Chapter Eight

Doubts

 

For the next three weeks, news of shop robberies attracted Roger as aniseed attracts bloodhounds, but even his application to them began to slacken after the three weeks. There was a fair crop of such robberies, mostly sneak-thefts, nearly all carried out when an elderly person or a woman was alone in a shop, but in no single case during that period was anyone hurt. Five men were clearly described by the shopkeepers, and three of these were later picked up by the Divisional police, while the police also arrested four others, from fingerprints or habit-methods recognised at the scenes of the crimes. None of these robberies was sensational. A few similar crimes were committed up and down the country, but there was nothing like enough to make a sensation. As the Yard had no official view on the possibility of an organised ring, no request for information about similar crimes went out to the other boroughs or the provinces, but Roger wrote to a dozen police chiefs whom he knew well, asking them to keep him informed. In Edinburgh and in Newcastle a shop robbery with violence took place, in both places the assailant was found; there was no evidence that either worked for a gang.

Any reference to such robberies at the Yard was made with snide looks at Roger. Bellew adopted a long-suffering air when Roger made his weekly call, and Charlie Baker of the White-chapel Division had nothing to report about Endicott’s wife.

Then, an odd little thing happened.

Jim Stone went away for three days, without telling the girl at the shop where he was going. Bellew’s men reported this, and the police made discreet inquiries; Stone had told the girl that he had some “business” to look after. After three days he came back and resumed work in exactly the way he had before his wife’s death.

“They say he never smiles, never says anything except in the way of business,” Bellew told Roger. “I’m beginning to get as worried about him as you are, Handsome.”

“Nice to know you’ll keep watching him,” Roger said, but apart from the fact that it added to the disquiet that he felt about the man, nothing developed.

On that same day, he drove the long way round to Chelsea, from Clapham, going past River View Hostel and then over Battersea Bridge. Kings Road was up for electricity repairs so he had to make a detour. On the corner of one of the little streets along which he drove was a grocery and provision shop, rather like Stone’s. The name on the front was Marsh, a fact which Roger noticed in the way he was likely to notice any little fact which came his way; he would probably forget it, but one day some incident might dig it out of his mind.

He went home, to find Martin and Richard sparring together in the back garden, wearing boxing gloves. He watched for ten minutes, marvelling that two “babies” of what seemed like yesterday were now tall and husky; marvelling even more that Richard, who had once been so much smaller, was now at least as tall as Martin, although Martin was the broader. They were high-spirited and happy, until Martin caught Richard on the mouth, and drew blood. Janet called out of the kitchen: “I knew you’d hurt each other. You know I hate boxing, too. For goodness sake, Roger, don’t stand there like a big boy, come in and get your supper.”

Martin winked; Richard called: “I’m all right, Mum,” and Roger said: “Won’t be a minute, sweet. Let me have your gloves, Fish, I’ll teach old Scoop.”

 

Violet Marsh was alone in her shop when the Wests were fooling about in the garden.

The grocery and provisions side was closed, but they had built a little kiosk, with a separate service door and window, for cigarettes and sweets; and this part of the shop was open at half past six. It was a dead hour when Violet usually wheeled herself about the shop, studying the shelves, making sure what goods ought to be brought up from the cellar next morning. A few people on the way to the pictures would look in for cigarettes or sweets or chocolates, not really enough to make it economic to keep open. But for Violet, this was the most important hour of the day.

She was on her own, and no one would ever realise what it meant to be back in complete charge. Before the motor accident, in which her husband had been killed, she had run the shop almost single-handed. Now, without legs, she could not hope to. Her sister and brother-in-law had taken over, and did a good job, but Violet had been away for nearly a year and it wasn’t reasonable that they would do everything her way. They were good-natured and good-hearted, however, and gradually Violet was reassuming some kind of control – building up shelf stocks, for instance, checking how much of particular goods had been sold during the previous day, noting it down on the little clip-board which she kept fastened to the arm of her wheel-chair. She could manoeuvre that chair about skilfully, now, and run behind all the counters, serving everything except the goods kept on the top shelves.

She was counting the sugar when a man opened the door leading to the small part of the shop. Sugar was always a problem for storage, and the profit on it was small. Almost with relief, she swung her chair round, wheeled herself out of the main shop, and smiled at the man standing at the counter. He was rather short, he needed a shave, and he wore a peak cap which he kept low over his eyes.

“Good evening, sir,” Violet Marsh said.

“Ten Mediums,” the man ordered; his voice was gruff and almost unpleasant. Violet had never seen him before, but did not give a thought to possible danger. She turned her chair round and stretched out for the cigarettes, making a mental note that the sale of Mediums was undoubtedly on the way up – although once a current television advertising programme stopped, sales might fall back to the old level. She heard a movement behind her, but paid no attention; it needed only a second or two to get the cigarettes.

As she turned back, she saw the man’s hand sweeping towards her, in it a tin of toffees. She had no time to scream. She opened her mouth as the tin caught her on the forehead. She flung up her hands, but he smashed them down and struck her again, this time a swinging blow on the other side of the face. The first blow had sent the chair against the shelves behind her, the second caught her at such an angle that the wheel-chair, its brake off, rolled along the corridor behind the counter, taking the man completely by surprise. Violet was in pain, but conscious; and she realised exactly what had happened. She saw the man scramble over the counter after her, saw the malevolence in his eyes and the way his little teeth showed. He grabbed a bottle of lemon squash from a pile, and a dozen other bottles fell, crashing and clanking.

Violet dropped her hands to the wheels of the chair and spun them with the skill of constant practice. As the man landed behind the counter, she went hurtling back towards the main shop, the door to which was wide open, for easy access.

The man flung the bottle at her. It hurtled straight towards her face. She snatched one hand off a wheel and took the force of the missile, which struck the bone of her wrist and caused great pain, numbing the whole arm. But it did not alter the speed or direction of the chair, which went sailing through the open door, and almost with a reflex action, she swung out her sound arm, caught the door, and slammed it.

She was sobbing, gasping. She had no time to lock the door, and the man must be just behind it. Somehow she managed to make the numbed hand work, and spun the wheels so that the chair swung round in a half circle, then rolled towards the door which led to the kitchen. Now she was screaming all the time, but her mind was working, and suddenly an idea swept into it. She couldn’t get out of this shop, for the other door was closed; and the man would be in at any moment. But at her hand were bottles of ammonia, bottles of carbolic acid and other chemicals for domestic use. She swung the chair behind the counter, and the door opened. She snatched a bottle off the right shelf without being sure what it was, and hurled it at the man. He had a bottle of fruit squash in his hand, and raised it to protect himself. The bottle she had thrown smashed against his, and broke – and in front of her eyes, in an awful moment, she saw his malevolent expression fade, saw horror replace it, saw his mouth open wide in a shuddering breath, then heard him scream. She realised that the acid has splashed his face. She saw him stagger, turn and run. Once, she thought he would fall, but he steadied himself against the counter in the kiosk, and went forward again.

She sat there gasping for breath, blood dripping from two wounds in her face, her wrecked body numbed, her mind filled with dread. She did not know how long it was before a customer from along the street came in, and saw her through the open door.

 

Richard’s lips were a little swollen, but not badly hurt. Roger’s right eye had a slight red contusion, where Martin-called-Scoopy had managed to catch him with a left hook. Martin, tonight, was unmarked. All their high spirits were back, Janet was over her annoyance, and the boys were devouring a gooseberry pie in the dining-room of the house in Bell Street, Chelsea. It was warm. All three “men” were in their shirt sleeves, Janet wore a sleeveless dress which had seen many better days; it was a little too tight for her, and a little too low at the back.

“Dad, give me a straight answer, will you?” asked Scoopy. He was poker-faced, which gave a hint that something offbeat was coming. Janet studied his broad, strong face, which could break so easily into a broad smile—and would show the slightly grey tooth which he had nearly lost in a boxing match at his school.

“If it deserves one,” Roger said.

“What do you honestly think about Mum’s dress? I mean, if you saw a girl walking along the street with a skin-tight dress like that, poking out in all the proper places, wouldn’t you think—?”

Richard roared.

“Don’t you talk about my clothes like that,” Janet said, half laughing, half vexed.

It would be easy to say the wrong thing, Roger sensed – to turn a happy supper table into one near the edge of discord. Quickly aware that perhaps it wasn’t so funny, Richard smothered his laughter. Scoopy, doubting the success of the joke, sat straight-faced. All of them waited for Roger, and he finished a spoonful of pie, put his head on one side and looked Janet up and down, then said lightly:

“If you chaps marry a girl who keeps her figure half as long as your mother has, you’ll be lucky.”

Janet’s eyes kindled.

“Good old Dad,” applauded Richard.

“I’d better get out of here and go and do some prep, before I really put my foot right in it,” said Scoopy. He pushed his chair back, moved towards the door, turned round and placed his capable hands firmly on Janet’s bare arms, close to the shoulders, and blew down her back. “Sorry, Mum, but how about a trip to Mr. Marks’s Emporium?” He gave her a quick squeeze, winked at his father over her head, and went out.

Richard began to clear away the supper things, tonight his brother’s job, but he took it on himself so as to be sure that no tempers were ruffled; Richard was an inveterate peacemaker. As he went into the kitchen with a load of dirty dishes, Janet said: “He is seventeen, I suppose. What were you like when you were seventeen?”

“I haven’t changed a bit,” Roger declared.

“No, you ass—”

The telephone bell rang, and Roger shifted his chair and stretched out for the extension in this room; only a few months ago he had arranged for this extension, and that had been a tacit acceptance of the fact that they were likely to be in this house for another few years. They had lived here since they had married, twenty-two years ago.

“Roger West,” Roger said.

“If it’s the Yard, tell them no,” whispered Janet.

“Yes, speaking,” said Roger; and then Janet saw his expression change, and could tell that this was a job which really affected him. “Where?” he asked, and slipped a pencil out of a drawer on the telephone table and began to write. “Yes, I’ve got it. How is she …? Yes, of course … Yes, I’ll ring him.” He rang off, studied the address, and said in an aside to Janet: “Do you know that shop at the corner of Ashley and Kebble Streets—Marsh’s?”

“I know there’s one there,” Janet said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in it, but I think it’s where a woman was badly injured in a car accident, and her husband died. Something like that. She was crippled, too.”

“And now she’s at death’s door,” Roger said.

“A—shop robbery?”

Roger was dialling Dan Appleby’s number; and he nodded.

Janet said, in a husky voice: “Somehow it never seems real when you read about it in the papers, but when it happens so near at hand—” She broke off, as Richard appeared at one door and Scoopy at the other, both intensely interested.

“Got a nasty job, Dad?” inquired Richard.

“There’s been a shop robbery in Chelsea, and the woman is badly hurt,” Janet said. “Don’t worry your father, now.” She got up, and each of them came in and took something off the table and went into the kitchen. Roger was talking. “It’s a shop in Ashley Street, or—”

“Marsh’s’?” exclaimed Scoopy.

“Yes.”

“Not old Ma Marsh,” Richard said, in a shocked voice. “Why, that’s where—” he broke off.

“A lot of us go there for our tuck. It’s not far from the school, and—well, one of the sons used to be at the Comprehensive School,” said Scoop. “Good Lord. What swine these chaps are.”

They heard the telephone ting, as Roger finished. Janet said: “Stay here,” and went to the door. They watched her as she disappeared, and heard her say: “Are you going, darling?”

“Must do.”

“I expect you’ll be late,” Janet said. “At least you’ve had supper.”

“Dad!” called Richard. “Shall I go and open the garage door?”