Murder Among Thieves (C.I.D Room Book 3)

by Roderic Jeffries

  “’As… ’as something ’appened to Bert?” she asked and her face was white.

  “Why d’you ask that?” said Fusil, in a surprisingly soft voice.

  “You being policemen.” She searched Fusil’s face, desperately seeking to discover the truth.

  Fusil asked if they might go inside. She nodded, but said nothing. The hall was clean, neat, and newly decorated.

  “’As Bert been ’urt?” she asked desperately.

  “Not as far as we know.”

  “Then what’ve you come about?” Her fear for his safety was stilled, but another fear arose because she knew now that this visit meant trouble of a different sort.

  “When did you last see your husband?”

  “You’ve got to tell me what’s wrong?”

  “We’re making certain enquiries and think he may be able to help us.”

  “What enquiries?”

  “Concerning a case in Fortrow.”

  She drew in her breath sharply. “Not… not that robbery where them two men was murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “’E couldn’t,” she cried. “Bert’s been in trouble, but ’e couldn’t do nothing like that.”

  “We only want to question him at the moment,” said Fusil, moved by her misery.

  “’E ain’t in. ’E ain’t been in for days.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “It was on Friday.” She suddenly realised the robbery had been on Friday.

  “What time?”

  “’E… ’e left after breakfast and said ’e’d be back. But ’e ain’t never come back.” Once more, her original fear became uppermost in her mind. “Mister, d’you know where ’e is?”

  Fusil was quite certain the woman was telling the truth, yet as a police officer he had to assume she was not. He showed her the warrant and said they would search the house. Dumbly, she stared at him and just shook her head, as if she could no longer understand anything. Whilst she and Fusil waited in the small front room, over-furnished but cosy, she hardly spoke.

  Fusil watched her. Her fingers, long and shapely, were never still they plucked at the cotton skirt she was wearing, fidgeted with the seat cover, tapped on the chair’s arm. She kept looking quickly at him, then away, but he did not believe this sense of worried tension had anything to do with the search in progress. She had become afraid that they had lied to her and that something terrible had happened to her husband. She might be married to a punk villain, yet she loved him as much as any wife loved her successful business husband and her fears were no less because Bert Holdman was a punk.

  The search discovered nothing. Kerr and the local detective constable joined Fusil in the front room.

  “Did you know where your husband was going on the Friday morning?” Fusil asked quietly.

  Her fingers plucked at her skirt. “No.”

  She was lying, he decided, but probably only to the extent that she had known he was engaged in some criminal activity. “And you weren’t certain when you’d see him again?”

  “’E said ’e’d be back in the evening, like I told you.”

  “And since then you haven’t heard another word? There’s been no message?”

  “There ain’t been nothing. I’ve been worried sick. Mister, if you know where ’e is…”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t.” Fusil lit his pipe. “Have you been married long, Mrs. Holdman?”

  “Just on three year.”

  “Has he ever gone missing before?”

  “Never. ’E’s never been away from ’ome except…” She stopped.

  Except when he did his six month stretch for some petty offence. “What have you done to try and find him?” asked Fusil.

  “I’ve been to all our friends, but they ain’t ’eard nothing.”

  “Have you asked the police to look for him?”

  She shook her head and her lips trembled. Her large brown eyes were deep pools of misery. “I’m scared, I’m scared sick,” she blurted out. “If ’e was all right, ’e’d’ve been on to me.”

  There was nothing to be gained by further questioning and he brought the interview to an end. She showed them out of the house, carefully opening the front door for them. The last they saw of her was a woman frightened almost to the point of collapse.

  They drove to Rushington Central Police Station, dropped the D.C., and started their homeward drive.

  “It doesn’t add up,” snapped Fusil suddenly. “I’ve said it before and I say it again — it doesn’t goddamn well add up. Every word she said was the truth. Holdman’s a punk, but that doesn’t stop him loving his wife and if he could, he’d have gone back as he promised on the Friday evening. If something unforeseen turned up, he’d have let her know.”

  “If he’s the murderer, sir, maybe he hasn’t had the chance to get in touch with her.”

  “Why not? What’s to stop him?”

  “He could be scared we’ll pick up his trail.”

  “He could easily have got a message through without the slightest fear of that.”

  “Then maybe he has and she was just putting on a good act for us.”

  “Can you really think that’s possible?” snapped Fusil, and he turned to stare at Kerr. When he looked back, he realised they were in danger of ramming a bus. He hauled the wheel over and swore at the bus driver.

  Kerr opened his eyes.

  “Well?” demanded Fusil.

  “Not really, no, sir.”

  “Then don’t make stupid suggestions.”

  Kerr morosely thought of the cornflakes, egg, bacon, toast, marmalade, and coffee, which he had not had for breakfast.

  The radio, always switched on when the car was being driven, cracked into life. “Hullo Bravo Tango one. I have a message for you. Romeo Romeo Papa, over.” Kerr unhooked the telephone-like transmitter, pressed down the centre switch, and spoke: “Hullo Romeo Romeo Papa. Bravo Tango one. Over.”

  “Message from Detective Sergeant Braddon. One of the bottles of oxygen in the batch was delivered to North Corner Garage, Wellington Road, Escrey Common. North Corner Garage is owned by James Riley, otherwise Burner Riley.”

  “Thank you. Bravo Tango, out.”

  “Well, I’m damned!” Fusil’s voice was loudly triumphant. “We’ve got him! For once, Kerr, you’ve been of some use.”

  “Then d’you think on the strength of that, sir, we could stop and have something to eat?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I didn’t have any breakfast, sir.”

  “You’re always thinking of either food or women,” snapped Fusil. He made a U-turn, forcing an oncoming car to brake harshly.

  “The trouble is,” muttered Kerr, “I’m never allowed to get any nearer to them than thinking.”

  *

  Burner Riley let the detectives into his house and did not try to hide his evil malevolence.

  “It doesn’t matter how clever you blokes are,” said Fusil, “you always do something silly.”

  Riley was worried. A cheerful detective inspector was dangerous.

  “I said we’d be back.”

  “So you’re back,” muttered Riley.

  “We’ve come for a chat about your garage, but first of all I’m obliged by that load of crap known as the judges’ rules to advise you that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence.”

  Jones jammed his hands in his pockets and leaned against the rickety wooden banisters, a look of bored dislike on his face. Kerr held his notebook ready.

  “What about me garage?” asked Riley.

  “It’s called North Corner Garage and you run it because it gives you a handy means of turning hot money into legit.”

  “That ain’t true and you ain’t no right to say it.”

  Fusil smiled sarcastically.

  Riley, wearing a collarless shirt and trousers with braces as before, and still unshaven, scratched his pitted cheek. He rolled a cigarette.

  “Do you remember taking del
ivery of a cylinder of oxygen at your garage?” Fusil asked.

  Riley lit the cigarette. “We use a lot of oxygen.”

  “And some of it comes in handy for your other work. And that’s a stupid mistake, if ever I’ve met one. I suppose you reckon to save yourself the trouble of going out and nicking a bottle?”

  “I ain’t nicked nothing.”

  “Which, strangely, is why you’re a fool. The villains who did the Fortrow job used oxy-acetylene equipment which they left behind in the armoured truck. They set fire to everything so there wouldn’t be any evidence lying around, but one of the bottles got put round so that the end furthest away from the centre of the blaze was the one that had all the numbers on it.”

  “Numbers?” croaked Riley.

  “The numbers you’d so carefully filed off. The lab boys picked up the latent impressions of them and we’ve checked with the manufacturers. They’re a batch number and one of the batch on its first time out was delivered to your garage three months ago. Pity you didn’t use it right away, Burner, and kept an old bottle for the job — then we couldn’t have traced it.”

  “If there was a batch, there ain’t no proof the one in the truck was this one,” said Riley desperately.

  “Taken on its own, that’s true enough. But aren’t you forgetting the fiver we found on you? There are juries stupid enough to believe you could’ve come by that fiver by chance, but no jury’s stupid enough to go on to believe it’s also a coincidence that the oxygen bottle was delivered to your garage.”

  Riley smoked.

  “I’m taking you in,” said Fusil.

  Riley dropped the cigarette on to the floor and stamped it out. “You’ll still ’ave a struggle in court.”

  “A struggle to prove you were one of the mob? It’ll be a push-over.”

  Riley licked his lips. “What… what’s it worth to me for a bit of ’elp?”

  “You know I can’t do more than tell the court you were of assistance.”

  “You can do a bleeding sight more, Mister, if you wants. I knows that. You can ’ave a quick word with the prosecution and slip the wink to the judge.”

  Fusil nodded, as if reluctantly agreeing. If Riley was convinced this really was the truth, Fusil was not going to insist otherwise no matter what the judges’ rules suggested.

  Riley, with a desperate native cunning, decided that only his own skin now mattered. “I didn’t know there was goin’ to be a killin’ and that’s the ’onest to Gawd truth. I thought them guards was just going to be left tied up.”

  “They weren’t though: they were murdered.”

  “I didn’t know there was going to be killing.”

  “Let’s have the full story.”

  Riley told them what had happened the previous Friday afternoon.

  *

  Kerr ran for the bus as it began to drive away from the stop and by sprinting hard he was just able to grab the platform rail and pull himself aboard.

  “You look hot.” The ticket-collector, who sat in a small cubicle under the stairs, grinned.

  “I’m flaming hot, mate. You couldn’t have signalled the driver to slow down, could you?”

  “Against the rules.”

  There were two giggling teenagers nearby and they prevented Kerr saying what to do with the rules. He paid the ten-penny fare and went upstairs, sat down, mopped his sweating face, and decided that he wasn’t in very good physical condition. Still, if he’d missed the bus there would have been a half hour wait and in that time Fusil might have turned up to announce they were off immediately to John O’ Groat’s.

  The bus drove through a cross-section of Fortrow — streets both prosperous and poor, residential and shopping — and stopped at the far end of Priory Lane. “Cooled down a bit, then?” said the ticket-collector, as Kerr stepped down from the staircase to the platform.

  Kerr left the bus. Maybe one of these days he’d have the pleasure of meeting the ticket-collector on business. He walked down the road, past the row of neat semi-detached houses, each with its patch of garden, and came to number 16. He knocked on the front door and Mr. Barley opened it.

  “Hullo there, John.”

  “Evening, Mr. Barley. Is Helen in?”

  “I’m afraid she isn’t. Was she expecting you?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Ah! Thought maybe she wasn’t.”

  “Then you’re not expecting her back soon?” asked Kerr.

  Mr. Barley, a small man with an inquisitive face, shook his head. “I can’t really say, John.”

  “Is she out with someone?”

  Mr. Barley, obviously in the middle of making one of his model railway engines because he was wearing bifocals, smiled slyly. “Not knowing, can’t say. Come on in, John, and have a beer. There’s no charge for entry!”

  Kerr hesitated. If he went inside he would have to listen to all the details of the latest steam engine, 0-6-0, or was it 6-0-0 or 0-0-6? But whilst he was there, Helen might return. She might even bring Phineas back. What a hell of a name!

  *

  Fusil put down the telephone and wondered what Josephine was saying at that moment? She had just telephoned and asked him if he intended spending any time at all at home during the next few weeks. His reply, which he had thought was tact itself, had only succeeded in adding fuel to her anger.

  He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and brought out whisky and a glass. He poured himself out a drink. Drinking on one’s own might be considered the first step to disaster by some, but as far as he was concerned right then, it was a dire necessity.

  Riley had made a full confession, had been charged, and was now in the cells below, awaiting the preliminary hearing before the magistrates. He claimed to have spent all his money from the robbery, but that was manifestly absurd. The London police were trying to find where he had hidden it and were, amongst other things, searching his garage at Escrey Common from floor to ceiling. The evidence against Croft was with the director of public prosecutions to see whether the D.P.P. reckoned there was now, with Riley’s confession, sufficient proof to arrest Croft. On the face of it, the case was almost sewn up: two dead, one under arrest, one possible, and one missing. Yet was it?

  He finished his whisky. He cursed his enquiring mind that would never leave well alone. If a case was lining up to be open and shut, why start searching for trouble? Why couldn’t he just be thankful he’d been able to make an arrest in a case that had gained national publicity and so one in which failure would have discredited him, even if no blame could be due him for that failure? But he couldn’t let things lie…

  There had been five men. Glenton was the boss, a hard villain, using force whenever possible because experience had taught him its complete effectiveness: Riley, an artist with burning equipment, mean and vicious despite his good-natured appearance: Croft, strong, brutal, careless of the suffering he caused, recognising only success: Weston, vicious, able to make a wireless do anything but sit up and dance: then Holdman, the punk, the loud-mouthed boaster. They were the five men, the mob who carried out the robbery and murders. Glenton and Holdman had actually shot the guards. Riley had sworn by all the saints that he hadn’t known the guards were to be murdered or he’d never have taken part in the job. He must have known what was intended, but he might genuinely have tried to stop the killings. Although ever ready to use violence, Riley had been villaining when murder meant topping and the hangman’s rope and the long drop were deterrents that etched themselves deep into a villain’s mind. Still, no matter who objected to what, the robbery had been brilliantly carried out, the money had been distributed, and Riley, Croft, and Weston had driven off — but not before they heard the shots which marked the deaths of the two guards. Then, at dusk that night, Glenton had been murdered and sometime before dawn Weston had been murdered and because of the time factors the murderer had to be one of the mob, the one who had driven off with Glenton — in other words Holdman. But Holdman was a punk. He had nerved himself up to be
ing present when the guards were murdered because he was trying to play it that he was a big-time villain, but to murder Glenton and Weston and to make the former’s death look like an accident called for skill and raw guts. Could Holdman have changed from a punk to a real villain in so short, but violent, a time? But wasn’t Holdman dead? Wasn’t his wife going crazy because she hadn’t heard from him since Friday morning? Wouldn’t she have heard from him if he were still alive? Yet if he were dead, who was the murderer? It couldn’t be Croft or Riley, they had alibis, it couldn’t be Glenton or Weston, they were dead…

  Why had Glenton and Weston been murdered, yet no attempt been made to kill Croft or Riley? Why had Holdman been brought into the mob by Glenton, who had claimed he was the son of an old friend but knew full well how one punk could louse up the best laid plans?

  The telephone interrupted Fusil’s thoughts. The switchboard P.C. said Kywood was on his way and Fusil hastily put away the whisky and glass and lit his pipe to muffle any smell of alcohol. Kywood was fool enough to imagine one solitary drink spelled out a dipsomaniac D.I.

  Kywood was all smiles. “Good work, Bob. I knew I could depend on you. The chief constable is absolutely delighted.” He smoothed the palm of his hand over his sleek, black hair. “I’ll tell you exactly what I told him and not a word of a lie. I said, ‘Bob Fusil is a first-class detective and this force is very lucky to have him.’ That’s what I said.”

  What was he supposed to do now? Wondered Fusil. Get up and bow?

  Kywood settled down in one of the chairs. “So that’s one hell of a worry off our plates.”

  “Not quite, sir.”

  Kywood gestured expansively. “I know, I know. We’ve got to be certain we’ve the evidence to wrap round Croft’s neck — but Riley’s confession together with the fingerprints at Glenton’s house and Croft’s lack of any alibi except for his wife’s will do for him. The only thing left now is to find Holdman and then everything’s wrapped up as neat as a whistle.”