Hardcastle's Secret Agent

by Graham Ison

  Lieutenant Golubski leaned towards Bradley. ‘That was the sentence, Sergeant Bradley. Corporal Baros will be executed by firing squad tomorrow morning. And that is the end of the proceedings.’

  Colonel Filipek nodded to the court and went out through the door from which he had entered less than thirty minutes previously.

  ‘Come up to my office, Jack,’ said Sikora. ‘I think we deserve a vodka after that, don’t you?’ And without awaiting a reply, she set off, leaving Bradley no alternative but to follow.

  ‘You didn’t really need me at this court martial, did you, Kasia?’ Bradley waited until they were seated in the military policewoman’s office before making the accusation.

  ‘No. Baros had confessed to the murder and there was nothing else to be done, but to pass sentence.’

  ‘In that case, why did you want me here?’

  Sikora smiled. ‘One way or another, I was determined to take you out to lunch, Jack.’ She was quite brazen about her deception. ‘I’ve booked a table at the Polish Hearth Club, which is a favourite of mine. Now, if you wait a moment, I’ll change out of uniform.’ She downed her vodka at a gulp and disappeared through a door leading to a private room.

  Ten minutes later, she was back, now attired in a grey two-piece suit with her black hair once again worn loose and her make-up discreetly applied.

  ‘Are you ready, or do you want another vodka?’

  ‘No thanks, Kasia. One is quite enough.’

  ‘Good. In that case, we’ll go.’ Sikora picked up her handbag and led the way down to the guardroom where a British military police car was waiting. ‘The usual place, please, Charlie.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ The British military police corporal saluted, laughed and opened the rear door of the car. These two obviously knew each other well, and Bradley wondered just how well. On the other hand, she may have taken so many men to her favourite restaurant that her driver knew instinctively where she intended to go.

  Sikora led the way into the bar at the elegant premises of the club in Princes Gate. ‘Vodka, Jack?’

  ‘I’ll have a Scotch and water if I may. If they have any.’ Whisky was becoming increasingly difficult to obtain since war broke out, but the Polish Hearth Club did not seem to be suffering a shortage. ‘Here, let me pay, Kasia.’ Bradley began to take out his wallet, but Sikora put her hand over his.

  ‘You’re not a member, and only members are allowed to buy drinks or pay for meals.’

  And that meant that Kasia Sikora had manoeuvred Bradley into a position where courtesy demanded that he would have to return the woman’s hospitality at some future date. And that, he decided, was exactly what she had intended all along, but he surprised himself by realizing that he did not really mind.

  Nevertheless, the Polish military police captain was proving to be a complex personality, maintaining a light-hearted conversation over lunch even though she had witnessed a man being sentenced to death only an hour or so previously.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Winters, the DDI’s clerk, hovered in the doorway, clutching a sheaf of papers, a week later.

  ‘Well, come in, man. What is it?’

  ‘I’ve been looking at the crime book regarding these break-ins, sir,’ Winters began nervously.

  ‘And …?’ Hardcastle needed no reminding of his failure to apprehend the man he suspected of being Helen and Frank Roper’s killer.

  ‘They all took place on a Friday between the hours of eight and ten thirty in the evening, and were mainly in the Kingston Hill area, but one or two isolated incidents were in Surbiton and the centre of Kingston.’

  ‘I’m aware, Winters. What are you suggesting?’ Hardcastle suddenly took an interest and thought of DAC Marriott’s advice to listen to one’s subordinates. They may have thought of something that hadn’t crossed your mind, he’d said, although he already had an inkling where this was going.

  ‘Well, sir, I’ve made a chart of sorts showing details of each of the burglaries.’ Winters handed over his sheaf of papers. ‘If we were to put as many police officers as possible into those areas, or perhaps just the Kingston Hill area, on Fridays between those hours, we might just catch the Ropers’ killer.’

  ‘Good work, Winters, but we considered that some time ago. However …’ It occured to Hardcastle that things were different now. Back then, the backlog of cases was almost overwhelming. Things had certainly improved in the last few weeks. Hardcastle stood up. ‘I’ll see what can be done. In the meantime, don’t mention this to anyone else.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Winters was delighted that the DDI had complimented him on his suggestion, even if it had already been thought of by someone else. It was the first time he had been commended for anything.

  From his own office, Hardcastle went straight to Superintendent Swain’s office.

  ‘Spare a moment, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Hardcastle, come in.’

  Hardcastle spent the next few minutes explaining the plan and the background to it.

  Swain spent some time studying Winters’ chart. ‘This will almost cover the entire sub-division,’ he mused, and looked up. ‘I’ll speak to the sub-divisional inspector at Kingston, Mr Hardcastle, and tell him to rearrange his late turn relief from two to ten to, say, five p.m. to one a.m., and the early turn can stay on for the extra three hours. The night duty will overlap so we can use them as well. I’ll also arrange for other sub-divisions to provide as many men as they can. Presumably, Mr Hardcastle, you’ll be putting out some CID officers.’

  ‘Every man I’ve got, sir.’

  At four p.m. on the evening of Friday the thirteenth of September, all the officers who had been assigned to the operation to catch the burglar, and suspected murderer, the previous two Fridays with no success were gathered again in the yard at the rear of Kingston police station. DDI Hardcastle explained once more exactly what he hoped they would achieve and reminded them not to take any chances as their quarry was very likely to be armed. He had obtained authority for several officers to carry firearms, but emphasized they were only to be used if they or a colleague was in mortal danger.

  Hardcastle decided, however, that he would not accompany the officers. It was, in his view, a job for the uniformed inspectors who were far more accustomed to this type of operation than he was. Instead, he would remain at Kingston police station.

  He wasn’t too optimistic about their chances of success. There had been no noticeable activity or break-ins from their mark since he’d targeted the Austins, and they’d had no luck the previous two Fridays. But if Hardcastle had learnt anything about this man, it was that he was knew how to bide his time, even give the impression that he’d left the country, before striking.

  By half past eleven, Kingston was once again swathed in the pitch-black darkness of the rigorously enforced blackout. The air-raid siren had sounded thirty minutes previously. The sound of heavy bombers seeking out, but more often missing, strategic targets was constant. Searchlight beams criss-crossed the night sky, occasionally illuminating the barrage balloons that hovered like ghostly giant whales.

  Because of the encompassing obscurity at ground level, the man in black, alert though he may have been, did not see any of the policemen who had been drafted into the area. But they were there, almost invisible in their dark-blue uniforms and their blue steel helmets.

  The man made his way slowly along the street, unable to see such objects as lamp posts or postboxes, despite the white bands painted around them, until he was almost on top of them. As usual, he was attired in a dinner jacket, a homburg hat and a pair of unlined leather gloves. His customary white silk scarf was slung carelessly around his neck, but as the weather was still quite warm, there was no need for the overcoat he had worn during the winter months.

  Although the air raid had been going on for some time and the night was punctuated by the occasional explosion, the man in black was unperturbed; he took the view that he could as easily be killed in his own home as ou
t here on the street.

  One minute later, he was almost proved right, and he became aware of the unique whistling of a falling bomb as the Doppler effect was created by its rapid velocity. Seconds later, there was an explosion in the next street that momentarily illuminated the sky, followed by the crash of falling masonry. But in that brief flash, Police Constable Max Dodge, standing beneath a tree, was sharp enough to see the man in black on the opposite pavement. And observant enough to notice that he was wearing a glove on his left hand even though it was a very warm night.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Dodge, walking towards the man, at the same time shining his lantern on him.

  The man in black did not hesitate. In readiness, he had already removed the glove from his right hand and was holding his pistol low on the right side of his body. As the policeman came closer, the man in black fired. At the last minute, Dodge threw himself sideways and, thanks to the impenetrable darkness, the bullet went wide. Dodge pulled out his whistle and blew three short blasts. Moments later, police officers appeared from everywhere, their lanterns criss-crossing each other, and deliberately shouting to disorientate the suspect as they descended upon him. Curtains were pulled aside in nearby houses and some lights came on, causing one police officer to shout, ‘Put that bloody light out.’ It was a pointless request in view of the light created by the policemen themselves.

  All this sudden activity, and the sight of blue uniforms in the torchlight, disconcerted the man in black sufficiently to enable Dodge to dive at the man’s legs in a classic rugby tackle and bring him to the ground. Grasping the wrist that held the pistol, the officer repeatedly smashed it on the ground until the man in black relinquished his hold.

  Kneeling on the man’s chest, Dodge said, ‘You’re nicked, chummy.’

  It was just after midnight when the duty inspector entered the DDI’s office.

  ‘I’m Inspector Carson, sir, night-duty patrolling officer here. I thought you’d wish to know that a beat-duty PC was shot at earlier this evening during the operation to apprehend our burglar.’

  ‘Was the officer injured?’

  ‘No, sir. The gunman missed, thank God. It was PC 481V Dodge, sir, and he arrested his attacker with the assistance of other officers.’

  ‘Has the prisoner been identified?’

  By way of an answer, Carson handed Hardcastle the arrested man’s national identity card. ‘He’s being held in the cells here, sir.’

  ‘Has DS Bradley come back into the station, Mr Carson?’ asked Hardcastle, as he returned the identity card to the inspector. ‘I know he was out on the ground, earlier on.’

  ‘Yes, sir. He’s having a cup of tea in the canteen.’

  ‘Ask him to see me as soon as he can, please.’

  A few minutes later, Bradley appeared in Hardcastle’s office.

  ‘Did Mr Carson fill you in, Jack?’

  ‘Yes, sir, he did. Bit of a surprise.’

  ‘Is Superintendent Swain at the station?’

  ‘I’m told he came in about an hour ago, once the bombing started to get a bit heavy. There have been several incidents on the division and a close call at Hawkers. But they only managed to knock down the gates.’

  ‘Mr Carson told me about that, but no injuries there, I understand.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Jack, would you ask Mr Swain if he’d be willing to sign a written order to search under the Official Secrets Act? You know the circumstances if he needs further explanation. Once you’ve done that, meet me at the premises and bring a couple of constables and a woman officer with you.’

  By the time Detective Sergeant Bradley and the accompanying officers arrived at the arrested man’s house with Superintendent Swain’s written order to search, it was two o’clock in the morning. The siren indicating the ‘All Clear’ had been sounded from Kingston police station an hour earlier and it was hoped that the rest of the night would be quiet. The London docks were getting another pasting and a dull red glow in the eastern sky made a mockery of the blackout.

  Hardcastle rapped continuously on the lion’s-head knocker for a good three or four minutes before the curtain was pulled back. A woman peered around the edge of the half-open door.

  ‘What on earth is it?’ she demanded.

  ‘Police.’ Hardcastle held his warrant card open and shone his torch on it.

  The woman retreated into the hall and did not seem at all surprised when the DDI was followed by Detective Sergeant Bradley, two uniformed constables and a woman police sergeant.

  ‘It’s about your husband, Charles, Mrs Cavanaugh,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘I’m not Mrs Cavanaugh,’ said the woman.

  ‘When I came here last autumn, Mr Cavanaugh introduced you as his wife. You were playing the piano.’ Now that the door was closed, the curtain back in place and the hall light switched on, Hardcastle recognized the woman, but now she was wearing black silk pyjamas and had taken time to apply make-up and brush her long blonde hair. ‘Why didn’t you contradict him when that’s what he said at the time?’

  ‘Mrs Cavanaugh can’t play the piano,’ replied the woman unconvincingly.

  ‘Who are you, then?’

  ‘I’m Mrs Cavanaugh’s companion, Anna Tobin.’ She used both hands to sweep her blonde hair back over her ears.

  ‘I think you’d better fetch Mrs Cavanaugh down here, Mrs Tobin. It is Mrs Tobin, is it?’

  ‘No.’ Anna Tobin raised her head slightly. ‘It’s Miss Tobin.’

  ‘We’ll be in the sitting room, Miss Tobin.’

  Without questioning this instruction, Anna Tobin turned and mounted the staircase.

  Hardcastle nodded to the woman police sergeant who followed Tobin upstairs in case she attempted to destroy some important evidence.

  About five minutes later, a woman entered the room where Hardcastle had previously interrupted a musical soiree. She was tall – perhaps a couple of inches under six foot – and painfully thin. She clutched a cotton dressing gown around herself as if to disguise her slender frame, but succeeded only in emphasizing it. Her flaxen hair was long enough to fall several inches below her shoulders.

  ‘I’m Eve Cavanaugh. You wanted to see me?’ Although the woman’s English was good, her voice bore the trace of an accent, but she had spoken too few words for Hardcastle to identify it.

  Having introduced himself and Bradley, Hardcastle said, ‘Your husband was arrested late last evening for attempting to murder a policeman, Mrs Cavanaugh.’

  ‘Oh, that is not good.’ Eve Cavanaugh suddenly sat down in an armchair, her knees clamped tightly together. ‘Where was this, please?’

  ‘In Richmond Road.’

  ‘What was he doing there?’

  ‘I was about to ask you the same question, Mrs Cavanaugh.’

  The woman shrugged her bony shoulders. ‘I don’t know. He went out often for a walk in the evenings.’

  ‘Wo wurder dein Mann geboren?’ Bradley spoke suddenly and in rapid, impeccable German, surprising Hardcastle almost as much as he surprised Mrs Cavanaugh.

  Eve Cavanaugh replied immediately. ‘Mein Mann wurde in Frankfurt geboren.’ It was probably the surprise of being addressed in her native tongue that caught her wrong-footed and caused her to revert to her own language.

  ‘Und Sie?’

  ‘In Frankfurt auch.’

  ‘Would you like to let me into the secret, Jack?’ Hardcastle spoke quietly in an aside.

  ‘Yes, sir. I asked Mrs Cavanaugh where her husband was born, and she told me it was Frankfurt. Then I asked her where she was born and she said she was born in Frankfurt as well.’

  ‘Mrs Cavanaugh,’ said Hardcastle, ‘I have an order to search these premises.’

  ‘But why? Why should you want to search my house?’

  ‘Because you are German and so is your husband. And that means you are enemy aliens.’ The DDI’s statement was uncompromising and lacking in sympathy, but the country was at war and, doubtless, several civilians on his div
ision had been killed in the air raid that night.

  ‘Then do as you wish.’ Eve Cavanaugh spoke in resigned tones, as though nothing else could possibly happen to her following the arrest of her husband and the authorities now knowing that she and her husband were German. It was noticeable, too, that her accent had become more pronounced, probably as a result of the stress caused by the arrival of the police and the news they bore.

  Hardcastle deputed the woman sergeant to stay with the two women and to report any conversation between them. He hoped that Anna Tobin didn’t speak German, but if she did, he told the sergeant to tell them to talk in English. Taking one of the constables with him, he told Jack Bradley to take the other one.

  In the study, Hardcastle found a British passport in the name of Charles Cavanaugh. It had been issued in 1938 and showed his place of birth to have been Chepstow in Monmouthshire. This was clearly a false document; his wife had just told Detective Sergeant Jack Bradley that her husband had been born in Frankfurt.

  Minutes later, Bradley joined Hardcastle in the study. ‘I reckon this is the mate of the one we found at the Ropers’ house, guv’nor,’ he said, displaying a glove in an evidence bag. ‘God knows why he didn’t destroy it, but I’ll send it off to the lab; they might find something that confirms it. My constable came across a room that looks as though Cavanaugh used it as a storeroom for his proceeds from burglaries. One interesting item was a brass table bell that he claimed had been stolen when his house was burgled. Personally, sir, I don’t think his house was broken into at all. I reckon that the story about the bell was just a cover story designed to move suspicion away from him. Incidentally, we also found a small cameo which, no doubt, will please Mrs Austin.’

  ‘If Charles Cavanaugh is an enemy agent, Jack, it beggars belief that he deliberately embarked on a series of burglaries, including staging his own, that in the end put him at greater risk of being arrested. Whtatever information he was after, it must be extremely valuable to the Abwehr. No doubt something secret to do with Moore’s important contribution to the war effort. He doesn’t seem to have found it, however. I think it’s time we handed this lot over to the relevant department.’ Hardcastle moved across to the telephone on Cavanaugh’s desk and dialled Whitehall 1212, one of the most famous telephone numbers in Britain.