John Creasey - The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

“No, Jim,” said Evelyn. “I haven’t heard of it.” She studied a leaflet with keen interest while she went on: “But it would be just a waste of time, I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“No one would stand a chance against you,” Jim asserted, and turned to one of the older girls in the office. “Rose, what’d you think?”

“It’s as good as her money!”

“No, really—” Evelyn began.

“No mock modesty,” Jim ordered with affected sternness. Tor the sake of the office you’ll have to enter.”

“Of course you will,” Rose said.

“It would be crazy not to,” put in a typist who had been studying the leaflet over Evelyn’s shoulder. “Here, Jackie, come and tell us what you think . . . Look, you don’t have to have a perm, you just have to have a set at one of these hairdressers, and they say they’ve members all over London . . . The one near Villiers Street is the best for you, obviously . . . George! Come and let us know what you think .. .”

Jim strolled away from the crowd round Evelyn’s desk, and went to his own, in a corner. He was Deputy Office Manager, Buying and Accounts Departments of Jepsons, Mail Order Suppliers to The World. It was a quarter past two, and he ought to have stopped the discussion and got everyone back to a machine, a file or an order book, but Jepsons believed that a policy of reasonable latitude witIthe staff was wise policy. In five minutes all of the staff of this office, thirty-two people in all, were busy. It was true that Evelyn had the leaflet on her desk, but she began to type out orders from rough notes he or the Buyer had made at a bewildering speed; in front of a typewriter, she became a part of the machine. So did several of the other girls. The clatter of machines, the rustle of papers, the occasional bang of a filing drawer, the ringing of a telephone, the footsteps of clerks with roving commissions, turned this into just another afternoon.

A little before half past five, work done and powder compacts, combs and lipsticks appearing like a rash all over the office, Evelyn came across to Jim. He would be working late, and his desk was still littered with papers; his task was to check orders against invoices, and pass the orders for payment.

“I’ve made up my mind,” Evelyn said.

“Which way?”

“I’m going to enter.”

“I want ten per cent commission!”

“I haven’t a chance, but if there happened to be a freak result—”

“Get along, Goldilocks,” said Jim, and laughed at her; and she laughed in turn, then hurried away, for the bells which released the staff here and in the dozens of offices of the Jepson Building were ringing, and the staircases, landings, lifts and passages suddenly swarmed with people. Except for the occasional late worker, like Jim, the offices were occupied only by ghosts.

It was nearly half past six when Jim left, on a lovely evening. He could stroll along the Embankment, or through the gardens, or could go up Villiers Street towards the Strand as he usually did. He felt not only at a loose end, but deeply depressed. Evelyn’s bluntness had acted like a blow from a bludgeon, and forced him to accept the fact that he had no hope. It had not really helped to tell himself that marriage with her wouldn’t have worked, that their tastes differed, that her simplicity and sweetness would soon cloy. It was not much use, either, trying to persuade himself that he would soon get over it.

Meanwhile, he had the evening on his hands, for he had intended to ask Evelyn to have supper and go to a film with him. He was on his own too much. Comfortable digs, a landlady who spoiled him, a sufficient salary—enough to marry and raise a family on, if he were careful—but apart from that, he told himself his was an aimless kind of existence. He had never been a club man, preferring books and browsing, but at twenty-eight he felt a stronger and stronger urge for company, and until today he had persuaded himself that Evelyn’s resistance could be worn down.

He did not think that now.

At least if she won that competition she would have reason to bless his name.

He smiled wryly, and found himself going towards the barbers. There were the hanging signs, the notices in the window and, standing at the corner nearby, the Italian barber. The man not only recognised but seemed positively pleased to see him.

“Good evening, sir!”

“Hallo,” said Jim, and smiled briefly. “Good night.”

“Good night to you, sir!”

Over effusive, Jim thought idly, and walked a little more briskly on. It did not occur to him that he was being followed.

CHAPTER TWO

The Shadow

Across the street from the corner where the Italian barber had stood and behaved so effusively was a small, lean man, wearing a neat grey suit and a trilby hat pulled down over one eye. He had a cigarette in his mouth, and put his hand to take it away as the barber began to speak.

A little further along another man leaned against a shop window, and was also smoking. He was massive, with a thick neck and packed shoulders, dressed in a dark brown suit, and his trilby hat was centred on his head. This man did not hear the barber, and could only see his back, but he saw the smaller man move suddenly, and observed that he moved after Jim. The small man and the big one drew level.

“That is him,” the little man said.

“Feller with the bald patch?”

“Yeh.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t let him get away.”

“No one gets away from me,” said the bull-like man in the brown suit. He nodded, and turned after Jim Jones, who had noticed the other man, but thought nothing of it, then.

The barber had disappeared, towards the Embankment.

For the rest, there was nothing unusual about the evening. The homeward rush hour was over, the queues outside the Corner House were diminishing, the Strand itself was not really crowded. Nelson stared blindly and blandly over London.

And Jim had acquired a shadow.

He could turn left, towards Trafalgar Square, where a few people were still feeding the pigeons, where the fountains played, and sightseers ambled, but that was too aimless. He could turn right along the Strand, but there were only the shops. He could go and have a meal in one of the restaurants, but was in no mood to eat on his own. It would be much better to get home to his books and the radio; his landlady would get a meal for him very quickly, and once in his own room he could probably put the depression out of his mind. His lodgings were in Chelsea, not far from Sloane Square; he could walk or go by bus. In the mood of the evening, he could not really make up his mind what to do.

A Number 11 bus came along.

He got on.

Two girls, an elderly couple, a coloured man and a tall, massive man in brown also got on. Jim went upstairs; the man in brown went inside, and sat near the door.

The journey to Sloane Square allowed time for smoking a cigarette and a half. Jim stubbed out the half as he got up, clambered down the stairs, and stepped off; just ahead of him was the tall man in the brown suit, who had also jumped up in a hurry, as if he had only just realised that this was his stopping place.

It was ten minutes’ walk to Middleton Street, which was off the main road, and Jim stepped out more briskly. He noticed the massive man in brown some way ahead of him, then saw the man slow down to look into a shop window, and let him pass. It did not occur to him that the man was virtually his shadow. Even when the other turned down Middleton Street in his wake, Jim took no notice.

He reached Number 24 a little after a quarter past seven, and pressed the bell although he had his key in his hand; Mrs. Blake liked him to ring, so that she knew who had come in. She would be approaching from the kitchen doorway as he opened the door, with her pleasant welcome, and her invariable:

“I expect you’re starved, I’ll soon have something ready for you. Just go up and have a little wash.”

He would go up . . .

He opened the door with his key, and was surprised because there was no movement from the kitchen, and only silence in the house.

If she was going to be out, Mrs. Blake usually told him before he left in the morning; she was remarkably a creature of habit, and since she had acquired a television set, had seldom gone out in the evening.

Ah. It was later than usual, and the television was on. Jim grinned to himself, but a moment later decided that he was wrong; he would have heard voices or music, had that been the case.

He called out: “You home, Mrs. Blake?” There was no answer.

* * *

Had he gone upstairs then, as he usually did, and into his front room bed-sitter, he would probably have looked out of the window, and seen the tall man in brown meet the small man in the neat grey suit and the trilby pulled over one eye; but instead, he went along to the kitchen.

* * *

The television set, in a corner, was as blank as an empty window. The large kitchen was scrupulously clean and tidy, there was a green chenille table cloth over the large deal table, the wooden chairs were all varnished; and there was an appetising smell coming from the stove. On the dark green cloth was a note:

The telly’s out of order so I’ve popped next door to see the play, dinner’s in the oven and help yourself to anything you feel like. Mrs. B. There are some of those new rock cakes you like in the big red tin in the larder.

Jim grinned.

He raided the larder, helped himself to Mrs. Blake’s rock cakes, which were the perfection of simple baking, then went upstairs. He strolled to the window, as he nearly always did, partly because if there were any letters for him he would find them on the table in the window. There was none. He looked out. Across the road, walking briskly, was a little man whom he did not remember having seen before; the little man glanced up, almost as if he was aware of being watched, but quickly looked down again, and went straight on.

Jim took off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair, went into the bathroom, washed, and began to whistle to himself. He was feeling a little less glum, and the cake had whetted his appetite. Still whistling, he hurried down the stairs. He was surprised by his return to cheerfulness, and dryly inferred that his feeling for Evelyn could not go really deep. He took the meal out of the oven, an ample one obviously served at lunch-time. It was very hot, and he winced when his thumb caught the side of the dish. The gravy had dried to dark brown round the edge, but when he took the vegetable dish lid off, steam rose up in a cloud; yet it did not look dry.

He put it on the wooden mat which Mrs. Blake had provided, and began to eat, cautiously at first. He propped up the newspaper against a pot of jam, and glanced through the headlines which he had already seen that morning; the international news was so-so, the home news was of further crises. Cheerful world!

He was halfway through, and eating more quickly because the food had cooled, when there was a ring at the front door.

“Oh, damn,” he said mildly, and pushed his chair back and went along, dabbing at his lips with his table-napkin, which he dropped on to the hall-stand. He could see the shadow of a girl behind the two glass panels set in the upper part of the door, and wondered if Mrs. Blake had left her key, and had come to see if he was in.

He opened the door.

A girl he had never seen before said: “Good evening.”

She had a slightly Cockney voice and an ingratiating manner, and a smile he didn’t much like. She was made up more than most, which spoiled rather than improved a kind of everyday prettiness. She wore a red hat and a pink coat, a clash which even Jim didn’t fail to notice.