He came to a main road. There was traffic here, though it was not yet half past six. He awaited his chance and neatly tucked his vehicle into a line which was moving fast towards the town centre. He looked at his watch. He had two minutes yet. The traffic slowed a little, to twenty miles an hour, then to fifteen. He saw that he was approaching Bishopsgate. He turned left, taking a street which ran behind Lacy Street, parallel to it. He drove at twenty along there, for nearly half a mile. His time was up, but he was close to his destination.
He put on his cap and his spectacles, and turned along the first side street. He stopped the van and left it, stuffing his gloves into his pocket as he walked away. He crossed the road and took a narrow street which cut through to Lacy Street. He was not alone now. Ahead of him were trudging male figures, early workers heading for the bus station. The more the merrier, he thought.
Men were buying their morning papers from a newsboy at the corner of Somerset Square. France bought a paper. He walked across to the Churlham bus terminus and joined a little queue there. He opened his paper, and received one of the greatest shocks of his life. There was his own face looking at him from the front page. It was a photograph which had been taken a few years ago at the beginning of a two-year stretch in prison. The picture of Cain was beside his: full length, full face, and profile. He moved slightly, so that the man beside him in the queue would have to turn to see his face.
A Churlham bus came, and he was thankful when his turn came to board it. He went to the upper deck, and right along to the front, so that people entering or leaving the bus would not see his face. He did not read his paper but put his elbow on the narrow window ledge and leaned his face on his hand so that he would not be recognized by people looking up at the bus. He felt sick. The position was completely changed, and ten times more dangerous.
The conductor came. France proffered a shilling and said 'Churlham'. He received eightpence change, and not so much as a glance from the conductor. The bus went dawdling on, or at least it seemed to France that it was dawdling. His journey was urgent now. He had to get to the filling station where he had left his car, and he had to get there before anybody arrived to open it. The proprietor and the garage hands knew him, but he was moderately certain that they had never bothered to memorize the number of his car. But any one of them would certainly do that, after he had seen a paper. France had to get there first, and get that Morris 1000 away.
The bus passed Naylor Street. Everything seemed to be normal, with no obvious policemen in sight. That did not deceive France. He kept his face partly covered.
He alighted and walked to the filling station. There was no one about. He walked round to the back and got into his car. It started without trouble. He drove back along Churlham Road to a workmen's eating house which he had seen. He took a seat in the furthest corner facing the door, and ordered tea and bacon sandwiches. He did not remove his cap. He read the paper as he ate, and learned that some of his accomplices had been arrested. Cain was still at large, and apparently he still had the loot. Well, well. He had to admit it. Cain was quite a man when the talking was over and the time for action had come.
* * * * *
Herbert Abrahams was the name of the plasterer who had allowed Howie Cain to leave a car in his yard. Mr. Abrahams had a habit of getting up early in a morning, because he liked to eat a good breakfast in comfort and look at the paper before he went to work. On the morning after the robbery at Haddon and Walker's he opened the morning paper as usual when the bacon and eggs were put before him. Clear in the middle of the front page were the pictures of two men, and one of them he recognized immediately. He began to read about the men, and he was so engrossed that his wife remarked that if he wanted a cold breakfast every morning she would see that he got it.
He began to eat, and with his mouth full he said: 'Alice, there's a feller here wanted by the police, an' I know him.'
'Who is it?'
'It's that feller what leaves his car in my yard. Remember I told yer?'
'Yer too trustin' wi' strangers. I've told yer before.'
Abrahams began to eat quickly. 'I'd better get down to t'yard an' see if his car is still there. There might be a reward for this feller.'
Alice grew red in the face. 'Yer not goin' down ter no yard where there's a robber,' she said with vehemence. She pointed. 'There's telephone. Finish yer breakfuss, an' then ring police an' tell 'em.'
Abrahams saw the wisdom of this policy. He dialled 999 and was put in contact with the police. He told them what he knew. 'I'm goin' down to t'yard now,' he said.
'Police officers will meet you there,' he was told.
Actually, there was a police car at the plasterer's yard three minutes after he had given his information, but its crew of two men did not approach the gate. Then more men arrived, with a sergeant in uniform. The sergeant put the men around the place, then he pulled himself up by the top of the wall and looked over. He saw a car in the yard, and a man in it. And the man saw him.
'He's here,' the sergeant said to a constable standing by. 'Give me a shove up.'
He went over the wall. The car was already moving, making a turn to come round and ram the locked gate. The sergeant now realized that he had been indiscreet in looking over the wall, and he knew for his own sake he must stop the car. His heavy hardwood truncheon appeared in his hand, and as the car went by him he threw it with all his strength at the windscreen. The glass was strong. It did not shatter, but it cracked in a thousand places. The lacework of cracks robbed it of transparency. The car swerved, then resumed its course. But the driver could not see his way. He hit the gate, but he also hit one of the heavy stone gateposts. The car stopped.
Triumphant now, the sergeant leaped to a door of the car and pulled it open. 'Howie Cain, I presume,' he said.
So, eventually, Cain's arrest was as simple as that.
* * * * *
Ned France did not linger at table after he had eaten his bacon sandwiches, because lingering in that place at that time would not have been commonplace behaviour. He departed and drove his car into town, and found a parking place. This was near the wholesale fruit and vegetable market in Chicken Hill, and the market was at its busiest. He found the restaurant, and had a second cheap breakfast. He could have stayed a while, but he felt uneasy because he seemed to be the only stranger there. He left as soon as he could, and returned to his car. But he went in a roundabout way, so that he could see the car from a distance before he approached it. By now, he thought, it was quite possible that the police might be interested in all Morris 1000 cars.
Nobody seemed to be watching the car, so he went and sat in it. It was eight o'clock, and he had to wait two hours. Two hours in a part of the city where policemen were as thick as flies. And yet here, in the busy heart of the city, was the safest place. How on earth had the police found out that he and Cain were members of the same mob? Well, there was one way for a copper to get to know something, and that was for somebody to tell him. Who had been opening his big mouth? Jolly? No, Husker. Husker, after he was caught last night. He would be full of resentment because somebody else had got away. That was the explanation. France would have bet and laid odds that Husker was responsible for his present plight.
How had the police got his picture quickly enough to get it in the morning paper? No doubt they had phoned the C.R.O. in London and got his full record, then they had dug among back issues of the Police Gazette and found a picture. Dead easy.
Anyway, they had his number now, but what evidence did they have? The word of Husker, perhaps. Fingerprints at Naylor Street. Certain housebreaking tools which he had left in his luggage. Housebreaking tools in his possession if they caught him, and he did not want to throw away those tools just yet. He might need them to get out of this trap. It was not a lot of evidence, but it might be good enough, with the judge knowing his record. In any case it would be enough for the police to build up some sort of indictment and have him put away for a long time. Well, they hadn't
caught him yet.
In his driving mirror France caught sight of a policeman in uniform, walking along the perimeter of the parking place. He turned carefully in his seat, to get a better view. The P.C. was looking at the cars he passed, but not intently. He went to the attendant's little hut and started some sort of conversation there. His back was turned. France started his car and drove away very gently and quietly. That was the way it would have to be for two hours. Avoid those fellows if possible.
Two hours? Two days, two weeks, two months, two years. With the XXC jobs finished, the heat would gradually die away, but there would always be the risk—by no means slight—of being recognized by some ambitious police officer. He would have to get out of the country, and take Dorrie with him if she would go. Where could they go? Some place where English was spoken, or some country entirely foreign? Well, no place where an Englishman was suspect, and no place where there was a first-class, red-hot, police force. What about Spain? The Costa del Sol. Torremolinos. Plenty of English spoken there by Britishers of all kinds, Americans, Scandinavians, Frenchmen, Germans, Belgians, and Hollanders. English was spoken by whores, pimps, and sons of bitches; by kept women, kept men, self-confessed millionaires, hopeless drunks, brawlers, and people who seemed to live on nothing; by sodomists and lesbians; by poets who knew no rhyme, painters who could not paint, and writers who could never get started. The Torremolinos police were busy enough keeping an eye on that lot. They would have no time to spare for a well-behaved English couple with money of their own. Because in Torremolinos there were nice people too: people who had retired there or simply gone to make a living there. Some of them farmed in the rich valleys and fertile foothills behind Malaga. Now there was an idea. Capital would be needed, and a reasonable amount of it would be available. Work for some farmer, preferably British or American, for a year or so. Learn as much as possible and meanwhile look around for a nice property. Grow oranges, lemons, olives, almonds, figs, cotton, sugar, or what have you. It was an idea worthy of consideration. France's juicy oranges. But the name would not be France.
He had been driving around slowly, but not too slowly, in streets where there was a reasonable amount of traffic and no traffic policemen. He found another parking place. It had no attendant. He sat there in his car, watching, ready to move if a policeman appeared. Time was a caterpillar. It was a snail. It was the laziest slug which ever left a trail of slime. Eventually it was nine o'clock. Two separate policemen had passed in the distance. At nine-fifteen a man in a sort of uniform appeared. He was interested in France to the extent of taking ninepence from him and giving him a small piece of paper in exchange. But France was doubtful. Had the man looked at the car in a certain way? Had his casual manner been a pretence? When the man was busy finding change for a driver who had just arrived, France drove away.
He looked for a public convenience, and then for a place somewhere near it where he could leave the car for a few minutes. He entered the convenience. The attendant was in his little office eating his breakfast, and he had no interest in his customers, if that was what he called them. For one penny France secured privacy. He took off the boiler suit and stuffed it down behind the toilet basin. He dusted his suit as best he could with the driver's cap, then he rubbed his shoes with it. After some thought he decided to take a chance and get rid of all the incriminating tools in his pockets. Make a clean break now, he thought. He put them all in the cap and stuffed it behind the water cistern. Before he left the convenience he glanced at himself in a mirror and decided that he looked respectable.
He looked at his watch. Nine-thirty, thank God. He went back to his car, but when he turned the corner of the quiet street where he had left it, he saw a policeman ahead of him. The P.C. was moving slowly, looking at the line of parked cars. At each car he stopped, and appeared to make a note of its number, and the time. Timing them, France thought. Not more than twenty minutes parking allowed, probably. He watched. The P.C. came to the Morris 1000. He showed no particular interest in it, but noted its number and moved on. Phew! It appeared that the garage proprietor had not informed the police after all. Perhaps he had decided that it was none of his business. Or perhaps he was a thief, too. A man who could ask thirty shillings a week for a bit of spare ground would certainly never be bothered by his conscience.
The policeman's progress was very slow. France looked at the small shops near him, and saw an outfitter's. He went in there and bought a brown felt hat and a raincoat. When he came out, the P.C. was right at the other end of the street, looking at the last car. Would he turn and retrace his steps? France hurried to the Morris. He got in and started it. He wheeled out of line on full lock, thankful now that he had chosen so small a car. He had to reverse once to get round in that street, but he was away before the policeman was anywhere near him. As he moved out of the street into traffic a blare of horns told him that he had done something wrong. He guessed that he had come the wrong way out of a one way street. Dear, dear. They could take his number but they'd have a hell of a time delivering the summons.
He drove in the direction of the North Central Station, towards the hotel where Dorrie was staying. He was a few minutes early, and it was his intention first to make a brief reconnaissance by driving past the hotel and round the block. But as he approached he saw Dorrie standing at the top of the steps. He stopped at the kerb. She signalled that she had seen him. She stepped back into the hotel and emerged carrying a small suitcase. She put it into the back of the car, and as she took the seat beside him she reached out and squeezed his hand as it held the gear lever.
She was smiling, obviously happy and relieved. 'I see you've started wearing glasses,' she said.
'Yes, but you recognized me soon enough.'
'I'd know you with a mask on. What's the matter, did something go wrong?'
'It sure did. Haven't you see a paper?'
'No. I couldn't be bothered with papers this morning.'
He told her what had happened. She was horrified, but she made no comment about what might happen to her husband or her sister. They were out of her life, crossed off, forgotten.
'They've got your picture,' she said. 'They're looking for you.'
'I'm afraid so.'
'What will you do?'
'That depends on whether you stay with me. I can't hold you to your promise now.'
'You don't want me?'
'There's nothin' I want more.'
'Without me you'll have more chance of getting away.'
'I doubt it. Anyway, I'd sooner have you with me.'
'Where will we go?'
'First, get out that map there, and open it on your knee. We'll go north for a start, because it's easier to read a map that way.'
'Yes, but where will we go when we've got clear?'
'To my brother. He has a farm not far from Huntingdon. I'll introduce you as my wife. He thinks I'm still workin' in insurance.'
'But won't the police look for you at your brother's?'
'They don't know I have a brother. They don't know my real name. They never did, from the start. I made sure of that.'
'Your name isn't France?'
'No, it's something else entirely.'
'What?'
'I'll tell you when we're clear, not before.'
She shivered. 'Will there be road blocks?'
'I don't know. If there are, we'll have to find a way round them. They can't block every little road out of a place like this.'
'How long will we stay at your brother's?'
'Until we've got passports, and made our financial arrangements. Then we go to a place in southern Spain not far from Gibraltar. I can transfer money to a British bank in Gib, and draw on it as I need it.'
'Spain,' she said. 'I've never been to Spain.'
'If you don't like it we'll go somewhere else, but Spain it is for a start. Whether you like it anywhere depends on how much you get to like me.'
'Then I shall like it. I've been thinking about you a lot, in that hotel. We
should have met ten years ago. I hope it's—for ever.'
'That's wonderful,' he said. He drove on, savouring her words. Did he deserve such luck, to get clean away with Dorrie, with the prospect of happiness and security? According to all his early training, he deserved nothing of the kind. He was—had been—a scoundrel. Not a scoundrel as despicable as some fat rogues he knew, who preyed ruthlessly on society—the poorer sections of it—under licence of the law. He was better than they, but what sort of an excuse was that? He was still a scoundrel. He had been a thief from adolescence, and it was no defence to boast that he had been a clever one.
Still, in this world people did not always get what they deserved. Far from it. He had a chance of happiness and he was going to take it.
'Get out that other map, the map of the town,' he said, pointing. Quite involuntarily he increased the speed of the car. 'Here goes. We'll get through, my sweet.'
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