Death and a Snapper (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 6)

by R. A. Bentley

  Chapter Ten

  'I'd like to have seen that,' chuckled the Assistant Commissioner, 'Helen Crofton, as was, carried off screaming and kicking, like the Rape of the Sabine Women. I knew her as a girl, you know. Pretty little thing. Top up?'

  Chief Inspector Felix, comfortably ensconced before a glowing fire, accepted another whisky. 'This is most kind of you, sir. You know. I still can't quite believe you're my new boss.'

  'A word of caution. You do realise that should you have occasion to encounter me in my official capacity, I shall be the Grand Panjandrum himself and you'll be just a lowly Joblilly? Mustn't be seen to have favourites.'

  'Yes, of course, sir. That goes without saying.'

  'I thought I could rely on you for that. Tell me, talking of rank and all that nonsense, what do you see yourself doing in, say, ten years time — Deputy A/C?'

  Felix considered this. 'To tell the truth, sir, I think I've reached the pinnacle of my career. What I enjoy is practical policing. I can't see myself tied to a desk. I think rather than that I'd go and do something else.' He smiled. 'So saying, I expect I've condemned myself to the rank and file forever.'

  'Ha! Well I won't hold you to it. I've heard good reports of you Miles, though not, I have to say, from that miserable beggar Timpson. He'd have seemed old-fashioned in Peel's day I shouldn't wonder. I met Sir Neville Galbraith of Wessex Police the other day, by the way. Extraordinary fellow! He speaks very highly of you, as does your superintendent. Means you get all the difficult cases of course.'

  'I don't mind that, sir, I like a challenge, as do my chaps. They get bored easily.'

  'The A/C eyed him knowingly. 'And when you're too old for chasing villains, you'll start that stud farm, I'll wager. Or have you forgotten all that?'

  Felix smiled. 'Still an ambition, sir, though I might have trouble convincing the missus. She's not a bit interested in horses.'

  'Something of a beauty, I understand?'

  'I think so, sir. Damned clever as well.'

  'I'd like to meet her.'

  'Then you shall, sir. Come to dinner.'

  'Thank you, I'd like that. Now, coming back to the matter in hand. I'm not about to interfere; don't think that. But have you considered the broader political background to this business?'

  'How do you mean, sir?'

  'Well, look at it for a moment from the standpoint of the Russian government. I suppose one has to call them that. Our home secretary is not their favourite person of course, but if they want to recommence trading with us – and you can bet upon it that they do – they'll want to keep their noses clean. Blowing up a minister of the crown is not the best way to go about it. In short, has it occurred to you that these folk may not be Bolshevists at all?'

  'But who might they be?'

  Longhurst leaned forward in his chair. 'White Russians, my boy. I'd put my last fiver on it. Who has a vested interest in putting the Bolshies in a bad light? They have. Who might be induced to put his life on the line, or even sacrifice it, for Mother Russia? Why, your Tzarist prince or some such. Or, more likely, one of his followers. All those displaced persons scattered across Europe would be a rich recruiting ground for folk like that. A successful attack in the guise of Bolshevist assassins could put the mockers on Russia's mercantile ambitions for a generation. It might even lead to war; which the Whites would certainly welcome. They've nothing to lose by it and everything to gain. They could even be residing in this country for all we know.'

  Felix nodded thoughtfully, taking this in. 'It would certainly explain a few things. Like how they managed to recruit such close matches for their impersonations, or even know what the people at Coneybrook looked like.'

  'Quite so. And makes a lot more sense than a bunch of communists with little or nothing to gain from it. Food for thought anyway. Tell me, talking of impersonations, do you ever see old Bodger Bagshaw these days?'

  *

  'And that was where we left it,' said Felix. 'I think he has a point, though.'

  'There's much to recommend it,' admitted Rattigan, drawing on his pipe. 'Take Pacelli's. Why on earth were they so publically dining there? You'd think they'd have kept their heads down, given what they were planning. There was something almost theatrical about it to my mind: the noisy discussion, the disguises, even the shooting — all those superfluous shots. They may well have known, or guessed, they were being tailed by MI5, who then played unwittingly into their hands. Grant makes a thoroughly inept attempt to extricate the unfortunate Cadogan from their clutches, and the fellow is shot dead. By that one act they become a desperate gang of murderous Bolshevists, out to commit mayhem. Even if they didn't plan the murder, it was exactly what was required.'

  'And not content with that,' said Felix, 'they mount a violent raid on Clare Valentine's flat, ostensibly to recover the photo but no doubt intending to kill her too, had she been there. A pretty young woman photographer murdered in her own home by communist infiltrators — that would have made every newspaper in the land, and the front page of most of them. No doubt they'd want the notoriety in order to connect them firmly with the bombings. They may not have wanted the photo – too easy to identify them – but in publishing it around the place, we were, in a sense, doing their job for them.'

  'There's one thing wrong with all this, though.'

  'I know what you're going to say — Cadogan.'

  'Quite,' said Rattigan. 'Let's say he was working for MI5, or possibly SIS; which, don't forget, we're only assuming. If he'd infiltrated this group he'd have surely known who they were and what they were planning. Why didn't he tell his handlers before he was shot?'

  'That's the trouble —' began Felix. He turned at a knock on the door. 'Yes?'

  'Inspector Morrison of Special Branch and Mr Grant, to see you, sir,' said Constable Saunders, 'and a Mr Underwood.'

  Grant introduced Underwood as a "colleague." Mousy haired and of medium height and build, he lacked a single memorable feature: the quintessential spy of public imagination. He gave the impression of being Grant's immediate superior, though as usual nothing was spelled out.

  'Before anything else, Felix,' said Morrison, I want to thank you and your chaps for doing our jobs for us; especially you, Sergeant. You saved our bacon, and that's a fact. Not to mention the life of one of my officers.'

  'Our pleasure,' said Felix dryly. 'Pity we couldn't have saved poor Curran too.'

  'Er, yes indeed,' said Morrison, looking chastened.

  'And while humble pie is on the menu,' said Underwood smoothly, 'I should like to apologise too, Chief Inspector, for not keeping you fully informed about the Sychkin gang.' He glanced at a sullen-looking Grant. 'I'm afraid we're sometimes guilty of too much secrecy and that was the case here. It's most fortunate that you found your way to such information as you obtained.'

  'We haven't obtained very much,' said Felix 'All we had to work with was a photograph. That, however, was enough to link at least one of the bombers to the diners at Pacelli's; or so we believe. Who is this Sychkin?'

  'Andrei Borisovich Sychkin. We believe he's the ringleader. He's known to us, having been deported for various nefarious activities in 1925.'

  'Which one is he?'

  'In your photo? He's not there. Show him, Grant.' Grant handed over a folder containing a rather murky contact print of a stocky, middle-aged man, and one typewritten sheet.

  Felix briefly studied them. 'Is this all you've got?'

  'I'm afraid it is. Keep it; it's yours.'

  'Thank you. And how did Mr Cadogan come into it?'

  Underwood chuckled. 'Ah yes, Cadogan. It was clever of you to trace him so quickly. Maybe you should be working for us. He was, as you have discovered, of a Marxist-Leninist persuasion and threw in his lot with the Bolshevists before they even came to power. I'm afraid he left it a little too late to change sides. He didn't, however, die in vain, for without the intelligence he provided we would have known nothing about the return of Sychkin. As it was, we knew only that an attac
k was imminent, but not where. They used his knowledge of this country but they didn't tell him that important little thing.'

  'Why did he change sides?'

  'Who knows what motivates these people? Maybe it was coming home after so many years and being reminded what a settled and civilised society looks like. We're just glad he did.'

  *

  'My head is starting to spin,' complained Felix, 'and it's not the bomb this time. What do you think of Underwood?'

  'Slimy and patronising. Wouldn't trust him as far as I could spit.'

  'My view exactly. Maybe you should join us, indeed! It would be funny if it wasn't so sick-making, as Daisy would probably say.'

  'I suppose from their point of view it all fits very nicely,' said Rattigan. 'They hunt Bolshevists and Bolshevists are what they find. They may even be right.'

  'But you don't think so?'

  'Not any more. I'm pretty sold on your pal the A/C's theory now.'

  'It's hard to refute, isn't it? Although I don't suppose every Bolshevist toes the party line. Some may have their own motives. But the problem remains Cadogan.'

  'It may not be so much of one when you think about it,' said Rattigan. 'Let's say he wanted to stop the bomb plot for whatever reason; or at any rate, disapproved of it enough to be a threat to their plans. I think we can assume that much at least. He maybe went over to the Whites' side but then cooled off, perhaps realising the enormity of it.'

  'Which is not out of the question, as I said before. Who knows what he might have seen in Russia? Enough to dispel his fancy Oxford notions anyway. Then he finds the Whites are no better than the other lot. Alternatively he's still a committed Bolshie who has somehow infiltrated their ranks, hoping to save his pals from being brought into disrepute. He tells MI5 the group's plans, so far as he knows them, and asks for help in escaping. Different motivation, same outcome. None of which puts us closer to apprehending his murderer, unfortunately.'

  'No, it doesn't. Although I'm tempted to say it's not the most important thing, given everything else that's going on.'

  'It's still murder,' said Felix. 'What would his parents say if we let it go? Not that it's an option. Hello, Paul, where have you been?'

  'We had an idea, sir, about the photo. All the security people and senior servants got a look at it but the juniors never did, so we've been showing it to them. Come in Sarah, don't be shy. This is Sarah Cox, sir. She thinks she's seen our dark-haired woman before.'

  'Has she now! Hello, Miss Cox,' said Felix, rising to greet her. 'Do sit down. Do you mind my asking what you do here? Just so Sergeant Rattigan can add it to his notes.'

  'I'm a kitchen maid, sir, I'm sixteen, I live in, and I've been here two years.'

  'Thank you very much. That's marvellous. Have you been questioned about something before?'

  'Mr Kemp, His Lordship's chauffeur, told us what you'd asked him, sir.'

  'Ah, I see. Excellent. Now, what have you got for me? Take your time; don't feel rushed.'

  'Well, sir,' said Sarah, arranging herself more comfortably in her chair. 'A few weeks ago, Annie Dalton – that's the laundry woman, sir – got scarlet fever. She had to be isolated and all of her clothes burned. Terrible it was. So they took on someone temporary, and that was the woman in the photo. She called herself Nancy Nixon, sir. But I expect it was an alias.'

  'I see. And how did you know it was she?'

  'Because she's got funny ears, sir. If you look at the photo, you'll see.'

  'Ah yes,' said Felix. 'Almost pointed and with no proper lobes. We noticed that.'

  'That's right, sir. Billy Griffin the boot boy reckoned she was an elf, like in The Children's Treasury of Verse, but I think it's because she was Russian.'

  Felix smiled. 'Was there anything else about her?'

  'Yes, there was. She was always asking questions, and getting lost.'

  'Getting lost?'

  'Yes, sir. And one of us had to keep going and finding her. Billy said they ought to give her a ball of string. She could tie it to something and unwind it as she went. Then she could follow it back. Except I don't know why she had to go wandering anyway because all the dirties came to her in a basket.' She leaned forward conspiratorially. 'I think, sir, she was spying out the land.'

  'Well, she might have been. Did she look like this woman in other ways? Similar age and so on.'

  'Oh yes, sir. It's her all right. Except she didn't wear posh frocks like that when she was working here, obviously.'

  'What about her accent? Did she sound foreign?'

  Sarah looked doubtful. 'I don't know about that, sir, perhaps a bit. It was sort of deep, like a man and she had a little moustache and she wanted to know all the ins and outs of everything. What everyone did and where they went and so on. Then one day she just disappeared and Annie was still sick so I had to do it.'

  'Well that's very interesting, Miss Cox, we shall take note of that. And thank you very much for coming to see us. Tell me, why The Children's Treasury of Verse?'

  'It's in the servants' hall, sir. Mrs Watson – that's the Housekeeper, sir – says it's educational.'

  Mrs Watson chuckled, making her many chins wobble. 'A less likely spy than Nancy Nixon I cannot imagine, sir. She's the daughter of a friend. I've known her from birth, near enough. She's not quite right in the head, poor child, and it seemed a good opportunity to try her in something simple for a week or two and see how she got on. It didn't work out, sad to say.'

  'We did rather guess that,' smiled Felix, 'but we have to check these thing, you know. How is Mr Bollington?'

  'Not terribly well, sir. The doctor says there's nothing obviously wrong with him but he must have been terribly shaken up, stands to reason. If I got my hands on those darned Bolshies I'd do for 'em personally.'

  'Sorry, sir,' said Yardley, when she'd gone. 'Worth a try, I thought.'

  'Indeed it was. Where's Nash?'

  'He was going to quiz the outside servants. Gardeners and so on.'

  'It shouldn't have taken this long. What's he doing, sunbathing? Constable, go and find Sergeant Nash, please.'

  Constable Saunders was a long time gone, finally returning with a battered-looking Nash. A hasty visit to a bathroom had done nothing for the scuffs and bruises on his face, some swelling nicely.

  'Saunders, we're off now,' said Felix diplomatically. 'We probably won't need you again so you are hereby released from bondage and can return to Surrey Police. Thank you very much for your help, and a glowing report shall be yours.'

  The constable smiled. 'Thank you, sir. It's been a privilege. Goodbye everyone.'

  'Shut the door, Paul,' said Felix. 'John, I don't need to tell you you've been a damn fool because I'm sure you know that already. Let's see your hands. Come on now.' Nash reluctantly drew his hands from his pockets and presented them. 'Thank you. Was he much damaged?'

  'No more than he deserved,' growled Nash.

  'I don't doubt it. Was he able to walk away?'

  'He was limping a bit.'

  'Bloody nose?'

  'Yes.'

  'Shiner?'

  'Probably.'

  'All right,' sighed Felix, 'this is what we're going to do. First of all, keep your hands out of sight until we've passed the gates. If anyone asks, you fell over. Whatever happens about this, I do not want it to happen at Coneybrook. Understand? I'll drop you off at home so you can get patched up, and then I'm going to consult Polly. I've no idea, I'm afraid, what he'll say or do but I'm hoping he'll wait to see if Grant makes a formal complaint. You may just be lucky. In the meantime, you'd best assume you are going to be arrested.'

  'Would it help if I resigned the force, sir?'

  'No it would not.'

  'Sir,' said Felix, 'I need advice. May I put to you a hypothetical case?'

  'Oh yes, Chief Inspector?' smiled Polly, raising an eyebrow, 'and what would that be?'

  'Let us say, sir, that one of my men very foolishly and against my expressed orders were to beat up a fellow from
another agency. Let us say, MI5. What would be your position on that?'

  'Hmm,' said Polly. 'Any injuries?'

  'Let us say there would be injuries.'

  'Extensive?'

  'Let us call them essentially cosmetic.'

  'Such as might result, for example, from fisticuffs over a girl?'

  'That would be a good example, yes.'

  Polly nodded solemnly for a few moments, spluttered a bit, and succumbed to barking laughter, causing the rattle of typewriters to fall briefly silent.

  'Sir?'

  'Sorry. Heh heh. By a strange coincidence, a Mr Underwood claiming to be from MI5 telephoned about thirty minutes ago. He asked me how I'd act if just such a thing were to occur. Purely hypothetically of course.'

  'And what did you say?'

  'I told him I wouldn't tolerate such behaviour in one of my officers and that the assailant would be up before a misconduct hearing so fast his feet wouldn't touch the ground. They were held in public, so not only would justice be done, I assured him, it would be seen to be done. I told him we often had a representative of the press there on these occasions, which is quite true of course. He thanked me politely and rang off.'

  Felix smiled and turned to go. 'Thank you, sir. I don't think I shall need trouble you further.'

  'Tell me, Felix,' said Polly, leaning back in his chair, 'what, in this hypothetical case, would you do about the offending officer, were we to receive no complaint from the alleged victim? Which, I venture to suggest, we probably wouldn't.'

  Felix considered his reply. 'I think I should visit the offending officer at his home, sir, and read him the riot act. Then I'd take him for a drink.'

  And that is what he did.

  Chapter Eleven

  'What happened?' asked Connie. 'How did they come to meet?'

  'He found Grant on his own, pacing up and down outside. He's been on pins for days so I suppose it was inevitable he'd collar him. He knew immediately that he'd made a mistake. Grant was an angry man. He said he was sick of us poking our noses in his business and putting about our foolish theories. Underwood might entertain them but Underwood was a fool. He knew who these people were and he was going to get them. Our help was not required. He also said Clare was his girl and she knew it, and no tuppenny-ha'penny police sergeant was going to steal her from him. I expect there was more but that's all he'd tell me. Anyway they came to blows and Grant came off worst. They're a tough lot down in Whitechapel, and I don't suppose they use the Queensberry Rules either.'