by Graham Ison
‘What was it that Greek chap said, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle, as he studied the passport. ‘Archie someone, wasn’t it?’
‘Archimedes, sir, and “Eureka!” is what he said, meaning “I’ve found it.”’
‘Exactly so, Marriott. Well, m’boy, here we have a South African passport in the name of Jan de Ritzen that contains a photograph that looks astonishingly like Vincent Powers.’ He opened the chamber of the revolver and satisfied himself that it was not loaded. ‘And unless I’m very much mistaken,’ he added, ‘this is the weapon that killed Ronald Parker.’
The two CID officers descended to the hall where Powers, still seated in the watchman’s chair, was being closely guarded by the two uniformed officers.
‘Vincent Powers, otherwise known as Jan de Ritzen, I am arresting you for the murder of Captain Angus Sinclair of the Black Watch upon an unknown date at Kimberley in the Union of South Africa.’
In an attitude of defeat, Powers collapsed against the back of the chair and stared at Hardcastle. ‘Well, that’s it, I suppose,’ he said.
‘I am also arresting you on suspicion of having murdered one Ronald Parker on or about the fourth of March this year.’
‘I’ve never heard of anyone called Ronald Parker,’ protested Powers, sitting upright again.
‘Yes, well, we’ll see about that, my lad,’ said Hardcastle, unable to keep the delight from his voice, having, at last, solved the murder of the man found floating in the River Thames nearly three weeks previously. ‘He certainly knew about you from Daisy Benson, one of your many whores.’
Marriott turned to the maid. ‘Does your master have a telephone here, Violet?’ he asked, anticipating Hardcastle’s next instruction.
‘Yes, sir, it’s in the drawing room. If you’ll follow me, it’s this way.’
‘I’ve arranged for transport from Kingston police station, sir,’ announced Marriott, when he returned to the hall a few minutes later.
‘Excellent.’ Hardcastle rubbed his hands together.
Once Powers was safely lodged in Kingston police station, and having informed the station officer that an escort would be sent to convey the prisoner to Cannon Row, Hardcastle turned to Marriott.
‘Well, Marriott, that looks like that.’
‘Perhaps we should have a drink to celebrate, sir. The lads here tell me that there’s a decent pub just up the road. The Fighting Cocks, it’s called.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle with a wave of his hand. ‘We’d have to pay for our beer in there. No, we’ll wait till we get back to civilization.’
The escort brought Vincent Powers to Cannon Row police station at eight o’clock that evening. Hardcastle immediately set about interviewing him in the small room at the front of the building.
‘Well now, de Ritzen . . .’ Hardcastle and Marriott settled themselves in chairs on the opposite side of the table from the South African more familiarly known to them as Powers. ‘I shall shortly charge you with the murder of Ronald Parker. Is there anything you wish to say about that?’
‘I told you before,’ protested Powers, ‘that I don’t know anyone of that name.’
‘Yes you do. Daisy Benson, the woman you bedded at the Kingston Hotel on the night of Friday the eighth of February last and subsequently at your house, told you that Ronald Parker was someone who’d enjoyed her favours and was continuing to do so,’ said Hardcastle, speculating that this might well have been the case. ‘What’s more she told you that she wouldn’t stop seeing him. But you don’t like anyone sharing your women, do you? I suggest that you were so insanely jealous that you murdered him, just like you murdered a British officer called Captain Angus Sinclair for taking an Afrikaans whore off you in Kimberley.’
Since his arrest, Powers had recovered his equanimity and sat staring blandly at Hardcastle. ‘I’ve not the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Inspector,’ he said eventually, running a hand through his flowing hair. ‘I certainly don’t recall any such conversation with this Mrs Benson you talk of. In fact, I’m quite sure I do not know a woman called Daisy Benson.’ He waved an imperious hand as though dismissing the suggestion as a figment of Hardcastle’s imagination. ‘Furthermore, I’m warning you that I am a very rich man and I shall brief the finest lawyers available to defend me against this ridiculous trumped-up charge. Until then, I have nothing more to say to you.’ The South African folded his arms, leaned back in his chair and afforded Hardcastle his best withering gaze.
‘Take him through to the charge room, Marriott,’ snapped Hardcastle furiously. ‘I’ll be along shortly to charge him.’
Hardcastle arrived at the police station at his usual time of eight o’clock on Saturday morning. After inspecting the crime and charge books, and muttering about the inability of his detectives to get out and catch thieves, he settled in his office and lit his pipe. For the next hour, he studied the Police Gazette, read his detectives’ reports – some of which he sent back for resubmission – and prepared his notes about the arrest of Jan de Ritzen, alias Vincent Powers.
Finally, he ran his eye over the previous day’s edition of Police Orders, and muttered an oath when he read that Divisional Detective Inspector Edward Brady of Y Division had been promoted ahead of him. Brady was his junior in age, service and seniority. Then he read the entry again, just to make sure that his eyes were not deceiving him. He knew of Ted Brady’s reputation and had often wondered how he had got as far as being given charge of the detectives on that outlying division, let alone to go even farther. But he presumed that Brady had friends among the higher echelons of Commissioner’s Office, as New Scotland Yard was correctly styled.
He called for Marriott. ‘Send a couple of men down to Powers’ house to do a proper search. Better make it Wood and Wilmot. When you’ve done that, come back here.’
‘Yes, sir.’ It was clear to Marriott that his chief was not in the best of moods this morning.
‘And find out what’s known about this bloody South African warrant.’
‘It would seem, sir,’ said Marriott, when he returned thirty minutes later, ‘that the Foreign Office hasn’t received an arrest warrant for de Ritzen from the South African government. That means, of course, that a warrant won’t have been issued by the Bow Street magistrates for his arrest, which they would’ve done if the South African warrant had been lodged.’ It was his job to concern himself with such matters and advise his chief accordingly, and he had not needed the DDI to tell him.
‘That don’t matter a jot, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, dismissing with a wave of his hand what he considered to be a minor point of legal bureaucracy, ‘because I’ve already charged Powers with the murder of Ronald Parker. The Chief Metropolitan Magistrate won’t worry about the South African warrant yet. He’ll remand him in custody for eight days anyway for the murder of Parker. That’ll give the Boers plenty of time to sort out a fugitive offender’s warrant. All we need then is for the Foreign Office to get off their backsides.’
‘But if the police in South Africa get him back, sir, surely that’ll mean that we won’t be able to proceed against him for Parker’s murder?’
‘Ah, but the South Africans ain’t got him in their custody, Marriott, we have,’ said Hardcastle, gently tapping the top of his desk with the closed fist of his hand for emphasis. ‘Possession is nine points of the law and I ain’t letting Powers go without a fight. Mind you, the South Africans will hang him anyway, so it don’t make much difference in the long run.’ He glanced at his watch, briefly wound it and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket. ‘Time we was getting ourselves up to Bow Street.’
SEVENTEEN
It was nigh on eleven o’clock before Sir Robert Dummett, the Chief Metropolitan Magistrate, had finished dealing with the usual parade of prostitutes and drunks that, by long-standing custom, always appeared first in the register.
‘Vincent Powers, Your Worship. Charge of murder,’ cried the policeman-gaoler, as the South African
was escorted into the dock. There was a feverish flurry of excitement in the press box as journalists began to make notes. It was a rare occurrence for a prisoner accused of murder to appear in the court.
‘Is your name Vincent Powers and do you reside at The Beeches, Kingston Hill in the County of Surrey?’ asked the clerk of the court.
‘It is and I do,’ replied Powers loftily, and swept the court with his gaze, as though appraising a first-night theatre audience. ‘And I am completely innocent of this ridiculous charge.’
‘Now is not the time to enter a plea,’ said the magistrate mildly.
‘You may sit down,’ said the clerk.
Ignoring the prisoner, Dummett turned to Hardcastle as he stepped into the witness box. ‘Good morning, Inspector.’
‘Good morning, Your Worship.’
‘Are you in a position to proceed, Mr Hardcastle?’
‘Not at this stage, Your Worship.’
‘In that case, I’ll delay taking a plea. Do you wish to make an application?’
‘I respectfully ask for a remand in custody, sir, on the grounds that Powers might interfere with witnesses, and that he might attempt to flee the country,’ said Hardcastle blandly, not that he thought the former to be the case, but as he was not testifying on oath it did not matter too much. ‘There is some evidence that the prisoner was responsible for the murder of one Ronald Parker on or about the fourth of March this year, but further enquiries need to be pursued before depositions can be taken. I also have it on good authority that a warrant, in the name of Jan de Ritzen, exists in South Africa for Powers’ arrest on a charge of murdering a Captain Angus Sinclair of the Black Watch at Kimberley on an unknown date. Having examined the prisoner’s passport, I am satisfied that Vincent Powers and Jan de Ritzen are one and the same, sir.’
‘There is no such warrant before the court,’ observed Dummett mildly, confirming what Hardcastle already knew. ‘Is there?’ he asked, leaning forward to address the clerk of the court.
‘No, sir,’ said the clerk.
‘That is correct, Your Worship,’ said Hardcastle. ‘An urgent communication has been sent to the Foreign Office requesting that they expedite the matter.’ He glossed over the fact that Marriott had merely made enquiries earlier that day, and spoke as if the requisite legal process was already well in hand. But he knew that nothing would happen before Monday morning anyway.
‘Very well, Mr Hardcastle.’ Dummett glanced at his ledger and then at the prisoner. ‘Vincent Powers, you are remanded in custody until Monday the first of April.’
‘I protest most strongly,’ exclaimed Powers.
‘Your protest is noted,’ said Dummett, making the necessary note in his ledger.
‘Begging your pardon, Your Worship,’ interrupted Hardcastle, ‘but the first of April is Easter Monday.’
‘Ah, so it is, Mr Hardcastle, so it is. We’ll make that the second of April, then.’ Dummett scribbled a few more words in his ledger and looked up. ‘Don’t want to spoil my chances of receiving white gloves for the sake of a remand, eh?’ he added with a smile. Although the court always sat on Easter Mondays, there were rarely any cases brought before it on that day. Traditionally, in such an event, the magistrate was presented with a pair of white gloves.
‘Indeed not, sir,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Next case,’ said the magistrate.
‘And now we need to get a move on, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, when he and his sergeant were back at Cannon Row. ‘Get that revolver we seized from Powers across to Mr Franklin tout de suite. I want him to tell me that it was the weapon that killed Parker.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘We’re beginning to get somewhere at last,’ he added.
‘Very good, sir,’ said Marriott.
‘And I wonder how Mr Drew got on with the fingerprints of Mrs Parker.’
‘No doubt he’ll let us know as soon as he gets a result, sir.’
‘I hope the Foreign Office hurries up with getting in touch with the South Africans about the warrant. We’ve only got until Tuesday week before Powers comes up again at Bow Street.’
‘The Foreign Office isn’t known for moving quickly, sir,’ ventured Marriott, and immediately wished he had not.
‘You wouldn’t think there was a war on,’ grumbled Hardcastle. ‘I sometimes wonder how we ever managed to acquire an empire. If they carry on at this rate, we’ll lose it all one day, you mark my words. Well, Marriott, there’s nothing more we can do before Monday. Get that revolver across to Mr Franklin and then go home. My regards to Mrs Marriott.’
‘Thank you, sir, and mine to Mrs H.’
‘You don’t seem too happy, Ernie,’ said Alice, when Hardcastle arrived home. ‘Your murder not going well?’
‘The murder’s all wrapped up,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but that idle fool Ted Brady on Y Division was promoted in last night’s Police Orders. He’s been a DDI for less time than me, and he’s never done anything important because nothing important ever happens at Highgate. And now he’s been posted to the Yard in some quiet office job where, no doubt, he’ll spend all day writing useless instructions for those of us who’re really doing the hard work.’
‘Never mind, Ernie, you’re chance will come.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I don’t say the right things to the right people.’
‘That’s true, Ernie,’ said Alice, with some feeling, ‘but you were never one to mince your words.’
On Sunday morning, and still in an irritable mood about Brady’s promotion, Hardcastle paid his usual visit to Horace Boxall’s shop on the corner of Kennington Road.
‘Morning, Mr Hardcastle.’ Boxall laid a copy of the News of the World on the counter, knowing that Hardcastle always bought that particular paper.
‘Morning, Horace. And an ounce of St Bruno and a box of Swan Vestas as well, please.’
Boxall took a packet of Hardcastle’s favourite tobacco from a shelf behind him and put it on top of the newspaper together with the matches. ‘I see the Huns shelled Paris yesterday,’ he said, pointing to the newspaper headlines. ‘One of them Krupp Big Bertha guns gave it a real pasting by all accounts. Two hundred-odd Parisians killed, so it says.’
Hardcastle turned the newspaper and glanced briefly at the item. ‘Bloody cheek!’ he exclaimed. ‘Did you see this, Horace?’ he said, jabbing a finger at the item that had attracted his attention. ‘According to this report the Kaiser said that the battle’s won and the English are utterly defeated.’ He paid for the paper, tobacco and matches. ‘Well, Sir Douglas Haig and General Pershing will soon make him eat his words, and that’s a fact.’
‘I hope you’re right, Mr Hardcastle.’
‘You mark what I say, Horace. This time next year we’ll be hanging the Kaiser.’
If Hardcastle had been depressed by news of the promotion of DDI Brady of Y Division, worse was to come on Monday morning.
The DDI had just settled in his office when Marriott knocked and entered.
‘You don’t look too happy, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Someone been promoted over your head as well?’
Having yet to read Police Orders, Marriott knew nothing of DDI Brady’s promotion, but sensed that Hardcastle was annoyed about something or someone. Unfortunately, the news he was about to impart would displease his chief even more.
‘I’m afraid it’s about the revolver we seized from Powers’ house, sir.’
‘What about it, Marriott?’ Hardcastle looked up with a frown on his face.
‘It’s not the weapon that killed Ronald Parker, sir. Mr Franklin is adamant on the point.’
Hardcastle stared open-mouthed at his sergeant in sheer frustration. He had convinced himself that Powers was the murderer. Everything pointed to it. He had changed his name from de Ritzen and fled to this country to avoid arrest for a murder in Kimberley that followed a dispute over a woman. And now another woman – Daisy Benson – had had an affair with the murder victim and with Powers. The pattern was the same, and
surely, Hardcastle had thought, the murderer must be the same.
‘What about the search of Powers’ house that Wood and Wilmot carried out over the weekend, Marriott?’
‘There were no other weapons, sir,’ said Marriott, anticipating the DDI’s next question. ‘The only find of any significance was a substantial quantity of uncut diamonds found secreted in another, smaller safe screwed to the joists in the loft above the kitchen. Initial estimates put the value of the stones at about five thousand pounds. Presumably he took a few of them out from time to time and sold them in Hatton Garden, and he was probably living on the proceeds.’
‘No wonder he could afford champagne and caviar,’ muttered Hardcastle gloomily.
‘What are we going to do about Powers, sir? He’s locked up in Brixton prison on a charge that won’t stick.’
‘Let him stay there,’ growled Hardcastle. ‘He’s going back to South Africa to be hanged anyway. It’s only a matter of the paperwork, Marriott, and I was never one to bother too much about that.’
‘No, sir.’ Marriott knew that Hardcastle found writing reports a chore, although he was never slow to criticize the submissions of his subordinates.
But in the event, and to everyone’s surprise, the South African government moved so swiftly that a fugitive offender’s warrant for Jan de Ritzen was lodged while he was still on remand in Brixton prison. After a short hearing at Bow Street police court, he was returned to South Africa to stand trial.
‘By the way, sir, Mr Collins has just arrived with some information for you.’
‘More bad news, I suppose,’ grumbled Hardcastle, frustrated at having to reopen a murder investigation that he thought had been brought to a satisfactory conclusion. ‘Ask him to come in, Marriott.’
‘Morning, Ernie.’ Detective Inspector Collins sat down in one of Hardcastle’s chairs. ‘I suppose you’re still complaining about Brady of Y Division being promoted. He must be one of the Commissioner’s blue-eyed boys.’ Like every detective inspector in the Metropolitan Police, Collins knew where each of them stood in the seniority tables and when they were likely to be promoted, almost to the day.
