by John Creasey
It was on a day two months after Mrs. Stone’s murder that an eruption came.
XIII
ERUPTION
ROGER’S telephone bell rang, about five o’clock that Monday afternoon, and it was Bellew; an excited and unusually breathless Bellew.
“Handsome, we’ve had five shop raids this afternoon— five, in the space of half an hour, all at different parts of the manor.”
“Catch anyone?” demanded Roger.
“Two of our chaps have been knocked about, and they’ve got good descriptions,” Bellew said. “But the answer is no— we didn’t catch anyone. Handsome—”
He broke off.
“Yes?”
“There were two men involved in each raid—one to do the job, one on a motor-scooter round the corner. The raider rushed out and got on the pillion and off they went. You remember that motor-scooter which Gantry used?”
“I remember,” Roger said, and as he spoke, the door of the office opened and almost at the same instant, the other telephone bell rang. “Let me have details as soon as you can, Jack, will you? My other phone’s ringing.” He rang off; a middle-aged Detective Sergeant in the doorway had a glint of excitement in his eyes, a rare thing. Roger lifted the receiver of the telephone, said: “Half a minute,” and looked at the plain-clothes man. “What’s eating you, Sam?”
“There’s a hell of a do out at Putney, and plenty of trouble at Battersea. Nine shops have been raided in all.”
“Anyone caught?”
“Not yet. Couple of our chaps copped a packet, and—”
“The raiders got off on motor-scooters,” Roger finished for him. “Just a minute.” He put the other receiver to his ear more tightly, gripping it very firmly, and said into it: “West here, what’s on?”
“Information Room here, sir,” said the man at the other end of the line. “There are reports of shop raids coming in from all over South-west London.”
“Only South-west London?”
“Yes, so far?”
“How many?”
“I’ve got up to twenty-one, sir.”
“Keep counting and advise me every fifteen minutes,” Roger said, and then raised his voice: “Don’t go!” He picked up a pencil, hesitated, and then said: “What time were these raids?”
“I’ve got the times they were reported, that’s all.”
“Get the times of the raids themselves.”
“Right, sir.”
Roger rang off, his heart thumping as he made notes on a pad in front of him, writing swiftly but with great deliberation. “Looks like real trouble, Sam,” he remarked. “Take this note along to the Commander. If he’s not in, take it to the Assistant Commissioner. It’s an official request to put all Divisions and the Yard on an overtime basis tonight and tomorrow.”
“I’ll get busy,” Sam promised.
There was a frightening significance in what Roger had been told, something which would give the Yard their biggest headache for a long, long time. Until now, the raids had mostly been carried out sporadically, perhaps as many as four or five in the same evening, but nothing to suggest that a big force of raiders was involved. The present score was in the twenties, and might rise to twice that number. Roger tried to picture the situation in which forty men might start out. Forty? There were two men on each job, so if forty shops had been raided, eighty men had been involved.
He said: “It can’t happen.”
His telephone bell rang.
“Information here,” said the man who had called him a few minutes ago. “The total score now is thirty-three, but new reports have stopped coming in.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Roger said. “Any times in yet?”
“They all started about five o’clock—that is, all I’ve been able to check yet.”
“Yes,” said Roger. “What Division?”
He made notes as the answers came, looking at the wall map from time to time, and when he rang off he stood up and went to the map, then began to shade several adjacent Divisions with pencil. He was doing this when the elderly Detective Sergeant came in.
“The Commander was with the A.C., sir. They said they’d be in touch with you very soon.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s that?” asked the sergeant, and came forward. Then he went on: “My God, do you see what I see?”
“Four Divisions affected, each of them next to another affected one,” Roger said. “And that tells a story, doesn’t it, Sam? The raiders made sure one Division couldn’t rush help to another. At five o’clock the bridges are so busy that cross-river progress would be hopelessly slow.” He broke off, as there was a brisk tap at the door, and the door opened before he could call “come in”. The big, broad, neatly dressed figure of Hardy, the Commander C.I.D., appeared in the doorway. Hardy’s grey hair was smoothed down, his rather deep-set eyes had, as always, a rather worried look. He had a strong, quite handsome face but rather thin lips.
“Come in, sir,” Roger said.
“I’m not staying,” said Hardy. “There’s a conference in the Public Prosecutor’s Office over the Miden case, but I wanted you to know that I’ve signed the overtime orders.”
“Thanks.”
“Think we ought to stop leave?” asked Hardy.
“That’s going to be tough, in the middle of August,” Roger said. “I’d wait until we see just what turns up.”
“I’ll leave it to you, then. How many reported raids to date?”
“Thirty-three.”
“Sixty-six men,” Hardy remarked. He smoothed one hand over his flat hair, and gave a faint, unamused smile. “Well, at least you don’t take a smug satisfaction out of saying ‘I told you so’. If big stores suffer we’re going to be under pressure.”
“Look after the big boys, and hang the little man,” Roger said sardonically.
“I’m just looking ahead,” Hardy said. “If anything else of importance comes in, let me know before I leave. I’ll be in my office until seven o’clock.”
“I’ll let you know,” Roger promised. He watched the Commander go out, as old Sam, who had seemed to merge with the wall while the senior officer was present, came forward again. The telephone kept silent, yet there was a constant air of expectancy.
“See how they start to worry when big interests are hit in their pockets, don’t you? Wonder Cockell shops haven’t started to squeal too. Eight of their stores were raided.”
“They’ll start squealing,” Roger said, “and they’re very vulnerable if they employ men like Gantry. Might be a good idea to talk to them before they call us. Find out who their managing director is, will you?”
“Right,” said the sergeant. “Those eight supermarkets lost nearly a thousand quid apiece, and there are twenty-five jobs of at least a couple of hundred quid each. It’s a hell of a lot of money.”
“We need details of everything stolen, and we want immediate action on the Wholesaler and Warehouse emergency system,” Roger said, “I’ll draft a note for the teleprinter. You get it out, will you?”
“Pronto.”
Roger pulled the pad closer to him, and after a moment’s pause, wrote quickly:
“All thirty-three shop raids today evidently carefully timed and cleverly planned. Stop. No total figures yet but substantial stocks of cigarettes already reported stolen. Stop. Please refer my Memo, dated July 10th and arrange for watch on all tobacco warehouses and wholesalers for deliveries this evening or through the night.
R. West. Superintendent.”
He handed this to the sergeant as his telephone bell rang again. It wasn’t yet six o’clock, so in an hour, the whole situation had changed completely. In the background was a driving anxiety, the knowledge that the people behind this could lay on sixty-six people to work at the same time, and could plan and time it all so that the raids went off without a hitch.
So far, there was no report that anyone had been caught; it was almost impossible to believe that every one of the sixty-six people
could get away, but Roger had to remember that each attack had been complete in itself, and thoroughly prepared.
The caller was Appleby.
“Having a n-nice t-time?” the pathologist inquired.
“How much have you heard?”
“I’ve just come from the A.C.’s office,” said Appleby. “He’s busy wishing he’d l-l-listened to you before. Going t-t-to have any luck?”
“It doesn’t look like it yet.”
“Can I help?”
“I’ll call you if you can.”
“Like me to call Janet and t-t-tell her you’ll be late?”
“Will you?” asked Roger, and heard Appleby chuckle. He rang off, glad that there was no need to tell Janet himself that he wouldn’t be home until midnight; he would be lucky to get home at all.
One problem was how to visit all the places where the raids had taken place; it would take him days. But he had an even greater problem.
He had been convinced all along that some of the robberies were connected, but it hadn’t dawned on him that anything like so many men would be involved. He certainly hadn’t anticipated raids on anything like this scale, and it might be only the beginning. The effect had been cumulative, and the next obvious step for an organisation as strong as this would be to raid places where there was more loot—banks, post offices and wages offices, for instance. The more he contemplated this the more dangerous the possibilities threatened to be.
Then the door opened with a rush, and the Detective Sergeant came in, his eyes glowing. “We caught two of them, sir. Over at Battersea.”
Just before five o’clock that afternoon, a youthful police constable in the Battersea Division, a man named O’Hara, had been walking along Park Street, which led to Battersea Park through a colony of flats and small houses. There was very little trouble for the police in this area, and most of what there was came when the Battersea Fun Fair was open, and some of the youngsters lost their heads or had too much to drink.
O’Hara, a married man with three school-age children, was thinking about the shop robberies, and in fact was quickening his pace so that he could see the four shops in his area at least once an hour. There were times when he thought that it was a waste of time; that if any trouble came, it could be reported very quickly and the police could be there within a few minutes. Then he laughed at himself, realising that he was supposed to be preventing crime, not solving it. He had not a great deal of imagination, but where his mind worked it worked well.
He saw the two men turn round a corner on a motor-scooter.
A man and a girl on one of the noisy little machines wasn’t unusual, and two girls was quite usual, but two men—that was worthy of notice. These chaps were smallish, too, and they handled the machine like experts. It had bright blue cellulose and a big plastic windshield, and had specially fitted carriers which could hold a lot of luggage. O’Hara turned and watched it—and saw that the pillion passenger was looking at him the sly way that men up to no good often look at the police. He went on slowly, until the motor-scooter turned the corner; next time he glanced round, it was out of sight, but he could hear its popping engine.
It stopped.
By then, O’Hara had recalled the Police Gazette report about the man Gantry, and the fact that he had gone to the raid on Mrs. Marsh on a motor-scooter. O’Hara spun round. The engine was still silent. A cyclist turned into the street, an insurance agent whom he knew slightly, and who lived just round the next corner. He hurried towards the man, waving; and the cyclist swerved towards him.
“Call my Station, say I think I’ll need help at the corner of Atholl Street and Blair Road,” he ordered. “Just tell them that, and—” He broke off, realising that this man’s bicycle would be invaluable. “Let me have your bike,” he said urgently. “You run with that message.”
The insurance agent pushed the machine towards him.
“Are you sure—” he began.
“Just send that message!” O’Hara ordered. He forked the machine and pedalled furiously towards the corner, and round it. He saw the motor-scooter outside the shop on the corner; the rider was still astride it, but the pillion-rider wasn’t there. The rider looked over his shoulder, and almost at once he blew the horn of the scooter three times; the horn had a distinctive high-pitched note. O’Hara knew exactly what to do as he raced towards the scooter, and as the pillion rider came running out of the shop, carrying a sack. The luggage carriers were open. O’Hara was within a few yards of them both when he saw a botde in one man’s hand, raised to throw. Instead of jumping off his machine and rushing at them, O’Hara leapt off on the side away from them—and gave the bicycle a violent shove, so that it hurtled towards the motor-scooter.
It was the one move which the two men hadn’t anticipated.
XIV
HERO O’HARA
O’HARA landed on both feet, but nearly lost his balance. As he weaved about, he saw the front wheel of the borrowed bicycle bang into the side of the motor-scooter, and the pedals scraped along the machine, screeching. The bottle of fruit cordial crashed on the pavement. A pedal caught the ankle of the rider, who reared up with pain. The pillion passenger nearly fell off, but held on. As O’Hara steadied, he saw the man flash his right hand to his trousers pocket.
A flick knife blade spat out, catching the light.
The motor-scooter fell with a crash, pinning the rider’s leg beneath it. Out of the corner of his eyes O’Hara saw the man trying desperately to free himself; he also saw the man with the knife half crouching, ready for him, the narrow pointed blade quite capable of causing death at a single thrust. Two girls turned the corner, and one of them cried out: “Look, Elsie!” The rider was still struggling to get out from under the machine.
O’Hara called: “Drop that knife!”
The man with the knife didn’t speak, just stood crouching for a split second, and the rider pulled himself free. O’Hara snatched out his truncheon, and leapt forward. One of the girls screamed. The man with the knife ducked and came in, to deliver a vicious upwards thrust with his killer weapon, which was exactly what O’Hara had expected. He kicked at the man’s wrist, caught the knife and sent it flying upwards into the air in a shimmering arc. Then he brought his truncheon down on top of the raider’s head. He heard the man grunt as he fell, side-stepped his falling body, and heard the girl scream:
“Look out!”
He swung round towards the rider of the scooter, who was coming at him with a knife. O’Hara stood motionless for a moment, until it looked as if the man couldn’t fail to stab him; then he swayed to one side, and swung a powerful blow with the truncheon, catching his second assailant on the side of the head. The timing of the blow was so perfect that it sent the man staggering forward, partly under his own momentum; then he slipped off the kerb and pitched down. As the knife flew from his hand and skidded along the road, O’Hara took three long strides and banged him on the nape of the neck, a comparatively gentle but effective truncheon blow.
He straightened up, made sure that his first victim was still unconscious, tucked his truncheon away, and saw that in addition to the two girls, a woman with a pram, an elderly man and two middle-aged men had gathered and were staring at him as if bewildered.
“Keep an eye on these two, will you?” he asked the crowd in general. “I’d better see if everything’s all right in the shop.”
He entered the shop, and saw the till wide open, money strewn about the floor and on the counter, a frightened middle-aged woman standing in a doorway at the back of the shop, with a broom in her hand, as if ready to fight the raiders if they came back. A scared-looking boy in his early teens stood behind the cheese counter, holding a bottle of orange squash. O’Hara’s first temptation was to grin. Instead, he said:
“It’s all right, Mrs. Dixon, nothing more to worry about. Did they take anything?”
“I don’t think he had any time to,” said the woman, breathlessly. “I thought—I thought he was going to kill you, I di
d really.”
“Take more than a sneak thief to do that,” boomed O’Hara, and then heard a car coming fast along the street. “Stay where you are, and there’ll be nothing to worry about.” He went outside, to see a car from Divisional Headquarters pulling up, and for the first time felt that he could relax. Then he saw something dark sticking out of the pocket of the man he had first knocked out. He bent down, picked it up, and found that it was a triangular piece of plastic, with slits cut out for the eyes; a simple form of mask.
A uniformed sergeant was getting out of the car. “And they told us you needed help,” he scoffed.
Roger looked at the two prisoners, small, sallow, bleary-eyed men, one of whom had been unconscious for twenty-five minutes. The bruises on their heads were indications of the power of Constable O’Hara’s blows. Proud O’Hara was next door, making out his report; the two prisoners were in the charge room of the Battersea Divisional Station, and two local C.I.D. men were with Roger. The prisoners had been searched and the contents of their pockets bagged, labelled and set aside. The pillion rider’s sack was there, too, and it was obvious that this was used to carry the loot out of the shop; the carriers of the motor-scooter could hold a lot of cigarettes and small goods.
“Now let’s have it straight,” Roger said. “Who do you work for?”
One of the men said sneering: “We’re self-employed, that’s what we are.”
“If you keep that up you’ll get yourselves into worse trouble than you are now,” Roger said. “Who’s your employer?”