The Man Who Couldn't Lose

by Roger Silverwood

  He was impressed. To that end, they tried various light bulbs and strengths in the house and also outside on the back step in the bright sunshine, but it revealed nothing. The cards looked the same in all the strengths and types of light they could reproduce around the house.

  ‘There’s ultra-violet light, isn’t there? I’ve been in shops where they have looked at paper money … presumably looking for forgeries.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. There were police specialists in printing and forgery: he could consult them.

  ‘I’ll send the cards to Leeds,’ he said at length. ‘To the experts. They have all kinds of sophisticated equipment.’

  ‘And I should take the spectacles to the opticians and ask them if there’s anything unusual about the lenses,’ Mary said. ‘They’ll know.’

  Angel felt heartened. Certainly Gumme senior expected his son to work out the puzzle. Surely with all the scientific resources of the police force, he should be able to solve the mystery.

  ‘Mortuary.’

  ‘Good morning, Mac. Michael Angel. Got your report on Joshua Gumme in front of me.’

  ‘Aye, Michael, well?’

  ‘Yes. When you examined his ears … I assume you examined his ears?’

  ‘Of course I examined his ears,’ Mac said irritably. ‘I always make a proper examination of everything at a full post mortem.’

  ‘Well, did you find anything in either of them?’

  ‘No. Nothing. You’ve got my report.’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘What were you expecting me to find? Mrs Buller-Price’s pot dog?’

  Angel blinked. Even Mac had heard about it. That smart answer left him speechless momentarily. He couldn’t think of a clever reply.

  ‘It was a serious question, Mac. Gumme was a notorious card sharp. I simply wondered if he had a … a miniature radio receiver of any kind, perhaps disguised as a hearing aid … so that an accomplice could … maybe have broadcast details of his opponent’s hand …’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing. If there had been, it would have been in my report. There were absolutely no signs of any scientific device fitted temporarily or permanently, externally or subcutaneously, in or anywhere near Gumme’s auditory system. Is that comprehensive enough for you, Michael?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘Now, is there anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right then. Goodbye.’

  Angel replaced the phone. He sighed. Mac could be difficult sometimes, but he always respected him as a damned good pathologist.

  The phone rang immediately. He reached out for it.

  ‘Angel.’

  It was Harker.

  ‘Come on down here. Smartly.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel’s jaw stiffened. He put down the phone. Harker sounded rattled about something. He didn’t think it could be anything in his department. The investigation was admittedly slow, but there hadn’t been any calamities he could think of. His team were all engaged in regular, legitimate enquiries and he was broadly satisfied with the way the enquiry was progressing.

  He arrived at the superintendent’s door and knocked.

  ‘Come in,’ Harker roared.

  He pushed open the door and found the superintendent sitting at his desk rubbing his hand across his mouth, his eyes flitting from one thing to another and blinking between each stare. Standing next to him was a red-faced DCI Gardiner holding a sheet of paper.

  Angel closed the door.

  ‘The DCI wants to ask you something,’ Harker growled.

  Gardiner said: ‘This email came to us from Interpol, Paris. Timed out this morning, Monday 0440 hours.’

  He handed it to Angel, who took it and read it.

  To all Chief of Polices, Grande Bretagne

  From Sureté Agent Dauville, Lyons.

  Piper Apache XX2 AB9 originally stolen from Hospitalité Orange de Paris, Orly. Departed Aeropuerto de Madrid, Monday 0418 hours carrying over 110 kilos of heroin thought to be bound for location in Grande Bretagne situate in South Yorkshire. 12 km from Sheffield and 8 km from Bromersley. Approach with caution. Pilot, Alexander Spitzer, known to be armed.

  Raymond Dauville, Captain.

  Angel gasped when he read it. A hundred and ten kilos of heroin! A big load. A most unwelcome addition to an already over-drugged society.

  ‘If it left Madrid at 0418 this morning, it will be down by now and Alexander Spitzer away by now, sir,’ Angel said.

  ‘We know that,’ Harker snapped.

  Angel said: ‘There’ll be two possible places that are twelve kilometres from Sheffield and eight kilometres from Bromersley. The northerly one would be somewhere near Tunistone.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Right at the top of the rise, near the TV mast, if the Frogs have got it right. There are several farms up there.’

  Angel’s thoughts flew immediately to Mrs Buller-Price’s spread. Her farmhouse was just a stone’s throw from the mast.

  ‘Alternatively,’ Gardiner said, ‘the southerly one is out in the sticks above the Snake Pass.’

  ‘The point is, Michael, do you know Alexander Spitzer?’ Harker said.

  ‘Yes, sir. Must be ten years ago now. He was a small-time thief when I knew him. I had him put him away for three months for housebreaking. His mother was Czechoslovakian or Croatian or something. She was devastated. Didn’t do him any good then. Big drug baron from Leeds way now, isn’t he? Served time in Durham, hasn’t he?’

  Gardiner nodded.

  ‘International figure now. A record as long as your arm. Always packs a gun. Thought to have murdered a man in Andorra. A customs man who got in his way. As sly as a fox.’

  Gardiner turned away from Angel and looked across at Harker.

  ‘Right, Michael. That was just to put you in the picture. If you hear anything, let the DCI and me know about it.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Angel said.

  ‘Crack on with …that crook in a wheelchair case … that Gumme murder, then,’ Harker said.

  Angel nodded and made for the door. He ran his hand through his hair as he dashed up the corridor back to his own office. They only wanted to see if he knew Spitzer, to see if he would recognize him if he turned up back in South Yorkshire, that’s all that was about. Must be ten years since he saw him. He was nothing but an uncouth hooligan then. A young man in a hurry. Now wanted for drug-running and murder and a lot more. He’d seen it all before.

  He arrived in his office and immediately picked up the phone. He tapped in a nine for an outside line then tapped in a six-digit number.

  There was a click as the phone was answered.

  ‘Hello? Mrs Buller-Price speaking.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. Her voice sounded bright and normal. He was much relieved. ‘Inspector Angel here.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said warmly. ‘How nice of you to call, Inspector. You have some good news for me? You have found my jewellery, my pot dog, my Fifi, and …?’

  ‘Alas, no, dear Mrs Buller-Price, but rest assured we are making dedicated enquiries to find the items, but have had no success up to now.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘I have really phoned to ask you if you have seen any strangers in the farm or the fields, or indeed anywhere round there, lately?’

  ‘No. I have not, Inspector. I did see your Sergeant Gawber last Wednesday, I think it was. He was very nice, with a fingerprint man. Haven’t seen anybody since.’

  ‘I was thinking more recently. This morning? There was a report of a plane getting lost around your way early this morning. You didn’t see a small aeroplane …?’

  ‘Must be a rotten navigator to get lost near this thumping great television mast! No. I didn’t see any planes. Where was he headed for?’

  Angel had to think quickly.

  ‘Huddersfield, I believe.’

  ‘Oh? I didn’t know there was a place to land in Huddersfield?’


  ‘Good morning, Mr Angel. Are Mrs Angel’s reading glasses satisfactory? Or is there something wrong with your eyes? Is it you that needs an eye test this time?’

  ‘My eyes are fine, as far as I know, Mr Rainford, thank you. As you may remember, I am a policeman … a detective. I have a query about a pair of spectacles that have come into my possession in the course of investigating a case. Would you kindly take a look at them?’

  Rainford’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Of course. Of course. How very interesting.’

  Angel pulled a large manilla envelope out of his pocket, carefully opened it and slid the spectacles out onto the counter top.

  ‘Ah. Do these belong to a criminal, then, Mr Angel?’ he said. He picked them up, opened the arms, held them up in the direction of the shop window and looked through the lenses.

  ‘Something like that,’ Angel said.

  Rainford turned to Angel and said, ‘Now, what exactly do you want to know?’

  ‘Well, is there anything unusual about them?’

  ‘They are not prescription spectacles. Hmm. These are really powerful, unsophisticated lenses for a patient who needs simple magnification, such as for reading or sewing or any kind of close work. The magnification is the same in each lens.’

  ‘Where would one buy these sort of spectacles?’

  ‘From chain stores or multiples or even supermarkets.’

  ‘Is it possible these spectacles have the properties of a filter?’

  ‘These haven’t. The lens would have to be tinted or even dark, like sunglasses, to filter out specific colours. As you can see, these are perfectly transparent.’

  ‘Have the frames been interfered with in any way?’

  ‘No. They look as original to me. What exactly do you mean?’

  ‘Has any hearing device like a hearing aid been incorporated in the frame?’

  Mr Rainford smiled and made a very careful examination of the two arms and the front of the spectacles.

  ‘You can see that the surface of all the frame is in pristine condition. Just as it would have come out of the mould it was cast in. I have heard of special spectacles made incorporating hearing aids, but these spectacles are very ordinary. These have certainly not been adapted in any way like that.’

  ‘Is the weight of them exactly what you would expect?’

  ‘Indeed, yes. These are a little heavy because the lenses are made of glass. Most spectacles lenses are made from plastic.’

  Angel pursed his lips and rubbed his chin.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Angel, I don’t seem to have been much assistance.’

  ‘On the contrary, Mr Rainford, you have been most helpful. You have eliminated several possibilities. Thank you very much.’

  ‘DS Taylor from SOCO brought these in, sir,’ Ahmed said. ‘There’s their report on Joshua Gumme and the contents of his pockets in this EVIDENCE envelope.’

  ‘Right, Ahmed,’ Angel said. ‘Thank you.’

  The door closed.

  Angel dived into the folder and scanned through it, sometimes stopping and re-reading parts he found pertinent. As well as particulars of the gunshot wound through the sternum directly into Gumme’s heart by a .32, there were details of abrasions in limited areas to his wrists and ankles, commensurate with him being tied to something with rope or tape of some kind. But there were no clues to the assailant or the assailants.

  He ran the tip of his tongue across his lower lip and closed the file.

  He reached out for the big, manilla EVIDENCE envelope containing the contents of Gumme’s pockets, and tipped it out onto the desk. Although most items had been dried out, everything in the small pile was a dirty colour and had the smell and appearance of rubbish from a dustbin. Angel poked about it with a pencil. There was a wallet. It was still damp. He opened it up. There was £400 in notes, some of his own business cards and a card about four inches by two inches. It was a religious tract. It had the picture of an angel on one side and the words ‘The Lord shall watch over thee and keep thee safe’ on the other. Then in pen at the top were scrawled the words, ‘Two million pounds.’

  Angel turned the card over, saw the angel, smiled and tucked it back in the wallet. The other items comprised a handkerchief, a small bunch of keys and some coins, but there was nothing there to interest him. He packed the stuff back in the envelope.

  He leaned back in the chair and rubbed his chin.

  The phone rang.

  He leaned forward and picked it up.

  ‘Angel.’

  It was Harker.

  ‘Mayfair Security Systems has just reported the triggering of an alarm system of theirs at Creeford Grange. That’s where the widow woman of your Joshua Gumme lives, isn’t it?’

  Angel jumped to his feet.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The man said their readouts indicated that someone had gained entry by a rear window and that the intruder was on the premises still. I have sent Hotel Echo One and told them to approach with blues but no siren. Get out there.’

  When Angel turned the corner onto Creeford Road, he could hear a two-tone burglar alarm siren making a hell of a racket. He put his foot down on the accelerator and drove straight along the road to Creeford Grange. He raced through the open gates and up the drive. He could see a marked police car, Hotel Echo One, parked right outside the front door.

  The siren high up on the front elevation of the house was deafening. He stopped immediately behind the car and jumped out to find a PC racing towards him from behind the house. On seeing it was Angel, he called, ‘Oh, it’s you, sir. Anybody come that way?’

  Angel could hardly hear him above the siren.

  ‘Nobody’s come this way,’ Angel bawled. ‘I’ll watch the front.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ the PC said and rushed back between the side of the house and the double garage building towards the swimming pool.

  Angel watched him go, then suddenly he was startled by a sound and movement close behind. He looked back to see a sleek black Jaguar, its engine purring like a cat gliding to a stop inches from his back. The driver was Ingrid Gumme. She had a face like thunder, her cheeks were scarlet and her eyes flashed like diamonds in the night.

  He stepped forward quickly out of her way and continued to watch the house.

  Mrs Gumme slammed the car door, glanced up at the blue and white siren high on the front elevation of the house, stormed up to Angel and said, ‘What the hell is happening now?’

  Angel didn’t look at her. He kept looking ahead.

  ‘You seem to have an intruder … triggered the alarm.’

  Two PCs came out of the front door, pocketing their asps. They had obviously drawn a blank. Angel recognized one of them; it was Scrivens.

  They saw Angel with Mrs Gumme and approached them.

  ‘Access has been made into the house, sir,’ Scrivens shouted over the siren. ‘Kitchen window has been broken. Footmarks scratched the paint on the window bottom. Intruder or intruders wouldn’t have been in long, though. Nobody there now. They’ve been in the bedroom. Dressing table drawers open, stuff pulled out. We’ll just check the grounds. If there’s nothing there, we’ll have a quick tour round the streets nearby. You never know your luck.’

  ‘Right, Scrivens, ta,’ Angel said as they ran off.

  ‘Hope they haven’t got my diamond rings,’ Mrs Gumme said.

  Angel pulled out his mobile as he began walking up the stone steps to the front door. He was directly underneath the siren. He stared up at it.

  ‘Can you switch that racket off, please, Mrs Gumme?’ he called.

  She overtook him and stormed into the house. She went to the small, grey alarm box in the hall, opened the cover and tapped in a four-digit code. The siren stopped: the quiet was a relief.

  Angel made an urgent call on his mobile to SOCO.

  The phone rang.

  He picked it up.

  ‘Angel.’

  ‘DS Taylor, sir, SOCO. About the breakin at Mrs Gumme’s house, sir.
’

  Angel’s face brightened. ‘Oh yes, Don. What you got?’

  ‘Nothing much, I’m afraid, sir. I can confirm that the window at the back of the house was the point of entry. The glass was smashed with a long-handled key used for draining the swimming pool. It was standing in the doorway of an outside service room that wasn’t locked. There were no prints on it. I think there was only one intruder and I think he must have been quite young.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Size of the shoe, sir. We haven’t got an actual footprint. We are working on the size of the graze marks on the woodwork. At the widest, they are only four centimetres across.’

  Angel frowned. Sounded very strange. It wasn’t likely a young burglar would cut his teeth on a mansion, with a very conspicuous alarm box, in broad daylight.

  ‘I reckon he would only be in the house a minute or two,’ Taylor said. ‘Was there much taken, sir?’

  ‘Mrs Gumme says everything is accounted for.’

  ‘Sounds fishy, sir?’

  ‘Not fish, Don. Fruit. Maybe a cherry-picker?’

  ‘Ahmed. I want you to parcel up this pack of playing cards carefully, and get it off to the lab at Wetherby. Mark it for the personal attention of Professor Willington-Atkins. He’s expecting it. Put a polite note in it to say it’s from me at this address. Send it registered and make sure it goes tonight. All right?’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘See who that is.’

  Ahmed opened the door.

  It was DS Gawber carrying a bunch of papers.

  ‘Come in, Ron,’ Angel called.

  Gawber came in as Ahmed went out; he closed the door.

  ‘Checked through that list of people staying at The Feathers the night Gumme was murdered, sir,’ Gawber said.

  Angel’s face brightened expectantly.

  ‘Oh yes. Sit down. What you got?’

  ‘They check out perfectly, except one. A man who signed the register “Father I. Colhoun, LBOTP, Dunleavy Abbey, County Cork, Southern Ireland.” I eventually found the number for the abbey and spoke to the novice master, Father James. At first he was very suspicious. Seemed to think that I was in some way making mischief. Anyway, he confirmed that they certainly did have a Father Ignatius Colhoun; much loved and respected he was too, he said. And that he was in Peru in South America visiting a mission, taking provisions and giving support to a mission out there that was dear to their hearts.’