Hardcastle's Traitors

by Graham Ison

  ‘When did you take him his tea, Henwood? I know what Villiers said, but I want the truth.’

  ‘I didn’t take him tea. I’d had a lie-in on account of it being New Year’s Day and the master not being there. I didn’t think he’d be coming back so soon, and I didn’t know he was in until he rang for me about midday to tell me that the car had gone.’ Henwood looked downright miserable at having to reveal details of his master’s habits and movements.

  ‘And you’ve really no idea where he went?’ asked Marriott, leaning forward.

  ‘No, sir.’ Henwood paused, as if undecided whether to reveal another confidence. ‘But I think he might have a fancy woman somewhere. You see, he and his wife have parted. I don’t think they’re divorced, but that wouldn’t make any difference to the master.’ And then the butler opened up. ‘Actually, Sinclair Villiers is a bloody awful man to work for. He’s always finding fault in what we do, and coming down to the kitchen interfering with cook.’

  ‘What d’you mean, interfering with the cook?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Oh, not in that way, sir, but he’s always telling her how to do her job, and me and the rest of the staff. It was the same when his wife was there. He was forever ordering Mrs Villiers about and complaining about her going out to meet her friends. It’s no wonder she left him. I’ve been with him since I came out of Pentonville and Mrs Jarvis is the third cook we’ve had in my time. They just won’t put up with it, you see. I’d’ve left him too, but I’d have difficulty getting another place because I’m certain the master wouldn’t give me a character.’

  ‘D’you think he knows about your past, then, Henwood?’ asked Hardcastle.

  The butler shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sir, but Mr Villiers seems to know everything that’s going on.’

  ‘Did the staff know that you were coming to the police station this morning?’

  ‘No, sir. I only talked to your man on the doorstep, and I told Frederick the footman that I had to go out for an hour. I often do and Frederick knows better than to ask where I’m going.’

  Hardcastle spent a few minutes scraping the ash from his pipe and emptying it into the tin lid that did service as an ashtray. He opened the CRO file again.

  ‘You’re thirty-eight and a single man, Henwood.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Eligible for conscription, then, if this new Act of Parliament comes into force.’

  ‘I suppose so, but I’m not a well man.’

  Hardcastle laughed. ‘Save it for the medical board when you get called, Henwood. But I’ve a proposition to put to you. From now on, I want to know everything Sinclair Villiers does. And see if you can find out who this woman is that he’s seeing.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that, sir,’ said Henwood, clearly appalled by the DDI’s suggestion. ‘It would be a breach of trust.’

  ‘An ex-convict who got his present post with a false reference is in no position to talk about trust,’ said Hardcastle sharply. ‘The option is that I tell Villiers about your past, and exactly how you worked your way into his employment with a false reference. That’d mean you getting the sack a bit jildi, and you’d be in the trenches before you could say Jack the Ripper.’

  ‘You’ve got me in a right fix, sir, and no mistake.’

  ‘From time to time, Sergeant Wood – he’s the officer who brought you here – will call at Flood Street to have a word with you. And if anyone asks, you tell them he’s a friend of yours. You are not to tell anyone that he’s a policeman. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Henwood miserably.

  ‘Is there a telephone at Flood Street?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s in the kitchen and I transfer any calls for Mr Villiers to the extension in the drawing room.’

  ‘Good. The moment Villiers gets back, telephone this police station and leave a message for Mister Marriott, not Sergeant Marriott mind, and just say “The order’s been cancelled”. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now then, repeat what you have to say?’

  ‘I’m to ask for Mister Marriott and say the order’s been cancelled, sir.’

  ‘Right, you can go,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and if you mention our arrangement to Villiers, I’ll be having a serious chat with him myself.’

  Henwood, clearly grasping the implication of Hardcastle’s last remark, stood up, a vastly different man from when he had entered the interview room forty minutes earlier.

  ‘See him off the premises just to make sure he don’t nick anything, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle jocularly, ‘and then come up to my office.’

  Marriott returned a few minutes later. ‘He’s gone, sir, but he’s not a very happy man,’ he said.

  ‘We had a bit of luck there, Marriott. It was as well that Wood decided to do a search of records.’ Hardcastle paused. ‘Mind you, I’d’ve got around to it myself eventually.’

  ‘D’you think there’s anything in Villiers disappearing on New Year’s Eve and on the day before Stein was topped, sir?’

  ‘It looks promising, Marriott, but at the moment I’m not sure why. And despite putting the squeeze on Henwood, I’m not sure he’ll deliver the goods. After all, he’s just a two-faced con man when it comes down to it.’

  ‘But supposing Villiers was seeing a woman, sir?’

  ‘That’ll put him in the clear, I suppose,’ said Hardcastle reluctantly. ‘But we’ll make sure. Who’s on duty?’

  ‘Lipton and Keeler, sir,’ said Marriott promptly.

  ‘Well, I suppose they’ll have to do, Marriott.’ Hardcastle had no high opinion of any of his detective constables. ‘Fetch ’em in.’

  ‘Now, you two,’ said Hardcastle, when the two detective constables appeared in his office, ‘I’ve got a job for you. Sinclair Villiers, who lives in Flood Street, has got a fancy woman somewhere. I want to know who she is and where she lives, and I don’t want Villiers knowing that you’re tailing him. Got that, Lipton?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Lipton, unhappy that he had been selected, yet again, for a following job. ‘When do we start, sir?’

  ‘As soon as Sergeant Marriott tips you the wink. Villiers is adrift at the moment, but I’ve arranged to be told when he gets back home.’

  ELEVEN

  It was at five past three the same afternoon that a young PC appeared in the detectives’ office.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘I’m relieving on the switchboard, Sergeant, and I’ve just received a strange telephone call. The caller never gave his name, but said …’ The PC glanced at the message form in his hand. ‘He said to tell Mister Marriott that the order’s been cancelled and that the man’s going out later this evening about seven. Would that have been meant for you, Sergeant?’

  ‘How long ago did you get this call?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘About two or three minutes ago, Sergeant. It seemed a bit of an odd thing to say, so I asked him what he meant, but he just hung up.’

  ‘Take a word of advice, young man,’ said Marriott. ‘Now that telephones are becoming increasingly common, you’ll often get strange calls for detectives, and they’re frequently anonymous. You don’t ask questions, either of the caller or of the detective, because the call could be from an informant who doesn’t want anyone to know who he is. People of that sort are often criminals giving information to the police about other villains. They’re playing a dangerous game and could well be putting their lives in danger by grassing.’

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant, I didn’t think.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Henry Paget, Sergeant.’

  ‘You’ve got your name down to come out on winter patrol, haven’t you, Paget?’ Winter patrols comprised young uniformed police officers selected to patrol the streets in plain clothes between October and March. It was regarded as the first step towards becoming a full-blown detective.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  ‘Well, if you want to be a CID officer, Paget, learn to keep your eyes open an
d your mouth shut. And never query what other detectives are doing or who they’re meeting, ever. If you eventually become a detective, you’ll doubtless acquire informants of your own, and then you’ll know exactly what I mean. Got that?’

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant,’ said Paget again.

  ‘What service have you got, lad?’

  ‘Two years last month, Sergeant.’

  ‘Right, I’ll bear you in mind. And before you go, I’ll take that message form and you’re to forget you ever got that call.’ Marriott took the form and put it in his pocket.

  Paget left the office wondering whether he had just ruined his chances of joining the CID or if, in fact, he had enhanced them. Being ‘borne in mind’ by the first-class sergeant was somewhat enigmatic.

  Marriott glanced around the office. ‘Lipton, Keeler?’

  ‘Yes, Skip?’ said Lipton.

  ‘You’re on for your following job. Sinclair Villiers is back at Flood Street. And the DDI wants to know if he’s seeing some good-time girl. But if he’s not, he wants to know what he is up to.’

  ‘When should we start, Skip?’ asked Keeler.

  ‘Today, but the information is that he’s going out at about seven this evening,’ said Marriott. But then he paused. ‘Can either of you drive?’

  ‘I can, Skip.’ Lipton’s girlfriend’s father was a chauffeur. Using his employer’s car, he had spent one weekend teaching Lipton the rudiments of driving.

  ‘Wait here.’ Marriott put on his jacket and crossed the corridor to the DDI’s office.

  ‘Sinclair Villiers is back at home, sir. I’ve just had the telephone call from his butler, and I’ve got Lipton and Keeler standing by. According to Henwood, Villiers is going out later on.’

  ‘Why aren’t they out on the street finding out what Villiers is up to, then, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle impatiently. He put the cap on his fountain pen and laid it carefully on his desk.

  ‘According to Henwood, Villiers isn’t going out until seven o’clock, sir, but it won’t be that easy. If he goes anywhere, he’s almost bound to go in that car of his. And that means that Lipton and Keeler will be at a disadvantage, particularly if there’s no cab in the offing at the time he takes off. And there’s never a cab when you want one, particularly these days with half London’s cabbies in the army.’

  ‘Can either of them drive, Marriott?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Lipton assures me he can.’

  ‘Good. Get on to the transport department and tell them that I want use of that taxicab they keep for observations and the like, and I want it now.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘And then tell Lipton to go and collect it from wherever they keep the thing.’ Hardcastle shook his head. ‘I really don’t know what the world’s coming to, Marriott. Everything we touch seems to involve a motor car. There are times when I think I ought to retire.’

  ‘Are you sure you know how to drive this vehicle, lad?’ asked a suspicious sergeant at the transport depot.

  ‘Yes, Skip.’

  ‘Right, drive it round the yard for me and let me see how you get on.’

  Lipton drove a few circuits and pulled up in front of the sergeant.

  ‘Yes, well it looks as though you’ve got a rough idea. D’you know how to light the acetylene lamps?’

  ‘Yes, Skip.’

  ‘Good, because you’ll need ’em. It’s dark enough already. Now then, here’s a white coat and a cap so’s you’ll look the part, and put this on,’ the sergeant said, handing Lipton a metal licence tag. ‘Don’t want you getting stopped by the police for not wearing it, do you?’ he added with a cackle, followed by a distressing cough. ‘And make sure you keep the taximeter flag down or you’ll have the gentry writing to the Commissioner complaining that you’ve refused to pick up a fare. And you’ll need a passenger, otherwise it’ll look suspicious.’

  ‘That’s him,’ said Lipton, pointing to DC Keeler.

  ‘And don’t break anything or you’ll get assessed for it.’

  ‘Thanks, Skip,’ said Lipton. Keeler got into the cab and Lipton was about to mount the driving seat when the sergeant spoke again.

  ‘Hold on, my lad, you’ve got to sign for it all first.’ The sergeant produced a form and spent a few minutes completing it. ‘Can’t do anything without bits of paper in this Job, lad. It’s the coming thing.’

  It was half past six exactly when Lipton drove the cab into Flood Street. Sinclair Villiers’s Haxe-Doulton was parked outside his house.

  ‘What are we going to do, Gordon?’ asked Basil Keeler, sliding open the glass screen between him and Lipton. ‘We can’t stop outside his house.’

  ‘We’ll keep driving round, Baz,’ said Lipton. ‘One cab looks much like another, so we won’t look too obvious. Anyway it’s dark.’

  ‘Unless someone makes a note of the number,’ said Keeler, ever the pessimist.

  ‘And who the hell’s going to stand about in midwinter collecting cab numbers?’ Lipton was always impatient with people who made silly statements or asked stupid questions.

  For the next twenty minutes, Lipton piloted the cab around the tight circuit of Flood Street, Alpha Place, Flood Walk, Chelsea Manor Street and back to Flood Street. By now it was pitch dark with a threat of fog and, thanks to wartime restrictions, the few street lights that were illuminated had been dimmed. The chances of anyone realizing that the same cab was circling the block were minimal.

  On the fourth circuit, Lipton turned into Flood Street in time to see a man come out of Sinclair Villiers’s house. He was attired in a Harris Tweed motor coat and a cap upon which were a pair of goggles.

  ‘Here we go,’ yelled Lipton above the noise of the engine.

  ‘How do we know it’s Villiers?’ shouted Keeler.

  ‘Can’t be anyone else,’ responded Lipton. ‘His son’s in the Tower and I don’t suppose he’d let his butler drive that bloody thing.’

  The man went to the front of the vehicle, a starting handle at the ready.

  ‘Time for another quick turn round the block,’ shouted Lipton, and accelerated.

  As the police cab turned into Flood Street for the fifth time, the driver of the Haxe-Doulton was moving off. He quickly accelerated so that Lipton was hard pressed to keep up with him.

  ‘I reckon he’s doing more than twenty miles an hour,’ shouted Keeler from the passenger compartment.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ shouted Lipton in response. ‘There’s no way of telling for sure, but if you think I’m going to stop him and report him for exceeding the speed limit, you can forget it. The DDI would have a blue fit if we showed out for the sake of a paltry summons.’

  Fortunately, heavy traffic and a collision between an omnibus and a car forced Villiers to slow down when he turned north off Victoria Embankment and entered the City of London. But when he reached Cannon Street, he stopped.

  ‘Why on earth is he stopping here, Gordon?’ asked Keeler.

  ‘I don’t know, do I?’ replied Lipton testily. ‘Anyhow, he’s getting out.’

  Villiers walked round the vehicle to the front offside and then, hands on hips and an exasperated expression on his face, he stared up and down the road.

  ‘This looks like a bit of luck, Baz. He’s got a flat tyre. I reckon this is our chance. If I bring him back to the cab, you’re to agree with anything I say. All right?’ Without waiting for an answer, Lipton leaped out of the cab, and strode across to Villiers. ‘Are you all right, sir? I thought you might’ve had an accident.’

  ‘No, I’ve got a puncture, dammit! I suppose you’ve got a fare?’

  ‘Yes, I have, sir.’

  ‘Blast! I’m already late and you can’t get a cab for love or money these days. It’s this damned war, you know; half the cabbies in London seem to have disappeared.’

  ‘Where were you making for, sir?’ asked Lipton.

  ‘Mile End. Hannibal Street, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘I might be able to help you there, sir. I’m taking my
fare to Mile End Road. I’ll see if he’s willing to share the cab with you.’

  ‘I’d be most grateful, cabbie,’ said Villiers warmly, and followed Lipton to the cab.

  Lipton opened the door of the passenger compartment, and addressing Keeler, said, ‘This gentleman’s in a bit of a fix, sir. He’s going to Mile End, same as you. Would you be willing to share with him? It’d be doing him a favour.’

  ‘Of course, cabbie,’ agreed Keeler readily, adopting what he believed to be a polished accent.

  ‘There we are, sir,’ said Lipton, turning to Villiers. ‘In you get.’ Pausing, he added, ‘What about your car, sir?’

  ‘I’ll telephone the Royal Automobile Club when I arrive, cabbie. They’ll deal with it, and no one can drive it away with a flat tyre.’

  ‘That’s handy, sir, being a member of a club that helps you out like that.’ Lipton did not know much about the Royal Automobile Club.

  ‘It has its advantages, including a good restaurant,’ said Villiers, getting into the cab as Keeler moved across to make room on the seat.

  It was fortunate that Lipton had served in the East End of London before being posted to Cannon Row police station; had he not been able to find Mile End Road it would have looked suspicious. London cab drivers were expected to know London thoroughly, but Lipton had not done ‘the knowledge’, as the taxi drivers’ comprehensive examination of routes was known.

  Lipton stopped the cab in Hannibal Street, and Villiers alighted, having thanked Keeler effusively for his assistance.

  ‘Now, cabbie, what’s the fare?’

  Lipton glanced at the taximeter. ‘Well, sir, we started off in Lambeth, and the meter’s showing thirty shillings. But, as we picked you up on Cannon Street, I suppose it’ll only be—’

  ‘Nonsense,’ exclaimed Villiers. ‘You and your passenger did me a great service.’ Taking out his wallet, he extracted a five-pound note. ‘I insist on paying this gentleman’s fare as well as my own. The rest is a tip for you for being so helpful.’ He stared at the licence tag that Lipton was wearing. ‘What’s more, I shall write to the Commissioner of Police, telling him what a helpful chap you are.’