INTRODUCTION

Of the four characters who play, in turn, the principal part in this collection of stories, the first in the field, by a long chalk, is Hazlerigg, who featured in my crime novel Close Quarters playing, on that occasion, second fiddle to his own assistant, Detective Sergeant Pollock.

This, my maiden effort, appeared in 1947, though most of it was written before I disappeared into the Army in 1939. Judging by his rank, which was at that time Chief Inspector, and argues an age of forty or more, he must, by now, be over ninety, which may account for the fact that not much has been heard of him lately.

He was what you might call a standard pattern policeman, and I have a feeling that the late Julian Symons would have considered him to be “humdrum.” It was with this adjective, you may remember, that he insulted many of the leading lights in the crime story field of the early years of this century.

I find the thought encouraging.

It is the fashion nowadays for the author to penetrate deeply into the characters and feelings of his policemen; their family quarrels and upsets, their psychological backgrounds, their secret ambitions and phobias, all are laid bare for us. The great American writer Professor Jacques Barzun objected strongly to the practice. “Am I a couch?” he demanded.

I side with Barzun. Let your policeman get on with his job. And for many years, and through many novels and short stories, Hazlerigg did just that.

Henry Montacute Bohun, solicitor and partner in the Lincoln’s Inn firm of Horniman, Birley and Craine, made his first appearance in my book Smallbone Deceased, which appeared in 1950.

It fell to him to play the part of detective in this book, and in a number of short stories which appeared in John Bull and Argosy, two excellent short story magazines, now both deceased. Since I had, myself, just become a partner in a Lincoln’s Inn firm of solicitors, people were not slow to suggest that Bohun was me in disguise. This was far from correct. I sleep excellently at night and have never felt any desire to dabble in real life crime. My criminals all come from my pen.

Bohun’s detective activities arose by chance.

Since he suffered from a form of para-insomnia which never allowed him more than two hours sleep each night, and sometimes none at all, this left him with a lot of time on his hands which he spent, as another man might puzzle over an unsolved clue in the Times crossword puzzle, in thinking out answers to the problems which he encountered either from his growing friendship with Inspector Hazlerigg, or from his job as a solicitor.

In saying this, I do realise that there may be solicitors whose thresholds are never crossed by crime, potential or actual, but I don’t suppose there are many such. For the most part, when they encounter a criminal matter, they are ready to pass it on to Counsel, or even to the police. Horniman, Birley and Craine preferred to take in their own dirty washing.

Former Detective Chief Inspector Mercer plays the leading part in a book called The Body of a Girl, which was first published in England and America in 1972.

He once shared with Hazlerigg the rank of Chief Inspector, but this is almost the only thing that he did share. While Hazlerigg plays the game according to the rules. Mercer is prepared to bend any rule that gets in the way of his single-minded pursuit of his objective. Hazlerigg is monogamous. To Mercer a girl is somebody to be enjoyed and forgotten. Their difference must be apparent to a perceptive reader when Mercer is described: “A lot of dark hair, worn rather long, and a thick, sensual face, his appearance not improved by a puckered scar which started at the cheek-bone and gathered up the corner of the left eye, so that it seemed to be half closed!”

He was going to get his revenge for that scar whatever the cost.

Last, but by no means least, comes Patrick Petrella, who first saw book publication in 1959 in Blood and Judgment, although many of the short stories are earlier. Son of a senior Spanish policeman and an English lady, fluent speaker of Arabic, knowledgeable about vintage wines and the mechanism of locks.

I have described elsewhere how he arrived, and hope that I may, for once, quote my own words.

“Patrick Petrella was conceived in church. It was a drowsy summer evening and the preacher had reached only the midpoint of his sermon. It was not an inspired address, and I turned to the hymn book for relief. I opened it at the lines of Christina Rosetti, ‘Who has seen the wind. Neither you nor I. But when the trees bow down their heads, the wind is passing by.’ And later, ‘Who has seen the wind. Neither I nor you. But when the leaves hang trembling, the wind is passing through.’

“And there, quite suddenly, it was. A working class family, wife and children, sitting in their front room being talked to by a visitor (parson? social worker? policeman?) but remaining totally unresponsive. Answering in monosyllables. Trembling. Heads bowed down. Why? Because they know, but their visitor does not, that there is a monster in the back kitchen. Their father, a violent criminal, had escaped that day from prison and is hiding there. At that moment their visitor (he is now quite definitely a policeman, and a youngster at that) recalls the poem and realises the truth.”

In that short sequence a complete character is encapsulated.

A young policeman, in his first posting, sufficiently interested in his job to visit the wife of a man who was serving a prison sentence, sufficiently acute to notice the unnatural behaviour of the woman and children, sufficiently imaginative to deduce the reason for a simple, furtive glance at the kitchen door; above all a young man who read and could quote poetry.

Almost everything that happened afterward was as traceable to their first conception as is the character of a real person to the accidents of the nursery and the schoolroom.

So there they are. Four different characters, deployed for your pleasure.

Michael Gilbert Gravesend, Kent November 1996

BACK IN FIVE YEARS

(As Told by Chief Inspector Hazlerigg)

IN THE EARLY THIRTIES, when I was a junior inspector attached to the uniformed branch in a North London division, there were a number of known counterfeiters at work in London. I don’t mean that we knew their names and addresses, for they tend to be shy people, but a surprising number of facts about them and their products were filed and tabulated at the Criminal Records Office and in the M-0 file.

There were forgers of Post Office Savings books, and there were those who specialized in passports and share certificates. But the kings of the trade were the forgers and utterers of banknotes. And the king of them all was a certain shy, unobtrusive genius who manufactured the “Beauties.”

His identity was, of course, a mystery. He was known to us only by his £1 notes, finely etched and most scrupulously printed.

In a lot of ways they were a better product than the stuff being turned out by H.M. Mint. That young lady who sits up in an inset in the top left-hand corner (on the genuine pound notes she looks rather a pudding-faced young person) – well, in his productions she was a miracle of dignified beauty. That’s why we called them “Beautiful Britannias,” or “Beauties.”

And you can take it from me that there wasn’t a policeman in the Metropolis who wouldn’t have given his belt and buttons for a chance to lay hands on the artist.

However, as it happens – and as it happens in most police work – it wasn’t one man or even a few men who got on the track of the forger. When this happy event finally came to pass it was the result of a combination of luck and instinct backed up by the hard, slogging work of a great number of people.

We had regretfully decided that in the case of the Beauties we were up against one of those rarities in the field of crime – an entirely solitary and single-handed operator; a man with at least one god-like attribute, the strength which is said to come from loneliness.

He must have made his own plate – it may have taken him a year or more of patient trial and error, cutting, smoothing, and sizing. He even had a rotation system which enabled him to change the numbering.

But it was his method of distribution that put him at the top of the class.

Having printed a number of very excellent pound notes, he rationed himself to about twenty a week. These he would cash personally, going to shops and post offices all over London, and never to the same one twice. He would purchase some small object costing not more than a few pence or a shilling, pay with a pound note, and pocket the change. The system was laborious, but almost foolproof. And, but for one small thing, I really have my doubts whether we should have got on to him.

The thing was he had a weakness for pawnbrokers. Perhaps it was because pawnbrokers’ shops are places which have a wide variety of things which you can pick up for a small sum; and they are usually rather dark and not very crowded and don’t make difficulties about change. Anyway, it proved his undoing.

For pawnbrokers, as you may know, are people who like to work very closely with the police. There’s nothing underhanded about it. It just happens to pay both sides. There’s a Pawnbrokers’ List of Stolen Articles which we publish at Scotland Yard, and most pawnbrokers make a practice of reporting anything suspicious to the local station. The local police, in return, keep a special eye on their shops, which are a tempting target to the light-fingered fraternity.

Well, over the months and years, reports piled up of these pound notes being received by pawnbrokers. So, just on the chance (that’s a phrase which features pretty prominently in police work), a letter was sent round to all pawnbrokers saying that if they should happen to notice a man or woman coming into their shop who wasn’t a regular customer, and who wanted to make a small purchase and proffered a brand-new pound note for it, then would they please make a careful note of his description, etc., etc.

After a time the descriptions started to add up. It was extraordinarily fascinating, sitting back in an office watching a living person being built up out of fractions, watching his features line themselves in, and his identity declare itself.

We got a picture of a man, middle-sized to small, plump, soft-spoken, with white, pudgy hands, strong black hair and weak, rather peering eyes. His clothes naturally varied from time to time and from place to place but the essentials were the same.

A very wide and elaborate net was then spread. I won’t bore you with all the details, but you can gather the scope of it when I tell you it meant stationing policemen within call of almost every pawnshop which had not yet been visited and arranging a simple system of signals with the pawnbrokers themselves.

And that was how, at the beginning of June, 194–, the police at last caught sight of Mr. Mountjoy and followed him discreetly home to 14 Malpas Street. This proved to be a small shop in North London, with living quarters attached, and an independent flat over it.

Some further facts now came to light. All seemed to point to the one conclusion. To start with, Mr. Mountjoy’s business was that of a one-man printer and typemaker; very suitable, we felt, allowing its owner to possess and operate various small machines and lathes without exciting suspicion. Then again, he was a solitary man, who, according to Mr. Crump, of 12 Malpas Street, his nearest neighbour, spent much of his time out of his shop, apparently on journeys round London.

“Looking for commissions, I expect,” said Mr. Crump. “Not that he seems to get much work. Manages to do very well for himself, none the less.”

I was in charge of these local inquiries, and sensing a certain amount of rancour in that last remark, I guessed that there might be some trade rivalry. Mr. Crump was a newsagent and printer himself. However, he was unable to help me much, because he didn’t know very much. But he did say that Mr. Mountjoy seemed to do a lot of work at night.

In some trepidation, because we didn’t want to expose our hand too soon, I tried Mrs. Ireland, who lived in the flat over Mr. Mountjoy’s shop. She was a middle-aged party, intensely respectable and slightly deaf. I visited her one morning in the well-worn disguise of an inspector of gas meters, and found her surprisingly willing to talk.

She, unlike Mr. Crump, had the very highest opinion of Mr. Mountjoy. Possibly he was one who kept himself to himself but there was no harm that she could see in that. Better that than clumping about sticking your nose into what didn’t concern you. This, I gathered, was a back-hander at Mr. Crump, whom she didn’t like. Unfortunately, her deafness prevented her from being able to corroborate the story of night work.

Well, there it was. You now know all that we knew at that point and you can see how we were fixed. I had no doubt in my mind. The description fitted. The setup was exactly what we had imagined. The printer’s shop – the night work – the journeys round London.

There was only one thing to do – take a search warrant and chance the odds.

Accordingly, on Midsummer Day, 194–, just after four o’clock in the afternoon, I took Sergeant Husband with me and walked over to Malpas Street to put the matter to the test. And as I turned into the road the first thing that struck my eye was that damned notice and I realised that we had missed our man. How narrowly we had missed him became apparent as we pursued our inquiries.

The notice? It was pinned to the door of the shop. Written in a copperplate hand on a neat white card, it said: BACK IN FIVE YEARS.

No. 14 was the end house of a block of seven. It had the shop entrance in front, and an independent side entrance which led up to Mrs. Ireland’s flat.

Now the curious thing was this. Five minutes before we had arrived, several people had seen Mr. Mountjoy come out and pin that notice on his door. But after that no one could say which way he had gone. This didn’t all come out at once, but inquiries in the street, then and later, only deepened the mystery.

For instance, Mrs. Ireland had been sitting at her window, which overlooked the point where the side street joined the main. Although she might be deaf, she certainly wasn’t shortsighted and she happened to have been keeping her eyes open for the postman. She was prepared to swear that Mr. Mountjoy had neither passed the end of the side road nor gone down it.

Suppose, therefore, he had turned to the left outside his front door? But Mr. Crump in No. 12 and the barber in No. 8 had both been in their shops the whole time and were positive that he had not gone past them. Had he gone back into his shop or the living room behind it? But these were most undeniably empty, and had, besides, the sort of “packed up” appearance of rooms whose owner has left them deliberately. The gas and electricity were turned off, the larder was empty.

There was a door leading into the garden, and this was locked. That, by itself, didn’t prove anything, of course, but the garden was a dead end. There was a very high, glass bottle-topped wall on the street side, the blank elevation of another house at the end, and a garden full of little Crumps on the right.

Mr. Mountjoy, in fact, had walked into the street, pinned up his famous notice, and then dematerialised.

But, unlike the conjurer’s lady assistant, he not only disappeared, he stayed disappeared. And that is not such an easy thing to do – not in this country, anyway, especially when the police are on the lookout for you and have your full description.

However, as with everything else, Mr. Mountjoy managed it competently enough.

The police force, like the Army, believes in moving its executives around, and it wasn’t until well over four years later – nearly five – that I found myself back at the same North London police station, attached this time to the plainclothes branch.

One of the first places I visited was Malpas Street, and there, still, was the notice: BACK IN FIVE YEARS.

In a district like that you’d have imagined that it would have been torn down long ago. But it hadn’t.

I gathered, in fact, that it had become a sort of local tradition. Mr. Mountjoy had always been a mystery man to the neighbourhood, and his reputation had been nowise diminished by his dramatic disappearance and the interest of the police in his whereabouts.

There was a strong local feeling, amounting almost to an obsession, that five years after his disappearance (on the very day and at the very hour) Mr. Mountjoy would reappear and take that notice down again.

What would happen then no one could suggest.

I asked the station sergeant about the place. For instance, why hadn’t it been re-let or taken over by the authorities? Mr. Mountjoy, I gathered, owned the building but the taxes must be mounting up and anyway it was a nice little shop and living quarters. We didn’t talk about requisitioning in those days, but we had some powers. Apparently, however, all this had been foreseen by Mr. Mountjoy.

The day before he disappeared he had handed Mrs. Ireland a sum in notes (genuine ones this time) sufficient to deal with all foreseeable expenses for exactly five years. At the end of that time, he said, if he hadn’t come back she could sell the house and keep the proceeds. And he had even executed a legal document enabling her to do this.

In short, she was to wait for him for five years, and at the end of that time, like the frog in the fairy story, she was to have her reward – unless the fairy prince had reappeared to claim his own.

It sounded pretty fantastic to me.

The next thing that happened, about three weeks later, was the arrival at the station of a badly worried Mr. Crump, with a tale that No. 14 was haunted.

He was so clear about it that we gave more attention to his story than the police usually accord to psychic manifestations. Also, of course, we were interested in that particular house.

“Scraping, cutting, and emery-papering,” said Mr. Crump, his great red face moist but earnest. “Every night – about midnight or one o’clock. Just like he used to. I don’t like it. Nor the wife don’t like it. She’s talking of moving if it isn’t stopped.”

“Did you go down and look in?” I asked. “Was there a light on in the shop?”

“Of course there wasn’t no light on,” said Mr. Crump. “Hasn’t the electricity been cut off? I’ve told you, it’s not yooman, this noise isn’t.”

When I suggested that it might be rats, I thought Mr. Crump was going to detonate, so I hurriedly promised him that we’d look into it and he departed.

We had the keys of the shop, so I let myself in that evening, going after dark to avoid causing any undue stir. I took a torch and made a thorough investigation. It was obvious no one had been there. The dust was inches thick over everything, and the place – well, it smelt deserted, if you know what I mean.

When I came out I found half Malpas Street gathered outside armed with sticks and bottles. Apparently a small boy had seen my torch flashing and the crowd were just summoning up courage to break in and lay the ghost when I stepped out.

After that, of course, there was no stopping the stories.

Mr. Crump appeared about a month later with an ultimatum.

Either the police “did something” or he was going to clear out himself. He couldn’t stand it any longer. His wife had already gone on an indefinite visit to her married sister and trade was falling off. The sinister reputation of No. 14 was beginning to corrupt No. 12.

“All right,” I said at last. “I’ll come long myself tonight and we’ll both listen.”

When I came off duty at about half past ten that evening, I walked along to Malpas Street and Mr. Crump let me in. We sat in his parlor, which was on the first floor overlooking the street, and we drank beer and talked for a bit, and at midnight, at my suggestion, we turned the lights out and made ourselves comfortable in chairs near the window.

After a bit I must have dozed, because I woke up to feel Mr. Crump gripping my arm.

He said nothing, but I gathered from his breathing, which he was trying to control, that something happened.

Then, in the stuffy blackness of the room I heard it, too. It was a thin intermittent burr, which sounded like a very sharp edge cutting across some tough substance. Then came the sound of scraping, and then the cutting started again.

I jumped up, leaped at the door, nearly broke my neck on the stairs, and three seconds later I was out in the street. I had my key at the ready and I snapped open the door of No. 14 and switched on my torch.

There was no one there. Nothing had been disturbed at all. There wasn’t even the trace of a rat or mouse paw in the dust. I hadn’t thought that there would be. There had been something indefinably human about that sound.

When I got back to Mr. Crump, I found he had turned on the light and poured out some more beer. He seemed much more cheerful. I think that half his trouble had been that no one believed his story.

Also, as we were finishing our beer, he said something which surprised me.

“Thanks be,” he said. “I’ve only to put up with it for one more week.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Work it out for yourself,” he said. “It’s the seventeenth of June. Four years and 51 weeks ago he left. Said he’d be back in five years. Very methodical man was Mr. Mountjoy.”

I could find no comment to make.

It was quite illogical and fantastic, and I felt that we were making fools of ourselves, but in the end I agreed, weakly, to post two sergeants to watch the back of the house while I kept an unobtrusive eye on the front.

If Mr. Mountjoy was going to maintain his reputation for punctuality he was due in the street at four o’clock in the afternoon. Accordingly, at five to four I turned the corner at the far end of the road and started strolling nonchalantly towards No. 14, stopping every now and then to look in at the various shop windows.

It was a true midsummer day, warm and windless, and the children were still in school, so that by Malpas Street standards it was almost quiet.

I looked at my watch and saw that it was just short of four o’clock. And Malpas Street was still most definitely empty.

At that moment, in the warm summer silence, I heard it again. I want to be quite clear about this. It was exactly and undeniably the same sound that I had heard that night when I sat up over Mr. Crump’s shop. But it did not come from No. 14.

It was from the same side of the street but much lower down.

I moved cautiously along until I could locate it. It came from the barber’s shop at No. 8, where Toni Etrillo, the barber, was shaving one of his swarthy compatriots. The burr and the rasp as the razor passed across the strong black stubble – these were unmistakable.

And in that moment the secret of Mr. Mountjoy’s disappearance became as abundantly clear to me.

The first thing I did was purely symbolical. I took out my knife and levered out the tack which held up that notice. I was about to tear it up but thought better of it and dropped it in my pocket.

Conscious that a dozen pairs of eyes were watching from curtained windows, I went round into the side street and rang Mrs. Ireland’s doorbell.

When she opened the door I didn’t do anything dramatic; I just beckoned her out into the street and signalled to one of the sergeants to accompany us, and we all walked back to the police station.

For the greater part of the way we were silent, but I felt, in justice, that one thing had to be said.

“A marvellously well kept-up impersonation, Mr. Mountjoy. It’s nothing new for a man to dress as a woman, and I have even heard of cases before where a landlord became his own lodger. But – it’s a great mistake for any man to do his shaving last thing at night.”

John Bull, December 18, 1948.

A NEAT, COLD KILLING

ON THE NIGHT OF MARCH 15TH, a night of fog, Lou Rowley (whose other name was Cab Rowley or Rowley the Roller) was shot down in a street in Islington.

A constable who heard the shots, but arrived too late to do much about it, got on the telephone and a squad car brought Inspector Hazlerigg from Barley Lane Police Station. Hazlerigg was the Divisional Detective Inspector of Q Division at that time and all crimes in Q Division were his crimes.

He had the head lights of the car turned on the sprawling body and saw that Rowley was still, incredibly, alive. He also saw that it would be impossible to move him far, and the police doctor, who arrived a few minutes later, supported him. Rowley was therefore carried with minute, painstaking care into the nearest house and placed on a sofa.

Four bullets had gone through him, two under the stomach and two through the chest, and one of them had almost severed the spinal cord paralysing speech and movement, so Lou Rowley lay for six hours, impotence and hatred in his eyes, unable to speak or write the name of the man who had shot him.

The tips of his fingers scrabbled once or twice against the rough sofa cover and the detectives and the doctor leaned forward hopefully, but that was all.

Just before three in the morning he died.

The Superintendent went home to bed and Hazlerigg started a search for the ejected cartridge cases. The street had been cordoned, and he found them all in the end, and took them down himself to the laboratory at Scotland Yard where the experts did a lot of work on them.

The bullets, in fact, were almost the only thing they had got to work on. It was a quiet, neat, cold, professional killing, with no loose ends at all.

“Rowley was in the stolen motorcar game,” said Hazlerigg later to his assistant, Detective Sergeant Pickup. “There were at least three competitors in the business, any of whom could have wanted to cut him. I think we’ve checked them all three pretty thoroughly—”

“Ernie Morris was at the cinema – so he says. Heinie Jacobs was having supper at home with his wife – so he says, and so his wife says. Smiler Martin was playing cards with two friends – so they all say.”

“In fact, it might have been any of them,” agreed Hazlerigg.

And there the matter rested. The case was not closed because murder cases are never closed, but life went on in Q Division and a certain amount of dust gathered on the file.

Every police division in London has its great grandfather criminals, oldest inhabitants in the world of crime, rather pathetic figures, grizzled and broken by repeated descents into the grey undersea of penal servitude; men who have still not learned, despite a lifetime of object lessons, that crime is a disease and not a vocation.

Slater Joe was such. Though police records usually referred to him as Joseph Slater, in fact he had no surname, or if ever he had one he had lost it, with other things, in the far-off days of his infancy. “Slater,” as will appear hereafter, was by way of being a reference to his professional activities.

Hazlerigg, on one of his endless rounds of routine visits, found the old man on his bed in an attic in Tool Street.

“Howde, Inspector,” said Slater, “what can I do for you?”

“Nothing, Joe. Just keep on the straight and narrow.” His eyes wandered speculatively round the room. There were hardly two sticks of furniture.

“My nose is always clean,” said the old man. “I’ve never once been inside but I’ve been jobbed.”

“How many times have you been inside, Joe?” asked Hazlerigg curiously.

“Thirty-nine times. Plants every one of them. I’ll make it forty yet,” he added illogically.

Hazlerigg said nothing. It was clear to him that the man was dying.

Late that night he had cause to think of Joe again, when he was called from his bed by an urgent message from the police station. Hazlerigg had the bottom floor of a small house in Carver Street. It was connected with Barley Lane Police Station by two lines, one of which the ill-disposed cut from time to time but the other of which was so deeply buried that they never got down to it.

“Slater’s on the loose,” said the desk sergeant.

“Loose,” said Hazlerigg. “When I saw him this morning he didn’t even look road worthy.”

“He’s raising hell, sir, down in that lodging house—”

“Who do you think I am,” snarled Hazlerigg, “the district nurse?”

Nevertheless he climbed wearily into his trousers and, since it scarcely seemed worth calling out the squad car he rose round to Tool Street on his old pedal cycle.

He heard the noise from halfway down the street. When he got into the attic he was shocked at what he saw. Slater Joe, an unnatural flush on his cheeks, his thin white hair fuzzing up in streamers from his head, was being held, with difficulty, by two women. A young constable was trying to remonstrate with Slater, whilst making notes in a very new notebook. He was clearly out of his depth.

“—” screamed the old man,”—and—”

“Behaviour whereby a breach of the peace—” began the young constable hopefully.”

“—you and—you. You want me to smarten you up. You want an old timer like me to keep you on your toes.”

With a convulsive effort Slater freed his arms and jumped for the wash hand stand. He jerked open the drawer and as he swung round they saw he had a gleaming black Luger pistol in his hand.

The constable was plainly making up his mind to chance a heroic death when he felt a grip on his arm.

“Don’t do anything silly,” said Hazlerigg. “Your recruit training cost the state seven hundred pounds. You don’t want to throw all that away on a crazy old coot. You go round one wall and I’ll go round the other. Take it very steady.”

Slater, in fact, put up very little opposition to this pincher movement. The fire seemed to have died, and he dropped the gun just before Hazlerigg got hold of his arm.

“That wasn’t clever, Joe,” said Hazlerigg. He picked up the automatic. It was loaded all right, and the safety catch was off. “You’ll have to come along with us. It looks as if you may be making your fortieth trip after all.”

Hazlerigg, however, was wrong. Slater Joe was taken along and lodged in the police infirmary; and before Hazlerigg got up for his breakfast the next morning a judge more prompt than any Justice of Quarter Session had called Joe to his account.

The office of a Divisional Detective Inspector is not likely to be a large or luxurious apartment. The whole Criminal Investigation staff at Q Division, Inspector Hazlerigg, Sergeant Pickup and two or three detectives (the number varied) lived, at that time, in two rooms and part of a corridor at the back of Barley Lane Police Station.

Nevertheless, to Hazlerigg the room was home. The scene of much routine work, many small triumphs, a few major disasters. The daily bread of a Divisional Detective Inspector. To this room he called Pickup a few days later and showed him a message. It was from Records at Scotland Yard, and like most communications from that august body, was brief and to the point.

“Test shots from Luger automatic handed in by you correspond in all particulars, striker point, striations and ejector marks with cartridges used in Rowley killing.”

“Do you mean to say,” said Pickup, “that that old goat—”

“No,” said Hazlerigg. “I think not.” He thought for a moment. “Have a word with the desk sergeant would you, and ask him if Slater said anything at all about that gun when he was brought in here to be charged.”

Pickup was back in five minutes. “Here it is, sir,” he said. “For what it’s worth. Accused when asked where he had obtained the firearm said well, we can leave out the first part, that’s just Joe’s usual bird song. Then he said, ‘On the Foreigners. I got it on the Foreigners.’ He said this twice. What does it mean, sir?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say I know what it meant,” said Hazlerigg. “But I’m getting an idea about the shape of it. I’ve been doing some work on Joe’s records. Do you know what most of his offences were? Stealing out of empty houses. He was an agile old boy, and as often as not he went for the lead on the roofs – the gutterings – that’s how he got his name. Slater. You see it?”

“Not yet,” said Pickup.

“You saw that gun, didn’t you? It was a nice gun. A Luger Special, with the long twelve-bullet clip and night sights. It must have come home in someone’s kit-bag at the end of the war. The man who had a gun like that wouldn’t want to throw it away.”

“I see, sir. You mean the man who killed Rowley was too fond of his gun to chuck it in the Thames. He hid it, as he thought, in a safe place.”

“That’s it. Some special hiding place, right in among the rafters. You’d probably never find it, from underneath. But old Joe, on one of his nightly prowls, ripped off the lead from on top.”

“Then if we knew where Joe was that night.”

“We do,” said Hazlerigg. “We do. He was on the Foreigners.”

“What’s that, sir? Thieves slang? What does it mean?”

“I haven’t the least idea.”

“We might put a ghost in to try and pick it up.”

“I think you’ve got something there,” said Hazlerigg.

Thereafter a number of strangers came and went in that district. They blew up tyres at garages and carried trays in tea shops and one of them spoke at great length on street corners about the new Millennium and the Fascist State. They all seemed well supplied with money for the buying of rounds of beer and they were good listeners. Reports from them reached Inspector Hazlerigg from time to time.

“I think Heinie Jacobs is out,” he said to Pickup. “The other two, Smiler and Ernie Morris, have ganged up on him. They’ve beaten hell out of one or two of his employees and he’s shut up shop.”

“He still might have shot Rowley before he went out of business.”

“Well, he might,” agreed Hazlerigg. “But I think it was one of those two strong-arm merchants.”

At about this time, too, Ron Atkins appeared. His record in Q Division was short but colourful. He was charged with driving at excessive speed down a one-way street and, having apparently no money to pay his fine, took seven days. On the afternoon of his release a constable cautioned him for parking a lorry on the wrong side of the road, whereupon he got out and hit the constable in the eye. Reward, one month, without any option this time. When he came out from this he drifted by easy degrees into bad company and was seen going about a good deal with Lefty Moran and Tom Collins, two lesser members of Smiler Martin’s happy family.

One night in late November some months after the events narrated above, Atkins was sitting in the saloon bar of the Green Man, drinking with his friends. Apart from Lefty and Tom there was present a certain Charlie Lewis, who was known to the initiated to be Smiler Martin’s second-in-command. No doubt it was the result of the general bonhomie inspired by the presence of such a distinguished person which emboldened Atkins to make a suggestion to his friends. The question had arisen, as it will arise sooner or later in the best drinking parties, as to whether a change of scene might not be a good idea.

Various possibilities were examined and it was then that Atkins put forward his contribution.

“Why don’t we have the next one at the Foreigners?” he said.

The silence which greeted this innocent suggestion was remarkable. It was Charlie Lewes himself who finally answered, and it might have been observed, had there been anyone else in the saloon bar to observe it, that his right hand was in his jacket pocket as he spoke.

“Quite an idea,” he said. “Yes, why don’t we?”

“We’ve got a car outside,” said Lefty Moran thoughtfully.

“What are we waiting for then?” said Lewes.

A small person in the four-ale bar, who had been listening to this conversation through a convenient crack in the partition, slipped out at the same time and made his way hastily to a call box.

“They’ve got Pollock,” said Hazlerigg.

There was a hastily summoned conference in his room. Two Flying Squad cars were standing by in the alley outside.

“He’s been calling himself Atkins. He was getting in very nicely with the Martin crowd. Apparently tonight something went wrong. I’ve just had Mousey Williams on the phone.”

“Has he been followed?” said the Superintendent.

“We had him covered, sir,” said Hazlerigg. “But they took him off by car. Our man was shaken off here.” He put a finger on the map. “They were making for the canal.”

“So you don’t know to within six streets each way where they’ve gone to earth.”

“We could comb that area, but it might take twenty-four hours.”

“If I know Martin,” said the Superintendent, “Pollock will be past caring by then, even if you did find him.”

It was at that moment that Hazlerigg had his inspiration.

He said to Pickup, “Get a list of all the cafés, shops, and public houses in those streets.”

Police headquarters have odd but effective sources of information and in a few minutes the list was there.

“‘Rising Sun,’ ‘Crown & Thistle,’ ‘Ace Café,’ ‘Domino Tea Shop,’ ‘The English Bard’ – There it is.”

“English Bard,” said the Superintendent. “I don’t see—”

But Hazlerigg was already halfway down the passage.

The English Bard is a sordid remnant of what was once quite a nice little canal-side public house. In fact, it is half a public house, having been sliced in two by a bomb in 1943. The brewers who owned it had done some temporary repairs and then left it to rot quietly.

It was easy to see how Smiler Martin, who was doing most of the talking, had acquired his name. He was a large, genial, blond person and the electric light glittered back expensively from his 18-carat smile.

“Do you see the joke,” he was saying.

“Not yet,” said Pollock.

“About the name?”

“In a way,” said Pollock. “English barred. Foreigners only. That sort of thing.”

“The real joke,” said Smiler, “was how did you know about it? That’s the real joke.”

“Oh, these things get round.”

“Like hell they do. Only six people ever knew that name.” (Martin was wrong, of course; he had forgotten the late Slater Joe, who knew all the catchwords in the world of crime.) “When you came out with it like that – well, it was a plain tipoff, wasn’t it?”

Pollock said nothing. He was listening, hard, to something that seemed to be happening in the room underneath.

“You weren’t one of us.” Martin flicked an expensive cigarette lighter on and off thoughtfully. “So you must have been a nosey little slop. An undercover boy. That’s right, isn’t it?”

Pollock still said nothing.

“Well, if you don’t want to talk,” said Martin, and his smile was broader than ever, “we could try a little of the well-known heat treatment.”

“I wouldn’t do it,” said Hazlerigg from the doorway. “Really I wouldn’t. Now don’t start looking for guns. I’ve got fifteen men on the premises and another twelve on the street. The odds are too long.”

Even as he spoke the room was filling with policemen.

“Alfred Martin,” went on Hazlerigg, “I am charging you with the murder on the night of March 15th of Louis Rowley.”

Which is really the beginning and end of this story.

Reveille, January 27-29,1950.