“Hey, and you...” Clauson called to the other man.
The man shook his head and the two backed toward their ladder.
“I’ll pay you,” shrieked Clauson, rushing after them. His partner held him back.
“I’ll kill them,” Clauson said through clenched teeth.
“Go easy, Harry,” his partner said.
“Well, gentlemen,” Russell said, “I’ve got a compromise solution to offer. You return the stuff now, today, and I’ll even arrange the transport, and we needn’t call the police at all. My only concern is to ensure that my clients...”
“Look here,” Clauson said, taking out a billfold. “I’ve got a better idea, Just give me half an hour’s start...”
Russell laughed and mimicked the roof worker. “I’d never get another job hereabouts. It’s mostly word o’ mouth in a small town like this. Either we move the stuff back right away, or it’s the police. It’s the old lady’s word against yours, and they were in Spain for the dates you gave. Her husband is a brigadier. What jury will take your word against hers?”
“I don’t want trouble,” said the partner solicitously.
“You just come along with me and we’ll confront her,” Clauson said aggressively.
Russell said very mildly, “My job is to get the stuff back to the owners, not to find the thieves. That’s for the police. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve found the stolen goods, and I hope they are all there. You are quite welcome to go to the police yourself, as I will, if that stuff isn’t moving within the next hour.”
“I don’t want to go to the police,” said Clauson. “As far as I’m concerned, she can be married to the entire British army, I want to confront that bitch in your presence.”
“Either I call a van to collect the stuff right now, or I call the police right now.”
Clauson swore and raged, but he gave in.
It was only later that Russell discovered from a chance remark that Mrs. Stammers had not been with the Thundackaray-Hardings all that time. He wondered if there had been some confusion in identity. Finally, he told the whole story to Peter Strevens. Was there any chance that Clauson was telling the truth but was afraid a police investigation would reveal stolen goods on his premises? Strevens was quite amused. “Well, serve the bastard right. One way or another, he got it in the eye. We’ll go through the place, but not just yet. He will probably keep his nose clean for a while.”
Russell telephoned Bradford and told him the whole story. Bradford laughed his head off, then said, “I don’t suppose there’s any point in telling the brigadier, he’d never believe it, that is, if it is true. But Clauson sounds like the sort of man who’d make up a story like that. Just to be on the safe side, I’ll put a note on the file. If ever they make another claim, we’ll have you investigate the housekeeper.”
But that was not the end of the story.
IV
Several months later Russell was dining with a friend at the Lily Langtry, round the corner from where he lived, when all of a sudden there was a great activity on the part of the staff as Brigadier Thundackaray-Harding swept in. His wife was on one arm and Mrs. Stammers on the other. The latter was dressed in pink velvet, with a white fur collar, a fur hat, and many bright appendages hanging round her.
“Ooooo, there’s our nice detective,” said Mrs. Stammers. The three came over and she signaled the waiter. “This gentleman and his lady friend are joining us at our table, and their bill is on me, too.” Russell demurred, but the waiters were already enlarging the reserved table and moving food and cutlery. Introductions were made.
“Mrs. Stammers is now our companion and friend and lives with us,” said the brigadier.
“Well, I’ve always lived with you, if you know what I mean,” said Mrs. Stammers. “It’s just that I’m not their housekeeper any more,” she explained to Russell. “I had a bit of luck, I did. Got another housekeeper, but she doesn’t live on the premises.”
“Oh, yes,” said Russell.
“It was all my Aunt Pru’s doing. Hardly knew I had an aunt, and then I got this letter. Poor Aunt Pru.” Mrs. Stammers dabbed at her eyes with a monogrammed serviette. “She wanted me to have her money before she died. Didn’t want the tax to get it. So she asked me to come and collect it. Said to bring a bodyguard along. You know, Mr. Davenport, I was going to ask you to come and protect me and help bring the money somewhere safe. Didn’t know whether you’d think it wicked to avoid the tax that way. But the brigadier said he’d come along.”
She smiled at the brigadier and he beamed back.
“So we went, and we got Aunt Pru’s money, and I put it all into premium bonds, every cent right up to the maximum, and we put some in the general’s name, and Mrs. Thundackaray-Harding’s name, ’cause we’re friends now, and we trust each other, don’t we? And we’ve been striking it lucky every month in the premium bonds lottery, haven’t we?”
“Got a big prize,” said Mrs. Thundackaray-Harding suddenly.
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Stammers and waved her hand at the waiter. “More bubbly, luv!”
Fall Guy
by Dave Reddall
The snow was tapering off, coming straight down now. Small flakes that glistened like diamond dust. Even without the wind it was bitterly cold.
Kermit stashed the morning’s haul of returnable cans and bottles where they would be safe and set off for Liberty Street. He needed gloves, and Saturday was the day people usually chose to drop off food and clothing at the shelter.
Luck was with him for once: a brand new pair of insulated gloves. The right size, too. Kermit was a big man and rarely found anything to fit. As he stood in front of the shelter, flexing his fingers in his new gloves, Cadillac Jack stepped up and said good morning.
Most of the people on the street had nicknames. Kermit quickly became Froggie, from the television puppet. He detested the name but, short of kicking someone’s slats in, there was little he could do about it. And despite his size, he had a horror of violence.
Cadillac Jack got his nickname when he appeared at the shelter a couple of weeks earlier. He was dropped off by a midnight blue Coupe DeVille and you had to wonder, because he looked then like he looked now: ragged. But climbing out of a Caddy, nonetheless. He came and went and pretty much kept to himself, rarely engaging in conversation. Which made this morning’s greeting unusual.
“Want to make a quick hundred bucks, Frogman?”
Kermit was on guard at once. There was no such thing as free money.
“How?”
“Simple. You just fall down.”
Kermit grinned. “Hell, Jack. I’ve been known to do that on occasion.”
Jack moved closer, eyes narrowed. He was short and scrawny, not enough meat on him to make a sick man a sandwich, thought Kermit. But he vaguely remembered from his school days that Stalin was only about five foot four, and one of his legs was shorter than the other. Kermit wasn’t sure who Stalin was — probably a Nazi — but he knew that the little man had killed a lot of people, so you just never knew. And right now Cadillac Jack seemed just a little menacing.
“Listen up, Froggie. You need to be stone cold sober for this gig. Otherwise, forget it.”
Kermit considered what a hundred dollars would mean: a fistful of lottery tickets, something to drink besides cheap muscatel, a half hour with one of the whores down on Exeter Street.
“Okay. What’s the deal?”
“You know where the Big League Deli is on Dudley Avenue?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. Right in front there’s a heave in the sidewalk — one section’s raised up an inch or two.” He flashed a thin smile. “Hell, someone could trip on that, get hurt.”