A Sharp Rise in Crime Read online

  Roger watched the man.

  He was smaller than average but otherwise looked normal enough; fair-haired, blue-eyed, pleasant-looking. He made no attempt to struggle with the odds so heavily against him, but allowed himself to be handcuffed to a police officer. The three of them went out. Roger looked from one to the other of his visitors, and said: ‘I daresay I could lay on some tea, gentlemen.’

  ‘Easily,’ declared a nurse, from the door.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Trevillion, in his attractively gruff voice. ‘For three, eh, Commander.’ His beetling brows rose over eyes which held a twinkle. He laid a gentle hand on West’s shoulder. ‘Five more, eh?’

  ‘I’d rather not use them all up today,’ said Roger.

  ‘What the hel—heck are you talking about?’ Coppell demanded.

  ‘Lives,’ Roger said.

  ‘Lives? What—oh, lives. Four attempts to kill you today and five to come.’ He guffawed. The others smiled, and the two senior police officials pulled up chairs.

  They did not speak for a few moments, but they became much more sober. Two or three people walked past outside, before Trevillion asked: ‘Like to postpone this discussion, West?’

  ‘Why should I, sir?’

  ‘Get a good night’s rest before we get down to the hard core of the situation.’

  ‘I need to know some of the circumstances before I answer,’ Roger said. ‘One key point, anyhow. Am I still under suspicion?’

  ‘No,’ stated Trevillion, flatly.

  Roger’s heart leapt.

  ‘Apart from the thickness and curl of the hair there were other points of difference which showed up under a magnifier which enlarged all features and blemishes one hundred times,’ went on Trevillion. ‘We’ve had our experts as well as consultants on this for hours. You are completely in the clear, West. Isn’t that right, Commander?’

  ‘Glad to say it is.’

  Roger felt as if the world were once again a pleasant place to live in. He had not realised, until now that it was lifted, how very much the weight of suspicion had crushed his spirit.

  ‘Then I’d like to hear everything,’ he said at last.

  ‘Excellent, excellent!’ enthused Trevillion. ‘Commander, you know all the details. Go ahead.’

  Coppell looked pleasantly surprised, but had the wit to say: ‘Sure, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Get on with it, man.’

  ‘Right!’ boomed Coppell. He paused for a moment, as if suddenly aware that he had spoken too loudly; then scarcely able to disguise his excitement, he went on: ‘We caught the man who shot at you.’

  ‘And followed the would-be assassins’ taxi to an address in Lowndes Square,’ put in Trevillion. ‘One man who lives there is one of the most famous make-up artists in Europe. Another is a prominent Polish plastic surgeon – a man of real genius.’ He broke off and looked at Coppell, as if commanding him to speak next.

  ‘The third one, who seems to matter most, is Hunter,’ Coppell said gruffly. ‘Rake Hunter.’

  Roger hitched himself up on his pillows, looked from one man to the other, and said in a low-pitched voice: ‘I shall wake up in a minute.’

  ‘You’re awake already,’ said Coppell. ‘You’ve been asleep, just like the rest of us, that’s the trouble. A brilliant make-up artist, a bloody good plastic surgeon, and the biggest fence in England with international contacts all over the world. That’s what we’ve got on our hands, Handsome. Unlikely as it may seem we’ve got a pretty good idea that some of our personnel may have been impersonated. Mostly detective officers, one or two sergeants from the uniformed branch. Now supposing they were injected with some drug which causes amnesia, then impersonated at a place and time which made a certain crime easy, and after that, released. They wouldn’t remember anything. Four separate cases of dereliction of duty came up recently for disciplinary action: one man was suspended, three reprimanded for neglect of duty and reduced to the ranks.’

  Roger thought almost wildly: Yes, yes, do get on with it!

  ‘There were three instances of officers on special guard or surveillance duty who were drunk on their job – and they enabled the crimes to be committed also. Two were allowed to retire at the rank they held, one was suspended.’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ breathed Roger.

  ‘And there were even more serious cases,’ Coppell went on ponderously. ‘Men who broke into banks, stores, post offices and shops, and stole substantial sums in money or in kind. Know how many men we’ve drummed out of the Force, West?’

  ‘Too many,’ Roger said hoarsely. ‘Far too many.’

  ‘Right! But we all put it down to today’s conditions.’

  ‘Things certainly aren’t like they used to be,’ Trevillion complained, rather like a comedian chorus.

  Roger nodded agreement. ‘All the same, sir,’ he said slowly, ‘it still wasn’t a wild proportion. We – most of us at Superintendent level, that is – thought it was just a case of the rotten apples falling from the tree.’

  ‘We all did,’ Coppell growled. ‘But impersonation within the Force would certainly explain some of this peculiar behaviour that has been going on. And it would tie in with the fact that they had a go at fixing someone to take your place. Don’t ask me why they’re so anxious to kill you now. Something you’ve done, or said, has put the wind up them.’

  ‘Hunter,’ Roger said with emphasis.

  ‘Need you keep repeating yourself?’ demanded the Admiral, but his testiness was forced.

  ‘Always said to be like me,’ Roger went on, gruffly.

  Neither of the others spoke.

  ‘And probably the man in that photograph,’ Roger went on.

  ‘Damn near certain to be,’ Coppell declared.

  ‘And he was going to impersonate me to pull off some big coup.’

  ‘It seems like it.’

  ‘Do either of you have the faintest idea what coup?’ demanded Trevillion. ‘I may not have been a policeman for long, I may not be a policeman at all, but I do know something very big would have to justify such a risk as that.’

  ‘There doesn’t have to be one job,’ argued Roger. ‘Looking like me and carrying my credentials he could get almost anywhere in London. And if I had two or three men with me supposed to be police officers—’

  ‘He must have had a big coup in mind,’ insisted Trevillion.

  ‘Don’t see that it matters much,’ broke in Coppell. ‘They want him dead so they aren’t going to use him.’

  Trevillion didn’t argue.

  ‘And they want him dead very badly and urgently or they wouldn’t have taken such chances,’ added Coppell.

  ‘Sir, as I said earlier – why don’t I die?’ Roger asked.

  Trevillion made a sign which looked very much like the sign of the cross.

  ‘They want me dead so it must be for a major purpose,’ Roger went on. ‘We’ve only to make an announcement to the Press and the whole country will know about it tonight, or at the latest tomorrow morning. Once they think they’ve got rid of me, then—’ He gulped. ‘For one thing, they’ll relax for a while. Inevitable reaction, even for men of their calibre. Sure you know where they are?’

  ‘No doubt, no shadow of doubt,’ Trevillion declared, and then coughed, as if he had some difficulty in speaking.

  ‘We know,’ said Coppell.

  ‘Can we pick him up?’ asked Roger.

  Neither of the others spoke, and he had no doubt at all that in their minds was the idea which had come to him not long ago. A crazy idea. One which would almost certainly fail. Only a lunatic would think of it: or three lunatics.

  ‘It could be done. Pick him up, I mean.’

  ‘By himself.’

  ‘There would have to be a way.’

  ‘Yes,’ Roger said softly. ‘He would have to be by himself. It’s essential nobody could betray the fact that we’d got him. And—’

  ‘West!’ barked Trevillion. ‘I’m a man of plain words. What’s on your mind?’

&n
bsp; There was a dead silence as both he and Coppell gazed as if spellbound at Roger.

  He gazed back, smiling faintly.

  ‘Impersonating Hunter, sir,’ he stated flatly.

  Trevillion breathed: ‘You would take that chance?’

  ‘If we are to break up this group I don’t see how we can do it, except from the inside,’ Roger said, but although he spoke easily enough his nerves were tense and his heart was racing. Of course, it was true. Hoist the group with their own petard. It wasn’t even an original idea but—

  What would they do if they discovered the deception?

  Coppell was looking at him very intently. Trevillion was breathing hard and noisily. Roger leaned to the bedside table and took up the packet of photographs which Martin had given him. He opened it, ripping the plastic tape off the brown paper in his impatience, and then began to riffle through picture after picture. They could hardly have been better, and he explained them in the same detail that Marriott had explained them to him. But he was doing it mechanically, half of his thoughts being of the task for which he had volunteered, and its dangers; of the effect on Janet, even on the boys. Perhaps it was a good thing that pretty Anne Claire had come along just now, to take Martin’s mind off the main preoccupation and perhaps even help his mother.

  Could they maintain the pretence that he was dead? Or was that really asking too much of them?

  He smiled faintly. They would manage.

  ‘West,’ said Trevillion, turning over the last photograph, after Roger had fallen silent for at least a minute. ‘Our general feeling has been of a sharp rise in crime.’

  Roger nodded. ‘I know, sir.’

  ‘If there have been these impersonations on a large scale then this could be the explanation.’

  They all knew it; why keep on repeating it?

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Roger said.

  ‘So if we can break up this particular organisation we might see a reverse trend in crime of every kind.’

  ‘It’s very likely,’ Roger said. ‘We mustn’t forget—’

  ‘Mustn’t forget that a lot of crime’s imitative,’ Coppell put in, importantly. ‘The whole rise in the crime rate isn’t due to this group. It sets the pace and others follow. Talking to your friend Appleby this afternoon,’ he went on. ‘Appleby’s opinion is that many of the crimes of violence, murder with sex perversion, etc., are imitative. There’s a sudden wave of crime, everyone gets away with it, so these sex nuts blow their tops.’

  He wasn’t exactly quoting Appleby but Roger could almost hear the pathologist saying these things in his own words.

  ‘The reverse would apply,’ Roger said. ‘Make some big captures, clamp down on it hard, and the rate should fall. There’s one thing you may have overlooked, gentlemen.’

  ‘What?’ barked Trevillion.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve overlooked much,’ said Coppell, aggressively defensive.

  ‘If you pick Hunter up, by police regulations he has to be charged within twenty-four hours,’ Roger pointed out. ‘If I can get past the first twenty-four hours I may need a lot more time. It simply wouldn’t be possible to do anything in a short period. Now can we get past that one?’ he demanded of Coppell, for the Commander knew far more about police procedure and the demands of the law than Trevillion would ever know.

  Coppell pursed his lips, but laughter lurked in his eyes.

  ‘You can’t get out of it that easy, Handsome. I’ll fix that – and I’ll have the basket up and ready for trial at the Assizes. That’s not our problem; catching Hunter on his own is the one that’s going to give me the headaches. But we’ll switch it. Meanwhile – if you agree, sir,’ he said with a sidelong glance at Trevillion, ‘West had better stay at death’s door until we know when we can pick Hunter up. And it’s got to be quick and slick. Hunter leaves the house at some point, a few hours later Handsome here goes back. Quick and slick,’ he breathed again.

  ‘Do you know,’ said the Commissioner, his voice suddenly troubled, ‘I am beginning to think it’s too much to ask.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Three Days’ ‘Rest’

  He meant what he said. The sincerity showed in his eyes, in the way he pushed his chair back and walked across the room, then turned with his hands behind him; a pose he had struck a thousand times on the bridges of the ships he had commanded. His square shoulders, his full chest, the flatness of his waist, might have been those of a much younger man.

  ‘I am beginning to feel that it is too much to ask,’ he said in a deep voice which yet carried only to the four corners of the room.

  ‘Surely—er—surely that’s up to West,’ Coppell said, unable to stop himself from sounding disappointed.

  ‘It is not. It is up to me,’ rasped Trevillion, looking at Roger. ‘You should at least have three or four days to think about this.’

  ‘Sir,’ Roger said, ‘can you count on the fingers of your two hands the number of men you’ve sent out on suicide missions?’

  ‘No, I’m damned if I can! But the navy—’

  ‘Have none come back?’

  ‘Of course some of them have come back.’

  ‘With respect, sir, we’re on a mission as important as nine out of ten of the suicide missions you’ve authorised, and I don’t think anyone would question the need. But I do ask for two or three days’ grace.’

  ‘What for?’ demanded Coppell; it was almost a crow of delight.

  ‘To get thoroughly fit. To be able to use this arm reasonably well. And to swot up on Hunter. I need to know everything there is to know about that man – not just his criminal record. Two or three newspapers have done articles on him – wasn’t there a book which no publisher would handle, it was too hot on the sex and drugs angle? I need a copy of that. And I need to know as much about his early life as I can, and his girl friends—hasn’t he been married four times?—and children, relatives, and what they look like. And I need to know his favourite phrases – he likes to be with it – and the kind of films he likes to see, his favourite television programmes.’

  ‘You need a week,’ Coppell said.

  ‘Get me the information and I’ll have it in my head in three days,’ Roger assured him. ‘Are you in agreement, sir?’ he asked Trevillion.

  ‘I am,’ Trevillion said, ‘and now I honestly believe that you will be one of those who come back.’

  The information about Rake Hunter poured in.

  The chief source was the book, a typescript of which was found in a journalist’s rooms, ‘Waiting,’ he said, ‘until an age became permissive enough to allow its publication.’ It was exhaustive; going back to Hunter’s childhood it thus gave Roger one of his best breaks.

  Hunter’s mother and father and only sister had died in an air raid over London in 1942, and he had few relatives. He had, however, dozens, hundreds, of friends, four ex-wives, and an unguessable number of mistresses. He was generous with them; if there was a good side to his character it was his generosity. But what he expected of them was, both vulgarly and factually, the limit. A great deal was suspected of his criminal activities – and again he paid well for all services. He ran a protection racket in Soho and in various cities, was behind most of the drug pushing in England, and had a system by which he could send couriers by air, at any hour of day or night, to deliver stolen jewels and securities thousands of miles from the point of their theft. He was merciless.

  If a man or woman cheated him he maimed, disfigured, or killed them.

  The extent of his activities had never been fully understood in England, but there had been rumours and a certain amount of information, which had filtered through from various continental cities. He was nicknamed ‘Rake’ because of his reputation with women, and was known in most capitals of the world. That he had shown up in England, was something quite new.

  Roger read every word he could about the man, and studied every photograph.

  Facially, the resemblance was quite remarkable. There was, too, a similarity in the
square, broad shoulders and deep chest. No fully naked photographs were available so there was no way of telling what birthmarks he might have. His thighs were thinner than Roger’s and his calves were not quite so well-shaped, but only someone who knew him with the closest intimacy would notice that.

  His mannerisms were difficult to pick up; few whom the police talked to knew him well enough to describe them. His voice was another problem; there were many who had heard it but there was no tape. This was going to be the greatest problem and so the greatest danger.

  ‘You can have a cold,’ Coppell suggested.

  ‘Caught and sounding in my voice in an hour or two?’

  ‘Well, come up with a better idea,’ Coppell suggested sourly.

  They were on the telephone, Coppell as always using his private line, and rain was pounding against the window, driven by great gusts. Roger didn’t answer for a few moments and ever-impatient Coppell growled: ‘Okay, take your time.’

  ‘I think I know a way we might get by,’ Roger said. ‘Do you remember Captain Frost of the Homicide Branch of the New York Police?’

  ‘That friend of yours, yes.’

  ‘Telephone him,’ urged Roger. ‘Don’t mention me as being above ground, but find out if he can put his hands on a tape of Hunter’s voice. I think they had him in for questioning a few years ago and if they took a tape, they wouldn’t have thrown it away.’

  ‘Right – but damn it, West, it’s three o’clock in the morning in New York!’

  ‘His home number’s in my desk file,’ Roger said. ‘He won’t mind being woken up. Try not to speak to his wife, though.’

  In fact, Frost’s wife didn’t wake.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We took a tape and we can take a copy and fly it right over. If this will help Handsome—’

  ‘It will help avenge him, anyhow,’ Coppell said.

  The American seemed to catch his breath. ‘So it’s really as bad as that.’

  ‘I wish to God it wasn’t.’

  ‘And you want all you can get on Rake Hunter?’

  ‘Every little bit, every crumb,’ Coppell said.

  ‘I hear you,’ said the American, ‘and I can help you. I’ll send this tape over with one of our policewomen. She’s quite a doll. She would be more of a doll if she didn’t have barbed-wire scars on her right cheek. She lived for a month with Hunter, she went that far to get him, but he found out. There’s a woman who would give her right hand to see Hunter where he should be. You can rely on her absolutely.’