Chapter Fifteen

Waldmann

As Roger’s car turned into the driveway outside Scotland Yard, a crowd mostly of men, but with a woman here and there, surged forward. High on the roof of a parked B.B.C. van there was a television camera; another one stood on some scaffolding opposite the main entrance. Samuel Gaddison of the Globe who had been so full of critical questions the previous night, was close to the front of the crowd. Roger realised with a start of surprise that he hadn’t looked at a newspaper all day. A small group of uniformed policemen and several C.I.D. men forced their way through and made a path for Roger, as Venables slid over to the driving wheel and, sounding scared, said: “I’ll put the car away.” Roger, a policeman on either side, had to go a step at a time towards the Yard, and a policeman said in disgust: “Give me the bloody Ban the Bombers all the time.”

Gaddison called out: “Were you hurt, Handsome?”

Roger forced a smile. “No.”

“Must have come near it,” remarked a C.I.D. man.

“How far away were you when the car blew up?” a woman called and he remembered seeing her last night, too.

“Near enough to feel the heat,” Roger answered.

“My God!” a man breathed.

“How many shots were fired?” another demanded.

“I think there were three. If you want to see one of the bullet holes look in the door of the car.”

“The car you’ve just arrived in?” Gaddison called out.

“That’s the one.”

All the time the cameras were clicking and flashlights spitting and the news cameras whirring. Why he hadn’t expected it, Roger couldn’t imagine. The M1 chase, the shooting, the burnt out car, held just the excitement and news value that Fleet Street needed. Then he saw Coppell standing inside the open doorway of the Yard; the hall seemed fairly empty except for the usual staff and some C.I.D. and uniformed men. Roger, still protected on either side, was suddenly propelled into the hall, and came to a standstill only a few feet in front of Coppell.

“Quite the hero,” Coppell observed, with a twisted grin.

“Anyone who has pushed through that mob is.”

“Come off it,” said Coppell. “Damned good job, Handsome.”

“Oh, I didn’t—”

“That won’t wash,” Coppell said. “I’ve got news for you. Coming up behind you was a Press photographer and a television cameraman—they were on your heels. What happened on the motorway will now be preserved in glorious Technicolor. No way of avoiding being a public hero, this time.” There was grudging admiration in his voice, and in his expression as he turned towards the lifts, Roger alongside. “Where’s that young copper you had with you?”

“He was so scared by the crowd he decided to put the car away.”

“Lot of good that will do him,” Coppell leered. “The garage has newspapermen hiding behind every car and a camera at every car window. There are even a few coppers down there.” The lift stopped at the laboratory floor. “What’s that about gold cigars?”

Roger said. “Give me a chance to open my case, sir, and I’ll show you one. Has the photograph of the man Waldmann arrived yet, do you know?”

“Yes,” answered Coppell. “It’s your Waldmann. The black haired killer.”

“My God!” breathed Roger. “So we’ve got him.”

“You got him.” They were walking along the passage towards Fingerprints, which had its own mini laboratory, and took up a large part of this floor. The department was in constant touch with the big laboratory at Holborn. Coppell stopped to face Roger, looking at him very straightly. “You’ve got a new image to live up to—don’t forget it.”

“A new what?” Roger asked, blankly.

“The Globe image,” Coppell answered. “Don’t tell’ me that you haven’t seen it!”

“I haven’t seen a paper today,” Roger told him.

Coppell gave him a long, appraising stare, and then clamped his big hands on his shoulders, the first time Roger could ever recall him doing such a thing.

“Handsome,” he said. “There isn’t another man at the Yard who wouldn’t have grabbed every newspaper on the bookstalls to see what they did to him after last night. The trouble with you is that you’re too good to be true.”

“I had a lot to do,” Roger protested.

“I daresay. Well, you had a good press. The Globe pointed out that in view of the work you do and the fact that we’re so understaffed it’s a miracle that more wrong decisions aren’t made. Instead of tearing your guts out for taking the tail off Margerison’s wife, they have given you full marks for what you have pulled off. The Commissioner was so pleased he nearly came to the Handsome West Reception Party himself, but I had to stand in for him.” Coppell took his hands away, but didn’t move towards Fingerprints. “About this Waldmann.”

“Yes?”

“I had a go myself, but couldn’t get a word out of him.”

Roger had a swift mental picture of that dark haired youth and the sneering expression, and said: “Can’t say I’m surprised, sir. What about the girl?”

“The same.”

Roger pulled a face.

“I’m not surprised about her either. I’ll have a go later, if I may.”

“You have as many goes as you like. Now let’s see what the lab’s got in store for us. Never known the Yard busier or the lab so eager to please us,” went on Coppell in his more familiar half jeering way.

Roger said: “Everyone feels the same, thank God.”

There was a message for Coppell at Fingerprints: could he and Mr. West go to Holborn where they could see the whole picture.

“Mr. Smythe says he has some information about the piece of glass and some of the other stuff, analysed from the house and the van that was stopped this morning,” the Fingerprints man added to Coppell.

“To impress the lab with the importance of the situation I think I should come and give you some moral support,” Coppell declared.

In fact the Commander’s presence could put men on edge; make them tongue tied. On the other hand if there was the slightest rumour going round that he and the Commander were at loggerheads, going in together could only be of benefit. Soon they were in Coppell’s chauffeur driven car, approaching the big skyscraper where the Forensic Science Laboratory was housed. Coppell chose to go straight up to the laboratory, not through the police station. The laboratory here had some similarities with that at K & K. There was the same long bench, flanked by a few cubicles. In one of these was a pile up of every conceivable kind of article, suits, vacuum cleaners, shoes, hats, bottles, glasses, bags of dust, plaster casts. Each of these was labelled, each was to be analysed because each might yield a clue leading to the solution of one crime or another.

Chief Superintendent Smythe, tall, lean, thin faced, was with them in a matter of seconds.

“Commander. Superintendent. Glad you’re here, and thank you for coming.” He moved towards one of the cubicles, where a little man with pebble lensed glasses stood at a bench with all the apparatus of a small laboratory, even to an electric oven. On one side were about twenty or thirty plastic bags filled with dirt and dust; on the other were smaller bags, more like the little envelope Roger had carried the splinter in.

“Mercer,” Smythe said. “We want to know exactly what you’ve found, and we haven’t a lot of time.”

“Right!” The man was brisk with a resonant, echoing voice; a no-nonsense kind of voice. “On the left are the original samples. On the right, smaller samples after analysis. They are from the house and garden known as 17, Lyon Avenue, Chiswick, the green Morris Minor JLT 5123, the black van XK 1497K now in the garage downstairs.” He picked up a sheet of paper. “This is the report on 17, Lyon Avenue; other reports are in the process of typing and will be here shortly.” He paused for breath, looked up over his glasses, and went on: “Filings of South African gold found behind the wainscoting in room where a heavy machine was installed.” He touched a tiny bag. “A minimal amount of gold dust not large enough for us to analyse here.” He touched another bag. “In the same room as the gold filings were found, a minute quantity of a barbiturate powder was found, probably from a tablet dropped on the floor and chipped.” He touched yet another bag, and looked up. “This is not strictly laboratory business but I understand that the supply of gas to the house has been some two hundred per cent higher than that of a domestic household of the same size, suggesting a non domestic use of some significance.”

Coppell interrupted: “Such as a laboratory or workshop?”

“It could be, sir.”

“Fit in with what you know, Mr. West?” asked Coppell.

“If the gold was melted down in a flask or flasks supplied unwittingly by K & K the processing would need a constant supply of gas, but some extra heat—say heat from oxy-propane or oxy-acetylene would also be needed.” Roger said, “We may need to come back to this and we may need it as supporting evidence in court. For now it’s enough to know that there isn’t any substantial doubt that the Lyon Avenue house was being used by the bullion thieves and that something scared them away.”

Coppell grunted, then said to the chemist: “Goon.”

“Right! Nothing else of the faintest significance was found in the house, which was freshly painted and polished after a thorough washing with strong pine disinfectant. There are traces of the disinfectant, dried out, in both lavatories. The paint and wax used is being analysed. Now for the garden—”

Roger felt his muscles go tense.

“There is conclusive evidence of work done by a very knowledgeable gardener,” the little man went on, touching other, larger bags. “These are samples of humus taken from various beds, all plants—roses, apple trees, pear trees, hydrangea, rhododendron and others—having recently been fed with artificial fertilisers, all identifiable. Tags have been found on some of the trees showing date of treatment, and these tags, all green, are supplied with bags of the various fertilisers made by the firm of Lovelace of St. Albans, and having the trade name of Gardluv. There is some evidence that bags of the various fertilisers have been buried in a corner beneath a heap of burned garden rubbish and documents. These last are on their way here for analysis.”

At last, he stopped, and Coppell said almost in an aside: “So you’re on to your gardener, West.”

“Looks like it,” Roger said, and went on quickly: “What about the van?”

The chemist touched another bag.

“There was garden soil as well as house dust in some cracks in the floor, and also some traces of Gardluv. No gold dust or filings have been found, but traces of a fine canvas suggest that the inside of the van was lined.”

As he finished speaking, a girl appeared, carrying a sheaf of papers, Smythe took these and handed them in turn to the man with the pebble lenses, who put them on the bench and said: “The other reports, sir. I would like you to check them before sending them down.”

“Do just that,” said Coppell. “Anything more for us, Mr. Smythe?”

“Not yet,” Smythe said, stiffly.

“Let Mr. West know if anything turns up.” Coppell moved away, then turned back to face the little chemist, who throughout had shown a kind of defiance, an “I’m as good as you are” attitude. The expression was still on his face as he looked up at Coppell who was at least a head taller.

“You’re Henry Mercer’s son, aren’t you?”

Startled, the man said: “Yes, sir.”

“He was a good analyst, too. Is he still alive?”

“Oh, yes—seventy seven and still going strong.”

“Give him my regards,” Coppell said. Roger caught a glimpse of Mercer’s astonished expression, all suggestion of defiance and conflict gone. Smythe raised his eyebrows, echoing the astonishment. Coppell went out into the passage, holding the door for Roger. “Well,” he said with a wry smile, “it looks as if what you want is an expert gardener who is also a machinist, a house decorator and possibly a chemist.” He paused. “Anyone in mind?” he asked as they got into the car.

“Women did the gardening, we know that,” Roger said. “I want to see Waldmann, but I ought to get a bite of something to eat and take it easy for half an hour. There must be a way of getting at him so that he’ll talk.” They said little on the way to the Yard, and when they arrived Roger remarked musingly: “Gardener—chemist, that’s what we want. Anything else you want me for at the moment, sir?”

“Have your meal,” Coppell said. “I’d have it in your office if I were you, if you go down to the canteen you’ll have everyone asking questions, or slapping you on the back.”

“We can’t have that,” Roger said drily.

Coppell was being very human and, for him, gracious, a thing to be thankful for, but these facts slid over the surface of Roger’s mind as he turned into his office. He pressed a bell for a messenger to get him something to eat, and sat back in one of the two armchairs usually reserved for visitors. There was a ceaseless pounding of ideas and facts in his mind, as if a pile driver were at work. He kept seeing faces, too; those of Rose Nicholson, Angela Margerison, Zigorski, Crabb, Margerison, the black haired Waldmann, the defiant girl, Henry Mercer’s son. Of them all the most vivid pictures were of the dead policewoman, Zigorski and Waldmann. All the things Mercer had said remained vividly with him, also. It wasn’t possible to be sure, but if he let all of these facts and impressions run through his mind he might well come up with an angle no one had yet seen.

There was a tap at the door, and after he called “Come in” it opened slowly, cups and plates rattling, as a tray appeared, clutched in a pair of very big hands. Venables prevented the door from slamming with his foot, and then placed the laden tray on an upright chair close to Roger.

“I happened to be outside, sir, and took this from the messenger.”

“Where else have you happened to do or go?” asked Roger.

“Well, I did call the laboratory, sir, and Mr. Smythe sent the transcripts of the analysis reports over.” Venables drew these from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I just managed to glance through them,” he went on. “Very comprehensive, sir, aren’t they. I—er I—” He broke off, looking quite embarrassed.

Roger picked up a thick beef sandwich.

He bit into it hungrily; it was after two thirty, no wonder he felt famished.

“Pour me out some coffee,” he said, “and tell me what’s on your mind.”

Venables poured out black coffee and hot milk from different pots, and when he put the cups down, he said: “Very lovely bed of roses outside the laboratory window at K & K’s sir, wasn’t it?”

Roger stared at him, and then exclaimed: “My God! They had Gardluv tags on them too.” The camera part of his mind had registered that, but until this moment the computer part had not. “And Dr. Zigorski—”

“Is reputed to be fond of gardening, sir,” Venables remarked. “It’s at least possible that Dr. Zigorski knows much more than he’s told us, isn’t it?”

Roger looked searchingly into Venables’ face, then said slowly. “You’re right. We’d better have him down here—we can say it’s to help identify Waldmann. Arrange it, will you? Talk to Mr. Crabb first.”