The new tie, the artificial light or the unscheduled appearance. Whatever it was, Brady himself had fallen for it.
Herbie shrugged and smoothly got into character. “Make yourself useful and let me in. Is she home?”
“Yes, boss.” Brady produced a key and opened the door.
Herbie stepped inside. “See we’re not disturbed.”
“You bet.” The door closed.
Chloe’s voice called out, “Who’s there?”
“It’s OK,” Herbie called back. “It’s me.”
“Hey, what a wonderful surprise!” She came into the hall and hugged him. Then she stood back and smoothed her hand under his tie. “This is new. Cool. And you smell so nice. Someone knows how to turn a girl on.”
He’d been rehearsing a little speech about the dangers he was in now that the Weasel had been murdered, but it would have to wait. Chloe was still holding his tie, loosening it. She said, “Shall we go upstairs?”
Herbie said, “Why not?”
And that was how he finally got his benefit night. Deceitful? Yes. Unforgivable? No. Not in the light of what happened. Two or three times she said, “You’re amazing. They should lock you up more often. I swear you’re bigger than ever.”
He said, “It’s because of you. So amazing. I’ve waited so long for this.” He was coming to his third climax when there was a bang like a car backfiring.
Chloe said, “Was that in my head, or did you hear it too?”
“It was out in the street.”
“Yes. Hold me closer, Jimmy. Don’t stop.”
He didn’t, but he felt compelled to say, “Actually, I’m Herbie.”
She was crying out in ecstasy.
Finally the moment passed and she said, “You were kidding, of course.”
“No.” He paused. “I did say I’d like to see you again.”
He was prepared for the backlash and he deserved it. But she said nothing to him. Instead she reached for the phone at her bedside and pressed one of the buttons. “Brady, was that a gun going off just now?”
Herbie was so close that he heard every word of Brady’s answer.
“It’s OK, Chloe. I dealt with it.”
“What was it?”
“Only that little runt we used as a double. He tried to get past me, making out he was the boss, so I totalled him.”
“Oh my God! Killed him?”
“Put one through his head. No problem. He was a nobody. I’ll take care of the body.”
She put down the phone. She had her hand to her mouth. “The dumbfuck shot Jimmy. We’re all finished.”
“I’m not finished,” Herbie said. “But I could have been. Seems to me I’ve had a lucky escape.”
“We were all on his payroll.”
“Do you know where he kept the money?”
“Various accounts under other names.”
“You have the details?”
“I know where to look for them. But Jimmy always collected the cash in person.”
Herbie folded his arms and grinned. “Then it looks as if you’re going to need my help.”
There was a long pause. Chloe’s eyes widened. “Would you?”
“No one else needs to know he’s gone,” Herbie said. “Not even Brady. Let him carry on thinking he murdered me. I’ll feel safer that way.”
“You’ll have to practise the signatures he used.”
“I can do that.”
“And if you’re going to carry this off, you’ll have to take over his life.”
“And all that goes with it,” Herbie said, stretching his limbs.
The police never succeeded in solving the murder of The Weasel, or the disappearance of Herbie Collins. But they earned some praise when the crime rate in West London dipped dramatically. The Calhoun gang seemed to have lost interest in armed robberies and protection rackets. The probation service said it spoke volumes for prison as a instrument of reform.
Herbie moved in with Chloe and found no difficulty adapting to the lifestyle of a millionaire ex-crook. On a Saturday he was often seen in the directors’ box at Chelsea and he’d pass the evenings in the Black Bess with his friends. The nights were always spent with Chloe and the last thing she would whisper to him before falling asleep was always, “You’re the best Suit.”
The Man Who Jumped for England
I laughed when I was told. I took it for a party joke. There was nothing athletic about him. People put on weight when they get older and they shrink a bit, but not a lot. Willy Plumridge was five-two in his shoes and the shape of a barrel. His waistline matched his height. If Sally, my hostess, had told me Willy sang at Covent Garden or swam the Channel, I’d have taken her word for it. Jumped for England? I couldn’t see it.
“High jump?” I asked Sally with mock seriousness.
She shrugged and spread her hands. She didn’t follow me at all.
“They’re really big men,” I said. “You must have watched them. If you’re seven feet tall, there are two sports open to you — high-jumping and basketball.”
“Maybe it was the long jump.”
“Then you’re dealing in speed as well as size. They’re sprinters with long legs. Look at the length of his. And don’t mention triple jumping or the pole vault.”
“Why don’t you ask him which it was?”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“He’d think I was taking the piss.”
“Well,” she said. “All the time I’ve known him — and that’s ten years at least — people have been telling me he once jumped for England.”
“In the Olympics?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Bunjee-jumping, I could believe.”
“Is that an international sport?”
“Oh, come on!”
Sally said, “Why don’t I introduce you? Then maybe he’ll tell you himself.”
So I met Willy Plumridge, shook the hand of the man who jumped for England. I can’t say his grip impressed me. It was like handling chipolatas. He was friendly, though, and willing to talk. I didn’t ask him straight out. I came at it obliquely.
“Have we met before? I seem to know your face.”
“Don’t know yours, sport,” he said, “and my memory is good.”
“Could be from way back, like school, or college.”
“I doubt it, unless you were in Melbourne.”
“Melbourne, Australia?” My hopes soared. If he was an Aussie, I’d nailed the lie already.
“Yep. That’s where I did my schooling. My Dad worked for an Australian bank. The family moved there when I was nine years old.”
“You’re English?”
“Through and through.”
Not to be daunted, I tried another tack. “They like their sport in Australia.”
“And how,” he said.
“It’s all right if you’re athletic, but it wouldn’t do for me,” I said. “I was always last in the school cross-country.”
“If you were anything like me,” Willy said, “you stopped halfway round for a smoke. Speaking of which, do you have one on you? I left my pack in the car.”
I produced one for him.
“You’re a pal.”
“If I am,” I said, “I’m honoured.”
That first dialogue ended there because someone else needed to be introduced and we were separated. Willy waved goodbye with the fag between his fingers.
“Any clues?” Sally asked me.
“Nothing much. He grew up in Australia, but he’s English all right.”
She laughed. “That’s half of it, then. Next time, ask about the jumping.”
Willy Plumridge and his jumping interrupted my sleep that night. I woke after about an hour and couldn’t get him out of my mind. There had to be some sport that suited a stunted, barrel-like physique. I thought of ski-jumping, an event the English have never excelled at. Years ago there was all that fuss about Eddie the Eagle, that likeable character who tried the jump in Calgary and scored less than half the points of any other competitor. A man of Willy’s stature would surely have attracted some attention if he’d put on skis. The thought of Willy in skintight Lycra wasn’t nice. It was another hour before I got any sleep.