His appointment was for ten o’clock. S. Klerk & Co., Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths, occupied modest premises on the first and second floors of a building in Deptford High Street. Sydney Klerk had grey hair, dressed down into sideburns, a superb set of false teeth, and glasses in rectangular frames.
He said, “Well, what’s the trouble now?”
When Mercer was halfway through explaining what his troubles were, Mr. Klerk pressed the bell on his desk twice and a girl with a plain face and a very bad cold came into the room.
Mr. Klerk said, “My articled clerk. She knows much more about the law than I do. Start at the beginning again.”
Mercer started at the beginning and was allowed, this time, to complete his story. The girl blew her nose and said, “Gidgin and bathroom?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Mr. Klerk interpreted. “Has the flat got its own kitchen and bathroom?”
“Oh, certainly.”
“Unfurnished ledding?”
“All the furniture belongs to us, yes.”
“Then your landlady is mad. She certainly can’t durn you out.”
“What do I do if she tries?”
“Dell her you are abblying to the Dribunal to fix a fair rent. I don’t subbose you’ll have any more drubble.”
“And if I do have any more trouble?”
“Send for the Bolice.”
The girl departed and Mercer said, “Well, that seems to wrap that up. How much do I owe you?”
Mr. Klerk looked at his watch and made a scribbled calculation. “Eleven minutes of my time, four of my articled clerk’s. That’s nine pounds sixty inclusive of VAT.”
Mercer produced a ten pound note and was given four tenpenny pieces in return. Mr. Klerk said, “Is there anything more I can do for you?”
“Not just at this moment. But I may have some inquiries I want made. Can you undertake that sort of work?”
“If I can’t do it myself, I can always find a reliable inquiry agent, or if it’s a straightforward matter I can send my articled clerk.”
“She certainly seemed to know her stuff,” said Mercer.
“She’s a good girl,” said Mr. Klerk. He looked at his watch again and Mercer wondered whether he was going to be charged an additional fee for these closing exchanges. However, all Mr. Klerk said was, “Got to go now. Due in the Police Court at half past ten.”
Mercer walked back to Lower Creek Street. As he turned into the end of the street he became aware that things were happening. A crowd was standing about round the main entrance to Arnold Rowe’s office. He could see Bapu Ram and his brother Khalid and three or four others whom he recognised. They had a dozen supporters with them, mostly young. A girl was carrying a banner which had a well-executed picture on it. A fat man, smoking a cigar, was riding on the shoulders of a worker and flourishing a whip in the air. The legend, underneath in red letters said: ROTTEN ROWE.
When the crowd saw Mercer they embarked on an uncoordinated plain-song chant. The words, as far as he could make them out, were: “A fair wage for a fair day’s work.” Mercer grinned amiably and made his way through the crowd. No one made any effort to stop him.
He walked straight through into Rowe’s office and found him finishing a telephone call. He said, “What are you going to do about that little lot?”
“I’ve been speaking to the police. I asked them to send a van and half a dozen policemen so that they could arrest the ringleaders. Do you know what they said?” His jowls were quivering with agitation and rage. “They said, as soon as they could spare him, they would send round a policeman to keep observation. And it’s no laughing matter, Mercer.”
“Sorry,” said Mercer. “It was that picture of you. I thought it was lovely. If I was you I’d buy it off them and have it framed.”
That morning a conference took place in Superintendent Browning’s office. There were two other men present. One was Detective Chief Superintendent Whyman, the C. I. D. head of Number 1 District. The other was his predecessor in that particular job, Chief Superintendent Morrissey, now in charge of the six Special Crime Squads which operated in the Metropolitan area.
“What beats me,” said Browning, “is why I’m supposed to use my men, who are overworked as it is, to provide protection for an outfit I’d give a good deal to see closed down altogether. It’s not reasonable.”
Whyman said, “When you talk about an outfit, do you mean Rowe and Company or the employment agency next door?”
“I mean both of them. They’ve got separate entrances, but I’m damn sure they’re run by the same people.”
“And why do you think they ought to be closed down? We haven’t had any adverse reports on them from you until quite recently.”
“That’s correct. I used to think they were on the level. And they did a lot of good work, finding jobs for immigrant workers. And I like Arnold Rowe. He’s a Councillor and a solid citizen.”
“What made you change your mind?”
Browning thought for an unusually long time before he answered. He was an honest man, according to his lights, and he was being asked a difficult question. In the end he said, “It’s Mercer. The new man there. I’ve an idea he’s gradually taking the place over. And I happen to know he’s a crook.”
Morrissey grunted. He was leafing through a folder he had in front of him.
“I warned Rowe. And I warned his number two, a man called Parker, who was straight. Too straight for Mercer. He got rid of him.”
“How?”
“We’ve no idea what happened to Parker. He just vanished.”
“All right,” said Whyman. “So Mercer’s bent. He’s taking over Arnold Rowe’s setup. The idea, I gather from your last report, is that he’s got some hold over these Paks and Indians and could be using them as couriers, to transport stolen items abroad for sale on the Continent.”
“Your report went a lot further than that,” said Morrissey. “It suggested that these people had been brought into this country illegally. If their employer knew about it, that would give him all the hold he needed, wouldn’t it?”
“I’ve got no proof,” said Browning. “Their papers seem to be in order.”
“Which suggests,” said Whyman, “that there’s a larger organisation behind this one, able to produce forged papers.”
“Let’s get down to cases,” said Morrissey. His nose was again in his file. “When you began to think these chaps might be couriers, you organised some snap checks, right?”
“We’ve run three very thorough checks covering the crew and cabin staff of a different boat each time. It didn’t make us very popular with the unions.”
“And the checks flopped?”
“That’s right.”
“Any reason why?”
“I suppose we picked the wrong ship or the wrong moment.”
“There is another explanation, isn’t there?” said Morrissey.
A slow flush spread across Browning’s face. He said, without any attempt at politeness, “Meaning what?”
“Meaning a leak.”
“If you’re implying that any of my men here are capable of dirtying their fingers, I’d like names and definite accusations.”
“Don’t blow your top, Bull,” said Morrissey calmly. Browning normally discouraged the use of the nickname which he had earned as a constable on the beat, but tolerated it from Morrissey, who was more than two hundred pounds of fighting policeman, still as formidable as when he had climbed into the ring to win the heavyweight championship of the Metropolitan Force.
“You’ve got six hundred coppers in this Division alone, so you can’t be expected to know them all. What we want are the names of the ones, uniform or plainclothes, who were concerned in or knew about the three searches you just mentioned. That’ll do for a start.”
“Is that an order?”
“That’s an order,” said Whyman.
“Then I’ll do it, under protest.”
“That’s right,”
said Morrissey. “You protest. But you know as well as I do that when A10 gets an idea into its noodle there’s nothing anyone can do about it. They could investigate you, me, or the Commissioner himself.”
“All right,” said Browning. “But can I say this? What we need down here is help, not criticism and investigation. If this racket is as big as you make it out to be, all we’ve got down here is the tail. The head’s somewhere up West – the people who actually receive the stolen goods and arrange the sales abroad. People who can organise forged papers. They’re the ones you ought to be going after. In fact, I thought that was just the sort of job your Squads were organised to do.”
He did not bother to keep out of his voice the hostility which the regular police force felt for the Special Squads, with their special facilities and privileges.
Morrissey said good-naturedly, “I’ll keep it in mind, Bull.”
The Public Bar of the Duke of Albemarle was always crowded on Saturday nights. It was a favourite drinking place for dockers, sailors on shore leave, and the miscellaneous types who picked up a living along the waterfront. The police regarded it as a rough house, but had never had any definite cause for complaint. This may have been due to the fact that the landlord had once been a professional wrestler and had two sons nearly as large as himself.
From his position behind the bar the landlord regarded, with some misgiving, the appearance of a girl in Salvation Army uniform carrying copies of their official publication, The War Cry. He need not have worried.
The drinkers were in a state of alcoholic good humour and many of them paid for copies which they had clearly no intention of reading.
There was one group in the corner who had been sitting by themselves. The landlord knew them by name – Loveridge, Manson, and Banks. They were members of a nasty crowd from farther west, in the Southwark area, and he wondered what they were doing in this district.
He was glad to see that the girl intended to bypass them; but they must have noticed her. She was a remarkably good-looking girl. As she went past the corner table, Banks gave a wolf whistle and stretched out a hand as if asking for a copy of the paper. She ignored him and continued on her way round the room.
When she reached the door and went out, the landlord saw Banks rise to his feet, say something to his companions, who laughed, then make his way towards the door. He was a heavy man, his white face pocked with scars, long arms swinging from a pair of hefty shoulders. As he plowed through the crowd of drinkers he trod on a few toes, but no one seemed inclined to object. The landlord wondered if he ought to do something about it, but decided that it was none of his business.
Outside in the street Banks spotted the girl walking briskly off down the pavement and started after her. When she heard him coming she stopped under a lamppost and looked round. She did not seem alarmed.
Banks, breathing heavily, said, “You like to help me win a bet?”
“It depends on the bet,” said the girl.
“I got a bet with my friends there that for all your prissy uniform you were the sort of girl who wouldn’t say no to giving me a kiss.”
“Kiss you?” said the girl. “I’d as soon kiss the exhaust pipe on a lorry.”
“Okay. If you want to play hard to get, that suits me too.” He grabbed the front of her uniform jacket.
“It doesn’t suit me,” said Mercer.
Banks swung round. Mercer was standing just behind him. He said, “You can bug off.”
Mercer said, “Surely you can’t mean that. After all, we’re old friends, aren’t we? I’m sure you didn’t mean it. Shake hands and we’ll forget all about it.”
He held out his right hand. Banks stared at it stupidly, Mercer straightened his arm so that the thumb and four fingers rested lightly on Banks’ chest. Then the heel of his hand snapped down, with all the force and leverage of his fingers behind it. Banks uttered a sound which was halfway between a scream and a gasp, went down onto his knees, and folded slowly forward onto the pavement.
Mercer said to the girl, “The trouble with that little trick is that it can kill people. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for finishing off even a creature like Banks. Lend a hand.”
He had got hold of Banks by the coat collar. Together they lifted him until he was sitting, with his head forward. “Now we have to rock him,” said Mercer. “Rather like starting a car when the starter’s jammed.”
On the last word Banks gave a strangled grunt and threw up with projectile force onto the pavement.
“That’s fine,” said Mercer. “He’ll be all right now. I’d better take you home.”
The girl looked for a moment as though she was going to be sick herself, then said, “No. I’ll be all right now.”
“They all say that,” said Mercer. “And they never are. Come on.”
“All right,” said the girl. “Home’s only a few streets away.”
It turned out to be two rooms on the second floor of a small house in Batsford Gardens. Brushing aside her protests, Mercer marched up with her. He said, “I’m widely known as a trustworthy man, where girls are concerned. I’ll put on the kettle. A cup of tea will do you good.”
It was a typical bachelor-girl pad. One room for sleeping and eating and two large closets, one converted into a tiny bathroom, the other into an even tinier kitchen.
“I was certainly glad to see you just now,” said the girl. She seemed to have recovered most of her self-possession. “It was rather a shock. Most of the men round here are terribly decent.”
Public school education, thought Mercer.
He said, “First, Banks doesn’t belong round here. Second, he’s not a nice character at all. Professional bully. On sale to the man with the largest purse.”
Over a cup of tea Mercer said, “I imagine I’m not the first person who’s said this to you, so don’t take it as the opening move in a seduction scene, but what is a girl with your looks and class, Miss Ford, doing in a job like this?”
“How did you—?”
“How did I know your name? No magic about it. I saw it on a card under the bell push downstairs. I’m Mercer. My friends call me Bill.”
“I blush every time I admit it,” said the girl. “But my name’s Millicent. And I can’t stop people from calling me Millie.”
“It’s a nice old-fashioned name. And you still haven’t answered my question.”
“It’s a short, sad, simple story. Father, Rector of Christchurch. Died when I was eighteen. Mother paid for me to take a Teacher Training Course at Bristol. No grant, of course, because she had money of her own. My first job was at a posh school. I daren’t tell you the name. I hated it. The girls were all like fat little pigs. Then Mummy died. That meant I had enough money to live on. I had a gorgeous row with the headmistress and came up to London to train to be a Probation Officer. The Salvation Army work was my idea. It’s a useful way of getting to know people. Now it’s your turn.”
“Compared with you,” said Mercer, “I’ve had a very uninspiring life. Mostly it’s been a chase after money. Sometimes I catch up with it. Then it gets away again. And I’m afraid I’ll have to go the moment I’ve finished this tea, or the old lady on the ground floor who spotted us coming in will be getting ideas.”
Mercer walked back to the Duke of Albemarle. There was no sign of Banks, or his two friends. He had a final drink and went home to bed.
During the ensuing week the pickets at Arnold Rowe’s establishment grew more numerous and noisier. They were joined by small contingents from other unions. Rowe himself never got through without booing and some jostling. Mercer the pickets seemed to ignore.
Rowe said, “I’m not standing for much more of this. They’ve even started sticking placards on my car. If the police won’t control them, I’m going to have to do something about it myself.”
“I don’t see you can do a lot,” said Mercer.
“Don’t you?” said Rowe. “Just you wait.” There were angry red patches in his pasty cheeks. A lot of
the robust good humour had oozed out of him, leaving something uglier in its place.
Mercer thought, “He’ll blow up soon.”
After lunch Mercer called for a second time, by appointment, on Syd Klerk. As soon as they were alone together, Mercer said, “I mentioned a couple of inquiries I wanted you to make. The first might be a bit tricky.”
“Not illegal, I hope.”
“Not exactly illegal. You might have to cut a few corners. I’ve got my eye on a small house. Number 23 Swains Lane, Charlton.”
“Swains Lane. At the bottom of the hill up to Blackheath. Quite a desirable residential quarter.”
“I’m not buying it. All I want to know is whether there’s a mortgage on it. And whether part or all of the mortgage has been paid off in the last year or so.”
Mr. Klerk said, “Hmmm.” He took off and polished his rectangular glasses, then he said, “The first bit might not be too difficult. Swains Lane was part of the Bundy Estate. It was developed as a single unit after the war. That means that there’s one title number for the whole area. At each sale off, the new title number would be noted on the main title – if you follow me.”
“I think so,” said Mercer. “And if you can find the title number of the house at Number 23 you can tell if there’s a mortgage. And that would give you the name of the mortgagee.”
“Yes. Probably a Building Society or Insurance Company. But the next part’s a lot more difficult. The only person who would have access, in the normal way, to the record of repayments would be the borrower himself.”
“If it’s an Insurance Company,” said Mercer, “I might be able to put you onto a man who’s helped me before.” He scribbled a name and telephone number on a piece of paper and pushed it across the desk. “Now, there’s a second lot of inquiries. They’re quite routine. Mostly a matter of looking up records. You’ll probably have to employ an inquiry agent. I’d better give you something in advance. Would twenty-five be a good idea?”
“Twenty-five would be an excellent idea,” said Mr. Klerk happily.
Mercer had one or two other jobs to do and it was nearly six o’clock by the time he got back to the office. Arnold Rowe was getting ready to leave.
The Man Who Hated Banks & Other Mysteries Page 16
