Hardcastle's Traitors

by Graham Ison

  Once in his office, Hardcastle took the unusual step of inviting Marriott to take a seat. ‘Well, m’boy,’ he said, lapsing into a rare informality, ‘I don’t suppose you and Mrs Marriott had much time to celebrate the New Year before you got called out.’ He took a bottle of Scotch and two glasses from a drawer in his desk and poured a substantial amount into each.

  ‘Your good health, guv’nor, and a Happy New Year to you and Mrs H,’ said Marriott, following his chief’s familiarity of address, and took a swig of whisky.

  ‘And to you and Mrs Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, taking a sip of his Scotch. ‘Now, m’boy,’ he continued thoughtfully, placing his glass in the centre of the blotter, ‘we’ve got to work out how we’re going to catch two murdering tealeaves who’ve taken to using a motor car to get away from the scene of their crime.’ Taking out his pipe, he began to fill it with his favourite St Bruno tobacco. ‘These young villains have got no respect for the law, that’s the trouble. If things go on like this the police will have to get some motor cars of their own to chase ’em with.’ He chuckled at such a preposterous idea. ‘Which reminds me,’ he continued, ‘we’d better find out what we can about the car that Partridge saw them driving off in.’

  ‘Bit of a long shot, sir, given that we don’t have a description of it.’

  ‘Ah, but we do …’ Hardcastle paused to light his pipe. ‘According to Partridge it was an open tourer with a hood and white-sided tyres. There can’t be too many of them about. That’ll do for a start. Best send a message to all stations just in case they’re wide enough awake to have seen a car with tyres what’s painted white.’ But by the tone of his voice it was apparent to Marriott that the DDI held out little hope for achieving such a profitable result.

  ‘I’ll get on to it, immediately, guv’nor,’ said Marriott, and returned to his office where he spent ten minutes drafting a message about the car that Sidney Partridge had seen. He took it downstairs to the constable responsible for sending teleprinter messages and stood over him while he transmitted it to all the stations in the Metropolitan Police District.

  It was getting on for ten o’clock that morning when Hardcastle and Marriott returned to Reuben Gosling’s shop in Vauxhall Bridge Road.

  ‘All correct, sir.’ The policeman posted at the premises drew himself to attention and saluted.

  ‘I should hope so, lad,’ muttered Hardcastle, but as he and Marriott were about to enter the shop the DDI was approached by a man in a shabby raincoat and a soft felt hat. Accompanying him was a younger man carrying a box camera with a flash attachment and a tripod.

  ‘Charlie Simpson, Mr Hardcastle, London Daily Chronicle.’

  ‘Yes, I thought I recognized you, Simpson. What can I do for you? It didn’t take you very long to sniff out a juicy murder.’

  ‘It’s what I’m paid for, guv’nor. Are you close to making an arrest for Reuben Gosling’s murder?’

  ‘You know me well enough to know I’m always close to making an arrest, Simpson, but right now I’m not sure just how close I am.’

  ‘Any chance of getting a few photographs?’ asked Simpson, as his colleague set the camera down on the pavement and stood his open umbrella over it to keep it dry.

  ‘No,’ said Hardcastle firmly.

  ‘Well, can you at least tell me what happened?’

  ‘The body of Reuben Gosling was found in the shop just after midnight, Simpson. He’d been bludgeoned to death and a quantity of jewellery was stolen.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But now you know as much as I do,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott entered the shop leaving a disappointed reporter and his photographer outside in the rain. ‘Having the bloody press nosing about my murder scene and getting in my way is all I need,’ he muttered.

  The DDI hung his hat, coat and umbrella on a hatstand in the corner of the shop, and he and his sergeant began a careful search of the immediate area.

  ‘There’s a footprint here, sir,’ said Marriott, pointing to the impression in Reuben Gosling’s blood, near where the jeweller’s body had been discovered. ‘Might be useful.’

  Hardcastle crossed to where Marriott was standing and examined the print. ‘See if that reporter and his mate are still outside, Marriott. If they are, bring ’em in.’

  Moments later, Marriott returned with Charlie Simpson and the photographer.

  ‘I’ll make a deal with you, Simpson,’ said Hardcastle. ‘You can have a few pictures for your paper, but I want you to take some for me.’

  ‘Just say the word, guv’nor,’ said Simpson. The photographer set up his tripod and moved his camera into position.

  ‘But any that you take for me aren’t to appear in your rag. Is that understood?’

  ‘What’s in it for me, guv’nor?’

  ‘You get your pictures, and seeing as how you’re the only reporter who’s bothered to turn up here, you’ll be the first to know about anything important I come across.’

  ‘Seems fair enough,’ said Simpson.

  ‘Good. So long as we understand each other.’

  ‘Where d’you want me to start?’

  ‘I want a picture of this here footprint, a nice clear one mind, and I want an enlargement of it delivered to Cannon Row police station tout de suite. All right?’

  ‘Good as done, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Simpson. The photographer adjusted the tripod’s position so that his camera covered the bloody footprint and took several close-up shots. ‘All right for him to take a few of the interior now?’ he asked.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Hardcastle. ‘You can have a general one of the shop, one of where the body was found, and a few of the showcases that have been broken into. You can publish all of those, and you can let me have a copy of the showcase pictures.’

  ‘Done,’ said Simpson, and signalled to his colleague to start taking his photographs.

  Once Simpson and the photographer had departed in a cab for Fleet Street, Hardcastle and Marriott resumed their search.

  ‘There’s a button here, sir,’ said Marriott, pointing at the item near one of the burgled showcases.

  ‘I wonder why Catto didn’t find it,’ muttered Hardcastle, as he joined his sergeant.

  ‘It was very dark in here when we first arrived, sir,’ said Marriott, attempting to counter what he thought was another of the DDI’s unfair criticisms of Catto.

  ‘Seems an ordinary sort of button.’ Ignoring Marriott’s comment, Hardcastle picked it up and examined it closely. ‘We might be lucky and find the owner of the coat it came off of,’ he said hopefully. ‘Bring it with you,’ he added, handing the button to Marriott.

  There was nothing further to be found in the shop and the two detectives opened a door marked ‘Private’ and mounted the staircase.

  The jeweller’s living quarters consisted of a sitting room, a bedroom and a kitchenette; each was untidy enough to indicate that Gosling led a bachelor existence. At the rear of the first floor there was a third room, the door of which was locked.

  Entering the bedroom, Hardcastle made straight for the wardrobe. After searching various items of clothing he eventually found a bunch of keys in a pocket of an overcoat.

  ‘Take these keys, Marriott, and see if any of ’em will open that locked door.’

  It took only a few seconds for Marriott to find the correct key. ‘It looks like a storeroom, sir,’ he said, pushing open the door.

  ‘So it does, Marriott, so it does.’ Hardcastle entered the room and gazed around. There were two locked cupboards. ‘Have you got keys for them on that ring?’ he asked.

  ‘Bound to be among this lot, sir.’

  The cupboards that Marriott eventually unlocked proved to be Gosling’s reserve stock of jewellery. There were rings on trays, watches – including the new wristwatches that the DDI dismissed as modern frippery – a collection of pearl necklaces, brooches and a selection of gold alberts.

  ‘I’ll wager our two killers never knew that lot was here, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle.
‘They’d likely have doubled their haul if they had.’

  ‘D’you reckon there were two killers, sir?’

  ‘According to what our friend Partridge next door said, he saw two men making off in a car. For the time being, I’m assuming they were the ones that done the deed. It’s hardly likely that they came across Gosling’s open door and his dead body and decided to take advantage of the situation. If I know anything about villains, Marriott, and I know quite a lot, they’d’ve run a mile.’

  A PC appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Mr Collins is here, sir.’

  ‘Right, tell him I’m coming down.’

  ‘Good morning, Ernie, and a Happy New Year to you,’ said Detective Inspector Collins, as he hung up his coat and hat.

  ‘And to you, Charlie, but right now it’s not shaping up too well.’ Hardcastle described what was known of the murder of Reuben Gosling. ‘One of ’em seems to have cut himself on one of the showcases, Charlie, so I suspect he wasn’t wearing gloves.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, Ernie.’ Collins opened his case and withdrew a magnifying glass. ‘I’ll let you know if we find anything worthwhile.’

  Within minutes of Hardcastle and Marriott returning to Cannon Row police station, Marriott was surprised to find a constable appearing in his office with news of the missing motor car. ‘A telegraph message from Chelsea nick, Sergeant,’ he said, handing the form over.

  Marriott scanned the brief details and crossed the corridor to the DDI’s office. ‘It would appear that a car was stolen on Chelsea’s manor, sir.’

  ‘Does it fit the description?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Yes, sir. An open tourer with what the loser describes as white-walled tyres. According to the message, the vehicle disappeared between eight o’clock last night and seven o’clock this morning, sir. It was an American car called a Haxe-Doulton, manufactured in 1915 and imported from Detroit in Michigan.’

  ‘If that’s the car we’re interested in, Marriott, I think we can narrow the time down to between eight o’clock yesterday evening and shortly before midnight. Where was it nicked from?’

  ‘From outside a house in Flood Street, sir.’

  ‘What’s that, a couple of miles from Vauxhall Bridge Road? Sounds promising, Marriott. Who reported it lost?’

  ‘A man by the name of Sinclair Villiers, sir.’

  Hardcastle took out his hunter and stared at it. Briefly rewinding it, he dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket. ‘Time for lunch, Marriott, and then we’ll have a chat with this here Sinclair Villiers. We’ll make it four o’clock; that’ll give Mr Villiers time to sleep off the New Year festivities.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Marriott with a grin. Lunch for the DDI consisted of a couple of pints of best bitter and a fourpenny cannon in the downstairs bar of the Red Lion public house, immediately outside the west gates of New Scotland Yard.

  As the two detectives were about to leave the police station, a constable presented Hardcastle with a large envelope.

  ‘This just arrived in a cab for you, sir.’

  Hardcastle took the proffered letter and opened it. ‘Ah, the photographs of the footprint and the showcases that Simpson took, Marriott. They’re pretty good, too.’ He turned to the PC. ‘Leave them on my desk, lad.’

  Alighting from their cab, Hardcastle and Marriott mounted the steps of the three-storied house in Flood Street, Chelsea.

  Hardcastle hammered on the knocker. ‘Looks like there’s a bit of sausage and mash here, Marriott,’ he said.

  ‘It certainly looks as if it’s worth a few pounds, sir.’

  ‘Yes?’ A butler opened the door. Sensing that the two detectives were not the usual sort of visitors his master received, he looked down his nose with an air of disdain.

  ‘I’m here to see a Mr Sinclair Villiers,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No, I don’t have an appointment,’ snapped Hardcastle, ‘but perhaps you’d tell your employer that the police wish to speak to him.’

  ‘Step inside,’ said the butler. ‘I’ll enquire if the master is at home.’

  ‘Why are butlers always toffee-nosed flunkeys, Marriott?’ muttered Hardcastle, while they waited for the butler to make his enquiries. ‘Mind you, if this conscription business is brought in, he’ll be off to the Colours a bit tout de suite. That’ll take the edge off of him.’

  ‘If you come with me, the master will see you in the drawing room.’ The butler sniffed and turned to lead the way. His very demeanour gave an impression of surprise that his employer had yielded to Hardcastle’s request for an interview.

  ‘I’m Sinclair Villiers, gentlemen. What’s this about?’ The tall silver-haired man standing in front of a blazing fire was about fifty, and was attired in a maroon smoking jacket. In his right hand he held a cigarette in an amber holder.

  ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, sir, and this here is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’

  ‘Take a seat, gentlemen.’ Villiers glanced at the butler. ‘Bring a decanter of whisky, Henwood.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘I imagine you’ve come to see me about my stolen motor car, Inspector.’

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ said Hardcastle cautiously. ‘If it is your vehicle, I believe it might have been taken in order to carry out a robbery.’

  ‘Good grief!’ exclaimed Villiers. ‘Where was this?’

  ‘At a jeweller’s establishment in Vauxhall Bridge Road.’

  ‘Was much taken?’

  ‘Very likely, sir, but we don’t know for sure yet,’ said Hardcastle. ‘However, that don’t really concern the police so much as the fact that the owner, a man by the name of Reuben Gosling, was murdered in the course of the robbery.’

  ‘Good grief!’ exclaimed Villiers again. ‘It’s this damned war, you know, Inspector. Decent common standards seem to have gone out of the window. Have you caught the murderer yet?’

  ‘Not yet, sir,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but you can rest assured I’ll have him standing on the hangman’s trap before long. Or, I should say, have them waiting for the drop.’

  ‘There was more than one, then?’ Villiers assumed an air of surprise.

  ‘According to a witness at the scene, two men were involved.’

  ‘Have you any idea—?’ Villiers broke off as the butler entered the room bearing a whisky decanter, a soda siphon and three crystal tumblers on a tray. ‘Just put it down over there, Henwood. I’ll deal with it.’ He turned to Hardcastle. ‘I dare say you gentlemen wouldn’t be averse to a dram to celebrate the New Year, eh, Inspector?’

  ‘Most kind, sir,’ murmured Hardcastle, grateful that Villiers had not made the usual fatuous comment about policemen not being permitted to drink on duty.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve found my car yet, have you?’ enquired Villiers, as he handed round the whisky.

  ‘Not yet, sir, but I’ve no doubt it’ll turn up. Thieves of this sort usually abandon a car they’ve used once it’s served its purpose.’ Hardcastle had never before dealt with a murder involving a car, but made the comment as though fully conversant with such a situation. ‘And with any luck, we’ll find that they’ve left their fingerprints all over it.’

  ‘I just hope they haven’t damaged it,’ said Villiers, taking a sip of his Scotch. ‘It’s a valuable motor car, a Haxe-Doulton.’

  ‘So I believe,’ murmured Hardcastle, sampling Villiers’s excellent whisky. ‘This is a very decent malt, if I may say so, sir,’ he said.

  ‘I have it sent direct from Islay,’ said Villiers, waving a deprecating hand in response to the compliment. ‘I imported the car from America just before the war and it cost me over seven hundred pounds plus the cost of having it brought over,’ he said, confirming Hardcastle’s view that the car’s owner was an exceedingly wealthy man.

  ‘Where do you normally keep the car, sir?’ asked Marriott, even though the message from Chelsea had stated that the v
ehicle had been taken from outside Sinclair Villiers’s house.

  Villiers appeared surprised by the question. ‘Outside in the street,’ he said, as though it were an obvious place to park a car. ‘I told the sergeant at Chelsea police station that that’s where it had been left.’

  ‘And you last saw it when?’ queried Hardcastle. He knew that that information had also been contained in the message.

  ‘At eight o’clock last night,’ said Villiers. ‘But, look, Inspector, I told the chap at Chelsea all this.’

  ‘I presume you didn’t go out to celebrate New Year’s Eve, then.’ Hardcastle ignored Villiers’s mild protest; he knew that the information about the car’s theft had been given to the police at Chelsea, but always wanted to hear it first-hand.

  ‘I’m getting a bit too old for that sort of revelry, Inspector. I went to bed at about eleven, read for twenty minutes or so, and didn’t wake up until just gone seven when Henwood brought me my morning tea. He opened the curtains and stared down into the street. Then he turned to face me and told me that the car wasn’t outside. That was the first I knew that it had gone.’

  ‘Does anyone else in the house have permission to drive your car, sir?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘No, I’m here alone, apart from the servants. My wife doesn’t live with me any more. She’s got her own place in Prince of Wales Drive in Battersea,’ said Villiers, without enlarging on the reason. ‘But I do allow Haydn to use it when he’s on leave, but he’s in France at the moment.’

  ‘Haydn, sir?’

  ‘Yes, he’s my son. He’s a captain in the Royal Field Artillery. But he spends what little furlough he gets with Hannah – that’s my wife – although most of the time I suspect he’s in the West End enjoying himself. With some young ragtime girl, if he’s got any sense. Frankly, I don’t see much of him, but you can’t blame these young officers for letting their hair down when they get the chance. From what I’ve heard of it, it’s pretty bloody out there, in more ways than one.’

  ‘So I believe, sir,’ murmured Hardcastle.

  ‘Is it possible that your son is on leave at the moment, but that you don’t know, sir?’ asked Marriott. ‘I was thinking that he might’ve borrowed the car without telling you.’