How to Steal a Piano and Other Stories

by John Hughes

  “I’ve got a better idea,” said Martin blandly. “Why don’t we relieve Harrods of it altogether?”

  I loved a pint of Directors in those days, but in a glass or in my mouth and not all over the table top. I had sprayed it everywhere. After I’d mopped up and the moans and groans from other band members had waned and their attention was elsewhere, I eventually replied.

  “What, steal it?”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “But how?”

  “Easy. Phone up, pretend to be Miss whatever her name was…”

  “Jane V. Walker.”

  “That’s her. We pretend to be her and phone up and ask for her piano to be delivered.”

  I stared at him. “You’re not serious!”

  “Why not?”

  “It sounds so simple.”

  “That’s because it is simple.”

  “But how on earth…”

  “I’ve been thinking about it. All we need to do is make a fake call to the department asking for delivery, get Mr Huxley to sign a despatch docket and have it away.”

  “But surely they’ll need some sort of assurance, need to make checks to be sure it’s genuine.”

  “Not necessarily, not if we give all the right details and they match what’s on the paperwork – invoice number, date of sale, sale price. Who else would know all that other than the customer who bought the piano?”

  “And to what end?”

  “Sell it and pocket some cash. Won’t get anywhere near the full value of course, but a nice little wedge each.”

  “Sell it where, who to?”

  “Leave that to me. I have contacts.”

  I was speechless. No words would come. It was time to head off for the rehearsal. As we finished our drinks, Martin said: “Have a think. Let’s talk about it another time.”

  I was rubbish in the rehearsal; my mind was elsewhere. I kept missing cues, playing duff notes, and generally being useless. Martin knew why, but the rest of the band didn’t. I apologised at the end; said I wasn’t feeling too great. As we were saying our goodnights in the car park, I collared Martin: “Are you serious?”

  “About Miss Walker’s piano? Deadly serious.”

  “It’s criminal. It’s stealing.”

  “Well, you know, that’s one way of looking at it… but only if you get caught. No real harm done. If you can afford to buy a grand worth five grand and forget about it then clearly it’s a drop in the ocean. No loss to her whatsoever. Besides, we’re only talking about it.”

  “Are we only talking about it, or are we actually talking about it?”

  “We’re talking about it.”

  “Holy cow, we’re actually talking about it!”

  Martin put his arm round my shoulder. “James, my friend, calm down, we are only talking about it. It’s an idea. A thought. That’s all. Go home and mull it over. Come over for Sunday lunch. Chrissie’s away visiting her mother – we can have a roast down at my local. I’d like to give it some more thought too.”

  * * *

  On Sunday the conversation continued and in between I had thought about very little else. I was going out with a girl called Jill at the time. We’d spent Saturday together and it had been a disaster. I was preoccupied and quiet and she interpreted it as waning interest in her. She confronted me about it as we said goodnight. I tried to reassure her that it was nothing to do with my feelings for her and that I was genuinely keen to carry on seeing each other. She didn’t believe it and dumped me. I barely registered any emotional fallout.

  Seated in the corner of Martin’s local with plates empty and stomachs full, I pulled out my notebook and put to my would-be partner in crime the points that had occurred to me. As I confronted him with each one it was apparent from his replies that he had thought the whole thing through in detail.

  I looked at my notebook. “One. Who’s going to phone the department and what are they going to say? It could be anyone who answers.”

  “I’ll phone. I’ll ask switchboard to put me through to the extension in the showroom, so only one of three could possibly answer – Brown-nose, Raymond or yourself. It must be you who answers of course, so we do it when Brownlow is at lunch and at a precise time so you can make sure you’re nearer the phone than Raymond. Brown-nose usually goes at the same time most days as I recall.”

  “Twelve-thirty, for half an hour.”

  “Okay, I’ll call at quarter to one.”

  “What if someone else answers?”

  “I put the phone down immediately and we try again the next day.”

  I drew a tick next to the word One.

  “Two. What if Mr Huxley or Brown-nose want to take charge and arrange the delivery? What if they phone the number on the sales invoice and it’s still that of Miss Jane V. Walker? What then?”

  “If you offer to organise the delivery, Wilfred will be delighted, anything for a quiet life. Brown-nose might try but there’s nothing in it for him, no commission, so my guess is he won’t want to get involved, especially if he’s bombarded with some hot leads on the phone to keep him occupied.” He winked. “I can arrange that. After all it’s just arranging a delivery. Regarding trying to contact Miss Walker, she has changed address and I shall be giving you the new details for the delivery, fictitious of course – plus a new phone number.”

  “What if they try calling the new number?”

  “It won’t work – it’ll be false. If push comes to shove you can say you probably wrote it down wrongly when you took the details over the phone.”

  “What if they try calling her old number? They might end up speaking to the real Miss Walker.”

  Martin shook his head. “I tried phoning it yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “Disconnected. It no longer exists. So she really has moved or popped her clogs.”

  I drew a tick next to the word Two.

  “Three. Completing the despatch docket is straightforward, I’m sure Mr Huxley will sign it without any questions. But what about delivery? Harrods men will be picking it up and delivering, presumably to the new address. If it’s not a real one… how are we going to get round that one?”

  “I’ve thought about this and have a solution. Miss Walker has recently bought some other pieces of furniture for her new home, and she’s arranged for it all to be delivered together. They’re coming from various stores around London and she’s got a delivery firm coordinating it. Everything is arranged and paid for. She is proposing that her delivery men stop off at Harrods and pick up her piano en route.”

  “Sounds a bit weak to me. They’ll never buy it.”

  “Oh I don’t know. It’ll save Harrods a considerable amount of time and money, especially a trip to Shropshire, or even further afield if we decide she’s now living in Northumberland – Scotland even! Harrods don’t charge their customers for deliveries like this, as you know, so it’ll be a hefty saving. I think they’ll jump at the chance.”

  “And who will your delivery men be? I hope they know what they’re doing.”

  “Who they are is my concern and it’s better that you don’t know. They’ll know what they’re doing.”

  My pencil hovered over the word Three but I didn’t draw a tick. Instead I added a question mark.

  “Four. How the hell do you sell a dodgy grand piano discreetly and what will we get for it?”

  “As I’ve said before, I have contacts – let’s leave it like that, shall we? The people who will be in on this know their stuff. Within forty-eight hours it will be on a container ship on its way to… let’s just say abroad.”

  “And the price?”

  “Nowhere near the full value. I reckon nearer the cost price back in 1971… a bit more maybe. I’ll be happy to get two and a half for it. Broken down, that would mean three hundred for my main contact,
and a hundred a piece for two delivery man. That leaves two grand split between us – one each. Not bad for taking a phone call and filling out a despatch docket eh?”

  “A thousand pounds! Not bad indeed.” My basic weekly take home pay then, not including commission, was £64.

  I looked down at my notepad and gave number Four a solid tick.

  “So what do you think?” said Martin.

  Still peering at my notebook, and after a lengthy pause as I struggled to come out with the words, I said: “I don’t think I can do it. I’m scared shitless.”

  “Well, it’s up to you, James. We’re only talking about it. If you’re not comfortable then we can forget the whole idea.” The disappointment was apparent in his voice. “It would be a shame though.”

  “It would indeed.”

  “Think of the money. What would you do with a thousand quid?”

  “I know exactly.”

  “What?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Okay,” Martin continued. “Look at it this way. Consider the risks. What are they to you personally? You answer the phone in the department and take a message. You check through the records and find the piano is there in the workshop. The customer who owns it wants it delivered, at last. So you inform Mr Huxley, offer to arrange the delivery, get him to sign the despatch docket and liaise with an external delivery firm to come and collect. Where in all that, should anything go tits up at any point in the proceedings, are you culpable? All you did was take a phone call and act accordingly. You’ll simply be doing your job. When you think about it there’s no risk to you whatsoever. Others are taking the chances, and if anything did go wrong there are no comebacks to you of any sort.”

  “You and I are friends. There is a connection between us.”

  “And do you think for one moment that I would betray that friendship and drop you in it if the worst happened?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Thank you. Besides, it would be virtually impossible to link me with this either. I shall be covering my arse, take my word.”

  “A thousand quid,” I mused.

  “Cash.” He put on his Orson Welles as Harry Lime voice. “Free of income tax, old boy. Free of income tax.”

  “How long would it take to set up?”

  “Not long at all. A few days. All I need from you is the number off the despatch docket and away we go. You’ll need to forewarn security at Trevor Square, give them the docket details, and tell them when to expect. How about the end of next week?”

  “So soon? Jesus!”

  “Why not? Strike while the iron’s hot… and before you change your mind.”

  “I haven’t agreed yet.”

  “That’s right, you haven’t. And I’m not going to press you.”

  “I’d like some more time to think it over.”

  “Of course.”

  “Something occurs to me that might be a problem. I have only recently been looking into the background to this piano. I asked about it in the workshop and checked the details in the buyer’s office. Then I asked Harry about it as well. It’s going to be fresh in the minds of anyone I’ve mentioned it to. It’s a bit of a rich coincidence if the piano that’s been sitting there for ten years is suddenly wanted so soon after I took an interest in it.”

  “Coincidences do happen, but I take your point. Who in the department knows?”

  “Aiden in the workshop. I asked him about the piano initially.”

  “Don’t worry about him.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Martin touched the side of his nose. “Never mind. Who else?”

  “Laura, the clerk. You don’t know her, she’s one of the management trainees – they circulate them every six months.”

  “I know. I’ve been out with a couple of them.”

  I frowned. “Very creditable. Laura was in the office when I looked up the details. We had a joke about the name Miss Jane V. Walker… what the V stands for.”

  “She sounds like a dirty girl.”

  “She is, and as sexy as hell.”

  “I’d like to meet her.”

  “You steer clear,” I said emphatically. “How’s Chrissie by the way – how’s your wife?”

  He ignored my jibe. “‘Do you think Laura will remember, if she hears about the delivery, which is quite likely as the buyer’s clerk?”

  “Probably. She’s a bright girl.”

  “Is she honest?”

  “If you mean enough to shop me if she puts two and two together, I’m not sure. I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

  “Hmmm… and Harry?”

  “I asked him about the piano, as you know. He probably won’t remember and even if he does it’s unlikely he’ll say anything.”

  “And the others?”

  “Raymond knows nothing, nor have I mentioned it to Mr Huxley or Brown-nose.”

  ‘Good, so Laura is the person to worry about. Why don’t you wow her with your male charisma and personal charm?”

  “Because she’s got a boyfriend and she’s not interested in me in the least.”

  “Right,” said Martin. “Business concluded for now I believe. I must go. I’ve been invited for tea and crumpet with my neighbour.”

  “You mean you’re off to be unfaithful to your wife with Imogen?”

  “James! That’s a bit harsh. But I am indeed. You mull over what we’ve talked about and let me know if you’d like to earn an easy thousand quid, or let a great opportunity slip through your grasp. Quite probably for someone else less deserving to pick up on it and reap the benefits.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He patted me on the shoulder as he stood up to leave. “Only kidding,” he said. “No pressure.”

  I drove home with our conversation swimming around in my head. I had to admit that Martin seemed to have thought of everything. And what he had said about the lack of risk to me personally had made an impression. I pulled up outside the house in East Sheen and sat in my car for a good hour, going over every detail of the plan, imagining what could go wrong, and if it did what the consequences might be. The more I thought about it, and the more I pondered Martin’s responses to my questions, the more I was convinced it was workable and watertight. Most importantly, the more I felt confident that we’d get away with it.

  I took out my notebook. I scribbled over the question mark next to the word Three and added a huge tick. That evening I phoned Martin and announced dramatically: “Let’s steal a piano!”

  * * *

  P-Day, as we christened it, was the following Tuesday, this being the day when I took the phone call about the piano. The plan was to arrange for its collection two days later. Martin thought it might be slack over in Trevor Square on a Thursday with most deliveries arriving for the weekend on the Friday; there might be fewer Security on duty and so less chance they would bother about a routine piano collection.

  That morning I stood on the escalator as it brought me up from platform to ground level at Knightsbridge Underground Station, my legs shaking with nerves and my mouth as dry as a bone. Ordinarily I walked the few yards along Hans Crescent straight to the Harrods staff entrance; but today I felt the need to take time out, so I detoured into the Arco Bar café next door and ordered a black coffee. I sat and stared out of the window, across the street at the department store that employed me, put money in my pocket, paid my bills, bought me pints and late-night kebabs, enabled me to fly away to the hot sun and white-sanded beaches.

  And I was about to rob them.

  I drank my coffee quickly so as not to be late for work, then made my way into the store and up onto the second floor. Clarence Brownlow was there already, opening the lids of the grands and mincing around with a feather duster. He nodded when he saw me which was the most you ever got from him by way of a g
reeting. I took my jacket off and hung it on the back of the chair behind my desk, took out a duster and started to do my bit towards brightening up the instruments. I could feel my stomach churning. Moments later I was rushing through Books to the gents to throw up my Rice Krispies. Within the hour I was back there parting company with a Type 7 (watery, no solid pieces – ENTIRELY LIQUID); although I couldn’t have identified it as such at the time.

  The morning seemed to drag on forever. Strangely, as each hour passed I became calmer and more in control. I even sold a piano. Just a tiddler – a cheap Zimmerman upright – but enough to help keep my mind off what was looming. By the time I had finished the paperwork, exchanged the price ticket for a yellow SOLD label, and taken pleasure from seeing Brown-nose’s look of envy, it was midday. I felt inexplicably relaxed. When twelve-thirty came, I watched Brown-nose as he sat at his desk, talking on the phone. It didn’t look as though he was in a hurry to finish his conversation and head off for lunch. Raymond was sitting at a piano in a world of his own, playing some Bach.

  The relaxed feeling began to vanish. I could feel my heart beginning to race. Brown-nose wasn’t sticking to the script. He should be gone by now. Jesus, the first time in weeks – months even – that he hadn’t left on the dot. What would happen if he was still there at twelve forty-five, and he took the phone call! I knew the answer. If anyone other than James Holloway answered, Martin would put the phone down immediately as planned and we’d default to the next day. That was in the script.

  For Christ’s sake go to lunch, I begged of him. My palms were sweating now and my emotions had swung from calm to panic stations in the space of a few minutes.

  Mr Huxley came to the rescue. I saw his head peeping out from the office and frowning. Ah yes! He couldn’t go to lunch until Brown-nose came back – and he always went at one sharp to meet up with his old Linen colleagues. He saw me looking at him looking at Brown-nose; he raised his eyebrows, rolled his eyes and mouthed something that looked suspiciously like rancour. The next thing I knew he was marching across the floor towards Brown-nose and cut right across his conversation.

  “Mr Brownlow, please go to lunch.”

  In a voice that oozed smarm, Brown-nose replied: “One moment, Mr Huxley, I won’t be long.”