When the men had gone, Martineau discussed possible action with Harvey, the local inspector. He had no evidence to justify the use of a warrant to enter and search No. 11 Grange Gardens. He could only make use of a subterfuge.
'We'll stake the place out for a start, back and front,' he said. 'Have you any ideas about how we could get in?'
'Dress somebody up as an electricity man, come to read the meter?'
'Last resort. They'd be as suspicious as hell. I'll tell you what. For a start we'll team up one of our youngsters with a P. W. of suitable age and appearance. They'll carry suitcases, and they'll call there looking for lodgings. They'll see who comes to the door. We'll have Policewoman Dale along the street in a car. She might be able to do an identification for us. If that doesn't work, we'll have to think of something else.'
That procedure was adopted. When the house in Grange Gardens had been under observations for an hour, word came back to Martineau that there had been no face seen at any window, and indeed there had been no movement at all. By that time the young couple were ready with their suitcases, and P.W. Dale was ready to move up in a car.
Suitcase in hand, the young man rang the doorbell. He waited. He rang again. He knocked. He tried the door. It was locked. He rang again, and waited. Then he said something to his companion, and they moved to the house next door. There, they spoke to a coloured woman. From his observation point, also inside a car, Martineau could see that the woman told them something definite. She seemed to answer a number of questions, without reluctance. Eventually, smiling, they left her, and she also was smiling as she closed her door.
Martineau started his car and drove along the street. He stopped as he drew alongside the couple. 'Come on, get in,' he said. 'You needn't tell me. They've skipped, haven't they?'
'I'm afraid so, sir,' the man answered. 'One man and one of the women went off with a car load of luggage. The others must have gone on foot. They weren't seen to go.'
'Mmmm. How many women in the house?'
'Two women, the neighbour thinks. And at least four men, maybe five. All white people.'
'Could she tell you anything about the car?'
'Only that it was dark blue, moderate size.'
'I see. Wait here. I'll go and have a word with her.'
Martineau walked back to No. 9 Grange Gardens, and pressed the bell button. He heard no bell, so he knocked. The coloured woman came to the door again. He introduced himself, but as pleasantly as he could. The woman's ready smile answered his. She was not afraid of policemen.
'I understand that the people next door have packed up and gone,' he said.
'Yaissah.' He had heard the accent before. He thought it was the strangest English ever spoken. Her smile widened as she added: 'Mebbe rent man come.'
'Maybe,' he agreed. 'Would you know any of them if you saw them again?'
'Mebbe.'
He took his poster from his pocket and unfolded it. 'Do you recognize any of these men?'
It was then that the woman realized that she might be getting involved in something important. Her face clouded.
'You have nothing to be afraid of,' she was told. 'You won't be called as a witness, and these people will never come back here.'
Reassured, she studied the twenty photographs. Deliberately, but without hesitation, she put a brown forefinger on one of them.
Martineau nodded, and with his pencil he marked the picture of Howard Cain. 'Any more?'
She nodded, and touched another picture. There was no name beneath it, but Martineau knew the name. Edward James France, alias Jimmy the Gent. He marked the picture. 'That's the one? Any more?'
She shook her head. He asked further questions, and obtained descriptions of Doreen, Flo, Coggan, Husker, and Jolly, reflecting as he did so that he had been fortunate in meeting a woman in this street who had at least noticed her neighbours. He walked away then, not dissatisfied and not elated by the inquiry. It had been a half-success. The birds had flown, frightened away by an accurate premonition that the police were closing in on them. They would now be on the London road, heading back towards familiar haunts. He would not see them again until he went to interview them in some London police station.
But the efforts of the Granchester City Police had not been entirely without results. 'At least two of them in my twenty selections,' he mused. 'Not so bad.'
When he reached Headquarters he caused a message to be sent to Scotland Yard, to the effect that Edward James France, alias Jimmy the Gent, was now believed to be associated with Howard Cain in the oxy-acetylene safe-cutting crimes. The message also contained the information that the whole gang was believed to have left Granchester in a hurry. The responsible officer at the Yard would draw his own conclusions from that.
Martineau did not regard the exodus as the end of the case for himself, though it did seem that he would be able to relax somewhat, and turn to other affairs. There was still work to be done in the matter of the oxygen cylinders. He was hopeful of clearing that up before Scotland Yard cleared the entire case with the lead he had given.
There was, too, the inquiry concerning the house in Grange Gardens: who owned it, who was the agent, if any; how had it come to be occupied by the XXC mob.
* * * * *
Cain's party inspected the arrangements at Naylor Street without enthusiasm. Unlike Mossbank, Churlham was not a district which had seen better days. It had been a poor sort of place from the start, and time had not improved it. From the outside the two humble little houses looked habitable, because they had been well maintained by Aunt Doris Baker in her lifetime. But interior decorations had been the responsibility of the tenants, and apparently there had not been a house-proud person in either dwelling. Patterned paper still adhered to the walls, but it was so soiled and faded in every room that it was nothing more than a vaguely lined nightmare in all shades of drab, grey, brown, and dirty pink. The grimy wooden floors were without carpets, and the scanty furniture was of the sort which could be picked up in salerooms for next to nothing.
Each house had two living-rooms and two bedrooms, and a single-storey kitchen built alongside a narrow backyard. Fuel was kept in a shed in the backyard, and the toilet was an outdoor affair built on to the end of the kitchen. Neither house had a bathroom, and all ablutions would have to be managed in the kitchen. There was one advantage in the matter of security. Both backyard gates were nearly six feet high, of solid woodwork in good condition. In each house the view from the window of the back room downstairs was of the fuel shed and the gate. The kitchen window permitted a view of the fuel shed only. The back window upstairs showed a vista of untidily fenced hen pens and allotments, with a railway embankment on the left and the backs of main road buildings on the right. The two front windows stared across the street at similar windows in similar dwellings. Front doors opened directly on to the street.
Cain had arranged for Coggan, France, Husker, and Jolly to sleep at No. 20 and eat at No. 22. Because of this, the only furnishings at 20 were four beds and a shaving mirror in the kitchen. There were bitter complaints. The men would have to live out of their suitcases, which would have to lie on the bedroom floor. There would be no hot water for shaving. There was not an electric light bulb in the house.
'It's worse nor a concentration camp,' Husker grumbled.
'It were better nor this in the trenches,' Jolly declared.
Cain was not conciliatory. 'I'll get you lights,' he said. 'You'll all sleep in the back, two up and two down. I want nobody at all in the front. You'll come and go by the back door.'
'I can't live like this,' said Coggan, with something like despair in his voice.
'Nor I, for more than a day or two,' France said.
'It is only for a day or two,' Cain said. 'We'll just do one more job, and we'll make it a good 'un. We'd be barmy if we didn't. The coppers here are thinking we've cleared out. They'll be back to normal, taking it easy. We'll just do this one job and then we'll scarper.'
'We don't
need to do another job,' France objected.
'Maybe we don't, but we're going to,' Cain retorted, and there was no further argument.
Conditions were a little better at No. 22 where Cain, Dorrie, and Flo were to live. There was furniture of a sort, and some kitchen equipment. But the opposition was more serious.
'I'm not staying here,' Dorrie said.
'What a dump,' said Flo, with a curling lip.
'It's only for a day or two. A week at the most,' said Cain.
'Look at that filthy old gas stove!'
'Seen the tin bath, Dorrie? It must've come out of a museum.'
'How do you expect me to cook for seven people on this?'
'Look,' said Cain firmly. 'We've got to camp out here for a bit. You'll be back in the Smoke soon enough. The coppers think we're there already, that's why we're safe here. There's only you been spotted, if you're telling the truth.'
'Of course I'm telling the truth!'
'Then you'll stay indoors. Flo can do the shopping.'
'Then you can look out for some rough meat. She doesn't know a sirloin from a hambone.'
'Well, we won't be needing any more meat for a bit.'
'I'm not staying here!'
'All right, go. And see what happens. They're on the lookout for you. They'll have you spotted before you can buy your railway ticket.'
Dorrie was silent.
Cain went on: 'Leave it a few days, and they'll stop looking for you around here. You'll be all right then.'
Dorrie picked up one of her two cases and went to look at the bedrooms. Her sister was left alone with Cain. She looked at him.
'Suppose she'd gone?' she asked softly. 'I couldn't have stayed here with you.'
Cain had been listening to the click of Dorrie's heels on bare boards. He turned his head and looked sharply at Flo. He also spoke softly. 'Why not, kid? Why not?'
'Well, you might . . .'
'I might be tempted, and that's a fact.'
'Would you hit me, if I—wouldn't?'
Cain's eyes widened. His long, slow intake of breath was utterance enough. He reached and caught the girl with one hand. He swung her towards him, and the hand and arm went round her, crushing her roughly to him. With head back, looking at him, she laughed softly. His free hand moved, seeking her thigh. She relaxed, then flung away from him. She picked up one of her cases, and with a final laughing glance behind her, she went to join her sister.
* * * * *
In spite of his stated opinion that he and his associates were still safe in Granchester, Cain was a little uneasy with regard to one thing. Following his assumption that the concentration of police inquiries in Mossbank would lead to the discovery that a number of English people had departed hurriedly from a house in Grange Gardens, he guessed that everybody in the street would then be questioned. The police would ask about cars. The current vehicle, a two-year-old Rover, had waited in front of No. 11 Grange Gardens often enough. Somebody—some kid maybe—might have taken enough notice of it to come up with a dangerously accurate description. Cain looked doubtfully at the car.
It was just the car, he told himself. Everything else was all right. The police would also seek the owner of the house, and whether they came across the name of Doris or Doreen Baker, they would gain nothing. They probably wouldn't attach any importance to the name of the lawyer who had handled the last transfer of the property, but if they did, how would they set about finding him? It would simply be a case of going to every solicitor in town and asking, and that would be a long, long job. And if they found him it was unlikely that he would tell them about Florence Baker and the houses in Naylor Street, because Florence Baker was, in a manner of speaking, a client of his.
But this car was different. It would have to be changed. And that meant a trip to London.
It was on Sunday morning that Cain made the decision to go to London, and after some thought he announced it when the Sunday midday dinner was being served.
'I had a bit of bad luck yesterday afternoon,' he lied in an unworried voice. 'I overran a red light by about half a yard. The bogey there didn't report me, but he wanted to see my licence and insurance. I said I'd left 'em in my other suit, so he gave me one of those little chits to produce 'em within five days or else.'
'I suppose you gave him your proper name,' said Coggan with a grin.
'Oh sure. William Brown, of Ashton-under-Lyne, but not a native. Good old Bill Brown.'
'After five days they'll contact Ashton-under-Lyne,' said France. 'Then they'll start looking for the car.'
'Correct. I'll have to take it to the Smoke and flog it. I can get another off Archie.'
'London?' came Dorrie's suddenly animated voice from the kitchen. 'I'll go with you.'
'Me too,' said Flo as she served roast beef. 'Try and stop me!'
Cain considered the matter. 'All right,' he said. 'We'll set off as soon as we're ready. A day or two in London won't hurt. Will you boys be able to manage your meals?'
'Easy,' said Husker with unusual generosity. 'I can live on fish an' chips for a couple of days. It's a long while since I had fish an' chips.'
The others nodded. Cain said: 'You'll behave, mind you. Don't do nothing silly. It's not much longer, you know.'
'I need to go to London, too,' France said. 'Could I ride down with you?'
Everyone looked at him. Cain said: 'What's on your mind? You wanting to slip away?'
'Not yet,' was the easy reply. 'If I don't go with you, I'll have to go on the train. I've accumulated too much cash here. It wants puttin' away. Don't worry. I'll be back before you are.'
Cain thought for a moment. It became obvious to him, and to everyone present, that if France wanted to desert he would do so when he pleased, without subterfuge.
So, after the meal, France set out with Cain and his womenfolk on the two-hundred-mile drive to London. Cain insisted that Dorrie should take a back seat, and sit well down in the corner until the car was out of Granchester. Flo wanted a front seat, and France agreed that she should sit with Cain while he sat with Dorrie. While Cain waited at some traffic lights in the city, he put the car into neutral gear and rested a heavy hand on Flo's thigh. She did not try to remove the hand.
In the back seat, France kept his hands to himself. But, after Granchester was left behind and Dorrie was at ease, the warmth of her presence filled him with peace, and her simple friendliness was a benison.
13
In London, France asked to be put down in the Edgware Road not far from Marble Arch. After that Cain dropped the two girls in Coventry Street, with instructions to have a meal somewhere and meet him in an hour and a half at a certain public house in Charing Cross Road. Then he drove eastward and across the river to Bermondsey, to Archie Ransom's place. Though it was Sunday evening, somebody would be there. Always there was somebody at Archie's.
He left the car some distance from the place, and he approached with care, because one never knew when the police might decide to do something about Archie. He looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock in the evening of a day which had been heavily overcast, and now it was almost dark. All seemed to be well: no loiterers, no lurking figures in the shadows. The big main door of Archie's front place was closed, but there was a small door which was not locked. Cain opened it, and slipped into a dark interior. About him was the smell of cars, and the dimly seen shapes of them. He walked among them, towards the faint light in Archie's office. As he drew near he saw that the door was open, but there was no sound of talk or movement. Indeed the whole place was silent. If he had not known that men might be working somewhere, away back behind soundproofed walls, the possibility would never have occurred to him. He coughed to give warning of his approach.
Standing in the doorway of the shabby little office—Archie could disguise affluence as cleverly as he could disguise cars—he looked down at a sturdy frog-like man sitting knees-apart feet-together on a stool at a table, dealing out four hands of five cards in a game of Nap with himself
. The man's prominent eyes moved to look at the visitor, but his quick, grubby hands did not pause in the dealing.
'Hello, Bert,' Cain said.
' 'Lo, Howie.'
'Where's Archie?'
'Not here.'
'I can see that. You don't seem awful busy.'
'No, I'm not busy.' Bert turned over the twenty cards to see what hands he had dealt. 'Look at that,' he said. 'King and four spades in one hand. Ace, queen, rag in another. It just shows you can never be certain.'
'Isn't anybody working?' Cain persisted.
'You don't see anybody, do you? Only right stuff gets done here.'
'Since when?'
'You'll have to ask Archie.'
'I'll have to find him first, won't I?'
'You know the Flying Horse along the road?'
' 'Course I do.'
'Ah, you would,' said Bert. He had picked up the cards and shuffled them. Now he began to deal again. The audience was ended.
'So long, Bert,' said Cain, as he turned away.
'So long, Howie,' the man replied. Then his hands ceased to move. He sat still, listening, and heard the well-known thud of the outer door as it was closed. Putting down the cards he turned to the desk which was in reach behind him. He picked up the telephone and dialled, and spoke to Archie and told him that Howie Cain had dropped in, and had gone to the Flying Horse. That was his purpose in being there, to tell Archie who dropped in.
Archie was not in any of the public rooms at the Flying Horse, so Cain ordered a drink at the bar, and waited. After a fashion, he and Archie had been friends for years. In due time, Archie would arrive.
Five minutes later, the landlord of the place came and spoke to Cain. 'Are you waiting for someone?' he asked.
'Yes.'
'Is your name Howie?'
'Yes.'
'Telephone,' the man said, with a movement of his head towards the instrument on the end of the bar.
Two men in twenty Page 12