Читать книгу Without Lawful Authority - Cyril Henry Coles - Страница 4

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The safe looked like being a teaser, and Warnford knelt on the floor in front of it, listening in an agony of concentration. He was waiting for a faint clicking sound inside which would be the tumblers falling into place as he found the right letter, for this was a five-letter combination safe. He had a small box on the floor beside him from which one connection led, like a stethoscope, to his ears while another ran to a rubber suction disc on the safe door close to the little window which showed the five letters. There were five small dials also, one to each letter; when these were turned the letters changed.

With hands damp with nervousness Warnford turned one dial at a time, and number one clicked into place. Two also. Three. Four was a trouble. If there was any click at all it was too faint to be audible; he left it for the time being and went on to the last. His fingers felt stiff. What a time all this took; surely one couldn’t expect to be unmolested all this time—number five went down with a click that was almost loud.

He sighed with relief and returned to four, pulling the door gently at every letter, not troubling to listen, till at last the safe swung slowly open. Warnford sat back on his heels, took his listening apparatus off the door and out of his ears, and wiped his forehead. He was surprised to find he was perspiring. Now the——A footstep sounded behind him, and he sprang to his feet and turned all in one movement. It was only Ashling with a stout metal box in his hands.

“I’m sorry, sir, if I startled you.”

“It’s all right, Ashling, come in. What is it?”

“Only this money box, sir. Been collecting threepenny bits in it for years, sir, I ’ave, till it’s nearly full, and now I find I’ve lost the key and can’t open it no’ow. I was wondering, sir, whether you could open it for me while you was at it like.”

“I’ll have a shot at it,” said Warnford.

“With a skeleton key, sir, or some such?”

“You don’t want a skeleton key for a lock like this,” said Marden, getting out of the long chair where he had been smoking in silence and watching Warnford’s efforts with the safe. “Give it to me a minute. Got a bit of stiff wire anywhere? A hairpin’ll do quite well.”

“This is a bachelor establishment,” said Warnford. “Here’s a wire paper clip. Will that do?”

“Fine, if you’ll pass me the pliers. Now we straighten it out—thus. And bend it over at one end, like this. Then at the other end, so; that’s to make a handle to turn it with. Then we insert the wire into the keyhole after this fashion and feel for the pawls of the lock. This is where the long delicate fingers, like those of an artist, come in useful; all the best burglars have them—in books. Though personally the most expert lock wangler I ever met had hands like a bunch of bananas, which only goes to show——There. My soul, I didn’t know there were so many threepenny bits.”

“Thank you, sir, very much,” said Ashling gratefully. “I’m much obliged, I’m sure.” He went out, carrying his money box carefully.

“Ashling’ll be able to have a real evening out now,” said Warnford. “Well, how did I get on?”

“Oh, not too badly at all. You’ll get quicker with practice.”

Warnford had hired the safe on the pretext of having to store some valuables for a short time for an aunt who didn’t believe in banks. When it came to experiments in boring holes in safe doors, sawing them open and generally manhandling them, he would have to buy one, and safes are expensive things.

“You’ll improve with practice,” repeated Marden. “I’ll shut it up for you again in a minute, and then you can have another try. Safes which are locked with a combination of figures work in exactly the same way as this one, of course, and present no difficulties. You must try and be quieter. You let that box of yours slide off your knee twice before you decided to leave it on the floor. It’s extraordinary how loud small noises sound at night, especially bumps on floors. Always remember never to leave anything where it can possibly fall down or roll off. Another thing, put your tools away the moment you’ve finished with them, then if you have to make a bolt for it you won’t leave so much behind.”

Warnford nodded eagerly, and Marden began to stroll up and down the room, talking as he went.

“You sprang to your feet when Ashling came in; you would probably have done better to sit perfectly still if you’re fairly sure you haven’t been heard. People who wander about houses in the middle of the night are probably looking for the bathroom, not the study or wherever the safe is kept. Or they might want a book or a drink of water. It’s incredible how little people see if there’s no movement at all. You want to keep perfectly still, hardly breathing at all, and think about something innocent and far away. Such as a frog hopping slowly round the edge of a pond or a cow lying in long grass, thoughtfully chewing the cud with its eyes half shut.”

“For heaven’s sake, why?”

“Because there is such a thing as telepathy. If you think intently about the person who comes, ninety-nine out of every hundred will feel it and know there’s somebody there.”

“I see.”

“Continuing my general instructions,” said Marden spaciously, “here is a tip if you’re talking on the telephone. If the bird of either sex at the other end says he or she is alone and you wonder whether it’s true, make some excuse to leave the phone for a moment. Put the receiver down on the table and instantly pick it up again and listen. Most people who have someone in the room with them will make some remark at that point when they think they are not overheard. After a moment, whatever the result, touch the table with the receiver again and go on talking.”

“Continue, Machiavelli,” said Warnford.

“What else? There are hundreds of tips, all useful. Tread on the front edges of stairs to avoid creaks; the riser will take your weight. Oh, if you’re walking across a room in which someone is sleeping, take a step when they breathe out and wait while they breathe in.”

“Even if they snore?”

“Even so. I’m told it’s something to do with the pressure on the inside of the eardrums, but that may be all baloney; I’m not a doctor. Beware of the snorer; they sometimes wake themselves up with an extra-loud snort and, having their mouths open as a rule, they hear extra well in the ensuing hush.”

“Especially as they’re usually convinced somebody else has made the noise.”

“Exactly. You know how to prevent a sneeze from fruiting, don’t you? Press your finger firmly on your upper lip close below your nose; it’s infallible.”

“I had heard that one,” admitted Warnford.

“It’s fairly well known. If you’re doing a bolt and you dash out of a gate or drop from a garden wall practically into the arms of a policeman, don’t run away from him. Run towards him, avoiding, of course, the outstretched arm. He will then lose time turning round to pursue you instead of getting straight off the mark, and you will be several yards to the good.”

“When I am standing on the extreme edge of a stair,” said Warnford, “thinking of cowslips and pressing my finger on my lip so as not to awaken the snoring policeman on the top step, I’ll remember your words.”

“Splendid. Now, if you’ll turn your back a minute I’ll rearrange these letters for you and you can have another shot at safe opening.”

Some days later Marden said, “You know, I’ve been thinking over your case, and the more I think, the more convinced I am that Rawson is at the bottom of it.”

“Uh-ha,” grunted Warnford.

“At the same time, there’s no doubt Rawson is merely one part of a large piece of machinery. He may have liked you quite a lot personally, but that wouldn’t stop him from doing his job.”

“Well?”

“You had some idea of happening across some German spies at work and hoping they’d lead you to Rawson. I don’t know whether it’s occurred to you that if you could start with Rawson he might lead you on to something very much bigger.”

Warnford looked at him.

“There’s no doubt,” went on Marden, “that there’s a lot of espionage going on, if only one could get a start—find a door leading into it, as it were. You know one door: Rawson.”

“Yes. But what could I do? There are professionals at this job; they’d have no use for enthusiastic amateurs.”

“No. None whatever. But if you could prove your usefulness you might not always remain the amateur. What? Wouldn’t that be better than spending the best years of your life on a personal vendetta?”

Warnford slowly coloured to the hair, and a light came into his eyes which had not been there for a long time—not since he walked into a long room to see his sword lying on a table with the point towards him.

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “that’s just remotely possible, I suppose. I don’t know anything about these matters—and anyway, I’m discredited,” he added bitterly. “Besides, how do we find Rawson?”

“Private-enquiry agency,” said Marden promptly. “I can put you onto one. Not one of those ghastly divorce-a-specialty places, but a real good one.”

“Why, what have you had to do with them?”

“Quite a lot. Hasn’t it ever struck you that if you want to know all about a particular household, what hours they keep, how many servants they’ve got, who their friends are and when they call, there’s nothing like a good private-enquiry agency? They never ask why you want to know. They’ve saved me weeks of work many a time.”

“It’s an idea,” said Warnford.

“Of course it’ll cost you something, but you won’t mind that. Got a photo of the late-lamented? Good. Let’s take it along.”

But though Marden’s favourite agency did their ingenious best for a matter of three months, nothing came of it. Captain Rawson had apparently ceased without trace.

Warnford made it clear at the outset that if Marden were to help him to carry out his rather nebulous ideas, the partnership must be on a business footing. A man of that type would not take up burglary as a profession if he had private means, though the younger man was surprised to find what a paying game it was “when intelligently conducted,” said Marden, “which it seldom is. Why, the first thing the police do when a robbery has been committed is to look round and see who’s throwing money about—I mean, of course, in circles where people don’t usually have money to throw.”

“I always thought of burglars as more or less starving between jobs,” said Warnford, “and then having a glorious binge when they’d pulled something off.”

“That is more or less the way they go on. I’ve always been frightfully careful not to do that; I just keep enough current cash to keep me going on a slowly rising scale and invest the rest. The Desmond diamonds—you read about them in the paper, I expect—were a great help. A few more windfalls like that and I shall retire to Kent and breed spaniels. Black cockers. Or Aberdeen terriers. There were always cocker spaniels and Aberdeens at home when I was a boy.”

“You like Kent, do you?”

“I was brought up there. In fact, I’ve got a cottage there still, not far from Maidstone.” Warnford learned by degrees through different conversations that Marden had married during the war, a marriage which consisted solely of a few wonderful leaves spent in hotels here and there, with much talk of the home they would have when the war was over. Then the young wife fell ill and it turned out to be pulmonary tuberculosis, it was one of those interminable lingering illnesses culminating in seven months at the Brompton Hospital, where she died. Money for doctors’ bills, money for nurses, for special diets, for periods in nursing homes by the seaside, weekly payments to the hospital, presents of flowers and fruit, travelling expenses to go to see her, all these things swept away Marden’s gratuity and a few hundreds he inherited from his parents, everything except Halvings, the cottage near Maidstone, which he could not bear to part with; besides, it was let and brought in something every quarter. “She might have got better; I had to have somewhere she could go to.” It was at this point, Warnford gathered, that Marden took to burglary. “This was during the post-war slump, you know; there were no jobs to be had for an untrained man. I saw my late captain one day in Kensington High Street selling bootlaces. Burglary’s better than that; if not so honest it’s much more interesting. Occupies your mind. You’ve got to keep fit too; if you take to drink you’re done. I reckon burglary has saved me from a lot, and I only rob those who can spare it. Profiteers’ wives and suchlike.”

Marden used to come up to the flat two or three evenings a week, sometimes oftener, to sit on a box in Warnford’s workshop while he was boring out tiny steam-engine cylinders on the Drummond lathe or filing small parts to fit within extremely fine limits. At the end of a month or two it seemed like a bad dream that he had spent so long brooding alone with no one but Ashling who knew or cared who he was or what became of him, getting more morbid and bitter with every passing day. The blue devils retired into the background at once at the sound of Marden’s knock on the door and his quiet voice talking about dogs and fly-fishing, dowagers and diamonds, night raids in no man’s land, and what the corporal said to the mayor of Lessines.

One day while they were still hoping for news of Rawson from the enquiry agency Marden went to Hoxton on private business of his own, a little matter of a pearl necklace and a few other trinkets. When the affair was settled as satisfactorily as is possible with a receiver of stolen goods—which isn’t saying much—Marden left the furtive-looking house with a sense of relief. He strolled down the street and had stopped at a corner to light a cigarette, when a small man who was crossing the road towards him glanced up with an expression of surprise.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Marden! Quite a stranger; haven’t seen you for a long time.”

“Hullo, Collard. How’s things?”

“Not too bad, you know. Not too good, either. It’s a hard life, isn’t it? Come and have one?”

Marden agreed. Collard was an ex-headmaster of a Council School who had involved himself in rather serious difficulties when he was asked to account for some Benefit Society funds of which he was treasurer. After that matter had been disposed of with some inconvenience to Collard he had not found it easy to find employment, and he had become a bookmaker’s runner. He was not, however, very successful; he seemed to attract policemen as the jam pot attracts wasps. In places where no policemen should be, and at times when they ought to have been elsewhere, they always arrived at the wrong moment for Collard. Marden was sorry for him, not a bad chap really; at the moment he was pallid and greyish in complexion from a recent visit to Maidstone Jail.

“Come and have one with me,” said Marden, and led the way. They talked about one thing and another in a quiet corner of the half-empty saloon bar, of the doings of Hitler, and of what he would do next. Collard said he thought perhaps the Germans would settle down now they were all one, as it were; didn’t Marden agree?

Marden did not; he said he thought there would be trouble and England would be in it, as usual.

Collard said that no doubt Marden was right. “Probably you know more about international affairs than I do; you’ve travelled a lot, I expect. I did think the Russians were going to give us trouble at one time, but they’ve been minding their own business these last few years.”

Marden said he thought the Russians had their hands full with their own affairs, and, anyway, their activities were more in the nature of people trying to spread a gospel. The Germans, on the other hand, when they went poking about, meant mischief.

“It’s funny you should have said that,” said Collard, dropping his voice. “There’s been a little bit of funny business going on down here nobody seems to get to the bottom of. Know old George King, do you? P’raps you don’t. Everyone who lives about here knows him. Decent old chap, keeps a cigarette-and-newspaper shop round the corner two—no, three turnings down the road. Accommodation address for advertisers, that sort of thing. Well, it seems somebody got in touch with some of the real toughs round here, you know, men who’d cut their grandmother’s throat for twopence, you’d think. They wanted them to knock out poor old George on his way to the post one dark evening and take everything off him. They could have any money there was; what these other fellows who were trying to get ’em to do it wanted was the papers he carried.”

“Queer,” said Marden. “Very odd. What papers would a man like that be carrying, anyway?”

“I’ve no idea at all; it seems silly to me. Anyway, as I was saying, everyone likes old George, and I don’t suppose he’d have much money on him really, so there was nothing doing.”

“Very funny indeed,” said Marden. “I say, miss! Same again, please. Who were these mysterious people? Any idea?”

“I was told—I don’t know if it’s right, mind you—that it was two gentlemen who come into the Spotted Cow fairly regularly. I don’t know their names, but they’re foreigners if I ever saw any.”

Marden thought this story would interest Warnford; it did. He sat up in his chair and said, “What did I tell you? I knew we’d drop across something like this sometime, if we were patient. Do you know the Spotted Cow? Oh, you do, good. Have you ever seen the two foreign gentlemen there?”

“No,” said Marden. “My connection with the Spotted Cow is rather peculiar. It is run by a retired C.I.D. sergeant whom I know and, strange to say, I rather like him. I don’t mean to imply that sergeants in the C.I.D. are inherently unlikable; quite the contrary, so far as I know. I do not mingle—much. But this fellow was the man who caught me the only time I ever was caught—touch wood. He was very decent to me indeed, made things as easy as possible at the time, and kept in touch with me afterwards, not officially, just in a friendly way. I don’t know why. I appreciated it, though. If I were a respectable law-abiding citizen now I should owe it to him.”

“Does he know you’re not?”

“I hope not, though he may have his doubts. I told him I was living on a legacy from an aunt; I don’t know whether he believed it. Why shouldn’t he? Most people have aunts, and they can’t take their money with them when they die.”

“No. D’you know what’s-his-name—the man in the newspaper shop?”

“George King. I didn’t until today, but I dropped in there after I got rid of Collard, and we had a chat about things in general. Nice old fellow, I thought; got a gammy leg in the South African War.”

“But what’s behind it all, Marden? Wouldn’t Collard say any more, or didn’t he know?”

“I should say he didn’t know; he’s not very intelligent, really. He’s the bookish type—perhaps that’s why he took up with bookies. He did say one odd thing, though I doubt if he noticed it himself; I think he was only quoting what he’d been told. He said King was to have been set on on his way to the post. These people are interested in King’s correspondence, evidently.”

“But if King keeps an accommodation address,” said Warnford, “most of his letters would be other people’s readdressed, wouldn’t they? Not his own.”

“I suppose so. I can’t explain it.”

“I think we drop into the Spotted Cow, don’t we?”

There was nothing of the gin palace about the Spotted Cow. It was an old-established place of a better type than one would expect to find in that neighbourhood and, of course, very well run, seeing who was in command there. Mr. Gunn was something of a martinet, so rowdies and troublemakers went elsewhere. The furniture and fittings were good solid stuff and so, said Marden, were the barmaids, steady middle-aged women who knew how to behave. The house was eminently respectable and attracted a clientele to match, quiet elderly men and their wives, small shopkeepers and army pensioners who all knew each other and went there to meet their friends. The place was divided into two, a large saloon bar with a small lounge leading out of it, with a wooden partition between them. There was a public bar also, of course, but it was somewhere round the other side, out of sight.

Marden led Warnford into the saloon, which was comfortably, if rather stuffily, furnished with settees along the walls, easy chairs set about a number of small tables, and the bar counter across the end. There were coloured advertisements on the walls, and in each corner a tall plant stand upholding an aspidistra. There were two or three groups of people sitting about talking quietly and drinking, for the most part, a rather heavy port in thick glasses. Mr. Gunn himself was behind the bar; his face lit up with pleasure when Marden came in.

“I’m very glad to see you,” said Gunn warmly, “very glad indeed. It’s a long time since you’ve been in to see us.”

“It’s been too long,” said Marden. “I’ve been meaning to come in many times, but something always cropped up to stop me. I’ve brought a friend of mine along with me tonight—Mr. Warnford.”

Gunn transferred his interested attention to the younger man, but there was no suggestion in his manner that the name conveyed anything to him. “I am pleased to meet you, sir. Any friend of Mr. Marden’s is very welcome here indeed; he knows that. What can I get you, gentlemen? This one is on the house.”

Marden enquired after various mutual friends and eventually looked round the room, nodded to one or two acquaintances, and asked casually whether any new people of any interest had taken to coming in since he was last there.

Gunn looked at him and replied in the same tone that the house had made a few new friends lately. There was Captain Butler, now, very interesting man who had spent his life piloting ships up and down the Hooghly, a very treacherous river by all accounts. He wouldn’t be in tonight; he was away, spending a week with a married daughter in the country somewhere. There was old Mr. Williams who, believe it or not, had spent forty-five years doing nothing but paint rocking horses. Funny, that; you’d think it was monotonous, but he said no, there was a lot of scope in that job if you were anything of an artist. Couldn’t he sing, too; probably because he was Welsh. If he was in the mood and it was a night when there were all friends there, Mrs. Gunn would play for him on the piano in the lounge there and he’d sing “Just a song at twilight,” and “Land of my fathers,” that sort of thing. It was a real treat.

That old gentleman in the far corner with white hair, he’s an undertaker. Gloomy sort of job, you’d think, but comic things happen in all trades; he’d make you roll up with laughing sometimes when he got talking. The worst job he ever had was boxing up the Sidney Street gang, what was left of ’em after the fire and all that. Not so good. Well, there’s got to be undertakers.

The door opened and two men came in. They were short, fat, bald-headed, and rather obviously brothers. They sat down on a settee against the partition which separated the saloon from the lounge and nodded to Gunn, who turned and gave an order to one of the barmaids. She went away and returned at once with two tall glasses of lager on a tray, which she carried across the room to the newcomers. They greeted her in a friendly manner, lit cigars, and began to talk together.

“More habitués, evidently,” said Marden.

“Mr. Percy and Mr. Stanley Johnson,” said Gunn drily.

“Sounds very English,” said Warnford.

“Yes, doesn’t it?” said Gunn.

“There is a theory,” said Marden, “that the English are descendants of the Lost Tribes of Israel. When you look at those two—Englishmen—you’d almost believe it.”

Gunn laughed, and Warnford asked what they did for a living. Tailoring? So many Jews were tailors.

“Oh no,” said Gunn, “at least I suppose you might say it is clothing of a sort. They are sausage-skin dealers; they import them from Germany. Most of our cats’-meat overcoats come from Germany, I understand.”

“That’s interesting,” said Warnford. “Harmless imports anyway, sausage skins.”