'And that was the start?'
'Yes. I found I had an aptitude for gettin' in and out of places. I thought it was a lot better than havin' some old geezer orderin' me about for a few pounds a week.'
'Will you ever give it up?'
'Yes. Sometime soon. I've got a stake now. I can get into some sort of business and be my own boss.'
'I wish Howie would give it up,' Dorrie said.
France was quite sure that Howie never would, but he did not say so. They walked on in silence.
16
On Wednesday morning Martineau was on duty early, and long before eight o'clock he was in touch with Mr. Barden in his office at North Western Oxygen.
'We're all ready here,' Barden said. 'I'd like your Traffic sergeant to be here before eight-thirty.'
'He'll be there,' said Martineau, and that was all that needed to be said. All the rest was prearranged, and it was intended to be a prime example of police deception.
Soon after eight o'clock the North Western drivers began to take on their day's loads. Barden watched from his office window, and very soon it became obvious to him that driver Alec Newby was manoeuvring so that he would be certain to be loaded by the suspect Greaves. The loading began, and in a few minutes the police officer Birkett, acting as checker, walked to the toilet at the end of the loading platform. This was the signal to Barden that Newhy's load was complete.
The security man said 'This is it,' to the waiting police sergeant, then left his office and ran down the stairs. He hurried across the yard, and was just in time to intercept Newby as he was driving towards the gate.
'Pull over there,' he commanded, pointing. 'The police want to see you.'
Newby coloured. 'They want to see me? What for?'
'They're still on about that hit-and-run with the Ford Zephyr. The sergeant says there's a witness who took the number of the lorry, and it was this one. He wants a statement from you.'
'This is daft,' said Newby in disgust. 'I proved to you I was nowhere near the place.'
'All right. Now you're going to get the chance of proving it to the sergeant, and he's going to ask a lot of questions.'
Newby moved his lorry to the place indicated, and climbed out of the cab. Barden beckoned the yard foreman, who was conveniently at hand because he also had had instructions.
The police want to see this man,' Barden told the foreman. 'It looks as if they'll detain him for some time.'
The foreman frowned. 'What the blazes do they always want to come after my drivers in working time for?' he demanded.
Barden shrugged. 'You know what they are.'
'Aye, a damn nuisance,' the foreman snapped. He turned to Newby. 'Give me your sheet. I'll put you on spare today, and send another driver out with your truck.'
Newby was annoyed. 'The police can't keep me more nor a minute or two,' he protested. 'I just wasn't anywhere near that accident.'
'Hah!' Barden scoffed. 'You don't seem to know the police. This chap has all his stuff spread out on my desk. He's set for a couple of hours at least.'
That seemed to settle the matter. 'You'll go on spare today,' the foreman repeated. 'This load has got to go out.'
So Newby went with Barden to his office. The sergeant was waiting, with a carefully drawn plan and meticulously made-up statements and reports about the imaginary accident. He did not obviously waste time, but nevertheless he wasted Newby's for an hour and a half, and sent him away still doubtful whether or not the irritating misunderstanding had been cleared up. It was, the sergeant said, Newby's word against the word of the witness who had taken the lorry's number, and he was gracious enough to admit that the witness might have been mistaken.
Meanwhile the police officer Rhodes, posing as a spare driver, had taken Newby's journey sheet and lorry. At the first opportunity he stopped and checked the load, and found that there was one oxygen cylinder and two bottles of propane not accounted for on the sheet. He went on his way, delivering and collecting cylinders, and finding that people wanted exactly what they had ordered, and nothing more.
He went through the day without noticing any suspicious behaviour, and he began to fear that the extra cylinder had been intended to go to some person whose name was not on the list. But his last place of call was at Pickover and Son, a small one-man-one-boy motor repair shop in a yard in Shirwell, one of the older suburbs.
A ferret-faced little man came scowling to meet him, rubbing his filthy hands on his filthy blue overalls.
'Where's Alec?' this person demanded.
'Alec? D'you mean Newby? Police wanted to talk to him, and I had to take his truck.'
'Police?'
'Yes. Something about hittin' a Zephyr and not stoppin'. Police've been messin' our lads about for a fortnight with it. It looks as if Newby is the favourite for it.'
'Oh, that.' The man's face cleared. Evidently Newby had mentioned the matter to him. 'Alec said he had naught to do with it.'
Rhodes shrugged, apparently totally unconcerned about Newby's affairs. He looked at his way sheet. 'Two oxygen, one acetylene,' he said, and then he frowned. 'I must have missed a call,' he said. He began to study the sheet.
'You got more'n you should have?' Pickover asked casually.
'Aye. It's funny. I'm sure I didn't miss any of this lot. The loader must've made a mistake.'
The little man was studying Rhodes carefully. 'What you got over?' he asked.
'One oxygen, two propane,' said Rhodes, realizing that Pickover was feeling his way towards a deal. If he was prepared to take a risk with a stranger, it looked as if he had to have the oxygen and propane.
'I know a lad who could use that little lot. He has no regular supply. He sometimes brings his jobs here to do 'em hisself.'
'Oh, who is he?'
'Brown, they call him. He's over in Sawford. He owes money to North Western, an' they've stopped his tap. So you wouldn't have to book 'em.'
Rhodes looked stern. 'If I let these go without bookin' 'em, I'd be taking a big risk.'
'What risk? There's just me an' you, an' a tenner in your pocket.'
'He'll give a tenner for three bottles of gas?'
'Hell, no. He'll return the empties through me, sometime, happen. I'll collect the deposit on 'em, an' pay him out. They don't check the numbers on empties. They can't, when it's months after.'
'So you'll show a profit an' all?'
'Well, naturally. I don't work for naught.'
Rhodes looked around cautiously. 'I'll take that tenner,' he said.
* * * * *
Thus, by another slight infringement of police ethics, the XXC mob's oxygen middleman was discovered, and discovered without alarming any of the participants in the traffic. Newby was waiting for Rhodes when he arrived back at the depot, and Greaves was hovering near.
'All right, kid?' Newby asked. 'You found 'em all?'
'No trouble at all, thanks.'
'None over, or aught like that?'
'No. Should there a-been?'
'No, 'course not. A man new on a route sometimes misses a call, that's all.'
Rhodes attempted an expression of smug, secret triumph, and succeeded very well. 'I don't miss nothin',' he said.
Newby left him, and was later joined by Greaves. 'That bastard's got our money,' Newby said.
* * * * *
In its enclosed yard the workshop of Pickover and Son was not an ideal place for police observations, but Martineau obtained permission to put a man in the tower of a big dye works several streets away. Using field glasses, he was able to watch the workshop from a distance of three hundred yards. It was assumed that the XXC mob would collect their cylinder during the hours of daylight, because the workshop was closed promptly at half past five every afternoon, but Martineau had watchers nearby during the hours of darkness, and those men had instructions to be suspicious of any vehicle which entered the yard.
From the tower, Pickover was seen to return to the workshop at seven fifteen on Thursday evening. Half an
hour later, as the light was beginning to fade, a plain blue van was seen to enter the yard. One leaf of Pickover's large double door was thrown back, and the van backed up to the opening. Two men emerged from the van and entered the workshop. The observer could not see what the men put into the van, but it seemed to be something heavy. The van went away, and then Pickover locked up his premises and did likewise.
The observer's field-radio message about the van was relayed to a waiting C.I.D. car. The car picked up the trail of the van, and its driver succeeded in getting the van's number, then in the sparse early evening traffic the police driver had to drop back for fear of arousing suspicion. He dropped so far back that he lost the van after some traffic lights.
It was nearly dark when the observers in Otto Neubaur's upper room saw the van turn out of Churlham Road into Naylor Street. It drove to the end of the block and round to the back. It was an awkward hour for the police, not yet dark enough for the night watchers to be in position on the allotment, but too dark for the observer on the railway embankment to see clearly. But this observer was moderately certain that the van had stopped down there somewhere near the backs of 20 and 22, and that something heavy had been carried into one of the houses.
Then the van was driven away and it was not seen again until it had been traced by its number. It was found undamaged, with its radiator still warm, in the works garage of a garment manufacturer. It had been wiped clean of fingerprints. Nobody assumed that the manufacturer had willingly lent the van. Slight scratches on the lock showed that the garage had been skilfully burgled, and the van taken and replaced before it could be missed. Subsequent examination of the van's mileage book showed that it had been driven some six miles since its driver had finished for the day.
The action of returning the van to its garage made Martineau feel sure that the XXC mob did not intend further illegal entries on Thursday night. He did not alert the entire Granchester police force, but saved his man power and simply took the precaution of having the garment manufacturer's garage watched. And, of course, 20 and 22 Naylor Street.
'Tomorrow,' he said to Sergeant Devery. 'Friday night is the night, I feel sure.'
* * * * *
A full council of war at 22 Naylor Street on Friday morning revealed a somewhat better morale among Cain's men. It was the last job, and so far everything had been accomplished without a hitch. Cain's elation was guarded, because he did not want anybody to be getting careless, but it was also obvious and infectious. And even France became sure that all would be well. Tomorrow there would be the final division of spoils, and the mob would break up, and the bobbies on their beats would be left chewing their chinstraps.
Coggan thought it would be a good idea to borrow the blue van which had been used to transport the oxygen. Cain gave the matter some thought. 'A different van would be safer,' he objected. 'If the driver looks at the mileage, he'll know it's been used.'
'He'll think it was one of the garage hands, taking his bird out for a drink.'
France settled the matter. 'I left some marks on the lock,' he said. 'We'd better try some other place.'
'Well, you find it,' Coggan retorted.
'No, that's your job,' Cain said.
Coggan gave in. 'I did spot another likely one,' he admitted. 'But I'll need the Gent again.'
France nodded. 'I'll be available.'
The wholesale provision merchants chosen as the night's target were called Haddon and Walker. 'We'll get plenty there,' Cain once more predicted. 'They do a big business. Nearly all the little retailers pay their bills in scratch, and the drivers and travellers come in loaded with it. The Gent has had a look at the place, and he thinks he can get in all right. He's going on ahead, after the place is closed. When he gets back, we'll decide what time we're going in. That's all, boys. I want everybody here by eight o'clock certain. Till then, your time's your own.'
'I think I'll go to the pictures this afternoon,' Husker said.
After asking what film Husker intended to see, Jolly decided to go with him. Coggan proclaimed his intention of going to watch a professional snooker match at the County Sporting Club.
France did not state what he would do. After lunch, when the others had gone out, he was still in the house. He heard a discussion between Cain and Dorrie about shopping.
'We should have enough,' she said, 'if we're all going away from here tomorrow.'
'There's nothing been decided about that, yet,' her husband replied. 'The heat might be on, for all we know. We might have to lie low for a day or two. Better get something in, while you have the chance.'
'All right. You coming with me, Flo?'
'Coo, I've only just finished the washing up. I've never been off my feet since eleven o'clock.'
'Maybe the Gent'll go with you,' Cain suggested. France looked up from the paper-backed book he was reading. 'Sure, I don't mind,' he said. 'A breath of air won't hurt.'
It was a fine afternoon. Dorrie and France were duly observed by Policewoman Dale and Detective Constable Ducklin as they walked along Naylor Street towards Churlham Road. 'Here they come,' Dale commented. 'The same couple I saw shopping before. That's Edward James France, alias Jimmy the Gent.'
Ducklin was interested. It was his first sight of France. 'The door-and-window man,' he said. 'You've got to hand it to Martineau. He picked out two of that mob in his top twenty. It was good forecasting.'
'I wonder if she's Cain's wife, or the sister.'
'The sister, I should think. My word, she's a good-looking lass.'
Dale sniffed. 'Do you really think so?'
Ducklin grinned covertly. Dale in plain clothes was a smart girl, but nobody would look twice at her when that crooks' moll was in sight.
Down in the street, Dorrie was considering what she would buy. 'I'd better not get any fish,' she said. 'We may have to leave it behind. What do you think?'
'I was goin' to suggest some more of that fellow's ham,' France replied. 'But just look at the shop.'
The street was thronged with women doing their week-end shopping. Otto Neubaur's shop was packed to the door.
'I'm not waiting in that crowd,' Dorrie said. 'Let's go up this way.'
'Sure. Let's go further afield. I'm enjoying the walk.'
She smiled, sensing his pleasure in her company. She liked him more when she was alone with him, and she felt rather guilty about it. To her it seemed to be a sort of unfaithfulness, having so much liking for a man who was not her husband.
France was content, but he was also watchful. Dorrie became aware of this. She reflected that it would be a shame if they were picked up by the police when the gang's affairs were about to be wound up. She found a shop where she could buy a whole fillet of excellent beefsteak.
'That'll do, with what we've got,' she said. 'Let's get back.'
On the way back he asked: 'Where will you go when we split up? Back to the Smoke?'
She hesitated. Though she liked France, she owed all her loyalty to Cain. He had not told his accomplices that the London police were seeking him. Yesterday and the day before, their morale had been low enough without that.
'I don't know,' she said. 'It depends on Howie.'
He noticed the hesitation. He sensed that her answer had been an evasion.
'Look,' he said. 'Whatever happens, I'm on your side.'
There was gratitude in her smile. He was so obviously sincere.
When they entered No. 22 the place seemed to be deserted. Dorrie went and looked in the kitchen. She looked at France, opened her mouth to ask a question, then closed it again with a certain decisiveness. Her face was pale. France said nothing, though he was noticing everything.
Dorrie left her basket in the kitchen and went up the uncarpeted stairs. Listening, France heard the click of her heels on the boards of the landing. She tried a door, rattled it. Apparently it was locked. There was the click of her heels again as she went to look in the other bedroom. Flo's room, that would be, he guessed.
She came d
ownstairs, white faced and breathing hard. She and France stared at each other.
'I'll run away with you if you want me,' she said. 'I won't stay in this house another night.'
France did not answer immediately. He seemed to be considering her, looking at her as if he would read her mind. While they stood in silence, there was noise upstairs: the sound of a key turned hurriedly, then the soft thud of shoeless feet as Flo ran to her own room. A door closed.
Then came Cain's voice, high with agitation. 'Dorrie! Come up here, will you?'
Dorrie ignored the request. She looked at France, waiting for his reply.
'All right,' he said. 'I do want you.'
'Dorrie!' Cain bawled. 'There's nothing wrong! Come up here and let me talk to you!'
France could imagine the man hurriedly dressing himself. Dorrie said: 'I'm going this minute. What shall I do?'
'How much money have you?'
'Nearly thirty pounds in my purse.'
'Good. Empty that stuff out and take your shoppin' basket. I'll say you've gone for some more bread, or something. Buy yourself a week-end case and some night things, and go to one of those little hotels near the North Central Station. Register as—as Mrs. Battle. Can you remember that?'
'Mrs. Battle,' Dorrie repeated.
'Stay in your room, or at any rate in the hotel. I'll find you there tomorrow. Right?'
She nodded her head submissively. He was her man now.
'I'll come for you,' he said. 'Nothing will stop me.'
He picked up the shopping basket and emptied its contents on to the kitchen table. He gave it to Dorrie, who took it in her left hand. She turned away. There were leisurely footsteps on the stairs, and she paused at the foot. Flo came down slowly. When she came into his view, France could see that her hair was not quite right and that her cheeks were redder than usual. But she had dabbed powder on her face, and she was fully dressed in a black sweater and slacks. She showed no embarrassment but seemed to have an air of restrained excitement, or triumph perhaps.
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