– that’s my forte.’
‘It means I’ve got to spend the rest of today and all tomorrow studying the habits of the British postman,’ I said. ‘How many deliveries a day?’
Mackintosh cocked his eye at Mrs Smith, who said, ‘Two.’
‘Have you any snoopers you can recruit? I don’t want to spend too much time around Leather Lane myself. I might get picked up for loitering and that would certainly queer the pitch.’
‘It’s all been done,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘I have the timetable here.’
While I was studying it, she unrolled a plan on to the desk. ‘This is a plan of the entire second floor. We’re lucky on this one. In some buildings there’s a row of letter-boxes in the entrance hall, but not here. The postman delivers to every office.’
Mackintosh put down his finger with a stabbing motion. ‘You’ll tackle the postman just about here. He’ll have the letters for that damnably named clothing company in his hand ready for delivery and you ought to see whether he’s carrying the package or not. If he isn’t you pass it up and wait for the next delivery.’
‘That’s what’s worrying me,’ I said. ‘The waiting bit. If I’m not careful I’ll stick out like a sore thumb.’
‘Oh, didn’t I tell you – I’ve rented an office on the same floor,’ said Mackintosh blandly. ‘Mrs Smith went shopping and all home comforts are installed; an electric kettle, tea, coffee, sugar and milk, and a basket of goodies from Fortnum’s. You’ll live like a king. I hope you like caviare.’
I blew out my breath sharply. ‘Don’t bother to consult me about anything,’ I said sarcastically, but Mackintosh merely smiled and tossed a key-ring on the desk. I picked it up. ‘What name am I trading under?’
‘Kiddykar Toys, Limited,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘It’s a genuine company.’
Mackintosh laughed. ‘I set it up myself – cost all of twenty-five quid.’
We spent the rest of the morning scheming and I didn’t find any snags worth losing any sleep over. I found myself liking Lucy Smith more and more; she had a brain as sharp as a razor and nothing escaped her attention, and yet she contrived to retain her femininity and avoid bossiness, something that seems difficult for brainy women. When we had just about got everything wrapped up, I said, ‘Come now; Lucy isn’t your real name. What is?’
She looked at me with clear eyes. ‘I don’t think it really matters,’ she said evenly.
I sighed. ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘Perhaps not.’
Mackintosh regarded us with interest, then said abruptly, ‘I said there was to be no lally-gagging around with the staff, Rearden; you just stick to doing your job.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You’d better leave now.’
So I left the gloom of his nineteenth-century office and lunched again at the Cock, and the afternoon was spent in the registered office of Kiddykar Toys, Ltd, two doors away from the Betsy-Lou Dress Manufacturing Co, Ltd. Everything was there that Mackintosh had promised, so I made myself a pot of coffee and was pleased to see that Mrs Smith had supplied the real stuff and not the instant powdered muck.
There was a good view of the street and, when I checked on the timetable of the postman, I was able to identify his route. Even without the telephone call Mackintosh was to make I ought to get at least fifteen minutes’ notice of his arrival. That point settled, I made a couple of expeditions from the office, pacing the corridor and timing myself. There really was no point in doing it without knowledge of the postman’s speed but it was good practice. I timed myself from the office to Gamage’s, walking at a fair clip but not so fast as to attract attention. An hour in Gamage’s was enough to work out a good confusing route and then work was over for the day and I went back to my hotel.
The next day was pretty much the same except I had the postman to practise on. The first delivery I watched from the office with the door opened a crack and a stopwatch in my hand. That might seem a bit silly; after all, all I had to do was to cosh a man. But there was a hell of a lot at stake so I went through the whole routine.
On the second delivery of the day I did a dummy run on the postman. Sure enough, it was as Mackintosh had predicted; as he approached Betsy-Lou’s door the letters for delivery were firmly clutched in hand and any box of Kodachromes should be clearly visible. I hoped Mackintosh was right about the diamonds; we’d look mighty foolish if we ended up with a photographic record of Betsy-Lou’s weekend in Brighton.
Before I left I telephoned Mackintosh and he answered the telephone himself. I said, ‘I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.’
‘Good!’ He paused. ‘You won’t see me again – apart from the hand-over of the merchandise tomorrow. Make a neat job of that, for God’s sake!’
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘Got the wind up?’
He didn’t answer that one. Instead, he said, ‘You’ll find a present awaiting you at your hotel. Handle with care.’ Another pause. ‘Good luck.’
I said, ‘Give my sincere regards to Mrs Smith.’
He coughed. ‘It wouldn’t do, you know.’
‘Perhaps not; but I like to make my own decisions.’
‘Maybe so – but she’ll be in Switzerland tomorrow. I’ll pass on your message when I next see her.’ He rang off.
I went back to the hotel, picked up a small package at the desk, and unwrapped it in my room. Nestling in a small box was a cosh, lead-centred and rubber-padded with a non-skid grip and a neat strap to go round the wrist. A very effective anaesthetic instrument, if a bit more dangerous than most. Also in the box was a scrap of paper with a single line of typescript: HARD ENOUGH AND NO HARDER.
I went to bed early that night. There was work to do next day.
IV
Next morning I went into the City like any other business gent, although I didn’t go so far as to wear a bowler and carry the staff of office – the rolled umbrella. I was earlier than most because the first postal delivery of the day was before office hours. I arrived at Kiddykar Toys with half an hour in hand and immediately put on the kettle for coffee before inspecting the view from the window. The stallholders of Leather Lane were getting ready for the day’s sales and there was no sign of Mackintosh. I wasn’t worried; he’d be around somewhere in the neighbourhood keeping an eye open for the postman.
I had just finished the first cup of coffee when the phone rang. Mackintosh said briefly, ‘He’s coming.’ There was a click as he hung up.
In the interests of his leg muscles the postman had put in a bit of time and motion study on this building. It was his habit to take the lift to the top floor and deliver the letters from the top down on the theory that walking downstairs is easier than climbing them. I put on my coat and hat and opened the door a couple of inches, listening for the whine of the lift. It was ten minutes before I heard it go up, and then I stepped out into the corridor, carefully drawing the office door closed but not quite shut so that the least push would swing it open.
It was very quiet in the building at that hour and, as
