The C.I.D Room

by Roderic Jeffries

Heywood-Smith looked straight at Kerr and his slate-grey eyes had the look of an old, scaly, warty, poisonous lizard wondering whether or not to strike. ‘Come in here,’ he said abruptly, and he led the way into the smaller drawing-room.

  The room was so hot that Kerr immediately felt breathless and then sweaty. As casually as he could, he looked round — there was no telephone.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Heywood-Smith.

  ‘You had me framed.’

  ‘That’s absurd.’

  ‘You had me framed to keep the police busy whilst you grabbed hold of the final load of gold. Choppy Walker was either bribed or threatened into doing the dirty work. This morning, he came to divisional H.Q. and offered to admit to framing me if he were promised immunity from prosecution on that score and on a charge of receiving. He saw Detective Inspector Fusil. Fusil’s a bastard.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your assessment of your senior officers.’

  ‘You’re going to become interested. Instead of accepting the offer, Fusil arrested Walker.’

  Heywood-Smith was quite unable to conceal the shock this news gave him. He shook his head as if to deny the remotest possibility of what he had just been told.

  Kerr continued. ‘Because he wasn’t expecting to be arrested, he got scared.’

  Heywood-Smith stubbed out his cigar with excessive force and it disintegrated and spilled off the ash-tray on to the small round table.

  ‘He got so scared he began to talk to try and get himself out of trouble. He told the police about the gold, who he gave it to after he drove it out of the docks in the van: he told ’em it was you running the job. But because he’d become bloody vindictive, he still said I’d blacked him.’

  Heywood-Smith crossed to the cigar box and took out a cigar. He removed the band, cut the end and lit it.

  ‘I began remembering a thing or two,’ said Kerr. ‘I was framed right after Leery told me the two ships were sister ships — the two that all the gold thefts were from. That means Leery’s in on it, as we always thought he was, and there’s enough evidence lying around to incriminate him. With him and Walker in the net, you’re the next.’

  ‘Well?’ demanded Heywood-Smith harshly.

  ‘I’ve come along to see if you’re feeling generous. I could keep my mouth shut about what I know.’

  ‘Blackmail?’

  ‘Why not? I’m on the cards for one lot of blackmail already.’

  Heywood-Smith went across to the cocktail cabinet and poured himself out a whisky. ‘On your own evidence, you’ll be jailed. Money’s no use to you.’

  ‘Enough of it and I’ll buy the truth from Walker. You can always buy blokes like him if you can raise enough of the necessary. He’s going down for a long stretch, anyway, and it won’t get any longer if he admits to trying to fix me for blackmail. Right now, he hates my guts because I’m a split and he’d laugh himself sick to see me inside for something I didn’t do: but ten thousand pounds changes a bloke’s attitude.’

  ‘You’ve the insolence to come here and demand ten thousand…’

  ‘Fifteen thousand. I need another five for myself, by way of compensation.’

  ‘You young fool.’

  A telephone rang. Heywood-Smith hesitated briefly, then left the room.

  Kerr lit a cigarette. Was he being convincing? Did Heywood-Smith believe any of it? Had Fusil been right that this was the only way he could hope to clear himself completely? Suppose Fusil had been lying and in reality Choppy Walker had offered to tell the truth provided only he was granted immunity from trial…

  Heywood-Smith returned, crossed to the cocktail cabinet and picked up the glass he had put down there.

  ‘I want fifteen thousand,’ said Kerr.

  Heywood-Smith walked over to the fireplace, blanked off because of the central heating. ‘Clear out of my house. If you’re not gone immediately, I’ll telephone the police and tell them exactly what you’ve tried to do.’

  ‘I’m warning you.’

  ‘You ridiculous young fool. You come here with vague, stupid threats and believe I’ll panic. Tell anyone whatever you like. D’you imagine anything you can say will harm me one iota? D’you think that if I had organised the gold thefts I’d have left things so that you could begin to harm me? My God, man, give me credit for some ability.’

  ‘You won’t —’

  ‘Get out.’

  Kerr, after a while, began to walk towards the door. He stopped and turned and began to plead. ‘I…If I can’t pay him, Walker won’t tell the truth.’

  ‘That’s no concern of mine.’

  ‘But I’m innocent. You know I’m innocent.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Won’t you —’

  ‘Get out.’

  Kerr left. He went into the hall and across to the front door, which he opened. He left the house.

  Back in the sitting-room, Heywood-Smith finished his drink. He poured himself another. He was still shocked by the news that the detective inspector had done the impossible and had not accepted Walker’s offer. He had sacrificed Kerr. Why? What had made the detective inspector do the impossible?

  There was a ring at the front door. Was this Kerr back again, not threatening, but begging for help? If so, he’d learn the hard way he’d made a terrible mistake.

  His housekeeper came into the room and said there was a police constable asking to speak to Detective Constable Kerr.

  He went into the hall. Just inside the doorway stood a very young-looking uniformed constable, wearing a mackintosh which he had unbuttoned. He held his helmet in his hand. ‘Very sorry to bother you, sir.’

  ‘No bother, Constable,’ replied Heywood-Smith jovially. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘I’ve an urgent message for Detective Constable Kerr, sir, and someone said he was here.’

  ‘He left about five minutes ago.’

  ‘Then I hope he’s on his way back to H.Q. They’ve been shouting for him as hard as they can go,’ he added ingenuously.

  ‘Police headquarters?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘Really? I rather understood that Kerr had been most unfortunately suspended from duty?’

  ‘He was, sir, but he’s back on again. And from the way they’re pushing him around now I reckon he’s maybe a bit sorry they didn’t leave him alone! Sorry to have disturbed you, sir.’ The constable turned, opened the front door, and went out into the windy night.

  Heywood-Smith stared at the closed door. His housekeeper spoke to him and he cursed her. She returned to the kitchen.

  Kerr’s story had been so many lies. Far from being suspended in utter disgrace, he was back at work — quite obviously cleared by Walker, who’d cracked when the impossible happened and the police turned down his bargain and arrested him. Then Kerr’s visit to this house, apparently a clumsy attempt at blackmail, had in reality been something entirely different — a fact that would never have come to light had not a young and stupid police constable come along and unwittingly blurted out the truth.

  He suddenly remembered the telephone call. The man on the other end had asked for the wholesale price of cabbages. The caller had become very rude when he, Heywood-Smith, had retorted sharply that he was not a wholesale grocer. At that time, he’d dismissed the call as meaningless — but wasn’t it much more likely to be one more person who was not what he had seemed to be? Then what had he been? The question had only to be put for the answer to be obvious. The call had been made to get him out of the sitting-room so as to leave Kerr on his own.

  Near panic seeped into his mind and began to spread its sinuous tentacles. The police had made an ‘impossible’ move, the one move he had been so certain they would never, never make. This had left him vulnerable. He recognised, reluctantly, that the mind which had directed these actions was a mind almost as clever as his, seizing as it had on the one point of weakness. Only the actions of a young and inexperienced police constable had ruined things.

  He stared unseeingly al
ong the hall. He placed himself in the position of the detective inspector. One of his men had been falsely incriminated for blackmail, almost certainly at the orders of a man known over the years to the police, but too clever ever to be touched by normal means. How to get at that man? Obviously, only by using extraordinary means. How better to succeed than to turn the tables? The detective had been falsely incriminated: falsely incriminate this man. Tit for tat, with the final ironic victory to the police.

  His mind was swept by the certainty that Kerr’s objective had been to be on his own in the sitting-room. Why? In order to plant something that would provide incriminating evidence.

  Heywood-Smith turned and ran into the sitting-room and began frantically to search. He looked underneath the settee, between the cushions on it, under the chairs, in the fireplace, on the mantelpiece, inside the two Minton vases, inside the silver cigarette and cigar boxes, the drawers of the Sheraton table, behind the paintings, along the picture rail, under the carpet, all round the display cabinet and every piece of Wedgwood Jasperware…and he found nothing.

  At the far end of the room was a door into the library. The shelves of the library were filled with books in matching tooled leather, all bearing his monogram: to search each one and behind each one would take hours. Had he any time left? How soon would the police arrive to turn up the fake evidence?

  The telephone rang, startling him with its sudden clangour. He ran back to the hall and took the call. Leery was in a panic because the police had just searched his house under warrant. His wife was having hysterics. Heywood-Smith cursed the other’s wife and slammed down the receiver.

  He tried to straighten out his thoughts. One piece of false evidence on its own couldn’t finish him, but it could give the police the chance to jail him until he was brought up before the magistrates the next morning. They would have the night in which to search for the last consignment of gold — still in his possession because he loved gold so much that it hurt him ever to sell it.

  He had to break free before they reached the house and turned up the faked evidence. Once he was free and the gold was gone, he could fight them all the way. Kerr claimed Walker had given the police the names of any contacts he knew. That claim must be assumed to be true because to do otherwise might be fatally dangerous. Then, although nothing Walker had said could directly affect him, Heywood-Smith, it did mean that the usual channels for the disposal of the gold were too dangerous to be used.

  What was he going to do? He had to act immediately, yet… He thought of Leery. Leery was a sailor. He could take the motor cruiser out into the Channel, where direct contact could be made with the French…

  19

  At Eastern Division H.Q., in one of the downstairs rooms, Fusil paced the floor, then came to a stop by the open doorway beyond which the civilian telephonist sat at the switchboard. ‘Anything more?’

  The woman turned and spoke wearily. ‘Still no report from traffic H.Q.’

  He cursed. Now that he’d embarked on the course that he had — using Kerr as the ‘ferret’ which was to bolt Heywood-Smith with the gold — he was scared. Just plain, ordinarily scared. If things went wrong, he’d be faced by consequences that didn’t bear thinking about — except he’d have to think about them. He was gambling with another man’s freedom and innocence. He was also gambling that Heywood-Smith had so tortuous and clever a mind that he would believe another man’s mind could be equally tortuous but never quite so clever. Had Kerr been sufficiently arrogant, then servile: had the uniformed constable set the right note of almost stupid innocence? Had Heywood-Smith’s mind cleverly tried to put itself in the detective inspector’s mind?

  For fifteen minutes, nothing had happened: if nothing went on happening, as the Irish would say, he would have played the hand and lost. Then he would be left to live with himself.

  There was a harsh, buzzing noise and the telephonist plugged in a line. Fusil crossed back to the doorway, but it was immediately clear that the call was nothing to do with him. He paced back to the centre of the room. In the far corner, sitting at a desk, the duty sergeant worked at some forms, filling them in. Fusil had run out of pipe tobacco and he went across and asked the other for a cigarette.

  He smoked. If it had been anyone but Kerr, would he have dared do this thing? How much had his decision been coloured by a lessened sense of responsibility? He cursed himself yet again. He had acted and the time for self-analysis was either past or had not yet come.

  The switchboard buzzer sounded again. He returned to the doorway. The telephonist was listening and saying nothing and he suddenly hated the plain-looking woman for not giving him an indication of whether this was his call.

  She finally said, ‘O.K.’, unplugged the line, and turned. ‘That was H.Q., Inspector.’

  ‘Well? What the hell did they say?’

  Her thin lips tightened to express disapproval. ‘Suspect has driven off and is now proceeding along B four two four six towards Mike Mike Oscar.’

  He hurried hack to the far side of the room and the map of the county behind the duty sergeant’s desk. With his forefinger, he traced out the route of B4246 from Heywood-Smith’s house to checkpoint Mike Mike Oscar, which was a junction with the main London-Fortrow road.

  Traffic Division covered both county and borough and he had been able to get only one car out of them. He’d demanded three and the superintendent in charge had refused point-blank. Fusil hadn’t dared to try to override the other’s decision. Now, that solitary car, following Heywood-Smith’s vast Mercedes, was reporting by wireless to H.Q. and H.Q. was telephoning the messages through to Eastern Division.

  Which way would Heywood-Smith turn? Towards London? If so, should London be alerted or should the Mercedes be stopped and searched before it reached the city?

  There was another report from H.Q. ‘Suspect turned south, Inspector, heading in direction Fortrow.’

  Fusil stubbed out the cigarette. Why Fortrow? He went across and asked the duty sergeant for another cigarette and the latter showed some hesitation in producing the packet.

  The slave electric clock on the near wall clicked loudly, every half-minute. Each loud click seemed to echo in Fusil’s head.

  ‘Arrived Delta Delta Juliet.’

  He returned to the map. Delta Delta Juliet was a roundabout where the London-Fortrow road met the Fortrow by-pass.

  ‘Proceeding along Fortrow road.’

  ‘Tell ’em to… Forget it.’ What the hell was the use of a message ordering them to stick to Heywood-Smith’s car like a leech? They’d only resent such a superfluous command. ‘Give me another fag,’ he said to the duty sergeant.

  The sergeant put down the pencil. ‘I’m running out, sir.’

  ‘Have you run out?’

  ‘No, but I’ve only…’

  ‘Let’s have one.’ Fusil was given a cigarette from the crumpled packet, now almost empty. He lit it, inhaled, coughed.

  ‘Too much smoking leads to trouble,’ said the duty sergeant.

  Fusil hardly heard the other. In his mind’s eye, he saw the police car, close enough to the Mercedes not to lose it, far enough back to hope to escape being noticed. Would Heywood-Smith expect to be followed and so be prepared for it?

  ‘Suspect stopping in the suburb of Pendleton Bray.’

  Pendleton Bray. The name was familiar in connexion with this case. Why? What the hell was the connexion? Why did a mind go blank just when it was most desperately needed? Pendleton Bray… Of course. That was where Leery lived.

  ‘Second man left house and in car and car driving away.’

  Fusil stubbed out the cigarette. The pattern was suddenly disturbingly unexpected. Why Leery? Leery was the amateur, the weak link in the chain, and surely at a time like this Heywood-Smith had no time for weakness or for amateurs?

  ‘Tango Tango seven lost contact.’

  He whirled round, cursed, and ran to the doorway. This was the most vital part of the drive. ‘Tell ’em to make contact again ev
en if they have to break their necks doing it.’

  He leaned against the jamb of the door and waited. The moment when the police car lost contact might well mark the end of his career. God alone knew what would happen if Tango Tango seven failed to pick up the Mercedes again.

  The half minutes slowly clicked away.

  ‘Contact still lost. Traffic unexpectedly scrambled through lorry breakdown.’

  He looked up at the clock. Seven minutes since contact was lost. That was that, then. The suburbs of Fortrow were like any other suburbs — a maze of streets offering an infinity of different routes. The odds against the police car finding the Mercedes by chance were too hopeless to worry about. Heywood-Smith had broken loose — either accidentally or by design, because he’d realised he was being followed, and it didn’t matter which — and by the time the police could meet up with him again it would be far too late.

  He slowly returned to the desk and asked for yet another cigarette. The duty sergeant said he’d just smoked his last one. Fusil jammed his hands in his pockets and began to pace the floor, his thoughts angry and bitter. The immediate mood of defeat passed. There must be some further action he could take. The fact that Leery had been picked up was so odd and out of pattern that it had to be of special significance. Leery — an amateur — wouldn’t be handling the gold. Then what?

  Leery was a seaman. Fusil’s rate of pacing quickened. Surely that fact was all-significant? Heywood-Smith must have chosen a course of action that needed the help of a seaman.

  Beyond the north end of the new docks was the marina, as yet only half built. Its greatest advantage, and the one that had really been responsible for its coming into being, was that it could be used at any stage of the tide since the channel immediately outside was kept dredged to allow the incoming ships to swing. There was, he knew, a ship’s chandler and several petrol and diesel pumps, so possibly there would be a night watchman. ‘Get the marina,’ he ordered.

  The duty sergeant opened a drawer, took out a list, ran his forefinger down it, flipped over a page, and found the number he wanted. He dialled that number and waited. ‘No answer, sir,’ he finally said.