Hammer the Toff Read online

  ‘Being in possession of stolen goods isn’t a wise practice, Rolly, even for you.’

  ‘But I’ve handed it over to the police,’ Rollison told him, reasonably. ‘Are you sure it’s a stolen gem?’

  ‘Quite sure. What do you know about the Hammer?’

  ‘Next to nothing. I can tell you that Horniman received a warning note from him before he died, and that the girl who had that pendant was scared out of her wits by the gentleman. That’s the lot.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me that the Hammer was connected with Horniman’s death?’

  ‘Come and have a drink,’ invited Rollison, with a hand on Grice’s arm. ‘The answer is, that I didn’t know until I was about to leave Bournemouth, and this is the first time I’ve seen you since then. Be fair. What will you have?’

  ‘Nothing thanks. Oh, all right, a soft one.’ Grice, a teetotaller, followed Rollison into the dining-room, demanding to know more. Rollison told him the whole story, omitting only the girl’s name and address. Then he in turn demanded to know more about the Hammer.

  ‘The trouble is, that no one knows much about him,’ Grice said, reflectively, ‘and most of what one does hear is conflicting. He certainly manages to pull off smash-and-grab raids with expert precision. In some of them there’s been violence, and yet—’

  ‘A policeman on the horns of a dilemma,’ murmured Rollison. ‘Let’s have it.’

  Grice laughed. ‘The truth is, Rolly, that a man calling himself the Hammer is credited with dispensing a lot of charity to the deserving poor of the East End. Charitable organisations and churches get anonymous gifts, always in cash, which can’t be traced. Putting two and two together, it seems likely that the Hammer does his jobs, cashes in, and pays conscience money. But there’s another curious feature about him.’

  ‘Jekyll and Hyde?’ suggested Rollison.

  Grice took him seriously. ‘That’s really what it amounts to,’ he said. ‘At first – he started some two years ago – there was no suggestion of violence. He used a claw-headed hammer to break windows and force doors. He always lifted his stuff by night when there was no real danger, and he got away without any trouble. The nearest we came to getting him was one night last year, when he had to leave his hammer behind.

  ‘Soon after that,’ Grice went on, ‘there was a job with all the trade marks of the same man, but a nightwatchman was badly injured. From then onwards, crimes of violence mounted, but at the same time – sometimes on the same nights, in fact – other crimes with the same trade mark were committed without violence.

  ‘On two occasions there were breakings-in by the Hammer that were interrupted by a nightwatchman and a policeman. The Hammer could have knocked them out and got away with a nice haul; but he didn’t. Yet other crimes of violence, apparently committed by the same man, certainly by the same methods, showed a ruthless disregard of life. One man died as a result of his injuries. Curious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘You know what it’s like when the East End just shuts its mouth and refuses to speak,’ went on Grice. ‘They’re like that over the Hammer. The divisional people can’t get a squeak out of them. People who usually won’t help to cover up violence, do cover up the Hammer’s jobs. We’ve played low on it and the newspapers have been helpful.’ Grice shrugged. ‘If it weren’t for the violence, more than one man at the Yard would have a soft spot for the Hammer. Some think there are two separate people. Others are pretty sure that the Hammer is deliberately confusing us. Barrow’s one of those, by the way.’

  ‘Ah! The bright sergeant. How is he?’

  Grice said slowly. ‘Between you and me, I’m beginning to dislike Barrow. He’s clever, he’s got a nose for the job, but he’s too full of his own conceit. He’s got the ear of authority though, especially Meredith,’

  ‘Ah, the Chief Wallah, no friend of yours, I take it.’

  ‘We could get on better,’ agreed Grice absently, his mind obviously elsewhere. ‘Now this is the first real line we’ve got on the Hammer. Can you tell me anything else about it, some small detail, perhaps, you might have overlooked?’

  Rollison took out the folded paper, opened it and handed it to the detective.

  ‘Horniman had a letter with the same signature,’ he said.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I saw it.’ There was an air of innocent mockery in Rollison’s manner. ‘This was in the girl’s bag tonight.’

  ‘She might give us a lead,’ Grice said.

  ‘If she can, I’ll tell you,’ promised Rollison. ‘I rather think she’s a harmless little creature, and I also think she’s being blackmailed. Can we leave it at that?’

  Grice looked uncertain. ‘Well … oh, all right,’ he said, ‘but I ought to make you sign a statement.’ He changed the subject, abruptly. ‘What about the brief-case?’

  Rollison launched into Susan’s story, and was just finishing when first Susan and then Jolly returned. Susan greeted Grice composedly enough and, after a questioning glance at Rollison, agreed to sign a statement covering everything she had told him.

  ‘That secretary of yours could type it,’ Grice suggested.

  Rollison grinned. ‘Sorry, he’s out. But I’ll have it done and sent to you, if you like.’

  ‘All right,’ conceded Grice. ‘What do you make of it all?’ Rollison considered at some length. The question was inevitable, but it was too early to give a considered opinion. There seemed no reasonable connection between the organiser of London smash-and-grab raids with, apparently, a split personality, and Horniman and Bruce Drayton. Yet, clear in his mind’s eye, was that impression of a claw hammer. Grice would expect some kind of an analysis of the situation, too, and he had been helpful enough to deserve one.

  He temporised.

  ‘Do you mean about the Hammer?’

  ‘Leave him out of it,’ suggested Grice, ‘and concentrate on the Horniman business. Or the Drayton business, if you prefer to think about it that way. Do you think Drayton’s alive?’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’ Rollison glanced uncertainly at Susan. ‘I hoped Horniman would tell us. As it is, we’ll have to find out what we can. You’ve got the names of all the people who saw Horniman at the Norfolk, haven’t you?’

  Grice nodded.

  ‘And Welling was picked up at Waterloo,’ Rollison went on. ‘Is there anything from him?’

  ‘Sullen silence,’ said Grice with a shrug.

  ‘Well, he can’t do any more damage,’ Rollison reflected. ‘It looks reasonably certain that after you’d refused to play with the marriage story, Susan, Horniman decided that you were better dead. First, he tried to have you killed in the room, then sent Welling to try again on the train. That’s when things started to go topsy-turvy. One would have said that whoever wanted Horniman dead wanted Susan alive. The plump customer undoubtedly killed Horniman. He may be an emissary of the Hammer. It wasn’t true to form that he should later try to kill Susan, though. But try he did, I think,’ Rollison added, thoughtfully. ‘Of course, he might have merely wanted to scare her, but the reasonable thing to assume is that he tried again what had already worked once.’

  Grice frowned thoughtfully.

  ‘The question is, why should both of them want Susan dead, and why isn’t there something in her story more damning to Horniman?’ Rollison went on. ‘The story would have sent you hurrying to interview Horniman, but that’s all. True, you might have found proof that he had something to do with the burned man, but I doubt it. After all, he knew that you knew he was interested and might press him if murder could be established. Right?’

  Grice nodded, and Susan stirred.

  ‘What you’re really saying, Rolly, is that I haven’t told you everything.’

  ‘Wrong,’ said Rollison. ‘I’m saying that you may have learned something from Horniman or one of his friends without realising its significance.’

  ‘Such as?’ asked Grice.

  Rollison shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sh
all we say, reasonable evidence that Bruce is alive? Certainly he’s either dead or wilfully missing – not his will. Kidnapped!’

  Susan took it calmly. ‘I’ve wondered about that,’ she said.

  ‘When was the last time you heard from him personally, Miss Lancaster?’ asked Grice.

  ‘I had a letter on the day that he first disappeared,’ said Susan. ‘You’ve already seen it.’

  ‘And you had no real indication from Horniman that he’s alive?’

  ‘The nearest to a real indication, I suppose, is when I saw Mrs Drayton,’ Susan said.

  Grice shook his head. ‘Mrs Drayton is still in America,’ he said calmly. ‘The woman to whom you were introduced is an acquaintance of Horniman’s. I am going to see her tonight,’ he added, ‘but there’s no crime in pretending to be someone else unless you’ve a criminal motive.’

  Then a waiter arrived from the restaurant with the dinner Jolly had ordered. Nothing else of very much importance was said, and when the meal was over Grice eyed Susan shrewdly and said that she looked tired out and ought to go to bed.

  ‘Quite right,’ said Rollison. ‘The police will protect her, I hope.’

  ‘She needn’t worry about anything happening tonight,’ Grice assured him, adding as an afterthought: ‘There is one thing, Miss Lancaster. A registered letter arrived for you on the day you left for Bournemouth for the second time and your maid posted it on to you as soon as your address was known. What was in it?’

  Susan looked blank. ‘A registered letter? This is the first I’ve heard of it,’ she said.

  Grice frowned. ‘I know that it was forwarded.’

  ‘You might find it among Horniman’s luggage,’ suggested Rollison. ‘He probably took it from the desk for her at the Lorne Hall Hotel. Did he take your other correspondence, Susan?’

  ‘I didn’t have any.’

  ‘We can soon check that,’ Grice said.

  Downstairs, Sergeant Barrow was waiting in the shadows, and appeared when Grice called for him. He followed Susan, whose flat was within easy walking distance. Another policeman followed them. Rollison smiled as he watched them disappear, and spoke as he and Grice walked back up the stairs: ‘You’re being very thorough, Bill.’

  ‘I’ve got to be.’

  ‘Yes,’ thought Rollison, ‘that was true enough.’ There had been a change in Grice from the moment he had seen the jewel. It was possible he thought that relevant facts were being kept from him; Rollison’s reticence about Ethel Kent could have suggested it. On the other hand, the change might be due to Grice’s preoccupation with the Hammer. Organised robbery with violence was a major concern at Scotland Yard.

  ‘Well,’ Rollison said, ‘we’ve got to the brief-case at last.’ He pointed to a corner. ‘You can just see the needle.’

  Grice leaned forward. The leather was soft and pliable, and through it the needle stuck out perhaps an eighth of an inch.

  ‘I haven’t opened it yet,’ Rollison said virtuously.

  ‘Good.’ Grice took out a pair of cotton gloves, put them on and then opened the case. It was not locked. Within one of the compartments he found the hypodermic syringe. It was fastened into position with adhesive tape. There was a steel spring, cleverly inserted so as to press the plunger, controlled by a length of steel controlled from the handle.

  After several minutes, Grice got it cut.

  It was half full of a pale yellow liquid.

  ‘Ah,’ murmured Rollison. ‘So they meant to get Susan. Nice fellow, that fat man.’

  ‘We’ll have to test it before we can be sure.’

  ‘Oh, yes. What poison killed Horniman?’

  ‘One of the barbiturates,’ Grice said. ‘The stuff works almost instantaneously. But it’s not easy to come by. I doubt whether anyone but a doctor would think of using it.’

  ‘Or a qualified chemist.’

  ‘Well, yes. But neither doctors nor chemists often go off the rails,’ Grice pointed out, ‘I’ll have the thing tested for prints, but I expect the man wore gloves.’

  ‘Nice, thick hogskins,’ Rollison told him. After a contemplative pause, he added: ‘I have a feeling that I’ve seen that plump johnny before.’

  ‘One of Horniman’s visitors, do you mean?’

  ‘No, I’ve got them clearly etched on my mind,’ said Rollison. ‘The two who stand out are Mrs Drayton, and the woman Lenwell. Two very different types. What did you say Mrs Drayton’s real name was?’

  ‘I didn’t, she’s a Mrs Willis, a widow with ample means.’

  ‘Well-groomed, good taste, quite a figure,’ said Rollison, ‘but Mrs Lenwell was of the blousy, hearty type. I wonder what the meeting was about.’

  Grice smiled. ‘I know,’ he said.

  ‘Do you, by Jove! Then spare a crumb for a hungry man.’

  ‘You’re never satisfied without a full course meal,’ Grice retorted. ‘But it’s simple enough. He was going to promote a company, presumably to develop Bruce Drayton’s new invention. Horniman had persuaded all these people to invest fairly heavily. A total of nearly a hundred and twenty thousand pounds is involved. The Lenwells were down for ten thousand, although I wouldn’t have thought they were wealthy enough for that. Mrs Willis was also down for ten thousand, but that isn’t surprising. I think that’s all there is to it,’ Grice added, cautiously. ‘Each person interested was given a sheet of paper covered with technical data. They’re to do with the manufacturing process and represented a security, according to Horniman, but they’re probably worthless. When I’ve collected them all, I’ll get an expert’s opinion.’

  ‘And was the deal put through at Bournemouth?’

  ‘Presumably. They certainly settled details there. Most of these people looked on Horniman as a kind of fairy godmother who was going to wave a wand and turn their pieces of silver into gold. I doubt whether Mrs Willis was quite so easily gulled. Mrs Lenwell might have been, she’s the optimistic kind. Well, it looks as if they’ll get their money back now.’

  ‘Is it available?’

  ‘Oh yes. Horniman had a big bank credit, and it will come out of the estate.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Rollison. ‘A hundred and twenty thousand would be quite a picking, though, if Horniman were bucket-shopping.’ He thought of, but did not mention, the prospectuses in Horniman’s case. Grice’s information tied up nicely with that. It suggested that Horniman was confident of getting possession of the new process. The amounts involved and the range of investors were too wide, for it to be likely that he had intended to promote a fraudulent company.

  ‘What do you really know of Bruce Drayton?’ asked Grice.

  ‘Not a lot really. He appeared to be quiet and pleasant enough, with no noticeably outstanding quality. I don’t know anything about his family, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘What about Miss Lancaster?’

  Rollison shrugged. ‘Absolutely in the clear. I’ve known her most of my life.’

  Grice said: ‘I’ll back your judgement there, anyhow.’ Rollison looked at him thoughtfully.

  ‘Only there?’

  ‘I’m not so sure about your man, Higginbottom,’ said Grice, to Rollison’s surprise. ‘Nor am I altogether happy about him. You’re keeping him fairly well-informed, aren’t you? I don’t mind giving you a thing or two off the record, but there are limits. Don’t you think it curious that he applied for the job just now?’

  ‘He didn’t apply, he advertised and Jolly wrote to him.’

  ‘Do you know where Jolly posted the letters answering the advertisements?’

  ‘In Audley Street, presumably.’ Rollison cast his mind back, and went on: ‘He wanted me to post them, then found that he had time before he left for Bournemouth. That’s the nearest box on his way. Why?’

  ‘On that particular night someone tried to rob that post box,’ Grice said. ‘It might actually have been robbed. A constable saw someone with a car standing near it, and thought that a tube had been pushed into the box, probably a suction tube,
to draw letters up. Yours could have been opened, and one of the applicants could have been impersonating a man to whom you wrote.’

  ‘I suppose you could be right,’ Rollison admitted, reluctantly. ‘But all the people turned up, you know, which proves that the letters were delivered. I still back Snub Higginbottom.’

  ‘What about his references?’ asked Grice.

  ‘I didn’t follow them up.’

  Grice threw up his hands. ‘There’s no limit to the crazy things you do! You like the look in a man’s eyes and take him on trust. Personally, I would watch him.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Rollison promised.

  Grice left soon afterwards, carrying the case and the hypodermic syringe with him as well as the diamond pendant.

  Rollison was in a thoughtful, rather troubled mood. It was true that he had liked Snub on sight, but it was possible that he had been taken in. Grice would not have lied about the attempt to rifle the post box, and he had probably checked on the incident because he doubted Snub’s credentials.

  Rollison called for Jolly, and put the question baldly: ‘Do you think Higginbottom’s reliable, Jolly?’

  Jolly answered without a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘I consider him a most trustworthy young man, sir, and, if I may say so, a tribute to your perspicacity in selecting him. You have no reason to think otherwise, I hope.’

  ‘Grice has sown the seeds of suspicion. Did you post the letters in Audley Street?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Pillar box was rifled,’ said Rollison. ‘It’s odd. Oh, well, Grice will check on him, and if he finds anything wrong he’ll tell me quickly enough. You know, I shouldn’t like to think ill of Snub.’

  ‘I feel quite confident, sir,’ Jolly assured him, and then glanced at the telephone as the bell began to ring. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ He lifted the receiver, and after a pause he said: ‘Yes, hold on one moment. It’s Mr Higginbottom, sir.’

  Rollison took the receiver.