Field of Fire

by Roderic Jeffries

  Right now, it looked like another smooth murder. The grass was thick enough to have prevented the making of any useful footprints. A close grid-pattern search had uncovered nothing. The wound was merely indicative of a new sharp cutting knife. Mrs. Appleton, they already knew, had no idea who’d made the telephone call just before he left the house, nor had she ever heard him talk about anyone who might be threatening him. He silently swore. The press would probably play this murder as strongly as Parsons’ and unless there was an arrest soon he’d be known as the D.I. with the leastest. Probably, Kywood was already telling people that as he’d always said, Fusil wasn’t really up to the big crimes: Kywood was always well ahead of the quitting rats when a ship was sinking.

  The pathologist arrived, his assistant following him with an armful of boots, gloves, and overalls. The pathologist walked slowly round the body, hunkered down and examined the cut throat, then stood up. “You’re keeping everyone very busy, Fusil.”

  “Not by choice, sir.” Like Kerr, Fusil was never certain how best to address the pathologist.

  “The man’s throat was cut by an expert, probably right-handed: expert because he did it in one, right-handed because of the line of the cut although that can never be stated categorically since entry and exit can always be mistaken in this sort of wound.” He called his assistant over and put on overall, boots, and gloves.

  Fusil walked away until it was safe for him to light his pipe without fear of leaving conflicting traces. He was beginning to feel a sense of inadequacy, as if the villains would always be a couple of jumps ahead of him . . . A strange feeling for a man who was usually so very self-confident.

  *

  C11, Criminal Intelligence, was one of the new branches of Scotland Yard, brought into being to collect and collate information about known criminals. Its staff were slowly overcoming the ordinary detective’s natural reluctance to part with any information he had — another detective might use it and gain credit for the arrest — and were even persuading the uniform branch to help. Work was broadly divided into general information that might concern any villain and the specialised information which concerned named villains in the big time on whom it was wished to build up a complete dossier. In the latter case, no fact was too insignificant . . . If a villain changed the pub at which he usually drank, why? Was the new pub near a bank?

  The D.I. in charge of one of the four teams was rung up on the outside line — no telltale number to give the snout away if someone was watching his dialling — and a hoarse voice said that Josef Dzur had left home. That was all. But it told the D.I. a lot when he went to the filing cabinets and picked out Dzur’s card. Dzur was a gunman in high demand when there was a job likely to be heavily pressured. Unpopular, uncommunicative, liking horror films, Carlsberg Pilsner, underdone sirloin, and Slivovitz, reading avidly in Czech, Slovak, German, French, and English he seldom spent a night away from his bedsitter on the outskirts of Earls Court. It was noted that on three occasions when he had been absent from his room for several days at a time there had been major crimes in which there had been shooting or the threat of shooting and it was believed he had taken part, though this could never be proved.

  The D.I. went down the room, past the filing cabinets, the notice-board on which was a surreptitiously taken group photograph calling for identification of the eight men in it, the portable radio that was relaying messages of an operation in progress, to the telephones. He dialled Special Branch and asked for Detective Superintendent Dalby.

  “We’ve just had the buzz, sir, that Josef Dzur has left home. Most times when he does we think it’s to take part in a big job. I read about the coming visit of that Czech next month and wondered if there could be any connexion?

  “There could,” replied Dalby crisply. “D’you have any info on where he’s gone?”

  “None at all.”

  “What about recent associates?”

  “Virtually useless. He’s a loner and when he does tie in with a mob he’s clever enough to keep right out of sight.”

  “I want every scrap of information you can get. And many thanks for the tip.” Dalby rang off.

  The D.I. recorded this latest snippet of information on Dzur’s card, together with the date. He initialled the entry and returned the card to the appropriate filing cabinet.

  *

  Kywood could have been very much more successful had he not, even when only a D.C., decided on compromise as a guide-line. He was intelligent rather than clever, which was often a good thing, persevering and capable of considerable concentration, and frequently able to view events with a fresh imagination: but all these potentially useful attributes were rendered almost useless because of his fatal insistence on always searching for the course of action which would cause least trouble.

  He replaced the receiver and looked round his large and well-appointed office and swore. When things started to go wrong he invariably felt he was being unfairly singled out by a malign fate — things were now beginning to go very wrong. Dalby said there was some evidence to point to the possibility that Josef Dzur was involved in the assassination job and Dzur was a Czechoslovakian refugee who’d proved himself a first-class shot.

  Kywood hated Dzur, a man of whose existence he hadn’t known until minutes ago. If the assassination succeeded, the county force would swallow up the borough force and then instead of being an important head of C.I.D. he’d be lucky even to have a job as a minor and unheard-of D.I. The chief constable wouldn’t pull any strings to help him. The chief constable’s job would also go and he was a vindictive man.

  Kywood, who sweated easily from emotion as well as from heat, mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. Goddamn it, the assassination must fail. He telephoned eastern division to speak to Fusil and was told the D.I. was out. He slammed down the receiver.

  He stared at the itinerary, written out on three sheets of foolscap. The route must be changed. Then he remembered that they’d covered this possibility at the last conference with Dalby and it had been discovered that because the coach had such a bad turning circle the procession had to go up High Street, past South Gate, as far as the traffic lights. At that meeting, he’d suggested using the mayoral car instead of the open carriage, only to be told yet again that all state visitors had been driven by coach since time immemorial. Civilians, especially Fortrow’s town councillors, were so bloody stupid, it hurt.

  He dialled eastern division again. Fusil was still out. Kywood pulled open the second drawer of his desk and took out a half-bottle of whisky. There were times when a man had to have a drink.

  *

  The Kelly mob were being paid twenty thousand to break into Jones & Craddon, gunsmiths by royal appointment to Edward the Seventh. They were a clever and successful mob, so that twenty grand wasn’t exactly a fortune, but it turned out it was good pay for so easy a mark. Jones & Craddon’s idea of security also dated from the times of Edward the seventh.

  Four men broke into the ladies’ hairdresser by the back door, in a narrow lane running between Minton Road and Oxford Street. The time was eleven-fifteen, Saturday night. The dividing wall was fairly thick, but the mortar had softened and it took them only ninety minutes to force a hole large enough for them to crawl through into the gunsmiths’.

  Display cabinets were ranged along the sides of the shop, which was at street level, but at night these were emptied of the better guns which were store in the strong-room in the basement.

  Leaving one man up top on watch, the other three went downstairs to the basement, checking all the way for alarms. Only the strong-room door had an alarm and the wires to this were traced and exposed without difficulty. A compass, determining some of them were carrying a weak current, showed a combined system of open and closed contact circuits: the wires carrying a current were cross-contacted and the others were cut. The alarm was immobilised.

  The metal door was double-locked. Fred, small, wiry, and almost bald, took from a battered briefcase a rolled-up linen hol
der, six inches long. Unrolled, numerous compartments were revealed and each of these contained a selection of skeleton keys, looking rather like dental instruments. He used a probe with attached light to look inside the top lock and study the mechanism, then selected half a dozen keys. The third one turned the tumblers. The bottom lock was more difficult: it took him seven minutes to force.

  The strong-room was forty feet long and twenty wide, heated, and with controlled humidity. On the walls were gun-racks, both horizontal and vertical, and in the centre were blocks of cases of ammunition, grouped according to their calibre or size of shot.

  Haines, a burly man who suffered a very disfiguring facial skin complaint, took a short list from his pocket and re-read it, then examined the rifles in the racks, paying particular attention to those with telescopic sights. Eventually, he chose a Holland & Holland double barrel .450 Express with pistol grip and beautifully scroll-engraved metal, and also a far more utilitarian Short Model Lee-Enfield .303. He ordered his companions to find the stocks of .303 and .450 ammunition and pick out a case of each.

  When they’d stored the rifles and ammunition on one side, Haines checked the time. It was nearly three o-clock, Sunday morning. “O.K. Let’s have some grub.”

  They’d brought with them tea and rum-laced coffee in Thermos flasks, sandwiches, bars of milk chocolate, and some fruit, together with a large white sheet. The sheet was spread out and the food was put down in the centre of this. The men sat on the outside of the sheet, for the first time removing the nylons from their heads. When they’d finished eating and drinking, one of them was sent up top to relieve the look-out.

  After a game of poker that petered out for lack of interest, they settled down to sleep. They would not be leaving for the next thirty-odd hours because the Metropolitan police had the power to stop and search anyone or any vehicle they reasonably suspected of carrying stolen property — at night or during the week-end this gave them a very strong weapon. But after eight on Monday morning, when they’d leave, the streets would be filled with people who carried parcels.

  *

  On Monday morning Helen shouted to Kerr that his breakfast was ready as she dished the two fried eggs and bacon.

  He clattered down the stairs and sat at the small kitchen table. “Where’s yours, then?” he asked, noticing she’d only a single piece of toast.

  “I’m banting. I’ve just weighed myself and I’ve put on over four pounds since last time.”

  “So? All that means is I’ve more to grab hold of.”

  She smiled. Marriage had proved to be far more rewarding than she would have believed possible and although she was basically far too sensible to imagine it could always be so lighthearted and smooth, she knew that with reasonable luck she would always enjoy a warm happiness. She scraped a little margarine on to the piece of toast.

  “Don’t overdo it,” he said, as he piled large portions of egg, bacon, and toast on to his fork.

  She hesitated, then spooned a little apricot jam out of the pot.

  “There’s another thousand calories,” he warned her.

  “Don’t be silly!” But she did not spread out all the jam she’d taken.

  He suddenly noticed the time was getting on and ate hurriedly: nearly scalding himself with the coffee. He kissed her goodbye.

  The 111 bus-stop was at the end of the road. He joined the small queue of four people and checked on the time: he was likely to be late. He willed the 111 bus into sight, but typically the only buses which arrived were on the wrong service. He looked at his watch again and saw there was now no question, he was going to be late.

  Two 111 buses arrive in convoy. He climbed into the leading one and paid his five-pence fare and hoped for a quick journey. With an infuriating perversity, they seemed to encounter endless traffic problems: lights set at red, roads up, vehicles turning across oncoming traffic, a minor shunt, a burst water main, even a thirty-vehicle jam which had no obvious cause whatsoever. He left the bus at eight-fifty and ran down the road and into the station courtyard. Crossing to the far door was a uniformed P.C. he’d known for years and he took off his mackintosh. “Hang on to this for me, Joe, until later on.”

  The P.C. grinned. “Late again, eh? You blokes in C.I.D. are real dozey. Or is it the marriage?”

  “That’s right. You ought to try it.” Kerr hurried into the station and up the rear steps. His precautions proved to have been necessary because Fusil was walking along the corridor towards the general room. “Morning, sir,” said Kerr, trying to sound casual and unpuffed.

  Fusil stared hard at him, suspicious as ever, but when he saw no outer clothes to suggest Kerr had just arrived, he finally muttered a reply and carried on.

  In the general room Fusil detailed Rowan to make further enquiries amongst the scattered houses up in the hills to try to find someone who’d noticed something of significance on the Friday afternoon, ordered Yarrow out to check an address where it was possible Parsons had been staying before his murder, and finally turned to Kerr and demanded to know whether the suspected illegal immigrants case was all clewed up.

  “No, sir. I’m afraid I haven’t had time to . . .”

  “Make time. And what have the Lincoln police to say about Sydmonds?”

  “They haven’t got back on to me.”

  “Then get on to them and shake ’em up.”

  The day had started badly, thought Kerr, and obviously it was going to get a sight worse before it was over.

  “What’s Ormond say?” demanded Fusil.

  Who in the hell was Ormond? wondered Kerr. “I’ve been trying to contact him, but haven’t yet succeeded.”

  “Try harder.” Fusil turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

  “Does anyone know who Ormond is?” asked Kerr.

  Yarrow didn’t bother to answer and Rowan shook his head. Welland just grinned.

  Braddon swept into the room and spoke hurriedly to Rowan. “Fred, there’s a job come in . . .”

  “Sorry, Sarge. The Old Man’s just detailed me . . .”

  Braddon turned to Yarrow. “You’re a dab hand at files. Come into my room . . .”

  “I’ve got to check out an address where Parsons may have been living.”

  Braddon looked at Kerr. “I’m just on my way out, Sarge,” said Kerr hurriedly. “To see Ormond.”

  Braddon told Welland to follow him back to his room even if the chief constable had ordered him straight up to John o’Groats. He left, slamming the door even harder than Fusil had done.

  “You’re a right shower,” said Welland, still cheerful. It needed a brewers’ strike to really upset him.

  *

  The message reached Fusil at midday, as he returned to the station. A neatly typed message on the blotter on his desk — obviously left there by Miss Wagner — said Jones & Craddon London gunsmiths, had been broken into over the week-end and two rifles, a .450 double-barrel Holland & Holland and a .303 S.M.L.E., and a quantity of ammunition, had been stolen. Superintendent Dalby had asked that he be notified.

  He sat down, yawned, wearily rubbed his forehead, and took a pipe from his pocket. The report said nothing about any other guns being stolen which was odd because there must have been some valuable shotguns in store in a place like Jones & Craddon. He filled his pipe and lit it. Even if only the two rifles had been wanted, why hadn’t the robbery been carried out in some provincial town where its possible significance could have been missed? When these questions were asked, it almost seemed as if the robbery had been carried out in a manner certain to draw attention to itself. Or was it just a case of over-confidence? Villains, so certain they were going to be successful even if the police knew what was intended, they were enjoying cocking a snook at the police? But that didn’t tie in with the mob who’d murdered twice and shown they were professionals to the core: the real professionals never became so over-confident they wasted time in jeering at the police.

  He turned to the mass of paperwork. But even as he wor
ked he wondered about this apparent illogicality.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The slate-roofed farmhouse stood almost at the head of the valley in north-west Wales, in the shadows of bare-crested hills. The valley, reputed to be haunted, changed character with the weather: in overcast or rainy conditions there was an air of brooding menace about it that many found disturbing, yet in sunshine it became peacefully beautiful. The farm had once been just viable, but as hill farming became less and less profitable it ceased to be so. The owner moved to flatter and much more productive land, but had the forethought and just sufficient capital to keep the old farmhouse for letting to tourists. In the summer the place was never without tenants, in winter and spring it was usually empty because then the rainfall was well above the national average: Napier had easily obtained a month’s tenancy at very low rent. The floor of the valley, once so laboriously cultivated for so little return, was a wild and riotous jumble of grass, bracken, brambles, weeds and, at the right times of year, multitudes of wild flowers.

  Dzur picked up the Holland & Holland from the groundsheet. He tested its balance, first with bent arms, then with it at his shoulder. “It’s very nice,” he said to Napier. He lowered the gun and ran his fingers over the beautifully grained walnut stock, the chased metal action, with scenes of big-game hunting, the two triggers, the fore-end, and the blued barrels. He released the locking lever, broke the gun, and held the barrels up to the sky to look through them. Then he closed the gun. “It is a splendid gun,” he said, getting the words wrong because he meant to be far more enthusiastic. “It must have cost a great deal of money.”

  “Yeah,” said Thornton. “For the walrus-moustached old bastard who probably couldn’t even lift it up without help to fire it. That thing belongs to a museum. Give me the good old S.M.L.E. with a magazine. Miss a couple of times and you’ve still got more chances up the spout.”

  “Don’t miss,” replied Dzur scornfully.