by Graham Ison
“Just about, guv. Is there a panic for them then?”
“You could say that,” said Semple drily.
Two
The enquiries that Detective Superintendent Semple’s officers had made at the Agincourt Hotel in Park Lane had elicited only one statement that was of any value. And that amounted to very little. The hall porter remembered Proctor, although he did not know his name, entering the hotel at a little before half-past two in the afternoon and reclaiming a brief-case for which he had produced a ticket. The hall porter could not recall who had left the case there or how long it had been in the hotel’s care.
“Did your Detective Sergeant…” Fox glanced at the name of the officer who had conducted the interview. “Horton. Did this DS Horton rattle this bloke’s bars for him?” He dropped the form casually on Semple’s desk.
“He’s a very good officer is DS Horton,” said Semple defensively.
“Really?” Fox tutted and lit a cigarete. “Well, it looks as though we’ll have to talk to this hall porter chappie again, doesn’t it?” He shrugged at the apparent unfairness of being surrounded by incompetents. “And what news on this device that saw off the bold Proctor?”
“Heard nothing from the lab yet, sir,” said Semple, secure in the knowledge that he could hardly be blamed for the forensic science laboratory’s seeming delay. He was wrong.
“Well, I really think you ought to have chased them up, Mr Semple.” Fox turned to DI Evans. “Looks as though we’ll have to talk seriously to these people, Denzil,” he said. He switched his gaze back to the detective superintendent. “Post-mortem?”
“Being conducted this morning, sir.”
“Who’s doing it?”
Semple moved a few pieces of paper around on his desk and then gave up. “That’ll be in the incident room, sir.”
“Good,” said Fox. “Time we had a look at the incident room.”
Semple sighed, convinced that he had just made another mistake, and led the way down the corridor.
Fox stood in the doorway of the incident room and surveyed the activity. “Who is doing the post-mortem?” he asked of no one in particular.
“Pamela Hatcher, sir,” said a DC from the corner.
“Splendid,” said Fox. “Inquest?” he asked, turning to Semple once more.
“Er …” Semple looked at the DI in charge of the incident room. He was beginning to feel like a trainee tennis player facing a machine that delivered balls non-stop and at a fast speed.
“Provisionally for tomorrow, guv,” said the DI. “Horseferry Road. Straight adjournment, of course.”
“Of course,” murmured Fox and turned on his heel. “Come, Denzil, we shall visit the laboratory.”
*
Hugh Donovan was the senior ballistics officer at the Metropolitan Police Forensic Science Laboratory at Lambeth, and he and Fox had done business on many previous occasions. “Fascinating device this, Tommy,” he said.
Fox examined the open briefcase on Donovan’s bench. “How did it work, Hugh?”
Donovan picked up a pencil and, using it as a pointer, indicated a .22 pistol that was held in a clamp with its barrel slighdy elevated towards the lock side of the case.
“That, you’ll see,” he said, “is held at an angle of about thirty degrees so that the muzzle just clears the front side of the lower part of the case. It’s operated by this spring and wire apparatus, so that when the case is opened the tension here—” he touched the spring with the pencil. “—activates the trigger and discharges a round.” He put down the pencil and grinned at Fox. “Bloody ingenious, that,” he said.
“Bit hit-and-miss, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes. But on this occasion it hit. Right between the eyes, they tell me. Whoever made it relied on the fact that most people will open a briefcase on their lap or on a table. You usually lay your briefcase flat before you open it, don’t you?”
“I used to,” said Fox drily. “But how did he load the bloody thing without shooting himself? Surely the tension is on the trigger all the while the lid is up.”
“Yes, it would have been, but this is one cunning little bastard.” Donovan closed the case and turned it over. “He went to a great deal of trouble. Here, here, here and here—” he pointed to the four edges on the underside of the case. “—You’ll see marks where the base has been removed and then put back into place after the pistol was loaded. This guy obviously spent a lot of time working out how to see off your victim.”
“An engineer of some sort?” Fox raised an eyebrow.
“Probably. And no stranger to guns, either.”
“What about the weapon itself, Hugh? Known, is it?”
“I’m waiting until I get the round from the pathologist before I do a test firing, but there’ll be no doubt that the round that killed Proctor came from this weapon. The number’s been filed off, naturally—”
“Naturally,” murmured Fox.
“But we should be able to bring it up, with a bit of luck. I’ll be able to give you more once that’s all done.”
“When?”
Donovan paused in thought. “Day after tomorrow?” he suggested tentatively.
“Make it tomorrow,” said Fox and grinned.
*
“Why is it, Denzil,” asked Fox as he led the way through the revolving doors of the Agincourt Hotel, “That I always have to go around doing things that detective sergeants have cocked up?”
“Don’t know, sir,” said Evans. He did know, of course. Fox could never let other people get on with it. But this was neither the time nor the place to say so.
“You are Mr Brian Buck, I take it?” Fox addressed himself to the tail-coated hall porter who was seated importantly behind a curved desk in the foyer.
“Indeed, sir. How can I help you?”
“I am Detective Chief Superintendent Fox… of the Flying Squad.”
“How d’you do, sir.”
“Is there somewhere quiet where we can discuss a certain matter that is of consuming interest to me?” Fox gazed around the foyer as if seeking some oasis of peace and tranquility.
The hall porter gazed around too. “I am rather busy at the moment, sir,” he said.
“So am I,” said Fox tersely. “I am investigating a murder. What are you doing?”
“If you’ll just bear with me for one moment, sir, I’ll get my assistant to take over.” Recognizing defeat when it was staring him in the face, Buck disappeared into the small office behind his desk. Moments later, he returned with a younger man who was in the act of donning his jacket. “If you care to come round the counter, sir, we can use my office.”
Fox examined the hall porter’s office with a sour expression. “Now then, in this statement…” He held out his hand and waited for Denzil Evans to pass him the sheet of paper. “In this statement, which you made last evening to Detective Sergeant Horton, you say that you recall a man coming into the hotel at about twenty-five past two yesterday afternoon and claiming a brief-case which had been left for safekeeping here in the hotel.” He glanced up. “Yes?”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely.” Buck leaned forward, a helpful expression on his face.
“When was the briefcase left here, Mr Buck?”
The hall porter spread his hands. “I really don’t know, sir,” he said.
“I see.” Fox studied the ceiling before realigning his gaze on Buck. “I understand that you attach tickets to those items that are left.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Indeed,” repeated Fox. “And these tickets have numbers on them, do they not?”
“Of course, sir. Otherwise we wouldn’t know which item belonged to which person, if you take my meaning.” Buck grinned and put his head on one side, silently deciding that the detective opposite him clearly did not have the potential to be a hall porter.
“And they run in some sort of numerical order.”
“Yes.”
“So a ticket bearing, for example, the number one would be i
ssued some considerable time before the ticket numbered, say, twenty?”
“Yes, sir. We go up to a hundred before starting a new book, you see.”
“Oh I do, I do,” said Fox warmly. “Now do you, by any chance, remember the number of the ticket presented by the gentleman who reclaimed the briefcase that we’re talking about?”
“Oh yes, it was number fifty-five,” said Buck without hesitation.
Fox sighed. “Why, as a matter of interest, do you recall that so readily?”
“The bloke bunged me a fiver,” said Buck and then paused, obviously persuaded by Fox’s sartorial elegance that, despite his accent and occupation, he was a gentleman after all. “That is to say, he very graciously gave me a tip of five pounds… sir. And I thought to myself, that’s a coincidence, I thought. Two fives on the ticket and one in my hand.”
“Good gracious me,” said Fox. “So far, so good.” He leaned forward, as if taking Buck into his confidence. “I can see that you’re a very experienced hall porter,” he continued.
“Twenty-seven years I’ve been in the business, sir,” said Buck, preening himself. “Began as a lift-starter at the Hilton when it opened.”
“What in hell’s name is a lift-starter?” asked Fox.
Buck grinned. “He waits by the lifts in the foyer and when he sees a guest approaching, he presses the button to call the lift.”
“Good God!” said Fox and shook his head. “However, as I was saying, you obviously know the hotel business inside out. I’ll wager there’s not much that gets past you.”
“I think I can say, in all modesty, sir, that I know my way around, yes.”
“Good. In that case, you should be able to tell, from the run of the numbers, approximately when that case was lodged.”
The hall porter leaned back in his chair and toyed briefly with one of the brass buttons on his waistcoat before leaning forward again. “If you can give me a moment, sir, I might be able to come up with an approximation.”
“Excellent,” said Fox.
The hall porter went next door to the left-luggage office and examined some of the items in there. Then he went to the counter and riffled through the book of deposit tickets. “As far as I can tell, sir,” he said, returning to his own office, “The briefcase you’re interested in would probably have been left here on Monday.”
“Any idea of time?” asked Fox, pushing his luck.
Buck shook his head. “Sorry, sir, but I can’t be more positive than that. And,” he added cautiously, “saying it was Monday is only a guess.”
Fox nodded. “The day before yesterday then.”
“I reckon so, sir,” said Buck.
*
Detective Sergeant Percy Fletcher had been lumbered again. It seemed that whenever Fox needed someone to delve into masses of paper, he always selected Fletcher.
“Well, Perce, what can you tell me about the late Wally Proctor?”
“Forty-three years old, sir. Came out of the ’Ville six years ago after doing a two-stretch. Got full remission. That was for a jewelery heist in the West End.” Fletcher looked up expectantly. He knew what Fox was going to ask next, but always kept some of his information back to counter the quick-fire questions that inevitably arose in an interview with his governor.
“Method?”
“Old as the hills, sir. Proctor went into a high-class jewelers and asked to see some expensive rings. To cut a long story short, he palmed one – valued at five grand – and stuck it under the front edge of the counter with chewing gum. But as he left, he was challenged by a brave member of staff. Proctor got all arsey, turned out his pockets, threatened an action for slander and left the shop. But the manager wasn’t happy. He’d come across this scam before, apparently, and had a look round. When he found the ring under the ledge of the counter, he rang the Old Bill and they had a young DC sit in the office…” Fletcher looked up. “That was in the days when we had enough blokes to do that sort of thing, guv. Anyhow, about an hour later, Proctor’s accomplice turned up and promptly got his collar felt. The two of them had worked the trick before, so it was dead easy to pick up Proctor. And because of his form, Proctor went down for two.”
“Nice one,” said Fox. “A bit flash, this Proctor, was he? I mean, the average toe-rag can’t just wander into the sort of West End jewelers that holds that sort of stock.”
“Fourth-rate public school,” said Fletcher. “Held a commission in the army for a while, but got the bum’s rush. Helped himself to some mess funds somewhere along the line. There’s only a brief reference to it on his antecedents. But he was always turned out well, according to the description on the docket. Savile Row suits, all that.”
Fox nodded approvingly. “A villain of taste, you might say, Perce.”
Fletcher grinned. “Yeah, he was that all right, guv.”
“But nothing since he came out?”
“No convictions, sir. There is a docket…” Fletcher reached down and took a file from the pile he had put on the floor when he had first entered Fox’s office. “He tried the black pearl scam about a year back.”
“Elucidate, Perce, for the benefit of Mr Evans here.”
“Black pearls are very rare, guv, but Proctor got hold of one. Probably nicked it, but nothing was ever proved. Anyway, he waltzes into a jeweler’s and plonks it on the counter, saying nothing. The geezer in the shop whips out his glass and peers at it. ‘’Fraid I can only offer you a grand for that, sir’, he says. Proctor tells him that he doesn’t want to sell it, but is willing to pay over the odds to match it – £1750 was the sum mentioned – so he could have a set of earrings made up for his bird, some such tosh like that. Anyway, he leaves a bogus name and address and goes merrily on his way. So the jeweler puts out the word that he’s prepared to pay £1500 for a black pearl. A couple of days later, Proctor goes into another jeweler’s, haggles a bit, and walks out with twelve hundred and fifty notes in his sky rocket—”
“Sky rocket: pocket, Denzil,” Fox said in an aside. He always assumed that because Evans was Welsh, he didn’t understand rhyming slang, despite the fact that the DI had been a London policeman for years.
“Thank you, sir,” said Evans in a tone barely short of sarcastic.
“Of course,” continued Fletcher, “when the first jeweler takes the black pearl off the second jeweler for fifteen hundred sovs, he finds that the name and address Proctor gave him was duff.”
“So what happened?” asked Evans.
“Nothing,” said Fletcher. “No offence.”
“How did it come to notice then?” Evans leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.
“The DI at West End Central…” Fletcher glanced at Fox. “Name of Dickie Lord, guv.”
“Yes, I know him,” said Fox.
“Well, Dickie Lord, who always took an interest in the jewelery game, spotted the MO straightaway. And he went round and gave Proctor a talking to. In short, told him to keep off his ground.” Fletcher sighed. “That was in the days when we could do that, of course,” he added. Fletcher was very fond of reminiscing about the old days.
Fox teased a paper clip on to the end of his letter opener and toyed with it for some moments. “Where’s Dickie Lord now, Perce?”
“Doing very nicely, guv, as a matter of fact. Set himself up as an independent insurance investigator. Deals mainly with expensive jewelery blaggings.”
“Does he now,” said Fox thoughtfully. “I think we shall pay Dickie Lord a visit. Where does he have his offices, Perce?”
“Hatton Garden, guvnor.”
“Of course,” said Fox. “Where else?”
*
“The test firing proved that the round that killed Proctor came from the weapon in the briefcase, Tommy,” said Hugh Donovan.
“Which comes as no surprise to any of us,” said Fox. “But what about the weapon?”
“Now that’s interesting,” said Donovan, warming to his subject. “It was used in a case about five years ago. The weap
on itself was never recovered.”
“What sort of job was it?” asked Fox.
Donovan flicked over a page in the file before him. “A domestic murder so far as I can tell. I’ve only got the brief details here, of course, but I can give you the docket number.”
*
Detective Superintendent Semple had something to tell Fox at last. “We’ve turned over Proctor’s drum, sir,” he said.
“How did you find it?”
“He had five credit cards in his possession when he was topped. I got one of the lads to check with each of the companies that issued them. Four of the addresses were duff, but the fifth, a modern flat in the Bayswater Road, was where he lived.”
“Very good,” said Fox. “Anything interesting?”
Semple paused, relishing the moment. “Only about two hundred grand’s worth of tomfoolery, sir.”
“Checked in Property Index, Mr Semple?” Fox spoke casually despite his sudden interest that the late Wally Proctor should have some two hundred thousand pounds worth of jewelery in his flat.
Semple was disappointed at Fox’s flat response. “There’s no record of it having been stolen, sir.”
“Well now, isn’t that a funny thing? Are you sure it’s genuine?”
“Yes, pretty certain, but there were some paste replicas of some of it as well.”
“Were there indeed?” Fox looked thoughtful as he considered the implications. “Well, Mr Semple…” He paused. “James, isn’t it?”
“Jim, actually, sir.”
But Semple’s belief that he was at last being accepted by Fox was canceled out by the detective chief superintendent’s next statement.
“Well, Jim, it looks as though we’re going to have to do some hard work from now on.”
Semple looked at his own DI. “And what the hell does he think we’ve been doing so far?” he asked. But he waited until Fox was well clear of the building before he said it.
Three
