The words died in his throat. Emma had torn off the large ragged cap and was desperately struggling, one-handed, to unpin her hair. Her other arm was bent up her back in a most uncomfortable hold, but for a moment her attacker was so astonished that he did not release her and it was only when she hissed: ‘See? How many thieves do you know with shoulder-length hair?’ that he let her go.
The young man stepped back and she saw the colour creep up into his face, but he said stoutly: ‘Miss Grieves! What the devil are you doing in that rig-out? I’m most awfully sorry, but you can’t deny you were behaving very oddly. How was I expected to know . . . ?’
Emma, nursing her bruised wrist, glared at him. ‘What business is it of yours if I decide to – to dress up as a man?’ she asked. ‘As for behaving in an odd manner, I was doing no such thing. And I recognise you, too. You’re the interfering fellow who tried to ask questions about my customers the other day. Well, I wouldn’t speak to you then and I don’t see why I should speak to you now. You know I’m Miss Grieves, you know this is my property, so you can just take yourself off before I call the scuffers . . . the police, I mean.’
The young man grinned, ruefully, but made no attempt to leave the stockroom. ‘Look, I’m most awfully sorry but you
were
behaving oddly,’ he insisted. ‘I’d been to the show at the Lyceum Theatre, and I was walking back along Church Street, meaning to go for a meal, when I saw this young fellow in your doorway, apparently trying to open the door. I knew it wasn’t you . . . well, I thought it wasn’t you . . . so naturally, when he went round the back, down that little alleyway, I followed him. Honestly, Miss Grieves, what else could I do? Your shop had been robbed and your grandfather killed, and, to be frank, I thought you’d suffered enough. That was why I tried to talk to you the other evening, only you wouldn’t listen. So I thought, if I prevented another burglary, you might give me a chance to tell you what’s been on my mind.’
Emma hesitated. He was right, of course: her behaviour must have looked very odd to anyone watching and he had plainly been doing his best to prevent her having to face an intruder. She remembered how rude she had been to him the first time they had met, not allowing him to explain who he was and what he wanted, so now she said, rather stiffly: ‘I’m sorry, but so much has been happening . . . shall we start again? You tell me your name and occupation – I suppose you aren’t a plain clothes policeman – and I’ll listen to whatever you’ve got to say and maybe even answer some questions.’
‘My name is Nick Randall and I’m a journalist on a national newspaper, the
News Chronicle
; what they call an investigative journalist, which means that I’m interested in the spate of burglaries which have taken place in the city over the past two years, though I happened upon the burglaries more or less by chance. I was writing a piece about delinquent boys and how they are used by criminals for their own ends. One of the boys is in prison for breaking and entering and, though he would give me no names, he did say that he had assisted in a number of burglaries by watching – for weeks, sometimes – to find out when premises were likely to be unattended, or acting as delivery boy and taking wax impressions of door keys, and so on. Only, when I tried to question the shopkeepers themselves, they seemed unwilling to tell me more than that they had been robbed. Then a little woman who owns a newsagent shop muttered that she wouldn’t be robbed again, thank God, because she was paying the money, and I realised there must be a protection racket going on as well as the burglaries. They seemed to happen about one every six months, so one is due any time now. If I could discover who was next on the list and lie in wait for the thieves, I’d have the sort of story any reporter would give his eye teeth for.’ He smiled very beguilingly at Emma. ‘So though I’m not a policeman, I am on the side of law and order and want very much to help you and your fellow traders,’ he ended.
Emma had been staring at him as he spoke and thought that she liked what she saw. He seemed straightforward and had not hesitated to give her his name, and that of his newspaper. ‘Okay, Mr Randall, you’re one of the good guys,’ she said, rather wearily. ‘Look, I’ll tell you as much as I can, including why I’m dressed the way I am, but I think we should repair to my flat. I’ve got most awfully dirty, rolling about the yard, and you’re looking a trifle dishevelled yourself, so you can wash in my kitchen sink and I’ll do the same in the bathroom, and change back into my own clothes. Then we can talk properly, sitting on chairs facing each other and not with one of us wedging his foot against the other’s door,’ she finished, rather acidly.
The young man laughed. ‘I’m sorry about that, but I was beginning to feel rather desperate,’ he said, following her up the stairs. ‘I wonder what happened to my trilby? I guess it must have fallen off when I, er, attacked you.’
‘You can collect it as you leave,’ Emma said grandly, ushering him along the short hallway and into the kitchen. ‘I’ll join you in here once I’ve cleaned up; could you put the kettle on so that we can have a hot drink?’
Having seen that Mr Randall was supplied with soap and towel, Emma left him and presently returned to the kitchen, feeling a good deal better in a blue cotton dress, with her hair thoroughly brushed and her face shining after a vigorous application of soap and water. Her guest was seated at the kitchen table but sprang to his feet as she entered the room. ‘I’ve put the kettle on, Miss Grieves, and got down a couple of mugs, but I didn’t like to go rooting in your pantry for a tea caddy, so I’m afraid you’ll have to do the honours.’
‘I shall make cocoa,’ Emma said decidedly. ‘I’ve no fresh milk left and I’m not keen on sweetened tea, but sweetened cocoa is fine.’ She crossed to the pantry and came back into the room with a tin of Bournville cocoa in one hand and a tin of condensed milk in the other. She waved the cocoa at him. ‘Is this all right for you? I find it easier to sleep after a cup of cocoa than if I’ve been drinking tea.’
She did not wait for a reply but made a paste of the cocoa powder in the two mugs which the young man had stood ready, added boiling water from the kettle, and poured in a generous helping of conny-onny. Then she pushed Mr Randall’s drink across to him and sat down opposite, studying him once more across the rim of her mug. ‘Well? Who’s going to go first?’
‘I think it had better be you, because everything I’ve learned has been from the newspaper files, which isn’t the same as actually experiencing something,’ Mr Randall said seriously. ‘I’ve tried talking to the police but they seem to be a rather suspicious lot up here; at any rate, they weren’t prepared to help me, and apart from the old lady in the newsagent’s on Parker Street, none of the shopkeepers have told me much either. I don’t believe the larger shops are paying protection money – most of them have increased their own security – but even so, the people I spoke to weren’t particularly helpful. In fact, the only person who said he would keep in touch with me and do his best to pass on any interesting information was one of the coppers on the beat, and of course he may not even be on duty when the next robbery occurs. So since I’ve already told you most of what I know, I think it would be better if you started.’
‘Yes, I can quite see that is sensible,’ Emma said, and then found herself in a quandary. She could tell him as much as she knew herself about the burglary in her grandfather’s shop, but that would be very little more than he had already read in the newspaper files. The rest of the information had all been gleaned through Dot and Corky and she knew that she could not possibly reveal anything about the youngsters until she had spoken to them. She trusted Nicholas Randall, was sure he was indeed the ‘good guy’ she had called him, but Dot and Corky might not agree. They might feel it was downright dangerous to tell a newspaper reporter anything – who knew what he might write in his column? – and if this proved to be so, then her hands would indeed be tied.
Whilst Emma wrestled with the problem, the silence had stretched, and when she told the reporter that most of what she had learned had been passed on to her by a couple of children he merely nodded impatiently. ‘It doesn’t matter; if you believed them, then I’m sure I shall too,’ he said, clearly misunderstanding her reluctance to speak. ‘After all, they aren’t nearly as liable to lie as adults, you know.’
Emma sighed; this was going to be difficult. ‘It isn’t that, Mr Randall,’ she said. ‘The fact is, this really is rather a dangerous business and everything the kids told me was in the strictest confidence. They asked me to promise not to tell anyone else, not even the scuff— the police, I mean. So you see, I shall have to get their permission before I can pass on what they have told me.’
She thought she had outlined the situation rather neatly, but apparently Nicholas Randall did not agree. ‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t tell me what you know, simply leaving out names and so on,’ he said. ‘And anyway, I’ll promise not to say a word to anyone – swear on the Bible if you like – which ought to calm your fears. So go on, spill the beans.’
‘I can’t,’ Emma wailed. ‘All I can tell you is that the youngsters know the identity of one of the thieves and – and have proof of what happened on that night. Look, if you come into the shop tomorrow at one o’clock, when I take my lunch hour, I might have been able to get their permission to talk to you.’
Nicholas Randall stared at her through narrowed eyelids. ‘You don’t trust me,’ he said aggressively. ‘You’re still angry because I attacked you just now. Look, give me their names and I’ll go round to their homes and talk to them, then you won’t have to be involved at all. I dare say I can persuade a couple of kids to tell me what they know, since they’ll have no reason to dislike me.’
Emma could have screamed. She had no intention of telling Mr Randall the names of either Dot or Corky, nor did she mean to reveal Dot’s address or Corky’s whereabouts. What was more, she resented the implication that Mr Randall could solve the mystery – if mystery it was – without involving her. She felt he was trying to exclude her, no doubt assuming that a young woman would be more hindrance than help, and this made her absolutely furious. She was tempted to tell him that the entire crux of the matter lay in what a twelve-year-old girl had heard whilst hiding in a dustbin, but of course she could not do so. Instead, she said, icily: ‘Please yourself, Mr Randall, but since I’ve no intention of telling you anything more until I’ve spoken to . . . my young friends, you can either do your own investigating, or come to the shop at one o’clock tomorrow.’
Mr Randall rose to his feet. ‘And suppose I come and you’ve not managed to contact your “young friends”, or say you’ve not managed to do so?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘What then, Miss High and Mighty Grieves?’
Emma was about to tell him to clear off and not bother her again when common sense came to her aid. They were both extremely tired and she supposed that she had handled the whole business pretty badly. She should have remembered from the start that she could tell Mr Randall nothing of importance until she had the permission of her fellow conspirators, so she could understand his frustration. Accordingly, she rose also, and put a hand gently on his arm. ‘Look, Mr Randall, I’m really sorry, but if you were in my shoes, would you betray a confidence? I’m very sure you would not, and just because I’m a woman you shouldn’t expect me to behave differently. And now that you’ve raised the matter, I’ve realised you may well be right; it may not be possible for me to contact the youngsters tomorrow morning. So shall we say that if you come round here at six o’clock tomorrow evening, we’ll all be here, and the youngsters can decide for themselves if they’re prepared to, er, spill the beans, as you put it. How does that suit you?’
The young man stared at her for a moment and she saw the anger gradually leave his dark eyes to be replaced by a rueful smile. ‘Sorry, Miss Grieves; the fact is I’m fagged to death and driven almost mad by the lack of co-operation I’ve received from everyone I’ve questioned. I’ll spend tomorrow having a good look at the city and relaxing, and then come back here at six o’clock. And do call me Nick, because if we’re to be fellow investigators, then I mean to call you Emma, since Miss Grieves seems rather too formal for such a relationship,’ he ended.
‘Very well, Nick,’ Emma said, glad that friendly relations appeared to have been resumed. She grinned at him. ‘I’ll have to come down to the stockroom with you so that I can lock up after you leave, so please don’t assume this means I think you’re going to run away with half my stock.’
Nicholas grinned back. ‘It’s all right, I’ve got over the hump and am in my usual sunny mood. And thanks, Emma, for being so understanding and not biting my head off.’
They reached the door and Emma unlocked it and held it open for him. She peered out into the yard and announced, with a smothered giggle, that she could see his trilby in the light which streamed out from the open doorway. ‘But I’m afraid it must have got squashed flat as we rolled around,’ she told him. ‘I don’t think it will ever be quite the same again. Good night, Mr Ra— I mean Nick; see you tomorrow evening.’
Nicholas Randall strode across the yard, only pausing to pick up his trilby which was, indeed, flat as a pancake. But trilbies are resilient and he punched it out, dusted it off, and told himself as he emerged into the jigger that it would be good as new after a good brushing. It was a pity he could not say the same of himself; it had taken him all his willpower not to limp as he crossed the yard, for he had cracked his knee on the cobbles when he had pounced on Emma and his elbow had come into sharp contact with the door jamb as the pair of them had lurched into the stockroom. He quite envied Emma who could, if she wished, have a nice hot bath before getting into a comfortable bed, for it was very different in his own case. When he had announced to the editor of the
News Chronicle
that he wanted to follow up a story in Liverpool, his boss had immediately said that they had a Liverpool stringer whose wife kept a lodging house in Virgil Street. He had written to the woman and received confirmation that she had a room which Mr Randall could use for the duration of his stay, so Nick had gone along there as soon as he arrived at Lime Street.