The Hoof

by Philip McCutchan

  Currently the Hoof was driving north into Scotland and taking a long route: he preferred to avoid the motorways where there was always a police presence. He drove through roads cleared by the snow-ploughs, drove cautiously in the icy conditions: to become involved in an accident could be tricky when his plans were about to climax. And Scotland was important to those plans.

  *

  A little before Shard’s arrival in Leeds there had been a caller who, not unexpectedly, had claimed responsibility, in the name of the Workers’ League of Freedom, for the murder of Barney Peters. The voice had been taped and the tape was run through for Shard’s benefit. The voice was a hard one basically, though flat, expressionless, emotionless and without any obvious accent. The Leeds Chief Superintendent asked if it meant anything to Shard.

  “Not a thing. You?”

  “No. I’ll get the experts onto it, of course, see if they have a view to offer on origins, not that that’ll be much help I don’t suppose.”

  “Nor do I,” Shard said grimly. “I’d like to see the arrested men, if I may?”

  “Of course. The gaffer first, I take it?”

  Shard nodded. “Have any of them been questioned yet?”

  “No. I gave orders you were to be waited for — in the circumstances.”

  “Thank you. I’d like to see them on my own. That’s asking something, I know, but —”

  “I’d sooner you did,” the Chief Super said shortly. “I just don’t want to know. You have your methods in that posh set-up of yours down south, I have mine. I’m not suggesting anything at all, but my nick’s clean, always has been, always will be. Here, we go by the book. Strictly.”

  Shard grinned. “Point taken. I’m clean too — mostly. You don’t have to worry about that, but I’ll not be involving you if I find I need to be otherwise. The responsibility’s mine alone.”

  The Chief Superintendent grunted non-committally, but there was an air of suspicion natural to anyone whose nick was being used by another force, especially by such an enigmatic body as the Foreign Office with its very special branch inside the Special Branch as it were. Plush-lined cops, they were thought of as Shard well knew. Besides, he came from the South of England, always a ground for suspicion on the part of coppers from almost anywhere north of London.

  Shard had to walk and talk carefully. He asked a question. “This man, the haulage boss. Anything known?”

  “I was about to say, given the chance, Mr Shard.” The Chief Superintendent pulled a file closer across his desk and opened it. “Nothing much. Infringement of factory regulations — safety — twice. Investigated by Inland Revenue … charged with falsification of income tax return, once. Late payment of VAT, three times, plus one falsification of ditto. That’s all.”

  “Nothing nasty, then.”

  “Not till now.”

  Shard drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I take it he hasn’t been charged?”

  “Of course not — I told you, we waited for you.” On the face of it, all the haulage boss had done was to obstruct the Department of Energy and attempt to blow up his own petrol storage tank. It could have been an act of sheer frustration with officialdom and the bodies were just a very odd coincidence. Unlikely; but an investigating officer had to watch for the clever work of defence lawyers later on.

  *

  “I want,” the haulage man said heavily, “to have my solicitor present.” He avoided Shard’s eye, was clearly in a state of fear. His whole body shook and he was sweating like he’d sweated back in his yard. He was being seen in the interview room, the cuffs off him now, and a policeman was waiting outside the door. The interview room, a place about twelve foot square, was bleak, grim; the nick didn’t provide home comforts. There was an oblong wooden table and three hard wooden chairs, and a smallish barred window looked out into the yard of the nick, onto parked police vehicles and cold slush. On one wall was displayed a notice indicating prisoners’ rights. Shard studied the man; name of Smith, he looked tough on the surface, but there was a weakness that showed in the averted eyes and in the way his upper lip seemed to jut over the lower one. The chin receded a little as a result.

  Shard said, “It’s a little soon for a solicitor, Mr Smith.”

  “I’ve asked the police —”

  “I know. I’m going to wait a little just the same. After all, you may have a perfectly legitimate explanation … mightn’t you?”

  The man nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course I have.”

  “Then let’s have it to start off with,” Shard said, smiling.

  “I didn’t know about the bodies. That’s the honest truth.”

  “Yes, I see. Then how did they get there, d’you think?”

  Smith shrugged. “Easy enough for anyone to get in. Fences and walls, they’re not up to much.”

  “Guard dogs?”

  “Don’t hold with them,” Smith said briefly.

  “Good security, you know. Didn’t you feel at some risk?”

  “No.”

  “Shareholders’ property —”

  “Me and the wife, that’s all. All my own show. Been in the haulage business all my life, I have, and that’s a fact. Started as a lad working for a boss, didn’t like it, built up my own business soon as I could.”

  “Very creditable …”

  “And all my own money, and the wife’s. She had a bit … no-one else involved in any risk I took.” Under the gentleness of Shard’s questioning, the haulage boss seemed to be gaining confidence. “Up to me whether or not I took more precautions. Pity I didn’t, now, I’ll say that much.”

  Shard nodded, keeping his gaze on the face. “Any cash-flow problems?” he asked.

  “No. No trouble.”

  “Business doing well, then.” Shard paused. “Do I take it you’re a man of short temper? I mean … firing at that tank! Then there’s the question of the revolver itself. Have you a licence?”

  Smith said, “Well, there you have me I admit. No, I haven’t as a matter of fact. I suppose you’ll go and charge me with that.”

  “That, yes.” Shard, seated opposite Smith, pulled at his jaw. He said, “Tell me something, Mr Smith. What do you know about the Workers’ League of Freedom?”

  “Eh?” Smith looked momentarily startled. “I don’t know anything about it. Never heard of it even. Wouldn’t concern me, would it?”

  “Because you’re a boss?”

  “Right.”

  Shard murmured, “It’s part of a boss’s job to know about workers’ organisations, surely? However, never mind, it was just a general query. Do I take it yours is a non-union firm?”

  “Right,” Smith said again.

  “Any particular reason?”

  Smith stared. “Only that I prefer it that way. It’s not a crime.”

  “But you don’t like the unions?”

  “No, I don’t. So what? That’s not a crime either. Let the unions in, you get trouble right away. More bloody shop stewards’ meetings than work, and strikes galore. In a small firm, it sours the atmosphere right off … so it does in a big one, come to that, but the big ones, they’re stuck with it.”

  Shard lifted an eyebrow. “Nothing personal?”

  “Eh?”

  “I asked, nothing personal?”

  “Course not. Why?”

  “Just another general query,” Shard said off-handedly. He got to his feet and moved over to the window. He looked out into the nick yard, lying cold and bleak beneath bright lights, rutted with the frozen slush. Snow was falling again, drifting down. A police car came in, headlights blazing straight into the interview room till they were flicked off. Shard thought about PC Hurst whose petrol-soaked body he had seen soon after his arrival, along with that of Barney Peters. Shard could scarcely imagine a worse death: forensic had stated that the two men had gone in alive, though Hurst had been shot through the left hip, probably a badly aimed gun that would have caused agony … Shard turned from the window and stood for a moment looking down at the
man at the table.

  He said, “Nothing personal. Now, I wonder!”

  Smith licked his lips, his face tightening up. “Wonder what?”

  “Just look at the facts, Mr Smith. A union leader found dead in one of your petrol tanks. You, found trying to prevent an official inspection. Then you pull a gun … and fire towards the tank. Risky — but anything’s better than discovery. You don’t like the unions, you said.”

  “Yes, I did.” Smith was badly shaken now. “Plenty of employers don’t — just get around and ask them! I don’t know what you’re getting at. A bloke doesn’t commit murder because he doesn’t like the unions. That’s too bloody tall for anyone!”

  Shard smiled, a smile with ice in it. “Is it? Just think about it, Mr Smith, while I have a word with your staff.” He turned away, tapped on the door. It was opened up. Shard went out, told the constable on guard to go in but leave all questions unanswered. Then he went along to see the men who had been in the transport yard when Harry Kenwood had gone in. Their stories tallied: anyone could have got into the yard, it would be dead easy, anyone could have planted the bodies. The Department of Energy’s inspector had turned up when he shouldn’t have done, it was out of routine and an inspection wasn’t due for some time yet. The gaffer was a hot-tempered man who acted first and thought afterwards. He didn’t like officials any more than he liked the unions. None of the men had any explanation to offer about the gun. They’d been dead scared and thought the whole place would go sky high but it was quite in character with the gaffer.

  No help there. Shard didn’t believe Smith had committed murder; he was just a cat’s-paw, a repository, a corpse disposal unit. But the reading of a charge of murder had a horrible ring about it, a kind of hangover from the days of capital punishment, black caps and death cells. Especially when a man knew his own innocence, it often brought out a few other admissions.

  Shard went up to see the Chief Superintendent. He twisted his arm, acting like the bastard a Foreign Office attached cop often had to be. He would have Home Office backing if needed, and the reserve Inspector was to accept the charge.

  *

  Earl Denvers Kries had checked into the London Hilton with Roz. The first thing he did after reaching their room was to ring down for room service and have Scotch sent up. A bottle of Dewars, which he called Doo-ers as phonetically advertised in magazines back home in the States, with an ice bucket. He had a large shot himself then said he had some business to see to. He would be back as soon as he could and they would dine somewhere. He gave Roz a bear-like hug and left her with the bottle. He went down in the elevator and out past the gilded doorman into Park Lane. He had a telephone call to make but he was a cautious man and wouldn’t make it from the hotel. He found a kiosk and went in and dialled a number in Soho. It was quickly answered by a man with a French accent. “’Ullo, yes, please?”

  “Kries.”

  “Ah.”

  “Now listen, Lacroix. I just got in. I’m coming along right away. Make it convenient — get me?” Kries didn’t wait for an answer; he cut the call and left the box, giving a quick look all around as he exited. Walking south along Park Lane he hailed a taxi, told the driver to put him down by the Regent Palace Hotel. Sitting back in the cab, he looked out at London. Sleazier and sleazier, he thought, almost as bad as New York these days, too many god-damn coloureds around. Getting out at the Regent Palace he walked along Denman Street, past the tobacco shop with its card-index of prostitutes behind a glass screen, turned left along Shaftesbury Avenue and then left again, then right, then left. Moving through the Soho rabbit warren he rang three times at a paint-peeled door next to a strip joint.

  His ring was answered by a small, dapper man with a subservient manner. Kries shouldered his way through into a narrow passage with two doors leading off left and a dirty carpeted staircase at the end. Wriggling his bottom as he did so, Lacroix shut the street door behind him. Kries moved his shoulders beneath his jacket like a boxer limbering up. There was a faint smell of North Sea gas; the place was putrid, threadbare. Kries felt dirty already, wondered how the clients put up with it, but reckoned that if you were one of them you just had to settle for something like this in your sex life. Different from Roz and the London Hilton … He said, “Come on, Lacroix. I don’t have all night.”

  Lacroix dipped his head anxiously and led the way up the stairs, where, at the top, cheap scent began to overcome the North Sea gas. He ushered Kries into a room lit by a heavily shaded table lamp. There was a well worn bed, a paper-thin carpet, a cardboard carton that had once held Kleenex tissues beside the bed, and a pair of knickers dangling over the towel rail of a dirty hand-basin. Lacroix’ clients sometimes had weird desires; man orientated, there were yet those who liked to see Lacroix in female attire.

  Lacroix asked, “You like a drink. Whisky?”

  “No. Not in this stinking den. Thanks just the same. Christ, what an outfit.”

  “But m’sieur —”

  “Ah, shut up, you little faggot. If I didn’t need you, Jesus, I’d smash you to pulp. Just keep on being needed, Lacroix. Right?” Kries seemed to fill the room both with his body and his bullying personality. “How about asking me to sit down? I sure appreciate politeness.”

  “But I thought —”

  “The chairs were too filthy stinking lousy dirty. So they are. I’ll stand.” Kries brought out a handkerchief and held it to his nose. Through it, somewhat muffled, he said, “You know what I’ve come for.”

  Lacroix nodded. “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  “He has been in touch, the Hoof. Since he came in from Paris —”

  “That’s what I was hoping. Go on, Lacroix.”

  “He telephoned, m’sieur. To say he had reached London.”

  “Yeah?”

  Lacroix said, “That is all, m’sieur.”

  “All. It is, is it, Lacroix?” The voice was flat, dangerous.

  Lacroix nodded, his small, thin face tightening up, eyes darting. “Yes, m’sieur. The Hoof, he did not say where he was going.”

  “Nor where he was calling from?”

  “No, nor that, m’sieur.”

  “You god-damn little fag.” Suddenly, Kries reached out. He laid hold of the Frenchman’s neck, squeezed hard, shook the meagre body like a dog with a rat. The face mottled, the tongue came out, pink and wet. A whining sound emerged from the throat and a frothy foam appeared around the lips. Kries let go of the throat and gave Lacroix a shove that sent him backwards to crash against the knicker-draped basin. Lacroix fell to the floor and grovelled. There were tears streaming down his cheeks. When he found his voice he spoke with the voice of a whipped child.

  “M’sieur, it is not my fault if the Hoof —”

  “All right, it’s not your fault. But it’ll be your fault if you don’t find out where he is, all right? You do that.”

  “I will try —”

  “I said you’ll find out. I’ll call you tomorrow morning. Use that grapevine of yours, Lacroix. If you don’t, I’ll be back. And remember this: you breathe just one word out of place to anyone at all and you’re as good as dead. Get me?”

  Kries left the room. Down the stairs, into the dimly lit street. Outside, a man was about to press the bell. As Kries came out, the man turned and fled, heels scuttering along the sidewalk, a dirty raincoat flapping behind him. Kries gave a grim smile. Back home in the States he’d often been taken for a plain clothes cop. He had the look and it wasn’t altogether phoney: once, he’d been a cop. Many times he wished he still was, apart from the money.

  He walked into Piccadilly and hailed another cab. Back at the Hilton, Roz was waiting. About a quarter of the Scotch had gone. “Overdoing it, honeybunch,” Kries said with loving disapproval.

  Roz giggled. “You’d better not!”

  “Point taken.” Kries grinned, picked her up, swung her in the air. She shrieked: his grip had been a trifle overstrong. He put her down and gave her a great big kiss. That night they
dined at Quaglino’s, very expensively. They didn’t stay late: Kries was eager. He said, when they had undressed, “Now, lovey duck,” and ran his big killer’s hands over her body. He was tenderness itself.

  *

  The Frenchman did his best: he had some good contacts and he used them, scared for his life if they should fail him. They did fail him; they knew nothing at all of the Hoof’s movements, didn’t even know he’d come to Britain from France. Two of them had never heard of the Hoof at all. Lacroix trembled. One of his contacts said he might be able to find out by dropping words into the pool as it were, but he’d certainly need more time than just until next morning.

  Lacroix knew he was in much danger. Not just from Kries. If the Hoof got the word he was being looked for, he might react. Lacroix knew the Hoof’s reputation. Lacroix knew that he could find himself crushed between the two men, but the most pressing was Kries, because Kries was positively here in London. He hadn’t said where he was staying but, knowing Kries, Lacroix guessed it wouldn’t be far off. Kries was West End orientated, nothing but the best. Ritz, Savoy, Berkeley, Hilton, Grosvenor House, a few others. From one of those high-life establishments death might come for Marcel Lacroix.

  It was a long, long night. Kries lay in ecstasy with lovey duck, strangler’s hands groping, while Lacroix turned a deaf ear to his telephone, not feeling in the least like work, and wept and trembled, knowing that he might never again see la belle France, the Sofitel and the Hotel Tourville coming into view as the ferry entered the outer port of Cherbourg and approached the quay. It was too much to be borne but there was a way out from under Kries if not from under the Hoof. Just one certain way. Earl Denver Kries certainly hadn’t got clean hands.

  It took some courage nevertheless and a good deal of thought. Decision was reached next morning. At nine o’clock Lacroix went out and dialled the Yard. After that — just as a precaution — he made arrangements to change his address.