Field of Fire

by Roderic Jeffries

  “If he was,” said Fusil.

  “It doesn’t seem to me there’s much doubt.”

  “It’s nice to be so certain.”

  Kerr looked pained. Not a word of commendation for his great initiative.

  The telephone rang and at the conclusion of the short call, Fusil stood up. “Come on. Estate agents in Godenton Road have been approached for a short let, to start specifically before the fourteenth of April, of a two-room office overlooking the route. They’ve stalled the bloke making the enquiry and he’s returning in half an hour’s time.”

  They went out and down the courtyard and Fusil’s battered Vauxhall Victor. The drive was a short one, but remarkable for the number of times they could easily have had accidents had not other road users taken quick evasive action: when his mind was on a case, Fusil was one of the world’s worst drivers.

  The estate agents were in a tastefully converted Georgian house and in the two bow windows were photographs and particulars of houses for sale, many carrying a ‘Sold’ notice on them. Two typists worked in the reception area and the younger of these showed Fusil and Kerr into a room beyond and to the right. A tall, erect, militarily-moustached man introduced himself as Taylor.

  “As I said over the phone, Mr. Fusil, Allard came in and asked for a short lease on the High Street property which we’d advertised in the Fortrow Gazette. I pointed out that what our clients really wanted was a lease of at least three years, but he said he was quite willing to pay a premium for the much shorter let.”

  “He volunteered the premium and you didn’t so much as hint at one?” asked Fusil.

  “That’s it. Just for the records, I wouldn’t ask for a premium under any circumstances.”

  Fusil, interested in other people’s susceptibilities, ignored the comment. “Would you describe his offer as unusual?”

  “Unusual, but not unique.”

  “Did he give any explanations?”

  “He said he works for a charity who need an office in Fortrow immediately, but only for a couple of months.”

  “What kind of a person would you say he is?”

  Taylor hesitated, brushed his moustache, and coughed. “It’s difficult these days to judge anyone on appearance, but I . . . Let’s be quite frank. I wouldn’t feel too happy doing business with him, although I can’t point to any definite reason why not.”

  “Would you describe him as educated?” asked Fusil.

  “As I’ve always maintained, that depends on your terms of qualification. He’s not public school, but he obviously knows his way around. He was dressed smartly enough: more smartly than I can afford.” Taylor’s suit was noticeably baggy.

  Fusil reached a quick decision. “It’s obvious he could be legitimate, so when he returns we’ll stay in the background to begin with.”

  “But you’ll be in this room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how shall I explain you? . . . I mean, introduce you?”

  He was strangely indecisive for a man with an appearance of sharp decisiveness, thought Kerr. He wondered how much Taylor made a year. It must be nice to be a partner in a business where evenings and week-ends were for spending at home.

  Fusil was questioning Taylor about Allard’s appearance when one of the typist knocked on the door and said Mr. Allard was back to see Mr. Taylor. Taylor said to tell him to come in, but first to take the two letters on his desk.

  Allard was in his early thirties, sleek, well dressed and only cheerfully confident until he saw Fusil and Kerr. Taylor need not have worried about any problems of introduction. The detectives identified Allard as an old lag because of his reactions when he identified them as detectives.

  Allard spoke hurriedly as he nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I just dropped back to say I don’t think I’ll go ahead. Sorry about that, but . . .” He moved towards the door, but Kerr forstalled him.

  “I’m told you’re interested in a short lease of an office overlooking High Street,” said Fusil pleasantly, but there was no mistaking his sharp expression.

  “Like I said, I was, but . . . I found this other place. I’d better get back.”

  “Back where?”

  “To work.”

  “Of course. By the way, what’s the name of the charity?”

  “Charity? What charity?” Allard’s voice rose.

  “The one you work for.”

  Allard swallowed heavily.

  Fusil smiled. “Tell us now and save a lot of trouble — what’s your real name?”

  “Allard.”

  “What d’you think C.R.O. will know you as?”

  Allard struggled to show some belligerence. “You’ve no right . . .”

  “We’ve every right.”

  “Then charge me.”

  It was Fusil’s turn to hesitate.

  Allard was clearly gaining in confidence. “You charge me and I’ll call a mouthpiece, double smart. What have I done? Come in here and asked to rent a property for a short lease, paying over the odds. What’s so illegal in that?”

  “How much money have you?”

  Allard took a wallet from his pocket and pulled out of it a thickish wad of five-pound notes. “For the rent,” he said, unable to keep a note of jeering triumph from his voice.

  Fusil reached across and took the money. He flicked through it. “You didn’t say which charity you’re working for?”

  “That’s right, I didn’t.”

  “What’s your home address?”

  “Twenty-one, St. George’s Road, Lewisham.”

  Fusil produced a photograph and passed it over. “D’you recognise this man?”

  Allard studied the photo. “Never clapped eyes on the bloke.”

  Fusil held out his hand and took the photograph back.

  “Well, then? Are you charging me with something? demanded Allard. “Or are you letting me go?”

  Fusil nodded at Kerr, who stepped away from the door. Allard left, trying not to hurry too much.

  Fusil spoke to Taylor. “Will you let me have an envelope to put this photo in?”

  “Yes, of course.” He opened one of the drawers of his desk and brought out a large brown envelope. “What does all that mean — d’you know who he is?”

  “Not at the moment, no, but I soon will,” replied Fusil, as he continued to hold the photograph by its edges as he waited for the envelope.

  *

  Kywood, newly arrived at eastern division H.Q., stared at Fusil behind the desk. “Why?” his voice rose. “Why didn’t you let him go ahead and rent the place? Then we could have nailed the bastards when they turned up.”

  “I thought about playing it that way,” said Fusil slowly.

  “Did you?” demanded Kywood belligerently.

  “The thing that worried me was, it all seemed too obvious.”

  “What d’you mean?” Kywood’s anger grew. There were times when Fusil’s refusal to work things out conventionally gave him dangerous blood pressure.

  “We’re dealing with a really smart mob: Parsons’ and Appleton’s murders prove that.”

  Kywood couldn’t resist the obvious. “You mean you’re calling ’em smart because you can’t get anywhere solving the murders.”

  “Now a smart mob knows all the conventional moves we’re going to make. They know we’re bound to check on new lettings of property which overlook the processional route. So why should they go ahead and try to rent such a place?”

  “Never mind why. They just goddamn well tried and all you could do . . .”

  “I reckon Allard was a plant. If we’d accepted the office hiring as almost certainly marking out the intended assassination point, we’d’ve committed ourselves and inevitably tied down a lot of our forces there. In the wrong place.”

  Kywood slowly sat down, rather as if deflating. He fiddled with his full lips.

  “I decided to play it differently,” said Fusil. “I got his dabs and we’ll identify him. From there, we’ll work over
all his known associates, past and present.”

  “If you were going to play it that way, why d’you let him see you and so get alerted?” muttered Kywood.

  “Until I saw him, I didn’t know which way I was taking it. In any case, Taylor at the estate agents would probably have made a nonsense of the dabs. I don’t see we’ve lost anything by letting Allard know we’re watching lettings — and that’s all he knows.”

  Kywood silently swore. Fusil made it all sound so logical.

  *

  Dzur cradled the Holland & Holland against his shoulder, took aim through the telescopic sight. Three aiming wires just didn’t meet in the centre so that a small target could visually be fitted snugly into this space. The bull’s-eye was now only two inches in diameter and the sharpish wind, coming down from the hills to the east, was causing gusty conditions. He waited for one gust to level out and begin to die away, aimed a shade right to counter it, held his breath without conscious volition and squeezed the front trigger with an even but increasing pressure. The gun recoiled against his shoulder as the right barrel fired. He pulled the rear trigger and again he jerked slightly to the explosion.

  Joyce had been watching the target through binoculars. “Looks like bulls,” he shouted.

  Dzur broke the gun and the two empty, still-smoking cartridges were ejected three feet backwards.

  “It’s great shooting,” said Napier, who was standing just behind the firing point. “Real great.”

  “O.K. for this range, but what about at a thousand yards?” demanded Thornton roughly, annoyed that Napier never praised his shooting to the same degree. “See what his lovely, lovely gun does with that.”

  “Change the record,” said Dzur, his voice heavily accented.

  Thornton stepped forward. He fired twice and both his shots were in the bull. He patted the rifle. “I’ll tell you something. It’s the bloke behind the gun what really counts. A good shot don’t need no gold-plated job. Just an ordinary rifle what’ll do the job ten times better.”

  Joyce set up the moving target and they fired at it. Unusually, Dzur had one miss, although the second shot was dead centre. Thornton’s jeers at the miss were crude and repetitious. They changed to firing the shotgun, a sidelock ejector with the unusual boring of true cylinders in both barrels, advertised for sale in The Field and stolen without trouble. Thornton fired first and out of the twenty-four pellets from the two cartridges, eight were in the central target area. Dzur had a score of fifteen. He made the pointed observation that Thornton was just occasionally right — the man behind the gun did count for much.

  It was a quarter of an hour later, after both Dzur and Thornton had returned to the house, that Joyce spoke to Napier, his battered, ugly face screwed up in an expression of bewilderment. “Titch . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  Joyce fiddled with the rope he was coiling up. “I don’t . . . Like, I mean . . .”

  Napier brought his cigarette holder from his pocket and inserted a cigarette. “So far, Stick, you’ve got me puzzled!”

  Joyce dropped the rope and took a stick of chewing-gum from his pocket and unwrapped it. He chewed for several seconds. “them two is always arguin’.”

  “Professional jealousy.”

  Joyce looked even more bewildered. “But it ain’t good, Titch. No mob don’t work good like that. Yet you don’t do nothing to stop it.”

  Napier smiled.

  Chapter Eighteen

  April started with gales and very heavy rain, but then one morning the forecasters spoke of an anti-cyclone and within two days the sun was shining, thorn hedges broke into leaf, tulips straightened up, pear and apple trees were in bud, and woods developed a green tinge.

  Fusil didn’t give a damn that spring had finally arrived. He looked as he felt, haggard, overworked, and suffering from a wife who was so worried by his state of health that she was threatening to telephone the chief constable to give him an earful.

  He yawned and slumped deeper in his chair behind the desk. It was Thursday, the thirteenth. Tomorrow, at 1530 hours, Dr. Jiri Pakac would land on English soil and walk across the dockside to the waiting carriage, newly gilded. At 1535 hours the six greys would start the carriage on its way. Along New Dock Road to the wide T-junction, a very careful swing to the left coming round on the outside of the central Keep Left sign, up High Street and past South Gate to the cross-roads, an even more careful turn right into Bombay Road, round Parstone Square where would sit all the councillors with their status-conscious wives, and finally to the station. When would come the vicious crack of a rifle or the shattering blast of a bomb?

  Allard had been identified from his dabs as Jim Beaufrey, reasonably clever with the twirlers. But the London police had learned nothing, even once they’d persuaded him it would be in his best interests to talk. He’d been paid five hundred to go down to Fortrow and rent rooms overlooking High Street: the orders had come over the telephone and the money by post. He’d no idea who he’d been working for, or why. That was his story and he stuck to it through thick and thin. Of course, his file had been checked, his known associates all turned over, but without effect.

  Fusil slowly lit his pipe. The C.I.D., the uniform branch, Superintendent Dalby and his men, and the men seconded from county, had carried out the most detailed security operation. Every room overlooking the route had been checked and double-checked and office staff briefed, snouts had been promised fortunes for news, the Czech community in London had been asked for their help and they’d willingly given it although many must have welcomed a successful assassination attempt on Pakac, airports, stations, ports were being watched round the clock, main roads into Fortrow were . . .

  His pipe had gone out and he re-lit it. If the assassination succeeded, his career would be as stone dead as Dr. Jiri bloody Pakac.

  And the coming assassination wasn’t his only headache. There were two murders. They’d been so neatly carried out that he was no nearer to identifying the murderers than at the beginning. No D.I.’s reputation could surely survive two unsolved murders that had gained country-wide publicity. And all the other cases which had, perforce, received only perfunctory attention or even none at all because there just wasn’t the time: the possibility that illegal immigrants had been flown in, Swaithe’s death (which at least could still rest in the records as accidental), the breakings and enterings, the muggings, the hit-and-runs, the armed robberies, the petty thieving, the rising incidence of shoplifting from the supermarkets, the suspected short deliveries of fuel oil on contract to schools, the . . .

  The pipe had gone out again. He separated the stem and blew down it and a wad of goo shot out. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes and the waves of tiredness swept through his mind. Was there something that he and Dalby had missed, a danger point unrecognised? Were they giving their imaginations sufficient rein? The mob had shown themselves to be ruthless. Suppose they were totally careless about how many lives they took? Might they use a mortar, fired from many roads away? A hundred pounds of gelignite in a manhole? . . . but these were questions they’d covered again and again. All nearby roads would be patrolled and army experts had stated that a mortar would not give sufficient accuracy without ranging — and no mob could carry out ranging shots in the middle of Fortrow! All manholes would be inspected tomorrow morning and then be under constant watch. Sewers, electricity and telephone tunnels would be under constant watch. Every conceivable possibility had been visualised and countered. Yet he found it impossible to relax. In his mind he kept carrying out the assassination. His men, ostensibly unknown to each other, approached a building from different directions. Once inside, guns held the occupants captive as one of them took up position by a window and carefully aimed his rifle . . .

  The telephone rang and Josephine demanded, with a touch of anger that came from worry, if he were ever coming home for lunch. He was surprised to find the time was after half past two. He said he’d skip lunch. She became angrier and then sounded as
if she were crying and he promised to return immediately.

  *

  Kerr walked down Farrant Street to the office of Southdown and Flemming. Inside, a brunette was typing and from the counter he was able to judge that her short skirt had ridden well up her shapely thighs.

  “Are you specially interested in something?” she asked coolly.

  “Yeah. Biology.” He grinned.

  She sniffed. “What do you want?”

  “Shall I tell you?”

  “If you’ve nothing better to do . . .”

  “Keep your cool, love. I’m from the police. Now about that office car you’ve had snatched?”

  She slid off the stool and walked across to the counter. She saw where he was looking. “You’ll get a squint if you’re not careful.”

  “It’ll be worth it.”

  “You’re pretty fresh.”

  “Try me on the common when it’s dark.”

  “D’you think I look that stupid?” she said, in a tone of voice which suggested she might be, if suitably persuaded.

  Helen was dead lucky, he thought. After all, even though he could really turn on the women, he never took advantage of the fact.

  *

  They sat round the badly stained table in the dining-room of the farmhouse. The rifles and shotgun were on the table, lying on newspaper so that no traces would be left behind. There really could be no reason to connect their tenancy with an assassination over two hundred miles away, but Napier never left anything to chance.

  He lit a cigarette, with finicky finger movements. Joyce drank whisky, with great gulping noises like a pig in a swill bucket. Dzur sat almost motionless, arms crossed, staring at the Holland & Holland which he’d lovingly cleaned and oiled. Thornton was holding on to his empty glass, wondering when he’d get the next drink. Foley, newly arrived with a stolen Jaguar, repeatedly scratched his cheek, close to an area of heavy scarring. Each man had in front of him a map and a typed itinerary.

  “We use rifles,” said Napier, “from the six-storey block of flats in Croxley Road, which lies three roads back from High Street but from the top gives a field of fire maybe a hundred feet long at two hundred and seventy-five yards. The telly will tell us precisely when the carriage is about to enter the field of fire.”