A Backwards Jump Read online

  “No need for that,” Gideon assured her. “Two more children were caught shop-lifting in Oxford Street yesterday, though, one nine, one ten years old.”

  “Taught by their mothers?” asked Kate.

  “Don’t know yet, but it looks all part of a pattern,” Gideon answered. “That business is getting right under my skin. Remember the boy I told you about on Sunday?”

  “The one whose mother hit him?”

  “If it was the mother. We haven’t traced ‘em yet,” Gideon told her. “Daresay we could if we went all out, but – oh, well. Can’t find out where these mothers learn the job, either – the thing ought to be like ABC, and instead we’re up against a brick wall. What worries me is how far it might spread.” There was a tap on the door. “There’s the tea, anyway, that might get the salt water out of my mouth.”

  Kate grimaced at him.

  That was the moment, although Gideon never knew it, when Robert Carne saw and recognised him.

  Marion looked really something in a bathing suit, a one-piece which for her was a little daring, but nothing like that seemed to matter when she was with Robert. The happiness which had caught her in a stranglehold within a few hours of the marriage seemed to grow and grow. He was so gentle, so understanding, obviously so full of love, and so happy himself. They swam a lot, sailed a little in the hired yachts from the beach, went to a show every night, after two or three hours in their room between tea-time and dinner; unbelievable hours to Marion. She felt that Robert was so completely hers that their life together could not fail to be an idyll. She thought of children. She wondered if she would conceive quickly. She hadn’t yet talked to Robert about a family, but there was plenty of time for that. She knew only that she was ecstatically happy, and that the very look of Robert whenever she saw him was enough to make her heart beat faster. Now and again she would see him walking along the promenade, when he had been out to buy a newspaper. Or she would see him wading out of the sea, water streaming from his body as he laughed and waved to her. There was no joy so great as the moment, after waking, when she turned to see him lying close to her, handsome, strong, tanned.

  On the Thursday morning, it was a little cooler than it had been, although still sunny and bright. They decided to sail, not to swim, and spent two hours on the Channel, where there was hardly a ripple, then made for the shore. It was after they had helped the old boatman to haul up the little boat that Marion saw the change come over Robert.

  She had gone ahead, to get off the big shingle which was the one drawback on the beach, and watched Robert as he paid off the boatman, then turned to follow her. He wore a pair of light grey flannels and a pair of white canvas shoes, that was all.

  He seemed to stumble.

  She thought he had stubbed his toe on a larger stone than usual, but he didn’t look down, just stood absolutely still for two or three seconds, staring at a hotel across the promenade. She could see the way his lips tightened and his eyes narrowed, and she actually noticed how he clenched his hands by his side.

  Then, abruptly, he turned towards her, and came on. She had a funny idea that he was hurrying, as if anxious to get away. When he joined her on the lower promenade, he nodded but didn’t smile: the first time he had failed to greet her as if she was the only girl in the world.

  “Robert, what’s the matter?”

  His eyes glittered, and he said abruptly: “Nothing’s the matter, what are you talking about?”

  “But, Robert—”

  “I said nothing’s the matter, didn’t I? Let’s get back to the hotel, I want a drink.”

  Silently, they went back.

  Gideon had looked straight at him from the balcony; and Gideon represented all the police in England to Robert Carne, alias Roger Clayton.

  Carne did not know that the sun had been in Gideon’s eyes, and to him Carne had been just another man walking up from the beach.

  “All right, sweetheart,” Carne said, after lunch. “I agree that I did snap your head off, and I’m terribly sorry.” He was standing close to Marion, holding her lightly and in such a way that she had to hold her head back in order to see him properly. “As a matter of fact, I saw a man who once cheated me of a small fortune. I thought I’d got over it, but when I saw him sitting on that balcony, having a holiday with my money—”

  “Oh, darling, why didn’t you tell me before? I’d no idea!”

  “Well, as I told you, I thought I was over it, I don’t like bearing a grudge. It was a business deal, and he cheated me. I’d be a lot better off today, but for him. But let’s forget it.” He kissed her gently. “I love you, understand?” He kissed her a little more passionately, and held her very close. “Never mind him, never mind anyone else in the world, let’s worry about just you and me.”

  His teeth hurt her lips when he kissed . . .

  “Darling,” he said lazily, half an hour afterwards, “I hope you won’t think I’m being stubborn, but since I saw Lister”—he had given the imaginary business rogue the name of Lister—”I can’t keep my mind off business and money and that kind of thing. I told you all about how I’m fixed, didn’t I? I’ve plenty of money coming in a few years’ time, but it’s on trust, and I only get the interest.”

  “That doesn’t matter, darling.”

  “It does and it doesn’t,” said Carne, and looked straight into her clear, worshipping blue eyes. For a few minutes when he had seen Gideon he had felt dreadful, but it had not taken him long to recover, and the little brush with Marion had enabled him to talk to her about a subject he was anxious to discuss.

  “It matters in several ways,” Carne went on, and began to play with a few tendrils of her hair. “If I could use the capital, it would make things much easier. I could start my own business, and work from home. As it is, I’ll have to start travelling as soon as we get home, and—well, I can’t pretend I’m as enthusiastic as I was.”

  Marion looked at him steadily, and then asked: “How much will you be away, darling?”

  “Well, it depends.”

  “What does it depend on?”

  “The firm,” said Carne, with a grimace. He sat up, pushed the pillows more comfortably behind him, and stretched out for cigarettes. “Comfy? You look wonderful!” His hand was firm upon her for a moment, and then he lit a cigarette; she did not smoke. “They might send me somewhere in the north or even Scotland or Northern Ireland, and I’d be away for three or four weeks. But that probably won’t be for a month or so—”

  Marion struggled up on her pillows.

  “Three or four weeks!”

  “Horrible, isn’t it?”

  “But, darling, I couldn’t bear it, I just couldn’t stand being separated for three or four weeks.” She made it sound as if it was a lifetime, and her expression of dismay was so comical that Carne had to laugh. “Darling, it’s not funny, it’s awful. I thought you might be away for two or three days at a time, but not weeks.”

  “When you work for a firm, you have to do what you’re told,” said Carne. “You know that, sweetheart. The trouble is that I’ve only the one qualification – I can sell. And I get larger commissions if I’m away longer, and better allowances, so in the long run it wouldn’t be too bad, and I could probably get together enough cash to start a business which I could run from home. So I shouldn’t worry too much. The boss isn’t too bad, and he knows I’ve just got married. He’ll probably agree that I can cover the Home Counties for the first few weeks, and that would mean I’d be home for week-ends.”

  “Week-ends,” Marion echoed forlornly.

  Carne blew cigarette smoke towards the sunlit window, and then leaned over her and kissed her forehead.

  “You’ll soon be glad enough to get rid of me for a few days.”

  “Robert, don’t say that.”

  “Well, you will.”

  “I’d h
ate it if you were away for one night.”

  “Hang it, sweetheart, I have to earn a living,” he remonstrated. “After all, I’ve more responsibilities now, I have two to keep instead of one. And if we go on as we’ve started, we’ll probably soon have a third!” He kissed her again, and stubbed out the cigarette. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “It’s about four. Darling, I didn’t dream that you’d be away for long periods like that.”

  “But, sweet, I did tell you that I was a commercial traveller – or, if you prefer it, a travelling representative – and that I sell motor accessories which show a whale of a big profit. That’s why I don’t want to change the job for anything else, unless I set up in business for myself. But as that’s not possible, it’s no use talking about it. Darling—”

  He broke off.

  Marion had pushed the sheet back.

  He bent over her, very slowly, and he said in a low-pitched, grating voice: “You think it’s going to be hard on you when I’m away. How do you think I’m going to like it? Marion, you’re beautiful, everything about you is beautiful . . .”

  Unless he had completely misjudged her, it would not be long before she wanted to know what kind of business he would set up for himself, and how much money it would need. He was already determined on what he would say: as a wholesaler, of course, employing his own salesmen, and he would need about five or six thousand pounds, to buy stock, to pay salaries, rent and other expenses. It would be in his present business, and since they had first met, he had made sure that she knew how profitable that could be. He felt quite certain that before the week was out they would be planning the whole thing together, within two weeks he would have at least five thousand of her money. If he could squeeze it up to ten, that would be enough. The process should take about a month, and experience had told him that one month with any woman, even much prettier women than Marion, was as long as he could bear patiently. Once the newness wore off, there was no attraction for him.

  As he watched her dressing, he wondered how much money she really had. It might be as well to find out before he started the “business”. If she had much more than ten thousand, and willed it to him, or died intestate with him as next of kin, it might get him out of financial worries for the rest of his life.

  As he dressed, he remembered how this subject had arisen, and wondered what risk there was of seeing Gideon of the Yard again. The wise thing would be to get away from Brighton proper, perhaps have a run in the country, or else spend the next day at Hove. Marion wouldn’t mind. Marion would do anything for him.

  Anything.

  He did not see Gideon at the hotel or on the beach again.

  “Robert,” said Marion, on the Saturday afternoon.

  “Yes, my sweet!”

  “How much would it cost to start that business?”

  “Oh, forget it, darling, I’m not going to start sponging on you.”

  “No, tell me.”

  “Well — if it’s going to be done properly, it will cost about ten thousand pounds. It might be possible to launch it with half that, but I couldn’t carry enough stock, and that’s always a bad way to begin. Not that we need worry about it, I’m not even going to consider it.”

  “Darling,” Marion said.

  “Yep!”

  “Don’t be cross, but I simply can’t bear the thought of you being away for days on end, and as for weeks—”

  “Listen, Marion, it’s my job. What’s the use of arguing about it?” Carne was sharper than he had been with her before except after that one moment when he had seen Gideon. “There isn’t anything to discuss.”

  “Well, I think there is.”

  “Marion, once and for all will you stop worrying about it? I’ll look round for a job that will keep me nearer home and—”

  “I don’t want you to start looking round for jobs,” Marion said, and her voice sharpened, too. “And there’s no need to be so stubborn.”

  “Stubborn! I’d like to know who’s being stubborn. You keep harping on the subject.”

  “And I shall, until you see sense.”

  “Marion, I am not going to sponge—”

  “But if we start this business as equal partners, it won’t be sponging,” said Marion. “If a married couple can’t be partners in a business, I’d like to know who can.”

  “Listen, Marion.” Carne stood in front of her, by the window of the bedroom, in the gloaming of the Saturday evening. He held her hands tightly, and looked boldly into her eyes. In its way, it was the most convincing performance he had ever put on in all his vicious life. “Once money gets between us, we can be in trouble. If I could put up half, even a third, of the capital, it would be different. But I can’t, for several years. If the business should fail—”

  “But you know it inside out, it wouldn’t fail!”

  “Changes of circumstances, market conditions, anything like that could force the company into bankruptcy,” Carne insisted. “And if I’d ruined you as well as myself, what kind of opinion do you think I’d have of myself? I’ve got to have some pride. For goodness’ sake, why don’t you see it my way?”

  “Bob, it’s no use,” said Marion very firmly, “and I can see what’s worrying you now. Well, even if the worst came to the worst and we lost every penny – which we won’t – it wouldn’t ruin me, or anything like it. I’ve at least three times the money we’d need.”

  Carne kept a straight face; no gleam showed even in his eyes, and the pressure of his fingers on hers was no slighter. He stood quite still for what seemed a long time, while Marion searched his face for some indication of his reaction; he knew that she was worrying in case she had upset him.

  It was hard not to laugh.

  “Look, darling, let’s forget it for this evening,” he said more gently. “That does make a difference, but it doesn’t alter the principle of the thing. Perhaps we can work out some legal way in which you have a share of the trust money, when it falls due. But let’s forget it tonight.”

  “All right, sweet,” Marion said.

  Her eyes told him that she was sure that she had won.

  Won!

  She lay asleep.

  He was by the window, looking out on to the calm, moonlit sea, seeing a few couples walking along the promenade, but making no sound.

  He kept saying the same thing to himself over and over again.

  “Thirty thousand pounds, that would see me right for the rest of my life.”

  7

  THE SECOND SUNDAY

  About half-past three on that Saturday afternoon, Gideon turned his car into the street in Hurlingham where he lived, and slowed down. It was a wide street of Victorian houses, solid-looking, well-kept and well-painted. Gideon’s was among the most attractive; he took great pride in this house, into which he and Kate had moved when they had first married, and where all their children had been born.

  Kate was tanned, her eyes were clear, she looked contented.

  “Here we are, then,” Gideon said. “I wonder if any of the young ‘uns are in to greet us.”

  “I told them they needn’t be,” Kate said. “Matthew will be playing cricket, Pru’s got an evening concert, and Penelope isn’t often home on Saturday afternoons these days.” She got out of the car, and led the way to the front door.

  The narrow hall was shiny and bright, there was no trace of dust. On a small table was a bowl of daffodils, large and beautiful, trumpeting a silent welcome towards the homecomers. Without a word, Kate looked into the front room; there were daffodils and early tulips. She shot a glad, almost girlish glance at Gideon, and they went along to the kitchen.

  “Bless their hearts,” she said, “they’ve got it looking like a new pin. I wonder where—”

  A sudden burst of giggling interrupted her, from behind the kitchen door. That was fourtee
n-year-old Penelope, who couldn’t keep quiet any longer. Then Prudence and Priscilla, who were eighteen, came bursting upon them, happy in their surprise, and seventeen-year-old Matthew stood grinning, too, obviously righteous in the knowledge that he had done his share. The kitchen-cum-dining-room was as bright and spotless as the other rooms, the big table was laid for high tea, and a kettle was singing.

  That night, Gideon spent over an hour looking at television, to finish off his holiday. That had helped in two ways. He was quite sure that his desire to stop Frisky Lee from leaving the country was because of his absolute belief that Frisky had been fooling the police for years, and was now cashing in on that; he was equally sure that the child thieves stemmed from the same central source, which must be traced. Any woman who could train her own child to thievery was far, far worse than a whore.

  That night, Peter Wray was at the cinema. It was one of his good nights, one of the highlights of existence. He often went on Saturday night, usually to a different theatre for three or four weeks, so that he was not at the same place too often. He knew nothing about the reasons for that. He did not even think that it would be nice if he could sometimes choose the film he would like best. A U film or an A film, they were all the same, except that if it was an A, his mother took him through the paybox and lost him in the cinema itself.

  He knew exactly what he had to do.

  She had taught him.

  His fingers were as dexterous as a child’s fingers could be, and no one in London had a lighter touch. His mother had pointed out the bulging pockets which contained wallets, the handbags which could be opened easily in a crowd, the trick of taking out the contents and putting a wallet back so that the victim had no idea how the money had been lost. He knew the kind of thing his mother liked best, and that it must be paper money or small jewels; no silver, because silver made a noise. He was always taken in a little while before the last house, so that he could come out and mingle with the pushing crowds, some trying to get in, some coming out; there was usually a crush, and most Saturday nights he picked seven or eight pockets, or seven or eight handbags.