This prompt surrender surprised Martineau. 'Will it be all right with Mrs. Neubaur?' he asked anxiously.
'It'll be all right because she won't know. You're out of date, my boy. I've got a nice new house at Highbourne. A garden. Never had a garden in my life.'
'You can't run the shop from there. What do you do? Go week-ends?'
'I come and go every day. I'm retiring; selling the business. The flat goes with it, so it's empty for the time being.'
'The curtains kidded me.'
'The wife left 'em up because she didn't like to see the windows looking so bare after all these years. Sentiment, you know.'
'Yes. Well, that's fine. I promise you my men will be very quiet.' Martineau was inwardly jubilant. A stroke of luck like this was the finest possible augury. Through the back door of the premises he and his helpers could come and go at will. He could have a little command post, fully equipped.
With Otto's back-door key in his pocket he continued his search for observation points. Now he needed places of concealment from which the back doors of 20 and 22 Naylor Street could be watched. There would be no problem during the hours of darkness. Looking across the allotments he could see at least five ramshackle erections which were a combination of greenhouse and garden shed. At night the back doors could be watched from one of those.
But in the daytime? Martineau's gaze moved on, and stopped at the railway embankment. There, perched on its own little ledge on the slope beside the line, was a deserted-looking brick hut, with a broken window overlooking the allotments. He decided to ask permission to use the hut, though its occupant would need binoculars.
Back at Headquarters, he telephoned British Railways, and after speaking to a number of responsible officials he received a promise of the key to the brick hut, which was not in use. Then he went to report to Chief Superintendent Clay.
Clay listened until Martineau had no more to tell, then he remarked: 'We've identified four of them: Cain, France, and two women, though as yet we have no pictures of the women. We're going to keep observations on them, if they're at Naylor Street. There are other men in the gang, and they'll be seen. At a pinch, we'll be quite within our rights in raiding one of those houses as a suspected brothel, when we've found which one they're using.'
Martineau had already thought of that, but he did not say so. He said: 'In my opinion that is an action which should not be taken until we're sure we're going to find enough evidence to nail them on at least one XXC job. We have a certain amount of evidence against Cain, and no direct evidence against the others. We want to nail all of them, don't we?'
'I suppose we do. But the brothel thing is an idea, for an emergency.'
'I agree, sir. And we might have to use it. But if they are at Naylor Street it almost certainly means that they are going to do at least one more XXC job before they leave us. Well, we're all set at North Western Oxygen, and we're ready at Churlham. When they make a move, we'll know.'
'Yes, but we still can't cover every vulnerable place in town.'
'For one or two nights only, I think we can nearly do that, with every man on the force except the sick, lame, and lazy.'
'There'll be no lazy ones,' said Clay grimly. He pondered. The deployment of men was his speciality.
'North Western and Naylor Street are your responsibility,' he said at last. 'You can leave the rest to me.'
'What do you propose, sir?'
'Well, I'll have to see the Chief first, and then get organized. I expect to get the word from you when the XXC mob has got itself some more oxygen. If you fall down on that. . . . Well, as I was saying, all leave will be cancelled and every man will be on duty from eight o'clock at night whether he's been Early Turn or any other turn that day. The men who are on Early Turn the day after will be allowed to go home at midnight, but nobody else. I won't have 'em roaming the streets, either. There'll be the normal beat men out, and all other men standing by in plain clothes, at different police stations. Some of them will be organized in squads, each squad under a sergeant, with transport. Every other man will know exactly where he has to go when the word comes from you that the mob is moving. Local inspectors will have to arrange that, knowing their own districts. You see, I'm anticipating that we won't be able to tail these people, because they'll be too much on the qui vive. But if your men at Naylor Street can give us some idea of the sort of vehicle they're using, we may be able to plot their course and get an idea of their target area, in advance.'
Martineau grinned ruefully. 'It all depends on me.'
'For a hundred per cent foolproof job it does, if there is such a thing in police work. But with all those men in hand we still might nail 'em, even if you slip up somewhere.'
'I'll try not to,' was the promise, and that was the end of the conference. Martineau returned to his own office, feeling like a man who has put more money than he can afford on a horse which he strongly fancies. He thought he was going to win, but the possibility that he might lose was ruining his appetite.
15
Driving north on Monday afternoon, Cain worried about the problem of legal ownership of a car. It was an unusual position for a man like himself, and one which could be dangerous at the present time. In the negotiations for the transfer of ownership he had been compelled to show his driver's licence, and his real name and his London address had been copied from it. The car was now traceable by Road Fund licence and chassis, engine, and gear box numbers, no matter what number plates it carried. If a policeman stopped him for some small offence, he could show his licence like an honest man. Such a step might be fatal. If the London police were looking for Howie Cain, policemen elsewhere might be looking for him.
On the other hand, if stopped by a policeman, he could fail to show either licence or insurance certificate, exactly as he had described in the imaginary incident which had served as an excuse for getting rid of the Rover. That procedure would give him a few days' grace, and then the police would start looking for the car. The car had cost him seven hundred pounds. It was too much money to lose in a gravel pit. Thinking of that, Cain drove carefully, at a legal speed.
Still bearing in mind that the car was licensed in his name, he reflected that it would be foolhardy to allow its use for the movement of oxygen cylinders, or as transport in an XXC job. He decided to find a place to leave it, and then keep quiet about it. Since he was not going to mention it to the members of his team, it would not be much use to him in Granchester.
'I needn't have bought the thing,' he mused. 'Still, it'll be there when I want it.'
Arriving in Granchester, he cruised around Churlham looking for a place to leave the car. He drove along a street which ran between the rear of a factory and an accretion of tradesmen's yards and workshops. The time was now after five o'clock, but there was a plasterer's yard with the gate still standing wide open. He stopped the car and went to look into the yard. Its wall was six feet high at least. It was littered with chimney-pots, stacked tiles, heaps of sand and other materials of the property repairer. But there was ample space to leave a car beside the front wall, where it would not normally be seen by people passing along the street.
At the back of the yard there were low sheds and a brick-built office. An elderly man came out of the office and turned his back on Cain while he locked the door. Cain waited until he arrived at the gate, then spoke to him and told him of his need, a reasonably safe place to leave his car until he could rent or buy a garage. He pointed to the vacant space and offered ten shillings a week to leave his car and have a key to the yard gate.
The man considered Cain with apparently guileless eyes, and his answer was such a clear reflection of his thoughts that the mobsman smiled openly.
'Aye,' he said. 'You can have key to t'yard. There's naught worth stealin' neither here nor in th' office.'
He went back to the office for the spare key of the gate, and received two weeks' advance rent for it, and he did not even ask the name of his new tenant. Cain drove the Wolseley into the yard and left
it there. He parted with the man outside the gate, going off in the direction opposite to his, to avoid conversation which might lead to questions.
At 22 Naylor Street he found his accomplices waiting. True to his word, France had arrived home before Cain. He immediately asked: 'Where are the girls?'
'Staying over till tomorrow,' was the nonchalant reply. 'They're shopping. They'll come back on the train.'
The others were watching him, not liking any unexpected change of routine. It was clear to him that all of them were on edge. Getting near time to wrap up, he decided. After the next job. Just one more job to catch the coppers napping.
'Did you get a good car?' Coggan asked.
'I didn't get a car. Archie has got the wind up about something or other. He's not doing any wrong cars just now. And he insisted on me getting rid of the Rover, for my own sake and his. He wanted to sell me a car legal. What good is that to us? We couldn't use it.'
'What do we do, then?'
'We'll have to hire something for the oxygen pick-up. For the job itself we'll have to borrow a car which won't be missed for an hour or two. We can do that all right. We've never used a proper stolen car before. The coppers won't be expecting anything of the sort.'
There was a long silence as the men considered this. At last Coggan said: 'I guess that'll be all right. I'll find a vehicle somewhere, though I might need the Gent to pick a lock.'
'Can do,' Ned France said.
'If I have to steal the car, I want an extra five per cent, danger money,' Coggan went on.
Cain nodded. He had expected that, and he had also realized that Coggan's extra percentage would have to come out of his share.
There was a discussion about the next robbery, which everyone clearly understood would be the last one in Granchester. Studying Cain, Ned France wondered why the man was so insistent about this final crime. There was danger, he felt sure. He did not suspect that the police were seeking Cain as a known person, but he knew intuitively that there was something wrong. Why, he asked himself, did Cain persist in this way? Was it because he knew the situation was getting dangerous, and he was enjoying the danger? Was it pride making him determined to do another job even though the police were getting near to him? Was it a sort of variation of the death wish? Or was it simply greed, and nothing more than that?
With the foreboding of danger upon him, France again asked himself why he did not walk out of the house, get into his car, and fade into the distance. He knew the answer. He would have to stay in Granchester as long as Dorrie stayed. Away from the place, he would worry too much about what was happening to her. He grinned ruefully when he thought of that. In the past, he had had his women. Nice women, some of them. And here he was, hopelessly enamoured of a woman who hardly knew he was alive.
'What are you looking at?' Cain demanded.
France shook his head, and returned his attention to the conference. But again he found himself studying Cain. Since his trip to London, the man was somehow different. Unguarded words and expressions showed a change of outlook.
He was describing the nature of the next place to be entered. It was the warehouse of a wholesale provision merchant, and it had been thoroughly reconnoitred by Flo. The man who was thought to be the owner was in the habit of going to the bank at eleven o'clock in the morning, in a Securicor van with a driver and a guard. So it was assumed that the best part of a day's takings were left on the premises every night.
'And that'll be plenty,' Cain said. 'It's a real busy place, with about a dozen lorries and delivery vans. Lots of cash trade. It'll be a right bonny tickle.'
'How do we get the stuff inside?' France wanted to know.
'We just carry it in, at the right moment. We do it between half nine and ten at night, when it's got proper dark.'
'No camouflage at all?'
Cain looked hard at France. 'What's the matter with you? You aren't with us.'
'I could ask what's the matter with you. Did something happen in London?'
'Only what I've told you.'
'Have you left the girls in London on purpose, so that you can cut and run at a minute's notice?'
'No! The girls'll be back tomorrow like I said. And anyway what are you bothering about the girls for? If you have any fancies about Flo you can forget 'em. She's not for the likes of you.'
The others were grinning. France did not reply. But he made up his mind. If the girls did not arrive tomorrow, he would leave the day after.
* * * * *
Dorrie and Flo arrived in Granchester soon after five o'clock on Tuesday afternoon. At the station they took a taxi to Churlham, but alighted some distance away from Naylor Street. Loaded with the spoils of their day's shopping in London, they walked the remainder of the way. Flo grumbled about this, and Dorrie looked at her thoughtfully before she answered that it would have been unwise to take the cab right to the door of No 22. She was accustomed to Flo's occasional sarcasm, but this sort of grumbling was unusual. Well, she thought, Flo had a right to grumble, returning from London to another spell of drudgery and boredom in miserable surroundings. It was enough to get anybody down. Thank goodness it wouldn't be going on much longer.
At No. 22 the warmth of Cain's welcome was a sign of his relief. He embraced both girls, then he turned to his partners in crime. 'Now then,' he crowed. 'Didn't I tell you they'd be back? True as steel, these lassies.'
Dorrie went to the cupboard which served as a larder, and found that there was very little food in the house. 'There's nothing for supper,' she said to her sister. 'You'll have to go to the shops.'
'Oh no!' Flo cried with anguish in her voice. 'My feet are killing me.'
Dorrie was tired, too. But she did not ask any of the men to go out with a shopping list. With the exception of France perhaps, any of them would regard the request as an insult to his manhood.
'Very well,' she said. 'I'll go myself.'
Ever thoughtful for Dorrie, France perceived the weariness in her voice. It might be dangerous for her to go out. Lacking her usual alertness, she might be spotted and followed.
'Somebody ought to go with her and help carry the shopping,' he said to the company at large.
'All right, you go,' Husker said, grinning with pleasure in the quickness of his retort.
France looked at Cain. Cain nodded. 'Why not?' he said. 'It was your idea.'
France shrugged, and left the house with Dorrie. Flo went upstairs saying that she was going to rest her feet. Coggan turned on his newly acquired transistor radio, to get the afternoon's racing results. He was the mob's bookmaker, standing any bet they cared to make with him. Husker and Jolly listened with him to find out if their bets had been successful.
Flo did not return. When Cain saw that the others were listening intently to the sports news which preceded the racing results, he left the room and quietly climbed the stairs.
'It was nice of you to come with me,' Dorrie said to France as they walked along Naylor Street.
'A pleasure, I assure you,' France replied, wondering if she would realize that he meant what he said. She had never given him any clue as to whether or not she was aware of his feeling for her. Women could be uncannily perceptive in matters of that kind, he knew. But on the other hand, she was accustomed to admiration. To her, he might just be another man who would have liked to make love to her.
It was Dorrie's first shopping expedition in Churlham. When they reached the main road she stopped, looking around wondering which way to go. From the window above Otto Neubaur's pork shop Policewoman Dale and Detective Constable Murray looked down at her, and at the man beside her. They had witnessed her arrival with Flo. P.W. Dale was certain that she was the Sedgeworth Co-op suspect. And, looking at Martineau's sheet of twenty pictures. Detective Constable Murray was equally certain that her escort was none other than Ned France alias Jimmy the Gent.
'We'll try that pork butcher first,' Dorrie said, and they crossed the road.
When they headed straight for the police o
bservation post P.W. Dale uttered a little cry of dismay. But Murray said: 'Don't worry. If they knew we were here they'd go the other way.'
In the shop below, Dorrie bought some rashers of ham. Old Otto was impassive as he served her. He had seen the couple emerge from Naylor Street. They were strangers. He wondered if they were the people Martineau was watching. If that were so, he thought, it was a great pity. They were as nice looking a young couple as you would see on a day's coach tour.
From the pork shop they walked along the same side of the street, and the police observers were unable to see them. But at the next crossroads Dorrie said: 'There's a Maypole shop.' The crossing was controlled by traffic lights for both pedestrians and traffic. She was about to step off the kerb at the wrong time, but France gently detained her by catching her arm just above the elbow. Involuntarily, it seemed, she pressed the arm to her side, squeezing his fingers. He felt the warmth of her. The little gesture thrilled him. To him it seemed like a caress. After that, there was a comfortable silence between them as they went from shop to shop. It marked a new relationship. It was tacitly understood that they were special friends. France did not make the mistake of assuming that Dorrie was about to be unfaithful to her husband. She was still out of his reach, but he was happy to have her friendship.
Dorrie's shopping basket became heavy, and France wanted to take it from her. 'No,' she said. 'I couldn't let you carry a basket of groceries. Besides, I'm used to it.'
As they walked back to Naylor Street, Dorrie asked: 'How did you get into the tea-leaf game? You seem to have been better brought up, like.'
'Don't be kidded, Dorrie,' he said. 'I'm no Eton an' Oxford product. I went to an ordinary grammar school, and did reasonably well in examinations. After school I took a short-service commission in the R.A.F., and that's where I got the blah-blah. After the air force I had a bit of bad luck. That's not an excuse: there's no excuse for being a thief. Anyway, I got the sack from an insurance job, and I had a chip on my shoulder. There was a sittin' duck in the boarding house where I lived. The used-car trade was flourishin' then, and he was up to his neck in it, dealin' in cash and cheatin' the inland revenue. I was a softy then: I only took part of his money. As far as I know, he never reported it to the police.'
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