The Missing Gun

by W H Oxley

  There being fewer cars on the streets of London thanks to the introduction of petrol rationing, the drive to Saint John’s Wood Barracks took a little over five minutes. Leaning up against the high wall that surrounded the place, a soldier and a girl were locked in a passionate embrace oblivious to the world around them, as Brightwell parked the car and Hawker leaped out.

  ‘Wait here while I have a word with the duty NCO in the guardhouse,’ he grunted, before placing his bowler firmly on his head and marching briskly up to the two soldiers guarding the gate. His time spent with the Royal Military Police in the previous war having given him an intimate knowledge of army procedures and how to circumvent them, he was able to cut through the red tape and obtain all the information he needed within a very short time. Brightwell had barely finished his cigarette before Hawker was heaving his backside onto the passenger seat.

  ‘Where to now, sir?’

  ‘The pawnbroker’s.’

  As they drove in silence, Hawker sat staring straight ahead with his fingertips together and his expression sphinx-like. Brightwell knew better than to interrupt him when he was thinking. After turning right onto Finchley Road, he drove a short way along in the direction of Swiss Cottage before turning left. The pawnbroker’s shop stood on a corner next to a newsagent’s and opposite The Duke of York, an imposing Victorian pub. Three brass balls and the name Isaac Goldstein picked out in gold lettering glittered in the autumn sun. The were two entrances to the shop, an imposing glass door planted firmly at the front and a solid brown one marked Pledges lurking in the side street. Brightwell parked the car outside the pub and waited…

  After a couple of minutes, Hawker came out of his trance. ‘It looks as if it’s going to be a case of good old-fashioned detective work, Brightwell. No short cuts in this case – and very few clues. Let’s hope the forensic chaps can find something.’

  ‘I take it you didn’t locate the red-headed soldier, sir.’

  ‘Oh I found the blighter all right. That was the easy bit. They’ve got him in the guardhouse. He’s even admitted being in the shop at nine o’clock, but he’s got a perfect alibi: he was under arrest and locked up at the time of the robbery. Apparently he was supposed to be on duty that morning but sneaked out of the barracks to enquire about wedding rings, and he was caught climbing over the wall as he tried to slip back in. I’ve put in an application to formally interview him as a witness, but it has to be approved by the adjutant. So I don’t suppose we’ll get to see him until tomorrow. He probably won’t be much help, but as he was in and out of the shop shortly before the robbery he may have seen something or someone – and we’ve got bugger all else to go on at the moment.’

  ‘But he was there half an hour before the robbery, sir. Surely the robber wouldn’t hang around that long.’

  ‘If you were about to rob a shop and saw a soldier in uniform go in, what would you do?’

  ‘Clear off, and maybe come back later.’

  ‘Exactly! Meanwhile, let us hope that our amateur criminal has left us a fingerprint or two, even though we are unlikely to have his dabs on record. Come along, Brightwell; let’s see if we can find something useful in here.’

  There was a constable on duty at the door, and Hawker flashed his warrant card before checking that his instructions had been followed.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the policeman saluting, ‘nobody has been permitted to cross the threshold, but we have allowed the pledge department to open. Mr Goldstein, the proprietor, is in there now. I take it that was okay, sir.’

  ‘Yes that’s fine, constable. It’s only the scene of the crime that I want examined. Has there been any sign of the forensic chaps?’

  ‘Not yet, sir, but they’ll probably have their work cut out. A lot of people were in the shop after the incident: Mr Carter the newsagent, the ambulance men and Doctor Greenslade. It was Mr Carter who found this on the floor. I took charge of it. It’s a nine millimetre, probably from a Luger. I got to know quite a bit about small arms in the last war.’ He handed Hawker a cartridge case.

  ‘Hmm…’ Hawker examined it carefully. ‘Let us hope that ballistics can make something of it.’

  As he slipped the cartridge case into his waistcoat pocket, he gazed across the road at the Duke of York and licked his lips at the thought of a pint of bitter. ‘Did they witness anything?’ he asked, pointing to the pub.

  ‘No, sir, the landlord and his wife were out at the time, and the barmaid doesn’t report for duty until twelve.’

  ‘Did anyone hear the shot?’

  ‘A few people did, but they thought it was a motorbike backfiring. Only the newsagent realised what it was. That’s why he was the one who found Mr Purvis.’

  ‘And what about the gas mask, surely someone must have noticed a man with a gas mask wandering around?’

  ‘Not wearing one, sir, but almost every other person you meet these days is carrying theirs about with them. I’ve always got mine with me, sir, and…’

  He was interrupted by a squeal of brakes as a black Morris 8 raced to a halt and two men leapt out hauling bulky bags.

  ‘Humph, forensics, and about time too,’ muttered Hawker. ‘What kept you?’ he called out.

  ‘There is a war on, sir,’ answered the tall thin one in the grey herringbone suit.

  ‘Aye. And all the civilians in our department have joined the army, leaving us to carry the can,’ added his morose looking companion.

  ‘How long will it take you?’

  ‘We can only spare an hour,’ gasped the herringbone suit, as he dragged a heavy bag across the pavement. ‘There’s a war on.’

  ‘Well, do try to take as many photographs as possible of the inside of the shop – and a few of the outside as well.’ Hawker pointed with his pipe. ‘Here and here…’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir, but I’ve only got a dozen plates: there is a war on, you know.’

  ‘Humph! So you keep telling me,’ he grunted following them into the shop.

  A miscellaneous selection of clocks and cameras were on view behind the counter, while beneath it, a motley collection of jewellery and watches were displayed behind glass; a typical pawnbroker’s save for one thing: the musical instruments hanging from the ceiling. A cosmopolitan collection of brass and wood with the occasional flash of silver, they came in all shapes and sizes, packed together as tightly as commuters on a rush hour train.

  ‘What do you make of it, sir?’ asked Brightwell, joining him.

  ‘Not much. There’s nothing to contradict Purvis’s story, from the position of the counter to the location of the blood stains. Let’s leave it to the scientific experts while we have a word with the proprietor himself.’

  In contrast to the conventional image of a pawnbroker, Mr Goldstein was a dapper, white-haired, little man with a smiling face and twinkly blue eyes framed by gold-rimmed spectacles. If his goatee beard had been a little bushier he might have been mistaken for Santa Claus.

  Hawker found him in the pledge department. ‘My apologies for keeping you out of your shop, Mr Goldstein, but it was absolutely essential not to touch anything until it had been examined by our scientific experts who are at this very moment collecting fingerprints and other clues. We will also need to take your fingerprints for elimination purposes. They will, of course, be destroyed when we have done so. I hope you have no objection?’

  ‘Not at all, inspector, not at all – and if there is anything else?’

  ‘There is one other thing, sir. We are unable to fingerprint Mr Purvis’s right hand at the moment, and we need to eliminate as many prints as possible. Is there anything of Mr Purvis’s here, like a teacup or glass, which might have his fingerprints on?’

  ‘I don’t know, inspector.’ The pawnbroker stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps we might find something in the storeroom.’

  Having led them into a small backroom with a barred window that contained a large green safe, two cupboards and a drum kit, he pointed to one of the cupboards. �
�That’s where young Purvis keeps his personal bits and pieces, inspector. Maybe you can find something in there. Now, if you will excuse me, I think I have a customer.’

  ‘Got your gloves handy, Brightwell?’ asked Hawker as soon as the pawnbroker had left.

  ‘Yes, sir, right here.’

  ‘Right, slip ’em on, and let us discover if our young hero has anything of use to us in there.’

  Wearing gloves, Brightwell carefully opened the cupboard door. The only items inside were a raincoat and a cardboard box. Having felt the coat pockets – empty – he carefully removed the box and placed it on the floor. It contained a pile of books.

  ‘Humph,’ snorted Hawker, as he peered down at the collection of paperbacks, ‘trashy crime stories, I might have guessed it! What sort of book is the hardback one, sergeant? Turn it over so we can see the title.’

  Holding the book carefully at the edges, Brightwell turned it over and gave a chuckle. ‘It looks as if you and he have something in common, sir. It’s The Case-book of Sherlock Holmes.’

  Hawker didn’t bother to reply. He just grunted.

  ‘You could be right about Purvis, sir.’ Brightwell pointed to the paperbacks. ‘He may well be a bit of a fantasist.’

  ‘I wasn’t far out when I said his story sounded like a cowboy film: he’s been reading all this nonsense and couldn’t resist enhancing his roll.’

  ‘Sherlock Holmes, nonsense, sir?’ Brightwell grinned mischievously.

  ‘I was not referring to the Sherlock Holmes book!’ snapped Hawker. ‘You have obviously failed to deduce that being a hardback The Case-book of Sherlock Holmes is totally out of place among this collection of trash. It was probably a birthday present or something.’

  ‘Of course, sir, I didn’t think of that.’ Brightwell looked a little chastened. ‘What now, sir?’

  ‘His fingerprints must be all over them, so I suggest that we hand the lot over to our forensic chaps. Then I’d like to go next door and have a word with Mr Carter, the newsagent. He would appear to be the only other witness.’

  The newsagent was a bald-headed, tubby little man, with a white, nicotine-stained walrus moustache and an impressive beer belly that spoke of a lifetime devoted to the supping of ale. He was in his shirtsleeves and had a habit of throwing back his shoulders and sticking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets as he spoke.

  ‘Yes, guv, I heard the shot all right. I jumped like a roo. Been in this shop seven years, I have, and we’ve never had anything like this happen. As soon as I heard it I knew what it was. You can’t spend four years in the trenches and not know that sound. It was me that found the cartridge case. Spotted it right away, I did, cos I knew what to look for.

  ‘You’ve had this business seven years, was that when you came back from Australia?’

  ‘That’s right, guv. ’

  ‘Working in construction out there were you?’

  ‘Yes, guv, I’m a carpenter by trade. It’s a good country to make money if you don’t mind a bit of hard graft.’

  ‘And a far better alternative to the Foreign Legion if you wanted to forget a woman.’

  ‘I’d have to agree with you there, guv. It certainly was in my case. I had no trouble forgetting her once I was down under.’

  ‘But you didn’t forget the war?’

  ‘You never forget the war, guv. The instant I heard that shot I dropped to the floor and waited for the second one: there was always a second shot back then. I didn’t think; I just dropped; it was an instinctive reaction. There was never time to think on the front line. If you heard a shot, you dropped. If you waited and thought about it you were a dead man – seen it happen enough times...’

  He paused and tugged at his moustache, before continuing. ‘Anyhow, that was my first instinct, but soon as I realised I was in my shop and not on the front line I got up and peeped out of the door. There was nobody around. Then, as carefully as if I was on patrol in no-man’s-land, I crept up to the shop next door and looked inside. That’s when I saw Mr Purvis lying slumped across the counter. His hand was bleeding very badly, but I knew what to do. I’ve done it dozens of times in the trenches. So, I took out my handkerchief and wrapped it round his hand to stop the bleeding. He was just starting to come to when Dr Greenslade took over from me – the doctor’s place is just along the road.’

  ‘What number?’

  ‘Number forty-five, guv, but it’s no good going now. The doctor’s always at the Woman’s Clinic in Paddington on Wednesday afternoons, and won’t be back until after four o’clock.

  ‘Make a note of that please, sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As Brightwell scribbled in his notebook, Hawker returned his attention to the newsagent. ‘Now, sir, would you mind telling me how much time elapsed between you hearing the shot and leaving your shop?’

  ‘Not more than thirty seconds, guv, probably less.’

  ‘And you saw nobody.’

  ‘Not nearby, but I didn’t think to look round the corner.’

  ‘So, Mr Goldstein’s shop being on the corner, if someone ran out of the shop and into the side street you would have been unaware of it.’

  ‘I reckon that’s about the size of it, guv. Will there be anything else?’

  ‘Just one other thing, would you object to us taking your fingerprints for elimination purposes, sir?’

  ‘Of course not, guv, I’d be more than happy to oblige. It will be an honour to assist you with your investigation and to help catch the bloke that did it.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, and if you happen to remember anything else, such as any suspicious characters hanging around over the last few days, don’t hesitate to call us at Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Last few days?’ The newsagent chewed his moustache thoughtfully. ‘I thought you only wanted to know about today, guv.’

  ‘If you have any other information, sir…’

  ‘Bertie Smalls!’

  ‘Bertie Smalls?’

  ‘I saw him last week,’ guv, ‘Dressed as a gentleman, he was, but I recognised him at once. I’d know that crafty face anywhere, even after twenty years.’

  ‘So, you were comrades-in-arms, were you?’

  ‘We may have been in the same regiment,’ the newsagent puffed out his chest, ‘but we were not comrades. I was a sergeant and he was the worst private in the battalion. They should have shot him, but he managed to bullshit the court-martial into letting him off. He was always a good bullshiter, was Smalls – talk the hind legs off a donkey, he could.’

  ‘What day did you see him?’

  ‘Eleven-forty-five on Monday last.’

  ‘You’re very precise about the time, sir.’

  ‘A habit I picked up when I was a sergeant, guv. If I saw a private who wasn’t where he should be, particularly someone like Smalls, I would make a note of the time just in case something went missing.’

  ‘How was he dressed?’

  ‘Black overcoat, bowler hat and carrying an umbrella – he was even wearing spats. If I hadn’t recognised the little toerag I’d have mistaken him for a gentleman.’

  ‘And you are absolutely sure it was him?’

  ‘I’m positive, guv. That’s why I went to the door and kept an eye on him to make sure he didn’t pinch anything. I think he realised I was on to him because he sneaked off down the side street.’

  ‘He could have been going to pawn something.’

  ‘I suppose you could be right, guv. I didn’t think of that.’

  ‘Ah yes, I remember him well; he was a real gentleman.’ Goldstein stroked his beard and shook his head. ‘There is no sadder sight than financially distressed gentlefolk; we’ve been getting more and more of them in recent years.’

  ‘I take it he wanted to pawn something?’ said Hawker.

  ‘Yes, a solid gold Swiss watch – a Rolex no less.’

  ‘I assume you have his address?’

  ‘Naturally, I do.’

  ‘It was rather a valuable item, sir
, did you ask for any identity?’

  ‘Oh course I did, inspector!’ The pawnbroker looked offended. ‘He showed me his driving licence.’

  ‘May I see the watch, sir?’

  ‘Certainly, inspector, step this way.’

  Hawker followed him into the storeroom with the barred windows, and watched as Goldstein opened the safe and removed a small package…

  ‘Hmm, nice watch.’ murmured Hawker glancing at the contents.

  ‘Yes, very nice…’ The pawnbroker was looking anxious. ‘Is there a possibility that it has been stolen, inspector?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea, sir, but if you could let me have the gentleman’s name and address, I will make a few enquiries.’

  Goldstein brought out a ledger and thumbed through it… ‘Ah, here we are… Major de Brand, 21 Dorchester Terrace, Kensington. I also made a note of the driving licence number.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. If you could just write all that down for me – and also the number of the watch…’

  The Goldstein carefully inscribed the details on a slip of paper with his fountain pen.

  It’s just routine, sir,’ murmured Hawker, carefully folding the note and slipping it into his pocket. ‘I’ll get on to the Yard immediately and ask them to check this out. We have a highly efficient system in place, and if there is any problem I should be able to inform you within the hour.’

  ‘If you need to make a phone call, inspector,’ he pointed to the wall-mounted telephone, ‘you are more than welcome to use mine.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of troubling you, sir. There’s a police box round the corner, I’ll call from there while my sergeant is taking your fingerprints.’

  ‘How did it go, sir,’ asked Brightwell, when Hawker emerged from the police box.

  ‘I’ve asked records to check out the watch, the driving licence and any information on Bertie Smalls – though I doubt if he’s involved in the robbery. I’ll phone them in an hour to find out if they’ve had any luck. Meanwhile, I would suggest we investigate the comforts of the Duke of York while we ponder what little facts we have at our disposal. This has the makings of a three-pint problem.’

  ‘Don’t you mean a three pipe problem, sir?’

  ‘Well done, Brightwell. I’m impressed. And if you can tell me which one of Sherlock Holmes’s adventures that quote appeared in, I’ll buy you a pint.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, I’ve no idea: I read it on the back of a cigarette card.’

  ‘In that case, you can get the beer in. It was The Red-headed League – and, appropriately enough, it not only involved red hair but also featured a pawnbroker.’

  The saloon bar was empty, though the murmur of many voices drifted in from the public bar along with the yeasty smell of beer and overcooked cabbage. Hawker gazed thoughtfully at the stuffed pike in a glass case above the bar before rapping on the top of the counter with his pipe. A well endowed blond with scarlet lips appeared, greeted them with a friendly smile and took their order.

  He smacked his lips as the beer engine pumped out the pints, partly in anticipation of the beer, but mainly as a reaction to the barmaid’s bosom. She was wearing a low-cut blouse, and each pull of the handle enlarged her cleavage until it looked as if they were about to pop out. As she handed him his pint he gave her a friendly leer, and she responded with a look that would freeze a tribe of Eskimos in their igloos.

  Unperturbed, he began filling his pipe with the dark heavy shag to which he was partial. First massaging the tobacco until it was crumbled to the correct consistency, before carefully packing the bowl, tamping it down and sucking. Satisfied with the draw, he struck a Swan Vest match and applied it to the pipe. Once it was burning well, he reached out for his pint and took a large swig.

  ‘By Jove, I needed that!’ he declared.

  ‘I give up, sir…’

  ‘Give up what, Brightwell?’

  ‘Trying to work out how you were able to deduce that the newsagent had gone to Australia to forget a woman and worked on a construction site.’

  ‘Elementary: his right hand was larger than his left and the muscles more developed, suggesting that he had once been engaged in manual work, which judging by his complexion had been performed outdoors over a long period of time in a sunnier climate, while his reference to a roo, an Antipodean abbreviation of kangaroo, pointed to Australia.’

  ‘But how did you know he went there to forget woman, sir?’

  ‘You obviously failed to observe the tattoo…’

  ‘I most certainly did notice the tattoo! It was of a heart and a serpent: nothing to indicate a woman.’

  ‘The serpent had been added later in such a way as to hide the name Ann – and the fact that a serpent was used was particularly significant.’

  ‘Hmm, I must admit I didn’t see that, sir…’

  ‘But you did spot tattoo. Well done, Brightwell!’ Hawker waved his pipe majestically. ‘And now perhaps you will be so good as to let me have your thoughts on the case itself.’

  ‘Well, I have to say it all seems a bit bizarre to me, sir: gas masks, guns and empty violin cases.’

  ‘As the great man himself once said, ‘The more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify.’

  Brightwell didn’t need to ask which great man, as far as Hawker was concerned there was only one great man: Sherlock Holmes.

  ‘But we don’t have a face to identify, sir, even a commonplace one.’

  ‘But we do have the facts, Brightwell, however bizarre they may be, and we also have this…’ Hawker slid the cartridge case out of his pocket and placed it on the bar.

  ‘Well, it’s a start sir.’

  ‘As we are probably dealing with an amateur, I doubt if the weapon can be linked to a previous crime, but it is all we have to go on at the moment. So we’ll just have to hope and pray the backroom boys at the Yard can match this or the fingerprints, though I’m not optimistic.’

  ‘Are you sure it was an amateur, sir? Purvis may have been mistaken about the gloves, and even a career criminal can make a balls-up of it, like that bank job a couple of months back where he left the money behind.’

  ‘That was almost certainly Alfie Peck. He’s not an amateur, he’s just a complete bloody idiot, but even he had the sense to use one of the best getaway drivers in the business. And that’s another thing that makes this job look amateurish, how was the gas mask bandit supposed to make his getaway?’

  ‘Speaking of getaways, sir, any news on Fox? He was suspected of having been the getaway man, wasn’t he?’

  ‘No. He’s disappeared without trace; though rumour has it that Sid Weston buried him in the concrete foundations of that big air raid shelter they’re building on the Mile End Road.’

  ‘What about Bertie Smalls, sir, I got the impression that you know him?’

  ‘Know off him, would be more like it. That’s why I used the police box: I didn’t want Goldstein listening while I made the call. It was back in the twenties when I was a detective constable in Hammersmith. He was a small-timer passing himself off as an ex-officer, usually a major, and specialising in conning little old ladies. I pulled him in once for the three-card-trick, but he wouldn’t have the bottle for armed robbery.’

  ‘Was he dealing the cards?’

  ‘No, that takes a bit of skill. Bertie was one of the stooges – which just about sums him up: second division.’

  ‘But the watch he pawned was first division.’

  ‘I expect he persuaded some wealthy widow to part with it under some pretext or other. That’s just about his level.’

  ‘I take it we won’t be working late tonight, sir?’

  Hawker raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘A woman I suppose?’

  ‘Er, yes, sir. One of the nurses has–’

  ‘I’ll bet she has! You’re a fast worker, Brightwell, which one?’

&nb
sp; ‘Nurse Williams, the one who made the tea.’

  ‘Mmm … yes … I remember her – nice little arse! I’ll bet she bangs like a shithouse door.’

  ‘How’s the wife keeping, sir?’

  ‘Take my advice, Brightwell: don’t get married!’ Hawker picked up his glass and drained it in one gulp, before rapping on the counter in the hope of summoning the big-bosomed barmaid. To his chagrin it was a plump jolly fellow in a yellow waistcoat, the landlord himself, who bounced in from the public bar.

  ‘I can let you gentlemen have a couple of quick pints,’ he said, grabbing Hawker’s empty glass, ‘but you’ll have to drink ’em up fast. It’s closing time in four minutes. Normally I can be a bit more relaxed, but what with that little spot of bother across the road the police are all over the place, and I wouldn’t want to lose my licence.’

  ‘Bloody police,’ agreed Hawker, ‘a lot of little Hitlers. All they ever seem to do is harass honest businessmen like you and me, too damned lazy to go out and catch real criminals.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right there,’ grunted the landlord. ‘I sometimes wonder what we pay our taxes for.’

  ‘Why, to pay for their big fat pensions, of course,’ said Hawker, placing a half crown on the bar.

  ‘Ha! Ha! That’s a good one,’ giggled the landlord, pushing the coin back. ‘The drinks are on the house, gents.’

  Chapter 3