Chapter Four

Robberies By The Dozen

 

There was no news about the Stone murder at the Yard, but there was a pencilled message on Roger’s desk: “Dr. Appleby rang, and said what about it?” There was also a fairly lengthy message from Bellew. Roger read this, and looked at his watch; it was half past ten. He smiled wryly, and went down to his car. He was still hungry, although he had had a sandwich and a coffee at the Clapham Police Station.

Instead of going home, he headed for the St. John’s Wood area, and within fifteen minutes he was turning into the front garden of the house where Dan Appleby had a flat. Roger had never been here, but had passed by when driving with the pathologist; Appleby had pointed to the window several times, so Roger knew that it was on the third floor at the front.

Lights shone at several windows.

He went into the fairly modern house, found the hallway well-decorated and newly painted, and an automatic lift waiting. The lighting was bright. The board announced: “Dr. D. F. Appleby, M.D., Apartment 5.” The lift moved even more slowly than the one at the Yard, yet stopped with a jolt. The black-painted door of No. 5 was immediately opposite. Roger pressed the bell, and heard it ring some distance inside the flat.

There was no immediate response, and he began to wonder whether the blaze of lights had fooled him; he had assumed from it that no intimate celebration of the anniversary was preoccupying the Applebys. He was about to ring again when footsteps sounded. Appleby opened the door, wearing only a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of pale-coloured slacks. His hair was slightly dishevelled.

“M-my w-w-w-wife hates you even more,” he said. “C-c-come on in.”

Roger followed him in.

“T-t-t-ten minutes later and we’d have gone to bed,” said Appleby. “That room on the right.” He thrust the door wide open, and Roger stepped into a room rather like Mrs. Stone’s, but furnished in more modern fashion, and quite beautifully appointed. Standing near the fireplace was a woman, half a head taller than Appleby. She wore a close-fitting house-coat of sapphire blue, high at the neck, with long sleeves. The light fell in such a way that her features showed up vividly; she was exceptionally good-looking. Dark as her husband was fair, she had deep blue eyes, a clear complexion and the kind of figure which seemed to promise even when it was in repose. Roger was so taken aback that he almost gaped.

“H-here’s the big blonde beast,” Dan Appleby said. “Roger West, placate my wife for me. She hasn’t forgiven me for being out most of the evening.” He gave his wife a charming smile. “Dot, this is the man you keep reading about, Handsome West of the Yard.”

Mrs. Appleby held out her hand, and said: “I don’t know what is worse, having to live with him or having to work with him.” Her hand was warm but dry. Her gaze was frank and appraising. At first sight it was impossible to imagine what she had seen in Dan Appleby to marry him.

“Living with him, I’m sure,” Roger said. “After all, I can resign.”

Appleby laughed. “That’ll be the day. Had any dinner?”

“Yes, thanks, I—”

“Man’s a liar,” Appleby said to his wife. “I telephoned Bellew, who said the most he’d had was a boiled beef sandwich. Think you could rustle up some of that salmon, Dot?”

“No, really—” Roger began.

Mrs. Appleby laughed. “Don’t give it a thought. I have to feed my husband whenever he’s got time to put on a bib. I won’t be five minutes.” She moved towards the door, and Roger found himself almost hypnotised, watching her until she went out and the door closed.

“Ah-hem, don’t they say?” said Appleby.

Roger grinned, colouring slightly.

“And the marvel is, she puts up with me,” went on Appleby. “What will you have? We’ve nearly everything.”

“A whisky and soda would be just right.”

“I shall have gin,” said Appleby. “Don’t know what I like about the damned stuff, but I do. N-n-now, Handsome.” He went towards a small flat-topped cabinet where a dozen bottles and some glasses were on show. “I don’t think I’ve anything to add to what I said in the shop. No doubt that second treacle tin was used as a hammer. You can tell the husband that the first or at worst the second blow knocked Mrs. Stone unconscious. No need to say there was a miscarriage. What’s he like?”

“Full of vengeance,” Roger said, and took a glass which had plenty of whisky in it; Appleby squirted in a splash of soda. “Fill it up, will you?” He waited. “And at the moment he means it.”

“Any idea who the killer was?”

“We’ve some prints but they aren’t in Records,” said Roger. “I’d hoped we’d have some luck.”

“Amateur, then?”

Roger said: “Well, it almost looks like it. No gloves, and he left a lot of prints behind, but even an old lag can get careless. Thing is, he needn’t have killed her if he’d worn a mask or a scarf over his face. The fact that he killed suggests that she would have recognised him again.”

“Friend of the family, do you mean?”

“I don’t yet know what I mean,” Roger said.

Appleby sipped his drink; Roger drank half of his at one go.

“What’s on your mind?” Appleby asked.

“Shop robberies,” answered Roger, heavily. “Bellew checked tonight, and left a message at the Yard. He remembered a half-dozen, but in fact they’ve had eleven in the Clap-ham area in the past three months. I picked up some figures at the Yard, too. There have been at least a hundred similar robberies in the past three months in the Metropolitan area, and I daresay that when we’ve added them all up, it will come to nearer two hundred.”

“How many with violence?”

Roger said: “That’s what worries me.”

“Worries me, too,” said Appleby. “How many?”

“I know of twelve, but nothing like this case. Usually the thieves wore masks, to make sure they weren’t recognised. That’s what makes this one different—as if the chap didn’t care if he was recognised or not.”

“Meaning he came prepared to kill? With a treacle tin?”

“You don’t need to carry a weapon,” Roger said. “If you came to kill, you could use your hands or anything handy.”

“Couldn’t be overdoing this angle, could you?” inquired Appleby mildly.

“Oh, I could be,” Roger admitted. “As Bellew pointed out, these shop raids often come in waves. But there have been a hell of a lot, and there’s obviously a possibility of big scale organisation.”

“Could be, I daresay,” conceded Appleby. “So you’re worried about shop crimes in general, and this one is particularly puzzling.”

“That’s it.”

Appleby said: “How many robberies are known to have been by the same man?”

“I talked to several witnesses, and the description in each case was different,” Roger said. “The differences were much more than the usual variation in description because of differing powers of observation. Different men were almost certainly involved.”

“And when you check in the morning, you may find that this one is different, too,” observed Appleby. “Any common factor at all?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t h-h-hold out on me.”

“Whenever violence was done, something found in the raided shop was used as a weapon,” Roger said. “More often than not it was a bottle—such as a bottle of orange squash. A tin or a can was used on two jobs. Twice—” He broke off, for his memory was ticking over very fast, while he was recalling the circumstances of cases which he had not himself handled. “Twice a bacon knife was used. The weapon was always left in the shop, too.”

“Handsome, I can see you’re worried,” said Appleby, “but who would organise small-time robberies like that?” When Roger made no comment, Appleby went on: “Do you know how much was stolen tonight?”

“Just under fifty pounds in cash, and about a hundred pounds’ worth of cigarettes and chocolates. Bellew got the figures for me. There’s a girl assistant at the shop, who goes to technical college on Thursday afternoons. She was able to say what the stocks had been this morning, so we know that the total taken was a hundred and fifty pounds worth, at the most.”

“Do that often enough, and it spells money,” remarked Appleby.

“But with an organisation there are a lot of people to share it with,” Roger pointed out. He was whirling the whisky and soda round in his glass as he went on: “I know what you mean, though. If these raids are organised by a receiver who pays cash for the stolen goods, say, he would get the goods for next to nothing, and the thief would keep the cash. One receiver could have ten or a dozen or twenty people doing the jobs, too, but—”

Appleby broke in: “Can anyone employ a dozen or twenty raiders all prepared to kill?”

Roger didn’t answer, and before Appleby could make any other comment, footsteps sounded at the door, and he stepped across to open it. His wife came in carrying a tray with lettuce, tomato, the pink succulence of a piece of fresh salmon, brown bread, biscuits, butter and cheese.

“Don’t I get fed too?” demanded Appleby.

“If you eat anything else tonight, I’ll leave you,” said Dorothy Appleby. “You’re getting disgustingly fat. Now if you had a figure like Mr. West, you could eat as much as you liked. Tea, coffee or beer, Mr. West?”