The C.I.D Room

by Roderic Jeffries

  Wilson was the chief officer of the Sandstream. He was married, with three children. The family lived in a small bungalow on the outskirts of Fortrow and the bungalow was heavily mortgaged: the mortgage company reported trouble in obtaining the last payment. Mrs. Wilson dressed badly and wore no jewellery. Their car was an old and battered one, all but clapped out. Furthermore, the Australian police had sent word that on the coast out there he led a perfectly straightforward life and there was no chance of an expensive woman tucked away in Double Bay.

  Where and when had the gold been unloaded? In Fortrow, before the ship sailed? In Sydney, the first discharging port? In Colon, the oiling port? If in Fortrow, why did none of the informers know anything? News of this sort inevitably leaked out.

  His wife once more interrupted his thoughts. ‘Bob, if you leave us again I’ll remove your eggs and bacon. And you know what that does to you!’

  He smiled briefly. ‘It ruins my day.’

  ‘Then wait until you’re at the office to look like Atlas.’

  ‘The rocket?’ asked their son.

  ‘The giant who had to support the world on his shoulders because of the revolt of the Titans,’ she explained more fully, for the sake of his education, but once he discovered the reference had nothing to do with space travel, he lost all interest.

  *

  Kerr finished typing out the report on the ancient, clattering typewriter and at the last moment struck the wrong key. He cursed, as he laboriously rubbed out the mistake. It was Sunday, nearly 6 p.m., and he ought to be doing what the rest of the world was — enjoying himself. But not even the fact it was a Sunday would make the D.I. accept a mistyped report.

  The job done, he stood up, stretched, and glanced round the room. It was in a mess. Two bicycles and a bagful of shoplifted goods, recovered from a house, were in one corner: a pile of files had toppled over in another: against the far wall were several suitcases, taken from a crashed car and being kept until the owner, now in hospital, was in a state to receive them. The room would have to be cleared up before the D.I. saw it, but it wasn’t going to be D.C. Kerr who tidied up the mess on a Sunday evening.

  He was half way to the door when it opened and Braddon looked in. ‘Good,’ said Braddon.

  ‘I’m not here,’ said Kerr hurriedly.

  Braddon came into the room. He was not wearing a coat and had undone both tie and collar, nevertheless he was sweating profusely. ‘God, it’s hot!’

  ‘Too hot for work, Sarge.’

  Braddon went across to Rowan’s desk and sat down on it.

  Kerr edged towards the door. ‘I’m just off, Sarge.’

  ‘You were, but you aren’t now.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got a date…’

  ‘You’re too young to bother about such things.’

  ‘These days we mature early, Sarge. If I don’t see my date I’ll be frustrated and frustration wrecks a man’s id.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about ids, but I do know who’ll get wrecked if he doesn’t do what the D.I. says.’

  Kerr still tried to argue. ‘Did he mention me by name?’

  ‘He doesn’t talk about you unless he’s forced to: you ought to know that by now.’ Braddon grinned.

  ‘Then get hold of someone else to do the dirty work.’

  ‘Rowan’s at home, holding hands with his wife in case she runs away. Welland’s at his home, holding hands with his wife because they’re not long married. That leaves me and thee.’

  ‘Skipper, you’re married so you don’t suffer frustration. Do me this favour…’

  ‘Look, lad, what’s the use of rank if you don’t use it to kick in other people’s teeth?’

  Kerr was silent.

  ‘Go and see Captain Leery,’ said Braddon.

  ‘On a Sunday?’

  ‘This Sunday, too.’

  ‘Doesn’t the long-faced bastard ever take time off?’

  ‘He’s keen and conscientious, like you. Take the C.I.D. car, if you want.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing.’

  ‘O.K. Walk.’

  Kerr swore.

  ‘You’re young,’ said Braddon. ‘Your id’s got time to develop.’

  Kerr left the room, went downstairs, and out into the courtyard where the sunshine was still hot. Rank made dictators of them all, he thought sourly. He climbed into the car, the interior of which was like an oven because no windows had been left open, and switched on the engine. He pressed the starter, but without success. Gloomily, he thought that Braddon’s suggestion he should walk might yet come true. However, at the fourth attempt, the engine fired. He drove out on to the road.

  Because he was in a hurry, there was a lot of traffic — holiday traffic mainly — and a hundred yards from the station, everything came to a halt. He swore and wondered why the gods were being so unkind to him. Eventually, the traffic moved slowly forward to the cross-roads. As the Hillman drew abreast of a perspiring constable, on point duty because the lights had developed a fault, Kerr shouted insults. The constable was about to take action when he recognised his tormentor.

  Once beyond the cross-roads, the traffic thinned out and Kerr was able to increase speed. He went down Dock Road and parked immediately outside the Sand Steamship Company’s offices. The time was just after six-twenty. How long was Leery going to take and weren’t detective constables supposed to have any private lives?

  Leery was waiting downstairs, in the small lobby. ‘Good evening, Mr. Kerr. It’s kind of you to come out and see me so late on a Sunday.’

  ‘That’s all right, sir,’ said Kerr and managed to sound reasonably truthful.

  ‘As I told your detective inspector over the ’phone, tomorrow morning would have done.’

  Drop dead! thought Kerr, referring to Fusil.

  ‘Since you’re here, though, suppose we go along and have a drink at my club. It’s close by.’

  If one had to suffer, suffer as pleasantly as possible. ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘You’ve come by car, I suppose? The club’s in Maritime Buildings at the end of Dock Road. It’ll be best if we go independently.’

  They left the office and parted. Kerr drove the three-quarters of a mile to Maritime Buildings, a Victorian building in heavy, ponderous style that was strangely lightened by the heavy deposit of surface dirt. He went inside and waited, watched by an incurious commissionaire, and wondered where in the hell Leery had got to?

  Leery finally arrived. ‘Come on upstairs, Mr. Kerr. I don’t know if you’ve ever been in here before? It began at the turn of the century as a hall where seamen could be saved from the perils of wine and women. Today, it’s a club which couldn’t be run without the profits of the bar and where ladies are admitted unchaperoned. Progress, as some sage once remarked, is both inevitable and disillusioning.’

  It was odd, thought Kerr, not for the first time, how Leery’s manner belied his appearance. He looked as if the doctor had just told him he was dead, but underneath this unfortunate appearance was a man with a strong sense of humour.

  They went up the wide staircase and past a plaque which named the ennobled lady who had founded The Temperance Club for Honest Seafarers. At the head of the stairs was a model, in a glass case, of a windjammer with all sails set. They walked through a lounge into the bar beyond. Behind the bar was a barmaid who dressed as if she were thirty, but rather obviously was not: her décolletage was more embarrassing than exciting.

  ‘What will you drink?’ asked Leery.

  ‘Could I have a whisky?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Kerr walked over to one of the tables and sat down. He looked quickly at his watch. There were still forty minutes to go before he need panic too much about his date.

  Leery came to the table and passed a glass and syphon across. ‘Are you a little pushed for time? I saw you look at your watch. It won’t take us long if you are in a hurry.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, sir, I do have rather an important date.’

  ‘
How long can you spare me?’

  Kerr chanced his luck as far as he dared. ‘I’d be very grateful if I could leave inside the half-hour.’

  ‘There’ll be no trouble on that score.’

  Kerr added soda to his whisky and felt like singing. Leery was O.K. He knew — although too old for such fun himself — how important a date could be.

  ‘I’ve been wondering how things are getting on with your investigations?’ said Leery, as he added soda to his drink. ‘We’ll soon be loading more valuable cargo and there’s a question of whether we should take any extra precautions?’

  ‘I’m afraid the detective inspector’s really the man to answer that.’

  ‘Oh! What a pity he didn’t tell me so.’

  ‘I’m really just a glorified errand boy. Half the time I don’t even know what any of the other blokes are doing.’

  ‘He seemed to indicate over the ’phone that you were in charge of the case.’

  Anything, thought Kerr bitterly, to make certain that he went home on time.

  ‘You can’t really say what’s happening, then?’

  ‘All I can tell you is that it looks as if the gold was pinched here, in Fortrow.’

  ‘Can you say whether you suspect anyone?’

  Kerr shrugged his shoulders. ‘The theft looks as if it must have been done during the night, and as far as we know there wasn’t anyone aboard then but the ship’s officers.’

  ‘But I’m positive none of the ship’s officers would steal.’

  ‘Someone did.’

  Leery emptied his glass. ‘Drink up, Mr. Kerr. You’re a long way behind.’

  Kerr finished his whisky. Leery was being a bit soft over his officers. The stolen charms were worth about five thousand pounds, melted down, and that was enough money to tempt most people.

  Leery returned, sat down, and offered cigarettes. ‘Isn’t there any news of the gold’s being sold? I’ve been told you often get leads that way?’

  ‘There hasn’t been a whisper. In some ways, that’s one of the oddest things about the case.’

  ‘Perhaps the gold wasn’t stolen in this port after all?’

  Kerr said nothing.

  ‘Couldn’t things have been worked to make it look as if the theft was here when it really took place in Australia?’

  ‘I expect the D.I.’s got an eye to that.’

  Leery smiled. ‘Trying to teach my grandmother to suck eggs?’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Kerr politely.

  ‘You’ll have guessed by now that the one thing which really worries me is having one of my officers under suspicion. Mr. Wilson, the chief officer of the Sandstream, sailed as third with me. He’s utterly honest.’

  Kerr wondered why Leery was getting so worried about other people. In the world of today, it didn’t pay to look after anyone but number one.

  Leery spoke again. ‘You haven’t any definite suspicions, then?’

  ‘None that I know of.’

  ‘What d’you think your next moves will be?’

  ‘Routine checks, I suppose, until the ship docks here. Then we’ll search it and the crew.’

  Leery stubbed out his cigarette. After offering one, which Kerr refused, he lit another. He finished his drink. ‘The same again?’

  ‘No, thanks. I mustn’t be late.’

  ‘Of course, you’re eager to be off. It’s very kind of you to have come.’

  ‘No trouble at all.’

  ‘I’ll stay on a bit, so you just leave when you feel like it.’

  Thanks.’ There was a pause. ‘Didn’t you want to know about the need for any more precautions when the gold’s loaded?’

  Leery started. ‘Yes. Yes, of course I did.’

  ‘I’ll check with the D.I., but I imagine that if you do all you usually do, we’ll take care of everything extra.’

  ‘Right. Have you any idea what kind of extra precautions you might take?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. That’s the D.I.’s headache.’ Kerr stood up. ‘Good night, sir. Thanks for the drinks.’

  He left and when, in the lounge, he saw he had over ten minutes in hand, he began to whistle.

  Back in the bar, Leery bought another whisky. How much of the truth, he wondered desperately, had he just been told?

  ‘Three bob, please,’ said the barmaid. She leaned forward to take the money and the front of her dress fell further open. Leery was abruptly reminded of a night in Panama City. He wished to God he was still at sea, where life was simple.

  9

  Fusil drove through the back roads of Fortrow to borough H.Q., which lay in Western Division. He parked his car, went inside and up to the detective chief inspector’s room. He thought, as he said hullo, that Kywood was looking old and ill.

  ‘You’re seeing the chief constable at ten,’ said Kywood. ‘He wants a full report on the gold job and you can give me the latest before we go in.’

  Getting worried, thought Fusil. Panic stations because the chief constable would start getting nasty and Kywood’s peaceful world might be shattered. ‘It’s like I said on the ’phone, sir.’

  Kywood spoke angrily. ‘You must have made some progress?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Goddamn it, man, it’s a big job.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘The papers are still working it.’

  ‘I know that also.’

  ‘Then why aren’t you making progress?’

  ‘We can’t do more than we have been. Most of us were hard at it all yesterday.’

  ‘I should bloody well hope so.’ Kywood lit a cigarette, but did not bother to offer one. ‘What about the witness statements from Sydney?’

  ‘They don’t tell us anything we didn’t know. The chief and fourth officers sealed the locker in Fortrow and the seals were intact on arrival at Sydney. The fourth officer was in the locker throughout loading and unloading.’

  ‘What about the fourth?’

  ‘His background’s clean. The Sydney police swear there’s no chance he’s mixed up in the job.’

  ‘Then the chief officer?’

  ‘He’s living up to his income and no more. He’s got no women on the Australian coast.’

  ‘Leery?’

  ‘Nothing we can pin down on him.’

  ‘There’s the eight hundred overdraft that suddenly vanished.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Have you questioned him on it?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because in my judgement it’s not yet the right moment.’

  Kywood flushed, but said nothing for several seconds. ‘Isn’t anyone grassing?’

  ‘All contacts have the same story: no one’s unloading gold on the market.’

  ‘Damn it, man, someone must be.’

  Fusil said nothing.

  ‘The chief constable’s raising hell, Bob.’

  Fusil noted Kywood’s suddenly conciliatory tone of voice. Now, he was appealing for help, like a child begging for good news. ‘He can raise all the hell he wants, but it’s not going to alter anything.’

  ‘This case means a lot to you, Bob.’

  ‘So you’ve said before, sir.’

  Kywood fidgeted with a pencil. ‘The chief constable suggested I took over the case. I told him I never interfered with my D.I.s unless I had to.’

  Of course you don’t, thought Fusil. You like someone around to sling the mud at. He wondered how in the hell he was going to make a break to this case — yet there had to be a break or his career would be right up the creek.

  *

  In his office, Leery stared at the completed cargo plan, with its many colours and line patterns denoting different loading and discharging ports. He thought about the previous evening. It had been a terrible mistake to ring up the detective inspector and ask what was happening. Yet he had had to know what the police were doing.

  What would he do if the police charged one of the ship’s officers? How would his conscience — wh
ich was proving to be frighteningly elastic — react to such a situation?

  One of the secretaries came into the room with a Telex message. Two hundred and thirty-three tons of cargo due to be shipped on the Sandeagle at Glasgow were now to be loaded on the Sandtide at Hull. Changes like this usually caused other men near fatal blood pressure, yet he could cope with them without trouble. Then why couldn’t he cope with the complications of his own life?

  He left the office and went out into the street. He walked across the unfenced twin railway tracks to the dock gates where one of the two dock policemen on duty saluted and said how nice it would be to take a day trip to the Arctic to cool off.

  As he approached the end of a huge cargo shed, berthed alongside which was a Greek tramp, a heavy lorry passed him, carrying bales that were destined for Bombay. The bales reminded him of the first time he had stolen cargo. Prudence had demanded a very expensive dress which he couldn’t afford to buy and when she didn’t get it she had refused to have anything more to do with him.

  For a week, he’d suffered the torture of an over-active mind. On the eighth day, he’d gone down number one hold of a ship which was loading high-quality textiles in bales. When he’d reached the lower ’tween, he’d been on his own because the stevedores were in the wing of the middle ’tween. He’d touched one of the bales which he knew contained silk brocade, fingered a metal band, then jerked his hand away. He’d taken a penknife from his pocket, hesitated, replaced it, hesitated, taken it out again, hesitated, replaced it. He’d walked back to the ladder and even begun to climb it, when he’d remembered Prudence as she had been, naked, so passionate that she knew no boundaries to their love-making and steered him past what had, until then, been his boundaries. He’d dropped to the deck, crossed to the bale, and slit it open. He’d wound several yards of the brocade round his body, under his shirt. When he’d climbed up to the middle ’tween, he’d almost expected the stevedores to laugh at him for being so amateurish a thief, but all they’d done was to stare resentfully at him, willing him to hurry away so that they could get on with their own pilfering. He’d walked without trouble through the dock gateway. The dock policemen didn’t search him — as far as they were concerned, a marine superintendent wasn’t such a fool as to endanger his career and his freedom by pinching a few yards of silk brocade.