SV - 05 - Sergeant Verity and the Swell Mob. (23 page)

'Yes!' said Mole, the yellow
mouth in a rictus of glee, the dark little eyes gleaming. 'Why, Mr Kite, there
ain't a word for it but genius! What a stroke you might pull!'

'In good time, Mr Mole,' said
the old man, the breath humming in his mouth. 'First the notes must be got,
being held by that little vixen Cosima in the old jewel case. Then the names of
various parties must be put to 'em, making it seem they changed hands all the
time since Banker Lansing's death. Then, a week from now, the stroke is pulled,
Mr Mole. The racing and the Bristol Plate. See?'

'Not exactly, Mr
Kite,' said Mole doubtfully.

'Suppose,'
said Kite wistfully, 'suppose there was heavy backing of the six runners in the
Bristol Plate. A man like Lord Stephen might wager £10,000 on his fancy. The
notes go to back four of the horses at best prices, in shops all over London.
Just before the race the two other favourite horses is scratched, leaving only
the four backed by the notes.'

'What
if they shouldn't be scratched, Mr Kite?' Sealskin Kite looked up with a sharp
displeasure at Mole's obtuseness.

'But they will be, Mr Mole.
Arrangements is made. You never thought the old Sealskin went this far without
knowing he could have the two nags scratched? Orders is given, Mr Mole!
Whichever of our four fancies should win, that's where the dibs is collected.
Nice odds too. Monday after, Tattersalls and the settling of bills. The firms
who took ours pass them easy. A week or two more and several men of importance
must find that they were robbed by Banker Lansing who put their notes of
promise out a second time.'

Old
Mole chortled.

'But
well be far away by then, Mr Kite! Eh?' Kite looked shocked.

'Away, Mr Mole? You won't
catch Sealskin Kite going away, my young sir! Don't you get the beauty of it?
There's no man can cast a glance at us. No man can put our names to the caper.
Why, suspect us! You might as soon suspect the Prince Consort! No, sir. When
the truth is out, who shall carry the blame for it? Banker Lansing, the rogue!
Only Banker Lansing, being dead, may bear the load a bit more convenient than
you and me!'

The pouchy old face crinkled
and the shrewd little eyes shone with the neatness of it all.

'How's
them notes to be got, Mr Kite?'

For a
long interval the buhl clock ticked time away while Kite's jaws moved in a
slight chewing motion, as if he hesitated to commit himself at last. Then he
spoke.

'You and me, Mr Mole. And Jack
Strap. The three of us must visit the little chit at Brunswick Square and come
away with the notes. You do comprehendey, Mr Mole? You do comprehendey?'

Mole
nodded, though he was uncertain and uneasy as to just what the old man
intended. But if Sealskin Kite was prepared to take part personally in one of
his crimes, Mole reckoned that there was every bit of the £100,000 at stake,
and probably a good deal more.

'Now,'
said Kite, 'as one man o' business to another, see what must be done. There's a
jack still on the door of the house. He must be sweetened. There's one or two
young persons must be put where they won't come to harm. It ain't a lot to ask,
is it, Mole?'

Mole shook his head.

'And
that squeak, Stunning Joseph, and his little whore Jane Mitch or Midge, or
whatever she calls herself?'

'Leave 'em to Strap,' said
Kite soothingly. 'See to the German girl yourself. Miss Cosima. Lime your
bird, Mr Mole. When we come to her door it must open for us. Make her willing,
my dear sir. Lime your bird!'

After
his conversation with Sealskin Kite, Old Mole sat by himself for half an hour
and considered the scheme. He was not sure that it was not the most perfect
fraud he had ever heard of. The crime of concealing the promissory notes for
use a second time had been committed by Baron Lansing before his death. Even if
it was discovered that Kite and his friends had passed them through betting
offices during Brighton races, it would be assumed that they were as much
victims of Lansing's fraud as anyone else. True, if Cosima Bremer were to
confess or complain, the scheme might be in danger. But Old Mole knew that such
confession or complaint would never be permitted.

First
of all he set out to follow Kite's instructions. This time, they must go
through the front door of Brunswick Square, opened to them by the German girl
who now lived there alone. To ensure admittance, Mole must appear as an
acquaintance, even as a friend. Liming the bird was not always easy, and now it
had to be done fast.

By
watching her movements, Mole knew that every afternoon Cosima went down to the
beach, where the little caravans of the bathing-machines were drawn up at the
water's edge. It was an area of the shingle reserved exclusively for women, as
the stretch east of the Chain Pier was kept for men. Between two of the wooden
groins which ran down from the promenade wall to the sea, canvas screens protected
the girls from observation as they bathed. A stalwart bathing attendant, once a
fish-wife in Market Street, presided over the arrangements.

Old
Mole smiled as he looked at the candy-stripes of the canvas screen. He had not
been in Brighton two days before discovering what half a crown in the palm of
the attendant would buy for any well-dressed gentleman. The woman was easily
persuaded to turn her back while the telescopes and cameras of admirers
focussed on the pretty bathers from convenient points around the wooden groins.
Sometimes the bribes came from girls who wished for an opportunity to meet
secretly with lovers where the wooden partition marked the limit of the beach.

Old Mole was short of time. He
decided that a camera, rather than a spy-glass, was the best means of gaining
the young woman's acquaintance. By the time that he sauntered down to the
shingle beach at the end of the afternoon, he was carrying the varnished wooden
box of a Scott-Archer self-developing camera, and a neat little stand. Despite
the lines of his sallow face and the look of decay about his mouth, Mole had
tricked himself out with yellow kid-gloves, suiting in duck-egg blue and a silk
hat to match. At a distance he might pass for a gentleman of fashion.

It was
still warm, the heat shimmering from the pebbles and the wavelets rippling
ashore with the glitter of broken glass. But to his satisfaction he saw that
Cosima was alone on the stretch of beach. Perhaps the fish-wife, well-paid for
her trouble, had hurried her other customers on their way. At his leisure, Old
Mole studied his prey.

Now
that he had time to watch her carefully, Ccsima appeared to be no more than
about seventeen years old. She was pretty enough with firm regular features and
blue eyes crinkling against the sun. Her fair hair, brushed from its central
parting, waved loosely down either side of her face but was trimmed just above
her shoulders.

Her
bathing costume seemed to belong to different outfits. The top was a red singlet
which showed the twin weight of her breasts. The pants below were of a white
cotton web which fitted with suggestive tightness over her hips and thighs. The
long agile legs were lightly suntanned, as she walked acrobatically along the
narrow top of a groin. Jumping down, Cosima began to draw with her toe in a
patch of wet sand. Mole saw that she was writing her own name. Then she kicked
up her feet and began to walk nimbly on her hands. Mole waited his chance. Two
small boys bounced a ball across the groin and clambered over to retrieve it,
earning the pretext to view the ladies' bathing beach. Cosima joined them
energetically, pushing her way to the ball and kicking it with as much vigour
as they.

Mole
stepped on to the deserted beach and set up the camera. He aimed it here and
there. Once Cosima ducked her head, as though fearing she had interrupted his
view. He thought at first that she had performed her antics for his benefit,
but she was moving far too quickly for the camera to capture them. Then he saw,
or rather heard, that there was a boy of her own age beyond the further groin,
to whom she had been talking casually. The boy stood, his chin level with the
top of the groin, and admired her across the partition.

Cosima posed herself with all
the nonchalance of an artist's model. Perhaps, Mole thought, she had once done
so professionally. In her bathing costume the girl sat along the top of the
groin, leaning back on one arm, the agile suntanned legs drawn up, her profile
turned slightly away, as if inviting the camera's attention. Old Mole began to
uncap the lens with a genuine enthusiasm.

Presently
the girl slipped down on to the sand and stood facing the afternoon sun. She
shook back the fair hair where it had strayed across her forehead and then she
leant back against the wooden structure behind her. Mole, pretending to take
his views of the sea, saw her image in the aperture of the lens. The firm
features were clear and the shape of her breasts was perfectly mapped by the
tightened singlet. He uncapped the lens again. After all, he told himself, it
was necessary to his plan that there should be several photographs of her
available.

She
turned aside, not noticing him, and jumped on to the wooden groin. Like a
diver, she bent forward, swung her arms back behind her and sprang nimbly down
on to the far side where the boy was standing. She repeated the exercise a
dozen times. On each occasion she paused in the diving position, all the
curves of her body accentuated. Her knees were bent, her thighs taut, the white
webbed cotton drawn skintight across her broadened seat as her head went down.
Old Mole grinned, thinking that this set of plates might sell for a few pounds
as stereoscopic views.

To draw her attention, he
moved closer, no longer concealing the fact that he was photographing her in
these poses. He was alarmed to hear the boy calling her 'Cosie', as if they
were known to one another. But then he saw that the youth had merely read her
name where she had traced it in the sand. She bent to dive again. As Mole
worked the shutter he heard the boy call out.

'Look, Cosie! He's been taking pictures of you!'

Cosima
straightened up from her posture, looked over her shoulder, and saw Old Mole
with his camera. Her mouth opened in a smile of astonished amusement at his
impudence. But then she went forward again, holding the pose quite long enough
for him to take a final view.

Of course, he thought, she had
been posing for him all the time! A kept girl looking for a new protector!
Accustomed as he was to his dingy appearance, Mole had quite forgotten the
impression he must have made with his new duck-egg blue suiting, silk hat and
expensive camera. Indeed, the camera was of more value to her than to him. It
recorded her stripped to what were virtually the last fragments of her
underwear. In this state she had deliberately cavorted in front of the lens,
posing to show the sculptural beauty of face and breasts, the agile suntanned
legs flashing, Cosima bending cheekily as she dived. She must have known that
her admirer would contemplate a score of such portraits in the privacy of his
own room. By the next day, their effect would be to bring him back to the beach
in earnest.

'Why,' said Old Mole
delightedly, 'you damned little bitch!'

There was no more to be done
while she was in the company of the boy, but Mole was gratified to see that
she kept looking back at him from time to time across the groin. He waited on
the promenade until she had dressed again and was making her way back to
Brunswick Square. He raised his hat politely as she passed and followed at a little
distance. Cosima kept ahead of him, laughing once or twice over her shoulder.
He doubted that she felt much in a laughing mood. It was part of her
professional training, as a young courtesan. When she turned into Brunswick
Square, he guessed that she might expect him to accompany her. But that was too
risky. Mole contented himself with watching her across the trees and shrubs of
the private gardens in the centre of the square.

He knew better than to enter
the square itself. After Stunning Joe's burglary and Jolly's departure as
servant, the local constabulary had insisted upon providing some protection for
the lonely young woman until the danger of another such intrusion was past. In
consequence, a private-clothes jack now stood directly outside the steps of the
corner house. The law might conclude that the Shah Jehan clasp had gone, but
its interest in Cosima Bremer was by no means extinguished. From the distance
of the promenade Old Mole made his survey. Mr Kite would be grateful for the
information. Late afternoon sunlight shone like fire in the opposite windows
of the Georgian houses. Cosima went up the curve of the stone steps to her
black-painted door. Old Mole saw the man outside touch his hat respectfully to
the young mistress. Then the private-clothes jack drew a deep breath into his
barrel-chest and rocked to and fro upon his heels as if he had not a care in
the world.