by Alan Hunter
Copping faltered in his raptures. ‘But good lord … it must have been him!’
Gently shook an indulgent head. ‘Remember that jury and keep your hands to yourself. Don’t touch the paper, the taps, the dishes or anything else that’s lying about. I suppose it’s too late to worry about the doorknobs. As soon as Bryce is through having fun in the loft he’d better light out for your print man. It isn’t likely that Streifer was too careful here … he expected to be far otherwheres when and if we ever identified the place.’
‘And how right he was – how dead bloody right!’
Gently hunched his shoulders soberly. ‘He’s a man like you and me. People don’t become magicians when they join a secret police.’
‘It’s enough to make you think so, the way this bloke keeps himself lost.’
A dishevelled and wash-prone Bryce was dispatched in the car and Gently, having completed his tour of the house, went out to inspect the grounds. They had nothing relevant to disclose. The tumpy wilderness which had been a lawn, the nettled and willow-herbed flower-beds, these looked as though a full five years had elapsed since a foot had trodden there, or a hand had been raised in their defence. Gently went round to the Achilles heel, the seaward side. Not more than five yards of stony land separated the house from its inevitable tumble to the beach.
‘Can’t last another winter,’ observed Copping knowingly, ‘should have gone in the January gales. It was sheer cussedness that made it hang on … there were falls everywhere except here.’
Gently approached timidly to the treacherous edge. Seventy feet below the wet sand looked dark and solid. North, south, the sullen lines of slanted combers fretted wearily, told their perpetual lie of harmlessness and non-aggression. Down by the racecourse a lonely path wore its way to the beach.
‘That’s it,’ muttered Gently, ‘they carted him down there. How far would you say we were above the Front?’
Copping did some calculations. ‘Two miles, about … might be a trifle less.’
‘It just about tallies … I was reckoning on two miles. They dumped him in down there in the ebb, expecting the current to pick him up and carry him right down south. It was just rank bad luck that he finished up on their doorstep again …’
‘You’re positive it was done in the house?’
‘Quite positive … I can see the whole picture now.’
‘There weren’t any signs of it – no blood-stains or anything.’
Gently smiled grimly. ‘Professionals, Copping. He wasn’t hacked about. Didn’t you notice how little blood there was on the clothes?’
‘And if they’d used violence it wouldn’t have shown much, not in an empty house.’
‘But they didn’t use any … they didn’t have to. He was delivered right into their hands, unarmed and unsuspecting. My guess is that the first thing he knew about it was an automatic dug into his ribs … you don’t argue with a thing like that in the first instance. By the time he’d weighed the situation up his hands were tied and he hadn’t any option. It’s a classic case, Copping. Only our Delilahs come a bit coarser these days.’
‘Delilahs!’ Copping gave a laugh. ‘He must have wanted his brains tested to take up with a mare like Frenchy.’
There was a sound of two cars pulling up and they returned to the front of the house. To their surprise it was the super who came stalking up the crazy-paving. The great man had a taut look, as though primed with high enterprise, and having stalked to the end of the crazy-paving he halted smartly, straddled his legs and quizzed Gently with a sideways look in which were blended both jealousy and admiration.
‘All right!’ he rapped, ‘you’re a happy man, Gently. You know your job, and I’m just a blasted ex-infantry officer who’s got shoved into a rural police force!’
Gently bowed modestly, as though disclaiming praise from such high places. The super snorted and directed his gaze at a ‘Windy Tops’ chimney.
‘So they got him!’ he jerked from the corner of his mouth, ‘laid for him on information – Special and the Limehouse lot – picked him up going aboard a Polish tramp. Nearly shot two men and laid out a third. They’re bringing him up now and a big-shot from Special along with them.’
There was a gratifying silence.
‘You mean … Streifer?’ gasped Copping.
The super withered him with an acetylene flicker of his eye. ‘We’re not after Malenkov – nor Senator McCarthy! And just to temper the general glee I may as well add that Special are not the teeniest weeniest bit interested in our lousy little homicide. They couldn’t care less. What they’re coming for is the whole TSK Party handed to them on a platter and if we can’t produce it then they aim to make life irksome in these parts – you understand?’
Gently nodded his mandarin nod. ‘I’ve worked with Special …’
‘Then you know what’s coming – and it’ll be here just after tea! So get your facts marshalled, Gently. There’s a top-level conference staring you in the face. Amongst other things I’ve had to pull the CC off a theatre party he’s had planned for the last six weeks … that’s one nasty-minded person who’s going to be there, for a start!’
CHAPTER TWELVE
ASSUREDLY THERE WAS was an array of formidable talent lined up in the super’s office on that grey August evening. It required the impression of seating accommodation from several other departments and it was sad to see so many men of such lustre crammed together like constables at a compulsory lecture. As far as sheer superiority of rank was concerned, the home team had a clear advantage. They were led by the Chief Constable of Northshire, Sir Daynes Broke, CBE, ably supported by his Assistant CC, Colonel Shotover Grout, DSO, MC, with the redoubtable flanks of Superintendent Symms and Inspector Copping. But rank, of course, wasn’t everything. There was a matter of quality also, and in this respect, to judge from their attitude, the visiting team felt themselves to have the edge. They were four in number, a sort of Special commando unit. Their ranks comprised Detective Sergeants Drill and Nickman, as dour a pair of bloodhounds as ever signed reports; their lieutenant was Chief Inspector Lasher, a man who had earned the hearty dislike of a select list of international organizations. But it was their No. 1 who really set the seal on the outfit. You could feel his presence through six-inch armour plate. He was a comparatively small man with a large squarish head and blue eyes that glowed hypnotically, as though lit by the perpetual and unfaltering generation of his brain. His name was Chief Superintendent Gish and the date of his retirement had been set aside by the entire world of espionage as one for public holiday and heartfelt rejoicing.
Between these two mighty factions Gently, the lonely representative of the Central Office, felt somewhat in the character of a light skirmisher. He’d got a nuisance value, they would probably concede him that, but otherwise he was merely there as a point of reference. So he squeezed himself into a seat behind Detective Sergeant Nickman, and contented himself with issuing entirely unauthorized smoke-rings.
Chief Superintendent Gish said: ‘I want to impress on everybody concerned the urgency and importance of our mission down here. We have sent you a certain amount of information already to assist you in the homicide investigation … we’ve got your man for you and I take it you have prepared a case against him. If you haven’t, it doesn’t matter because we can put him away ourselves on a certain charge of sabotage. The importance and urgency of this business lies elsewhere and it’s that I want to talk about.’
He paused, not so much for comment as to drive home his conviction that comment was superfluous. Gently puffed a sly ring over Detective Sergeant Nickman’s right ear. There was a general silence on all fronts.
‘Very well, gentlemen,’ continued Superintendent Gish, his floor confirmed. ‘Now it must certainly have occurred to you, though possibly you have been unable to trace it, that Streifer has received assistance in what he did here. The circumstances of the crime as they are known to me leave no doubt about that. They are typical of the organized k
illing, the sort that we of the Special Branch are all too familiar with. Now that in itself is an important and urgent matter, but it becomes doubly so in the light of what I am about to tell you.
‘The TSK Party came into existence shortly after the war. Officially it has no connection with the authorities on the other side of the Curtain, but I don’t have to tell you that it wouldn’t have thrived so long as it has done without connivance, and probably assistance, from the gentlemen over the way. It contains a strong Trotskyite element, which no doubt accounts for the nomenclature, but it pursues its aims not by assassination – though it isn’t above it – but by extraordinarily well-executed sabotage.
‘We first came across it in Yugoslavia. Later on it turned up in Czechoslovakia, Western Germany, France and the Suez Canal Zone. Three years ago the FBI were considerably shaken up to find it active and flourishing in the States – not just one or two agents but a complete organization, with some very dangerous contacts inside two atomic research stations. Fortunately they got on to them in time and pretty well stamped them out, though if this little affair is anything to go by the TSK still have a foot-hold over there. In the suitcase Streifer was carrying there were $1,000,000 in counterfeit bills.
‘Over here our first brush with them occurred at about the same time. They suborned a couple of atomic research physicists and when the balloon went up, I regret to say that they succeeded in getting one of them out of the country. After that we had the sabotage trouble down at Portsmouth in which Streifer was identified as the agent. There was nothing else then for some time. But about a year ago, as you may remember, a rash of naval sabotage broke out from Scapa down to Plymouth and it didn’t take us long to discover that the TSK were back, this time in some strength. In fact, gentlemen, they had built an organization over here, an organization similar, though perhaps not so extensive, as the one they had built in the States.
‘I need hardly mention that we have left no stone unturned to get at grips with this organization. Chief Inspector Lasher and myself were assigned to the task and we have pursued every opening and lead with the not inconsiderable resources at our command. We have had some success. We have arrested and deported or imprisoned a round half-dozen of agents. But we have never been able to locate the centre, the headquarters of the organization – there are never any lines back to it. The men we arrested wouldn’t talk, and the impression I received after personal interrogation was that they didn’t know anyway.
‘Of course, we’ve had theories about it. We decided early on that it was probably on the east coast. Here there’s some little traffic with the other side – cargo-boats trade in and out of the ports, fishing-boats operate off-shore, liners like the Ortory touch in on some pretext or another. It seemed logical to give the east coast preference. And knowing the sort of people we were up against, we didn’t necessarily expect to find it in an obvious centre such as Newcastle or Hull. We felt it was much more likely to turn up in a smaller place, an innocent-seeming place … a holiday resort like Starmouth, gentlemen, with its perpetual comings and goings, its absorption with visitors, its easy-going port and fleet of fishing vessels …’
Chief Superintendent Gish dwelt fondly on his theory, as though he enjoyed its sweet reasonableness. But he had got the opposition in a raw spot. There were underground growlings from Colonel Shotover Grout, an aggressive cough from Superintendent Symms and finally the home team found its voice in an exclamation by its illustrious leader:
‘But good God, man, there’s nothing like that in Starmouth!’
‘Indeed, Sir Daynes?’ Chief Superintendent Gish looked bored.
‘No, sir. Quite impossible! The Borough Police Force is one of the most efficient in the country, including the Metropolitan, and the crime figures for this town, sir, bear comparison with those of any similar town anywhere. We harbour no criminal organizations in Starmouth, political or otherwise. Starmouth is by way of being a model of a respectable popular resort.’
‘Here, here!’ grumbled Colonel Shotover Grout chestily. ‘You are mistaken, sir, gravely mistaken.’
‘I’m not prepared to say,’ added Sir Daynes generously, ‘that Starmouth is completely free from undesirable activity. There are features – ahem! – moral features which we would gladly see removed. But that is an evil common to this sort of town, sir, and under the present limitations forced upon the police of this country we have not the power to stamp it out, though we keep it rigidly in check. Apart from this I may safely say that Starmouth is an unusually orderly and well-policed town. I assure you that nothing of the sort you describe could establish itself here without our knowledge.’
‘Quite impossible, sir!’ rumbled the colonel, ‘you don’t know Starmouth.’
Chief Superintendent Gish let play his hypnotic blue eyes from Sir Daynes to the colonel, and back again to Sir Daynes. ‘And yet you wake up one morning to find a TSK agent and saboteur lying stabbed on your beach,’ he commented steelily.
‘It was hardly in our province to have prevented it!’ came back Sir Daynes. ‘If agents and saboteurs are permitted such easy entry into this country, then responsibility for their misdeeds must lie elsewhere than with the Starmouth Borough Police.’
‘I agree, Sir Daynes. My point is that the Starmouth Borough Police knew nothing of their presence until a dead body turned up.’
‘And the Special Branch, sir, knew nothing of their presence until informed by the Starmouth Borough Police.’
‘With some Central Office assistance.’
‘Invoked in the common round of our duty.’
There was a silence-at-arms, each mighty antagonist feeling he had struck an equal blow. Chief Superintendent Gish appeared to be putting the super’s desk calendar into a trance. Sir Daynes Broke was giving his best performance of an affronted nobleman. Gently, after waiting politely for the launching of some fresh assault, improved the situation by relighting his pipe and involving Detective Sergeant Nickman in a humanizing haze of Navy Cut.
‘You’ll have to admit,’ continued Chief Superintendent Gish at length, ‘that Streifer received assistance in killing Stratilesceul.’
‘I admit nothing of the sort,’ countered Sir Daynes warily.
‘What other interpretation can be put on the facts? Is there any doubt that his hands were tied?’
‘One man can tie another’s hands, Superintendent.’
‘He can if the other will submit to it.’
‘Streifer had a gun when he was arrested. Why should he not have threatened Stratilesceul into submission?’
‘Have you ever tried tying the hands of a man you are threatening with a gun, Sir Daynes?’
‘He could have bludgeoned him.’
‘There were no head injuries.’
‘Or drugs, perhaps.’
‘Where would he obtain such drugs at short notice, supposing he could have induced Stratilesceul to take them? No, Sir Daynes, it won’t do. Streifer wasn’t on his own. He found help here, in this town, and help for the like of Streifer can only come from one source.’
‘That source, sir, need not be in Starmouth. You have offered no certain grounds for your assumption that it is in Starmouth. Since TSK agents proliferate to such an amazing extent in this country I see no reason why Streifer, having followed Stratilesceul to Starmouth, should not have summoned one of them to his assistance. He had time enough. The murder was not committed till almost a week after Stratilesceul arrived.’
‘It is possible, Sir Daynes, but that is all one can say for it.’
‘As possible as your own hypothesis, and a good deal more probable.’
‘I beg to differ. If I thought otherwise I should not be here.’
‘Then, sir, there is little doubt that you have made a fruitless journey.’
‘We will defer judgment until we see the results, Sir Daynes. I do not propose to be deflected from my object.’
At this point an interruption became a diplomatic necessity and it was fortunate th
at Colonel Shotover Grout, who had been preparing himself with a great deal of throat work, chose the slight pause which ensued for his cue.
‘I suppose we can have the fella in – question him – see what he has to say himself about the business?’
They both turned to regard the colonel with unanimous unamiability.
‘I mean he’s the one who knows – can’t get away from that.’
Chief Superintendent Gish gestured. ‘Of course he has been questioned. The results were as anticipated. You’ll get nothing out of Streifer.’
‘But simply as a formality, y’know—’
‘This type of man never talks.’
A light of battle gleamed in Sir Daynes’s eye. ‘Symms!’ he exclaimed, ‘be good enough to have our prisoner brought in, will you?’
Superintendent Symms hesitated a moment, catching the Special Branch chief’s petrifying glance.
‘What are you waiting for, man?’ rapped Sir Daynes, ‘didn’t you hear what I said?’
‘I can assure you,’ interrupted Chief Superintendent Gish, well below zero, ‘that Streifer has been thoroughly and scientifically interrogated without the least success—’
‘Superintendent Gish,’ cut in Sir Daynes, ‘I feel obliged to point out that Streifer is required by this authority to answer a charge of murder and that however high the Special Branch may privately rate sabotage, in the official calendar it is homicide which takes pride of place. Streifer has been brought here primarily to answer such a charge and I propose to make it forthwith. I suppose’ – a sudden note of unease crept into his voice – ‘I suppose a case has now been made out on which a charge can be based, Symms?’
The super looked at Copping, and Copping looked at Gently. Gently nodded and puffed some smoke at Detective Sergeant Nickman’s long-suffering ear.
‘Very well, then – have him brought in, Symms!’
Streifer was produced in handcuffs, presumably on the strength of his record – he certainly looked subdued enough, being prodded into the crowded office. He was a man of forty or forty-two, dark hair, dark eyes, slanting brows, a long, straight nose and a small thin-lipped mouth. He wore a well-cut suit of dark grey and had an air of refinement, almost of delicacy, about him. The only thing suggesting something else was the long, crooked scar which stretched lividly down his right cheek, beginning under the temple and trailing away at the angle of the jaw.
