Bobby still did not start the car. He sat thinking. He said:
“You could almost imagine the devil was in that playing of hers.”
“Well, I don’t wonder the poor vicar was upset, if that was how she played in church,” Olive agreed, though reluctantly. “I don’t know what it is—it’s like telling you to do something, only you know you mustn’t, but you will, and when you do, it’s going to be awful. Warning you.”
“Complicated,” observed Bobby.
“Yes,” said Olive. “What do you think?”
“I never think,” asserted Bobby, “till I’ve got the material to start on. What do you think of Mr. Fielding?”
“Oh, he’s most awfully sweet,” declared Olive with enthusiasm, but then she would have said the same with equal enthusiasm of anyone willing to provide a house. “Just like a great big friendly school boy.”
“Isn’t he?” agreed Bobby; and Olive looked at him sharply, for she was not sure his voice had not been too readily acquiescent.
“Of course,” she said after a pause, “it’s quite plain he’s in love with Miss Bellamy but I don’t know if she is with him. I think she would like to be, only she doesn’t dare.”
“What on earth,” demanded Bobby, “do you mean?”
“I think she is afraid,” Olive said, “only what makes it funnier still is that I think he is afraid, too.”
“Oh, come,” said Bobby. “Unless you mean afraid the way every man is when it comes to getting married, because he doesn’t know, poor devil, what he may be letting himself in for.”
“I don’t,” Olive declared with emphasis. “That sort of being afraid is simply his being afraid of having to be a weeny-teeny bit less selfish, only of course he never is. But it did make me think there was something that held them together and something that held them apart, and that was what the music told.”
“Oh, well,” said Bobby, and Olive said abruptly:
“Miss Bellamy’s a genius.”
“That’s a big word,” Bobby said, and, after a pause imposed by the need to dodge two children playing tag, he asked: “Notice the chauffeur chap?”
“Mr. Fielding’s? That tall, dark man? No. Why?”
“I just wondered.”
“Bobby,” said Olive severely, “you’ve got something on your mind. What is it?”
“Oh, nothing much,” Bobby assured her, “only I never did like coincidence.”
“What coincidence?”
“Bit odd it was our letter Mr. Fielding happened to hit on.”
“That wasn’t coincidence,” Olive pointed out. “That was luck.” She said: “It had to be someone’s letter, hadn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” agreed Bobby, “though I think myself that things generally happen—because. And not by chance.”
“Well, even if Mr. Fielding knew who you were and did it on purpose,” Olive urged, “why shouldn’t he? He might think you would be a responsible tenant and he might like the idea of having a Scotland Yard person living near. He might think it safer with all these smash and grab raids and crime waves and things.”
“He might,” agreed Bobby. “It wouldn’t be, but he might be simple enough to think so. Anything else you noticed?”
“No,” said Olive, though this was not quite true, because in fact she had, though she was determined not to think so. “What did you mean about Mr. Fielding’s chauffeur? Why should I notice him specially? He’s rather good looking, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m pretty sure he knew me,” Bobby said slowly. “I’m pretty sure seeing me was a bit of a shock—and I think Fielding himself was on the look-out to see if he did.”
“Do you mean he might have a record?”
“Fielding might think so. It did strike me that might be behind all that finger-print talk of his. It might have been a kind of hint to check up on his chauffeur’s dabs—Biggs was what he called him, wasn’t it? I don’t know, of course. It just struck me.”
“It might be why he wanted you for a neighbour,” Olive agreed. “Well, if it’s like that, it doesn’t matter. We’ve got a house at last. Are you going to?”
“Get his dabs? Certainly not. I’ve no right to, for one thing. Breach of Magna Charta and the liberty of the subject most likely. He may have recognized me, if he did, for a hundred different reasons, all perfectly innocent. And he can have all the record he likes if he is running straight now. Fielding went out of his way to tell us he took him without references. It is his own affair entirely. If he has any reasonable ground for suspicion of anything wrong, it’s for him to say so.”
CHAPTER V
INEFFECTIVE PURSUIT
This morning, some days later, Olive was very busy and very happy. Possession of Fern Cottage had been effected. Moving in had been successfully accomplished. The furniture had arrived in fairly good condition. Only quite a small piece had been chipped from the sideboard, and the bit broken off the best mahogany bedstead could probably be replaced without the mend showing too much. Nor had all the china been broken when the crate containing it had been dropped from the top of the van. Already a semblance of order was being created out of chaos, so that the house was at least beginning to look like a home. Miss Bellamy, dark, silent, and sombre as ever, had been in to offer help and had brought with her a Miss Rhoda Rogers, recently demobilized from the A.T.S., now living with her brother not far away, and anxious to make the acquaintance, and help in the settling down, of the newcomer. To them Olive confessed, a little effusively, for she was in a somewhat excited mood, that she could hardly believe in her good fortune in securing such a really pleasant and convenient residence.
Neither could Bobby for that matter. He was both less busy and less happy. At the moment he was driving slowly through a London suburb, seeking a suitable place from which to send out a test alarm of a smash and grab raid. He was still remembering the old tag about never fearing the Greeks so much as when they brought gifts, and he had the same feeling about the gift that fortune had recently dropped into his lap and Olive’s. Or to use more modern language, he suspected there were strings to it, though he could not imagine of what sort or kind. A house handed to them on a plate, so to speak, when all the world was searching so eagerly and passionately and hopelessly for any sort of a roof for over-crowded heads. And then about the transaction, and the way in which it had been carried out, there were little things, small, disturbing things, very likely quite meaningless and unimportant, that yet remained uncomfortably in his memory.
For one thing he still strongly suspected that Mr. Fielding had known very well who he was, just as he believed, too, that there had been recognition, a disconcerted startled recognition, on the part of the chauffeur, Biggs. Was there any reason why Mr. Fielding liked the idea of having a Scotland Yard man as a neighbour? Was it just possible there was a wish he should be there and not somewhere else? Or was there some idea of keeping him under observation? It seemed unlikely—not much sense in either notion. Or was it just simply a vague belief that in these days of unrest and crime waves and so on, it would be a good thing to have a well-known Scotland Yard executive living in the district? Possible, Bobby supposed, though exceedingly silly, nor did Mr. Fielding, or Miss Bellamy for that matter, seem the sort of nervous type to whom such a notion would occur. Besides, if that were it, why not say so? But then if they had said so, would he have believed them?
There entered into his consciousness a recognition of the existence of a motor cyclist who seemed to be following the same rather devious route that Bobby himself had taken. And he began to be aware, too, of a certain resemblance between this man and Biggs, Mr. Fielding’s chauffeur. He could not be sure; for the man’s cap was pulled low over his eyes, his coat collar was turned up, he was wearing goggles. An effective disguise. Yet if this were disguise, odd that the man seemed more inclined to draw attention to himself than to avoid it. Once or twice, after disappearing for a time, he had turned up again with almost an air of saying: ‘Well, here
I am again, and what do you think of that?’
But Bobby did not know what to think of it, or whether to think of it at all.
He halted his car at the spot he had selected from the map as being suitable. It was near an important main road in which were various objectives likely to attract the interest of smash and grab raiders. But there was not much traffic and the streets were wide and convenient, so that possible inconvenience caused by a sudden rush of various police cars would be lessened and there would be a smaller risk of bitter complaints from a public demanding the solid bricks of security and protection but grudging the preparatory and necessary straw.
The motor cyclist had vanished now. There was a telephone box near where Bobby had halted. He was looking at his watch, waiting the hour settled with the Yard, when, by arrangement, certain police chiefs would be present to watch, profit by, and criticize the carrying out of the test.
At the moment decided on he alighted, went to the ’phone box, and rang up, giving first the code word by which the Yard would know this was the test and not the real thing. He got a prompt response. He answered, giving the locality, which had been left to his choice and discretion, and was told in reply that the general call had gone out. Nothing to do now but await the arrival of the police cars, note the time it took for their appearance, and compare the reports of the other cars whose duty it would be to try to block escape routes.
Then things, unexpected things, began to happen. Round the corner from the adjacent main road a woman came running. She was screaming something at the top of her voice. The motor cyclist seen before, appeared from a side street. Bobby turned towards the woman, now followed by two or three others, men and women, who also were shouting and running. One of them, still shouting and gesturing, excitedly pointed over Bobby’s shoulder. Bobby turned, and was just in time to see the cyclist dart out of the ’phone box. He had a heavy spanner in his hand. He tore open the door of Bobby’s car and Bobby heard the sound of heavy blows. He ran forward. The man drew back from the car and turned to meet him. Bobby had a momentary vision of a cap drawn down over the eyes, of a coat collar turned up, of goggles, of a huge spanner swung high in the air. He paused warily. The spanner came flying at him, vicious and angry. He dodged to avoid it. It missed him narrowly. In avoiding it he slipped and nearly fell. He recovered his balance, but the delay had given the other time to mount his cycle and go roaring away, round the corner, out of sight.
Bobby knew at once what had happened. The cyclist had put out of action both the ’phone in the booth and his own wireless. Any reports of what had actually happened—for Bobby at once guessed that a real smash and grab raid had coincided with the Yard test—would be set down, until he himself could get through with the code word required, as merely due to a natural confusion in the minds of spectators caused by the carrying out of the rehearsal.
Five minutes delay that would mean at least, or even more, till things got sorted out, and, in a smash and grab raid, five minutes start means an almost certainly successful getaway.
Evidently some gang, there were at least three the police were aware of as now operating, probably others as well, had known that these tests were being held, and had thought it would be a good opportunity for carrying out an actual raid, at the same time and place. Thus, they calculated, in the temporary confusion between the two, the actual performance and the police rehearsal, there would be an excellent chance of evading pursuit. The locality had been easy to guess, since similar tests had been held in every other London district, so that this neighbourhood had been plainly indicated as the scene for the next. Time, no doubt, had been more difficult. It had probably been the affair of the motor cyclist. Quite likely that the actual operators had also been following in a car, though at a greater distance, and that to them the motor cyclist had reported or signalled during the intervals of his disappearances. Bobby knew very well with what care and forethought and precaution these raids are organized. If this time a certain degree of improvisation had been required, that was more than compensated for by the confusion certain to be caused between reality and test. Cars blocking the escape routes, for instance, would think they had done all that was required by taking up their positions as promptly as possible, and would pay no special attention to passing cars—or motor cyclists for that matter.
All this flashed through Bobby’s mind as he was recovering his balance. He saw his car was pointing the wrong way, so that more time would be lost before he could turn it and start a hopeless pursuit, for already the motor cyclist would be far away, dodging and speeding through the streets. So, too, would be the actual raiders. Of course, the possibility of such a trick being played had been considered and discussed, but it had been decided that the risk had to be taken. All the same, the impudence of it. Using police training as cover!
Well, one had to do what one could. Bobby turned to the little group who had come running to give the alarm from the ’phone box where the instrument had just been smashed. One of the group was a serviceman, in uniform. Bobby made a grab at him.
“I am a police officer,” he said hurriedly. “Find another ’phone, quick, and report. Dial 1212, but say Jake first, it’s a code word. Understand? Good. Hurry. Oh, tell them—”
He added the registration number the cyclist’s machine had shown, for almost unconsciously, from the sheer force of habit of noting and remembering apparent trifles, he had observed it and tucked it away in his memory. Then he ran to his car and started in pursuit. Quite hopeless, he knew. But possibly he might be able to gather some indication of the direction taken. He swung round into the side street from which the cyclist had emerged. At a corner, further on, a motor cyclist was lingering, one foot on a pedal, ready to start. He was waiting and watching, his head tilted to one side, in what might have been an unconscious trick of mannerism. The moment he saw Bobby he waved a hand and disappeared at full speed. Bobby stared, gasped, followed; incredulous and bewildered.
What on earth did that mean, he asked himself. Was it the same man? Was he deliberately inviting pursuit? A different registration number, Bobby thought, from the momentary glimpse he had caught of the number plate, but then these are easily changed when suitable preparation has been made.
But speculation could be left for the present. What mattered now was overtaking the fellow. Bobby trod on the accelerator, defiant of all speed regulations, and so began a wild and furious chase of which those who saw it still retain their memories. Bobby’s car could do an easy eighty miles an hour. So could the cyclist’s machine. Bobby sounded his horn. So did the cyclist.
Thus they roared through the quiet suburban streets while pedestrians stared and gasped and ran, and drivers stared and swore and wrenched their vehicles aside, out of the path of that wild race and pursuit, and every hundred yards or so a major accident was avoided by a fresh and ever repeated and ever more surprising miracle.
Bobby began to notice that the route they were following had rather the air of having been carefully chosen. There were comparatively few traffic lights to pass and few spots where traffic blocks were likely to occur. Nor did they once cross a major road at right angles, but always, when they came to one, joined it and left it by an easy approach and departure. Often there was a clear run, speed against speed, with the cycle holding well its own against the car. Useless now for Bobby to wish he had selected a larger, more powerful car. But larger and more powerful cars use more petrol, and that is a point which has to be considered, and is indeed over-riding when no need for any great extra turn of speed is reasonably to be anticipated. And when they came to busier roads the advantage was to the cyclist, for he could slip between other vehicles where Bobby’s car could not pass.
Yet though two or three times this happened, though two or three times the fleeing cyclist thus gained an advantage that seemed as though it must enable him to throw off pursuit, yet there he always was, still visible, still following the same direction, still much the same distance ahead.
It began almost to seem to Bobby, incredible as was the supposition, that he was being led, deliberately and purposefully led, in a pre-determined direction. It seemed, too, certain that more than once the cyclist could have got away, and yet never had he taken advantage of any such opportunity. Indeed, once or twice it almost looked as if the fellow had deliberately slowed down in order to give Bobby a chance to make up the time and distance he had lost through interruptions the cyclist, with his handier machine, had been able to avoid. Why? In the name of all that is contradictory and absurd, why? The hunted fox, the hounds hard on its trail, is said to stop at times to play or gambol, but escaping gangsters seldom show any such inclination. Well, no time to think about that now, with every atom of concentration required to dodge the complete and final smash that threatened every few yards.
Bobby was, as a driver, in the first class. His life had before now depended on his skill and quickness in handling a car. But at present he had the feeling that he was like the highly competent amateur matched against the still more highly skilled professional. He was aware of a feeling that he was outmatched, in a way being played with, that the fellow could escape and disappear whenever he wanted to, that that wave of the hand with which he had greeted Bobby’s first appearance in pursuit had been less defiance or invitation or greeting than deliberate mockery. The fellow, Bobby thought gloomily, must be strangely sure of himself. Nor were Bobby’s chances improved when a zealous, competent, and courageous constable, warned by the general hoofing and complaining of indignant drivers, came running just in time to see Bobby’s car hurtling towards him. He jumped into the roadway, signalling Bobby to stop. Bobby responded by a frantic warning on his hooter that he meant to do nothing of the sort, and at imminent risk swerved. The constable was avoided, but he had his truncheon drawn and he hurled it with force and precision at Bobby’s car as it whirled by. The truncheon smashed against the windscreen but fortunately that was of safety glass and held, though badly splintered. All the same Bobby’s chances of success in his pursuit, and his life as well, were nearly ended, for the momentary confusion, caused by the impact and loss of clear vision for a second or two, resulted in as narrow an escape from collision with a heavy lorry as can possibly be imagined. Indeed car and lorry actually touched and scraped, and how it was Bobby’s lighter car managed to retain its balance, it is impossible to say. But so it was, and when Bobby had regained control and had left the indignant and protesting lorry driver far behind, there was the cyclist still, almost exactly the same distance ahead.
Music Tells All: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 4