Hardcastle's Traitors (10 page)

He looked up as Hardcastle and Marriott strode hurriedly into his shop.

‘I'm afraid you're too late, Mr Hardcastle.'

‘Dammit! What can you tell me, Mr Parfitt?'

‘This man came into the shop just under half an hour ago and produced a diamond and sapphire dress ring, silver mounted, that he wanted to sell. I told him that I'd have to check with my catalogue before I could give him a price, but I could see at a glance that it was worth at least thirty pounds.'

‘Can you describe this man, Mr Parfitt?' asked Marriott.

‘In his late twenties, I'd've thought, or maybe early thirties, but not very well dressed.'

‘A moustache or a beard?' Marriott glanced up from his pocketbook.

‘No, he was clean-shaven, but he wore spectacles, metal-framed with small, pebble lenses.' Parfitt paused for a moment. ‘Oh, and he had a bandage on his right hand.'

‘Sounds like our man, sir,' said Marriott.

‘Is that helpful?' enquired Parfitt.

‘We're fairly certain that one of Gosling's murderers cut his hand when he broke into a showcase, Mr Parfitt,' said Hardcastle. ‘So the ring could be proceeds from the robbery. But what happened next?'

‘I had a feeling about that ring. It rang a bell, if you'll excuse the pun. It's the sort of thing you develop a nose for in the trade, if you know what I mean.'

‘Indeed I do, Mr Parfitt,' said Hardcastle warmly. ‘Please go on.'

‘The first thing I did was to check the lists that you send round every day. Now here's the funny thing: it was on a list all right, but on the list dated the twenty-fourth of October last year. I always keep back copies of the lists, you see.'

‘That was well before Gosling's murder, sir,' said Marriott.

‘I know that,' said Hardcastle impatiently. ‘And you're sure it was the same ring, Mr Parfitt.'

‘Definitely. The one this chap produced was engraved with the initials JW next to the hallmark. And that information was in the list.'

‘I'll have to check, sir,' said Marriott, ‘but I've a feeling that someone was arrested and convicted for that burglary. It was one of the big houses in Grosvenor Place.'

‘But when you went back to the man, Mr Parfitt, I presume he'd gone,' said Hardcastle.

‘Yes. Having discovered that it was stolen, I telephoned the police station to speak to Sergeant Marriott, but the man must've heard me. When I returned to the front of the shop, he'd gone.' Parfitt placed the ring on a green baize cloth on his counter. ‘But he went without this.'

‘The trouble is,' said Hardcastle, ‘we haven't found anyone who could tell us what was taken from Gosling's shop. Nevertheless, I'm grateful to you, Mr Parfitt. It's another piece in the jigsaw, so to speak.'

‘Circulate that description, such as it is, to surrounding stations, Marriott,' said Hardcastle, once the two detectives were back at Cannon Row police station. ‘And check on that Grosvenor Place burglary.'

‘Already in hand, sir.' Marriott was always irritated when the DDI told him to do something that, as a first-class sergeant, he would have done automatically. But, as usual, he masked that irritation.

‘I've put the information about that Grosvenor Place burglary on your desk, Sergeant,' said DC Watkins, when Marriott returned to his office.

Marriott spent a few moments examining the Criminal Records Office file before going back to the DDI.

‘The ring that Parfitt handed over was the property of a Mrs Jane Weaver of Grosvenor Place, sir, and was reported stolen last October as Mr Parfitt said. Albert Harris was sent down for a five stretch at the Inner London Sessions just in time for Christmas. He's currently in Pentonville prison, sir.'

‘Albert Harris, eh?' said Hardcastle thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I remember that little toerag of old. We'll pay him a visit, Marriott, and wish him a Happy New Year.'

T
he cab delivered Hardcastle and Marriott at the gates of the fortress-like edifice of Wandsworth prison in Heathfield Road.

‘Pay the cabbie, Marriott,' said Hardcastle, ‘and don't forget to take the plate number.'

‘Of course, sir,' said Marriott, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. The DDI said that every time they took a cab together.

Hardcastle yanked at the handle set to the left of the heavy wooden doors and heard a bell jangling somewhere inside.

‘Yes?' A heavily bearded warder had opened the wicket gate a fraction.

‘DDI Hardcastle, Metropolitan Police, and DS Marriott to see Albert Harris.' Hardcastle and Marriott produced their warrant cards.

‘Ah, right you are, gents. We got a message to say you'd be coming.' The warder pulled open the wicket gate wide enough for the two detectives to enter.

Another warder appeared. ‘Welcome to the best hotel in London, guv'nor,' he said. ‘Follow me and I'll get hold of Harris for you.'

Hardcastle and Marriott were led along several labyrinthine passageways pervaded with the overpowering odour of urine, until eventually they were shown into a small, dank, stone-flagged room. The only light came from a barred window high in the wall.

‘I'll enquire if Mr Harris is at home, guv'nor. If he is, I'll have him along here in two shakes of a lamb's tail,' said the warder, and laughed. ‘I think he's receiving visitors today.'

‘Cheerful sort of bloke, ain't he, Marriott?' Hardcastle took out his pipe and began to fill it.

Five minutes later the shambling figure of Albert Harris was escorted into the room. He was attired in the standard prison uniform of canvas jacket and trousers embellished with the broad arrows designed to aid apprehension in the event of an escape. Not that there was much chance of a prisoner escaping from this particular prison.

‘I'll be outside when you've done with him, guv'nor,' said the cheerful warder.

‘Hello, Mr
'Ardcastle. Fancy seeing you. You ain't been sent down an' all, 'ave yer?'

‘Just keep your smart remarks to yourself, Harris, unless you fancy a transfer to Dartmoor. And I can fix it, just like that.' Hardcastle flicked his fingers in Harris's face. ‘Now sit down.'

‘No offence, Mr 'Ardcastle,' said the chastened Harris. ‘Just a joke, that's all.'

‘You got five years for screwing a drum in Grosvenor Place last October, Harris,' said Marriott.

‘It's common knowledge, Mr Marriott.'

‘And among the other stuff you nicked was this.' Marriott placed the ring on the table; his statement was made in such a way that brooked no denial.

Harris examined the ring. ‘Yeah, maybe,' he said.

‘Definitely,' said Marriott. ‘Who did you fence it to?'

Hurriedly dropping the ring, Harris shot back in his chair. ‘I ain't no grass, Mr Marriott,' he protested. ‘You should know that.'

‘You are now, Harris,' growled Hardcastle menacingly. ‘Unless you want to be on the night train to Dartmoor. If they don't make you walk, that is.'

‘Can we keep this to ourselves?' pleaded Harris. He cast a furtive glance around the small room, as though fearful of being overheard.

‘I'm waiting,' said Hardcastle.

‘It was Reuben Gosling.' Harris almost whispered the name. ‘But for Gawd's sake don't let on I told you. He's got friends in here and I don't fancy getting a striping for grassing.'

‘He hasn't got any friends, not any more,' said Marriott. ‘Someone topped him on New Year's Eve. And his killers helped themselves to a load of tom, that included most likely,' he added, picking up the ring.

‘Oh my oath! Who done for him, then?'

‘That's what I'm trying to find out, Harris,' said Hardcastle.

‘Well, don't look at me, Mr 'Ardcastle. I was celebrating the New Year in here.' Harris gave a nervous laugh.

Hardcastle laughed outright. ‘That's the first time in your life you've ever had a watertight alibi, Harris.'

‘So, Gosling was a fence, sir,' said Marriott, when he and the DDI were in a cab on their way back to Cannon Row.

‘Comes as no surprise, Marriott,' said Hardcastle. ‘But it makes our job that much harder.'

‘It could be that the man who tried to fence the ring with Parfitt was the man who topped Gosling, sir.'

‘Maybe,' said Hardcastle thoughtfully. ‘A fence makes all sorts of enemies. On the other hand, he might've got the ring from whoever did the deed. But any way up he's got some questions to answer when we do find him. And we will.'

And of that, Marriott was in no doubt. ‘But Mr Parfitt said that the man who tried it on with him had a bandaged hand, sir,' he said.

‘I don't suppose he's the only man in London who's hurt himself, Marriott,' said Hardcastle, and for the remainder of the journey, he remained silent, sunk in deep contemplation.

Once back at the police station, Hardcastle swept through the front office and bounded up the stairs with an agility that was incompatible with his bulk.

Throwing open the door of the detectives' office, he glared round at his staff.

‘Listen carefully. Sergeant Marriott and me have just had a word with Albert Harris in Wandsworth nick. He's doing a handful for screwing and he told me that Reuben Gosling was a fence, which I'd suspected all along. Yesterday a man tried to fence a ring to Gilbert Parfitt in Vic Street. Catto knows that already. Don't you, Catto?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘But we know that Harris nicked it in the course of a burglary at Grosvenor Place last October, and finished up in chokey for his pains. Now, for once in your lives you lot are going to pretend to be real detectives and get out on the street. Speak to your informants, if you've got any,' said Hardcastle sarcastically, ‘and find out who else has been fencing bent tom to Gosling. Got it?'

‘Yes, sir,' chorused the detectives.

‘Well, what are you waiting for,' said Hardcastle, and returned to his office.

Moments later, Marriott knocked and entered. ‘I've just had a call from Sergeant Glover at the APM's office, sir.'

‘Don't tell me, Marriott, they can't find Tindall.'

‘On the contrary, sir. Glover said that the APM has urgent information for you, if you'd care to call in next time you're passing.'

‘We'll be passing in about ten minutes' time,' said Hardcastle, donning his Chesterfield overcoat and seizing his hat and umbrella. ‘Come, Marriott.'

‘Second Lieutenant George Tindall of the Royal Field Artillery has disappeared, Mr Hardcastle,' said Lieutenant Colonel Ralph Frobisher.

‘Is he missing in action, sir?' asked Marriott.

‘No, he's absent without leave. That's how we were able to get an answer so quickly. Sergeant Glover always looks at the list of absentees and deserters whenever you make an enquiry, Inspector.' Frobisher glanced at Hardcastle with a half-smile on his face. ‘I think he's formed the view that anyone in whom you have an interest is a criminal of some sort.'

‘Your Sergeant Glover's obviously a shrewd fellow; you might even make a policeman of him one day,' said Hardcastle drily. ‘What more do you know, Colonel?'

‘Apparently things were a bit quiet on Christmas Day in that theatre of the Front covered by Colonel Powell's brigade of the RFA. In fact, the brigade was in rest. They weren't playing football with Fritz like they did in 1914, but there was, by all accounts, a small celebration among the officers; as much as there could be in a theatre of operations. However, after a while Colonel Powell noticed that Tindall wasn't there. He made a few enquiries as to the officer's whereabouts, but he hadn't been seen since midday on Christmas Eve.'

‘Is it possible that he'd been wounded and evacuated, sir?' queried Marriott.

‘Seems a bit of rum do, losing an officer,' commented Hardcastle quietly.

‘It happens, Inspector,' said Frobisher. ‘But to answer your question, Sergeant Marriott, Tindall had been seen alive and well after the last action in which the brigade had been involved and, indeed, after they'd been pulled back. Just to make sure, enquiries were made with the regimental aid post and the casualty clearing station. There was no trace of him anywhere. The matter was reported to Colonel Cunningham's office – Cunningham's the provost marshal of the BEF – and Tindall was officially reported as absent without leave.'

‘Is there any chance he might've made it back to this country, Colonel?' asked Hardcastle.

‘The brigade was down near Neuve Chapelle …' Frobisher stood up and crossed to a wall map. ‘It's a good seventy miles from there to Boulogne,' he said, roughly tracing the route with a forefinger. ‘Assuming he managed to get there and talk his way on to a troopship, it's a possibility. I doubt he'd've had much luck trying to get passage in a civilian craft. What few there are, are coastal fishing vessels.'

‘So, he could still be in France, sir,' suggested Marriott.

Frobisher resumed his seat behind his desk. ‘The short answer to that, Sergeant Marriott, is that he could be anywhere.'

‘If we find him in London, Colonel,' said Hardcastle, ‘we'll let you have him back. Provided he don't have an appointment with John Ellis.'

‘Who?' asked Frobisher, mystified, as he so often was, by one of Hardcastle's enigmatic remarks.

‘He's the official hangman,' said Hardcastle.

‘D'you think that Tindall's our man, sir?' asked Marriott, when he and the DDI were back at the police station.

‘I'm not so sure,' said Hardcastle pensively, a statement that surprised Marriott in view of what the DDI had said to Colonel Frobisher. ‘But if Tindall is in this country, then young Villiers could be in danger.'

‘There's not much we can do about that, sir.'

‘Oh, but there is, Marriott. We'll have another word with Villiers.'