Chapter Nineteen

I was up bright and early the next morning. Today was the day I retrieved Julia's letters from Mr. Varney's flat.

Uncle Mick's job with the thieves was this evening, and I thought my own job would be a good way to distract myself from my worries. It would also keep me out of Uncle Mick's way as he prepared himself. After all, it had been a while since he had done a safe job.

Uncle Mick could, of course, open a safe in his sleep, but I didn't want to be the least bit of a distraction to him.

I was preparing to leave the house when I caught sight of the bouquet of flowers I had purchased at Chambers Flower Shop. If that had been a dead end, I needed to determine soon what my next course of action would be. I had yet to read the love letters between my mother and father. Perhaps there would be something in them that would give me an idea of where to proceed next.

But first things first. I had a robbery to commit.

I made my way back to Knightsbridge on the Tube and then walked the rest of the way to Mr. Varney's building. I had few worries about this job. Mr. Varney would be at work, and I had seen for myself that the flats had little daytime traffic. It should be an easy in and out.

Across the street, I stood shivering in a doorway, pretending to be waiting for someone with frequent impatient glances at my wristwatch. I had been at it for perhaps half an hour before the man in question emerged, attaché case in hand. Julia had shown me a photograph of him. He started down the street without even a glance in my direction.

I waited another ten minutes to be sure he was well and truly gone and then I walked confidently across the street and into the building.

I encountered no one and moved to the little metal postboxes in the lobby. It was easy enough to find the one with the name VARNEY on it. Flat 3B.

I took the lift up to the third floor. It opened onto an empty corridor, and I made my way to the door of 3B. So far, so good.

I gave the door a good rap. I was confident that Mr. Varney would be away for hours, but it was always best to make sure there wasn't anyone hanging about before one began to break in. It was entirely possible he had a new mistress lounging in his bed, and there were several good reasons I wouldn't want to walk in on her.

I waited a moment and, when there was no answer, knocked again. Nothing.

It appeared the coast was clear.

With a glance up and down the corridor, I removed my lockpicking kit from my pocket. It was a small leather pouch with hoops inside to hold all of my picks and other small tools. I removed a pick and slid it into the lock. These old flat door locks never posed much of a problem. They weren't really made to keep people out, not in any real sense. A child could have picked them. Or, at least, a child raised by Uncle Mick.

The lock gave, and, with one more look up and down the hall, I pushed the door open and stepped quickly inside, closing it behind me.

Inside the flat, I stood still for a moment and listened, taking in my surroundings. It was dark inside, since the blackout curtains were drawn, and the air was heavy with stale cigarette smoke and the underlying odor of general uncleanliness. My nose wrinkled. I felt for the nearest light switch and, ready to chance that I was alone, flipped it on.

The place looked as though it had already been robbed, though I suspected it was just Mr. Varney's lack of housekeeping skills. The table before the sofa was littered with bottles and empty glasses, and an overflowing ashtray rested precariously near the edge.

Items of clothing were strewn about, jackets and neckties resting on the furniture as though he flung them off every day as soon as he entered. Untidy heaps of magazines and letters rested on the side table. I went there first, flipping through them to see if there was anything of interest, but they were mostly bills. Mr. Varney had expensive tastes for a man of his position in life.

I did a quick going-over of the living area, searching all the usual places and some unusual ones for any sign of Julia's letters. I didn't think Varney would be the type of man to overthink about his hiding place. He would likely believe he had the upper hand and wouldn't be concerned that Julia might try to find the letters. He certainly wouldn't have anticipated her sending a professional thief.

All the same, I looked under sofa cushions, behind paintings for a hidden safe, and in a vase filled with artificial flowers. There was nothing to be found but dust and, in the case of the couch cushions, matchbooks, coins, and assorted crumbs.

I did a quick sweep of the kitchen. I had been avoiding it, as I knew it was likely to be the dirtiest place in the house. There were dirty dishes piled about and empty tins sitting feet from the bin. I wondered if Mr. Varney hired a maid. If so, I hoped he paid her well.

I went to the bedroom next. I looked for hidden recesses in his bureau drawers—most of which were hanging open and overflowing with clothes—and beneath the mattress. There was nothing hidden in the shelves of his wardrobe or in the cupboard behind his bathroom mirror.

I had saved the desk in the corner for last, and I went over to it now.

I opened one drawer, rifling through the papers in it. There were several folders of various documents that were of no interest to me. But tucked at the back of the drawer was a stack of letters, tied loosely with a hair ribbon. I pulled them out and glanced through them. They were Julia's letters, all right.

I smiled to myself. In a robbery, there was nothing as euphoric as the feeling of getting your mitts on what you were after.

On the way back through the sitting room, I stopped at the liquor cabinet. There was nothing hidden there, but I checked the bottles and found a vintage whiskey I knew Uncle Mick would like. I slipped the bottle into my pocket.

I was preparing to leave the flat, but something stopped me. It wasn't so much a sound as the sense of movement outside the door. Was someone in the hallway? I stilled, hoping whoever it was would continue on their way.

A moment later, there was the rattle of a key in the lock.

I froze, looking quickly around and trying to decide where the best place to hide would be. I didn't want to get cornered in the bedroom, so I hurried over to the windows and concealed myself behind the blackout curtain. I hoped there was no one on the street below who would happen to notice my odd position, pressed up against the window. At least I was on the third floor.

I pushed the stack of letters into my pocket and waited.

The door opened a moment later, and I heard an exclamation and then a resigned sigh as the person in question began to mutter to herself. Then there was the clinking of glasses. It seemed Mr. Varney did have a maid, after all.

There was the sound of retreating footsteps, so I ventured a glance around the curtain. I could see the maid's back as she made her way into the kitchen. I hoped that she would stay there until I could make my way out of the apartment.

I heard a sound of dismay, followed by a good deal of tutting and mumbling under her breath. I didn't blame her. I certainly didn't envy her the job of cleaning up this mess.

I thought about making a break for the door. At that moment, however, she came out of the kitchen and began cleaning up in the sitting room. I felt a wave of dismay. How long would I have to hide behind this curtain? What if she spotted me here?

This was as close as I had been to being caught in a robbery, aside from the time Major Ramsey had set us up in order to convince us to work for him.

Thinking of Major Ramsey, I knew how bad it would look if I was caught here, in this particular man's flat. It would look as though I were doing some freelance thievery. It would be even worse because Varney was, after all, a government official. I needed to get out of here without being caught, that was all there was to it.

Providentially, the telephone began ringing just then, and the woman went to answer it.

Moving quickly, I slipped out from behind the curtain and hurried to the front door. I opened it soundlessly and escaped into the hallway, breathing a sigh of relief.

I walked home at a leisurely pace, Julia's letters tucked safely in my pocket. Knowing the job was done was at least a bit of weight off my shoulders.

It was not until I reached home and pulled the letters from my pocket that I realized one of my blue gloves was missing. I patted down my pockets looking for it, but there was only one of them, the left hand.

I was not sad about the loss of the glove itself. After all, I'd been needing a new pair for some time. But I sincerely hoped I hadn't dropped it in Mr. Varney's flat. I remembered how I had shoved the letters into my pocket. It was possible the glove had been dislodged then and fallen behind the curtain.

If I had committed the most amateurish of housebreakers' sins—leaving a clue behind at the scene—I had been out of the game for far too long.

Of course, even if Mr. Varney did discover it, he had no way of knowing where it had come from. Unless he frequently looked in the hiding spot in the drawer, it might be some time before he even realized that Julia's letters were missing. By that time, he would have no way of tracing the robbery back to me.

As far as the glove, it was clear he often entertained. Any woman who entered his flat might have left it. He might even assume it belonged to the cleaning woman.

Besides, it was possible the glove had fallen out at any point between Knightsbridge and here.

I tried to push that worry aside as I went to telephone Julia that she might come and pick up her letters.

She was at my door within fifteen minutes. I opened it to her urgent tap, and then she was inside and embracing me. "Oh, Ellie, I don't know how to thank you!"

"I'm glad I could help, Julia," I said, giving her a squeeze before ushering her into the room and motioning to the coffee table, where I had set the stack of letters.

She quickly took a seat on the sofa and picked up the stack, sifting through them.

"Are they all there?" I asked.

"Yes, I think so," Julia said. "I don't remember the exact number, but this seems to be all of them."

"I doubt he would have separated them," I said.

She looked up at me, tears glistening in her eyes. "I don't know what I would've done without you, Ellie."

"It's a lucky thing he kept them where I could get to them," I said. I didn't want to scold the girl, but I hoped my meaning was clear. She should take more care with the men to whom she wrote letters in the future.

She looked down at the letters in her hands. "I've been thinking about it, and I feel a bit guilty I used the favor you owed Uncle Frank to convince you to get them back. It wasn't, perhaps, a nice thing to do to a friend."

"I owed your uncle the favor anyway," I said lightly. "It's just as well you could make use of it." I realized, however, that, while I didn't blame her, I did feel slightly differently about our friendship now. I hadn't particularly wanted to do the job, and I might have refused had I not been required to balance my account with Frank Doyle. Julia had forced my hand.

Looking at her shining eyes and the relief on her face, though I knew I wouldn't hold it against her. Perhaps she had done the wrong thing, but it had been for the right reason. And, after all, a debt was a debt.

"I hope you and Brian will be very happy," I said.

"I know we will. Thanks to you. I'm going to burn these letters and never think about Peter again. Brian is the only man for me."

She left a few moments later, and I closed the door behind her with a sigh. That was one favor repaid. Now I owed only Pony Peavey.