Force of Habit
by Edward Marston

GWENDA Haycroft never really thought of it as a crime.   It was only a game to her, a battle of wits, an amusing skirmish with a department stores security arrangements. No violence was involved; no harm was inflicted on any individual. The only victim—if one could use such a word— was the insurance company who had to cover the firm's losses, and given the size of their premiums they could well afford it. So, for that matter, could the targets she chose.   She only stole from the finest stores, the ones that made enormous profits.   Her activities didn't leave the tiniest dent in their annual accounts.
Strange as it may seem she didn't need the money. Her husband was an investment banker who frowned on the very idea of having a working wife, and her father's death had left her with a private income that, in monthly terms, was twice the generous allowance she got from her spouse. Now that her two children had left home to pursue their own careers, Gwenda was relieved of most of her responsibilities. An intelligent and still attractive woman of fifty, she had as much leisure time as she wished and enough money to enjoy it to the full.
Essentially, it came down to boredom. Gwenda had tried everything—theatre, opera, art galleries, collecting antiques, fund-raising for the village church, sitting on committees of charity organizations. None of it stimulated her. It was not until she stole a brooch from Harrods that she felt a real surge of excitement, even though the theft had been purely accidental. Having gone into the store to buy some jewelry, Gwenda was examining the display set out on the counter by the sales assistant when the girl was called away. Putting her purse and gloves down, Gwenda held one of the solid gold brooches against her lapel and looked at the effect in the mirror. She liked what she saw and duly bought the item. It was, she felt, a satisfying purchase.
When she got outside, however, she realized that she was actually leaving with two brooches. She had inadvertently set her gloves down on an expensive silver brooch and, in scooping them up, she had also helped herself to another wonderful piece of jewelry. Her first instinct was to take it back but she was filled with such a sense of triumph at having gotten away with the it that she walked calmly on down the street with the booty in her pocket. It was a start.
Her appearance was her biggest asset. Handsome, well dressed, and effortlessly gracious, she looked and behaved like a member of the minor aristocracy. Nobody would ever consider her a potential thief. Sales assistants always felt that it was a pleasure to serve her. One young man in Selfridges went further than that.
"It's an honor to have you here, Mrs. Haycroft," he said.
"Thank you, Mr. Manders."
"We hope to see you again soon."
"Oh, you will. I promise you."
"Delighted to hear it, Mrs. Haycroft."
Had he known that she was about to walk out into Oxford Street with over a thousand pounds worth of stolen goods in her possession, he might have been less welcoming. As it was, he was simply responding to her charm. The watch she had bought from him also showed that she had exquisite taste. In his eyes, she was the perfect customer. Gwenda Haycroft never let the mask slip.
There was, of course, no chance that Norman would ever find out the truth. Her husband was far too preoccupied with his work, his wine cellar, and his golf club to pay much attention to Gwenda. On the day when she had made an exceptionally large haul from the premier jeweler in Bond Street, she arrived home to a lukewarm reception.
"Norman!" she called.   "Where are you, darling?"
"Up here," said a voice from the bedroom.
"Sorry I'm a bit late this evening.   Heavy traffic."
"How was the play?"
"Excellent—but then, Noel Coward never lets you down."
Gwenda hadn't actually been to the matinee of Blithe Spirit but she'd read the reviews of the production just in case she was cross-examined by her husband. However, he had no time for conversation, let alone any discussion of the performance. Bounding down the stairs in his golfing attire, he kissed her perfunctorily on her cheek then disappeared for the rest of the evening. That was typical of him these days—no interest in her at all. Thank heaven for her little hobby!
She always knew that it would come to an end one day. Someone would tap her on the shoulder or confront her as she left a particular store with the day's takings. Gwenda did not fear the moment of discovery. In a sense she was looking forward to it, though she intended to put it off for a long time yet. She was still honing her talents, still searching for the big killing that would give her the ultimate buzz.
It was during a morning raid on John Lewis' in Oxford Street that she received a shock. After what she had thought was a successful operation in the perfumery department—if they charged those exorbitant prices, she decided, they deserved to be robbed— she adjourned to the restaurant for a coffee. Gwenda maintained her usual poise but under the surface she was positively rippling with joy. Just then a shadow fell across her table.
"Mrs. Haycroft?" asked the man.
"Yes," she replied.
"I wonder if I might join you for a moment?"
It was a polite inquiry but she sensed danger. Tall, slim, and in his early fifties, the man had a military bearing. He was dressed in a white linen suit and carried a straw hat. His hair was graying slightly at the temples and his mustache was neatly trimmed.
"I'm so sorry," she said, trying to make her escape, "but I was just about to leave."
He clicked his tongue. "When you've only just sat down? No, surely not. Don't let me frighten you away," he went on, taking the chair opposite her. "I only want to congratulate you."
"Congratulate me?"   She looked surprised.
"The perfume . . .." he said.
"The perfume?" She looked up innocently, blinking, maintaining her calm.
"The perfume you stole just now."
"How dare you!" she cried, summoning up every ounce of righteous indignation that she could find. "That's a monstrous suggestion!"
"But true, nevertheless."
"Leave my table at once or I'll call for the manager."
"Oh, I don't think you'd be that stupid, Mrs. Haycroft," he said wryly. "The last person you want here right now is an employee of the store. That would be tempting Providence."
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"A friend."
"I beg leave to doubt that."
"The name is Ratcliffe. Anthony Ratcliffe. Retired from the army with the rank of major. Military police." He gave a broad grin. "In the police force I learned to keep my eyes peeled. I know where to look."
"I've no idea what you're talking about," she said, attempting to bluff her way out of the situation. "There's been a dreadful error here. If you're the store detective, then you're entitled to search my purse and my pockets but you'll find nothing, I warn you."
"I know that. You probably hid your spoils in the ladies' toilet. I can always spot a professional. You wouldn't stoop to anything as vulgar as grabbing the stuff and making a dash for the exit. No, Mrs. Haycroft. You took what you wanted, men slipped into the ladies' restroom. Good manners prevented me from following you any further," he said with a disarming smile, "but my guess is that you concealed the items in there with a view to collecting them later. Correct?"
"No, Major Ratcliffe," she said defiantly.   "Incorrect."
"I could always ask for the cubicles to be searched.
Gwenda was trapped. This man had not only witnessed her crime, but he knew exactly what she'd done with her plunder. In the larger department stores, it was standard practice for her. To obviate the risk of being accosted outside the building by a store detective, she always hid what she took inside the store then retrieved it later when she was sure that she was not under suspicion. Her device had at last been rumbled.
"How do you know my name?" she wondered.
"I heard the sales assistant mention it," he said easily. "Not that I needed her to identify you. The simple fact is that I've been watching you for days. It's been quite an education."
She was aghast. "You mean you've been tailing me?"
"I prefer the word shadowing.   It's an art, you know."
"But I had no sense that you were there."
"That was the object of the exercise, Mrs. Haycroft."
"Are you going to arrest me?"
"Of course not."
"Then why follow me about?"
"Do you really want to know?" he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. "It may come as a terrible blow to you, I'm afraid."
"What do you mean?"
"I now work as a private detective."
"So you did come to catch me in the act."
"Not in the act of stealing, Mrs. Haycroft. That was a bonus. To be honest, I was expecting to catch you in a very different sort of act. In short," he explained, "your husband hired me to find out if you were having an affair."
Gwenda was so astonished that she almost burst out laughing. "That's a ridiculous idea!" she exclaimed.
"Is it? I disagree. When an attractive woman like you makes so many trips to London, her husband is bound to ask why. Mr. Haycroft is no fool. You seem to attend theater matinees every week yet you never bring a program home. Then," he added, wagging a finger, "there are the art exhibitions you claim to have visited. Yet, according to your husband, you have never had the slightest interest in painting. He thinks that something fishy is going on."
"Well, it certainly doesn't involve another man."
"Oh, but it does. From now on, that is."
"I don't understand, Major Ratcliffe."
"I looked for an unfaithful wife and I found an expert thief. Just for the record, Mrs. Haycroft," he asked discreetly, "why does a woman like you do such a thing?"
Gwenda gave a shrug.   "Force of habit, I suppose."
"Then it would be cruel of me to spoil your fun."
"What about Norman?"
"What about him?"
"Are you going to tell him about this?" she said anxiously.
"No," he promised. "All that he'll hear is the truth—that you're not having an affair with a man. My report will say that you spend most of your time browsing in the shops. Isn't that precisely what you do?"
"Well, yes.  In a way, it is."
"Then that's all your husband will be told."
She was overcome with gratitude. "What a relief!" she said. "Thank you so much, Major Ratcliffe."
"Call me Anthony.  After all, we're accomplices now."
"Accomplices?"
"Yes," he said with a chuckle. "We're going to work together."
"Are we?" she gasped.
"Unless you'd rather I turn you in to the police."
It was a form of blackmail but she had to go along with it. Norman Haycroft was very conventional. If he ever discovered what she'd been doing, he would march her off to the nearest police station without hesitation. When the initial shock had worn off, Gwenda was outraged that he should have suspected her of infidelity and paid a man to hunt for evidence. It was demeaning to her. The only consolation was that he'd chosen Anthony Ratcliffe. The retired army man was a true gentleman who treated her with respect. Like Gwenda, he also looked the part and she soon learned how valuable he was as a decoy or as a lookout. Between them, they were soon getting away with far more expensive items than she'd ever have dared to steal on her own.
Ratcliffe knew all the tricks of the trade. He could spot a store detective at a glance and would sometimes call a shoplifting expedition off if he sensed the slightest danger. Gwenda felt cushioned, protected, and cared for in a way that she grew to appreciate. Ratcliffe was both an accomplice and a friend. Advised by him, she came to London far less frequently. Not only did this still her husband's fears, it meant that she was not seen too often in any London store. As the weeks went by, they widened their scope, visiting cities within easy reach of the capital and hitting all the major antiques fairs.
Having started as an enthusiastic amateur, Gwenda soon became a full-fledged professional. What really made her warm to Anthony Ratcliffe was that he knew how to dispose of the stolen goods. Before he had come along, Gwenda, more often than not, had thrown away items that she could not actually use herself, consigning a small fortune to the trash can. Ratcliffe had a contact, a fence who would take anything they stole and give them cash in return. Gwenda was exhilarated. Working with her partner was like having a license to print money.
Ratcliffe was scrupulously fair. When he returned from a visit to his friend, he would give her exactly half of the cash he'd received. Because no receipts were involved, he knew that she only had his word that he'd been given a specific amount. To counter any suspicion that he was cheating her, he introduced her to his contact and let Gwenda take the occasional haul to him. That way she could sometimes be in charge of splitting the proceeds. Unlike her accomplice, however, she was plagued by temptation. Why give him fifty percent when she actually stole the goods? She deserved a larger cut. Why not give him forty and reserve sixty percent for herself? Wasn't it at least worth trying?
It certainly was. Ratcliffe never asked if he was getting less than his due. He simply took the money and thanked her. Gwenda moved into an even more profitable stage. Because he trusted her, she was able to cream off even more for herself, eventually reducing his share to thirty-five percent. He accepted it gratefully and never made any complaint. Gwenda was content. She was, in every sense, the senior partner.
Christmas eventually loomed on the horizon. The couple met for lunch to discuss how they could best exploit the festive season. Gwenda was eager to hit one big target but Ratcliffe persuaded her that they should spread their attack around four or five major department stores. The plan that he had devised had a military precision to it. Gwenda was duly impressed.
"That's wonderful, Anthony," she said.
"We must take advantage of the crowds while we can."
"And then?"
"Go home and enjoy Christmas."
"You've never really told me much about your home, have you?" she said, sipping her wine. "In fact, you've kept your personal life secret."
"Only because I have no personal life, Gwenda."
"No wife, no children?"
"I could never have inflicted army life on a woman."
"But you've been retired for some years now."
"Too late to start a family," said Ratcliffe. "Besides, who'd take on an old buffer like me? I suppose that I'm a man's man at heart."
"But you like women, don't you?"
"I adore them, Gwenda. Unfortunately, they don't adore me."
"Only because you've never given one of us the opportunity to."
She could not believe she had made such an audacious remark to him or that she'd delivered it with such a knowing smile. Yet, when she did so, she felt a sudden thrill that was akin to the sensation she had experienced on that first occasion at Harrods. Gwenda liked him. After two glasses of wine, she sensed a much deeper affection between them. Raising his glass to her, Ratcliffe gave her an admiring smile.
"When we have our Christmas bonanza," he suggested, "why don't we celebrate afterwards at the Savoy?"
"Why not?" she replied.
"How long will you be able to give me?"
"As long as you like." Gwenda reached out to touch his hand. "After all, Norman isn't going to worry about me. He knows I'm not having an affair. You told him."
"Why, so I did," he recalled with a chortle. "How very convenient."
And the tryst was arranged as simply as that.
The Christmas hordes descended on Knightsbridge and the West End with a vengeance. Crowds thronged the streets and filled the department stores, emerging with armfuls of presents and seasonal decorations. Under its glittering array of lights, Oxford Street was one long swirl of humanity. A light fall of snow gave the whole city a yuletide feel. Gwenda Haycroft and Anthony Ratcliffe were in their element. Beginning early, they paced themselves, working their way through the designated targets on their list. Once clear of a department store, they stashed their booty in the trunk of a car that they had managed to park behind Oxford Street. Only then did they move on to their next destination.
Harrods was their last port of call and they were methodical, starting on the top floor and moving steadily down, taking anything that could easily be concealed. Gwenda was at her most light-fingered in the stationery department, stealing highly expensive pens and other items by the dozen. But it was in the jewelry department that the couple really cleaned up. Ratcliffe spotted another shoplifter at work and tipped off one of the store detectives whom he had picked out. He and a colleague challenged the thief and when the man made a run for it, they gave chase. The field was now dear. Gwenda was able to palm rings, brooches, and necklaces without being watched by anyone but her accomplice. When they stepped out into the fresh air, she gave a whoop of delight. Ratcliffe urged caution.
"Don't give the game away now, Gwenda."
"But we did it," she said, squeezing his arm.  "We did it."
"I'll only feel safe when we've collected the rest of the stuff from the car and passed it on to you-know-who. I'll do that, if you like."
"No, no," she insisted. "My turn. I'll screw more money out of him. You don't haggle as well as I do, Anthony."
"That's true."
"What a day!" she said, laughing.
It had been years since she had spent a whole afternoon drinking champagne and making love. Gwenda was ecstatic. She could not remember ever having had such a wonderful time with her husband. Norman was always so swift and mechanical. That was not the case with Anthony Ratcliffe. Instead of the meaningless grunts of a cold and passionless husband, from Ratcliffe she received honeyed compliments in her ear. For the first time in years, Gwenda felt wanted.
Anthony Ratcliffe had been such a wonderful lover that she felt guilty for the way she had deceived him yet again. Having disposed of their rich pickings, she had met him in a room at the Savoy and given him his share. Although it was a substantial amount, it was a mere thirty percent of the total value of the goods. Gwenda had kept the bulk of the money in her purse. It was too late to confess the truth now. In the future, in the New Year, during other visits to hotel bedrooms, she vowed that she would henceforth give him an equal share.
As she lay happily in his strong arms, a thought struck her.
"What do you do with the money?" she asked.
"Give it away, of course," he replied.
She was astounded. "You mean you don't use it to buy something that you want?"
"I've got all I need, Gwenda—especially at this very moment," he added, giving her a warm hug. "No, the truth is that I'm too law-abiding to enjoy the proceeds of crime. The turn-on for me is getting away with it. I'm like a fisherman," he went on. "I love the challenge of catching the fish but I always toss it back in the water afterwards. What about you?"
"Every penny goes into my bank account," she said, firmly. "I feel that I've earned it—with your help, that is."
"You do the difficult part, my love. There's no question about that. And you're entitled to hang on to your loot. But I'm different," he admitted. "I have a conscience. I give it away to charities. Anonymously, of course. Today's haul, for instance, will go straight into the Police Benevolent Fund."
It was the last thing Gwenda would have done. The cash that they received for their goods could not be traced so she intended to hang on to it. It was hers by right, a form of income that did not come from either her father or her husband, and therefore it had great importance to her. It represented her independence.
"I'll have to go soon," she said, reluctantly.
"Not like that," he advised. "You ought to have a bath first. We don't want that husband of yours to smell a rat—or a Ratcliffe, for that matter." They shared a laugh. "Happy?"
"Very happy."
"Why haven't we done this before?"
"I was asking myself the same thing."
"Any chance of doing it again?"
"I'll insist upon it!"
He gave her a kiss.  "I'll run the bath for you."
He went into the bathroom and left her to bask on the bed. It had been such a memorable day. After their biggest haul to date, they had sealed their partnership in the most beautiful way. Waiting at home for her was an indifferent husband who would give her little to enjoy on Christmas Day. Gwenda had long ago ceased to love him. She now saw how much she disliked him, even hated him. She would certainly never forgive him for setting a private detective on her, and yet, ironically, that was what had transformed her whole world. In trying to prove that his wife was cuckolding him, Norman Haycroft had unwittingly provided her with an accomplice, a friend, and a lover.
Later, as she luxuriated in a bubble bath, she reflected on all the changes that had occurred since she had met Anthony Ratcliffe. Without him, she had been a successful shoplifter who worked on impulse and who discarded much of what she stole. With him, she was a much more adept and sophisticated criminal, widening her field of activity and varying her targets in such a way that she felt confident she would never be caught. The good life was—literally—there for the taking.
Gwenda owed it all to her partner, the man whom she had cheated out of thousands of pounds. Stirred by guilt once again, she got out of the bath and dried herself before running into the bedroom, intending to throw herself into his arms. But, to her utter dismay, Anthony Ratcliffe was no longer there. In his place, staring at her with disbelief, was her husband. Every picture tells a story and the one that Norman Haycroft saw was very explicit. Two glasses, empty bottles of champagne, ruffled bedclothes, a naked woman.
"Norman!" she cried.   "What are you doing here?"
"Acting on information received," he growled.
Gwenda was horrified. She gave a shudder. Taken by surprise, all that she could do was to stand there and gabble wildly, "It's not what it looks like, Norman, believe me. I can explain."
"I think I've seen all the explanation I need, Gwenda."
"Who told you?"
"A private detective I hired," he said. "It took him some while to get the evidence but he found it in the end. The room is booked in your name. Who was the man you were sharing it with?"
Gwenda was impaled on the horns of dilemma. Anthony Ratcliffe had outwitted her completely. If she disclosed his name, she would have to confess how she had become involved in a shoplifting spree with him. If she said nothing, however, her accomplice would get away unscathed.
"Is it someone I know?" demanded her husband.
Gwenda bit her lip. She might lose her marriage and her respectability but she did not want to lose her liberty. Anthony Ratcliffe had known exactly how she would react in the situation that he had so cleverly set up. What irked her the most was that he'd had his fun with her. He had used her for an afternoon and then handed her over to a vengeful husband.
"Well," pressed Norman Haycroft. "Do I know the bastard?" "No," she said, shaking her head.   "You've never met him."
"And I hope I never do." He headed for the door. "You disgust me, Gwenda," he said with contempt. "You really do. Don't expect to sleep under my roof tonight or any other night. You've paid for the room so you can bloody well stay here."
He went out and slammed the door behind him. It was only then that Gwenda noticed the final indignity. Her purse had been emptied. The money had been taken by her partner in recompense for all she had stolen from him. It would go to the Police Benevolent Fund. She had been hoist with her own petard. Ratcliffe had, however, left a Christmas card behind. Tearing open the envelope, she found herself looking at a yuletide scene with Santa Claus riding on his sleigh.
She opened the card and read the message written neatly inside.
"Merry Christmas, Gwenda.
Sorry to leave you to pay the bill and face the music. You shouldn't have tried to rip me off I knew exactly how much you got each time yet you never gave me my fair share. That was very naughty of you. Goodbye, my love. It was fun while it lasted but I'm retiring from crime now. As I told you, I'm far too law-abiding. Once a policeman, I'm afraid, always a policeman.
Force of habit. "