Free Darkest Before Dawn by Katie Flynn Page B

the fellers would have come for him, and of course Herbie Hughes would have done the same. But ever since Herbie’s dismissal, things at the warehouse had gone steadily downhill. Mr Harry bloody Todd, a right nasty prig of a feller, had somehow managed to persuade the other chaps that time-keeping was important, as was the sacredness of the goods entrusted to their care. So far as Reg was concerned, the only sacred thing in the warehouse was himself and he felt sore and sick and angry when he thought of the many little ploys that he and Herbie had worked out which had led to the enrichment of them both. Tins of pineapple and tins of red salmon were easy to smuggle out and to sell around the pubs afterwards. And then there was tea and coffee, always popular amongst the housewives. Many a feller now drinking in the pub was glad to take home two ounces of tea for his missus, knowing that the gift would shut her mouth to his shortcomings. Luxury goods, such as Belgian chocolates, destined for the smart shops on Church Street or Bold Street, were very popular, and in some pubs Reg had become so well known as a purveyor of cheap goods that even now customers raised their eyebrows at him and were disappointed, even angry, when he was forced to shake his head.
    If only they could get rid of Todd! He had dreamed of it ever since the man’s first day as head warehouseman. The trouble was, he was so damned good at the job. Herbie’s thefts – and those of Reg himself – had depended upon the chaotic way in which goods were stored. It had meant you could check in a dozen crates of tinned peaches secure in the knowledge that Herbie would have to split them to get them into the place at all. That was the moment when you manoeuvred a crate away from the others, perhaps shoving it into the boiler room for a day or two. If it was missed, it could be produced; if it was not, then Herbie or Reg would be at liberty to break it open and make off with the contents. However, all that was at an end, for Todd knew where every lump of sugar was stored and almost nothing could go missing without a fuss. Now, at the end of each month, the men were paid a bonus, but this did not compensate Reg for losing his standing in the community as a provider of cheap luxury items. Besides, there was the thrill of stealing the stuff, which had lent an element of danger to each ordinary working day, and made him feel one helluva good feller as he handed out the sorts of goods most people never even touched, let alone tasted.
    The odd thing was, though, that apart from Mickey Platt, none of the other warehousemen disliked the new order of things. In fact they were saying, frankly, that they thought it a great improvement. ‘It’s made life much easier, Mr Todd knowing exactly where everything is, and drawing up a fresh plan each day so that everyone else knows as well,’ one of the men had said. ‘And you know how it is – when everyone realises that someone’s at the nicking game, then you’re all half afraid the boss’ll end up believing it’s you. Why, honest men have had the push before today and a’course the thief just chuckles to hisself and stays stumm, because a feller that’ll steal from his employer won’t think twice about puttin’ someone else in the frame if he gets the chance.’
    At the time, Reg had nodded wisely along with the rest, but afterwards he and Mickey had discussed the new order and agreed that something ought to be done to get rid of Todd. ‘I’m not saying anyone else would be as bent as Herbie,’ Mickey had said. ‘I agree with the fellers that we don’t want someone like that; far too dangerous. What we want is someone who’ll turn a blind eye to a bit of pilferin’ – a coupla tins o’ salmon, a bag o’ sugar poured off when you’ve split a sack, like; a tin of golden syrup to make a nice treacle tart of a