Detective-Inspector Michael Ford sat at his desk writing a report. From time to time he paused to refresh himself from a cup of tea at his elbow.
The wrinkled frown of concentration suggested that the writing of long and detailed reports did not come easily to Ford. The fountain pen in his large hand seemed curiously puny and inept. Nevertheless, his handwriting was incongruously small and neat: his phraseology a model of clarity.
He was hunting in his mind for a suitable phrase when he was interrupted by the simultaneous ringing of the telephone and Broderick’s appearance.
“Miss Rocello’s here,” announced Broderick.
Ford reached for the receiver. “All right, I’ll see her in a minute. Hallo?”
A strong, cheerful voice said: “Is that Detective-Inspector Ford?”
“Speaking,” said Ford.
“The Detective-Inspector Ford?”
“Yes,” said Ford irritably. “What is it you want?”
The voice laughed. “You haven’t lost your bark, Inspector. Still as fierce as ever!”
Ford scowled at the receiver. This joker on the other end had certainly picked the wrong moment for being funny.
“Who the devil is that?” he demanded.
“Just a voice from the past,” said the voice. “It’s Harry Vincent.”
Ford’s scowl instantly vanished and his face split into a delighted grin, “Harry Vincent!” he said in amazement. “Well I’ll be.… Harry, where the devil are you speaking from?”
“I’m in a call box at Henley,” said Vincent, “on my way up North. I reckon we ought to have dinner together, for old times’ sake.”
“Bet your life, Harry,” said Ford enthusiastically.
“I’ll pick you up at the office in about half an hour.”
“Fine,” said Ford. A sudden thought struck him. “Oh, by the way … how’s the old ticker?”
“Much about the same. Still misses a beat when it feels like it. See you in about half an hour.”
Ford was still grinning as he put the receiver down. “That was Harry Vincent,” he told Broderick. “D’you ever meet him?”
Broderick shook his head. “Often heard you talk about him, but I never met him.”
“Wonderful scout, old Harry,” said Ford. “We used to be great friends in the old days.”
“He retired, didn’t he?” said Broderick.
“That’s right. Damn shame, really, he was just coming up for promotion to Chief Inspector.”
“What happened?”
“Heart went dicky on him. Had to pack up.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“Damned if I know,” said Ford. “Someone told me he had a job with some firm or other.” He stacked his papers neatly on the desk. “I’d better see Miss Rocello now, Bob.”
Broderick poked his head through the adjoining door. “Please come in, Miss Rocello,” he said.
Maria came into the office and regarded Ford and Broderick with complete equanimity. Ford went straight to the point. He said: “Sergeant Broderick tells me that you’re returning to Italy almost immediately.”
Maria nodded. “That is correct, Inspector. You see, I am taking your advice.”
“You didn’t seem very keen on taking my advice yesterday afternoon,” said Ford. “You said that you intended to stay here until the case was solved.”
“I know that,” said Maria easily. “I changed my mind.”
“Why?” asked Ford bluntly.
Maria shrugged. “Women do, you know,” she said disarmingly.
“I am aware of that,” said Ford dryly. “All the same, I’d like to know what caused you to change your mind about leaving.”
“I’ve thought the matter over,” said Maria casually, “and I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s nothing I can do here. There is no possible reason for me to stay.”
Ford leaned forward in his chair. “This decision has been taken since you saw David Henderson,” he said.
Maria nodded. “That is true,” she admitted, “but it is not as a result of my interview with Mr. Henderson.”
“I find that difficult to believe,” said Ford.
“I am sorry about that, Inspector,” said Maria with complete composure, “but it happens to be true.” She rose to her feet in a quick, graceful movement. “I’m afraid I must be going now.” She smiled at Ford as she left the office.
The inspector glared across at Broderick and brought his fist down on the desk with a resounding bang. “Why don’t you do something, ladykiller?” he said bitterly.
“Who is it this time?” wondered Mrs. Williams as she went to answer the front door bell. There had been a strange assortment of visitors for Mr. Henderson since the murder inquiry. Some of them made her feel very uncomfortable; they were not the types a gentleman like Mr. Henderson had usually entertained.
She opened the front door to a correctly dressed middle-aged man who seemed rather nervous. He spoke politely enough and looked as if he might be a member of a respectable profession. At least, that was something.
“There’s a Mr. Merson to see you, sir,” Mrs. Williams told Henderson.
“Ah, yes, Mrs. Williams,” said Henderson. “Show him in, will you?”
Merson came into the room quickly. He was palpably ill at ease. He waited until Mrs. Williams had closed the door before favouring Henderson with a baleful and suspicious look.
“Mr. Merson?” said Henderson, getting up.
“Yes,” said Merson aggressively.
“I’m David Henderson. It’s so good of you to call. Do sit down, won’t you?”
“I’d rather stand,” said Merson malevolently. He flourished a piece of paper at Henderson. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to tell me what’s the meaning of this note.”
“I should have thought it was fairly obvious,” said Henderson gently. “It means I’d like to talk to you.”
“Talk to me about what?”
“About a lady called Reynolds—Miss Billie Reynolds.” Henderson was watching Merson closely.
Merson started visibly but quickly recovered himself. “I don’t know anyone called Reynolds,” he said.
“No?” said Henderson. He smiled at Merson. “You must have a very short memory. On Thursday, July 5th you took Miss Reynolds to London. On Friday, August 3rd you went down to Brighton and met her at the Grand Central Hotel. You stayed there together until Tuesday, August 7th.”
Merson was biting his lower lip in some agitation. A nervous tic distorted his left cheek and betrayed his uneasiness. His hands gripping the back of a chair showed the whites of the knuckles.
“You seem remarkably well informed,” he said in a tone edged with sarcasm.
“I make a point of it,” retorted Henderson coolly.
Merson was losing his control rapidly.
“Suppose you come to the point,” he snapped. “What the hell’s all this about?”
“I shouldn’t lose your temper with me, Mr. Merson,” said Henderson in a gently chiding voice. Then it became firm and authoritative. He snapped: “I want something from you, Mr. Merson, and I want it now.”
“What do you want from me?” Merson’s voice had lost much of its truculence.
“Information,” said Henderson.
“About what?”
“Firstly,” said Henderson in calmly judicial tones, “what did Miss Reynolds call you? Did she use your Christian name or had she a nickname for you?”
Merson bridled. “What the hell business is it of yours what Billie Reynolds called me?”
“I’m asking you a question, Mr. Merson,” said Henderson. No one could have doubted that he expected an immediate and true answer. “It may seem a strange question, but I assure you that it’s a very important one. What did Miss Reynolds call you?”
Merson said sulkily: “If you must know, she called me Dandy.” He brought up his chin with a jerk and fixed Henderson with hostile eyes. “And if you want to know why she called me Dandy——”
Henderson held up a hand. “I don’t,” he said calmly. “You’ve answered my question, and I’m satisfied.”
All fire seemed to have gone out of Ralph Merson. He sat down on the arm of the settee. He said quietly: “You knew the answer, didn’t you?”
“I knew that Miss Reynolds was friendly with someone she called Dandy,” said Henderson, “but I wasn’t sure who it was. Now I am.”
“All right, so it was me,” said Merson. He sounded tired and deflated. “Have you any other questions you’d like to ask?”
“Yes, I have,” said Henderson. He crossed over to the desk and picked up the diary. “You see this?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“It’s a diary,” said Henderson. “It belonged to Billie Reynolds.”
Merson stared at the diary as if mesmerized. He said, “Billie’s! My God——”
“There’s a lot of interesting information in this diary, Mr. Merson,” went on Henderson amiably, “including several references to a gentleman called ‘R’.”
“You mean the letter ‘R’?”
Henderson nodded. “That’s right.” He opened the diary and flipped through the pages. “Ah, here we are … ‘ “R” came to see me soon after it was dark. I wish I didn’t feel this way about him. I just don’t know whether to trust him or not.’ ” Henderson looked at Merson keenly. “Do you know who she was referring to?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Merson. His attempt to appear casual was a signal failure.
Henderson continued relentlessly: “Did she ever mention anyone to you whose name—presumably Christian name—began with the letter ‘R’?”
Merson shook his head. “I can’t think of anyone.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” said Merson irritably. He ceaselessly moistened his lips with his tongue. He said tensely: “Where did you get that diary?”
“I got it from a gentleman called Chris Reynolds,” said Henderson. “He was a little—er—reluctant to part with it, but he did.”
“And what are you going to do with it?” asked Merson apprehensively.
“I’m going to keep it,” replied Henderson. He added: “For the time being.” He sat back in his chair and regarded Merson with complete equanimity.
Merson said: “Look, Henderson, let’s be perfectly frank with each other.”
“By all means,” murmured Henderson.
“I’m mentioned in that diary,” went on Merson. “I must be.”
“You are,” agreed Henderson. “You are indeed.”
Merson said grimly: “I’ll give you two thousand pounds for it.”
Henderson raised his eyebrows. “Two thousand pounds?” he said. He shook his head reprovingly. “Come, come, Mr. Merson. I should have thought it was worth much more than that.…”
Ford advanced across the room with hand outstretched. “Well, Harry,” he said warmly. “By heaven, it’s good to see you.”
Harry Vincent, or to give him his proper title, ex-Detective-Inspector Harry Vincent, was about fifty years of age. He was of medium height and inclined to plumpness—a plumpness that was deceptive, for Vincent had scarcely an ounce of superfluous flesh on him. He was totally unlike the popular conception of a plain-clothes policeman; he could have been a bank manager, an insurance salesman or a commercial traveller. He was the type of man that goes unnoticed in crowds, which in his particular profession was just as well.
The two men shook hands. “It’s been a long time, Mike,” said Vincent, “too damn’ long.”
“You’re looking well, Harry,” observed Ford. “Don’t look as if you had a care in the world.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” said Vincent. “You look pretty good yourself, Mike. How’s Roger?”
“He’s fine. He’s at Rockingham College, you know—got a scholarship.”
“Yes, I heard about that. Gets his brains from his old man, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” agreed Ford. “But let’s hear about you, Harry. What have you been doing with yourself lately? What’s it like to be retired?”
Vincent did not answer the question immediately. He said: “You seem to be in the news these days, Mike.”
“Suppose I am,” said Ford wryly. “We’ve got quite a case on our hands, you know. But let’s skip the shop; what have you been up to?”
“I’ve been abroad for six months,” said Vincent.
“Lucky chap,” commented Ford. “On holiday?”
“Ostensibly,” said Vincent evasively.
“How’s the heart now, Harry? Still troubling you?”
“It never did trouble me,” was the surprising reply. Vincent patted his chest with every indication of confidence. “It’s always been pretty good.”
“But I thought you retired because of a weak heart.”
“That’s what people were meant to think,” said Vincent casually. Ford stared at him in bewilderment. Vincent went on: “As a matter of fact, Mike, I came up from London specially to see you.”
“To see me?” said Ford.
“That’s right. I’m on my way up North.”
“I see,” said Ford slowly. He looked at Vincent shrewdly. “What’s all this about, Harry? Anything the matter?”
“There’s nothing the matter,” said Vincent in the same casual voice, “except that you’re in for one or two surprises.”
“After the last couple of weeks nothing’s going to surprise me much,” returned Ford. “What sort of surprises do you mean?”
“I’ll put you out of your misery, Mike,” said Vincent. “To start with, I never did have a weak heart, and I didn’t retire.”
“Didn’t retire?” said Ford in amazement, “but you did. Damnit, we had a dinner! I made a speech!”
“I’m not likely to forget that,” said Vincent.
“We gave you a silver salver,” pursued Ford. “It was smothered in ruddy signatures.”
“I know,” said Vincent regretfully. “I’ve always felt a bit guilty about that salver.”
“Now look, Harry,” said Ford, “what exactly is all this about? Are you serious?”
Vincent nodded. “Perfectly,” he said.
“But if you didn’t retire,” said Ford in near exasperation, “what the hell did you do?”
“I was put in charge of a new department.”
“Where? At Scotland Yard?”
“Well, not exactly at the Yard, Mike,” said Vincent. “I’m working with Sir Edward Westerby.”
“Sir Edward Westerby!” Ford could not conceal a note of awed respect. He did not know a great deal about Westerby’s activities for the very good reason that Sir Edward went to considerable pains to keep them secret; Ford knew, however, that he controlled a world-wide organization with seemingly unlimited Treasury funds for the purpose of keeping a jump ahead of those alert cosmopolitan entrepreneurs who were quite unscrupulous in exploiting international crises for their own private profit. Ford was obviously impressed.
“So you’re in Intelligence, eh Harry?”
Vincent smiled. “You’ve got it at last, Mike.”
Ford rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That’s right outside my beat,” he said.
“Don’t be so sure, Mike. I’m here to put you in the picture, as the politicians say.”
Ford said: “What d’you mean—in the picture?”
Vincent smiled. “Rocello isn’t dead, you know.”
Ford said: “Not dead? What the hell d’you mean?”
“Exactly what I say. He’s not dead.”
“You mean Paul Rocello, the Italian who was murdered?”
Vincent nodded. “That’s the man, except that he wasn’t murdered.”
“But of course he was murdered!” said Ford. “I saw the body.”
“You saw a body, Mike. It wasn’t Rocello’s.”
Ford clutched his desk with both hands. “Are you sure? Do you know what you’re saying?”
“I’m saying that Rocello isn’t dead,” said Vincent calmly.
“Then where is he, for God’s sake?”
“He’s in Canada.” Vincent looked at his watch; “or he will be within the next four or five hours.”
Ford slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Am I going mad?” he demanded. “I tell you, I saw——”
“Just a minute, Mike,” said Vincent soothingly. “There’s a chap outside I’d like you to meet.”
“Oh?” said Ford, “who’s that?”
“He’s a colleague of mine,” said Vincent. He smiled. “We call him The Other Man.”
“Give me strength,” said a bewildered Detective-Inspector Ford.
Vincent opened the door and beckoned outside. “You can come in now,” he said.
Ford sat bolt upright in his chair and stared open-mouthed at David Henderson.…
“Hallo, Inspector,” said Henderson, “how are you…?”
It took Ford a full minute to recover the power of speech. He said: “Henderson … but what——?”
Henderson turned to Vincent. “Have you told him?” he asked.
“I’ve told him about Rocello,” said Vincent, “but that’s all.”
“I think you ought to tell him the rest of the story,” said Henderson. He smiled at Inspector Ford. “My appearance seems to have given Inspector Ford a bit of a shock.”
“It has,” said Ford grimly. “It’s been quite a day for shocks, one way and another.”
“I really must apologize for all the trouble I’ve caused you,” said Henderson. “My turning up now must have been the last straw.”
Ford sighed. “Well, at least I know you didn’t murder Rocello,” he said, “because he’s not dead.”
“I didn’t murder anyone, Inspector,” said Henderson. “But there’s a certain gentleman I’d gladly murder if I could get my hands on him.”
“There have been quite enough murders already,” said Ford. A semblance of a smile belied the grimness of his voice and he turned appealingly to Vincent. “Don’t you think you’d better tell me the rest of the story? After all, I am the police officer in charge of the case.” He looked at Henderson with a wealth of meaning, but the smile still hovered round his lips. “One or two people have made the solution of this murder a little difficult, to say the least.”
“I know, Inspector, I know,” said Henderson. “Believe me, I’d have made it easier if I could.”
“I’ll tell the tale,” said Vincent. “If I don’t, I’ve a shrewd suspicion that Henderson will.…”
Vincent settled himself more comfortably in his chair.
“It all began,” said Vincent, “in 1941. Does the name Kirbydale mean anything to you, Mike?”
“Can’t say it does,” said Ford.
“The Kirbydale,” went on Vincent, “was the name of a naval tanker. On the 10th September, 1941, she was lying at anchor in Gibraltar Harbour. It was a lovely, hot day—the sort of day you could almost forget there was a war on. Suddenly, to everyone’s amazement, she was blown sky-high. One minute there was ten thousand tons of good, solid shipping—the next, absolutely nothing. Two Italians were responsible for that little job”—Vincent paused for a moment—“Count Paragi and Paul Rocello. Believe me, Mike, they made a really thorough job of blowing up the tanker.”
Ford said: “Go on, Harry.”
“At that early period of the war,” continued Vincent, “no one knew a lot about underwater warfare—it was very much in the pioneer stage. Paragi and Rocello were two of the pioneers. They did a lot towards developing the limpet bomb and the launching of the first human torpedo. Well, we know the sort of things those boys got up to in the war. Now, over fifteen years later, the thing has been brought to a fine level of perfection.” Vincent broke off to light a cigarette. He went on: “When the war was over Rocello continued to be very interested in naval warfare.” He turned to Ford. “Now, here’s the really interesting part. He became very friendly with Henderson who, unknown to Rocello, was attached to Intelligence.”
Ford looked at Henderson. “I’ve often wondered just what you were up to during the war, Mr. Henderson,” he said. “Now I’m beginning to get the idea. Go on, Harry.”
“I was working for Naval Intelligence myself at the time,” continued Vincent, “and Henderson sent me a report. He said that Rocello had started work on a new project, an apparatus to combat Briggs D.”
“Briggs D?” said Ford, mystified.
“Briggs D,” explained Vincent, “was an explosive which was used for underwater vibration work. The effect of this——”
“Wait a minute, Harry,” complained Ford, “don’t get too technical. I don’t even know how my ’ fridge works. I’m only a simple copper, remember.”
Henderson laughed. “I’ll put it in ordinary language for you, Inspector.”
“I’m not all that dim,” said Ford, “but all this underwater stuff’s got me a bit foxed.” He looked apologetically from Henderson to Vincent. “What is this Briggs D effort exactly?”
“Briggs D,” explained Henderson, “was a special kind of depth charge used by ships for detecting frogmen or human torpedoes.”
“I see,” said Ford.
Henderson went on: “This device produced a series of underwater convulsions, vibrations if you like, and everything—literally everything underwater, within a certain radius, was killed instantly.”
“I’m beginning to get the idea,” said Ford. “Rocello was working on an apparatus which would defeat Briggs D., something that a frogman would wear as a sort of antidote. Is that it?”
“Exactly,” said Henderson. He turned to Vincent. “Supposing you go on from there.”
Vincent took up the tale. He said: “This work of Rocello’s went on for some years. About six months ago, however, one of our agents—a man called Cooper——”
“Cooper!” said Ford. “I was wondering how he fitted into this business.”
“You’ll find out in a minute,” said Vincent. “Cooper—and you can take it from me, Mike, he’s a pretty tough handful—reported that certain other people were interested in Rocello’s experiments—people who could do a whole lot of damage. It was then that we decided to bring Henderson into the picture.
“It seemed likely that Rocello might be in very considerable danger,” supplied Henderson. “So I went to Italy and persuaded him that it might be a lot safer to continue his experiments over here.”
“Rocello wasn’t completely safe even in England,” continued Vincent. “So—he had to die.”
“I see,” said Ford. He grinned ruefully. “You people certainly do things the hard way, don’t you?”
“It was the only way, Mike,” said Vincent. “The only thing to do was to give the impression that Rocello had been murdered. We did just that.”
“How?” asked Ford.
“You should know, Mike,” said Vincent slyly, “that you can always find a dead body in England if you want one badly enough. Well, we got one and we planted it on the houseboat—as Paul Rocello, deceased.”
“I always thought you were wasted in the police force, Harry,” murmured Ford admiringly. “But what about this anonymous note young Craven got?”
“Henderson sent that note,” said Vincent.
“We badly needed publicity,” explained Henderson, “all the publicity we could get. We had to convince everyone that the dead man was Rocello.”
“We knew that Craven would get excited about the frogman story,” said Vincent, “and give us all the publicity we needed.”
“You certainly know how to pick ’em, Harry,” said Ford. “Craven’s been one of the biggest headaches I’ve had on this case—and that’s saying something.”
“He was a natural,” agreed Henderson.
Ford said: “I’m beginning to see a bit of daylight now. The night that Billie Reynolds saw you——”
“We were planting the body,” supplied Henderson. “Rocello had already left for Liverpool.”
“But that was in the early hours of the morning,” protested Ford. “Katherine Walters saw you the following afternoon.”
“That’s right,” said Henderson.
“But you’d already planted the body by then. Why go back to the houseboat?”
“There was a bit of a slip-up,” explained Vincent. “Cooper, who was in charge of the whole operation, forgot Rocello’s wrist watch. It was flown down from Liverpool and Henderson went back to the houseboat with it.”
“I see,” said Ford. He looked at Henderson. “What about Billie Reynolds? How does she come into all this?”
“We were a bit worried about Billie,” confessed Vincent. “She’d seen far too much for our liking. So we took her away from Medlow and put her in a flat in Chelsea.”
“The hell you did,” said Ford.
Vincent smiled reminiscently. “Billie was a bit of a handful so we had to slip her a Mickey Finn. When she came to she was livid and had a nasty hangover on top of it.”
“We couldn’t explain the true position to her,” said Henderson, “so we had to make up a story—I flatter myself it was quite a good one. Unfortunately Billie didn’t do as she was told. She gave us the slip, came back to Medlow and contacted a friend of hers.”
“And it was this ‘friend’ who murdered her?” said Ford.
“Yes,” said Vincent quietly. “We’re quite sure of that.”
“Well, who is he?” asked Ford.
“He’s a local man,” said Vincent. “We’ve had our eye on him for some little time.”
“What’s his name?”
Vincent looked across at Henderson. Henderson took Billie Reynolds’s diary out of his pocket and handed it to Ford.
“Billie refers to him in her diary as ‘R’,” said Henderson.
Ford, who had been thumbing through the diary, looked up. “ ‘R’?”
“Yes,” said Henderson, “there are a number of references to him, but she never gave him a name.”
“Is this ‘R’ a foreign agent?” asked Ford.
“He’s an agent, all right,” said Vincent. “He was put in specially to watch Rocello.”
“And he’s a local man?”
“Yes.”
“Have you any idea who he is?”
“We’ve a pretty good idea,” said Vincent. “The trouble is catching the gentleman.”
“We’ve damn well got to catch him,” said Ford grimly. “The fact that he’s a foreign agent is your department. But he’s a murderer as well, and that is strictly my pidgin.”
“I know that, Mike,” said Vincent seriously. “We’ve all got to pull together on this.…”