Hardcastle's Frustration

by Graham Ison

  ‘There’s got to be something here, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle at last, ‘but I’m damned if I can find it.’ He pushed the pile of paper to one side and let out a sigh of exasperation. ‘Get someone to put that lot back where it came from.’

  ‘If you think that von Kleiber wasn’t Parker’s killer, sir, who do you think was responsible?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea, Marriott.’ Hardcastle put down his pipe and crossed to the window of his office. Putting his hands in his pockets, he spent some minutes staring down at Westminster Underground station, as if the Upminster-bound train just pulling out would provide the answer. ‘We’ll talk to Mavis Parker again,’ he said, turning back to face his sergeant. ‘That’ll be a good place to start.’

  ‘When, sir?’ Marriott had the feeling that he was destined to lose another evening with his wife and children by a visit to Kingston. And the DDI confirmed it.

  ‘This evening, Marriott.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t expect to see you again, Inspector.’ Mavis Parker’s face bore a resigned expression when she opened her front door at half past six on the Friday evening. ‘You’d better come in.’

  Once the three of them were seated in Mavis’s parlour, Hardcastle got straight to the point of his visit.

  ‘Did Gerhard von Kleiber, or Lawrence Mortimer as you knew him, ever mention any of his friends, Mrs Parker? Or anyone that he might’ve known in this country?’

  Mavis weighed the question carefully, just as she had done when being examined at the spy’s court martial. ‘Not that I can recall,’ she said eventually. ‘He was a very quiet sort of man, rarely talking about anyone. He never mentioned a family or his childhood or anything like that.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but I’d’ve thought that the Germans would’ve given him some sort of story he could tell, just in case anyone asked questions about his background.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Mavis, ‘but I never thought to ask. To be perfectly honest, Inspector, I was concentrating on not giving the game away. It wasn’t easy for me.’

  ‘So I imagine,’ murmured Hardcastle, ‘and I have to say that it was a very brave thing that you did. However, when he was arrested, Mortimer confessed to having killed your husband.’

  ‘So I was told by Mr Quinn on the day of the court martial. Don’t you believe it, then?’

  ‘No, Mrs Parker.’ Hardcastle paused. ‘This is a delicate question, but did Mortimer ever stay here with you overnight?’

  ‘Yes, he did, on one or two occasions, but only after my husband disappeared. But I told you that before.’ Despite being required to establish a close friendship with von Kleiber, she still blushed at the admission. ‘It was necessary for the deception, you understand.’

  ‘I’m not criticizing, Mrs Parker, and I quite understand why you did what you had to do. What interests me is whether he left anything here, clothing or a suitcase, or anything like that.’

  ‘He did, as a matter of fact. There’s an old raincoat in the cupboard under the stairs. He stayed here the night before he was arrested. It was pouring with rain when he arrived, but the next morning . . .’ Mavis paused and blushed again. ‘But the next morning when he left, the sun was shining and it had the makings of being a lovely day. I suppose he just forgot all about it, but then he couldn’t come back for it because that was the day he was arrested.’

  ‘Did you mention it to the police officers who were dealing with your case?’

  ‘No. I didn’t remember that he’d left it here until a day or two after his court martial, but by then it didn’t seem important.’

  ‘And the officers didn’t ask if Mortimer had left any property here?’

  ‘No, they never asked about anything like that.’

  ‘Could I have a look at it, Mrs Parker?’

  ‘Of course, I’ll fetch it,’ Mavis said, and rose from her seat.

  ‘Sloppy, that’s what I call it, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, when Mavis had left the room. ‘Fancy not searching a suspect’s drum after they’d nicked him. I’ve never heard the like of it.’

  ‘But he didn’t live here, sir.’

  ‘Don’t make no difference, Marriott. It’s somewhere he was known to have frequented, and it should have been searched. Even Catto would’ve known to do that, and he ain’t the brightest star in the firmament.’

  ‘This is it, Inspector,’ said Mavis, returning to the room holding a fawn mackintosh.

  Hardcastle took hold of the garment and examined it closely. ‘Would you believe that, Marriott?’ he said, turning the collar. ‘He only bought it at Harrods. Nothing but the best, eh? I wish I could afford a Harrods’ mackintosh, but then I’m not a spy.’ He felt in the pockets, both inside and outside, but found nothing. ‘We’ll take this with us, if you don’t mind, Mrs Parker. I dare say that Special Branch will be interested to have a sight of it.’

  ‘Of course, Inspector. I was wondering what to do with it, and I certainly don’t want it hanging about here. I’ve enough of a problem disposing of all Ronnie’s clothing.’

  It was almost nine o’clock by the time that Hardcastle and Marriott returned to Cannon Row police station.

  ‘It’s a bit late to send von Kleiber’s mackintosh across to Special Branch now, sir,’ said Marriott, glancing at his watch. ‘And presumably you’ll want to give it Mr Quinn personally.’

  ‘I’ve no intention of sending it to SB, Marriott. If they weren’t sharp enough to go looking for it, that’s their funeral. They can have it when I’ve finished with it. Now then, have you got that Boy Scout knife with you, the one with the gadget for getting stones out of horses’ hooves?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott smiled and handed over his pocket knife.

  ‘Right, now help me clear this stuff off my desk.’ Hardcastle placed his ashtray and tobacco jar on the window sill, and waited while Marriott moved the remaining clutter to the top of a filing cabinet.

  Once the desk was clear, Hardcastle spread out von Kleiber’s mackintosh and began opening the seams with Marriott’s knife.

  ‘Ah, this one’s been undone and then sewn up again, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, finally opening the seam at the bottom of the garment’s skirt. ‘And not very well, either.’ Extracting a small piece of paper from where it had been secreted in the fold, he studied it briefly before looking up. ‘D’you speak German, Marriott?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Know of anyone who does?’

  ‘I think Mr Drew does, sir.’

  ‘Very likely, but he’s a Special Branch officer, and the less that lot knows about this here bit of evidence the better.’

  ‘Can you make anything of it, sir?’ asked Marriott, gesturing at the slip of paper.

  ‘There’s an address on it, Marriott, and that’s in English. Well, it would be, seeing as it’s in London,’ observed Hardcastle. ‘It’s says number five Peveril Street, Battersea, and the name Watkins. That’s all I can make out, but I suppose it’ll have to do.’

  ‘What d’you make of that, sir?’

  ‘I think it’s likely to be someone von Kleiber was told to contact if he ever got into any sort of trouble.’ Hardcastle handed Marriott the piece of paper. ‘And if he turns out to be another spy we’ll hand him over to those clever fellows at Special Branch,’ he said triumphantly. ‘But first thing in the morning, we’ll get up to Bow Street for a search warrant, and then we’ll pay this bugger a visit, whoever he is.’

  Not for the first time, Marriott had serious misgivings about Hardcastle’s proposed course of action, but he was in no position to argue.

  NINETEEN

  Deeming it to be a matter of some secrecy, Hardcastle sought out one of that day’s sitting magistrates in his chambers, rather than making his application in open court. He emerged successfully some minutes later, clutching the warrant.

  ‘Right, Marriott, off we go to Battersea,’ he said, hailing a taxi.

  Peveril Street was a turning off Battersea Bridge Roa
d, and number five proved to be a barber’s shop.

  ‘Some things never change, Marriott,’ commented Hardcastle. He had known of several hairdressers who had been arrested for spying since 1914.

  There were three chairs in the shop, each of which was occupied. Another five men were waiting on chairs along one side of the salon.

  ‘Could be some time, sir. We’re always busy of a Saturday morning.’ The speaker, a man of about fifty, was shaving a customer in the chair nearest the door, and peered at Hardcastle through gold-rimmed spectacles. He wore a short white coat, had a stooped posture and a small moustache. What little hair he possessed had been allowed to grow long on one side and was swept over his head in an attempt to disguise his baldness.

  ‘Are you the owner?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘I am indeed, sir.’ The man paused, the cut-throat razor he was using held clear of his client’s face.

  The DDI moved closer to the man so that he was able to speak to him without being overheard. ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division,’ he said quietly, ‘and I want a word with you in private.’

  The barber dithered and glanced at the neighbouring hairdresser, who had just finished cutting his client’s hair and was shaking the gown the man had been wearing.

  ‘Take over shaving this customer, Jack. I’ve got to have a word with this gentleman.’

  The owner led the way into a small back room. ‘Now, sir, how can I help you?’ Almost craven in manner, he was ‘washing’ his hands, and gave the impression of being greatly disturbed by the arrival of the police.

  ‘You can start by giving me your name,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Watkins, sir. Henry Watkins.’

  ‘How well do you know Lawrence Mortimer, Mr Watkins?’ said Hardcastle, delighted that the barber’s name was the same as that on the slip of paper he had found in the spy’s mackintosh.

  ‘I don’t know anyone called Mortimer,’ said Watkins. ‘Is he a customer?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Hardcastle, thinking it unlikely that a customer would have hidden his hairdresser’s name in the lining of a coat. ‘Now then, Mr Watkins, I have a warrant to search these premises. Do you live here?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I’ve got rooms over the shop. But why on earth do you want to search the place?’

  ‘Lead the way, then,’ said Hardcastle, leaving Watkins’s question unanswered.

  The two detectives followed Watkins up a narrow flight of stairs. Arriving at a small landing at the top, they were confronted by three doors.

  Hardcastle pushed open the nearest door, which proved to be a sitting room, and turned to survey the barber. ‘You can save me a lot of time, Mr Watkins, by telling me where you keep your revolver.’

  Once again, Marriott was taken aback by Hardcastle’s question, but he knew from experience how often such a direct approach had been instrumental in securing a confession.

  ‘Revolver, sir? I don’t have no revolver.’

  Hardcastle sighed and held out his hands in an exaggerated attitude of disbelief. ‘He doesn’t have a revolver, Marriott,’ he said sarcastically.

  ‘I doubt that, sir,’ said Marriott, playing along with Hardcastle’s theatrics.

  ‘So do I, Marriott, so do I.’ The DDI faced Watkins again. ‘In that case, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Watkins. I’m going to close this shop, throw out all your customers, and bring in the seven or eight policemen I’ve got waiting outside to tear this place apart. The floorboards will get taken up, the mattresses ripped open, and the Lord knows what else. It’ll make the Sidney Street siege look like a picnic in the park.’

  ‘But you don’t understand, sir,’ exclaimed Watkins.

  ‘Show me where the revolver is, Watkins, and show it to me now.’

  It would not have needed Hardcastle’s fictional team of policemen to have found it. Watkins crossed to a worn sofa and lifted one of the cushions to reveal a revolver. But as he was about to pick it up, Marriott seized him from behind and thrust him against the wall, pushing his arm up his back in a disabling hammerlock and bar.

  ‘Oh no you don’t my lad.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ yelled Watkins, ‘I was only going to give it to you.’

  Hardcastle crossed to the sofa, picked up the revolver and checked that it was unloaded. There were five loose rounds alongside where the revolver had rested.

  ‘And what are you doing with this in your possession, Watkins?’ asked Hardcastle, once Marriott had released the barber from his crippling hold.

  ‘I’ve been told not to say anything.’ Suddenly Watkins adopted an entirely different stance. Gone was the obsequious hairdresser, to be replaced by a man with a confident expression on his face.

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’m arresting you for the unlawful possession of a firearm, and I’m taking you to Cannon Row police station for further questioning. And that’s only going to be the start.’

  Ordering Marriott to go first, Hardcastle hustled his prisoner down the stairs and through the shop. ‘You’re going to be one barber short for the foreseeable future, Jack,’ he said to the barber still shaving the man in Watkins’s chair. Out in the street, he bundled Watkins into a taxi. ‘Scotland Yard, cabbie.’ He turned to his prisoner. ‘Tell ’em Cannon Row, Watkins, and half the time you’ll finish up at Cannon Street in the City,’ he said jovially.

  Sitting opposite the DDI, Marriott sighed inaudibly and raised his eyes to the roof of the cab.

  ‘We’ll let him stew for a while, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, once Watkins had been placed in a cell at Cannon Row police station, ‘and get that revolver over to Mr Franklin tout de suite. Ask him if he can give me an answer as soon as possible. Then I’ll meet you in the downstairs bar of the Red Lion. I reckon we’ve earned ourselves a wet after all that hard work.’

  ‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself this fine morning, Mr Hardcastle,’ said the landlord of the Red Lion, as he placed a pint of best bitter on the bar.

  ‘Make that two if you would, Albert. My skipper will be down shortly. Ah, here he is now,’ he said, as Marriott appeared in the doorway at the foot of the staircase. ‘Yes, I’ve had what you might call a satisfactory morning’s work.’

  ‘Morning, Mr Marriott,’ said Albert as he put a second pint on the bar.

  ‘Morning, Albert.’ Marriott turned to Hardcastle. ‘Mr Franklin said he should be able to give you a result by two o’clock, sir.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Hardcastle, as he drained his pint. ‘In that case, we’ve time for another round.’

  But Percy Franklin was quicker than he had forecast, and he knew where he would find Hardcastle at around lunchtime.

  ‘I’ll have a pint, Albert,’ said Franklin as he joined the two A Division detectives. He glanced sideways at Hardcastle. ‘It’s a match, Ernie,’ he said.

  ‘Got ’im!’ exclaimed Hardcastle triumphantly. ‘You’re absolutely sure, Percy?’

  ‘I’ll happily go up to the Old Bailey and swear it on a stack of Bibles, Ernie,’ said Franklin.

  ‘Oh, you’ll be doing that all right, Percy,’ said Hardcastle.

  Hardcastle and Marriott sat down on one side of the table in the interview room, opposite the hairdresser.

  ‘Why did you murder Ronald Parker, Watkins?’ asked the DDI. He made the accusation secure in the knowledge that he had adequate proof to support his allegation.

  ‘I didn’t murder anyone,’ said Watkins, but he was soon to discover that that lame response was pointless.

  Hardcastle smote the top of the table with the flat of his hand, causing not only Watkins to jump, but Marriott also.

  ‘Don’t fence with me, Watkins. We took possession of a revolver at your premises and a ballistics expert will testify that it was the weapon used to kill Parker.’

  ‘I never had a choice,’ said Watkins.

  ‘You’d didn’t have a choice?’ repeated Hardcastle in disbelief. ‘I thi
nk you’d better explain that.’

  ‘This man came to the shop—’

  ‘What was his name?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Lawrence Mortimer.’

  ‘But you told me that you’d never heard of Lawrence Mortimer.’ Hardcastle was not surprised at the man’s original denial; it was what he had always come to expect when first he confronted a suspect. ‘When was this?’

  Watkins gave the question some thought. ‘It must’ve been about the beginning of March, I suppose. I know it was a Sunday evening, quite a while after I’d shut up shop. Anyway, Mortimer said that he’d been sent by a mutual friend.’

  ‘Did he tell you the name of this so-called mutual friend?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘No, he never said. Anyhow, he went on to say that this friend had told him that I could help him out of any trouble he was in. Well, that didn’t sound like one of my friends. I mean, they’d’ve told me if they’d known Mortimer.’

  ‘And did you believe Mortimer?’

  ‘Well, I had to, because I suddenly remembered that some weeks ago, before Christmas it was, a man came to the shop and gave me a hundred pounds. He said it was an advance payment to help out a Mr Mortimer if he ever needed it.’

  ‘Did this man give a name?’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  Watkins gave a vague description that could have fitted a hundred men.

  ‘Had you ever seen him before?’

  ‘No, never set eyes on him.’

  ‘Didn’t you enquire why this strange man should have taken it into his head to give you a hundred pounds?’ Hardcastle was having trouble believing this fanciful tale of unknown men appearing out of the blue.

  ‘Yes, I did. I asked him what sort of trouble he was talking about and he said that it was a matter of national security. He went on to say that he worked for the government and that I wasn’t to tell anyone about our arrangement, not even the police. Well, it seemed an easy sort of job, and a hundred quid is a hundred quid.’