Hopscotch

At the head of the coach-house stair the door opened and the butler-chauffeur came hurrying down. “Good work, officers!”

In his Cockney rasp Kendig said, “’Ow’d you get onto me then?”

“Mr. Musgrove saw you in the act of breaking and entering.”

The old man bobbed his head vehemently. “Heard something, looked out my window, saw the door just closing behind the thief. Called you right the instant.”

The policeman still had his arms in a vise lock and his partner was frisking Kendig for weapons, sliding around like a contortionist to keep out of range of any kicking Kendig might have in mind to do. The man holding his arms had the exact positioning of long practice; both wrists high under the shoulderblades, twisting him forward in a half-bow; there was no way out of that hold. Then the partner locked the handcuffs on him.

“You’ve a keen eye, Mr. Musgrove. You’ll want to come down in the morning, I’m afraid, to give us a statement.”

“Glad to do my duty,” the old man said, rearing back on his dignity.

“I imagine the governor’ll give you a rise for this, old boy.”

Musgrove smiled. His wife stood at the head of the outside stair, watching with suspicion. The policeman hustled Kendig along the lane into the mews. Their car was a Morris 1100 with a globe light on the roof; he went into the back with the muscular officer who’d pinioned him. “Bloody crackers,” Kendig mumbled.

“What’s that, mate?”

“Crackers I said. Old fool ought’ve been fast asleep, this hour. Tell you I never had nothin’ but hard luck my whole life.”

“Ruddy well asked for every bit of it, didn’t you,” said the second policeman; he started the car and they rolled out of the mews.

It was a small police station, casual and Edwardian; a dozen police officers roamed in and out. His captors delivered him to a sergeant in a partitioned office. The sergeant said, “Give a squeal to in the morning to find out if he has any form, Good work, you two,”

“It was the butler did it,” the first policeman said and they all laughed at the little joke, all except Kendig who sat deep in a feigned gloom of self-pity, his senses cataloging everything and his mind racing with calculation.

The two arresting officers retrieved their handcuffs and left the room. A youth in the dark uniform passed them on his way in; he had a stenographic note pad. The sergeant said, “Very well now. Your name?”

“… Alfred Booker.” He said it as if with heavy reluctance; he kept shifting his baleful guilty stare from one patch of floor to another.

“How’s it spelled?”

He snarled. “Spell it yourself, copper.”

The sergeant’s weary eyes sought inspiration and patience from the ceiling. “Come on now Alfie.”

“Booker. Bee double-oh kay ee are.”

The young cop wrote it down; the sergeant said, “Vite stats now, Alfie.”

His whine got more resentful. “I’m forty-six, right? No permanent address.”

“Got a job, Alfie?”

“No.”

“Got a wife? A mother, a dad, anybody we should notify?”

“No. Let’s get this over with.”

“Solicitor?”

“Don’t they give you one?”

“If you haven’t got your own the court will appoint one for you. What’s this, Alfie, you new at this game?”

“I got no bleeding record if that’s what you mean. I’m clean as her ladyship’s fingernails, copper.”

“Not after tonight you’re not. All right, come over here and empty out the pockets, that’s a good lad—let’s see what you made off with.”

There was no helping it. Physical reluctance would only make them treat him with greater caution and he didn’t want that. He emptied everything out onto the desk. He managed to turn while he was doing it so that he had a good view through the sergeant’s open door—the back of the officer on the desk, the counter, the small squad room, the outside door beyond. A hell of a gamut to run but he had one thing in his favor: none of them was armed, they didn’t carry sidearms.

The sergeant watched him with shrewd cop’s eyes. Kendig passed his jacket to the sergeant and turned his pants pockets inside out to show he’d emptied everything. The sergeant went through the jacket meticulously. “Swank stuff for a Soho tramp. Paris label. Where’d you steal the threads, Alfie?”

“I paid good money.”

“Whose?”

“You got me on nothing, copper. I stand on me rights.”

“Rights? It’s dead to rights for you, Alfie. But have it your own way. Now there’s a money belt under your shirt. You can take it off or we can take it off for you. Which’ll it be?”

He pulled his shirttails out and undid the canvas belt and dropped it on the desk. The sergeant gave his jacket back to him. He thrust his shirt back into his waistband and put the jacket on. He had a reason for doing that but it didn’t arouse the sergeant’s suspicion.

The sergeant intoned, “One length wire, heavy gauge, coiled. Probably coat hanger. One pocket calendar, plastic, Kensington Close Hotel. One knife, pocket clasp, two blades, one awl.”

“That ain’t no switchblade,” Kendig snapped. “Just you make it clear, copper.”

“Not a switchblade,” the sergeant drawled wryly. “Pocket coins—let’s see, fifteen, seventeen, shilling, hate this bloody coinage mess—make that thirty-five new pence. Pounds sterling, loose”—the eyebrows went up as the sergeant counted it like a bank teller, moistening his thumb and flipping up the corners of the notes—“blimey. I make it three hundred forty-six quid. Hit yourself a jackpot, didn’t you Alfie.”

“I didn’t lift that money. Nobody can prove I did.” In the outer office the cops were milling to and fro. The telephones rang now and then; two men laughed easily at something one of them said.

“Stole the governor’s pasport, I see,” the sergeant observed. “Know whose house that was you chose to break and enter, Alfie?”

“Boffin or something, in’t he? But what’s it matter anyhow.”

“Hardly a boffin, mate.” The sergeant chuckled. “Bit of a laugh, old Chartermain getting invaded by a common thief.”

“I ain’t no common thief,” Kendig said loudly. “I was just—”

“You were just what?”

“Nemmind. I talk to my solicitor.”

“Do that,” the sergeant said. “One passport, diplomatic, property of William David Chartermain, Esquire. One wallet-size photograph of suspect identified by himself as Alfred Booker. One money belt, canvas. One ring of car keys to fit a Rover automobile. Rover, Alfie? Traveling in style, aren’t we.”

“I just happened to find those keys.”

The sergeant glanced at the youth who was copying down the items. “Those aren’t Chartermain’s keys—I think it’s a Jaguar he drives.”

“And a Mini. No Rover—I know the house, sir.”

“Right. Let’s have a look for a stolen Rover in the neighborhood. Just getting in deeper every minute, aren’t we Alfie.”

“You can go right to bloody hell, copper.”

“Let’s have a look at the inside of this belt now.… Well well well! Seems our friend the master spy must keep a devil of a cash fund in his library—and American dollars at that.… Let me make the count.… mmmhm … Roll me over, laddie, this would dent the bloody Westminster Bank.… five one, five one fifty, five two … Mark this now, seven thousand one hundred fifty dollars in notes of fifty and one hundred denominations. We’ll run a list of serial numbers but you’d best keep it to a single original, no copies. Chartermain may prefer there be no record. We’ll have to clear it with him.”

“Aye Sergeant.”

The sergeant hit his intercom key. “Are you chaps ready to fingerprint our boy?” He released the key and said to the youth, “Ought to find a proper way to hint to the old boy he ought to put first-class locks and alarms on his house if he means to keep this sort of lot on hand—”

Kendig scooped up the little photograph from the desk and made his break. He went out like a projectile: vaulted the phone desk, rammed shoulder-first into a policeman and hurled the man against his partner, dodged among the desks, caught glimpses of their faces agape, elbowed a third in the ribs, slithered past a belatedly swinging club, stiff-armed the last cop off his feet, wheeled through the door and sprinted into the night.