‘That’s done it!’ Drake said.
‘Don’t worry. We can easily nail it back.’ Tedham repeated the procedure with another plank and soon there was a hole big enough to see into the crate. ‘Let’s ’ave a light,’ he said, his eyes wide with excitement.
There was a stub of a candle on a shelf. Drake handed it to him. Producing a box of Swan Vestas from his trouser pocket, Tedham took a match out of the box and struck it on the side. The match flared and he lit the wick of the candle. Holding it carefully, so as not to drip wax, he illuminated the interior of the crate. Inside they could see neat parcels, wrapped in oilcloth and carefully tied up with waxed twine. He lifted the nearest one out. ‘What are you doin’?’ Drake hissed.
‘Might as well ’ave a look… now we’ve gone this far.’ Tedham gave a throaty chuckle.
‘But what about Monsewer Albert?’
‘’E’s not comin’ ’til tomorrow. Don’t worry, it’ll be all shipshape and correct by the time ’e arrives. Let’s ’ave a look. ’Ere, ’old the candle.’ He passed it to Drake and began untying the package. ‘Someone knew what they was doin’. No granny knots ’ere!’ Once the string was removed, he placed the parcel on the top of the remaining fixed planks and carefully unrolled the outer fabric. Inside, the object was wrapped in newspaper, kept dry by the oilcloth. As Tedham unwrapped it the contents were revealed. ‘Well I’ll be…’
Drake whistled. Lying in front of them, glowing in the lambent candlelight, was a silver candlestick. ‘Wow! D’you think it’s real silver?’ he asked. Tedham picked it up. ‘What are you doin’?’ Drake exclaimed.
‘Calm down.’ He weighed it in his hands. ‘Certainly feels like it. Silver plate wouldn’t be nothing like as ’eavy.’
‘Don’t you think we should put it back now?’
‘We could ’ave a look at another one…’
‘No!’ That’s enough! Let’s get the lid back on. Somebody might see. C’mon, get it wrapped up again.’
Tedham sighed. ‘I s’pose you’re right. Shame. I wonder if Monsewer Albert would miss just one piece?’
‘You’re bloody jokin’, ain’t yer? You’ve gotta put it back!’
‘All right. Shame though…’ he was just wrapping it up in the newspaper when he stopped. ‘’Ere. Look at this.’ He smoothed the newsprint out. The banner across the top read:
DAS REICH
KRISE IN DER FEINDKOALITION
‘No idea what it says. ’Ave you?’
‘None at all. But I’ll tell you what… I reckon it’s German!’
‘If that’s the case then this little lot is stolen goods.’
‘Sailor, you’re statin’ the bleedin’ obvious.’
‘So, ’e’s ’ardly likely to notice just one piece missin’ is ’e?’
Drake sighed. ‘You’re gonna take it anyway, ain’t you?’
A devilish grin spread across Tedham’s face. ‘You know me,’ he said, as he carefully wrapped up the object.
-0-
Russell spent a very pleasant hour in the company of his friend, Captain Salt. He felt relaxed and almost in holiday mood. But after a couple of pints of Alf’s best bitter and a good lunch, the prospect of the walk back home was less than inviting. Salt seemed to sense his reluctance, ‘Why don’t you catch the train?’ He took out his pocket watch. ‘There’s one due in 10 minutes. I’m sure Aggie won’t mind.’ The little terrier had been dozing in front of the fire. At the sound of her name, her ears pricked up.
‘I guess you’re right.’ He paused, looking thoughtful. ‘Then I’ll be back in time to make a couple of phone calls.’
Salt chortled. You’re supposed to be on leave.’
Russell smiled back. ‘You know me. Never could resist a good puzzle.’
He said his farewells and went to wait on the simple wooden platform. After a few minutes there was the sound of a horn, then an odd-looking contraption came into sight round the corner of the boat shed, clattering along the rails and rattling to a stop next to him. It appeared to be two back-to-back buses with railway wheels and sat at the platform, gently rocking as the engine ticked over, the windows rattling and the blue vapour from the petrol exhaust rising and swirling into the air. Russell smiled to himself. He much preferred travelling behind Cardinal, the line’s sole Bagnall steam locomotive, but he knew that Salt liked to use the railbus set during off-peak times as it was much cheaper to run. Also, it did not require the driver/fireman to get up at an unearthly hour in order to raise steam before they could set off. As the season had hardly started, Russell was only one of two passengers. They had to wait in the sagging, threadbare seats while the driver switched off the engine of the bus that had driven in and left his seat. All was still and calm for a few minutes while he walked along the platform to the front of the other bus and clambered down on to the track. After two or three quick turns with the starting handle, he got the other engine going and the racket started again. He climbed into the bus, collected the fares from the two passengers then sat down in the driver’s seat and, with a toot on the horn, they set off back up the line.
The bus rattled along, not exceeding 15 miles an hour. Russell was amused, as he always was, when he travelled this way, to see that the steering wheel was still in place. Something for the driver to hang on to, he supposed, when the bus swayed over the uneven trackwork. Still, it was an adventure and he knew the journey would not last much more than 10 minutes so didn’t mind the buffeting or the dust rising up through the gaps in the floor. He started getting up, holding on tightly to the backs of the seat as the bus slowed and came to a stop at the halt near his home. He couldn’t resist whistling a snatch of On the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe. The driver looked up and smiled, then bent and gave Aggie a pat on the head before they got off.
-0-
‘Operator, I’d like you to get me a number in Germany.’ Russell had to go through to the local switchboard and recited the number from his address book. He waited some time while there was a series of clicks and hums - then finally,
‘Hello? Judd here.’ The American accent was unmistakeable.
‘Hello Greg, it’s Sonny Russell. How are you?’
Judd worked in Ludwigsburg at the Central Office of the State Justice Administrations for the Investigation of National Socialist Crimes, more conveniently known as the Z-commission. It housed Germany’s main agency for investigating war crimes and possessed the largest collection of files concerning criminal activities during the Nazi rule. When Russell had met with Judd there he found they got on well and promised to keep in touch.
‘Sonny! It’s been too long. What are you up to?’
‘I’m actually on leave at the moment but I’ve got a puzzle that I hope you might be able to help me with.’
‘Never stop, do you?’ Russell could imagine his infectious smile. ‘What can I help you with?’ Russell explained about the empty crate, and scrap of newspaper and Lewis’s theory about Nazi treasure. ‘Yes, that does sound highly possible. The date on the newspaper would be about right. The trouble is, without a bit more information it’s difficult to know where to begin. Sorry!’
‘I had a feeling you might say that. At least it’s nice to know that you think it’s likely too. Anyway, I’m going to give Guillaume a ring and see what he thinks. I’ll let you know if anything else comes to light.’
Inspecteur Guillaume Bruissement was Russell’s opposite number in Boulogne. Along with Judd, he had been instrumental in bringing the case the year before to a conclusion. Russell had also been over to see him the previous month, when they had apprehended the female mastermind of a train robbery, fleeing to the continent. She was now in custody awaiting sentencing. Bruissement was due to come over to England to testify in a few weeks but Russell wanted to talk to him now. He hoped he would be able to get through – the phone connection could often be tricky. But, this time he was optimistic.
Again, after he had given the number to the operator, he waited, listening to the stati
c, until, ‘Bonjour. C'est le poste de police de Boulogne. Comment puis-je t'aider?’
‘Er, Bonjour. Do you speak English?’ Russell said.
‘Patientez un instant...’ Russell could hear the rattle as the telephone was put down; the murmur and hum of a busy office. Then heavy footsteps; a clatter as the receiver was picked up. ‘ ’Allo, Inspecteur Bruissement ’ere.’
‘Guillaume!’
‘Sonny! ’ow good to ’ear your voice. What can I do for you?’
‘It’s good to hear you too, Guillaume. Now, this is a bit of a long shot, but I wondered if you noticed any suspicious activity among the fishing boats.’
There was crackling on the line for a few moments, then Bruissement said: ‘Can I ask a question of you?’
‘Of course you can.’
‘What is a long shot?’
Russell chuckled. Trust the Frenchman to pick up on that. ‘Let me think… It means something that has only a small chance of being possible. Does that help?’
Guillaume laughed heartily and Russell could just imagine his rubicund face and bristling walrus moustache wobbling. ‘You know that I am ’appy to ’ave a challenge, Sonny. What sort of activity suspicious do you ’ave in mind?’
‘I’m not sure. Perhaps a boat carrying an unusual cargo – wooden crates maybe?’
‘Je ne sais pas – sorry - I am not aware of anything of that nature. When would this be ’appening?’
‘Again, I don’t know – maybe in the past couple of days.’
‘Nothing ’as been brought to my attention – mais… I am not saying that it is not possible. Leave it in my ’ands and I will see what I am able to find out.’
By now it was teatime so Russell filled the kettle with water, lit the gas and put it on to boil. Taking down the brown teapot from the shelf he put it next to the stove, ready to warm. He remembered that there was some chocolate cake that would go nicely with a cuppa. As he got the tin out of a cupboard, the terrier looked up expectantly. ‘Not for dogs!’ he admonished. Aggie continued to stare at him fixedly. ‘Oh all right,’ Russell said, laughing at the dog’s expression, ‘you can have a Bonio instead.’ He took one from the dog’s treat tin and held it out. Aggie sat and lifted a paw, then took it gently from Russell’s hand with her teeth. She went off to lie on the mat in front of the stove and crunched contentedly. Russell settled down with a steaming mug of tea; a slice of cake on a plate balancing on the arm of the chair. Opening Rogue Male, he picked up reading where he had left off the day before…
He was in a small wooden boat, rowing for all he was worth. Glancing over his shoulder he could see he had hardly gained on the other craft. This was a monstrous black fishing boat with a piratical sneer painted on the bows. The waves were enormous and the boat kept disappearing into the troughs. Every time it came into view he could see his old adversaries Wolfgang and Ludwig Müller jeering at him from the stern, with Superintendent Stout towering over them laughing demonically. However hard he rowed he could make up no ground and they continued to mock him. The jeering jangled through his brain, becoming more and more insistent until he woke with a start, as the cacophony segued into the ringing of the telephone. He was disorientated as it had grown dark outside. Shaking off sleep he picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘Sonny. It is Guillaume ’ere. You took so long I began to think you ’ad gone out.’
‘No, I’m here and delighted to hear your voice again,’ Russell said, stifling a yawn.
‘Ah bon. I ’ave some informations for you.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Oui. One of my men – a simple gendarme – ’as proved that ’e is not so simple.’
Russell smiled. ‘How has he done that?’
‘For once, ’e ’as asked some questions pertinent and ’e ’as made a note in ’is leetle book.’
‘What did he find out?’ Russell was intrigued.
‘We-ell…’ Bruissement began. ‘’e was on a regular patrol along Rue Gambetta when something became the objet of ’is attention… a Citroën DS! Do you recall, I ’ad one last year, as a trial? Sadly only for a day or two. I am still ’aving to use a Traction Avant.’ He snorted. ‘Anyway. As I was saying, this gendarme was surprised to see this car, bleu et crème. It is very unusual to see such a model nouveau in this – ’ow you say – backwater?’
‘I’d hardly call Boulogne a backwater. I thought it was the gateway to the continent.’
‘Well, perhaps. You might see one going on the ferry to Angleterre but it is most unlikely that you would see such a fine car on the quay of the fishermen.’
‘I take your point. Go on.’
‘D’accord. So, this gendarme…’
‘Does he have a name?’
‘Eh? Oh, oui, it is Picard. Pourqoui? Why?’
‘No reason. Please continue.’
‘After ’e ’ad written down the details of this auto, ’e noticed something ’appening on the boat it was parked à côté de.
‘What was that?’
‘That was the unusual thing that ’e noticed. Even though it was a fishing boat, two men were trying to get a large wooden crate on to the deck from the quay.’
Russell pricked up his ears. ‘A crate, you say? How big was it?’
‘The gendarme, Picard, was très thorough. ’E wrote down the dimensions. Let me see.’ There was the sound of papers being shuffled. ‘Ah, oui. One metre wide by one metre deep and 600 centimetres high.’
‘Was there just one crate?’
‘Let me examine his notes again.’ There was a pause. ‘Ah non, there were two… but, ’e says that the other one was already on the deck.’
‘And was it full?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Er, it was intact – had not been opened.’
‘Ah! I understand. As far as I am aware, it was the same as its twin. Why do you ask?’
Russell explained to Bruissement about the crate they first found that subsequently disappeared and the second, empty crate with the scrap of newspaper that they recovered.
The Frenchman laughed. ‘As you say, the plot gets thicker.’
‘Quite. I wonder where we go from here.’
There was a pause, then Bruissement exclaimed, ‘Oh! I give you my apologies! That was not the only thing unusual. The boat they were loading with the crates was not un bateau français but un bateau Anglais!
‘That is significant, isn’t it?’ Russell said.
‘Mais certainment.’
‘Did Picard ask what was in the crates?’
‘Yes, ’e did.’
‘What was he told?’
‘What ’e was told was that they contained engine parts for delivery to Angleterre.’
‘So did he pursue the matter further?’
‘Mais non. ’E was not able ask any more questions so ’e ’ad to leave.’
‘He did very well. Say thank you from me.’
‘But of course, I will.’
‘By the way, did he take a description of the boat?’
‘Mmm, let me see.’ Russell could hear the Frenchman turning pages. ‘Here we are. Oh, it does not say very much, just that it was un bateau noir - a black boat.’
‘Did it have any markings?’
‘Un moment… I am sorry to tell you that it did not – just black.’
‘That’s okay. I don’t suppose you know where it went?’
‘I am afraid not. I sent a patrol car round to the quay directement, but the boat, eet was already gone.’
‘No surprise there. Anyway, let me know if it returns or if you see that Citroën again.’
‘As you say, it goes without saying that I will keep you informed. You can rely on that, mon ami.’
-0-
‘What do you mean, there was only one crate? Standing in the gloom of the net shed Monsieur Albert Salle was furious. His face was dark with anger, his fists clenched.
Sailor Tedham rotated his cap in his hands and hung his head. ‘I’m sorry, but that�
��s all we found.’
‘But I saw two being loaded on to the boat in Boulogne!’
‘I can’t ’elp that. The weather was so bad, it must’ve sunk afore it reached the shore.’
‘Do you know how much that crate was worth? No, of course you do not! What am I going to do?’ He held his arms out wide.
Tedham and Drake stood in embarrassed silence for some moments. Drake coughed. ‘Ahem. What about our money?’
Albert’s face darkened. He looked as if he was about to explode. ‘Money! You ask about money? When only half of my goods have arrived?’
Tedham decided to push his luck. ‘But that weren’t our fault! It was them others what you got to shift the crates. They’re to blame, surely?’
Albert paused, his Gallic features composed in concentration, his complexion slowly returning to normal. ‘Mmm. Perhaps. I am not happy about this. I will have to speak with the other men.’ He thought for a moment and made a decision. ‘You can have half the money.’
‘But…’ Tedham interrupted.
The Frenchman held up his hand. ‘I think that is fair. If the other crate turns up you will get the other half. Now, I would like you to load this one into my van.’ Grunting they manoeuvred the crate out of the net shop and heaved it across the shingle to the Ford Thames van. The driver, a large shadow of a man, sat impassive in his seat. There was no offer of help as they sweated and struggled. The doors were slammed, Salle got into the passenger seat and the vehicle drove off, leaving the two fishermen standing on the stony track, breathing heavily.
‘Bloody ’ell! That was a close one. For a minute I didn’t think ’e was going to give us anything,’ Drake said.
‘Tight bastard. It weren’t our fault the other crate went missing. I’m gonna ’ave words with Nipper when I catch up with ’im.’
Blood on the Strand Page 3
