Betrayed by Death Page 9

  “What happened to the tea-pot?”

  “A good question. It was turned in late last night. Twenty-one was off duty so another bloke had the keys and did the necessary.”

  Campson put his right hand in his pocket and began to jingle some coins. The P.C. came out of the office, a mug in either hand. “Best Jamaican Blue Mountain, redolent of that spice-laden island set in a cerulean sea.”

  The sergeant nodded his head in the direction of the P.C. “Swallowed an encyclopedia when he was young.”

  They each took a mug.

  “I was just wondering,” said the sergeant.

  Campson nodded. He drank the coffee, hardly speaking in answer to the sergeant’s garrulous comments on divisional matters, then left and went up to his room. He hung his mackintosh on the back of the door, switched on the electric stove, and sat.

  There were many times in police work when the dividing line between ethical and unethical action became very thin — the trapping of a villain by inducing him to commit a crime reduced this line almost to vanishing point. To anyone who firmly believed that authority must at all times act in a manner that could be seen to be above suspicion, that it was better ten guilty men went free rather than that one guilty man’s guilt was proved by dubious methods, the present circumstances (Campson didn’t doubt what had really happened) destroyed that line completely. It was all too easy to imagine the furore there would be if it became public knowledge that a detective inspector had used an agent provocateur. And when a D.I. was dragged through the mud inevitably all those closely connected with him became, at the very least, smeared. Campson had always seen himself as a future chief constable. But if two immutable facts of life were death and taxes, a third was that no one with a stained record reached the top because there were always others who had been clever or sly enough to keep their records detergent white.

  He fiddled with a pencil. He didn’t like Fusil, but he did reluctantly admire him for his strength of dedication. Yet only a fool allowed admiration to overcome self-interest. The best thing to do would be to have a quiet word with Yarrow. Yarrow’s uncle was detective chief superintendent.

  *

  Fusil, as he drove northwards, knew he was about to do something which no one who had the welfare of perfect justice at heart could condone. Yet experience had taught him that perfect justice, whether viewed from a legal or a moral position, could sometimes breed injustice and tragedy.

  He turned into the drive of Beech Tops, Chapel Road, and climbed out of the car. A man, in his early sixties, was raking up leaves from the lawn, and a newly dug rose-bed testified to his earlier work: the whole garden was in beautiful condition despite the time of the year. The home of a rich and successful man with taste, Fusil thought with harsh irony as he rang the bell.

  Moody opened the front door. He studied Fusil. “My horoscope did say I’d be visited by minor inconveniences this week.”

  “And mine told me to distrust a tall, dark man.” He stepped into the hall.

  “Do come in,” said Moody. He led the way into the sitting-room.

  A woman was hoovering the carpet. Moody said to her: “You’ll have to pack it in for a bit, Madge. We’ve unexpected company.”

  “All right, Mr Moody. I can dust the dining-room now and come back and finish here later.” She unplugged the vacuum cleaner, unscrewed the hose, and carried everything out of the room.

  “You do yourself all right,” said Fusil. “A daily woman and a gardener.”

  “It’s called the dolce vita.”

  “On my salary, I wouldn’t know.”

  Moody went over to the large, elaborate cocktail cabinet. “Are you drinking this time?”

  “Whisky, if you’ve got it.”

  “Bourbon, rye, pure malt, or blended?”

  “Malt, fifty-fifty with Loch Mean water.”

  “You’ll have to make do with the tap.”

  “Bloody poor service.”

  Moody poured out two drinks, handed one glass to Fusil. They sat, on opposite sides of the rich Chinese carpet. “Still wasting your time on bank snatches?” asked Moody.

  “You’ve a kid of thirteen, haven’t you?” answered Fusil. “I’ve a boy of eleven.”

  “So what d’you suggest: that we form a parents’ association?”

  “In a way.”

  Moody stared sharply at him.

  Fusil drank, then rested the glass on his knee. “Every time Timothy’s out of sight, I get to worrying. We’ve told him, over and over again, don’t go anywhere on your own, don’t even walk down the road. We’ve explained, there’s a sex maniac loose who’s murdered nine kids and we don’t want you to be the tenth. But a boy of eleven doesn’t understand because he hasn’t lived long enough to learn what a filthy place the would can be. So when he wants to buy himself a bar of chocolate and there’s no one to go with him, he thinks to hell with it and nips out to the shops on his own. Someday, maybe to-morrow, maybe months from now, a boy will go off on his own and he won’t return.”

  “Because all that you splits can do is —” began Moody.

  “Because we have to work on the available evidence and until now there’s been not a shred of evidence to identify the murderer.”

  “Until now? What’s that mean?”

  “There’s a possible lead.”

  “What?”

  “Every time a boy’s been murdered there’s been a robbery from a country house. That house has always lain between the point of the murder and Fortrow. I got to wondering if the murderer has been hiding his movements by committing these robberies, and I traced out the stolen silver. One piece has turned up in Holland. It was sold by a Dutch middleman who’d bought it from a receiver in Fortrow. I’ve tried to identify the receiver because if I’m right he can identify the murderer.”

  “Why only tried?”

  “All we know about him is that his name’s Paul and he works from Fortrow.”

  “There’s no such bloke,” said Moody immediately.

  “But there is someone who’s in our books because we’ve had a whisper or two. There’s been no hard evidence, though.”

  “Who?”

  “Roger Jones. People who want to conceal their real names often choose a pseudonym that has a connexion with their own. Roger Jones — Paul Jones.”

  “If you’ve got that far, why haven’t you got any further?”

  “We’ve no evidence he’s acted as a receiver, so he’s not going to admit he’s ever handled stolen silver. Without the evidence, we can’t do anything.”

  “You’re that soft, when it could be your kid next time, just as easily as anybody else’s? If it was me, I’d —”

  “Help, maybe?”

  Moody was utterly surprised. He stared at Fusil, then lifted his glass and drained it.

  “Are you willing to help?”

  He stood. He stared at Fusil’s glass, saw it was still half-full and carried his own over to the cocktail cabinet. “What is it you’re after?” he asked, his back to Fusil.

  “Someone to take a piece of silver in to Jones and get him to buy it.”

  “Nicked?”

  “Of course.”

  He turned, his refilled glass in his hand. “Why haven’t you sent one of your own blokes?”

  “I tried. Jones picked him up immediately.”

  Moody returned to his chair.

  Fusil spoke eagerly. “If he buys, we can nail him. That done, he’ll be ready to tell us what we’ve got to know.”

  “When d’you want to move?”

  “As soon as possible, but unfortunately he now knows we’re after him so there’ll have to be time between visits or he’s going to smell a rat.”

  “What happens in the meantime?”

  It was obvious that Moody was referring to the possibility that another boy would be murdered. “It’s a risk we’ve just got to take —” began Fusil.

  “Risk nothing. If I organize it, Jones won’t suspect anything.”

 
“Can you be sure?”

  “Haven’t I just bloody well said so?”

  Fusil thought for a moment. “Then to-morrow night?”

  “One thing. No staking out. You’re not landing the bloke who takes in the silver as well as Jones.”

  “He’ll be left alone.”

  “That’s right, because there’ll be no staking.”

  Fusil hesitated.

  “As soon as he’s clear, he’ll give the wire. Jones won’t have time to move.”

  From Moody’s point of view it was obviously a reasonable precaution to take. “O.K.”

  “What about the silver he’s to take in?”

  “I’ll hand that to him to-morrow evening.”

  “You’ll hand it to me,” corrected Moody sharply. “Then you won’t know who’s going in. Eight, outside the main railway station.”

  Fusil nodded.

  “Right. So now drink up and have another.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fusil spoke to the duty sergeant over the internal phone. “I want Property opened up. I’m coming straight down.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  He stood. He’d taken many gambles in his working life, but this was the biggest of all. Yet it had to be taken.

  He went down and along the corridors to the property room, to find P.C. Warren standing by the door. Warren took two keys from his pocket, unlocked the top and bottom locks, opened the door.

  Fusil went in and across to the shelves on which the silver was stored. Yesterday afternoon he’d borrowed from the public library a book on silver and yesterday evening he’d skimmed through the book to find out what was most likely to tempt Jones. Now, he picked up a small spoon with an oval-shaped bowl and a square-sectioned stem, in parts rounded from use, at the end of which was a roughly fashioned figure. The hallmarks were punched into the back of the bowl, but his reading had not been sufficiently detailed to enable him to judge the date from them; however, his eyes told him that the spoon was old, and the book had said that a genuine apostle spoon was a collector’s item.

  “I’m taking this with me.”

  “Very good, sir.” The P.C. picked up a notebook from the shelf immediately to the right of the door. “If you’ll just sign it out.”

  “There’s no need to enter it,” said Fusil. “I only want it for a couple of hours.”

  “Sorry, sir, but orders are —”

  Fusil walked past the P.C. and out into the corridor. The P.C. drew in his breath with an audible — but not too audible — hiss, left, locked the door, and went along to the front room. He spoke to the duty sergeant. “Took a spoon this time. And refused to sign for it again.”

  “Then you know what to do.”

  “But what’s he up to?”

  “None of your business, lad, and don’t you forget that.” The sergeant resolved to pass on the news to Campson as soon as possible.

  *

  The Silver Vaults had been established in 1829. The vaults were no longer used for sales, only for stock, and the showrooms were now on street level. There were four show windows, all lined with black velvet, and in these were exhibited a few selected, middle-priced items in gold and platinum as well as silver. The commissioner looked like an Admiral in the Swiss navy, and the assistants wore black jackets and pin-striped trousers and spoke very condescendingly to anyone who asked to see ‘something a little less expensive’.

  Fusil entered at a quarter to five on Thursday evening, when the staff were beginning to keep a very close watch on the time, and he asked to speak to Mr Dobbie. After waiting — it was the kind of place where only the more genteel customers were granted immediate attention — he was shown into a large, richly carpeted office beyond the shop. Mr Dobbie, immaculately dressed in a grey suit, came round the executive-sized desk and shook hands: a very handsome gesture on his part.

  “What I wondered is if you’d value a piece of silver for me?” said Fusil.

  “Not thinking of setting up in opposition to us, are you, inspector?”

  He summoned up a smile and brought the spoon, wrapped in tissue-paper, from his pocket. He unwrapped it and passed it across.

  Dobbie took it, turned it over, looked up briefly with an expression of some surprise on his plump face, then went round to the back of the desk. He used a jeweller’s eye-piece to read the hallmarks and to examine the spoon inch by inch, put the spoon down on the blotter and dropped the eye-piece into his hand. He turned and brought a leather-bound book from the small bookcase against the wall, looked in the index and then opened the book and read briefly. He looked up, still holding the book open. “I thought so,” he said, in tones of quiet satisfaction. “The spoon dates from fifteen hundred and ten and was assayed in London. The figure is probably St Phillip.” He put the book down on the desk, sat. “You know, inspector, it’s not often that one has the great privilege of handling a piece of this quality.” He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and joined his finger-tips together. “You asked me for its value. Very, very difficult to be precise in a case like this, but I would certainly expect it to fetch at least five in an auction.”

  “Five hundred pounds?”

  “Five thousand guineas,” he corrected, a trace of scorn now in his voice.

  *

  Fusil watched Moody approach along the pavement, still damp from a recent shower, with the vigour of someone in hard physical condition. The spoon was worth five thousand guineas and he was proposing to hand it over to someone who’d first started thieving when he was boy! What if Moody said thank you very much and walked off into the night? For once, Fusil knew a sweating lack of confidence.

  As soon as he came up to Fusil, Moody, scorning any conventional greeting, said: “Have you got it?”

  Fusil hesitated.

  “What’s the matter? Think I might decide to nick it?” he asked jeeringly, correctly identifying the reason for Fusil’s hesitation. His tone became harsh. “You splits can never understand that a bloke like me can worry as much about my kid as you do about yours, can you?”

  Fusil handed over the spoon, now not only wrapped in tissue-paper but also carefully packed in a wooden box lined with cotton-wool.

  “Is that all you can offer? What the hell is it?”

  “An apostle spoon.”

  “Christ, a spoon! You want to land a bloke in order to save the kids and all you can goddam well come up with is a spoon!”

  “It’s worth at least five thousand quid.”

  Moody looked down at the box, then up at Fusil’s face. He laughed. “Now I can understand why you’ve got your nickers in a twist! You’d look a right Charlie if I took off with it.” He spoke with sudden, sharp anger. ‘Untwist ’em. My kid means much more to me than five grand.”

  “Of course.”

  “Remember. No staking out.”

  “There’ll be no one watching the place,” Fusil promised.

  Moody turned and walked off, pushing his way through a crowd of people who had just come out of the railway station.

  *

  One of the partners in the firm of estate agents whose offices fronted Wardour Road was waiting by the rear entrance to the building. When Fusil walked up, he said: “I was getting worried. You said eight-thirty.”

  “Sorry if I’ve kept you — I was a bit delayed.”

  “That’s all right. It was just I was wondering if I’d got things wrong. Let’s go on in. Cold and wet out here, isn’t it? I’ve left an electric heater switched on in the room for you: the central heating’s off during the night unless it comes in freezing.”

  He unlocked the door and they both went inside. He switched on a light, Fusil immediately reached over his shoulder to snap it off. “I don’t want to advertise the fact that I’m here,” Fusil said dryly.

  “No, of course not: silly of me. But it’s just I thought maybe —”

  “O.K., then, Mr Adams, and many thanks for your co-operation. If you let me have the key I’ll see it’s brought round he
re in the morning at nine, sharp.”

  Adams, who was plainly piqued at not having at least some of his curiosity satisfied, handed over a key, said good-night, and returned outside. Fusil had brought with him, in a brief-case, a torch, a transceiver, and a pair of night binoculars. He took out the torch, switched it on, and made his way up the back stairs to the second floor and then along to the first room on the left.

  The room was warm, thanks to the fan heater. He put the brief-case down on the desk, just visible because of the light coming through the uncurtained window, and took off his overcoat which he draped across the edge of the desk. He moved the comfortable chair from behind the desk to the window and settled on it.

  Long ago, as a D.C., he had learned the art of keeping a careful watch and yet allowing his mind to wander so that time passed quickly. One could fantasize, gaining high promotion, winning the pools, holidaying in the sun . . .

  On the other side of the road, a man left the pavement and stepped into the small courtyard. He climbed the stairs up to the small balcony, and as soon as his head came into view beyond the wall Fusil studied him through the binoculars. It was just possible to pick out his feathers, and Fusil quickly became certain that he had not seen him before.

  The light went on, the door opened, the man stepped inside. Clearly, there must have been some sort of previous communication between them. The door was shut and the light went out.

  Five minutes passed, then ten. This was not going to be a repeat of the last fiasco. Fusil settled more comfortably in the chair and reached into his pocket for his empty pipe, which he put in his mouth.

  Twenty-five minutes after he’d entered the flat, the man left: he went down the stairs to disappear out of sight, reappearing as he came out on to the pavement. He walked, with long, swinging strides in the opposite direction to which he’d arrived and he was quickly out of sight.

  Fusil switched on the transceiver and pressed down the transmit bar. “Slow Waltz. Amber. Foxtrot.” He repeated the message. It had been Kerr’s idea to use the names of dances since Jones (assuming it was he) had chosen Paul Jones. Kerr had trouble in taking anything seriously. Right now, Kerr would be moving up to keep watch on the Canton Street entrance to the shop. Fusil smiled sardonically. He had promised Moody that he would not stake out the area and Moody had accepted his assurance. Yet here he was, keeping watch because he feared a double-cross: a thousand pounds to a penny that Moody had taken all possible precautions against a trap. Men of honour . . .