A Traitor's Crime

by Roderic Jeffries

  He lit a cigarette. A stomach-tightening tension built up within him. The success of his plan depended on his having accurately imagined himself into the real traitor’s mind — but suppose the traitor was just a little bit cleverer than allowed for and could see the possibility of a doubled-up danger and so guard against it?

  He pressed down one of the switches on the inter-com and called the superintendent.

  Webstone came into the room and Keelton was suddenly and irrationally aware of the fact that the other was looking old. ‘Sit down, Sam. How many men have you got free right now?’

  ‘Depends what you mean by free, sir … ’

  ‘Men who aren’t out on priority jobs,’ he snapped. He saw the superintendent give him a quick, wondering glance and then hastily look away.

  ‘I could find half a dozen at a pinch, sir,’ said Webstone.

  ‘I want enough men posted to cover all exits from this station. Their job is to keep watch and see whether any member of C.I.D leaves the station before five o’clock. If someone does, they’re to report to me immediately.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  ‘May I ask … ’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s … it’s an unusual order, sir.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The men would do this job better for a reason.’

  ‘You’ve had your orders. Give them theirs.’

  Webstone turned and left the room.

  Keelton picked up the nearer telephone. He spoke to the switchboard operator. ‘Who’s that on duty, please?’

  ‘Mrs Timmins, sir.’

  ‘Would you be kind enough to come up to my room for a moment, Mrs Timmins.’

  Within the minute, Mrs Timmins, looking neat and attractive in a brightly coloured dress, knocked and entered the room.

  He stood up and remained standing until she was seated. ‘How long are you on duty for?’

  ‘Officially until five-thirty, sir, but sometimes I do a spot extra to help out. If things are rather busy, that is.’

  ‘From four o’clock onwards, I want you to make a note of every outward call from C.I.D, the number called, and the gist of the conversation.’

  She frowned slightly. ‘You want me to listen in?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She fiddled with a pleat in her skirt. ‘Most of the time, I leave one of the outside lines directly through to them.’

  ‘Then don’t.’

  ‘They may ask me to. They’re often so busy … ’

  ‘Find a reason for refusing.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Right. That’s all.’

  She stood up and left, her frown more pronounced than before.

  At four o’clock, he spoke to Astey on the inter-com and told the other to report to his office.

  Astey was wearing a light grey suit that fitted him well enough to have been made by a first-class tailor. His tie was exactly knotted and his black hair was slicked down with every hair in place.

  ‘Afternoon, Percy,’ said Keelton.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

  Astey, thought Keelton, was always a shade uneasy, slightly on the defensive, now that his relationship with Mrs Scott had been uncovered. ‘I’ve just had the grass on a shipment of drugs. A delivery will be at a certain address by five o’clock tonight.’

  ‘Is this likely to be reliable?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But it’s obviously not from Camps — he’s still very ill?’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  Astey looked as if he were about to say something more, but he did not.

  ‘You’ll mount a raid, using all C.I.D personnel.’ The conference he’d called had made certain they would all be available.

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘Leave here at five exactly. The address is fifteen, High Crest Road, over at Curtlington. I haven’t seen the house, but the description I have is one of a row, very small front garden, larger back garden with a lane beyond that gives access to the garages. I’ve drawn up a rough plan … ’ He turned the plan round and Astey stood up and came over to the desk. Keelton used a pencil to indicate the points he was discussing. ‘The final details of the raid will be in your hands, of course, but I’d suggest that an approach from the road here, simultaneously with one up the lane, here, is the obvious move unless there’s some very good reason otherwise.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘A hell of a lot depends on this raid. Far more than just catching men in possession. You realise that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Astey, making it clear that that was too obvious to need stating.

  ‘One last thing. It’s certain it’s Brierley’s mob again. They’d give a fortune for the chance of another good belly laugh at us.’

  ‘If it’s a good grass, sir, they’ll find which side of their faces they’ll be laughing this time,’ replied Astey harshly.

  ‘Good luck.’

  Keelton watched Astey leave the room. Astey was apparently filled with his usual self-confidence, troubled by no doubts about his ability to do the job twice as well as the next man. But was his confidence far more apparent than real? Was he suffering a sudden panic as he tried desperately to work out how to give the mob warning of the impending raid without giving himself away?

  Keelton lit another cigarette. Now, he could do nothing but wait, knowing the plan had been set in motion, hoping Joanna’s instincts had been right and the traitor wasn’t Elwick, hoping the real traitor was clever enough to see dangers, but not so clever that he could see this might be a double move, with the real danger lying behind and beyond the obvious one.

  He thought of Mary and how, for the first time in twenty-five years, there was almost no understanding between them: he thought of Joanna and the expression in her eyes whenever she looked at him.

  It was five past five. He spoke to Mrs Timmins over the telephone and asked her to come to his room. ‘Were there any calls?’ he asked as she entered the room and before she had begun to shut the door.

  She did not answer until she was standing by his desk. ‘There hasn’t been a single outside call, Mr Keelton.’

  He silently cursed. A telephone message would have been the perfect solution.

  She studied his face and was almost shocked by the obvious signs of fatigue and worry she saw there.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ he finally said, speaking in a low, toneless voice.

  She suddenly spoke impulsively. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘No. No, nothing, thanks. I’d just be grateful if you’d treat the matter as confidential.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She turned and left. He thought that his request to her had really been in the nature of an unnecessary formality. No matter how confidential she kept her part of the scheme, everything would immediately be known to everyone before very long. He spoke over the inter-com to Superintendent Webstone. ‘Sam, you’ve given me no report so I suppose no member of C.I.D left the building?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  In his mind, he pictured the police cars which would now be nearing Curtlington, a suburb that was decaying and would soon become a slum. Had any move been made? Had one of the men stopped either of the cars to make a hurried telephone call on some important pretext? If no move had yet been made, would one be made at the very last moment — when the cars arrived at High Crest Road? Or would there be no move because there was now no traitor?

  It was five-twenty-five. The cars had either just arrived or would be on the point of arriving. This was the last moment for anything to happen. If there were a traitor and he was going to make a desperate move to warn the villains he believed to be in the house, in order to save his own skin, this was his last chance to act. Unless he was too scared to do anything, unless he’d been clever enough …

  The telephone rang. Keelton put his hand on the receiver but did not lift
it until it had rung twice more. ‘Chief Constable,’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘Astey here, sir.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘The house was empty and no trace of occupation.’

  ‘I see. Come on back.’

  He replaced the receiver and began to drum with his fingers on his desk.

  ***

  Astey, after carefully hitching up his trousers, sat down in the chair immediately in front of Keelton’s desk. ‘Everything went according to plan, sir, but the house was completely empty and had pretty certainly been empty for a long time.’

  ‘Was any warning given of your approach?’

  ‘It wouldn’t have mattered if it had, since the house … ’

  ‘Was any warning given?’

  ‘No, sir,’ muttered Astey.

  ‘Fill in the rest of the report, then.’

  ‘I organised the raid as you suggested, one car coming in from the front and one up the lane at the back. We arrived at five-twenty-one. Praden and I took the front door and when there was no answer to my knocking we waited a bit before the next move in case we could panic the villains into making their break through the back. As it turned out, it’s just as well no one was inside because our timing had got a bit faulty due to the smash and any villains … ’

  ‘What smash?’

  ‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration. The other car hit a lamp-post as it was turning into the lane and got delayed.’

  ‘Why did it hit the lamp-post?’

  ‘Why?’ Astey could not hide his surprise at the question. ‘I suppose it was just an error of judgment.’

  ‘No other cars around? No pedestrians?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who was driving?’

  ‘Simlex, sir.’

  CHAPTER XIV

  Keelton paced up and down his office, from the window to the far end of the carpet: twelve paces one way, turn, twelve paces back.

  There had been a collision with a concrete lamp-post that had broken a headlight glass and slightly bent the offside of the bumper-bar … That was all. The crash had meant that there’d been perhaps half a minute after Astey had knocked on the front door and before the second police car was on station and the police were covering the back of the house — thirty seconds for any occupants to realise this was a police raid and either get rid of the consignment of drugs or make good their escape. But so minor a crash could have happened in the normal course of events, perhaps because the driver was slightly tensed solely on account of the forthcoming raid. So minor a crash might hold no significance whatsoever. You could argue it whichever way you wanted.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ he called out.

  Simlex entered. His round, pleasant face held a look of strained concern, but so did the faces of most men when they were unaccountably called to the chief constable’s room. ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ he said. He looked quickly round the room, as if expecting to find someone else present.

  ‘Sit down.’

  Simlex sat down in the wooden chair.

  It was almost dark outside and both the overhead light and the Anglepoise lamp on the desk were switched on: the Anglepoise was directed at the chair where Simlex sat. Looking at the detective sergeant, Keelton recalled the other’s background: a long, faithful if uninspired record of service, typical of the man: married to a wife who was a permanent invalid and soured by her unhappy life, no children: after only a handful more years of service, retirement with a pension: a hobby that had proved more lucrative than most: no mistress: not an alcoholic: just an ordinary policeman.

  Keelton sat down. ‘You took part in the raid earlier this evening.’ He said it as a statement, not a question.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The raid was ostensibly on a house where Brierley and his mob had taken delivery of another consignment of dope.’

  ‘That’s how we had it, sir.’

  ‘Would it surprise you to know there was no tip-off, that the house was known to have been empty for weeks, that Brierley probably hasn’t been within a mile of the place?’

  Simlex suddenly looked round at the closed door, then realised what he was doing and jerked his head back.

  ‘I ordered that raid because I knew it must prove completely abortive.’

  Simlex began to fidget with the middle button of his badly fitting coat.

  ‘Any idea why I should order such a raid?’

  ‘No … no, sir.’

  ‘In order to trap the traitor.’

  ‘But Elwick’s the traitor.’

  ‘Elwick was innocent, but he had to be convicted and be sent to prison in order to breed a sense of security in the mind of the real traitor.’

  The room was not hot, but beads of sweat suddenly stood out on Simlex’s forehead.

  Keelton’s voice was harsh. ‘The traitor had come to believe himself utterly secure, then out of the blue his security was threatened — when he heard about the raid on a house in which Brierley and his mob were supposed to have taken delivery of their latest consignment of dope. The traitor found himself in the impossible position where he had to get the alarm through to Brierley and the mob because if they were caught they’d shop him, but where it was all too clear that if the police knew the alarm had been given to Brierley then it would be obvious the real traitor was still free. The traitor was between Scylla and Charybdis and he couldn’t tie himself to a mast or fill his ears with wax. You saw just one way out, didn’t you?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘You set out to make certain the villains escaped, but to do this in such a way that would draw no suspicion on yourself — a slight crash which delayed the car you were driving for the vital thirty seconds.’

  ‘I couldn’t help that.’

  ‘You rammed the lamp-post to make certain you weren’t in position at H hour. In that way, Brierley would have time to realise it was a police raid and either get rid of the dope or escape via the back of the house.’

  ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘You’re a liar.’

  ‘I swear it was an accident.’

  ‘I arranged things so that if anyone made a move, he had to be the traitor. You made that move.’

  ‘I tell you, it was an accident.’ The sweat rolled down the side of Simlex’s face.

  ‘You’ve reached the end of the line.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ he reiterated wildly.

  ‘You sent an innocent man to jail to save your own yellow skin. You betrayed the force and the men who trusted you.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘You’ve one last chance to show there’s still a touch of decency in you. Make a full confession now and release Elwick from jail.’

  ‘There’s nothing to confess. You can’t prove anything.’

  ‘God Almighty, man, you know that I know the full truth. Haven’t you even the guts to admit things now and get Elwick out of jail?’

  Simlex was silent.

  Keelton slammed his fist down on the table. ‘He’s rotting in jail for a crime he didn’t commit.’

  ‘He was found guilty.’

  ‘I could … ’ Keelton forced himself to become silent.

  ‘You can’t prove anything.’

  Keelton stood up and kicked the chair away from himself.

  ‘What did they pay you? Thirty pieces of silver?’

  ‘None of it’s true.’

  ‘What’s it feel like to know you’ve betrayed the trust of everyone? What’s it feel like to know an innocent man’s in jail because of you? What’s it feel like to know you’re helping Brierley’s mob to sell heroin to kids who are going to be hooked for the rest of their tortured lives?’

  ‘That crash was an accident.’

  ‘Elwick’s in jail and you … ’

  ‘You can’t prove anything.’

  Keelton swore. ‘You’re suspended from duty,’ he finally said. ‘Now clear out.’

  ‘Do I … �
��

  ‘Clear out,’ he shouted.

  He slumped back in his chair. Simlex was the traitor, but at the moment there was no proof of this. There had been a slight car crash, but that was all: the kind of crash that could happen to anyone who was tensed and slightly on edge because of an impending raid. He, Keelton, could be certain the other was the traitor — and after the interview just ended he was certain — but until there was some proof of the facts his certainty wasn’t worth a damn.

  What turned a man like Simlex into a traitor? From the beginning of the case, money had been the obvious answer, but Simlex’s background, as had everyone else’s, had been examined for signs of money that could not readily be accounted for and none had been found. True, Simlex had in July banked a hundred and forty-five pounds, but this had proved to be the proceeds from the sale of one of five apostle spoons he’d been lucky enough to discover. Barnard had checked that Simlex had bought the spoons as claimed and had sold the one as claimed. If the motive had not been money, what had it been? There was nothing in his life or background to suggest the answer, yet if he was the traitor the answer had to be there.

  All Keelton’s instincts, all his years of experience, told him the motive was really money. If it was and they could uncover the money, much of the proof they needed would be to hand …

  He suddenly drew his breath in sharply. Wasn’t it G.K Chesterton who’d written that the finest hiding place was the one in full view? Search for something and you looked in all the corners, forgetting to study closely the things in the open. Where was the most obvious place to look for money? In a bank account.

  He hurried over to the nearer filing cabinet and brought out from it the file on the case. He turned over the photostat pages until he came to the evidence about Simlex’s bank account and the buying and selling of the apostle spoons.