The Laundry Man

by Graham Ison

  Conway shrugged. ‘Right, then. Smashing. Where do we go?’

  ‘I show you a place. I know these things, you see.’

  ‘Terrific,’ said Conway. ‘Off we go then.’

  They drove round behind the Cloth Hall and parked between there and the cathedral in what seemed to be the last space. It was right outside the entrance to a public lavatory. And that proved to be extremely unfortunate for Waldo Conway.

  Capitaine-Commandant Jan Steynreck was head of the Ypres district of the National Gendarmerie. He had seen the Cat Festival many times, but purely as a spectator; the policing of the event was the responsibility of the Commissaire of the Municipal Police. Which is why on the day of the Cat Festival, Capitaine-Commandant Steynreck was at home in Zillebeke with the television switched on, a glass of beer at his side, waiting to see his football team perform at the Heysel Stadium in Brussels.

  It was pleasant in Ypres, near home. Not like Brussels with its embassies and the Common Market, or Ostend with its tourists and its illegal immigrants and its English drunks. Nothing much ever happened in Ypres. At least, it hadn’t until last Thursday, when the message had come from Brussels directing Steynreck to carry out a search of the area for an Englishman called Waldo Conway, suspected of violent robbery at Armentières ... which was about twelve miles down the road.

  When Steynreck received the disturbing message from Brussels, he had promptly deputed Adjutant-Chef Honderbein for the onerous task of searching the environs of Ypres for Conway, and Honderbein had just as promptly delegated the task to Maréchal des Logis van Aerde. But they did not take it very seriously. After all, why should a robber stay close to the scene of his crime? It went against every criminal practice known to Steynreck ... and to Honderbein, for that matter. Routine enquiries of all the hotels in the vicinity drew a blank.

  Steynreck took a cigarette from the packet on the arm of his chair, but after several attempts to make his lighter work, gave up and went out into the kitchen in search of a box of matches.

  *

  Conway and Eugenie, their arms around each other’s waists, were pressed into a crowd in the centre of the Market Square. Nearby, the inevitable American tourist was giving a loud commentary on how the whole affair compared with the annual Thanksgiving Parade back home in Tiffin, Ohio.

  ‘I don’t know what we’re doing here,’ said Conway.

  ‘I told you. I want a cat.’

  ‘And I offered to buy you one.’ Once they had eaten, Conway and Eugenie had walked around the town looking in shop windows. A lot of the shops had shelves overflowing with velvet cats, and Conway couldn’t see why, for the sake of a handful of francs, the girl would not be satisfied with that. After all, the bag slung over Conway’s shoulder and pressed close to his side contained nearly fifty thousand French francs as well as his passport, and the Belgians were more than happy to accept French currency.

  ‘It would not be the same,’ said Eugenie. ‘When I was a child, I caught a cat. I still have it.’

  ‘Then what the bleeding hell d’you want another one for?’ Conway would never understand women.

  Behind the Cloth Hall, Brigadier Werquin of the Municipal Police emerged from the public lavatory and almost fell over the distinctive red Mercedes that had been the subject of all manner of messages from Brussels. He immediately radioed the police station in Korte Torhoutstraat where the Commissaire, deciding that he had quite enough to do in connection with the Cat Festival, got smartly on the phone to the local headquarters of the gendarmerie. The officer on duty felt that the Capitaine-Commandant should be informed immediately.

  When Steynreck got the call, he sighed, switched off the television — his team was two goals down anyway, and playing like morons — and drove the four miles back to Ypres.

  *

  Conway gripped Eugenie’s hand. ‘Here, girl,’ he said, ‘what the bleeding hell’s going on?’

  ‘The Fool is throwing the cats.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Conway. ‘It’s the filth I’m talking about. Look!’

  The sight that had alarmed Conway was a number of uniformed policemen moving silently through the crowd. ‘Don’t tell me they’re after cats too.’

  ‘No, I think they are after something bigger ... like you and me.’ Eugenie glanced across the square. ‘They are gendarmes,’ she added. ‘They don’t usually come out for the Festival. Something’s wrong.’

  ‘It can’t be us,’ said Conway. ‘They don’t even know we’re here.’ But he sounded unconvinced. If there was one thing that Conway possessed, it was the right antennae to detect police interest in himself. Waldo Conway had been released from Wormwood Scrubs on May Day, and had left for Belgium with Eugenie Vandermeer the same afternoon. The Ypres Cat Festival was on the following Sunday, and between those two dates the robbery at Armentieres had occurred. But, unaware that he had been followed from the prison and had been sighted by the traffic police on the E5, Waldo Conway was in blissful ignorance of the fact that almost the entire Belgian police force was searching for him. In fact, he would have been surprised to learn that anyone knew that he was in Belgium at all. He was even sufficiently naive about the administrative side of law enforcement to believe that the little forms he filled in up at the various hotels at which he and Eugenie had stayed were something to do with VAT.

  Eugenie pressed Conway’s hand. ‘Let’s move ... slowly,’ she said. ‘This way.’ She started moving towards Boterstraat.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Conway. ‘The car’s behind the cathedral. We can get through there ...’ He nodded towards the narrow passageway between a café and the war museum.

  ‘Don’t be foolish,’ said Eugenie. ‘If we go the other way, we can see the car from the road, from the other side. If there’s a gendarme waiting by it, we know that they are interested in us.’

  ‘But how can they be?’ Conway was starting to panic a bit.

  Eugenie shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Perhaps someone in Armentières saw the car. After all, it’s only nineteen kilometres away. Look!’ She pointed to a signpost.

  ‘Christ!’ said Conway. ‘How far’s that in English?’

  Eugenie paused for a moment, calculating. ‘About twelve miles,’ she said eventually.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Conway. ‘You stupid cow. I thought we was miles away. You’ve bleeding dropped us in it.’

  Eugenie grabbed his hand again. ‘Do not worry, Waldo. I know where we are going.’

  They reached the west end of the Cloth Hall and turned right into a street with — for Conway — an unpronounceable name. When they reached the cobbled way that ran between the Cloth Hall and the cathedral, they glanced down at where they had left the car. Sure enough, there were two policemen standing guard over it.

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ said Conway. For an atheist, he called on the Almighty quite a lot.

  They turned into Elverdingestraat and kept going for some distance before Conway found what he was looking for: a car with the keys carelessly left in the ignition. It was outside a huge grey building.

  ‘What’s that place, then?’

  ‘It’s the prison,’ said Eugenie.

  ‘Oh, bloody charming, that is,’ said Conway, and started the engine.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Home,’ said Conway. ‘I’ve had enough of your country, darling. How do we get from here to Ostend?’

  ‘Are you mad, Waldo?’

  He glanced sideways at her. ‘No. Why? You got a better idea?’

  ‘If they know you are here, they will have alerted the police at Ostend. They will be searching for people going on the ferry.’

  ‘Then what the hell do we do?’ There was desperation in Conway’s voice now.

  ‘We make for Calais. They will not be expecting that.’

  ‘Oh, bloody terrific,’ said Conway. ‘And what about the little problem of the frontier?’

  ‘We will manage,’ said Eugenie.

  Conway glanced over
his shoulder and pulled away from the kerb. ‘I don’t know what the hell you wanted to come here for in the first place,’ he said. ‘At least in England you know what’s what.’

  ‘You said you wanted a holiday, Waldo.’ said Eugenie, pouting at him. ‘And I wanted to see Belgium again.’

  *

  Steynreck sat gloomily in his office and glanced at the clock. It was seven o’clock. ‘Well?’ He looked up as Adjutant-Chef Honderbein entered.

  ‘Nothing, sir.’ The Adjutant-Chef spread his hands in a gesture of failure. ‘Apart from the fact that an inspecteur judiciaire has arrived.’

  ‘What does he want?’ Steynreck scowled at his warrant officer. ‘The car, sir. He is taking it away ... to examine it for fingerprints.’

  ‘But how does he know that this robber will not come back?’

  The Adjutant-Chef laughed. ‘Probably because the Municipal Police stationed two officers to guard it from when their brigadier first saw it, sir. If the robber saw them, he probably ran away.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Steynreck. ‘Probably.’ He considered that for a moment. ‘Dolts!’ he added.

  ‘And,’ continued the Adjutant-Chef, ‘a car was stolen from outside the prison.’ He smoothed a hand down his tunic. ‘What shall we do now, sir?’

  Steynreck snorted. ‘Nothing, chef. If the Police Judiciaire want to interfere, they can get on with it.’

  ‘But should we not send a message, in case this man decides to go back to England?’

  ‘I’ve done it,’ said Steynreck. ‘A signal to Ostend ... with a copy to Brussels, naturally.’

  ‘But what about the French ports?’

  Steynreck studied the Adjutant-Chef for some moments. ‘That, chef,’ he said, ‘is a matter for the French.’ He picked up a cigarette. ‘Lend me your lighter, eh? What was the result, by the way?’

  ‘Your team lost four-one, sir.’

  *

  Steynreck’s message to Brussels had been copied to Paris, to the headquarters of the French Police Judiciaire, who, after some deliberation, had forwarded it to all land frontiers and to the ports of Calais, Boulogne, Dunkerque, Dieppe, Cherbourg, Le Havre and Caen.

  Conway and Eugenie had crossed into France at the frontier near the Belgian seaside resort of De Panne. Conway had lain on the floor in the back of the car while Eugenie produced her identity card, undid another button and smiled fetchingly at the official of the Police de l’Air et des Frontières. Skirting Dunkerque, they had arrived in Calais, dumped the car in a side street and boarded the next ferry for England. Ten minutes later, the police at the port got the message from Paris and put it on a clip with all the other similar messages.

  *

  Conway steadied himself against the slight roll of the ferry and put the two beers down on a table in the bar. He glanced out at the grey sea. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we did that all right.’

  ‘So far.’ Eugenie sipped at her drink. ‘All we’ve got to do now is get off.’

  ‘Piece of cake,’ said Conway. ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do. You take your passport down to the immigration bloke and get it stamped. He’ll give you a ticket, OK?’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘You give me your ticket, and when it comes to getting off, you tell ’em you’ve lost yours, right?’

  ‘What happens then?’

  ‘You smile nicely at ’em, love, and tell ’em you’re ever so sorry. They’ll have a quick squint at your passport, see it’s all OK, and let you off. I’ll meet you in the pub in the Market Square in Dover. How’s that?’

  Eugenie nodded slowly. ‘Well, I suppose it’ll work.’

  ‘You got a better idea, then?’ asked Conway for about the tenth time that day.

  Chapter Five

  When the ferry tied up at Dover’s Western Docks, an assistant purser stood at the gangway and collected all the immigration landing cards. Conway, his confidence boosted by successfully evading what he imagined to be armies of police lying in wait for him, strode confidently through the customs green channel.

  ‘Is that all your baggage, sir?’ A customs officer stepped in front of Conway and pointed at his shoulder bag.

  ‘Er, yes.’ Conway’s bowels tied themselves neatly into a complex knot.

  ‘May I see your passport and ticket.’

  ‘Oh!’ Conway produced his passport and handed it over. ‘Don’t seem to have the ticket any more. Must have lost it.’ He looked round for a possible escape route if things started to go wrong.

  The customs officer examined Conway’s passport for some moments and then laid it on the bench. ‘Have you visited anywhere other than France, sir?’

  The ‘sir’ sounded ominous to Conway. ‘France?’ His voice shot up an octave.

  ‘Well, that is where the boat’s come from ... Calais, isn’t it?’ There was no hint of sarcasm in the customs officer’s voice, but it was unnerving just the same.

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean.’ Conway laughed: even to him it sounded false. ‘No, mate, nowhere else. Just a short trip, like. See the sights. Know what I mean?’

  ‘When did you leave this country?’

  ‘Last Monday, as a matter of fact. Why, is there some problem?’

  ‘No, sir. No problem.’ The customs officer peered searchingly at Conway. ‘You’ve come into the customs green channel, and that means that you have nothing to declare. D’you understand what your duty-free allowances are?’

  ‘Well, yeah, o’ course. But I ain’t got nothing. I mean, it ain’t worth it these days, is it? Costs bloody nearly as much over there as — ’

  ‘You are allowed to bring in’ The customs officer interrupted to recite a long list of what passengers could and could not bring into the country in the circumstances under which Conway had arrived.

  ‘No, nothing like that, guv,’ said Conway. Little beads of perspiration were starting to gather on his forehead. He knew what was coming next.

  ‘I’ll just see that bag you’re carrying then, sir.’

  This is it, thought Conway as he slung the bag off his shoulder. ‘There’s nothing in there like what you mentioned.’

  The officer seemed intent on finding out for himself. He unzipped the bag and glanced at Conway. ‘Did you pack this yourself, sir?’ Still the same level, but none the less disturbing, tones.

  Conway thought quickly. ‘Well, no. As a matter of fact, my bird packed it for me this morning.’ He grinned. ‘I hope you don’t find anything embarrassing in it.’

  ‘Is she travelling with you?’ The customs officer peered into the bag and then tipped it out on the bench.

  ‘No, she couldn’t spare the time.’ Conway was really sweating now.

  ‘There seems to be a lot of money here, sir,’ said the customs officer, gazing down at the profusion of French banknotes. ‘Is all this yours?’ The officer gazed steadily at Conway, forcing him to give some explanation.

  ‘Well, yes, mine and me bird’s. We just sold our villa, like.’

  ‘Really?’ The officer sounded unconvinced and poked at the pile of small denomination notes with his forefinger. ‘As a matter of interest, sir, why didn’t you pay it into a bank?’

  Conway grinned. ‘Don’t trust ’em, guv,’ he said. ‘People rob ’em, you know.’ That did not seem to amuse the customs officer. ‘I haven’t got a French bank account,’ Conway added hurriedly.

  ‘I’ll not keep you long, sir,’ said the customs officer. He picked up Conway’s passport from the bench and, signalling to a colleague to keep an eye on his suspect, disappeared into a back room.

  Conway looked around the customs hall. He was certain that the officer was now on the phone to Scotland Yard, and that any moment that bastard Fox would appear on the scene. But it was Conway’s lucky day. Moments later, the customs officer reappeared and returned Conway’s passport. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, ‘that’ll be all.’

  Conway walked away, trying desperately not to hurry.

  The customs officer turned to his colleagu
e. ‘I could have sworn we’d got a drug-runner there,’ he said, ‘but there’s nothing on our computer.’

  Twenty minutes later, a harassed Special Branch officer approached the customs officer with a piece of paper in his hand. ‘If this bloke comes through, tip me the wink, mate,’ he said.

  The customs officer glanced at the message and shook his head wearily. ‘He did ... twenty minutes ago,’ he said.

  *

  Although unfamiliar with the Belgian system of policing, Waldo Conway was extremely well versed in the British art of thief-taking. He was convinced that crossing from Calais and managing to get ashore at Dover, despite the intervention of Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise, had been a monumental stroke of luck. Furthermore, he knew Tommy Fox and the way in which he worked, and could well imagine the rage into which his escape had sent the boss of the Heavy Mob. He decided, therefore, when he was eventually joined by Eugenie in the pub in the centre of Dover, that he would have to do some very serious thinking. ‘We’re going to the Smoke, girl,’ he said.

  Eugenie looked at him as if doubting his reason. ‘Are you mad?’ she enquired.

  Conway put down his beer, wiped his mouth and studied the pretty girl opposite him. ‘No, love,’ he said, ‘but you’ve got to understand the tactics of the thing. That bloody Fox’ll be expecting me to go somewhere else. The last place he’ll expect me to turn up’ll be London, see?’ He grinned at his own astuteness.

  Eugenie shrugged. ‘Who is this Fox you keep talking about?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s the boss of the Flying Squad,’ said Conway, ‘and he thinks he’s a pretty sharp operator.’ He slipped a hand inside his shirt and scratched his chest. ‘But he’ll have to go some to catch Waldo Conway.’

  Eugenie fished the lemon out of her gin-and-tonic with her fingers and dropped it into the ashtray. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Maybe.’

  *

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ said Tommy Fox, hurling the file on to his desk. ‘This bastard Waldo Conway does a supermarket in France then calmly goes and watches some fancy-dress caper in ...’ He picked up the file again and stared at the top message. ‘In bloody Wipers. Then he nicks a car, goes trolling across the border into France, and gets on a sodding ferry. Christ!’ He shook his head. ‘And if that’s not bad enough, when he gets to Dover, he’s turned over by customs, and they let him go. What the bloody hell’s going on?’ Despite it being two o’clock on Monday morning, Fox was in the office, which meant that everyone else he needed was in the office too. And he’d been there since the evening of the previous day, but Sunday as a day of rest, went largely unnoticed on Fox’s calendar.