He bent quickly, hoisted the girl on to his shoulders and walked to the bank.
A man’s voice shouted urgently, and an orange spotlight flicked on.
Alex humped his powerful shoulders, threw the girl ahead of him into the water, and jumped after her. Whilst he was still in midair, a second body flashed past him.
Jane came up out of a tangle of nightmare, of darkness and cold, of lights and noises, into the reality of a hospital bed. The sun was slanting through the uncurtained window, and Sergeant Wilmot was perched on a chair beside her.
“Good morning,” he said. “Are you ready to talk?”
“I’m all right,” said Jane. “I’ll get dressed, if you can find some clothes for me.”
“The doctor says he’ll let you out in a day or two, if you’re good. Let’s have the story.”
She told him what she could remember, and Sergeant Wilmot wrote it down in his round, schoolboy hand.
“I felt the needle go in my arm,” she said. “I don’t really know what happened after that.”
“Alex took you in the car to Runnymede, and pitched you into the river. Having first tied a couple of kitchen weights on to you. I wonder how many of his girl friends he’s got rid of that way before?” He pulled a length of cord out of his pocket. “Simple, but you’ve got to hand it to him. It’s clever. It’s made of paper. Twenty or thirty separate strands of it, plaited tight together. Strong enough but it’d melt after you’d been a day or two in the water.”
Jane shuddered uncontrollably, and Sergeant Wilmot said, “I never had much tact,” and put the cord away.
“Who pulled me out?”
“I did,” said Wilmot. “It’s the sort of thing you sometimes get a medal for. We were on your tail the whole way. If it hadn’t been for the fog and the mess-up on Staines Bridge we’d have been close enough to stop you going in the water.”
“What’s happened to Alex?”
“He’s in the hospital at the Scrubs. In a private room. And that’s where he’s going to stay until Patrick gets back.”
“Haven’t we heard anything yet?”
“He’s been off the air for nearly forty eight hours. He’ll turn up. Don’t worry.”
“Who said I was worrying?”
“You looked worried. Just for a moment. It might have been wind, of course.”
Jane laughed and said, “If I’m going to be kept here, you can do something for me. Get me those photocopies of Jerry Light’s diary pages, and a classified directory of London. I’ve had a hunch and I want to work it out.”
When Wilmot had gone, she stretched luxuriously, and then settled down into the warm trough of the bed. She liked the way Wilmot called Petrella, Patrick; and she wondered if she’d ever be able to do it herself. A minute later, she was asleep …
At eleven o’clock on the following morning, the door of her room opened. Jane, who was deep in a street directory, her bed covered with slips of paper, said, “Put it down on the bed-table, could you, nurse—” looked up, and saw that it was Petrella.
“Hullo,” she said.
“As soon as my back’s turned,” said Petrella, “you have to go and do a damn silly thing like that.”
“Listen, who’s talking,” said Jane. “What have you been up to? And what’s wrong with your leg?”
“Someone tried to run me over. I rolled down a bank onto a railway.”
“Well I fell into a river. That’s not much worse.”
They both laughed. Petrella sat down on the end of the bed, and said, “You know why they had to shut your mouth, don’t you?”
“Something about those books. I couldn’t work it out.”
“Listen, and I’ll tell you. In 1951 two men were sentenced at the Exeter Assizes for assaulting a bank manager. One was our friend Jerry Light of Islington. The other was one of the Managing Directors of the demolition firm he worked for. A man called Alwyn Corder, who disappeared so efficiently that even our Sergeant Edwards couldn’t trace him. Because the simple explanation eluded us all. When Corder came out of prison, he changed his name to Velden. All legal and above board, by deed poll, registered in the High Court. I checked it this morning. And in that name, he married Constantia Marchant, Douglas Marchant’s sister. It was a business alliance. Douglas was his fellow director in the demolition firm.”
“I see,” said Jane. “Yes, I see.” A lot of tiny little pieces were falling into place, and a certain pattern was appearing.
“There’s a lot that isn’t clear yet,” said Petrella. “But the outline’s there. Douglas Marchant and Alwyn Corder, his brother-in-law, now known as Kenneth Velden, and their old foreman, Jerry Light, are the three people who started this racket, and ran it. That’s for sure. Then Velden died. The other two couldn’t simply hang on to his share. They paid it over to his widow.”
“Then Douglas is head of the whole affair?”
“It’s got to be proved.”
“And it would help to prove it, if you could show that he was still keeping in touch with Jerry Light.”
Petrella grinned, and said, “Cough it up.”
“Cough what up?”
“Whatever it is you’ve discovered.”
“All right. It’s this diary you found in Light’s desk. The entries are meeting places – they’re pubs. Rsg Sn is the Rising Sun. Wdmn is the Woodman, and so on. The letter and numbers after the pub are the postal district, and the last number’s the time of day. That’s what first made me think they must be pubs, because the times are all between eleven and two, or six and ten.”
Petrella got up, and stood for a long moment staring down at her. Then he said, “That’s very good indeed,” limped across to the door, and went quietly out, shutting the door behind him …
“Douglas Marchant,” said Petrella to Baldwin, “makes windows. The windows go into new buildings, all over England. In any big building project, the sub-contractors all get paid on the same day in the month. Therefore there must be a lot of money in the main contractors’ bank the day before. That’s how the intelligence system works. When the bank has been chosen, a gang of specialist safebreakers do the actual work. Jerry Light gives them their instructions, and their kit. And his men collect the appropriate rakeoff after the job’s over. That’s what the Franks brothers were waiting for, in Slough, that morning after the robbery.”
“How are we going to prove all this?”
“If we could get one of Jerry Light’s boys to sing, he might give us Light, if we hooked Light, he might give us Marchant.”
“You don’t sound very hopeful.”
“They’re going to be a tough bunch to drive that sort of wedge into. They’ve been working together too long, and they know each other too well.”
“Have you any better ideas?”
“Yes,” said Petrella, slowly. “I have got an idea, but it’s so irregular that we’re going to need all the backing the A.C can give us. First, I want Jerry Light’s phone tapped.”
Baldwin made a face. “You know what they think about that, don’t you? Anything else?”
“That’s just a start,” said Petrella. “The next bit really is a bit hot. Now, listen—”
At London Airport the loudspeaker in the Arrival Lounge said, “We have a message for Mr. Douglas Marchant, believed to be travelling from Dortmund. Would Mr. Marchant report to the reception desk?” Douglas hesitated for a long moment.
If things really had started to happen, might it not be wisest to turn straight round and take the next aeroplane back to Germany? He rejected the idea as soon as it occurred to him. It was by abandoning careful, prearranged plans and acting on the impulse of blind panic that people gave themselves away and got caught. He marched firmly up to the reception desk and smiled at the girl behind it.
He produced his passport. “I understand you have a message for me.”
“Mr. Douglas Marchant? Would you telephone this number? You can use the telephone in the office, if you wish.”
�
��Thank you,” said Douglas. He dialled the number, which he recognised as his sister Constantia’s.
“Douglas. Thank heavens, you’re back. I didn’t know where to get hold of you, so I had to leave a message at the airport.”
“What’s happened?”
“Alex and Jane Orfrey have both disappeared. And they’ve taken the car with them.”
“When did this happen?”
“Two nights ago. I’ve been so worried.”
“You’ve told the police.”
“Of course. But they’ve done nothing. They even suggested”—Douglas heard his sister choke—“that they might have eloped together.”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“Don’t be absurd. Alex was a chauffeur – a mechanic—”
“And Jane was your secretary.”
“That’s different. She was a girl of good family.”
Douglas was about to say something flippant, when he realised that his sister was upset; and being upset, might do something stupid.
“I’ll make some inquiries,” he said. “I’ll ring you back as soon as I have any news for you.”
As soon as he had rung off, he dialled another number. The girl who answered the telephone said, “Who’s that? Mr. Wilberforce. I’ll see if Mr. Simons is in.” And a few seconds later, “No, I’m sorry. He’s just gone out. Can I get him to ring you back?”
“Don’t bother,” said Douglas. “When he does come back, would you give him a message? Tell him that I got the letter he sent me on the third of March.”
“Rightchar,” said the girl.
As soon as she had rung off, she walked through to the inner office, and said, “That was Mr. Wilberforce, Mr. Simons. You did say you weren’t in if he telephoned.”
“That’s what I said,” agreed Mr. Simons, a short, sharp-looking man in thick bifocals. “And that’s what I meant. Did he leave a message?”
“He just said that he got the letter you sent on the third of March.”
“You’re sure he said the third of March.”
“I’m not deaf yet.” said the girl.
“All right,” said Mr. Simons. “Plug a line through to this telephone, and you can go to lunch.”
“Tisn’t lunchtime!”
“Then go out and buy me some cigarettes.”
Mr. Simons listened until he heard the outer door shut, drew the telephone towards himself, and dialled an Islington number.
Jerry Light, who answered the telephone, said, “You’re sure it was the third of March he said? All right. Thanks very much,” and rang off. He opened the drawer of his desk, extracted the diary that lay there, and opened it at the first week in March.
Then he looked at his watch. It was just after twelve. He crammed a hat on his head, went down the outside staircase into the yard, said – “Watch things, Sammy. I’m going out –” to the shaggy young man who was sawing a length of timber, and set off at a brisk pace. He seemed to be walking haphazardly, choosing small empty streets. But his course was steadily northeast.
One o’clock was striking when he went through the door of a small public house in the neighbourhood of Hackney Downs, said, “Wotcher, Len,” to the landlord, and walked through the serving area into the private room behind.
Douglas Marchant was sitting in front of the fire, nursing a glass of whisky. He indicated another glass, ready poured, which stood on the table.
Light said, “Ta,” took a drink and added, “you saw the news.”
“That’s why I came back from Germany. All that the papers said was that Alex got out of hospital at the Scrubs yesterday morning and clean away. No details. It mightn’t be true.”
“It’s true all right,” said Light. “He telephoned me this morning.”
Marchant’s lip went up. “At your place?”
“No. He had sense enough not to do that. He got me through Shady Simons.”
“Did he tell you how he got picked up?”
“He thinks it was just bad luck. A police patrol car spotted him tipping the girl into the river.”
“I don’t believe in bad luck like that,” said Marchant. “Do you?”
“Not really,” said Light. “I think they’re moving in on us.”
“What did Alex want?”
“A place to lie up in. He spent last night on the Embankment. And for you to get him out of the country.”
“Or what?”
“So far, he’s kept his mouth shut. If he did decide to talk, he could tell them a hell of a lot they want to know.”
Marchant drank a little more whisky. “We’ll have to do something about him,” he said. “The only place he’d be safe, would be in East Germany.”
“I can think of somewhere that’d be a damned sight safer,” said Jerry.
A red coal dropped from the fire. The clock on the mantelshelf ticked. In the bar, Douglas could hear the landlord saying, “Nice sort of day for March.” He had said it to every customer who came in.
Douglas finished his drink and got up. He said, “I think you’re right. We’re going to pack up this lark soon. We don’t want any loose ends. I’ve got to go and hold my sister’s hand. She’s having hysterics. We’ll go out the back way.”
As the two men emerged from the alleyway, a girl approached them. She had a collector’s tray of little red and white flowers. “For the Cottage Hospital,” she said. She was a nice-looking girl. Douglas felt in his pocket, found half a crown, dropped it in her tin, and said, “Keep the flower. You can sell it again.”
The girl said, “Thank you, sir.” Douglas noticed that she had an outsize flower with a black centre pinned on to the shoulder of her dress.
At nine o’clock that night, Jerry Light left his flat in Albany Street and walked to the garage where he parked his car. The attendant said, “She ought to be all right now.”
In the act of getting into the car, Light paused, “What do you mean, now?”
“Now the distributor head’s been fixed.”
“I didn’t tell you to do that.”
“It wasn’t us. The man came round from the makers with it. He fixed it himself.”
“Oh,” said Light. “Yes. Of course. I’d forgotten about that. He fixed it, did he? Come to think of it, I won’t be needing the car just now. I’ve changed my mind.”
He left the garage, hailed a taxi, and was driven through Regent’s Park to Clarence Gate. Here he dismissed the taxi. Five minutes’ quick walk brought him to a row of garages in a cul-de-sac behind Baker Street station.
Light was tolerably sure that no one knew about his second car. It was a new M.G Magnette, with a capacious boot, in which he had stored two bulging suitcases and a hold-all. He had rented the garage in another name, had installed the car in it three months before, and had not visited it since.
The only trouble was that it was now raining so hard that it was difficult to keep observation as he walked. He didn’t think anyone was following him, but was not quite sure.
He backed the car out and drove slowly into the park, which he proceeded to circle twice. Headlights showed, blurred by the rain, in his mirror. Cars overtook him. Cars passed him. At the end of the second circuit he was reasonably happy, turned out of the park at Gloucester Gate, and headed north.
“He’s making it damned difficult for us,” said Wilmot into his car wireless. “I wish he’d used his first car. I’d got that fixed nicely. All we’d have had to do then would be sit back and track him on the radio repeater. Over.”
“Count your blessings,” said Petrella into his wireless. “If it wasn’t raining so damned hard, he’d probably have spotted us already. Over and out.”
Jerry Light drove steadily up Highgate Hill, across the North Circular Road, and on towards Barnet. His plan was very simple. He was not a believer in elaboration. His instructions to Alex had been to come by Underground to High Barnet and then to walk out on to the main North Road and along it for a quarter of a mile, past the Golf Course, timing himself to g
et to the point where the road forked by eleven o’clock. He was to come alone, and make damned sure he wasn’t followed.
Light looked at his watch. He was in nice time. Five minutes to eleven, and that was High Barnet station on the right. The rain was coming down like steel rods. Alex must be getting very wet.
Light followed the main road past the Elstree fork. There was very little traffic. A couple of London-bound cars came towards him over the long swell of the hill. There was nothing behind him as far as he could see.
His headlights picked out Alex standing by the roadside.
Light changed down, and crawled to a stop beside him. Leaning across, he turned down the far side window. He used his left hand to do this. His right hand was resting on the floor of the car.
“That you, Jerry,” said Alex. “I’m damned wet.”
“It’s me,” said Light. He brought up his right hand, and shot him twice through the chest at point blank range.
Alex jerked back on to his heels, went down on to his knees, and fell forward, his face in the water which was cascading down the gutter.
Resting his forearm on the ledge of the window, Light took careful aim, and shot again.
The repeated detonations had deafened him, and he could hear nothing. The first thing he noticed was that headlights, backed by a powerful spotlight, had come on behind him. He slammed the car into gear, almost lifting it off the ground as he drove it forward.
A siren sounded.
The car behind him was almost on top of him. Light saw, out of the corner of his eye, a minor road to the left, did a racing change-down, and went into a skid turn.
On a dry surface, it would have come off, but the wet macadam was like ice. Instead of correcting at the end of the skid, the car swung wildly out of control, went through the fence, wires twanging like harp strings, turned once right over, and smacked into the concrete base of a pylon, dislocating two of the overhead lines and plunging half of High Barnet into darkness and confusion.
So Petrella came for a second time into the presence of Assistant Commissioner Romer, and came with the consciousness of failure heavy on him.
The Man Who Hated Banks & Other Mysteries Page 29