Blood on the Shrine

by Chris O'Donoghue

  Then it started to rain.

  -0-

  ‘It’s raining boss,’ Bates said, peering round the corner of the sack hanging in the window.

  ‘Come away from there!’ Helen hissed. ‘You never know who’s going to be looking at the house.’

  The big man hung his head, crestfallen. ‘Sorry.’

  The mood had turned from elation to one of disgruntled frustration. The gang were desperate to get their hands on the mailbags so they could find out how much money they had. Helen, however, was determined that they should keep a low profile and not draw attention to themselves. She knew that if she allowed them to start taking the sacks out of the lorry before nightfall they would be bound to be indiscreet; make too much noise or show themselves. So she insisted that they stay indoors, however frustrating it might be. In any case, the rain would help. Not only would it hamper any search but would help to wash away any traces they may have left that would lead to their hide-out.

  ‘Anyone got any cards?’ she asked.

  ‘I have,’ Bates said.

  ‘Then get them out and let’s have a game. We can play for matches, and then when we’ve got the loot the winner can take his share.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Sammy said,’ a rare smile flitting across his weasel face. They cleared the table and sat down, an up-ended wooden box providing the fifth seat. Soon a serious card school was underway. Cigarette smoke filled the room but Helen allowed no drink stronger than beer. Bates appeared to have a definite knack for the game, his pudgy features easily transforming into a ‘poker face’. Before long there was a pile of matchsticks in front of him and a sly grin playing around his lips. As the day wore on the rain continued to fall steadily.

  -0-

  ‘Let’s get out of this weather and into the carriage,’ Russell said. They had arrived in Hempstead Lane and Beaumont had parked the car by the level crossing. There was no sign of Parker and Barrow. The two local constables who had remained, plus the driver, fireman and guard, were glad to escape the downpour. First, Russell addressed the PCs: ‘Tell me again what happened to the two passengers.’

  The older of the constables spoke. ‘We took their statements and let them go. They said they had an important appointment to keep.’

  ‘But you should have kept them here until we arrived.’

  ‘We did get their names and addresses.’

  ‘Let me see.’ The man handed over his pocketbook. Russell read the notes: ‘James Joyce and Victor Hugo.’ He tutted. ‘I don’t suppose one of them was Irish by any chance?’

  ‘Yes, he was.’

  ‘And the other one French?’

  ‘He was,’ the policeman said excitedly. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘You don’t read a lot of literature, do you?’ Russell asked.

  ‘No, afraid not. Why?’

  Russell sighed. ‘Because they are the names of two of the most famous writers of the past couple of centuries.’

  ‘That’s quite a coincidence.’

  ‘Somehow, I don’t think so. I dare say we’ll find these addresses are false too.’ The PC looked crestfallen. ‘Perhaps you can describe them?’

  He perked up. ‘Yes, I could do that. James Joyce…’

  ‘The one who called himself that…’

  ‘Yes, okay. Well, he was quite small, about five foot six, maybe 50 or 60 years old. He was scruffy, with a threadbare jacket and trousers and a beret on his head that had seen better days.’

  ‘What else did you notice about him?’

  The other constable spoke. ‘Grubby is probably the best description. His face was lined and he seemed to have dirt ingrained in the creases.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Oh yes, he had a funny wispy beard, that he kept stroking as he talked.’ Beaumont jotted down these details.

  ‘And what about the other one,’ Russell asked.

  ‘He was definitely French – well foreign, anyway.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘His accent. Although his English was good, it was rather too perfect. And now I come to think of it, the way he said things, wasn’t quite, well, English.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  ‘He was small, too. Smaller than the other bloke. He was dressed more smartly though – clean jacket and trousers, though they looked well-worn but foreign, somehow. And he was wearing a wide-brimmed hat and dark glasses.’

  ‘And he had a stick. One of those thumb sticks – with a notch in the top,’ the other constable added.

  ‘Why would he need a stick?’ Russell asked.

  ‘Because of his leg.’

  ‘What about his leg?’

  ‘Oh, one of them was gammy and when he sat, his trouser leg rode up and you could see he was wearing one of them irons.’

  Beaumont and Russell exchanged a glance. ‘As if he’d had polio?’

  The PC smiled brightly. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘So, let me get this straight,’ Russell said slowly. ‘He was small, dressed in foreign clothes, with a gammy leg and a foreign accent.’

  ‘Correct, Sir.’

  ‘Ye gods and little fishes! It sounds like you’ve just let one go of the most wanted criminals we’ve come across.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Don’t you remember that case last year? Three Nazis were killed in rather grisly ways…’

  ‘I do, Sir. Wasn’t one of them keelhauled or something?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And another whipped with a cat o’ nine tails?’

  ‘You remember then?’

  The PCs face shone. ‘And the third, made to walk the plank?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘We had a good laugh about that, I can tell you.’ Seeing Russell’s face darken he added: ‘It was a rather bizarre way to bump off those Nazis, you must admit, Sir.’

  ‘That’s as maybe. But do you recall the outcome?’

  ‘Didn’t someone get caught for it?’

  ‘A German, Ludwig Müller.’

  ‘A good result then, Sir.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t’ Russell said firmly. ‘Not only did my DC, Weeks, almost lose his life but the mastermind, Müller’s brother, Wolfgang, is still at large. And you’ve probably just let him go free!’

  ‘Oh…’

  ‘Yes, oh.

  ‘But we weren’t to know. They weren’t even supposed to be on the train.’

  ‘Possibly not, but you still should have kept them here until we arrived.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Right, wait here, while I talk to the train crew.’ Russell turned to his constable. ‘Beaumont, go back to the car and get on to the mid-Sussex police. Tell them to look out for Müller and the other man. They should be easy to spot. They’re on foot so shouldn’t get too far.’

  -0-

  ‘Blimey shipmate, that was a lucky escape.’

  ‘You can say that again.’ Wolfgang and Dickens had found shelter in an old charcoal burner’s hut in the woods near Hempstead Lane. Both had been sweating when the police turned up and released them from the brake-van. Wolfgang, especially, was convinced that he would be recognised but, whether it was the apparent slowness of the constables who had interviewed him, or the fact that his disguise actually worked, they had not realised who he really was. ‘Thank goodness it wasn’t that Detective, Russell, or even worse, his junior, Weeks. They would have known me straight away.’

  ‘A lucky escape then, shipmate. Anyhow, what are we going to do now? We can’t stay here. For one thing, we’ve got no vittles and two, I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t send a search party up here soon.’

  ‘We’ll have to abandon our visit to London, won’t we?’

  ‘For now, I suppose. Although I still think we should go at some time. Meanwhile, we need to get back to Newhaven so we can lie low for a bit.’

  -0-

  The engine driver was still shaken and deaf in both ears after Atkins had fired the shotgun in the cab. The fireman was less traumatised so Russe
ll started by interviewing him. ‘What can you tell me about the men who held up the train?’

  ‘Not a lot, I’m afraid. They were all wearing masks.’

  ‘What about their clothes?’

  ‘They were all dressed the same – in blue boiler suits – like mechanics wear.’

  ‘Do you recall anything about the individuals, their build and so on?’

  The man paused for a moment. ‘Difficult to say, the overalls were rather shapeless and baggy. I think three of them were of average build although one was much bigger – his boiler suit was rather tight. Sorry, I can’t tell you any more.’

  ‘Ah well. Thanks, anyway.’ Russell turned to the engine driver. ‘Can you add anything to what your mate said?’ The man looked blankly at him.

  Constable Beaumont leaned across and spoke to Russell. ‘He can’t hear you, Sir. The gunshot. You’ll have to speak up.’

  ‘Of course.’ He raised his voice. ‘Can you tell me what you saw?’

  The driver smiled in comprehension. ‘Oh, I heard that! Well it was strange…’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Before the gunman climbed into the cab I took a look at that lorry that was parked on the crossing. It looked ex-army. Anyway, I could see two people in it. The passenger wasn’t very clear, wearing some sort of veil, I think, but I could see the driver quite clearly, and he wasn’t wearing a mask.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  The man turned his head sideways and put his hand up to his ear. ‘Pardon?’

  Russell asked again, louder. ‘Can you describe the man?’

  ‘Oh yes. He was young with a mop of dark hair.’

  ‘Weeks!’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Never mind. You’ve been very helpful.’ Just as Russell had suspected, it looked like his DC had been taken under duress and had been used in the robbery. The thing was, where had they taken him now? He was more than a little worried. Weeks knew what all the gang members looked like and would easily be able to identify them if they were caught. No…when they were caught – he must remain positive. Although he wouldn’t voice it, for him, the stolen money was not as important as finding his DC. He needed to discover where they had taken him, and quickly. He turned to the train’s guard.

  ‘Can you tell me any more about the men who held up the train?’

  ‘Not really. Only that one of them, the one I first saw, was much larger than the others. Oh, and they were all wearing gloves. Sorry I can’t tell you anything more.’

  There was a rap on the carriage door. Beaumont opened it and they could see the fingerprints man, dressed in oilskin and sou’wester, standing in the rain. ‘Hello, Lewis. Good to see you although I’m not sure there will be much for you here.’

  ‘We’ll see what we can find, Sonny. You never know what clues they have left. Oh, by the way, Bonnie and Clyde have just turned up. They’re sitting in their car. Afraid of getting wet, I expect,’ he said, grinning.

  -0-

  ‘Blowed if I’m going out in this,’ Parker said, lighting another cigarette.

  However, his DC, Barrow, decided he’d had enough of sitting in the smoke-filled car, with the windows closed. ‘I could go and have a word with Russell. See what he’s found out – if that’s all right, Sir?’

  ‘You go ahead. I’ll stay here in case anything comes across on the radio.’ Barrow got out of the car, opened the back door and grabbed his gabardine raincoat and hat and quickly pulled them on. He hurried along the side of the track and knocked on the carriage door. Beaumont opened it so he could climb up inside.

  ‘Hello, constable,’ Russell said. ‘Where’s your boss?’

  ‘Ah, he’s in the car – just in case there are any messages.’

  ‘Staying in the dry, eh?’ Russell chuckled, and then went on to recount what he had gleaned from the train crew.

  Barrow said: ‘I, rather we, wondered what you’d like us to do, Sir.’

  ‘I suppose you could go up Hempstead Lane. The lorry was pointing in that direction – away from the town – so I assume that’s the way they went. Drive up there slowly and see if you notice anything out of the ordinary. It’s possible they may have dumped the lorry and the wood would be as good a place as any to do it. See if there’s a track off the lane.’

  ‘Righto, Sir.’

  ‘Also keep an eye out for two men on foot – both small, although one walks with a limp and has a stick. Oh, you might remember him – Wolfgang Müller.’

  Barrows eyes widened. ‘The one who nearly did for Weeks!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘The very same. Our friends here…’ he nodded towards the two constables, ‘…let him go.’

  Back in the car, Barrow told Parker what Russell had said.

  ‘Well, bugger me. Old Wolfgang’s back. He was last heard of sailing into the sunset in France. Thought we’d seen the back of him.’

  ‘It seems not, Sir. Anyway, Russell suggested we drive up the lane – see if we can see anything.’

  ‘Wild goose chase, if you ask me. That gang was pretty slick. They’ll be miles away by now.’

  ‘I suppose we could have a look, Sir. And maybe we might see the other two.’

  ‘Oh, all right. If we must. But don’t expect me to get wet unless I really have to.’

  The gates were still open and Barrow drove over the level crossing. ‘The railway authorities will be getting twitchy about the line being closed, won’t they, Sir?’

  ‘Tough luck. It’s a crime scene and we can keep it closed for as long as we want.’ They drove on up the lane, Parker complaining about being bumped about. Suddenly Barrow stamped on the brakes. Parker shot forward. ‘Bloody Hell! What are you playing at?’

  ‘Sorry, Sir. Look.’ The constable pointed to the left. A track, even more rutted than the one they were on, snaked off into the woods. ‘Shall I take a look?’

  ‘Might as well. Let me know if you find anything. I’ll stay here – by the radio.’

  Barrow raised his eyebrows. ‘Righto.’ He got out of the car and started along the track.

  -0-

  ‘Listen! What’s that?’ Wolfgang asked.

  ‘Mother of God! Sounds like a car. Let’s get the hell out of here,’ They stumbled out of the hut and into the trees. There was a thick tangle of holly bushes. ‘Behind there. No one will be able to see us but we can keep an eye on what’s going on.’ Crouching down behind the evergreen hedge they waited, their clothes getting wetter by the minute. Presently they saw a figure wearing a hat and a raincoat appear along the track and go into the hut.

  ‘Gott in Himmel!’

  ‘What is it, shipmate?’ Dickens was startled by Wolfgang’s muttered outburst.

  ‘I have left my stick in that hut.’

  ‘Oh,’ Dickens said lamely. ‘With any luck they won’t notice.’

  -0-

  The newly emerging leaf canopy gave little shelter and Barrow was glad to get into the charcoal burner’s hut, out of the rain. The interior was gloomy and it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust. It was a crude affair, he realised. Roughly circular, it was shaped like a bell tent, with chestnut poles leaning in to meet at the apex, but the outside was cloaked in sacking and grassy turfs instead of canvas. However, the hut was surprisingly weatherproof. He looked around. There was nothing of note, just a few pieces of whittled wood, a small bench and some old sacks. He poked at the pile with his shoe and kicked something hard. Reaching down he uncovered a smooth length of wood. He almost dismissed it, thinking at first that it was of no consequence, but when he examined it more closely, he realised it was a walking stick, with a distinctive V at the top. He ran back to the car and tapped on the passenger window.

  The window opened a crack. ‘Found anything?’ Parker asked, boredom in his voice. Barrow triumphantly held up the stick. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘But, Sir. It’s a thumb stick! That’s what Wolfgang had, according to one of the local coppers who talked to him.’

  ‘I see.’ Par
ker huffed. ‘I suppose you want me to help you look for more clues.’

  -0-

  From the safety of their hiding place Wolfgang and Dickens saw the man, still carrying Wolfgang’s stick, return with a companion and go into the hut. ‘They’re the police’, the small German said.

  ‘Too right, shipmate. Time to make ourselves scarce.’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ Wolfgang said, putting his hand on the other man’s arm. ‘They’ve left their car in the lane…’

  A cunning look passed across Dicken’s face. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘But what if there is another policeman waiting in the car?’

  ‘I think that’s most unlikely. They usually hunt in pairs. Come on.’ Keeping low, they skirted the hut and made their way back to the track. Sure enough, the car was standing there, unattended, with engine conveniently ticking over and the wipers tracing a lazy path across the windscreen. ‘Quick! Get in.’ Climbing into the car, they pulled the doors to, being careful not to slam them and Dickens drove carefully up the rutted track, keeping the revs low so as to make as little noise as possible. He had to get out at the top to open the gate, and then set off along Spurlings Lane. Less concerned about making a noise now they were away from the hut, he put his foot down and they sped along, turning left into Etchingwood Lane. They passed by the derelict farmhouse in a haze of spray, the wipers barely clearing the windscreen.