Chapter Twenty-Three

Raid

 

Appleby slapped his straw boater on the side of his head at a deliberately rakish angle, and looked at Roger, who was at the wheel of his car, pulled up at a corner not far from the main road to Epping Forest. The radio reports kept coming in, and he could pick out some of the messages clearly. Roger was staring straight ahead of him, at a glade in the forest; his hands were firm on the wheel.

“Don’t take it so hard, Handsome,” Appleby said. “Men have d-d-died in the way of duty before. You ought to b-b-be more objective. I think I’m disappointed in you.”

Roger said wryly:

“So now you hate me, too.”

Appleby looked startled. “Eh?” Then he grinned. “Oh—my wife hated you. I remember. No, Handsome, b-b-but you take this too hard. Of course I’m sorry for the poor k-k-kid, but she isn’t sorry for herself. That’s one of the things it’s easy to forget—the d-d-dead don’t grieve.”

“Maybe not,” said Roger, and put a cigarette to his lips, flicked a lighter, and blew smoke out of the open window. “Bella Dawson may be one of many, but there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop it happening. I could have kept Owen and this Endicott girl out of danger.”

“Now get rid of this ‘I’ve sent ’em to their death’ complex,” urged Appleby. “Every serving officer who ever sent a patrol out on duty would feel that, if there was any reason in it. Forget it, Handsome.”

Roger sent smoke curling towards the window.

Appleby went on: “I’ll tell you one thing. I’ve discovered the difference between me and a detective, and you’ve done the teaching.”

“Someone had to,” Roger said.

Appleby chuckled.

“All right, all right, I suppose I asked for that. But it’s a fact. I don’t mind admitting that I have long since l-l-laboured under an illusion. I thought I was the c-c-c-clever one, and you chaps were limping along in the rear. The way some of your senior officers slap their fiat feet over clues is b-b-beyond words. A lot of coppers destroy twice as many clues as they find. But there’s more to detecting and police work than seeing the injuries and making deductions from them,” went on Appleby, and now he sounded really earnest. “Take this j-j-job. The police organisation is unbelievable. The knowledge of people and places, the split-second timing, all that kind of operational activity shakes me. I couldn’t begin to handle it, but you’re on top of the situation all the time. Every one of those shops watched, a cordon round Forest Ley so cleverly done that no one would know it existed—this is the real stuff of police work. I’ve never seen it demonstrated so perfectly before. Object lesson, in fact.”

Roger said: “It will be, if it works.”

“Your big mistake,” said Appleby, “and it’s probably your heaviest cross in life. You judge only by results. Most unscientific. You should judge a man by the results he gets measured against his ability to get results.”

“Should I?” asked Roger, and shifted his position. “Dan, there’s a missing piece to this puzzle. There nearly always is. It’s the answer to a question I asked early on—and haven’t been able to answer yet. Why was Mabel Stone murdered? Why was the man who went into her shop ready to kill? That answer’s around somewhere.”

He broke off, as he heard his name called clearly. He flicked on his radio and said: “West speaking—over.” There was a pause, before Information said: “Fourteen men have left Cockell shops, sir. Seven have been traced to the hostel at Lambeth run by Mrs. Stone. Five other assistants are heading in the Lambeth direction.”

Roger said very slowly: “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. All instructions still stand—don’t stop anyone going in, but if any of the men come out, hold them. Make sure that our men aren’t likely to be identified.”

“We’ve taken care of that.”

“Good,” said Roger. “Good.” He flicked off, and pushed his hat to the back of his head, so far that it fell off on to the seat beside him. He tossed his cigarette out of the window. There was more alertness in his manner as he sat up. “Well, we look as if we’ve got them on the run.”

He was smiling very tautly.

Appleby said: “Don’t look so damned smug. What was that about Mrs. Stone running a hostel?”

“Jim Stone’s mother,” said Roger, very softly. “Jim Stone’s mother. It’s beginning to make sense. I think I can see the answer to that question, Dan.”

“Then pass it on!”

Roger said: “Oh, not yet. The learned pathologist needs a few more lessons in assessing and interpreting apparently irrelevant and non-medical facts.” He was very tense. “Jim Stone, a strapping, well-educated, intelligent man who had no time for his mother, who in turn had none for his wife. You deduced a lot from Mabel Stone’s body and her blood, but there was one thing you heard about but didn’t interpret. Her background. Very humble, and near-Cockney, making a queer marriage—Public school and a poor part of London. Dan—”

“You smooth Smart Alec,” Appleby protested. “Wait a minute. I’m getting the wavelength.”

“After I’d tuned you in,” said Roger. “But what does it matter who tuned you in? Cockell died two years or so ago, leaving his widow the sole beneficiary—not his son. Why not?” When Appleby didn’t answer, Roger went on: “Supposing he was Mrs. Stone’s son by a first marriage.”

Appleby breathed: “Damn it, this isn’t deduction, this is sheer guess work.”

“Reasonable deduction,” Roger insisted. “Very reasonable deduction indeed.” He flicked on the radio again, called Information, and went on: “I want Jim Stone alias Simpson taken to Forest Ley as soon as I can. I’ll be at the by-road where I arranged to see Owen. Make it snappy.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Thanks,” said Roger. He flicked off, moved his hand from the radio to the ignition key, switched on the engine, then let in the clutch. “Want to come any further?”

“Try leaving me behind,” said Appleby.

“There’ll come a time when I’ll have to,” Roger said, “and I don’t mean maybe. When I say you stop here, that’s where you stop—I can take chances with myself and my own men but not with Home Office pathologists.”

“I’ll be good,” promised Appleby. “What’s your next move?”

“To close in on Forest Ley,” Roger said. “We can’t be sure what—”

He broke off as a motor-cyclist swung round the corner, engine roaring; the man seemed to lean too far over to one side, and likely to crash, but he straightened up. Appleby said: “What’s this?” in a tone of sharp alarm, as if he feared an attack by one of the shop raiders. The motor-cycle hurtled closer, and as it drew level with the car the rider flicked something towards it. Appleby cried: “Look out!” and ducked. A small box fell into Roger’s lap. The motor-cycle roared past, and Roger sat grinning at the pathologist.

“You need training,” he said. “You need to judge these things by their potential, not by success or failure.” He held a match box in his hand. “A present from young Owen,” he went on, and there was deep satisfaction in his voice. “Yes, that was Owen.” He opened the match box, and inside were some pebbles and a folded note. As he smoothed this out, Appleby leaned over to see it – a red-faced Appleby.

The note read:

 

Woman named Shell (Cockleshell) at the house. One man at least upstairs. She nearly fell for my spiel – she’s come three-quarters of the way. She, Slessor and several men are at Forest Ley. Give me five minutes’ start – R.E. is in the air raid shelter at F.L. and I’d like to get her out.

 

Appleby said slowly: “A woman.”

“Owen’s good,” Roger said.

“Another thing you chaps need is cold courage,” said Appleby heavily.

“Nothing cold about Owen,” said Roger, and he flicked on his radio again. “West calling all cars and patrols concentrated in the Epping Forest area. West calling …” he repeated the call, and then went on: “In five minutes from now move in on suspect’s house. Remember suspect is not alone and is likely to be armed. Allow a motor-cyclist on a red Indian machine to enter drive of Forest Ley without hindrance.”

“You see what I mean?” said Appleby. “It’s a matter of timing. Seriously think it will all be over in half an hour?”

“We’ll either have Shell and Slessor, or they’ll have fooled us,” Roger said. He beckoned to a plain-clothes man who was in the guise of a window cleaner. “When the man Simpson or Stone comes, have him brought to Forest Ley at once, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” the man promised.

 

Cyril Owen tossed the message in the match box through the window of West’s car, and opened the throttle so that his machine surged forward. He turned another corner, leaning over as if he were racing, and then straightened up on a main road. He was quite sure that now Shell would know what was happening, and he was equally sure that Shell meant exactly what she had said about Ruth. Time was of vital importance. Owen raced the machine along towards Forest Ley.

Not far away from the house, a telephone wire was being serviced. Further along, a postman was delivering letters. Within reach were telegraph “boys”, electricity repair men, and private motorists, none of them noticeable, all ready to move in at a signal. Owen slowed the machine down, and approached Forest Ley more cautiously. No one was at the front gate. When he turned in, he saw that the Austin was already at the front door, moved from the spot where he had seen it before.

Fats was coming out of the door, bustling.

He stopped at the sight of Owen, and Owen heard him call out: “There’s Owen!” Owen had a moment of dread, that he was too late, that the other woman had finished what she had threatened to do with Ruth; there was only one way to find out. He gave the accelerator all he could. The motor-cycle raced along the drive, over the grass, then between the garage and the house itself, towards the air raid shelter.

He saw Shell on the back lawn, framed with crimson ramblers. At the roar of the motor-cycle engine, she spun round like a dancer. Owen saw the gun in her hand, and knew exactly what she intended to do.

Fats came running forward. Slessor appeared behind Shell. The first bullet came with a sharp report, cracking into the mudguard.

 

In the darkness of the air raid shelter, Ruth Endicott was sitting against the wall, her legs stretched out, her body chilled with terror.

She was over the panic-stricken fear of the darkness, but was still terribly afraid. Little creaking noises were nearby, scaring her. She kept hearing rustling sounds, as if there were rats down here; and she was listening all the time for footsteps, for the threatened return of Fats and the other man with him. She had lost all count of time; it might have been an hour, it might have been three or four since she had been thrown in there. She knew that it was a small place, that there was another door at the far end, and that the air was fresh; that was all.

Now and again, a picture of Cy formed itself in her mind, with all that he had come to mean. She kept telling herself that he couldn’t have made love to her simply to make her talk, but she was afraid that it was true.

She was utterly helpless.

When Fats started to question her, she would not be able to tell him what he wanted to know. No one would believe her when she said she knew nothing – and Fats would try to make her change her mind.

Her wrist and her arm still ached from the twisting which he had given them.

It was so dark – so frightening – so terrifying.

Then she heard the sound of a motor-cycle. She did not know how near it was, although it seemed to be coming nearer. One moment there had been absolute silence which seemed likely to go on for ever, then suddenly the staccato beat of the engine. It was getting louder. She thought that she heard a man cry out, but could not be sure. The roar now seemed to fill the little air raid shelter, there were quivering sounds which got deeper and deeper. She heard a loud report, of something like a backfire; and suddenly realised that it was a shot. The noise was absolutely deafening. It seemed as if the machine were going to crash into the shelter itself.

She heard a rending, thunderous crash, the loudest sound she had ever heard, and there were other sounds, as of falling stones or bricks. Then came more shots, and at last, Cy’s voice: “Ruth, are you all right? Ruth!”

“Cy!” she screamed. “Cy, I’m in here! Cy, are you there? Are you there?”

He said: “Keep quiet and don’t worry. Don’t worry at all. I’ll keep ’em away from you.”

“Cy, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine. I—”

Then his voice broke off, and she heard another sharp report, undoubtedly a shot; and she heard him exclaim, as if in pain.