Despite the Evidence

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Kywood and I will be in the captain’s cabin. We’ll be in direct contact with the communications van.

  ‘Remember, the things to look out for are a group of people, possibly dressed as stevedores, or two or more vehicles in close company, approaching the ship. The dock railway engines are under close guard so there’s no chance of one of them being used by the villains and two patrol boats will be in the river. . . . That’s it, then. Any questions?’

  There was none.

  Fusil handed the pointer to the nearest P.C. and pulled back the cuff of his coat to look at his watch. ‘We move off into position in five minutes. In forty minutes the convoy will be crossing into the borough boundaries and in approximately one hour, depending on traffic, it will enter the docks by gate number seven.

  ‘One last warning. If you see anything at all unusual, anything even in the slightest degree suspicious, report it. I’d rather suffer twenty false reports than that the one vital piece of information doesn’t reach me.’

  ‘God help the poor bastard who feeds you twenty false alarms,’ murmured a P.C. who’d once had to work with Fusil.

  *

  Rowan knelt on a cushion in the back of a Morris van and looked through the small hole in the side. He was just able to see into Tarbard’s office at the White Angel. Some sort of party was going on.

  A woman came close to the window. Somehow, she irresistibly reminded him of Heather — perhaps because of her hair style. He hated the unknown woman.

  A message came through the radio. ‘Hullo, Tango Tango Two. Anything to report? Charlie Bravo, over.’

  Rowan reached across the passenger seat and unclipped the telephone-like speaker. ‘Hullo, Charlie Bravo. No movement. Tango Tango Two, over and out.’

  *

  Kywood paced restlessly across the deck of the captain’s day-room, turned, and stared angrily at Fusil. He looked to be about to speak, but in the end said nothing, turned on his heels, and resumed his pacing.

  Fusil chewed on his pipe. The electric slave repeater clock on the bulkhead ticked on another half-minute. Twenty minutes to sailing time and still Tarbard was at the party. The jewellery was safely stowed in the strong-room, the door into the hold had been double locked and sealed, some cargo had been piled in front of it, the hatch covers were on number three and at this moment the stevedores were pulling over the tarpaulins. It was difficult to believe an attempt to steal the jewellery would be made now.

  The radio on the table crackled into life. ‘Hullo, Charlie Bravo. Two empty lorries approaching. One five, out.’

  Fusil and Kywood crossed to the table where was a plan of the docks by the side of the radio. Red and blue figures identified the positions in which men and mobiles were waiting. One five was one berth away, to the east. The ship was heading west so that it was useless to look through the ports.

  They waited.

  ‘Hullo, Charlie Bravo. Lorries past. One four, out.’

  A quick look at the plan showed one four to be almost abeam of the ship. Fusil felt the sweat prickle his back. Were the villains making their play this late because no one could reasonably expect anything to happen now? Yet Tarbard hadn’t made a move.

  ‘Hullo, Charlie Bravo. Lorries past. One three, out.’

  One three was to the west of the ship. Fusil hurried to the nearest port and stared out. It was dark, now, but in the powerful shore lights, set high up on the walls of the warehouses, he could clearly see the articulated lorries, empty, as they bounced and rattled over the rough road surface and the lines along which ran the travelling cranes. He watched their rear lights until hidden behind the massive bulk of a liner.

  The clock ticked on, every tick sharp and metallic in note. The captain, short and tubby, with good-humoured face, came into the day-room. ‘Well, gentlemen, we’re singled up, the pilot’s aboard, and the tugs are fast. We ought to be sailing inside five minutes.’

  They heard from above the harsh jangling of telegraphs being tested and answered from the engine-room.

  Kywood looked at Fusil with bitter dislike, then managed to find a few words of thanks for the captain before leaving. Fusil transmitted the last message over the radio. ‘Hullo, all stations. Securing and going ashore. Charlie Bravo, out.’ He told the captain a P.C. would collect the radio, shook hands, and left.

  As soon as all the police had disembarked, cranes lifted up the gangways. The pilot gave orders to the tugs by whistle and they began to take the strain. The after stern rope and backspring were cast off and hauled inboard.

  The after tug eased her stern out. Bow rope and, last of all, for’d backspring were cast off. Steaming lights were switched on. The water boiled round the Bren Mattock’s stern as the engines were used to help swing her and head her downstream.

  One of the tugs hooted in answer to an order from the pilot, but the sound held a derisory note for the police on the dockside as they prepared to leave and return to borough or county H.Q.s.

  *

  Kywood’s anger was so great that he didn’t bluster or shout, but spoke with heavy sarcasm. ‘It’s been a really great day’s work for the department! One that’s going to be remembered for a long, long time!’ He stamped across the floor of Fusil’s office. ‘The borough force on full alert and upsetting all the schedules and the county force brought in to the tune of God knows how many hundreds of pounds. . . . And what happens? Nothing. Plain, bloody nothing. You couldn’t have done better if you’d tried — d’you know that?’

  Fusil fidgeted with a pencil. ‘The facts . . .’

  ‘Facts? Facts? Would you recognise one if you came face to face with it? You know what you did, don’t you? You took a number of totally unrelated cases and somehow managed to persuade yourself that Tarbard turned up in each one of ’em, like a bloody pantomime genie. The rawest recruit, still wet behind the ears . . .’

  ‘I know I’m right.’

  ‘There’s one thing you don’t lack and that’s a goddamn stiff neck!’

  ‘Look, sir, we’ve got to warn the ship that some sort of attempt may be made at sea and . . .’

  ‘You take one more step in this business, Bob, and so help me I swear I’ll see you’re out of the force before you know what’s happened. Goddamn it, haven’t I enough trouble as it is? What am I to say to the chief constable? How can I . . .?’

  *

  Josephine, sitting to the right of the fire, in their sitting-room, held her chin a little higher. ‘I don’t care what that old fool said.’

  Fusil, looking tired and defeated, stared at the fire. ‘There are times when I have to, though.’

  She knitted five stitches, clacking the needles together with unnecessary force, then said: ‘To hell with him, the chief constable, and the watch committee. You worked yourself silly when all they were doing was sitting on their fat backsides and watching the telly.’

  ‘That’s their privilege.’

  ‘Bob, snap out of it.’

  He looked at her. ‘When the itemised bill comes in from county . . .’

  ‘Send it on to this precious committee and tell ’em to pay up and smile.’

  ‘They’ll have to pay, all right, but they certainly won’t smile. In their books it will be catastrophe. Half of them will probably have a thrombosis on the spot.’

  ‘Good riddance. They’d all have looked damned silly if you’d done nothing because of the cost and then there’d been the theft.’

  ‘Quite. But it didn’t happen that way.’

  ‘If they start howling, resign.’ She spoke proudly. ‘You’ll get a better job, any day of the week.’

  He spoke softly. ‘I love you, Jo.’

  She smiled at him, her expression of bitter, stubborn anger gone in a flash.

  *

  Kerr, on the settee in the front room of the Barley house, put his hand on Helen’s blouse. ‘There’s a button undone. Shall I do it up?’

  ‘You can just leave it alone, thank you very much. I’ll do
whatever’s necessary.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, except I don’t trust you an inch. Before I know what’s what, you’ll be trying to undo the lot.’

  He grinned a little smugly and then leaned over and kissed the lobe of her ear.

  She sighed. ‘Come on, John, you’d better get off home. It’s nearly midnight. Daddy will be down soon to see what’s going on.’

  ‘Not him. He’s too good a sport.’

  She stood up. ‘Well, I’m tired. And you look as though you’re three-parts asleep.’

  ‘Nonsense. I’m fine.’ Before he could stop himself he yawned heavily.

  ‘I do wish they wouldn’t make you work so hard.’

  ‘It won’t be so bad now the big flap’s over.’ He reluctantly stood up. ‘Tell you one thing. Fusil will be feeling sick.’

  ‘I feel so sorry for him.’

  ‘So do I.’ He grinned. ‘But damned if I know why!’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Dawn came slowly, because of the heavy cloud, and it was some time before the division between sky and sea was clear. The chief officer of the Bren Mattock kept watch from inside the wheelhouse whilst the fourth officer was out on the lee wing, sometimes pacing the wing, sometimes leaning on the wooden dodgers. There was little wind and for December it was warm.

  The sea and swell ran together but were slight and the ship was hardly moving to them. The bow wave curled and broke into an orderly, never-ending welter of foam and the slapping noise of this could clearly be heard on the bridge. On the ladder of the foremast an Irish pennant flapped in the breeze of the ship’s passage. The chief officer saw it and made a mental note to tell the bos’un to remove it. The A.B. at the wheel put on three spokes to starboard and then, as the gyro repeater clicked, returned the wheel to amidships. The ship’s head came back on course.

  A telephone buzzed. The chief officer turned and crossed to the row of telephones on the after starboard bulkhead and lifted the one to the crow’s nest. ‘Bridge.’

  ‘Look out. There’s a large yacht three points to port and she’s in trouble. Her ensign’s upside down.’

  The chief officer replaced the telephone and crossed to the for’d lockers where he picked up a pair of binoculars. ‘Fourth,’ he shouted, as he hurried out to the port wing, ‘warn the engine-room to stand by.’

  He searched the sea approximately thirty-five degrees on the bow and after a short time saw a large, sea-going cruiser as she came lazily up on a slight sea. She was obviously stopped and the red ensign at her mast was flying upside down in the international signal of distress. As he watched, flames billowed up from aft and these were topped by thick, oily, black smoke. The boat dipped out of sight on the swell, but her position was marked by the smoke.

  ‘Stop both,’ he ordered.

  The fourth officer put both handles of the engine room telegraph to stop. There was only a brief pause before the engine room indicators came round to stop with a jangling of bells. The chief officer called out, ‘Port ten.’

  The helmsman repeated the order and put on port helm.

  ‘Fourth,’ ordered the chief officer, ‘tell the captain we’ve sighted a motor cruiser on fire.’

  As the fourth entered the wheelhouse, the whistle of the captain’s voice-pipe shrilly sounded. The fourth pulled out the plug and made the report.

  The captain arrived on the bridge in under a minute, half his face covered in shaving cream, a dressing-gown over vest and trousers. The stand-by was called and ordered to tell the bos’un to rig a Jacob’s ladder from the main deck just for’d of the accommodation bulkhead: the chief officer was detailed to strip the canvas cover off one of the powered lifeboats, to get an engineer to start the motor, and to make certain a full crew was ready if it became necessary to launch the lifeboat.

  The Bren Mattock came round and approached the motor cruiser from downwind, not daring even in so light a wind to risk being blown on to the cruiser. The chief officer returned to the bridge, having given orders to prepare the boat and the captain handed him the glasses. ‘They’re lucky — the fire can’t have been going long.’

  The chief officer saw that there was little evidence of damage to the cruiser, but neither he nor the captain attached any significance to this other than the obvious one — that rescue had come almost as soon as the fire had started. While he watched through the glasses, a man with a beard came out of the wheelhouse and waved.

  ‘Call them on the loud hailer, Chief, and ask them if they’ve still power and can manœuvre alongside us. That’ll save us having to lower the boat.’

  The chief officer switched on the loud hailer and his metallic-toned voice boomed out. The bearded man raised his arm to signal that the cruiser could be brought round.

  The captain began to wonder about the possibilities of salvage.

  *

  The bearded Tarbard, peak cap pulled down well over his forehead, returned to the wheelhouse in which the other five men waited. He checked they were ready. He was glad to see that each of them was in his own way showing signs of tension.

  Cantor, his face swathed in bandages, stood by the side of the man at the helm and said: ‘Starboard five . . . Five degrees, not fifty, you bloody git.’ His voice was high. Another man, with bandaged face, continuously snapped on and off the safety catch of his light, Spanish-built Parinco submachine gun.

  Tarbard watched the distance between them and the ship narrow. Everything was going to depend on the first few seconds. He, Cantor, and Thomas, couldn’t carry submachine guns because initially they had to be received as genuine survivors — therefore, until the last three men with the overwhelming fire-power of the submachine guns boarded, the crew had to be held at bay by a force they could, if they overcame the initial shock and had the collective courage, overwhelm.

  ‘’Midships,’ said Cantor, now almost whispering, as if those aboard the Bren Mattock could hear.

  They were coming alongside. Tarbard felt the butt of the .38 revolver in his right-hand pocket, then he went out on deck and caught the line that was thrown down from above and he made this fast to a cleat. The cruiser thumped the ship’s hull with enough force to make him momentarily hold on to a stanchion for support.

  He climbed the Jacob’s ladder feeling totally exposed and it needed all his iron self-control not to experience some degree of panic.

  He reached the rails and climbed over them. A number of the crew were on deck and in their obvious interest there was no suggestion of alarm. The chief officer spoke: ‘Have you anyone who needs medical help? We haven’t a doctor aboard, but we’ll radio for one if necessary. What about the chaps who are bandaged?’

  ‘They’ll be all right,’ said Tarbard. Where the hell were Thomas and Cantor? They ought to have been immediately. . . . Cantor scrambled over the rails.

  ‘Are you sure the injuries aren’t serious?’ said the chief officer, looking at the bandaging which covered most of Cantor’s face.

  ‘It’s all right,’ muttered Tarbard. Then he heard Thomas board. ‘Move,’ he shouted, at the top of his voice. He pulled the .38 from his pocket and cocked it with his thumb as he heard Thomas run towards the accommodation and the ladder up to the wireless-room on the boat-deck. A flashing look down at the motor cruiser showed the last of the three men was reaching for the ladder.

  Initially, the chief officer and the other crew members stared at Tarbard and Cantor with shocked surprise and disbelief. Then the chief officer, showing a disconcerting degree of initiative, shouted to rush the two gunmen. An A.B. led them forward.

  Tarbard fired and the A.B. collapsed to the deck, clutching his stomach with both hands and crying out from the sudden and excruciating pain. This murderous brutality abruptly stopped the men and they had not moved before the first gunman armed with a submachine gun climbed over the rails. Now the crew didn’t stand a chance.

  *

  In the gathering darkness of Wednesday evening the Bren Mattock altere
d course to starboard. Tarbard went from the wing of the bridge into the wheelhouse, past the helmsman, and picked up the engine-room telegraph in his gloved hand. He pressed the call button. ‘Half an hour,’ he said, when the call was answered.

  Cantor, his face itching under the bandages, came clattering down the ladder from the monkey island. He went through the wheelhouse to the chart-room and plotted the cross-bearings on lighthouses he had just taken. He reported to Tarbard. ‘On course.’

  Those words described the whole operation, thought Tarbard with pride. There had been that one moment of defiance from the crew, but a single shot had brought it to an end and within a quarter of an hour all the officers and crew, with the exception of the A.B. at the wheel and two engineers below, had been packed into the officers’ smoke-room where they’d stayed behind the locked door in growing discomfort.

  They’d had no trouble in breaking into the strong-room and then ripping open the packing cases to get to the jewellery. The jewels had been wrenched out of their laboriously and lovingly made settings and the gold, platinum, and silver had been hammered into crude ingots. The diamonds had filled one suitcase and the remaining gem stones another: the rough ingots were in a couple of duffel bags. . . . The house with the hill beyond was his.

  He saw steaming lights to starboard and turned to draw Cantor’s attention to them, but Cantor had already seen them. It was soon apparent that the ships were on converging courses and Cantor gave the order to alter course to starboard. The Bren Mattock and the unknown vessel passed each other.

  Tarbard left the bridge and went down the starboard ladder and along the boat-deck, lit by bulkhead lights, to the last of the three lifeboats — the one the crew had prepared much earlier that day for the ‘rescue’. The boat was typically clumsy in lines and could make only three or four knots in perfect conditions, but they’d leave the ship less than a mile off the Devon coast. With the wireless and all visual signalling equipment smashed, it would be a relatively long time before news of the robbery could be given and by then he and all the others would have vanished.