by W H Oxley
The fog was closing in as Hawker, belching tobacco smoke, swept into the shop like the Queen Elizabeth sailing into New York Harbour. Mr Goldstein was out, but a callow youth with greasy hair, acne and a sallow complexion stood behind the counter. Having given him a quick flash of his warrant card, Hawker ignored him and focused his attention on one of the violins hanging from the ceiling. After carefully depositing his pipe on the counter, he peered up at the damaged instrument.
‘Sergeant, nip out to the car and fetch the torch.’
‘Which one, sir?’
‘The big one.’
When Brightwell returned with the torch, he found Hawker still gazing pensively upwards.
‘Ah, thank you, sergeant. Grab that chair and bring it over here will you.’ Then turning to the youth, he asked. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I stand on the counter.’
‘Er, well, I don’t know, sir…’
‘I am conducting a criminal investigation!’
‘Mr Goldstein, he left me in charge and–’
‘Listen, sonny,’ Hawker growled, ‘if you don’t stop pissing me about, I’ll arrest you for obstructing an officer of the law in the execution of his duty, lock you up and throw away the key! Got it?’
The sallow complexion turned green. ‘Sorry, sir, please go ahead, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ grunted Hawker, climbing first onto the chair and then up onto the counter. Having carefully examined a chip on the edge of the violin and a long scratch across it, he switched on the torch and pushed it up between the violin and a trombone. After peering up at the ceiling for a few moments, he gave a grunt of satisfaction.
‘Find anything, sir?’
‘I think so, sergeant. Would you be so good as to help me down?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
His boots planted once more on the floorboards, Hawker ran his eyes along the counter to the wall, smiled and nodded his head.
‘What did you find, sir?’
‘I found what I expected to find.’
‘Have you solved the case?’
‘I don’t know yet, but if my deductions are correct, our Mr Purvis is certainly a very clever young man, though perhaps just a little bit too clever for his own good.’
‘In what way, sir?’
‘Is there anything you’d give your right arm for, sergeant?’
‘I can’t think of anything at the moment, sir.’ Brightwell scratched his head.’
‘Neither can I...’
The solid mahogany counter ran across the centre of the shop. At one end a glass topped display cabinet was fitted snugly between the counter and a section of wall that jutted out. Hawker tapped on the wall at that point; it was hollow.
‘Looks like an old chimney breast, sir. I expect there’s a fireplace behind the display case.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ murmured Hawker, shining the torch upwards and peering through the tangle of musical instruments that hung by the chimney breast.
‘See anything, sir?’
‘I think so, but I’m going to have to take a closer look.’
‘You’re going to have a bit of a problem then, sir. You can’t stand on that glass cabinet.’
‘Hmm, we’re going to need a ladder.’ Hawker turned to the sullen youth standing behind the counter picking his nose. ‘Is there such a thing as a ladder in this shop?’
‘You’ll have to ask Mr Goldstein. I don’t know nuffin’.’
‘How about the chair, sir?’ offered Brightwell.
‘I’ll give it a go. Bring it over here.’
Having climbed up onto the chair and pushed aside a guitar with the torch, Hawker peered through the gap. ‘Hmm, now that is very interesting,’ he murmured.
‘What is it, sir?’
‘There’s a hole in the chimney breast…’
‘I expect it’s a vent. They sometimes put them in disused chimneys so that the air can circulate and stop the damp building up inside.’
‘You’re probably right. Now, let’s see if I can get this ruddy guitar out of the way.’
‘Would you mind telling me what this is all about, sir?’
‘All in good time, sergeant, all in good time… It looks as if this guitar’s hanging on a hook. So if I just lift it very gently… Good. That’s got it… Grab hold of this, sergeant.’
As Hawker lowered the guitar, Brightwell took hold of it and placed it on the counter in front of the sulky youth, who moaned, ‘I don’t know what Mr Goldstein will say about all this.’
Ignoring him, they both gazed up at the hole in the wall.
‘It’s definitely a vent, sir. Only someone’s removed the grill.’
‘And why do you think they’d do that?’
‘I’ve no idea, sir. Perhaps it was to make it easier for Sant Claus to deliver the presents.’
‘The youth behind the counter giggled.’
‘Well, at least someone thinks you’re funny, sergeant. And now you are going to have the opportunity of giving him something to really laugh at.’
‘Why’s that, sir?’
‘Because I am determined to take a closer look at that vent, and since we cannot lay our hands on a ladder there is only one way I can reach it.’
‘How, sir?’
‘By climbing up onto your shoulders.’
‘You’re joking, sir!’
‘Then why aren’t you laughing?’
‘Because it’s not funny.’
‘Neither are your jokes.’
‘But it’s my best suit, sir.’
‘Good! It will teach a lesson: not to report for duty dressed like an American gangster! But don’t worry. I only need a piggyback. I won’t have to stand on your shoulders, just sit on them. So if you could hold on to the back of this chair I’m standing on and crouch a little, I should be able to climb on. Then by using the back of the chair to give a bit of leverage, if you push down with both arms you should be able straighten yourself up.’
‘What if I lose my balance?’
‘In that case, our spotty little friend will have something to really laugh at. Come on, sergeant, squat!’
As the youth with acne watched the performance open-mouthed, Brightwell followed his instructions to the letter. Once aloft, Hawker examined the vent. His head being a little below it, he could not see into the hole, but when he reached up and felt inside with his hand he gave a grunt of satisfaction.
‘Have you found what you were looking for, sir?’ mumbled a voice somewhere between his legs.
‘I have indeed, sergeant. That young man is wasted working in a place like this.’
‘Who, spotty-face?’
‘No, the other one! We need chaps like him in wartime.’
‘What has he done, sir?’
‘What hasn’t he done’s more like it,’ muttered Hawker. ‘Well, to put it as simply as possible, young Mr Purvis has ingeniously–’
‘What on earth is the meaning of this circus?’ The pawnbroker’s voice cut through the atmosphere like a red-hot knife going through a block of ice, and his beard bristled with indignation at the spectacle of a black suited middle-aged man in a bowler hat perched on the shoulders of a younger man in a brown striped double-breasted suit, wearing a very loud tie.
‘It weren’t my fault, Mr Goldstein,’ wailed spotty-face. ‘He said I was pissing him about and threatened to lock me up and throw away the key!’
‘Is that correct, inspector?’ Goldstein’s voice was like ice.
‘I simply asked the young gentleman if he would help us with our enquiry and he agreed.’ Hawker folded his arms and assumed a dignified position.
‘Did you use the word pissing, inspector?’
‘Did I use the word pissing, sergeant?’
‘I certainly didn’t hear it, sir.’
‘Since when did Scotland Yard inspectors start behaving like acrobats in a circus?’
‘I wasn’t aware that they had started doing so, sir.’ Hawker remained pokerfaced, arms fold
ed.
‘Then what is the purpose of this performance?’
‘This, sir, is not a performance. This is a police investigation into a very serious crime.’
‘I’ve had enough of this nonsense!’ Goldstein’s face was flushed with anger. ‘If you do not leave my shop immediately I will call the police!’
‘We are the police, sir.’
‘Then I will lodge a complaint about police harassment!’
‘Would you mind crouching down, sergeant, so that I can dismount with a little dignity. Thank you, sergeant.’
Once back on terra firma, Hawker drew himself up to his full height and addressed the indignant pawnbroker. ‘Now, sir, I realise all this must be a little confusing for you, but I needed to follow a line of enquiry, and as you do not keep a ladder in your shop, I was obliged to–’
‘But there is a ladder outside, inspector, why did you not use that?’
‘He didn’t ask for no ladder,’ grumbled the youth, ‘he just said ‘is there such a thing as a ladder.’
Hawker ignored him and continued, ‘As you can see, Mr Goldstein, there has obviously been an unfortunate misunderstanding.’
‘That’s quite all right, inspector. You must excuse me for being a little tense, but I have a daughter getting married next week, and what with the war...’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry about the war, sir. Now that Poland’s surrendered and Hitler keeps saying he wants peace, the whole thing should be over by Christmas.’
‘I do hope you are right, inspector. It would not be good for my people if Germany were to invade England...’ Goldstein stroked his beard thoughtfully and glanced towards the door. ‘So if you have finished your work here…’
‘All done, sir, but I do have a bit of a problem. You see, while I was examining that air vent up there…’
‘What were you looking for, inspector?’
‘That’s a very long story, sir. I’ll explain it all to you when you have a bit more time. But you see, sir, I was trying to take a sample of the dust for forensic examination, and not having anything else to hand I used my car key. Unfortunately, while I was doing so, it fell down the chimney…’ Hawker opened his arms in a gesture of despair.
‘Do you not have a spare one?’
‘Normally we would, sir. Sergeant Brightwell always has one in his pocket, but as you can see, today he is not dressed in his usual attire.’
Goldstein sighed. ‘So what are you planning to do, inspector.’
‘Well, sir, I happened to notice that this display cabinet is not fixed to anything. So the sergeant and I could have it out in a jiffy, thus giving me access to the fireplace.’
‘Very well, inspector…’
Having moved the cabinet they discovered a wooden panel covering what used to be the fireplace. A jemmy made short work of it while the Goldstein stood by wringing his hands. Excavations completed, Hawker pulled on his gloves, peered into the gaping hole and grunted like a pig that had just located a truffle.
‘Find anything, sir,’ asked Brightwell peeping over his shoulder.
‘I have found everything, sergeant, everything…’
‘Ah, you’ve found your key, thank goodness.’ Goldstein sighed with relief.
‘Key? Oh yes, the car key … er, would you, by any chance, happen to have a couple of cardboard boxes handy, Mr Goldstein?’
‘Cardboard boxes, inspector, Goldstein looked puzzled, ‘how big?’
‘Something about the size of a shoebox should do the trick.’
As spotty-face slouched off to fetch the boxes, Hawker began to pull string from the fireplace watched by a perplexed Goldstein.
‘That is an awful lot of string, inspector.’
‘Actually, sir, it’s a heavy duty fishing line, and according to my calculations there should be nearly ten feet of it.’
‘Where does it end?’
‘Right here, sir.’ Hawker rose to his feet and held up the line in his hand. Hanging from the end of it was a what looked like a wheel from a toy truck and cylindrical shaped lump of iron with a ring in it.
‘My life! It’s a weight from an old grandfather clock!’ exclaimed Goldstein. ‘What on Earth was it doing in there?’
‘That, sir,’ murmured Hawker ‘is a very long story… No! No! Don’t touch it!’ Placing the weight very carefully in the cardboard box, he added, ‘We have to check it for fingerprints.’
‘Was it what you expected to find, sir,’ asked Brightwell.
‘More or less, sergeant – and there’s more to come.’
‘More to come, sir?’
‘You know me, sergeant. I always save the best ’til last. Meanwhile, if you could locate that penknife of yours and cut this line…’
Once his discovery had been safely sealed in the box, Hawker plunged once more into the fireplace, and, like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, he emerged with something a lot more deadly dangling from the end of the line. It hung like a condemned man at the end of a rope: an ugly looking black pistol. Goldstein let out a shriek and went white, while the pimple-faced youth looked as if he was about to wet himself.
Even Brightwell looked surprised. ‘But how the devil did you know where it was, sir?’ he asked, as Hawker carefully deposited the Lugar in the box.
Picking up his pipe, Hawker applied a match to it and puffed away enigmatically, sending dark clouds of smoke drifting up into the orchestra above his head, before taking the pipe out of his mouth and uttering just two words: ‘Sherlock Holmes...’
Chapter 8