Hardcastle's Traitors

by Graham Ison

  ‘There’s no need for that, sir,’ said Lipton, touching his cap with a forefinger as he pocketed the white five-pound note with his other hand. In fact, he hoped that Villiers would not write any letters to the Yard; he could do without the complication of having to pen an explanatory report. And he would have to surrender the five pounds he had just been given.

  Villiers crossed the pavement and entered a house. Lipton got back into the cab and drove around the corner and stopped.

  ‘Did Villiers say anything useful, Baz?’ asked Lipton, leaning back to talk to Keeler through the open partition.

  ‘No, apart from thanking me several times. He just talked about the weather and then went on about Chelsea football club; apparently he’s a supporter. How much did he give you, Gordon?’

  ‘A flim,’ said Lipton, flourishing the five-pound note. ‘That’s two pounds and ten shillings each.’

  ‘Blimey!’ exclaimed Keeler. ‘More than a week’s pay. Are we going to tell the guv’nor?’

  ‘Try not to be stupid all your life, Baz. If we did that, it’d finish up in his pocket, not ours.’

  Lipton returned the cab to the transport depot at seven o’clock the following morning.

  The sergeant walked all round the vehicle, inspecting it closely. Occasionally, he rubbed his hand on a mark, but eventually satisfied himself that there was no damage that could be attributed to Lipton.

  ‘That seems to be all right, lad,’ the sergeant said, somewhat reluctantly. Lipton got the impression that he would have been delighted to find some imperfection. ‘Successful observation was it?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know, Skip,’ said Lipton, ‘you’ll have to ask my guv’nor. It didn’t mean anything to me.’ He had no intention of divulging the reasons for having followed Villiers.

  ‘Cagey lot, you CID blokes,’ said the sergeant.

  Lipton and Keeler were waiting outside the DDI’s office at a quarter to eight later that morning.

  Minutes later, Hardcastle appeared. ‘Well?’ he barked, as the two detectives followed him into his office.

  Lipton gave a detailed account of all that had happened during the course of their observation, including the part when they had taken Villiers the last part of his journey, but omitting mention of the five pounds that he had given them for their trouble.

  ‘Are you sure about that, Lipton?’ Hardcastle frowned. He was always suspicious when one of his detectives claimed to have had a stroke of luck, and wondered whether they had engineered the situation to avoid a wearisome duty. And Lipton had a reputation for being blessed with ‘strokes of luck’.

  ‘That’s exactly what happened, sir.’ Lipton sounded indignant. ‘I thought how lucky we’d been that Villiers got a flat tyre.’

  ‘What sort of place was this in Hannibal Street, Lipton?’ Hardcastle decided not to question the matter of Lipton’s luck any further.

  ‘Just an ordinary house, sir. Villiers knocked on the door and was admitted straightaway. But we didn’t hang about.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Off you go and get about your duties, and ask Sergeant Marriott to come in.’

  ‘An interesting development, sir,’ said Marriott, who had already been apprised of the result of the two detectives’ evening’s work.

  ‘We’ll need to find out about this place, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘It’s on Mr Sawyer’s patch, sir. Perhaps he can shed some light on it.’

  ‘Get on that telephone thing and ask him what he knows, Marriott.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott paused at the door. ‘You ought to have an instrument installed in your office, sir.’

  For a moment or two, Hardcastle stared at his sergeant. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Marriott,’ he said. ‘The bloody thing might go off. Anyway, I don’t want any Tom, Dick and Harry ringing me up.’

  It took Marriott ten minutes to be connected to Bow Road police station and a further five before he was able to speak to Divisional Detective Inspector Sawyer. But finally he was able to go back to Hardcastle with some interesting information.

  ‘It seems that the occupant of the house in Hannibal Street is a Levi Rosner and he’s a rabbi, sir.’

  Hardcastle picked up his pipe and spent a few moments scraping out the bowl. ‘That could’ve been a purely religious visit, Marriott, or it might be something more in view of all this business about a Jewish homeland. I think I’d better have a word with Special Branch. They might know more about this place.’ He stood up and took his bowler hat and umbrella from the hatstand. ‘Not that they’re likely to tell me, even if they do know anything.’

  ‘Well now, Mr Hardcastle?’ said O’Rourke. ‘What have you to report?’

  Hardcastle told O’Rourke of the progress of his enquiries into the murder of Peter Stein at Bow, and explained what Lipton and Keeler had discovered. ‘I wondered if Special Branch were aware of this place and whether it meant anything to you, sir.’

  ‘It has been established that Sinclair Villiers is of the Jewish faith, Inspector,’ said O’Rourke. ‘The fact that he visited a rabbi in the East End of London does not seem to me to be at all pertinent to the discovery of the men who murdered Reuben Gosling or Peter Stein. One imagines that he also visits a synagogue from time to time.’

  ‘Perhaps so, sir, but I thought I should inform you.’

  ‘Well, now you’ve done so, Mr Hardcastle, so I’ll not detain you any longer.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ said Hardcastle, only just managing to contain his fury at the near snub he had received at the hands of the Irish chief inspector.

  But when Hardcastle had departed, O’Rourke sent for Detective Inspector Lionel Frith.

  ‘I have a job for you, Mr Frith.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I’ve just received some interesting information from the DDI of A,’ began O’Rourke, and recounted what he had been told by Hardcastle. ‘It may be entirely innocent, of course, but on the other hand there may be some connection between Captain Haydn Villiers, his father and this rabbi. I think we should take an interest in Rabbi Levi Rosner, Mr Frith.’

  ‘A discreet observation, sir?’ asked Frith.

  ‘Not yet. A thorough search of records and contact with informants. We’ll see what that produces and then decide on our next course of action.’

  But, unbeknown to O’Rourke, Hardcastle had no intention of leaving it there, and determined to conduct his own enquiries.

  TWELVE

  ‘Have we done anything about tracing this man Morgan, Marriott?’

  ‘Morgan, sir?’

  ‘Joseph Morgan, the commercial traveller who was supposed to have run off with Sarah Gosling. According to Mrs Partridge, the wife of the gents’ outfitter, Sarah Gosling left her husband for Morgan and went to live with him in Brighton.’

  ‘But d’you think he might know anything that would help us, sir?’ As was often the case, Marriott was having difficulty following Hardcastle’s mercurial changes of direction in the enquiry.

  ‘We won’t know until we ask, Marriott. I seem to remember saying that Wood should go, but not until I told him to. I think he should go now.’

  ‘I’ll send him straight away, sir, although it remains to be seen whether there’ll be any trace of Morgan or Mrs Gosling there. If I remember correctly, Mrs Partridge wasn’t altogether sure that that’s where the couple had gone. As a matter of fact, I think she was only guessing.’

  ‘We can’t rely on guesswork,’ said Hardcastle, a comment that surprised Marriott. He had long since convinced himself that the DDI frequently relied on intuition. And often obtained a satisfactory outcome as a result. ‘We need hard facts. Once you’ve sent Wood off, I think we’ll have a chat with the rabbi that Villiers visited, and then we’ll talk to Villiers himself.’

  ‘Is that wise, sir? We’ve no evidence to indicate that Sinclair Villiers had anything to do with Reuben Gosling’s murder.’

  ‘Haven’t we, Marriott?’ Hardcastle leaned
forward, hands linked on his desk and an earnest expression on his face. ‘Wilfred Henwood, Villiers’s butler, has told us that Villiers wasn’t at home on the night of Gosling’s murder. And that begs the question as to where exactly he was.’

  The house where Rabbi Levi Rosner lived in Hannibal Street, Bow, was a modest dwelling in a row of equally modest dwellings. But it was well cared for, the paint was new and the windows sparklingly clean. The doorstep appeared to have been whitened that day. But it was probably whitened every day.

  Hardcastle raised his hat as the rabbi answered the door, an enquiring expression on his face.

  ‘Rabbi Rosner?’

  ‘That is me, my friend.’ Rosner had a full beard, wore rimless glasses, and was soberly dressed in a dark suit and the traditional yarmulke. Hardcastle guessed he was at least sixty.

  ‘I’m a police officer, Rabbi. Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’

  ‘Come in, gentlemen, come in,’ said Rosner warmly. ‘It’s too cold a day to stand talking on the doorstep. The cold gets right into your bones, especially when you reach my age.’ He led the two detectives into a comfortable sitting room furnished with armchairs and several occasional tables. On one of the tables there was a chess set, the ivory pieces positioned as if a game was already in progress. There were pictures on the walls and over the mantelshelf a framed Hebrew scripture. A fire glowed in the grate. ‘Please, tell me how I may help you, Inspector.’

  ‘I’m wondering if you can be of assistance to me in a matter I’m investigating, Rabbi,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott accepted Rosner’s invitation to take a seat.

  ‘If I possibly can.’ Rosner relaxed in a chair opposite the DDI, and selected a curved Meerschaum from a pipe rack on a side table. ‘One of my sins is an addiction to tobacco, Inspector. I hope it doesn’t offend you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Hardcastle, taking out his own pipe. ‘I am too.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Rosner, and offered the DDI a jar of tobacco. Once the DDI had taken his fill, the rabbi offered the jar to Marriott.

  ‘He smokes cigarettes,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I keep telling him they’ll do him no good.’

  The rabbi laughed. ‘If that’s his only sin, he’ll not come to much harm, Mr Hardcastle.’

  When both men had their pipes alight, Hardcastle resumed the conversation. ‘I’m investigating the murder of a man called Peter Stein who lived over Percy Dyer’s chandler’s shop in Bow Road, not far from the police station. The murder occurred early in the morning on Friday last. Inspector Sawyer suggested that you might’ve known the man.’ Sawyer had said no such thing when Marriott had telephoned him, but Hardcastle had no intention of telling Rosner that Sinclair Villiers had unwittingly led them to the rabbi’s door.

  ‘Is Mr Sawyer not dealing with that case, then?’ queried Rosner.

  ‘No. But only because it would appear to be connected with another murder I’m dealing with.’

  ‘A sad business, Inspector,’ said Rosner, shaking his head, ‘but the world is full of wickedness these days. It seems that this wretched war has given people a licence to kill their fellow man. I sometimes wonder when it will all end. But, mark my words, the world will be no better for it, once it’s all over.’

  ‘Did you know Stein, Rabbi?’ asked Hardcastle, declining to be drawn into a discussion about the effects of the war.

  ‘Alas no, although I knew of him. He was of the Jewish faith, but he was never to be seen in the synagogue.’ Rosner stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Regrettably, there is nothing I can tell you of this man.’

  ‘As I said just now, we believe that his murder was connected to another murder I’m investigating, the murder of Reuben Gosling.’

  ‘I don’t know that name, Inspector. Was he a local man?’

  ‘No, he was the owner of a jewellery and pawnbroking business in the Vauxhall Bridge Road in Westminster and was murdered on New Year’s Eve.’ Hardcastle, not usually circumspect, realized that he had to be so on this occasion. ‘The murderers stole a car from Chelsea belonging to a man called—’ He broke off and flicked his fingers. ‘What was the man’s name, Marriott?’

  ‘Sinclair Villiers, sir,’ said Marriott, playing along with Hardcastle’s little pretence of forgetfulness.

  ‘Ah yes, that’s the fellow.’

  ‘Sinclair Villiers, you say?’ said Rosner, expressing genuine surprise and leaning forward in his chair. ‘But I know Sinclair. Is there some suggestion that he was involved in these terrible events?’

  ‘Good heavens no,’ said Hardcastle, waving a deprecating hand. ‘It was merely that his car was stolen from outside his house and used in the robbery, but what a strange coincidence that you should know him. I take it he’s a friend of yours.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. An old friend. He visits me often to play chess.’ Rosner waved a casual hand towards the chessboard. ‘I have to say that he’s very good at it, too. Only rarely do I manage to beat him. As a matter of fact, he was here yesterday evening, but he didn’t mention anything about this murder. But he beat me twice with a fool’s mate.’ The rabbi paused to rekindle his pipe. ‘Sinclair is a Jew, of course, but then,’ he added with a wry smile, ‘so are most of my best friends.’

  ‘I think he said that he spent New Year’s Eve with you, Rabbi.’ Hardcastle took a chance on that being the case. ‘Another game of chess, was it?’

  Rosner thought about that. ‘Not your New Year, Inspector. The Jewish New Year is in September. The thirty-first of December doesn’t mean a great deal to orthodox Jews, although some members of my faith take advantage of celebrating two new years.’ The rabbi laughed. ‘But that’s Jews for you,’ he added, mocking his own religion.

  ‘Oh well, I suppose he must’ve been celebrating somewhere else.’

  ‘Probably,’ said Rosner. ‘In fact, yesterday was the first time I’d seen Sinclair since just after Yom Kippur, and that was last September. I don’t know where he’d been over your New Year; away for a holiday perhaps.’

  ‘Well, thank you for your help, Rabbi,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott stood up. ‘And thank you for the tobacco.’

  ‘If I hear of anything about Peter Stein is there any way I can get in touch with you, Inspector?’ Rosner stood up too, and shook hands with the two detectives.

  ‘My sergeant will give you the telephone number of the police station at Cannon Row, Rabbi. I’d be grateful to hear of anything you learn.’

  It was quite a change for Detective Sergeant Herbert Wood to be assigned to an ‘out-of-town’ job, and he wasted no time in catching a train to Brighton on the south coast. There was a chill wind blowing when he arrived at just after midday. His only regret was that the assignment would have been more pleasant had it been midsummer and he could have taken a stroll along the beach.

  The first surprise to greet Wood when he walked out of Brighton railway station into Queens Road was the sight of a line of German soldiers. Attired in grey uniforms and round hats encircled with red bands, they were chained together and were being marched along the street.

  ‘What’s that all about?’ asked Wood of a policeman standing nearby.

  ‘Prisoners of war, mate. They’re on their way to the POW camp at Shoreham.’

  ‘Are they going to march there?’

  ‘It’s only about six miles. It’ll do ’em good.’ The policeman laughed. ‘You didn’t think we were going to give ’em a ride in a charabanc, did you?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ said Wood, and joined in the Brighton policeman’s laughter. ‘Can you direct me to the nick?’

  ‘It’s about three-quarters of a mile that way,’ said the policeman, pointing. ‘It’s in a street called Bartholomews, next to the town hall. Is there anything I can do to save you the walk?’

  ‘No, I’m in the Job, Metropolitan. I’ve got an enquiry to make of the CID.’

  ‘Good luck, mate. You might find ’em awake. If th
ey’re not in the local boozer, that is.’

  Wood eventually found the police station that was immediately beneath the headquarters of the Brighton constabulary.

  ‘Yes, sir? Can I help you?’ asked the bearded desk sergeant.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Wood, Metropolitan. I’ve come down to make some enquiries into a couple who are of interest to us in connection with a murder.’

  ‘Oh yes. And who might they be?’

  ‘A Joseph Morgan and a Sarah Gosling, although she might be calling herself Sarah Morgan now. It’s a bit of a long shot because they were supposed to have moved here about nine years ago.’

  ‘Morgan, Morgan,’ said the Brighton sergeant, savouring the name. ‘Rings a vague bell, mate. A murder, you say?’

  ‘Yes, we’re looking into the murder of a Reuben Gosling who was Sarah’s husband until she ran away with this bloke Morgan.’

  The sergeant chuckled. ‘Well, they’re bound to be here somewhere. Brighton’s always the place that people choose for a bit of jig-a-jig on the sly, if that’s what it was all about. I’ll have a look through our books.’ He lifted the flap in the counter. ‘Come on through and take the weight off your feet.’

  Wood sat down on a hard-backed chair while the sergeant began a search of the station’s numerous record books.

  ‘Got it,’ said the sergeant triumphantly. ‘I knew the name meant something. Here we are.’ Running his finger down a page of the daily record, he came across the entry. ‘On Wednesday the eighth of September last year, we received a message from F Division of the Metropolitan Police asking us to inform Mrs Sarah Morgan that Joseph Morgan had been killed in a Zeppelin raid. He was staying in a lodging house in Earls Court Road, London S.W., when it was hit by a bomb.’

  ‘That sounds like the couple I’m looking for,’ said Wood. ‘What was Mrs Morgan’s address at the time?’

  ‘Grove Street, mate. I’ll jot it down for you.’ The sergeant scribbled the details on a sheet of paper and handed it over. ‘Anything else I can help you with?’