John Creasey: The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

“It will not be long, sir,” in a way which sounded like “Eet weel not be long, sair,” and went on snipping, then stood back and admired his handiwork on a head of greying hair as if looking for the slightest blemish in the cutting. The barbers worked as if their very lives depended on it, scissors snipped and clicked and gnashed, hair fell gently to the rubber-covered floor, a man in a corner bent over a basin and a short, plump barber began to give him a shampoo.

All was normal.

On the other side of the double-fronted shop, divided three-quarters of the depth of the shop by a wooden partition, was the ladies’ salmon. There were several cubicles, much whispering, much mystery, a kind of abracadabra of the coiffeur’s craft. The several women, out of his sight, undoubtedly looked like space men.

Outside, people strolled or hurried. Inside, Jim closed his eyes, and hoped that it wouldn’t be too long, then opened them again as the man next to him dropped a magazine on the table, and went to a newly vacated chair.

“Only one more,” Jim mused, and picked up the magazine. It was small and printed on cheap paper, and the title read:

HAIR STYLIST

He turned over the pages and saw quarter-page pictures of women’s hair, rather like some likely to be found in the glossy magazines, but nothing like so effective because these were printed in black and red and on newsprint. Beneath each was the descriptive style, beneath that in turn the hairdresser who had dressed the hair of the model whose picture was shown.

“There isn’t one a patch on Evelyn,” Jim mused, and ran the pages through quickly. He was about to drop the magazine when he saw the advertisement on the last page.

£1,000

in PRIZES

this said boldly, and beneath it in smaller type but quite clearly:

Hair Styles Competition for the Most Beautiful

HEAD OF HAIR

in Great Britain

LADIES’ section GENTLEMEN’S section

Entry FREE

All particulars can be obtained

from any member of the

HAIR STYLISTS’ ASSOCIATION

“You next, sir,” said the Italian with the white teeth and bright smile.

“Oh, yes, thanks.” Jim jumped up. He took the magazine with him, sat down, submitted to the earlier rituals, and saw his own and the beaming Italian’s reflection in a tall mirror. “This beautiful hair competition,” he said, “can you tell me more about it?”

“Oh, yes, with pleasure, sair. You take a leaflet.” The barber stood back, surveyed Jim’s silky, thinning hair and its large bald spot, and looked puzzled.

“A friend of mine might be interested,” Jim said, solemnly.

“Oh, yes, sair, I quite understand,” said the barber, “You take a leaflet. Everything is written down there.” He began to use the clippers with that kind of exaggerated care of a barber who knows that if he ill-treated his victim’s hair, it might have serious results; no infant’s hair was ever cut with greater care and gentleness. “The competition is open to everyone who had hair dressed by a member of the Hair Stylists’ Association, sair. It is very simple.”

“Ah,” thought Jim. “The snag. I wonder where Evelyn has hers done.”

He continued to think about it idly as he succumbed to the ministrations of the barber who certainly knew his business. He left, twelve minutes later, taking half a dozen of the printed leaflets about the competition in his pocket, and telling himself that he was probably a fool, and that Evelyn knew all about the competition. But if she knew nothing, and it attracted her, he couldn’t imagine anyone else winning.

“No, Jim,” said Evelyn. “I haven’t heard of it.” She studied a leaflet with keen interest while she went on: “But it would be just a waste of time, I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“No one would stand a chance against you,” Jim asserted, and turned to one of the older girls in the office. “Rose, what’d you think?”

“It’s as good as her money!”

“No, really—” Evelyn began.

“No mock modesty,” Jim ordered with affected sternness. Tor the sake of the office you’ll have to enter.”

“Of course you will,” Rose said.

“It would be crazy not to,” put in a typist who had been studying the leaflet over Evelyn’s shoulder. “Here, Jackie, come and tell us what you think . . . Look, you don’t have to have a perm, you just have to have a set at one of these hairdressers, and they say they’ve members all over London . . . The one near Villiers Street is the best for you, obviously . . . George! Come and let us know what you think .. .”

Jim strolled away from the crowd round Evelyn’s desk, and went to his own, in a corner. He was Deputy Office Manager, Buying and Accounts Departments of Jepsons, Mail Order Suppliers to The World. It was a quarter past two, and he ought to have stopped the discussion and got everyone back to a machine, a file or an order book, but Jepsons believed that a policy of reasonable latitude witIthe staff was wise policy. In five minutes all of the staff of this office, thirty-two people in all, were busy. It was true that Evelyn had the leaflet on her desk, but she began to type out orders from rough notes he or the Buyer had made at a bewildering speed; in front of a typewriter, she became a part of the machine. So did several of the other girls. The clatter of machines, the rustle of papers, the occasional bang of a filing drawer, the ringing of a telephone, the footsteps of clerks with roving commissions, turned this into just another afternoon.

A little before half past five, work done and powder compacts, combs and lipsticks appearing like a rash all over the office, Evelyn came across to Jim. He would be working late, and his desk was still littered with papers; his task was to check orders against invoices, and pass the orders for payment.

“I’ve made up my mind,” Evelyn said.

“Which way?”

“I’m going to enter.”

“I want ten per cent commission!”

“I haven’t a chance, but if there happened to be a freak result—”

“Get along, Goldilocks,” said Jim, and laughed at her; and she laughed in turn, then hurried away, for the bells which released the staff here and in the dozens of offices of the Jepson Building were ringing, and the staircases, landings, lifts and passages suddenly swarmed with people. Except for the occasional late worker, like Jim, the offices were occupied only by ghosts.

It was nearly half past six when Jim left, on a lovely evening. He could stroll along the Embankment, or through the gardens, or could go up Villiers Street towards the Strand as he usually did. He felt not only at a loose end, but deeply depressed. Evelyn’s bluntness had acted like a blow from a bludgeon, and forced him to accept the fact that he had no hope. It had not really helped to tell himself that marriage with her wouldn’t have worked, that their tastes differed, that her simplicity and sweetness would soon cloy. It was not much use, either, trying to persuade himself that he would soon get over it.

Meanwhile, he had the evening on his hands, for he had intended to ask Evelyn to have supper and go to a film with him. He was on his own too much. Comfortable digs, a landlady who spoiled him, a sufficient salary—enough to marry and raise a family on, if he were careful—but apart from that, he told himself his was an aimless kind of existence. He had never been a club man, preferring books and browsing, but at twenty-eight he felt a stronger and stronger urge for company, and until today he had persuaded himself that Evelyn’s resistance could be worn down.

He did not think that now.

At least if she won that competition she would have reason to bless his name.

He smiled wryly, and found himself going towards the barbers. There were the hanging signs, the notices in the window and, standing at the corner nearby, the Italian barber. The man not only recognised but seemed positively pleased to see him.