Without Lawful Authority

by Manning Coles

  Eventually he pitched on two as being the least unlikely—that is, provided the right man was in Ostend at all, of which there was no proof—and he kept an unobtrusive eye upon both of them. Denton was strolling languidly along the sea front one morning with, strange to relate, one of the two possibles also strolling along about twenty paces ahead of him, when two obviously English travellers stopped Blackbeard and asked him the way to the head post office. Denton interested himself in a shop-window and heard the man describing the route in English without a trace of an accent. Yet when they were crushed together an hour later in the overfull bar of the Malplaquet and Denton said, “Beastly crowded, what?” in weary tones, he was answered with a blank stare and a brusque “Pardon? Ne comprends.”

  “You want to take up a Pelman course,” thought Denton; “your memory’s very bad. Either that, or you’re a liar.” When he discovered that the other Blackbeard was a well-known local dentist Denton eliminated him from the contest and concentrated upon this one.

  The following evening Blackbeard went out for a stroll, and Denton also felt that a little fresh air before dinner would do him good. Blackbeard made one or two calls in the course of his walk and arrived back at the Malplaquet to find Denton having an apéritif in the lounge and being talked to in an animated manner by a spinster lady of uncertain age who was one of the permanent residents of the hotel. Dinner having been dealt with, Denton was standing in the hall lighting a cigarette for the same lady when Blackbeard came hastily towards the door, bearing a suitcase in his hand, tipped the porter, and passed out into the night. Denton, saying, “Excuse me, I’ve just remembered a funny story I’ve got to tell a man,” left his companion abruptly and went out after Blackbeard, who had just got into a taxi and slammed the door. The car moved off.

  There was a second taxi standing by the pavement just behind the first, and Denton, without stopping to think, sprang into it. “Follow that taxi in front,” he said, and shut his door also. The driver nodded and obeyed.

  “I think I’m a fool,” said Denton as the car started. “I’m sure I’m a fool.” He looked round the taxi and noticed that the handles by which one opens the windows had both been removed. “I am a drivelling nitwit,” he added, and tried the doors, neither of which would open. At the top of the street the first taxi turned to the right while his turned left. “Fancy being had for a mug by this old trick at my time o’ life. They will now drive me out into the dunes and bump me off, and it serves me right.” He found comfort in the thought of a small automatic in his hip pocket. “In all the best thrillers this is where they introduce a subtle gas into the cab; a by-pass from the exhaust would do. Carbon monoxide.” The street lights thinned out and ceased, and the taxi drove steadily on into the darkness.

  10. Pork and Diamonds

  When the typist at the Regent Palace had finished the first chapter of Dark Deeds in Kent, Warnford thanked her warmly, paid what was owing, and drifted into the entrance hall. He looked round casually but could see nothing of the two men who had asked him ten minutes earlier whether he had made a telephone call from the hotel that morning. He was convinced they were still on the premises, so he gave the long envelope addressed to Hambledon to the reception clerk to hand to them and walked out.

  The first necessity was to find his Bentley, and he went to the police station nearest his flat. There he explained that he had been to a party the night before in the Bayswater Road, had left his car down a side turning, and when he came out at about 2 a.m. the Bentley had gone. He thought the car might have been borrowed by friends, so he had taken no steps in the matter till he had made sure, but there was now no doubt it had been stolen, and could the police kindly do something about it?

  Two days later the police telephoned to tell him that the Bentley had been found abandoned on a car park at Dover, one of those parks with a two-hour time limit. When the attendant went off duty the Bentley had been there for six hours already, so he informed the police, who removed it. Warnford would be able to retrieve it on application to the Dover police. He should take his driving licence with him and the car’s registration book, if available.

  “So Blackbeard skipped it to the Continent,” said Marden. “We put the wind up him at Frog Farm.”

  “Yes,” said Warnford thoughtfully. “I’m still trying to remember where I’ve seen him before, but I can’t. Well, I’m going to Dover, and I shan’t be any longer than I can help.”

  The station sergeant replaced the receiver after kindly acknowledging Warnford’s thanks and looked with awakening curiosity at the papers before him. “Something funny about this case,” he remarked.

  “Why?” asked the inspector.

  “Why, sir, because the car’d been standing on that park in Dover for six hours before the police took it in at 11 p.m., and he didn’t miss it from Bayswater till two o’clock the following morning.”

  “Some party,” said the inspector.

  “I suppose it is the same car?”

  “That’s up to the Dover police. Perhaps the party started the day before and just flowed on without his noticing the time. He did look a bit as though he’d had a night out.”

  At the first quiet spot on the road home from Dover, Warnford stopped the car and looked under the driver’s seat. The King’s Messenger’s satchel was still there; a hasty but thorough search convinced Warnford that the contents had been neither added to nor subtracted from. He drove back to London, singing a little song.

  Warnford regained his flat without incident, told Ashling to put the car away and lock the garage doors, and took the precious satchel upstairs to Marden.

  “Here it is, all present and correct.”

  “That’s one good thing anyway,” said the ex-burglar, laying down a letter he was reading. “I’m very glad to hear it.”

  “I can now give myself the pleasure of ringing up Hambledon and telling him all is well. I’ll do it now.” Warnford went to the telephone but returned almost immediately. “He’s out; he might be back about six. Well, there’s no violent hurry.”

  “No,” said Marden.

  “Anything the matter?”

  “Yes. I told you Palmer—the fence down in Hoxton—was trying to get me to sell him all the Desmond diamonds at once, didn’t I? Here’s his Final Notice before taking action; he ought to have written it in red ink like the income-tax people—blast him!” Marden threw the letter across the table for Warnford to read; it was quite short and said merely, “If you do not do as I ask within two days from now you know what I’ll do about it and no more kidding.”

  “Swine,” said Warnford thoughtfully.

  “I wish somebody’d stick him. I wish he’d get run over. Here am I, just settling down all happy and comfortable, and he sticks his blasted oar in. You see what comes next, don’t you? If I sold him the diamonds it wouldn’t be long before the screw was put on again to get him something else. I’d like to push him under a bus. I’d like to throw him in the river, tied to a sack of coals. I’d like to take him up in an aeroplane and drop him into the North Sea. I’d like to blow him up with dynamite——”

  “Dynamite,” said Warnford. “I’ve got an idea. Could you break open his safe?”

  “If I had ten minutes alone with it, yes. Why?”

  “There’s your dynamite.”

  “What? The satchel?”

  “If that was in his safe and Hambledon found it there I think you’d have to employ another fence for the rest of your diamonds.”

  “It’s an idea,” said Marden. “There might be some other stuff in there too; I shouldn’t wonder. I expect he’s got, or soon will have, that American woman’s rubies that were pinched from the Park Lane Hotel last week. He certainly had the Catherden Manor collection of miniatures—mainly Cosways—he probably has them still. Recognizable stuff like that is generally a slow deal; that’s why he pays so little for them. Pearls are the same. Oh, and he had the coins from Barkham Abbey too; Collard told me so last week.”

  �
��A careful plan of campaign is necessary,” said Warnford. “Tomorrow’s Sunday; we’ve got twenty-four hours to think up something.”

  On Monday morning Edward Palmer received a letter from Marden. It was a trifle truculent in tone and suggested that the said Palmer was the sort of man who’d poison his grandmother and then sell the flowers off her grave, but it agreed to let him have the balance of the Desmond diamonds all together. Marden added haughtily that it was not convenient to bring them to Hoxton and suggested a meeting at Palmer’s City office at 9 p.m. on the following day, Tuesday, September the 6th, 1938. A reply confirming the appointment should be sent by return of post.

  Palmer read it and laughed. “On your ’igh ’orse, eh? ’Oo’d think you was a jailbird once and soon will be again? Never mind, me lord; I’ll twist you for that.” He wrote, agreeing to the time and place for the meeting, and Marden received the answer on Tuesday morning. He went out and bought a couple of strong door bolts while Warnford rang up the Foreign Office. He was more fortunate this time; a voice at the other end said, “Hambledon, Foreign Office, speaking.”

  “Good morning,” said Warnford. “It’s me again. Do you know Tilmore Street, Hoxton?”

  “Not yet,” said Hambledon hopefully.

  “Forty-seven Tilmore Street—four seven—is the home of one Edward Palmer, a pork butcher. He is also a receiver of stolen goods. He’s got some nice stolen goods in his safe,” said Warnford with emphasis.

  “Oh, has he? Very interesting.”

  “Only one of the items will interest you, I think, but the police will be definitely thrilled over the rest. In the stately courts of Scotland Yard there will be ceremonial dances.”

  “I shall look forward to seeing them.”

  “If you will obtain a search warrant and a suitable posse of police and enter the house at exactly nine forty-five tonight, a happy time will, I hope, be had by one and all.”

  “At 9:45 p.m.?” repeated Hambledon, making a note on the corner of his blotting paper.

  “Yes. I’m sorry if it’s an inconvenient hour, but it’s the only one possible under the circumstances. Can you make it exactly nine forty-five?”

  “I’ll make a point of it. Will you be there?”

  “Good lord, no,” said Warnford in horrified tones. “I’m not a policeman, nor—except in rare cases—a receiver of stolen goods.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. I mean,” added Hambledon hastily, “I’m sorry you won’t be there. I was hoping to meet you. Look here, why be so mysterious? I am deeply in your debt already, and if this comes off I shall owe you more than I can say. I want to talk to you.”

  “Thanks most awfully; I should like it too. But I don’t want you to know who I am just yet. I have a reason for that. I’ll tell you all about it someday when I’ve cleared something up. At nine forty-five tonight, then, you will be at 47 Tilmore Street?”

  “I shall attend in person,” said Hambledon, and there was a click at the far end of the line. Hambledon rose from his chair, took his hat from its peg, looked at it thoughtfully for a moment, and then flung it up to the ceiling. He then retrieved it from the wastepaper basket into which it fell, avoided his secretary’s eye, and went out to find Denton.

  * * *

  “My City office,” was the dignified name Palmer applied to one grubby attic room on the fourth floor of a dingy building in a turning off Moorgate Street. Nobody lived there except the caretaker who inhabited the basement; the rest of the house was let off as offices to firms of varying importance; the higher, the less eminent. Most of the tenants went away at five or six in the evening, but there were usually one or two working late for one reason or another, and the front doors were never locked till after ten o’clock or even later. On this Tuesday evening at half-past eight a tall young man came rushing in as one late for an appointment and made for the stairs. He passed the caretaker on the first flight and, saying hastily, “Mr. Green not gone, has he?” dashed on upwards two steps at a time without waiting for an answer. The caretaker merely murmured, “I dunno; ’ow should I know?” and retired to the basement.

  Warnford proceeded more quietly as he went up. There was a light showing through glass door panels on the first and second floors, none on the third floor, and none on the fourth. He produced a gimlet, a screw driver, two bolts, and some screws from his pocket and set to work on a door which had a printed card in a brass frame on it; the name was E. M. Palmer, no profession mentioned. In ten minutes Warnford had finished his job, put his tools back in his pocket, and looked up at the light. It was out of reach of most men, but he had long arms; he wrapped his handkerchief round his fingers and removed the electric bulb. Only a dim light came up the stairs from the lights below and did not illuminate the darker corners of the top landing. He buried the bulb in a sand bucket. “I don’t think you’ll notice those bolts now,” he murmured, and went unhurriedly away without meeting the caretaker again.

  Warnford returned to the point where he had left the Bentley with Marden inside and said, “All’s well so far, and I’ve doused the light on the top landing. It is now a quarter to nine; if Palmer’s punctual we should just fit the other job in comfortably.”

  The Bentley was standing at a point not too near the door of the offices, but near enough to see who came in or went out. Marden pulled his hat over his eyes and sat low in the car, watching the passers-by; there were very few people about in the City at that hour. The time dragged slowly on, and presently all the neighbouring clocks struck the hour.

  “Hope he’s not going to be late,” said Marden uneasily.

  “If he comes in the next ten minutes it’ll do,” said Warnford. “Only just, but we should manage.”

  “I don’t want to sandbag his housekeeper,” said Marden. “We want time to persuade her.”

  “What’s he like to look at?”

  “Big fat man, pasty-faced blighter—here he comes.” Marden bent down hastily as one searching for something dropped, and Warnford watched a large man in an alpaca overcoat and smoking a fat cigar turn in from Moorgate Street and enter the building.

  “There’s your bird. Give him a minute or two to get well inside; he may mess about trying to switch on the landing light. Just a little longer. Yes, I should think you could go now. Best of luck.”

  When Marden reached the top floor Palmer’s door was ajar; when he heard footsteps he turned towards it.

  “You’re late,” he began, but instead of the door opening wider it was suddenly shut, and the rattle of bolts sounded from outside.

  “That’s done that bit,” said Marden, returning to the car.

  “Good,” said Warnford. “Just timed it nicely.”

  The Bentley flashed through the streets and stopped round a corner off Tilmore Street; Marden went first to number forty-seven with Warnford lagging behind. They were both carrying small attaché cases.

  Marden knocked at the door and when the housekeeper opened it asked if Mr. Palmer was in.

  “No, ’e’s out.”

  “Not really? I arranged to meet him here tonight; it’s very urgent. You know me.”

  “Yes, sir. ’E’s only just this moment gone; ’e said ’e’d be about an hour.”

  Marden exhibited disappointment and vexation and asked if she had any idea where he’d gone. He knew Palmer never told his housekeeper anything.

  “Sorry, no idea.”

  “I can’t possibly wait an hour or more. Look here, I’d better come in and write him a note. There’s paper and pens in his room.”

  The woman hesitated, but Marden overruled her, and they passed upstairs together to the sitting room in which Palmer interviewed clients when he was at home. There was a large desk in the middle of the room and an even larger safe in the corner. Marden sat down at the desk, selected a sheet of paper and a pen, dated the letter, and paused for thought. “Dear Palmer,” he wrote, and drummed with his fingers on the desk. “Damned awkward, this is,” he said aloud. “I can’t think how he came to be
out tonight.”

  “Must be some mistake,” said the woman, who was fidgeting round the room instead of going away. He had expected her to insist on staying there. Just as Marden was writing, “There seems to have been some mistake,” there came a knock at the front door.

  “Now who’s that?” said the woman, and moved uncertainly towards the door.

  “Another visitor, I suppose,” said Marden indifferently, and went on writing.

  “P’raps ’e’ll go away.”

  “Maybe,” said Marden, but after a short pause the knock was repeated.

  “Oh well, s’pose I’d best go and see,” said the woman, and drifted off downstairs. When she opened the front door she found a tall man outside who took off his hat politely and said, “Good evening, madam. You have a Hoover, I believe.”

  “Yus, I ’ave,” she said, making to shut the door, “an’ I don’t want another.”

  “Naturally not, madam,” said Warnford, putting his foot in the way of the door. “I must apologize for calling so late, but I’ve been delayed——”

  “I don’t want nothin’, I tell you. Take your foot out or I’ll——”

  “I don’t want you to buy anything, madam. The Hoover people have sent me round——” There followed a long story about a new fitting for brushing clothes, a gadget which, in point of fact, Ashling had persuaded Warnford to get only a week earlier. The company did not wish the lady to buy it; they only wanted to leave it with her for a week on trial. If after that time she didn’t want to keep it she could hand it back and there would be no argument and no charge. It really was a very useful fitting for furniture as well as clothes.