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« on: February 17, 2023, 10:37:39 am » |
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"PLENTY of time," said Symes. "Let's go and see if there's anything fit to read on the bookstall."
There was something of a crowd round the bookstall, Charles Denton was also there. He bought a copy of Bomber Command Continues, and in turning away from the counter collided awkwardly with Symes. Both men apologized and Denton drifted away. Colemore opened his raincoat to fish for loose change in his trouser pocket and was momentarily entangled in a group of men who were discussing football results. He freed himself and bought a paper, Symes joined him and they walked towards the barrier. Symes was feeling in an inside pocket for his wallet, and stopped dead in his tracks.
"What's the matter?" asked Colemore.
"My wallet---I must have put it in the wrong pocket." He went on searching while a lovely light dawned upon the mind of Colemore. That fellow Denton----
"I haven't got it," said Symes in an agitated voice. "Lend me some money, Bilston, I must buy another ticket. Somebody's picked my pockets," he went on while Colemore hunted through his own.
"Mine too," he announced at last, and one of the most difficult things he ever did was to keep the jubilation out of his voice.
"Haven't you got any other money? I've only got sevenpence."
Colemore brought out some assorted coins. "Two and fourpence half-penny," he said.
Symes turned a greenish white. "I must get back to Town to-night. It's urgent---it's necessary."
"I suppose the pawn-shops are shut?"
"Of course they are," snapped Symes. "Ages ago." He stood irresolute while Colemore helpfully suggested complaining to the police.
"That's no use. There's only one thing for it, Jones must lend us some money. I'll go down there at once---there is a later train---are you coming or will you wait here?"
"Oh, I'll come," said Colemore, and they set off at a good four miles an hour. But the Portsmouth black-out was a real one, and if Symes had been uncertain in the daylight he was lost in the dark. They took innumerable wrong turnings and asked the way from several people who had never heard of Jones' street. Colemore said that judging by the stars they should steer a bit more south, and Symes bit his head off.
Eventually they did find the house, but it was deserted. Mr. Jones was out.
The woman next door said that she expected he had gone out for a half-pint, he generally did so in the evenings. Asked what house of refreshment he usually patronized, she didn't know, sometimes one and sometimes another. They could try the "Still and West," but of course he mightn't be there. Colemore felt that if there was much more of this he would begin to giggle; but Symes' face, seen in a gleam of light from the woman's door, was wet with perspiration.
"I must get back to-night," he said. "I must. It is desperately urgent."
"Let's go to the 'Still and West'," said Colemore. "I daresay we'll find Jones there. Or at least my two and fourpence half-penny will stand us a drink each. You seem to me to need consolation."
"Consolation," said Symes bitterly. "You English are all alike, you turn everything into a jest. This is serious. Did that miserable woman say the third turning on the left?"
"Yes, and this is it. Cheer up, and you shall meet your girl-friend."
"I tell you this is serious!" hissed Symes. "It is no girl-friend, you fool. It is Our Leader in England who comes to me to-night."
"Well, you can explain why you weren't there, can't you?" said Colemore reasonably. "Accidents will happen. Ring him up."
"You don't understand," said Symes. "He is not the sort of man one rings up to say one is not going to keep an appointment." There was a queer little noise in the darkness and Colemore allowed himself the relaxation of a grin. The imperturbable Symes was actually grinding his teeth.
The "Still and West" failed to produce Mr. Jones, so did two other places recommended as likely by some of the patrons. The hunters returned to Jones' house and encountered him on the doorstep.
"Lend me two pounds, quickly," said Symes.
"Whatever for?"
"Because I've had my pocket picked. Quick! I've got a train to catch."
"Well, you might say 'please'," said Jones, who seemed to have had more than one half-pint. "Manners, manners."
"You----" began Symes, and choked.
"All right, all right," said Jones, unlocking the door. "Come in, then."
"I'll wait outside," said Colemore hastily. It was a pity to miss any of this entertainment, but he dared not smile, let alone laugh. Besides, he wanted to think. Our Leader in England "comes to me to-night," presumably to Symes' flat; Hambledon must be told somehow as soon as possible. Telephone. Presumably somebody would take a message if Hambledon had gone home, though his office hours seemed to be extensive and unusual. Unless one could find Denton again. Trunk calls took so long, though probably that number had priority over any common call.
Symes burst out of the house and started to run. "Come on, come on! It's ten minutes to nine now, and the train goes at five past."
Colemore did his best to take the wrong turning again but was not lucky this time. They emerged almost at once into Commercial Road and ran across the Guildhall Square. Symes snatched two tickets at the office as the clock said three minutes past nine, and the two men made a rush for the steps and the barrier. Here they had to stop, for there was something of a crowd. In addition to the man who was clipping the tickets, there were two policemen examining identity cards.
"Oh----" said Symes, and his teeth chattered.
"Tell 'em what's happened," urged Colemore. "Perhaps they'll let us through."
However, he was wrong---he had an idea he might be. The policemen were kind and courteous, but firm. If the gentlemen would just step across to the police station---only just across the Guildhall Square, no distance at all---they could see the sergeant in charge and no doubt he would fix them up. They could lay a complaint at the same time. Keep right of the Guildhall and past it. They would find the police station in the Municipal College, first left and first right. Two minutes' walk, or three at the outside.
"But," wailed Symes, "this is the last train to town, isn't it? And I must get there to-night."
"Most unfortunate," said the policeman, "but----"
Symes grabbed at a passing porter and said, "Is this really the last train out of this blasted place to-night?"
"Where did you want to go to?" said the porter in a tired voice, as one would say, "Really, these passengers----'
"London."
"There's the ten o'clock to Woking. Not beyond," said the porter, and went away.
"There," said the policeman. "If you was to catch the ten o'clock to Woking you could be in town nice and early in the morning, couldn't you from there?"
"In the meantime," said Colemore, "what about trying to get our wallets back? We may just as well go across to the police station as hang about here." Since Hambledon had reassured him, Anthony was no longer so allergic to police stations as he had been. He took Symes, who appeared to be speechless, by the elbow, and led him firmly outside and across the road. Anthony would have been quite happy if only he could have seen Denton. This evening out was acquiring that dream-like quality only associated, as a rule, with the consumption of much fine alcohol, and all they'd had was half a pint of beer at the "Still and West" for the good of the house.
The desk sergeant at the police station was very sympathetic. Most unfortunate, so inconvenient. These pickpockets---- He wrote down full particulars in longhand, and it took some time. Then he said that if he made a few enquiries it might be possible to regain the stolen goods at once; the few pickpockets who blotted the fair copy-book of Portsmouth were known to the police and if any one of them had been seen on the station that evening he could be picked up and brought in.
"But the ten o'clock train," moaned Symes, who had decided to get as far as Woking at least, "Some transport might be found there."
"Yes, sir, yes," said the sergeant, glancing at the clock. "It's only just after the half-hour now. Well, twenty to."
He picked up the telephone and engaged in conversation while Symes bounced gently up and down on his chair. Oh, so Scrubby was there round eight, was he? Yes, well, he'd better be brought in, the gentlemen might be able to recognize him. Probably it was Scrubby, he usually went for wallets. Yes, best take the car round to the Fleece and if he wasn't there go on to the---yes, that's right. Thank you.
The sergeant replaced the receiver, beamed upon Symes, and said, "Now I hope we shan't be long. Best if we could get the wallets back, wouldn't it? Apart from what money you've got in them, it's always a bother having to renew identity cards. Quite so."
Symes looked imploringly at the clock which continued to proceed, and Colemore had an idea. He made an excuse to leave the room, found a piece of paper and wrote on it with the stump of pencil he always carried, asking the sergeant to telephone Hambledon's number and give the following message:---"Leader going to flat to-night." He then found a constable straying about and asked him to give the note to the sergeant the moment he and Symes had gone. Not before, on any account.
The constable looked surprised but agreed, and Colemore returned to the office to find Symes emitting a faint hissing sound and the clock pointing to nine-forty-seven.
Five minutes later a small man was brought in, volubly protesting his innocence. He was at the railway station round about eight, certainly; but not to pick pockets, certainly not. He went to meet his daughter come down from London for a holiday.
The sergeant asked Colemore and Symes if either of them recognized the small man. Symes at once said, "No," but Colemore, anxious to keep the ball rolling, said he wasn't really sure; there was something in Scrubby's appearance which seemed recently familiar, and probably it was at the Town Station that they had met.
"Search him," said the Sergeant, in a bored voice.
Scrubby protested yet more violently, but was removed. In a few minutes the constable returned with a wallet, but it had never belonged to either Colemore or to Symes. It contained seven pounds ten in notes and some letters addressed to a business gentleman who lived at Farlington. The Sergeant smiled.
"Well, it's an ill wind blows no man good. This loss hasn't even been reported yet---he will be pleased."
It was three minutes to ten when a constable entered the office bearing two wallets which, he said, had been handed to the police at Town Station by the clerk at the left-luggage office. He had found them on the floor just behind the counter. Presumably somebody had slipped them over when he wasn't looking, just at the end, and they'd fallen behind a couple of suitcases and lain there in the shadow, like----
"Let me see," said Symes, and snatched at them.
"Steady, steady," said the sergeant, and began to check the wallets and contents by the particulars Symes and Colemore had given him.
"You seem to be lucky, gentlemen. Even the money is still here, and your railway tickets. Now, if you'd just sign receipts for them----"
Symes' signature was an illegible scrawl and Colemore's "H. G. Bilston" was not much better. As they dashed out of the police station towards the railway they heard a whistle blow and thereafter the sound of a train in motion.
"She's gone," said Colemore, and dropped to a walk.
"Come on!" said Symes. "Might not have been that one. They're late, sometimes."
But when they dashed panting into the station, the last train had indeed gone.
"Oh, well," said Colemore accepting the inevitable. "We couldn't have done more."
"We could," said Symes grimly. "We could have taken more care of the wallets."
"We were darned lucky to get them back. Money and all, too. Can't imagine what the fellow was thinking of, to throw them away like that."
"Thought he had been seen," explained Symes. "Getting rid of the evidence."
"I expect you're right. Well, now what next?"
"Find somewhere to stay for the night I suppose, and go up in the morning. No use trying to cadge a lift, I should be too late anyway."
"Do you know any hotels?" asked Colemore.
"I used to, but I expect most of them are destroyed. If we could find a taxi----" said Symes, turning towards the street again.
"Not very likely," said Colemore, following him, "at this time of night."
But when they came out of the station gates it all happened as Hambledon had foretold, there was a taxi under the railway bridge. Actually, Symes saw it first and rushed at it with Colemore close behind. The driver made difficulties connected with his inadequate petrol ration, but Symes overbore him, and eventually he agreed to take them round and try one or two places.
The first two were full up, but the third took them in and gave them supper of a simple kind. Symes asked the landlord if he could put through a telephone call to London, and the landlord said that of course he could, though it might take some time to get through. Why not ask for it now and the exchange could call him up when the connection had been made? Symes agreed and the call came through just as they were finishing with cheese and biscuits. Colemore could not overhear what was said, but he thought Symes looked a trifle dispirited when he returned. After which they had a couple of whiskies in the lounge, and Colemore said he was tired with all this galloping about and would go to bed.
"I expect it's tired me too," said Symes. "I'm generally fairly wide awake at night, but I am getting sleepy now." He yawned.
Colemore took him upstairs and saw him safely to his room before retiring himself, and both slept extremely well. Symes said so when they met at a late breakfast in the morning.
"Sea air," said Colemore. "Always makes you sleepy. Now when I lived in Yorkshire----"
---
Whether it was the sea air or something in Symes' last whisky, he went to sleep the moment his head was on the pillow. This was about eleven o'clock, and at a quarter past his deep and regular breathing was quite audible to a listener at the keyhole of his bedroom door. The listener straightened himself and turned to the landlord, who was keeping watch in the passage in case anyone should come along.
"Quite all right," said the listener. "He's gone beautifully bye-byes."
"With what he had," said the landlord, "he did ought to, too."
The listener, who was Charles Denton, opened the bedroom door. It was not fastened because the key was missing and there was no bolt on the inside. He entered with a torch, turned down Symes' bedclothes, unbuttoned his pyjama jacket and disclosed a webbing belt with a small pocket on it containing a key. The key was removed, the bedclothes gently replaced, and Symes slept peacefully on.
"Now I must rush," said Denton. "See you again about six o'clock or soon after."
"Come in by the side door," said the landlord. "You'll find me in the office."
"Stout fellow," said Denton, and departed at a run up the street to a point where a Bentley sports model awaited him. The driver saw him coming and started the engine, Denton jumped in and they drove away. Portsmouth goes to bed early in war-time, and they roared through the silent streets and up the main road to London. Masked headlamps are not the best illumination for a fast run on a dark night, but Denton had chosen his driver carefully. He was a friend from the R.A.F. on leave from a squadron of night-fighters; to most people the drive would have been extremely trying, to put it mildly. Denton said so, but the driver replied cheerfully that it was a piece of cake. You'd only got to look straight ahead, not all round and up and down as well. He accelerated, and the Bentley stormed through Cowplain and the tree-lined roads beyond.
In the meantime, things were happening in Willowmore Road. Six doors away from number fifty-one there was a house which had been abandoned by its tenants after a bomb had fallen in the garden behind and removed much of the rear wall. Ceilings fell down when this happened, windows blew out bodily and floors sagged, but the stairs remained practically undamaged, as so often happened. The back had been roughly boarded up, but on this night enough of the boards had been removed to admit two agile men who ascended the stairs to the top and went through the trap-door on to the flat roof. Low walls separated the roofs of the different houses, the men stepped silently over five of them and arrived upon the sixth roof.
Symes' skylight had been blacked-out by being painted over inside; the men listened intently before starting operations. No sound came up, so one of them took hold of the edge of the skylight and pulled. It did not move.
"Fastened down," he said. "Quite right, too, with so many burglars about."
He took from his pocket a rubber sucker of the type which is used to affix ashtrays to the windscreens of cars, moistened it and stuck it firmly on one of the glass panes. He produced a sharp thin knife and began to loosen the putty round the glass, it was hard with age and came off in short lengths which he put carefully aside.
"Just a touch of seccotine," he said, "when we've finished, and nobody will notice the glass has been tampered with at all. That is, of course, provided I don't drop it."
More careful scraping round the edges and the pane rose unwillingly from its bed, pulled up by the rubber sucker. Inside the flat all was quiet and completely dark, and the bolt which held down the skylight was within reach.
"There now," said the operator. "Nobody at home, just as expected. How very nice. Sometimes people don't act just as expected, and it can be tiresome."
His companion chuckled. "I should think so. I think I'm glad I'm only a photographer."
"Oh, no. Burgling is quite good fun, especially when you know you won't be arrested for it. Now, if Denton will kindly arrive with the key, we can get on with the job. Will you stay here while I go down and meet him?"
There was less time to wait than they had expected, Denton's R.A.F. driver had covered the seventy-five miles in under three hours in spite of difficulties.
"Five past two," said Denton, handing over the key. "You won't linger, needless to say. We've got to put this key back before that blighter even begins to wake up. I'll go back to the car and wait, you know where to find it, don't you?"
The skylight opened without difficulty, inside it an iron ladder had been fixed to the wall in case of incendiary bombs on the roof. The Department's official burglar and photographer went down it into the flat, bolted the outer door and saw that the black-out was in place. Then they switched on the lights and found the safe behind the bookcase as Colemore had described it.
"Looks a bit of a teaser," said the photographer.
"It would be if we hadn't got the key. This is quite a good make. With the key---just a moment----"
The safe door swung open; the men put on clean rubber gloves since roofs are dirty places. They did not dare to use Symes' bathroom for fear someone downstairs should hear water running. Section by section the safe was cleared, every paper photographed and replaced in the same order. The men were deft and experienced, they worked in silence and at top speed, but even so it was over an hour before they closed the safe door again, swung the bookcase into place and looked round to make sure they had left no traces.
"We'll just unbolt the door and go," said the burglar. "That's right, up the ladder. For mercy's sake mind that pane of glass! Denton must be ramping. You go on ahead and give him the key, will you? I'll stick this putty back and follow you down."
"Twenty past three," said Denton, winding down the car window to receive the key. "We shall have to move, shan't we?"
"Simple," said the driver. "The roads will be clear now unless we run into convoys. With any ordinary luck we'll be there by six. Or thereabouts."
It was ten minutes past six when Denton left the Bentley just out of sight of the Portsmouth hotel and entered by the side door to find the landlord yawning and stretching before the fire in his little office.
"I've just crep' up once or twice," he said. "The gentleman was snoring beautiful just now."
Denton entered Symes' bedroom with considerably more precaution than before, lifted the bedclothes an inch at a time and returned the key to its pocket in the webbing belt. Before he had time to button the pocket, Symes rolled over, still asleep, and threw his arm across it. Denton softly replaced the bedclothes and left the room at once.
He shut the door inaudibly and Symes slept on until past nine o'clock. He found the button of his pocket undone when he awoke and thought nothing of it since the key was safely inside.
"Must have undone it in my sleep," he said.
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