By the afternoon a fairly firm opinion as to the deceased’s country of origin was arrived at by the dental expert, who declared that the technique and materials of the numerous tooth fillings were typically British.
The detective was a little sceptical about relying too much on this evidence, but he had dramatic confirmation from two directions within the next few hours. Firstly, the ballistics department reported on the bullet extracted from the dead man’s spinal column. The inspector muttered a summary of it to his assistant.
‘Not a metric size projectile … a .25 inch copper-clad bullet, corresponding to 6.35 millimetres … from the rifling pattern left by the barrel it must have been fired from an automatic weapon with six right-hand grooves with a pitch of one turn in twenty-five centimetres. The groove width was 0.56 mm and the land width 2.65 mm … this corresponds to the specifications of the British Webley self-loading pistol, made in two models, one hammerless, both of .25 inch calibre. One has a short free-standing barrel, is small and is unlike any other German or Continental weapon.’
Almost before he had digested all this, a motorcycle roared up to headquarters with a courier sent from the Brudermühlbrücke with a pistol that an aqualung diver had just grovelled from the bed of the Isar.
It was a .25 Webley automatic.
Already a photograph of the dead man, touched up to look as lifelike as possible, had been printed and, armed with a copy, a squad of police were questioning airport staff, railwaymen, and taxi drivers.
At seven thirty, a cab driver who had not seen the photograph but had heard of the location of the murder, came forward to say that he had taken two men to the bridge around midnight.
While he was in the C.I.D. being questioned, a detective brought in another taxi man who recognised the dead person as a fare he had taken from the railway station to the Pension Walther.
The detective inspector soon found that both drivers agreed that the dead man’s companion on both trips must have been the same fellow. The only point of dispute was that the first taxi man said that the man spoke good German with a Cologne accent, while the one who took the pair to Thalkirchen swore that the second man was Munich born and bred.
The time of the train that they had left was checked and was found to be the Tauern Express from Ostend. A call was made to Interpol in Lyon for assistance, asking for the names of all male passengers who had booked on that journey to Munich.
The inspector spent part of the night looking for the second man, who was now the prime suspect. The description from the cab drivers was too vague to be of any use – Golding’s nondescript features functioned just as well outside Britain.
The next step was a visit to the Pension Walther in Schwabing. Wormser, cursing Schrempp for involving him, had to admit that he had given a room to the tall Englishman.
‘Why didn’t he sign the register?’ demanded the detectives.
Wormser gave a cringing shrug. ‘It was his first night, Officer. He was very tired after his long journey – I thought I’d not bother him till the morning. But he didn’t come back.’
‘Come and open his room – let’s have a look at his luggage.’
Wormser was in a spot again. He had already acquired the case, when he had to restore the original owner’s belongings in the room he had given to Draper. He tried to explain and tied himself up in a worse knot. Eventually he produced the case from his office.
‘When he didn’t come back I thought he’d ducked off without paying his bill … so I kept his case as security.’
The inspector had his own ideas about Wormser but the other matter was the more urgent. He rummaged through the case.
‘No passport … no papers,’ he said in disgust. In fact, Conrad’s passport was floating in the North Sea, after Jacobs had flushed the pieces down the toilet of a B.E.A. Comet on his way back from Hamburg.
A junior detective picked up a silk shirt from the case. ‘Made in London, sir … has the initials C.D. on the neckband.’
‘Corps Diplomatique?’ suggested the inspector sarcastically. ‘Come on, Wormser, you’ve been up to something … tell me about the man who brought him here.’
‘I didn’t know his name … I don’t even know the name of this man.’ He pointed to the case.
‘Hard luck. Why did they come here – to this particular hotel? You must have known the second person.’
‘I recognised him … he stayed here once. He was an English student,’ lied Wormser desperately.
Exasperated, the inspector grabbed Wormser by the arm. ‘Come on, back to headquarters. Bring that case, Hans.’
When they arrived at the office, there was a list from the French Railways sent via Interpol. It showed that only twenty four males had booked all the way from Ostend to Munich at that slack winter period. There was only one name with the initials ‘C.D.’ and that was Conrad Draper. There was no address given.
‘Have to check with London’s Scotland Yard for that, they can get the full bookings from the London railway offices.’
‘What about the other man?’ asked his assistant.
‘He was on the same train.’
Wormser came in for another heavy session of interrogation, but he gave a deliberately vague description that would have fitted a quarter of the population of Europe.
The inspector reported to his senior early next morning.
‘I feel that both these men had only a fleeting association with Munich, sir. I think that the motives are all back in England and I suggest that we inform the London police of all the facts’
His chief, already flooded with local crime, was only too ready to give his blessing for the inspector to pass the ball to Scotland Yard.
Back in his office, the detective picked up his telephone and asked for London.
Benbow took the call about noon on the Tuesday. He rapidly noted down all the information, asked for written confirmation and, after profuse thanks, put the phone down. He dialled Information Room to find out why the case had been given to him.
‘The officer who liaises with Interpol told us to put it through to you, sir.’
He rang the chief inspector concerned and was told something that almost sent him up to the ceiling.
A few moments later Bray came in with a fresh armful of papers.
‘So! Here’s a turn-up for the book, lad!’ The Admiral was leaning back in his chair with a great grin on his face.
Bray waited patiently for the oracle to speak.
‘Just had Germany on the blower,’ announced Benbow.
Bray tried to imagine the Russian premier saying it in quite that tone of voice.
‘Munich to be exact. They had a shooting there yesterday.’
The sergeant waited expectantly.
‘Conrad Draper had a hole blown through his chest.’
Benbow looked so pleased with himself that Bray felt sorry when he had to say, ‘Draper? Never heard of him.’
The Admiral’s pale brows came together in a frown.
‘Course you have, boy. The turf wizard of Brewer Street.’
Bray’s face opened up slightly.
‘Oh, him! Yes, I’ve heard of that chap. But what the devil’s that got to do with us? Surely we’ve got enough on our plate already.’
He waved despairingly at the piles of documents littering the small room. Benbow sighed with the resigned air of a dedicated teacher of backward children.
‘Listen, while uncle tells you all about it. This might be a tie-in with the Rita Laskey job … and God knows we could do with one.’
He hoisted his feet up on to the corner of his desk and Bray sank on to the only other chair.
‘I had this call from the German coppers to the effect that one Conrad Draper, of London, had been fished out of some bloody river there with a bullet hole in his chest … in fact he was found in the water less than twenty-four hours after he had arrived by train from England. Part two of the mystery … another bloke who was with him just before he was knocke
d off, was on the train with him – and he’s vanished.’
Bray looked blankly across the desk.
‘So what? Why drag us into it?’
Benbow’s fat lips gave a Cheshire Cat smile.
‘That’s what I wondered when Morris rang me – the Interpol Liaison bloke. I asked him why he’d shipped the call onto me, the most overworked and downtrodden character in the Yard. Know what he said? Calm as you like!’
Bray shook his head dutifully.
‘He said that earlier this morning the Jerries rang up asking for a check on bookings on the train to identify this Draper and on the serial number of the gun that shot him. And stone me, it was a .25 Webley that was registered in the name of Ray Silver of the Nineties Club.’
It was Bray’s turn to look surprised. He leaned forwards with his hands braced on his knees, as if he was ready to take off in a sprint.
‘Silver and Munich. I don’t get it.’
Benbow began destroying a pencil in his teeth.
‘Nor do I. How the hell Conrad Draper fits into this, I just don’t know. But here’s another thing. The German post-mortem says that he had injection marks on his arms. Looks as if the common factor running through this case is drugs, chum.’
‘But where does Golding – and the girl Laskey – come into this?’
Benbow shrugged.
‘There’s one thing similar – the bloke on the train and our friend Golding both have the knack of appearing and vanishing into thin air – could they be one and the same?’
Bray whistled. ‘Nice theory – but we’ve only got the Nineties Club to link them up.’
The chief inspector hauled himself upright and reached for his Nikita-type felt hat.
‘Yes, lad, theorising never bought the baby a new dress – let’s get around to the Soho sin market and have a few words with the Draper outfit.’
They took a car to Brewer Street and climbed to the headquarters of the late bookie’s gambling empire. Benbow enquired of the first clerk he saw and was directed to the big room at the front. From the attitude of the staff, the news of Draper’s death had not reached them yet.
They found Irish O’Keefe making the most of Draper’s absence. He was sitting behind the big desk, with a glass of Conrad’s whisky in his hand and one of his cigars stuck in his lips. Another half-dozen lay safely in his pocket.
He leaped up guiltily as Benbow pushed his way into the room. Irish scowled when he saw it was the police and dropped back into his seat.
‘What’s the game? We don’t like coppers coming here – it’s bad for business.’
Benbow sat on the comer of the desk, snatched the cigar from the little man’s mouth and glared down at him.
‘Here’s some news that’s going to be even worse for business. Conrad Draper is dead … murdered.’
Irish turned white on the spot.
‘You wouldn’t be after kidding me!’ he croaked.
The detective shook his head slowly.
‘Come on, Irish. Let’s hear your end of the story. I haven’t had the chance of dragging you into the nick since that last bit of false pretences you pulled – but I’m always ready for another trip.’
It was an empty threat but O’Keefe was too shaken a man to realise it. He gulped, took another swig of his late boss’s whisky and talked.
‘He belted off the day afore yesterday – got me to book a train ticket and sleeper to Munich … was it there he was done in, Mr Benbow, sir?’
‘Yep, shot with a gun from the Nineties Club.’ Irish’s eyes almost popped out on to his cheeks with surprise.
‘Not Silver’s! But he took it off him.’
His voice trailed away as he realised that he might be saying too much. In his philosophy, half a word was too much to tell a copper.
Benbow leant over and grabbed his shoulder.
‘So you know something about it, eh? Look, chum, I’m not in the mood to mess around with you. You spill it now, or I promise I’ll take you in as an accessory after the fact and throw the bleeding book at you.’
He put such virulence into the words that Irish, with the knowledge that his boss and protector was no longer available, decided to cough.
‘He was like a mad thing on Friday night, sir … he went around the Nineties Club very late and Silver must have told him then that Golding was going to Munich next day’ His voice died away as Benbow and Bray closed around him to stare at him as if he was the Oracle of Delphi. He looked up at them fearfully.
‘Sure, I only said the truth, sir,’ he began uneasily.’
‘You’re doing fine … carry on,’ said Benbow exultantly. Bit by bit the whole story, as Irish knew it, was unfolded. How Conrad had been cuckolding Golding, the business of the tape recorder, the attacks Draper had made on Silver, and how he had taken the Webley from him.
‘Why did he go to Munich after Golding?’ demanded Benbow.
‘I don’t know at all, sir … Draper wasn’t the sort of man you asked. He told you if he felt in the mood, but if he didn’t he was just as like to knock your block off – powerful big man he was.’
He shook his head sorrowfully and took another suck of spirits. ‘Don’t know what we’re going to do now, I don’t.’
‘What d’you know about Golding?’ snapped Bray.
‘Nothing about him, if you know what I mean. I’d seen him in the club, I knew he was keeping Rita … but what he did, I don’t know.’
‘Come off it, Irish,’ grated Benbow. ‘Your boss was tramping the same set of stairs to the Laskey woman … you must know something about him … why did Draper go after him to Munich?’
Benbow had at last found a small chink in the solid wall of non-cooperation in Soho and was determined to lever it wide open.
‘Draper was as mad as hell when he heard that she’d been croaked – he reckoned Golding had done it.’
‘Why should Golding have done it … just because he’d found that Conrad was sleeping with her?’
Irish shrugged nervously. ‘Search me, guv’nor.’
‘Did he ever threaten Golding?’
Irish considered this over another swig of Scotch. ‘He never had a chance … he had me on the runaround for days trying to find Golding.’
‘And did you?’
‘Sure, never a wisp of bleeding hair did I see!’
‘And what colour was his bleeding hair?’
Bray could almost see the mental brakes going on as the shock of Draper’s death began to fade and his natural distrust of the police take its place.
‘I don’t remember – sure, that was just a figure of speech.’
Benbow, who was now standing alongside the little fellow’s chair, grabbed it and tilted it back. Irish went back with it, spilled his drink into his lap, and howled as Benbow slammed the chair back onto an even keel.
‘Listen, O’Keefe, cut that out. I know you’ve been Draper’s watchdog for years. But your boss is dead now and if you don’t help me nail his killer, I’ll rake up enough dirt on you to keep you inside for a twelve-month. Now come on, let’s have some sense. You know damn well what Golding looks like – and where he comes from.’
He finished his speech with a resounding thump on the back of the chair which jerked Irish forwards.
‘I only seen him a couple of times, honest,’ he whined. ‘He was the sort of bloke that don’t look like anybody in particular.’
‘How tall was he … fat, thin, dark, blonde … come on.’
O’Keefe gave a convincingly genuine but utterly useless description of Golding. Benbow scowled.
‘The average man again! Irish, if you can’t tell us what he looked like, tell me where he came from, what he did, where he went.’
The ugly dwarf from Dublin made routine protests again but eventually told what he knew.
‘The only place I ever saw him was the club. He didn’t know me nor Conrad. He used to take Rita there … I heard he was pretty thick with Ray Silver.’
He hesitat
ed and looked from one to the other.
Benbow caught the look and bent down so that his bulbous nose was almost pressed against Irish’s face.
‘Spill it all, sonny – it may save you a short haircut and a heap of mail bags.’
Irish gulped and took the plunge.
‘Conrad was on the hook – not much, no mainlining, only skin-pops – but he used to get his junk from Ray Silver … and I heard tell – not Gospel, mind you – that Golding was the big man with the supplies. He used to distribute to all the hundred-deck men.’
‘And this gun was the one that Conrad took from Ray Silver?’
‘Yes … Conrad never used an iron.’
Benbow kept at the little man unmercifully but eventually was satisfied that he knew no more of any importance.
‘Take him down to the Division and get a statement, Bray,’ he said at last. ‘Don’t charge him with anything yet until we make up our minds which offence will get him the longest stretch.’
He threw a baleful glance at O’Keefe and strutted to the door as if he were about to take the salute in Red Square.
At the Yard, he found that the sergeant from the Drug Squad had left him a report from the laboratory. This confirmed that the white powder from the shelves of the safe was a mixture of morphine and heroin. There was also a long cable from Germany giving the details of the post-mortem and investigations on the body from the River Isar.
When Bray came back about four o’clock, he found Benbow thoughtfully staring at the dusty picture of the 1936 water-polo team, which was the only ornament in their office.
‘The plot thickens, lad. We’ve had the report from Munich, with a photo … it’s certainly Draper. And the lab have found drugs in that dust from Silver’s safe. So with O’Keefe’s evidence, we’ve got enough to take him in. The Nineties Club should be out of business for a few years.’
Bray looked puzzled. ‘Why did all this business happen in Munich? If they wanted a punch-up, they could have done it here just as well. And where the hell is this Golding now?’
Benbow tapped the transcript from the laboratory.
‘This is the answer in Munich. It’s one of the places on the Near East pipeline for narcotics. Vienna, Paris and the Balkans are the big places, but Munich is a clearing house as well. It gets in from Turkey and the Levant as well as directly from the Far East.’
Mistress Murder Page 13
