Mr Josser cleared his throat. It was the moment, the postponed moment, that he had been waiting for.
‘I’m going back into harness,’ he said. ‘Start again next Monday. Three days a week.’
Ted showed no astonishment. All that he revealed was a certain calm apprehension.
‘What does Mum say?’ he asked.
‘She doesn’t know yet,’ Mr Josser admitted.
Ted paused.
‘Is your chest strong enough?’ he enquired.
‘Oh yes. My chest’s all right,’ he said. ‘The doctor says so.’
As he spoke he raised his hand automatically and felt the pad of Thermogene that he always wore there.
There was another pause.
‘What is the job?’ Ted asked at last.
Mr Josser told him.
When Ted didn’t say anything, didn’t even ask how much the job was worth, Mr Josser felt rather hurt. But Ted was hurt, too. He supposed that it was because his parent was hard up that he had done this thing. And that made him more silent than ever. He thought for a long time before he said anything.
‘Is this because Doris has gone?’ he asked at last.
‘Oh no,’ said Mr Josser emphatically. ‘It’s nothing to do with that. It’s not because of Doris.’
Ted thought again.
‘Is she still allowing you anything?’ he asked.
It was the first time he had ever actually asked in this way. Family finance is always a delicate matter. And ever since the conference that had been held when Battlebury’s had decided to pension his father off, he hadn’t referred to it again. It had been agreed then that he should give them ten shillings a week and that Doris should contribute a pound and live at home. On any showing she had probably been a dead loss from the start. But it had sounded fair enough at the time.
And Ted simply hadn’t enquired about what allowance she was making now that she had left home. It hadn’t seemed any of his business. But now, abruptly, he saw it in a new light. Just because she had chosen to set herself up in a fancy flat somewhere, his father – her father, too, for that matter – had got to go out to work again. It wasn’t good enough, and he determined to talk to her about it.
But Mr Josser was looking at him in surprise.
‘Doris?’ he asked. ‘She wants to give Mother five shillings a week. I won’t let her.’ Mr Josser paused. ‘It’s not fair,’ he went on. ‘A girl paying out like that and getting nothing for it.’
‘Well, I’m going on,’ Ted said sullenly.
Mr Josser played with his pipe, fondling the warm bowl in the palm of his hand.
‘No, you’re not, son,’ he said. ‘I’ve had it quite long enough. Time to stand on my own feet now.’
‘We’ll see,’ Ted told him.
Mr Josser rubbed his hands together.
‘We haven’t touched our capital. That’s one comfort,’ he said.
Then they both sat there, Mr Josser on one side of the fire not saying very much, and Ted on the other side, saying nothing at all.
At eight‐thirty, when the clock struck its sombre Westminster chime, Ted got up and said that he’d have to be going. It had been an unsettling kind of evening.
It was not until nearly eleven that Mrs Josser returned. She looked tired and put out about something.
‘How were they?’ he enquired.
‘How was what?’ Mrs Josser asked irritably.
‘The spots.’
‘Gone,’ Mrs Josser told him. ‘Not a trace. It must have been something she’d eaten. Either that, or Cynthia imagined them.’
In the circumstances, Mr Josser decided that it would be better to wait till later to say anything about his new job.
BOOK TWO
The Crime on the Common
Chapter XVI
1
It was six‐thirty in the evening now. Six‐thirty on Sunday evening. Percy was getting ready. Up in his room with the door locked he was going over all the things he’d be needing. They were spread out on the bed in front of him. There was his knuckle‐duster – the Hedgehog. And a pair of kid gloves that wouldn’t leave fingerprints. And a screw‐driver. And a pair of dark glasses that might come in handy. And his cosh. Last of all there was his bunch of car keys.
‘Only fools carry a gun,’ he said to console himself for not having one.
When he was ready he put on an old raincoat and a scarf and got down his second best trilby. It was a soft one with a snap brim that would come right down over his face if necessary. He hadn’t done much all day except dress‐up. He’d been too jumpy. He’d started off in his best purple with a nice brown tie and a pair of near patents. Then he told himself that there weren’t very many of that type of suiting about in London. And what was the use of making yourself an eyeful when you wanted just to be one of the crowd? So he changed into his light check. That was better. A lot of gentlemen wore light checks, especially with summer coming in. But all the same it was conspicuous. Not actually an eyeful like the purple, but still conspicuous. And that wasn’t what he wanted. So he changed a second time. He was now wearing his old blue pin‐stripe. That was all right. Half London wore old blue pin‐stripes.
As he came out of his room, Mrs Boon saw him.
‘Oh Percy,’ she said. ‘Not going out.’
He sidled past her.
‘Shan’t be long, Mum,’ he muttered.
But to‐night of all nights, when his hands were trembling so much already that he had to keep them behind his back, Mrs Boon chose to be difficult.
‘I never have you at home, Percy,’ she said. ‘You’re always going somewhere.’
‘No I’m not,’ he answered sullenly, not looking up into her face as he was speaking. ‘Just want to get some air.’
‘But what are you wearing those awful old clothes for? You look…’
‘Because I gotta go into the garage on the way, that’s why,’ he told her. ‘Can’t a chap take an interest in his job without …’
‘Oh all right,’ Mrs Boon answered. ‘But I never know with you, I don’t really.’
And as he went on down the stairs, he heard Mrs Boon asking when he’d be back. But he was too far down to make any reply. Better pretend he hadn’t heard her.
Outside dusk was gathering. There was still some light, but the edges of everything had been blurred. Softened. At that moment Kennington wasn’t in brick any longer: it was in crayon. Some of the windows had lights in them, and the interiors looked cosy and inviting. His own window was shining when he glanced back up at it. But what caught his eye was a flock of pigeons wheeling round in the sky above Dulcimer Street, catching the declining sun as they turned. Each time their wings were lit up coral‐coloured for a moment and then turned grey again.
Percy extended his forefinger like a pistol and pointed it at them.
‘If I had a gun I could get one of them. Get the whole lot if I had a gun.’
But he wasn’t serious. Only fooling. He’d just said that to take his mind off his mother. What right had she got to question him? He’d never done her any harm, had he? There he was, setting out to do a job, a hot lift, and he’d been scolded by his mother. It made him look silly.
It meant, too, that he couldn’t keep his mind on his business. He had to keep on reminding himself where he was going. Even when he got on to the No. 3 bus and booked right through to the Crystal Palace it seemed that this was just some ordinary jaunt that he was out on. He didn’t feel any different from the other people on the bus.
But he was different, Voice No. 1 reminded him. Very different. They hadn’t got any ambition. They were just ordinary. They’d stick where they were, while he climbed upwards. He wouldn’t be riding in buses much longer. He’d be going about in a car. Not just a lifted car, either. His car.
When he got to the end of the journey, he looked about him for a bit. It was the sort of district that he liked. Nice class. With detached villas and neat gardens and little garages. He could just see himself
setting up in one of those with Doris. Perhaps they’d join a tennis club. He’d never actually played tennis but he could learn, couldn’t he? All the same he mustn’t start dreaming now. He’d got work to do first.
The light was just right for him as he walked along to the Carlton. Not too dark for him to see what he was doing and dark enough for other people not to see him. It was a big new cinema, the Carlton, with a large car park beside it. From the look of the place there were a hundred different cars that he could choose from. He strolled along on the opposite side of the road and hung about as though waiting for someone. Nothing out of the way in that. Outside cinemas there are always chaps hanging about for their girls. And in any case, it was essential to the plan. He couldn’t afford to pinch a car just when the owner might be coming back to get into it. He wanted a car that had only just been left there. One with the driving seat still warm. Something that would give him a clear three hours if it was a long picture before the alarm was raised. So he leant up against a wall and watched.
First of all a small Morris with dented wings came along keeping very close to the opposite kerb as though avoiding him. It turned and made its way into the car park in the same furtive manner, like a cat squeezing into the pantry. Percy let his eyes rest on it for a moment and then looked away again. There’d probably be better later. And sure enough there was. A natty little Riley with its radiator all covered with the badges of Continental Touring Clubs drew up at the barrier. Percy ran his tongue across his lips: they were dry. Then he pulled himself together. The Riley was no use to him. It bristled. He wanted something a bit smoother.
And while he stood there, along it came. An almost new Austin 12.
‘Like a lamb to the slaughter,’ he told himself. ‘Like a bleeding lamb to the slaughter.’
He ran his tongue across his lips again. His heart was thumping now.
‘It’s yours,’ said Voice No. 1. ‘Don’t do anything silly. Think first. And it’s yours.’
‘Suppose they get you,’ Voice No. 2 came. ‘You’d be for it, you would.’
But it was too late now to listen to No. 2. Percy came forward, still keeping in the shadows to see whereabouts in the car park the Austin was going to be put. And it couldn’t have been better. Its owner went right down to the far end – the dark end – and backed carefully into a vacant space, coming out again once or twice so as to do the job properly.
‘That’s right,’ Percy thought. ‘Don’t scratch it. Leave it all nice for me like mother makes it.’
He watched while two people, a man and a woman, got out of the car and went into the cinema arm in arm. Their heads were close together and they were talking.
‘Give you something real to talk about,’ he thought. ‘Just you wait till you come out again.’
The couple came out of the car park by the side entrance and went up the broad marble steps into the cinema. Percy fell in a few paces behind them. They were evidently pretty well‐to‐do folk. They bought two‐and‐sixpenny seats. Percy bought the next one and followed them up the stairs. His feet sank into the deep moss‐like carpet.
The half‐crowns were right at the back of the circle. Nice seats. Percy would have liked to spend the rest of the evening in them. It looked a good film, too – girls dancing and hot trumpeters and rhythm. But the usherette was trying to put him right alongside the couple that he was shadowing. And that would never do. He’d got to go outside again, long before they did.
He stood back, and the usherette flashed her torch on to one of the seats in the row behind. This was perfect. Percy sat there, his hat in his lap. He could see just what he wanted to see. The head of the Austin owner showed up like a dark blob against the lower part of the screen.
‘I’ll let ’em get settled first,’ he decided. ‘Let ’em get properly settled, and then I’ll leave ’em here to enjoy themselves.’
It was hot in the cinema, and the palms of his hands were sticky. He undid his raincoat and watched the whole of the next number right through. It wasn’t until the illuminated clock over the Exit showed eight‐fifteen that he got up. As he went he turned and looked over his shoulder. Mr and Mrs Austin were snuggled down in their seats as if it were a sofa.
‘Say good‐bye to baby,’ Percy said under his breath. ‘And ring up the insurance in the morning. Do you good to have a nice walk.’
Nobody seemed to notice that he was leaving the cinema almost as soon as he had sat down. Why should they? They were all far too much interested in the crooner on the screen. And no wonder. He could see every detail of her face. It was about six feet across, and every inch of it was pretty. But Percy wasn’t taking any notice of it. He was on the job. He was one against ten million. He was a free lance.
And he was being careful. He deliberately didn’t put his hat on till he was outside. It would have been a mistake to let other people see him wearing it. He wanted to be two quite different people now. There was the quiet young man without a hat who had taken himself to the picture and then slipped out again because it was boring. And there was the young dare‐devil with a snap brim trilby low over his eyes who drove stolen cars across the plains South of London. And because he was clever Percy didn’t even leave by the same door. He went down to the exit right in the front of the house. It was the exit leading straight into the car park.
During the last fifteen minutes something had happened outside. It was a good deal more than dark now, it was slightly foggy. A thin yellow haze had been smeared over everything. And it just suited him. There were no lights in the car park and a street lamp opposite merely picked out the shadows of the cars. Shadows, that was it. His little bit of business was best done in the shadows.
Beside the exit of the cinema there was a large notice printed in black letters on a white ground. It announced that cars in the car parks were left entirely at the owners’ risk. Percy grinned when he saw it.
‘That’s O.K. by me,’ he thought. ‘And what I’m doing is O.K. by them. So why worry?’
But his body wasn’t as brave as he was. It was trembling again. And he was cold suddenly. So cold that he buttoned his coat right up to the neck to protect himself. As he did so something thumped up against his lip. It was the Hedgehog.
‘Now or never, Percy,’ Voice No. 1 said to him. ‘This is your big chance, chum.’
The lock in the car door gave him a bit more trouble than he had expected. None of the keys he’d got were any good for it. And the windows were shut fast to keep the flies out. But that didn’t stop him. If you couldn’t open a car any other way you just took the handle clean off and the lock came away with it. It was easy. He’d got the screw‐driver with him and he began using it. All the same this was the part where he’d have to go carefully. It was one thing to go up to a car and unlock it. It was something quite different to be seen tinkering.
He’d got all the screws loose and was just getting ready to do what he’d come for when the exit door of the cinema opened again and a couple emerged into the car park. They came straight towards him. For a moment Percy thought that they were Mr and Mrs Austin. His mouth went dry.
‘Careful,’ Voice No. 1 warned him. ‘Take it easy. Act natural.’
That was the important thing: to act natural. He thrust his hands into his pockets and began to saunter off. But it wasn’t anything. No need to get jumpy. The couple got into a battered little Ford and shot away from the Carlton as though they were inside a rocket. All that they left behind them was the smell of oil. Percy went back to his work, though he was still trembling.
It was easier now. With a bit of a tug the lock came away with the handle and there was nothing between him and what he wanted except a door that hung open on its hinges. Even so he hesitated a moment before he actually climbed in! He was more nervous than he had expected and his mouth kept going dry.
‘It’s you I’m doing it for, Doris darling,’ he told himself. ‘It’s going to be our nest‐egg. It’s you I’m doing it for.’
Once insi
de it was child’s play. He knew all about starters. And this wouldn’t be the first time he’d started a car when he’d left the key behind him. Everything was in nice condition, too. The batteries were full and the engine started almost as soon as he touched it. It was only the door that was a trouble. It was still standing open as if inviting the whole world to get in after him. But it wasn’t the first missing lock either that he’d known. He made a wad of newspapers that Mr Austin had left behind him in the car, and jammed the door with it. Now he was ready.
Getting past the man at the gate was the first difficulty, but it wasn’t a serious one. With his hat pulled down over his eyes, Percy lowered the window a little and held out threepence. And threepence wasn’t a guess either. He’d studied how much to give in car parks. More than that might have raised an eyebrow and less might have led to a few sarcastic remarks. Threepence was just right. The attendant took it and even went out into the road to see that there was no traffic coming. Percy gave a little salute with his free hand by way of acknowledgment and the journey home had begun.
Simple, wasn’t it?
2
Now that he had actually done it, now that he was riding high he didn’t feel nervous any longer. He drove carefully, of course – it was practically a new car: scarcely run in he should reckon – and he didn’t want to spoil it. But he felt quite at home in it. It might have been his for years and not just for the last five minutes. And because he was driving slowly it gave him plenty of time for thought. He drove along contemplating the future.
‘And this won’t be the only one,’ he told himself. ‘There’ll be others too. Posh ones, some of them, as soon as I get things reorganised. Bentleys and Lagondas. And I’ll get someone else to do the dirty work on them. Keep my hands clean as soon as I get a chance.’
London Belongs to Me Page 22
