The Walking Stick

  I put my hand on the handle of the cupboard and gently turned the handle. Gently pushed the door an inch. Light. Dim light but so welcome after the utter darkness. And air. Not imagination that it had grown short in the cupboard. I put out my head and looked each way. My office in darkness. Smith-Williams’s in darkness. Upstairs two men. Shut the door so carefully; but it still creaked. Loose the handle, grope your way a foot back – something fell off the back of the door with a hellish clatter.

  Frozen silence, heart lurching, teeth held, wait.

  It was an overall that had dropped, but what the devil had made the noise? If Gaskell or McCarthy were coming down the stairs . . .

  I squatted back slowly on the floor and waited. Nothing . . .

  Five to ten. It was growing stuffy again. I could feel the iron lung compressing and expanding my chest.

  You didn’t really lose any feeling in your body when you had polio; it was all there, but helpless. You lay as if strapped in that iron coffin, not moving because you couldn’t move. At first you couldn’t even pass urine. The disease had never got up to my throat. They fed me liquids through a sort of teapot, but I couldn’t take much. The whole coffin was on a sort of trolley and they wheeled you about on rubber wheels that squeaked. They were all cheerful and peered at you smiling, and you wanted to scream and daren’t because if you did a sort of bubble might form in your throat and make you cough and then you’d suffocate.

  Three hours to go . . . It had been three days to go then. They took me out after about a day, but I began to die so they put me back. The nights were the worst time then, because you were supposed to sleep; but it was only the nurse who slept, and you were still troubled with the remnants of your cold, and your nose irritated and you couldn’t rub it. And a tear came out of your eye and ran down your cheek and tickled and irritated all the way and never stopped irritating as it dried. And sometimes your nose was altogether blocked. But still the bellows went on, pushing, pressing on your chest until your mouth opened and the air went in again. It was torture because you were really dead and it was keeping you artificially alive. If you could just die, if you could just suffocate: a horrible few minutes and it would be over. But this: in and out and in and out and in and out and in and out, forever, all through the long dark hours; and if the mucus ran down your face and you whimpered loud enough the nurse would stir and bend over you and wipe your face and say: ‘All right, love? Like a drink?’ And you’d shake your head and she’d move away and sit down again and you’d just have to concentrate on this terrible living that was being forced on you . . .

  My head banged against the wall and I woke up . . . Time? I’d been asleep. Nearly midnight. God, I might have slept all night through! But was it natural sleep? Wasn’t it more half-fainting for lack of air? I could feel the machine working on my chest even now. I was terrified to scream because if I did a bubble would get in my throat and choke me. I was bound hand and foot. Paralysed, dead and buried, all except my head; the thing beside me was like a steam engine puffing and sucking at the air. Pressure all round. Black walls weighing, black sides pressing, holding me down, blind in the dark, deaf in the dark, dead in the dark . . .

  I thrust at the cupboard door, wriggled the handle, got it open and stumbled out into the passage, gasping at the air. I could hardly stand, hair soaked in sweat, trembling, gasping to get breath. The only importance was to get out of the cupboard and never go back. Never go back, not for love of Leigh or all the money in England!

  I lurched against the wall, nightmare still only just a step away, but reality slowly taking over, reason beginning to flex and stir. I shut the cupboard door and leaned with my palms and face against it. Not in there again. Not yet anyway. Must have a short break. Just a chance to recover. Then perhaps I could stand it again. Only an hour and a half now. Pity, having come so far, to fail now.

  The door of Smith-Williams’s office was ajar. At his desk was a big swivel chair that he often tilted back to put his feet on the corner of the desk. I pushed open the door, closed it again, groped to the chair, sat there.

  Relief. Like being taken out of the box for the third time and finding that your lungs could go in and out of their own accord. Erica had cried. The only time I had ever seen her cry. Douglas wasn’t there, but he came soon after, his blue eyes limpid with pleasure. ‘She’s been very lucky,’ they said. ‘Full movement in the arms now, and we’ll hope the legs will recover in the next day or so.’

  Footsteps. So I was caught. McCarthy. Well, it wouldn’t be difficult to pretend illness. No need for Jack Foil’s pill. He had come down the stairs pretty slowly and now he appeared at the junction of the passage, walking sleepily, swinging his torch. He turned his head and looked up the short passage to my office and then passed on. His footsteps receded. He was going to the clocking-in place. I sat still. He was whistling The Londonderry Air. I sat still. His footsteps stopped. There was a long pause. He had gone right on into the antiquities department. Footsteps coming back. Same pace. His torch was on now, flickering about.

  He came to the T-join again, paused, flicked the torch toward my office. The light swept across Smith-Williams’s office in passing, but was too high to show me up.

  He went on. I heard him going right down the passage into the furniture department. Silence. Then back he came again to the stairs, began to mount them. His footsteps died away.

  . . . With the back of my hand I wiped my damp forehead. So now I should be safe here for nearly an hour. Sitting in this chair in comparative comfort. When one o’clock came round I would slide down and lie under the desk until he had gone again. It was no part of their duty to search every office. I should be reasonably safe.

  And so it was. One o’clock came, and with it McCarthy again. He followed an identical procedure. His light came nowhere near me. When he had gone I got up and sat down in the chair again, and began to watch the minute hand of my luminous watch. Only twenty minutes to go. My part was almost done. Perhaps for me the worst was already over.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Twenty minutes past one. I got up, went to the door and out. One of the men should now be on the first floor, the other in the telephone office on the ground floor. The pilot light burned at the foot of the stairs. I went up.

  Showrooms haunted in the half light. A great Persian vase loomed like a man standing in the doorway. The offices were down to the left; a light under the telephone-room door; Mr Greeley’s office in darkness. Halfway there I remembered gloves. ‘Don’t forget to wear gloves whatever you do,’ Jack Foil said. ‘I know your fingerprints will be about, but you might leave one in an inconvenient place.’ Too late to go back to the cupboard where I’d dropped them off. A handkerchief; wrap it round the handle of Mr Greeley’s door, go in. Enough light from the passage to see.

  A small square office; he usually kept it manned during the day, though often he was himself upstairs. I knew exactly where the switches were: between the bookcases a small cupboard where he kept drinks; behind the bottles were the switches, two square brown bakelite boxes with grey cables leading up the wall. The switches were white lettered on red and marked ON and OFF. Move the bottles very carefully; a fingerprint here might tell a lot. Clumsy work with a handkerchief, but I got them out and reached in again. Both switches down. I pushed one up and then the other. Each made a noisy clack.

  Wait, half afraid of a booby trap of some sort, perhaps a separate alarm that rang if the switches were touched. Nothing. I took away my hand and knocked over a glass.

  It didn’t fall out of the cupboard: it rolled along the edge and I caught it with my other hand in time. Gulp spittle, swallow fear, heart swelling. Fingerprint. Pick the glass up, put it in pocket. Safer now thrown on some dump miles away.

  Silence still, but time passing. In three or four minutes McCarthy or Gaskell would be coming down. I went out. Light under the telephone-room door but no movement, no alarm. Perhaps the other man was dozing. Nearly half an hour before he made his next call
to headquarters.

  Now back past the head of the stairs, through the book-auction room, then the passage with the counter, where things were received, then the narrow hall, then the door leading to Bruton Yard.

  It was of stout oak and locked with a five-lever mortise deadlock. Also a conventional key to turn, but this hardly ever used. Then heavy bolts top and bottom. Bottom one came easily but the top I could barely reach. Back to counter for chair. Another fingerprint? But this no matter: I was always being called to the counter. Bolts were different. Very careful with the bolts.

  The top bolt came down, I pulled the chair quietly back, turned the mortise lock and flicked up the catch. Then pulled open the door.

  A man came in, horrible, like a nightmare: I gulped, hadn’t expected the stocking masks. Then another, who squeezed my arm. ‘Bless you, love.’ A third. A fourth. The fourth stopped briefly, said: ‘Car’s in Berkeley Square, just where we said. Bye for now.’ Ted.

  Then I was out in the foggy night, and the door was shut behind me.

  Bruton Yard is a cul-de-sac which spreads out at its closed end into a modest little square. It is used as a rear entrance by a dozen firms whose premises back onto it. There are two sodium street lamps, but our corner of the yard is in shadow.

  The fog swirled in the distant lights of Bruton Street. Still a couple of windows lit in the building next to Whittington’s, a firm of textile exporters. Seven cars and a furniture van parked about the yard. The old Austin saloon was one of the cars. Dustbins; a cardboard box lying on its side, an evening paper curling damply at the edges, empty milk bottles.

  I shivered, wondering what was going on behind the door at my back. Since the guards could be taken separately, they might not resist. But still robbery with violence. Even if not hurt they’d be tied and gagged; so a much heavier sentence if things went wrong. And I as much involved as if I were in that building now. Accessory before and after the fact.

  Ought to go. Five minutes’ walk. But it meant walking through brightly lit, half-empty streets. And although my limp was not nearly so noticeable, no policeman would fail to notice that it was there. One-thirty, of course, not late for London. They’d never stop me or ask. Chances were I’d never even see a policeman.

  But I did not move, needing time after the terrible tensions of these last minutes, almost waiting, listening, as if I should hear something from the building just left. Safe in the shadows of the yard.

  A tabby cat moved across the light, came toward me mewing. I knew her, she came from one of the other offices, sometimes walked into Whittington’s and was given a saucer of milk. Hand down and she rubbed against it. A touch of warmth and homeliness and sanity. I picked her up and walked a few yards with her and left her on a low wall mewing.

  The end of the yard. There stopped to put on headscarf – a bit of protection and it would disguise my fairly noticeable hair. Then after fumbling in pockets realized the scarf was in the cupboard, along with my gloves. I had dressed up to go home to deceive Smith-Williams and had stayed so dressed in the cupboard until the enclosed space had made me feel queer. Then I had dragged off scarf and gloves and dropped them on the floor.

  Danger? My scarf and gloves had every right to be in the building. I had once left a coat three weeks. But in that cupboard? If the police found them before I did, would they pick them out and ask whose are they? Easily identifiable, particularly the Spanish scarf. Why put them there? Once suspicious, many more questions? What time did you leave? Who saw you leave?

  Two young men were coming down Bruton Street laughing and trying to hail a taxi. I kept in the shadow, but one of them saw me and gave a wolf whistle. I turned back into the yard.

  Nobody here at all. Perfect silence. Stand away from the cold glare of the street lamps. Footsteps. Someone else in Bruton Street. I retreated, backing away, back to the oak door.

  The tabby cat leaped into the light, making arches like a cantilever bridge, came mewing, then stopped dead. Some interesting smell took her interest. Head turned, she stalked away.

  Had they locked the door on the other side? Almost certainly. But only five minutes had passed. I took out my handkerchief and tried the handle. It turned and I went back in.

  Just as when left. The pilot light burning dimly in the passage and another above the counter. It was as if the four men I’d admitted had been sucked into the silence.

  I went as far as the counter. A book open on it, a pair of scales, a used coffee cup. Go on into the book auction room, with its bookshelves, its central table, its rostrum. Footsteps. A man.

  He looked at me like an animal ready to kill; hand behind back, hand raised; danger; but the hand dropped. ‘What th’ hell?’

  Strange voice – one I didn’t know. ‘I came back. I’d forgotten my gloves.’

  His blurred face stared. Then someone behind him: Leigh’s figure. ‘Deborah! How did you get in? Why’ve you come back? . . .’

  ‘I forgot my gloves.’

  ‘Christ! What a thing to do! Len, you were supposed to do the door—’

  ‘I thought I ’ad . . .’

  ‘The catch – I put it up,’ I said.

  ‘Where are your gloves?’

  ‘In a cupboard downstairs. Are they – have you . . .’

  ‘What? The guards? Yes. Go and get your gloves for Pete’s sake. Leave the door now till she’s out of the way, Len.’

  ‘I’ll watch it,’ said the stranger. ‘Or some bleeding copper . . .’ He went past me.

  I stared at Leigh. He said: ‘Hurry. We’ve no time to waste.’

  ‘Are they all right?’

  ‘Who? The guards? Sure. We’ve not hurt ’em. The little one gave in without us laying a finger on him.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘Len had to tap him. But it’s a trick they have. You get it across the shoulders – back of the neck – and you’re only out for three minutes. Now hurry.’

  ‘Can I stay?’ I said.

  ‘What in hell d’you mean?’

  ‘I’m afraid of going to the car.’

  ‘But there’s nothing to it!’

  ‘If I’m seen – with my limp. There are not many girls like me about. If a policeman sees me he won’t forget.’

  ‘Yes, but if you stay here . . .’

  ‘I’ve been here half the night. What difference does it make?’

  ‘But it breaks the arrangements.’

  ‘What does that matter?’

  ‘Hell, I don’t know what to say . . . OK, Len?’

  ‘OK,’ said the stranger, coming back. ‘Don’t forget to lock it again when you let ’er out.’

  ‘She wants to stay.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She wants to stay.’

  Len shrugged. ‘It’s not my show.’

  ‘It makes no difference,’ I said again. ‘I’m in this anyhow.’

  Leigh hesitated. ‘Go and get your gloves. I’ll ask Ted.’

  Len disappeared toward the stairs.

  I said: ‘Where’s Jack Foil?’

  ‘At home. Where d’you expect him to be?’

  We moved together toward the stairs. Beyond were the show-rooms and the two doors: the telephone room was still lighted: it blazed brighter suddenly as Len went in.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘We needed a fourth. His job is to guard the guards. Where did you leave your Goddamned gloves?’

  ‘In the cupboard downstairs.’

  ‘I’ll come down with you.’

  We went together, his gloved hand gripping my upper arm tightly. ‘Did you have any trouble?’ he asked.

  ‘It was a long wait.’

  ‘It’s over now. I wish you’d go.’

  ‘No. I’ll . . . see it through.’

  I got to the cupboard and he flashed his torch. I picked up the gloves and pulled them on, tied the scarf over my head.

  Footsteps on the stairs. Another man. ‘D’you want to stay, Deb?’ Ted Sandymount.

  ‘Yes. The
re’s much more risk in that five-minute walk.’

  ‘Well, search me, I don’t know. I don’t know what Jack’ll say.’ He hurried past us, walked toward the end of the building where the strongroom was. An extra light burned there.

  ‘God, you ought to be wearing a thing over your face!’ Leigh exclaimed. ‘Take one of your stockings off. If you’re seen . . .’

  ‘Well, if the guards are both in the telephone room . . .’

  ‘Jack’ll be furious if you get in the way. I’ve got to help Irons.’

  ‘There’s no reason why I should get in the way!’

  He hurried off toward the strongroom, and after a minute I followed him. Perhaps in my bones I knew that returning for scarf and gloves had been an excuse. I was too deeply committed with Leigh to want to separate from him now, too committed altogether to this thing. In any event there was no horror for me greater than sitting in a cupboard for six hours. This, in a sense, was a release. Ted Sandymount was on his stomach, doing something to the power plug in the wall. John Irons had pulled off his nylon and had loosened his collar; hands on hips he was staring at the strongroom door and whistling gently; he alone of the four men looked unhurried, as if he had hours to spend. When he saw us he raised his anthropoid eyebrows and muttered out of the corner of his mouth:

  ‘This is a bit harder than you said.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Leigh asked urgently.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong but what can’t be put right. But this door will take a lot of blowing. I suppose you don’t know where they keep the keys, do you, lady?’

  ‘Each director has a set. No one else.’

  ‘Hm.’ He patted the wall, where the corner of the strongroom abutted on the passage. He was different, in his element, more talkative, where the others were less. ‘There must be a grill somewhere. You got to have air . . .’