Hardcastle's Secret Agent

by Graham Ison

  ‘It was only cheap stuff anyway, comparatively speaking,’ said Elizabeth Shaw candidly. She was a good-looking blonde who appeared to be in her early thirties, although Hardcastle suspected that she may have been a little older. ‘I’ve never seen the point of having diamonds when you can have something that looks the same. Some of my friends have got diamond necklaces and things like that and they’re constantly worrying about having them stolen, or fretting about the cost of insuring them. It’s too much trouble for my liking. And there’s one woman I know who keeps her jewellery in a bank deposit box and wears paste copies. Well, what’s the point in that?’

  ‘Why are the police taking a renewed interest in a tuppenny-ha’penny burglary when we’ve got a war to worry about?’ asked Shaw.

  ‘It’s because of your employment, sir,’ said Bradley. ‘I understand that you work for Alan Moore and Company.’

  ‘How the hell did you know that?’ In common with the other two burglary victims, Shaw posed the question suspiciously.

  ‘We’ve been liaising with companies that are engaged in war work, Mr Shaw,’ said Hardcastle, and went on to give Shaw a similar excuse for his interest as he had given Cavanaugh and Bridger.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Shaw. ‘That’s very comforting.’

  ‘As a matter of interest, what do you do at Moore’s, Mr Shaw?’

  ‘Procurement. Arranging for the supply of the metal and Perspex, and all the other sort of stuff we use in our work, which I can’t tell you about, of course.’

  ‘Must be difficult trying to obtain this stuff,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘It’s a nightmare,’ said Shaw. ‘A great deal of the raw materials came from abroad before the war started. Much of it came from Germany, but ironically there’s now a risk to shipping from German submarines. We’re now forced to shop around in the United Kingdom, although we still can’t get everything we need in-house, so to speak. There’s even been some suggestion that everyone’s garden railings are to be taken and melted down for the war effort. We’re hoping for some help from the United States, even though they’re not in the war.’

  ‘I don’t envy you your task,’ said Hardcastle. ‘However, I’ll arrange for an officer to call on you to give you advice about security.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ said Shaw. ‘That’s very good of you. I’ll show you out.’

  ‘I don’t understand it, sir,’ said Bradley, when he and Hardcastle were back at Putney police station. ‘This burglar, whoever he is, must be interested in these employees for security reasons. In each case, he only took worthless items when he could have taken more valuable stuff. D’you think it’s worthwhile following up some of the other break-ins to see what was taken then?’

  ‘Good idea, Jack, but there’s no need to do it physically. The crime book will tell us the method of entry and what was stolen – assuming, of course, that it’s the same burglar who’s responsible for this spate of break-ins. Mind you, of the three we’ve interviewed, the only Moore employee of interest is Shaw. The procurement of material for military submarines would be of vital interest to the enemy.’

  ‘I thought that was a very expensive house that the Shaws lived in, guv’nor. It doesn’t exactly tally with the pay he must be getting.’

  ‘Worth bearing in mind, Jack.’

  However, when Bradley checked, he found that the other properties had been broken into by a burglar using similar methods of entry to those on the Moore employees. The only difference was that the others had lost quite valuable items. Either there were two burglars at work or one, an enemy agent, was acting differently. But why?

  FIVE

  A chill in the September air had persuaded the man to don a black overcoat over his dinner jacket. In addition, he wore his customary white silk scarf, unlined leather gloves and the Anthony Eden homburg hat he always chose in order to give the impression of a dashing man-about-town, rather than his true persona of a German national and agent of the Abwehr. This evening, he had picked one of the houses in a turning off Kingston Hill for his next burglary. It was not a random decision. As was his custom, he had carefully reconnoitred that particular house and researched the occupations and habits of its residents. He had sensed that there was now a greater wariness among people since the declaration of war, probably engendered by the scaremongering rumours that German parachutists were arriving unheralded. Everywhere there were posters advising the population that ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives’, accompanied by the brilliant cartoons of Kenneth Bird, better known as Fougasse.

  Now that the autumn evenings were made even darker by the blackout, it was easy for the man to become invisible simply by standing behind one of the few trees in the road. Fortunately, the one he had selected was opposite the house that interested him.

  He was a patient man for the very simple reason that he had no desire to be caught. In his view, that would mean that he had failed in his chosen profession. He stood, silent and immobile, for a whole hour until he saw the man of the house and his wife emerge, turn on to Kingston Hill and walk in the direction of Kingston town centre.

  The watcher knew from previous observations that on Friday evenings Frank and Helen Roper always visited the George and Dragon public house, further down Kingston Hill, where they would remain for at least two hours, sometimes longer.

  Waiting until the pair were out of sight, the man in black crossed the road to the house and walked swiftly across the lawn to avoid the noise that would be made by treading on the gravel of the driveway, even though he assumed the house was empty. Skirting the property, he reached the French doors at the rear of the property and with practised ease and the use of a skeleton key, gained entry in a matter of seconds. Once inside, he closed the French doors again, but did not lock them. The way in which he had entered might have to serve as an escape route in the event of some sudden emergency. As was his custom, and to make doubly sure, he checked that the front door was not deadlocked, thus ensuring that there was an escape route that way as well, should it be required. Only then did he ascend the staircase to begin his search of the upper floor, starting with the master bedroom.

  This, too, was a carefully thought-out stratagem. Were someone to enter the house, he would have sufficient warning either to hide or resist.

  One of the advantages of the blackout was that he was able to use his torch quite freely, secure in the knowledge that it could not be seen from outside by a vigilant policeman, an inquisitive neighbour or one of the officious ARP wardens of the newly formed Civil Defence.

  A matter of seven minutes after he had entered the master bedroom, he heard the front door opening and the sound of voices. He froze, not from fear but from prudence. Provided whoever had entered the house did not come up to the first floor, the man in black would be safe for the time being. Nevertheless, he switched off his torch, took off the glove that was on his right hand and withdrew the pistol from its holster that he wore beneath his left armpit.

  A man ascended the stairs at a run, at the same time shouting to his wife that he was sure he had left his wallet in their bedroom.

  Flinging open the door, and switching on the light, he was confronted by the man in black, who had just had time to adjust his white silk scarf so that it obscured the lower part of his face.

  ‘Who the hell—?’ The householder made a brave lunge towards the intruder, but that was as far as he got.

  The man in black unhesitatingly fired two rounds into the householder’s chest at point-blank range.

  ‘Frank, what on earth’s happened?’ Hearing the sound of shots, Helen Roper, Frank’s wife, came running up the stairs. As she reached the top, she was struck by two rounds, again fired at point-blank range. Vainly, she tried to grab the banister rail, but her threshing body tumbled back down the stairs, dead before it reached the bottom.

  Calmly, the killer picked up the four spent bullet cases, put them in his pocket and briefly considered the situation. Deciding it would be too dangerous to remain any lon
ger, he made for the ground floor, stepping over Helen Roper’s body, and left the house, shouting a convincing ‘good night’ to the dead occupants as he closed the front door.

  As he disappeared into the blackness of the night, he realized that he had left his leather glove on the bedroom floor, but he dare not go back to recover it. He was furious that he had done so. Not that he was concerned that it might lead to his identity, but that it was a personal failing. Personal failings, he had been taught, would not be countenanced by the Führer.

  There was quite a crowd in the George and Dragon public house on Kingston Hill on Saturday evening, the evening following the murder of the Ropers. Most of the drinkers seemed to know each other and the atmosphere of bonhomie was more like that of an intimate club than a public house. Among them was Detective Constable Iain Campbell, known by his colleagues as Jock, although none of the assembled drinkers knew him to be a policeman. Campbell, a mature, dour Scot, was not a great one for small talk, but he was a good listener and he knew that much information could be picked up in pubs about criminal activity. As a result, he frequented those hostelries that were likely to yield the most information. The George and Dragon was one such inn. The houses in its immediate area were occupied by the well-off and were attractive targets for burglars.

  This evening, however, the conversation took on a slightly different theme.

  ‘Anyone seen Frank and Helen tonight?’ boomed a moustached man in a sports jacket and cavalry twills who was nursing a large Scotch and soda.

  ‘No,’ said the landlord, briefly wiping the top of the bar, more out of habit than necessity. ‘I haven’t. They weren’t in last night, either. And I’ve never known them miss a Saturday evening before.’ For a moment or two, he paused in thought. ‘Or a Friday night, come to that.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s working late,’ said another. ‘I imagine Alan Moore’s outfit is going all out now the war’s started.’

  ‘Careless talk costs lives,’ cautioned the moustached drinker who had served in the last war, as the Great War was now being called. ‘Shouldn’t talk about that sort of thing in pubs, old boy.’ He adjusted his regimental tie and asked the landlord for another large Scotch.

  ‘Make the most of it, Colonel,’ said the landlord. ‘They tell me that it’ll soon be as rare as gold dust.’

  ‘You mean that gold dust will soon be as rare as Scotch, eh what?’ The ‘colonel’ chortled at his own lame joke.

  Turning to his neighbour at the bar, Campbell broke his customary silence. ‘Who are they talking about?’

  ‘Frank and Helen Roper,’ said the man. ‘Nice couple. Live just up Kingston Hill. Well, one of the turnings off the hill. But they’re always in here Friday and Saturday evenings. I’ve never known them miss one. Perhaps they’re on holiday.’

  ‘That’s not very likely,’ said Campbell. ‘No one would go on holiday at this time of year, surely? And certainly not now there’s a war on.’ He finished his beer, nodded to one or two people and left.

  There was a police box just a few yards down the hill from the pub. Taking out his box key, Campbell unlocked the door and stepped inside. Lifting the telephone receiver, he was immediately connected to Kingston police station.

  ‘It’s Jock Campbell here. Put me through to the CID at Putney, will you, pal?’ When his call was answered, Campbell asked if the DI was there. Seconds later, Bob Simmons was on the phone.

  ‘What is it, Jock?’

  ‘You remember the briefing we had from the DDI, guv’nor?’

  ‘Yeah. What about it?’

  Campbell repeated what he had heard in the George and Dragon and offered the suggestion that Roper’s employment might have something to do with his absence.

  ‘Stay there, Jock, while I ring the DDI. Fortunately, he lives on your manor. I’ll ask him what he wants done about it.’

  It was less than five minutes before the light on the telephone lit up and Campbell answered it.

  ‘Stay where you are, Jock,’ said Simmons. ‘The DDI will meet you there very shortly.’

  Ten minutes later, the Kingston area wireless car drew into the kerb by the police box, and Hardcastle flung open the rear door.

  ‘Get in, Jock.’

  ‘I don’t know the Ropers’ address, sir,’ said Campbell, as the police car sped away.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ said Hardcastle. ‘This civil defence register’s a very useful source of information.’

  The area car stopped on the drive of the Ropers’ house and Hardcastle and Campbell got out.

  Hardcastle rang the doorbell several times, but received no response. He stooped and peered through the letterbox.

  ‘There’s a woman’s body lying at the foot of the stairs, Jock, and she’s wearing a topcoat. Looks as though she was getting ready to go out. The question now is how do we get in?’

  ‘I’ll have a walk around the house, sir.’ A few moments later, Campbell returned. ‘The French doors are unlocked, sir. If there was an intruder, I reckon that’s the way he gained entry. On the other hand, of course, Roper might have murdered his wife and then cleared off somewhere.’ It was a detective’s wont always to look for the sinister side of an incident.

  Hardcastle followed Campbell to the back of the house; the two detectives entered and made their way to the front.

  Hardcastle stooped to examine the body. ‘This one’s dead all right, Jock. Judging by the bloodstains on her coat, I reckon she was shot.’

  Campbell stared down at the body. ‘A tragedy that, sir,’ he said. ‘She was a bonny lass, by the looks of her.’

  Hardcastle and Campbell went upstairs where they found the dead body of a man.

  ‘I reckon these are the Ropers, who the people in the pub were talking about, Jock. But it’s odd that Austin, the managing director of Alan Moore’s establishment, didn’t mention Roper when he gave us the addresses of his senior people.’

  ‘Perhaps Roper’s only just arrived at the firm, sir.’ Campbell knelt down and began to go through the dead man’s pockets.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Hardcastle. ‘If he and his wife didn’t turn up at the pub last night, it’s possible that they were murdered some time yesterday,’ he continued thoughtfully. ‘However, we’d better get a team down here a bit quickly. We’ll need a pathologist, a team of technicians from the forensic science laboratory at Hendon, and a few more detectives. But, above all, we need someone from the fingerprint department and, if we’re lucky, we’ll get Mr Cherrill. This is the sort of case that would interest him. There’s a telephone downstairs in the hall, Jock. Start phoning round and get it organized. You know the drill. Oh, and one other thing: I want DS Bradley from Putney to meet me at my home address not later than ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Aye, sir, I’ll get on to it straight away. By the way, the dead man is Frank Roper; he had his identity card in his pocket.’ Campbell returned to the ground floor. Using his handkerchief in order not to compromise any fingerprints, he picked up the receiver of the telephone and used a pencil to dial the number of Kingston police station.

  It was gone ten o’clock that evening before the full investigation team was at the Ropers’ house. Detective Superintendent Frederick Cherrill was intrigued by a double murder and made his way to Kingston Hill as quickly as possible, bringing with him a case containing all the equipment he would need and which he always kept at home. Sir Bernard Spilsbury, the Home Office pathologist, was the last to arrive. In Hardcastle’s father’s day, Spilsbury would more often than not be attired in morning dress and arrive in a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce. Later in the day it was not unusual to see the eminent pathologist in white tie and tails or a dinner jacket. But times had changed and there was a war on. Now, albeit halfway through the night, Sir Bernard was wearing a superbly cut lounge suit.

  ‘My dear Hardcastle,’ said Spilsbury. ‘I don’t think we’ve met before, but I knew your father very well. How is he?’

  ‘Very fit for his age, Sir Bernard, and resis
ting all my attempts to get him to move to the country out of harm’s way.’

  Spilsbury laughed. ‘Your father was never one for moving out of harm’s way, my dear Hardcastle.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Now, tell me, what have we got here?’

  As briefly as possible – because Spilsbury disliked anything but the bare facts – Hardcastle explained the circumstances leading up to the finding of the Ropers’ bodies. Without further ado, Spilsbury took off his jacket and began his examination of the deceased. After twenty minutes or so, he stood up and scribbled a few notes on the back of an envelope.

  ‘That’s the most I can do here, Hardcastle. I tend to go along with your assessment that they were probably killed sometime yesterday evening. I’d be grateful if you could arrange for the cadavers to be taken up to St Mary’s where I’ll conduct the post-mortem examination.’ Taking his jacket from DC Campbell with a murmur of thanks, he bade farewell to Hardcastle.

  ‘I’ve found a number of fingermarks, Mr Hardcastle.’ Detective Superintendent Cherrill appeared in the sitting room. ‘But I suspect that you’re dealing with a professional who made sure he kept leather gloves on all the time. However, I think you’re right that he probably took off a glove in order to fire his weapon and left it in the rush to escape. It may prove to be his undoing. I’ll arrange for a search of those prints I have lifted and compare them with those in the system. I’ve taken prints from the two deceased, but I suspect that most of those I’ve lifted will match them or friends who have visited at some time.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Hardcastle, as Cherrill was leaving. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’

  The forensic scientists who had been called in from Hendon spent another hour, photographing and searching, and eventually the senior man reported to Hardcastle.

  ‘So far, the only thing we’ve found, sir, is a black unlined leather glove. It’s right-handed and was on the floor of the main bedroom.’