Two Crafty Criminals! Page 16

  “Not at all, Papa, you look very handsome,” said Miss Whittle, kissing his cheek and adjusting his bow tie.

  So everyone was ready for the Ball.

  “What’s this plan of yours, then?” said Benny to the twins as they hurried towards the kitchen entrance of Gas-Fitters’ Hall.

  “Aha,” said Angela. “It’s the best one yet.”

  “You remember the Archbishop of Canterbury stunt?” said Zerlina.

  “What, when you got the Archbishop to come and judge the Cat Show? That was a laugh, that was. Is he coming to the Ball, then?”

  “No,” said Angela.

  “Well, who is?” said Thunderbolt, bewildered.

  “Aha,” said Zerlina. “You wait and see.”

  “You never got anyone!” said Benny.

  “Betcher,” said the twins together.

  The boys looked at each other. Never bet against the twins, was Benny’s rule through life.

  “Hmm,” was all he could find to say.

  “Yes,” said Angela contentedly as they moved on. “I bet you never had such a surprise as what we arranged tonight.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, I bet our surprise is better’n yours,” retorted Benny, forgetting his lifelong rule at once.

  However, there was no time to think of surprises once the work began. Benny and Thunderbolt were going to be pageboys and the twins were going to help in the cloakroom, so they’d all be able to keep an eye on what was going on.

  Gas-Fitters’ Hall had been decorated in grand style. The ballroom was festooned with flowers and ribbons; dainty little tables and chairs were set along the sides; and a table as long as a cricket pitch was covered in a snowy white cloth on which stood piles of gleaming plates, lines of sparkling glasses, and boxes of silver cutlery for the buffet supper later on. On the bandstand, the musicians of the Prince of Wales’s Own Light Bombardiers were taking their places, under the direction of their conductor, Lieutenant Colonel Fidler. The dancing floor had been polished till it shone like silk.

  In the kitchen, squads of cooks and under-cooks were putting the final touches to the salmon in aspic, the veal-and-ham pies, the Madeira trifles. The wine waiters were polishing their corkscrews; the ordinary waiters were smoothing down the white napkins over their left forearms; and the headwaiter was calculating how much he was likely to get in tips. Everything was ready.

  The first guests began to arrive soon after eight o’clock. The twins were interested to see how many of them had come in evening dress, and how many in costume. Four Demon Kings arrived in the first ten minutes, and four Gypsy Maidens, and they all stood round awkwardly trying not to look at each other until more people arrived.

  “There’s Alf and Giuseppe, look!” said Angela as the twins’ big brothers came swaggering in. “And who’s that in the Arab Chieftain getup?”

  A figure dressed in white robes from head to foot was shuffling into the ballroom. The robes were a bit too big for him or he was a bit too small for them, and he tripped and fell full-length.

  “He’s going to make a big impression,” said Zerlina. “On the floor, anyway.”

  “Here, look! Mr. Horspath!”

  Mr. Horspath came in smiling widely, ran a careless hand over his hair to check that the waves were all still in place, and handed his top hat and gloves to Zerlina.

  “Here you are, my girl,” he said. “Look after them well and there might be a sixpence for you.”

  And he went into the ballroom, smiling at everyone in sight.

  “I thought he was going with Daisy?” said Angela.

  “Here’s Daisy now, with her pa and ma,” said Zerlina.

  When they’d checked in their hats, Mr. Miller leaned over confidentially and asked Angela, “D’you happen to know if they’re serving salad with the refreshments?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Full of cucumbers.”

  “Good, good,” he said happily, and strolled into the ballroom.

  While Mrs. Miller went to attend to her hair, Zerlina told Daisy about Dick.

  “He’s coming as a bandit,” she said, “with a black mask on. He’s not here yet. I’ll tell you as soon as he arrives.”

  Daisy was looking very pretty indeed. In fact, she was the prettiest young lady there by a long way, and as soon as he saw her, Mr. Horspath immediately left the other young lady he’d been talking to and made straight for Daisy as if he was on rails.

  “Miss Miller! Daisy!” he said. “I’m so glad you could come! Do let me have the first dance.”

  “Well,” she said, “I dunno, really.”

  “But the musicians are striking up! The night is young! And how beautiful you look in your—Yes? What is it?”

  There was a small, untidy pageboy plucking at his sleeve.

  “Sandwich, guvnor?” said the pageboy, holding up a plate of them and shoving up some remarkably dirty spectacles.

  “Oh, yes, yes, all right—have a sandwich, my dear,” he said to Daisy.

  Daisy took a sandwich and began to nibble it very daintily.

  “What about you?” said the pageboy to Mr. Horspath. “Don’t you want one?”

  “Oh, all right,” said Mr. Horspath, to get rid of him. But the boy stayed there, glaring at him fixedly. Mr. Horspath began to get nervous.

  “Go away,” he said. “Shoo. Go and feed someone else.”

  The boy drifted away, but he didn’t take his eyes off Mr. Horspath for a moment.

  “Ha-ha,” said Mr. Horspath to Daisy. “Amusing little rascal.”

  “I thought he was sweet,” said Daisy. “He looked like young Thunderbolt from Clayton Terrace.”

  “Daisy,” Mr. Horspath murmured, moving a little closer to her, “I’m glad we’re alone. I want to ask you—Yes? Yes? What do you want?”

  For another pageboy had appeared, with a plate of sausage rolls. This boy was bigger than the first one, but he was glaring just as intently.

  “Sausage roll?” he said, in the same tone of voice as if he’d said, D’you want a fight?

  “No, I don’t want a sausage roll,” said Mr. Horspath irritably. “Go away.”

  “Well, she might,” said the boy, and thrust the plate at Daisy.

  “Hello, Benny,” she said. “Fancy seeing you here. Is your ma and pa coming?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Only not in costume. Leah is, though. She’s coming as the Queen of Sheba.”

  “Oh, lovely! I wish I’d come in costume now. I could have been a Gypsy Maiden.”

  “You look very lovely as you are,” said Mr. Horspath gallantly, trying to get between Benny and Daisy. “Go away, boy. When we want a sausage roll, we’ll ask for it.”

  Benny glared at him through narrowed eyes, and retreated. Mr. Horspath turned back to Daisy.

  “Daisy,” he murmured softly. “May I have the next dance? To waltz around the floor with you in my arms would be—Yes? Yes? Yes? What is it this time?”

  “I thought you might have finished your sandwich,” said Thunderbolt. “I got plenty more here.”

  “Go away! Go away!”

  “There’s cucumber in them triangular ones, and the other ones is a sort of fish paste, I think. I just opened one up to have a look.”

  “We don’t want—”

  “They don’t smell of anything in pertickler. I smelt ’em too. I suppose it could be jam.”

  This boy was driving him to the point of madness, Mr. Horspath felt. And then he looked up and saw Daisy waltzing away with a gondolier.

  Hnnhmhnnhmmm was the way Thunderbolt would have spelled the sound that came from between Mr. Horspath’s gritted teeth. Thunderbolt thought it best to move away.

  Meanwhile, out by the cloakroom, Angela and Zerlina were talking to Dick, who had just arrived.

  He was looking as bandit-like as the New Cut Gang could make him. He wore a black cloak made out of a curtain, two wide leather belts over his shoulders and across his chest for bandoliers, and knee-length riding boots they’d borrowed from the stable. Most of
his face was hidden behind a black mask across his eyes and a ferocious black beard made of horsehair and dyed with ink.

  “I’m not very comfortable in this getup,” he whispered to Angela. “The blooming mask keeps getting in me way. You ain’t cut the holes big enough. And the beard’s awful scratchy, and these boots is crippling me. Is Daisy here yet?”

  “Yeah,” said Zerlina. “She’s dancing with Alf.”

  “Oh, Alf, eh?” said Dick, his eyes glittering dangerously behind the mask.

  “You don’t want to worry about him,” said Angela. “It’s old Horspath what’s the real danger. Here, go on, hurry up and get in the ballroom—we got more guests coming in.”

  They shoved Dick through the door and into the ballroom, which was now getting crowded. The Majordomo at the door, who was announcing all the guests as they arrived, asked him for his name.

  Dick blinked in alarm, and had to shove the mask back into position.

  “Oh—er—my name—yeah—er—Mr. Scampolati,” he said hastily. “From Sicily.”

  “Mr. Scampolati,” said the Majordomo loudly. “From Sicily.”

  No one took any notice, so Dick moved into the big room and looked around. As well as Alf the gondolier and Giuseppe the cowpuncher there were eight Demon Kings, three Mad Monks, four Pirates, one Henry the Eighth, one Arab Chieftain, and at least half a dozen men dressed as policemen. Dick found himself standing next to one of them in a crowded corner between dances, and nodded in a friendly way. The policeman nodded back.

  “Nice costume, mate,” said Dick.

  “This ain’t a costume,” said the policeman. “I’m on duty.”

  Dick uttered a strangled whinny.

  “You all right?” said the policeman.

  “Yeah. I must’ve swallowed a fly,” mumbled Dick. “You—er—chasing anyone, then?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said the policeman mysteriously. “We got word as how the perpetrator of the Gas-Fitters’ Hall burglary is likely to be here tonight to make a daring raid on all the ladies’ jewels.”

  “No, really?”

  “Yeah. Seems like it’s that feller as broke out of prison last night. A desperate character, by all accounts.”

  Dick was speechless.

  “Keep your eyes open, eh?” said the policeman, and tapped his nose significantly before moving away.

  Blimey, thought Dick, this is awful. The place is crawling with rozzers! He looked around and seemed to see them everywhere, like beetles.

  So when he felt a soft hand on his arm, he jumped a foot and let out a yelp of fear.

  “Dick!” said Daisy. “It’s only me.”

  “Heck,” he muttered. “Daisy! Blimey, Lawks! Come behind this aspidistra …”

  He led her behind the nearest plant, and from the dark green shadow of the leaves he peered out at the brightly lit dance floor, where couples were twirling about to the music of “The Gasworks Polka.”

  “Dick!” she said. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m on the run, Daisy!” he said. “I’m a wanted man. The place is full of coppers all looking for me.”

  “I know!” she said, and her eyes glowed with admiration. “It’s ever so daring of you. I think you’re wonderful, Dick!”

  “Do you?” he said. “Cor. The thing is, they think I done the burglary.”

  “They never!”

  “They do. I was just talking to one of ’em. If they catch me, I could get ten years, easy. Probably twenty. Here, d’you like my costume, Daisy?”

  “Not half,” she said. “It suits you marvelous. You look ever so handsome! I can’t hardly see your face at all.”

  Dick wondered if this was the right moment to propose, but before he could clear his throat and blush and shuffle his feet and begin, there was a rustle, and the leaves of the aspidistra parted.

  “Ah, there you are, Daisy!” said the smooth voice of Mr. Horspath. “Naughty, naughty girl! Hiding away from me! Come and dance. You know you promised!”

  Dick growled, and Mr. Horspath wagged a finger at him.

  “Come, come!” he said. “You mustn’t hide the loveliest girl at the Ball away like this! Give the other fellows a chance, ha-ha!”

  Dick frowned as fiercely as he could, but unluckily this displaced the mask, and he found he couldn’t see anything at all. Without thinking, he put up his hand to adjust it.

  Mr. Horspath gasped.

  “Wait a minute!” he said, and struck an attitude of horror. “I know that face! That’s Smith, isn’t it? You’re the scoundrel that—Help! Police! Help! Over here!”

  In a fury, Dick tore off his scratchy beard and aimed a punch at Mr. Horspath’s nose. But it didn’t connect, because a burly constable seized his arm. In a second, whistles were blowing, heavy boots were thundering across the dance floor, and Dangerous Dick Smith, the Lambeth Bandit, was firmly in the hands of the law.

  “Is this him, Inspector?” said the Sergeant.

  The music had stopped; all the dancers had spread out in a ring around the group by the aspidistra—Mr. Horspath pointing dramatically, Daisy with her hands to her cheeks in despair, and two great big policemen holding a struggling, snarling Dick.

  The inspector stepped up and took off Dick’s mask.

  “Yes,” he said. “This is him. This is our man. Well done, Mr. Horspath, sir!”

  And close to the bandstand, Benny and Thunderbolt looked at each other in dismay. This wasn’t what they’d planned at all.

  But the twins hadn’t been fooling when they spoke about a big surprise. Having bagged the Archbishop of Canterbury before, they’d got ambitious and gone for even bigger game this time—and got it. For suddenly there came a bang on the floor from the Majordomo’s mace, and the doors were flung wide, and the Majordomo bellowed:

  “Ladies and gentlemen! His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales!”

  The Prince of Wales was a stout middle-aged gentleman wearing evening dress, with a gray beard and a cigar. He was accompanied by half a dozen grand-looking lords and ladies and swells all covered in medals and ribbons and ostrich feathers and monocles and diamond studs. And on either side of the Prince, looking triumphant, came Angela and Zerlina.

  The appearance of the Royal Party caused a sensation. Ladies curtseyed, gentlemen bowed, and the Light Bombadiers played “God Save the Queen.”

  Benny nudged Thunderbolt.

  “See,” he whispered. “Never bet against the twins. They’re blooming supernatural, they are.”

  “But what are we going to do about—”

  “Shh! Wait.”

  And Benny put his finger to his lips, because the Prince of Wales had put down his cigar and was looking around genially.

  “Thank you for your kind reception,” said the Prince to everyone in general. “These two young ladies came to see my Private Secretary this morning and told us all about the Ball, and we couldn’t resist. But what’s going on here? Are you playing charades?”

  Everyone was too shy to answer. With an effort, Inspector Gorman of the Yard swallowed his amazement and said, “Er—no, Your Royal Highness, sir. We just apprehended this villain in the act of committing assault and battery, sir. He escaped from prison last night, sir.”

  “Bless my soul,” said the Prince of Wales. “And I hear you had a burglary here? Frightful bad luck. Lose a lot?”

  The Worshipful Master of the Gas-Fitters’ Company stepped forward and bowed.

  “All our silver, Your Royal Highness. Over ten thousand pounds’ worth of irreplaceable antiques.”

  “Good Lord,” said the Prince. “Caught the burglars yet, Inspector?”

  “Well, Your Royal Highness—”

  And at this point Mr. Horspath seemed to ooze his way forward. Without actually stepping there, he appeared beside the inspector and bowed very deeply to the Prince of Wales.

  “Albert Horspath,” he said in reverential tones. “Deputy Gasworks Manager. If I may make an announcement, Your Royal Highness, we might get
to the bottom of the mystery sooner than we had hoped.”

  There was a ripple of excitement around the ballroom. Everyone was listening now; the waiters and the cooks and the musicians as well as all the guests were gaping openmouthed at what was going on. It was as good as a play.

  “Jolly good,” said the Prince. “Carry on.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Horspath, making a squirmy sort of bow. “The fact is, I had not till this minute made the connection in my mind between what I saw the other night and the burglary itself. It was only seeing this rogue Smith here, dressed in this suspicious way, that reminded me.”

  “You’re a wavy-haired weasel!” shouted Dick.

  “You keep quiet,” said the inspector. “Carry on, Mr. Horspath.”

  “The other night,” said Mr. Horspath, “the night of the burglary, that is to say, I was taking my evening stroll when I saw this man climbing the fire escape at the side of the building here.”

  “You never did!” shouted Dick. “You oily-eyed poodle-faker!”

  “You hold your noise,” thundered the inspector. “None of that forceful language! Don’t you know who you’re a-speaking in front of?”

  Dick shut his mouth angrily, and Mr. Horspath, looking pious and sorrowful, went on:

  “Yes, I saw him climbing the fire escape with a sack on his back. Knowing that Mr. Whittle keeps a pigeon loft up there, I naturally assumed that he had employed Smith to look after his pigeons, and that Smith was carrying birdseed or something of the sort. All we have to do is look, Inspector.”

  Thunderbolt gasped at the wickedness of the man, but Benny whispered, “Shh! Wait! We ain’t got him yet. Not quite.”

  The Prince of Wales turned to the Inspector.

  “Sounds a simple enough suggestion, Inspector. Why don’t you send a constable up to have a look round?”

  “Off you go, Hopkins!” said the inspector, and a brisklooking constable saluted smartly and ran off towards the stairs.

  While they waited for him to come back, guests whispered in excitement. Thunderbolt saw Mr. Whittle looking very disturbed, and Miss Honoria holding his arm tightly.