Eye of the Needle(52)

“How do I know that?” she said.

Bloggs turned and called to his police driver. The constable got out of the car and came to the gate. Bloggs said to the old lady, “Is the uniform enough to convince you?”

“All right,” she said, and stood aside for him to enter.

He stepped down into a low-ceiling room with a tiled floor. The room was crammed with heavy, old furniture, and every surface was decorated with ornaments of china and glass. A small coal fire burned in the grate. The place smelled of lavender and cats.

A second old lady got out of a chair. She was like the first, but about twice as wide. Two cats spilled from her lap as she rose. She said, “Hello, I’m Emma Patron, my sister is Jessie. Don’t take any notice of that shotgun—it’s not loaded, thank God. Jessie loves drama. Will you sit down? You look so young to be a policeman. I’m surprised Scotland Yard is interested in our little robbery. Have you come from London this morning? Make the boy a cup of tea, Jessie.”

Bloggs sat down. “If we’re right about the identity of the burglar, he’s a fugitive from justice,” he said.

“I told you!” Jessie said. “We might have been done in—slaughtered in cold blood!”

“Don’t be silly,” Emma said. She turned to Bloggs. “He was such a nice man.”

“Tell me what happened,” Bloggs said.

“Well, I’d gone out the back,” Emma began. “I was in the hen coop, hoping for some eggs. Jessie was in the kitchen—”

“He surprised me,” Jessie interrupted. “I didn’t have time to go for me gun.”

“You see too many cowboy films,” Emma admonished her.

“They’re better than your love films—all tears and kisses—”

Bloggs took the picture of Faber from his wallet. “Is this the man?”

Jessie scrutinized it. “That’s him.”

“Aren’t you clever?” Emma marveled.

“If we were so clever we’d have caught him by now,” Bloggs said. “What did he do?”

Jessie said, “He held a knife to my throat and said, ‘One false move and I’ll slit your gizzard.’ I believe he meant it.”

“Oh, Jessie, you told me he said, ‘I won’t harm you if you do as I say.’”

“Words to that effect, Emma!”

Bloggs said, “What did he want?”

“Food, a bath, dry clothes and a car. Well, we gave him the eggs, of course. We found some clothes that belonged to Jessie’s late husband, Norman—”

“Would you describe them?”

“Yes. A blue donkey jacket, blue overalls, a check shirt. And he took poor Norman’s car. I don’t know how we’ll be able to go to the pictures without it. That’s our only vice, you know—the pictures.”

“What sort of car?”

“A Morris. Norman bought it in 1924. It’s served us well, that little car.”

Jessie said, “He didn’t get his hot bath, though!”

“Well,” Emma said, “I had to explain to him that two ladies living alone can hardly have a man taking a bath in their kitchen…”

Jessie said: “You’d rather have your throat slit than see a man in his combinations, wouldn’t you, you silly fool.”

Bloggs said, “What did he say when you refused?”

“He laughed,” Emma said. “But I think he understood our position.”

Bloggs could not help but smile. “I think you’re very brave,” he said.

“I don’t know about that, I’m sure.”

“So he left here in a 1924 Morris, wearing overalls and a blue jacket. What time was that?”

“About half-past nine.”

Bloggs absently stroked a red tabby cat. It blinked and purred. “Was there much petrol in the car?”

“A couple of gallons—but he took our coupons.”

“How do you ladies qualify for a petrol ration?”

“Agricultural purposes,” Emma said defensively. She blushed.

Jessie snorted. “And we’re isolated, and we’re elderly. Of course we qualify.”

“We always go to the corn stores at the same time as the pictures,” Emma added. “We don’t waste petrol.”

Bloggs smiled and held up a hand. “All right, don’t worry—rationing isn’t exactly my department. How fast does the car go?”

Emma said, “We never exceed thirty miles per hour.”

Bloggs looked at his watch. “Even at that speed he could be seventy-five miles away by now.” He stood up. “I must phone the details to Liverpool. You don’t have a telephone, do you?”

“No.”

“What kind of Morris is it?”

“A Cowley. Norman used to call it a Bullnose.”

“Color?”

“Grey.”

“Registration number?”

“MLN 29.”

Bloggs wrote it all down.

Emma said, “Will we ever get our car back, do you think?”

“I expect so—but it may not be in very good condition. When someone is driving a stolen car he generally doesn’t take good care of it.” He walked to the door.