Chapter Sixteen

Confrontation

Waldmann and the girl charged with him were in different cells at the Yard.

Zigorski was on his way down to London, in a police car.

Roger, still at his desk, had read the newspapers at last; the write-ups could hardly have been better, but there remained the knowledge that Rose Nicholson was dead because he had made a certain decision months ago.

He got up, suddenly, and picked up the telephone to the chief inspector in the next room.

“I’m going to the Map Room,” he said, put the receiver down and went out of the office. Two or three people in the passages and at the lift nodded or chatted, but no one mentioned the Bullion Boys. He went down to the basement and stepped out into what seemed like a maze of maps. All of them were of different sections of London, all had varicoloured pins stuck into them, and each carried a legend to explain the colours. He knew the Map Room well, but only the staff here was really familiar with the maps. There were some showing the density of various crimes: drug taking, car stealing, shop lifting, pocket picking, bank raids, hi-jacking. Once one knew the key, it was possible to get a clear picture of London’s crime from these maps alone. And concentrations of crime led to concentrations of police.

He looked into a small office where a man sat at a huge desk covered with smaller sections of maps.

“Spare me a minute, Jack?” asked Roger.

The other looked up.

“Hallo, Handsome! Didn’t hear you!” He stood up. “What can I do to help catch the Bullion Boys?”

“I’d like a map section which has Chiswick about the centre,” Roger said, “and I’d like to check the approaches to Lyon Avenue and to Chandler Street, where Mrs. Margerison lived—and I’d like to check places within easy reach of Lyon Avenue where a piece of heavy machinery could be stored.”

The other man was already opening one of the map drawers; and he placed a section on top of the sloping desk. The two men pored over it for some time.

“A suspect green Morris Minor and a suspect grey van have definitely been seen around Chiswick,” Roger murmured. “They might still be in the area.”

“Oh, yes: and that heavy machinery, too. Unless the piece was dismantled it would have to stand on a ground floor. Hundreds of houses and shops where it could have been taken. Didn’t I see a request somewhere for places recently let or sold?”

“Yes,” Roger answered.

“Well, why not get a list and then mark them off here,” the Map Room Inspector suggested.

“Let me use your telephone,” urged Roger.

Soon a list of the possible places into which the Bullion Boys might have moved was being marked with blue headed pins on the section map. It made a pattern around Lyon Avenue, and Roger, who knew this part of London better than any other, watched the build up. There were a dozen possible places in Hammersmith, several clustered around one spot to the right of Chiswick High Street. The most suitable appeared to be some railway arches used for small manufacturers – boat builders, motor repair shops, woodworkers, small tool manufacturers, radio and television repairers, trades in all variety.

“And all within half an hour’s drive of Lyon Avenue,” the Map Room Inspector stated.

“What’s more no one would be surprised if anyone was working late there,” Roger put in. “And the approach to the Arches is nearly cut off from main roads.” He pursed his lips. “It’s guesswork,” he went on, “but—May I use your phone again?”

“Help yourself.”

Roger called the West Division, and was quickly put through to the superintendent in charge. One thing was rewarding about this case; everyone without exception was eager to help and to give that help priority.

“Hallo, Handsome,” the superintendent said. “Thought I’d hear from you sooner or later. I had a chit from you asking for any of our chaps who saw people moving about eight days ago.”

“Yes,” Roger said, sharply.

“Well, there was a move from 17, Lyon Avenue just a week ago,” the man reported. “Your chap Green has established that. And we’ve a report from a patrol car about a move into one of the Arches at Hammersmith the same night.”

“Have you had the place at the Arches checked?” Roger asked.

“No, just watched from a distance,” said the superintendent. “Green’s watching now.”

“I’ll go and see him,” Roger decided. “Thank you very much.”

He put the receiver down and had a momentary flash of exasperation because he hadn’t been told this, but had had to dig it out. Then he laughed to himself; there had been so little time, the miracle was that so much was fitting into place. There was time to go out to the Arches and see Green and be back before Zigorski arrived; and he wanted another talk with Zigorski before he questioned Waldmann.

The Map Room Inspector was grinning at him.

“You’ll burst a blood vessel one of these days,” he said. “Have I helped?”

“You have a lot,” Roger assured him. “You can help more, too. Draw up a plan so that we can watch everyone approaching those Arches. We want to make sure that no one can make a sortie and break out into Greater London.”

“Give me half an hour,” the Map Room Inspector asked modestly.

“Send it up to Information when it’s ready, will you?” Roger asked. He hurried out, watched almost furtively by men at the big maps, and went up to his own office. Venables was sitting at a corner of the desk, reading typewritten reports.

“Any news of Zigorski?” asked Roger.

“Yes, sir. He’ll be here in about an hour.”

“We’re going out to Hammersmith,” Roger said. “Bring anything you want to talk about with you.” He rummaged through his own files and then selected a form and filled it out. “We’ll drop this into the Commander’s office on the way,” he went on, and handed the form to Venables. “Seen one before?”

Venables glanced down.

“A permit for a gun, sir?”

“Yes. We need it signed by a magistrate or J.P., and Mr. Coppell will fix it. You drop it into his office, I’ll meet you in the garage.”

“Very good,” said Venables. “You really think—”

“If we catch up with the Bullion Boys we’ll certainly need a gun,” Roger told him.

Five minutes later he drove out of the garage, past a dozen or so newspapermen still waiting for news, then turned towards Victoria. Traffic was already thickening for the early rush hour, but he weaved between the traffic and in twenty minutes reached Turnham Green. He saw Green, with another man, standing by a car, and at the same moment Green saw him and came hurrying. There was a tense expression on his face.

“Get in,” Roger said, and as the burly sergeant did so, he went on: “So you found out when they moved.”

“More than that, sir,” Green said, with suppressed excitement. “They’re at Number 27, The Arches!”

Roger’s heart was beating like a triphammer.

“No doubts?”

“Can’t imagine any, sir. We had some luck. There was a nail in one of the tyres of the black van, sir—tele picture was sent to us from the West Midlands.”

Bless Colonel Johnson!

“Yes.”

“We’ve found impressions of that very tyre and the nail outside Number 17, Lyon Avenue and on three places approaching the Arches and several on the path leading from Number 27. A grey van was parked there and so was a green Morris Minor—we’ve checked with a firm of engineers on one side and a fibre glass box maker on the other. And—” Words were spilling out of Green. “And no one visits there by day, although one of the box makers on overtime the other night saw a couple go out the night before last.”

“Couple?”

“A middle aged couple, I’m told, who went to an Indian restaurant in the High Street.”

“And the doors of Number 27 are closed now?”

“Yes, sir—the ‘To Let’ notice is still pinned to them, as if they want to create the impression that it’s still empty.”

After a long pause, Roger said: “So it looks as if we might have them.”

“It certainly does!”

“Green,” Roger said, “the Map Room Inspector is preparing a plan to blockade the Arches. You get it from him if it hasn’t yet reached Information and then talk to Division and the Flying Squad. We’ve got rush hour on our hands and we don’t want to start anything yet, but we want every possible exit from those Arches guarded, and everyone from them stopped and questioned.”

“Will do, sir!” Green couldn’t keep his voice level.

“But don’t do anything to warn them that we’re watching.”

“Don’t worry, sir, I won’t. They’d kill any of us as lief as look at us—I won’t take any chances.”

“Right!” Roger said, and was reminded of Mercer at the Yard laboratory. And he was reminded of Green’s limitations, too. Number 27 was next door to a firm of engineers, and at least one of the men at 17, Lyon Avenue had to know something about engineering. But if Number 27 was being watched the other Arches were, too.

Green got out, Roger drove slowly round Turnham Green, so that he did not have to cross the flow of traffic in order to get back. Traffic had grown very thick, and pedestrians were in their thousands. Before the night was out tens of thousands of people would pass within a few hundred yards of where the Bullion Boys were holed out. He knew there was still a possibility that they were barking up the wrong tree, but he was almost as sure as Green.

“How well do you know it here?” he asked Venables.

“Fairly well, sir—I spent the first year in the Force in this Division,” Venables answered. “Those Arches are pretty old. Still cobbled, too. There’s one thing sir.”

“What’s that?”

“There is only one way in and one way out, except over the top. Some of the Arches have iron ladders up to the railway line, which makes a pretty good escape. But Division will see to that, I’m sure.” He paused, then shot Roger an almost pleading look. “You’ll let me in at the kill, sir, won’t you?”

“It may be a kill in more ways than one,” Roger replied grimly.

“Oh, I know, sir. They might try to shoot or even blow their way out. But that’s all in a day’s work.”

“Yes,” agreed Roger. “Yes. And of course I’ll want you there when we raid the place.” He pursed his lips, and then said. “If we’re really good we’ll find a way of getting them out without a lot of trouble.”

Venables didn’t answer, which was a reasonable indication that he did not agree.

“Now!” Roger said briefly. “We want Division and the Flying Squad briefed, and we want anyone from the two arches on either side of Number 27 closely watched. Some of those arches have access to the ones next door, don’t they?”

“Yes, sir” said Venables, with obvious relief. “I was worried about that engineering shop, but I needn’t have been. Shall I call Division?” He stretched out for the radio telephone.

Half an hour later, Roger turned into his office as two telephones began to ring. He picked up the one from the Yard Exchange, said: “Hold on, please,” and picked up the internal one. “This is West,” he said.

“How did you get on?” Coppell wanted to know.

“We hope we’ve got them boxed in, sir—some of them, anyhow.”

“Thank God for that. You can have your gun but don’t use it unless you’re forced to.”

Roger said formally: “No, sir. I have wondered whether the Division and the Squad men watching the Arches should be armed. I’ve talked to the leaders of both, and told them not to hold or question anyone who leaves the Arches but to follow them. This could be a very big job.”

“Use every man you need,” urged Coppell. “Bring some men back for overtime if you need to. As for more guns—”

“The Bullion Boys may have some more of those explosive eggs,” Roger reminded him. “The whole thing will need handling with extreme care.”

“Don’t I know it!” Coppell exclaimed.

“I’d like to discuss the situation in detail with you before we raid,” Roger went on.

“When?”

“I would expect within an hour. I want to see Zigorski and Waldmann first. They might say something that will help to minimise the risk.”

Coppell said clearly: “Oh, hell.” There was a pause, and when at last he went on there was a tone of resentment in his voice. “I’m beginning to understand why the wives of detectives go off the deep end so often. When will the raid be?”

“Some time this evening, I hope.”

There was another pause, before Coppell said: “Of course we’ll need some time together. And I’d better be there. Or at least at hand. All right. I’ll send that gun permit along.” He rang off, obviously in an ill temper, and Roger drew his hand across his forehead. Coppell with domestic problems was really something new. He picked up the other telephone and said: “Sorry to keep you.”

“It’s the sergeant in charge of the waiting room area, sir,” a man responded. “Dr. Zigorski has just arrived.”

“Thanks,” Roger said. The timing could hardly have been better. “I’ll be along in a few minutes. Hold on.” He pondered, lips pursed, chin thrust out, and then he went on: “Who is in charge of cells?”

“Sergeant Tandy, sir.”

“Will you tell Sergeant Tandy that I shall be sending for the man accused of the Mi crimes any time now, and will want him in the waiting room with me and Dr. Zigorski.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And when I’ve done with the man I’ll want to see the woman prisoner at the same place, but they mustn’t meet.”

“I’ll see to it, sir.”

“And Sergeant,” Roger said grimly, “be very careful. I don’t mind how many men you use but be careful. And keep the handcuffs on the male prisoner.”

“I will, sir.”

As Roger rang off, he looked across at the armchairs a little wistfully. The simple truth was that one needed time to think, time for the subconscious to do its work, and he simply wasn’t getting enough. Only in recent years had he been aware of this, for most of his life he had been able to take whatever had to be done in his stride. Not now. And there was little doubt, he created many of his own pressures. He need not have rushed up to K & K. He need not have rushed out to Hammersmith. And it was almost certain that had he taken things a little more calmly, even spread the Midlands trip out all day and simply given instructions to have the Arches watched, the eventual result would have been the same. He simply pushed himself to the limit, and when one was stretched so tightly there was a risk of misjudgment and so making wrong decisions.

“Don’t harp on that!” he admonished himself. “I’m going to see Zigorski!”

Going down in the lift he was actually whistling aloud. He walked briskly along to the waiting room. Nodding to the policeman on duty he glanced through the one way window, just as he had done when he had gone to see Angela Margerison.

Now, he saw Zigorski, and had no doubt at all that the sadness and pain in the man’s expression had merged together into absolute despair.