The Enemy Within

by Edward Marston

‘She’s only a barmaid,’ replied Marmion. ‘She has no means of hiding him or providing him with money. Felix Browne can do both. He’s a fly customer, sir, a man from a modest background who’s made a name for himself selling and renting out properties. Sergeant Keedy will need to have his wits about him.’

  Felix Browne was at the head office of his little empire, seated behind a desk as he flicked through the morning’s correspondence. When his secretary told him that he had a visitor, he was unperturbed to hear that it was Keedy and asked for him to be sent in. He stood up to give the sergeant a warm smile and a handshake, then waved him to a chair. Browne spoke as if they were old friends.

  ‘What would you like – tea, coffee, something stronger?’

  ‘I’d like some information about Wally Hubbard, please.’

  Browne laughed. ‘I’ve told you before. That’s in short supply.’

  ‘I don’t accept that, sir.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Oh, by the way, can I ask you a favour?’

  ‘What sort of favour?’

  ‘One of your cars followed me on Saturday,’ said Browne, ‘and it tried to do the same thing yesterday. I did my very best to help by staying in sight of it but I’m afraid it got hopelessly lost. Never let it be said that I don’t cooperate with the police,’ he added, complacently. ‘Before you leave, why not ask my secretary for a list of my appointments for this week? That way, your detectives will know exactly where I am and they won’t go astray again.’

  Keedy bristled. Having disliked Browne on their first encounter, he began to loathe him now. The man was hideously overconfident. More to the point, he was wearing a suit that must have cost at least four times the one that the sergeant had on. While Browne could afford the best bespoke tailor in London, Keedy – punctilious about being smartly dressed – had to scrimp and save to buy a well-cut suit. He was keen to wipe the oily grin from the other man’s face.

  ‘I believe that you know where Mr Hubbard is,’ he began.

  ‘I wish I did, Sergeant, because I could then get in touch with you at once.’

  ‘You’re pulling my leg, sir.’

  ‘No, I’m serious. Much as I hate putting him there, I want Wally safely back in custody. I’d much rather have him serving a sentence for arson than being hanged for murder. I’d prefer to save his life.’

  ‘Do you know the kind of life he’ll have in prison?’

  ‘It’s not ideal, maybe, but it’s preferable to execution.’

  ‘Mr Hubbard may not agree with you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. We’ve had no opportunity to discuss the subject.’

  ‘He can’t survive without money.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘So where would he get it from?’

  ‘Not from me – I wouldn’t give him a penny.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I value my freedom too much.’

  ‘It may be in danger if you’re lying to me, Mr Browne.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare.’ He glanced at the newspaper on his desk. ‘Anyway, why are you so concerned about finding Wally? You and Inspector Marmion are mentioned in today’s paper. You’re leading a murder investigation. Isn’t it more important to catch someone who has already killed than someone who is simply thinking about it?’

  ‘We intend to arrest both of them in due course, Mr Browne.’

  ‘But the search for Wally will be less intense now, surely.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Keedy. ‘In fact, more detectives have joined the manhunt.’ He was pleased to see that he’d finally jolted Browne. ‘It means that we have the resources to track down all his friends and associates. You have pride of place among them, sir.’

  ‘I feel honoured.’

  ‘I shouldn’t preen too much, if I were you.’

  Browne indicated the newspaper. ‘It says here that the murder victim was a Ben Croft.’

  ‘That was just a name he was using, sir. We don’t know his real identity.’

  ‘Why did he choose that particular name?’

  ‘That will become clear in time.’

  ‘It’s a weird coincidence, isn’t it?’

  ‘We’re not entirely sure that it is a coincidence, sir,’ said Keedy, evenly, ‘but perhaps you can assist me. How will Hubbard react when he reads the news?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue, Sergeant.’

  ‘Will he think that someone has already killed Croft and stolen his identity?’

  ‘Ask him when you catch him.’

  ‘Or might he suspect that the man he’s after has been party to an exchange so that he can hide under a false name? In short, will he give up the chase?’

  ‘No, he won’t.’

  ‘Is that what he told you?’

  ‘I know Wally Hubbard. He never gives up.’

  ‘Croft may already be dead.’

  ‘He won’t believe that until he’s able to dance on the grave before pissing all over it.’ He put the newspaper aside and smirked. ‘Who’s been appointed to keep an eye on me today?’

  ‘You won’t be under surveillance, sir,’ said Keedy.

  ‘Does that mean you’ve finally decided to believe me?’

  ‘It means that detectives can be better deployed elsewhere.’

  ‘Ask for a list of my appointments, nevertheless,’ suggested Browne. ‘You’ll be able to see how hard I work then.’

  Keedy stood up. ‘We’re not strangers to hard work ourselves, sir.’

  ‘But it isn’t very productive, is it? At the end of each day, I can retire to bed in the knowledge that I’ve actually achieved something. You can’t do that. You’ve been after Wally for days without getting a sniff of him and you’re now dealing with the murder of a man whose real name you haven’t been able to find out. You and the inspector were struggling the first time I met you,’ he went on. ‘The pair of you are really floundering now.’

  ‘Good day to you, Mr Browne.’

  ‘Give my regards to Inspector Marmion.’

  Keedy let himself out of the room and came into the outer office. Browne’s secretary was behind her desk but he didn’t ask for the list of her employer’s appointments. The receptionist was in the window, putting some new photos on display. When he went outside, he took the trouble to see which properties were now on the market. Each one of them was worthy of interest, even though all were way beyond his price range. Though he and Alice had talked about buying a house, they might be forced to rent one temporarily until they’d saved up enough money. His eye therefore went enviously to the rental properties. A minute later, an idea struck him and he took out his notebook. He recorded the details of a number of houses and took particular care to get the right addresses before walking to the car on the other side of the road. As Keedy got in, the driver looked over his shoulder.

  ‘Am I going to follow him again today, sir?’

  ‘There’s no point,’ said Keedy. ‘In any case, I’ve got another job for you.’

  Even though it meant a long bus ride, Ellen Marmion was glad of an excuse to visit her brother-in-law and his wife. She saw far too little of Raymond and Lily Marmion. Only at Christmas or on special anniversaries was she certain of meeting them and their children. When she got to the hostel, she was greeted by Lily who took her into the office and offered refreshment. Over tea and biscuits, they were able to talk at leisure for the first time in months.

  ‘I’m sorry we’re in such chaos, Ellen,’ said Lily.

  ‘That’s not your fault. You didn’t commit the murder.’

  ‘It was our responsibility to prevent one and we failed. We should have been more vigilant. Raymond keeps chiding himself about that.’

  ‘You can’t watch everyone twenty-four hours a day.’

  ‘They wouldn’t stand for it,’ said Lily. ‘They come here for peace, rest and regular food. If we stood over them all day and all night, there’d be complaints and we’ve had enough upheaval as it is.’

  She told Ellen about the fight between the two men and how a
pervasive atmosphere of unease still lingered. They had to win back the confidence of the people who routinely used the hostel, she said. The crime had left a stigma.

  ‘I suppose they think it could have been any one of them,’ said Ellen.

  ‘They do, but they’re wrong.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You must talk to Harvey. He said that David – or whatever his real name happens to be – was singled out. None of the others had anything worth taking but there was something in David’s briefcase that the killer wanted.’

  ‘Have you ever had anybody else in here with a briefcase?’

  ‘No, we haven’t. Most only have the clothes they’re wearing.’

  ‘Is that what made this man unusual?’

  ‘There were other things as well, Ellen.’

  Lily went on to talk at length about the murder victim, explaining what set him apart from the others and how he always had his briefcase beside him. She was just about to offer her visitor a second cup of tea when Raymond came in.

  ‘Ellen!’ he cried, embracing her warmly. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were here?’

  ‘Lily said you were busy.’

  ‘I’ve been rushed off my feet but I’d still have found time to speak to you. If you’d come earlier, you’d have found Harvey here.’

  ‘That might not have been such a good idea, Raymond. Your brother likes to keep his work and his home life separate. He rarely tells me very much about the latest case he’s working on. It was Lily who explained what had happened.’

  ‘I’m glad it brought you to our door, anyway,’ said Lily.

  ‘How is Paul getting on?’ asked Raymond, producing a grimace from his sister-in-law. ‘Is it that bad?’

  ‘He’s getting worse,’ she said.

  ‘Why – what’s happened?’

  She told them about recent incidents and they responded with an amalgam of sympathy and disapproval. Lily was outspoken in her view of her nephew.

  ‘Some straight talking is needed,’ she said. ‘He needs to be reminded just how much effort you’ve all put in on his behalf. I wouldn’t have tolerated such behaviour from our children. Hasn’t his father tackled him?’

  ‘He’s done so on the rare occasions when they’re actually under the same roof. Harvey has even got an apology out of Paul from time to time. His sister has never managed that,’ Ellen went on. ‘They always end up yelling at each other.’

  ‘It’s difficult to get through to him,’ said Raymond. ‘When I tried, he was very rude to me. At a time when he most needs help, he spurns it.’

  ‘The latest incident has put me in an embarrassing situation.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Lily.

  ‘It’s cost me the friendship of a woman at the sewing circle. As for the way Paul treated her daughter … well, I still can’t believe he was so spiteful.’

  Sally Redwood’s first day in her new job had been highly satisfactory. She’d learnt her way around the shop, been taught how to handle certain items and, at the end of the day, even been allowed to sell an alarm clock to a customer. Having been at her elbow throughout, the manager was complimentary. Sally was not yet allowed to use the till so Lycett had taken care of the money. There had been a slight distraction that morning. Proud of her daughter’s promotion, Patricia Redwood had deliberately gone past the shop to wave to Sally through the window. Sally had blushed. Fortunately, none of the other members of staff had seen her mother.

  As a final chore, she began to put away some of the items that had been taken from the window to show to potential customers. It was a delicate operation. If her hand or arm jerked, she was in danger of knocking over a whole display or, worse, causing damage to some of the stock. Sally therefore unlocked the door at the rear of the display cabinet cautiously and inserted the items one by one. It took all of her concentration. When she’d finished, she glanced up and realised that somebody was staring back at her. With his nose pressed against the glass, Paul Marmion looked grotesque. He made an obscene gesture and grinned.

  Closing the door, she retreated in fear to the back of the shop.

  Marmion seemed to have spent most of the day in perpetual motion, going from one place to another, asking questions, making notes, moving on. He was glad, therefore, to be back at the end of the day in the relative serenity of his office at Scotland Yard. As he prepared a report for the superintendent, he was interrupted by the news that someone wished to speak to him urgently. Her name meant nothing to him but he agreed to see the woman. An agitated Helen Graydon was shown in. Her voice trembled as she introduced herself.

  ‘Do sit down, Mrs Graydon,’ said Marmion. ‘I can see that coming here has put something of a strain on you.’

  ‘It has,’ she confessed.

  ‘Why did you wish to see me?’

  ‘You are Inspector Marmion, aren’t you?’

  He smiled. ‘I like to think so.’

  ‘And are you the only person of that name here?’

  ‘I don’t think the Metropolitan Police could put up with two of us, Mrs Graydon. Yes, I am the only person of that name. Why do you wish to know?’ She lowered her head. ‘You can speak freely. Anything you say will be confidential.’ With an effort, she raised her eyes to meet his. ‘Well?’

  ‘I’ve been very gullible, Inspector.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘When a man called at my house and claimed to be Inspector Marmion, I took him at his word. Then I saw your photograph in the morning paper.’

  ‘Did this man show you a warrant card?’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘Can you please describe him for me?’

  ‘He was a very personable man in his forties, I suppose,’ she said, ‘and there was a craggy look to him. But he was extremely polite.’

  ‘And what did he ask you?’ She hesitated. ‘He asked you where he might find Ben Croft, didn’t he?’ She nodded her head. ‘Mrs Graydon, I’m not the slightest bit interested in how you come to know Mr Croft but I have to tell you that we are eager to find him. If you can give us any indication of where he might be, we’d be more than thankful to you. Believe me, I’m not overstating the situation when I say that it’s a matter of life and death.’

  She was alarmed. ‘Does someone want to kill Ben?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Who would do such a thing?’

  ‘I fancy that you’ve met the man, masquerading as Inspector Marmion.’

  ‘I knew there was something not quite right about him.’

  ‘His name is Wally Hubbard. He’s on the run from prison.’

  ‘Dear God!’ she exclaimed. ‘And I let him into my house.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘There was nothing to tell. I had no idea where Ben—where Mr Croft was. I haven’t been in touch with him for over a month.’

  ‘What did Inspector Marmion say to that?’

  ‘He was obviously disappointed. Then he thanked me and left.’

  Marmion could read the woman’s face clearly. In coming to him, she was admitting that she’d been an intimate friend of Ben Croft and the confession had been a painful one. Fearing that he’d be disapproving and intrusive, she was reassured by his pleasant manner. He was not blaming her in any way.

  He reached for his notebook. ‘I want you to tell me when he came to your house and what he actually said. Take your time, Mrs Graydon. Every detail, however slight, may be of use to us. Now,’ he went on, pencil poised, ‘start by telling me what he was wearing …’

  ‘I will, Inspector. What did you say his real name was?’

  ‘Hubbard … It’s Wally Hubbard.’

  Wally Hubbard was mystified. He’d bought four separate newspapers to read the story. The murder had even shunted the latest news of events in France to an inside page. Marmion’s face appeared on two of the front pages and he was mentioned in the other two newspapers. All of them stressed that the murder victim had been carrying papers that identified him as
Ben Croft. The first time he’d read that, Hubbard had the sinking feeling that somebody had killed Croft before he could get at him. He felt cheated and was enraged. It was only when he read the details that he realised the dead man was not his target. The police had no idea who he really was and were appealing to the public if they knew of a missing person who matched the description given. Hubbard was relieved. Croft was alive. He could still be stalked.

  The problem was that he was no nearer finding the man than he’d been on the day he broke out of Pentonville. At that point, he’d had clear lines of enquiry planned in his mind. Each and every one had ended in a cul-de-sac. Though he’d questioned a number of people, none of them knew where Croft was or where he’d been for the last four of five weeks. The trail was cold.

  Relaxing on the bed in the front bedroom, he had the newspapers scattered all round him. The waters had been well and truly muddied. Not only had his intended target disappeared, someone bearing his name had been murdered at a Salvation Army hostel. The streets of London would now be flooded with policemen, making his task all the harder. For the first time, Hubbard began to have doubts. Having relied on help from Maisie Rogers, he was not sure that he’d ever see her again. Having depended on money from Felix Browne, he’d felt betrayed when he’d learnt that his friend had urged Maisie to break away before she was dragged down by Hubbard. All the certainties in his plan had melted away.

  He was still bemoaning his fate when he heard a car drawing up outside the house. Crossing to the window, he peeped out in time to see Joe Keedy getting out of the vehicle. Hubbard remembered him only too well. They’d fought each other until the sergeant had overpowered him. He didn’t wish for another encounter like that. His cracked ribs had given him great discomfort. Letting go of the curtain, Hubbard took to his heels, racing down the stairs and out through the back door of the house. As he climbed over the fence into the adjoining garden, he wondered which of his friends had contacted the police and how he should make them pay for their treachery.

  CHAPTER TWELVE