A Sharp Rise in Crime Read online

  Appleby considered the question and countered with another.

  ‘How many other impersonations?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  Roger in turn considered the question and in turn countered with another. ‘In the Force or outside?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hell of a question.’

  ‘Got to be asked, got to be answered,’ replied Appleby. ‘Can you take advice or should it wait for a brighter day?’

  ‘In view of my arm, you’re safe enough.’

  ‘I should have thought of that,’ Appleby said.

  ‘Perhaps we should both resign and go into partnership for finding lost cats or erring spouses.’ He leaned forward, looking very serious, even worried, and went on: ‘Don’t ask the question of anyone except the very top dogs,’ he urged. ‘Don’t share it with Brother Trannion or anyone else. Let the idea play around in your mind for a while before you let it out on anyone. Because, oh Roger boy, this could be dynamite. How many? Two we know of, ten, twenty, thirty—’ He broke off.

  ‘I think we’ll stop at two,’ Roger said. ‘For now. Dan, I must be going. This has been a most stimulating half-hour.’

  ‘For me, too. How is Martin?’

  ‘He seems fine, but I haven’t been able to talk to him long enough to find out why he’s come back,’ Roger answered. ‘He’s always been unpredictable; reaches a stage where he can’t stand the situation he’s in any longer, and simply walks out.’

  ‘That’s all right, while he’s single,’ observed Appleby. ‘I’d like to meet him.’

  ‘Come over to dinner one night soon,’ said Roger. ‘I’ll have Janet call you.’

  ‘I’d love that,’ Appleby said soberly. They were walking slowly towards the main smoking-room door, now; only a dozen people were in earshot and they seemed immersed in their newspapers.

  ‘Good. How—’ Roger hesitated. ‘How are you finding things?’

  ‘In my new bachelorhood? Oh, not so bad,’ Appleby replied, with a wry smile suggesting that things were not so good in fact. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Roger – I am still devoutly glad that the marriage is ended and it didn’t even sting when I heard she was marrying again. Felt a pang for the other chap, but who knows, I may have driven her to drink. But – well, it’s lonely. I think a man has to learn to live on his own.’

  ‘No one else who interests you?’

  ‘No!’ answered Appleby. ‘Not remotely. Still, it’s early days yet. How’s young Hadley getting on?’

  ‘First-class,’ Roger said, and did not say that Hadley had been sent up to the Midlands out of the way. As they walked together past the venerable Darracq and down the carpeted stairs, one of the porters, elderly, grey-haired, very erect in bearing, came forward.

  ‘Excuse me, Superintendent,’ he said. ‘It is Superintendent West, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Who—good lord! Tom Scottsdale!’ Roger felt a sudden warmth of feeling for an ex-Yard man whom he hadn’t seen for years. Many of them, whose pensions were not too generous, supplemented them with such jobs as these, or with private security firms. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Better part of six months, sir and it’s not so bad,’ Scottsdale answered. ‘Er—there’s something I ought to say to you in private, sir – I’d have made myself known in any case but there’s a special reason.’ He glanced apologetically at Appleby, who said: ‘Dammit, I forgot to get my Times,’ and turned and hurried away.

  ‘Well?’ asked Roger.

  ‘Sir,’ said Scottsdale, ‘I can’t be positive but I think you’re being followed.’

  Roger’s heart missed a beat. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I saw you arrive, sir – I was the man who opened your car door – and a taxi stopped not far behind you … Didn’t pull into the rank, and no one got out. It turned into St. James’s Square, but there was something – well, you know how things are, sir, never lose your nose for something a bit peculiar.’

  ‘No,’ Roger said.

  ‘Well, I had my break soon afterwards, and walked round the square – often do on a nice day, keeps you in trim, I always say. Well, sir, that taxi is parked only a few cars along across the road, with a passenger in it and the flag down. I just thought you ought to know, sir.’

  ‘You couldn’t be more right,’ Roger said warmly, ‘I’m having some bother at the moment. Is there any way of identifying the car?’

  ‘Just its number plate, sir – YCA 142.’

  ‘Number plates can be changed. No dents, scars, broken windows, anything like that?’

  Scottsdale considered.

  ‘Well, sir – it’s got a label, a transfer of some kind, on the windscreen which someone’s tried to pull off without much luck. On the left-hand side, top.’

  ‘Good!’ Roger’s eyes were glowing, and he gripped the other’s forearm. ‘Now I want to go and call the Yard.’ He hurried up to the phone booth, beckoning Appleby who had a newspaper in his right hand and was looking rather forlorn. Roger dialled 999 and said: ‘Police, please.’ Almost immediately he was answered by one of the men sitting at the big conveyor in the Information Room. ‘Is Mr Marriott there? … This is Superintendent West.’ Again he had only the briefest of waits before Marriott came on the line.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I think I’m being followed by a man in a taxi, black, present number YCA 142,’ Roger said, with great deliberation. ‘At the moment I’m at the Royal Automobile Club, waiting in the hall. I’d like two vehicles not identifiable as police cars to watch the taxi – and I’d like one of our taxis, a brown one, to pull up outside the R.A.C. and drop a passenger and then pick me up. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Fine,’ Roger said. ‘I can’t be sure, but this man may have a gun.’ He rang off, and looked hard at Appleby, who had not missed a word and now knew the full significance of the ex-policeman’s message.

  Then, Roger became aware of someone standing close by him.

  He was always sensitive to the unemphasised presence of another, and this morning he was more sensitive than ever. He did not want to let the other know he was aware; after all, it could be someone who wanted to use the telephone.

  The ‘someone’ moved.

  ‘Gosh, Dad,’ Martin said in tones of deep interest, ‘things really are hotting up, aren’t they? Anything I can do?’

  Roger found himself chuckling; Martin’s eyebrows rose, but nothing really surprised him about his father. Appleby, realising at once who the ‘stranger’ was, watched the reactions of father and son and thought how different they were and yet, in some ways, how alike. There was strength in each mouth and jaw, and the eyes and forehead were almost identical. For the occasion Martin had put on a grey tweed suit in which he looked both young and eager.

  ‘Yes,’ Roger said, ‘and the first job could be extremely important. Do you remember Dr. Appleby, by the way?’

  ‘The pathologist? I believe we did meet once, sir,’ Martin said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Recovering from what I just heard your father say on the telephone,’ said Appleby, drily.

  ‘Dad, what is going on?’

  ‘I’m in the process of finding out. Dan, could you go with Martin to the Yard and introduce him to Chief Inspector Marriott of Information – he’ll know you – and tell Mariott we need the photographs of those diagrams more urgently than ever? He’ll tell you all about it,’ Roger added to Martin. ‘I hope you’ve got plenty of film.’

  ‘Ten pounds worth,’ Martin answered, as if that must be enough film for a year. ‘But Dad, couldn’t I follow you?’

  ‘No,’ Roger said, simply, and Martin, knowing his father, made no protest.

  He and Appleby left the club together, Martin picking up a heavy-looking suitcase from the porter’s lodge. Roger, waiting, was tempted to go and look for that taxi but resisted the impulse. It seemed only a few minutes before a cab in a chocolate brown colour drew up and deposited a passenger, and Roger went o
ut and got in.

  ‘Where to, sir?’ the Yard driver asked.

  ‘I think we’ll take Lambeth Bridge and then head for Camberwell,’ Roger replied. ‘We want to lead the chap far enough to be sure our other chaps have picked him up, and won’t lose him.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ the driver said.

  A moment later they passed the end of St. James’s Square, and at that very moment a black taxi with a partly removed sticker on the windscreen pulled into Pall Mall.

  Its number had been changed to EBZ 432.

  Chapter Eleven

  Chase and Scramble

  Roger’s driver crossed the lines of traffic, making for Clarence House and St. James’s Park. The other driver was caught in two swift-moving streams of cars and had to hold back. Roger was tempted to tell his man what to do – turn right towards the Palace where crowds were bound to give them an excuse to be stuck, but this man would be a Flying Squad driver and would know his business inside out.

  So Roger said: ‘It’s just possible they’ll try to blow my head off.’ His level voice took the melodrama out of the words.

  The driver, a phlegmatic-looking man, said equably: ‘We can’t allow that, sir, can we?’

  Roger started a laugh. ‘I’d prefer it if we didn’t. Do you know what we’ve got for company?’

  ‘Green van marked Television, Radio and Recorder Specialists,’ answered the driver, ‘and a white one marked Mardi’s Electronic Printers. Bloody fool!’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Cut across another taxi, sir – I’ll say one thing. They don’t want to lose you. I’m in radio contact with the other two vehicles, sir. Like to talk to them?’

  ‘Please. Has the taxi caught up?’

  ‘Nearly. I think I’ll go up to Horse Guards and then Parliament Square.’

  ‘Up to you,’ Roger answered. He unhooked the receiver fastened to the dashboard of the cab, and immediately a man said in broad Cockney: ‘Car ZA.’

  Another man said in an unmistakable Yorkshire accent: ‘Car F–FATHER, E–EDWARD.’

  ‘Can you two hear each other as well as me?’ asked Roger.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the Yorkshire man.

  ‘Roger,’ said the Cockney.

  ‘This is Superintendent West—’

  ‘Oh, Gawd,’ interrupted the Cockney. ‘Trust me to put my plates of meat in it. Won’t use “Roger” again, sir.’

  ‘Make it Brown Dog,’ Roger said, chuckling. There was something exciting in what was happening; exciting, too, in the knowledge that the police were able to work together so closely, using a wavelength the following cab certainly couldn’t pick up. ‘What instructions have you had?’

  ‘To follow the brown cab and the black cab, and take one each if they split up.’

  ‘As a basic rule, follow that,’ ordered Roger. ‘The main job is to find out where the black cab goes, whether it makes any calls or meets other cabs so that the occupants can talk, get descriptions and if possible photographs of drivers, passengers and anyone they talk to. Are you equipped?’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ said the Yorkshire man.

  ‘Brown Dog,’ answered the Cockney.

  ‘They – I mean the people in the cab or someone they contact – may make an attack on me. You still follow the cab. That’s absolute priority.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And when you’ve run them to earth try not to let them know it,’ said Roger. He rang off before the others could speak again. His own cab was in Parliament Square.

  ‘They’re manoeuvring for the middle lane and Victoria Street, sir – assuming you’re going to the Yard,’ his driver informed him.

  ‘Go along the Embankment,’ Roger ordered, ‘and across – keep Camberwell as the destination.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Roger sat back in the cab, and rested his left arm against his chest. The wound was a nuisance, if the stuff that the little lady had put on didn’t begin to give him more comfort soon, he would have to have the dressing changed; she probably still used medicaments which had been popular in the First World War. He smiled slightly to himself.

  They were now driving along that stretch of road which ran between Parliament Square and the approach to Lambeth Bridge, a section which was often much emptier than most in London. For a moment he was relaxed; they would soon be over the bridge, and—

  ‘Sir,’ the driver said calmly. ‘They’re closing up on us.’

  Roger caught his breath. ‘Fast?’

  ‘As fast as the traffic will allow. Shall I go faster?’

  ‘No,’ Roger said. ‘Just hold that wheel – they’re not after you, they’re after me.’

  ‘They’re coming up on the outside.’ There was nothing remotely phlegmatic about the driver now, anxiety made his voice sharpen; but his hands were loose on the wheel. ‘Duck, sir!’

  Roger, in the far corner from the overtaking cab, saw its nose, then its windscreen, and knew that it was putting on an exceptional burst of speed. He saw the man sitting by the driver, and the gun in his hand, held close to the body so that it wasn’t easy to see. Roger saw a broad face with a broad nose – and then threw himself to the right. He heard the crack of the shot; the glass did not shatter but a hole leapt into it. He heard two more shots; sharp cracks. The black cab passed. A green van and then a white one followed – Cars ZA and FE. His own car came to a surprisingly steady standstill, and the driver was out of his door and looking in at Roger in a trice.

  ‘You all right, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ Roger said, ‘but wait a minute.’ His mind began to work as fast as it had ever done. ‘Call the Yard, have one of our ambulance cars come and get me. It can drop me at St. George’s and I can be admitted as seriously hurt.’ He gave his broadest grin. ‘And if you were to ask me why I couldn’t tell you yet.’

  The driver drew a deep breath.

  ‘The only thing I care about is that you’re all right. They really mean to get you, sir, don’t they?’ He was already taking the receiver off its hook, while pedestrians were drawing up, intently curious. In the distance a policeman was coming towards them with surprising speed, only his helmet showing above the crowd.

  Roger felt as if all the blood had been drained out of his body. Reaction, of course, reaction from some loss of blood, plus the fact that he had twice been within an ace of death. The driver was talking.

  The policeman was saying in an unexpectedly deep voice: ‘Move back, please, move back!’

  Roger opened his eyes – and saw, very close to the open door, close to the driver, a man he had seen from the steps that morning.

  And in the man’s hand was a small automatic pistol.

  Death glared at him.

  Death, which he had escaped by inches twice already that day.

  He was too shocked to move; mesmerised.

  He could not even think the obvious things: that the brown cab had been followed, that those who wished him dead were willing to take fantastic chances; that this man must know that he faced certain capture, he would never escape through the crowd which the policeman was trying to force back.

  He saw the finger move on the trigger.

  He felt as if his whole body, his head, his mind and heart, were splitting asunder.

  Yet he did not die, for no bullet struck him, although in those few panic-stricken seconds he did not know why. Knowledge came to him later as he was driven away in an ambulance, the whole scene as vivid as if it were happening again, except for the dreadful explosion in his head and in his body.

  The driver of the Yard’s taxi had an unremarkable name: Percy Briggs.

  He sat at the wheel of his cab, which was lawfully licensed, day in and day out, sometimes actually plying for hire. He was Buddha-like in his solidity and stillness and he moved less of his body than ten average taxi drivers put together.

  He had, like many of the men at the Yard who were never likely to rise above the rank of sergeant, certain favourite superiors. He did not h
ero-worship them, for his was not a romantic mind; but he followed their cases with interest, admired their methods, respected them as men, although he came in contact with very few of them.

  In his early days in the Force, out on the beat before the days of walkie-talkies and fast patrol cars, he had had little time for West: too glamorous, too much of a show-off, always around when there was publicity and at the end of a case, but getting his results from the labour of others, had been his summing up.

  Then one day, he had been on the fringe of a job West was handling. Up on the roof of a fire-gutted building, a roof which might cave in at any moment, was a man with enough nitroglycerine in his hand to blow up a whole block of houses. West had sent everyone else out of range and gone up after the man.

  Alone.

  No one knew how he managed it; everyone knew that he got the nitro away, and then knocked the man out and gave the signal that all was safe and a fire escape should be sent at once.

  Briggs didn’t exactly hero-worship West as a result; but he put West high above the rest of top policemen.

  On this particular day, hearing West give his orders, and then seeing his reaction under fire, Briggs’s opinion rose even higher. He wasn’t even certain West hadn’t been hurt, and hurrying his call for an ambulance, and turning to make sure, he saw what he had never expected to find on the other’s face.

  Fear.

  Terror.

  And West was looking at a man who was standing close to the open door of the taxi; a man in whose hand was a gun.

  Percy Briggs did not even give himself time to speak or shout, he simply bent his arm and drove his elbow into the man. He heard a gasp, a zutt of sound which he knew came from an automatic air pistol, and he saw West still sitting, as if petrified. Then Briggs burst into action. He spun round, grabbed the gunman who was now trying to push into the crowd. He caught him with one great hand by the neck and he shook and shook and shook him again, until people in the crowd called out in protest, and the policeman, now with a second in support, called out sharply: ‘Stop that!’