Maurice Procter - Two men in twenty

Abrahams saw the wisdom of this policy. He dialled 999 and was put in contact with the police. He told them what he knew. 'I'm goin' down to t'yard now,' he said.

'Police officers will meet you there,' he was told.

Actually, there was a police car at the plasterer's yard three minutes after he had given his information, but its crew of two men did not approach the gate. Then more men arrived, with a sergeant in uniform. The sergeant put the men around the place, then he pulled himself up by the top of the wall and looked over. He saw a car in the yard, and a man in it. And the man saw him.

'He's here,' the sergeant said to a constable standing by. 'Give me a shove up.'

He went over the wall. The car was already moving, making a turn to come round and ram the locked gate. The sergeant now realized that he had been indiscreet in looking over the wall, and he knew for his own sake he must stop the car. His heavy hardwood truncheon appeared in his hand, and as the car went by him he threw it with all his strength at the windscreen. The glass was strong. It did not shatter, but it cracked in a thousand places. The lacework of cracks robbed it of transparency. The car swerved, then resumed its course. But the driver could not see his way. He hit the gate, but he also hit one of the heavy stone gateposts. The car stopped.

Triumphant now, the sergeant leaped to a door of the car and pulled it open. 'Howie Cain, I presume,' he said.

So, eventually, Cain's arrest was as simple as that.

Ned France did not linger at table after he had eaten his bacon sandwiches, because lingering in that place at that time would not have been commonplace behaviour. He departed and drove his car into town, and found a parking place. This was near the wholesale fruit and vegetable market in Chicken Hill, and the market was at its busiest. He found the restaurant, and had a second cheap breakfast. He could have stayed a while, but he felt uneasy because he seemed to be the only stranger there. He left as soon as he could, and returned to his car. But he went in a roundabout way, so that he could see the car from a distance before he approached it. By now, he thought, it was quite possible that the police might be interested in all Morris 1000 cars.

Nobody seemed to be watching the car, so he went and sat in it. It was eight o'clock, and he had to wait two hours. Two hours in a part of the city where policemen were as thick as flies. And yet here, in the busy heart of the city, was the safest place. How on earth had the police found out that he and Cain were members of the same mob? Well, there was one way for a copper to get to know something, and that was for somebody to tell him. Who had been opening his big mouth? Jolly? No, Husker. Husker, after he was caught last night. He would be full of resentment because somebody else had got away. That was the explanation. France would have bet and laid odds that Husker was responsible for his present plight.

How had the police got his picture quickly enough to get it in the morning paper? No doubt they had phoned the C.R.O. in London and got his full record, then they had dug among back issues of the Police Gazette and found a picture. Dead easy.

Anyway, they had his number now, but what evidence did they have? The word of Husker, perhaps. Fingerprints at Naylor Street. Certain housebreaking tools which he had left in his luggage. Housebreaking tools in his possession if they caught him, and he did not want to throw away those tools just yet. He might need them to get out of this trap. It was not a lot of evidence, but it might be good enough, with the judge knowing his record. In any case it would be enough for the police to build up some sort of indictment and have him put away for a long time. Well, they hadn't caught him yet.

In his driving mirror France caught sight of a policeman in uniform, walking along the perimeter of the parking place. He turned carefully in his seat, to get a better view. The P.C. was looking at the cars he passed, but not intently. He went to the attendant's little hut and started some sort of conversation there. His back was turned. France started his car and drove away very gently and quietly. That was the way it would have to be for two hours. Avoid those fellows if possible.

Two hours? Two days, two weeks, two months, two years. With the XXC jobs finished, the heat would gradually die away, but there would always be the risk-by no means slight-of being recognized by some ambitious police officer. He would have to get out of the country, and take Dorrie with him if she would go. Where could they go? Some place where English was spoken, or some country entirely foreign? Well, no place where an Englishman was suspect, and no place where there was a first-class, red-hot, police force. What about Spain? The Costa del Sol. Torremolinos. Plenty of English spoken there by Britishers of all kinds, Americans, Scandinavians, Frenchmen, Germans, Belgians, and Hollanders. English was spoken by whores, pimps, and sons of bitches; by kept women, kept men, self-confessed millionaires, hopeless drunks, brawlers, and people who seemed to live on nothing; by sodomists and lesbians; by poets who knew no rhyme, painters who could not paint, and writers who could never get started. The Torremolinos police were busy enough keeping an eye on that lot. They would have no time to spare for a well-behaved English couple with money of their own. Because in Torremolinos there were nice people too: people who had retired there or simply gone to make a living there. Some of them farmed in the rich valleys and fertile foothills behind Malaga. Now there was an idea. Capital would be needed, and a reasonable amount of it would be available. Work for some farmer, preferably British or American, for a year or so. Learn as much as possible and meanwhile look around for a nice property. Grow oranges, lemons, olives, almonds, figs, cotton, sugar, or what have you. It was an idea worthy of consideration. France's juicy oranges. But the name would not be France.

He had been driving around slowly, but not too slowly, in streets where there was a reasonable amount of traffic and no traffic policemen. He found another parking place. It had no attendant. He sat there in his car, watching, ready to move if a policeman appeared. Time was a caterpillar. It was a snail. It was the laziest slug which ever left a trail of slime. Eventually it was nine o'clock. Two separate policemen had passed in the distance. At nine-fifteen a man in a sort of uniform appeared. He was interested in France to the extent of taking ninepence from him and giving him a small piece of paper in exchange. But France was doubtful. Had the man looked at the car in a certain way? Had his casual manner been a pretence? When the man was busy finding change for a driver who had just arrived, France drove away.

He looked for a public convenience, and then for a place somewhere near it where he could leave the car for a few minutes. He entered the convenience. The attendant was in his little office eating his breakfast, and he had no interest in his customers, if that was what he called them. For one penny France secured privacy. He took off the boiler suit and stuffed it down behind the toilet basin. He dusted his suit as best he could with the driver's cap, then he rubbed his shoes with it. After some thought he decided to take a chance and get rid of all the incriminating tools in his pockets. Make a clean break now, he thought. He put them all in the cap and stuffed it behind the water cistern. Before he left the convenience he glanced at himself in a mirror and decided that he looked respectable.

He looked at his watch. Nine-thirty, thank God. He went back to his car, but when he turned the corner of the quiet street where he had left it, he saw a policeman ahead of him. The P.C. was moving slowly, looking at the line of parked cars. At each car he stopped, and appeared to make a note of its number, and the time. Timing them, France thought. Not more than twenty minutes parking allowed, probably. He watched. The P.C. came to the Morris 1000. He showed no particular interest in it, but noted its number and moved on. Phew! It appeared that the garage proprietor had not informed the police after all. Perhaps he had decided that it was none of his business. Or perhaps he was a thief, too. A man who could ask thirty shillings a week for a bit of spare ground would certainly never be bothered by his conscience.