A Voice Like Velvet by Donald Henderson

Author:Donald Henderson
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780008265359
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2018-03-27T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XIII

THE advantage of wearing a light-coloured coat instead of a dark one he had proved on a much earlier escapade, when a police sergeant had eyed smears of paint from a window-sill which had got on his lapels. It had been ticklish and only pure luck had got him out of it. Since then, he wore light colours, in case of paint or dirt from drainpipes and roofs.

Reaching Broadcasting House as it struck one, he reflected on the several advantages of being such a well-known figure. These would, of course, be suitably weighed against him if he ever faced a judge and jury; but in the meantime they had their inestimable advantages. The police officers had recognized him immediately, for they too worked now and then in the black lighthouse. Moreover, they very kindly let Mr Bisham stay around and watch the burglar hunt. The Flying Squad flew up, and a cordon was thrown round the building, in fact round the whole Mount Street block. It seemed that these burglaries were getting beyond a joke and were causing Inspector Hood a severe headache. Mr Bisham expressed a hope that he might meet Mr Hood, but it seemed Mr Hood was too busy inspecting drainpipes and window catches. Quite a lot of people opened windows or came into the road in dressing-gowns, including Mr George Mansfield, the industrialist. But nothing much happened except that the sirens went and so everybody had to disappear to various posts as wardens, firemen and ambulance drivers. Not caring to have lumps of shrapnel falling on his head, Mr Bisham walked away to the black lighthouse. It had been fairly exciting, but not very. However, his haul for Russia was exceedingly satisfactory. The most ticklish moment had been when he was undoing the necklace from Mrs Mansfield’s fat neck. Not an easy matter in rubber gloves. A pity he had had to stoop to ether, but it would have been too risky without. It was to be hoped Mrs Mansfield wasn’t feeling sick; ether was filthy stuff.

The all-clear sounded as he got back.

Broadcasting House was its familiar night-time self. Strange bursts of Indian music came from hidden channels. Weird figures moved sleepily about in dressing-gowns. Others wandered about with brown suitcases looking for a vacant studio bed.

He went to the Green Room.

There were rows of sleeping figures in bunks in the dim light. He would have liked to have examined his haul, but it would be unwise. Somebody might wake up, or come in. He left it where it was in his overcoat pocket, beside the revolver there. A pity he had been obliged to miss the train. He was rather in a mood for Marjorie’s warm presence. The beds here were rather narrow and short.

He got into his sheet and carefully pulled his coat over him. Pleased, he fell asleep and didn’t wake up until seven. Then he had a light breakfast in the canteen and took a taxi to Waterloo.

It was a lovely late-April day and Marjorie was in the garden cutting flowers.

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