The Walking Stick (31 page)

Leigh said: ‘Look, love, take it absolutely easy for another hour. Then get up slowly and I’ll drive you there.’

He switched on the radio at eight but there was no mention of what we listened for.

At a quarter to nine I got up and took a bath. He coaxed me to try to eat something but the sight of food was enough. I took another three aspirins, in tea this time, and my head began to throb
less violently. I could open my eyes and move without nausea. He took six aspirins himself and watched me like a man watching a racehorse on which he’s staked his whole fortune.

I can’t express the dread I had of going back to Whittington’s that morning. It seemed inconceivable everyone shouldn’t know exactly what I’d done. It seemed equally
inconceivable I shouldn’t show it on my face.

Back in the car – after so short a time – my legs, both legs, shaky and weak. Leigh helped me in, drove me very fast to the West End. He talked all the time, maybe trying to take my
mind off what was ahead.

Weather fine today and milder. A west wind was blowing the last of the fog away, and traffic was thick. He put me down at the corner of Grafton Street. There was no hope of his being able to
stop, but as I felt blindly for the handle to get out he said:

‘Remember, this is the last bit. We’re in injury time. Get through today and we’re on velvet. Remember, love, you’re doing it for the future, for that shop, for marriage
to me – God help you – for setting up in business, for our future together. I wish to God I could help you. I’m just praying and keeping my fingers crossed. I’ll not come
for you tonight because the less I hang around here the safer it is for both of us. But I’ll be waiting at home for you, Deborah.’

‘I feel I
look
awful.’

‘You don’t – honestly. That bit of make-up has given you a top-of-the-milk look. Nobody’d possibly think a thing. Listen, when you go in, don’t be remembering
what’s happened at all. Think about our holiday in Spain – all the fun we had. Think about shopping in Cadiz. Think of the next time we can go. We could go there for our
honeymoon.’

I got out. From there I could see the entrance to Whittington’s, and beyond the cars at their parking meters I could see, immediately outside the main door, two cars with blue lamps on
their roofs.

‘Come in,’ said Detective Inspector Malcolm. ‘Miss – er – Dainton, isn’t it? Sit down, please. Just a few routine inquiries.’

Peter Greeley’s office on the ground floor; just three of us, the other being a constable taking things down.

‘Miss Dainton, you’ve been with the firm – is it seven and a half years?’

‘Yes. It will be eight in May.’

So far less trouble than I’d thought. All in such confusion that no one had time to remark on pale face, tired eyes or – possibly – guilty look. Place closed to the public,
staff and principals all sitting about in one big showroom, police moving everywhere, no business.

‘What time did you leave last night?’

‘Oh – about half past six, I think. Or it may have been a bit later.’

‘Were the guards here then?’

‘I don’t think so. I didn’t see them.’

‘Do you usually see them?’

‘Not unless I stay late.’

‘What time do you usually leave?’

‘Between six and six-thirty.’

‘You were a little later last night?’

‘I had quite a bit to do. And I half-expected Mr Mills to come back.’

We hadn’t been allowed downstairs at all. Stopped almost in the door. Directed into the big showroom. They said it was to allow the police a free hand – fingerprints –
photographs.

‘Who was in your office when you left?’

‘Nobody. Miss Fent had gone about twenty minutes before, and I switched off the lights as I left. Mr Smith-Williams was still in his office – or at his office door – talking to
one of our commissionaires called Davidson.’

‘Which door did you leave by?’

‘The back entrance. The one into Bruton Yard.’

‘Why? Was that usual?’

I opened my eyes a little. ‘I don’t really know. Sometimes I leave one way, sometimes the other.’

‘Was there someone at the door? Did someone see you leave?’

‘I can’t remember. Most people had left by then.’

‘Was the door open or shut?’

‘Shut. But not locked.’

‘Did you – thinking back now – did you see anything suspicious, anyone loitering near the door when you left?’

‘No. The yard was still about half full of parked cars.’

‘Was it possible, d’you think, for someone to come in that way, unseen by any of the staff, and hide in the building?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose it could have happened.’

Just looking out of the corner of my eye I could see the drinks cupboard which still stood open, the bottles pushed to one side as I had pushed them, the alarm switches switched up into the
OFF
position: I tried not to look at it: I tried not to let my head turn that way. One glass missing. The glass I had taken home and broken and thrown in the river.

‘Where do you live, Miss Dainton?’

Well, it had to be faced. ‘At No. 23, The Lane, Rotherhithe.’

‘Do you live alone?’

‘No . . . I live with Mr Leigh Hartley, who rents the studio.’

The constable looked up slowly, but not at me, bit his pencil. Inspector Malcolm had a strong-boned face, close-cropped hair with a ridge where his hat came, a scar on his lip.

‘You’re – not married to Mr – er – Hartley? You’ll excuse these personal questions – one tries to fill in a general picture.’

‘Mr Hartley’s already married but separated from his wife. He’s at present trying to get a divorce.’

‘When you hope to be married?’

‘Yes. When we hope to be married.’

‘How long have you been living there, Miss Dainton?’

‘Since – it would be last October.’

‘Before that?’

‘I lived with my sister in Ennismore Gardens.’

‘How long have you known Mr Hartley?’

‘Since last April.’

‘What is his – what does he do for a living?’

‘He’s a clerk in Rodwell & Lloyd, in Margaret Street.’

‘Does the firm – this firm, I mean – know of your association with Mr Hartley?’

‘I don’t think so. It didn’t occur to me that it was their business.’

‘No . . . Your address, then, with them is still Ennismore Gardens?’

‘It may be my parents’ house in Hampstead. I lived at home until about June of last year.’

‘What is your father, Miss Dainton?’

‘A doctor. So is my mother. And my sister.’

‘Quite a medical family, eh?’ Inspector Malcolm plucked at his scar. ‘Do your parents mind your living in Rotherhithe?’

‘They have three daughters. We all live away from home.’

‘. . . Yes. It’s the general trend these days, isn’t it. I have a daughter myself who’ll soon be wanting to spread her wings. More’s the pity . . . Well, thank you,
Miss Dainton – that’s about all for the moment. I hope you won’t mind having your fingerprints taken. We’re doing the whole staff including the directors – it’s
a question of elimination, you see.’

‘No, of course not.’ I got up as he did.

‘Oh, Miss Dainton, one thing,’ as I got to the door. ‘Did you know how the alarm system worked?’

I turned, would have been glad for once of my stick for support. ‘The alarm system? I knew there was one.’ How hard to keep one’s eyes from that cupboard. Perhaps it would be
more natural to let them stray. I let them stray.

He said: ‘Ah, I see you know where the switches were.’

‘I knew there were switches there. I didn’t know quite what they did. I was in this office at Christmas when Mr Greeley opened the cupboard and took out some bottles.’

‘What we’re trying to establish, really, is how many people are likely to have known how the alarms worked. It seems certain to us that whoever broke in had a very close knowledge of
the whole set-up, and if a fair number of people in the office knew of it, aside from the directors, one or another may have talked – quite innocently – and given secrets
away.’

‘I suppose we all knew a little,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think any of the girls knew enough to be
really
helpful to a thief.’

‘You’d be surprised what people can pick up,’ said Malcolm. ‘They go about mixing in a friendly way. They hear one thing here and another there; piece tiny bits of
information together and gradually build up a picture and make a plan. The really good finger man, as he’s called, is very astute and very practised . . . Well, thank you again . . . Er
– send in Miss Fent, will you, Rogers.’

At twelve Peter Greeley sent us all home. A surprise but I suppose one might have expected it. Once the staff had been interviewed they could only get in the way and hinder
investigations. In the building there were at least six plain-clothes policemen; as well as a man from the forensic science laboratory, a photographer, a safe specialist from Pemberton’s, a
loss adjuster sent by Lloyds and the Chairman of the Safeguard organization.

‘Opening tomorrow at the normal time,’ Peter Greeley said, smiling grimly at us. ‘Business then as usual. This is just one sale that won’t take place – at least for
the present.’

All the directors were taking it philosophically – partly perhaps because they were fully insured, partly because there was no other sensible way to take it. I realized that in that Leigh
had been right – burglary when it didn’t involve violence was an impersonal thing. Apart from McCarthy with his bruised head, nobody was
suffering
for this theft. It amounted to
a transfer of money from an insurance company into the pockets of certain individuals who had risked their freedom for gain – who still risked it. There were no sorrowing widows, violated
girls, aching hearts or desolate parents. This was the line Leigh had drawn at Sarah’s flat, and except for the one act of violence against McCarthy, they had succeeded without overstepping
it.

Only Smith-Williams seemed to take the robbery as a personal loss. He had persuaded Whittington’s to employ the Safeguard organization, and he’d been responsible for the general
precautions; it was an affront to his own competence that all this had failed, and his manner implied that the staff had in some way failed too.

Mary Fent was delighted at having the day free and, as we fended off several reporters, suggested we should have lunch together and then try to get in at the matinee of the latest musical; but
my head was still throbbing so I made an excuse and left for the East End by bus.

Very tempting to ring Leigh and tell him I was free and suggest lunch; but I had a feeling that I was still on sufferance, still being observed by some God-like eye trained on me from Scotland
Yard, and that the least variation from the norm was best.

So I sat in the bus and read the midday edition of
The News
. ‘West End Jewel Haul. Night raiders grab £200,000 from strongroom safe at Whittington’s. Guards
coshed.’ While the bus bumped and bobbed, my eyes fled over the print – foolishly surreptitious, as if as a member of the staff concerned I should not be fascinated anyhow.
‘Effected an entry by means of first-floor window – daringly planned – inside knowledge – alarms jammed and then cut – four masked men – guards overpowered
– code messages continued to be passed – strongroom dynamited and safe smashed – Gwalpur emeralds – Plouth diamonds . . .’

I knew it all.

‘Police under Detective Inspector Malcolm conducting extensive inquiries . . .’

I knew that too. But where would it stop? Not for weeks. Not for months. Patiently, quietly ferreting.

River full, a welcome sight after being invisible for three days. I pulled the curtains of the studio back farther to let in more of the wintry light. It was a fluid, shimmering light such as
you get nowhere else in London, born of sky and reflected river. Wind was blowing the low clouds gustily across, but here and there were streaks of green of a quite improbable colour as if put
there by an inspired artist – the way Bach in the midst of formality makes his point by a sudden discord.

The studio smelled dank again, and I put on a fire and kicked off my shoes and warmed my feet. But it was my heart that needed warming, and not even Leigh could do that.

For I had realized that in this enterprise neither he nor I had seen far enough. How
could
we buy the shop in Lambeth, how
could
we put down even the deposit with a promise of more
to come, while the police were searching and ferreting as they would be now? At this stage they wouldn’t actually suspect anyone in the firm, and they might never do so; but a young woman who
had just gone to live with an artist-cum-clerk in Rotherhithe, who had thrown over her family and connections for this rather sordid entanglement, would be much more under their eye than the same
young woman going home dutifully each night to her doctor parents.

Supposing, then, she and the man appeared to have no money, and suddenly produced seven thousand pounds to buy a shop, wouldn’t they ask where it came from? This was the eternal problem of
the thief in modern society: if he stole money, how spend it without rousing suspicion?

I went in stockinged feet to the window, sat there for a time watching the wind licking the river, watching cloud and smoke mingling in grey-brown wraiths and wafting away. Somewhere the gulls
were crying.

Headache threatening again. I went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. While doing so I cleared the breakfast mess which we’d both been too preoccupied to tidy up. Then I lay on the
bed and drank tea.

The tea was like new courage seeping into my veins. It was like a shot of morphia after pain. Anxieties began to relax. They were all there just the same but they hadn’t such power to
hurt. The police might suspect much but they would first have to prove. They might even never suspect at all . . . It was so easy to find yourself guilty when you knew you were.

I must have fallen asleep and dozed for upward of an hour. The bell woke me. Half past two. I started up: too early for – but police – or telegram – or baker – or . .
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