Hardcastle's Secret Agent

by Graham Ison

  ‘Shouldn’t take me long, guv’nor,’ said Bradley, as he picked up the crime book and returned to his desk in the general CID office.

  After Jack Bradley had made a list of the seven burglaries that had taken place over the past three months on V Division, he arranged a follow-up meeting with Howard Austin at the offices of Alan Moore and Company Ltd.

  ‘We have examined burglaries in the area, Mr Austin, and we would be interested to know if any of these addresses were of your employees.’

  Austin took the list and ran his eye down the seven addresses. He sent for Grace Lovell, his secretary, and handed the list to her. ‘Miss Lovell, would you be so good as to go down to personnel, please, and see if any of these are our people.’

  It took Grace Lovell only a matter of minutes before she returned to the managing director’s office. ‘Three of these addresses are recorded as being occupied by company employees, sir,’ she said, handing over the annotated list.

  Austin glanced at it briefly before handing it to Bradley. ‘I’ve no wish to teach you your job, Sergeant Bradley, but I fear that you’re rather barking up the wrong tree. It would be regarded as a serious offence if any of these people were to take any sensitive information out of these offices.’

  ‘But does the Abwehr know that, sir?’ asked Bradley.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The German intelligence service, sir.’

  ‘One address is halfway between Kingston and Richmond, sir; another is in Surbiton and the third is in the centre of Kingston.’ Bradley placed the list on Hardcastle’s desk.

  ‘I think we’ll pay these people a visit, Jack,’ said Hardcastle, tapping the paper with his pencil, ‘and see if we can find out a bit more about the burglaries. As for those that seem to have no connection with the Moore establishment, they’re of no interest to us in the present situation.’

  ‘When d’you want to start, sir?’

  ‘It’d better be this evening, I suppose,’ said Hardcastle. ‘These people are probably working until at least six o’clock and it won’t be any good going earlier. First of all, we’ll tackle the one that’s halfway between Kingston and Richmond.’

  ‘It’s in Albany Park Road, sir, a turning off the Richmond Road. Mr and Mrs Charles Cavanaugh are registered as being the only residents.’

  ‘Do we know anything about them, Jack?’

  ‘No, sir. I did a search of records, but there’s nothing at all. But I wouldn’t have expected to find anything adverse, given where he works.’

  FOUR

  The Cavanaughs’ double-fronted house lay sufficiently far back from the tree-lined street to allow for quite a large front garden. It was eight o’clock in the evening and not yet blackout time, although the windows were blacked-out in accordance with the defence regulations. The sound of music coming from inside the house indicated that the occupants were at home.

  Hardcastle rapped loudly on the brass knocker several times. Eventually, the music stopped – apart from a pianist softly playing a Chopin nocturne – and a man came to the door.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ The man peered searchingly into the gloom of an autumn evening made worse by the absence of street lighting.

  ‘Mr Charles Cavanaugh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re police officers, Mr Cavanaugh. I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of V Division, and this is Detective Sergeant Bradley. It’s about the burglary that took place here on Friday the eighteenth of August.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Have you caught him, then?’

  ‘Not yet, sir, but we will,’ said Hardcastle, although he had no idea how he was to achieve his aim. At the moment there was no evidence pointing to a particular housebreaker and Hardcastle had considered the possibility that it was an experienced burglar from afar who had decided to try his luck in this neighbourhood. But he then dismissed that thought; it was more than coincidence that the burglar had broken into at least three homes of Moore’s employees, and there may be more to discover.

  ‘You’d better come in, Inspector.’ Cavanaugh was wearing a cardigan over a check shirt, corduroy trousers, and held a violin and a bow in his left hand. He conducted the two officers into the spacious front room. There were seven or eight people there, most with glasses in their hands, although a couple were holding stringed instruments and one young woman was caressing a lyre. The woman seated at the piano stopped playing when Cavanaugh and the police entered, and turned on her stool to face them.

  ‘As you can see, Inspector, we’re having a little musical soirée. Hitler will have to do more than he’s doing to stop the British enjoying themselves. Oh, I should have introduced you to my wife, Eve. She’s the one tickling the ivories.’ Cavanaugh turned to his wife. ‘This is Detective Inspector Hardwick, my dear,’ he said.

  ‘The name’s Hardcastle, sir,’ corrected the DDI.

  ‘Oh, I do apologize, Inspector.’

  ‘Are we making too much noise?’ The slender Mrs Cavanaugh had yet to celebrate her thirtieth birthday. Her long, black velvet dress was cut daringly low and her blonde hair fell freely around her shoulders.

  ‘No, madam,’ said Hardcastle.

  There were one or two silly remarks from the guests asking what ‘Charlie’ had done to attract the attention of the police. This was followed, predictably, by a cackle of laughter.

  ‘Perhaps there is somewhere private we could go, sir,’ said Hardcastle, ‘rather than disturbing your guests.’ He had no intention of carrying on his conversation against a background of childish badinage.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Careless talk and all that.’ With that pointless comment, Cavanaugh led the two detectives into another sitting room at the rear of the house and invited them to take a seat.

  ‘Can I offer you a drink, Inspector?’

  ‘No, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Well, what can I tell you about this burglary that the police don’t already know?’

  ‘I understand that you work at Alan Moore and Company’s offices in Portsmouth Road, Mr Cavanaugh.’

  ‘How on earth did you know that?’ Cavanaugh frowned as he posed the question. It sounded like an accusation. But in reality, he was somewhat alarmed that the police should know that’s where he worked.

  ‘Since the outbreak of war, the police have compiled lists of all persons in sensitive employment. The plan is that they should be given priority assistance should anything occur that prevents them from getting to work.’ That was not the case at all, but Hardcastle thought it unwise to alarm Cavanaugh by telling him his house may have been targeted by German intelligence agents because of his employment. ‘If you’ve no objection, I’ll send an officer to see you who can advise on making your house more secure.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I must say that’s all very commendable.’

  ‘Now, sir.’ Bradley took out his pocketbook. ‘Can you remind me exactly what was stolen.’

  ‘It was really rather silly, Sergeant. Hardly worth the effort of breaking in.’

  ‘As a matter of interest, how did the burglar break in?’ Bradley knew the answers to all the questions he was asking, but was checking to make sure that the detective constable who had carried out the initial investigation had not omitted anything that could be important.

  ‘The officer who came the next day had a good look round and said he thought the burglar had probably come in through the kitchen and had used a blade of some sort – probably a penknife – to slide the window catch open. All this audacious thief took were a few items of Eve’s jewellery – nothing of real value at all – and a few knick-knacks from the mantelshelf in the other room. Oh, and he took the brass table bell we use for summoning the maid. That was more of a nuisance than anything else because we couldn’t get a new one for love nor money. A bell, I mean, not a maid.’ Cavanaugh laughed. ‘And that’s probably the fault of firms like Alan Moore’s who want all the metal they can lay hands on,’ he said, and laughed again.

  ‘Were you in the house at the
time, Mr Cavanaugh?’ asked Bradley.

  ‘No. My wife and I were at the Kingston Empire. We saw a rather risqué play called While Parents Sleep. I can’t remember who wrote it, though.’ He frowned, as though remembering the playwright was important.

  ‘Anthony Kimmins,’ said Bradley quietly. ‘I’ve seen it myself.’

  ‘That’s right. It was very good and apparently had been running in the West End for some time. I have to say, though, that I rather wish we’d gone the week before, because that comedian Tommy Handley was on.’

  ‘How long were you out of the house altogether, sir?’

  It took Cavanaugh a few seconds of recollection before he replied. ‘It must have been three hours or so,’ he said. ‘We were at the theatre’s second house – that’s at ten to nine – and would have left here at about eight o’clock. Time to have a drink at the Kingston Hotel before the show, you see, because the crush bar at the theatre is always so crowded. The hotel’s almost next door which makes it very convenient for a drink. And we got back at, oh, almost eleven o’clock, I suppose. That’s when I found the kitchen window open.’

  ‘One last question, Mr Cavanaugh, before I let you get back to your guests,’ said Hardcastle. ‘What exactly do you do at Moore’s?’

  ‘I’m a draughtsman. I draw up plans for various components. Half the time I don’t know what it is I’m drawing. I wouldn’t be allowed to tell you what we’re doing even if I knew, but it’s pretty complex, and I’ve no idea where my bits fit in. Was there a reason for asking me that question, Inspector?’

  ‘Not really, sir, but my chief is very insistent on me getting all the details, whether they’re relevant or not.’

  Cavanaugh laughed. ‘I’ve got a boss like that. Are you sure I can’t press you to a drink before you go?’

  ‘Quite sure, sir, thank you.’

  ‘What’s the address of the man you said lives in the centre of Kingston, Jack?’ Hardcastle asked, as they drove away from the Cavanaugh residence.

  ‘Hardman Road, sir. It’s a Mr Roy Bridger and his wife, Dorothy.’

  ‘We may as well see if they’re at home, I suppose.’

  Insofar as Hardcastle could see in the gloom of an autumn evening, the Hardman Road house was a residence similar to his own in nearby Canbury Park Road, except that this one was semi-detached.

  Bradley knocked and the door was answered promptly by a man.

  ‘Yes, who is it?’ It was a common enough question. Since the war had started all manner of rumours had been flying about. One of Bridger’s friend’s neighbours claimed that a German pilot, who had been shot down, knocked at his door, surrendered and asked for a cup of tea.

  ‘Police,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Mr Roy Bridger, is it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me. What’s it about?’

  ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle and this is Detective Sergeant Bradley. It’s about the burglary here on …’ The DDI paused. ‘What date was it, Jack?’

  ‘Friday the twenty-fifth of August, sir.’

  ‘You’d better come in.’ Once the two detectives were inside, Bridger switched on a light. ‘Before we go any further, may I see some sort of identification?’

  ‘Indeed, you may.’ Hardcastle and Bradley each produced his warrant card. Bridger donned a pair of heavy horn-rimmed spectacles and examined the documents carefully.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’ Roy Bridger was a middle-aged man of medium height and build. He was wearing a collar and tie, but had substituted a green cardigan for his jacket. ‘One can’t be too careful these days. There are even rumours circulating of German spies being dropped by parachute all over the place,’ he added with a smile. ‘I don’t know what I can tell you that I didn’t tell the detective who came immediately after the break-in. But please come in and take a seat.’ Bridger led the two into the sitting room at the front of the house. ‘This is my wife, Dorothy,’ he said. ‘The police have come to see us, my dear.’

  ‘Oh, no! Is it bad news?’ Bridger’s wife dropped her knitting into her lap and put a hand to her mouth, a concerned expression on her face. ‘Our son Ian is in the army, you see, and I’m knitting him a balaclava as the winter will be on us soon,’ she explained. ‘He was in the Territorial Army but was called up immediately. We’ve no idea where he is. It’s such a worry with all that’s going on in France.’

  ‘Yes, it must be, Mrs Bridger, but we’re not here about your son. If anything had happened to your son, I’m sure the War Office would let you know immediately. I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle and this is Detective Sergeant Bradley. We’re actually making further enquiries about your recent burglary.’

  ‘I understand that you are employed at the offices of Alan Moore and Company, Mr Bridger,’ said Bradley, as he and Hardcastle sat down.

  ‘How did you know that?’ There was an element of suspicion in Bridger’s voice, similar to that of Charles Cavanaugh’s when the same question was posed to him earlier in the evening.

  ‘We are keeping a list of people living in the area who have jobs important to the war effort, Mr Bridger, so that if anything should happen to them or their property, we’ll treat it as a priority. And you are one of those people.’

  ‘That’s very good of you, but I’m only a manager in the personnel department, and I’m on the roster for doing fire-watching at the office. Neither of those tasks can be described as essential war work. D’you think this burglary is connected with my work, then?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Hardcastle, in an attempt at reassurance, ‘but I’ll send an officer to see you who can tell you about securing your property more effectively. It’s something we’re doing for everyone who’s been burgled. Now, Mr Bridger, would you remind me how the thief gained entry?’

  The story that Bridger told was akin to the one Cavanaugh had related, and the items that had been stolen very similar in terms of portability and value.

  ‘Were you in the house when the burglary occurred, sir?’ asked Bradley.

  Bridger laughed. ‘No, I wasn’t. It would have been a different outcome if I had been here, I can tell you that, Inspector. I did a bit of boxing in my youth and I haven’t forgotten the basics. Actually, my wife and I walked through to London Road and had a drink at the pub there. It’s called the Magnet, if you need to check.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bridger, but we have no reason to doubt your word,’ said Hardcastle, when Bridger had finished, ‘and I apologize for interrupting your evening.’

  ‘Not at all, Inspector. I’m most grateful to you for taking the trouble.’

  ‘What’s next, sir?’ asked Bradley, as he and Hardcastle left the Bridgers’ house.

  ‘I think that’ll do for tonight, Jack. We’ll make our way back to Putney and try the Surbiton address tomorrow evening.’

  ‘We don’t seem to have learned much so far,’ said Bradley. ‘Cavanaugh is a draughtsman and Bridger works in the personnel department. From what Cavanaugh told us, even he didn’t know what he was drawing, and it’s highly doubtful that Bridger’s work in the personnel department would involve military secrets. But as I said to Austin, perhaps the Abwehr doesn’t know that.’

  ‘You’re right, of course, Jack, but we’ve got to keep trying. It might be that the personnel manager is more important than we give him credit for. Where better to find the names and addresses of all of Moore’s Kingston employees?’

  ‘Are you suspecting Bridger, then, guv’nor?’

  ‘Not necessarily, but someone on Moore’s payroll might have gained entry to Bridger’s office. Mind you, this is the sort of stuff that Special Branch should be looking into.’

  ‘They’re too busy arresting spies, sir,’ said Bradley cynically.

  ‘You sound as though you’ve been speaking to my father, Jack.’

  Keith Shaw, the third Moore and Company’s employee on the list of burglary victims, occupied a detached house in Pine Walk, Surbiton.

  ‘There’s one common factor
, Jack,’ said Hardcastle, as he knocked on the door. ‘This is the third house we’ve visited and each of them has easy access to the rear of the property.’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ asked the man who answered the door.

  ‘It’s the police, sir. Mr Shaw, is it?’

  ‘Yes. What seems to be the problem?’ It was still daylight and the householder had no reason to mention the blackout. In any event, and in common with much of the population, Shaw took the view that it was an unnecessary regulation and would soon be abandoned.

  ‘We’d like to talk to you about when you were burgled on the first of September, Mr Shaw.’

  ‘Oh, I see. You’d better come in.’ Shaw was a stocky man with a shock of auburn hair. The DDI reckoned him to be about forty, even though he appeared to be younger.

  Once Hardcastle had introduced himself and Bradley, Shaw invited them into the sitting room.

  ‘This is my wife, Elizabeth, Inspector. We were just listening to the wireless. Nothing important.’

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Shaw,’ said Hardcastle and then turned to the woman’s husband. ‘Were you at home when your house was broken into, Mr Shaw?’

  ‘No, we’d walked down to the Berrylands – it’s the pub on the corner. You probably passed it on the way here. The St John’s Ambulance people have hired an upstairs room there so that they can hold first-aid classes every Friday evening. It seems to be a good idea. If the threatened bombing begins in earnest, we’ll need to know these things. The lecture lasted an hour and after we’d learned how to splint up broken legs and arms, stop bleeding and start breathing and all that sort of business, Liz and I went downstairs to the bar and had a couple of drinks.’

  ‘The officer who reported the break-in said that the burglar entered through the kitchen window.’ Bradley was reading from his pocketbook.

  ‘Apparently so. He said that the burglar had used a penknife or some similar sort of implement to slide the window catch aside and he got into the house via the kitchen.’

  ‘I understand that he didn’t take very much,’ said Bradley.

  ‘No, that was the strange thing about it. We’ve got some reasonably valuable stuff in the house and it’s not hidden away, and yet he ignored that and just took one or two pieces of Liz’s jewellery.’