Murder, London--South Africa Read online

  He tapped at the secretary’s door, but there was no answer. He went in, found the room empty, went across to Hardy’s office, tapped, and heard Hardy say, “See who that is, Rose.”

  The door opened, and the secretary said, “It’s Mr West.”

  “Oh, Handsome.” Hardy got up from his desk and moved towards him. His secretary slipped past Roger, and he could have sworn that she winked at him. “I hear you made a hero of yourself again last night.”

  Hardy placed a hand on Roger’s shoulder for a moment, a rare demonstrative gesture.

  “If Van der Lunn had died, I think we’d have been in trouble. As it is, it looks as if we’re in everybody’s good books, which makes a nice change.”

  He motioned to a chair and Roger sat down with a feeling that this wasn’t really happening to him.

  “There are the two distinct problems,” went on Hardy. “The disappearance of the packets of diamonds, and the kidnapping of Van der Lunn. We’ve obviously reason to suspect that they’re connected, but can’t be certain. The South African Ambassador is very anxious to find out. I gather from du Toit that you’ve impressed him as being open-minded, and able to see this problem without any kind of—er—emotional prejudice.”

  Hardy paused.

  Roger said almost ruefully, “du Toit must have bought an awful lot of butter.”

  He just stopped himself from adding, ‘What’s all this leading up to?’

  “Butter or blarney, they’re impressed, particularly because we’ve found Van der Lunn very quickly.”

  “That was a mixture of luck and routine.”

  “A hell of a lot of our work is,” remarked Hardy, “but we don’t have to tell du Toit. The point is, I want you to drop everything else and concentrate on finding out whether the kidnapping of Van der Lunn was connected with the diamonds, or with his visit to London about oil surveying. Before another negotiator is sent out from South Africa the authorities want to know the motive. No one says so, but there’s obviously some fear that it might be politically inspired, and so far there’s no way of telling. What I really want you to do,” added Hardy with a broad smile, “is find out that this isn’t political! If you can do that, the air will be cleared, and we’ll have a lot of people off our backs. So you have carte blanche. Leave no stone unturned and all that. Use as many men as you need – within reason,” the Assistant Commissioner added with a dash of characteristic caution. “How long will it take you to put someone else on to the other jobs you’ve got in hand?”

  “Not long,” Roger answered. “They can always have a word with me if they’re pushed. Any special instructions?”

  “This is a job you’ve got to play by ear,” said Hardy. “Make sure your ear’s tuned in properly.”

  10

  PLAYING BY EAR

  Roger strode along the passages of the Yard as if new life had been breathed into him. That made itself evident by the length of his stride, the feeling that he could push aside everything that got in his way, the fact that a dozen aspects flashed into his mind, and he knew exactly what he wanted to do about every one of them. He pushed open the door of the office where Klemm worked with five other chief inspectors, to find Klemm there on his own, writing. He looked up.

  “Tell Gorlay to come along to my office at noon, will you? And come yourself.” Roger let the door swing to behind him. “Any bright ideas about men we could use on this job?”

  Before Klemm could say ‘What part of the job?’ Roger went on, “We want a small team ready to work night and day on it until we find out the real reason for the attack on Van der Lunn. You, Jameson, Gorlay, a couple of DOs and another CI, one who won’t get in your hair or mine.”

  Klemm was grinning almost fiercely.

  “McKay,” he said promptly. “He’s our best diamond-man after Mr Butterworth. Knows Amsterdam inside out, knows more diamond thieves and diamond smugglers than the rest of us put together – rest of us CIs,” Klemm added as a hurried afterthought.

  “Do you know if he’s free?”

  “He’s tidying up the evidence on that Hatton Garden job. Then he was going to have a week’s fishing.”

  “The fish will bite a lot better next month,” said Roger. “Brief him, will you? I’m going along to my office, then over to Cannon Row. Is Jameson with you?

  “Patient as Job.”

  Roger nodded, and went out: Klemm was already speaking on the telephone and the last words Roger heard as the door closed were, “. . . see if McKay’s there.”

  Roger’s office was only a few doors along. He thrust the door open so suddenly that Jameson jumped up from a chair at the corner of the desk, and papers he was writing slithered over the shiny surface.

  “Morning,” Roger said. “Sorry I’m late. What’ve you got?”

  “I am trying to make sure that nothing has been forgotten,” said Jameson. “Mr Klemm was good enough to allow me to see a copy of his notes.”

  “What did he miss?” asked Roger, and laughed. “Never mind – it would be a miracle if we didn’t all miss something when things happen as fast as they did last night. Had any bright ideas yourself?”

  Jameson was looking puzzled at Roger’s manner.

  “No, sir, but I have certain information for you.” When Roger didn’t ask what, he went on, “I have seen Mr du Toit, who is most grateful for everything you have done already. I took the liberty last night, after you had retired, of telephoning Mr du Toit and also my Colonel in Pretoria.”

  Jameson spoke as if he had made a local call, not one halfway across the world.

  “It is now known that Mr Van der Lunn’s apartment in Johannesburg has been burgled, and thoroughly searched, and many documents of importance have been stolen. There is one thing which we overlooked last night.”

  Roger went very still. “Is there?”

  “Yes, sir, there is.” Jameson looked as if he hated having to say this. “We did not search for any luggage which Mr Van der Lunn had with him.”

  Relieved, Roger said drily, “No. But we should have a report from the Division during the morning; they did all the searching at the hotel.”

  He ran through the pile of correspondence on his desk, and unearthed a sealed envelope with a ‘By Hand From SW Division’ on it.

  “Here’s Pen’s report.” He slit open the envelope and began to read aloud, “Nothing of Lewis’ found at the Common View Hotel except oddments taken from his clothes – handkerchief, keys, coins, stamps. Nothing of any importance . . . Rebecca and Joshua Bradshaw state that when Lewis was brought to the hotel on Monday evening he had only the clothes he stood up in, no wallet, no money, no luggage . . .”

  Roger glanced up at Jameson, who was smiling with satisfaction.

  “They say that they didn’t see the man who brought Lewis. Only David Bradshaw saw him, although there is a possibility that David’s wife Elizabeth caught a glimpse of the man. A newspaper boy who was mending a puncture in his bicycle tyre saw a taxi arrive. A man answering Lewis’ description was inside. The boy says David Bradshaw, in uniform, helped the passenger out and carried him upstairs. The taxi then drove off. Could have been a genuine taxi,” Roger observed, and went on, “Ah! Pendleton is asking all of his people to report if they saw a taxi near Common View Hotel that night. He should have some news in this morning. Doesn’t miss much, does he?”

  “No one in your Force appears to miss very much,” said Jameson with obvious feeling.

  “Now what else?” Roger asked, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “Elizabeth Bradshaw returned to the hotel at two forty-five, that’s about right . . . Pendleton has questioned all three of them again this morning and their stories are identical with the statements they made last night . . . Dr Abbott, who was acting locum for the Divisional police surgeon this week was called to the house by Rebecca Bradshaw, that’s
corroborated . . . He examined Van der Lunn and came to the conclusion that he was suffering from an overdose of drugs and wanted him removed to hospital at once, but David and Joshua Bradshaw wouldn’t allow it. That was what made Abbott suspicious. So Abbott went back to the Divisional HQ to tell Pendleton he thought something was wrong at the hotel, and noticed the photograph pinned up on the board.”

  Roger looked up.

  “Not much more we need from that. If you’ve any questions you want to ask, make a list and we’ll talk to Pendleton this afternoon.”

  “I will do that,” Jameson promised.

  “What next?”

  “I hope you will allow me to be present when you question David Bradshaw.”

  “Yes, and we’ll go straight over. He’ll have to be charged formally in court some time today, but we have an afternoon hearing if we want it. Let’s go over to Cannon Row. Have you ever been there?” he asked as he stood up.

  “No. But I have often heard of it.”

  “It’s the nearest police station to the Yard and does a lot of our chores for us,” Roger said. “A night in the cell might have made Bradshaw remember a lot of things he forgot last night.”

  The Station Superintendent, elderly and paunchy and somewhat cynical, said that after his wife had been released, the prisoner had settled down and fallen asleep. He had been woken with breakfast, but had dozed off again soon afterwards.

  The Superintendent sent for the sergeant-in-charge of cells, a middle-aged barrel of a man with an unexpectedly high-pitched voice, who led the way, jangling keys with absent-minded relish. An elderly man without collar or tie sat dejectedly behind the bars of one cell. Two were empty. In the fourth was David Bradshaw, who was sitting on the bed reading a magazine. He looked relaxed and rested – satisfied, Roger thought oddly.

  Bradshaw looked up. He nodded recognition, glanced at Jameson with casual interest, and said, “Thank you for being so considerate to my wife, Superintendent.”

  His voice was hoarse in a croaking kind of way.

  “We’re only interested in making the guilty pay,” Roger said prosily.

  The sergeant unlocked the cell door, let Roger and Jameson in, and shut the door on them.

  “Like me to stay close by, sir?”

  “I’ll be at least a quarter of an hour. You’ll be within earshot, won’t you?”

  “Oh, yes.” The sergeant locked them in, and went off, his orders carried out to the letter.

  Roger turned to Bradshaw.

  “If you’re being pushed around by some big shots, we’ll do all we can for you if you help us find them.”

  He let this sink in.

  “This statement”—he tapped a copy of the statement which Bradshaw had made and signed the previous night—“it can’t be true.”

  “Every word is,” asseverated the BOAC steward.

  “You say you have no idea who gave you the bags of diamonds or who collected them. But you’ve been at this game for months, on your own admission.”

  “I tell you I wouldn’t know the men from Adam,” insisted Bradshaw. He looked rather like a scraggy turkey with his long neck and big nose, as he darted round on Jameson. “He might be one of them for all I know. A mechanic or one of the porters at the airport might slip them to me. Sometimes they’d be put on the aircraft in my bag – I always had to leave it unlocked. When I got the stuff to London and past the Customs, someone I’d never seen before would come up and ask for it. Or else when I arrived here, someone would be waiting for me, and I’d be told to leave the stuff in that old umbrella on the porch.”

  “How did you know you were giving it to the right man, or the right man was getting it?”

  “There was a kind of code word,” answered Bradshaw. “That’s what it amounted to, anyhow. Whoever spoke to me asked for ‘that piece of wash-leather’ or told me where to put ‘that piece of wash-leather.’ It was a kind of joke, and after a while it seemed so easy I almost forgot there was anything wrong about it.”

  “Last night you said that once you’d started you were blackmailed into going on with it,” Roger said sharply.

  “So I was – at first. Then it became a kind of habit.”

  “What threats were used?”

  “They always said that if I didn’t do what I was told they’d slip some diamonds in my baggage and report it to Customs,” said Bradshaw. “I didn’t know who they were, so I couldn’t give them away. They were all right. And I knew that if my wife knew, she would have a terrible shock. Superintendent, what do you think will happen to me? How long do you think I’ll spend in prison?”

  “You could halve the time of your sentence if you helped us find your accomplices and employers,” said Roger.

  “You don’t take no for an answer easily, do you?” asked Bradshaw with a flash of spirit. “What I don’t know I can’t tell you.”

  “Would you recognise any of these men again?”

  Bradshaw hesitated. “I might, I suppose.”

  “Can’t you be sure?”

  “Not until I see one of them,” answered Bradshaw. He added with a note of desperation, “Listen, it was like this. I’d be walking from the airport buildings towards the aircraft and someone would sidle up to me and push the packet into my hand or my pocket. Or I’d go and open my case and find something tucked down the side. Or I’d meet a man at a bar who wouldn’t look at me but would whisper something about ‘wash-leather’ so that I knew what to do. And I’d been warned not to take a close look at any of these chaps – I didn’t want my throat cut.”

  “Did you seriously think you’d have your throat cut if you let them down?” asked Roger.

  “The way they threatened me didn’t leave much doubt.”

  After a pause, Roger said, “Was it always a different man or woman?”

  “As far as I know, yes.”

  “Did you ever see the same man or woman twice?”

  “If they were the same I didn’t recognise them.”

  “How often have you done this on average?”

  “About once every couple of weeks.”

  “For six months?”

  “Seven months, as a matter of fact.”

  “So you’ve been told what to do by over two dozen people – here and in South Africa.” Roger paused. “Do you know what you’re saying? Over twenty-four people are involved in this smuggling, not just one or two.”

  Bradshaw said, almost savagely, “That’s right, and how do you know I’m the only steward they used? How do you know they don’t use other stewards on the BOAC and TWA, and South African Airlines and KLM and Qantas, and all the rest who use Pretoria and Johannesburg and come to London? And if it comes to that, what makes you think the diamonds are smuggled only to London? Eh? What makes you think that?”

  Roger said slowly, “I didn’t say I thought anything of the kind. Bradshaw, you’re in deep trouble.”

  “Don’t I know it!”

  “Deeper than you think.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “I mean you know the size of this organisation, and you know a lot more about it than you pretend to,” said Roger. “You can still help yourself by telling us everything, but you’re bound to make it worse for yourself if you keep on lying.”

  “I’m not lying,” Bradshaw insisted harshly. “Any fool could tell this was a big racket, and I’m not that kind of a fool. If they used as many operatives as that when dealing with me it had to be big, and if it was that big it was probably worldwide. Don’t tell me you hadn’t realised that.”

  Bradshaw was quite right, this had all the indications of an extensive criminal organisation with worldwide ramifications. So it could tie in with the assignment Nightingale of The Globe was on, and with the diamond smuggling which Hammerton was investigating. There wa
s little doubt that Jameson and the South African Embassy knew or at least suspected the truth. Jameson must have known. Hardy must have had a pretty good idea, too. He would not have been so pleased with the situation, du Toit and the Ambassador wouldn’t have been so appreciative of the results of last night’s activities, unless they had known cause for such elation.

  Bradshaw was too preoccupied with his special brand of self-justification to notice Roger’s tension. Jameson was standing on one side, somehow merging into the cell walls, part of the wall rather than one of the three people present. Roger’s mind started to work more smoothly. What else should he ask Bradshaw? What was likely to break Bradshaw down – except danger to his wife?

  Roger was already saying, “. . . what else did they tell you about Lewis?”

  “Lewis, Lewis, what the hell’s the use of keeping on about Lewis,” croaked Bradshaw. “I’ve been going to and from Johannesburg long enough to know all the big shots, so why don’t you stop pretending about Van der Lunn. They just told me to give him these tablets to keep him quiet; they said they were sedatives and wouldn’t do him any harm—”

  “Who said?” interrupted Roger.

  “I was called to the telephone at Johannesburg. A man told me I wouldn’t have any wash-leather to worry about. I was to look after a passenger. He said I’d find some tablets pushed into my pocket as I left the telephone booth, and I was to follow the instructions on the label – one tablet every four hours for Van der Lunn. If you hadn’t rushed me last night he would have been all right.”

  “Why did you try to get him out of the hotel?” Roger demanded harshly.

  “I had to try! I thought if I could get him away you wouldn’t have anything on me. There was nothing at the hotel. You couldn’t find what wasn’t there, so all I had to do was get rid of Van der Lunn. I didn’t realise you had the place surrounded, or I wouldn’t have run for it. And I didn’t throw him out, he fell. It was an accident, you can’t blame me for that.”