They Never Looked Inside (23 page)

“In short,” said the Commissioner, who knew Sir Charles fairly well, “you agree. That’s splendid. On you go, Inspector.”

“There’s not much to add,” said Hazlerigg. “The result of the manoeuvre was just this. The gang had obtained the benefit of being able to sell their stuff on the open market instead of having to peddle it through crooked dealers.

“The difference in the prices which they could now command was beyond estimation. For example, a diamond ring of a pre-war value of a thousand pounds would fetch a hundred to a hundred and fifty pounds from a fence – a receiver of stolen goods – perhaps a little more. Sold openly, in the present market – which is a ‘buyer’s market’ for all forms of precious stones – well, it might make two thousand pounds. I know that they got twenty thousand pounds for the Prebendini rubies alone. There’s no secret about the matter – I was present when they were auctioned at Duke’s last month.”

“Thank you,” said the Commissioner. “I wanted you to hear all that,” he went on, turning to the Home Office representative, “so that you could appreciate our difficulties.”

“That last point,” said the permanent under-secretary, “the importation of well-known foreign jewels – I suppose you’re ab-so-lutely sure of your facts?”

“Yesterday,” said Hazlerigg, “we intercepted a package of jewellery—no, we didn’t catch the carrier, we bluffed him into dumping the stuff and then we picked it up. A pair of diamond bracelets made identification easy; you see, they were more than famous—they were historic. They once belonged to Marie Antoinette.”

“Good God,” said Sir Charles, “then they must be the property of the Duc de—”

“Exactly.”

“It amounts to this,” said the Commissioner. “Once the stuff’s safely in this country, our hands are tied.”

“Can’t you have the men who carry it watched?” suggested the permanent under-secretary.

Hazlerigg said patiently: “We’ve no idea who does carry it, sir. Different men almost every time.”

Colonel Hunt spoke apologetically.

“Please don’t imagine,” he said, “that they have corrupted the entire British Army. We think that fifty or sixty men are involved. Many of them would no doubt draw the line at smuggling drugs or even currency. But the matter is put to them in a most sympathetic light. They are shown the jewels which they have to carry and are told that they are helping out some noble but impoverished family – which of course is more or less true.”

“Add to that,” said Hazlerigg, “that the risk is negligible and the pay is high.”

“I can quite see how it was
worked
,” said the under-secretary. “Frankly, it’s your suggestion for dealing with it that alarms me. The country’s in a very unsettled state about government interference. Couldn’t you achieve your objects by increased strictness at the Customs?”

“Impossible,” said the Commissioner. “These people aren’t amateurs. Those bracelets which the Chief Inspector has mentioned – they were hidden in a specially contrived cache in the bottom of an army issue water-bottle. I’ve got the thing here. A most ingenious piece of work. What chance do you think a Customs officer would have with stuff hidden like that, and leave men passing through his hands at the rate of five hundred a day? No. I’m afraid this is the only way.”

“I’ll talk about it to the Minister,” said the under-secretary unhappily.

“Passed to you,” murmured McCann.

That was Wednesday.

On Friday the storm broke. The early editions of the midday papers had it in the stop press; the later editions gave it the full front page.

GREAT MEDLOC HOLD-UP FRENCH AND ENGLISH POLICE, C.M.P.s, IN SMUGGLING DRIVE

At nine o’clock this morning every train on the Medloc route from Milan to Dieppe and Ostend was halted and boarded by the police. The raid was carried out by the French police assisted by the regular C.M.P. force, strengthened by C.I.D. operatives and a special team of English, French and Italian Customs officials.

Early reports speak of the extraordinary thoroughness and severity of the search. All the trains were taken off the main line and driven into sidings and at the time of writing they have not yet been allowed to proceed.

It is now confirmed that only the home-coming traffic is affected. Nine trains are involved, and an official estimate places the number of men in them at nearly three thousand.

No official reason has been given for this drastic step . . . Liberties of the Individual . . . Gestapo Tactics . . . Slaves or Freemen? (See Editorial Comment.)

McCann read out the paragraph to Miss Carter.

“Even if they find nothing at all,” he said, “it ought to frighten the soldiers who carry the stuff. I don’t suppose they’ll get many volunteers after a showdown on this scale.” As he spoke the telephone bell rang.

“Scotland Yard here,” said an impersonal voice. “Is that Major McCann ? An urgent conference. At once, sir, if you please.”

At nine o’clock on that same Friday morning disturbing things happened at the premises of Mr. Leopold Goffstein, Furrier, of Flaxman Street and Berkeley Square. The office was a modest one, consisting of two rooms; an outer one in which Miss Purvis, the secretary, pounded her typewriter, and an inner sanctum, in which, presumably, Mr. Goffstein pondered on the mysteries of the fur trade. Miss Purvis was already seated at her desk, powdering her nose in preparation for the day’s toil, when the doorbell rang. “See who it is, Sam,” she commanded languidly.

The infant Samuel scuttled across the room and opened the door. A small thickset man stood outside.

“Leopold at home?” he inquired cheerfully.

“Mr. Goffstein’s not here now . . .” began Samuel.

“Who is it?” said Miss Purvis plaintively. “What does he want, Sam?”

“It’s the police, miss,” said Inspector Pickup pleasantly. “And I expect we shall probably want you—” Samuel goggled, first at the detective and then at the two uniformed policemen who seemed to fill the small office; Miss Purvis was too flabbergasted to do more than sit and stare.

“Now—what’s that you say about Goffstein?”

“Oh, that’s quite right,” cried Miss Purvis. “If it’s Mr. Goffstein you want, sir, I’m afraid we can’t help you. I mean, I would help you if I could, but I can’t. He left last week.”

“What d’you mean, ‘left’?” said Pickup severely. “This is his office, isn’t it? That’s his name on the door.”

“Oh yes. Inspector. It’s his name—but it’s not his office. You see, he sold the business at the beginning of last week—that was to a Mr. Jacoby—Mr. Constantine Jacoby. Then he stayed behind for a few days (Mr. Goffstein, I mean) to show Mr. Jacoby how to run things, and last Saturday he went away.”

“Where’s Jacoby?”

“Oh, he isn’t here either. I believe he has a number of fur businesses like this. He comes down here sometimes to collect letters, but mostly we hear from him by telephone. He’ll probably ring up some time this morning.”

“I see,” said Inspector Pickup. As, indeed, he did. “I suppose Mr. Goffstein left no forwarding address? No. And Mr. Jacoby, he comes here, but you haven’t got an address for letters—he just comes here and picks them up? Quite so. And he telephones you, but you don’t telephone him. In fact, you’ve looked through the telephone book but you couldn’t find anyone of that name and initials. Strange. Have you the key of the inner door? Thank you, don’t bother. We’ll manage for ourselves. And Miss Purvis—I must ask you not to leave the office without my permission. You or the boy. That’s right. You sit down and have a good cry.”

“Speaking from Goffstein’s office, sir,” said Inspector Pickup. “The bird’s flown. He pulled out last Saturday, lock, stock and barrel. Transferred the business to a stooge. Yes, I shouldn’t think there’s a paper left in the place—except genuine business stuff. I’ll have it sorted, of course. And I’m holding the two people here—a woman and a boy. I don’t suppose they know anything, though.”

Hazlerigg’s voice came thinly over the line: “. . . any sign of a wire?”

“I was coming to that, sir. This desk is pretty dusty—I shouldn’t think it’s been touched for a week. I can see marks on the right of the blotting pad—might easily have been made by a second telephone. Then there’s a long, light mark in the paintwork on the top of the wainscoting, and a hole in the floor-boards beside the window. I think that’s what we want.”

“I see. That’s very good.”

Hazlerigg’s voice sounded cheerful, though a situation was, in fact, developing which might have tried any man’s nerve. In front of him, at the Yard, the teletype reports from France were piling up. And they all spelt one word.

Failure.

Plenty of cameras, bottles of spirits, a few illegal firearms, Lugers, Walthers and Birettas, probably battle souvenirs. Considerable surprise and resentment amongst the troops concerned. One contingent had staged a sit-down strike and were refusing to re-entrain.

Five minutes before, he had listened to M. Bren on the cross-Channel line. The Frenchman had been most definite.

“There’s nothing there,” he said. “I myself assure you.”

“All right,” said Hazlerigg. “Play the hand out. No apologies and no retractions. I recommend disciplinary action where firearms have been discovered. That’s up to the military. Smuggling offences will have to be paid for.”

The significance of the failure, however, was startling. If the conveyor belt was empty, then it was a fair assumption that the factory was closing down.

Temporarily – or finally? That was the urgent question.

Pickup’s news was another straw in the wind. It was possible, of course, that Goffstein had simply moved his headquarters. That would be consistent with the known habits of the gang.

But there was a second, less comfortable, explanation. In front of him on the desk lay McCann’s last report. This now assumed an added significance.

Yes – he would have to be quick.

He was aware that Pickup was waiting for instructions.

“Leave one man to search the office,” he said. “I want you to raid the Atomic Club—get Divisional help. Take enough men to do the job thoroughly. Pay particular attention to the rooms on the second floor—and hold anyone up there who doesn’t seem to have any obvious connection with the Club itself. I’ll send a Post Office man to meet you. I think you’ll find there’s a line connection between the Atomic and Goffstein’s office. Bring away any black-market booze or other stuff. From what I hear there’s enough to send them all down. The proprietress is a Mrs. Purcell. Now listen. I don’t want her held. Frighten her; let her go, and have her followed. I shall be standing by here until this thing breaks.”

To McCann, when he arrived, Hazlerigg said without preamble: “I’ve been re-reading this report on your activities at the Atomic Club. You mention a man who met you on the second floor landing and warned you off the premises. You don’t give him a name. Did you know his name, by any chance?”

“No, I only met him on those two occasions – as you were – three occasions. At the Club, at that hat shop, and I remember him getting chucked out of the Leopard one night. I gather he was quite a well-known local character – youngish, fair haired, rather a pansy type. Everyone called him ‘Ronnie’, but I don’t suppose it was his real name.”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong,” said Hazlerigg. “It’s my guess that it
was
his real name. Sergeant Ronald Catlin. He’s been working that area under cover for years. One of our ‘ghosts’.”

“
Sergeant Catlin
!
God above. Ronnie a detective sergeant! You’re surely joking—”

“I don’t feel very humorous,” said Hazlerigg flatly. “Sergeant Catlin has vanished, and—well, I can’t help remembering what happened to Sergeant Pollock.”

“Silly of me,” said McCann. “Stupid thing to say. He fooled me completely, of course. Acted the part to the life. What do you suppose has happened ? Do you think they can have tumbled to him?”

“It’s no use blinking the facts,” said Hazlerigg. “You may have been the last man to see him alive – that Saturday night at the Atomic Club. His reports used to reach us twice a week by a roundabout route. The last time we heard from him was on Friday. The message was ‘Sally’. We have a little code for these routine messages. ‘Sally’ means, roughly, ‘I think I am on the track of something’. Normally he should have sent another message on Tuesday, and, as you can imagine, we were pretty anxious to get it. Sergeant Catlin was not the type to send ‘Sally’ without good reason for it.”

“And nothing happened?”

“Nothing. It’s my fault, of course, not yours, but if I’d realised that the man you were talking about in your report had been Sergeant Catlin—well, I think I’d have taken a chance and raided the Atomic Club at once.”

“You’ll do so now?”

“I’m just waiting to hear the results.”

The telephone rang.

“Pickup here, sir. I’m speaking from the Atomic.”

“Well?”

“I’ve done what you said. It’s a queer set-up, sir, and no question. The local men are in the Club now. They’re going through the permanent staff. Most of them are known characters. Yes, sir. Dean Street and Greek Street types. The proprietress now—she’s a funny little piece. Halfway between a rabbit and a rat, if you follow me. She doesn’t seem scared—more resentful. I’m putting Miss Robey and Sergeant Farrar on to her.”

“Upstairs?”

“There’s eight rooms on the second floor. Two belong to the old lady – a bedroom and a sitting room. Two are empty – look as if they’ve been empty for some time. Then at the end of the corridor there’s three furnished bed-sitting-rooms on the left – now empty, and one big room on the right – furnished as an office. That’s empty too. Swept and garnished. But I found the wire—”

“Good.”

“The P.O. bloke got on to it and plugged in. You were quite right, sir. It connects with Goffstein’s office.”

Hazlerigg considered for a moment.

“What’s the old lady got to say about it?”

“She says the room was let – to a Mr. William Brown. Yes, strikingly original. Present address unknown, but probably somewhere in London.”

“Billy Brown of London Town? Did she say what he used the room for?”