Elizabeth observed the rapt expression on David Audley's face, half admiring, half smug, and knew that Chief Inspector Andrew hadn't been lucky at all; or, if he had been lucky, it dummy3
had been the deserved luck of the clever man who takes the right path at each intersection out of that rare blend of intelligence and experience and instinct which passed for luck among lesser mortals.
"So ... to cut a long story short... I ended up at the Jolly Caulkers pub right opposite Surrey Docks station, on the edge of all that rundown docks area, where there's a bloke behind the bar I used to be at school with. An' they know I'm a dick, of course, though I've been mostly up Bermondsey, Peckham way, out of Catford divisional nick . . . but I'm still nearly one of them, all the same. An' because this is a rush job, I flashed your father's picture around. An' someone says for old times' sake 'Yeah—I saw 'im with Lippy once', an' I said 'Lippy who?', and he says 'Harry Lippman, what used to fence gear out of Redriff Road—but 'e's dead now'. . . Which was the only reason why he'd even said that much, of course—
Redriff Road's just nearby, little 1920s council flats, just square boxes with iron railings in front— because Lippy was where I couldn't touch him."
Sip. "So because it's still a rush job I went straight to Deptford nick, where I'm known, an' up to my old mates on the first floor. An' they knew Lippy all right—'Harry Lippman, fence'—but they say the guys who really knew him are at Tower Bridge nick ... So I went all the way back to Tower Bridge nick, on the edge of the bridge. And there's a guy there ... he says Harry Lippman was the kind of fence they never really wanted to catch. They knew what he was dummy3
doing— jewellery was his speciality, an' the more antique the better, but he'd handle any gear that wasn't too hot. . .only he wasn't tough or rough, he didn't upset people or hurt people—
he was of the old school... If he'd have been an obvious nick, they'd have nicked him, but as he was careful an' they had a lot of worse villains, they didn't bother with him." Del smiled suddenly, and looked round the table. "Besides which there was his war service, anyway, in his favour."
"His war service?" Mitchell leaned sideways towards Del.
"That's right. Leading Radar Mechanic Lippman, RNVR, with a Mention in Despatches too." Del turned to Elizabeth.
"And that was in the same despatch your father figured in for his medal—Leading Radar Mechanic Lippman of HMS
Vengeful, that's who Lippy was . . . before he went back into the family business and became Harry Lippman— disposer of stolen property. Or 'Retired general dealer', as his death certificate puts it."
"What did he die of?" said Paul quickly.
"Arterio-sclerosis. In hospital—as natural as you like." Del shook his head. "It was the next thing I checked—got half the staff out of bed . . . Nothing for us there. And it was about five, six months gone by." Back to Elizabeth. "Lippy handled your father's business right enough—would have been honoured to, by all accounts . . . very proud of his war service he was—British Legion treasurer, Old Comrades' Association
—picture of his ship and his captain in the sitting room, above his medals in their case . . . Doing your dad a favour or dummy3
two would have been right up his street—he had all the contacts, for money or gear, and he was recognised as an honest crook, so no one double-crossed him. In fact, right to the end, if anyone got done down or hurt in Rother'ithe, Lippy had a way of dealing with it . . . 'Fact, I reckon they miss him in Tower Bridge nick, the way things are down there now."
Paul turned to Audley. "Not the man to give Novikov the time of day, David."
"Too right!" Del gave a snort. "Maybe now they've got some weirdos on that patch today—young Trotskyites and Revolutionary Workers from outside, where it always used to be dockers who were rock-solid Labour—Ernie-Bevin-Labour . . . But Novikov would have stood about as much chance as a snowball in hell in the Jolly Caulkers in Lippy's heyday—he'd have ended up under a barge in the river, most likely. Lippy was on the Murmansk run in '44, and he didn't take a shine to what he saw at the other end, from all accounts."
"So where does Danny Kahn come in?" said Elizabeth.
"Ah . . . now Danny Kahn doesn't come in with Lippy," Del shook his head. "Lippy wouldn't have given Danny the time of day on a wet Sunday afternoon, not if he'd have come to him on bended knees . . Danny wasn't family, either in the general sense or the specific one, an' Lippy was a great family man—you can still see that in the street markets, and on a Saturday night, they say, when his daughters go out."
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"His daughters?"
"Yeah—three of 'em . . . They like to see their kids looked after, Lippy's sort . . . and some of the things he fenced, if they weren't hot—like if someone from pound-note country wanted to get rid of the family heirlooms on the quiet—he couldn't bear to get rid of some things so they ended up on his daughters . . . You go into any South London market, an'
look at the women, an' you'll see they've got rings on all five fingers of both hands. They don't really trust banks, those people—they prefer to have their riches about them, on their wives and daughters ... It's one way of looking good, and it's another way of investing your money away from the bleeding tax-man—mother to daughter, an' no questions asked . . . But Danny doesn't come into any of that. . . Although, funnily enough, it's through the family that Danny has got his dirty little hoof into the door—"
"Through the daughters?"
"Naow . . . Lippy's daughters wouldn't look twice at Danny's sort—they're married to accountants and solicitors and schoolteachers, all strictly legitimate an' respectable, even if they are still South London—but he had these two brothers, see . . . an' one of them's okay, in Hatton Gardens, in precious metals—"
"Gold?" inquired Mitchell, almost innocently. "Coins?"
"Yeah. He could handle gold coins easy enough . . . But the other married a gentile, that's got this no-account step-son, dummy3
Ray Tuck— Raymond Darren Tuck, who's been sucking up to Lippy ever since he found he couldn't do nothing else, because it was too much like hard work . . . An' Ray Tuck's been running Lippy's errands—or was, until Lippy snuffed it
—an' now he's tried to take over Lippy's operation."
"Tried?" echoed Paul.
"Yes . . . well, of course, all he's got is the bad end, because the good ends don't want to know. Because Lippy's nearest and dearest criminal colleagues and clients have quickly sussed Ray Tuck out as a johnnie-cum-lately, an' they don't trust 'im. So they've decided to go elsewhere, an' all Ray Tuck's ended up with is the rough end of the business, that Lippy himself didn't want, but had to be polite to so as to afford the little niceties of life—I don't mean the really rough end, like Oakenshaw wanting to dispose of something—Lippy wouldn't have touched that. . . but . . . the dodgy end, where the risks are. So . . . the word is ... sure as eggs is eggs, Ray Tuck is going to get himself nicked—or worse—"
"Worse?"
"Right. Because what Tower Bridge nick thinks, it's only a question whether we get him—or Danny Kahn does." Del smiled at Elizabeth. "And, finally to answer your reiterated question, Miss Loftus . . . Danny Kahn's a bright kid who could have gone far, but he decided to make his pile the easy way . . . 'Fact, I knew his dad, who was a runner before the Betting and Gaming Act came in ... and as a result of his running he got this betting shop . . . an' Danny, who's got a dummy3
few brains—which Ray Tuck hasn't—has managed to increase the empire, with a few snooker halls an' a bit of the other on the side, that can't be mentioned in polite company, an' even a bit of protection with his present West Indian partner, who is apparently just about due for a nasty accident owing to a sudden rush of ambition to the head . . . because Danny's real hard, and got a certain amount of bottle—again, which Ray Tuck hasn't got ... So all Ray Tuck's got now is debts and an expensive girl-friend, both of which also belong to Danny, who doesn't care much about the girl, but does care about his money."
/> "So Danny could take out a contract with Novikov?" said Audley.
"Danny could . . . and Danny would, if the price was right, and if Novikov undertook to get any stray reforming middle class Trots off his back, sure—Danny wasn't on the Murmansk run—"
"But Novikov wouldn't," said Paul. "Not if there was a sub-contract involved—that would be ... too dodgy?" He looked at Del.
"It's a mistake to think in certainties," said Audley mildly.
"Novikov would do whatever he thought would work."
"But it didn't work," said Paul. "The infallible David Audley messed it up."
Audley's spectacles glinted in the candlelight. "Now you're being what my dear wife would call 'devious', Paul. And in dummy3
the sense that she undoubtedly means, I would advise against that. Just keep an open mind, that's all." He turned to Del Andrew. "And what is your interpretation of all this?"
Del stared at Audley thoughtfully for a moment. "Well, as long as you allow that it is only an interpretation . . . because this is as far as I've got, even under starter's orders—"
"An interpretation only, Chief Inspector."
"Okay." Del switched to Elizabeth first. "Your dad shifted gear, not cash—"
"Gear?"
"Valuables. Objets d'art—anything from the Crown Jewels to a pretty picture of a Stubbs gee-gee, or the family silver.
Because Lippy could handle that, and divvy up untraceable money for it, over a reasonable period. And he wouldn't have gypped your dad, his old captain. Point One."
Audley pushed the port decanter towards him.
"Thank you . . . Point Two: Ray Tuck would gyp anyone. But he doesn't have the resources to do it, or the bottle to do it if it was tough, or the time—and most of all the time, because time is what he hasn't got . . . Even though I reckon he'd like fine to take over the late Commander Hugh Loftus's custom . . . And Lippy would have advised your dad against that, in any case. But. . . Ray Tuck has got big ears—"
"You haven't talked to Ray Tuck?" cut in Mitchell.
"If I had, then I wouldn't be guessing, I can tell you," said Del grimly. "But no ... Ray Tuck is 'unavailable' at the moment.
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And we've got a three-line whip out on him ... so my only fear is that he's drifting on the tide somewhere around Wapping Stairs, after what you did yesterday, Dr Mitchell. Because I'm pretty sure it was Danny Kahn who contracted Oakenshaw to do this job—no proof, just m.o. and past history . . . Because I think that just recently Ray Tuck sold everything he knew about Commander Loftus, lock, stock and barrel, to Danny Kahn on a payment-by-results basis."
"Why just recently?" said Mitchell.
"Because I don't think Ray Tuck knew who his Uncle's valued old friend was until just very recently," said Del. "To be exact
—until his old friend died."
"You're not telling us that he read The Times obituary, man
—" Mitchell began incredulously.
Del grinned at him. "Your trouble, Dr Mitchell, is that you read the wrong newspaper. Because, while The Times had a boring obituary, the Sun has a luscious nude on page three—
and a bloody marvellous picture of young naval officers and old ex- Vengeful heroes on page five, with a sorrowing veiled daughter, and her address, near enough . . . and a nice picture of Loftus of the Vengeful himself for good measure—
a very neat piece of nostalgia on a day when there wasn't much hard news . . . Apart from which, the same touching scene was picked up on both BBC and ITN local news, partly because it was photogenic, and partly because of the row he made about the Vengeful's, renaming a year or two back—"
"So what do you deduce from all that?" said Mitchell sharply.
dummy3
"I deduce, Dr Mitchell, that Ray Tuck saw it—or read it ...
doesn't matter which . . . and then he knew at last who the golden goose was—that's what I deduce. And because he hadn't time to suck the eggs, because of the way Danny's leaning on him for his money, he sold the whole goose—beak, feathers, gizzard, daughter and all. An' Danny reacted predictably, by not wanting to go on from wherever Lippy left off, just taking his cut like any honest villain, but going for the whole goose too. Because he's a greedy sod, an' because he's got his own troubles, with the recession, like any other businessman, and he's in need of capital just now."
"Why did he call in Oakenshaw, though?" asked Paul. "Why didn't he do the job himself?"
"Ah . . . now that's where the real guesswork comes in—
though to my mind it also strengthens the rest of it." Del paused for a moment, first considering Mitchell, then Elizabeth. "Now, I don't know what your dad was up to, dear
—it was dodgy, but I don't know what it was anywhere near, or how it fits in with what Dr Audley there wants . . . except that the name Vengeful comes into it somewhere . . . But I suspect it's not going to be easy to suss out, either way, an' I reckon Danny came to the same conclusion. Because, as I say, Danny's not stupid ... an' after he'd thought about what Ray Tuck gave him I think he decided that he needed real brains—trained, analytical brains ... a scholar, if you like. An'
that. . . apart from being a nasty-little murdering, torturing swine . . . was what Master Julian Oakenshaw was. An'
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Danny knew it, because he'd used Oakenshaw before, according to the skipper at Tower Bridge nick."
"So where's Danny Kahn now?"
"That's the next piece that fits in," Del nodded. "Because Danny's gone to ground too, like Ray Tuck. 'Off on holiday in foreign parts', his Number Two says. An' no forwarding address because he doesn't want to be disturbed, 'cause he's been working so hard, an' needs a complete rest." Del's lip curled. "But he was still around yesterday, and he hasn't taken his latest girl-friend with him. So my next guess is that, with Julian Oakenshaw not surfacing—and Steve Donahue and Willie Fullick also absent without leave . . . and me going through the Jolly Caulkers like the fear of God . . . Danny's running scared too. Because he'll not only know the Old Bill is asking about Lippy and Ray Tuck, but with his contacts he may even know that I'm no longer the same Old Bill he knows and loves, but one of the funnies from the Special Branch who can be a whole lot meaner."
"And what are the chances of finding him?"
"Of finding Danny, Dr Mitchell? Slim . . . Danny's the sort that's smart enough to plan for a rainy day, is the Tower Bridge opinion. But with Ray Tuck, we've got a better chance
—assuming that he hasn't already gone to the great dole queue in the sky—because no one's scared of him, like of Danny . . . and there's still one or two of Lippy's old mates that'd like to see 'im cut down to size for takin' Lippy's name in vain—Ray Tuck don't count as family any more, that's dummy3
going to be his epitaph if Danny Kahn hasn't carved it on 'im already."
Paul Mitchell drew a deep breath, almost a sigh. "I don't see how we're going to get anywhere without one of them." He looked towards Audley. "And if Danny Kahn is in with Novikov by any remote chance . . . which I still frankly doubt . . . then they both know more than we do, David. So whatever you're planning for Elizabeth—I don't like it. Our best bet is to keep her under wraps, and let Del here have his head, and give him all the manpower he needs."
That was one score to Paul's credit, thought Elizabeth, observing both men through the candlelight across the table.
Because Del Andrew and Paul Mitchell were chalk and cheese, and sculptured by their backgrounds to be competitors even though they were on the same side; and also, doing nothing would be as much against Paul's nature as against Del's—in that they were brothers, because doing nothing was boring, and because no one could shine while doing nothing. But here was Paul, nevertheless, conceding the short corner to Del. ...
"Wrong," said David Audley, almost insultingly, pouring more port into his glass, and then offering the decanter to Elizabeth.
"No thank you, David. But why is Paul wrong?" She felt an absurd loyalty for Paul Mitchell no
w, in spite of his arrogance.
"Not wholly wrong, Elizabeth." Audley pushed the decanter dummy3
towards Mitchell. "Del must have his head—a free hand to scour everything south of the river—I agree . . . But we still have the edge on Kahn and Novikov, my dear."
"How?" said Elizabeth quickly, before Paul could ask the same question. Because it was her turn to fight now, even if she didn't know why.
"Because we have what Oakenshaw was going to take from you—" Audley's hand had already been reaching inside his coat pocket "—and most particularly we have this—" he slid a piece of folded paper across the table to her.
It was a letter. Pale blue paper, shakily hand-written—
Dear Commander Loftus—
Elizabeth looked at the address—it was nowhere she had ever heard of: somewhere in Kent, near Tenterden . . . and, on the other side, was a name she had never heard of— Irene Cookridge (Miss)—
Dear Commander Loftus,
I saw your letter in "The Times" today, regarding your wish to make contact with surviving members of the crews of the warship which bore the name "Vengeful" during the first world war, or with any of their next-of-kin having material relating to their service, in connection with a book which dummy3
you are writing.
While I do not have any connection with such persons, or any such material, I have in my—
Possession? The writing was small and spiky—elderly, guessed Elizabeth—and the pen had spluttered over the second double-s successively; but extensive experience with juvenile hands, and bitter experience with Father's own scrawl, made that possession, beyond reasonable doubt—
— in my possession a slender volume relating in part to another vessel of that name, dating from a much earlier period in history; and while this does not answer your appeal it may provide you with a curious footnote to your researches.
Elderly, also beyond reasonable doubt. No modern education could have produced that semi-colon, never mind the particular words and the style itself: Miss Irene Cookridge was someone's great-aunt, or great-great-aunt, since she could not be anyone's grandmother.
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