me while you nurse your problem on a cell bed." "Just a minute, copper, let's not go over the moon. What's the story? Who the hell's talking about murder?" "Listen, Scarr, you're a little man, come in on the fringe of the big spenders, aren't you. Well now you're the big spender. I reckon it'll cost you fifteen years." "Look, shut up, will you." Scarr walked slowly round to the other side of the car. "Get in, copper," he said. Mendel sat in the driving seat and unlocked the passenger door from the inside. Scarr sat himself beside him. They didn't put the light on. "I'm in a nice way of business round here," said Scarr quietly, "and the pickings is small but regular. Or was till this bloke come along." "What bloke?" "Bit by bit, copper, don't rush me. That was four years ago. I didn't believe in Father Christmas till I met him. Dutch, he said he was, in the diamond business. I'm not pretending I thought he was straight, see, because you're not barmy and nor am I. I never asked what he done and he never told me, but I guessed it was smuggling. Money to burn he had, came off him like leaves in autumn. 'Scarr,' he said; 'you're a man of business. I don't like publicity, never did and I hears we're birds of a feather. I want a car. Not to keep, but to borrow.' He didn't put it quite like that because of the lingo, but that's the sense of it. "What's your proposition?' I says. 'Let's have a proposition.' " 'Well,' he says; 'I'm shy. I want a car that no one can ever get on to, supposing I had an accident. Buy a car for me, Scarr, a nice old car with something under the bonnet. Buy it in your own name,' he says, 'and keep it wrapped up for me. There's five hundred quid for a start, and twenty quid a month for garaging. And there's a bonus, Scarr, for every day I take it out. But I'm shy, see, and you don't know me. That's what the money's for,' he says. 'It's for not knowing me.' Mr. Scarr drew breath, and let it out again with an air of comic resignation. "And there he was, standing over me like my own conscience, showering old singles on me like used tote tickets." "What did he look like?" asked Mendel. "Quite young he was. Tall, fair chap. But cool--cool as charity. I never saw him after that day. He sent me letters posted in London and typed on plain paper. Just 'Be ready Monday night,' 'Be ready Thursday night,' and so on. We had it all arranged. I left the car out in the yard, full of petrol and teed up. He never said when he'd be back. Just ran it in about closing time or later, leaving the lights on and the doors locked. He'd put a couple of quid in the map pocket for each day he'd been away." "What happened if anything went wrong, if you got pinched for something else?" "We had a telephone number. He told me to ring and ask for a name." "What name?" "He told me to choose one. I chose Blondis. He didn't think that was very funny but we stuck to it. Primrose 0098." "Did you ever use it?" "Yes, a couple of years ago I took a bint to Margate for ten days. I thought I'd better let him know. A girl answered the 'phone--Dutch too, by the sound of her. She said Blondie was in Holland, and she'd take a message. But after that I didn't borner." "Why not?" "I began to notice, see. He came regular once a fortnight, the first and third Tuesdays except January and February. This was the first January he come. He brought the car back Thursday usually. Odd him coming back tonight. But this is the end of him, isn't it?" Scarr held in his enormous hand the piece of postcard he had taken from Mendel. "Did he miss at all? Away long periods?" "Winters he kept away more. January he never come, nor February. Like I said." Mendel still had the '50 in his hand. He tossed them into Scarr's lap. "Don't think you're lucky. I wouldn't be in your shoes for ten times that lot. I'll be back." Mr. Scarr seemed worried. "I wouldn't have peached," he said; "but I don't want to be mixed up in nothing, see. Not if the old country's going to suffer, eh, squire?"
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