by Merry Murder
He also reported to Mr. Payne on Monday night.
Lester’s name was not really Lester—it was Leonard. His mother and his friends in Balham, where he had been born and brought up, called him Lenny. He detested this, as he detested his surname and the pimples that, in spite of his assiduous efforts with ointment, appeared on his face every couple of months. There was nothing he could do about the name of Jones, because it was on his National Insurance card, but Lester for Leonard was a gesture toward emancipation.
Another gesture was made when he left home and mother for a one-room flat in Notting Hill Gate. A third gesture—and the most important one—was his friendship with Lucille, whom he had met in a jazz club called The Whizz Fizz.
Lucille called herself an actress, but the only evidence of it was that she occasionally sang in the club. Her voice was tuneless but loud. After she sang, Lester always bought her a drink, and the drink was always whiskey.
“So what’s new?” she said. “Lester-boy, what’s new?”
“I sold a diamond necklace today. Two hundred and fifty pounds. Mr. Marston was very pleased.” Mr. Marston was the manager of the Jewelry Department.
“So Mr. Marston was pleased. Big deal.” Lucille looked round restlessly, tapping her foot.
“He might give me a raise.”
“Another ten bob a week and a pension for your fallen arches.”
“Lucille, won’t you—”
“No.” The peak of emancipation for Lester, a dream beyond which his thoughts really could not reach, was that one day Lucille would come to live with him. Far from that, she had not even slept with him yet. “Look, Lester-boy, I know what I want, and let’s face it, you haven’t got it.”
He was incautious enough to ask, “What?”
“Money, moolah, the green folding stuff. Without it you’re nothing, with it they can’t hurt you.”
Lester was drinking whiskey too. although he didn’t really like it. Perhaps, but for the whiskey, he would never have said, “Supposing I had money?”
“What money? Where would you get it—draw it out of the Savings Bank?”
“I mean a lot of money.”
“Lester-boy, I don’t think in penny numbers. I’m talking about real money.”
The room was thick with smoke; the Whizz Fizz Kids were playing. Lester leaned back and said deliberately, “Next week I’ll have money—thousands of pounds.”
Lucille was about to laugh. Then she said, “It’s my turn to buy a drink, I’m feeling generous. Hey, Joe. Two more of the same.”
Later that night they lay on the bed in his one-room flat. She had let him make love to her, and he had told her everything.
“So the stuff’s going to a man called Lambie in Greenly Street?”
Lester had never before drunk so much in one evening. Was it six whiskies or seven? He felt ill, and alarmed. “Lucille, you won’t say anything? I mean, I wasn’t supposed to tell—”
“Relax. What do you take me for?” She touched his cheek with red-tipped nails. “Besides, we shouldn’t have secrets, should we?”
He watched her as she got off the bed and began to dress. “Won’t you stay? I mean, it would be all right with the landlady.”
“No can do, Lester-boy. See you at the club, though. Tomorrow night. Promise.”
“Promise.” When she had gone he turned over on to his side and groaned. He feared that he was going to be sick, and he was. Afterwards, he felt better.
Lucille went home to her flat in Earl’s Court which she shared with a man named Jim Baxter. He had been sent to Borstal for a robbery from a confectioner’s which had involved considerable violence. Since then he had done two short stretches. He listened to what she had to say, then asked, “What’s this Lester like?”
“A creep.”
“Has he got the nerve to kid you, or do you think it’s on the level, what he’s told you?”
“He wouldn’t kid me. He wants me to live with him when he’s got the money. I said I might.”
Jim showed her what he thought of that idea. Then he said, “Tuesday morning, eh. Until then, you play along with this creep. Any change in plans I want to know about it. You can do it, can’t you, baby?”
She looked up at him. He had a scar on the left side of his face which she thought made him look immensely attractive. “I can do it. And Jim?”
“Yes?”
“What about afterwards?”
“Afterwards, baby? Well, for spending money there’s no place like London. Unless it’s Paris.”
Lester Jones also reported on Monday night. Lucille was being very kind to him, so he no longer felt uneasy.
Mr. Payne gave them all a final briefing and stressed that timing, in this as in every similar affair, was the vital element.
Mr. Rossiter Payne rose on Tuesday morning at his usual time, just after eight o’clock. He bathed and shaved with care and precision, and ate his usual breakfast of one soft-boiled egg, two pieces of toast, and one cup of unsugared coffee. When Miss Oliphant arrived he was already in the shop.
“My dear Miss Oliphant. Are you, as they say, ready to cope this morning?”
“Of course, Mr. Payne. Do you have to go out?”
“I do. Something quite unexpected. An American collector named—but I mustn’t tell his name even to you, he doesn’t want it known—is in London, and he has asked me to see him. He wants to try to buy the manuscripts of—but there again I’m sworn to secrecy, although if I weren’t I should surprise you. I am calling on him, so I shall leave things in your care until—” Mr. Payne looked at his expensive watch—”not later than midday. I shall certainly be back by then. In the meantime. Miss Oliphant, I entrust my ware to you.”
She giggled. “I won’t let anyone steal the stock, Mr. Payne.”
Mr. Payne went upstairs again to his flat where, laid out on his bed, was a very different set of clothes from that which he normally wore. He emerged later from the little side entrance looking quite unlike the dapper, retired Guards officer known to Miss Oliphant.
His clothes were of the shabby nondescript ready-to-wear kind that might be worn by a City clerk very much down on his luck—the sleeve and trouser cuffs distinctly frayed, the tie a piece of dirty string. Curling strands of rather disgustingly gingery hair strayed from beneath his stained gray trilby hat and his face was gray too—gray and much lined, the face of a man of sixty who has been defeated by life.
Mr. Payne had bright blue eyes, but the man who came out of the side entrance had, thanks to contact lenses, brown ones. This man shuffled off down the alley with shoulders bent, carrying a rather dingy suitcase. He was quite unrecognizable as the upright Rossiter Payne.
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.”
“A
lways 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 last-minute 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, humoring him.
As soon as he had gone, she rang Jim and reported that there were no last-minute 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 organized 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 nearby.
“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 toward 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 emphasizing 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 apologized, 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 said. “I shouldn’t like to tangle with her on a dark night.”
The time was now 10: 40.
The clock in the Jewelry 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 get 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 vo
cabulary, 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?”