How to Steal a Piano

by John Hughes

But Mr Huxley’s dander was up. “Will you go to lunch?” He leaned forward, face purple, and said: “I am ordering you to go to lunch!”

  Brown-nose looked stunned. “Call you back,” he said into the phone and had the hand piece back in its cradle in seconds. “I really don’t think there’s any need…”

  “NOW!” Mr Huxley marched back into his office. Brown-nose meandered away towards Televisions and Hi-fi, his tail between his legs, sulking.

  The telephone rang.

  Brown-nose stopped and glanced back. I was standing right next to the phone and picked up the receiver. He started to walk back towards me, so I shook my head and waved my arm at him as dismissively as I could manage. I may have had my middle finger slightly more raised than the others; I can’t be sure after all these years. Brownlow got the message and wandered off for good this time.

  “Piano department. Good afternoon, James Holloway speaking, how may I help?”

  At the other end I heard Martin Allwright doing an extremely accurate impression of Dame Edith Evans as Lady Bracknell.

  “Is that the pyaarno department? Splendid! Now listen to me, young man, my names is Walker – Miss Jane V. Walker… that’s V for vagina. I bought a pyaarno from your establishment ten years ago and now I’d like it delivered as soon as possible, preferably this afternoon. I live in Scotland now.”

  I hadn’t expected this and was momentarily stunned. “I…”

  “Are you there?”

  “Yes… yes I’m here.”

  “You sound rather – what’s the word those dreadful Americans use all the time – ah yes, cute! You sound cute. Perhaps you could deliver it yourself, in person.”

  “I don’t think…”

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Are you well hung?”

  “No! I mean… not bad.”

  I could hear Martin giggling. I decided to play him at his own game. “I’m sorry, madam, but I think you need to speak to our Security Manager. I’ll put you through.”

  “No, wait!” Martin reverted to his normal voice. “Just trying to break the ice, Jimmy boy. I’m phoning on behalf of Miss Walker…” He went on to give me all the information I needed in our well-rehearsed script. He told me the piano number, the invoice number, the sale price, Miss Walker’s old address and her new one – a nice long way away in Kirkintillock, East Dunbartonshire, to the north-east of Glasgow. He also explained that they would make their own arrangements to collect the piano on Thursday, if convenient. I wrote everything down, thanked him and said I would check the details and get back to him to confirm. I asked for his contact number and wrote that down too, knowing it did not exist and that I’d be confirming from home that evening.

  I went into the office with my notepad and told Mr Huxley about the phone conversation. Fortunately, Laura was at lunch and not around to hear the customer’s name, which was a piece of luck.

  “Shall I deal with it for you?” I asked.

  “Would you mind?” replied Mr Huxley, relieved at the thought of not having to get involved. “Don’t let Brownlow interfere… he’ll only screw it up. If he tries, tell him to speak to me.”

  “I’d be pleased to help. It’s lucky the customer is arranging collection herself.”

  “Unusual. Does that seem a bit odd to you?”

  “No I don’t think so. If she’s having a load of other items shipped it makes sense to have someone coordinate them all.”

  “I suppose so. Do we know who’s coming to collect? I assume they’ll know how to handle a piano.”

  “Not yet. I’ll find out.”

  “Thank you.”

  I said: “If it’s going to Scotland that will save us a fair amount.”

  “That’s true, so it won’t cut into our margin. Ten years ago, did you say? I presume we still have the thing.”

  “I’ll go over to the workshop after lunch and find out.”

  “Thank you, James.”

  That evening I phoned Martin and told him he was the biggest twat on the planet.

  “Calm down,” he said. “I was just lightening the mood – bringing a bit of levity to the proceedings. You sounded so uptight.”

  “I was! Brown-nose was late going to lunch. A minute earlier and he’d have answered the phone.”

  “So how did it go with the arrangements?”

  “Smoothly. Mr Huxley is happy for me to deal with everything. I went over to the workshop to confirm we still have the piano, just for show. Then I completed the despatch docket and got Mr Huxley to sign it. All your delivery blokes need to do is quote the docket number to security when they turn up on Thursday and Bob’s your uncle.”

  “No further problems with Brown-nose?”

  “He tried to interfere and say it was his job to deal with queries, but I referred him to Mr Huxley and didn’t hear any more after that. Anyway, he got tied up dealing with a phone lead for a Bösendorfer grand for delivery to a Greek island of all things!”

  “I know.”

  “Was that you?”

  “Indirectly.”

  “You sly one! Presumably it will go pear-shaped?”

  “Eventually, but we’ll milk it until the end of the week to keep his focus elsewhere.”

  “Okay, you’ve redeemed yourself. You’re now the second biggest twat on the planet.”

  “And what about Laura?”

  “She wasn’t in the office when I told Wilfred, so she doesn’t know anything about it.”

  “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  “Is everything arranged with your delivery people?”

  “Everything.”

  “You’ll need to let me know the company name so I can inform security.” He gave me a name. “Will they have ID?”

  “Of course.”

  “What can possibly go wrong?”

  “What indeed.”

  * * *

  Thursday. P-Day plus 2. Collection day. A day I had to go in to work and behave as normally as I could possibly manage knowing that a bogus delivery team would be turning up at Trevor Square to steal five thousand quid’s worth of Bechstein grand piano… and I was responsible.

  I had spoken to Martin the night before. I was anxious, and it showed. He assured me that everything was arranged and that all I had to do was go into work as usual, try and sell some pianos and go home. He would phone me in the evening at home to let me know how it had gone. He told me again to consider the risks, or rather the lack of any. Others were taking chances, but for me there would be no comebacks. All I’d done was my job by taking a phone call and acting upon it. His words were comforting and I felt better for hearing them. Nevertheless, I could tell Martin was nervous too.

  By morning his assurances had disappeared from my thoughts entirely. So many things could go wrong. My head was swimming with what-ifs. What if the delivery team gave themselves away by behaving nervously. What if Security became suspicious and started to make enquiries. What if they phoned the department for clarification and spoke to someone other than me who tried phoning the contact number and discovered it didn’t exist.

  There were answers to them all of course. The delivery men wouldn’t behave suspiciously because they were professionals – this was what they did all day long, every day. There would probably only be two of them, three at the most, and quite likely just one who knew what was really going on. If Security phoned the department I could make sure they were put through to me.

  I wondered what time they would arrive at Trevor Square. Shit, I never thought to ask! I should have insisted Martin gave me a rough idea; morning or afternoon would have been good to know. Now I’d be worrying all day and wouldn’t have a clue how it had gone until that evening. Only if there was a cock up would I be aware sooner. Oh God, what a day lay ahead!

  This time I didn’t
manage to get to work before throwing up. I was still on the District Line when I felt my stomach complaining to the point of no return. I got off at the next stop, rushed out of the station and said farewell to my meagre breakfast in a rubbish bin across the road. When I had retched until it hurt because there was nothing more to bring up, I wiped my mouth on a tissue and stood for a moment looking across at the station. How appropriate, I thought. I was at Turnham Green.

  On the tube again, I wondered if it was too late to back out of this whole sordid caper. I’d never done anything dishonest in my life. And here I was wrapped up in a criminal act; theft. Not just a minor bit of shop lifting… an enormous one! Five thousand pounds’ worth! I would phone Martin as soon as I got to Knightsbridge and tell him the whole thing was off. I’d changed my mind.

  Instead of my usual routine change onto the Piccadilly line, which took me to Knightsbridge, I got off at South Kensington and walked the rest of the way to get some fresh air and to mull over my predicament. I was frightened. What had I done! I stepped into a phone booth on the Brompton Road, ironically right opposite The Bunch of Grapes, where I’d first mentioned Miss Jane V. Walker’s Bechstein to Martin. I dialled his home number. Chrissie answered. Martin had already left for work, she told me. No message, I said, I’d phone him later.

  In the department I tried very hard to behave as normally as possible. I opened up some piano lids, did some dusting and then sat at my desk flicking through my order book, pretending to check something or another. Clarence Brownlow and Raymond had desks next to each other and were both sitting at them. Mine was further down the department. I stood up and walked purposefully in their direction.

  “That piano – the one that’s been in storage for all those years,” I said. “It’s being collected today. If there are any queries about it will you please refer them to me?”

  Raymond nodded.

  Clarence gave me his stare and responded predictably. “All queries ought to be dealt with by me. I am the department manager.”

  “Mr Huxley asked me to deal with this one.” In my head I added, because he didn’t want you to screw it up, you knob. Then out loud: “Besides, aren’t you tied up organising the sale of a Bösendorfer grand?”

  “How did you know about that?”

  Oops, good question.

  “Laura must have mentioned it. Terrific commission if it comes off. Special order I assume, as we don’t have one in stock. How’s it going?”

  “Complicated. I need to arrange for it to be shipped directly from the factory in Austria to the delivery address.”

  “And where is that?”

  He consulted his order book. “Mykonos.”

  “Where the hell is that?”

  “In the Aegean Sea. It’s a Greek island.”

  Despite my anxious state, I found it hard to supress a giggle. Martin Allwright at his mischievous best! That would keep Brown-nose busy.

  “They want it by next weekend.”

  In a lightened mood, though determined not to go through with the theft, I made my excuses and headed towards the gents, but instead kept going until I was downstairs, outside and in a public phone box. I dialled the number for Curetons in New Oxford Street. A female voice answered and in a rough attempt at an American accent I asked to speak to Mr Allwright. She asked who’s calling. I replied: “Burt Bacharach.”

  When he picked up the phone, Martin had clearly been briefed. “Mr Bacharach… Burt Bacharach? What an unexpected pleasure – and an honour too, sir. How can I help you?”

  “Martin,” I said in my normal voice.

  “Oh.” The disappointment in his voice was palpable. “It’s you.”

  “I’m phoning about the delivery,” I said, trying to keep the call generic and any sense of panic hidden. “I’ve changed my mind and want to cancel the order.”

  There was silence at the other end of the line. A long silence.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Martin replied eventually. “May I ask why?”

  “It’s no longer required. I don’t want to go through with it.”

  Another silence, shorter than the first. “Unfortunately, that won’t be possible. The ship has sailed, so to speak… or rather the van has left and is on its way.”

  “Can it be stopped?”

  “I have no way of making contact, I’m afraid.” There followed a painfully awkward silence. “Has anything happened I ought to know about? Anything that might be cause for concern?”

  “I just changed my mind.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Martin reassuringly. “I’m sure everything will be fine and you’ll be delighted once the day is over and the collection has taken place.”

  I suddenly felt foolish, and weak, and a coward. I needed to get off the phone quickly. “When will they be here?”

  “Difficult to say precisely. Some time this afternoon I imagine.”

  “Okay, thanks anyway.”

  “You’re welcome, Burt.”

  “Mister Bacharach to you!” I slammed the phone down.

  * * *

  For the rest of the day… nothing happened.

  Raymond played the piano, then went to lunch, then came back and played the piano some more. Brownlow spent most of the time on the phone sorting out his Bösendorfer order, punctuated with occasional leaps across the showroom if anyone so much as glanced at an instrument. Then he’d adopt his smarmy salesman persona, pontificating about the design, the action, the touch, the mechanism, the history of the manufacturer, culminating in an inordinately self-indulgent performance of Chopin’s Minute Waltz by which time the potential customer had either glazed over or vanished.

  Or rather… nothing happened until just a few minutes before closing time, which in those days was five o’clock. I was praying that absolutely nothing at all would happen because that meant everything had gone to plan, the piano had been collected without any hiccups, Security hadn’t intervened, the delivery van was on its way to a port somewhere with Miss Jane V. Walker’s Bechstein on board, we’d got away with it, and a thousand quid would soon be in my bank, or more accurately in an envelope stuffed at the back of my pants drawer.

  Then, at four fifty-five, Laura appeared from the office, looking like sex on legs, spotted me and shimmied her way across the showroom in her very tight skirt. “Mr Holloway,” she announced using her public voice. “Trevor Square on the phone for you – in the office.”

  My heart sank. “Really?” The office, not the showroom phone. Bad sign. “Why in the office?”

  Laura was standing right next to me now and adopted her quieter, non-public voice. “Because Brown-nose has been monopolising the showroom extension all afternoon and no one can get through to you out here.”

  My public voice: “Thank you, Miss Davies.” My non-public voice: “If it’s good news there’s a shag in it for you.”

  Miss Davies, non-public voice: “Piss off.”

  “Is Mr Huxley in there?”

  “He disappeared off home half an hour ago.”

  I made my way to the office with my stomach churning and the veins around my temples throbbing. This was horribly ominous. I closed the office door behind me, took a deep breath and picked up the telephone hand set.

  “James Holloway speaking.” It was a croak, barely audible.

  “Mr Holloway? Err ‘ello, sir, it’s ‘Arry speaking to you, from the workshop, by telephone. ‘Arry Smith.”

  I sighed a huge sigh of relief. Not Security wanting to quiz me about the attempted theft of a piano. Just Harry Smith. But hang on! Harry never phoned anyone – ever. This itself was unusual. My blood pressure remained cautiously high.

  “Yes, Harry.”

  “French polisher.”

  “I know who you are, Harry. What can I do for you?”

  “Mr Aiden’s gone home, he’s left for the day.” />
  “Thank you for the update. How can I help, is anything the matter?”

  “Only these blokes come to collect a pyanner just now, that Bechstein grand you was asking me about the other week. Remember?”

  “Yes, I remember.” So did he. Shit! “Is anything wrong?”

  “They came after Mr Aiden had left, so I ‘elped find it for them. Lucky you was asking about it recently, otherwise I wouldn’t have put two and two together.”

  “Have they taken it?”

  “Yes, sir. They had a despatch docket with the H number and everythin’ so it was all above board. Get what I mean?”

  “I get what you mean, Harry.”

  “I didn’t recognise ‘em. I know most of the pyanner shifters but I’d never seen this lot before. ‘Ope they was kosher.”

  “I’m sure they were. Have they gone now?”

  “Yes, they’re gawn.”

  I felt a wave of relief gently flow over me. Just a small one. A ripple. “When was this?”

  “Ooh now then, let me see… about an arf hour ago I’d reckon. Yes, sir, about arf and hour ago.”

  “No need to call me sir, Harry. James is fine.”

  “Right you are, sir… Mr Holloway.”

  “James.”

  “I apologise, Mr James. I don’t use the phone very often. I ain’t used to it.”

  “Not to worry. So is everything alright? Are you just letting us know?”

  “Yes, Sir James. A coincidence you asking about it, after ten years sittin’ there, then just a couple of days later they come an’ collect it.”

  I winced. This was not what I wanted to hear. “Life’s full of coincidences,” I said reassuringly. “Now tell me, is there anything wrong?”

  “No. Yes. Well sort of.”

  “What is it, Harry? There’s something isn’t there…”

  I heard a thumping sound and there was a pause. He’d dropped the phone.

  “Ello?”

  “Yes Harry, I’m here. What on earth is the matter?’

  “Them blokes… I don’t think they’re used to dealin’ with pyanners.”

  “What makes you say that, Harry?”

  He sniffed incredibly loudly down the phone and I heard what sounded suspiciously like a fart. Then he cleared his throat. “They left the fuckin’ legs behind.”