Chapter Sixteen

Report

 

The morning’s reports showed very little advance on those of the night before. Neither of the men caught by Constable O’Hara had yet been identified, and neither had made any kind of statement; they were due at the South-West Police Court some time before three o’clock, but at the moment there was no name under which to charge them. A flimsy paper mask of the kind sold to children had been discovered near one of the raided shops. None of the injured shopkeepers had been detained in hospital. The newspapers used the story as the main lead on the front pages, but there was no editorial comment. He, Roger, was mentioned in every newspaper as the Yard man in charge of the investigation.

He spent ten minutes sticking more location pins into the wall map. At ten o’clock, the door opened after a light tap, and Hardy came in. He was wearing a brown suit, and he looked spruce and a little too well-brushed.

“Good morning, Handsome.” Hardy was usually formal, because he had come up from the ranks and his post as Commander sometimes sat heavily on him. “Is there any news? I’m due to see the Assistant Commissioner at half past ten.”

“I’ll have a brief report ready and typed out by then,” said Roger.

“Good. Is there any clue at all?”

“There’s a queer little thing which might mean nothing,” said Roger, and pointed to the shells. “If Endicott had had one, I’d be more inclined to think they had some significance, but there was plenty of time for anything in his pockets to be removed. I wonder if there are any shells at his house?”

“How about his widow?”

Roger said: “Young Owen’s seeing what he can find out from her.” He didn’t mention the message from Charlie Baker. Hardy studied the winkle shell, the little fan shell and the lobster claw. “There are no prints except those of the two men on anything,” Roger went on. “These aren’t on our files, and neither will talk. As for the motor-scooters, tens of thousands of them are fitted with luggage containers—that’s no help. The sack was home made, of strong plastic.”

“Any conclusions?” asked Hardy.

“None at all.”

Hardy stood there like a frustrated sergeant major.

“Think it might spread?”

“They worked on four Divisions,” Roger said, “and they can have a go at any others they like. The almost certain thing is that next time they’ll change the venue. Mass raids on supermarkets could be the next on the list.”

“I read your report about the interview with Slessor, of Cockell Shops,” said Hardy. “Do these supermarkets have to employ many dubious characters?”

“If each Cockell Shop, or any big supermarket, had one inside man, we could really have big-scale trouble,” Roger said, “and they can’t be sure whom they’re employing. It’s too easy to forge a reference.”

Hardy shrugged, said: “Well, keep trying,” and went out.

Roger sent the sergeant off to make sure the typewritten report was ready, and was alone at his desk when a telephone bell rang.

“West speaking.”

“It’s Mr. Baker, of Whitechapel, sir.”

“Put him through.” Roger frowned at the map of Whitechapel but saw a mental picture of young Owen. It was several seconds before Baker came on the line.

“Roger?”

‘”Morning, Charlie. What’s new?”

“Got a funny thing to report,” said the Whitechapel superintendent promptly. “In the first place, Owen spent the night at Mrs. E’s place.”

Roger said: “Oh, did he!” and the familiar feeling of disquiet seemed to be deeper.

“And he’s been on the phone—wants to see you,” went on Baker. “He won’t talk to anyone else. He says he’s got an extra hour off at lunchtime, so he could meet you anywhere. He suggests a hotel, perhaps the Strand Palace, to make sure that he isn’t seen talking to you.”

“I wouldn’t mind a square meal myself,” Roger said. “I’ll book a table in the grill room there, in a corner, if you’ll tell Owen to meet me at about a quarter to one. Okay?”

“Seems all right,” said Baker. “Wish I knew what he was up to.”

 

Owen entered the grill room a few minutes early, and Roger saw him speaking to the head waiter, who turned and pointed. Owen threaded his way between the tables. He was serious-faced, as if there was plenty on his mind, and looked very young, almost sulky. He was wearing a green tweed suit which made him seem very bulky. When he reached the table he hesitated.

“Sit down,” said Roger.

“Thank you, sir.”

“We’re all right here,” Roger said. “I’ve fixed it so that no one will be near enough to hear what we say if we keep our voices down. What will you have to drink?”

“I’m not particularly anxious to—”

“I’m going to have a lager. Suit you?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And I’ve ordered some tomato soup, and a mixed grill,” Roger went on.

Owen moistened his lips. “That sounds fine, sir, but I didn’t intend that you should—er—buy me a meal. I just wanted to talk in confidence, and—well, it’s a very deli—very difficult subject, Mr. West.”

“I don’t mind how difficult or delicate it is, provided I get the truth,” Roger said. “Have you made any progress?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go on.”

“I don’t think Ruth Endicott knows anything more than she told you, except one thing,” declared Owen. “Just after her husband’s murder and before you went to see her, she had a visit from a stranger, who …”

Roger listened to the story which Ruth had told Owen last night.

Owen looked almost dazed, although he spoke vividly and simply as he went on: “In my opinion, there isn’t any doubt that she was too frightened to tell you about this, sir, and I don’t think there’s any doubt that she’s alive because she convinced this man that she didn’t know anything about Endicott’s business. I believe she’s absolutely in the clear, sir.”

“Then you’ve done a good job,” Roger said.

“Have I?” asked Owen. He looked down at his empty soup plate, and was about to speak when the waiter glided to the table with the grill on a silver plated dish, while another man whipped away the soup plates. The helping of steak, kidney, liver, bacon, sausage, and lamb cutlet was huge; the pile of chips, here called French fried, reminded Owen vividly of the fish and chips last night.

“It sounds a good job,” Roger declared. “We know the kind of man to look for, and if we ever find him, Mrs. Endicott can be used to identify him.”

“I suppose so,” Owen said, and waited until the waiter had gone. Then he looked Roger squarely in the eye. “The truth is, sir, I feel all kinds of a swine. You see, last night I—well, I spent the night with Mrs. E. I won’t beat about the bush, but I’m telling you this in absolute confidence, sir—you needn’t report it to anyone else, need you?”

“No. I’ll keep it to myself.”

“Thank you, sir. Well, I won’t beat about the bush. Ruth—Mrs. E.—fell for me soon after we met, and it was she who stepped up the pace. If it had been just an ordinary affaire I wouldn’t have had any complaints, but—well, I suppose the truth is that she’s been damned lonely—affection starved, in a kind of way. She—she had a rough time with her husband, and—well, anyhow, whatever the cause, she set the pace. I had to go along with her, or risk upsetting her so much that I couldn’t hope to find out what I was after. It was fifty-fifty in a way, though—I’m not going to try to tell you that I exactly—er—hated it. But this morning I feel all kinds of a swine. Sooner or later she’ll have to learn that I’m a copper.”

Roger said slowly, heavily: “I can see your problem.” He started to eat, and was intrigued when Owen sliced a sausage in half, and put a half into his mouth. There was cause for satisfaction that Owen had volunteered this story; on the other hand, there was the official problem as well as Owen’s. He could imagine how this story could be exaggerated if it ever reached the Press; for instance, how it could be made to look as if Owen had deliberately seduced Ruth Endicott in the course of his duty.

He could imagine what Hardy would say. He could see photographs like those in the weekly magazine, the voluptuous widow and the unscrupulous police. It was useless to think that the story could never leak out. It need not; but if this Endicott woman was spiteful – which was possible, if she had fooled Owen, as she probably had – she might have plenty to say when she discovered that he was a detective.

“You’d better come off the job right away,” Roger said. “At the first opportunity, when the danger for Mrs. Endicott is over, try to make some kind of explanation.” As he spoke, Roger felt that it was an unsatisfying response to a kind of S.O.S. call, and obviously it did not greatly help Owen.

“I know that’s one way to handle it,” said Owen, “but I’m not sure it’s safe.”

“Safe?”

“For Ruth,” Owen said.

Roger looked at him steadily, wondering what was really in his mind. Owen gave him time to think by eating a piece of now cold liver, and went on:

“We know what kind of people we’re up against, Mr. West, don’t we? And they’re thorough, too. We can be darned sure that they’re still watching Ruth—in fact I think I know who they’re using. If I suddenly disappear from the shop and from the district, they’re likely to assume that I was just there for a job; I think they’d take it for granted it was a police job. I’d hate to think what they would do to Ruth, if they once thought that. They’d certainly work on her to find out what she’d told me.”

Roger said, in a taut voice: “Yes, you’re quite right.” He hadn’t seen it that way, and for a few moments he was shaken; but slowly the one really satisfactory aspect forced itself forward. Owen was proving very good. He could look at a problem and turn it inside out; despite the emotional factors, he missed nothing.

“So what the hell am I to do?” Owen demanded.

Roger pushed his plate away. “Give me time to think about it,” he said, and waved the waiter away. Owen was still eating. “What’s this about the man who is watching her?”

“He’s another newcomer to the district,” declared Owen. “He’s just bought a shop near Brasher’s Row. It used to be owned by an old couple, who got past it. He bought it a couple of weeks ago, did it up a bit, and now he’s canvassing for trade. He’s making special price offers, and going all out to build up the business—and he’s particularly interested in Ruth E.”

“Sure?”

“He calls on her for orders every day, and doesn’t do that with anyone else,” said Owen. “She’s quite amused by it in one way, a bit nervous in another. She doesn’t like him, particularly. Every time she goes into the shop—it’s where she gets most of her oddments, being very handy—he’s all over her. Asked her to have a drink with him two or three times already. Damned funny thing,” went on Owen, in that semi-cultured voice of his, “that she should fall for me, and react against him. I’ve seen the chap. He’s a bit older than I am, I’d say, got a beard, quite good-looking in a way. Of course she feels that he’s watching her for this other man, and it’s scared her. As a matter of fact, Mr. West, I did wonder whether it would be a good idea if we persuaded Ruth E. to get out of the district until it’s over. I mean, if I were to tell her the truth—or if you were to, and advise her to take a holiday, I think she’d jump at it, she’s so scared.”

Roger thought: “If I talk to her!” but he showed no reaction, and considered the idea on its face value; it proved I again that Owen could use his mind, and it was probably as easy a way out of the immediate difficulty as they could find. In fact it was almost too easy.

“If this chap’s bought the shop fairly recently, it wasn’t to watch Mrs. E.,” he pointed out. “She could be watched without that. But if he’s particularly interested—here!” His voice rose. “What’s this chap like? What kind of build? How old do you say?” He rapped the questions out in quick succession. At first Owen was startled, but he answered each one to the point.

“He’s around thirty-five, I’d say. Five feet ten or eleven. Fairly broad-shouldered, grey eyes, fairish hair. Has a beard, and it curls slightly. Ruth says that he’s not new to his job. He knows groceries all right—my God!” It was Owen’s turn to break off, and stare. “Are you wondering if this is the missing grocer, Stone?”

“Yes.”

“Well I’m damned!” exclaimed Owen. “Wouldn’t have given it a thought, but now you’ve pointed it out, he could be Stone. I’d soon see, if I saw Stone’s photograph with a beard pencilled on.”

 

In the middle of that afternoon, a man called at the Walsh’s shop ostensibly to get a bicycle puncture mended, and showed Owen alias Orde a photograph of Stone, plus a beard. Owen simply said: “That’s the shopkeeper who calls himself Simpson, no doubt about it.”

The word was passed to Roger within an hour. He was so intrigued by it that he forgot the one thing he had failed to ask Owen. In a way, it was a key question: had there been any sea shells at Mrs. Endicott’s house? There was some excuse for the failure, for he had never been busier, and he was at the special late court at half past four that afternoon, for the first hearing against the two men whose names were not yet known.

Both refused to plead, and both refused to speak; they were remanded for the usual eight days, and taken to Brixton Prison for the period of the remand. The late evening and morning newspapers carried big photographs of them, under the heading:

 

DO YOU KNOW THESE MEN

If so, communicate at once with

the nearest police station or

telephone Whitehall 1212.

 

“While I’m waiting for results to come from this, I’ve got to decide what to do about Owen and his Mrs. E.,” Roger said to Janet, when he got home that evening. She was the one person whom he could safely tell about Owen’s story, and also the one most likely to offer some useful advice.

“There isn’t any question, you’ve got to send this Ruth E. out of London,” Janet declared briskly. She listened, because she thought she heard one of the boys approaching from the front room, where they were at their homework; was satisfied that neither was coming, and went on: “Don’t sit there saying nothing, Roger.”

“Can’t think of anything to say for once.”

“What you mean is, ought you to let her stay in Brasher’s Row, and see what happens between her and Stone or Simpson or whatever he calls himself now?” said Janet. “My pet, even for the sake of finding out who’s behind all this, you can’t take risks with that young woman. That’s no way to be a policeman. You’ve got to get her out of London.”

Roger was still pondering when a man from the Yard called to say that the cashier of a Cockell Shop in the Battersea Bridge Road had telephoned to identify the two raiders.

“Both were employed there,” the Yard caller said. “Looks as if this gang could have men planted everywhere, doesn’t it? Before we know where we are, there could be mass raids with thousands of quids being pinched every time, instead of a couple of hundred.”