by Dawn Harris
‘I c-c-can’t b-b-break the speed limit, sir.’
‘Bugger the speed limit. Do as I say, or.....’
‘Y-yes, sir. At once, s-s-sir.’ Al’s voice, even to me, was full of fear and panic. ‘D-don’t shoot me, sir.’
‘Coward,’ he sneered. ‘All niggers ought to be exterminated, along with the Jews.’ When, a minute or so later, the car slowed down again and actually came to a halt, he bellowed, ‘I told you..........’
'It's r-r-road works, s-sir. I have to st-st-stop.’
Ebenezer grunted on seeing a steamroller at work, and suddenly a faint smile crossed his lips. Taking a key from his pocket, he dangled it above his head. ‘Know what this is?’ It wasn’t hard to guess that it opened Johnny’s prison, but I didn’t answer. He wound the window down, and as we moved off once more, he threw the key under the slow moving steamroller, without taking his eyes off my face. ‘I won’t be needing that any more,’ he sniggered. Taunting me again, enjoying his revenge. I kept hoping he’d sneeze and give me a chance to grab the gun, but every time one threatened, he managed to suppress it.
Al did as he was told and drove at a cracking pace, and soon we turned off Pall Mall into Waterloo Place, which led to Carlton House Terrace, where Al drew up outside the Embassy, and quickly jumped out to open the door. I already knew this was my one and only chance. Being nearest the open door, I had to get out first, and Ebenezer warned, ‘No tricks, or you’re dead.’
‘All right,’ I said. The gun was still at my head, until I bent forward to get out. It was now or never. Al opened the door, and as I stepped out, I deliberately tripped over the sill and fell flat on my face on the pavement. I meant to swing round and smash the door in his face as he got out. Not a clever plan, but the only one I could think of; however, Al was ahead of me.
Before I could twist round to grab the door Al, using every ounce of speed and strength he possessed, slammed it as hard as he could, catching the gunman’s arm between the frame and the door. Ebenezer screamed in agony, dropped the gun on the pavement, and fell back onto the seat. I grabbed the gun, Al opened the car door again, but as I pointed the gun at Ebenezer, he threw open the door on the far side and rolled out onto the road. Straight under the wheels of a sports car being driven at speed.
I heard the squeal of brakes as the driver frantically tried to stop in time, but in truth, he had no chance. Slipping the gun into the pocket of my slacks I ran round the front of the Rolls. But Al was there before me and he pulled the Nazi spy away from the sports car. Ebenezer was still alive, if only just. I didn’t hesitate, I grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and shook him, ignoring the understandable protests of the highly distressed sports car driver. ‘Where’s Johnny? Tell me.’
A triumphant smirk slowly crossed his lips. ‘Chained up,’ he said, his voice no more than a faint whisper. ‘In the dark. Won’t ever get out now.’
Then his head fell to one side, and I screamed at him, ‘You can’t die. Not yet.’ I felt for a pulse, but it was no longer there. Ebenezer was dead.
CHAPTER TWENTYEIGHT
A search of the dead gunman produced a sodden handkerchief, a few loose coins, a half-used packet of Woodbines, some matches, a watch, a door key and a wallet containing a ten shilling note and two pound notes. Items Inspector Nabber carefully laid out between us on the back seat of my Rolls, along with the man’s gun.
The German Embassy officials had not been helpful. The Inspector, having explained about the accident outside, asked if Fritz Muller would be good enough to identify the man, who was believed to be a friend of his. 'They informed me Herr Muller was out and to put my request in writing.’ He clenched his fists. ‘My bet is he’ll be on his way to Germany within the hour. The little squirt’s probably inside packing right now. And there’s nothing I can do about it.’
Picking up the key he pronounced it to be like a thousand others. ‘As for the watch.....’ He studied it for a moment. ‘Cheap, ordinary, and no inscription.’ Throwing the two articles back on the seat, he muttered, ‘Absolutely nothing to tell us who he was, or where he lived.’
I groaned and said, ‘When he walked into the Corner House I thought it was all over. That he’d lead us to Johnny, and Mr. Taverner would be released.’
‘So did I, cariad. So did I.’
‘He told me he killed Charlie Jones because he’d made a mess of things.’
‘No good, I’m afraid. The prosecution would tear that to shreds. You’re hardly a disinterested observer, and in any case, we’d still need proper evidence. First we must find out who he is.’
‘You could ask Mosley.’
‘I could, but I have the strangest feeling he won’t be able to remember the man’s surname.’
‘Can’t you force him to tell you?’
‘What with thumbscrews, you mean? Now there’s a thought.’ And he sat chuckling to himself.
I managed a smile, before reminding him what the Nazi spy had said about Johnny just before he died. ‘He’s chained up, Inspector. In the dark, in a place where no-one ever goes.’
‘Yes,’ he said, the compassion in his voice bringing a lump into my throat. ‘I know.’
‘If we don’t find him he’ll starve to death.........’
‘We’re doing everything we can. London’s a big city.’
‘But, surely, there can’t be all that many places where no-one goes?’
He pursed his lips. ‘That may have been a red herring to put you off the scent. But we are checking derelict buildings, boarded up houses, and all that kind of thing.’
‘Cellars?’
‘Those too. The trouble is it takes time.’ He leant across and patted my hand in a comforting manner. ‘Try not to despair. A man can live a long time without food.’
‘But not long without water.’
He didn’t answer that; there being nothing he could say that I would believe. Instead, he returned to the difficulty of discovering the gunman’s identity. ‘Luckily his face is pretty much unmarked. We’ll take as good a photograph as we can and get it splashed across tomorrow morning’s newspapers. Someone must know who he is, even if it’s only his landlord.’
‘Or Mosley.’
He snorted. ‘Now that would be a miracle.’
When I finally arrived home, feeling decidedly weary, the press were waiting for me, agog to hear what had happened after I was forced into driving off with the wanted man. They knew he was dead, and one journalist actually asked if I’d killed him.
‘Me?’ I exclaimed, aghast. ‘Goodness me, no. I understand he was run over when he tried to get away from the police. Not that I saw it - I fainted, you see.’ They looked most disappointed and I managed to escape indoors then. I hoped that would stop them printing anything about me, and that they’d concentrate all their efforts on finding out who the dead man was. My story was in the morning papers along with my photograph, but Ebenezer’s picture was far bigger and he was the big story of the day. Surely, I thought, someone would recognise him. And, thankfully, someone did.
It wasn’t the landlord, or Mosley, who came forward, as I learnt when the Inspector called on me early the following morning. Lang ushered him into the library, where I was writing a letter to Jack Finch before I set off for the Old Bailey.
Once seated, he informed me the manager of the bank where the gunman used to work, had telephoned an hour ago. ‘He told me the man is Ebenezer Pratt. Aged twenty-six, single, and an only child. His father was killed in the war, at Ypres, and his mother died five years ago. It seems that just before he started work in the bank he spent several months travelling in Germany, doing casual work to pay his way. That was in 1933. The manager described him as a meticulously accurate employee, who was not much liked. We checked the address the manager gave me and.............’
‘He’d moved?’
The Inspector nodded. ‘Not a surprise, exactly.’
‘Any news of Fritz Muller?’
‘Back in Germany, I was informed. T
hat’s the last we’ll see of him.’
I shook my head in growing desperation. ‘Isn’t there any good news? What happened to Ginger? I suppose he tipped off Pratt to give himself a chance to escape while you were busy with the arrest.’
‘Yes, but he only got ten yards before my men floored him. He was in court this morning and remanded in custody under his real name.’
‘Which is?’
He grinned at me, his eyes sparkling with devilment. ‘Edward Jewel.’
I spluttered, ‘You’re joking.’
‘Not at all.’ And he gave a hearty chuckle. ‘I found his birth certificate on their yacht.’
‘No wonder his father wanted to change their name. You wouldn’t forget that. A jewellery thief called Jewel.’ And I couldn’t resist teasing, ‘Rather like a policeman named Nabber.’
‘Now, now, cariad,’ he chided. He shook a finger at me but his lips were twitching. ‘That’s enough of that. We Nabbers are very proud of our name. As for our robbers, the father did have a police record. When he was twenty he got two years for stealing a valuable ring. Nothing known after that. But since then three big robberies have taken place when the house owners were either away, or out, and the servants were having a meal. None of them in Britain, though. The first on the Amalfi coast in Italy, then the south of France, and the last in Miami, all several years apart. Robberies that were never solved. The last one was about ten years ago.’
‘When Ginger was too young to be involved.’
‘Indeed. He doesn’t have a police record.’
‘I wonder if his father used his time in prison to work out how to do the perfect crime,’ I mused, and almost immediately another thought flashed through my mind. ‘Those three places you mentioned are all on the coast ----that’s why he has a yacht --- to make his getaway. Like he planned to do this time.’
He nodded and a faint smile crossed his lips. ‘It would seem likely.’ He rose to his feet, and once Lang had seen him out I went back to my letter to Jack Finch.
I’d just received the bills for the new equipment, but the trial, and the business with Jean, meant I couldn’t visit him right now. And I didn’t want to pay them until I had his assurance that he was happy with the goods.
I gave the letter to Al to deliver, directing him to wait for Mr. Finch’s reply, assuming he was able to give me an answer straightaway. ‘Don’t worry if you’re delayed,’ I said, as I handed him the letter. ‘Mrs. Carmichael is bringing me home today.’ And I told him what the Inspector had said about the gunman. ‘At least we know his name now. But we have no idea where he lived. And there’s still no news about Mr. Alverstone,’ I said, choking up.
‘The police will find him, Mrs. York. And, if they don’t, we’ll search the whole of London ourselves.’
That morning, one of Mr. Taverner’s clerks was first in the witness box. And it soon became clear he was the man who had overheard Mr. Taverner threatening Peter. The prosecuting barrister asked where he had been at that time.
‘In the next room. Mr. Taverner hadn’t shut the door and I couldn’t help but hear. He asked Mr. Crawley to name his price for getting out of his daughter’s life.’
‘What did Mr. Crawley say?’
‘He said, “I don’t want anything from you, except your blessing on our marriage. Then Mr. Taverner said, “You’ll never get that. If you marry I’ll cut her out of my will.” Well, Mr. Crawley said he was pleased to hear it. That he didn’t want Mr. Taverner’s money. He told him to give it to charity. But begged him to come to the wedding for Miss Taverner’s sake.’
‘How did Mr. Taverner respond?’
‘He said, “I’ll see you dead first.”’
‘You’re quite certain of that?’
‘I am, sir. He was yelling at the top of his voice.’
‘Does he often shout?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Is it his habit to rant and rave when things go wrong?’
The clerk hesitated. ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘What manner of voice did Mr. Crawley use?’
‘He was very calm. He didn’t raise his voice once but I could hear him clearly.’
Nothing the defence counsel said could shake the clerk, who said he liked his job and got on perfectly well with Mr. Taverner, but being on oath had to speak the truth. The impression he gave was that of a decent, honest man, who believed in doing what was right.
When the defence set out their case, Monica said what any daughter would in those circumstances. Then Mr. Taverner was called to the stand, where he was reminded that when the police searched Charlie Jones’s flat, they’d found the gun used to kill Peter, together with a large envelope containing five hundred pounds in used notes, wrapped in a sheet of paper on which someone had scribbled Mr. Taverner’s telephone number.
Mr. Taverner instantly stated, ‘The money had nothing to do with me. I used Jones twice to collect bad debts. Last December, and again about two months ago, when I paid him fifty pounds for collecting some particularly difficult debts. That was the last time I had any contact with him.’
‘Did you pay Jones to kill Peter Crawley?’
‘No,’ he responded forcefully. ‘I did not.’ The defence barrister declared there wasn’t one shred of actual proof that linked Mr. Taverner to the murder. But the clerk’s evidence and the fact that Mr. Taverner had used Jones to collect bad debts, clearly weighed against him.
At this point the court adjourned for lunch, and it occurred to me that Al might bring Jack Finch’s answer to the courtroom, but there was no sign of him. I didn’t dwell on it, however, as there were far more important things at stake that day in the Old Bailey. But, as I was to discover, what delayed Al had nothing to do with Jack Finch.
When the cross examination began after lunch, I prayed Mr. Taverner would keep calm, but he blustered in the witness box, as he did in life, although he had enough sense not to shout. When he again denied any knowledge of the money in Jones’s flat, the prosecuting counsel asked, ‘Three days before the murder, did you take five hundred pounds in cash from your bank account?‘
‘That was for a business matter. I often deal in cash.’
‘To avoid paying tax?’
‘Look – I’ve done one or two dodgy deals in my life. Find me a businessman who hasn’t. But never murder.’
‘What business matter did you use it for?’
'I didn’t in the end. That fell through. I used the money to pay wages and bills, to buy clothes, and I like to bet on horses.’
The barrister tried another tack. ‘Let’s go back to the bad debts Jones collected for you. How did he succeed when you had failed?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask.’
‘Did you suggest he roughed them up a little?’
‘I did no such thing,’ he protested.
‘You threatened Peter Crawley.’
Sensibly he did not deny it. ‘I was very angry. People say that kind of thing in anger. I didn’t mean it literally. I am not a violent man. I have never hurt anyone physically.’
‘Not even in the war?’
‘I wasn’t in the war.’
‘Why was that?’
‘I was exempt.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Flat feet.’
‘I see. Tell me, do you actually have flat feet?’ The question was unexpected and asked softly, but in a manner that told the court the questioner already knew the answer. Mr. Taverner hesitated and the barrister reminded him he was on oath. ‘If you confirm it, I should warn you I will request that you be examined by a doctor.’
Mr. Taverner closed his eyes momentarily, then ran his tongue round his lips. ‘No,’ he croaked.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear that.’
‘No,’ he repeated, unable to keep the dejection out of his voice. ‘I do not.’
The prosecuting counsel raised his eyebrows. ‘Were you, in fact, ever examined by an army doctor?’ Mr. Taverner shook his head, and the
judge informed him that he must answer out loud.
‘No,’ Mr. Taverner whispered. He was immediately invited to explain, and realising there was no way out, he straightened his shoulders and said, ‘Very well. My brother took my place.’
A shocked whisper ran round the court; when it subsided he was asked, ‘And does he have flat feet?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he take your place for love?’
‘No. I paid him a hundred pounds.’ The hubbub that followed was so loud the judge had to bring the court to order, and luckily Monica’s shocked cry went unnoticed in the uproar.
‘Mr. Taverner,’ the prosecuting barrister went on, ‘did you not want to fight for your country?’
‘I wasn’t afraid, if that’s what you mean. But I’d spent ten years building up my business, and going in the army meant leaving one of my employees in charge, and none of them were capable of running it as I had. I would have gone bust. There simply was no-one to take my place.’
‘I see. So you put your business interests before that of your country.’
‘It wasn’t like that. As a soldier I would have made little difference. As a business man I was able to make considerable financial contributions to the war effort.’
I groaned inwardly, knowing exactly what was coming next, and the barrister showed no mercy. ‘Money seems to be your answer to everything, Mr. Taverner. You used it to avoid fighting for your country, to recover bad debts, to try to buy off Mr. Crawley, and when that failed, you used it to have him murdered.’
‘No,’ he cried out, mopping his brow with his handkerchief. ‘I did not. I did not have Crawley murdered. The other things – yes, I admit them. But not murder. I swear it.’
The jury took less than an hour to find him guilty. Monica, Jean, Emily and I sat too shocked to speak, as the judge put on the black cap and condemned him to death. He was taken away still vigorously protesting his innocence, but no-one believed him except us.
