Hardcastle's Secret Agent

by Graham Ison

  Half an hour later, having ensured that they were admitted without delay, Lamenski, Hardcastle and Bradley were seated in the FBI agent’s office.

  ‘This man is a Brit, Walter, but he was in the New York Fire Department for six years.’

  ‘How did he get into the FDNY, Willis? I thought you had to be a US citizen.’

  ‘Because he had been in the British Army in the last war,’ replied Lamenski, ‘he was exempted all the usual entry qualifications such as the requirement to be an American citizen. However, in 1926, he was caught taking a sixteen-year-old girl across a state line. The girl openly admitted that she frequently had sexual intercourse with Simpson. That, of course, is a federal offence contrary to the Mann Act. He was lucky to get away with doing just six months in the slammer, something to do with his war record, I guess, but he was deported back to the United Kingdom in 1927.’

  ‘That’s terrific, Willis,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Thanks very much.’ He paused. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a copy of his fingerprints?’

  ‘Now the man wants miracles!’ Lamenski spread his hands in a parody of amazement at the request. Then he laughed. ‘Right here, Walter.’ The agent handed over an envelope. ‘D’you reckon he’s your guy?’

  Hardcastle and Bradley stood up and shook hands with Lamenski. ‘I’ll tell you in about twenty-four hours, Willis.’

  ‘That long, huh?’ Lamenski laughed, and showed them out.

  ‘Got him!’ announced Hardcastle triumphantly, and handed Detective Superintendent Cherrill’s report to Bradley. ‘Simpson’s fingerprints are a positive match for those on the wine bottle and the wine glass.’

  ‘How are we going to handle this, guv’nor?’ asked Bradley.

  ‘We’re going to nick him, of course, Jack, but I don’t want to forewarn him. First of all, we’ll find out whether he’s at work or at home. What was the name of that smart young DC who was with us when we searched Joyce Butler’s place?’

  ‘Barber, John Barber.’

  ‘Get hold of him and tell him to find out when Simpson will be at home. Without making himself obvious.’

  As it happened, Barber was even more resourceful than Hardcastle had believed. He called on Mrs Audrey Kane who, he discovered, was one of those people policemen love. She habitually monitored the comings and goings of the residents and was able to tell Barber that Simpson was at home. Barber asked if he might use her telephone and promptly informed Hardcastle of Simpson’s current whereabouts. It was five o’clock that same evening.

  ‘Well done, Barber. Did you happen to ask Mrs Kane if there was any way out of his flat other than through the front door?’

  ‘I did, sir. All the flats are the same, and the front door’s the only way in and out.’

  ‘Thank you, Barber. Stay there until Sergeant Bradley and I arrive to make the arrest.’

  ‘I’ve been expecting you, Mr Hardcastle.’ Eric Simpson had a resigned expression on his face. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been wanting to get it off my chest.’

  ‘Get what off your chest?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘I did it. I killed Joyce.’

  ‘Eric Simpson, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murdering Joyce Butler on or about Wednesday the thirty-first of July 1940. You’re not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.’

  Simpson was placed in the back seat of the police car between Hardcastle and Bradley, and Barber drove them the short distance to Gray’s Inn Road police station.

  Having negotiated the sandbagged entrance, Hardcastle explained to the station officer the circumstances of Simpson being brought to the station. The fireman was then taken to an interview room.

  ‘I would remind you that you are still under caution, Mr Simpson,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘I don’t care about that. I just want to tell you what happened.’

  ‘Go ahead, then.’

  ‘I met Joyce at the Surbiton Assembly Rooms on the Tuesday. I’d seen her before, of course, because she lives in the same block of flats on the floor above mine in Coram Street, but then you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘This was the thirtieth of July, when you met, was it?’

  ‘Probably. I’m not very good at dates. Anyway, I saw Joyce standing at the bar with her mates and I asked her for a dance. She agreed straight away. We had a couple of dances and I escorted her back to the bar and bought her a drink. She talked a lot about it being a dangerous job in the fire brigade with all these bombs dropping.’

  ‘Take it a bit slower, if you can, Mr Simpson,’ said Bradley. ‘I’m writing all this down.’

  ‘Sorry. We had another couple of dances and a few more drinks and then she said she ought to be going. I offered to walk her home, what with the blitz and everything. I don’t like the idea of a girl going home alone. Anyway, we lived in the same block as each other.’

  ‘Yes, go on.’ Bradley looked up from his note-taking and stared briefly at Simpson. He found it difficult to reconcile Simpson’s apparent earlier concern for the safety of a woman whom he later murdered. But then the minds of murderers have remained a mystery even to some psychiatrists.

  ‘When we got back to her place, we shared a bottle of wine and I thought I was on a promise. I got a bottle of Scotch from my place and she downed two or three of those. We laughed and joked for a while, but then, quite suddenly, she turned nasty on me. I don’t know what caused her sudden change of mood. Perhaps it was the whisky. Come to think of it, she did say that she wasn’t used to it.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘She said I was too old and that she didn’t sleep with old men. She started shouting at me to “get the hell out of my flat”. Then, she began punching me and calling me names and threatening to tell her husband and the police that I’d tried to rape her. As I said just now, I think it was the whisky talking. She went really wild, and at one stage, she picked up a carving knife and came towards me. I grabbed the wine bottle and hit her over the head with it. It was self-defence.’

  Hardcastle glanced at Bradley, who nodded. Hardcastle wanted to make certain that his sergeant had recorded that last telling statement.

  ‘We know it was your fingerprints on the bottle and the wine glass, that’s why we arrested you.’

  ‘How did you know that?’ Simpson looked genuinely surprised, an expression that immediately changed to one of annoyance.

  ‘The Americans told us that you’d been convicted of taking a sixteen-year-old girl across a state line for purposes of prostitution. That, as you know, is a federal offence. You were imprisoned for six months and then deported. The FBI sent us a copy of your fingerprints.’

  ‘They’d no right to tell you that,’ protested Simpson.

  Hardcastle smiled. ‘I can see you don’t know much about co-operation between the law enforcement agencies of the free world, Simpson. Of course, if you’d been convicted of an offence in any of the countries now overrun by the Germans, you might have got away with it.’

  ‘When we saw you the night after the murder,’ said Bradley, ‘you were just opening the door to your flat and you said you’d just come off duty. That’s not true, is it?’

  ‘No. I was going to run. To get as far away as I could. But when I got out in the street, there were police everywhere, so I went back and that’s when I met you.’

  Hardcastle crossed the room and opened the door. ‘Take this prisoner back to his cell, please, Constable,’ he said to the waiting policeman.

  ‘What d’you think, Jack?’ asked Hardcastle, once they were alone.

  ‘According to Sir Bernard Spilsbury, guv’nor, Joyce Butler was struck from behind with the bottle, so that rules out self-defence, as does the later strangulation. He’s just trying to avoid the rope in the hope that the jury would accept a plea of manslaughter.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Now comes the hard part: the report for the Director of Public Prosecutions.’

  �
��Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! All those having business with this court of oyer and terminer and general gaol delivery, pray draw near. God Save the King.’ Having delivered the time-honoured opening of an assize court, the Old Bailey usher resumed his seat, his moment of glory over.

  Eric Simpson appeared in the dock, flanked by two prison officers. He now appeared older and less confident of himself than when Hardcastle and Bradley had first seen him on the night of the murder.

  The clerk of the court, a silver-haired man, emaciated to a greater extent than food rationing would seem to be responsible for, coughed and picked up a sheet of paper. ‘Eric Simpson,’ he began in a strained voice, ‘you are charged in that on or about Tuesday, the thirtieth of July in the year of Our Lord one thousand, nine hundred and forty, you did murder Joyce Butler. Against the Peace. How say you upon this indictment: guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘Not guilty, My Lord.’ Simpson had wanted to plead guilty, but his counsel advised him that this particular judge would not accept such a plea, believing the prosecution should prove their case beyond all reasonable doubt in cases of murder.

  ‘Bring in the jury,’ said the judge, but before proceedings began, he addressed the court with a cautionary instruction that had become customary since the outbreak of war. ‘Ladies and gentleman, in the event of the air-raid warning being sounded during these proceedings, I shall immediately suspend them and you will be escorted to the comparative safety of the cells beneath the court. The ladies and gentlemen of the jury will be kept in separate accommodation by the jury bailiff. I would further caution persons involved as witnesses in these proceedings not to discuss the case as this may well be perceived as a contempt of court.’

  Once the jury had been sworn in, in this case five elderly men and seven women, the proceedings, at last, began.

  ‘Very well, Mr Attorney.’

  ‘May it please, My Lord.’ Sir Donald Somervell rose to his feet and introduced his junior and the counsel comprising the defence team. ‘This a fairly straightforward case, My Lord.’ He began his opening speech for the prosecution by outlining the circumstances surrounding the murder of Joyce Butler. ‘Mrs Butler’s husband is serving in the army somewhere in southern England.’ It had become the custom not to reveal the exact location of armed forces units, even in proceedings before the court, unless it was absolutely necessary. ‘It is alleged that she and the accused met at the Surbiton Assembly Rooms on the evening of Tuesday, the thirtieth of July this year. She invited him to her home at Ravenscroft flats, Kingston Hill, where they indulged in a large number of alcoholic drinks consisting of wine and of whisky. Separately, of course, My Lord.’ The attorney smiled at his little joke. ‘It is further alleged that the moment the accused suggested sexual intercourse, Mrs Butler flew into a rage, the outcome of which was an argument that culminated in the accused murdering her. I call my first witness: Divisional Detective Inspector Walter Hardcastle of V Division, New Scotland Yard.’

  There was never much of a problem when police were examined by prosecuting counsel and Hardcastle was merely required to confirm what the attorney had outlined in his opening address. The real test came when the leading defence barrister, an eminent King’s Counsel, Andrew Sangster, stood up to cross-examine.

  His first action was to hitch his gown back on to his shoulder, although there was no need for theatrics with his reputation at the bar.

  ‘When did you first meet the accused, Eric Simpson, Divisional Detective Inspector?’

  ‘At about eight thirty in the evening of Wednesday the thirty-first of July this year, sir.’

  ‘What were the circumstances, Divisional Detective Inspector?’ Sangster asked, turning back to Hardcastle.

  Hardcastle explained his meeting with Simpson and how he had claimed to have just come off duty.

  ‘But he hadn’t, had he?’ Sangster was doing his best to prove that Hardcastle was not a very good investigator.

  Overall, the trial went much as the Attorney General had predicted. Evidence was given over a period of three days. But Andrew Sangster was unable to find any cracks in the strong evidence that pointed indisputably to Simpson’s guilt.

  Finally, the jury took a period of three hours to bring in a verdict of guilty.

  ‘Eric Simpson, have you anything to say before sentence of death is passed upon you?’ asked the clerk of the court.

  ‘No, sir,’ replied an impassive Simpson.

  The judge donned the black cap. ‘Eric Simpson, you stand convicted of murder. The sentence of the law upon you is that you be taken to a lawful prison and thence to a place of execution. That you be there hanged by the neck until you are dead and that your body be buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall have last been confined before your execution, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.’

  The judge’s chaplain, a thin man of suitably melancholy appearance, added the single word ‘Amen’.

  Simpson did not react in any way, but when the judge ordered him to be taken down, he merely turned on his heel and descended the steps to the cells.

  The customary three Sundays had not passed before the air raid occurred. One of the two escorting prison officers on death watch in the condemned cell holding Eric Simpson was playing chess with him.

  At thirteen minutes to four, when the occupants of the cell were awaiting afternoon tea, all three were killed instantly when a bomb fell, destroying that corner of the prison.

  ‘He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword,’ said Bradley laconically when he heard the news.

  Ironically, it was on the same day that Bradley received a telephone call from Captain Kasia Sikora of the Free Polish Army’s military police.

  ‘Jack, we found that Corporal Wojtek Baros was the airman who lost his air gunner insignia. When he was interviewed, he stated that he had met Mavis Lavender at the Astoria dance hall in Charing Cross Road and was escorting her to her home when she suddenly started screaming abuse at him, saying that she did not intend to sleep with “a damned foreigner”. She began to fight with him, and at some point, he lost his insignia. He admitted losing his temper and strangling her on a bomb site in Charing Cross Road and leaving her body there. The court martial is here at Uxbridge at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Will the proceedings be in Polish, Kasia?’

  There was a throaty laugh from Captain Sikora. ‘No, in Chinese.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Bradley. ‘Silly question. Is there a need for me to be there, officially, I mean?’

  ‘Yes, please. The court may wish to question you. There will be an interpreter, of course.’

  At nine o’clock the following morning Bradley made his way to RAF Uxbridge. A Royal Air Force police corporal met him at the entrance and examined his warrant card carefully.

  ‘You’re here for the Polish court martial, Sergeant Bradley.’ It was not so much a question as a statement of fact.

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Righto, Sarge, I’ll show you the way, otherwise you’ll get lost.’

  Captain Kasia Sikora was waiting for Bradley when eventually he was delivered to the door to the courtroom. But he did not immediately recognize her. Her long black hair was in a French roll and she was wearing uniform, including the square cap peculiar to the Polish Army, with a belted tunic fastened to the neck. Her skirt overlapped the top of her knee-length black boots.

  ‘Hello, Jack.’

  ‘Good heavens, Kasia, that’s a very attractive outfit,’ said Bradley, and immediately regretted it.

  But Kasia Sikora just smiled. ‘The trial is inquisitorial, Jack.’ Although she spoke perfect English, she had a bit of trouble with that word, but so, thought Jack, do a lot of people for whom English is their first language. ‘Unlike your court-martials or your courts system in general.’

  ‘Are you a lawyer, as well as being a military policeman, Kasia?’

  ‘Yes, I am, but in case you haven’t noticed, I am a policewoman not a policeman.’ Sikora s
miled mockingly at him. ‘I would have thought you’d have worked that out by now. Shall we go in? The court is about to convene.’

  Bradley wondered why it was that every time he made a comment, Sikora responded in such a way as to make him look foolish. And that provoked a question.

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, Kasia, are you married?’

  ‘Not any more, Jack. My husband was killed when the Germans bombed Warsaw on the first of September last year. Fortunately, there were no children.’ She turned abruptly on her heel and pulled open the door to the courtroom.

  Despite Sikora having told Bradley that the trial would be inquisitorial, he was surprised at how few people there were in the spartan courtroom.

  ‘That’s the accused.’ Sikora nodded in the direction of a man of about thirty seated at a table with a military policeman on either side of him. ‘That’s Wojtek Baros, and he’s a corporal in our air force. He lost the air gunner’s badge that you found under the body of Mavis Lavender. And this is Lieutenant Tomek Golubski, your interpreter,’ she added, as a young man in uniform walked towards them.

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Sergeant Bradley,’ said Golubski, and shook hands.

  ‘Ah, here we go,’ said Sikora, as a thin, stooped figure entered the courtroom from a door at the rear. ‘Colonel Aleksander Filipek, president of the court.’ Bradley reckoned he must be at least seventy.

  A table had been set aside for Bradley, Sikora and Lieutenant Golubski. There was a smartly attired young officer on one side of the court. ‘He presents the prosecution case against the accused,’ whispered Sikora.

  The proceedings were very short. Colonel Filipek signalled to the prosecutor to begin.

  ‘The prosecuting officer has just said that Corporal Wojtek Baros admits having lost his air gunner’s badge at a bomb site in Charing Cross Road on Tuesday the sixth of August this year and that he further admits having murdered Miss Mavis Lavender on the same date.’

  ‘So, what happens now?’ asked Bradley.

  Golubski held up a finger of silence as the president stood up, to be followed by everyone in the courtroom. Colonel Filipek’s announcement was short and appeared to come as no surprise to the assembled military.