The Mist in the Klein Bottle: Blank Magic, #4

By J Molyneux

While the boys are away the spivs will play

There are crooks even in wartime but some crooks are worse than others. When an ancient demon becomes involved with fascist sympathisers those left behind on the home front will need all their skills to keep evil at bay..

The Blank Magic books are set in an alternate reality where magic works.The Nazi high command has set up a division of the SS to wage clandestine magical warfare against the allies. Britain is forced to respond with its own magical forces; helped along by a small cast of characters who populate the fringes where the normal and magical worlds meet.

The book is approximately 176,000 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: john molyneux
• Release date: Nov 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393459125

Book preview

Prologue

The young man in the apron stared out of the window at the people on the street. They hurried past without a sideways glance. To be fair it would have been difficult for them to see anything even if they’d been looking because the window glass was frosted to make it hard to see in. They walked past as if the room beyond the window didn’t exist. The man leant on his broom and glared: this wasn’t how it should be.

Things had happened. They should be averting their eyes in deference and slowing their pace in respect. His father had died two days ago and left him with the burden of this place. Just a dismal shop on a dismal street under a dismal sky. His father had been old school; he observed the niceties and the rituals, he knew his place, he called everyone sir or madam and never took offence whether his customers were friendly or indifferent, polite or downright rude.

Well, things were going to change. The young man was tired of servitude. It was time people learned that he was a force to be reckoned with. He had knowledge and he had power and he knew the secrets of the lore. He closed his eyes and imagined how it could be.

His thoughts were interrupted by the rattle of the doorknob on the shop door. Couldn’t the idiots read? The shop was ‘Closed due to bereavement.’

The rattling ceased and the shadowy shape on the other side of the frosted glass retreated. The broom moved and swept up the small pile of hair that had somehow escaped even though he’d swept the floor five times already. He stared at the small, tangled pile and a thought crossed his mind... then he smiled.

Ch 1: Death and Debt

July 1940

Volya Andrevich Volkoff stood in the pouring rain watching as people who were just faces to him stood in silence around the grave. As the coffin was lowered into the ground the priest intoned meaningless words. His father had been a pillar of the community; at least that was what the priest had called him. Volya thought that the priest, like most of the other faces that stood around the grave, had never known his father at all.

The family had come to this country when he’d been an infant and he couldn’t remember much about the ‘old country’. The ‘old country’ was Russia: not the Communist state but the old Imperial Russia before the revolution. His father had fled to England, along with many other White Russian émigrés before the final capitulation of the imperial forces. Volya’s father had made his way in this new country as a barber-surgeon.

Volya had never really known his mother. Although his father was considered to be a healer by others in the White Russian community, he had been unable to save his own wife. She had succumbed to one of the wasting diseases born of the poverty in which most of the émigrés had found themselves upon arrival in Britain. Volya had been four when she died and he remembered how hard it had hit his father.

Over the years the barbershop in the East End of London had provided a living and an occupation for Volya’s family and both he and his brother had progressed through apprenticeship and had become journeymen in the barber’s art.

Volya’s brother, Anatoli, was eight years older than him and could remember the ‘old country’ and their mother. He taunted Volya with his superior knowledge and his superior skill in the barbering trade. Anatoli stood to inherit the shop and the business and that

would leave Volya without anything of his own. Volya knew that his brother wouldn’t let that happen. Anatoli would probably feel that it was his duty to keep Volya on even though the shop hardly made enough money to support his own family. However, Volya didn’t want handouts, he knew he was a better businessman than his brother because his brother was too steeped in the old ways.

Volya wanted to break away and do things differently but Anatoli wouldn’t question anything; he didn’t have the vision. What was the use in clinging to traditions in the vain hope that, one day, the Bolsheviks would be overthrown and everyone could return. Nansen had put the official seal on all that nonsense. There was no home to return to. All the émigrés had been stripped of their Russian citizenship and were technically stateless refugees.

Volya didn’t care; in this new country people made their own way. If you had money, doors would open and you would be made welcome regardless of any piece of paper that some bureaucrat said defined you. The problem was that Volya didn’t have any money.

A week later the brothers met in the shop. It was still closed but they knew that they couldn’t afford to keep it closed indefinitely. Anatoli picked up a pair of scissors and examined them critically. This was a diversion, something to do with his hands whilst he plucked up the courage to say what must be said to his brother.

I have been sent some papers by the lawyers and I need to talk to you about them, Anatoli said, Apparently father owed money to Count Popov but he never mentioned it to anyone. I have no means of repaying the debts other than if we sell the shop. But I didn’t want to do this without talking to you first.

Volya flushed, his temper was rising, "So he didn’t even have the decency to leave either of us the shop. He gave it away like he did with everything else. The old man was too soft and too wound up in ‘his place’ and the ‘honour of the old country’. Typical! He never even thought of his own family. He let mother die and he respected all the rules and bowed down to the nobles as if they were better than he was. Well let me tell you, brother, there’s no heavenly list that says that some men are better than others. If there ever was such a list, it was written by men, not God. Can’t you see that at least the Bolsheviks got that right? They just took control, tore up the old lists and re-wrote them so that they were in charge.

I don’t give a damn who the old man owed money to. He’s dead: if that bastard Popov wants to get money off him then he can go and dig him up and argue with his corpse. We don’t owe Popov anything. Popov smuggled his wealth out of Russia, it is money that he stole from his peasants and serfs and money that he was looking after for the church. Just because he was born in a palace doesn’t make him any less a crook."

"I’m sorry you feel that way brother, but if we do not honour our father’s debts then our name will be reviled in our community. We will have no honour or reputation. Without those, who will respect us?

Volya, you sound like a Bolshevik yourself. I won’t have you destroying our family’s honour over mere money. We will work something out. Our friends will understand. I will write to the Count and the lawyers to explain."

Don’t bother. Volya sneered, I know what they’ll say. They’ll pretend that they have the law on their side and they’ll just threaten you. Well, it’s about time they found out that they’re not the only ones with power. I know the lore. I wasn’t so stupid as to follow all of father’s holier than thou rules. I made sure I collected the hair and I made sure I knew where it came from. Let’s see who has the power when his highness the Count starts feeling a little unwell. He might even forget about the debt. When you write to him, explain that to him as well.

Volya, you can’t mean it. It is a sacred trust. Did father not teach you anything? We destroy any clippings as we promised so that they cannot fall into the wrong hands. It is a rule that must never be broken. It is part of the Barber’s code.

Volya grimaced.Well, I don’t give a fig about codes and honour and all that rubbish. I mean to wield all the power I can.

Anatoli grabbed at his brother and pushed him to the floor, No, you can’t and I won’t let you. They struggled and rolled in the dust, cursing each other in the old tongue.

Just then a sound, loud enough to wake the dead, drowned out their quarrel. The ground shook beneath them and it was accompanied by the noise of shattering glass. Volya shook himself free of his brother wondering whether it had been a sign from God. His brother was strangely still and Volya rolled him over. The scissors that Anatoli had been holding were protruding from his brother’s neck and there was blood: too much blood.

Volya looked down at his brother but his eyes only saw the scissors. He remembered grabbing them just before the earth-shattering sound. Volya’s ears could hear nothing but he didn’t need to hear. His brother was dead, he’d killed him.

Volya sat on the floor next to the body with thoughts racing through his mind. The sound and the blast had been from a bomb. There’d been a couple of attacks by German planes over the past week or so but the blitz, as he would come to know it, wasn’t yet an everyday reality. He looked around. The shop was littered with glass. Tiny fragments grated under his palms and larger shards were scattered around, some had even embedded themselves in the cupboard where the clippers were kept. The ones around Volya’s feet were covered with Anatoli’s blood and he knew what conclusion people would draw if they saw the scissors. Nobody would believe him if he said that it was an accident.

As his hearing started to recover he began to hear noises; there were bells ringing and general shouting. He pulled the scissors from Anatoli’s neck and picked up one of the long glass shards. He plunged it into the hole that the scissors had made, it widened it considerably but no extra blood flowed.

When they found Volya, he was sat there in the debris. Someone put a blanket about his shoulders and led him away.

******

The second funeral that month was altogether a more practical affair. London was adjusting to the reality of the German air raids and the victims were so numerous that people had become accustomed to bad news.

It was raining, as is traditional at funerals, and Volya seethed. The community of émigrés had turned up mob handed for his father’s funeral when there’d been the prospect of free refreshments. However, at Anatoli’s, there were only a handful of mourners and even the priest appeared to be in a hurry to be done with the matter. Volya led his sister-in-law back down the steep path out of the small cemetery. He was looking at the ground and watching the water race around his plodding feet but his thoughts were elsewhere.

Sure enough, his brother hadn’t been gone a week before Volya received a letter from Popov’s lawyers. He sat in the cellar of the shop staring at the paper. It was almost an exact copy of the one that Anatoli had received but the tone was less conciliatory and more threatening. Volya walked over to the metal strongbox that doubled as a safe. It was upside down and it had been tossed against the rear wall by the blast. One corner had been crushed by the impact. He opened it and he saw that the contents were mostly intact.

He took out the small golden bowl, the clear crystal spoon and the lacquered walnut box and carried them across to the bench. Returning to the strongbox he took out the ornate stand that would hold the bowl above a small spirit burner. Then he noticed that there was an old wooden box tucked in one corner. It was the corner that had been crushed by the impact and the box had been badly damaged. Curious, he pulled the box out; it was covered in dust and had obviously not been disturbed for years. He carried it over to the bench and opened it up. Inside there were the remnants of another, more ancient, metal casket and, inside it, was an object wrapped in black velvet cloth nestled in a bed of what looked like ancient decayed skin from some animal. Unwrapping the cloth revealed a peculiar glass vase on a stand. The dust had even penetrated the velvet wrap and the glass was milky. The vase looked totally impractical. It could never stand upright on its own and if anyone tried to fill it with water, the water would flow through the tube that emerged from the bottom of the vase and into the hollow walls of the vase itself. Volya thought that it looked like some sort of mad glass-blower’s nightmare. He wrapped it back in its cloth and returned it to the box replacing the worst of the old decayed skin with shredded paper. Obviously his father had thought it valuable but Volya couldn’t see what was so special about it.

He returned to his task. The walnut box opened to reveal a set of small trays stacked on top of one another. Each tray was separated into small box-like compartments with a tiny lid to keep its contents safe. The bowl and crystal spoon had been used by his father to cure minor ailments in his customers and his father had once let him watch.

A lock of the patient’s hair was placed in the bowl together with some pure distilled water and then herbs from the walnut box had been added. The mixture was then stirred with the crystal spoon and heated gently with the spirit burner. His father had closed his eyes and concentrated whilst muttering an inaudible prayer. After about half an hour, during which Volya had almost fallen asleep with boredom, his father had opened his eyes. He’d washed each piece of equipment and dried it with some small pieces of chamois leather, then he’d put it away back in the strongbox. Invariably, whatever ailment the patient suffered from abated shortly after his father’s ministrations. Volya had approved right up until the time came for the patient to pay. Often his father had refused payment or had accepted only a few coppers for his trouble. Volya knew what normal doctors charged. Although none of them had done anything to help her, they had still demanded exorbitant sums just to look at his mother.

Well Volya wasn’t about to minister unto the sick. He went to his own room and brought back a satchel. Inside the satchel were many envelopes, each bore the name of someone in the White Russian community. Volya took out the one with Count Popov’s name on it and opened it. Inside were a few hairs retrieved from the brush that had been used to sweep up after the Count’s last haircut.

Volya placed the hairs in the bowl and added the water. Then he considered which herb he should add. He didn’t want the Count to be healed, he wanted the exact opposite. The Count suffered from gout so what could he use? Gout was caused by a swelling of the joints so something that aggravated the swelling would be what he needed. Yes, he’d found it; Hogweed. He couldn’t remember what it was used to cure but he knew from his father’s lectures that the wild variety caused rashes and boils. He added some to the mix. What next? His father had prayed, well Volya reasoned that prayer wasn’t appropriate for what he was attempting. What was the opposite of prayer? Cursing? He closed his eyes and concentrated on an image of Popov in his mind sweating from the pains in his joints. Then he proceeded to curse silently using every swear word that he’d ever known or heard. After about a half hour he stopped. He emulated his father and cleaned the equipment and put it away.

He felt good, so good that he wrote a letter to the Count saying what he’d said to his brother; the debt was his father’s not his and if the Count wanted his money he should dig up the old man and discuss the matter with his corpse. Then he went back to the shop and didn’t give Popov a second thought.

That night he went down to the pub with his friend Boris. On the way he posted the letter in a post box that had miraculously escaped the damage from the bombs. Boris was a little younger than Volya but he was big. He worked on the docks using his muscles to shift heavy cargo so his strength mirrored his size. They had a few pints and Volya was feeling so good that he boasted to Boris how he’d got his own back on the Count. He staggered back to the shop at closing time.

The next day Volya awoke near noon with a headache; he and Boris had certainly been on good form the previous evening. He’d just made himself some coffee when there was a frantic knocking on the shop door. It was Boris. Volya opened up and Boris almost fell into the room. He was babbling. Volya made his friend calm down and finally Boris blurted out the story. Apparently the landlord, yet another émigré, had overheard Volya’s boast. Word had got to the Count who had just received Volya’s letter and his gout had suddenly flared up overnight so that he could hardly move without pain. The Count had sent a couple of men to pick up Boris and they had questioned him.

I’m sorry Volya, I had to tell him. He was going to have them cut my thumbs off. I wouldn’t have been able to work. You understand don’t you, oh I’m so sorry.

Volya thought quickly. He had to get out before the Count’s men found him. It was fortunate that he’d not gone back to his sister-in-law’s house where he’d been staying for the past few days. The Count’s men would go there first. If he was quick he could be gone before they caught up with him.

Boris, go to Anatoli’s house, make sure Helena and the baby are safe. Tell her that I’m going away but I will be in touch soon. I will try to send her money.

Where are you going to go? Boris asked.

It’s better if you don’t know. Now go!

Volya knew what he had to do. He went down to the cellar and emptied the contents of the strongbox into a suitcase. Then he threw in some of his work clothes on top. Finally he took the best razors, scissors, clippers and combs out of his working cupboard and threw them in with the rest. Five minutes later he was three streets away, not running, just walking fast so as not to attract too much attention. An hour later he was boarding a train to Manchester. From stories his father had told, he knew that a distant Aunt lived there. He was on the move and he wasn’t wasting time looking back.

Ch 2: It Doesn’t Always Rain in Manchester

Vincent Austin Wolf relaxed in the small cafe just off Piccadilly Gardens and reflected on the past six months since he’d fled from London. On the train north Volya had thought about his future; he couldn’t keep his own name, it stood out and identified him as a foreigner. Being a foreigner in wartime would have aroused curiosity if not downright suspicion. Therefore an English name would suit his new life just fine. Before the train had stopped at Crewe he had decided on what he’d call himself. Volya decided he’d keep his initials, he’d often thought that they made a fine monogram and Vincent sounded suitably English and slightly upper middle class. He’d used Austin on a whim because the first car that he’d ever seen in England had been an Austin and the Wolf was just the English version of his own surname.

He’d somehow made it to his aunt’s place but she’d not recognised him. Still, she remembered his father with fondness, and so she’d reluctantly given him a room to stay in in the cellar of her house. Vincent had set to. He started small, advertising in newsagent’s windows as a barber. He didn’t have any premises, he went around to people’s homes and cut their hair there. He was good at his job and soon he had several ‘regular’ clients. His Aunt had grown to like him and she didn’t charge him for his room and board. In return, he did odd jobs for her and helped her with the rationing rules that seemed to change every week. It had been simple enough to get the necessary papers, one of his regulars was a man who seemed to be able to conjure documents from thin air.

Vincent had also branched out. Not only did he do men’s hair, he now also had a flourishing trade in catering to the more elderly women of his aunt’s acquaintance. It helped that Vincent charmed them, literally. Once he’d got some of their hair, he used it to make them like him. It had been easy because he’d discovered that, although hair clippings worked, he could really work magic if the hair came from combing. It seemed that hair with roots on was much more vital than mere clippings and it had a much greater effect in his magical charms. He kept his equipment in his aunt’s cellar. The old lady didn’t pry or ask about it. This was probably because his aunt was addicted to the cards and she insisted on reading them incessantly. She had some small power as a mental magician and she no doubt guessed what he got up to.

Within three months he had enough money saved from generous tips from his elderly clients that he opened his first shop. It was a traditional barbers and he staffed it himself during the day. However in the evening it transformed itself into a beauty parlour. The income from the day trade had been enough to allow him to hire a young woman to make it respectable for his female clientele to visit. She did most of the work but he stepped in when it came to the styling. He found that he had a flair for it because, unlike his male customers, his female clients, (they’d ceased to be customers), knew exactly what they wanted to look like. They even brought in photographs ripped from the pages of magazines for him to copy.

He’d also branched out in other ways; traditional barbers were meeting places for men, more private than pubs and more discrete. Money could change hands in them without questions or publicity. Three months after he’d opened his shop he was making ten times as much money from taking and placing bets for his customers than he did cutting their hair. He was scrupulously honest when it came to gambling; he never cheated and he paid up whenever they won. All that it had cost him was the price of having a telephone installed and a few discrete enquiries helped along by his skill at charming.

Over the past months he'd settled into life in Manchester. He even come to the conclusion that it didn't always rain in the city. He had consolidated the gambling sideline and he had taken over two other barber shops whose staff had been called up. The war had been good for the criminal element of society. It was true that the requirement to have an identity card and carry it at all times had caused some hiccups but the forgers soon caught up and Vincent currently had three. One in his true name, another with his current alias, Vincent, and a third in the name of Frederic Hansen. He'd avoided the draft; it had been the work of a few minutes to get himself declared medically unfit with a fictitious heart murmur. Admittedly it had cost him a few pounds but, by the time he needed it, he was making three times what he'd paid for it every day from his legitimate interests alone.

He sipped his drink and decided that it was time to act. He'd been living in a small dingy room above the shop because, although his aunt still made him welcome whenever he showed up, some of his less salubrious activities would be frowned upon by the old lady. He needed more space, he needed somewhere where he could keep his things without the risk of some nosy assistant discovering them; he'd had to sack one of the girls that catered to the women because he'd discovered her in the upstairs room having a quiet smoke. He didn't allow smoking in the 'salon' as there were too many volatile substances that could be spilled. His first experience with a spilled bottle of nail varnish remover and a stray cigarette end had taught him a valuable lesson. Nail varnish remover hadn't featured much in the all male domain of the London shop.

He also needed more help. Keeping track of bets and who owed who what was a major book keeping exercise. He was a middle man in that game; the track bookmakers took the lion's share of any profits. What he needed was someone who knew how to calculate odds, preferably someone who wouldn't be able to 'go it alone'. He'd overheard one of the women clients talking to her friend about a girl who'd gone to an interview at some government place because she was good at crosswords and maths. The girl hadn't got the job and the customer had remarked that it was a pity, because she got a scholarship to the grammar school and she really understands sums; she can reckon up Lil's change before she's had chance to get her purse out. Vincent thought that maybe he'd have a chat with the girl.

He also needed another shop, somewhere a little more up-market. None of his customers were in influential positions and Vincent didn't stand a chance of returning to London without influential friends. A higher class of customer might gain him access to the 'right' people.

He was making enough money and he’d scouted out a promising site. It was in the west of the city close enough to the centre to be accessible and surrounded by grand old Victorian buildings that still looked grand even though they’d seen better days. He’d even thought of a name ‘Gracie’s’. It had nothing to do with the singer and everything to do with being part of the culture. He finished his drink and stood up, Yes, it is time to move on, he said to himself.

******

Gracie’s had started life as a warehouse and had progressed to offices with storage areas on the upper floors but had let itself go in recent years. It was located on the corner of Sackville street and Major street next door to the Bell public house. Vincent had singled it out as the site for Gracie’s because it was close to the city centre and near to the college and the business districts so he could almost guarantee a steady trade.

He’d had to get various papers from the council and officialdom to say that he was allowed to trade from the place, so he went along to speak to someone in the council offices. The man he saw seemed dubious but Vincent was ready. What he was doing would improve the morale of the women that were being drafted in to replace the men joining the army, and that was important work. Then he applied a little of his magical persuasion. Vincent wasn’t surprised when the papers went through without a hitch.

He’d arranged to rent the place. It was a large commitment but he could afford it and it would pay off in the long run even if he only operated it as a hairdressers. However, if he incorporated his little sideline he knew he could easily make it work. Besides, he wanted a more prestigious address for his own use so he registered it as his home. In reality he still lived his old place above his original shop because the new place would need an awful lot of work before it would be habitable. The deal went through at the beginning of December and Vincent reckoned that, with any luck, he would be able to open in the new year.

Vincent was at his aunt’s; she celebrated with the rest of the country in December and then again in the first week of January as they’d done in the old country. This meant that there were two sets of celebrations to organise and Vincent had been roped in to do some of the work. He was sat in her living room trying to untangle some paper garlands when the old lady stopped her incessant game and paused. She raised her head. Vincent saw that her eyes were unfocussed and her voice became strange and she said, There will be fire and destruction from heaven but from the ashes there will be success, She went on dealing the next two cards, Keep your friends close. The queen of money and the knight of wands, She dealt two more cards, one has many eyes and you will save each other, the other belongs to the red dragon but can not survive water. She carried on dealing cards until the pack was exhausted. Then she looked at Vincent again with the same glassy-eyed stare, Beware the prison with only one wall; it hides an evil power. Only the bonds of friendship can prevail.

Vincent thought that her mind had finally gone; she was raving. He tried to bring a bit of normalcy back, Do you want some tea? he asked.

What Vincent, and nobody else except his aunt had foreseen was the Manchester Blitz. Two days before Christmas the Luftwaffe decided to pay Manchester a visit. There had been the occasional bomb dropped to the west of the city during the year but Liverpool had suffered its own Blitz the previous week. On the nights of the twenty second and twenty third of December more than four hundred tons of explosives were dropped killing over six hundred people and injuring thousands. However, the devastation to the sparsely populated city centre was enormous, it didn’t help that some of the fire crews had gone across to Liverpool to help the people there. As the inferno raged, Gracie’s was stillborn. The whole area was devastated leaving mounds of rubble and ash.

On Boxing day Vincent went into the city centre. As he walked towards the site, total devastation met his gaze. Gracie’s was no more; there was nothing left. He was cursing his luck when he ran across the landlord of the pub. The landlord had escaped the bombs but he didn’t seem too disheartened and Vincent had asked why.

We have lost most of our possessions but we’re alive, and the brewery will get compensation for losing the pub. They’ve already offered me another tenancy out in Salford. It will be a lot safer and its out to the west.

It was as if fate had decided to make up for Vincent’s loss. A fortnight later he heard of a new place that had come on the market. The blitz had prompted those that could afford it to move away from the city and the value of property had dropped considerably. Vincent could get the place for a song. Admittedly it wasn’t as near to the city centre but it was in a better neighbourhood. What it lacked in numbers of clients it more than made up in wealth. Each client was much wealthier and, with rationing and other stringencies, the proportion of disposable income that could be legitimately spent on luxuries became higher. And so Gracie’s was re-born in the suburb of Hale.

Finding the new place didn’t lessen any of his other problems. A month later he was still struggling with all the paperwork from his four establishments. In particular he still needed someone who could do the accounts. The words of his aunt’s prophecy came back to him, What was it, he thought, Fire and destruction; then success and something about the queen of money.

He remembered that, before everything went up in flames, he’d overheard a woman customer talking about a girl that could do accounts. He knew which salon he’d been in. Perhaps the girls there remembered her. Maybe this girl would prove to be his queen of money.

Ch 3: The Queen of Money

March 1941

Ellen Stuart felt a little nervous as she went through the main doors of the Midland hotel. She’d been invited to a job interview but the interview wasn’t in a city office or even a shop, it was in a restaurant. What’s more it wasn’t just any restaurant, it was in one of the swankiest hotels in the city and it was scheduled for seven in the evening. She’d agonised about what to wear. Nothing too dowdy, that was for sure, but nothing flashy because she didn’t want whoever was interviewing her to think her flighty. She’d settled on a plain three quarter length dress and flat shoes because she always felt awkward about her height and it put people off if you towered above them. Since the weather had been fine she’d only worn a light macintosh and the merest touch of make-up and jewellery. The jewellery was paste but it wasn’t gaudy. Ellen thought that she wouldn’t look too out of place. Of course the glasses were an unavoidable problem; she was as blind as a bat without them, but that couldn’t be helped.

She looked around in panic, nobody had told her where to go. All she knew was that she was to meet a man called Mr Wolf. She had a fleeting vision of herself in a long red cape; Red Riding Hood going into the Wolf’s den. She gave a small nervous giggle and strode up to the reception desk. The girl receptionist listened to her story and pointed to the sign to the restaurant. She told Ellen to ask the head waiter on the door to escort her to Mr Wolf’s table because she’d seen Mr Wolf enter the restaurant about ten minutes earlier. Ellen thanked her and made a beeline for the wooden door studded with small bullseye-glass windows.

Inside the restaurant Ellen blinked in the dim light but she’d hardly had time to properly take in her surroundings before a man in a formal dinner suit approached her. He gave a small nod and introduced himself as the head waiter and asked if he could help. Ellen told him that she was to meet a Mr Wolf and his expression changed. Obviously he knew Mr Wolf and, judging from his expression, Mr Wolf was a man of some substance. The waiter led her over to a table in one corner where she saw a well-dressed man in a business suit examining a menu. The man looked up as they approached and he smiled. Ellen had expected someone older but she decided not to judge the man until she knew more. Mr Wolf politely stood whilst the waiter tucked the seat under her as she sat. Then he sat as well.

Mr Wolf waited until the waiter left and then said, "Miss Stuart, I will not beat around the bush. I am a busy man and I want someone to work for me. You will forgive me if I combine our meal with questions about your talents but I feel that you may be able to help me with some difficulties I am having. However, I do not want to give you the impression that I am completely focussed on my own problems; perhaps you would like to see the menu and choose something, or I could order for you, if you like.

Ellen thought for a moment and then said. If you don’t mind Mr Wolf, I would prefer to order my own food.

Mr Wolf smiled a wolf’s grin, Splendid, I admire a woman who can make her own decisions. It bodes well for both our futures. Now, please order anything you like, there is no rationing here if you have the money to pay; and I have the money to pay. He handed her the menu and, she noticed, the wine list as well.

Ellen looked at the menu, there were things on it that she’d never tasted in her life but she played safe and ordered a chicken dish with potatoes. The wine menu mystified her completely but Vincent saw her dilemma. Share this bottle with me, he said waving his hand towards an open bottle on the table, it will be fine with the chicken.

Whilst they waited for the food they talked and drank. Ellen found herself relaxing. Mr Wolf had a southern accent but it was tinged with something foreign and exotic. He told her that he was a barber but he cut and styled women’s hair as well as men’s. What do you know about probability? he asked. She couldn’t understand why a barber, even a posh barber that did women’s hair could need probability for. Nevertheless she told him what she knew. He then seemed to lose interest and changed the subject and started talking about the menu and commented that it was amazing that a posh place like this was apparently immune to the ration. Don’t you think it’s unfair that people with money can break the rules? he asked her. Ellen had had almost half of the wine by now and the food still hadn’t arrived. She said something like ‘chance would be a fine thing’. At this, Mr Wolf had smiled and said, Well I think that I might be able to help you there, provided that you are discrete.

She should have realised what he meant but she let the wine say, I can be very discrete about money.

Maybe it wasn't the best introduction in the world but, by the time they were ready for the desert course, she’d found out that Mr Wolf had a sideline taking bets on sporting events. Even through her haze she knew that this was technically illegal but she was still smarting from the rebuff she'd received from the government. Such things went on with the men she knew, even her late father had been partial to a flutter from time to time. She told Wolf that she saw his 'sideline' as harmless and he immediately responded by offering her a job. If she could do the calculations to ensure that he made a reasonable margin, he'd pay her ten pounds a week. Even through the wine haze Ellen knew that this was five times what she could get in a shop and said, Yes.

By the time that she left the hotel she was a little tipsy. Mr Wolf paid for a taxi to take her home.

Ellen awoke the next day with a hangover and, when she remembered what she'd said and done, she grew anxious. When teatime came and there'd not been any sudden police raids on her home she relaxed a little. Had she really agreed to work for a self-confessed crook. Her vague memories said that she had, but in the cold light of day, she wasn't sure that she still wanted to.

Her thoughts were interrupted by her mother's voice, Is that you clattering around up there? Are you getting up? Well it's about time. I want you to go and collect the meat ration from the butcher's then I need you to go into town to get some thread. You might as well bring back some sticks for the fire while you're down there.

Ellen started to say something but her mother interrupted again, Don't go telling me that you can't, it's not as if you have anything better to do with your time. It's not as if you're working. God knows how we manage on the little that my mending brings in.

Ellen had heard the lecture before. Her mother made ends meet by taking in mending and darning work and she was always going on and on about the burden that having a daughter who was out of work placed on the family finances. Suddenly feeling rebellious she thought, I do have work; in fact Mr Wolf gave me an advance on my wages; two pounds. It is in my macintosh. She shouted back down to her mother, Well you needn't worry about me any more. I have a job. I was offered one last night and I'm going to take it. Perhaps, if I can earn my keep, you will be able to stop scolding me for five minutes and I can get some peace.

She felt, rather than heard, the stunned silence from below and then she heard the door slam. Ellen went back and sat on the bed. What if her new job wasn't quite on the level. There were plenty who did worse things for a lot less. She'd take Mr Wolf up on his offer. She'd go and see him in the morning.

She left home the next day under something of a cloud. Her mother had made her some breakfast and had said, I suppose that you aren’t going to tell me about this fictitious job of yours. What is it, have you finally seen sense and gone to work for Mrs Henshaw at the bakery?

No mother, it’s a better job than that. It’s in an office working for a rich businessman, doing book keeping. I’ll be on a proper salary and everything. I’m going to the office today to see him. The news silenced her mother and, to Ellen’s surprise, she came in from the kitchen about ten minutes later with a paper bag in her hand. I’ve made you some sandwiches. Now be careful. You don’t know anything about this man. He may not be everything he seems. You be on your best behaviour my girl.

Ellen said, Yes mother. However her mother was right, she didn’t know anything about Mr Wolf, but it wasn’t worrying, it was exciting.

When she arrived at the address on the card Mr Wolf had given her, she found that she’d walked into a building site. It had dozens of older men working on it and they were plastering walls and putting up wooden partitions and then there were electricians adding electric lights; it looked like chaos. She asked one of the workers where Mr Wolf was and he pointed to a corridor that led from the back of the room. Going down it she came upon a plain wooden door whose varnish was peeling. She knocked and, hearing nothing, she walked in. Mr Wolf was sat behind a desk covered in scattered piles of papers. He had his head in his hands and he appeared to be reading but he looked up as she entered. Ah, Miss Stuart, I'm glad you came. He stood up and waved to his vacated seat, You can take over here whilst I go and sort the builders out.

Ellen had been expecting something more formal but she wasn't unintelligent. She moved to the seat, took off her coat and hung it over the back of the chair then sat down. Mr Wolf grinned at her, Good, I'll be back shortly. You can ask one of the girls if you need anything. There's petty cash in the drawer.

Ellen picked up a piece of paper and glanced at it but when she looked up again Mr Wolf had gone. She read the paper more carefully this time. It was a series of names, codes, gobbledegook phrases and numbers. The numbers were obviously amounts of money. Names and suchlike had always seemed imprecise, however numbers were a different kettle of fish. She adjusted her glasses and started to puzzle out their meanings.

An hour later the door to the room opened and she heard someone come in. Ah, Miss Stuart, I'd quite forgotten you were here. How is it going? He stared at the desk and the neat piles of papers that had replaced the chaos. I can see you're getting the hang of it. Is there anything I should know?

Ellen stared back at her boss. Her neck was stiff because of the angle she'd had to hold it to focus on the papers but, apart from that, she felt fine. It had taken her a while to sort the papers into piles for each category and she'd started on one pile that seemed to be about the income and outgoings of various people. It was already clear to her that the incomings exceeded the outgoings even if the names of the payers and payee's were obscure. Who, for instance, was Bob22?

Oh Mr Wolf, I've sorted these papers as much as I can but I have a mountain of questions.

Vincent frowned, What sort of questions?

Well sir, this pile of papers seems to be in code. It seems to be a simple code but I presume that it's coded for a reason and so I've not tried to decode it. I assumed that whatever it is is private. She went on, This pile is correspondence between yourself and various tradesmen. I'm not sure what you would like me to do with it. I did notice that one of the bills invoiced you for the same item twice. I made a note. This pile...

Wolf interrupted, It seems that you have things under control. Now tell me about the invoice that wants paying twice.

Ellen dug into one of the piles and pulled out a paper. She held it in front of him and said, As you can see the item for ten pounds thirteen shillings and sixpence is recorded here, she pointed, and here as well. She pointed to another entry in the list further down the page.

Wolf took the paper and examined it. He smiled, Well Miss Stuart, You have saved me more than I pay you in a couple of hours. If you keep this up I'll have to raise your salary

Then he grinned, I'll tell you what, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wallet. He took a wad of notes out and peeled off two fivers and a pound note. Here's a little bonus; what you saved me plus a few bob extra. I can see that we won't be bothering with small change soon, not with you in charge. He handed her the notes.

Thank you Mr Wolf but my salary is enough, she said.

Wolf's grin turned a little sour. Now lets not get off on the wrong foot Miss Stuart. I want to make money, lots of money, but I won't do it by cheating my friends, and I think that you and I are going to be friends. Take the money and we'll say no more about it. I don't care what you do with it; buy your granny a new set of teeth or give it away to an orphanage if you like. Is that clear?

Ellen nodded and took the proffered cash. As she stashed it away in her handbag she noticed that Mr Wolf had picked up the pile of papers in code. He put them in a handsome briefcase that was lying on the floor.

Then he noticed that Ellen had noticed. His grin was back, and don't worry about the code. I'm not a German spy or anything. The code is just to protect valuable inside information on horses that are going to win races. It wouldn't be good if my rivals could read it. It helps me stay ahead of all the others in the game and, if I stay ahead, then you do too Miss Stuart. Now, I'm going to get something to eat.

Ellen nodded and Wolf left the office. Ellen decided that she would have her lunch and she took the fish paste sandwiches that her mother had made out of her bag and opened them on her desk. Whilst she picked out the bits where the paper bag had glued itself to the bread, she considered what Mr Wolf had said about him not being a German spy. She'd had her doubts, Mr Wolf's accent had that tinge of foreign about it. However she wasn't going to upset the apple-cart without evidence. She'd just have to be watchful. If it turned out that he was a spy then she could always turn him in to the police.

Then her thoughts turned to the eleven pounds nestling in her handbag. She couldn't take it home and show her mother; her mother wouldn't understand. She'd think that Ellen had done something bad to earn that much in a day. Ellen shrugged, surplus money was easy to make disappear. She returned to her perusal of the pile that her boss hadn't asked about. Once in a while she took an occasional bite of soggy bread and fish paste but she was so engrossed that she never even noticed the mouldy bit.

The next time she saw Wolf was later in the day. She'd not been told what her working hours were to be and, as she'd arrived in the late morning, she'd felt that she should stay until the early evening. Wolf greeted her with a question What are you doing still here? it's nearly seven.

Well, sir, I only arrived late this morning. I'd really only meant to call in and say that I would take the job. I didn't realise that you would expect me to get down to work right away, so I thought that I'd better stay behind to make up the time.

Oh, Wolf answered then he shook his head as if to shake loose a troubling thought, Well, as you're here you can help me with this.

He took a sheaf of papers from his pocket and spread them on the desk. Now there's these two blokes going to have a bit of a boxing match. People have been betting on one or the other of them and I've done my best guessing what odds I could offer and still make a profit. But this big bet has just come in and I'm not sure I can cover it.

I'm sorry Mr Wolf but I don't know anything about boxing, Ellen said, but I can tell you if the bets that have been laid will make you money or lose you money.

You can't know that, you can't know for certain who will win, Wolf said.

I don't have to, sir, Ellen said, It's just a matter of arithmetic. There are only two outcomes, one or other of the men will win. I can work out how much money you've taken in bets and how much you will pay out if one man wins or the other man wins. If the money that you've taken is more than either outcome then you will make a profit, if not then you might lose money.

Wolf nodded, So the trick is to set the odds so that whoever wins I make a profit. That's where knowing boxing comes in. Right Miss Stuart?

Correct Mr Wolf. However, even if you stand to lose there are things that you can do to limit your loss. You can bet some of the money you've taken with another bookmaker at different odds, ones that are more favourable to you. You might not win but you might lose less.

This arithmetic, do you think you could show me how to do it?

Well, I could sir but it would be quicker this time if I just did it myself. Now, if you can show me the numbers, I'll get started.

It was nearly three hours later that Ellen gave the final answer to her boss. It wasn't what he'd hoped to hear but he couldn't argue with the numbers. She did give him a ray of hope though. If he could lay off about six hundred pounds with another bookmaker at slightly better odds he could just about break