by Graham Ison
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘This man Powers . . .’ Hardcastle went on to explain what he and Marriott had learned from their interviews with Daisy Benson and the staff of the Kingston Hotel. ‘Seeing as how you’re an accomplished Special Branch inspector with fingers in all sorts of pies, so to speak, do you know any South African diplomats? I suppose they must have some sort of office here. But it would have to be someone who might be able to shed some light on whether there’s any truth in this diamond story that Powers is putting about, or whether he was known there as an actor.’
‘I do have one or two contacts at the legation who might be able to help, sir.’ Drew glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll get up to Morley’s Hotel right now. It’s only a short walk.’
‘What’s Morley’s Hotel got to do with it?’ Hardcastle wondered if this was yet another Special Branch smokescreen designed to cover the truth.
‘It’s where the South African legation people have taken rooms, sir, pending the acquisition of proper accommodation for their high commission.’
‘Is that so? Well, I can’t be expected to know what happens on Bow Street’s ground,’ grumbled Hardcastle, mildly irritated by what Drew had just told him. Although it was true that Morley’s Hotel was on E Division, it was immediately adjacent to Trafalgar Square and, therefore, only a matter of a couple of yards outside Hardcastle’s area of responsibility. He was, nevertheless, annoyed at being unaware that South African diplomats had offices there.
‘Any idea why your guv’nor is so interested in Vincent Powers, Charlie?’ asked Drew, once Hardcastle had left for his interview with the head of Special Branch. ‘As far as I can make out, the man’s only a jobbing actor with a good conceit of himself.’
‘Not really, Aubrey,’ said Marriott. ‘From what he was saying just now, I thought he’d given up on Powers, but he does sometimes come up with an idea that solves a murder for him. In fact, it’s more often than just sometimes.’
‘I’ve asked to see you, Mr Hardcastle, because I think it is necessary to tell you that yesterday evening my officers arrested Lawrence Mortimer for spying. It has been established that his real name is Gerhard von Kleiber and he holds the rank of Hauptmann in the German Army.’
‘That must be a very rewarding result, sir.’
‘Yes, it is. Mrs Parker informed us that she was meeting von Kleiber at the roller skating rink in order to hand him some of the falsified documents prepared by MI5. It was most fortunate that when he was detained by my officers he also had photographs of the naval installations at Portsmouth Harbour in his possession.’ In a rare display of humour, Quinn chuckled and then added, ‘And one of the photographs he took at Portsmouth was of Nelson’s flagship HMS Victory. I just hope that he thought it was one of our latest dreadnoughts. However,’ he continued, becoming serious once more, ‘I’ve not brought you here to tell you that. It means that you’re now free to interview Mrs Parker at any time you wish.’
‘Thank you, sir, that’ll be a great help.’ Hardcastle paused at the door. ‘What will happen to Mortimer, sir?’
‘He’ll be shot early one morning at the Tower of London, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Quinn, as though a trial was a mere formality.
‘Shot, sir? Not hanged? I thought spies were hanged.’
‘No, von Kleiber will be shot. It’s one of the privileges of being an army officer. By the way,’ continued Quinn, dismissing Kleiber’s fate as a mere bagatelle, ‘you can send Mr Drew back immediately.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Hardcastle thought it unwise to explain that he had just sent Drew on an errand unconnected to his proper duties. But he was saved from doing so by Quinn’s next remark.
‘On second thoughts, tomorrow morning will do.’
SIXTEEN
Detective Inspector Charles Stockley Collins, the fingerprint expert, was waiting for Hardcastle when he returned from his interview with Quinn.
‘I’ve got the results of my examination of the letter about Parker’s exemption that you found in his piano, Ernie, such as they are.’
‘Anything that’s likely to help me, Charlie?’
‘I took dabs from Parker’s body when he was taken into the mortuary and I can tell you that they’re definitely not on the letter.’
‘So he hadn’t seen it,’ reflected Hardcastle. ‘That would explain why he told his wife that was he trying to get to Holland.’
‘But there are four other sets on the letter, as yet unidentified.’
Hardcastle thought about that for a moment. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘the most likely other people who could have handled it are Mrs Parker, Makepeace at the Ministry of National Service and maybe his clerk or whoever put it in the envelope. But the fourth set . . .?’ He sighed at the endless options. ‘Possibly they belong to the murderer, but I doubt that I’d be that lucky.’
‘What would you like me to do, then, Ernie?’
‘Could you get one of your assistants to take the prints of Makepeace and his clerk? The Ministry of National Service’s offices are in St James’s Square. And then there’s Mrs Parker at Kingston, but they might be on record.’
‘Not in my collection they’re not, Ernie,’ said Collins adamantly, as though Hardcastle had accused him of an oversight.
‘No, I didn’t suppose they would be, but I think I might know where they are,’ said Hardcastle mysteriously. ‘But I’m not allowed to tell you, Charlie,’ he added, with a laugh.
Collins laughed too, but saw through Hardcastle’s secrecy immediately. ‘Have you been mixing with Special Branch again, Ernie?’
‘Something like that,’ said Hardcastle.
‘All right, Ernie, leave it with me.’
It was late afternoon when Drew returned.
‘I got an answer of sorts about Powers, sir.’
‘Sit down, Mr Drew.’ Hardcastle closed the docket he was reading and pushed it aside.
‘I don’t know whether this will be of any assistance, sir, but my contact at the South African legation was very interested in Vincent Powers. Although the name of Powers was not familiar to him, he drew my attention to a man called Jan de Ritzen who is wanted by the South African Police for the murder of a British officer in Kimberley. And a warrant for his arrest has been issued in Bloemfontein.’
‘What does any of this have to do with Powers, Mr Drew?’ asked Hardcastle. ‘although Daisy Benson said that Powers had mentioned something about mining diamonds in Kimberley.’
‘That more or less confirms what I was told, sir,’ said Drew. ‘From the description of Powers and his way of life that I was able to give my contact, he seemed to think that de Ritzen and Powers might be one and the same. When diamonds were first discovered in Kimberley there was a rush and all manner of people turned up hoping to make their fortune. It seemed that de Ritzen was one of the men who made a great deal of money. But “The Rush”, as it was called, also attracted a large number of undesirables, including a small army of prostitutes.’
‘Can we get to the point, Mr Drew,’ said Hardcastle impatiently.
‘Apparently there was some dispute between de Ritzen and the British officer, a Captain Angus Sinclair of the Black Watch, over a quantity of diamonds that Sinclair maintained were his. Apparently, British officers were allowed to stake a claim after the war was over, and Captain Sinclair made such a claim. But there was a heated argument over whether de Ritzen’s diamonds were his own or Sinclair’s. Apparently their claims bordered each other. However, that proved to be of little consequence compared with a later argument that arose between the two over a prostitute named Dolores de Wet, a white Afrikaans woman. Both men were having intimate relations with the woman, and to cut a long story short de Ritzen is alleged to have murdered Sinclair in a drunken rage of jealousy before fleeing South Africa with a quantity of diamonds. He has not been seen since.’
‘There’s not much evidence there to prove that Powers and de Ritzen are the same man, though, is there?’
‘The only other c
onnection, sir, is that de Ritzen was very keen on amateur dramatics and often talked of one day becoming a professional actor, going to Cape Town and opening a theatre. However, the police in Cape Town made enquiries, but could find no trace of him.’
Hardcastle leaned back in his chair, placed his hands behind his head and contemplated his nicotine-stained ceiling for some time. Then he shot forward. ‘If Powers is de Ritzen,’ he said, ‘it’s also possible that he murdered Ronald Parker, although I can’t see what reason he could have had for killing him except jealousy. And if he’s murdered once over a woman, he might’ve done it again. In my book, Mr Drew,’ he said, ‘once a murderer always a murderer. A leopard don’t change his spots, so to speak.’
‘I suppose that’s a possibility, sir.’ Although Drew was a very good Special Branch officer, he would have been the first to admit that he did not know a great deal about the finer points of murder investigation.
‘By the way, Mr Drew, Superintendent Quinn wants you back again tomorrow morning. I suppose you’ve heard that Lawrence Mortimer was arrested for spying yesterday.’
‘Yes, I did know that, sir.’
‘Thought you might,’ murmured Hardcastle. ‘But there is something you can do for me. I’ve no doubt that Mortimer’s fingerprints were taken when he was arrested, but is it likely that Mrs Parker’s fingerprints were also taken when she was set up to trap Mortimer? I imagine it would’ve been done for the purposes of elimination when the documents Mrs Parker handed to Mortimer were examined.’
‘I’d say it was highly likely, sir. I’ll find out for you. I imagine that you’d like to know as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, I would. Perhaps if there is such a set, you could hand them to Detective Inspector Collins of the Fingerprint Bureau, together with Mortimer’s.’
‘I’ll get on to it straightaway, sir,’ said Drew. ‘I presume it’s something to do with the letter you found in Ronald Parker’s piano.’
‘There’s not much as misses you Special Branch fellows, is there, Mr Drew?’
‘We like to think so, sir,’ said Drew.
Hardcastle went home and for most of that Thursday evening mulled over the possibility that Powers was, after all, the murderer of Ronald Parker. But he could not think of any motive other than that Powers had had an affair with Daisy Benson. And the only connection between Powers and Ronald Parker was that Parker had also shared Daisy’s bed. However, it was more than likely that Daisy had abandoned Parker in exchange for Powers’ opulence. There was not much competition between a gas company clerk and a man who lavished dinner, champagne and caviar on his paramours in fine hotels.
Bearing in mind what Detective Inspector Drew had said about de Ritzen being wanted for a murder that had arisen over a prostitute, it was possible that history had repeated itself. But that would only hold good if Powers was de Ritzen.
Hardcastle was still fretting over the matter when he arrived at Cannon Row police station on the Friday morning. But at nine o’clock he made a decision.
‘Marriott!’ shouted Hardcastle.
‘Yes, sir?’ Marriott hurried across the corridor to the DDI’s office.
Hardcastle recounted what he had learned from Aubrey Drew the previous day. ‘It’s possible that Powers is our man for Parker’s murder after all, Marriott. If he ain’t, we might still have him for Captain Sinclair’s murder in South Africa if he turns out to be de Ritzen.’
‘But what if Powers is not de Ritzen, sir?’
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Marriott.’
‘Is there a warrant out for this de Ritzen, sir?’
‘I’m told there is, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, without mentioning that the warrant was in Bloemfontein. ‘So, get up to Bow Street as soon as they open for business and swear out a search warrant for Vincent Powers’ address on Kingston Hill. Once you’ve done that, we’ll get down there and see what’s what. Oh, and let Kingston nick know, and ask them to send a couple of officers up to assist.’
Apart from Hardcastle’s interest in Powers, other events were unfolding on that Friday morning. Some fifty miles away at Aldershot, Private Eric Donnelly of the Dorsetshire Regiment was tried by general court martial. Two days later, he was executed by a firing squad in the yard of the feared military prison at North Camp. Sergeant Mooney would doubtless have been disappointed that Donnelly had not met his end at the Tower of London.
It was close to three o’clock that afternoon when the two detectives alighted from a taxi outside Powers’ house.
‘Mr Hardcastle, sir?’ asked a uniformed sergeant who, together with a constable, was waiting in the road a few yards down from the house. ‘We were told you might need some assistance.’
‘Wait out here until I’ve gone in, Sergeant, and then come up to the front door and stay there,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’ll call you when I need you.’ Mounting the steps, he rapped loudly with the heavy lion’s-head knocker.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said the housemaid, bobbing as she answered the door.
‘Good afternoon. Is Mr Powers at home?’
‘I’ll enquire, sir. May I say who it is?’
‘We’re from the London Theatrical Casting Agency, miss.’ Hardcastle told the lie with a reassuring smile. He knew that if he and Marriott were to be announced as police officers, Powers – if he was de Ritzen, the killer of Sinclair and Parker – would disappear, probably through a rear window, never to be seen again. Worse still he might confront them with a gun, and Hardcastle had no desire to repeat what had happened when he arrested Eric Donnelly alias Wilfred Rudd.
‘Please come in.’ Having admitted the two detectives, the maid disappeared into a room at the rear of the large hall.
Moments later, a man emerged from the back room. A shade over six foot tall, he was of portly appearance, and had a florid countenance and flowing hair not unlike that of the Shakespearian actor he had claimed to be when he met Daisy Benson. Hardcastle’s estimation of Powers’ age, when he had caught a brief sight of him driving Daisy Benson away from Ronald Parker’s funeral, put him at about forty. Closer examination confirmed that original estimate.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am Vincent Powers.’ The man spoke with a deep and resonant voice, but there was no disguising his South African accent. ‘Violet tells me that you’re casting agents.’ He opened his arms in an expansive gesture of welcome that added to his theatrical persona.
‘That’s not quite correct, Mr Powers, we’re police officers,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Police officers!’ Clearly outraged, Powers shouted the words, all pretence at bonhomie vanishing in an instant. ‘What the hell d’you mean by coming into my house by telling lies to my maidservant? I shall make a very strong complaint. In any case, I can’t possibly imagine what the police would want of me.’
‘I have a warrant issued by the Bow Street magistrate to search these premises,’ said Hardcastle mildly. He withdrew the warrant and flourished it under Powers’ nose.
‘A search warrant?’ Powers became even more incensed. ‘This is a scandal. Who is your superior?’
‘Sir Edward Henry, the Commissioner of Police,’ said Hardcastle, beginning to enjoy himself as he deliberately fuelled Powers’ tantrum. ‘His office is at New Scotland Yard, but I doubt he’d be too interested in the protests of a bit-part actor. However, I am Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, Mr Powers, and I suggest you calm yourself.’
‘How dare you to have the effrontery to tell me how to behave in my own house.’ Powers, now even more red in the face than hitherto, continued to address Hardcastle as though delivering an impassioned monologue to the gallery at the Old Vic. ‘Under no circumstances will I allow you to search my house, and that’s final.’ He took a pace towards the two detectives and opened his arms wide, as if to prevent them from going any further into his property. ‘I demand that you leave at this very moment.’
That suited Hardcastle. ‘Vincent Powers,
I am arresting you for obstructing police in the execution of their duty.’ He laid a hand on Powers’ arm as a token of the man’s detention. ‘Fetch them two officers in here, Marriott.’
Marriott went to the front door and admitted the two policemen.
‘This man is under arrest, Sergeant,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But he’s to stay here while Sergeant Marriott and me conducts a search of this here house.’
The maidservant, standing at the back of the hall, had witnessed the arrest of her master with an open mouth and undisguised pleasure.
‘Where is Mr Powers’ study, Violet?’ Marriott asked the girl.
For a moment or two, the maid dithered, but she had told DC Wilmot that Powers was not a pleasant man to work for, and that, coupled with the unwelcome sexual advances her employer had made to her, decided her.
‘I’ll show you, sir.’ The maid led the two detectives upstairs.
‘You’re dismissed, you slut,’ screamed Powers at the maid’s retreating back. ‘Pack your bags and go. And you’ll get no character from me,’ he added.
‘Shut up, you,’ said the uniformed sergeant, roughly pushing Powers into a leather-upholstered watchman’s chair near the back of the hall.
The study was sumptuously furnished. A large oak desk stood across one side of the room and there was a three-foot high Ratner safe on the wall opposite.
‘Where does Mr Powers keep the key to the safe, miss?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘In the top right-hand drawer of the desk, sir,’ said Violet promptly.
Hardcastle tried the drawer, but was not surprised to find that it was locked.
‘And the key to that drawer is under the corner of the rug, sir,’ said Violet, before Hardcastle could ask, thus confirming his long held view that servants knew everything that went on in a household.
Marriott folded back the corner of the rug and handed the key to Hardcastle.
The DDI opened the drawer, found the key to the safe, and seconds later had it open. With a shout of triumph, he withdrew a passport and a revolver.