When the door of No. 17 Hatchet Street was at last opened, one of the two men had a short and apparently friendly conversation with the lady of the house, and the two of them disappeared inside.
The local inhabitants waited hopefully. If they had expected anything sensational, they were disappointed. Half an hour later the door again opened, and the men reappeared. They stood for a moment talking over their shoulders to someone who was standing inside the hall. They seemed pleased.
The first floor front of No. 19 Hatchet Street, who was naturally in a position of advantage, heard one of the men say: “You’ll bear that in mind, Wright?”—at least, he thought it was “Wright” – “White” or “Wright” – it was difficult to be certain, and “White” or “Wright” had said “Yessir” quite distinctly.
The first floor front retailed this information to a select crowd at the “Hengist and Horsa” that evening. Everyone agreed that it was queer. For one thing, no one had any idea that there was a man staying at No. 17 at all. Just Mrs. Courtenay and her two girls. The man must have come in very quietly and lain very low. Everyone agreed that they were surprised.
They weren’t, in fact, a quarter as surprised as Curly White had been. When he had seen his two visitors coming up the front steps and had nipped across to the window at the back and had observed a policeman leaning negligently against the garden fence. Curly had given himself up for lost.
He had also been considerably disgruntled. “Ma” Courtenay was reckoned to be a safe lie-up and known to very few. He had come in with great precaution, well before daylight, and was certain that he hadn’t shown so much as the tip of his nose at a window.
He was destined shortly to be even more surprised.
Realising that flight was useless he had come down into the hall more or less prepared to “go quietly” – only to be met by a staggering degree of affability on the part of the two large gentlemen, who introduced themselves as Inspector Berry of N Division and Sergeant Instone of the Central Force. The Sergeant even went so far as to hold open the door of the sitting room for Curly, who entered in dazed silence.
What had followed had been the nearest thing to a sermon that Curly could remember in the twenty years since he had left school. It appeared that Inspector Berry had been shocked at the company which Curly was keeping. Sergeant Instone, it appeared, had also been shocked. However, Scotland Yard, thoughtful as ever of the well-being of the criminal members of the Metropolis, had dispatched the Inspector and the Sergeant to reason with Curly and show him the error of his ways.
This they proceeded to do.
They dilated on his war record, expounded the advantages of ploughing a straight furrow, and mentioned in passing that honesty always paid.
“Cor sufferin’,” thought Curly, “they’ll be striking up a perishing hymn next.”
Finally they had left.
Curly had been so surprised that he had forgotten to ask them the one thing that was really puzzling him – how they had known where to find him?
The proprietor of the Entracte Café in Greek Street (Benny to his friends) took a quick look round.
It was Tuesday, it was three o’clock in the afternoon, and Curly was late.
He was not worried about Curly’s personal safety or well-being, but business was business, and two promising customers had already been turned away from the empty corner table under the mirror.
The door opened and a man came in. Benny didn’t recognise him; there was nothing particularly remarkable about him except that he didn’t appear to be able to read, judging from the fact that he walked straight across and sat down at the corner table despite the Reserved card which adorned it prominently.
Benny moved over.
“That’s took,” he said mildly, “any other table, mister. There’s plenty of choice.”
Here he stated no more than the truth. The café was empty except for two builders’ labourers at the far end, slowly sipping their coffee at a table by the door.
The nondescript man said: “Okay, okay, I’m from Curly. He can’t come down today, see. How’s trade?”
“Trade’s all right,” said Benny querulously. “You oughter been here earlier. Had two boys in here after lunch, looking for you.”
“All right,” said the nondescript man. “All right, that’ll do. I couldn’t get here earlier, see?” He spoke with some authority and Benny dissolved into a greasy but placatory smile and asked his visitor if he could fancy something to eat.
“What have you got that won’t poison me?”
Benny performed a small contortion and producing a tattered menu offered it for his visitor’s inspection. The latter was on the point of speaking when a wary look came into his eye. “Who’s this?”
The shop door had half opened to admit a rat-like youth in a very tight and very shiny blue suit.
“That’s one of ‘em. One of the ones I was telling you about.”
“Him,” said the small man, in a voice in which a perfectly genuine surprise and contempt were curiously mixed. “What’s he pinched? The kid’s money box, or the gold out of his Aunt Fanny’s back teeth?”
The youth, who in addition to looking like a rat, moved with a sort of rodent-like stealth, had by now imperceptibly approached the table.
“All right. Sit down, sit down,” said the small man. “And you”—he turned to Benny—”you push off and get some coffee for me and my friend—eh?”
Benny disappeared, the youth sat down, and a short silence ensued.
The youth broke it first. He said in a sort of strangled whisper: “I’ve got some stuff here. I dunno if you’re interested. Benny said—”
“Speak up,” said the small man severely. “This isn’t the whispering gallery at St. Paul’s. And stop looking like a frightened rabbit. Now then, what’ve you got?”
Thus encouraged, the youth squeezed a hand into the mysterious depths of his skin-tight suit and slid out a very handsome gold half-hunter watch on a heavy gold chain.
“Nice piece of goods,” said the small man. He flipped the back open expertly. “Engraving on the half-cover: ‘To Alfred Lord Cedarbrook ‘—well, well. Relative of yours, I expect.”
The youth showed his teeth for a moment in an apology for a smile and said “’Ow much ?”
“How much what ?”
The youth looked surprised. “I mean,” he said, “’ow much’ll it fetch. ‘Ow much’ll you give me for it?”
“Is it yours to sell?” asked the small man blandly.
“Come orf it, mister. Of course it isn’t mine. It belongs to a pal—’e dipped it last Friday.”
“Then it must have been Friday the thirteenth,” said the small man, and though he had not altered his position by an inch, nor the tone of his voice by a semitone, the youth looked up in sudden alarm.
“I am Inspector Pickup of Scotland Yard,” went on the small man conversationally. “I am taking you into custody on a charge of being in possession of recently stolen goods—”
The youth kicked his flimsy chair backwards on to the floor and initiated a flying dive in the direction of the street.
The two builders’ labourers rose wearily from their seats near the door and stretched forth expert hands.
On Wednesday, at lunch time, Inspector Berry and Sergeant Instone again visited Curly at his lodging in Hatchet Street. This time they stayed for a quarter of an hour.
The evening papers, in their Late Edition, carried the following paragraph:
YOUNG BUT MUCH WANTED
Rodney Blew of Kennington, aged 16, who is being held by the police in connection with an alleged shopbreaking incident in the King’s Cross area last Sunday night, is apparently a much wanted gentleman. The police are now in a position to state that information has been received positively identifying Blew as the second participant in a recent burglary in New Oxford Street. Readers will remember that on the latter occasion a small dog belonging to the watchman, etc., etc.
“We can’t lay it on much thicker,” said Inspector Hazlerigg, “or they’ll begin to sniff the Yarmouth bloater.”
“I agree,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “We aren’t dealing with fools. Do you think they were watching the house in Camden Town?”
“I don’t know, sir. I think it’s probable.”
“I suppose you’ve got White adequately covered?” This was really a rhetorical question. He was asking as much for his own peace of mind as for information.
“The house is permanently covered, and we’ve got a fifteen-man relay ready if he moves outside. He won’t get away, sir. Not unless he goes up in a cloud of smoke, like the boy in the old Indian Rope trick.”
It is worth noting by those interested in coincidences, that Inspector Hazlerigg said this on the Friday evening at eleven p.m. precisely.
A little earlier that evening Curly had left the house in Hatchet Street for an evening’s entertainment. He took no particular precautions, arguing no doubt that since the police knew perfectly well where he was there was no sense in further concealment.
Nevertheless, he was far from easy.
Chiefly he was wondering why “they” had made no attempt to get in touch with him. “They” were the ruling factors in Curly’s little life. Omnipotent, omnipresent, unseen. What “they” said, went.
It was now five days since he had escaped so narrowly from the Kings Cross job; as he had been disturbed before getting hold of any stuff, there had been no sense in going to the agreed rendezvous with “them” on Monday morning.
But surely, by now, “they” should have got some word to him.
Two days ago he had thought that he had caught a glimpse of Joey the Pole in the crowd outside Camden Town Underground Station. Possibly he had been mistaken. Immediately he had moved towards him the crowd had swirled and reintegrated and it had been impossible to get close enough to be sure.
It might not have been Joey at all.
But then there was that odd incident last night. He had been sitting at the window, looking out at the empty street; it must have been well past midnight, actually nearer two o’clock in the morning; he hadn’t been sleeping well – probably the result of sitting about all day. The night had been dead quiet and his mind had gone back to patrolling in France and Africa. The trees nodding and whispering together in the breeze and the odd shapes which inanimate things took on at night and the sudden disconcerting noises made by the little creatures of the dark. Like that cat, working its way through the garden shrubbery.
Or was it a cat?
There was something smallish and blackish and indistinct. Something or someone. If the moon would only come out for a moment he could be certain. A car had come slowly cruising past, its lights cutting a dazzling swathe on the road but throwing the garden into contrasting blackness. When it had gone, the patch of shadow had gone too.
Curly had sat for more than an hour without seeing anything further.
Well, it was no good sitting at home letting your fancies run away with you. That way you got jumpy and did stupid things. Take a grip of yourself, Curly, and have a nice pint or two of wallop and forget your troubles. By ten o’clock that evening the beer had performed its kindly office and Curly was feeling something like his old self again. He was in the “Abraham Lincoln”, a small quiet public house, north-west from Camden Town, near Haverstock Hill. Full of Poles and Wops and shonks of all sorts.
What the hell was England anyway, — — League of Nations? But the beer was good and he’d had some luck on the darts.
“Time, gentlemen, please. Drink up,
if
you please. Come along now, please. It’s past time.”
Curly turned reluctantly homewards. He still felt the warmth of the beer and the lights and the companionship. But it was slipping away from him. Slipping fast. At the back of his mind a little voice was saying, over and over again: “Come along, now, it’s time, past time, past time.” It was echoed by his footsteps as he hurried down Haverstock Hill and Chalk Farm Road.
Echoed by other footsteps, too. He seemed to be surrounded by a web of footsteps. Passing him, overtaking him, meeting him.
Come on. Curly, pull yourself together.
He was passing Camden Town Underground Station now; two hundred yards more and he turned left and then right into Hatchet Street. No. 17 was the end house on the north side of the street. It was flanked on its open side by a narrow lane and a square of waste land. As Curly reached the gate there were two other people moving in the street. One of them, bareheaded and wearing an old raincoat, was just turning the corner. Had Curly been inclined to observation at that particular moment, he would have recognised one of his late opponents at darts in the “Lincoln”. The other was a uniformed policeman, who seemed to be moving with great deliberation up the other side of the street, shining his torch into the small front gardens.
Curly was halfway up the path when eleven o’clock started to strike out from Camden Church.
And at that exact moment, without any warning, his world disintegrated into a cloud of white, burning smoke and stabbing flames.
In addition to the two men just mentioned (both of whom were detective constables of the Central Force) the explosion was also witnessed by Sergeant Crabbe, from his vantage point in No. 16, the house opposite. Since the Sergeant had the best view his account was the most valuable.
“White,” he said, “was a little more than halfway up the path leading to the front door of No. 17. The path is of flagstones, flanked on either side by a small privet hedge, not more than eighteen inches high, and a very narrow patch of grass and beaten earth. I am certain that no one can have been concealed in the garden. I had been watching the house myself for about three hours. The eastern side of the garden is open on to a lane and small waste area and it would have been just possible for an assailant to have approached the garden unseen from this direction and have concealed himself in the hedge or shrubbery at this side. I did not observe any object being thrown. The explosion occurred at exactly eleven o’clock . . .”
“That’s how he did it,” said Hazlerigg, “blast his infernal ingenuity. It’s hard to blame any of our men . . .”