Richard Dalby (ed)

by Crime for Christmas

‘It’ll get better, my foot, in the end, won’t it?’ Smith asked.

  ‘Provided you get proper attention,’ said Mrs Prothero dryly.

  ‘I’ll get that,’ Smith assured her eagerly. ‘They’ve got good hospitals in South America, same as anywhere else. And I’ll be able to pay. I will, too. I want to be able to go about, hit the night-clubs, live it up.’

  Mrs Prothero looked at him.

  ‘You poor fish,’ she said, very quietly and confidentially. They still won’t care tuppence for you, the girls.’

  Wide-eyed horror appeared on Smith’s face. Blasphemy had been spoken.

  ‘Look,’ he whispered feverishly, ‘when I’ve got money girls’ll come running. Running.’

  ‘To you? If you want that sort of success—and heaven knows that’s pitiful enough—you’ve got to be the sort of person who earns some respect. And do you think that just because you’ve let that Dawson frighten you into committing a crime, and letting an innocent man die, you’re any different?’

  ‘I am. I am.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ replied Mrs Prothero, as if she was in one of the children’s wards. ‘You’re worth nothing, and you never will be.’

  She looked him straight in the eyes.

  ‘Not unless,’ she added, ‘when the time comes here you go the right way and go it hard.’

  Smith looked away.

  Mrs Prothero rose and went to the door of her bedroom. She addressed the man lying on her bed.

  ‘I want to go and attend to my husband,’ she said. ‘Will you kindly unlock the bathroom door?’

  The peterman gave her a stony look from little pale blue eyes. But he swung himself off the bed and did as she had asked.

  In spite of the setback the tunnellers had suffered the church bells had been battering the night air with their clangour for only five minutes when Morgan unlocked the bathroom door and told Mrs Prothero the big safe was about to be blown.

  ‘That peterman insisted on having a coffee first,’ he said. ‘It seems it’s his right. So I brought you a couple of cups.’

  Mrs Prothero looked at him.

  ‘Do you still really believe my husband is fit enough to drink coffee?’ she asked.

  Morgan studied the hall carpet.

  ‘You know, we’re all very sorry that had to happen,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s sorry?’ Mrs Prothero countered. ‘Do you think Dawson’s sorry?’

  Morgan bit his full lower lip.

  ‘Well, not exactly.’

  He looked up for an instant.

  ‘In many ways,’ he said, ‘I wish I’d never got involved with that chap.’

  ‘In many ways,’ Mrs Prothero echoed ironically. ‘But never in the way of doing anything about it. You’re involved with him in what in a very few hours will be murder. The law says that you are equally guilty. And the law is right.’

  Morgan looked pained.

  ‘I wish you’d understand,’ he said. ‘There was a strict agreement there was to be no violence in this business. I said I wouldn’t come in, unless. And he had to have me, you know, for my mining experience. Before I went in for the physical culture. It was only because that got in such a terrible jam that I had to consider this business at all.’

  ‘And now you’ll end up doing a life sentence,’ Mrs Prothero capped him grimly.

  But she failed to quench him.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said. That’s where you’re wrong, see. What you haven’t taken into account is how damn clever Dawson is. I’ve watched him, you know. And he’s smart all right. He’ll have us all off to South America before ever this business is known about.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mrs Prothero. ‘Dawson is clever. Too clever for you.’

  It took Morgan several seconds to absorb this. The thoughts crossing his mind could clearly be seen on his mobile Welsh face.

  They had come to forming, almost aloud, the word ‘Cheated’ when from the tunnel in the kitchen there woofed up the sound of a single sharp boom.

  ‘The safe,’ Morgan said.

  And the next moment faintly but shrilly through the tunnel there came the sound of a bell ringing and ringing.

  Mrs Prothero was first to realise what must have happened.

  ‘It looks as if your Mr Dawson is not so clever after all,’ she said. ‘There must have been an alarm bell he didn’t neutralize.’

  Morgan without a word tried to open the front door. But the mortise key was still in Dawson’s pocket. He looked all round and then started off for the sitting-room and its windows. But he was not quick enough.

  There was a thumping sound from the kitchen and Dawson himself came staggering out of the tunnel.

  ‘Morgan,’ he shouted. ‘The bathroom key, quick. I’ve got to know where that bell is.’

  In an instant Mrs Prothero ran across to the bathroom door and spreadeagled herself in front of it.

  ‘You will not touch him,’ she declared as Dawson came into the hall. ‘Anything could be the end of him now.’

  ‘Get out of my way.’

  Dawson took a step forward, fist bunched.

  And then the alarm stopped ringing.

  Tony, coming in from the kitchen looking panic-stricken in every feature, stopped.

  ‘The peterman,’ he said. ‘He must have found it. He was going round like a scalded rabbit when I left.’

  Smith hobbled in from the kitchen, still holding an incongruously festive sheet of Christmas wrapping paper, and full of plaintive questions. Even when Dawson had tersely answered him they stood where they were, as if none of them could believe the alarm was over. And they had still scarcely shifted when the peterman came up out of the tunnel.

  ‘Well,’ he said without ceremony to Dawson, ‘what you going to do?’

  Dawson thought.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said eventually. ‘Give it a few minutes more to see if anyone heard. It must have been some old bell. We certainly did the one that rings at the police station.’

  ‘All right,’ the peterman said.

  He went over to the front door and tried it.

  ‘You’d better unlock this, mate,’ he remarked. ‘If we have to go, we’ll have to go quick.’

  Dawson took the mortise key from his pocket and turned it in the lock. Then, with an assumption of complete calm, he strolled into the sitting-room and plumped himself down in Mrs Prothero’s armchair.

  The others followed him in.

  ‘Look,’ Tony said, ‘shouldn’t we all wait round the corner somewhere? We could come back when we were sure it was all clear.’

  ‘And have you scuttle off out of it?’ Dawson said. ‘We stay here, chum.’

  He looked round at the rest of them, coming to rest eventually on limping, white-faced Smith.

  ‘Scared as hell, aren’t you, lad?’ he said.

  ‘No, no, I’m not. Really, I’m not.’

  It was plain that, however scared or not scared he might be of the police coming, he was frightened stiff of Dawson.

  ‘Well,’ Dawson said to him, ‘you can calm down, sonny. No one’s heard that bell. You can take it from me.’

  From just inside the door Mrs Prothero intervened.

  ‘It would have been better for you, far, if that bell had been heard.’

  ‘I tell you it can’t have been heard,’ Dawson replied.

  ‘And if it hasn’t, and you carry out your plan and leave me here with Arthur when you go, they’ll find a dead man in with me.’

  Dawson’s little grin returned.

  ‘That’s not going to worry me,’ he said. ‘I’ll be far away.’

  ‘And what then?’ asked Mrs Prothero sternly.

  ‘What then? Then I’ll be up on the top side. Then it’ll be my turn to rub faces in the dirt.’

  He stuck out his muscled belly in defiance. But his boast had only confirmed Mrs Prothero in her diagnosis of him.

  ‘Let me tell you something,’ she said. ‘Once I may not have understood a man like you. But there’s som
e use to be made of long dark hours locked away with a dying man. I can see you now, right down to the very depths. And I’ll tell you what you’ll do when you get to South America and start living this life you’ve dreamt of so long. You’ll curl up and die.’

  Dawson jumped to his feet.

  ‘You’ll die,’ Mrs Prothero continued unperturbed. ‘You’ll die because the only thing that’s kept you going has been the thought of your turn to rub faces in the dirt. And when you feel you’ve got that, you’ll be finished. I don’t know what way it will take you. Gambling, I should say. You’ll gamble yourself into the gutter, and then you’ll creep into a hole and die.’

  And it was clear then that Mrs Prothero had at last won her battle. Dawson stood without an atom of fight left in him. Above his head the trumpeting angels lazily swung.

  ‘Well,’ Mrs Prothero barked, turning to the others, ‘are you going to take your chance now? Here’s a decision you can make for yourself, Smith. And you, Tony, you can act in the real world, for once. And, Morgan, do you still believe this creature’s so clever?’

  ‘I’m getting out of here,’ Morgan announced.

  He started towards the hall.

  But a voice halted him.

  Small, dry-faced and insignificant, the peterman stood there and uttered one word.

  ‘Stop.’

  Morgan turned.

  ‘You’re a lot of fools,’ the peterman said. ‘I’ve blown that safe for you. There’s all the money you want just lying there. And you’re running out just because of an old bitch’s sharp tongue.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Morgan slowly, ‘the money is there after all. It’d be stupid not to take it now.’

  And Dawson was quick to scramble back into leadership.

  ‘I should bloody well hope so,’ he said. ‘Not a soul’s heard that bell. Inside again, quick.’

  He hurried out into the earth-mounded hall, the others at his heels.

  But not at his orders. Not all of them.

  ‘No,’ young Smith shouted suddenly at the back. ‘I’ve seen you down, and I’m going.’

  He was nearer the front door than any of them. He turned and got a hand to the Yale knob.

  But Dawson was still formidable. He had wheeled round in an instant at Smith’s hysterical shout and now he lunged.

  And Smith, turning back, struck out. Blindly, but hard.

  His fist connected with Dawson’s face and stopped him. It stopped him just long enough for a frantic twist at the Yale knob, for the door to swing wide, for the boy to get out into the corridor.

  ‘Help, help, police, help.’

  The cries echoed loud, and the thump and thud of young Smith’s lame run echoed too.

  It was followed at once by a stampede of other running feet. Only the peterman stayed for a few seconds, stayed to deliver a parting valediction.

  ‘You win, you hag,’ he snarled at Mrs Prothero. ‘You win, but I hope he does die. I hope he dies in agony.’

  Then he too was off, at a fast, wary run.

  Mrs Prothero turned to the bathroom door.

  ‘Arthur,’ she called, ‘did you hear that? He hopes you’ll die. You can come out now.’

  A BOOK FOR CHRISTMAS - Christopher Hallam

  Christopher Hallam (b. 1947) is a corporate adviser whose short stories have been broadcast on local radio and published in magazines. As well as writing fiction, he also contributes articles on legal and financial matters to business magazines. ‘A Book for Christmas’ was written especially for this anthology.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Albion Street, his fingers nimbly parcelling a book for despatch in the evening’s post, spoke to the lady who had just entered the shop.

  Mrs Evelyn Harcourt glanced uncertainly round the small premises packed overwhelmingly with books.

  Her winter coat was flecked with sleet, watery jewels evaporating in the warmth which was provided by burbling gas heaters, their fumes tainting the air. She hooked her umbrella on the edge of the counter and regarded Street, a short, waistcoated man with greased black hair.

  ‘I’m looking for a book—a Christmas present for a friend,’ she replied. Her measured, educated tones matched her elegant forty something poise which, together with her quality clothes, categorized her in Street’s eyes as ‘in the money’. A customer to attend to dutifully.

  ‘Plenty to choose from here,’ he said affably, knotting the parcel and cutting the string.

  As proprietor of Crowley’s Books (antiquarian and collectable), hewas proud of his reputation of being able to supply sought-after books, especially signed first editions.

  Shelves of books climbed the walls. Library steps were available to gain access to the higher reaches. Heavily laden gondolas filled the floor space leaving only the narrowest of aisles between them. Dusty chandeliers cast a mellow glow.

  ‘I may need some help in making my selection,’ suggested Mrs Harcourt, venturing away from the counter.

  The doorbell pinged, a young man entered, and began browsing.

  ‘What sort of book, madam? Fact? Fiction?’

  ‘Fiction.’

  ‘They’re in this section,’ he said, leading her to them. Dust-free strips showed where books had recently been removed, considered, and pushed back.

  ‘So many to choose from,’ she remarked.

  ‘Does your friend collect a particular author?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Oh, then perhaps a particular type of fiction, say the genre of M. R. James,’ encouraged Street, knowing he had a fine first edition by the famous writer. ‘Ghost stories are popular at Christmas,’ he added.

  ‘Hmm, maybe. It’s so difficult when one can’t remember the title. My friend mentioned a book and I thought I’d be sure to remember the title.’

  ‘Any idea of the story?’

  Mrs Harcourt looked around for inspiration, watched the young man fondly handling a dusty volume an inch thick, and said: ‘I rather think it was to do with swindling. You know, one person doing another out of money rightfully theirs.’ Her green eyes gave Street a deep look.

  ‘I’ll take this book,’ called the young man.

  ‘With you in a moment, sir,’ replied Street. Then to Mrs Harcourt: ‘You try these: authors between 1950 and 1990. Must be a good yarn about swindling among those. Excuse me, please.’

  ‘Swindling,’ not a word he liked, stabbed his conscience and, while he wrapped the man’s purchase and processed the cheque, Street’s mind went back a few years.

  Out of idle curiosity one lunchtime Street had entered the shop. The then owner, Frederick Crowley, a hunchbacked seventy-year-old wearing thick-lensed spectacles, had been earnestly flipping through a box of books. Street, who previously had not been interested in book collecting, had asked Crowley what he was searching for as he rapidly glanced at the opening pages of each book.

  Crowley, oblivious to Street’s impertinence, had said curtly: ‘First editions. Preferably signed.’ Street had learned something. ‘You interested in books?’ Crowley had asked. ‘Collector?’ Street had said he was. Anything to add some life to his boring daily routine of tick, stamp and vouch for a firm of accountants. Unqualified assistants like Street had no career prospects.

  But here was a man, on his own, making a living out of dealing in old books. The prospect of being self-employed and doing the same had immediately appealed.

  A plan formulated in his mind and Street became a regular visitor to Crowley’s Books, buying first editions. He studied catalogues and trade journals, developing his knowledge so that he could talk authoritatively on spine-splitting, foxed pages and the many other aspects of book quality as well as becoming familiar with authors’ works.

  His visits became so regular and his interest so keen that he talked Crowley into letting him work in the shop on Saturdays.

  Crowley’s health was declining, his bones were softening and his spine remorselessly bending forward. His wife had died some years earlier and he had no family except for
cousins who rarely visited him.

  It was when Crowley spoke of having to sell the business because of his health that the opportunity arose for Street to buy it. Who else could Crowley entrust a life’s work to but this personable young man?

  A contract was drawn up by Crowley’s solicitor.

  ‘I can’t pay all the money on completion,’ Street had told Crowley the day before the contract was to be completed. ‘I’ll have to pay by instalments.’

  Crowley had reluctantly agreed, overruling his solicitor’s advice, such was his faith in Street.

  The deposit paid on exchange of contracts was all Crowley saw until he called into the shop several days after the first instalment became due.

  ‘Business is very poor, Fred. Interest rates are high. I’m really struggling,’ Street had pleaded.

  ‘So am I, Albion. A contract is a contract. I need the money from the sale. I’ve nothing else to live on. This shop was my life, my pension fund.’

  The conversation was the same each time an instalment was due and each time Street would write out a cheque for a few hundred pounds. Nothing like what Crowley wanted but enough to appease him and tide him over. And there was always the promise of the arrears next time.

  With Crowley’s by then rapidly deteriorating health, Street knew he would not have the stamina to fight him through the courts for his money. His death would be Street’s release from debt; he’d planned for that eventuality, too.

  ‘I don’t know what to choose,’ announced Mrs Harcourt.

  ‘There has to be a book for you,’ assured Street, returning to her side. ‘Have you considered something new, like a Jeffrey Archer?’ Street peered along the shelves. ‘Here’s a first edition, signed, of Kane and Abel.’

  Mrs Harcourt took the book, opened it, saw it was indeed signed and in good condition. ‘Possibly,’ she said, handing it back.

  ‘What else, what else,’ mused Street, tapping his lips with his forefinger.

  ‘The other aspect of the story was forgery,’ recalled Mrs Harcourt.

  ‘Forgery,’ repeated Street, reflectively.

  Another customer who had been browsing was now waiting at the counter. Street excused himself and attended to the sale.

  And that reference to forgery jarred, too.