Maxwell's Mask by M.J. Trow Page A

asked Jazzer.’
    â€˜Jazzer’s a prick.’ Clearly, George had been to Psychology hour too.
    â€˜Yeah, well he ain’t the only one. Now, pull yourself together. You told me you’d done this hundreds of times.’
    â€˜Yeah, well,’ George whined. ‘Maybe not hundreds.’
    â€˜Well you’re doing it now,’ Anthony assured him. ‘Keep low and follow me.’
    â€˜What we looking for?’
    â€˜Jewellery. Cash. Credit cards. Nothing heavy. Nothing marked. There’s an old lady lives here. Now either she’ll sleep through a fuckin’ earthquake or she’ll be wide awake wandering about in the kitchen, muttering the bollocks they do. Just like my bleedin’ granny.’
    â€˜But it’s late,’ George pointed out. ‘She ain’t gonna buy that meter reader bit.’
    â€˜You know, George, Mad Max is right about you. If I had a quid for every time he says, “Mr Lemon, you’re not concentrating”, I wouldn’t be reduced to turning over this old lady’s gaff tonight. We’re fourteen, for fuck’s sake! How many fourteen-year-old meter readers do you know? I was merely regaling you with stories of my uncle Anastas and his MO back in London. Anyway, he was a meter reader. No need for fake ID and bullshit there. Here we go.’
    Like the natural he was, Anthony was gone across the gravel, his trainers padding like cat prints as he bounced off the porch wall, and he melted into the shadows. George was altogether slower, bulkier, but he made it in record time. Together, the likely lads skirted the lounge window. No lights and the curtains were drawn.
    â€˜Yurghh!’ whispered George. ‘Snail shit.’
    â€˜Yeah, you getta lotta that in people’s gardens. Occupational hazard, that is. You tooled up?’
    â€˜You what?’
    Peter Maxwell didn’t know it, but Anthony Wetta was a lot like him really. Born out of his time and with a passion – albeit as yet unrealised – for old movies. When the mood took him, he could recite the screenplays of The Italian Job and The Long Good Friday by heart.
    â€˜Are you carrying an object of metal for breakinginto places like this?’ It was like a foreign language.
    â€˜No,’ said George.
    â€˜You’re fucking useless, you,’ Anthony assured his friend. ‘Keep up.’
    And the lither lad was gone, scuttling through the foliage like a rat up a pipe. This side of the house looked even more deserted than the front, but the cloud cover was breaking now and the privet came to an abrupt stop. Nothing ahead but moon and lawn. Not a good combination for those of the larcenous persuasion.
    â€˜Who did you say lived here?’ George hissed, trying to keep his hoodie out of his mouth, and his heart in more or less the right place.
    â€˜I dunno. Some old trout. She lives alone, though. Look,’ Anthony pointed. ‘There’s the kitchen door. Waddya think?’
    â€˜What about?’ George had never been asked the merits of gentrified Victorian architecture before. He was a bit stumped for an answer, to be honest.
    â€˜I mean, shall we make a run for it? Try the door and if no go, hit them bushes on the far side.’
    â€˜â€™Ere, Bed, we’re not going on the roof, are we?’ George asked in sudden horror. ‘I mean, the ground floor’s one thing. But I dunno about the roof. I get funny on the pier sometimes.’
    â€˜Yeah, I know, George,’ Anthony nodded, frowning at the lad and the embarrassed memories that came flooding back. ‘You wait here. If I can see a way in, I’ll give you a signal.’
    â€˜What signal?’ George gripped his oppo’s arm. This was all getting just a little heavy for him now.
    â€˜I’ll do this,’ Anthony waved frantically. ‘Got it?’
    A nod. As good as a wink to a blind horse, Anthony supposed, and anyway, that looked like it