Chapter Twenty-Nine

Last Kick-Off

At all the League grounds the crowds thronged to see the last kickoff of the season. There appeared to be no more police than usual, because most were in plain clothes. Several were standing near the turnstiles – not far, in each case, from a seller of ‘pirate’ programmes.

Inside each ground, there was a peculiar situation near the turnstiles.

There was one programme seller unknown to Fulham officials – the ‘pirate.’ Every man who bought a programme from the ‘pirate’ and then paid his money and was clicked through was touched on the shoulder and taken to a large tent which had been erected nearby. Most of them were too astonished to protest. A few tried to get away, but couldn’t go back through the turnstile and found every other exit blocked. Only one or two slipped through the police cordon. There were many innocent fans, but no protest availed them. As the time for the kick-off arrived, plain vans drew up, ready to take the men off for interrogation. The guilty would be held, the innocent released with a spate of apologies.

The ‘pirate’ programme seller stood in a different position near the wharf. He was a little, middle-aged man with a hang-dog look, and was obviously nervous.

In the stand Roger and Chatworth were sitting together. Samuel and Emanuel Perriman were in their usual places. Jeremiah Scott had been quick to see Roger and grin. Peel and other Yard men were near the exit from this block; in the third row, Jim Wilson sat smiling, and next to him was Akerman – the Perriman buyer.

“Everyone here?” demanded Chatworth.

“Yes,” said Roger, who could see everyone in whom he was interested. “I wonder if it is Akerman of Perriman’s we want.”

“Looks like it,” said Chatworth.

“I’m rather sold on Samuel,” said Roger. “I—”

His words were drowned in a roar which greeted the West Bromwich team as the players ran on to the field. Another roar greeted Fulham.

Then suddenly a man appeared at the top of the steps – a little furtive man; the programme seller. Roger stiffened and nudged Chatworth. The programme seller sidled past Peel, who was on duty there, and touched Wilson on the shoulder. Wilson glared at him and waved him away, but the man bent forward and whispered urgently – doubtless telling him what he knew of the detentions.

On the field, the two captains were shaking hands, the referee had a coin poised on his thumb-nail.

The Fulham captain won and indicated the direction he would choose, bringing another roar from the crowd.

Wilson and Akerman jumped up.

Peel and two uniformed constables blocked the exit.

Wilson, who had seen the police, suddenly moved forward, pushing aside two people on the seats in front of him, climbing over the shoulders of the spectators in the next seats in front again, A man protested, but Wilson ignored him and was near the first row. Akerman tried to follow, but Peel grabbed his arm. Now people were standing up in protest. The programme seller ducked and tried to get to the exit, but a policeman held him.

Wilson reached the first row of seats, immediately behind the standing enclosure – no one in front of him had yet seen anything of the disturbance. Roger was already hurrying down the gangway. Wilson sprang down into the enclosure, pushed his way to the railings which guarded the playing pitch, and vaulted over them.

The teams were lined up for the kick-off, the referee had the whistle to his lips.

Roger crashed through the people in the enclosure and cleared the railings. Wilson looked round, saw him, and then rushed straight on to the pitch. The whistle blew, the ball was swung out to the wing. A roar of protest boomed out as people saw Wilson, then Roger, invade the pitch. Two or three uniformed policemen followed, looking ungainly. The ball passed Wilson and came straight at Roger.

He kicked it out of his path and sent it ballooning up into the air, bringing an ironic cheer. The referee blew his whistle shrilly, but Wilson went straight across the pitch, with Roger only a few yards behind him.

Wilson snatched something out of his pocket and turned round. Roger saw a yellow flash and then heard the report. It silenced the crowd.

The bullet missed Roger. Several of the players who had started after Wilson backed away when they saw the gun. Policemen near the touchlines were closing in, but there was a wide gap – a gap through which Wilson hoped to pass. If he once got into the crowd on the main terrace, he might get away.

He fired again.

Roger felt a sharp pain in his right arm, but it didn’t slow him down.

Wilson was only a few yards from the touchline now, with a dozen police some distance away. Then a slim, dark-haired figure in white moved forward swiftly, went down in a flying tackle and caught Wilson’s ankles. Wilson turned the gun on him and fired. The report was loud – and followed by a mighty roar of anger. But Wilson went over, the gun slid from his grip, and Roger pounced.

Wilson butted at him with his head, catching him on the jaw. Roger struck him beneath the chin and then saw policemen looming above him and heard a man say: “Okay, sir.”

Roger looked round anxiously at the Fulham player, who was on his feet and smiling broadly. The crowd’s roar of relief was like thunder, and it followed Roger, Wilson, and the police as they turned to recross the field.

Chatworth, Roger, and Peel were with Wilson, Akerman, and the programme seller in the boardroom of the Cottage. The crowd was roaring outside, rattles were going and bells were ringing.

Peel sat at a table, with a notebook open.

Wilson, his hair ruffled and his chin bruised, stood by the window with an ugly scowl on his face. The contents of his pockets were on the table in neat array, and the gun, with a label already attached, lay with them. So far he had refused to make a statement. The programme seller had made a halting confession mingled with details; he had no idea Wilson had a gun, he wouldn’t have worked for a killer; he was a pal of Maidment; the original programme seller had been his son. He knew his son was dead; thought it was an accident, he didn’t believe he had been murdered.

But it was obvious that he did, and equally obvious that he did not know a great deal.

He had attended every home match, watched his son, and been told by Maidment to warn Wilson and Akerman if the police were ever interested in the programmes. He’d seen one man who had run from the police that afternoon, realised what was afoot, and carried out his instructions. He had a pass to the stands, which had been supplied by Maidment.

Now Roger, whose wound was only a graze, turned to Wilson.

“You know the game’s up,” he said. “We’ve arrested every one of your men on the ground, and on all the other grounds. We know you send orders through programmes, that you were planning a bigger raid next week – and it won’t come off. You were caught red-handed in attempted murder, and the only way you might help yourself is to make a full confession.”

Wilson’s bloodshot eyes looked wild.

“If you’ve got to have it the hard way, I’ll work on you later,” said Roger. He turned to Akerman. “Well? You ready to talk?”

Akerman licked his lips.

“If you—” began Wilson.

“Queen’s Evidence might help you,” Roger said.

Wilson turned away contemptuously; Akerman began to talk in slow, hesitating sentences; Peel’s pencil moved rapidly over the pages in his notebook.

Neither Clayton nor Jeremiah Scott were involved, and Perriman’s had been unaware of what Akerman had been doing.

Akerman had worked with Wilson almost from the beginning. Their motive was simply profit. Up and down the country wholesale and big retail shops were stocked with stolen foods. Other huge stocks were ready for unloading.

The programme code had been Wilson’s idea. Each member of the gang who went to Fulham games had a key-list of shops, factories, and warehouses which were to be robbed, and the misspellings and misprints in the League Tables told the men – each of whom had a number – which places to raid and where to take the stolen goods. The League I Table named the victims, League II the places to which the stolen goods were to be taken. Akerman, chief buyer for the Perriman branches and who knew many of the managers, had gradually compiled a list of the managers who would help in distribution and store ‘hot’ goods.

The method was simple in outline, complicated in operation – but each man who bought a programme and had the key to the code knew exactly what he was to do. His money for his previous job was folded in the programme. Only those who gave a code word received a money programme, of course. His responsibility ended when his job was done. Very few men knew who else worked with the organisation – the cell system had been brought to perfection.

Sybil Lennox’s part the police already knew.

Mike Scott had been fairly prominent in the organisation, and knew that Akerman was involved. He had arranged to get the drawings of places to be raided from Sybil, had blackmailed her into continuing with the work when she knew the truth about it. Little Relf had also known – and it was Wilson who, in touch with all developments by telephone, had arranged for Kirby and Relf to be killed. Wilson had actually been near Wignall’s garage on the night of the raid there, and had sent the two masqueraders on to the roof to finish off Relf. The smaller fry were mostly habitual criminals.

Maidment had been so closely followed by Clayton that Clayton had been kidnapped. Maidment had weakened, been killed, and his body had been burnt at the dump by the second Relf, who was now under arrest. They kept Clayton for questioning.

Peel had been attacked because Relf was scared of being suspected of the murder.

The investigation had started, so far as the police were concerned, with a simple mistake.

When Randall had called on Samuel Perriman, the director had sent for the specimen file. Earlier that day, Akerman had been looking through the copy for a programme from Fulham, to be sent to Wilson for printing. He’d been interrupted and slipped the draft programme inside the file. That had been put away, and he couldn’t remember where he had put the draft. Afterwards, the copy – typewritten – had been included with the specifications which Randall had taken away with him. He had carried it about in the brief-case. There was, in addition to the ‘copy,’ a note from Akerman to Wilson. Had Randall read this, he would have known something of the organisation, and could have betrayed everything to the police.

Akerman had remembered where he’d put it and telephoned Wilson, who had ordered Randall’s death, which Kirby had carried out. Randall had been followed most of the afternoon, but there’d been no chance to snatch the brief-case. Wilson was afraid that he’d read the letter and programme, hence the murder.

Once police inquiries about Randall’s murder started, Wilson had tried to implicate Sybil, hoping that the police would believe all had not been well between her and Randall. Finding that the police were not fooled, Wilson had arranged for her to be implicated further, by planting the brief-case and some of the dummy samples in her room. She only knew Mike Scott and some of the lesser men in the organisation; she could do no great damage even if caught.

Mike Scott had been the London chief operative. All the men highly placed in the organisation knew the risk of being caught and were well paid – but Mike gambled and squandered his money and was usually hard up. He always presented himself to Jeremiah as a victim of circumstances; Jeremiah had believed that and had tried to help him. Jeremiah also blamed Sybil, believing that Mike spent much of his money on her; that explained his dislike of the girl. Sybil had been kidnapped and questioned because Wilson feared she had learned more from Randall, who could have told her by telephone or at dinner; that was why Mike Scott had tried to kill her. Her questioners were already picked up; so was the manager of the Brighton Perriman’s.

Akerman had been in the Rolls-Royce, and had arranged to meet the youth who came by cab. Others, lying in wait, had picked up the youth and killed him simply because, like his father, he knew Wilson by name. A police patrol car, not far away, had forced them to abandon the cab.

Within three days of the mass arrests and the great splash made by the Press about the police ‘triumph,’ all the hoards of stolen food were discovered.

On the fourth evening, when most of the details were cleared up, Roger reached Bell Street a little after seven o’clock. Janet was in the kitchen, taking his supper out of the oven.

“Darling, I’ve some news for you. Jack Goodwin left hospital today.”

“That’s wonderful!” Roger exclaimed, and meant it.

They went into the dining-room, where Janet ate a salad and Roger his share of the midday lunch, warmed up.

“Oh yes,” said Janet, “and Mark’s coming round tonight. He wondered if you’d mind if he brought Sybil. I said of course you wouldn’t, and I want to see what she’s like, anyhow. Is she good enough for him, darling?”

“Erring child and all that kind of thing, but I don’t think Mark will make a mistake.”

The front-door bell rang.

“There they are!” exclaimed Janet. “They’re nearly an hour early. Darling, finish that quickly, I’ll keep them in the sitting-room.”

She hurried out, leaving Roger smiling with the knife and fork in his hand. He heard the front door open, and a man’s voice – not Mark’s. He put down his knife and fork, as Jeremiah Scott said: “He’ll spare me a minute, Mrs West, and I don’t mind waiting.”

Roger went on with his supper.

He kept Jeremiah twelve and a half minutes, and when he went into the sitting-room, found the Tucktos man sitting back in an easy chair, smoking, and holding his cigarette-case between his long fingers. He gave his sardonic grin as Roger entered and sat up. He opened the case.

“Not smoking too much now, are you?”

“No,” said Roger. “Thanks. And to what, as they say, do we owe this honour?”

“I’ve always wanted to see a policeman in his moment of triumph,” said Jeremiah. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks. But what do you really want?”

“You never were easily satisfied,” said Jeremiah. He was suddenly grave; he didn’t find this easy. “As a matter of fact, West, I’ve just seen my brother. He’s told me the whole truth – in front of a police witness, so I’m doing no harm. Sybil Lennox wasn’t his downfall. Instead, he was nearly hers. I’ve been hard on the girl. Wanted to make it clear that it was a case of misunderstanding. I’ve nothing personally against her. Nice creature, in the right hands, I fancy. Might tell her that I said so.”

Roger said: “Yes, I will, gladly.”

“Thanks. On the whole, a very nice job for you,” said Scott. “Seen Clayton lately, by the way?”

“No.”

“He’s feeling a bit under the weather. He and I were in cahoots at one time, trying to discover what really went on. I knew there was some funny business; wanted to help Mike, and thought that Sybil was indirectly responsible for Randall’s death. So Tommy and I teamed up. I knew he thought Perriman’s dock-side warehouse was being used, that’s why I was there that night.”

“The truth will out,” said Roger dryly.

“Matter of timing,” said Jeremiah.

“It nearly got time for you,” retorted Roger, and Jeremiah laughed as he stood up. But the laughter rang hollow and it was a dejected man who left the house.