There were other pictures: close-ups of experts at ‘practice’, close-ups of the moment of discovery; little tricks such as treading on a victim’s toe or passing the loot to an accomplice, then facing an accusation with an air of injured innocence. Nothing was omitted. And over the years, Aunty Martha Triggett had built up a remarkable organisation, so that nothing at all was wasted. She had sales outlets for stolen bags and purses, the powder- compacts and other make-up paraphernalia that went in them, watches, pens, pencils-for the cigarette-cases and lighters, trinkets and even key-rings and used combs. She had been doing this for so long, without being caught and as far as she knew without being suspected, that she no longer had any sense of danger.
“Do what you’re told,” she would say to her pupils, “and nobody’s ever going to catch you.”
What she longed for most was a long, hot summer. Fingers were chilled in winter and the pickings weren’t so good. This summer so far had been very successful, and she had great hopes for June . . .
There was in fact one man, a young policeman, who had suspicions about Aunty Martha Triggett. His name was Donaldson, Bob Donaldson, and he had been in the Force for only thirteen months. Before that, he had been in a number of jobs, including men’s hairdressing: he had been a pupil of Aunty Martha’s School and knew that a Charm School existed without knowing just what it was. He was at that time stationed in Wimbledon, in the south-west, and Martha Triggett operated from Stepney, in the southeast. Donaldson, not only young but very alert, wondered about her occasionally. But it was no use speculating aloud to a station sergeant, so he kept his suspicions to himself.
Not only the police and Aunty Martha were preparing for June’s great sporting events; the bookmakers were expecting to be very busy. The volume of betting on cricket, tennis and golf was negligible, of course, compared with the amount on racing, boxing, the speedways and the dogs. But there were very good pickings and the big bookmakers always quoted prices on the major events.
There were some surprising odds offered and taken, for instance, on the best players at Wimbledon, who were ‘seeded’ so that they could not be drawn against each other in the early rounds of the tournament. This year, there was more betting than usual; partly because of the big money prizes which put the professionals high among the seeded players, yet gave amateurs a powerful incentive to win. There were also prices, fairly even, on who would win the cricket series between South Africa and England by winning most matches out of five.
There were hundreds of small bookmakers in London, but only three major houses. Of these, Jackie Spratt’s was a law unto itself. The others were wholly reputable and trustworthy, despite rumours that they would ‘fix’ this fight or that race. It wasn’t simply that bookmakers were as honest as any other businessmen; it was that they were particularly vulnerable to any rumours of dishonesty or fixing. The police knew this as well as anybody, and since the new Gaming Act had come into force and betting was easier to conduct legally, a camaraderie had been built up between the police and the bookmakers as individuals, as well as through their main association.
On that particular evening, while Gideon was sitting in his Fulham garden, trying to get cool, and Martha Triggett had cancelled a Charm School session because it was so hot, two of the Big Three bookmakers sat on the terrace of the Royal Automobile Club, drinking cold beer.
One, Sir Arthur Filby, was tall, handsome, grey-haired and aristocratic in appearance. The other, Archibald Smith, looked the prototype of the typical musical comedy bookmaker-big, overweight, red-faced and with a neck so thick that there were always two rolls of fat at the back, lurking above his invariably over-loud, over-check suit. His grey hair was cut so short that at a distance he appeared almost bald; at close quarters, it bristled.
“We had an odd one in, today,” he remarked, owlishly.
“Concerned with what?” asked Filby.
“Barnaby Rudge.”
“The tennis chap, you mean?”
“The darkie,” Smith nodded, “from Alabama.”
“What’s so odd about him?” Filby queried, blankly.
“Didn’t say odd about him, old boy! An odd one about him. Ten thousand pounds on any odds the chap could get, that Rudge will win Wimbledon.”
“Take it!” urged Filby, promptly. “He hasn’t an earthly. Even at a hundred to one, you’d pick up ten thou. Want to hedge some of it?”
“I want to know more about it.” Smith’s deep-set, periwinkle-blue eyes had a speculative glint. “I checked around a bit. No one else has been approached. The general feeling was a hundred to one others — and he’s one of them!”
“Humph,” ejaculated Filby.
“And if he won,” Smith pointed out, “someone would be a million down!”
Filby sat up, contemplated his glass as if suspicious of its cleanliness, and then looked hard at Smith.
“I see what you mean,” he said. “Impossible.”
“A pony,” Smith shrugged. “Even a hundred. Possibly a thousand quid — I could understand anyone putting it on as a long shot. But ten thousand! That isn’t chicken-feed, even to a millionaire.”
Filby sipped, stared moodily at his glass, tossed the drink down and raised a hand for a waiter.
“Who’s behind it?” he asked.
“I’ve no idea.”
“No name? Same again, by the way?”
“Ta. I can manage one more.”
Filby raised two fingers and as the waiter turned and went off, he echoed: “No idea?”‘
“Oh, I know who wants to put the money up.”
“Cash?”
“You’re not very bright tonight, old boy!” Smith protested. “You don’t think anyone would be expected to take
