“Good points,” Sir Peter said. “I’ll put those two enquiries in hand.”
Discussion petered out and the others looked at Keith, who was staring vacantly at a point on the far wall. He came back to earth with a start. “Misdirection,” he said. “You’ve just made me realise that our chances are better than we thought.”
“You mean worse, surely,” Sir Peter said.
“No, I mean better. Superintendent, I suggest you get your colleagues to contact the firm on Clydeside which hired Eddie Adoni the original vehicle. See whether they can account for all their artics.”
“I can do that,” Munro said. “But why?”
“Because the vehicle which nearly shunted me off the road was very, very like the one the guns were in. I think it was a decoy. You were meant to go haring off after it. Probably it did a similar disappearing act, somewhere miles away. You’d have been left hunting for it among the Cheviots or some place, but for the chance that I was suspicious and warned you to guard the junctions.”
“That sounds likely enough,” Ronnie said. “But can you — or any other body — tell me why it improves our chances?”
Mr Enterkin chuckled suddenly. “I think I can,” he said. “One thing has been sticking in my craw — and in that of the general public, to judge by the rumour quoted by my good lady — and that is the fact that, despite all you say, Keith, about camouflage and emptiness, the gang would surely be mad to keep a whole trailer and trailer-load of stolen guns here for any length of time. However good the hiding place and the misdirection, a protracted search by the police and associated helpers must surely discover it in the long run. But the point which Keith is making, if I understand him aright, is that it was never intended to be hidden around here for long. The hiding-place need only be good enough to withstand the first, cursory search. Then, when the police responded to reports of the vehicle being seen elsewhere, the real quarry could emerge from hiding in a fresh coat of paint, or with a new tarpaulin over the top, and head off in a different direction. As it turns out, however, the raiders find themselves caught in their temporary hiding-place for a much longer period than was ever intended. Am I right, Keith?”
“You are,” Keith said. “Long-winded, but right.”
“If the reasoning is sound,” Munro said, “and it certainly seems so, then a member of the public could happen on the vehicle at any time and find himself confronting a gang which already killed two men. I had better pass the word to Chief Superintendent Doig straight away.”
“You can phone from downstairs,” Keith said. He looked at his watch and then out of the window. “Paul York is due, and car lights seem to be coming this way. Anybody who wants to stay and eavesdrop had better go downstairs quietly.”
Chapter Eight
Wallace and Mr Enterkin pronounced themselves ready to leave for home, but were overridden by their wives. The whole party vanished down into the basement, except Keith, who was left to admit the newcomer. He opened the front door as Paul York got out of Eddie Adoni’s Volvo.
The two men greeted each other with no more than a nod. Keith led the way into the study and indicated a chair. The door of the cupboard, where the hoist had once been, was open, revealing bottles and glasses. York refused a drink. Keith made himself another dilute whisky and settled himself behind the desk. “So what can I do for you?” he asked.
“You can tell me what you know so far.”
“You go first.”
Paul York looked blandly amused. “You don’t trust me, do you?” he said. “I suppose that long streak of Highland misery you keep for a police superintendent around here has been damning me. All right, so I didn’t cut it with the police. I was a good policeman and an honest one, whatever anyone may tell you, doing the job the way I saw it. The trouble was that in these enlightened days of love-thy-neighbourhood-crook-like-thyself-or-slightly-better, others didn’t see the job the same way. I was out of step. Hints were dropped that I should quit the force, which I did. Since then, there have been rumours connecting me with other and worse things, but they’re unfounded. You know how rumours can grow out of nothing.”
Keith knew how rumours could grow. He found himself almost ready to trust the big man. He respected his air of perfect fitness, and found something in his expression which he could not have defined but which told him that York and he could get along together. But, quite apart from Superintendent Munro’s views, it was second nature to Keith to get as much as he could in exchange for as little as he need give. “You may be a reincarnation of the original honest Injun,” he said. “You still go first.”
York relaxed, just a little, although the largest chair in the room was still too small for his comfort. “All right,” he said. “Just to show good faith. Eddie’s keeping a low profile, as they say, but this robbery has caught him on the raw. It’s an enormous loss for him to take.”
“He was insured, wasn’t he?”
“Not to anything like full value. His is a risky business and he’s had losses in the past. The rate he was quoted was staggering, so he decided to carry most of the risk himself.”
“Has any reward been offered?”
“I thought we’d get around to that. Eddie’s insurers have offered a reward for information leading to recovery, but only up to ten per cent of the insured amount. Eddie isn’t joining in. He’s pinning his faith on the police. But he wants blood, preferably yours or mine.”
“I don’t see how he can rationally blame either of us,” Keith said mildly.
York gave a snort of mirthless laughter. “If you think Eddie’s always rational, you don’t know him as well as I think you do. As far as he’s concerned, I’m to blame for his incompetence. I shouldn’t have let him keep me talking. I should have used the phone to delay the load. I should have caught up with it before it reached here.”
“And me?” Keith asked.
“Oh, if you weren’t behind the whole thing you caused it by shooting your mouth off.”
This came as no great surprise to Keith. During his younger, wilder days it had been a local habit to credit him with more wild oats than he had ever sown, and that had proved to be one of the old habits that die hard. “What do you think, yourself?” he asked York.
“Whether you talked or not doesn’t matter; the shipment was known to far too many people anyway. I don’t think you had any hand in the business; by reputation, you’re tricky but not a crook.”
“Well, thank you very much,” Keith said.
“No sweat. What I’m saying is that we have a common interest in seeing the guns recovered. And each of us may have sources which Chief Superintendent Doig doesn’t have and which we don’t much fancy telling him about.”
“I see your lips moving,” Keith said, “but I don’t hear you saying anything. Why don’t you pee or get off the pot?”
“God, I’d hate to play poker against you! All right,” York said without rancour, “get ready. Here comes today’s loss-leader. I have a useful source in the police. He gave me this. A witness has provided an Identikit picture, and the survivors have given estimates of the heights and weights of the men involved. Taking it all together, the police are ninety-nine per cent certain of the identities of the gang. Have you heard of Joyce’s Boys?”
Keith sipped his drink while he thought back. “There was something in the papers about a year ago,” he said. “Some trial or other. The accused was said to be one of them. It was an English case and didn’t get much coverage in Scotland. Am I right?”
“Quite right,” York said. “He —”
The telephone bell cut off the sentence. Keith picked it up. Rapid pips denoted a call-box. He heard coins dropping.
“Mr Calder? This is Dougie Scott.”
“Hullo,” Keith said. “How are you getting on?” He kept his eyes on Paul York, who was too obviously not listening. Keith pressed the receiver tight to his ear. York’s expression changed minutely and Keith strained to interpret it.
“Mr Calder
, I’ve been doing what you wanted and I think I’ve got something for you —”
It dawned on Keith that Paul York was looking satisfied when he should have shown frustration. “Don’t tell me on the phone,” he said. “Call in and see me in the morning.” And he disconnected without giving Dougie a chance to protest.
The tiny shifts of expression were so small that Keith was depending on intuition as much as on his eyes, yet he thought that York’s satisfaction had been replaced by annoyance. But York resumed as if the interruption had not occurred.
“He got off, in case that’s of any interest. Do you remember Samuel Henshaw?”
This time, Keith was granted instant recall. The case had been an international cause célèbre. “Professional assassin,” he said. “London-born. He was killed in a gun-battle with the Marseilles police, some seven or eight years ago.”
“Joyce is his widow. Joyce’s Boys is or are a singularly vicious gang, who seem at the moment to be missing from their usual London haunts. Joyce acts as their brains-cum-driver. They set up their own operations as a rule, but they’re available at a price; and the whisper in London is that they went north to earn a fee.”
Keith gave a low whistle.
“That seems to be fair comment,” York said. “Your turn next, but before you go ahead I’ll tell you something else for nothing. If you ever bump into Joyce’s Boys and you have to start shooting, shoot Joyce first. They’re all dangerous, but she’s the most dangerous of the lot.”
Keith felt that he was in a card-game. He had only a few low cards, while York held a fistful of trumps. But Keith wanted to see those trumps. “This Joyce,” he said. “Would she be of medium height with a square face, straight, dark hair, stout and with a big bust?”
York sat up straight. “That’s Joyce. Where’ve you seen her?”
“Somebody like that was driving a carful of men towards the factory just before the hijack. The car was probably a bronze Granada Estate. A stolen car of that type turned up in the town.”
“I knew about the car,” York said, “but it’s interesting to have Joyce confirmed. Not that there was much doubt. This has her trademark stamped all over it.”
“Tricky, is she?” Keith asked casually.
“Very. Simple things but effective. They cleaned out a jeweller’s last month. The police received dozens of bogus calls to other shops, banks and post offices. By the time they’d worked out which call was genuine, the Boys were far away.”
This suggested another low card for Keith to play. He told York about the supposed decoy vehicle and the chance which had negated its effectiveness. “The superintendent is going to see if there isn’t a clue in the hirings of the same firm,” he finished. And if York cared to assume that he was referring to the chief superintendent, then that would hardly be Keith’s fault.
“You’ll let me know if it leads anywhere?” York asked.
“Yes, of course. Now, tell me something.” Keith’s voice held a gentle implication that he rather than York had been divulging all the hard news. “I can guess who the original purchaser is or was. Is he still keen or has he gone cold on the deal? Could this whole operation have been his ploy to get them cheaper?”
“Joyce and her Boys don’t come cheap,” York pointed out. “And, yes, he’s still keen. His agent was on the phone while I was in Eddie’s office, and Eddie was turning somersaults to convince him that the deal was still on, even if Eddie had to make a new lot of guns himself in the back bedroom. I’m exaggerating, but that was the general effect. Over to you.”
Keith was running out of news with which to bargain. “This was carefully set up,” he said, “and timed to the minute. What rocked the boat for them was that the change of destination, which I’d given you several days earlier, didn’t reach them and they only found out that there was a change at all when the load was on its way. Which lets you out, by the way. One line that I’m following up is where did their local information come from.”
“Have you considered the labourers you hired to unload?” York asked.
“I’ve thought about them very hard,” Keith said, “because I only got hold of their foreman the day before, to tell him about the change, and he only told them to meet him in the square and that he’d lift them to the place in his van. I heard him.”
“Well, then —”
“But,” Keith said, “they were all victims. Who on earth would let himself in for a fatal or near-fatal bash on the head?”
“That would be a reasonable question if we were dealing with people who were reasonable as we understand reason. But we’re not. Joyce’s logic is quite untainted by human weakness and her Boys follow her lead absolutely. Your man wouldn’t know that he was for the chop. But he’d seen somebody’s face and that was enough. Rather than leave an indication behind by killing just one, they killed them all, or tried to. The penalty, after all, would be no more severe. That kind of ruthlessness occurs sometimes, and it’s at its worst when it spreads through a whole group. They infect and compete with each other until a sort of corporate paranoia takes over. It’s more common among terrorists, where there’s an emotional motive as well, but it happens among criminals too. So, if you’re playing games among the big boys,” York wound up, “my advice would be to give what you’ve got to me or to the police, or both, and then crawl into a hole and pull it in after you.”
“Believe me,” Keith said, “I’m not going within a mile of them.”
“Very wise. Police opinion seems to be that they’ve made Britain too hot to hold them, and they’re after some quick money to take abroad. Anybody who gets in their way now is liable to get his head in his hands. What else have you got?”
Keith decided that he had nothing left with which to bluff. “Damn all,” he said. “And you?”
York hesitated and then shook his head. “That’s it, then,” he said. “But I have a feeling that you know more than you’ve told.”
Keith had a feeling that they both knew more than they had told, with the difference that what he, Keith, knew, he had yet to put his finger on. Somebody had said something . . . “I’ve told you all I can,” he said.
As they shook hands, York said, “Please, please disbelieve any rumours about me. Accept that I’m on the side of the angels. When I was on the force, your name used to come up when guns were mentioned. And somebody would always say that before you pulled your horns in and married you’d had a hundred mistresses. Exaggerated?”
“Ridiculous,” Keith said. He would have put the figure rather higher, himself.
“I didn’t believe it,” York said. “Do me the favour of not believing tales about me.”
Up the shaft of the hoist, Deborah’s voice sounded with awful clarity. “Mummy, what’s mistresses?”
*
Munro, Ronnie and Sir Peter lingered for a further discussion, but Keith was unable to concentrate. Now that identities had been attached to the faceless villains, the existence of a dangerous quarry had become a reality. The realisation that they might exterminate anyone who became dangerous to them was acutely disturbing, and when at last he followed Molly to bed he uttered a wordless prayer that, in broadcasting his enquiries, he had not sent anyone into danger.
The thought kept him restless far into the night, and dawn was not far off when he fell at last into deep sleep. Molly, who had been aware of his restlessness, slipped out of bed without waking him as soon as she heard Deborah stirring. Superintendent Munro’s troubles were insignificant when compared to her husband’s need for sleep. She fed the child and despatched her to play with her friend at the nearby market-garden. She took in the mail, the milk and the day’s papers (which always arrived by hand of the milkman, who rather fancied her). She had her own breakfast and set about the morning’s chores.
Keith was woken an hour later by the ringing of the bedside extension. He ignored it until it stopped when Molly took the call downstairs. But a few seconds later she put her head round the door and saw that he was
awake.
“For you,” she said.
He picked up the extension and took it under the duvet where the light was less troublesome. “Calder,” he said.
“Ah, Mr Calder, good morning.” It was a smooth, deep voice with a polished accent. “My name is Smithers and I represent the true owner of the guns which have so recently and tragically gone amiss. He still hopes to complete the deal.”
“I haven’t got them,” Keith said cautiously.
“We are aware of that,” said the voice. “Otherwise, you would hardly have circulated word around the town that you are anxious for word of them.”
“You’ve heard that, have you?” Keith said.
“I imagine that the whole town knows it. And you have a reputation for wiping the eye of the police. I believe that to be the expression.”
Keith remembered his talk with Paul York. “Greatly exaggerated,” he said. “When you say the true owner . . .”
“Mr Adoni had already been paid the bulk of the sum due. And I am to tell you that a reward will be paid for information leading to recovery by the police.” Keith thought that the voice placed emphasis on the last three words, which suggested that Mr Smithers might be who he claimed to be. “I shall be staying at Millmont House until the load is either recovered or deemed lost for ever.”
“How much of a reward?” Keith asked.
“Ten per cent is, I believe, the usual figure. And there is one more thing. Among the Brownings there should be a special one in stainless steel.”
“Un-numbered?” Keith asked. Un-numbered handguns are a status symbol among V.I.P.s.
“Naturally. His Excellency would particularly want that one recovered,” Smithers said. “He would like to arrange for some personalised engraving on it.”
“What would he like? Two missionaries boiling a cannibal?” Keith asked before he could stop himself.
Pursuit of Arms Page 8
