Glory Boys. Harry Bingham

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      There, in the middle of his living room, was Willard’s intruder, caught in the act.

      His intruder was slim, pretty, stylishly dressed in a knee-length low-waisted blue evening gown in an ultra-fashionable artificial silk. On her face was a look of total surprise. Willard’s face was the same.

      He was first to recover.

      ‘Good evening,’ he said.

      The woman let go of the chair and swallowed. Her eyes fluttered quickly all over Willard, trying to assess the nature of the threat he presented. She must have seen something which calmed her down a little. ‘Good evening,’ she responded gravely.

      Willard showed her his brass doorstop. ‘I picked this up to hit you with, in case I needed to. Do you think I’m going to need to?’

      A smile plucked at the corners of the woman’s mouth. ‘Probably not, but you’d be wise to keep it handy.’

      Willard set the weight down on a side table. ‘I’m not quite certain of the correct etiquette with burglars, so you’ll have to forgive me if I get it wrong – but would you like a drink?’

      ‘I think your manners are simply perfect. And yes, burglars always like to be offered a drink.’

      ‘What can I get you?’

      There was a moment’s awkward pause. The awkwardness arose not because of their peculiar situation but because of Prohibition. Nearly everybody drank alcohol – but not absolutely everyone. It was still an illegal substance and it could be awkward to ask for it from somebody you’d never met before. Willard recognised the familiar embarrassment and said, ‘I intend to have a large glass of brandy. If I do have to batter you, I should like to be well primed for the job.’

      ‘And if I’m to be battered, I’d certainly like some brandy first.’

      Willard tapped his bare chest (pleased that his intruder should have had the chance to see it). ‘I was just about to have a shower when you began burgling me. If you’ll excuse me…’

      He went back to his bedroom, and dressed quickly in dinner jacket and tie. When he emerged, his burglar was politely standing by a bookshelf, pretending to be interested in the books. Willard poured them drinks. His burglar was medium-height, hair of dark gold, dove grey eyes and a pretty, darting smile. Willard felt the quick frisson of attraction.

      ‘Tell me, do you burglarise places professionally or is it more of a recreational activity?’

      She pulled an apologetic face. ‘I’m terribly sorry. I thought the apartment was empty. There were some things here that someone I know had left behind. I was passing. I thought I’d just pop in and take a look for them.’ She dangled a key in the air. ‘I guess you should have this really.’ She tossed the key over.

      ^‘You lived here before me? I thought…’

      ‘Not exactly.’ She sighed, and Willard saw something else in her face: something grim and unhappy. ‘The apartment was occupied by my sister’s fiancé, Arthur Martin. It’s my sister’s key.’

      ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t know your name. I’m Willard Thornton, by the way.’

      ‘Rosalind Sherston. My sister’s name is Susan. It would have been a little bit less embarrassing if she had come, but she was too upset, what with everything.’

      ‘I do understand. I’m at Powell Lambert myself, of course. I never met Mr Martin, but I’ve heard a lot about him. Only good things, naturally.’ This was quite untrue, incidentally. Nobody at Powell Lambert ever seemed to mention the name. ‘What a terrible shock it must have been.’

      ‘You never met him?’

      ‘I’m still very new. I’ve only been at the bank a few weeks.’

      ‘A few? How few?’

      Sherston’s voice went suddenly weak, though she didn’t at all strike Willard as the weak-voiced sort of woman. Willard realised that she was shocked to find the dead man’s apartment so quickly reoccupied. He told her when he’d joined, but adjusted the date by two weeks, so the bank’s callousness seemed less extreme.

      ‘I see.’ Sherston gulped her brandy, suddenly anxious to be off. The mood, which had been sunny, had darkèned for no reason Willard could explain. ‘Thank you for not battering me. You would have been within your rights.’

      Willard shrugged apologetically and pointed to the carpet which was quite new and pale cream. ‘It’s not the battering, it’s the cleaning up.’

      She got up to go. ‘You’ve been very sweet.’

      ‘Wait a moment,’ said Willard, anxious to extend her visit. ‘Your sister’s things. I haven’t come across anything, but if you know where they might be you’re welcome to take a look.’

      Rosalind hesitated. The chair was still out where she’d left it. Willard remembered how Rosalind had been dragging it when he’d burst in on her.

      ‘The cupboard? Did your sister mention that cupboard?’

      Again that momentary hesitation. Then a nod. ‘Yes. It was the cupboard she mentioned.’

      The cupboard in question was a large built-in affair, flush-fitted to the alcove next to the doorway. The bottom half was mostly full of bed and table linens. The upper half was full of Willard’s collection of flying and movie memorabilia. He wasn’t at all unhappy to have to root through it with Rosalind watching. He began pulling stuff out: movie posters, photographs, a medal, a leather flying helmet scored along its outer edge by a German bullet.

      ‘Oh, Willard Thornton,’ she said. ‘Gosh! Aren’t you …? Of course, you are. Silly me. I suppose I should have recognised you.’

      ‘Not at all, not at all.’

      Willard knew for a fact that the cupboard had been bare on his arrival, but wasn’t going to let that stop him emptying it under Rosalind’s inspection. Selecting carefully, but appearing casual, he made sure that the choicest artefacts ended up in the pile closest to Rosalind: a condensed history in objects of his life as he liked to think of it. She picked up a model Nieuport, made in silver, a gift from his father to mark Willard’s first aerial victory. ‘They seem so fragile.’

      ‘Not really,’ he answered, with studied casualness. ‘Good plane the Nieuport. Wing struts had a tendency to come apart in a dive, but it wasn’t a danger if you knew what you were doing.’

      ‘Do you mind me looking?’

      ‘Not at all. It’s junk, really. I ought to throw it away.’ She shook her head.

      The cupboard was obviously empty. Willard swept the back with his hand.

      ‘Your sister’s things aren’t here, but I’ll keep an eye out. What should I be looking for?’

      ‘Oh… I’m not sure. Some papers, I think. It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have come. Sorry.’ She opened the apartment door. ‘Goodbye. Thank you.’

      ‘Wait!’

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