Criminal Imports

by John Creasey

  Lemaitre said, “Rich Americans?”

  “Rolling in it, they say.”

  “Sounds right,” said Lemaitre.

  “What’s his line?”

  “Conning.”

  “Conning,” echoed Simmons. “I wouldn’t know but if I wanted to fleece anyone it wouldn’t be Elliott Henderson. He’s as sharp as a needle, and his wife isn’t so blunt.”

  “Has Schumacher paid much attention to anyone else?”

  “Can’t say he has.”

  “The Melroys, or–”

  “Stow it,” interrupted Simmons. “Melroy’s in a wheelchair, his wife’s his nurse.”

  “The Carpenters?”

  “Not much more than boy and girl on honeymoon. He’s over here on a two-year term at the High Commissioner’s office.”

  “Then if it’s anyone it’s the Hendersons. May be a lot of hot air. Nielson of New York told George he was worth watching.”

  “When Nielson blows hot air the sky will fall in,” declared Simmons. That man’s the coolest customer I’ve come across - including Gee-Gee. Want to take a look at Schumacher?”

  “Suits me.”

  “Another tot?”

  “Not when I’m on duty,” said Lemaitre virtuously. “Anyone else on board worth watching?”

  Simmons took an envelope from his pocket.

  “Here’s the lot - seven of ‘em. Three cardsharps, a homo, a dip who kept his fingers clean this trip, a shoplifter who didn’t - I’ve tipped off Customs to open all his cases - and a watchmaker who might present a suspiciously big paunch to Customs. Sure about that drink?”

  “Tell you what, you can give my wife one when we’ve finished upstairs,” said Lemaitre. As it happened, Schumacher was talking to the Hendersons in the huge main lounge. Lemaitre took one good look and would forever be able to remember their names and their faces - and associate one with the other. Elliott Henderson was a dapper man of medium height, with clean-cut features, iron-grey hair, a decisive manner even at that moment. His wife Felisa was perhaps fifteen years younger, in the late thirties, beautifully dressed in a dove grey velvet suit, pale-green shoes, pale-green gloves. Schumacher was so different not only from them but from Lemaitre’s preconceived mental picture that it was hard to believe he was the man under suspicion.

  He was middle-aged, rather careless in dress, with untidy grey hair and a face vaguely like a good-humoured spaniel’s. The one noticeable thing was his eyes. Although his eyelids drooped, the silvery brightness of the irises was very noticeable. They seemed wrong in that homely face.

  As Lemaitre and Simmons passed, he was saying: “Yes, as I say, I know London as well as any American can, I guess - apart from New York it’s the greatest city in the world.”

  Lemaitre almost warmed to him.

  “. . . and if you can make your daughter believe it’s worthwhile, I’ll gladly show her around.”

  “The daughter is Mrs. Henderson’s,” Simmons said. “She was a Mrs. Pallon before she married Henderson. Nina Pallon is travelling cabin class, don’t ask me why. Seventeen or so. If Schumacher is going to chaperone her around there must be an ulterior motive.”

  “Maybe he just wants to earn a fee as a baby-sitter.” Lemaitre kept a straight face.

  “Lem, don’t let anything fool you,” Simmons said earnestly. “If Nielson says a man’s worth watching, watch him. Maybe Schumacher thinks this is a way to become one of the family.”

  Abel Schumacher didn’t hear Simmons’ remark; had he done so he would probably have had difficulty in repressing his laughter - except that he was a past master in the art of concealing his real thoughts and his feelings. He was a clever, shrewd and very successful man, but he lived high and gambled heavily. He urgently needed a large sum of money, and knew that it would be fatal to attempt another confidence trick. He did not know how they had achieved it, but he knew that the police these days suspected him and watched him closely whenever he was associating with possible victims.

  So he was not as usual going to attempt to defraud Henderson by trickery.

  He was going to try a fresh approach. He was going to kidnap Henderson’s seventeen-year-old stepdaughter.

  Gideon woke that morning without any sense of reassurance. Over breakfast, Kate was still a little starry-eyed about Hong Kong, until the post brought letters from Malcolm, their youngest son, at a school camp in the Swiss Alps, and their married daughter, Prudence. Then she became starry-eyed at the prospect of becoming a grandmother soon.

  The newspapers did everything but use the word “suicide” over Lucci’s death. One of them, the Globe, had a scoop with a picture of Signora Lucci outside the Grandi Hotel. The stories of the attack on Alice Clay had little impact; Girl Attacked in Park - American Sought, was the most graphic. Had the Clay girl died she would have rated front page. Once she had identified her assailant as Mayhew, Gideon should be able to do more about the investigation. In that morning’s paper he heard for the first time of the smash-and-grab in Frisk Street. An hour later, after a squad car had called and taken him to the Yard, he read Sergeant Lacey’s comments about the Barnetts, a comment put in to bolster up a divisional report on a night empty of sensation.

  Gideon gave a half-grin; one day they would catch Barney Barnett red-handed again. He had kept out of their hands for over three years. Everyone who knew anything about him knew that his wife was really responsible for his success, since Barney had plenty of nerve but little common sense. It would be worth checking him about the Frisk Street job.

  The Assistant Commissioner was called to a conference and Gideon sent written notes about the West German marks and the banking house, both reassuring. The day continued much as it had started, not dull but not exhilarating. It was late afternoon before Lemaitre phoned with his report on Schumacher.

  “That won’t set the Thames on fire, will it, George?”

  “You be careful in Southampton water.”

  “Okay,” said Lemaitre. “Thanks for fixing the weather.”

  As soon as he rang off, Gideon arranged for a man to be at Waterloo Station, to follow Schumacher, and for another to watch for the Hendersons at the Bingham Hotel. There was always a possibility that Schumacher would make his play quickly, and Gideon did not mean to be caught on one foot. The readiness of the con man to ingratiate himself through Henderson’s stepdaughter seemed incidental; certainly Gideon did not give a thought to the possibility that there might be any danger to the girl. He looked through notes which had come in about Henderson, who was a collector of paintings and was likely to visit one or two private exhibitions.

  Art thefts? Gideon half-wondered.

  Now that Schumacher was actually being watched, he felt better.

  At seven o’clock the boat train steamed into Waterloo Station from Southampton in two sections. It brought, 1,703 passengers from the liner, nearly half of them citizens of the United States, although there was a strong contingent of British, a smaller one of Canadians, and groups from Japan, South America, Australia and New Zealand, as well as the odd families and individuals from thirty different countries.

  Nina Pallon was one of the Americans. By most masculine standards she was not one of the most attractive, but on the trip she had been one of the happiest. For five long days she had been in cabin class, second class of the big ship, mixing with a heterogeneous crowd of teenagers, none of whom seemed to have the slightest idea who she was. That was exactly as she had hoped and planned, but she had never believed that it would be possible.

  The Americans, English, French and Italians in the group had played, swum, danced, sun-bathed, eaten and drunk their fill, and had a wildly enjoyable time without causing offence to the older passengers, almost without causing any raised eyebrows.

  Now Nina was tired, although no one would have thought it to judge from the brightness of her blue eyes and the near-radiance of her expression which made her much more attractive than usual.

  But the radiance gradually faded.
/>   Her acquaintances from the ship passed her, all of them in a hurry.

  “’Bye, Nina.”

  “Don’t forget, British Museum, tomorrow at five.”

  “Sure you’re all right, Nina? You mustn’t get lost in London!”

  “See you, Nina.”

  “’Bye, Nina.”

  As she watched them hurry out of her life sadness fell upon her like a shadow. They were different. They had been different since morning, although they had the same faces, the same voices, the same looks. It was as if they had put on a new personality with their going ashore, going home clothes. The hilarity of the night before, the glowing vitality and burning protestations of friendship had all gone. What had they sung? “We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when, but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day.” She had never heard the song before; an older man had said something about the Forces Sweetheart, and she still didn’t know what that meant. But last night it had brought tears to most people’s eyes.

  These were yesterday’s tears.

  Today there were none. There was casualness from those whom she had felt to be close friends.

  The newly-wed Pommeroys came up, Jill from Southern California, John from Chicago. John was to take up an assignment with a cosmetics factory somewhere in West London. Would they pass on, too?

  “Nina!”

  “We thought we’d missed you,” John said as if in genuine relief. He was round-faced, round-eyed, curly-haired. “Aren’t your folks here yet?”

  “No. They came to London by road, and they were on the way hours before the boat train left.”

  They had arranged to go straight to the hotel, and her stepfather had promised to be here to meet her; her mother had flatly refused to let her make her own way to the Bingham.

  ‘They must have been delayed,” Jill said. She was elfin, heart-faced, slant-eyed, very very slightly Japanese-looking, with a complexion as beautiful and lustrous as the best china.

  “Come with us, honey.”

  “Oh, no, I—”

  “But you must,” said John. “Why don’t we all go to their hotel, anyway? What’s the name of it?”

  ‘The Bingham, but–”

  “Only millionaires stay at the Bingham,” John remarked. “I didn’t know you had rich relations.”

  “They’re planning to have a good time on their first European vacation in years,” Nina said hurriedly. “I’m sure Elliot will be here.”

  “We can’t just leave you waiting,” Jill protested.

  “We can stay here with her.” John picked up her valise. “Where’s the rest of your baggage?”

  “The others took it on.” It was good to feel that the Pommeroys were so ready to keep her company, so friendly; Nina felt a needle of guilt because she had hedged about her stepfather’s wealth; he must be fifty times a millionaire. A train came in, slowly chug-chugging, and all three watched as it stopped by the buffers just beyond the iron gates. Here the tracks came right up to the main hall of the station, very different from the big city stations in the States.

  The man with the hooded silver-bright eyes approached the trio, obviously with purpose. He was middle-aged, wore his grey hair overlong, but had rather a nice, homely face. His tweedy herringbone suit was a little too large for him, baggy at the knees.

  “Miss Pallon?”

  “Why, yes.” Nina was surprised.

  “I hope I’m not a disappointment to you, but I’ve come to escort you to the Bingham Hotel.” He had a suspicion of a drawl, like many who had been born in the Deep South but had been away for years. His drooping eyelids made him look tired, even lazy, but the silvery eyes were alert. “Your father had some urgent long-distance calls to make, and your mother has a bad headache. I was on the ship with them and I’m also staying at the Bingham.” He smiled at the Pommeroys. “I’m Abel Schumacher.”

  The Pommeroys introduced themselves.

  “You’re very kind, Mr. Schumacher,” Nina said.

  She was a little confused but not at all surprised, for her mother was always fussing over her. She exchanged addresses with the Pommeroys, who then took their place in a taxi queue. When Nina glanced round at them, Jill was waving, John talking to a porter.

  Abel Schumacher was saying: “. . . traffic is very heavy at this time, Miss Pallon. As you have only hand baggage, would you like to walk across Waterloo Bridge? There is perfect visibility today, and that isn’t always so. From the bridge there is the finest panoramic view of London. On one side you can see the Houses of Parliament, on the other St. Paul’s against the skyline.”

  “I’d love to walk!” Nina cried.

  He took her travel case and they walked off together. They were on the bridge approach when a square black taxi passed, with the Pommeroys waving from the open window.

  It was nearly half past six when Gideon locked the control drawer in his desk, stood up, and went to the window. The rush-hour traffic was over, and cars were moving fast along the Embankment and over Westminster Bridge. The sun was making a yellow shimmer on the un-rippled surface of the Thames, and he craned his neck to see how far he could see across London. The low, pale, span of Waterloo Bridge interrupted much of it. London had never looked more mellow or more peaceful.

  He turned to go, and the door burst open.

  “Hi, George!” Lemaitre strode in, beaming, not only with good will but with excitement. “Can’t stay long. Chloe’s in the car, but I couldn’t sleep on this one without letting you know.”

  “Schumacher?” asked Gideon, almost eagerly.

  “There’s nothing urgent about Schumacher. George, I saw Quincy Lee come off the Q.E. He’d travelled cabin class. Bit grey, but doesn’t look a day older. It’s twenty-six years since he slipped through our fingers. I’d been here six months and you were only a sergeant. How about that!”

  Gideon said slowly, “Quincy Lee. Well, I’m damned.” The name carried him back over those years, to the days when he had first begun to establish himself as a man headed for the top. Quincy Lee had actually helped him, for Quincy had tipped him off about a fence whose shop had been chock-full of stolen goods. Quincy’s tip had not been spiteful, for the fence had also been a moneylender, squeezing every penny he could out of his debtors, and setting off ludicrously small sums against valuable jewels.

  Quincy had had a record, and was known as a smash-and-grab thief. One day soon after the fence’s trial there had been a smash-and-grab raid in Hatton Garden which had been the sensation of the day. Forty-five thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds had been stolen. Lee had disappeared soon afterward, and although there had been no proof, Gideon had felt sure he was the thief.

  “We never got a sparkler back, and never saw Quincy again,” Lemaitre said nostalgically. “What are we going to do?”

  “Do?”

  “Can’t let him run around loose, can we?”

  Gideon was rubbing the shiny bowl of the big pipe he often carried but seldom smoked.

  “After twenty-six years?”

  “A leopard doesn’t change its spots, George!”

  “Really want to pick him up?” asked Gideon.

  Lemaitre laughed. “You know damned well I don’t. Just wanted to see how you’d react. We ought to tip our chaps off, though, in case he’s come to try his old tricks again.”

  “We’ll think about it,” Gideon said.

  “Ok. Anything new on?”

  “Nothing much,” Gideon answered. “It’s been quieter than usual. We’ve had the autopsy report on Lucci. It was death by coal-gas poisoning. Some indications of veronal in the stomach, just enough to make him sleep, and it may have been in the brandy he drank just before death. He had veronal tablets with him. They’ll bring in suicide at the inquest, and Signora Lucci is going to have the body flown back to Milan.”

  “Mayhew?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Funny if everything Nielson told us about fades out.”

  “Yes, wouldn’t it? One thing’s
cropped up, I’d forgotten it. Some Rite-Time watches.”

  “Well, what do you know!”

  “There are thirty-eight of them over at Jerry Klein’s in Frisk Street. Luther’s always suspected Klein of doing a quick turnover in hot stuff. He seized a chance to look over the stock before Klein had got his breath back after the raid. Luther hasn’t talked to him yet, he’s checking the other stuff on the stock list.”

  “Ought to charge Klein while we’ve got a chance,” Lemaitre said. “Before you know it he’ll do a Quincy Lee on us!”

  Gideon found himself chuckling.

  6: The Third Wife

  Jerry Klein was a curious little man.

  He was honest by nature and honest at heart, but somehow he could never get along by straightforward methods, and he succumbed to temptation far too easily. Most of the stock in his shop in Soho came from bankrupt businesses and discontinued lines, and he did a good, often brisk trade. Every now and again he had a chance to pick up a line of bargain price goods, knowing them to be stolen, and although he always protested his honesty he usually took the risk.

  Even these days he took risks he could have avoided, despite the harsh lesson he had learned years ago when he had first bought watches and clocks, costume jewellery and trinkets from the Orlova Watch Company, knowing them to be stolen. Some goods had been too hot, and he had wanted to refuse them. His determination had been weakened with the loss of a tooth, and two broken ribs.

  Now, whenever Orlova wanted him to buy, he bought.

  He had not wanted forty-four Rite-Time watches, even at a low price - he preferred to turn stolen goods over quickly. But he had no choice. The one favourable thing was that Orlova always kept their goods until the heat was off. He had not thought seriously of risk, but he had not wanted to increase his stock by over two hundred pounds.

  “You’ll make two hundred per cent, Jerry,” Darkie Jackson had said. “Just gimme the cash.”

  In three weeks Jerry Klein had sold four watches at one pound ten shillings each; it was going to be a good deal after all.

  Because of his association with Orlova he had always felt secure in the shop. (None of the regular smash-and-grab boys ever troubled him. Once an amateur had tried to make off with a tray of rings but he hadn’t got far.) So the raid on Monday afternoon upset him very badly indeed, and was the more upsetting because two of the stolen watches had been Rite-Times. The police had arrived before he had collected his wits, and had found the empty watch boxes. They had insisted on going through his stocks with him, on the pretext of making sure nothing else was missing, and he knew they would not have taken such trouble unless they suspected him of stocking stolen goods. On the Monday night he had been edgy and nervous with his wife and children, and put it down simply to the shock of the smash-and-grab. Actually he was afraid of Darkie Jackson’s reaction if he realized that the police had checked his stocks. No one from Orlova called or telephoned on the Tuesday, though, and until he reached his home in Islington on Tuesday night he felt much more secure.