“And I’m Nicholas Norwood. Sit down, Mr. Clipson, and tell me what I can do for you.”
“First off, maybe you’d better tell me if what they say about your Society’s true.”
“What do they say?”
“That you’re in the business of helping old lags.”
“Well, I don’t know that you can call it a business, but in general that’s true. Where did you hear about us?”
“In the clink. Wandsworth.”
“You were in Wandsworth?”
“Did four years hard for breaking and entering. And hard it was. I wasn’t sure I’d live through it, but I did—just got out yesterday.”
“And who told you about the Society?”
“Another lag, name of Tom.”
“Tom what?”
“I just knew him as Tom, old Tom. He was in the cell across from me, and we got to be pretty good friends, especially near the end when I got sick.”
“What was wrong with you?”
“What wasn’t wrong! First me stomach went dicky from the food and I couldn’t keep nothing down. Then I got the sweats, jail fever, and I started coughing till I was spitting blood.”
“That sounds pretty serious.”
“Old Tom thought it was. He said I’d probably live to get out, but if I ever came back in I’d be a goner. That’s why he thought I should come to see you, see if I couldn’t go straight.”
“Well, of course we’ll do anything we can to help you. I gather you’d like us to help you get some kind of work.”
“That’s right. And fast. I’m flat as a flounder.”
“I’ll let you have something on account, but what kind of work do you think you could do?”
“I don’t know. Something to do with tools. I’m good with them because I used to be a cracksman. As a matter of fact, I was probably the best cracksman in London.”
“You don’t say,” said Norwood, smiling. “I’ve been told that requires a high degree of skill. Well, let me see what I can do. I just placed someone in a machine shop over in Southwark and I may be able to get you a job there too.” He pulled over the ledger. “What’s your address?”
“Two Arnold Court, Hoxton.”
Norwood wrote it in the ledger, then took out his note case. “In the meantime, here’s something to keep you going,” he said, holding out a pound note.
“I don’t want no charity,” said Clipson, scowling, “from you or nobody else!”
“It’s not charity. It’s … I suppose you can call it an advance against any money you make when I get you a job. You can pay me back then.”
“I say it’s charity, and I don’t want it!” He got up. “Let me know when you got a job for me.”
“I’ll do that,” said Norwood looking at him seriously and intently. “Have you had lunch?”
“No. Why?”
“If you won’t take any money, I’d like to buy you lunch—it’s the least I can do. But unfortunately I won’t be able to leave until a man from Chubb’s gets here, and that won’t be for a half hour or so.”
“Chubb’s, the safe people?”
“Yes.”
“What’s he coming here for?”
“I got a safe from them the other day.” Norwood nodded toward the small safe in the corner of the room. “And they must have given me the wrong combination because, after I put some things in it and closed it, I wasn’t able to open it. They’re sending a man over to see if he can open it and give me the correct combination.”
Clipson walked over to the safe.
“Looks like one of their new ones,” he said.
“I believe it is.”
Clipson looked up at him.
“Are you a betting man?” he asked.
“I put the odd quid on a horse now and then. Why?”
“I said I don’t want no charity—and I don’t. But I’ll bet you a quid I can open that safe for you—and do it in under five minutes.”
“You’re on,” said Norwood, smiling. He took a large silver watch with a hunting case out of his pocket, opened it and set it on his desk. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Oh, I’m always ready,” said Clipson, kneeling down in front of the safe. “I don’t need tools for a crib like this.” He blew on his fingers, rubbed them together and flexed them like a pianist getting ready to go on stage for a concert. “Here goes.”
Pressing an ear to the front of the safe and listening intently, he began turning the dial. He turned it around completely once before he stopped and glanced at it. “Once to the right and then to five,” he said. He began turning the dial the other way. “Left to nineteen.” He turned it to the right again. “One right … two right. Two right to twelve.” There was a faint click. Clipson turned the handle and pulled on it and the safe swung open. “And bob’s your uncle.”
“Well, I’ll be dashed!” said Norwood. He looked at his watch. “Three minutes and forty seconds.”
“Should have done it in less, but I’m a little out of practice. Have you got the right combination now?”
“I believe so,” said Norwood, glancing at the pad on which he had written it. Then, handing him the pound note, “I must say I’m impressed. How do you do it?”
“If you’ve got the gift, like I have, you can tell when the tumblers are lining up. Well, I’ll be toddling. You’ll let me know if you find something for me?”
“I will. And I think I can assure anyone who might have an opening that if they hire you, they’ll be getting someone top hole.”
“Ta!” said Clipson in offhanded thanks. “And tata!”
And he went out, leaving Norwood looking after him with an amused but admiring smile.
8
Beasley and Friends
At about that same time the next day, Sara and Andrew went to visit their old friend, Baron Beasley. Beasley—Baron was a name, not a title, as Peter Wyatt had informed them when he first introduced them—had a store on Portobello Road where he sold antiquities, curiosities, gewgaws and bricabrac. He had a wide acquaintanceship with London’s less affluent dealers and those who had dealings with those dealers. As a result, though he was rigorously honest himself and would have been outraged if anyone had suggested that he do anything even vaguely illegal, he probably knew more about what was going on in London’s seamy side than anyone else in the metropolis. And since he loved food, liked to eat well and interestingly, Sara and Andrew timed their visit so that they would arrive at his shop at lunchtime.
They took a bus to Oxford Street, changed and got off at Pembridge Road and walked to Beasley’s shop. The window was much the same as it had been when they had first come there. A Russian samovar and a marble head of Napoleon shared the center and around them were horse brasses, glass paperweights and decorated china doorknobs.
Beasley, large and impassive looking as a Buddha, was behind the counter talking to a swarthy, dark-haired man who wore a green and yellow checked suit with a snuff-colored waistcoat.
“Well, if it’s not my two favorite younkers,” said Beasley. “How are you, Sara, Andrew?”
“Not too bad,” said Sara. “And you?”
“Fine as a fiddle with a new coat of varnish. This Romany looking rom here is Keegee Clipson. Sara Wiggins and Andrew Tillett.”
“Greetings and salutations,” said Clipson, looking them up and down with a sharp eye. “Are these the friends you said would be having lunch with us?”
“I said friend, not friends. No, Sara and Andrew are lagniappe, if you know what that is.”
“Something a little extra.”
“Right. I wasn’t expecting them, but they’re always welcome. Sean,” he called to his assistant who was in back of the shop somewhere. “We’re off. If you-know-who gets here, tell him we’re at Alexis’s.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Beasley,” said Sean, sticking his head out through the curtain that closed off the rear of the shop. “Season’s greetings, Sara and Andrew.”
“Same to you, Sean,” said Andrew.
They followed Beasley and Clipson out of the shop and up Portobello Road to a restaurant called the Acropolis. Alexis, a smiling man with huge mustachios, embraced Beasley as if he were his long-lost brother, shook hands with Sara, Andrew and Clipson and sat them at a large corner table.
“What kind of a place is this?” asked Clipson suspiciously.
“Greek,” said Beasley.
“Greek? What’s wrong with good old English cooking? I’ll wager I’ll not be able to get a cut off the joint here!”
Beasley looked at him scornfully, then turned to Sara and Andrew. “See what I have to put up with? Philistines! We live in one of the great cities of the world, a city rich in culinary variety. And what does this lump and bump want? A cut off the joint!” Then, as Sara and Andrew shook their heads in commiseration, “When you have lunch with me, Clipson, you go where I take you and you eat what I order. Compris?” He turned to Alexis. “How’s the moussaka?”
“How do you think it is? Ambrosia!”
“All right. We’ll have that. And avgolemono soup to start with.”
“I bring it to you myself,” said Alexis.
“I’m expecting another friend,” said Beasley. “I’m not sure when he’ll get here, but…”
“If I’m not mistaken,” said Sara, who was facing the door, “he’s here now.”
Andrew and Beasley both turned as Wyatt came in. He saw them at the same time that they saw him, scowled as he approached the table.
“What the blue blazes are the two of you doing here?” he asked.
“They’re having lunch with me,” said Beasley.
“Why today?”
“Why not today? They know they’re welcome anytime. Meet my friend, Keegee Clipson. Inspector Peter Wyatt of Scotland Yard.”
“What?” said Clipson, bouncing to his feet. “Is this the friend you was talking about? I ain’t having lunch with no poxy slop, specially not a crusher!”
“Ah, language!” sighed Beasley. “What riches we can find in common speech. Do you know what he’s talking about, Sara?”
“Of course. Used this way, poxy is a derogatory adjective like blinking and blooming. A slop is back-slang for a copper or policeman and a crusher is a plainclothes policeman.”
“Well done,” said Beasley. Then to Clipson, “Are you impressed?”
“No, I’m leaving!”
“You are not,” said Beasley, catching him by the sleeve. “Sit down.”
“I told you …” said Clipson.
“I know. But you’re not having it with him. You’re having it with Sara, Andrew and me.”
Wyatt, aware that there was more to be gained from silence than from speech, decided not to comment further on the presence of the two young people and sat down without saying another word.
“I don’t like it, Beasley,” Clipson grumbled. “I don’t like it for monkey nuts. I ain’t no nark.”
“Of course you’re not,” said Beasley soothingly. “You were just finding something out for a friend of yours. Me.”
“Well, all right,” said Clipson, sitting down. He was looking sideways at Wyatt when Alexis reappeared with large bowls of steaming soup, set one down in front of each of them.
“What’s this?” he asked suspiciously.
“What’s it look like?”
“Soup. But what kind?”
“Why don’t you taste it and see if you like it?”
Clipson waited until Sara, Andrew and Wyatt had each tasted it and nodded approvingly before he took a tentative mouthful.
“Tastes like there’s lemon in it.”
“There is.”
“I never heard of soup with lemon in it.” He took another spoonful. “But t’ain’t bad. In fact, it’s kind of good.” He took several more mouthfuls. “This friend of yours,” he said. “The one I don’t want to have nothing to do with … does he know what you wanted me to do?”
“Since we discussed the whole thing before I spoke to you,” said Beasley, “I think maybe he does.”
“Hmm,” said Clipson. He turned to Sara and Andrew who were sitting together, Sara next to Wyatt. “What Beasley wanted me to do,” he told them, “was to go see someone—a chap named Norwood who’s got an office on Carnaby Street in Soho.”
“Nicholas Norwood of the Golden Rule Society?” said Sara.
“That’s the cove. Well, I’d heard a little about him here and there, so I went. He’s got a small office up a flight over a draper’s shop. A real toff he is. I don’t like toffs, but I must say he seemed like a nice one, pleasant and easy like. Well, I give him my pitch, told him I was just out of Wandsworth and I heard if you wanted to go straight, he’d give you a hand.”
“And had you been in Wandsworth?” asked Andrew.
“Me?” said Clipson scathingly. “I’m not just good—I’m the best there is, and I ain’t been nabbed and in a clink since I was a nipper. Of course, I wasn’t dressed this way. I wore duffy duds and had me face fixed so I’d look old and sick and kept holding me guts like they was killing me.” And he went on to tell them everything that had happened in Norwood’s office, including his opening of the safe.
“It took you three minutes and forty seconds?” said Beasley. “You’re slipping, Keegee.”
“Come off it!” said Clipson indignantly. “I had to pretend I was out of practice, didn’t I?”
“I suppose so,” said Beasley. “And that’s all that happened?”
“No,” said Clipson. “It’s not.” Then, as Alexis took away the soup plates and put something that looked like a meat pie in front of each of them, “What’s this?”
“If I told you it was called moussaka, would that mean anything to you?”
“No.” He tasted it. “It’s something like shepherd’s pie, but it’s got something in it that ain’t potatoes.”
“Eggplant.”
“Eggplant? Never even heard of it before, but like the soup, it ain’t bad. Where was I?”
“You were going to tell us what else happened.”
“Right. It was about noon when I went to see Norwood. Well, last night I was leaving the house to go meet someone at the pub when a four-wheeler pulls up and someone calls to me—a woman.”
“Young or old?” asked Wyatt.
Clipson look at him stolidly, then turned back to Beasley.
“Did you say something?” he asked.
“Yes. Could you see the woman, tell anything about her?”
“No. She was sitting way back, told me to stay where I was so I couldn’t see her clear, but she didn’t sound old. Matter of fact, she had a nice voice.”
“What did she want?” asked Andrew.
“She said she’d heard I just got out of the clink, needed brass and wanted to know if I wanted to do a little job for her.”
“What kind of a job?” asked Sara.
“Cracking a crib. I told her what I’d told Norwood—that I was a sick man and couldn’t take a chance on being thrown in the pokey again. She said she understood that, but that this was as safe as houses and that the split would be enough for me to live on for a year. I said I’d have to think about it, and she said I could have a couple of days, and if I changed my mind, I was to pull up one of the curtains in my room and leave the other one down. She pointed out which curtain she meant and drove off.”
“In other words, she knew where he lived,” said Wyatt.
“We gather she knew where you lived,” said Andrew.
“She knew that, all right. And she also knew she didn’t want me to know nothing about her. Because she not only sat way back in the growler so I couldn’t really see her, but the hack number was covered up so I couldn’t read it.”
“Ask him if he’s sure it was a public hack and not a private carriage,” said Wyatt.
“Was it?” asked Sara.
“It was a public hack, the real thing. Not that that don’t mean she don’t own it.”
“It sounds to me as if you did beautifully,” said Sa
ra. “Are you really going straight as you said you are?”
“Hah!” He looked belligerently, not at her but at Wyatt. “Why should I go straight? I’m careful enough so that no one’s laid a finger on me since I was ten. And I’m good enough so that I only have to work twice a year to live like a king.”
“Is he as good as he says he is?” Wyatt asked Beasley. “As good as Nifty Bolan, for instance?”
“Nifty Bolan!” said Clipson angrily. “Things he wouldn’t dare touch, I can open with me eyes closed and me hands tied behind me back!”
“You don’t say,” said Wyatt. “Not that there’s likely to be any contest. For the word is that he’s going straight now.”
“He couldn’t go straight if he was pulled through a keyhole!” said Clipson. Then, looking suspiciously at Wyatt, he addressed him directly for the first time. “You were having me on, weren’t you? What are you up to?”
“Nothing you need worry about,” said Wyatt.
“Talking of Bolan,” said Andrew. “We saw him yesterday.”
“Where was this?”
Andrew told him of their meeting with Happy Jack Collins after the pantomime, of taking him home and meeting his grandfather, and of how Bolan had appeared just as they were leaving.
“You say he was carrying a bag,” said Wyatt. “How big a bag?”
“About the size of a good-sized Gladstone. But it was heavy, very heavy.”
“That’s interesting,” said Wyatt. “Everything I’ve heard here today has been interesting. And even though we’ve never met or talked,” he said to Clipson, “I won’t forget it. I owe you one, and I always pay my debts.”
“Ah, well,” said Clipson. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it for old Beasley here. Besides, there’s something funny going on—something I don’t twig. And what I don’t twig, worries me.”
“It worries me, too. But maybe the two of us together will be able to get to the bottom of it.”
9
The Wicked Flee
Andrew was in the parlor setting up the backgammon board when the bell for the front door jangled. He had begun playing backgammon at school, taught Sara how to play during his last holiday and was now a little sorry that he had, for she had been beating him soundly and consistently. For some time he had insisted that it was just luck—after all, the moves depended on a throw of the dice—but by now he knew there was more to it than that. You could not call it card sense because there were no cards involved, but it was the same sort of instinct, which told her which piece to move, when it was safe to leave a blot and when she had better cover and make the point.
The Case of the Murdered Players (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 7) Page 5