The Shadow of Treason

by Edward Taylor

  ‘We’ve made a start.’ Jessett told Monk what he’d learned. Then he summed it up. ‘Someone else is after Webber. You can bet they paid those two to go to the Windmill and follow the Hart girl.’

  Monk grinned. ‘Not a bad way to earn a few quid.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so. We’ll be back on stage-door duty tonight.’

  ‘Right, sir. Do we get to see the show again?’

  ‘Of course. So we know when it ends. Any news on Webber’s history?’

  ‘The Marine Research Centre recruited him from Imperial College, London, so I got on to them. It seems he studied marine biology there for three years and got a good science degree. Never known to be in trouble.’

  ‘Background? Family?’

  ‘They don’t know much. His parents were killed in the Blitz. Webber shared digs with a fellow student called Adam Carr.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath from Jessett. Monk looked at him enquiringly, but the inspector merely said, ‘Go on.’

  ‘Just before they were due to leave Imperial, their house got a direct hit from a V1. Webber was the only survivor – he’d gone out to buy fags. He went straight from college to the Marine Research place, and booked into the Cavendish, where they don’t seem to know anything about his background.’

  ‘I see. Well done, Arthur.’

  ‘Fancy. No one wants to know about their guests.’

  ‘Ah. Not quite true, Sergeant.’

  ‘You don’t agree, sir?’

  ‘An hour ago I had a phone call from George Fowler. You know, the Cavendish handyman.’

  ‘Oh yes. The chap who thinks he’s Sexton Blake.’

  ‘Well, he does try to be helpful. He rang to say he’d found an envelope in Webber’s room. Not addressed to Adam Webber. Addressed to Adam Carr.’

  Now the intake of breath came from Sergeant Monk. ‘Webber’s mate at college. That’s interesting.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Get back to Imperial and see if they can tell you the exact date the bomb hit Webber’s digs. Then contact Civil Defence and ask if they have a full casualty list for that incident.’

  ‘Right, sir. What was in the envelope, by the way?’

  ‘Nothing. It seems someone had chucked the contents and scribbled on the envelope. Some kind of list, Fowler says.’

  ‘What sort of list, sir? Could be helpful.’

  ‘Yes. Unfortunately, I didn’t find out. The superintendent came through on the other line. He’s complaining that we don’t do enough to stamp out the local black market.’

  ‘That’s not fair. We’re doing our best.’

  ‘Quite. I said smashing that black market was our top priority. And I told Fowler you’d get over there sharpish and pick up the envelope. Have another chat with him while you’re there. Find out what he thought of Webber. OK?’

  Monk sighed. ‘With respect, sir, couldn’t Ernie Fairweather do that? I’ve got all these phone calls to make. And there’s a lot of paperwork piled up.’

  ‘Sorry, Arthur, it needs to be you. You know the Cavendish people, and they know you. You’ll get the best out of Fowler. Do the phone calls first, and then get over to the Cavendish as soon as you can.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Monk allowed a hint of weariness to creep into his voice. He managed to restrain himself from saying, ‘What did your last slave die of?’

  And then Jessett had an afterthought. ‘Talking of Sergeant Fairweather, if he hasn’t got those biscuits from the Maypole yet, tell him to try and fiddle a packet of tea at the same time.’

  It had been a bad day for the short man. It started with a shamefaced Garrett reporting last night’s failure. By now it had dawned on Garrett that, since it was only Paynter the police wanted, he himself had no need to run. He should have stayed and followed the girl as instructed. It had been an instinctive reaction. Since childhood, a cry of ‘It’s the law!’ had always caused instant flight.

  Needing to hide his mistake, Garrett had told a story that varied greatly from the truth. In his account, there’d been a dozen police in Archer Street, questioning everyone at the scene. With his criminal record, Garrett had feared he might be detained. So he’d run, believing that, as a free man, he’d be more use to the short man in the future.

  The short man had questioned Garrett’s use to man or beast at any time. But Garrett had admitted he had no idea what had happened to Paynter: so, with a temporary lack of manpower, Garrett had been told to go back to the Windmill tonight.

  After dismissing Garrett, the short man worried. Why so many police at the Windmill stage door? Perhaps they’d realized, as he had, that the best route to Webber was via Jane Hart. But why so many police to do a routine tailing job? Were they beginning to get an inkling of the bigger picture?

  There was a lot of paperwork for him to do that day, and he busied himself with that. He was a perfectionist: both in his vision of the way society should be ruthlessly organized and in his detailed planning of the forthcoming action. He achieved some satisfaction from checking and re-checking arrangements and finding them all in order.

  But anxiety and wrath returned when, soon after midday, a phone call informed him that Paynter was in custody at Tilfleet police station. He cursed the incompetence of the underworld characters he was compelled to employ. And he tried to console himself with the belief that, as he understood it, the criminal code would compel the man to keep his mouth shut. He told the caller to keep him informed.

  Then, at five o’clock, came the call that set alarm bells ringing in overdrive.

  He barked at the phone in disbelief.

  ‘What? … What? … Are you sure? … I thought he was supposed to be tough! … The notebook? My God!’

  The short man’s fist tightened around the ebony ruler on his desk, and his knuckles were white.

  ‘Well, he can’t be allowed to! It could be disastrous! He has to be stopped! … Absolutely … If that’s the only way, that’s what you have to do … No, of course I’m not paying! This’ll be for your sake too. If things go wrong, you’ll be in very big trouble! … All right, two hundred. But get it done! And quick!’

  With that he hung up, and sat looking at the telephone as if it were an unexploded bomb.

  Adam Webber surveyed the scene in the public bar of The Bull. He’d done his best to make his entrance unobtrusive and, having bought his pint, had moved swiftly to a table in a quiet corner. He was very aware that he was the only young man in the place not in uniform. He hoped that Jane’s father’s spectacles would make him look exempt on medical grounds.

  Fortunately the bar was crowded and dimly lit. And visibility was much reduced by the thick cloud of cigarette smoke that filled the air.

  The Bull, like everywhere else, was suffering from wartime shortages. A chalked notice on a blackboard by the bar recorded today’s restrictions: ‘MILD ALE ONLY. WHISKY ONE SINGLE PER CUSTOMER. NO CREDIT.’

  But the traditional activities of the British pub were carrying on as usual. Four soldiers in battle-dress were playing a noisy game of darts. There were more soldiers in the ribald crowd by the bar. Two elderly men were locked in fierce competition at a shove-ha’penny board.

  At tables, and on benches round the walls, a varied collection of locals were taking their ease. The customers ranged from three rowdy middle-aged couples at one table, obviously having a celebration, to two old ladies at another, sipping their drinks in silence. The sextet were laughing and chatting and knocking back their beer at a rapid rate. The old ladies would make their glasses – one a half of mild and the other a port and lemon – last all evening.

  The place certainly didn’t look as rough and dangerous as Jane’s report from Fowler had led Adam to expect: except, perhaps, for the two hefty and unsmiling barmen, whose rolled-up sleeves revealed bulging muscles and aggressive tattoos. And Adam could see, in the adjoining saloon bar, a bunch of sturdy men conversing in low voices. They looked like people one wouldn’t want to aggravate.

  Ten minutes’ stu
dy had given Adam no ideas and no information. He would have to stick his neck out and start asking questions. He didn’t fancy tangling with the barmen, both of whom had faces like granite tombstones. But at the far end of the bar, customers were served by a cheerful barmaid. With bleached blonde hair, large hoop ear-rings and a mass of scarlet lipstick, she didn’t look like a charm school graduate, but she had smiled briefly when Adam caught her eye. He thought he might be able to establish some sort of liaison with her.

  He went to the bar, gave her a big grin, and asked for another pint of mild. As she pulled the pump, he said, ‘Busy tonight!’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Busy every night. Bloody Hitler’s made everyone thirsty.’

  ‘Have one yourself?’

  ‘Oh. Ta. It has to be gin for me. I can’t drink that rubbish.’ She was looking at Adam’s beer.

  ‘That’s OK. You’re welcome,’ said Adam.

  The barmaid put a glass under an optic beneath an inverted gin bottle and poured herself a drink of water. This bottle was kept for the use of staff, enabling them to pocket the price of the gin and avoid getting drunk.

  ‘Two and threepence,’ said the barmaid, adding a dash of lime to her drink.

  Adam paid and then raised his glass. ‘Cheers!’

  ‘Cheers!’ said the barmaid.

  Adam drank some beer and then looked at his glass. ‘It’s not that bad,’ he said. ‘But what’s happened to the bitter?’

  ‘Ran out last night. We don’t get no more till Monday.’

  Adam sighed. ‘Friend of mine always liked the bitter here. Name of Maurice Cooper. Did you know him?’

  The barmaid pursed her shining lips. ‘Cooper? That’s the bloke who got topped, innit?’

  ‘That’s what I hear. I’m merchant navy, I’ve been away. When I got back they told me Maurice had been done in.’

  ‘Yeah. Someone beat his brains out. I didn’t know him myself, I only started here last month.’

  ‘He was going to do some business for me. He was a fixer, you know. Could get hold of anything you wanted. Did he have a mate here I could talk to?’

  Now the barmaid had another customer. As she turned away, she said, ‘You could try Sniffer Dean over there. By the window. He knows everyone.’

  She indicated a man at a table in the corner, sitting alone and occasionally glancing at a newspaper.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Adam. He picked up his glass, and made his way over to Sniffer Dean’s table.

  Sniffer Dean was a small, gloomy man, with a small, gloomy moustache, wearing a large flat cap and an old blue raincoat. But his eyes were sharp and quick. He spotted Adam approaching and watched him intently.

  ‘Mr Dean?’ said Adam.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Dean. ‘Somebody want me?’

  ‘You might be able to help me. I was a friend of Maurice Cooper. Mind if I sit down?’

  ‘Creeper Cooper? He went off owing me a drink. If you’re his mate, you could put things right.’

  ‘Yes, I’d be glad to. What’ll you have?’

  ‘Large Scotch.’

  ‘That board says they’ll only do singles.’

  ‘Tell ’em it’s for me.’

  ‘Right,’ said Adam, and went back to the bar. Here he found the barmaid had already poured a double whisky as soon as she saw him returning.

  ‘Looks like you’re in,’ she said.

  Adam smiled ruefully. ‘Yes. In with Dean, and out of pocket.’ He paid, and took the drink back to Dean’s table.

  ‘Ta,’ said Dean. ‘Here’s to Creeper.’

  They both raised their glasses and drank.

  ‘My name’s Craig,’ said Adam. ‘I’m Merchant Navy, just got back from Malta. I was due to meet Cooper this week, and now I hear he’s dead.’

  ‘Yeah. The word is he got the wrong side of some of the local villains.’

  ‘Really?’ Adam strove to contain his excitement. Could he be about to get the sort of information he wanted? ‘What happened?’

  ‘I dunno. It’s just a rumour. I dunno nothing about it really. How come you knew Creeper?’

  Adam swallowed his disappointment. He had his story ready. ‘He was living in a boarding house where I stayed a couple of nights. When he heard I was a seaman, he seemed to want to get friendly. He was some sort of dealer, wasn’t he? I think he thought I might bring some stuff in on the boat for him.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No. He hadn’t come up with a real offer. It was one of the things we were going to talk about this week.’

  ‘What runs do you do?’ It seemed that Sniffer Dean himself saw Adam as a possible courier. They talked for a while about his imaginary travels, with Adam straining to recall all he’d learned about a seaman’s life from films and books. An altercation broke out among the group in the saloon bar. Voices were raised, and Adam could see one man lean across the table, grab hold of another man’s jacket and shout in his face. Then the rumpus died down.

  ‘Silly buggers,’ said Dean. ‘They’ll get themselves on Harry Paynter’s blacklist. He won’t stand no trouble on the premises.’

  ‘D’you know those men?’ asked Adam hopefully.

  ‘Yeah. Bunch of roughnecks. They work at the oil refinery.’

  Adam hoped Dean would go on to reveal that the men were involved in local rackets, but he said no more. Instead, he began talking about the war, which he thought was being mismanaged. Adam realized that he would have to take some risks to get the conversation back on track. He cleared his throat and spoke cautiously. ‘Cooper was going to do some business for me this week.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What sort of business?’

  ‘I want a dozen bottles of whisky.’

  ‘Yeah? Heavy drinker, are you?’

  ‘Mate of mine runs a club down in Westcliff. His supplier got nicked last month. I said I’d try and help him.’

  ‘Pity old Creeper’s gone. He’d have fixed that for you all right.’

  There was a pause. Then Adam tried again.

  ‘Is there anyone else round here who can get hold of things?’

  Dean stared at Adam in silence. Then he said, ‘There could be. How much can you pay?’

  ‘My mate’s been paying four quid a bottle.’

  Dean sniffed. ‘There’s a chance I might know a man who might be able to help. I’ll ask if you like and get back to you. What’s your number?’

  ‘I haven’t got one. I don’t know where I’m staying.’

  ‘That makes it difficult, dunnit?’

  ‘I’m hoping to doss down with a girl I know. If not, I’ll go back to the boat.’

  ‘So how do I get hold of you?’

  ‘Give me your number and I’ll ring you tomorrow.’

  Dean thought for a moment. Then he wrote a number on a corner of the Evening News, tore it off, and gave it to Adam. ‘Don’t ring tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I shan’t see this bloke till tomorrow night. Ring me Thursday morning.’

  ‘OK,’ said Adam, putting the piece of paper in his pocket.

  Dean downed the last of his whisky. ‘Don’t get no wrong ideas. I don’t do no dodgy dealing. I’m just putting two punters in touch with each other.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Adam. ‘Thanks.’

  Dean wiped some whisky from his moustache with a finger, then licked the finger and looked thoughtful. ‘I just remembered. Creeper had forgot his cash last time we met. It was two drinks he owed me.’

  The weather was still mild and, once again, Bert Bailey had the stage door open, as he did whenever possible. But it had turned damp, and his rheumatism was troubling him. To take his mind off the discomfort, he sat in his cubby hole, listening to the intercom which relayed what was happening onstage.

  In fact, he was listening to Vic Dudley trying out a new routine, though Bert would sooner die than admit that. Anyone who asked would be told that he was monitoring the show, in order to be prepared when the final curtain fell.

  Bert’s legendary contempt for all comedians, except the
great Max Miller, was an affectation he’d established many years ago and now felt obliged to maintain. But, privately, he’d been surprised to find himself warming to Vic Dudley recently. This may have had something to do with the pound note Vic had slipped him, just for delivering a parcel to his dressing room. Now, as Vic finished his act, Bert was almost smiling.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve reached the point in the show you’ve all been dreading,’ said Vic. ‘Yes, I have to leave the stage. Now there’s no one to entertain you but the girls. Sorry, fellers. Grin and bear it, and the girls will do the same. Good night.’

  There was modest applause as the piano went into Vic’s playoff, and then segued into the music for the finale.

  Bert turned down the volume, stood up cautiously, winced, stretched, and then went to the open door, where he carried out his usual survey of the scene.

  He saw the familiar faces of regular boyfriends and camp followers. And then he thought he recognized one of last night’s newcomers, who’d been involved in the scuffle.

  Bert began to feel a little uneasy.

  Constable Thompson was savouring a rare bout of plain-clothes duty. Surprisingly, Sergeant Monk had asked to be excused tonight’s mission, due to a pile-up of paperwork in his office. And Sergeant Fairweather was on desk duty. So now it was Jim Thompson beside Jessett in the Archer Street doorway.

  Like Monk the previous night, he’d followed the Windmill show with close attention, making a special effort to study their quarry, Jane Hart. Now he waited patiently to see her with her clothes on. But he wished the inspector wouldn’t smoke those wretched cigarillos.

  Jessett was watching a man who stood on his own across the street. In the poor light, it had taken the inspector a while to remember where he’d seen the man before. But now it came to him, and he spoke quietly to the constable.

  ‘See that chap over there, Thompson? By the litter bin?’

  ‘The bloke in the grey raincoat, sir?’

  ‘Yes. D’you know him?’

  ‘Can’t say I do, sir. Should I?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was here last night with Reggie Paynter.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Never seen him before.’