Betrayed by Death

by Roderic Jeffries

  “Inspector Harris.”

  A taciturn Scotsman who’d defend his own department from personnel raids with all the tenacity with which his ancestors had defended their rain-soaked glens.

  “Very well,” he muttered, admitting defeat. He replaced the receiver.

  He stood, checked through the window that although it was not then raining it probably very soon would be, and lifted his overcoat off the stand. He went down and out to his car.

  Twenty minutes later he parked in the drive of Beech Tops. The house was a very much better one than he lived in, he thought, as he left the car. Probably it had been bought outright and not on a mortgage. Crime paid for those criminals who were skilful and discreet and who had learned the benefits of leading a normal, ordinary humdrum life when they weren’t on a job.

  Mrs Moody opened the door. She was in her middle twenties. A shade too smartly dressed, a shade too much make-up on, she wore several pieces of jewellery which were obviously valuable without being ostentatious: she wasn’t beautiful, but she was very rememberable: she could have been the slightly hard-bitten wife of a prosperous executive.

  “I’d like a word with your husband if he’s free? My name’s Detective Inspector Fusil.”

  She regarded him with quiet antagonism and said nothing before showing him into the sitting-room. Moody arrived half a minute later. “So now I’m honoured by the big brass!”

  “That description depends on who’s doing the describing.”

  “What’s it to be? Whisky, gin, rum —”

  “Nothing for me, thanks.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, crossed to the cocktail cabinet, and poured himself out a drink. “Grab a seat. There’s no extra charge for sitting.”

  Fusil ignored the suggestion. When dealing with a man of Moody’s character there was initially almost always a silent, psychological crossing of swords: to have sat immediately would have allowed Moody to appear to be in command of the meeting. “A couple of my blokes came along and saw you ten days ago.”

  “Was it as long ago as that?” He spoke without interest.

  “They questioned you over the Barclays Bank job.”

  “Which was a waste of everyone’s time.”

  “Was it?”

  “Didn’t they tell you I was out to lunch that day?”

  “For what that’s worth, yes, they did.”

  “It’s worth a great deal.”

  “An alibi provided by two old lags?”

  “You’d upset their feelings, talking like that.”

  “I’ll take the risk. Ever been near Ekstone Quarry, outside of Barstone?” he asked abruptly.

  Moody was momentarily unable to hide his sudden, sharp tension, and for the first time Fusil could be quite certain that the bank robbery had been organized and carried out by him.

  “Can’t remember ever being anywhere near it,” said Moody, once more apparently completely at ease and ironically amused, rather than concerned, by Fusil’s questions.

  “Not done any trading there recently?”

  “That’s right. I haven’t.”

  “Like buying three shooters at a couple of centuries each?”

  “Never touch shooters.”

  ‘You’re becoming a little absent-minded. Last time you went inside it was for armed robbery. Correction. It should have been. But due to a clever mouthpiece the main charge had to be dropped.”

  Moody finished his drink and went over to the cocktail cabinet to pour himself another.

  “One Remington and two Ayas, one of ’em a really nice sidelock ejector.”

  “What are you on about?”

  “The three guns you bought.”

  “I told you, they’re not my line. Not now,” he added reluctantly. He refilled his glass.

  “You used ’em to lift a hundred and thirteen thousand quid out of Barclays Bank.”

  “Give over.”

  “Will it help you face facts if I tell you that Kiwi’s been singing?”

  “Who?” Once again, he knew sudden, sharp tension.

  “Kiwi Blick.”

  “Who’s he?”

  ‘He nicked the guns, along with Ace Jordan.”

  “So?”

  “So he sold you three and handed ’em over outside Ekstone Quarry.”

  “He should have told me, then I might’ve been there.”

  “You never gave a thought to the soil, did you?”

  “Soil?” repeated Moody, speaking very carefully.

  “Some of the rock that was quarried before the place closed down has streaks of colour running through it and tiny flakes of this veined rock are lying about in the soil outside the quarry. There were some plugs of dried soil in the getaway Rover and in these were fragments or flakes of rock. The lab boys have matched ’em up — marvellous what science can do these days.”

  “Where’s it get ’em?”

  “Their evidence identifies the car with the quarry: the Remington identifies the car with the robbery: Kiwi’s evidence identifies the sale of the Remington with you and the quarry.”

  “Whoever this Kiwi is, he’s a liar.”

  ‘I’m sure that’s right. But for this once, he’s talking straight.”

  “He’s lying and you can’t prove anything.”

  “We will,” said Fusil, with quiet satisfaction, “now that I can be certain you did the job.” He nodded a good-bye and walked over to the door. Before following him, Moody finished his drink.

  As Fusil reached the front door a boy aged about thirteen came running into the hall from the kitchen. He skidded to a halt. “Sorry, Dad, didn’t know anyone was out here,” he said quickly to his father.

  Moody’s tone was light. “On your way out?”

  “I said I’d be at Andy’s when he gets back from school for grub.”

  “You’ll need a coat on.”

  “Not just to go round the corner.”

  “Put a coat on.”

  It was not difficult to guess at his rebellious thoughts as he went over to the small cloakroom and brought over a very well-worn overcoat which he pulled on with unnecessary force. When he left, he slammed the door behind himself.

  “Had a bit of a cold so his mother who fusses kept him back from school,” said Moody. His tone became bitter. “Every time he goes out of that front door on his own we worry — but we can’t keep watch over him all the time or he’ll go raving. Nine kids like him disappeared and Christ knows what happened to ’em before they died: a tenth escaped because he was born lucky. You lot are supposed to see that that doesn’t happen, but what d’you bloody do? Waste your time like now, instead of getting out there and catching the bastard.”

  “None of the boys had disappeared in my division,” said Fusil, now on the defensive.

  “And you reckon that that’s all that matters? I’m glad I’m not a split,” he said with harsh contempt.

  Fusil left.

  *

  Bressett was working at his desk in the general room when Yarrow entered. He looked up. “D’you happen to know if the old man’s back yet, Roger?”

  “No idea.”

  “I’ve a list he wants.”

  “What d’you expect me to do about it?”

  “It’s just I thought —”

  “Don’t exaggerate.” Yarrow slumped down in his chair. He was intelligent and, when he could be bothered, an efficient detective, but he suffered under two handicaps: he believed himself far cleverer than his fellow D.C.s, and he was convinced that because his uncle was detective chief superintendent he had a certain passport to success.

  He picked up a couple of sheets of paper from his desk. “Here, cope with these, will you? I haven’t the time.”

  Six months before, Bressett, being very good natured, would have done the work: but those six months had taught him that where Yarrow was concerned helping out had a one-way ticket. “Sorry, but the sarge has loaded me with enough work for six.”

  Yarrow looked sourer than before.
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br />   Bressett checked the time, then stood. “I’d better nip along and see if the D.I.’s back: he’s in a hurry for the list.”

  “Quite the eager little boy scout!” said Yarrow, who could be quite objectionable when he tried.

  Bressett merely grinned cheerfully and then left and walked along the corridor to find that Fusil was in his room. “Here’s the list you asked for, sir. The bloke I spoke to said that the plaque was our best bet because it was by a very well-known Dutch silversmith and was so valuable: around seventy-five thousand quid.”

  Fusil looked up. “For this thing listed here which was only a foot long?”

  “Apparently it was seventeenth century.”

  “If only my godfather had given me that for a wedding present instead of a twentieth-century Birmingham candlestick worth a couple of quid at the most.” He read through the rest of the list. “O.K. Get this sent on to Interpol. List the dates and places on which the pieces were stolen, code it top priority, and ask for any information to be sent to us direct.” He handed the list back.

  Chapter Ten

  Successful detection had once been defined as forty per cent luck. It was Fusil’s good luck that a man called van Neederen, who lived in s’ Gravenhage, sold a seventeenth-century armillary sphere, a foot in diameter, to a collector called Krantz, who lived in Deventer, knowing that it was not genuine. Krantz was a pompous, self-opinionated, self-satisfied fool and so van Neederen had not expected there to be any repercussions from this sale. What he’d overlooked was the fact that Krantz was also a dedicated boaster. When Moser, an Austrian Jew, came to stay for a week-end, Krantz showed him his collection, all the time commenting on his own brilliant connoisseurship in buying such pieces at such bargain prices. Moser, cultured, able to read in nine languages and to speak fluently in six, possessed sensitivity, tact, and a natural distaste for hurting other people’s pride, but there were limits even to his forbearance, and by the Sunday afternoon his host’s gross manner had taken him beyond those limits. He examined the skeletal celestial globe for a while, turning it round in his hands as he studied the various metal rings, and then he said, in his soft, warm voice: “It’s very interesting to see how cleverly this has been made up out of two different globes, of different periods.”

  No one bellows quite so loudly as the boaster who has been made to look a fool. Krantz denounced van Neederen as the biggest rogue in Christendom. The police were very interested, not only because they had been wondering about van Neederen for quite a long time, but also because they were curious as to how, if Krantz had been paying all the taxes he should, he could have afforded to buy so many very costly antiques.

  *

  The report from the Dutch police reached Fusil on the last day of January, a Friday. They had been questioning van Neederen about certain pieces of antique silver which he had sold over the past few years to persons in Holland, Germany, Switzerland, and Japan. Although one piece had proved to be a fake, all the others were believed to be genuine. Amongst these others was a silver plaque, approximately thirty-one centimetres by twenty-three, dated 1607, by the master silversmith Paul van Vianen, depicting the Adoration of the Shepherds.

  Further enquiries concerning this plaque had now been made, van Neederen stated that for several years he had ‘done business’ with a man who lived in Fortrow whom he knew only as Paul. If ‘Paul’ had silver for sale (inevitably of very high quality, usually Dutch), he would telephone and describe it and quote the price. If agreement were reached, the silver was brought to Holland by a crew member of one of the ferries. The purchase price was later paid to a courier. The Dutch police had been doubtful about accepting the evidence concerning the form the transactions took — it called for considerable trust — but they now believed it to be substantially correct. They had tried to learn more details concerning ‘Paul’, but van Neederen swore that he knew none. His introduction had been through a third party; he had never met ‘Paul’, and under no circumstances whatsoever was he willing to name the third party.

  *

  Fusil swore. So near — and yet so bloody far! Paul, who lived in Fortrow. What were the chances of identifying a fence solely by his first name? He swore again. They’d study the list of known fences, but he could be pretty certain from memory that none of them had Paul as a Christian name. They’d send word through the network of informers that they wanted to know who Paul was. But because there would be no large reward, few of the informers would bother to ferret around for information.

  He swivelled his chair round, stood, and went over to the grey, rust-stained filing cabinet, pulled open the middle drawer, and brought out a file which he carried over to his desk. The file was one of those which every police force held but which, if challenged, it would strongly deny holding. It contained the names of, and information concerning, persons who had never been found guilty in a court of law for the offences with which they were here connected.

  There were eight names under the offence of receiving: Clive Abbott, Steven Brickham, Arthur Bulliton, Roger Jones, Angus Neame, Oswald Osborne, Nigel Patson, and John Queen.

  No Paul. “Damn!” he said. He lit his pipe. Paul must have contact with villains and he must be an expert in antique silver in order to know that the villains were not trying to swindle him (a favourite pastime). He must be able to judge the price to pay, and the price to ask. Probably, then, he was in, or closely connected with, the trade.

  He reread the list. Roger Jones owned a general jewellers, catering for the lower to middle end of the trade; Queen owned what clearly could, without being too rude, be termed a junk shop. Jones had been named as a fence, but had strenuously denied the charge, and no proof had ever been obtained: Queen had been found in possession of part of the proceeds of a small robbery, but due to the surrounding circumstances it had been impossible to prove that he had known, or should reasonably have known, that the items had been stolen.

  He drew on his pipe, found it had gone out, relit it. As he blew out the match, there was a knock on the door and Miss Wagner stepped just inside the room. “I do hope you haven’t forgotten that you are due at the Rotary Club luncheon at twelve-thirty?”

  *

  He had completely forgotten that he had agreed, after considerable pressure from Superintendent Passmore, to go to the luncheon and afterwards give a short talk.

  She smiled sweetly, said she was sure he’d enjoy it because they were all such very nice people, and left. Goddamn it, with all the work there was in hand was he really expected to go dancing along to the luncheon to waste his time talking about the way the work of the detective affected a citizen in this day and age? Paul Jones, he suddenly thought. So often when men wanted to hide the nature of something they gave it a false name which, nevertheless, bore some sort of relation to that something. The Germans had called one of their radio-beam transmitters Wotan because it was a single-beam system and Wotan had only one eye. John Smith would call himself Jeremy Stevens because the initials were the same. Roger Jones might call himself Paul Jones because there was that dance, the Paul Jones.

  *

  Fusil returned from the luncheon in a far better humour than he had set out, partially because he had always liked a V.S.O.P. cognac.

  He sat down behind his desk and took from his pocket the cigar which they had given him, but which he had not smoked because he had then been about to speak. He lit it with care, after which he used the internal phone to call Kerr.

  Kerr entered with plenty of bounce. He looked at the cigar. “Won the pools, then, sir?”

  “Has anyone,” replied Fusil, with rare good humour, “ever told you that you’re impertinent?”

  Kerr grinned.

  Fusil opened the folder on his blotter and looked down at the top sheet of paper inside. “Roughly eight months ago you questioned a man called Roger Jones, who owns a jewellers in Canton Street. Do you remember?”

  Kerr thought back. “Yes.”

  “Give me the details.”

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nbsp; “We’d picked up one of the old lags — can’t place his name just for the moment — and he was looking at a really long stretch so he decided to become helpful in the hopes that that would do him some good at the trial. He talked names. He said Jones was a receiver, but only for the highest-quality silver.”

  “Where did you go from there?”

  “I didn’t go anywhere. There was absolutely nothing to back up the bloke’s words on Jones.”

  “Didn’t you dig around?”

  Kerr shrugged his shoulders. “I must have tried, but you know how it is.”

  Fusil knew exactly how it was. Pressures. More important crimes to be investigated, fresh crimes coming in all the time, seniors who demanded results, not possibilities. “Did you check with the grassers?”

  “No response.”

  Fusil tapped ash from his cigar. “Have another check. And pass the word around that I want everyone else to do the same.”

  “Are we looking for anything beyond the proof that he’s a fence?”

  Fusil leaned back in his chair. “One of the pieces of silver stolen on the same night as one of the boys disappeared has turned up in Holland. It was sold over here by a man who lives in Fortrow and whose name is Paul.”

  “Where’s the connexion between Jones and Paul?”

  “Never heard of the Paul Jones?”

  Kerr laughed. “Have I not! Only last week I took Helen to an old-fashioned dance because she’s crazy on them and I got caught up in a Paul Jones: ended up with a toothy woman who near raped me in the middle of the dance floor.”

  “Why were you born so lucky?”

  “Lucky? When my wife was there?”

  *

  Kerr reported to Fusil on the following Monday, the third of February. “Nothing really on Jones, sir. Laurie’s come up with the whisper that if you’ve any really good piece of silver for sale, Jones is your man, but nothing more definite than that.”

  Chapter Eleven

  On such few facts as there were (facts?), Fusil knew it would be very much more prudent not to make a move. But he could not forget those last words of Dr Kirstan. The murderer might have been frightened off. But it was more likely that sooner or later he would return to murder again.