On the night before he had interviewed Mr. Rater, he had visited Sunningdale in a stolen car, and, accompanied by two willing helpers, had lifted from a locked house some £1,500 worth of silver, and that was not his first job.
The modus operandi of the little gang can be simply described. A motorcar left unattended was “knocked off” by one of the confederates; the other two were picked up in a quiet suburban street, and the car was driven to the house which had been marked down for attack. He had found some little difficulty in securing assistance. Higgy James, whom he eventually secured, voiced the objection of his kind.
“You’re a good workman, Farmer, but what about that gun of yours? If you’re carrying one, miss me out. You’ve done a seven for shooting at a copper, and the next time it’ll be life, and anybody who’s with you may get the same. I’m not playing unless you cut out the shooter.”
The English criminal’s horror of being found in possession of firearms is natural. The pistol-embellished burglar receives an automatic addition of five years for his armament should he find himself interviewing one of His Majesty’s judges.
The silver from the overnight raid had already been melted, and in bar form would be disposed of by J. Giles & Co. (late Olney, Brown & Stermer), Merchants & Shippers. He finished work early and went to Acacia Street, having a certain matter to settle. As he passed No. 910, where his offending neighbour lived, he scowled at the unlighted window. No. 910 was built against his own house, which was of a semidetached order. Giles opened his own door with a key, and strode into the dining-room. The girl who was sitting by the side of the fire, sewing, got up quickly, and a stranger observing the scene, with no knowledge of their relationship, might have supposed that she stood in terror of him, for all the smile she forced. If she was not as pretty as a picture, that was entirely Farmer Giles’ fault, but the bruise had almost disappeared, he was pleased to note — pleased because that old so-and-so Rater might very easily take it into his head to accept the invitation he had given.
“Get my tea,” he said, curtly.
“Yes, dear.”
As she moved to the door he called her back.
“Has that fellow next door been smarming round?”
“No, dear; he hasn’t spoken to me; I haven’t seen him...”
“Don’t tell me no lies!” His voice rose menacingly. “You let me come back and catch you gossiping over the garden wall and see what happens to you, my girl!”
She did not answer; fear struck the colour from her face as she stood tense, waiting.
“I picked you up out of the gutter, so to speak,” said J. Giles. “A bit of a shop gal, up to your eyes in debt. Why I married you I don’t know: I must have been crazy with the heat. I’ve given you a home and all the luxury that the heart can desire.”
“Yes, dear; I’m very grateful.” She hastened to speak, but he silenced her with a wave of his hand.
“My tea,” he said.
He often woke up in the morning with a dismal sense of his lunacy in marrying this girl. Men should stick to their own game, and his game was burglary and not bigamy. Here was a handle for the “busies” if they ever got to know about his first marriage; and just as he was making good, and had three thousand “ready” stowed away in the Northern and Southern Bank. The more he thought about his danger from this source, the more he hated her. It was inconsistent in him that he objected to the attentions of the man next door. If the old fool hadn’t knocked on the wall in the middle of the night, and later come with an overcoat over his pyjamas to ask what was the meaning of the screams, he might have used Mr. Smith for his own purposes. He wasn’t a bad-looking fellow, either, though rather grey and sombre. When the Farmer had caught him by the throat and had attempted to throw him into the street, the intruder had pinned him as though he were a child, had shaken off the grip and flung the Farmer the length of the passage.
Joe Giles brooded before the fire till the girl brought in his tea and placed the tray on the table. For a long time he ignored her presence, and then, without looking at her:
“If a fellow named Rater calls, he’s from Scotland Yard — a friend of mine. I know everybody at Scotland Yard — I have to, in my business; but you needn’t tell him anything about me, do you hear?”
“Yes, dear.”
A long silence; and then:
“What’s that fellow next door do for a living?”
“I don’t know, Joe.”
“ ‘I don’t know, Joe!’ ” he mimicked her. “Do you know anything?”
She shrank back from the threat of his uplifted hand, and he laughed.
“You behave yourself and I’ll behave myself,” he said. “I’ve got a gentleman calling on me to-night: when he comes, you go up to the bedroom. If I want you I’ll send for you.”
He looked at his watch and yawned, and, going up to the bathroom, washed himself and announced his intention of going out for an hour. Once, in the early days of their marriage, she had made the mistake of asking him where he was going, but that folly had not been repeated.
She waited until the door slammed on him, passed quickly into the drawing-room with its bow window, and through the curtains watched him till he disappeared; then she went through the kitchen, leaving all the doors open so that she could hear, knowing that her neighbour would have heard the door slam.
He was waiting in the garden, a dark figure in the gloom.
“I had to lie to him, Mr. Smith,” she said. “I said I hadn’t spoken to you. What am I to do?”
Her voice was vibrant with despair; and yet she found a certain dismal happiness in talking to him. Every night the girl went out at the same hour, and every night she made her way to the garden to discuss a problem which had been hopeless at its outset and was hopeless yet.
“Well, you hadn’t seen me to-day.” His voice was rough but kindly. “Has he beaten you again?”
She shook her head: he could just see that gesture.
“No, he hasn’t struck me since you came the other night. I don’t know what to do, Mr. Smith, I’m so terrified of him. He gives me no money, so I can’t run away from him. If I went back to my old job at Harridge’s he would follow me. He terrifies me. Sometimes I think I shall put my head in the gas oven and end it all.”
“You’re talking like a fool.” The man’s voice was sharp, but almost instantly he became his gentle self. “I’ll find a way out for you—”
“Who is Mr. Rater of Scotland Yard?” she asked, suddenly.
“Why?” He had obviously been startled by the question.
“Joe was talking about him; said he would be likely to call. Do you know him?”
A pause.
“Yes, I know him. I met him once. When is he coming?”
His tone was anxious, and she wondered what Rater stood for in his mind.
“I don’t know if he’s coming at all. Joe only said that he might be calling. He wants to know what you do for a living.”
She heard a chuckle from the other side of the wall.
“He does, does he? Well, you can tell him the truth: I’m a working woodcarver — he’s seen me at the bench often enough; and I’ve another job, which is my own private affair and I never talk about it.”
“I’ll bet you don’t, you dirty trickster.”
The girl screamed and turned in horror, to find her husband standing almost by her side. He had crept back without a sound, and had overheard the last part of the conversation. She would have fled past him, but he caught her by the arm in a grip that made her scream again.