The near-by church clock struck the hour. Two women walked along the pavement, carefully ignoring the three men who, whistling their appreciation, followed. Fusil noticed how the women’s steps slowed as they neared the end of the road. Fusil switched on the transceiver again. “Slow Waltz. Red. Foxtrot.” He switched off the set, collapsed the aerial, and packed it, with the binoculars, into the brief-case. He returned the chair behind the desk, switched off the fan heater, and then with the help of the torch went downstairs. He locked the back door, pocketed the key, and walked briskly to the end of the road and round into Wardour Road.
A blue Consul drove up and stopped and two P.C.s and a uniform sergeant climbed out: a third P.C. stayed behind the wheel. There was a bleep from within the brief-case and Fusil brought out the transceiver and switched it on. “Quickstep. Roger. Tango.” He acknowledged the call, replaced the transceiver, said to the sergeant: “Let’s go.”
They entered the courtyard and climbed the wooden stairs. Fusil knocked on the door. A curtain across the inside was pulled slightly to one side and two eyes and half a nose looked out. “Open up,” ordered Fusil, knowing that if the words could not be heard clearly, there could be no mistaking their meaning.
The curtain was pulled over to one side and the door was opened to the extent of a chain. “Who is it?” demanded a man.
It was a stupid question, in view of the fact that three of them were in uniform, but people under stress often did or said silly things. “We’re the police. Will you please let us in.”
“You can’t come in.”
“We have a search warrant, issued this evening, and this empowers us to search your premises. We would much rather do so peacefully.”
As they waited, the first few spatters of what promised to be heavy rain fell. One of the P.C.s looked up and said, “That’s all we needed,” rather more loudly than he had intended.
The door was closed sufficiently for the chain to be slipped and then was fully opened. Fusil led the way into a large kitchen.
Jones was tall and thin, and there was something of the look of an undertaker about his elongated, tightly drawn face. “You must have come to the wrong place —”
Fusil interrupted him. “I have reason to believe that you have stolen property on the premises.”
“Of course I haven’t. Really, I can’t understand —”
“Then I’m afraid we shall have to carry out a full search.”
His forehead began to glisten as sweat beaded it.
“You’re only making things more difficult for yourself,” said Fusil patiently.
“I tell you, I’ve never handled anything stolen —”
“I reckon we’d better go somewhere and have a quiet chat.”
“But —”
Fusil said to the sergeant: “You hang on here for the moment: get on the air to D.C. Kerr and tell him to come on up.” He turned back to face Jones. “You must have an office. We’ll go there.”
He’d spoken with such confident authority that Jones made no effort to argue further, but led the way from the kitchen into a long passage with a right-angled turn and then, just beyond the turn, into a sitting-room that was furnished in a tasteless manner. A blonde, much younger than Jones, heavily made up and wearing far too much costume jewellery, was seated in one of the arm-chairs, watching television. She looked up at Fusil with the inquisitive interest of someone who was bored. He nodded and said good evening. About to smile in return, she noticed Jones’s expression and hurriedly looked away. Jones, without offering any form of introduction, carried on past where she sat and across to a door. Beyond was a small office.
Jones stood by the desk. “I’ve never touched anything stolen —” he began, repeating his earlier words.
“An apostle spoon, sixteenth century, bearing London hallmarks.”
He looked as if he were going to be sick.
“Where is it?”
He shook his head.
“Come on, man, face facts.”
He hesitated, then finally shuffled over to the wall opposite the desk where there was a framed print of Degas’s Elena Carafa. This was hinged to the wall and he swung it out to reveal a combination safe. He turned the dials of the lock, pressed up the handle, and opened the door. He reached in and brought out the small wooden box which Fusil had earlier handed to Moody.
Fusil took the box, opened it, and reached into the cotton wool to bring out the wrapped spoon. When he unwrapped the tissue-paper and saw that the spoon was unharmed he breathed a silent, but heartfelt, sigh of relief. “What else in the safe is hot?” he asked as he rewrapped the spoon.
Jones made a sound that was almost a groan. He produced four gold coins, individually wrapped in heavy gauge, transparent plastic envelopes.
Fusil, after being handed the four, put three down on the desk and then ballooned the fourth envelope to slide the coin out on to the palm of his left hand.
“Don’t do that,” said Jones excitedly. “If you touch it, you can seriously depress its value.”
Fusil released the sides of the envelope. “Where are they from?”
“I don’t know,” replied Jones all excitement gone from his voice.
“The lists of stolen property will tell us soon enough.”
“Up north,” he admitted, his fear gradually turning to sullen hatred.
“What are they worth?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Twenty thousand.”
Fusil whistled. “What else is there of interest?”
“Nothing.”
“What about down in the shop?”
“That stuff’s for the mugs,” Jones replied with contempt.
Fusil accepted this was true, but obviously there would still have to be a careful search later on.
Jones spoke thickly. “Tell me one thing. Who put the finger on me?”
“No one.”
“It stands out a bleeding mile. I do some business and next minute you’re in, even knowing what I bought.”
“What’s it matter how it happened?”
“I’ve made things easy for you. So do me a favour in return and give me a name.”
“So that you can employ a couple of heavies to get your own back?”
Kerr entered the room, rather as if blown in by a force six wind.
“We’ve struck oil,” said Fusil, in a matter-of-fact voice. “One apostle spoon and four gold coins which are supposed to be worth twenty thousand.”
“That’s what I call class!”
Fusil stared at Jones. He spoke in a reflective voice. “It’s an odd fact, but even to-day the courts still treat theft of property out of all proportion to injury to the person — goes back to the lord’s sheep being more valuable than the serf’s life. Mug an old woman and knock her silly and you’ll get six months if you’re unlucky: nick a coin collection without hurting anyone, or receive it knowing it to be stolen, and you’re liable to see the wrong side of five years.”
Jones once more looked sick.
“The only thing is, if it’s the first time a bloke’s been caught — never mind how long he’s been at it — the court might go a bit easy. Especially if someone stands up and says the prisoner’s been co-operative.”
“I didn’t argue. I showed you where everything was,” said Jones.
“You didn’t have much option,” observed Kerr cheerfully.
“I could —” He stopped.
“Not that we can ever promise anything definite,” said Fusil.
“What — what are you after now?”
“The name of the man from whom you bought an early seventeenth-century silver plaque depicting the adoration of the shepherds, made by a Dutchman, van Vianen. You sold it to van Neederen in s’ Gravenhage.”
“Don’t know what you’re on about,” mumbled Jones, unable to hide his further shock.
“It’s odd how some blokes can’t begin to see what’s good for them,” said Kerr.
“I want the name.” said Fusil
quietly.
“You won’t get it from me. I’m not a bloody grasser.”
“The man who sold you that plaque is likely the man who’s murdered nine boys and came as near as a whisker to making it ten.”
There was a drawn-out silence, broken only by the ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece and the intermittent noise of traffic outside.
Fusil said: “He’s been nicking silver on the same nights he went after a boy to hide his movements. It’s not grassing to put a perverted murderer inside.”
“D’you —”
“I swear it’s the truth.”
Jones reached down to his coat pocket and brought out a packet of cigarettes. He lit one and hungrily drew on it. “You can’t prove anything about the plaque.” It was both a statement of fact and a question.
“I don’t know,” replied Fusil. “I haven’t dug down yet.”
Jones squared his shoulders. He stubbed the cigarette out in a brass ash-tray. “All right. I bought that plaque from a bloke.”
“What’s his name?”
“Mark.”
“You’ll have to do better than that.”
“Just Mark. You don’t think we exchanged visiting-cards?”
“Describe him.”
Jones lit another cigarette. His eyes became unfocused as he searched his memory. “Not tall, but not short — maybe a couple of inches less than you. A round, chubby face which most times looks as if he’s about to smile. Very plump cheeks.”
“Colour of hair?”
“Brown.”
“Straight or curly? Beginning to bald?”
“Definitely not curly. And I think — beginning to recede so there’s a widow’s peak.”
“Colour of eyes?”
“No. Can’t tell you.”
“Shape of nose?”
“Ordinary.”
“Shape of ears?”
“Ordinary. Look, I’ve not seen him more than a few times, and when I did I wasn’t concentrating on what he looked like.”
“I know, it’s difficult. But do the best you can: there’s a hell of a lot riding on it. Age?”
“Could be early thirties.”
“What kind of speaking voice?”
“Normal. Didn’t notice any sort of an accent.”
“How was he dressed?”
“A bit smartish.”
“Any peculiar physical characteristics?”
He shook his head.
Fusil rubbed his sharp chin. “To-morrow morning, you can come along to the station and go through all the mug shots.”
“Look —” began Jones. Then he checked the words. He nodded.
Chapter Fourteen
Detective Chief Superintendent Menton had a very good record as a police officer and many thought he must reach at least the rank of assistant chief constable. Only those who believed that a man in high command should be prepared, when the circumstances warranted, to view the rules and regulations with a Nelson’s eye, found fault in such a possibility.
He had a thin face, whose most noticeable feature was his slightly hooded eyes which added a suggestion of secretiveness. His mouth was thin and straight. Merely by looking at him, one could appreciate that his nature lacked the kind of warmth which made for many friendships.
He stood in the centre of Fusil’s office, his thick overcoat still on, his hands tucked into the pockets. “I’ve been waiting for an up-to-date report on the bank job,” he said, in his deep, too even voice.
Fusil, who had sat after Menton refused a chair, reached out and picked up one of the folders on his desk. “I was going to get around to that as soon as there was time, sir.”
“What progress have you made?”
“Very little, I’m afraid. We can be almost certain Moody organized the job, but so far we’ve not been able to turn up the necessary proof to land him. One of the main stumbling-blocks is the alibi. We can’t break it.”
“Why not?”
“Cairns, his wife, and Shotover, haven’t altered their stories one iota. At the time of the robbery, they were in Cairns’s house and so was Moody.”
“They’ve got form.”
“Yes, but we can’t bring that out in court to prove the likelihood of their being liars, can we, unless they set themselves up as men of unimpeachable character — and they’re hardly likely to do that, knowing the consequences.”
“How far have you tested the surrounding evidence?”
“We can’t find anyone who’s in a position to say he must have seen Moody around if, in fact, he was where he claims to have been. We have found a couple who saw him in the afternoon.” Why, wondered Fusil, was Menton pursuing the finer details which normally would not have concerned him? His usual pernicketiness, or was there some ulterior motive? “The alibi’s been very well organized.”
“I don’t like it when one of my officers attempts to explain away an inability to solve a case by saying the villains have organized too well. It’s your job to disorganize.”
Fusil did not bother to answer.
“I want the case solved.”
“I reckon it has been. Our trouble is, we can’t yet uncover the proof necessary to bring it to court.”
“That’s a ridiculous comment.”
A wiser man than Fusil would not have pursued the matter — after all, senior officers traditionally had the right to ignore logic. But he pursued it because he was never prepared to have the men who served under him unjustly criticized, even if only by inference. “We’re continually being hamstrung by the laws of evidence and I reckon it’s time we said so, out loud. We’re always being cursed for not clearing up more crime, but as often as not the fault’s not ours. We know who’s guilty, but can’t prove it in the manner in which a court of law demands. It’s time we pointed out —”
“When I require a lecture on the defects of the British criminal law, I’ll ask for it,” Menton said pompously. Hands still in the pockets of his overcoat, he walked over to the window and stared out at the sunny, but cold, afternoon. “Unfortunately, you constantly seem incapable of observing the rules under which all police officers are required to work.” He turned round sharply.
It was, thought Fusil, rapidly becoming clear that there was, after all, some ulterior motive behind Menton’s visit. He said, in a completely neutral voice: “There’s quite a difference between criticizing a rule and breaking it.”
“A difference which you seem unable to distinguish.”
“Are you referring to any specific instance?”
“I most certainly am,” he snapped. He was not a bully in the accepted sense of the word, but he did have the average bully’s reaction towards anyone who tried to stand up to him. “And you know damned well what that instance is.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t.”
Menton crossed from the window to the desk and stared down at Fusil. “Do you deny that twice you’ve withdrawn silver from Property without signing for it? Indeed, that you were specifically asked to sign, but refused?”
It was the last question Fusil had expected and his expression showed this.
“Well?”
“I don’t deny it happened, no,” he answered slowly.
“You knew you were required to sign the silver out?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you refuse to do so?”
“It wasn’t a case of ‘refusing’. It was just that I was trying to save time.”
“Are you now claiming that when you’re in a hurry you’re not bound by the rules, as is everyone else?”
“No, sir.”
“Then you admit that you deliberately broke the rules?”
“If you care to put it that way.”
“I find it quite impossible to suggest any other way.”
Of course, thought Fusil scornfully.
“You first removed a stolen tea-pot. Why?”
He explained concisely.
Menton’s anger grew because in Fusil’s manner
there was no hint of the deferential apology he could have expected. “It is quite incredible that any of my detective inspectors could behave in such a manner. Why didn’t you report the fact that there was a possible connexion between the thefts and the disappearances of the boys?”
“Because initially I’d no facts to support my suspicions.”
“It was still your absolute duty to make a report.”
Even Fusil could not deny that.
“And what in the devil were you doing, deliberately trying to trap a man? What would some of the Press make of that story?”
“I thought — obviously incorrectly — that I could rely on my blokes to keep their mouths shut.”
Those words, and the inference they inevitably carried, were hardly designed to mollify Menton’s anger. He slammed his hand down on the table. “I expect an officer in my C.I.D. to observe a greater loyalty to the force than to any individual.” He waited for some comment, but there was none. “You failed to gain any result, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So what did you do next?”
“I decided to question the suspected man.”
“After planting evidence on him?”
“No, sir.”
He slammed his hand down on the desk a second time. “Don’t damn well lie. You withdrew a silver spoon last night from Property.”
“That is correct. And I returned it last night.”
“After you’d questioned Jones?”
“Yes.”
“After he’d admitted acting as a receiver?”
“Yes.”
“Admitted it, because you’d caught him with that spoon in his possession.” His voice rose. “If you failed in your efforts to get him to accept the tea-pot, how did you persuade him to take the spoon?”
At Jones’s flat, Fusil had ordered the sergeant and two P.C.s to stay in the kitchen. Only he, Jones, and Kerr knew that the apostle spoon had been in that safe. “The spoon was never in Jones’s possession.”
Betrayed by Death Page 10
