The Scene of the Crime Read online

“Yes.”

  “We’ve had the number checked: it was Anderson’s car. And we’ve had a bit of luck from a neighbour who was out yesterday and Saturday. Got in about half past eleven on Saturday night, he says, and saw Julian A. actually going into Number 24. So he’s lying hard to save himself.”

  Roger didn’t say that Julian had already admitted that, and didn’t speak, until Fox said with unexpected feeling: “Poor devil.”

  “I’d poor devil him,” Cope said. “We ought to wave flags because we’ve got him so quick.”

  Chapter Nine

  Need For Speed

  The case against Julian Anderson seemed as tight as it could be. The Assistant Commissioner and the Public Prosecutor’s office agreed. For safety’s sake, another eight-day remand in custody was asked for, but after that it would almost certainly be plain sailing, with a straight committal for trial at the Old Bailey. From Roger’s knowledge of the Assize calendar, it would be March before the trial, and it might possibly wait over until May.

  Julian was allowed to leave Brixton on the Tuesday, for his father’s funeral. Tearful Jennie and two elderly friends of the old man were there, as well as a sprinkling of business acquaintances, and a representative from the bank – the manager to whom Roger had spoken. And, of course, there was a hoard of newspaper men. Julian, white and drawn, stood up to the strain well. The two policemen, and two prison officers with him did not crowd him too much, and although every precaution was taken to make sure that he made no attempt to escape, the whole function went off without sensation. The evening newspapers gave it headlines:

  TRAGIC FIGURE AT GRAVESIDE

  That was about right, Roger thought.

  When he got back to the Yard, there was a buzz of excitement over an escape from Dartmoor, and a spasm of action over a post-office van holdup in the West End. A man the Yard had been looking for during the past three weeks was picked up not five minutes walk from his home, and a harassed and alarmed bank official reported that he had discovered some remarkable forgeries of one pound notes; there would be upheaval over that if the notes had been in circulation for long, and it promised to become a major inquiry.

  The case against Julian Anderson became a matter of routine, now mostly handled by the P.P.’s office. It stopped nagging at Roger, because of that last piece of straightforward evidence. There was virtually no doubt that the jury would bring in a guilty verdict.

  Roger did hear, three weeks later, that Julian was putting the family business on the market. That looked like a covert confession of guilt, or at least acceptance of the fact that he would not be free to run the business. The plump man with the fat face, whom it was easy to dislike on sight, became more and more a tragic figure.

  The fact that Anderson & Son was on the market became generally known in the jewellery trade just three weeks after Julian’s arrest, and John Payne heard about it when he called on a firm of wholesale jewellers and gold and silversmiths in the Chancery Lane area. A little old man with owlish eyes and a permanently husky voice stood in his shirt sleeves behind an overheated shop, and said: “I expect you’ve heard, Mr. Payne, about what is happening at your old place of business.”

  “What’s new, Mr. Benoni?” asked Payne, opening the case in which he had a few sets of cheap jewellery, and several small collections of antique jewellery which he had picked up at a sale three weeks ago. He was visiting all the main wholesalers, knowing that some would buy without asking too many questions, for he might possibly need to sell a great deal of the Anderson stock in a hurry. He had also visited several of his retail customers, telling them that he had taken over two or three small shops in the provinces, and that he would have a much larger selection to offer within the next few weeks. When eventually he showed them jewels taken from the Anderson stock, no one would be surprised; the vital thing was to make sure that he did nothing to attract attention.

  “So you haven’t heard,” little old Benoni said. “You spend too much time out of London, Mr. Payne. London is the place for keeping your ear to the ground. It is up for sale.”

  Payne exclaimed: “What?” and positively gaped at the man.

  “Well, well, is that so surprising?” Benoni asked. “What can Julian do there now? And old Clayton, was he any use even in your day? What a pity it is that you don’t work there now, Mr. Payne, you might have been given a chance to manage the business.”

  Payne said, with a jerky laugh: “I’m doing a lot better on my own than I ever was there. I couldn’t stay in all day, anyhow—give me a life on the open road! Are you sure about this, Mr. Benoni?”

  “Oh, yes,” the old man assured him. “I was in the silver vaults this morning, and Clayton was at the Anderson vault. He is worried in case the new owners find out what a useless old man he is!”

  “Why don’t you buy it?” asked Payne.

  “Me? What would I be doing with a retail business, my boy? Now there is something I want to tell you. I have a big market, in America, a very big market, for Regency jewellery. I can sell all antique jewellery there but just now the Regency market is very big for America. That is what I wanted to say to you—remember me, when you go round to see these different collections.”

  Payne said: “I won’t forget you, Mr. Benoni.”

  “That’s good, that’s good,” the old man said. “I am not telling a He, Mr. Payne, when I say that I could sell a hundred thousand pounds worth of Regency jewellery—and Louis XVI, if it comes to that. It’s a big market, and I will get a good price, so I could pass on a good price, couldn’t I? You will give me the first offer, Mr. Payne, won’t you?” “You’ll get the first offer,” Payne assured him.

  He left the shop and went straight across the road to a snack bar where he bought a cup of tea and a doughnut, and took them to a table in the window. He watched the passersby, the rumbling buses, the speeding taxis, but hardly realised they were there. His heart was racing with excitement fired by new anxiety. If the Anderson business was to change hands, valuers would soon be going down into the strongroom, and checking over the stock. There might soon be new, complete stock lists available, so that practically everything at Andersons would be easily identified. No one in the trade would buy the business without a valuation, and the physical task might take several weeks. It was even possible that there would be special precautions at the strongroom; Julian Anderson had grown into the habit of doing whatever his father wished, but anyone with half an eye would know that the old strongroom and the old-fashioned safes could be opened almost as easily as a tin can.

  That was the cause for anxiety.

  Old Benoni was the cause of excitement. His offer to buy practically anything was precisely what he, Payne, needed. Manna from heaven. Benoni didn’t talk out of the back of his neck, either; the market was there. He had betrayed die fact that he had access to it, but not exclusive right to sell to it, when he had asked for a first offer of anything that Payne picked up. This meant that there was a big American buyer in London, on the lookout for exactly the kind of jewellery that Anderson’s specialised in. Payne knew it so well. There were stacks of old ‘junk’ in the strongroom, some of which hadn’t been dusted for years, kept by old Anderson as a kind of safety valve; Anderson had always been a great believer in having a big stock and a small bank account. Today’s stock might double its cash value in ten years, he had reasoned, and cash would almost certainly lose its value.

  “I’ve got to get there soon,” Payne told himself, and fought down the excitement. He drank the lukewarm tea, and added: “I’ve got to do it tonight or tomorrow.”

  He was almost sick with excitement.

  There was no new problem, of course; he knew exactly what he had to do, exactly how to get into Anderson’s and out again. From the conception of this plot, he had known that there was only one serious problem: how to get enough of the stock away. Jewellery weighed heavy. He would take it ou
t of its cases, and wrap it in cotton wool, but there was enough at Anderson’s to fill a dozen trunks. The problem had always been one of selection: what would pay him best? Now, it looked as if he knew.

  Words dazzled him. An old man’s voice thrilled him. A hundred thousand pounds worth.

  “Take it easy,” Payne advised himself anxiously. “Don’t be greedy.”

  Gwen didn’t want a fortune, and the safe thing would be to take just enough to set him up properly in business, and to buy that new house. Say, thirty thousand pounds. But if it were as easy to get a hundred thousand as thirty thousand, why not? He could discount old Benoni’s figure, of course – take twenty five per cent off. But even then, seventy five thousand pounds was worth thinking about, and this way it would be through the normal channels, it wouldn’t be ‘hot’ in the accepted sense of the word. Alice had told him exactly where the records were kept at Anderson’s shop; the old fool had just muddled on, and Julian hadn’t been any better. Once the records were destroyed no one would really know how much had been stolen.

  Payne snorted with laughter, it was so perfect.

  He made three more calls that afternoon, and each time was told of the fact that Anderson’s was on the market. By casual questioning, too, Payne made sure that old Jennie was still at the flat, and there had been no other changes as far as was known. Locks and keys were the safeguard. His mind was racing furiously as he talked and listened. He certainly had little time to lose, but the fact that the crisis compelled him to act quickly was a stimulant, and he checked over his preparations with great care. He would get into the hallway of the flat, the door of which had the window between it and the shop door. The flat door opened on to the narrow hall and an equally narrow staircase. A door led from this passage into the shop, and also to the door of the strongroom. If the flat door from the street was bolted as well as locked, he would go round to the back, where there was another entrance to the passage. The shops in the street were served from a road which ran along the back, and among them was an off-licence and a pub, which were open until half past ten, so there was risk of being seen. But he could take a car or a van right to the back door.

  If he rigged up a false number plate on his car, and that would be easy, he could have one in the boot against emergency; it could be done easily, too.

  The familiar thumping sensation at Payne’s chest was almost painful; he could hardly wait.

  He had to get in about eight o’clock in the evening, he reasoned, he had always known that. If he went much later he would be too conspicuous, for after eleven o’clock, the police often sneaked up at the back of the pub and the off-licence to find out if sales were being made out of hours. So he had to be finished by ten thirty. The task itself would take very little time; once inside it was simply a question of opening doors and filling up the suitcases.

  He had four, in which he kept his larger samples. When he had bought them, months ago, he had made sure that they were lightweight but very strong. Each was medium-sized, because he had checked and made sure that a larger case would be too heavy. Two of medium size should win him about twenty thousand pounds worth of jewellery each, because he would make his first selection among the better quality goods; a second trip would be worth about half as much.

  He had planned two trips; now he began to think of the possibility of a third. Each should take about twenty minutes, no more. If he had his car, or hired a van for the occasion, he could have it close to the back door of the shop, and be able to load straight away. He could have three loads out in an hour.

  Of course there were risks, but he believed that he had reduced them to an absolute minimum. Even the fact that he had to operate more quickly than he had expected reduced one—the possibility that the waiting would begin to wear at his nerves.

  Tomorrow?

  Or tonight?

  He could tell Gwen that he had a special offer of goods to inspect – that would be the simple truth. Suddenly, he burst out laughing. That was right: strike while the iron was hot! He had the suitcases, he had his car, he only needed false number plates to fit over the genuine ones, and the risk would be almost negligible once he got inside the premises.

  It couldn’t fail.

  It looked as if the fates were working with him, Payne thought exultantly, for rain began to fall about half past six that evening, and rain kept people in, while those who braved it did not look about them when they were out. He had telephoned Gwen, who had accepted the news without protest; she seldom protested, partly because he was not often out in the evening; she was always sure that whenever he was it was for a good reason.

  He selected a car park not far from Anderson’s shop, to fix the false number plates, and had no difficulty. It was a little before eight o’clock when he turned off Kensington High Street into the side turning and the service road. Very little traffic was about; people were in the restaurants, in pictures and theatres or watching their television, for this was the dead hour of the evening. He drove carefully past the back of the well-lit public house and the off-licence, as carefully past a shoe shop and a little café, which was open. Then he reached the yard at the back of Anderson’s.

  The whole place was in darkness.

  “It’s just right,” he told himself aloud. “Everything’s going right.”

  He left the car and went round to the front to try the door; he was not really surprised to find it was bolted. Just as well! He hurried round to the back again, and thrust the key into the back door. He felt it turn, and pushed the door. It hardly moved.

  God!

  Why was it bolted back and front? It had never been in the old days until late at night, when everyone was in bed. It—

  God!

  Old Anderson was dead, Julian was in prison awaiting trial, so old Jennie lived here alone, scared out of her wits. She would see to the bolts. He ought to have realised that the place would be locked and bolted more securely than he had known it, but hadn’t given that a thought.

  The silly old bitch!

  It did not occur to him to blame himself, and he fumed at old Jennie as he stood with the rain hissing and splashing behind him, the sound of occasional cars in the street beyond the houses.

  He couldn’t get in without breaking a window, and that meant making a noise.

  He knew the old alarm system and how to get past it without attracting attention, but at last he woke up to the fact that the police or the trustees of old Anderson’s estate might have put in a new one. That was another thing he had overlooked; there would be trustees, the bank – the MidPro Bank with its branch just along the street. Banks always took excessive, precautions. Other possible obstacles seemed to rise up in his mind. The people he had questioned might have been guessing, it was even possible that most of the stock had been taken away. Was there a night-watch man? Was the shop being kept under observation?

  Sweating, he moved away from the door. No one appeared to be about, it was raining more heavily, and there was a shed with a tin roof on which the rain hissed and rattled. He reached the High Street. No one appeared for a full half minute, then several cars came along, lights shimmering on the wet road, and several pedestrians hurried. He saw nothing to suggest that the shop was being kept under surveillance, and when he came to think about it dispassionately, he realised that there was no reason why it should be: no one had been murdered here.

  So that he could see into the doorways of the nearby shops on the same side of the road as Anderson’s, Payne crossed over. Then he saw the light at the third and top floor window, and realised Jennie was there, or else someone was in Jennie’s old room. He began to feel better. Why imagine that it would be anyone else? The old crow had lived there for fifty years, where else would she go? He could picture her sitting up in her bed-sitting-room, with the television. The old man had bought her a twelve-inch television several years ago, and she sat huddled
over its wriggly picture evening after evening. Payne had been there only now and again when he had been employed by Anderson, always with a message for the old woman.

  If she was in, she could open the door, couldn’t she?

  Would she?

  Why shouldn’t she? Payne reminded himself that there had been no violence here, and that the shop was locked and bolted back and front, there was no reason why Jennie should expect trouble, she would just be nervous.

  Then an idea darted into Payne’s mind: why not telephone her, why not say he wanted to see her? He was an old employee, she surely wouldn’t suspect him. He could say that he had heard that the shop, was for sale, and he believed he had a buyer. He could even say that he had done so well that he was in the market for it himself! Of course, she would see him. That was the whole point – she would let him in because she knew and trusted him.

  Of course, he couldn’t let her live, but—

  What good did an old woman like that do herself or anyone else?

  He walked quickly through the teeming rain towards a telephone kiosk, and swore beneath his breath as his wet cuffs and wet coat made it difficult to get out the coppers he needed. But soon the number was ringing, and before long old Jennie answered.

  Chapter Ten

  Coincidence?

  “Come to the back door,” Jennie had said in her broad Scots, “and I’ll meet ye there.”

  Payne waited for her.

  It was five minutes since he had put down the receiver, and he could not understand why she had been so long. Because the raid had started badly, his mind was full of forebodings, and he was obsessed by them just as he had been by the advantages. Could Jennie possibly suspect his purpose? Had she anyone else with her? He had not asked, hoping to make sure that her suspicions weren’t aroused. Had she even telephoned the police?