A Voice Like Velvet

by Donald Henderson

  Mrs Mansfield thought Ernest Bisham was quite enchanting. He was just as she expected, he was just like his voice. And he was so attentive. Could he really be so interested in her jewellery and her chatter, and such kind remarks about her servant problems and whether they locked the back door at night? ‘We don’t have a back door in Mount Street, Mr Bisham! It’s a basement kitchen and faces the front!’ He was sweet. She told him, amused, that if he was really interested she always made her maids sleep with their windows open. Even that seemed to interest him. He said: ‘But what about the black-out? The room must still be airless? Unless, of course, they have curtains.’ She was delighted with him and said they had curtains. She also said how much they cost, and how many coupons for the material, saying the whole thing was a scandal. She explained that her broadcast talk was to be about reducing the costs of material—by economic use—and it was a strong subject of hers and her husband’s. When she got on to the subject of jewellery, she was intensely enthusiastic. She adored it. Mr Bisham said how much he admired her diamond necklace and she said: ‘So do I! In fact, I sleep in it!’

  Mr Bisham looked rather thoughtful.

  ‘She sleeps in it,’ he thought to himself. ‘This is going to be unusually exciting …’

  ‘Well, now about the broadcast,’ said Mrs Mansfield.

  And, much as he had done with Lady Stewker, Mr Bisham explained that he did not know if he would announce her on the air or not. He said there was a rota, and it depended who was on duty.

  ‘I shall hope, of course, to be on duty at the time of your broadcast,’ he said courteously, and wondered where her maids slept. She said she had two.

  He tried not to sound too courteous, in case she was one of those embarrassing women who wouldn’t leave announcers alone. She had asked if he was married. Women sometimes sent presents to the ‘voice’ they admired. If the presents were wine, cigarettes or cigars, it was pleasant. But sometimes they were rather more unusual. He had once received a live cobra, for example, from overseas. On another occasion, he received an iced cake bearing the words ‘Baby Mine’. Mrs Mansfield seemed capable of sending a cake of this kind. There was something arch and puffy about her.

  He explained, a little briskly, which department would handle her broadcast, and said that she would be telephoned by another department, and he was tactfully brief about what would probably happen to her script if she had written it herself. If she hadn’t written it herself, but wanted them to, there was nothing to worry about, except possibly her reputation as a writer.

  She told him he had been most delightfully helpful.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough, Mr Bisham. And I had simply no idea I ought not to have approached you. I quite thought announcers arranged everything.’

  ‘Many people do …!’

  ‘You must come to dinner. My house in Mount Street is charming, though I say it myself. How soon can you come?’

  Mr Bisham smiled and said he would come very soon indeed.

  ‘A bit sooner than you expect, madam,’ he thought rather brightly.

  He was there in a matter of hours.

  CHAPTER XII

  A GOOD thing, he thought, that he had warned Marjorie he might miss the last train. Thanks to those two policemen, there was now no hope of getting the last train.

  The policemen seemed to have taken up a permanent position at the corner of Mount Street.

  He walked along just inside the Green Park parallel with Piccadilly. He liked this idea of having parks without railings.

  Now and again a policeman flashed a torch at him, for the night was excessively dark. On one occasion, a policeman flashed his torch and said:

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Bisham.’

  It made him even more thoughtful.

  American officers were strolling about saying to each other that this little old town of London wasn’t such a bad place after all; it was full of bright guys. They said to Mr Bisham: ‘Say, buddie, have you got the right time?’

  He passed the time wondering what sort of a job it was going to be. With Lady Stewker it had been almost too easy, for she had talked so much. She even told him what time she was going to have a bath, which was nice. In the end, all he had done was to take a taxi to Grosvenor Square. He’d strolled along to her front door, which she’d said was always on the latch, and he’d walked in and up the delightful staircase. He had his mask on, for he was often recognized now in the streets, though at times he substituted a raincoat with an unusually high collar; this, with a hat well down, was quite effective. There was something, though, about a mask which appealed to his sense of drama. The Stewkers had been at dinner, as he had known they would be—she’d asked him to the dinner, had she not?—and there was nothing to do but wander upstairs and find the old girl’s room and the wall safe behind the picture of Napoleon. She’d told him the combination—which was ‘Bisham’! Simple—yet quite exciting, in a Christmas charade sort of way. There had been one or two tense moments, to be sure, such as when a maid came in as he opened the safe, and when the butler came to put a green log on the fire. But they had passed.

  He thought of those moments as he gave a stealthy heave and climbed into the top room of the house in Mount Street. He fell noiselessly into the room on his face. The window had been easy and there was no black-out there; the room appeared to be empty. Now and again a distant searchlight tended to become a bit dangerous, but it was useful too. He kept away from the window. Footsteps were walking slowly down Mount Street towards the park. A copper, he thought.

  Mr Bisham had on a light overcoat, slouch hat and blue scarf. Marjorie had given it him for his birthday. He wore shoes with plain rubber soles and he wore tight fitting rubber gloves. His torch had two ends, one for light and the other, well, for people who were tiresome enough to sleep with their valuables on.

  He swept his torch briefly round the room as he got to his feet. It had a blue, quiet light. It seemed to be a dusty, disused bedroom which was now used as a boxroom.

  He moved silently to the door and softly opened it.

  Then he softly shut it again. Two female voices were chattering confidentially out there in the passage.

  Keyed up, Mr Bisham sat on a trunk and cautiously lit a cigarette. He was careful about the light from his lighter, and about the smoke, which he aimed out of the window, and about the stub, which he presently snuffed out and put in his pocket.

  He sat there for a long time and smoked two cigarettes. So there were two stubs. He thought of Marjorie and wondered if she was the sort who could understand. Not that he wanted her ever to know, but it was nice to wonder. Somehow he felt sure she was. She wasn’t ‘ordinary’; well, she was and she wasn’t, she had brains, intellect; he wasn’t thinking of her highbrow reading, as neighbours called it, or her relieving grasp of affairs which came from her spontaneously sometimes. He was thinking of her personality. At that first Soho lunch, at their simple church wedding in Brompton, on the unspectacular honeymoon. She was ‘quiet’. Her personality was quiet and unobtrusive. She was unassuming and she actually thought she was plain and dull. She was neither. Take Bess, now. She didn’t think she was either plain or dull; yet she was really both if you looked into it. And poor old Bess would have a heart attack if she even dreamed where he was now. It would be outside her range. Would it be outside Marjorie’s?

  A light in the passage clicked out and suddenly the chattering ceased. He heard a door close and in the distance Big Ben was striking twelve. His colleague would be reading the midnight news.

  He moved to the door, as he did so thinking of the new idea which was now formed so as to give his robberies some point. It was quite simple. All these efforts to aid Russia! Why should he not aid her too? Simply, when he had collected a handsome amount of jewels and gems—and he already had quite a collection locked up at home—he would seek means to send them anonymously to Russia. He would not rob from the rich who seemed not to merit such treatment, and he would not rob from the poor, tha
t went without saying, for in any case the poor didn’t have gems and jewels. He would take from the Stewkers and Mansfields—and Sudburys, perhaps—from whoever his sense of fair play and humour judged best; and his risk, such a very grave one, would be his contribution to the war effort. It wouldn’t be much of a contribution to Marjorie, which was sad; yet, indirectly it would, for one day the papers would blaze the news that an anonymous cat-burglar had sent the proceeds of his crimes to aid the prosecution of the war; and without knowing it Marjorie would be married to the attractive, mystic figure. Perhaps he would tell her on his deathbed. Thinking rapidly about the snags and pitfalls of all this, ‘if I’m caught before the stuff gets to Russia, of course, nobody will believe my intentions, not even Marjorie,’ and, ‘now, more than ever, I must never be caught,’ he softly opened the boxroom door.

  He moved quietly into the passage and cautiously shone his torch. In the blue light he saw the curve of the top stairs.

  Mrs Mansfield kept her portable radio beside her bed; it was convenient for the midnight news and the seven o’clock news in the morning. Since she had become fascinated by Ernest Bisham’s voice, and particularly since she had contrived to meet him in the flesh, she never missed a news bulletin. But when Ernest Bisham was not ‘reading it’, she usually turned it off after hearing the headlines. Tonight she had done so, and after listening to a little dance music she turned that off too. She was more than usually cross with George. What a worm the man was. How had she ever fallen in love with him? All he ever thought about was bricks. She was cross with her daughter Alice, for the way she gadded about London and set her cap at all the men; she’d never get a man that way. They’d almost had words, before Alice slammed off to bed. Life was utterly unglamorous and dull. And she was cross with both her maids; they had had the cheek to ask for another rise, and it was maddening when one realized that they simply ate her out of house and home and made off with the sugar ration. She told them so, and now no doubt they’d both leave. Through the wall she heard George pottering about in his bedroom. After a bit she heard him put out his light and get into bed. What a din the man made, but he was as fat as an elephant, wasn’t he? She put out her own light and made her own bed creak; it was an arrangement with George so that he would know what was going on. She heard him give a great yawn, and she answered with a yawn, and there was silence in the dark house. She shut her eyes. To soothe herself, she started to think about Ernest Bisham. It would be thrilling seeing him again when she broadcast in a few days, if only he was on duty! It would be too disappointing otherwise! How she had chattered to him. Had she talked too much and bored him? But he’d been so distinguished and attractive, not fat and greasy like George; he was a gentleman. His hair was greying at the sides in a most attractive manner. He hadn’t said much about his wife; what was she like? She was probably too dowdy and suburban for words! Why on earth did they live in Woking? How on earth anyone could live anywhere but in London …

  Mrs Mansfield dozed off. She started to dream that her script about economics had been altered into a talk about Polish war relief, and that at the last moment it had been confiscated by the Pope. She had to face the microphone for George without any script at all, and Ernest Bisham started saying: ‘You are now going to listen to Mrs George Mansfield, wife of the eminent industrialist who has done so much for …’ As she started to protest in alarm, she became aware of a strong smell of ether, and somebody’s hands seemed to be at her arms and her neck. She started to cry: ‘No, no, no,’ and through a haze saw a man in a mask bending over her; she was in bed in the Middlesex Hospital. No, she wasn’t, she was in her own bed, but she couldn’t scream or move, she lay flat. Somebody seemed to be moving about and opening or shutting drawers and cupboards. The smell of ether started to recede and her eyes opened. She distinctly saw a man in a mask cross her room silently and go out, closing the door. She put her hands swiftly to her throat and found that her most precious necklace was gone. She sat up in bed at once and let out a scream that could have been heard in Tooting.

  George Mansfield came tumbling in in his purple striped pyjamas. He looked rather like a polar bear that had dressed up for a zoo tea-party. Almost immediately Alice Mansfield came in in her white nightdress with a chinchilla cape thrown round her thin shoulders. Mrs Mansfield had time to notice that she looked too awful without her make-up on and had great rings round her eyes. Alice said, ‘Hell and green gin, what on earth’s the matter?’ By the time both maids had dashed in, Mrs Mansfield was in the throes of hysterics. Everyone was talking at once and the master was asking if the sirens had gone. But no, it was much worse than that, madam’s necklace and bangles had gone. And so had the more valuable jewels from the case in her dressing-table. Suddenly the burglar alarm started to go too.

  Mr Ernest Bisham allowed himself a small swear word. He was on the roof, which he had reached via the maids’ bedroom. He hadn’t time to decide where he had touched off the burglar alarm. Probably in madam’s bedroom somewhere, or on the stairs, perhaps. No matter where, it was going off like a fire engine. He jumped nimbly over a couple of roof-tops and found some iron stairs. Unfortunately, somebody was coming up them at a great pace, perhaps a firewatcher, perhaps a copper. He retreated again in the direction of Mount Street, away from Hamilton Place, and was relieved to find a drainpipe, though it was square. There were convenient balconies to each of the five floors, and he got down pretty quickly. Footsteps were running in his direction as he touched the pavement, and there was the sound of a car. He whipped off his mask and walked boldly into Mount Street. He was stopped at once by two policemen, who flashed torches in his face.

  ‘Good evening, officer,’ he said to the nearest.

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE advantage of wearing a light-coloured coat instead of a dark one he had proved on a much earlier escapade, when a police sergeant had eyed smears of paint from a window-sill which had got on his lapels. It had been ticklish and only pure luck had got him out of it. Since then, he wore light colours, in case of paint or dirt from drainpipes and roofs.

  Reaching Broadcasting House as it struck one, he reflected on the several advantages of being such a well-known figure. These would, of course, be suitably weighed against him if he ever faced a judge and jury; but in the meantime they had their inestimable advantages. The police officers had recognized him immediately, for they too worked now and then in the black lighthouse. Moreover, they very kindly let Mr Bisham stay around and watch the burglar hunt. The Flying Squad flew up, and a cordon was thrown round the building, in fact round the whole Mount Street block. It seemed that these burglaries were getting beyond a joke and were causing Inspector Hood a severe headache. Mr Bisham expressed a hope that he might meet Mr Hood, but it seemed Mr Hood was too busy inspecting drainpipes and window catches. Quite a lot of people opened windows or came into the road in dressing-gowns, including Mr George Mansfield, the industrialist. But nothing much happened except that the sirens went and so everybody had to disappear to various posts as wardens, firemen and ambulance drivers. Not caring to have lumps of shrapnel falling on his head, Mr Bisham walked away to the black lighthouse. It had been fairly exciting, but not very. However, his haul for Russia was exceedingly satisfactory. The most ticklish moment had been when he was undoing the necklace from Mrs Mansfield’s fat neck. Not an easy matter in rubber gloves. A pity he had had to stoop to ether, but it would have been too risky without. It was to be hoped Mrs Mansfield wasn’t feeling sick; ether was filthy stuff.

  The all-clear sounded as he got back.

  Broadcasting House was its familiar night-time self. Strange bursts of Indian music came from hidden channels. Weird figures moved sleepily about in dressing-gowns. Others wandered about with brown suitcases looking for a vacant studio bed.

  He went to the Green Room.

  There were rows of sleeping figures in bunks in the dim light. He would have liked to have examined his haul, but it would be unwise. Somebody might wake up, or come in. He l
eft it where it was in his overcoat pocket, beside the revolver there. A pity he had been obliged to miss the train. He was rather in a mood for Marjorie’s warm presence. The beds here were rather narrow and short.

  He got into his sheet and carefully pulled his coat over him. Pleased, he fell asleep and didn’t wake up until seven. Then he had a light breakfast in the canteen and took a taxi to Waterloo.

  It was a lovely late-April day and Marjorie was in the garden cutting flowers.

  Seeing her there, in all her reality, her basket of daffodils and tulips, and her funny little brown hat, and with the sun shining down between the two weeping willow trees in such an every day sort of way, the image of himself standing in Mrs Mansfield’s bedroom holding a torch stuffed with cotton wool and ether, seemed quite incongruous.

  Yet, at one time, the idea of himself addressing millions on the air would have seemed equally incongruous.

  Why did we never get used to the fact that simply anything could happen? We never did. But the strangest things happened all the time, every day. Illustrations of it were scarcely necessary. It should be quite ordinary that he had stood in dire peril in a strange house, for his own reasons, and risked ugly, unhappy years in gaol, a fate he regarded as worse than death. He had flashed the blue light of a torch on a figure in a fourposter bed. It was snuff-taking Mrs Mansfield. Her snuff-box had been sitting on the radio there, but he hadn’t taken it because it had sentimental value for her, or she said it had.

  The present calm moment was now his to enjoy by contrast, and contrast was everything.

  She was saying:

  ‘Lord Sudbury telephoned, Ernest.’ She said it was just about the sale of gems in Belgrave Square in a few days, and he wanted to make sure Ernest would open it; it was for Russia.