by W H Oxley
‘It looks as if you were wrong about Smalls, sir.’ Brightwell gripped the steering wheel of the Wolseley as they raced along Bishops Bridge Road and flashed past the rear entrance to Paddington Station.
‘Robbery with violence, our Bertie has certainly moved up a peg or two in the crime world. I wonder what brought about the career change.’
‘How many watches were stolen, sir?’
‘About a couple of dozen; all high-class stuff.’
‘Maybe he didn’t do the actual robbery; he could be just fencing the stuff.’
‘I doubt it. He may have gone into a totally different branch of criminal activity, but it’s still got his signature all over it: Bertie never could resist the theatrical touch. I mean, walking into a shop wearing a Crombie overcoat and bowler hat with an umbrella on your arm, and introducing yourself as Lieutenant Commander somebody or other…’
‘I thought you said he usually passed himself off as a major?’
‘An army officer never has a beard. It’s against regulations.’
‘He had a beard!!’
‘And a monocle; typical Bertie that: he always has to overdo it. Still, I suppose it was a good disguise.’
‘So he comes into the shop pretending to be a naval officer, asks to see the most expensive watches, clobbers the shopkeeper on the head and makes his getaway.’
‘That’s about it in a nutshell.’
‘What type of weapon?’
‘Probably a cosh, but as the victim didn’t see it coming we don’t know for sure, though it does virtually rule him out of the pawnshop job: if he had a gun he’d have used it for the watch robbery.’
‘Do you think he’s disposed of his haul, sir?’
‘I doubt it. It doesn’t look as if he’s using a fence. He’s probably done the down-on-his-luck gentleman routine in a few pawnshops around town, but no more than that. There’s a limit to how many times you can work that trick in London without drawing attention to yourself. He’ll stash away the loot, wait ’til his probation’s up, and then do a grand tour of the provincial hock shops.’
‘He’s on probation!!’
‘Yep! Got caught with a load of petrol coupons that he couldn’t account for, which is why we know where he lives.’
‘Is it a big posh house, sir?’
‘Let’s just say it’s in a class of its own…
Rillington Place was a festering slum, with feral cats prowling among overflowing rubbish bins and abandoned mattresses while flea ridden dogs licked each other’s backsides in greeting. Each of its once grand houses with colonnaded porticos sheltered at least a dozen families, some living six or more to a room. The front door to number ten was wide open. Inside, the air was thick with overcooked food and under-washed bodies, while the walls of the hallway had been blackened up to shoulder height by dirty hands and greasy clothing rubbing against it over the decades. Having been in and out of these places at regular intervals over the years, Hawker’s brain had learnt to filter out the smell but Brightwell held a handkerchief to his nose.
‘I’ll bet you wish you’d brought your gas mask, Brightwell,’ grunted Hawker as they climbed the stairs. ‘You can nip back to the car and fetch it if you want to.’
‘I’ll manage, sir.’
‘Don’t worry, Brightwell. A couple more years on this job and you won’t even notice it.’ He paused outside one of the doors on the second floor and listened for a moment before knocking: tap…tap-tap-tap…tap-tap… ‘Useful tip, Brightwell, never knock like a copper,’ he murmured.
The door opened a couple of inches, and they caught a fleeting glimpse of a pale face and clipped military moustache before it slammed shut.
‘Kick it in, sergeant!’
It only took one good kick, and the door burst open to reveal Bertie dressed in nothing but a shirt dragging a suitcase towards an open window. He stood up and glared at them defiantly with the shirttails flapping against his spindly legs.
‘You can’t come in here without a search warrant!’
‘We don’t need one, Bertie: you invited us in for tea. He did, didn’t he sergeant?’
‘That’s right, sir. He asked if we wanted Earl Grey or Darjeeling.’
‘I know my rights!’
‘Kick him in the balls, sergeant.’
‘With pleasure, sir…’
‘Eeeoow!!!’
Bertie went down like a sack of potatoes and lay there with his hands clutched between his shirttails and his bare arse writhing about on the linoleum.
Ignoring him, Hawker contemplated the suitcase.
‘Do you want me to open it, sir?’ volunteered Brightwell. ‘I am wearing gloves.’
‘Better not risk it, sergeant. It may be booby-trapped: a constable lost an eye opening one a few years back. Perhaps we should ask our little friend with the bare backside if he will have the kindness to open it for us.’
‘I’d like to see your search warrant first,’ muttered Bertie.
‘Proper little glutton for punishment isn’t he, sergeant? I wonder if...’ Hawker paused: something caught his eye. Striding over to the mantelpiece, he picked up the tightly furled umbrella that was resting against it and felt the weight before very carefully examining the handle.
‘Have you found something, sir?’ asked Brightwell.
‘Yes, a very nasty weapon. The wooden knob has been hollowed out and filled with lead. You could crush a man’s skull with this.’
‘It’s not mine,’ muttered Bertie. ‘I just borrowed it because it was raining.’
‘Did you also borrow this because it was raining, Bertie?’ Hawker picked up a monocle that was lying on the mantelpiece and dangled it in front of him.
Bertie said nothing.
‘Robbery with violence, Bertie, you should have stuck to sweet-talking little old ladies.’
Bertie remained silent.
‘Be a good little boy and open that case. We’ve already got enough to put you away for a few years, and you wouldn’t want us to march you down the street in just your shirt with your willy hanging out, would you?’
With a sigh, Bertie knelt down and opened the case.
Hawker peered down at the watches. ‘Hmm, quite a nice little collection – your contribution to the war effort, I presume.’
‘Am I under arrest?’
‘Not yet, Bertie, we haven’t finished searching your room.’
‘But you’ve got the stuff.’
‘But not the gun, we’re looking for a gun…’
‘G-g-gun?’ Bertie turned white and his naked knees started knocking.
‘That pawnbroker’s you hocked the Rolex with. Somebody tried to turn it over this morning. A man was shot!’
‘Sh-sh- shot… Is he d-dead?’
‘Not yet, but…’
‘What time?’ Bertie recovered his composure.
‘Nine o’clock.’
‘I’ve got an alibi,’ he smiled.
‘I’ll bet you have…’
‘I was with my probation officer!’ He folded his arms to emphasize the point.
‘Humph!’
‘So I can’t help you,’ he smirked.
‘Oh but I’m sure you could if you really wanted to. It’s a little bit too much of a coincidence: you turning up a few days before a crime is committed. You must know something about the robbery.’
‘I am not a grass.’ Bertie drew himself up with as much dignity as was possible for a man clad in only a shirt.
‘Listen to me very carefully, little man. If you do know something you’d better start talking, because if you don’t, I am going to give Sergeant Brightwell a black eye…’
Bertie’s jaw dropped in amazement, and he stood speechless as Hawker continued…
‘Then I am going to arrest you for grievous bodily harm to an officer of the law – and you know what that means don’t you, Bertie?’
Bertie furrowed his brow.
‘Robbery with violence and GBH-ing a copper, you�
�ll probably get the cat… Would you like me to tell you all about the cat-o’-nine-tails, Bertie?’
Bertie shook his head.
‘No? Well, I’m going to tell you anyway. The cat is a whip ending in nine knotted cords, each intended to inflict the maximum amount of pain – hence the nine tails.’ Hawker paused and licked his lips… ‘And they call it the cat because with each lash across your naked back it will leave a mark on your skin like the claws of a cat…’
Bertie said nothing. He just stood there with his knees knocking and the water trickling down his legs.
Hawker glanced at the puddle forming on the linoleum and grunted, ‘I think we can safely say he doesn’t know anything, sergeant. Come on, Bertie, put your trousers on and let’s get you back to where you belong.’