The Sergeant grinned and departed. Hazlerigg started to dress.
Ten minutes later he was sitting opposite Rod in the room once occupied by Major McCann and Gunner Andrews. Both of them were drinking large mugs of tea in a fairly companionable sort of way. There was no one else (visibly) present. Hazlerigg said: “I’m not going to ask you for any breaches of confidence, son, about the crowd you work for, I mean; for one thing we know a good deal about them already and I don’t suppose there’s much you could add, from your own knowledge, and even if you could, you wouldn’t—and I’d go so far as to say that we’d respect you less if you did.”
Hazlerigg took another sip of tea and swivelled round in his chair so that he was not looking directly at the boy at all.
“There’s one thing, though,” he went on. “That chap who was with you—” In the mirror he saw Rod jerk.
“So far as I can gather from what the Sergeant told me about tonight’s doings, that bloke served you rather a bad turn. In fact, not to put too strong a point on it, he landed you up the creek, so that he could get clear himself. And,” said Hazlerigg ruefully, “he has got clear. We haven’t even a description of him and, between you and me, I don’t see much chance of catching him. In fact, he’s probably having a good laugh at us right now.”
Rod half opened his mouth, but Hazlerigg was still talking in the same easy way.
“Now we thought, son, that if you’re not much stuck on this chap – and we can’t honestly see any reason why you should be – I mean, he’s forfeited any claim he may have had to your protection – we thought that if you’d like to give us some information, just about this chap – nothing else, you understand, but just enough for us to put this lad where he belongs.”
“I’ll tell you anything you want to know about him—anything,” said Rod with a savagery which surprised even the Inspector.
“That’s the boy,” said Hazlerigg. “Supposing we start with his present address.”
VIII
The time was now nine o’clock. Hazlerigg, having shaved and breakfasted, was in conference with the Assistant Commissioner, Inspector Pickup making a third.
“So that’s that,” said Hazlerigg. “We know enough about Curly to pick him up for five jobs. We know where he lives, and we know his two latest hideouts. We can pull him in when we want to. The point is, sir, do we want to?”
The Assistant Commissioner, who knew Hazlerigg, smiled. “No, no,” he said. “I’m not buying that one. You’ve got a plan in that tortuous head of yours; let’s have it.”
“All right, sir. Well, this is how I see it. Curly’s place in this mob is a peculiar one. He’s an operative, of course; one of their ex-army boys, like Andrews – incidentally, as I think I mentioned, sir, he was a very close friend of Andrews, in the same regiment, and so on. But the two men are really poles apart. To start with, Curly’s got a pre-war record. Blew identified him easily in our Art Gallery. We had him in twice for petty larceny in 1937 and 1938. Called himself Anderson then. Now I suggest that Curly wasn’t only an operative. I think he was trusted a little higher up. This is only guess-work, but I think he was one of the few people who knew something about the central control. We know that he was at headquarters once, and we know that he carried messages to headquarters.”
“You mean,” said the Assistant Commissioner, “that our best plan would be to locate him and have him followed.”
“No, sir, I don’t. For three reasons. First, it’s been tried before—you remember Major McCann’s effort? Second, he’ll be as nervous as a scalded kitten after what happened last night. Third, I don’t suppose the Big Boys will let him go near them again. I shouldn’t if I were in their shoes.”
“All right,” said the Assistant Commissioner good-humouredly. “You tell me.”
“I shall need your support, sir,” said Hazlerigg frankly. “Because what I propose to do isn’t straightforward police work; not by a long, long chalk. However, the way I see it is this. Some weeks ago Curly blotted his copybook pretty badly. He went straight from Goffstein’s office in Flaxman Street to H.Q. in Kensington. Worse, he allowed himself to be followed. As I suggested to Inspector Pickup at the time, this can’t have made him very popular with the bosses. It seems, though, that they must have forgiven him. Anyway, he was given another job. Now young Blew has told us a good deal about this new job. Apparently Curly has to attend on Tuesdays and Fridays at a restaurant-café in Greek Street – a stage-door place – one of Goffstein’s subsidiaries. He goes there to get what our young friend described as ‘casual goods’, odd stones and brooches and necklaces and watches, which have stuck to people’s fingers from time to time and which they are scared of peddling through the normal channels. Apparently it’s pretty widely known among the boys that you can get ‘a fair price for fancy goods’ at this café. That’s one thing. The other is about Blew himself. He doesn’t know it, but we’ve identified him. You may remember, sir, that when Andrews was pulled in after the Oxford Street job we got the tip from one of our informers, ‘Stiffy’ Hoyle. Well, we had Stiffy up here this morning and he gave us a positive identification. Blew was the young chap concerned with Andrews on that job.”
Hazlerigg paused for a moment to allow this miscellaneous item of information to sink in, then he said:
“Suppose we play it like this, sir—”
He talked for half an hour.
8
Curly Is Liquidated
At about tea-time on Monday two large men, wearing dark blue overcoats and bowler hats, visited a house in Camden Town. The car which had brought them was left in the next street, but by inexcusable carelessness it was so parked that its radiator was just visible round the corner. If any of the local inhabitants had any doubts as to the authorship of this visitation, they had only to stroll as far as this corner where they might observe that the driver of the car was an impassive gentleman in the uniform of the Metropolitan Police.
When the door of No. 17 Hatchet Street was at last opened, one of the two men had a short and apparently friendly conversation with the lady of the house, and the two of them disappeared inside.
The local inhabitants waited hopefully. If they had expected anything sensational, they were disappointed. Half an hour later the door again opened, and the men reappeared. They stood for a moment talking over their shoulders to someone who was standing inside the hall. They seemed pleased.
The first floor front of No. 19 Hatchet Street, who was naturally in a position of advantage, heard one of the men say: “You’ll bear that in mind, Wright?”—at least, he thought it was “Wright” – “White” or “Wright” – it was difficult to be certain, and “White” or “Wright” had said “Yessir” quite distinctly.
The first floor front retailed this information to a select crowd at the “Hengist and Horsa” that evening. Everyone agreed that it was queer. For one thing, no one had any idea that there was a man staying at No. 17 at all. Just Mrs. Courtenay and her two girls. The man must have come in very quietly and lain very low. Everyone agreed that they were surprised.
They weren’t, in fact, a quarter as surprised as Curly White had been. When he had seen his two visitors coming up the front steps and had nipped across to the window at the back and had observed a policeman leaning negligently against the garden fence. Curly had given himself up for lost.
He had also been considerably disgruntled. “Ma” Courtenay was reckoned to be a safe lie-up and known to very few. He had come in with great precaution, well before daylight, and was certain that he hadn’t shown so much as the tip of his nose at a window.
He was destined shortly to be even more surprised.
Realising that flight was useless he had come down into the hall more or less prepared to “go quietly” – only to be met by a staggering degree of affability on the part of the two large gentlemen, who introduced themselves as Inspector Berry of N Division and Sergeant Instone of the Central Force. The Sergeant even went so far as to hold open the do
or of the sitting room for Curly, who entered in dazed silence.
What had followed had been the nearest thing to a sermon that Curly could remember in the twenty years since he had left school. It appeared that Inspector Berry had been shocked at the company which Curly was keeping. Sergeant Instone, it appeared, had also been shocked. However, Scotland Yard, thoughtful as ever of the well-being of the criminal members of the Metropolis, had dispatched the Inspector and the Sergeant to reason with Curly and show him the error of his ways.
This they proceeded to do.
They dilated on his war record, expounded the advantages of ploughing a straight furrow, and mentioned in passing that honesty always paid.
“Cor sufferin’,” thought Curly, “they’ll be striking up a perishing hymn next.”
Finally they had left.
Curly had been so surprised that he had forgotten to ask them the one thing that was really puzzling him – how they had known where to find him?
II
The proprietor of the Entracte Café in Greek Street (Benny to his friends) took a quick look round.
It was Tuesday, it was three o’clock in the afternoon, and Curly was late.
He was not worried about Curly’s personal safety or well-being, but business was business, and two promising customers had already been turned away from the empty corner table under the mirror.
The door opened and a man came in. Benny didn’t recognise him; there was nothing particularly remarkable about him except that he didn’t appear to be able to read, judging from the fact that he walked straight across and sat down at the corner table despite the Reserved card which adorned it prominently.
Benny moved over.
“That’s took,” he said mildly, “any other table, mister. There’s plenty of choice.”
Here he stated no more than the truth. The café was empty except for two builders’ labourers at the far end, slowly sipping their coffee at a table by the door.
The nondescript man said: “Okay, okay, I’m from Curly. He can’t come down today, see. How’s trade?”
“Trade’s all right,” said Benny querulously. “You oughter been here earlier. Had two boys in here after lunch, looking for you.”
“All right,” said the nondescript man. “All right, that’ll do. I couldn’t get here earlier, see?” He spoke with some authority and Benny dissolved into a greasy but placatory smile and asked his visitor if he could fancy something to eat.
“What have you got that won’t poison me?”
Benny performed a small contortion and producing a tattered menu offered it for his visitor’s inspection. The latter was on the point of speaking when a wary look came into his eye. “Who’s this?”
The shop door had half opened to admit a rat-like youth in a very tight and very shiny blue suit.
“That’s one of ‘em. One of the ones I was telling you about.”
“Him,” said the small man, in a voice in which a perfectly genuine surprise and contempt were curiously mixed. “What’s he pinched? The kid’s money box, or the gold out of his Aunt Fanny’s back teeth?”
The youth, who in addition to looking like a rat, moved with a sort of rodent-like stealth, had by now imperceptibly approached the table.
“All right. Sit down, sit down,” said the small man. “And you”—he turned to Benny—”you push off and get some coffee for me and my friend—eh?”
Benny disappeared, the youth sat down, and a short silence ensued.
The youth broke it first. He said in a sort of strangled whisper: “I’ve got some stuff here. I dunno if you’re interested. Benny said—”
“Speak up,” said the small man severely. “This isn’t the whispering gallery at St. Paul’s. And stop looking like a frightened rabbit. Now then, what’ve you got?”
Thus encouraged, the youth squeezed a hand into the mysterious depths of his skin-tight suit and slid out a very handsome gold half-hunter watch on a heavy gold chain.
“Nice piece of goods,” said the small man. He flipped the back open expertly. “Engraving on the half-cover: ‘To Alfred Lord Cedarbrook ‘—well, well. Relative of yours, I expect.”
The youth showed his teeth for a moment in an apology for a smile and said “’Ow much ?”
“How much what ?”
The youth looked surprised. “I mean,” he said, “’ow much’ll it fetch. ‘Ow much’ll you give me for it?”
“Is it yours to sell?” asked the small man blandly.
“Come orf it, mister. Of course it isn’t mine. It belongs to a pal—’e dipped it last Friday.”
“Then it must have been Friday the thirteenth,” said the small man, and though he had not altered his position by an inch, nor the tone of his voice by a semitone, the youth looked up in sudden alarm.
“I am Inspector Pickup of Scotland Yard,” went on the small man conversationally. “I am taking you into custody on a charge of being in possession of recently stolen goods—”
The youth kicked his flimsy chair backwards on to the floor and initiated a flying dive in the direction of the street.
The two builders’ labourers rose wearily from their seats near the door and stretched forth expert hands.
III
On Wednesday, at lunch time, Inspector Berry and Sergeant Instone again visited Curly at his lodging in Hatchet Street. This time they stayed for a quarter of an hour.
The evening papers, in their Late Edition, carried the following paragraph:
YOUNG BUT MUCH WANTED
Rodney Blew of Kennington, aged 16, who is being held by the police in connection with an alleged shopbreaking incident in the King’s Cross area last Sunday night, is apparently a much wanted gentleman. The police are now in a position to state that information has been received positively identifying Blew as the second participant in a recent burglary in New Oxford Street. Readers will remember that on the latter occasion a small dog belonging to the watchman, etc., etc.
IV
“We can’t lay it on much thicker,” said Inspector Hazlerigg, “or they’ll begin to sniff the Yarmouth bloater.”
“I agree,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “We aren’t dealing with fools. Do you think they were watching the house in Camden Town?”
“I don’t know, sir. I think it’s probable.”
“I suppose you’ve got White adequately covered?” This was really a rhetorical question. He was asking as much for his own peace of mind as for information.
“The house is permanently covered, and we’ve got a fifteen-man relay ready if he moves outside. He won’t get away, sir. Not unless he goes up in a cloud of smoke, like the boy in the old Indian Rope trick.”
It is worth noting by those interested in coincidences, that Inspector Hazlerigg said this on the Friday evening at eleven p.m. precisely.
V
A little earlier that evening Curly had left the house in Hatchet Street for an evening’s entertainment. He took no particular precautions, arguing no doubt that since the police knew perfectly well where he was there was no sense in further concealment.
Nevertheless, he was far from easy.
Chiefly he was wondering why “they” had made no attempt to get in touch with him. “They” were the ruling factors in Curly’s little life. Omnipotent, omnipresent, unseen. What “they” said, went.
It was now five days since he had escaped so narrowly from the Kings Cross job; as he had been disturbed before getting hold of any stuff, there had been no sense in going to the agreed rendezvous with “them” on Monday morning.
But surely, by now, “they” should have got some word to him.
Two days ago he had thought that he had caught a glimpse of Joey the Pole in the crowd outside Camden Town Underground Station. Possibly he had been mistaken. Immediately he had moved towards him the crowd had swirled and reintegrated and it had been impossible to get close enough to be sure.
It might not have been Joey at all.
But then there was that odd
incident last night. He had been sitting at the window, looking out at the empty street; it must have been well past midnight, actually nearer two o’clock in the morning; he hadn’t been sleeping well – probably the result of sitting about all day. The night had been dead quiet and his mind had gone back to patrolling in France and Africa. The trees nodding and whispering together in the breeze and the odd shapes which inanimate things took on at night and the sudden disconcerting noises made by the little creatures of the dark. Like that cat, working its way through the garden shrubbery.
Or was it a cat?
There was something smallish and blackish and indistinct. Something or someone. If the moon would only come out for a moment he could be certain. A car had come slowly cruising past, its lights cutting a dazzling swathe on the road but throwing the garden into contrasting blackness. When it had gone, the patch of shadow had gone too.
Curly had sat for more than an hour without seeing anything further.
Well, it was no good sitting at home letting your fancies run away with you. That way you got jumpy and did stupid things. Take a grip of yourself, Curly, and have a nice pint or two of wallop and forget your troubles. By ten o’clock that evening the beer had performed its kindly office and Curly was feeling something like his old self again. He was in the “Abraham Lincoln”, a small quiet public house, north-west from Camden Town, near Haverstock Hill. Full of Poles and Wops and shonks of all sorts.
What the hell was England anyway, — — League of Nations? But the beer was good and he’d had some luck on the darts.
“Time, gentlemen, please. Drink up, if you please. Come along now, please. It’s past time.”
Curly turned reluctantly homewards. He still felt the warmth of the beer and the lights and the companionship. But it was slipping away from him. Slipping fast. At the back of his mind a little voice was saying, over and over again: “Come along, now, it’s time, past time, past time.” It was echoed by his footsteps as he hurried down Haverstock Hill and Chalk Farm Road.
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