Two men in twenty

by Procter, Maurice

  'You have no comment to make?'

  'No, sir.'

  'All right. One of you take the front door and the other take the back, until the place has been searched.'

  The men departed. Martineau turned to the sharp-faced man. 'Mr. Hendry?'

  The man nodded. 'That's me.'

  'It is routine to search the whole premises in a case like this, on the off-chance of finding something. Have you any objection?'

  Hendry's gaze shifted. He took a moment to think. 'No, of course not,' he said.

  Martineau noticed the hesitation, but did not comment on it. He told Devery to take Cassidy and search the place from basement to roof. Then he turned his attention to the safe. One glance confirmed his fears. This job looked like the work of the XXC mob which had recently been operating so successfully in London.

  In the first place, the selection of premises to be entered was typical: a firm too small to go to the expense of employing a watchman, but big enough to provide good pickings. The safe was right, too. It looked as if it had been a good safe, but a fairly old one. The cuts in the door—this one had taken five—looked like expert work. And an oxygen cylinder had been left behind.

  Martineau went to the window, which was curtainless, with frosted glass in the lower panes. He stood on a chair and looked closely at the wall above the window. There was the row of tiny holes which he had expected to find; nine inches above the window, and continuing a foot or so on either side. That was another mark of the XXC mob.

  Devery reappeared. He said: 'Excuse me,' and walked to a door in the corner of the office. He opened it to reveal a small washroom. 'I thought this would be it,' he said, and entered. Martineau followed, to find the sergeant standing at a small sash window which was nearly, but not quite, closed. He raised the window and looked out. Three feet below the window, a little to one side, was a flat-topped wall which protected the gable of a single-storey outhouse. On the window-sill were a few bright steel filings.

  As Martineau joined him, Devery pointed. 'Somebody gave him a hand up there,' he said. 'He walked along the gutter, got on to this wall, and came to the window.'

  Martineau looked at the filings, and at the window catch. It was of the screw type, its bolt less than a quarter of an inch thick. It had been sawn through, probably with a hacksaw blade.

  He took a cellophane evidence envelope from his pocket and gave it to Devery. 'See how many of the filings you can collect,' he said. 'They may come in handy when we lay hands on the man who used the hacksaw.'

  Devery took the envelope. 'Downstairs,' he said, 'the front door has a good mortise lock. The back door has a big old-fashioned lock, and bolts top and bottom. It's locked now, and the key is missing. There are traces of oil on the lock and the bolts, and the bolts are drawn back. According to the fellows downstairs, that door hasn't been opened for years. It was locked with the key in the lock, and both bolts on.'

  Martineau nodded. 'He got in here, went downstairs to the back door, and oiled the lock and the bolts because they were more or less rusted up. When his mates arrived with the XXC he'd have the door ready to open, and he'd be able to bolt it after they entered. When they cleared off, he wouldn't be able to bolt it, but he could lock it and throw the key away somewhere. It's typical of this mob. When they're inside a place they're locked in, and there's no sign that they are in. And when they leave, too, they generally leave it so that the man on the beat can't tell there's been a break-in.'

  He turned away then, and went back to Hendry, leaving Devery to the business of gathering pieces of steel which were smaller than grains of sand. When he was caught—if he was caught—the hacksaw man would have identical steel filings on his clothes and shoes.

  Martineau found Hendry opening a drawer with a key. The tobacconist quickly counted a number of blue paper money bags.

  'This is silver and copper, untouched,' he said. 'They've taken notes only from the safe. Fivers, ones, and ten bobs.'

  'How much did you say?'

  'Two thousand three hundred. Exactly.'

  'Whereabouts in the safe was it?'

  Hendry pulled the ruined steel door more widely open. 'There, on the top shelf,' he said. 'It was done up in bundles.'

  Martineau looked. The top shelf of the safe was empty, except for a thin bundle of cheques. Below the shelf was the usual collection of ledgers and account books.

  'You're insured for burglary, of course.'

  'Yes. I hope the assessors will believe me when I say how much there was.'

  'You should be able to give some proof of that by your books. All this was money brought in by your travellers and delivery men, wasn't it?'

  Again Hendry's glance shifted, again there was that brief hesitation. 'A lot of people call and pay their own bills in cash,' he said.

  'Still, it goes through the books, doesn't it?'

  'It will, when we get round to it. Friday's a busy day.'

  'Whether you've had time to enter it all up or not, you'll still have some sort of record to show the bills were paid. Or don't you bother with records?'

  'Well, I can always remember who has been in to pay bills and who hasn't. I can look up the books when it's quiet and enter it all up.'

  Martineau studied the man, reflecting that the business of trying to cheat the Commissioners of Inland Revenue was now a national pastime. Well, he was a policeman and not an income-tax investigator. He had enough to worry about. But he also had to try and find out if Hendry was involved in something more serious—from a police point of view—than an ordinary income-tax fiddle. There could be some matter here which had led the thieves to Hendry, which could also show the way back from Hendry to the thieves.

  He asked: 'You're quite sure there was that much money in the safe?'

  'Certainly I am. You can phone my brother from here. He's been poorly in bed for a week, but he'll tell you there should be more than two thousand in the safe.'

  'How does he know?'

  'He knows, all right.'

  'If he's ill in bed, he can only know what you tell him. You've been evasive about that money, haven't you? It wasn't all collected from retailers, was it? For some reason you were carrying a float, and a big one.'

  Hendry nodded disconsolately. 'I should have told you right away. I was holding fifteen hundred ready for a cash deal. It's a private matter I can't tell you about.'

  'You mean it isn't honest?'

  'It depends what you mean by "honest". I'm honest enough. I pay for what I get.'

  'You can pay for something and still break the law.'

  'You mean buying stolen cigarettes? No, it's nothing like that. Surely you've heard of cut-price trading.'

  'Who can sell at cut price to a wholesaler?'

  'Well, suppose a man has a lot of stock and not a lot of customers. He's in debt, going bust. If he can unload a lot of that stock on the quiet, cheap, he can have a bit of cash in his pocket when they bankrupt him.'

  'He sells stock he hasn't paid for, and then pays a shilling in the pound to his creditors?'

  'Well, something like that.'

  'You were getting ready to deal with a man of that sort?'

  Hendry hesitated. 'Look,' he said. 'I haven't broken the law, have I?'

  'No. And I'm not concerned with your business ethics. Who besides yourself and your brother knew about the fifteen hundred in the safe?'

  'Nobody. Not a soul.'

  'This man who was going to sell you the cigarettes, if it was cigarettes, did you tell him you had the money ready for him?'

  'No, I didn't.'

  'When was he going to deliver?'

  'No fixed time. When he could do it on the quiet.'

  'So he could have guessed you had the money here for him. He could have told some thief to come and get it.'

  Hendry looked glum. 'I don't think he'd do that.'

  'He sounds to me like a man who'd do anything.'

  'I don't think he knows any thieves.'

  'Well, I might find t
hat out by asking him. What's his name?'

  'I can't tell you that.'

  'Why not? There's been no breach of the law, yet.'

  'No. I can't tell you.'

  'You expect me to help you, but you won't help me.'

  'You're not helping me, Mr. Martineau. You might find the burglars, but you won't get the money back.'

  'It has been known. They can't spend all that money in five minutes.'

  Hendry shook his head sadly. Martineau suppressed his own exasperation. 'May I use your phone?' he asked. 'I've got to set some men to work in here.'

  * * * * *

  Martineau worked hard on the Hendry job. He worked on Hendry. He worked on the tobacco trade generally, trying to pick up a rumour about a wholesaler who might be in difficulties. He worked on Detective Constable Hearn, and learned that the young man's inquiries about oxygen cylinders had led him nowhere.

  'Those cylinders have to come home to roost,' he told Hearn. 'You'll have to do better. I'm putting Ducklin to work with you.'

  After seeing Hearn he had a session with Mr. Barden of North Western Oxygen. Barden was obviously sincere in his willingness to help. 'I'm doing all I can,' he said. 'But there's nothing yet.'

  'I haven't got so damn much, either,' Martineau admitted. There had been no fingerprints, palmprints, footprints or any other prints. The only clue, useless until an arrest had been made, was the tiny fragments of steel which Deven had collected.

  Martineau's team was still being driven furiously when the second Granchester XXC robbery occurred. Like its predecessor, it was typical. The safe at a large suburban branch of the Granchester and District Co-operative Society had been rifled. The news of it made Martineau feel as near to despair as ever he had felt in a matter of this kind.

  'They're here, and we're in for a run of ten or a dozen jobs,' he said. 'It's going to play the devil with our crime average.'

  'We might stop 'em,' said Sergeant Devery, ever hopeful.

  'Pigs might fly. The Yard couldn't stop 'em. They're a smart crowd.'

  The words were spoken while Martineau waited for an order. The Co-op robbery had not been in his own division. It was not his responsibility, but it was the responsibility of his immediate boss, Chief Superintendent Clay. And when Clay was hard pressed, he was inclined to ignore divisional boundaries.

  It was so in this case. Clay sent for Martineau. 'You've heard about this new safe job?' he asked. 'It's a C Div job, but it looks like the work of that London mob. I've told C Div that I'm putting you in charge of all XXC jobs. So get going.'

  Martineau departed. He drove out to C Division, taking with him Devery, the only man available. All others were out on inquiries, some of them seeking out informers and trying to get a whisper about strangers who spoke with southern accents, about strangers with money to spend, about anything which might help. Others were checking hotels and boarding houses. The XXC mob had to live somewhere.

  At the Co-op, Martineau questioned the manager, while Devery made a preliminary search before he went looking for the place of entry.

  The safe was in the condition which Martineau had expected. An oxygen cylinder had been left behind. Also, the manager pointed to a tall, dark green steel filing cabinet which was standing, rather oddly placed, in a corner of the room. 'That doesn't belong here,' he said.

  Martineau strode to the cabinet. It had one tall door and one lock. Though he had ceased to hope to find useful fingerprints after these robberies, he pulled at the door with the nail of one finger in the keyhole. The door swung open. The interior of the cabinet was bare. Obviously the drawers had been removed to make room for an oxygen cylinder.

  'This could have been a daylight job,' he said. 'It was early closing for you yesterday?'

  'Yes. Twelve-thirty.'

  'Did you go to the bank in the morning?'

  'No. I don't go on early closing day.'

  *How much did they get?'

  'Eight hundred and thirty-three pounds in notes. As you can see, they left the silver behind.'

  'They haven't touched the silver?'

  'No, it's all there. I counted the bags without touching them.'

  Martineau nodded. 'They got this cylinder in by pretending to deliver the filing cabinet,' he said. He did not ask himself how the thieves could have carried in the heavier acetylene cylinder. He had been learning a little about oxygen cutting. He made a guess that the XXC mob had used propane instead of acetylene on this daylight robbery. A steel 'bottle' of propane could be carried inside a carton of moderate size.

  'Any idea how they got in?'

  'No, not really. The shop door has two locks, a latch and a mortise. When I came to open it this morning it was on the latch only. The mortise wasn't locked. I assumed I'd forgotten to lock it when I left yesterday. That is, until I came in here.'

  Devery returned. He said: 'There's a tiny window at the back. All the putty is on the ground. The glass is simply held in place by four carpet tacks.'

  'So now we've got the picture. It corresponds with others we've got. Their door-and-window man nearly always goes in ahead of the others. He's their pathfinder, and he's a good one. This time he took out that back window and climbed through, and one of his mates put the glass back and pushed the tacks in to hold it. He came through the shop and worked on the mortise lock from the inside. When he'd turned it, he gave the griff, and the others drove up as large as life with the filing cabinet and one or two cartons holding their stuff. When they'd done the job they left by the front door, and left it latched. The man on the beat would find the door secure. If he was doing his job he went round the back, but unless he was brighter than most, he wouldn't notice the putty on the ground. The window would look all right to him.'

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'That business of lifting the window clean out is typical,' he said. 'It's been done before by the same man. It's an M.O. that should lead us to somebody. If he has any form at all, some copper somewhere should know him.'

  * * * * *

  Later the same morning Martineau sat in conference with Clay, and for once it was Clay who did most of the listening.

  'I'm doing all I can,' the chief inspector said. 'Somebody might have noticed a car or a van outside the Co-op. Somebody might have actually seen the men. We're doing all the lodging houses, or as many as we can find. We're pushing the oxygen job. We've got the noses smelling around every likely looking stranger they see. All the routine is well covered.'

  'And that's all?'

  'No. I've asked Scotland Yard for a full copy of the file on every job they've done, and every inquiry made about them. As I see it, there are at least two tip-top men in that mob. One is the fellow who's master-minding it, the other is their door-and-window man. It's my opinion that those two are out-and-out professionals. There can't be more than two dozen men of their quality in the entire country. It's almost certain that they've got some form, but if they haven't, somebody will know them. Especially that door-opener. I think I can get on to him by studying the M.O. of every job that's been done. I think it could lead me to the head man, too. When I've listed the characteristics of every job I'm going to start going back through the Gazette and Police Reports, looking for 'em. If I can't put my finger on one or both of 'em, at least I'll get 'em on a short list.'

  'That could help, but paper work isn't your line. Put some men on it.'

  'I'm going to do this job myself, then I'll be satisfied. But I'm also going to put two men on it, in the hope they'll find something I've missed.'

  'And when you've got your short list?'

  'I'll put twenty faces and descriptions on a sheet, and have it plastered up in every police station for twenty miles around. Every C.I.D. office, every parade room, and every canteen and mess room, so that the men can stare at those faces while they're eating their dinners.'

  'Right,' Clay nodded his approval. 'We'll go further than that. If I can get the Chief to allow the expense, we'll make a little booklet with twenty pages, and eve
ry one of our own men will carry the book in his pocket at all times. This XXC mob aren't invisible men. We ought to spot one of 'em sooner or later.'

  'Also, I took two of our youngest C.I.D. men, Birkett and Rhodes, out of D Div. They've got new jobs for themselves, at North Western Oxygen, with your permission. Birkett will be a checker and Rhodes will be a driver. Nobody but the personnel manager and the Cylinder Investigation Officer will know they're policemen.'

  Again Clay nodded. 'Permission granted. Perhaps we should have done that a long time ago.'

  'Perhaps we should, but this shower hadn't descended on us then.'

  'That is so. Anything else?'

  'They seem to have a weakness for Co-operative stores. We could have special patrols on all the Co-ops, and we could have the bigger ones, the main branches, watched all the time when they're closed.'

  'We can do that if we borrow some men from Uniform and put them into civvies. I'll see to it.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'That's all we can do at the moment, then?'

  'Unless Sergeant Bird and his crew turn something up.'

  'You think there's some chance of that?'

  'No, sir,' Martineau said. 'Not with this mob.'

  8

  A bred-in-the-bone Londoner like her husband, Dorrie Cain did not readily take to life in Granchester. Neither did she like living in the house in Grange Gardens. But she had to admit that the house was comfortable enough, and that there might be worse cities.

  It soon became apparent to both husband and wife what Mr. Haw the lawyer had meant when he said that the district had 'gone down'. Their neighbours on both sides of the street were Jamaicans, Pakistanis, and Poles, a Pole being, in Granchester, any East European. These hard-working immigrants struggling to make a living in a strange country, holding lowly positions, lived perforce twenty or thirty in a seven-roomed house and did not bother to paint their doors and window frames. They would, later. This was made evident by the Poles, who had been there for a longer time than the others. They had house-buying associations of their own, and they were beginning to take pride in their property. Already the Jamaicans were getting the same idea, and no doubt the Pakistanis would follow suit.