Hardcastle's Traitors

by Graham Ison

  ‘Das hat nichts auf sich,’ snapped Irma Glatzer, her blue eyes blazing at Quinn. ‘Daraus wird nichts.’

  It was a response that left Hardcastle looking puzzled.

  ‘She says that there is nothing in it, and it will come to nothing,’ Quinn translated. ‘In other words, we can’t prove that she had anything to do with it. Furthermore,’ he continued, addressing the woman again, ‘you met the captain of the SS Carlson whenever his ship docked at Shoreham, and passed similar information to him for onward transmission to the German embassy in Sweden.’

  Irma Glatzer just stared at Quinn with an unwavering gaze. ‘Gott erhalt der Kaiser!’ she exclaimed vehemently.

  Quinn did not bother to translate that. ‘You are a brave woman, Miss Glatzer.’ He stood up and opened the door. ‘Take this prisoner back to her cell,’ he said to the waiting SB officer.

  ‘Are you going to charge her now, sir?’ asked Hardcastle, once Irma Glatzer had been escorted from the room.

  ‘Not until I have the Attorney-General’s fiat, Mr Hardcastle.’ Quinn spoke as though the DDI should have been aware of this necessary element of procedure. ‘Then she’ll be tried by court martial at the Tower of London and shot by firing squad.’ It seemed to the Special Branch chief that the outcome of her trial was a foregone conclusion.

  ‘It was bad luck for her, that she should have picked a name like Victoria Wheeler, sir, and having a photograph of a Scots Guards officer in her sitting room. Fortunately, Colonel Frobisher, the APM, was able to disprove her story, after which I confirmed it by visiting the real Mrs Wheeler in Esher.’

  ‘Lack of planning,’ said Quinn with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Like carrying those papers with her that contained details of fictitious naval movements at Portsmouth. Incidentally, her fingerprints were found on the rather sensitive paper that she had written on. But she must have been mad to keep hold of her identity document, much less to have given it to Villiers.’

  ‘That was a bad mistake, sir.’

  ‘In my experience, Mr Hardcastle, German spies make the most elementary of mistakes. D’you know that last year the Scottish police arrested a spy who’d just been put ashore from a German submarine off Inverary. He was walking along a quiet country lane when he was stopped and searched by a constable on a bicycle. The fellow had a German sausage in his briefcase, and you can’t get those for love or money in this country since the war started. He’d been in Scotland for less than two hours. He was executed, of course.’

  DS Shaughnessy reported back to Quinn some time after DI Strange.

  ‘And I suppose you didn’t find anything of importance in Wandsworth, either, Shaughnessy,’ said Quinn.

  ‘I searched Isaac Gosling’s room thoroughly, sir, but all I found was a load of literature about the setting up of a homeland for the Jews once the war was over. I’ve been through it thoroughly and I can’t see that there’s anything seditious about it. And certainly nothing that points to espionage.’

  ‘Very well, Shaughnessy.’ Quinn sighed. ‘Give it to Mr O’Rourke and ask him to cast his eye over it.’

  ‘I interviewed the butcher where Gosling said he was employed, sir. He said that Gosling was a good worker, punctual and cheerful. In short, he never had any trouble with him. He was very surprised to hear that he’d been arrested for murder.’

  ‘It’s always the way, Shaughnessy,’ said Quinn.

  ‘’Ere, what’s going on ’ere, then?’ demanded a flame-haired trollop as Isaac Gosling, an escorting constable and Hardcastle, swept past her. The girl was at the head of a queue of prostitutes in the corridor of Number One Court at Bow Street. It was a long-standing custom that these ‘ladies of the night’ appeared first in the calendar, and were only displaced when a serious charge was due to be heard.

  Hardcastle stepped into the witness box as Gosling was directed into the dock by the constable.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Hardcastle,’ said the Chief Metropolitan Magistrate.

  ‘Good morning, Your Worship.’

  ‘Isaac Gosling, Your Worship,’ cried the gaoler. ‘Two charges of murder.’

  ‘I respectfully ask for an eight-day remand in custody, sir,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Will you then be ready for me to take a plea, Mr Hardcastle?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very well.’ The magistrate glanced down at his register. ‘Remanded to Monday the thirty-first of January.’

  Hardcastle returned to Cannon Row aware that the hard part of the enquiry now began. In his view, the preparation of a report for the Director of Public Prosecutions often presented more difficulties than the investigation itself. But that, he decided, could wait until Monday morning.

  ‘Marriott!’ Hardcastle shouted his sergeant’s name through the open door of his office.

  ‘Sir?’ Marriott appeared, buttoning his jacket.

  ‘What was the name of that woman whose telephone number you found in Sinclair Villiers’s address book?’

  ‘It was a woman called Simone Dubois, sir. I traced the telephone number with the post office and the address is in Eaton Square.’

  ‘Simone Dubois? Sounds French, Marriott. We’ll go and have a word, but not before we’ve had a lunchtime pint.’

  The first person Hardcastle saw when he pushed open the door of the downstairs bar of the Red Lion was Charlie Simpson.

  ‘Hello, Mr Hardcastle. Anything for me?’

  ‘You don’t waste any time in getting to the nub of the matter, I’ll say that for you, Simpson. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I got myself a pint first.’

  ‘Allow me, Mr Hardcastle.’ Simpson ordered pints of bitter for the two detectives.

  Hardcastle did not usually pay for his beer in the Red Lion, but saw no reason why a Fleet Street reporter should not put his hand in his pocket. He would probably charge it to expenses, anyway.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Simpson, I do have something for you. I promised I’d let you know when I’d made an arrest for Reuben Gosling’s murder.’

  ‘And have you, Mr Hardcastle?’ Simpson took out his pocket- book and looked up expectantly.

  ‘I arrested his son for the murder. Isaac Gosling appeared at Bow Street this morning and was remanded in custody for eight days.’

  ‘Oh!’ Simpson looked disappointed. ‘And I suppose there was a load of hacks there writing it all down.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have done ’em much good,’ said Hardcastle, taking the head off his beer. ‘It was only a remand hearing; no names of the victims were mentioned. He’s also charged with murdering a Peter Stein at Bow Road on the seventh of this month. Next appearance at Bow Street is on the thirty-first.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ said Simpson. ‘I reckon I owe you another beer.’

  ‘Yes, I reckon you do, Simpson.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Although wearing traditional maid’s uniform, the woman who answered the door of Simone Dubois’ house in Eaton Square was middle-aged. In Hardcastle’s experience, housemaids were always in their twenties; by the time they reached thirty, they had usually been promoted or had married and left service.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir.’ The woman paused. ‘Oh, there’s two of you,’ she said, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice.

  It was a comment that left Hardcastle in little doubt as to Miss Dubois’ occupation. ‘Yes, there are,’ he said. ‘Is Miss Dubois at home?’

  ‘If you’d care to step inside, sir,’ said the maid, ‘I’ll enquire if the mistress is at home. Two of them,’ she repeated, half to herself, and shook her head.

  Hardcastle and Marriott entered the hall as the maid disappeared through a door at the rear.

  ‘She’s no maid, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘If she ain’t Miss Dubois’ madam, I’m a Dutchman.’

  ‘You know this Simone Dubois, then, do you, sir?’

  ‘No, I don’t, Marriott. But the name is too good to be true. Odds-on, she’s a high-class whore.’

  ‘Please come this way,
gentlemen.’ The maid returned within seconds and conducted the detectives into the room she had just left.

  Simone Dubois was reclining on a chaise-longue, a box of chocolates on her lap, and made no attempt to stand up. Perhaps no more than twenty-seven, she was attired in a low-cut silk emerald green tea gown that matched her eyes, as did her silk slippers. Her chestnut hair, worn loose, tumbled around her shoulders. But at the sight of Hardcastle she sat up sharply. ‘Oh my Gawd, it’s you, Mr Hardcastle.’

  ‘That’s right, Poppy Shanks, it’s me. And this here is Detective Sergeant Marriott. You’ve changed your name since you were a frequent visitor at Vine Street nick.’

  ‘What d’you want?’ The woman masquerading as Simone Dubois quickly recovered and glanced at Marriott apprehensively. ‘I hope you haven’t come to tell me I’ve been a naughty girl, Mr H.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why you should think that, Poppy.’ Hardcastle cast his gaze around the opulently appointed sitting room. The furniture was of good quality, some of it apparently genuine antique, and the floor was covered in a thick pile Wilton carpet. ‘You seem to have come up in the world, Poppy. Bit of a change from Shepherd Market. Getting too cold there, was it? Now it’s winter.’

  ‘I was getting nicked by them C Division rozzers too often,’ said Poppy, and abandoning all pretence, added, ‘but then I got set up here by a kind gentleman.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be a kind gentleman by the name of Sinclair Villiers, would he?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Oh, you know him, then. Is he in trouble?’ Poppy swung her legs off the chaise-longue and stood up. ‘I think I need a gin. Fancy one, do you?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Hardcastle, as Poppy crossed to an Edwardian satinwood cabinet and poured herself half a tumbler of neat Holland’s. ‘Your benefactor was unfortunate enough to have had his car stolen, a car that was used in a robbery and a murder.’

  ‘Oh Gawd! How awful for poor dear Sinclair. When was this?’ Poppy, holding her glass of gin, returned unsteadily to her seat.

  ‘On New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘How dreadful. As a matter of fact, he spent New Year’s Eve with me. Left the next morning.’ Poppy Shanks fixed Hardcastle with an unwavering, and slightly amused, expression. ‘If only he’d stayed at home it might not have happened.’

  ‘How did he get here?’

  ‘In a cab, of course,’ said Poppy. ‘He’s very discreet, is Sinclair. He doesn’t like to leave his car outside all night. He says it might get me a bad name.’

  ‘Bit late for that,’ murmured Hardcastle. ‘Does he visit you often?’

  ‘As often as he can afford to.’ She paused. ‘Afford the time, I mean.’

  ‘Come off it, Poppy. It’s a copper you’re talking to, and I know you’ve been on the game since you were seventeen. What’s more, I’d put money on Villiers not being your only client.’

  ‘What do you take me for, Mr H?’ Poppy contrived, unsuccessfully, to appear coy and a little offended.

  ‘Has Mr Villiers visited you since New Year’s Eve?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Yeah, he was here about a week later,’ said Poppy.

  ‘What day was that?’

  ‘A Thursday. The seventh of January it was. I remember the date ’cos he reckoned he was going to stay the whole weekend and take me to a show on Saturday, but he only stayed the one night. Left here on Friday, about midday, I s’pose. I was real fed up when he got here and said as how his plans had changed, and he had to go to Worthing on urgent business.’

  Hardcastle laughed as he and Marriott stood up. ‘You just make sure you stay out of trouble, lass. We’ll see ourselves out.’

  ‘Well, sir, that takes care of the days that Reuben Gosling and Stein were murdered,’ said Marriott, as he and the DDI made their way along Eaton Square.

  ‘You think so, do you, Marriott?’ said Hardcastle, stopping and turning to face his sergeant. ‘Well, I’m not prepared to take the word of a tom who gives Villiers an alibi, even if you do. It all came out too pat; she’d been told what to say by Villiers.’ He carried on walking. ‘Not that it matters a damn,’ he added. ‘He’ll be hanged anyway.’

  With a sigh, Hardcastle pushed aside the report of the case against Peter Stein that he was writing for the DPP, and took out his hunter. It was five o’clock on Monday evening and he decided that he had done enough, apart from which there was another, more pressing reason why he did not want to stay late at work. He dropped the watch into his waistcoat pocket, crossed to the detectives’ office and opened the door.

  Much to his sergeant’s amazement, Hardcastle announced that he was going home; Marriott had never known the DDI to leave that early on a weekday, and glanced at the clock.

  ‘Don’t look so surprised, Marriott. It’s Wally’s sixteenth birthday today and I’ve promised him his first taste of Scotch.’

  ‘Are you sure about that, sir?’ asked Marriott, who had stood up the moment the DDI had appeared.

  ‘Of course I’m sure, Marriott. I do know when my son’s birthday is.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that, sir. I meant are you sure it’s his first taste of whisky.’

  Hardcastle laughed. ‘You might well be right, Marriott. There’s no telling what these lads get up to at that office of theirs, but I doubt they can afford whisky.’ Ever since the age of fourteen, Walter Hardcastle had been employed as a telegram messenger at the local post office. Regrettably, he now spent most of his working hours delivering telegrams to the loved ones of men killed in action, wounded, reported missing or taken prisoner.

  ‘Give the lad my best wishes, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Marriott, I will.’

  ‘Another three years and he’ll be old enough to join the Force, sir.’

  ‘Over my dead body,’ growled Hardcastle.

  The disruption to the tram service from Westminster to Kennington, occasioned by frequent alerts to Zeppelin raids, some of which were false alarms, meant that Hardcastle did not arrive home until almost six o’clock.

  He hung up his hat, coat and umbrella and, as was his invariable practice, checked the accuracy of the hall clock against his hunter. Satisfied that it was keeping good time, he pushed open the door of the parlour.

  Alice, Kitty and Maud were seated around the fire, the two Hardcastle daughters having managed to change their shifts in order to be at home.

  But of Walter there was no sign.

  ‘Where’s Wally?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘He’ll be here shortly, Ernie,’ said Alice. ‘He dropped by earlier on to say that he’d got some extras to deliver. He said something about there having been a lot of our lads killed and wounded at a place called Hanna in Mesopotamia a day or two ago.’

  ‘Another pointless campaign, and for what?’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘They’ve put that General Townshend in an impossible situation trying to hold on to Kut. You mark my words, he’ll have to surrender before the relief force gets to him.’

  But before Alice could tell her husband to stop talking about the war, the door of the parlour flew open.

  The Hardcastle family clapped and began to sing Happy Birthday, dear Walter …

  Walter responded by sweeping off his uniform kepi and sketching a deep bow.

  ‘Time for a drink to celebrate,’ said Hardcastle, rubbing his hands together and crossing to the cabinet where he kept the alcohol. He poured glasses of Amontillado for Alice and the two girls, and turned to Walter. ‘Well, Wally, now that you’ve reached sixteen, I think it’s time you had a drop of whisky.’

  ‘I’d rather have a brown ale, Pa,’ said Walter. ‘I don’t much care for the taste of Scotch.’

  For a moment or two, Hardcastle, holding a bottle of Johnny Walker aloft, was speechless, despite what he had said to Marriott. ‘You’ve had it before?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘Once or twice, Pa. The last time was when I took a telegram to a retired colonel the other day. It was to tell him that his son, who he’d been told was dead, had only been slight
ly wounded and was in hospital in Hazebrouck. He insisted on taking me indoors and giving me a whisky to celebrate.’

  ‘It seems Marriott was right,’ muttered Hardcastle, a comment that had no significance for the family. ‘Well, now, I think we might just have some birthday presents for you, Wally,’ he added, glancing at the womenfolk.

  Alice, Kitty and Maud stood up as one and left the room. Returning moments later, bearing parcels wrapped intriguingly in brown paper, they handed them to the sixteen-year-old.

  ‘Golly!’ exclaimed Walter, and spent the next few minutes opening his gifts and admiring them.

  His mother had given him a silver cigarette case engraved with his initials; Kitty had found an accordion at Gamages, the department store in Holborn; and Maud had bought him one of Kodak’s latest Brownie box cameras.

  ‘Crikey!’ Walter, usually the most talkative of the family, was able only to utter that single word. Crossing to his mother, and then Kitty and Maud, he kissed each in turn, murmuring his thanks.

  ‘And now,’ said Hardcastle, handing his son a carefully wrapped package, ‘here is my present. And many happy returns of the day, Wally.’

  Walter stripped off the paper to reveal a small leather covered box. Inside was a half-hunter pocket watch. Although the watch had been priced at six pounds, almost twice Hardcastle’s weekly pay, Mr Parfitt, the jeweller in Victoria Street, had given him a generous discount. But it had still meant Hardcastle having to save for some months prior to the boy’s birthday.

  ‘Gosh, thanks, Pa.’ Walter turned the watch over in his hands, examining every aspect of it before holding it up to his ear. ‘It’s super,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘This one,’ said Hardcastle, producing his own pocket watch, ‘was given me by my father on my sixteenth birthday, and has kept perfect time ever since. But be sure not to overwind it, Wally. That’s a sure way to break the spring.’