Chapter Eleven

Morning

Roger West swung the car into Scotland Yard at half past eight next morning, and brought it to within a few inches of the wall, and only a foot from the next car to it. He got out, slammed the door, and walked briskly towards the steps. A Superintendent who was coming down grinned and said: “Nice judgment this morning.”

“I just leave it to the car.”

“You don’t have to tell me.” They stopped in the middle of the steps. “Not much in for you during the night, Handsome. That Bryant chap hasn’t been home yet, and we had his mother on the line twice.”

“Hm. Thanks.”

“Nothing happened at the Bryants’ place, nothing new in about the Wilson murder—haven’t heard of another glimpse of that man who went home with him.”

“Pity.”

“Well, get your teeth into it,” said the Superintendent breezily. “We want it all over by Christmas.” Roger said: “I’ve got a family, too.”

He went on. He felt better and in a much brighter mood than last night, and reminded himself as he went to the stairs, ignoring the lift, that he was a copper. His job was just catching criminals, from petty thieves to murderers, and there was no point in trying to carry everybody’s burden on his shoulders. He would do everything he could to help the Bryants but must not help them at the expense of the case.

He was still bright when he entered the office, where a man stood with his back to the door, looking out of the window, and didn’t hear him come in.

Roger said: “Hallo, Kilby, couldn’t you sleep?”

Kilby swung round.

He’d slept. His eyes were clear. He’d had a good clean shave and had rubbed powder into his face afterwards. He wasn’t a bad looking chap, in a rather unfinished kind of way. His nose was a bit short and his mouth not really a good shape.

“Oh, I slept,” he said; “you’ve never been more right; I was dog tired last night.”

“Weren’t we both?”

“Didn’t know you ever got tired,” said Kilby dryly. “Just after you’d left the pub last night, Turn—Mr Turnbull came in for a quick one.”

“I’ve known it happen before.”

“We had one together and then he ran me home,” Kilby said, “and we had a chat on the way.”

“Turnbull’s always worth listening to,” Roger said.

“You’re telling me! I—” Kilby broke off. “He asked me to pass on one or two things, sir; he’s got to go out to Paddington first thing in the morning; something’s turned up on that pawnbroker’s murder. He’s put in a written report, of course, but this elaborates it a bit. Er—he said you’d probably want to have his scalp, but—”

Roger was smiling.

“He’ll keep it. Go on.”

“He listed the priorities this way,” said Kilby, flushing a little. “First, what did the thief want at Bryant’s place, and why not dig deep among Bryant’s friends at the Post Office and his clubs and the chapel? Turnbull said—”

“That sometimes these sanctimonious Bible-thumping types are worse than anyone.”

“Well, he did suggest—”

“We’re checking,” Roger said. “What else?”

“He’d make Derek Bryant absolute priority.”

“And next?”

“As a matter of fact, sir, he suggested that it’s a good idea to have a go at Carmichael’s blonde.” Now, Kilby began to go pink. “We can only watch Carmichael, but the blonde may have a past, and if we could prove it, then she’d probably talk. Might be worth trying.”

“Social contact with the blonde, I gather,” Roger said dryly, “and you’re the man to do it.”

Now, Kilby turned deep red.

“I don’t see why not.”

Roger grinned. “Nor do I! She’ll spot you for a copper a mile off, but that won’t matter; it might scare her. Have a shot, but be careful—don’t go and fall for the blonde.”

Kilby said: “There’s no need to worry about that.” He was so harsh voiced, so grim faced, that Roger was startled into surprise. Kilby looked a little shamefaced. It was odd that big men on the force were so often naïve. This case had gone deeply into Kilby though, and might be the making of him.

‘Who’s worrying?” Roger said briskly. “Is there a late report on the woman?”

“Yes, Mr Turnbull did it before he left,” Kilby said. “It’s being typed out; should have copies soon.”

“Make sure I get one quickly, but first go through everything outstanding, and see if we’ve missed anything, will you?” Roger nodded dismissal and Kilby went off, leaving Roger to the mass of reports, clearing up his work on other jobs, and preparing the main summary on this one.

He had twenty minutes by himself, before other CIs came in, when there were the inevitable interruptions and one main subject – the Post Office case. The newspapers were full of speculation. One had listed every Post Office mail van robbery in the last five years and announced the fabulous total loot of nearly a million pounds. Some argued that this was all the work of a centrally directed gang; others that it was the work of a dozen or more different individuals. All had one point of agreement.

Each robbery was due to a leakage of information from the Post Office.

One of the CPs said: “Not hearing much from you, Handsome. Which side do you favour?”

“If this is one gang, we ought to start a chicken farm,” Roger said, and stood up and went to the window. There was a heavy, yellowish grey bank of cloud across the river, and it looked as if it was coming up from the south. “Snow before the night’s out,” he said; “that will make life hell for Mr Carmichael.”

He saw the door open.

Kilby came in with a typewritten report, gave a general ‘Good morning’ and made a beeline for Roger. “Here’s the stuff on Deirdre Ames,” he said.

“Nice name for a blonde,” remarked Roger.

“Have a look at her photograph,” Kilby said, and produced one from between the pages of the report.

Deirdre Ames was really something.

This was a studio portrait of the kind that one found outside less reputable nightclubs and third rate music halls.

Deirdre Ames had a great big smile and a great big cleft in a bosom only partly concealed by a great big feather fan. As a photograph, it was a work of art. The odd thing was that in spite of the tawdriness of her outfit, and the way her charms were emphasised, she did not look vulgar. Her eyes seemed not only beautiful but intelligent.

Roger put his head on one side as he looked up at Kilby.

“I told you before, you’d better look after your Boy Scout badges; she’ll be after them. But that was probably taken ten years ago when she was at her peak.”

“On the back, it says January this year,” Kilby pointed out. “About six months before she picked up with old Carmichael.”

Roger said: “Hmm,” and was as thoughtful as he sounded. If the girl was really like this now, what had she seen in the Chief Sorter? What would any young girl see, except money? There was as yet no evidence about the source of Carmichael’s income but this was an indication of its size. The attraction certainly wasn’t personal magnetism.

Roger scanned the report.

Deirdre Ames had no record. She had been on the stage, mostly in the chorus, since she was sixteen, and she was now twenty three. In the past twelve months she had been a cabaret star in a respectable hotel, the Mitham, in a street off Piccadilly. She had shared a small flat with another girl, Muriel Paisley, until July of this year, when she had gone to the apartment which Carmichael paid for. Although Carmichael lived in a much humbler place, he spent a lot of time with his lady love; much of it by night.

Kilby began to fidget.

Roger looked up from the report.

“Syd,” he said in a quiet voice, “you’ll want to kick me, but I don’t think you’re the man to tackle Deirdre Ames. I don’t think it would be a good idea for her to know that a policeman’s after her—I think she ought to be tabbed by someone who isn’t likely to be suspected. But there’s a job you can do, probably better than anyone else.”

Kilby’s expression of disappointment was momentary; soon he said cheerfully: “Well, you’re the boss. What’s the other job?”

“You haven’t been to the River Way Sorting Office, have you?”

“No.”

“And you’ve only seen Derek Bryant, of the Post Office people,” Roger went on, “and that in the dark.”

“That’s right.”

“Syd, go along and get into an old suit, then take a job as a temporary postman at River Way. Try to make it an inside job, so that you’re on the spot all the time. The way they lug those parcels about suggests they could use someone with a good pair of shoulders; you’ll probably be the answer to Carmichael’s prayer. We won’t pull any strings. Take your Army discharge papers along, and pitch some story about why you’re out of work for the time being and want to make a bit for Christmas. Just keep your eyes wide open. Pick up as much as you can about the routine of the job, especially the registered parcels, and see what you can find out about valuable stuff that goes through the office—how easy it is for an outsider to pick that kind of thing up. Got it?”

“I’m on,” Kilby said warmly.

“Good. Report by telephone when you can. Carmichael is one of the main men to watch, so is anyone who seems to have a special claim on him—anyone with whom he seems friendly. Get the regular postmen’s opinion of Carmichael, too. Pal up with the van driver named Simm. Get as far inside that job as it’s possible to get, but don’t stick your neck out and show that you’re with us. Keep off the murder as much as you can. Offer to work as much overtime as they want, and generally make yourself useful.”

“That’s me,” said Kilby. He gave a quick, rather warming smile, which took away much of that unfinished look. “Any idea who you’ll put on to Deirdre Ames?”

“No. Any ideas yourself?”

“Yes,” said Kilby. “I was thinking about that coming up this morning, and told myself that Silver was really the right man for the job.”

“Yes,” agreed Roger, “you’re probably right.”

It was commonly believed at the Yard that no CID man in the history of the Department had ever been like Johnny Silver. If there was a type of confidence trickster, Silver was the type. He looked it, being sleek and always well turned out and slightly overhearty. He talked like it, having a ready tongue, a nice brand of flattery and a reasonable wit. He was in the middle forties and looked ten years younger, was never without a smile and – almost unique at the Yard – he had never stepped into the witness box to give evidence for the prosecution. It was doubtful whether a dozen people, outside the Yard itself, knew that Silver held the rank of Detective Inspector, CID. It was practically certain, because of his characteristics and his usefulness in his present job, that he would never get further promotion unless, simply for the payroll and his pension, he became a CI. If that worried him, he had never let anyone realise it. He was allowed the largest expense sheet in the Criminal Investigation Department, the items were seldom questioned, and it was known that he could put down whisky faster than anyone else at the Yard. No one had ever known him even slightly tipsy. There had been the famous occasion when he had drunk a team of American and Dutch con men under the table, making them miss a plane and thus ensuring that they were kept on English soil long enough for extradition warrants to catch up with them.

He was full of party tricks.

He practised a little sleight of hand, which was always useful, and knew more card tricks than most. Taken by and large, he was the most likeable of men. Big time crooks, like the Dutchman and the American, always seemed to recognise a fellow traveller, and therein lay their downfall.

Roger checked with the Superintendent who used Silver most, made sure that he could be freed for this job, and sent for him. He was in the office a little after ten o’clock, tall, slim, beautifully tailored in navy blue, hair as shiny as a raven’s wing and almost as black, a gold ring with a single small diamond on the little finger of his left hand.

“Now what have I done?” he asked.

“You’ve only just started,” Roger said. “Do you know the Mitham Hotel?”

“Leek Street, Piccadilly,” answered Silver promptly. “Edwards and Edwards proprietors, Victor Munro, manager, Sybil Munro his wife-housekeeper, Mario the chef, Bill Higgins the headwaiter—good second class hotel with a floor show and one, repeat one, real hot dish. Name of Deirdre, often called Didi by her friends. The pianist is Bill Rocky, the violinists variable, the cello a woman named Grant. Mammoth. I’ll give you ten to one that your interest is on Didi.”

“That’s it,” said Roger. He briefed Silver, quickly, and Silver said thoughtfully: “I think I can do a bit with her, but it won’t be until tonight. It might take two or three nights, too. She’s got a Daddy somewhere.”

“It’s her Daddy we’re really interested in,” Roger said.

Silver hadn’t been gone two minutes before a messenger brought a chit from Chatworth. There was still no permission to take all the fingerprints at River Way, but a note from the Postmaster General’s office instructed Farnley to give Roger all information he required. Farnley would not like it, but Christmas rush or not, he’d have to tell Roger about all the valuable post packets that went through River Way.

Since the new office had been opened, countless valuables had gone through it. Much of the diamond trade between this country, the United States and the Netherlands passed through – always under guard. Big shipments of used treasury notes were also channelled through the new office, and although these now had a ceiling of ten thousand pounds in any one consignment, to make sure that no loss could be too severe, very large sums went through in the course of a week.

Roger checked the van drivers and the guards.

He went to River Way, about noon, and the stream of traffic coming out of the main gates was so great that he left his car on the river side of the Embankment, and walked quickly towards the office. For the first time he began to understand and sympathise with Carmichael’s obsession. It seemed incredible that so many parcels existed. Van load after van load was waiting for the chutes, the loading platforms were piled almost ceiling high; where dozens of men had worked yesterday, now there were hundreds. Young girls and middle aged women were walking out with satchels of letters on their backs. Boys, middle aged men and ancients were busy. A few brawny men were unloading the parcels from the vans, and Roger saw one man, in a T-shirt and blue jeans, heaving parcels as if he had been used to it all his life.

Kilby.

When Kilby wanted to move, how he moved! And the fact that he had been taken on and put to work so quickly proved two things: Carmichael was desperately short of labour, and there was no real attempt made at screening the temporary workers.

There was Carmichael, too.

Roger felt his reluctant admiration for the man increase.

He moved about quite calmly and coolly, almost serene. Where others were flustered, he took it all in his stride. He seemed to be in a dozen places at once; wherever a heap of parcels was too high, wherever a chute seemed blocked, wherever new vans arrived, there he was giving instructions. Sometimes he guided a van as it reversed into a vacant spot on the platform. He would go among the parcels, and every now and again pick one up and put it gently into a wicker basket with big wheels.

Roger went to him.

“Chief Inspector,” greeted Carmichael, quietly, “unless it is of vital importance I really can’t spare you any time this morning.”

“A few questions, while you’re here. Have those three registered bags turned up?”

“No.”

“Anything else missing?”

“Not as far as I can trace.”

“Derek Bryant?”

“Not to my knowledge, but then he is not in my department, he is in maintenance. I—” Carmichael broke off, wrinkling his nose in a disgust which had nothing to do with the questions. “Idiots,” he said, and dived into a pile of two or three hundred parcels and picked one up which was stained on the outside – stained a damp, reddish brown. “When are people going to learn not to send raw meat through the post unless securely boxed?—there should be a law, there really should be a regulation. I am always asking Mr Farnley to try to arrange a deputation to the Postmaster General.” He picked the parcel up by its string, and placed it disdainfully into the second of the two baskets. “It must have been in the mail for two days or more; can you smell it?”

Roger said ruefully: “Smell is hardly the word.”

“If you were to spend the next few days with us you would begin to understand our problems,” Carmichael said earnestly. He dived again, and this time picked up a parcel which was so badly tattered that a cloth which wrapped up the contents was poking out. “Every day—every day—we get hundreds of parcels which cannot be delivered, hundreds that we have to repack. If the public were less spoon fed they might take more trouble, but I confess I sometimes wonder.”

He dropped another parcel into the big basket.

“See that, Chief Inspector? Just addressed to Aunt Sally. If one hadn’t a sense of humour—”

Carmichael broke off as a huge van came slowly towards the loading platform, backing into a space which was scarcely large enough for it. He was guiding it in when an elderly postman came up.

“Registers, Mr Carmichael.”

“All right, I’ll come,” said Carmichael. He moved off almost at once, took a key from his pocket, and unlocked the back of a small red van. There were five green canvas bags; the registered bags. He signed the van driver’s sheet for them, then carried them into the Sorting Office to his own desk. Alongside this sat a younger man surrounded by a mass of papers. “Sign for these, Jim, and then get them open,” Carmichael ordered. He glanced at Roger, and there was a faint, almost likeable smile on his face. “You see how careful we are! And if there are important loads, we send a guard with the driver, of course, and at times we send a car after the van to make quite sure that nothing can go wrong.”

He went out.

A boy with corn coloured hair, very blue eyes, and the look of the Scandinavian, was standing at the loading platform. He was holding a parcel which Roger thought he had seen before: the parcel of meat which was decomposing.

“Please, I am to bring this to you,” he said, in careful English.

“That’s right, thank you,” Carmichael said. He took the parcel gingerly, holding it by the string. The Scandinavian lad managed not to wrinkle his nose, but several others nearby caught a whiff, and waxed sarcastic.

That wasn’t all.

Among the men who were making such a show was Kilby, but it wasn’t quite the same. He kept pointing at the parcel, and made signs with his hands, twisting them about and then suddenly diving a hand into his pocket and taking out a knife.

Roger nodded.

Kilby stopped his pantomime, picked up a sack of parcels and walked with them towards the chutes.

“You see, another,” said Carmichael. “Exactly the same—No such address in SW6. Try adjoining districts. I really must arrange for these to be taken to the refuse disposal dump at once.”

Roger said: “Hold that a minute. Wasn’t it the same address as the last one?”

“I really didn’t notice,” Carmichael said, “and it doesn’t really matter. If a man will do a senseless thing once, he will do it again.”

Roger was burrowing. The smell was overpowering, now, the kind of smell he didn’t like at all; perhaps that was why Kilby wanted the parcel opened. He had often had to endure it, when called to the scene of murder. The odour of the decomposing flesh was always much the same.

He found the first parcel, addressed in block letters, to: Mr Smith, 29 Simca Road, SW9. The second parcel had been addressed in the same kind of handwriting, on brown paper which had absorbed some of the ink.

Carmichael was called to another van.

Roger took out his penknife, and slashed the string of the second parcel. As he did so, a small van backed in. When the doors were opened hundreds of turkeys came in sight hanging by their feet to bars which had been fitted into the top of the van. Each bird was labelled, each plucked, each looked fresh and wholesome.

Any turkey that rubbed shoulders with a parcel like this wouldn’t be at home on his Christmas table.

He unwrapped the putrefying flesh.

He winced.

For he was looking at a human arm – cut off at the shoulder and above the elbow.

He stood quite still; fighting nausea. He saw a man glance at him curiously, and quickly covered the thing up. He turned to the other parcel and unwrapped that, making sure that no one else could see what it was.

It was a part of a leg; a man’s leg, with fine, fair hairs on it.