by John Creasey
“I’m on,” Kilby said warmly.
“Good. Report by telephone when you can. Carmichael is one of the main men to watch, so is anyone who seems to have a special claim on him—anyone with whom he seems friendly. Get the regular postmen’s opinion of Carmichael, too. Pal up with the van driver named Simm. Get as far inside that job as it’s possible to get, but don’t stick your neck out and show that you’re with us. Keep off the murder as much as you can. Offer to work as much overtime as they want, and generally make yourself useful.”
“That’s me,” said Kilby. He gave a quick, rather warming smile, which took away much of that unfinished look. “Any idea who you’ll put on to Deirdre Ames?”
“No. Any ideas yourself?”
“Yes,” said Kilby. “I was thinking about that coming up this morning, and told myself that Silver was really the right man for the job.”
“Yes,” agreed Roger, “you’re probably right.”
It was commonly believed at the Yard that no CID man in the history of the Department had ever been like Johnny Silver. If there was a type of confidence trickster, Silver was the type. He looked it, being sleek and always well turned out and slightly overhearty. He talked like it, having a ready tongue, a nice brand of flattery and a reasonable wit. He was in the middle forties and looked ten years younger, was never without a smile and – almost unique at the Yard – he had never stepped into the witness box to give evidence for the prosecution. It was doubtful whether a dozen people, outside the Yard itself, knew that Silver held the rank of Detective Inspector, CID. It was practically certain, because of his characteristics and his usefulness in his present job, that he would never get further promotion unless, simply for the payroll and his pension, he became a CI. If that worried him, he had never let anyone realise it. He was allowed the largest expense sheet in the Criminal Investigation Department, the items were seldom questioned, and it was known that he could put down whisky faster than anyone else at the Yard. No one had ever known him even slightly tipsy. There had been the famous occasion when he had drunk a team of American and Dutch con men under the table, making them miss a plane and thus ensuring that they were kept on English soil long enough for extradition warrants to catch up with them.
He was full of party tricks.
He practised a little sleight of hand, which was always useful, and knew more card tricks than most. Taken by and large, he was the most likeable of men. Big time crooks, like the Dutchman and the American, always seemed to recognise a fellow traveller, and therein lay their downfall.
Roger checked with the Superintendent who used Silver most, made sure that he could be freed for this job, and sent for him. He was in the office a little after ten o’clock, tall, slim, beautifully tailored in navy blue, hair as shiny as a raven’s wing and almost as black, a gold ring with a single small diamond on the little finger of his left hand.
“Now what have I done?” he asked.
“You’ve only just started,” Roger said. “Do you know the Mitham Hotel?”
“Leek Street, Piccadilly,” answered Silver promptly. “Edwards and Edwards proprietors, Victor Munro, manager, Sybil Munro his wife-housekeeper, Mario the chef, Bill Higgins the headwaiter—good second class hotel with a floor show and one, repeat one, real hot dish. Name of Deirdre, often called Didi by her friends. The pianist is Bill Rocky, the violinists variable, the cello a woman named Grant. Mammoth. I’ll give you ten to one that your interest is on Didi.”
“That’s it,” said Roger. He briefed Silver, quickly, and Silver said thoughtfully: “I think I can do a bit with her, but it won’t be until tonight. It might take two or three nights, too. She’s got a Daddy somewhere.”
“It’s her Daddy we’re really interested in,” Roger said.
Silver hadn’t been gone two minutes before a messenger brought a chit from Chatworth. There was still no permission to take all the fingerprints at River Way, but a note from the Postmaster General’s office instructed Farnley to give Roger all information he required. Farnley would not like it, but Christmas rush or not, he’d have to tell Roger about all the valuable post packets that went through River Way.
Since the new office had been opened, countless valuables had gone through it. Much of the diamond trade between this country, the United States and the Netherlands passed through – always under guard. Big shipments of used treasury notes were also channelled through the new office, and although these now had a ceiling of ten thousand pounds in any one consignment, to make sure that no loss could be too severe, very large sums went through in the course of a week.
Roger checked the van drivers and the guards.
He went to River Way, about noon, and the stream of traffic coming out of the main gates was so great that he left his car on the river side of the Embankment, and walked quickly towards the office. For the first time he began to understand and sympathise with Carmichael’s obsession. It seemed incredible that so many parcels existed. Van load after van load was waiting for the chutes, the loading platforms were piled almost ceiling high; where dozens of men had worked yesterday, now there were hundreds. Young girls and middle aged women were walking out with satchels of letters on their backs. Boys, middle aged men and ancients were busy. A few brawny men were unloading the parcels from the vans, and Roger saw one man, in a T-shirt and blue jeans, heaving parcels as if he had been used to it all his life.
Kilby.
When Kilby wanted to move, how he moved! And the fact that he had been taken on and put to work so quickly proved two things: Carmichael was desperately short of labour, and there was no real attempt made at screening the temporary workers.
There was Carmichael, too.
Roger felt his reluctant admiration for the man increase.
He moved about quite calmly and coolly, almost serene. Where others were flustered, he took it all in his stride. He seemed to be in a dozen places at once; wherever a heap of parcels was too high, wherever a chute seemed blocked, wherever new vans arrived, there he was giving instructions. Sometimes he guided a van as it reversed into a vacant spot on the platform. He would go among the parcels, and every now and again pick one up and put it gently into a wicker basket with big wheels.
Roger went to him.
“Chief Inspector,” greeted Carmichael, quietly, “unless it is of vital importance I really can’t spare you any time this morning.”
“A few questions, while you’re here. Have those three registered bags turned up?”
“No.”
“Anything else missing?”
“Not as far as I can trace.”
“Derek Bryant?”
“Not to my knowledge, but then he is not in my department, he is in maintenance. I—” Carmichael broke off, wrinkling his nose in a disgust which had nothing to do with the questions. “Idiots,” he said, and dived into a pile of two or three hundred parcels and picked one up which was stained on the outside – stained a damp, reddish brown. “When are people going to learn not to send raw meat through the post unless securely boxed?—there should be a law, there really should be a regulation. I am always asking Mr Farnley to try to arrange a deputation to the Postmaster General.” He picked the parcel up by its string, and placed it disdainfully into the second of the two baskets. “It must have been in the mail for two days or more; can you smell it?”
Roger said ruefully: “Smell is hardly the word.”
“If you were to spend the next few days with us you would begin to understand our problems,” Carmichael said earnestly. He dived again, and this time picked up a parcel which was so badly tattered that a cloth which wrapped up the contents was poking out. “Every day—every day—we get hundreds of parcels which cannot be delivered, hundreds that we have to repack. If the public were less spoon fed they might take more trouble, but I confess I sometimes wonder.”
He dropped another parcel into the big basket.
“See that, Chief Inspector? Just addressed to Aunt Sally. If one hadn’t a sense of hum
our—”
Carmichael broke off as a huge van came slowly towards the loading platform, backing into a space which was scarcely large enough for it. He was guiding it in when an elderly postman came up.
“Registers, Mr Carmichael.”
“All right, I’ll come,” said Carmichael. He moved off almost at once, took a key from his pocket, and unlocked the back of a small red van. There were five green canvas bags; the registered bags. He signed the van driver’s sheet for them, then carried them into the Sorting Office to his own desk. Alongside this sat a younger man surrounded by a mass of papers. “Sign for these, Jim, and then get them open,” Carmichael ordered. He glanced at Roger, and there was a faint, almost likeable smile on his face. “You see how careful we are! And if there are important loads, we send a guard with the driver, of course, and at times we send a car after the van to make quite sure that nothing can go wrong.”
He went out.
A boy with corn coloured hair, very blue eyes, and the look of the Scandinavian, was standing at the loading platform. He was holding a parcel which Roger thought he had seen before: the parcel of meat which was decomposing.
“Please, I am to bring this to you,” he said, in careful English.
“That’s right, thank you,” Carmichael said. He took the parcel gingerly, holding it by the string. The Scandinavian lad managed not to wrinkle his nose, but several others nearby caught a whiff, and waxed sarcastic.
That wasn’t all.
Among the men who were making such a show was Kilby, but it wasn’t quite the same. He kept pointing at the parcel, and made signs with his hands, twisting them about and then suddenly diving a hand into his pocket and taking out a knife.
Roger nodded.
Kilby stopped his pantomime, picked up a sack of parcels and walked with them towards the chutes.
“You see, another,” said Carmichael. “Exactly the same—No such address in SW6. Try adjoining districts. I really must arrange for these to be taken to the refuse disposal dump at once.”
Roger said: “Hold that a minute. Wasn’t it the same address as the last one?”
“I really didn’t notice,” Carmichael said, “and it doesn’t really matter. If a man will do a senseless thing once, he will do it again.”
Roger was burrowing. The smell was overpowering, now, the kind of smell he didn’t like at all; perhaps that was why Kilby wanted the parcel opened. He had often had to endure it, when called to the scene of murder. The odour of the decomposing flesh was always much the same.
He found the first parcel, addressed in block letters, to: Mr Smith, 29 Simca Road, SW9. The second parcel had been addressed in the same kind of handwriting, on brown paper which had absorbed some of the ink.
Carmichael was called to another van.
Roger took out his penknife, and slashed the string of the second parcel. As he did so, a small van backed in. When the doors were opened hundreds of turkeys came in sight hanging by their feet to bars which had been fitted into the top of the van. Each bird was labelled, each plucked, each looked fresh and wholesome.
Any turkey that rubbed shoulders with a parcel like this wouldn’t be at home on his Christmas table.
He unwrapped the putrefying flesh.
He winced.
For he was looking at a human arm – cut off at the shoulder and above the elbow.
He stood quite still; fighting nausea. He saw a man glance at him curiously, and quickly covered the thing up. He turned to the other parcel and unwrapped that, making sure that no one else could see what it was.
It was a part of a leg; a man’s leg, with fine, fair hairs on it.
Chapter Twelve
Parcels
Carmichael had lost every vestige of colour. Roger watched him intently, and couldn’t even begin to guess whether he was upset simply because of what he saw, or whether he had realised the greater significance of the discovery. No one else in the yard had any idea of what had been found.
“What do you want me to do?” Carmichael asked, and went on without waiting for an answer: “Of course Mr Farnley will have to decide, but I can advise him of the best way of co-operating without upsetting the smooth flow of the work too much. You won’t agree with me, but with so many perishables in the mail and so many parcels, it’s easily a record year—anything which might hamper us must take second place to the mail.”
Roger said quietly: “Have word sent round that all perishable parcels are to be brought over here, will you, especially anything with a smell of putrefaction. No need yet to tell the men what’s happened. Get a couple of chaps you can trust to collect the parcels—and pick them up by the string. Don’t open any more, just check the addresses and where they were posted, and handle them as little as you can. We might find fingerprints that will help. All right?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. You mean we needn’t stop work?”
“Not yet.”
Roger had an odd idea that Carmichael was blessing him, as he turned away.
He sent for the three Yard men still on duty at River Way; also for a police surgeon and for an assistant from the Police Laboratory, and superintended the collection of the parcels. There were hundreds; but those he was interested in were easy to pick out.
The body, so far as it could be assembled, was of a young man.
The hands were missing; so was the head.
The parcels had been posted at different offices throughout the west and south west London area, the previous morning.
Preliminary medical evidence said that the dissection had been carried out skilfully but not surgically, and that the body had been exposed to a warm temperature for some time.
“Could the man have been alive forty eight hours ago?” Roger asked the doctor. “Roughly.”
“It’s hard to say. Three days, yes. Two—well, I don’t know.”
Derek Bryant had been missing for nearly three days.
“Any way of being sure?” Roger asked.
“When we’ve finished the pm we might be able to give you a better idea,” the doctor said. “Young man, fair haired, aged about twenty three or four. If we could find the hands I could tell you a lot more; until we do I’m guessing.”
“Don’t guess any more,” Roger said.
He left the doctor and the laboratory assistant, and went into the small room which had been set aside for him and the newcomers from the Yard. A junior Post Office official was also with them. There were dozens of sheets of brown paper, piled up, and one of Wilberforce’s men was going over them methodically with fingerprint powder. It was difficult to get prints on some, because the paper was too damp, but there were dozens on others.
“Know exactly what you’re looking for?” Roger asked him.
“Any print common to all the parcels.”
“That’s right,” Roger said, “thanks.” He turned to the official, a youngish, bookish man who looked awed at his company. “Sorry to harass you like this today, but we’ve a problem we can’t solve without your help.” As an opening sentence, that seldom failed. “We want to find out which Post Offices these parcels came from and, if possible, the time they were posted. What are the chances?”
He didn’t think they were good. No one could be expected to remember these particular parcels; in the beginning, they must have been like any others to look at. There seemed nothing remarkable about the paper or the string, the shape or the method of packing. One or two, which had been better preserved, would have passed as innocuous anywhere.
“We can get some data,” the young man said confidently. His round, thin framed glasses gave him an old fashioned look. “Depends how they were stamped. Some offices have machines; they stamp the postage paid and the date, and some stamp the time on, too. At the little Sub Post Offices where they put on adhesive stamps and slap a rubber stamp over to cancel them we can’t tell very much. But you’ll certainly get some facts, sir.”
“Fine!” Roger turned to one of the Yard men. “You lend a hand with tha
t, make out a list of the Post Offices and the times as far as possible. See if there’s any kind of pattern.” He didn’t add that it looked as if someone had gone out with a huge load of parcels and had posted two or three at different offices; too many of the same kind would have been noticeable.
He went back to the Yard.
On his desk was a photograph of Derek Bryant, a happy looking young man with fair hair, aged twenty two, about the height and build of the dismembered body.
The telephone bell rang.
“West speaking,” Roger said.
“Hallo, Handsome,” said Detective Inspector Turnbull, in his most booming voice. “Just picked up a bit of news for you; what you’d do without me I just can’t tell.”
“I could tell you what I could do with the time we’re wasting.”
“Okay, okay,” said Turnbull, bluffly. “I’m across the river at Battersea. Derek Bryant’s motorbike’s been picked up in a wrecker’s yard. No sign of Bryant. The Divisional boys are working on it and they’ll send a report straight to you.”
“Thanks,” said Roger, “that’s a help.”
He sat at the desk, smoking, and staring at the window. The clouds were much lower, and they still had the yellowy grey look that snow clouds often had. It wasn’t actually snowing, but it was much colder in the office than for several days. The windows were tightly closed, and the traffic noises came in muffled and distant.
From Derek Bryant it was a flash of thought to Mrs Bryant and May Harrison.
What would they feel about that?
It was almost as if the fates had singled them out for a buffeting which would cause them so much harm that they would probably never recover.
But until the hands and the head were found, no one could be sure.
There was another problem. Mrs Bryant for certain, Micky probably and May Harrison possibly would know if Derek had any distinguishing marks on the body. Once he put the question they would guess the truth, and if his fears were justified that would mean more anguish in the family. He wouldn’t ask about body marks until later. It didn’t make all that difference at the moment; knowing that the body was Derek’s didn’t affect the issue yet.