by Roger Bax
“You don’t say! Lucky feller. It’s hard enough to get a house these days. My missus is on a waitin’ list for one of them prefabs. They’re nice.”
“Whereabouts on the list?” asked Fred.
“There was eighty-nine thousand seven hundred and fourteen people in front of her last Tuesday week,” said the tall man.
A wave of irritation swept Cross. They were getting very near to Welford Avenue and the whole thing was damned unsatisfactory. Where the hell did these chaps live in Kingston? Why wouldn’t they open up a bit? In five minutes, he had to kill his uncle. Was it safe to wait until afterwards to find out more about his witnesses? He didn’t like it – he began to have doubts whether he ought to go on with the plan.
Suddenly he had doubts no longer. Something hard was pushed sharply into the back of his neck – it hurt even through his coat collar – and the hoarse voice said: “Stop the car, mister, and keep quiet. This is a stick-up!”
“You swine—” began Cross, violently.
“Take it easy, mister. Pull in to the kerb.”
“You’ve been seeing too many films,” said Cross between his teeth. He wasn’t worried by the hold-up, but by the total ruin of his evening. He stopped the car.
The hard object was still pressing into his neck. “This is a gun, mister,” said the hoarse voice, unnecessarily. “We’re desperate men. One sound, and you’re a goner.”
“What do you want? You’ll get ten years for this.”
“Shut yer trap! We’re takin’ the car and your wallet. Wallet first – and any loose notes you’ve got. Come on, make it snappy. Come on!” The point of the gun jerked menacingly.
Cross took out his pocket book and handed it over. “It’s got all my papers, addresses, everything,” he said. “They’re no good to you. There’s about ten pounds – take the money and give me the wallet back.”
“Orl right, mister – if there is ten pounds.” There was a moment’s silence while the hoarse man fiddled with the wallet. “Right you are, mister, catch hold. Now hop out. This side. Step lively. Fred, get in the driving-seat. Steady, mister – I’m a dead shot. Lots of practice, you know! Open the door. All right, Fred, shove ’im out. You needn’t bother about yer car, mister. She’ll look quite different when we’ve fixed her.” The engine revved, and the Vauxhall shot away into the fog.
Cross stood motionless on the pavement. One or two cars had passed, but there would have been no sense in calling out. It had been a real gun, all right. He stood and cursed. He was deflated, wretched, suddenly cold. He’d lost a good car, and what was far worse, his splendid plan had come to nothing. “Damned crooks!” he ejaculated.
What should he do? Obviously he must report the hold-up, but how? The fog which had been better than a spring day to him a few minutes ago was now just a fog. It was difficult to adjust his ideas. He had been concentrating so hard on his plan – now his mind felt empty. Funny that he should be calling in the police! He could have wept with frustration. He ought to have known those chaps were up to no good, skulking about in doorways. If he hadn’t been so full of his own affairs ... A trade union meeting! Prefabs!
He must go to Welford Avenue, of course. It was quite close – ten minutes’ walk at the outside. He would report the theft of the car from there. He could use a drink, too. Suddenly he remembered that the dummy was still on the name-plate. He had nearly forgotten it in this new excitement. If he’d left it ...! He quickened his pace. In a few minutes he swung round the last corner and crossed the road to the lamp. HAMLEY AVENUE. It was still there, all right – nobody had noticed. Everything would have been so easy – it had been such a good plan. He rolled up the dummy, retrieved the spanner from beside the gate-post, and walked up his uncle’s path to the front door. He tapped on the lighted lounge window, and Hollison let him in. The smooth bald head shone temptingly in the light of the hall lamp. Cross’s fingers were gripping the spanner which he could not use. It was an agony of anti-climax. Sweat stood out on his forehead.
He went in. “My car’s just been pinched,” he said curtly. “Two chaps held me up with a gun. Catch me giving anyone a lift again. I’d better phone the police.”
He went into the lounge and rang up the local station, while Uncle Charles hovered in the background, pouring out a stiff whisky and making indignant noises as Cross told his story.
The rest of the evening passed wretchedly. Geoffrey arrived in good spirits just before half past eight – just as he should have done. Presently a police officer called from the station to get a more detailed description of the two men, and Cross told him all he could remember. The officer seemed quite hopeful that the men would be picked up, or at least that the car would be found, but Cross was indifferent. He found it difficult to be civil to anyone, drank a lot of whisky, and departed early. He was disgusted with himself and with his luck. He had had a fortune within his grasp that night – now it was as far away as ever. For the moment he had lost faith in his plan, and all his anxieties about the future came rushing back. Alone in his room, he steadily drank himself into a stupor.
CHAPTER V
Cross brooded over his disappointment. If things had gone right, he might now be booking his air passage to Rio. His temper became shorter, his drinking heavier. He clung desperately to the thought that at least no structural defect had appeared in the plan itself. It was just a question of time before he picked the right witnesses. He really needed three or four chances. The trouble was that the odds against several foggy Thursdays were enormous. For the moment, anyway, opportunity had passed. The weather had cleared up, and people were talking hopefully of a mild winter.
The situation was even more awkward for Cross than it had been before, because his cost of living was rising. Soon after the fiasco with the Vauxhall, he had picked up a bedworthy but expensive young woman at a West End theatre. He was having fun, but his financial position had sharply deteriorated. Every time they went out for an evening it cost him a fiver. That couldn’t go on, unless somehow he could raise the wind. The business was doing well, and he thought of asking for a higher expense allowance. He felt sure that if he were to tell his uncle he needed money it would be forthcoming without any unpleasantness. But you could never be sure. Hollison had made what he considered a generous arrangement – he would certainly be surprised, perhaps pained, if his nephew seemed to be turning out a spendthrift. It was most important that nothing should be done to spoil the present excellent relationship, and equally important that Cross should not seem to be hard-pressed for cash just before his uncle died. The idea was that he should appear to be managing adequately on his income and that when Hollison was killed someone should say to the police: “Poor Mr. Cross – he must be cut up. He and his uncle got on so well together.”
Meanwhile the police had been working on the ‘hold-up’ which had robbed him of the Vauxhall, but so far they had had no success. His description of the two men would have fitted almost anyone. Nor had any trace of the car been found. The police view was that the thieves were probably running a regular ‘grab and repaint’ business, and that the car had been re-cellulosed at once and sold second-hand with new plates and a registration book belonging to another car of the same make. It was quite easy to do that with these popular models, particularly as people rarely bothered to check engine and chassis numbers. The thieves had probably cleared six or seven hundred pounds from their haul – a good night’s work. Not that Cross was concerned about the car. His insurance company had paid up nobly, after some rather trying inquiries, and Cross – with the help of an unsought gift from his uncle – had bought himself a Rover 12 of pre-war vintage. It had an excellent performance and an attractive body – always a point with Cross – of a rather striking light blue. On the whole, therefore, the episode had not ended too badly, though Cross still felt sore over the ignominious way he had been treated. He wouldn’t have minded a few more minutes alone with Fred and his companion – if this time he could be the one with the gun. He could
have shown them a trick or two!
The Thursday night sessions at Welford Avenue remained a disagreeable chore. Cross had come to dislike Geoffrey intensely – the man seemed to have no worries and to be thoroughly enjoying life. Christmas came and went – revoltingly green and sickeningly festive. There was a party for the staff at the Works, which Cross naturally had to attend, and at Welford Avenue Uncle Charles kept open house. Geoffrey brought several naval types home on Boxing Day, and the naval types brought three Wrens, and everybody was frightfully jolly. Cross had no friends; he had been too busy to make any. He could hardly take his young woman along to his uncle’s; he felt that the old boy wouldn’t have approved of her sort. In any case, Cross was thinking of changing her. Women became so tedious after a while. By the New Year, the financial situation was becoming critical. The first week in January had brought in a surprising number of unpaid bills and one or two of them were pressing. Cross could not see how a fresh approach to his uncle could be avoided much longer. There were always the risky ways of making money, of course – like forging a cheque – but that seemed no way to smooth the path to fortune. It might be all right if he could be certain of getting out of the country soon, but not otherwise. It was really ridiculous that a man of his expectations should be stumped for a few hundred pounds. Perhaps he might be able to persuade a moneylender to advance him something on his prospects.
Then the weather changed. In mid-February an iron frost clamped down on southern England, and as it eased the fog returned. Cross felt all his old enthusiasm for the murder plan rushing back. Every detail was etched in his mind; he could almost go through with it in his sleep. He took out the dummy name-plate from the bureau where it had lain for three months, and it looked as fresh and convincing as ever. He took a run over the route to refresh his memory just for safety’s sake, and looked in at Hamley Avenue to make sure the bombed house had been left alone. He put a larger bulb in the Rover’s fog-lamp.
Day after day the fog held – a little thin in the daytime, but always thickening up nicely towards evening. Thursday came, and once more Cross looked from his window with satisfaction. He could barely see the pavement.
All the preliminaries were accomplished without a hitch. Mrs. Armstrong was in good health and unlikely to depart from her weekly routine. Uncle Charles this time took it for granted that his nephew would be coming over. Geoffrey was certain to lecture – Cross knew that he had been working hard that very morning on notes for the first of a new series.
Once again Cross carefully filled up the tank of the car and checked the oil and water. Once again he wrapped himself up warmly, with the heavy spanner transferred from the tool-kit to his pocket, and the dummy name-plate comfortably tucked in the other pocket. Gloves, torch – yes, he had everything.
The evening was very similar to that earlier unlucky one as far as the fog was concerned. The first run to Welford Avenue went smoothly. The white kerbstones had weathered a little, but they still made good landmarks. Welford Avenue was empty apart from one pedestrian who disappeared quickly into the gloom. Slipping the spanner under the gate and the dummy on the name-plate took only a couple of minutes. Cross was confident; he had a hunch that this time everything was going to be all right. It was just after half past seven when he returned to the roundabout and parked in the old familiar spot.
This was the test. His heart was beating fast, in spite of all his efforts to calm down – or perhaps because of them. He was out of training, he told himself, for these tough jobs. The soft life! He lit a cigarette from the last stub and inhaled deeply. He could do with a drink – but that would have to wait. Afterwards he could soak in alcohol if he wanted to.
He had waited a few minutes, scanning the passers-by and seeing no one particularly suitable, when he noticed a man and a woman stopping a few yards away, apparently in some doubt about what to do. The man was talking and pointing across the roundabout into grey opacity. Cross heard the girl laugh – a pleasant laugh, good-tempered and amused in spite of the filthy night – and then the man said something again and they both walked over to the car. Cross leaned out and opened the door on the near side as they approached.
“You don’t happen to know where Hailey Crescent is, do you?” the man asked. His voice was friendly, courteous; his accent cultured.
“Hailey Crescent?” Cross repeated. He remembered that he had seen the name during one of his many exploratory journeys round the district. Yes, of course – and the right direction, too. “Isn’t that somewhere up near the Park?” he asked.
“That’s right, darling,” said the girl. “Don’t you remember John boasting about his early-morning walks?”
“Of course,” said the man. “Can you tell us how we get there?”
“If you like to take a chance,” said Cross amiably, “you can jump in. It’s roughly the same direction that I’m going – I’m making for Welford Avenue. I thought I knew these parts like the back of my hand, but I’m a bit stuck myself. It’s this roundabout that’s the trouble. I was just trying to get my bearings.”
“It’s very good of you,” said the girl gratefully as she got in. “We’ve a dinner date at eight – rather an important one. And there’s no sign of a taxi anywhere. I do hope we shan’t be taking you too much out of your way.”
“I don’t guarantee anything,” said Cross cheerfully, “but you’ll never get a taxi. There’s a rug there somewhere – you may as well make yourselves as comfortable as possible.”
“That’s lovely,” said the girl. “It really is kind of you.”
“Not at all,” said Cross. The more he put them in his debt, the better.
The man leaned over. “Smoke?” he said.
“Not just now, thanks,” said Cross. “I’ve just finished one. If I take my eye off the kerb I’ll be sunk. Shocking, isn’t it? Let’s see, there should be a turning somewhere here. I’m afraid it’s impossible to hurry.”
“You’re doing fine,” said the girl, peering out a little anxiously. Cross could see her in the driving-mirror as she drew on her cigarette. She was smart, good-looking. Excellent types, both of them. His luck was in! No gun in his neck this time, or knife in his back. Civilized people. He hummed softly to himself, concentrating on the kerb.
“Do you live round here?” asked the man after a few moments.
“Not far away,” said Cross. “Actually, I’m going over to spend the evening with my uncle, Charles Hollison, the paint manufacturer. You must have heard of Hollison’s paint.”
“Rather,” said the man. “We used it all over the kitchen, didn’t we, darling? I say, it is thick, isn’t it? I’m glad you’re doing the driving, I must say. Do you recognize anything at all?”
“I wouldn’t put it as high as that,” said Cross. “Now and again I think I do, but I’m not too sure. If we took the right road out of the roundabout – that was where I picked you up – we ought to pass a lighted pub soon. I’ll recognize that all right.”
The girl laughed softly. “I could do with a drink, darling. I hope John has some good strong cocktails laid on.”
“What’s the number in Hailey Crescent?” asked Cross, turning by a painted kerb.
“I don’t think there is a number,” said the man. “It’s a big white house, standing back, with a white gate. Should be easy to spot, but don’t you bother. We can find it easily once we know we’re in the right road. It’s Sir John Lutimer’s house – I should think anyone would be able to tell us when we get close.”
“Isn’t he in the Foreign Office?” asked Cross, recalling newspaper headlines.
“That’s right – one of the Permanent Secretaries.” The man was winding down his window, staring out. “No sign of that pub. I say, I do feel we’re imposing on your good nature.”
“Nonsense,” said Cross. “It’s nice to have company on a night like this.” He swung the car into Welford Avenue and drew up beside the dummy. “Anyway, you’ve nothing to thank me for. I’m afraid I’m lost.” He wound his
own window down. “If we could only read the name of the street it might help ...” He peered out; they all peered out. “Half a minute, I’ve got a torch.” He switched on and directed the beam towards the dummy. There was a lot of dazzle, but it was visible.
“I can see – I think,” said the man. “H – A – M – something – E – Y – Hamley, that’s it.”
The girl leaned across him. “That’s right, Hamley Avenue,” she said. “Does that help?”
“Damn!” said Cross. “We must have taken the wrong turning at the roundabout. Hamley Avenue – let me see. We’ll have to get back to the roundabout, somehow.” He slipped the car into gear and drifted slowly forward past his uncle’s gate, as though still cogitating. Suddenly he jerked on the brake. “I think I’d better try and get directions at one of these houses,” he said. “Otherwise we’ll be wandering around all night. Sorry, folks. I’ll only be a minute or two.”
“Don’t worry,” said the girl, “after all, we should never have got there on our own.”
Cross walked back ten yards. The fog had already swallowed up the car. Suddenly a thought hit him like a blow. Suppose someone were to pass the car while he was in the house? His passengers would be sure to stop any pedestrian and ask the way. They might discover it wasn’t Hamley Avenue. For a second Cross stood hesitating. Should he go on? Alternatives swept through his mind – grim alternatives. Murder and discovery; retreat, penury, fear. He would take the risk.
Softly he opened his uncle’s gate, picked up the spanner, and approached the door. There was a light in the lounge window. He was braced for action – it should take no time at all. He gave a loud double knock on the iron knocker. They could hardly fail to hear that in the car, if they were listening. He heard his uncle moving in the lounge, the padding of slippered feet in the hall. The door opened.
“Here I am,” said Cross.
“Hello, Arthur! I felt sure it was someone else. You don’t usually knock. Come in – my word, what a night!”
