Shadows & Light - Part the Fourth - Wherein Unexpected Visits Occur

I’ve spent three days watching Mister Ellison’s office, day and night, taking turns with Ned Crabbe so we get some time off. We have a pretty good idea of the routine at this point; opens at nine, closes at seven, everyone leaves promptly and the manager locks up. There’s no watchman, but the beat rozzer passes by every nine minutes. The office is a storefront with big plate glass windows looking onto the street which is a bit of a nuisance. I sum all these things up as I watch the manager hop down off the omnibus. I hop down right after him and follow, hoping he doesn’t decide to stop for a drain on the way home.

What I need is a look inside the place, so the next day I dress up and stop in. It is a busy place, as one would expect, with clerks scurrying to and fro and a large safe standing to the right of an ornate desk occupied by the manager.

“Excuse me, sir.” I says to a clerk. “Would you be looking for hands?”

“I don’t think so,” he says with a sympathetic look. “But you should speak to Mister Marshall.” And with that, he waves that dignitary over.

“Young woman.” The manager says severely after I have explained myself. “I do not hold with female clerks. You would do better finding yourself a situation in a shop, or better yet, a husband.”

“Good day, sir.” I say tightly, turning on my heel and leaving with the best affronted air that I can muster. It’s only when the door closes behind me that I let myself smile. The safe is a newer model, but not the latest, and I know exactly how to go about opening it.

Mister Marshall lives in a quiet neighborhood of spacious houses, being Mister Ellison’s manager evidently pays rather well. He keeps regular hours and has a wife, three children, a maidservant, and a cook. His pleasant three story house is laid out conventionally: kitchen and servants’ quarters in the basement, parlor on the ground floor, dining room on the first floor, and bedrooms above that. Mister Marshall is home promptly at a quarter after seven and dinner is served at seven thirty on the dot. I commend the gentleman for his exceedingly regular habits because they make my job that much easier.

At quarter to eight I walk up to Mister Marshall’s front door, I am dressed respectably and at this time of the evening with folks still returning home no one notices me. I walk up to the door as if I belong there and carefully try the knob. It is locked, as I expect, but the key is in the lock on the inside in case of evening callers. A pair of special forceps to grasp the key through the keyhole, a quick twist, and I ease the door open and step inside.

I carefully close the door behind me. The smells of cooking float up from the kitchen and my stomach responds with a rumble, reminding me I’m missing my own dinner. There are no footsteps on the stairs, which means I haven’t been spotted from the dining room. So far, so good. A gentleman’s overcoat hangs from the coat rack and a quick rummage turns up a ring of keys. I keep an ear to the stairs as I make an impression of each key in wax, the cook and the maid should be busy with dinner, but there’s always the chance of something going wrong.

Two large keys, one’s probably the house and one the office, I make impressions of both, just in case. That’s the safe key, better make two sets of impressions to be safe.  Another, smaller, safe key, two impressions of that one too. What’s this one for?  No idea, but might as well wax it too. The impressions take me under three minutes and then the waxes are carefully slipped into my pocket and the keys are back into Mister Marshall’s coat.

And then I’m out the door and walking down the street, smiling at a job well done.

“When are you going to do the job?” Mister Worth asks me the next morning.

“Tonight or tomorrow, depending on how the keys go.” I say. Ideally I'd take at least two visits to make sure the keys work, but time is running short.

He nods and walks into his office and I hear the safe opening and closing. He’s back a moment later with a packet about the size of a small brick wrapped in brown paper . A label in a neat hand proclaims the contents:

Royal Commercial Bank - £10,000

“There should be one just like it in the safe” he says, finally letting me in on the plan. “You take theirs and put ours in the safe.” I must look puzzled, because he goes on. “That one’s mostly queer with a few good ones top and bottom. Fatty will have a spot of bother when it comes time to pay off some of friends.” He grins and it’s not pleasant; I make a note not to cross the man if I can help it.

“I’ll be at my club for a while, there are arrangements I have to make.” Mister Worth picks up his hat and coat and stick and walks out the door. I wait until he’s gone and fish my copy of A Guide for the Unprotected in Matters Relating to Finance out of my bag; it’s going to be a boring day from the look of it.

I’ve only finished a chapter when there’s a knock on the door and I have just enough time to drop the book into my lap before a strongly built man in his forties opens it and walks into the office.

“Good morning, sir.” I say, letting myself be Miss Curran while I sigh inside, probably another salesman to get rid of.

The man looks a little surprised to see me there. “Good morning, miss. Is Mister Worth in?”

“I’m afraid Mister Worth is at his club, sir.” I reply politely. “He may be a while yet.”

“I see. My card.” He passes over a rectangle of white pasteboard. There’s more, but only two words register “Sergeant” and “Police.”

“Oh dear.” I swallow hard, hoping I don’t look any guiltier than I am. “I can have him sent for, sir.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” He says. “I’ll just wait for a bit.” Won’t give me a chance to warn him, in other words. He studies me for a bit, and I am hoping he doesn’t recognize me from the rogues’ gallery the peelers keep at Headquarters. “So your master keeps female clerks, does he?” He says after a while.

“Just me, sir.  The warehouse clerks are all men.” Miss Curran does not notice the slight stress on ‘keep’ even if I do and think him a dirty-minded bugger for it.

“I see.” He raises a skeptical eyebrow. “And just what do your duties consist of?”

“Oh, copying the letters, going to the post office and the bank, making the tea, keeping an eye on things, that sort of thing.”

The slip is walking around the office looking at things and I am feeling rather nervous on account of the ten grand in queer notes in my bag.

“Perhaps I could wait in Mister Worth’s office and let you get on with your work.” he suggests politely.

“I’m afraid it’s locked, sir. Mister Worth is most particular about that.” I don’t mention that I have a key, rather have the bugger out here where I can keep an eye on him.

An hour crawls by before the rozzer looks at this watch and stands up to leave and another hour after that before Mister Worth returns.

“Gentleman from the police dropped by, sir.” I pass him the card.

Mister Worth looks at the card, frowns, and then looks at me, “Tonight.”