The phone rang while they were making a last desperate attack on the cushions and chair seams.
Benbow turned after the phone episode was over and surveyed the chaos in the lounge. In spite of the wrecked appearance, the only actual damage was to the velvet-covered cushions.
‘We can give up the watch on the place now,’ he said gloomily. ‘Golding will be off his lair like a dose of salts after that call – and God knows which end of Britain he’ll hide out in.’
Bray turned to the last chair, a leatherette easy chair with the same brown cushions as the others. He slid his hand down the crack at the side and felt all around.
‘Here’s something … oh hell – a threepenny stamp – big deal!’
He slapped it in disgust onto the mantelpiece and carried on with his destruction of the cushions.
Benbow mooched around the flat again and came back to watch his sergeant finish the job.
‘Sutcliffe has been fishing around in the bathroom – had the lino up and looked down the waste pipes – no joy though.’
‘What are we supposed to be looking for anyway?’ complained Bray.
‘I’ll tell you when we find it,’ said Benbow snappily. The frustration of getting a little bit further and then meeting a brick wall was irritating him more and more as the days went by.
Bray’s fingers felt all along the remaining cracks and into the wadding of the cushion. ‘Damn all!’ he said disgustedly.
Benbow turned away and idly picked up the stamp in his hands.
‘Looks quite new – not even creased,’ he said with a yawn. Then his brows drew together in sudden concentration. ‘Bray – look at this!’
The sergeant took the stamp, turned it over in his fingers and looked questioningly at his chief.
‘Just an unused threepenny stamp – looks new, as you say – but I can’t see what earthly use it is to us.’
‘Can’t you? You try going out of here and buying a stamp like that.’
His voice was suddenly full of bounces and eagerness. Bray stared at the stamp for a few more seconds before the penny dropped.
‘A dragon? A ruddy dragon!’ he exclaimed.
Benbow beamed like a fond father.
‘That’s it, lad – you can only buy those in Wales.’
Back at the Yard, they took the stamp to the lab on the upper floors of the New Building and got someone to make sure that there was nothing extraordinary about the stamp apart from its place of origin.
In his office, Benbow sent for a trade telephone directory for the South Wales area and riffled through the pages eagerly.
‘Why South Wales?’ Bray made his inevitable objection. ‘There’s a North as well, they sell the same stamps there.’
‘Because two-thirds of the population live in the south – we’ve got to start in the most likely places.’
‘And what if some visitor to Golding’s flat happened to drop the stamp? Golding himself still might come from Kent or Westmorland – or even Golders Green!’
Benbow groaned.
‘I’m going to get rid of you, Bray. You get on my bleeding wick … talk about a regular Doubting Thomas. Look, if you don’t make a shot in the dark now and then, you’ll never get to be a rich chief inspector like me, chum.’
He found the pages listing jewellers, antique dealers, and silversmiths. There were less than a score of antique dealers, but well over a hundred jewellers. The Admiral groaned when he saw the list.
‘We’d take a month of Sundays to go through those – let’s have a crack at the antiques boys first.’
‘You can exclude any big shops, combines, and chain store jewellers,’ observed Bray, losing some of his pessimism, ‘Golding would almost certainly be working on his own to be able to go flitting around like he does.’
His chief nodded over the directory. ‘Sure – we can narrow it down to a man with his own business, probably – if there is any business at all, that is.’
‘And we know he’s not a very young man or a really old josser – nor has he got one leg or a hunchback,’ added Bray facetiously.
‘He’s somewhere in his forties, according to the miserable descriptions we’ve had so far,’ agreed Benbow.
He riffled through the pages of the yellow book again. ‘And he’s not very tall, very short, cross-eyed, bearded or bandy, so we want an average-looking bloke of middle age, who runs a silver business and often goes to London for a few days.’
His sergeant’s face suggested that he thought this was Alice in Wonderland stuff, but he managed to keep his tongue still.
Benbow started by phoning the C.I.D. chiefs of the six police forces in the counties of Glamorgan and Monmouthshire. He explained what he wanted and asked for their cooperation. This was readily given, though some of the Welsh detectives were politely incredulous.
Benbow confirmed and amplified his requests by Telex to each of the police headquarters, then went home to bed.
The weekend was quiet, nothing being heard from any of the Welsh constabularies.
On the Monday morning, a report from the Newport, Glamorgan County and Merthyr Tydfil forces said that there was no one on the list of dealers who at all resembled Golding in appearance or habits.
In the afternoon, there was a false alarm from the Swansea police force. They thought they had found a jeweller and silversmith who was nondescript enough to be the wanted man and who frequently spent long weekends away from home. But an hour later, a crestfallen detective inspector rang through to say that a tactful series of enquiries had given the man a cast-iron alibi in the shape of an attractive schoolmistress in Gloucester.
The afternoon wore on and Benbow began to feel the accusative eyes of Bray saying, ‘I told you so,’ following him around the little offices. He began to wonder if he had better widen the net to take in the dealers in West and Mid-Wales, but at five o’clock the miracle came across the wires.
‘Cardiff City here … Detective Inspector Parry. We’ve raised a likely candidate for you, seems to fit the bill very well … name of Paul Jacobs. But the chief says to go very careful on this one. If it’s a load of bull he doesn’t want any comeback, thank you very much!’
Bray and Benbow caught the eight o’clock train from Paddington to Wales. The Admiral was bouncing and beaming and his sergeant openly sceptical as the diesel rumbled out of London for the long run westwards.
Chapter Fourteen
‘That big house on the end – the one with the double garage.’
Parry, the Cardiff detective, pointed out a large modern villa set amongst trees in a select suburban avenue of the Welsh capital. With Benbow and Bray, he sat in a police car – a Vauxhall this time – which was parked a respectable distance down the road from Paul Jacobs’ home.
‘He’s not in now, is he?’ asked Bray in a worried voice. He had developed a very healthy respect for Golding’s knack of smelling trouble at a distance.
A plainclothes constable in the front seat reassured him. ‘No, I’ve been watching since half past eight – he went out about nine.’
Parry explained how they had been keeping tabs on Jacobs since the day before.
‘Edwards here has been tapping the odd-jobber who does Jacobs’ garden … that was it, wasn’t it, Edwards?’
The junior detective nodded. ‘He likes to knock off for a fag and a gossip every now and then, so I was able to pump him quite easily.’
‘Have you ever seen this Paul Jacobs, Inspector?’ asked Benbow.
‘No, if he’s your man, I thought it unwise to let him get wind of me … according to you he’s as slippery as the original greasy pole.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Archie, with feeling.
Inspector Parry shook his head in wonder. ‘I still can’t credit it. This man is well known in city business circles – couldn’t have a better reputation. He’s even in the same golf club as the chief constable.’
Bray grinned at his boss behind the local officer’s back as Parry leaned forward to speak to
the driver.
‘Turn round and go back to Llandaff nick, Thomas.’ He turned to the London men.
‘No point in staying in sight more than we need.’
As they moved off through the pleasant suburb, he enlarged on the bare facts he had given them before.
‘This chap, Jacobs, is about forty-five to forty-eight – that right, Edwards?’ The man in front nodded.
‘He’s got an antique shop down near the docks – a small place, just a bit of silver in the window. I’ve asked the local division about it. They say they’ve never heard anything at all from there – no break-ins or suspicion of stolen property finding its way there. He’s got an oldish man who looks after the shop. Jacobs does all the buying, that’s why he’s away so much.’
Benbow interrupted. ‘Is it a genuine business or just a front, d’you think?’
Parry was emphatic. ‘Oh, genuine, no doubt of that – I’ve made a few enquiries and plenty of people have dealt with him.’
Edwards added to this, ‘He only handles good stuff – all silver. He never advertises, he goes on dealers’ recommendations and that. It’s a genuine set-up all right, sir.’
Bray looked over his shoulder at the affluent residential area they were crossing. ‘Would a poky little shop like that turn in enough money to keep up a house like his?’
Parry shrugged. ‘I’ve never seen a poor jeweller yet.’
‘What about his trips away?’ asked Benbow rather impatiently.
‘It’s been difficult to find out actual dates without putting him on his guard,’ replied Edwards.
He was a bright, chirpy young man. Benbow thought that he was cut out to get to the top in record time.
‘We know he goes away about ten days in every month,’ put in Parry. ‘Usually every fortnight but not absolutely regular. We had a policewoman snooping around the local shopping centre yesterday – she found out that Mrs Jacobs varies her shopping lists according to whether he’s home or not.’
‘What’s the wife like?’
‘Very nice by all accounts. Quiet, pleasant, in her middle thirties, I think – perhaps a bit older.’
‘He definitely went away last Thursday,’ cut in Edwards. ‘The gardener said that he came home unexpectedly the next day – the wife wasn’t expecting him, sent the old man out next morning for a loaf.’
‘You seem to have got plenty out of the gardener,’ observed Benbow.
Edwards grinned. ‘Any gardener – even at seven-and-six an hour – will talk about anything under the sun if it gives him a chance to lean on his spade instead of using it.’
They were approaching the local police station now, not far from the famous cathedral. In the charge room, Parry spoke aloud the thought that was passing through all their minds.
‘Well, is it him, or isn’t it? How are you going to decide?’
Benbow, missing his pencils, chewed his knuckles instead.
‘Two things would clinch it – either his fingerprints … God knows we’ve got enough of those to compare – or get Irish or Gigal to identify him.’
‘Gigal wouldn’t do it … O’Keefe might.’
Benbow gnawed away at his fingers.
‘No hope of getting anything out of the house with his dabs on, I suppose?’
Parry shook his head. ‘Don’t see how we can … illegal and it would put the wind up him straight away, if he’s the chap.’
‘What about the shop?’ suggested Bray. ‘There should be plenty there carrying his prints – all that polished metal stuff.’
Edwards had a flash of inspiration. ‘Take something in for valuation – I could do it. He’d have to handle it and give it back, wouldn’t he?’
Parry and Benbow mulled it over and agreed it was the simplest way.
‘But you’d better not take it, Edwards. You’ve been hanging around the house too much,’ objected Parry.
‘What about Sergeant Bray here? He’s a complete stranger.’
Bray was all enthusiasm. ‘If you could get me something right now, I could do it this morning. We’ve brought a photograph of Golding’s prints from the Yard.’ He rummaged in his briefcase and took out a standard identification form with copies of the dabs from both London flats that Golding had occupied. Bray’s keenness was infective – the local men put their heads together and in a moment Parry thought of something suitable.
‘My sister’s teapot! She had a good one given her for a wedding anniversary last month. It would do fine, as we’ll have to offer Jacobs something genuine or he may smell a rat.’
‘Can you get it?’ asked Benbow.
‘Yes, I think so,’ said Parry optimistically. ‘I can talk her into lending it to me for a couple of hours … it can’t come to any harm, can it?’
Around noon, a police car pulled into a side turning off Bute Street in Cardiff’s dockland.
The notorious Tiger Bay area, now respectable with its new high-rise flats, lay quietly under a pale winter sun as Bray clambered out of the Vauxhall, clutching a cardboard box with reverent care.
Parry leaned out after him and pointed down the street. ‘Second on the left … and for God’s sake look after the ruddy thing – there’ll be another murder if anything happens to it.’
The sergeant took an even firmer grip on the boxed-up teapot and set off down the road. He passed a line of empty condemned tenements, then turned a corner and made his way towards James Street, a busy road reminiscent of the days when this was the busiest port in the world. Before he reached it, he came to a small shop with steel grilles set behind the window panes. Above the brown painted door was the simple legend Paul Jacobs – Antique Silver.
With a sudden intuitive feeling that this was the end of the search, he pushed the door open. The interior had been partitioned off so that there was only a small cubicle inside the entrance, with a counter facing the door. An inner door with two Yale locks was set in the high wooden partition to his left.
Bray stood clutching his box, wondering whether to rap on the green baize counter for attention. Then silently an elderly man appeared behind the counter. He had half-moon spectacles on his nose and wore a grey linen shop-coat.
‘Can I do anything for you?’ His voice matched his mild and rather remote manner.
‘I’d like this teapot valued, please.’
Bray lifted the top off the box and pushed back the tissue paper to reveal the glistening bloom of solid silver.
The old man nodded slowly. ‘Do you want to leave it?’
Bray shook his head.
‘No, I’ve had an offer for it today and I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t being robbed – if you get me,’ he ended lamely.
He had prepared this patter but now, in front of the calm old assistant, it seemed to fall flat on its face.
The man in the grey coat seemed incurious.
‘It’ll take a few minutes. Will you wait, please?’
He began to shuffle off with the box and Bray gabbled at him.
‘It will be Mr Jacobs himself who will look at it? I’ve had such good reports of his valuations – I’d like him to do it.’
The other looked at him mildly over the tops of his lenses. ‘Certainly, if that’s what you want. Just wait.’
He glided away, leaving Bray with the impression that he moved on small wheels instead of feet. Bray prepared himself for a long wait but within a couple of minutes another person materialised from behind the partition.
In spite of the hard crust that Bray had grown after years in the Metropolitan Police, he felt a sudden tensing as he faced what might be a double murderer. He saw a man of average height, with a composed, smooth face, fair hair swept back over his forehead, and a small moustache – a new feature according to the scanty descriptions.
At that instant, Bray, the Doubting Thomas, the thorn in Benbow’s intuitive side, felt that this was Golding. He suddenly found that Jacobs – or Golding – was speaking.
‘… quite a nice piece. A pity that the handle
has that tiny split, it stops it from being perfect. Still, if I were selling it, I’d ask about thirty-eight guineas.’ He turned the elegant vessel around under the shaded light to admire it. ‘Yes, say thirty-eight. If someone gave you forty for it, they wouldn’t go far wrong.’ He looked up, a faintly apologetic smile on his face. ‘Of course, I couldn’t give you quite that, if you intend selling it.’
Bray hurriedly reassured him, imagining Parry’s face if he went back and told him that he’d sold his sister’s anniversary pot.
Bray had seen with satisfaction that the dealer had left good fingerprints on the silver. The sergeant had carefully polished it before he left the police station and had been careful only to handle it by the rim afterwards. Jacobs wrapped the teapot up and handed it back across the counter.
After paying the valuation fee, Bray left the shop feeling a little unreal. Not many detective sergeants could have paid seven-and-six to a man they intended arresting for a capital offence, he thought as he walked back towards the police car. For now he was utterly convinced that Jacobs was Golding. He felt sure that checking the prints was going to be almost a formality and that within minutes they would be back to take him into custody.
He would have been less elated if he could have heard the conversation in the back room of the shop immediately after he left. As the door shut with a valedictory buzz, Jacobs went back to the office behind the partition. His old assistant turned from polishing plate, brushing reddish dust from the front of his coat.
‘Funny business, that chap,’ he said slowly. ‘From London, by the sound of him … wonder why he wanted that piece valued?’
Jacobs glanced idly at Ben. ‘What’s so odd about that? It’s our job, isn’t it?’
The old man stared pensively at the plate.
‘I know that teapot … it was only sold from Carter’s up in the town about a month ago. I recognised the cracked handle. Why would he want it valued again – Carter’s price is reliable enough?’
Jacobs’ attention was caught now.
‘Are you sure it was the same one, Ben?’
‘Yes, not only the handle but there was a little dent on the base. I remember seeing it in their window.’
Mistress Murder Page 15