Hardcastle's Secret Agent

by Graham Ison

  ‘And at no time during this, ten to twelve weeks, I think you said, did you question his claim that he worked for your company?’

  ‘No, I took his word for it. After all, we tended not to talk shop, and as for the war, well, I think everyone was sick of the speculation, and we never discussed it.’

  ‘Did he say where he’d been before suddenly turning up at your golf club three months ago, Mr Austin?’ asked Bradley.

  ‘No. I presumed that he’d been with the Alan Moore set-up for some time, but that we’d never met before.’ Austin paused. ‘Well, we don’t often meet the chaps from Windsor. The plants are separate; our work is kept separate. Most of the time, contact is made by telephone.’

  ‘Which golf club do you belong to, Mr Austin?’ Hardcastle asked.

  Austin took out his wallet and produced his membership card. ‘You’re not going to make enquiries there, are you?’ he asked, somewhat apprehensively.

  ‘Mr Austin, the Ropers have been murdered in cold blood,’ said Hardcastle. ‘They suddenly turn up out of the blue a few weeks before the war starts, and Frank Roper pretends to work for Alan Moore and Company. No one knows anything about him or his wife, including you, and I’m beginning to think that they’re not all that they led people to believe. I shall certainly make enquiries at this club, if for no better reason than to discover what sort of tale Roper told them.’ Having made a note of the golf club’s address and telephone number, the DDI returned the membership card.

  ‘We’ll get over to this golf club before Austin has a chance to get at them,’ said Hardcastle, once he and Bradley were back in their car.

  ‘Mr Dudley Carfax?’ enquired Hardcastle, as he and Bradley entered the club secretary’s office.

  ‘It’s Captain Carfax actually.’ The blazer-clad secretary rose from behind his desk, brushed at his guardee moustache and fingered his regimental tie. Now that he was standing up, he proved to be rather short and somewhat overweight, and did not seem like the figure of a man Hardcastle had always visualized as an army officer. He was certainly unlike his brother-in-law, Major General Spencer.

  ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle and this is Detective Sergeant Bradley.’

  ‘Oh! Can’t say I’ve seen you before. Local chaps, are you?’ Carfax waved a hand, indicating that the two officers should sit down, but remained standing himself, presumably to give himself some physical advantage over the two tall police officers who were now seated.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We’re investigating the murders of Frank Roper and his wife.’

  ‘Good God!’ Carfax did now sit down, rather heavily. ‘Murdered? When did this happen?’

  ‘Last Friday evening, at their home. How well did you know the Ropers, Captain Carfax?’

  ‘No more than to pass the time of day, you know. We do have quite a few members, although I daresay a lot of them will disappear once conscription gets under way.’ Carfax looked past Hardcastle, out of the window. ‘Probably get recalled myself, come to that, seeing I’m still on the reserve of officers.’

  ‘Presumably you dealt with the Ropers’ application for membership personally,’ suggested Bradley.

  ‘Yes, yes, I did.’

  ‘Does that include an enquiry about profession?’

  ‘Usually, yes. Is that important? I mean to say, he seemed of the right sort of class, if you know what I mean.’

  Hardcastle did know what he meant; he’d met self-important characters like Carfax before, desperately trying to enhance their status with their airs and graces. ‘What did Frank Roper tell you about his profession?’

  Standing up and crossing the room, Carfax pulled a key-chain out of his pocket, selected a key and unlocked the filing cabinet. Riffling through the files, he eventually withdrew a slim manila folder and returned to his desk.

  ‘I’m not sure I should reveal this information. It is given to the club in confidence.’ Carfax kept his hand on the folder as if defying the police officers any attempt to see what it contained.

  ‘They’re both dead, Captain Carfax,’ said Bradley sharply, ‘and I would warn you against obstructing police, especially in time of war. The Defence Regulations are quite draconian, you know.’

  ‘We could obtain a warrant if that would help to placate your members, Captain,’ said Hardcastle quietly. ‘Of course, it would have to be applied for in open court.’ That was untrue, of course, but he was certain that Carfax did not know much about obtaining search warrants. ‘And it would cover the entire premises.’

  ‘Yes, well, quite,’ said Carfax, hurriedly opening the folder and running a forefinger down the only sheet of paper it contained. ‘Under “profession” it says “of independent means.” And that’s all the form contains, apart from giving his address, which, presumably, you already know.’

  ‘And Mrs Roper?’ asked Bradley.

  ‘The word “none” was written against profession in her case. Then there is the signature of the club captain granting the Ropers membership.’ Carfax closed the folder and handed it to Hardcastle, the prospect of a search warrant and all it entailed still playing on his mind.

  ‘Did you ever have a conversation with either of the Ropers?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not, apart from when I processed their application to join the club. If I happened to see them in the bar, I’d nod to them, or pass the time of day just to be sociable, but I never got to know them as well as I know some of the other longer-serving members, so to speak. Frank Roper favoured gin and tonic, if that’s any help. I know that inconsequential snippets of information can sometimes be useful. That was certainly my view when I was briefly in Intelligence.’

  ‘I see. Thank you. I’ll make a note of it,’ said Bradley. He was not overly impressed by officers who claimed to have been ‘in Intelligence’. It was usually an attempt to imply that they quite understood the way in which the CID operated, and Bradley knew there was absolutely no similarity.

  Hardcastle and Bradley were back at divisional headquarters at Putney by half past four, to be met by the DDI’s clerk, hovering in the corridor outside Hardcastle’s office.

  ‘What is it, Winters?’

  ‘Mr Canning wants to see you as a matter of urgency, sir. He’s the chief constable of Special Branch, sir.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Winters,’ said Hardcastle rather curtly. ‘I do know who Mr Canning is. Tell my driver to get the car ready.’

  ‘Now, sir?’

  ‘Yes, man, now.’

  After a thirty-minute journey, Hardcastle arrived at the foot of the steps leading to the main entrance to New Scotland Yard.

  Due to the heightened security since the outbreak of war, he was obliged to produce his warrant card to the police constable at the door, before being allowed to make his way along the corridor to Canning’s office.

  ‘DDI Hardcastle of V, sir. You wanted to see me.’

  ‘Yes, I do, Mr Hardcastle. Sit down.’ Chief Constable Albert Canning was six feet tall and immaculately dressed in a three-piece pin-striped suit and a white shirt with a starched collar. His moustache was neatly trimmed. Now fifty-four years of age, he had been head of Special Branch for three years, but his experience of the branch’s duties went back much further to when he’d joined as a detective constable before the Great War. During that war, when he was a detective sergeant, he had been seconded to the army’s Intelligence Corps and served in the Field Security Police in France until the end of the conflict. ‘You’re investigating the murders of Frank and Helen Roper.’ It was a statement not a question.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Why did you not report the matter to this branch the moment you knew of it, Mr Hardcastle?’ Canning’s twinkling blue eyes were proving to be deceptive; there was a sharpness behind the question.

  ‘I saw no reason to report it to Special Branch, sir.’ Hardcastle was wondering what this interrogation was all about. ‘They were two murders apparently committed on t
he spur of the moment by an opportunist burglar.’

  ‘But you were informed by a sergeant of this branch that Frank Roper had been placed at Windsor specifically to trace or attempt to trace anyone who was passing information to an enemy agent.’

  ‘I was not informed of that by anyone, sir, or that I was required to inform your branch.’

  Canning studied Hardcastle’s face for a moment or two, as if seeking signs of mendacity, and then pressed a bell push on his desk. A detective constable appeared.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Ask Superintendent Aubrey Drew to see me.’

  A few moments later a smartly dressed, middle-aged man entered the chief’s office.

  ‘Ah, Mr Drew. This is DDI Hardcastle of V. He’s handling the Roper murders. Find out who was supposed to tell him about Roper’s involvement at Windsor and find out what the hell went wrong. And I want a written report.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Drew turned to go, but stopped. ‘Hardcastle, eh?’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Was your father in the job?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He was the DDI on A Division when he retired.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Same as ever, sir. Argumentative and always telling me how to do the job.’

  Drew laughed. ‘Plus ça change. We worked together on an espionage case during the last war. I don’t think he liked me very much … or the branch for that matter. Nevertheless, give him my regards when you see him.’ With that forgiving comment, Drew departed.

  ‘I suppose I’d better tell you what you should have been told, Mr Hardcastle.’ Canning was clearly very annoyed at having to admit that there had been a breakdown in communications. ‘Frank Roper was not a police officer; he was an agent of MI5, although he’d been recruited by them only recently and for a specific job. He was a design engineer who had been working in Germany until about nine months before the war started, but he decided that things were getting a little too unpleasant for an Englishman and his wife. Consequently, they decided to come home.’

  ‘And that’s when he settled in Kingston, was it, sir?’

  ‘Yes, at a meeting between this branch and MI5 it was decided that Roper would be ideally qualified to infiltrate the factory at Windsor because we – that is to say Special Branch and MI5 – were pretty sure that there was a traitor in the workforce who was passing information to the Abwehr about the work that Alan Moore and Company were doing. Roper, of course, knew Germany and the Germans and also had the advantage of speaking their language fluently. Helen Roper was also involved in trying to extract information from local people with links to Moore’s, as well as keeping an eye out for other potential MI5 recruits who might be able to help with the war effort.’

  ‘I presume that Tom Hughes, the managing director of the Windsor plant, was not informed about this arrangement, sir.’

  ‘No.’ Albert Canning let out a sigh of frustration. ‘We had given Roper a false identity as Frederick Ringham to work at Windsor, but we didn’t expect him to be murdered, Mr Hardcastle. The truth of the matter is that he was given time to settle in and he was only very recently activated, in the sense that he allowed it to be known that he was working for Alan Moore and Company. The idea was that we would inform Hughes at Windsor – in confidence, of course – once Roper, alias Ringham, had begun working at Windsor and had settled in. Unfortunately, the best laid plans, and all that, were overtaken by this unfortunate event. At the time he was murdered, he’d only been at Windsor for a matter of weeks – as Ringham, of course.’ The chief constable shook his head. ‘Are there any indications at all who the killer was?’

  ‘Not at this stage, sir, no.’ Hardcastle got the impression that Roper’s murder was nothing more than an inconvenience to Canning. ‘I have to admit that I have no promising lines of enquiry at the moment.’ He went on to tell the Special Branch chief about Timms’ suspicions about Mrs Roper, the reason for her being nothing more than an excellent hostess now understood – although exactly how far her hostess skills went no doubt depended on the extent of her devotion to obtaining information – and the stories he had heard from Trevor and Catherine Wright, who lived opposite the Ropers, and Major Peter Curtis, that painted the picture of a perfectly ordinary couple.

  ‘Yes, well, he was merely following instructions there about how much he could say and to whom. Together with MI5, we briefed the Ropers to give the impression that they were a perfectly ordinary middle-class couple that would attract no interest from their neighbours in order to disguise what Frank Roper was really being tasked to do’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Frank Roper’s sister, Daphne Shepherd, sir, but she had nothing to tell me, other than to say that her brother had been working in South Africa for some years. That was, presumably, a deliberate deception.’

  Canning said nothing.

  Hardcastle, presuming Canning’s silence was also deliberate and that he intended to give nothing away, went on to outline the possibility of an enemy agent, posing as a burglar, deliberately targeting houses occupied by Moore’s workers. ‘It’s possible, in my view, sir, that the Ropers’ house was picked on for that very reason. One of my Kingston-based officers overheard mention in a pub frequented by the Ropers that Frank Roper worked for Alan Moore’s. It seemed to be an open secret.’

  ‘You’ve got a job on your hands, Mr Hardcastle, and that’s a fact,’ said Canning. ‘If there’s anything that the branch can do to assist, let me know. In fact, I’ll assign Mr Drew to liaise with you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. It’s evident that we’re dealing with a very professional murderer here. It’s possible that he is an agent of the Abwehr tasked to kill Roper because the Nazi regime saw him as a threat to their agent in the factory. Mr Cherrill visited the scene himself. He could find no trace of strange fingerprints on surfaces the killer was likely to have touched, but there were other prints that don’t belong to the Ropers. We’re in the process of checking these against those we’ve taken from their cleaner and a family member. Our scientific team only found an abandoned glove that we’re in the process of trying to identify. Furthermore, there was nothing taken, but that may be accounted for by our belief that the killer was disturbed.’ And Hardcastle finished by telling Canning about the other burglaries where only small items of little value had been taken.

  ‘Keep Mr Drew fully informed about any further burglaries that appear to be targeting Alan Moore employees, Mr Hardcastle, and he will apprise me of any details that affect this branch. However, I suggest that you now deal with this double murder as if it were an ordinary murder and don’t get distracted by what I’ve told you.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Hardcastle, but he was unsure what the chief constable meant by ‘an ordinary murder’. He had never come across an ordinary murder, and the Ropers’ seemed to be anything but. As he walked back to his car, parked in the road between Cannon Row police station and New Scotland Yard, he wondered why Special Branch and MI5 had to make things so damned complicated. Why, for instance, were the murdered couple known in Kingston as Roper, but Frank Roper was known in Windsor as Fred Ringham?

  But then, his father claimed always to be having problems with Special Branch.

  NINE

  When he returned to Putney police station from his interview with Chief Constable Canning at New Scotland Yard, Hardcastle sent for Detective Sergeant Bradley.

  ‘Take a seat, Jack.’ Hardcastle pulled out his pipe and filled it with tobacco.

  ‘All right if I smoke, guv’nor?’ asked Bradley.

  ‘Of course. Carry on.’ Once Hardcastle’s pipe was alight to his satisfaction, he leaned back in his chair. ‘I think we’re faced with what Sherlock Holmes would’ve called a three-pipe problem, Jack,’ he said, and went on to tell him what he had learned from the head of Special Branch.

  Bradley laughed. ‘Sounds like SB has made a bugger’s muddle of it, guv’nor,’ he said, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘It’s that all right, Jack, but I don’t think they’re entirely to blame
. As Mr Canning said, they didn’t anticipate that Roper alias Ringham would be murdered. However, despite all that, it doesn’t alter the fact that we’ve still got two murders to solve.’

  ‘Is it possible that Helen Roper was the target, if she was also working for MI5?’

  ‘But Frank Roper was shot first, Jack. Whether he was the actual target and Helen was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I don’t know. It is possible, of course, that Frank went upstairs and was shot simply because he disturbed a burglar. But you could be right that she was the target and Roper would have been a witness, so he had to die as well. On the other hand, I think my original theory still holds good.’

  ‘What, that they were the victims of a burglar who thought they’d gone out?’

  ‘Exactly. The unusual aspect to this burglar, though, is that he went about his business armed. And that leads me to believe that maybe he is an enemy agent searching for something the Ropers had – this wasn’t a burlarly gone wrong.’

  ‘Why should him being armed make a difference, guv?’

  ‘Because there’s a war on now, Jack, and spies are shot at dawn at the Tower of London. Just like they were in the last war. The fact that this burglar shot the Ropers without hesitation leads me to believe that he was a spy.’

  ‘And murderers are hanged. Not a great deal of difference, is there, sir?’ observed Bradley drily.

  ‘That’s true, and that’s why burglars don’t usually carry a gun, in case they’re tempted to use it. A German agent, on the other hand, wants to avoid the death penalty at all costs and, it would appear, would rather shoot his way out of a confrontation.’

  ‘D’you think that the other burglaries – those on the homes of Alan Moore and Company’s employees – were carried out by the same man, sir?’

  ‘I’m beginning to think it more than likely, Jack. The modus operandi is very similar. A clean break-in and no evidence of his identity. No fingerprints, nothing, and no one saw him. In addition to which, only a few worthless items were taken, if anything was taken at all. That’s the strangest bit: why take useless items? It makes no sense, unless he was searching for sensitive documents. This time, though, he left a glove and that might turn out to be a mistake that gets him shot at the Tower if we can identify where it was bought.’