking in whispers, not wanting to wake the other lodgers. Orlando tiptoed downstairs and out the kitchen door, and a few moments later they were on their way to prison. The twins told him more about the potted palm and Dick’s unfortunate accident.

  Orlando shook his head in dismay.

  “I knew a trapeze artist once as made a similar mistake,” he said. “Course, grabbing hold of the wrong hand in that profession is the last thing you want to do. Matter of fact, I think it was the last thing he did do. Where’s this prison, then?”

  They reached the prison, and the twins retrieved the ladder from the alley nearby where they’d left it.

  “It’s that window at the end,” whispered Angela.

  “All right,” said Orlando. “Now, you two better keep watch in case a copper comes along. I shouldn’t wonder but what he might think it was a bit suspicious.”

  And he propped the ladder against the wall and began to climb up.

  Dick was lying on his bunk, dreaming of Daisy and Mr. Horspath. She was telling him to put slices of cucumber on his black eye, and he was saying, “Daisy, your face is like the moon rising over the Gasworks! Marry me at once!”

  Dick growled in his sleep. Couldn’t he even have a dream without that silky-handed stoat turning up in it?

  So he was pleased to hear a knocking at the bars of his cell, and to wake up and see a broad-shouldered figure outlined against the dark sky.

  “Psst!” came a mighty whisper. “Dick!”

  “Who’s that? That’s not Orlando, is it? What you doing here?”

  “I come to rescue yer,” said Orlando. “You better stand back. I can’t answer for the strength of these walls.”

  And he took hold of the bars and pulled them apart as if they were made of pastry. There was a great wrenching noise, and bricks and bits of stone fell down.

  “Cor,” breathed Dick. “Blimey!”

  “Out yer come, then,” said Orlando.

  “Can I come too?” said a shaky voice from the lower bunk, and a furtive-looking little man peered out, blinking and scratching his head.

  “Who’s that?” said Orlando, peering in.

  “That’s Sid the Swede,” said Dick. “We turned out to be sharing a cell.”

  “Oh, go on,” said Sid the Swede. “Be a sport.”

  He sat up and clasped his hands pleadingly.

  “What you in here for?” said Orlando sternly. “I ain’t letting dangerous criminals out, only honest men what’s been wrongly convicted.”

  “I stole a pillowcase off a washing line,” said Sid the Swede.

  “What for?”

  But before Sid the Swede could answer that, a bell began to ring loudly, and pounding feet were heard running along the corridors towards the cell.

  “That’s the alarm!” said Dick. “They must’ve heard you tearing the bars out, Orlando!”

  “No time to waste, then,” said Orlando. “You come down the ladder first, Dick, and then this gentleman, being as he seems harmless enough. But mind,” he said, wagging a massive finger at Sid the Swede, “any further lawbreaking and I shall be sorely disappointed in you. I couldn’t answer for my temper in that case.”

  “Yes! Yes! Anything!” squeaked Sid the Swede. “I promise!”

  So Orlando moved down the ladder, and Dick clambered out after him, and finally, hopping and squirming and yelping with fear, Sid the Swede came too.

  “Quick! Quick!” the twins were calling, for a policeman’s whistle was blowing from the very next street.

  Orlando and the two escaped convicts got to the bottom and scampered away after the two girls, not pausing for breath till they were safely back near the New Cut Gang’s hideout over the stable. There they stopped, panting and triumphant.

  “We never took Charlie Ladysmith’s ladder back,” said Angela.

  “Never mind,” said Zerlina, “he’ll be famous. Folks’ll buy him drinks for days on account of having his ladder nicked for the great breakout.”

  “But what am I going to do, gals?” said Dick. “I mean, I’m glad to be out and all, but I can’t live the life of a fugitive. I’m a law-abiding bloke.”

  “Yeah, so am I,” said Sid the Swede eagerly. “I never been in trouble in me life. I shall have to clear me name, else I shan’t be able to hold me head up.”

  “And how are you gonna do that?” said Orlando.

  “I shall just have to tell the truth about the pillowcase business,” said Sid the Swede. “No matter what the cost to my dignity. I value my reputation for truth and honesty. Well, good night, all. And thank you, Mr.—Whatever. You’re a gentleman.”

  He held out his hand to Orlando, who shook his head.

  “No, no,” he said, “better not. Find a rock and I’ll show yer why.”

  “Another time, perhaps, eh?” said Sid the Swede, and scuttled away.

  “You better stay in the hideout tonight, Dick,” said Angela. “We’ll bring you some breakfast in the morning.”

  “You only got to keep out the way till tomorrow night, anyway,” said Zerlina.

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause it’s the Gas-Fitters’ Ball tomorrow, and you’re going,” said Angela. “Everyone’s gotta be there. And you can go in costume if you like, with a mask.”

  Dick’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out of it.

  “Anyway,” said Zerlina, “we got another plan, ain’t we, Ange?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Angela. “We thought of it when you was up the ladder talking. It’s the best one yet. You’ll be amazed, I promise.”

  “Now get in quick, and stay clear of Jasper. He’s bad-tempered at both ends.”

  “All right,” said Dick meekly. “I dunno what it is about you gals, I just can’t argue with yer. Can you, Orlando?”

  “I never could argue with a lady,” said the strong man, watching the girls run off into the dark as quick as sparks up a chimney. “Well, good night, Dick. I’ll see you at the Ball.”

  All over Lambeth, people were getting ready for the Gas-Fitters’ Ball.

  The musicians of the Prince of Wales’s Own Light Bombardiers, who were going to play for the dancing, were polishing their trombones and tightening their drums; the caterers were making ice creams and soups and custards and pies and sandwiches of every sort; dressmakers were tightening straps and loosening waistbands and hemming edges and sewing on lace.

  And the detectives from Scotland Yard, under the direction of Inspector Gorman, were making no progress at all with the case of the Gas-Fitters’ Hall silver.

  “All the usual villains seem to be on holiday, Inspector,” said the Sergeant.

  “Well, try the unusual ones,” said the inspector crossly. “Try everyone.”

  “What about Sid the Swede and this prison breakout last night?”

  “Yes,” said the inspector, scratching his chin. “Sid couldn’t have nicked the silver, but it’s a curious business. The other bloke who got out was some young gas-fitter convicted of assault and battery …” Then he realized what he’d said. “A gas-fitter!”

  The two policemen looked at each other, wide-eyed.

  “You don’t think he could have been involved in the burglary?” said the sergeant.

  “Well, it’s highly suspicious, to say the least. When he turns up, we better pull him in for questioning.”

  “D’you think he will turn up, Inspector?”

  “Of course! Scotland Yard always gets its man. There’s dozens of trained sleuths looking for him right now, not to mention bloodhounds. He won’t be free for long. And when he’s put away next time, it’ll be for a good long stretch.”

  At the very moment, Dick was sitting in the gang’s hideout chewing a stale currant bun and washing it down with a bottl
e of cold tea, and trying not to think about policemen. The twins had brought the food to him early that morning, and they were now basking in Benny’s praise.

  “You done all right,” he said, “and no error. That must’ve took some doing, organizing a jail break. Course, me and Thunderbolt could’ve done it ourselves, only we had summing even harder to do.”

  “What was that, then?” said Angela.

  “I better not tell you yet,” said Benny, “on account of being caught and tortured. You’ll find out tonight. But it was desperate and dangerous. And daring. I don’t suppose anyone’s been as daring as what Thunderbolt and me was last night.”

  “Yes, they have,” said Zerlina. “Me and Ange was. We fooled a prison warder into revealing where Dick was locked up—”

  “And we borrowed a ladder from a builder’s yard under the nose of a powerful bulldog with jaws that big—” said Angela.

  “What we had to tame and master with special Italian dog commands as made it roll over and keep quiet—”

  “And we smuggled Orlando out of his boardinghouse wrapped in a roll of carpet—”

  “And we fought off three policemen what tried to capture the ladder Dick was coming down—”

  “Did you really?” said Thunderbolt, deeply impressed. “Cor.”

  “Yeah, all right, all right,” said Benny impatiently. “We all been daring and desperate.”

  “Yeah,” said Dick, swallowing the last of the currant bun. “I reckon you have, kids. But I’m wondering what I ought to do next, ’cause I’m on the run now, ain’t I? I’m a wanted man. There’s probly a price on me head.”

  “Better be a big un,” said Angela, “the trouble we went through. They better not offer just half a crown.”

  “In Sicily,” said Zerlina, “when someone breaks out of jail, they go up in the hills and join the bandits and live in a cave.”

  “Not many hills in Lambeth,” said Dick. “Nor caves neither. I dunno if Daisy’d want to live in a cave, somehow.”

  “She would if you asked her,” said Angela.

  “Course she would,” said Zerlina. “ ’Cause she’d listen to you with a lot more respect if you was a bandit. She’d have to. Else you’d shoot her.”

  “Or cut her froat,” said Angela.

  “Well—” began Dick.

  “And you’d be able to ask her, too! You know the reason you couldn’t ask her before?” said Zerlina.

  “Yeah, I was too blooming shy,” said Dick.

  “No! The real reason was, you was a gas-fitter. If you was a bandit, you wouldn’t be nervous of nothing. You’d be bold and daring.”

  “Would I?”

  “Course you would,” said Angela.

  And it was true, too. Dick felt himself become braver, more desperate, more daring, just by thinking about it. Dick Smith, a Wanted Man! Dangerous Dick Smith, the Lambeth Bandit!

  “Yeah,” he said. “I reckon you’re right. I could do anything now! If Daisy was here I’d—I’d propose to her on the spot. No error!”

  “Well, wait till tonight,” said Benny, “ ’cause you can do it at the Ball. You gotta be in disguise, of course. With a mask. And what we gotta do,” he said to the rest of the gang, “is, we gotta be there and all. We can work in the kitchens or summing. ’Cause everything’s gonna happen tonight. The Gas-Fitters’ Hall burglar’s gonna be revealed!”

  “And Dick’s going to win his bet!” said Thunderbolt.

  “Eh? What bet?” said Dick.

  There was an awkward silence. Everyone looked at Thunderbolt, who suddenly realized what he’d said and corrected himself quickly.

  “I mean, propose to Daisy,” he said. “I didn’t mean ‘bet’ at all. I was thinking of something quite different. I didn’t mean Dick had made a bet on it. I mean, I didn’t mean anyone had made a bet on it. I mean, proposed to Daisy. I mean—”

  “Oh, stow it,” said Benny, “we got no time for riddles. We gotta go and see the caterer and get ourselves jobs. You keep out of sight, Dick; remember, you’re on the run. You can’t slip out and have half a pint down the Feathers. If you get thirsty, you’ll have to wait till we bring you another bottle of tea or summing. And yer costume for later. I tell yer, mates, this is the best plan I ever had! This is a stunner!”

  “And we got a plan and all,” said Zerlina smugly. “Ain’t we, Ange?”

  But they refused to say what it was, in case of torture.

  Daisy didn’t know whether to feel sorrier for Dick, or for Mr. Horspath with his spectacular black eye, or herself. In the end, she felt sorry for all three of them in turn.

  Another thing she didn’t know was whether or not to go to the Ball. Mr. Horspath had asked her, but she thought that Dick would have asked her if he’d got round to it, and she’d rather go with him; on the other hand, Dick was in jail and Mr. Horspath wasn’t, and Mr. Horspath had brought her a huge bunch of lilies only that morning and asked her again to go with him; and altogether the poor girl was scarcely in her right mind.

  “I just dunno what to do, Ma!” she said after work.

  “There, there, dear,” said Mrs. Miller. “If I was you, I’d go with that nice Mr. Horspath. He’s a real gentleman.”

  “I wouldn’t if I was her,” said Mr. Miller darkly. “I don’t think she’d be safe in his hands. A man what can treat a potted palm in that shocking and cold-blooded way is capable of any villainy.”

  So Daisy dithered, and she might have gone on dithering forever if Angela hadn’t called, late in the afternoon, with a message for her ears only.

  “I can’t stop long,” said Angela breathlessly when they were in the parlor, “but I came to say you gotta go to the Ball, ’cause Dick’s going to be there in disguise. He escaped from prison specially. Not even prison walls could keep him away from you. Not even crocodiles or machine guns either, probly. And anyway, you gotta be there for—for a special other reason. I gotta go now, but you better be there, or else.”

  “Yes! Right! I will!” said Daisy. She was thrilled.

  Angela scampered off, and Daisy shot upstairs to put on her ball dress.

  And in every household in Lambeth, almost, people were putting on their finery. Some were going in costume and some weren’t, because you could choose which you liked. Most of the younger people were going in costume, but the more respectable ones went in ordinary evening dress.

  Mr. Horspath, as a Deputy Gasworks Manager, thought he’d better be respectable, so he put on a white tie and a black tailcoat, and anointed his hair with Bandoline to keep it in place and maintain the waviness people found so attractive. He had wondered what to do about his black eye until he found an advertisement in the Gentlemen’s Gazette, and hurried along at once to Mr. George Paul, of Oxford Street, an Artist in Black Eye. Mr. Paul covered the wounded organ with theatrical makeup, and charged Mr. Horspath half a crown for it; and now, as he peered into the mirror, it looked almost normal again. Daisy would be tremendously impressed, he thought, and he practiced a specially charming smile two or three times till he got it right.

  The Kaminskys were all going, too. Mr. Kaminsky and Cousin Morris had spent hours arguing about whether or not the latest style in evening wear, the “dress lounge,” was suitable for such a high-toned affair as the Gas-Fitters’ Ball.

  “A tailor’s got to innovate, Louis!” said Cousin Morris. “He’s got to be at the forefront of fashion!”

  “No, no, no,” said Mr. Kaminsky. “A tailor’s got to reflect the quiet good taste of traditional opinion. It’s no good flaunting all your latest American fashions, not in Lambeth, anyway. You wear that dress lounge if you want to; I’m sticking to formal evening wear. Look at the cut of this waistcoat, now! Look at the shine on that lapel, eh! A thing of beauty is a joy forever, Morris.”

  In the Dobney household, Thunderbolt’s pa was ironing his best trousers. Thunderbolt had wanted his father to go as a pirate, but Pa said he’d only worn his suit three times and hardly got his money’s worth out of it; so he f
etched it out of the wardrobe and set the iron on the stove and got to work. A pungent smell of mothballs was filling the little kitchen. Or was it mothballs?

  Mr. Dobney sniffed.

  “Can you smell burning, Sam?” he said.

  “Cor, yeah!” said Thunderbolt in alarm. “You got the iron too hot, Pa! Take it off, quick!”

  Mr. Dobney snatched the iron off his trousers just in time, and scratched his head.

  “I dunno what it is, I can’t seem to get it right. Your ma never used to have any trouble with it.”

  “What Mrs. Malone does,” said Thunderbolt, “is, she puts a wet cloth on it and irons through that. It goes all steamy.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Dobney. “I knew there was a secret to it.”

  He put the iron back on the range to keep hot and dipped his handkerchief in the dishwater. This time the iron hissed and steamed properly, and beautiful sharp creases appeared down the trouser legs.

  “Smashing,” said Mr. Dobney admiringly. “You could slice a cucumber with them creases.”

  The Peretti brothers, meanwhile, were criticizing each other’s costumes. Alf was going as a gondolier, but he had so many rings in his ears and fake jewelry all over him that Giuseppe said he looked more like a chandelier.

  “No, no, you got to be a bit showy,” said Alf. “Make the best of yerself. The young ladies like a bit of show. I can’t see ’em being impressed by them great caterpillars on your legs.”

  Giuseppe was going as a cowboy, with a ten-gallon hat he could only just get through the door and huge furry chaps over his trousers.

  “No, this is the tough and manly look,” he said. “If it’s good enough for Buffalo Bill, it’s good enough for me.”

  Alf twiddled his mustache and smirked.

  And finally, in the Whittle household, Miss Honoria was pinning a gardenia to her ball gown. The flower had arrived by special messenger, with a card that said “From an unknown admirer,” and she hoped that if she wore it to the Ball she might find out who had sent it.

  “Very pretty, my dear,” said Mr. Whittle. “It’s a shame you’ve only got your old father to go to the Ball with.”