Chapter Six

Eyewitnesses

Kilby was in the front hall to meet Roger, the light showing him to be a big, hearty and hardy looking man.

“They’re in the waiting room,” he greeted. “Seem a straightforward pair.” They began to walk towards the lift. “The boy’s in the River Way Post Office, wages section, and the girl’s at one of the big stores—it’s her half day. He’s an early turn worker, should have been through at three o’clock but all the staff is doing overtime, so he arranged to meet girl friend just after five.”

“Thanks,” said Roger. “Did they get a good view of the chap?”

Kilby gave a snort of a laugh.

“They wouldn’t tell me anything, said that they would only talk to the officer in charge.”

He opened the door of one of the waiting rooms.

The young couple would probably be lost in any crowd, but at close quarters the character in the boy’s face showed up; and the girl had a common sense look about her.

“Good evening,” greeted Roger. “Very good of you to come here as late as this.”

If they really knew anything, it was more than good, it was wonderful.

“Only too glad, if we can help,” said the youth carefully, “but excuse me, you are the senior officer in charge of the case, aren’t you?”

“I’m Chief Inspector West.”

“Oh. That’s good.” The youth squeezed the girl’s hand. “Only I wanted to make sure. Well, I’m speaking for us both, sir. We certainly saw a man hurry from Goose Lane across the road and throw something into the Thames and then go racing off on a motorcycle. It all happened very quickly. We—er—we were in a doorway, and no one else was about as far as I know.”

“Did you recognise the man?” asked Roger.

“Well, we couldn’t swear to it,” the youth said. “What would you do if we did name someone?”

“We’d keep a close check on his movements,” Roger said promptly, “and we’d try to make sure that you hadn’t made a mistake. If we found out that he’d been somewhere else at the time—well, that would speak for itself.”

“Arthur,” said the girl unexpectedly, “I think you ought to tell him.”

The lad looked grave; as if he felt a heavy burden of responsibility.

“As a matter of fact,” he said at last, “it was a fellow named Wilson. I don’t know him very well. He’s one of the temporary workers we take on during the Christmas rush. We always have a few for several weeks before Christmas; the overseas mail starts getting very heavy then, both ways. Wilson was one of the first temporaries, sir. I know, because I help to make up the wages.”

“Did you get a really good look at him?” asked Roger, and felt a fierce glow of excitement.

“Oh, yes, under one of the lamps. At first we saw him running; in fact he looked as if he was going under a lorry. Gave my fiancée quite a turn. We didn’t recognise Wilson until he was close to the Embankment, and then—well, we’re pretty sure that it was Wilson, but we couldn’t absolutely swear to it”

“You’ve done wonders,” Roger said. “Can’t give me his full name and address, can you?”

“I’m ever so sorry, I can’t,” the lad said, “but it’ll be at the office.”

Work at the River Way Office was at a very low ebb when Roger arrived. It was a little after one o’clock. Two vans were being unloaded, and the parcels looked lost in the gaping maws of the chutes. The wide, clean looking loading and unloading platforms were almost deserted. All the men on duty wore uniforms, except the driver of a van who wore ordinary clothes with a band round his left arm, marked ER. Roger went upstairs, not taking the lift, and into the huge letter sorting office. That afternoon this had been thick with men handling letters. Now, it was nearly empty. Round the walls were thousands upon thousands of pigeonholes, each clearly marked; and every pigeonhole had its quota of letters. In regular lines running the full length of the room were letter racks, none standing very high; more letters were in these. One corner of the room was occupied by workers, near the main doors. Also near here were hundreds of big sacks fitted inside special stands, so that the mouths of the sacks were held wide open. These were for small parcels, or packets.

A little grey haired man with ruddy cheeks was in charge.

“Oh, yes, Inspector, very glad to help in any way I can. Terrible business, terrible. Your men are on the premises, of course. I’m sure I hope that you catch the murderer very soon. Now, what was it you needed? Names and addresses of the temporary workers? I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear you say that; it would be awful to think that we had a murderer working among our regular staff, wouldn’t it?” He would have sounded smug but for his bright little smile. “If you’ll come with me to the office, I’ll get the list.” He meant the Chief Sorter’s office, which was partitioned off in a corner of the room. Carmichael’s desk was scrupulously tidy. “We keep a list of all the temporary workers, and make a note of their hours, and the time sheets go upstairs to the wages office once a week. Just like an ordinary business house, I suppose. Now, let me see, I expect Mr Carmichael keeps it locked away.” The little man jingled keys, opened a safe, pulled open the door and took out the time sheet. He spread this on a desk.

There was Wilson: Aubrey Peter Wilson, 58 Niger Street, Shepherd’s Bush, W.12. He was the fourth on the list of temporaries, and thirty or forty names had been added since.

“It’s a lucky thing you didn’t want this tomorrow; we shall take on hundreds more,” said the little man, earnestly.

“How are they selected?” Roger inquired.

“Well, we have to be satisfied that they are people of good repute, of course, but they have no responsibility beyond the actual letters and parcels they take out or collect, and they are usually watched—not with any intent, sir, it just happens that they’re usually in twos. Even threes. The method of selection – well, it isn’t easy to get spare time workers in these days of full employment, but of course we get a quota from the Employment Exchange, and the moment the schools and colleges break up for the holiday we get a flood of young men—and girls, of course.”

“Who signs them on?”

“Well, in fact the Chief Sorter does. It’s not like selection for the permanent staff, you understand. Have you—ah—have you got everything you need?”

“May I have one of my men make a copy of this?” asked Roger.

“Oh, perfectly all right,” breathed the little man. “Perfectly.”

Roger went down to the stores and maintenance quarters, in the basement; three men from the Yard were working there, checking equipment and tools and questioning the one or two maintenance staff workers then on duty. It was a gloomy place, with several low, arched doorways leading to tunnels, now used as store rooms, which had once led down to the river. There was no report of a missing hammer.

Roger sent a man to copy out the time sheet, then arranged for a sergeant to meet him at the Shepherd’s Bush station, and headed fast for West London, through the dark streets.

Fox-Wilkinson, in charge at Shepherd’s Bush HQ by night, was one of the youngest senior Divisional officers, dark haired, keen, spruce, ready to take any short cut that offered. He had no information about an Aubrey Peter Wilson who lived at 58 Niger Street, but could soon call in the constable who did the street’s night beat.

“Let’s go to him,” said Roger. “You can have my sergeant sent ahead.”

“I’ll fix it.” Fox-Wilkinson spoke to an inspector, then led the way downstairs. “We’ll go in your car, shall we?” The whole London Force knew Roger’s preference for driving himself. “Keep on the way you’re heading, then third right,” Fox-Wilkinson directed, and added after a pause. “If this chap Wilson knew anything about the postman job, we’d better not take it too easily.”

“We’ll be careful,” Roger said.

“Yes, sir, I know a bit about Wilson at Number 58,” the police constable said. He was one of the older, more solid types; five minutes with him told the whole story of why he was still on the beat. “Bit of a boxer, but never done very much—too much talk and not enough training. Easy money, that’s what Wilson’s always after. I’ve kept an eye on him for some time. Does a bit of betting, passes a few slips, I shouldn’t wonder. Nasty piece of work, if you ask me.”

“Any reason for saying that?” asked Roger.

“Well—in a way. He had a quarrel with a pal, after a dance at the Hammersmith Palais. Beat him up pretty badly, but there wasn’t anything we could do about it I’d be careful with Wilson, if I was you; he’s pretty tough. Why, I’ve seen him bend an iron bar with his bare hands!”

“Oh, have you?” Roger said heavily.

“Got all you want?” asked Fox-Wilkinson.

“Yes, thanks. As soon as my man arrives, we’ll go to the house. If you’ll see that it’s covered back and front, I don’t think we’ll have much trouble with Wilson.

Roger waited alone in the car round the corner from Niger Street First to arrive was Sergeant Kilby, in a patrol car; and, had he wanted it, Kilby could have been home in bed. They walked to the corner. The street lights were out and there were no lighted windows, but the stars were shining.

“Be a bit of all right if we catch the swine as quickly as this,” said Kilby. “This job’s done something to me.” He was always economical with his ‘sirs’. “As a matter of fact, it was that May Harrison who flattened me, the way it upset her, and the way she steadied the two brothers. Young Micky took it hard; the eldest boy, Derek, just seemed numb. Went off soon afterwards, to tell his grandmother, I gather.” Kilby was talking disconnectedly. “Just opened my eyes in a way I hadn’t seen before. Nice family like that, broken wide open. Makes you feel that the dead chap isn’t the one to be sorry for.”

“I know just what you mean,” said Roger. He heard footsteps, and recognised Fox-Wilkinson. “Everything ready?”

“Yes,” the local man said. “But you can do me a favour. Let me come up with you. I know it’s your show, but—”

“Come and welcome,” said Roger.

They walked quietly along the unlit street, and as they drew towards Number 58, Roger shone a torch.

“Here we are,” said Fox-Wilkinson. “We’re bound to wake Wilson when we’re knocking.”

“If he cuts and runs for it we’ll have a stronger case,” said Roger, philosophically. He shone the torch on the door, and found a battery type bell set in the middle. He rang twice, and then kept his finger on the push. The jarring sound seemed to echo up and down the street. Men on the other side of the road would be watching the top window, and men at the back would make sure that Wilson didn’t get away. He stopped, then rang again.

Suddenly there were footsteps inside; heavy thumping, as if on stairs, and steadier, shuffling sounds as someone came along the passage. Whoever it was fumbled with a key, there was a sharp click, then the door opened an inch and a man asked roughly: “What the hell do you want?”

“It’s all right,” Roger began, “we’re police, and—”

“I don’t give a damn who you are, waking up decent folk in the middle of the night! What—”

“Is Wilson in?” There was a pause.

“So it’s Wilson again,” the man said, in a resigned voice. “It’s the last night he sleeps here; there’s been nothing but trouble since he came. Why, my own daughter isn’t safe from him, he—”

Roger put his shoulder to the door, and pushed. The man backed hastily away. He was dressed in striped pyjamas and a thick blue overcoat; his long nose was red, and he looked perished with cold.

‘Where is he?” asked Roger curtly.

The bluster died away.

“Upstairs, the back room, he—but what do you want him for?”

“Just to ask him a few questions. We won’t keep you up long.”

Roger hurried to the head of the stairs and a narrow landing. A door stood wide open, and there was a light on in the room beyond. A woman called: “Perce, what is it?”

Roger turned towards the back rooms. He could make out the shape of a doorway but there was no light on in the room beyond. Wilson might be climbing out of the window, or might be crouching behind the door – possibly holding another weapon.

There was no sound.

Fox-Wilkinson was just behind Roger, now; the floor boards creaked. The man with the thin red nose was standing in the doorway of his bedroom. Roger put on the landing light. The door ahead was flimsy, and he could get it down with little trouble. He put his shoulder to it, and thrust with his whole weight.

The door crashed in.

There was only dark silence beyond.