by E.
The bargain was struck; Edwins set about looking for a job in Paignton. There was no difficulty about that; he was a skilled motor engineer, and they are scarce enough anywhere. He obtained a remunerative job in a garage and service station in the seaside resort. The Café Rouge continued to provide him with his lunch, and Mary’s company at the table. The courtship progressed and soon they accounted themselves an engaged couple. Their evenings were spent together walking in the country lanes at the back of Paignton, away from the madding crowd of holiday-makers, and in the number of lovers from time immemorial.
Into this Eden of romance the serpent of Sprogson intruded. After six weeks the couple had become officially engaged. From his wages in the garage Edwins was putting away a percentage towards the purchase of a home; Mary was saving the amount represented by her tips; beyond that she could not go, her wages being no more than a few shillings a week, the customers making the amount up to a living wage with tips, which is the bad custom of the restaurant trade, or was the custom at the time of this story.
Edwins had wanted to borrow the money to enable them to marry and set up house, thus avoiding the double cost of their lodgings; but Mary would have none of it. “I am not going to start married life by getting into debt,” she insisted. “There is no security in that. A few weeks’ illness, or if you’re on short time or lose your job, then we are finished, and it’s the same with furniture on hire purchase. I’d sooner have a bed, a table and a couple of chairs paid for, than a home which isn’t ours at all, but the property of a furniture company.”
So the couple were saving hard.
Within three months they had acquired the sum of fifty pounds, and decided to celebrate. In the Red Cow, a quiet hostelry towards the back of Paignton, Mary drank delicately, a glass of port, and Edwins a whisky and soda. They toasted each other. Before the glasses were empty Sprogson stepped into their lives.
James Sprogson had journeyed to Paignton because it, and the neighbouring Torquay, were holiday resorts, and therefore crowded. Sprogson lived on the takings he could get from other people in any way that was not legal; he could not have made much by legal means, in any case, for he lived on his wits. But it was not until much later that the company and Edwins and Mary knew that. All they knew at this time was that Sprogson was an open-handed man who bought drinks for the house, and seemed to have plenty of money to flash before envious patrons of the Red Cow.
He had on several occasions dined at the Café Rouge, and he recognized Mary as the waitress there. His insistence on buying her a drink with the remainder of the company effected an introduction to Edwins. Mary regarded this as essential to avoid the attentions he seemed anxious to show her.
Sprogson talked racing. It was a subject, he said, on which he had information straight from the horses’ mouths and from their jockeys.
“Thinking of getting married, are you?” he said, to Edwins after the introduction. “Then you can do with a bit of the ready. Back Royal George tomorrow—you’ll get twenty to one on it now, and it’s a dead cert. Listen.”
He crossed to the telephone and called up a bookmaker. “That you, Joe?” he asked. “Put me twenty pounds on Royal George at twenties? You will? Right. That’s how sure I am, love birds,” he announced.
The following morning Edwins ventured two pounds; the result increased their savings by forty pounds. After that he renewed the acquaintance with Sprogson and his cronies.
Mary saw the growing intimacy with concern. Her lover, she noted, was drinking more than was good for him. She remonstrated without much effect. The weekly savings from his salary grew less; Mary protested against the money spent on betting and on drink.
The climax had come on the evening that Sprogson paid his visit to Yew Tree House with Old William. Edwins had failed for the first time to add any money to Mary’s tips for the bottom drawer. He had, he said, to pay Sprogson money he owed. Mary, who had sacrificed many luxuries to save her tips for the future, was tearfully protestant at the lapse of her lover. She arraigned Sprogson.
“He’s no good, I tell you, Jack. Those ferrety eyes give him away to anyone who can see through them. He gives me the creeps.” She shuddered. “Why on earth you want to go round with the man I can’t think. He’s no good to you, Jack, and will land you in trouble one of these days.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake give it a rest, dear,” grumbled Edwins. “He’s all right. We only have a few drinks and a game of pool on the nights you’re at the cookery classes. Surely there’s no harm in that. I need a little fun after I’ve been in that blasted garage all day.”
Mary looked thoughtfully at him. “I thought you liked being in the garage, Jack,” she said, and her eyes regarded him anxiously.
“You know I only took the job to be near you. Else I’d have gone back to London after my holiday. Joe’s garage isn’t my idea of a job. I want my own place and I’ll get it before long—with a nice little flat over it where Mrs. Edwins will be getting the supper ready while her loving husband is locking away the day’s takings, eh?” Edwins put an arm round Mary’s shoulders and drew her close.
Mary pouted. “Well, darling, I can’t see that that man is going to help in getting it. I know I can’t get out every night, but surely you could find a friend belonging to the place or to your garage; there’s several nice men there. Sprogson is too crafty to be buying you drinks and taking you about in that rat-trap car of his for nothing. Darling, I wish you’d listen to me.”
Edwins swung her into the shade of the bandstand past which they were strolling. He kissed her full on the lips. “Now, will you stop nagging, Mary,” he said.
Mary laughed. “Well, have it your own way, Jack dear. But do be careful.”
Edwins took her into his arms again. “Now, darling, I’ll relieve you of your anxieties,” he said. “Sprogson is leaving for London again this week-end. I’m having a farewell drink with him and the other two pals of his tomorrow night. I don’t suppose I’ll see him after that.”
Mary nestled contentedly against his arm. “Did you mean that about the garage, Jack?” she asked.
“Yes, dear. I meant it. I’d got it all planned out as soon as I met you. I knew you fitted into my scheme of things. Don’t worry. This time next year we’ll be settled in our own little home. Whatever may happen always remember that’s what I’m working for—just you and I, partners in every way.”
They kissed in the shadow of the doorway of her lodgings, and Jack Edwins strode away towards his own boarding house.
It was on the steps that he met Sprogson.
CHAPTER III
It was not until nearly ten o’clock on the following night that Edwins turned up at the Red Cow for the final drink with Sprogson. A breakdown order had kept him employed in a rush job at the garage until after nine o’clock, and a hurried wash and change gave him just time to get to the rendezvous before closing time.
Sprogson was arguing hotly with his two cronies. They looked up as Edwins entered. He hung on the outskirts of the company until the argument should be ended; though he tolerated Sprogson for the benefit he gained from his racing tips and his talk, he had no wish to make the further acquaintance of his companions.
From the back Edwins heard snatches of the dispute.
“It isn’t our kind of game”—this from Thatcher Stevens. “No, I reckon I’d better be getting home to the missus,” was the contribution of Cow Evans.
“I tell you there’s money in it. Easy money,” said Sprogson.
“Reckon we’ve got enough for the time being, Sprogson,” replied Thatcher. “Take the kid; he can do with some. He wants to get spliced, don’t he?”
Sprogson uttered a foul oath. “All right. I’ll take him. And to hell with the lot of you.”
He turned.
“Time, gentlemen, please,” called the landlord.
Sprogson turned away and beckoned Edwins. “Come on, Jack,” he said, “we’re going to see Old William up at Yew Tree House. He can put me
in the way of some money. And you, too. I suppose you can do with a bit of easy money, eh?”
“I reckon I can, and the sooner the better,” replied Edwins.
“Come along, then. We’ll have to buck up. It’s later than I meant it to be.”
The two men walked rapidly up the hill to the house. It was now getting dark. The long hill was practically deserted. Few people passed along at that hour. Those who frequented public houses and hotels had not yet started their journey homewards. And the cinemas had not closed for the night.
“You know Old William, don’t you, Jack?” asked Sprogson.
“Yes, I’ve met him several times in the Red Cow when he’s been with you,” was the reply.
“I was with him last night. We got drunk together. He’s full of his secrets when he’s had a few,” explained Sprogson. “He showed me how to get hold of a few hundreds. I reckon there’s as much as I want and a bit over for you. More than you can earn in months at the garage you slave in. A smart chap like you ought to get hold of money easier than oiling yourself up under motor-cars.”
“I should have thought if there was easy money going, Old William would have been after it himself,” suggested Edwins.
“He hasn’t got the nerve, Jack. That’s why it’s coming to me and you. ‘Nothing venture nothing have’ is my motto.”
They arrived at Yew Tree House as the last of the light was going. Sprogson led the way up the drive, keeping in the shade of the high hedge. At the door he produced a key from a pocket, unlocked the door and motioned Edwins inside. He followed, locking the door again behind him.
The place was in darkness. To Edwins it seemed to exude an air of bleak emptiness, and oppressive desolation. He felt a chill of nervous apprehension: curiously enough his thoughts turned not to his present position in the house, the darkness of which affected him adversely, but to Mary who, except for this farewell night, he would now have been escorting towards her home.
Before he could give vent to his feelings, Sprogson, standing in the hall gave a low whistle. There was no response, and after a moment he moved in the direction of the butler’s pantry and tried the knob. It turned in his hand and the door opened.
“Good!” said Sprogson. The two men entered. Sprogson, closing the door behind him, switched on the light.
“Butler’s pantry. Old William’s domain,” he explained to Edwins. He pointed to the iron shutter which covered the window. “See, no light shows out of the room,” he pointed out.
Edwins nodded. “Funny do, isn’t it?” he asked. “Why couldn’t they use a thick curtain?”
Sprogson smiled. “Don’t worry your head about things which don’t matter,” he recommended.
“Anyway, where’s your friend? I don’t want to stop here too long. Can’t we hear about the money and get home?”
Sprogson did not answer. Instead he crossed to the inside wall of the room and pressed on the panelling. A door slid back and in the recess Edwins saw with surprise the outline of a safe.
Sprogson pointed to it with a grin. “There’s thousands of pounds’ worth of stuff in there, Jack,” he said. “I’ve seen it. Old William showed it to me last night.”
“Then I reckon they want a good bit of steel on the windows,” retorted Edwins. “But I wish your friend would come. It doesn’t seem right to be messing about with things in here like this without him.”
Sprogson made no reply. He had moved to the front of the safe, and was twiddling with the combination wheel. He was reading from a paper and twiddling the wheel at the same time. After a minute of two of fiddling there was a sudden click, and Sprogson pulled the safe door open.
Seeing the contents of the safe laid bare, there came into Edwin’s mind with wounding and nauseating realism the explanation of their presence in the house; the reason for the non-appearance of Old William; the wait after Sprogson had given his low whistle on entering the hall and closing the door behind him. Edwins knew for the first time since he had entered the house that the place was empty of any butler or caretaker, and that Sprogson had come deliberately, knowing that, to burgle the safe.
Edwins backed away from the violated cache and challenged his companion. “William isn’t in the place and you knew he wasn’t going to be here.” He directed his indictment against Sprogson fiercely. “You’re robbing the place. I’m not having anything to do with it, Sprogson. I’m getting out.”
Sprogson eyed him, grinning. “Don’t be a damned fool, Jack,” he said. “There’s a fortune here for the taking. Nobody but me knows that there’s nobody here in the place, and by the time they find the safe rifled we’ll be two hundred miles away in London. Besides, there’s nothing to show that you and I have been here. Old William doesn’t know that he gave me the combination when I got him blind drunk. If he thinks of it later, he won’t speak. It’s as much as his job is worth. Don’t be a damned fool. It’s the easiest crib I’ve ever cracked, and the safest, too. Can’t you do with a few hundred quid?”
“Not that way I can’t,” Edwins spat out the words. “And I’m not going to, either. I’m getting out—now.”
“All right,” Sprogson hissed venomously. “Get out, you damned fool. I thought I was doing you a good turn. But keep your mouth shut when you do get out. If anyone gets on to me I’ll know you’ve been talking, and I’ll slit your throat. See?”
Edwins turned to the door. As he did so the note of a police whistle shrilled from outside the house, and near it. Sprogson’s hands came away from the safe as if he had received an electric shock. He stared at his companion.
“The cops!” he said.
A grin came over his face. The humour of the situation appealed to him in spite of the danger. “Well, you’re in it now, all right, kid,” he said. “No good telling the cops you didn’t have anything to do with it, when they find you in the place. The side of the house is the best. Run for the trees; they’ll never catch us among them.”
He moved quickly to the safe again, and his hands came away crammed with jewellery.
“Here,” he snapped. He stuffed the jewels into Edwins’s jacket pockets. “Get out and run like hell. Don’t go near the Red Cow. Get up to The Case is Altered, at Babbacombe, and I’ll meet you there tomorrow night. And mind you bring the stud along with you. We’ll share half and half. Now we’d better part. We’ll stand a better chance that way.”
He climbed out of a window at the side of the house, darted to the shade of the hedge and began to run. Edwins watched him reach the end of the hedge and make a dart for the shelter of the trees in a copse. A policeman came running from the direction of the side gate. Another whistle shrilled out, and two other officers converged back and front on the running man.
Edwins realized at that moment the idea in Sprogson’s mind in putting the jewellery in his, Edwins’s, pockets. If they were caught by the police it would not be Sprogson who had the stolen goods in his possession but himself. Sprogson would not have a single piece of stolen property on him. It would be easy for him to say that he had seen a man break into the house and was waiting for him to come out, follow and identify him. That, he judged, was the reason why he had brought him along at all; he wanted a second man as a safety-first plan.
These thoughts in his mind, Edwins stood quietly behind a window watching the chase. The dalliance served him an unexpected good turn, for when Sprogson and the officers were out of sight, the consciousness came to him that there was a quietness about the place that suggested isolation. He listened for a moment or two but heard no sign of movement outside the house. It occurred to him that the police had used a ruse, and had overshot their mark. The whistle, he worked out, had been to alarm the intruders, cause them to bolt for it, into the hands of the triangular-arranged covey of police. Seeing only one man emerge from the house, they had figured that the ‘started’ hare was the only one on the job. That meant that the way was clear for him to escape.
Climbing out of another window Edwins kept in the shade of the bushe
s, where they were thickly planted, until he reached the bottom of the garden. Then, instead of taking the route mapped out by Sprogson and followed by him, he forced a way through the thick hedge into a field behind, in the opposite direction to the town. He followed the hedge, keeping low down in its shelter, and continued likewise across two further fields until he reached the high road at the top of the hill. A bus was approaching; he signalled the driver, and climbing aboard was taken on to Torquay.
For ten minutes he waited at a coach stop, his heart beating wildly at the sight of every policeman who patrolled the busy centre. Once, as an officer crossed the road in his direction he nearly made a run for it; the policeman passed on without a look at him, and he realized that there was no hue and cry out for him.
The arrival of a coach for Newton Abbot relieved him of any immediate anxiety, and put him a further stage on the road to safety. At the Devonshire rail junction, he searched the timetable. There was no train due out until 1 a.m. for London. That meant a wait of two hours.
Edwins, thus far on the road to safety, realized that hanging round the junction at that hour of the night might occasion suspicion, and with the jewellery still in his pockets any quizzing of him by a police officer would have fatally unfortunate results. He accordingly walked sharply out of the town, as would a late reveller walking home after the last bus had run.
Seeing a field that had but recently been cleared of the hay crop, he settled himself comfortably in the screen of a hayrick and thus passed the midnight hour. A cautious approach to the railway station shortly before one o’clock failed to reveal any waiting police or officials of the station. There was no hesitation in giving him a ticket on the part of the booking office clerk, who was too sleepy anyway to take note of any intending passengers. Edwins, ticket in his pocket, waited until the train was about to move out, and then jumped aboard.
