King Dido

by Alexander Baron

  It warmed his pride to have her with him. He had never seen her look so nice. She wore a little straw boater with a sprig of cherries on it, a nice fawn coat with a belt at the back and fur round the cuffs and collar, beneath which her pretty boots peeped, and her hands in a muff made her look dainty and ladylike. Laughter put life into her. For the first time he saw brightness in her eyes and a flush in her cheeks.

  When the flow of the crowd carried them out to the street, both were tense once more. They had talked a good deal, awkwardly, Grace offering titbits about herself, Dido unwilling to risk enlarging on the fictional account he had given of himself and sticking to generalities.

  Now they fell silent, until Dido took her arm and with a curt, “This way,” steered her in an unexpected direction.

  She went meekly, stifled now with fright. Dido, too, was inwardly scared. He still had no intentions. His only thought on leaving the theatre was, “What now?” It was a challenge to himself, which was answered by a series of mindless actions.

  “This way. Short cut.” He steered her again, left from Shoreditch into the maze of back alleys which would take them across to Old Street. It was really a short cut, but Grace knew that it was not one which a gentleman ought to use with a lady. They walked in silence through narrow streets in which gaslamps flickered on ancient wall brackets. Blackened brick walls oozed gleaming moisture. Diamonds of pale light through the holes in barred shutters were the only signs of life from decrepit cottages. The mud underfoot was so bad that Grace had to walk with the hem of her skirt lifted. There were dustbins by the doors and a dense smell of garbage.

  In the narrow ways Dido walked behind her. His mind was frozen stiff. He did not know what power guided his movements as he directed her from one alley to the next. All the time he could feel the thrust of a resolution but he would not permit himself to read it. He trudged behind her as dourly as a soldier under orders. Grace walked daintily, but she felt like a prisoner with rifle-muzzles behind her. It was beyond her why she had come meekly but she had had no power to do otherwise. She, too, refused to let her mind work; yet what she refused to read was a certainty of the outcome. And when, from behind, his hands clamped on her arms, turned her round and pushed her back into the dark doorway of a workshop, her muscles had been cringing in expectation for minutes.

  He had been staring at her boots as he walked. The ankles fascinated him, so slender and pretty. In his head he was aware only of a packed blankness and he was taken more unaware than her when there was a wrench like a rupture of tissue inside his breast and he felt his fingers clamp on her arms.

  They were close, feeling the steam of each other’s breath in the cold. There was no fear in her gaze, only troubled enquiry. He leaned on her. He was only weight to her, but he felt her against him so pliant and springy that in a moment he was nuzzling at her mouth with his, groping and grabbing with his fingers.

  There was no sound from either of them except for their breathing. She did not struggle. She had simply locked stiff with terror. Even her hands were still trapped in the muff. He fumbled her coat open and pawed in the lap of her skirt and with a grunt of exasperation jerked the waist so hard that the buttons burst. Only then did she utter a single mew of distress, let the muff drop and clutched at the skirt to stop it from falling.

  He was jamming her harder and harder into the angle between brick wall and wooden door. Her back hurt. Utterly concentrated, as if not seeing her face close to his, he was clawing at the confusion of clothes his hands had found, pulling, tearing — he was panting now — until she felt fingers probing at her skin. He was doing something to his own clothes and then she felt it hot and hard, a blazing flesh heat and she went iron-rigid, not resisting but paralysed; his hand came up hard under her chin, she looked into his glittering eyes and in a flash she feared for her life.

  She was limp now. It had been another of those seconds when the course of life is decided blindly; for the force in his hand had been enough to break her neck if she had not relaxed, yet he had not meant her harm, he had not even thought. She was limp, and he pressed on to her. She was not fainting, her eyes were open, clear and merely interested; it was an apathy of all her body; he sensed it, and it only stoked his rage of blind wanting.

  He leaned right into her, and before he was inside it was finished. Absurd. In a second the wild blind flash of force had gone and he leaned on a woman, feeling weak and foolish.

  He stood away from her. He did not look at her any more. He even turned away primly to button himself under his overcoat. He had always known there was nothing in it.

  Grace stood wearily away from the door. She was too busy to speak. She was looking about herself for a safetypin. She found one and fastened her skirt. Still loose, the skirt sagged. She began to stoop but he was before her and handed the muff to her. It was wet and spiky with mud. She looked at him at last and made a small, resigned grimace. She started to walk on and he followed. Her straw hat was askew, she walked with a limp and her hands held her belly low down as if she were torn inside. Concern stirred in him, he said, “Here —” But she limped on.

  It wasn’t pain. She had expected pain but she was only a little bruised about the thighs. She walked awkwardly because her skirt still threatened to come down, and between her legs there was such a mess of creepy wetness, torn wool, bunched garments, dangling lace, that she didn’t know where she was.

  Dido at last found words. He said, “I’ll wed yer.”

  She limped on. There was nothing in her mind but a woebegone wondering as to what she would look like when she got back to the hostel.

  He said again, with a touch of impatience, “I’ll wed yer.”

  This time she took the words in. She had not wanted this man. She had no special feelings about him. Things had just happened to her one after another. She made no choice but her upbringing was such that she knew only one saving sequel to her situation and sulkily, without even thinking, she answered, “When?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Harry Murchison was in no haste to pull off the big job. He waited three weeks to get everything right. Albert had put him on to it. Albert was a wonder. If you went about it Albert’s way, it was a walkover. Harry’s confidence had grown. A cautious man, he had stepped cautiously and now he had enough trust in Albert to try something more ambitious.

  How Albert had got on to the Dutchman’s game he would not say but he had his sources. He was a bit of a genius, was old Albert. The Dutchman imported toys and he had a warehouse in Aldgate. But Albert knew that the Dutchman had another line. Free Trade was the thing as everyone knew, but for some reason the government had put a duty of seven-pence an ounce on saccharine. The Dutchman smuggled in saccharine. Sevenpence an ounce might not sound a lot but it meant over a thousand pounds profit per ton. The Dutchman brought it in by the ton, in bottoms of toy crates and the bellies of teddy-bears and rocking-horses. Albert also reckoned that he had another line in stolen diamonds from Antwerp, for he was stone rich.

  The Dutchman lived in this big house near Victoria Park. He was not fool enough to put his money in the bank. Instead he had built up a fine collection of silver at home. But that was not the end of Albert’s information. He also knew that the Dutchman had taken his wife and children to Bournemouth for a month of winter sunshine.

  Down the broad roads each day came a succession of hawkers crying their wares. Two days after Harry’s reconnaissance a young man of nineteen joined their ranks. He pushed a barrow laden with bins and he went from house to house, calling at the tradesmen’s entrances offering to buy compo.

  It was the custom for cooks to render down their waste cooking fats and sell them under this name as a perquisite. It was bought by itinerant tradesmen for resale to cheap cookshops and fried fish saloons.

  The young man was stocky but muscular and light on his feet. He had a keen clean-cut face and a thick tumble of fair hair. A spot of laughter danced everlastingly in his eyes. He was of the lusty and merry type that
is irresistible to many women. He went in through the side gate of the Dutchman’s house and knocked at the side door. A maid answered and he was a long time talking to her.

  He was the son of Harry Murchison’s second brother-in-law Fred Gates and he was known in the family as Young Fred. He reported, “There’s this maid an’ a cook. The family’s away but they got relatives stayin’ there. Some other couple. They won’t give no trouble. They go to bed round eleven every night an’ sleep like pigs till nigh midday.”

  His listeners were his father Fred Gates, Harry and Harry’s brother Jem. Keogh had been left out of the job. Of late he had been more and more of a nuisance. He wouldn’t have it that Harry was the guv’nor. He knew nothing about the job. The cautious Harry had laid down that they must not let a word slip even to wives or mothers.

  “I’m goin’ back termorrer,” Young Fred said. “Cook’s knockin’ up a couple o’ pound o’ compo for me.”

  “That’s right,” Harry said. “You get your feet under the table.”

  “Get your ’and under ’er skirt,” Jem said. “The boy’s a marvel with it. Nineteen an’ ’e’s ’ad more o’ the other than I’ve ’ad ’ot dinners.”

  Not a flicker disturbed Harry’s thoughtful melancholy. “You brought back nigh two stone o’ fat today. That’s good. Do a job you wanna do it proply.”

  “Do that maid prop’ly,” Jem guffawed.

  Harry said, “Can’t you be serious? Don’t take yer business serious you’ll end up in chokey.” To Young Fred. “You take yer time, boy. Cookin’ fats bought an’ sold. That’s yer business. Take it serious.”

  Next day Young Fred went back to the house and was invited into the kitchen. The maid was a dark-haired little Welsh girl. She poured a cup of tea for him while the cook peeled potatoes and inspected him. The cook was a massive beefy woman of fifty well laced in. On his way out he made a whispered appointment for the evening with the maid. He was in the doorway when the cook called out, “Come again today a week. I’ll ’ave another two pound o’ fat for yer.”

  The maid kept the appointment. He took her to a picture palace and escorted her decorously back to the side door before eleven. She had told him that she had to be in by eleven o’clock because the boss’s brother-in-law who was looking after the house went round at that hour. He was a very careful man. He bolted all the doors, made sure that the screw-locks on the windows were fastened and even tested the bars inside the shutters. Last of all he bolted the door of the servants’ entrance and then went up to bed. Young Fred did not detain her at the door but let her go with a light goodnight kiss.

  A week later he called and gave the cook a good price for her compo. She made him sit down to a hot meal. He and the maid exchanged secret smiles. They had an appointment for that evening.

  Throughout the evening she was coyly insistent that he must take her home earlier than last week. When he asked why, she became giggly and mysterious. They were at the side door by ten-thirty. He followed one kiss with a second and became so venturesome that the girl, pressed against the wall, was panting. His fingers became busy with her clothing. She clasped her hand over his and whispered, “Not here. More comfortable inside.”

  He whispered, “What about this geezer that locks up?”

  She giggled, “Don’t you worry about him.” He followed her into the dark passage. Instead of taking him into the kitchen she led him down the corridor and opened a door. He went in. A match flared, a gas-mantel plopped and the room was vaguely lit. The cook was sitting up in bed, her hair down round the red pudding of her face, her breasts like two more enormous puddings beneath her nightgown.

  He said, “What’s this?”

  “You can come in long as you be’ave yourself,” the cook said.

  Behind him the maid giggled. The cook said, “No point stayin’ outside in the cold when there’s a warm bed.”

  “You’re a nice one,” he muttered. The maid had slipped past him and was undressing quickly.

  “Well,” Young Fred said to the cook, “You’re a good sort an’ no mistake.” He took off his cap and muffler, hung his jacket on a chair, sat down and slipped off his boots. “You gonna bring us a cup o’ tea after?”

  The Welsh girl giggled. The cook said, “You be a good boy, you’ll be looked after. Man can’t do ’is best in the cold.”

  Young Fred stood up to step out of his trousers. “Ca’n’ even find it in the cold, lady.”

  In woollen vest, long pants and socks he padded towards the maid’s bed. The cook threw back the blankets from over her and said, “Where you goin?”

  He stopped. “What’s that?”

  The maid was a real giggler. He could hear her. The cook said, “Don’t stand there gaping. It’s cold. Don’t you know your manners?”

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the maid.

  “What about ’er?”

  “She’ll wait,” the cook said.

  Next morning he sat with his partners. “It was ’orrible,” he said indignantly. “She was murder that cook. Wen’ at it like a beefy great ox.” His father and Jem were shouting with laughter. He said, “You can laugh. I ’ad the girl to see to arter. Never know the like of it in me life. Disgustin’ it was.”

  “Hoo-hoo!” His father was doubled up. “Boy ’ad to work for ’is livin’. That’s a change.”

  “They do it regular.” Young Fred’s voice still rang with astonishment. “Only way the cook can get a bit at ’er age. Girl tol’ me she’s been up the spout twice, cook got rid of ’em. Never seen the like of it.”

  “Never mind.” Harry’s curt voice cut into the laughter. “What abaht this geezer lockin’ up?”

  “’E come round soon arter eleven. I ’eard the church clock. I was still in with the ol’ mare. She tol’ me to lay still all of a sudden. Then I ’eard ’is feet clumpin’. ’E shot the bolt an’ turned a key an’ went back through the kitchen into the ’ouse. I said to the ol’ cook, ‘’Ere, I’m bloody locked in.’ I ’eard the maid, Olwen ’er name is, I ’eard ’er giggle. Life’s one long joke for that cob. Then the cook said, ‘Don’t you worry, son, we ’ad another key made months since. An’ the bolt is well oiled.’ That’s when I realised these two cows was doin’ it regular.”

  Fred and Jem found the lad’s account funny. Harry gave them a glance of contempt. “You can get a wax o’ the key?”

  “Look, ’Arry,” Young Fred said. “I’m not in me nappies still. You leave that to me.”

  “Night we go in, you can get to the door an’ unfasten. You can tell these two slags you’re goin’ to the bog.”

  “Do me a favour,” Young Fred pleaded. “You don’ ’ave to tell me everything.”

  “You listen. We don’ take no chances. Where does this brother-in-law sleep?”

  “First floor back. ’Im an’ ’is missus.”

  “An’ the silver?”

  “In the parlour. Ground floor front. It’s in cabinets. Maid was grumblin’ about the polishin’ she ’as to do.”

  “Open cabinets without no noise,” Harry said. “No need to wake this pair upstairs. You said they sleep like pigs.”

  He glanced at Jem. “Long as this clumsy ox don’t balls everything up.”

  “’Ere!” Jem protested. “You leave orf!”

  “You shut up,” Harry growled at him. “I’m only takin’ you ’cause I don’t trust Keogh. All you know is the ’eavy stuff. We don’ want no sandbags or coshes on this job. It’s a scientific lay, see? And you,” he turned to Young Fred. “We go in next week. Soon as you tip us the door key. Keep them two rotten ’ores well greased till then.”

  “Bli!” Young Fred groaned. “I ’ope I can last it.”

  It was just after midnight and there was no moon. Harry found the side door unbolted as Young Fred had promised. He and Jem slipped in. The police had Harry’s fingerprints. He and Jem wore gloves and canvas beach shoes with rubber soles. He closed the door silently.

  Light glimmered under a door down t
he passage. The two men stole towards it. They paused outside. They could hear the whispering of a girl and smothered giggles. She was a giggler all right. From elsewhere in the room the loud steady alternation of snore and sigh was audible. Harry turned the doorknob cautiously and slowly opened the door. The first thing he saw, on a bed directly in front of him, was the rear end of Young Fred, a behind and a pair of crouched legs clothed in wool.

  The two men came into the room. The snoring came from the other bed where the cook had turned away on her side in a great heap of blankets, from which her buttocks protruded like the white hindquarters of a brewery mare. The door made the faintest squeak as it opened and their shoes the faintest scuffle on the floor; and between Young Fred’s parted legs Harry glimpsed a girl’s face pinched and staring with terror. She uttered the start of a cry. Young Fred’s hand clapped over her mouth. Using his hands and knees he held her down. In the instant the two other men had pounced on the cook. She heaved, showed a red startled face, uttered a few gurgles and moans; then she was trussed and gagged; and they went to tie up the girl.

  Jem said to Young Fred, “I could fancy you meself. You look lovely in them John L’s.”

  “You can laugh —” Young Fred rapidly slipped his clothes on. “I nigh done meself an injury gettin’ the old one off ter sleep.”

  Harry had gone out and brought in their gear, which he was sorting. “Too much rabbit,” he snapped. “Take them empty bags, Jem. Young Fred, cop ’old o’ this.”

  He gave Young Fred a bull’s eye lantern. The boy leading, they went along the corridor and through the kitchen into the house. Harry said, “Move. We got fifteen minutes.”

  He had the getaway all planned. It would be swift, in a cab driven by Fred Gates, which they had hired for the night from a not too scrupulous owner. But Harry was a cautious man. He would not have the cab waiting suspiciously outside. Fred would drive past in exactly fifteen minutes. They would slip out of the side door with no noise to rouse the people upstairs and watch for Fred from behind the wooden gate. He would drive on and do another circuit of the block unless he saw the flash of their lamp. Only when he saw their signal would he stop, take them up and whisk them away.