Hardcastle's Traitors (19 page)

‘And who the hell's going to stand about in midwinter collecting cab numbers?' Lipton was always impatient with people who made silly statements or asked stupid questions.

For the next twenty minutes, Lipton piloted the cab around the tight circuit of Flood Street, Alpha Place, Flood Walk, Chelsea Manor Street and back to Flood Street. By now it was pitch dark with a threat of fog and, thanks to wartime restrictions, the few street lights that were illuminated had been dimmed. The chances of anyone realizing that the same cab was circling the block were minimal.

On the fourth circuit, Lipton turned into Flood Street in time to see a man come out of Sinclair Villiers's house. He was attired in a Harris Tweed motor coat and a cap upon which were a pair of goggles.

‘Here we go,' yelled Lipton above the noise of the engine.

‘How do we know it's Villiers?' shouted Keeler.

‘Can't be anyone else,' responded Lipton. ‘His son's in the Tower and I don't suppose he'd let his butler drive that bloody thing.'

The man went to the front of the vehicle, a starting handle at the ready.

‘Time for another quick turn round the block,' shouted Lipton, and accelerated.

As the police cab turned into Flood Street for the fifth time, the driver of the Haxe-Doulton was moving off. He quickly accelerated so that Lipton was hard pressed to keep up with him.

‘I reckon he's doing more than twenty miles an hour,' shouted Keeler from the passenger compartment.

‘I think you're right,' shouted Lipton in response. ‘There's no way of telling for sure, but if you think I'm going to stop him and report him for exceeding the speed limit, you can forget it. The DDI would have a blue fit if we showed out for the sake of a paltry summons.'

Fortunately, heavy traffic and a collision between an omnibus and a car forced Villiers to slow down when he turned north off Victoria Embankment and entered the City of London. But when he reached Cannon Street, he stopped.

‘Why on earth is he stopping here, Gordon?' asked Keeler.

‘I don't know, do I?' replied Lipton testily. ‘Anyhow, he's getting out.'

Villiers walked round the vehicle to the front offside and then, hands on hips and an exasperated expression on his face, he stared up and down the road.

‘This looks like a bit of luck, Baz. He's got a flat tyre. I reckon this is our chance. If I bring him back to the cab, you're to agree with anything I say. All right?' Without waiting for an answer, Lipton leaped out of the cab, and strode across to Villiers. ‘Are you all right, sir? I thought you might've had an accident.'

‘No, I've got a puncture, dammit! I suppose you've got a fare?'

‘Yes, I have, sir.'

‘Blast! I'm already late and you can't get a cab for love or money these days. It's this damned war, you know; half the cabbies in London seem to have disappeared.'

‘Where were you making for, sir?' asked Lipton.

‘Mile End. Hannibal Street, as a matter of fact.'

‘I might be able to help you there, sir. I'm taking my fare to Mile End Road. I'll see if he's willing to share the cab with you.'

‘I'd be most grateful, cabbie,' said Villiers warmly, and followed Lipton to the cab.

Lipton opened the door of the passenger compartment, and addressing Keeler, said, ‘This gentleman's in a bit of a fix, sir. He's going to Mile End, same as you. Would you be willing to share with him? It'd be doing him a favour.'

‘Of course, cabbie,' agreed Keeler readily, adopting what he believed to be a polished accent.

‘There we are, sir,' said Lipton, turning to Villiers. ‘In you get.' Pausing, he added, ‘What about your car, sir?'

‘I'll telephone the Royal Automobile Club when I arrive, cabbie. They'll deal with it, and no one can drive it away with a flat tyre.'

‘That's handy, sir, being a member of a club that helps you out like that.' Lipton did not know much about the Royal Automobile Club.

‘It has its advantages, including a good restaurant,' said Villiers, getting into the cab as Keeler moved across to make room on the seat.

It was fortunate that Lipton had served in the East End of London before being posted to Cannon Row police station; had he not been able to find Mile End Road it would have looked suspicious. London cab drivers were expected to know London thoroughly, but Lipton had not done ‘the knowledge', as the taxi drivers' comprehensive examination of routes was known.

Lipton stopped the cab in Hannibal Street, and Villiers alighted, having thanked Keeler effusively for his assistance.

‘Now, cabbie, what's the fare?'

Lipton glanced at the taximeter. ‘Well, sir, we started off in Lambeth, and the meter's showing thirty shillings. But, as we picked you up on Cannon Street, I suppose it'll only be—'

‘Nonsense,' exclaimed Villiers. ‘You and your passenger did me a great service.' Taking out his wallet, he extracted a five-pound note. ‘I insist on paying this gentleman's fare as well as my own. The rest is a tip for you for being so helpful.' He stared at the licence tag that Lipton was wearing. ‘What's more, I shall write to the Commissioner of Police, telling him what a helpful chap you are.'

‘There's no need for that, sir,' said Lipton, touching his cap with a forefinger as he pocketed the white five-pound note with his other hand. In fact, he hoped that Villiers would not write any letters to the Yard; he could do without the complication of having to pen an explanatory report. And he would have to surrender the five pounds he had just been given.

Villiers crossed the pavement and entered a house. Lipton got back into the cab and drove around the corner and stopped.

‘Did Villiers say anything useful, Baz?' asked Lipton, leaning back to talk to Keeler through the open partition.

‘No, apart from thanking me several times. He just talked about the weather and then went on about Chelsea football club; apparently he's a supporter. How much did he give you, Gordon?'

‘A flim,' said Lipton, flourishing the five-pound note. ‘That's two pounds and ten shillings each.'

‘Blimey!' exclaimed Keeler. ‘More than a week's pay. Are we going to tell the guv'nor?'

‘Try not to be stupid all your life, Baz. If we did that, it'd finish up in his pocket, not ours.'

Lipton returned the cab to the transport depot at seven o'clock the following morning.

The sergeant walked all round the vehicle, inspecting it closely. Occasionally, he rubbed his hand on a mark, but eventually satisfied himself that there was no damage that could be attributed to Lipton.

‘That seems to be all right, lad,' the sergeant said, somewhat reluctantly. Lipton got the impression that he would have been delighted to find some imperfection. ‘Successful observation was it?' he asked.

‘I don't know, Skip,' said Lipton, ‘you'll have to ask my guv'nor. It didn't mean anything to me.' He had no intention of divulging the reasons for having followed Villiers.

‘Cagey lot, you CID blokes,' said the sergeant.

Lipton and Keeler were waiting outside the DDI's office at a quarter to eight later that morning.

Minutes later, Hardcastle appeared. ‘Well?' he barked, as the two detectives followed him into his office.

Lipton gave a detailed account of all that had happened during the course of their observation, including the part when they had taken Villiers the last part of his journey, but omitting mention of the five pounds that he had given them for their trouble.

‘Are you sure about that, Lipton?' Hardcastle frowned. He was always suspicious when one of his detectives claimed to have had a stroke of luck, and wondered whether they had engineered the situation to avoid a wearisome duty. And Lipton had a reputation for being blessed with ‘strokes of luck'.

‘That's exactly what happened, sir.' Lipton sounded indignant. ‘I thought how lucky we'd been that Villiers got a flat tyre.'

‘What sort of place was this in Hannibal Street, Lipton?' Hardcastle decided not to question the matter of Lipton's luck any further.

‘Just an ordinary house, sir. Villiers knocked on the door and was admitted straightaway. But we didn't hang about.'

‘Quite right,' said Hardcastle. ‘Off you go and get about your duties, and ask Sergeant Marriott to come in.'

‘An interesting development, sir,' said Marriott, who had already been apprised of the result of the two detectives' evening's work.

‘We'll need to find out about this place, Marriott,' said Hardcastle.

‘It's on Mr Sawyer's patch, sir. Perhaps he can shed some light on it.'

‘Get on that telephone thing and ask him what he knows, Marriott.'

‘Yes, sir.' Marriott paused at the door. ‘You ought to have an instrument installed in your office, sir.'

For a moment or two, Hardcastle stared at his sergeant. ‘Don't be ridiculous, Marriott,' he said. ‘The bloody thing might go off. Anyway, I don't want any Tom, Dick and Harry ringing me up.'

It took Marriott ten minutes to be connected to Bow Road police station and a further five before he was able to speak to Divisional Detective Inspector Sawyer. But finally he was able to go back to Hardcastle with some interesting information.

‘It seems that the occupant of the house in Hannibal Street is a Levi Rosner and he's a rabbi, sir.'

Hardcastle picked up his pipe and spent a few moments scraping out the bowl. ‘That could've been a purely religious visit, Marriott, or it might be something more in view of all this business about a Jewish homeland. I think I'd better have a word with Special Branch. They might know more about this place.' He stood up and took his bowler hat and umbrella from the hatstand. ‘Not that they're likely to tell me, even if they do know anything.'

‘Well now, Mr Hardcastle?' said O'Rourke. ‘What have you to report?'

Hardcastle told O'Rourke of the progress of his enquiries into the murder of Peter Stein at Bow, and explained what Lipton and Keeler had discovered. ‘I wondered if Special Branch were aware of this place and whether it meant anything to you, sir.'

‘It has been established that Sinclair Villiers is of the Jewish faith, Inspector,' said O'Rourke. ‘The fact that he visited a rabbi in the East End of London does not seem to me to be at all pertinent to the discovery of the men who murdered Reuben Gosling or Peter Stein. One imagines that he also visits a synagogue from time to time.'

‘Perhaps so, sir, but I thought I should inform you.'

‘Well, now you've done so, Mr Hardcastle, so I'll not detain you any longer.'

‘Very well, sir,' said Hardcastle, only just managing to contain his fury at the near snub he had received at the hands of the Irish chief inspector.

But when Hardcastle had departed, O'Rourke sent for Detective Inspector Lionel Frith.

‘I have a job for you, Mr Frith.'

‘Yes, sir?'

‘I've just received some interesting information from the DDI of A,' began O'Rourke, and recounted what he had been told by Hardcastle. ‘It may be entirely innocent, of course, but on the other hand there may be some connection between Captain Haydn Villiers, his father and this rabbi. I think we should take an interest in Rabbi Levi Rosner, Mr Frith.'

‘A discreet observation, sir?' asked Frith.

‘Not yet. A thorough search of records and contact with informants. We'll see what that produces and then decide on our next course of action.'

But, unbeknown to O'Rourke, Hardcastle had no intention of leaving it there, and determined to conduct his own enquiries.

‘H
ave we done anything about tracing this man Morgan, Marriott?'

‘Morgan, sir?'

‘Joseph Morgan, the commercial traveller who was supposed to have run off with Sarah Gosling. According to Mrs Partridge, the wife of the gents' outfitter, Sarah Gosling left her husband for Morgan and went to live with him in Brighton.'

‘But d'you think he might know anything that would help us, sir?' As was often the case, Marriott was having difficulty following Hardcastle's mercurial changes of direction in the enquiry.

‘We won't know until we ask, Marriott. I seem to remember saying that Wood should go, but not until I told him to. I think he should go now.'

‘I'll send him straight away, sir, although it remains to be seen whether there'll be any trace of Morgan or Mrs Gosling there. If I remember correctly, Mrs Partridge wasn't altogether sure that that's where the couple had gone. As a matter of fact, I think she was only guessing.'

‘We can't rely on guesswork,' said Hardcastle, a comment that surprised Marriott. He had long since convinced himself that the DDI frequently relied on intuition. And often obtained a satisfactory outcome as a result. ‘We need hard facts. Once you've sent Wood off, I think we'll have a chat with the rabbi that Villiers visited, and then we'll talk to Villiers himself.'

‘Is that wise, sir? We've no evidence to indicate that Sinclair Villiers had anything to do with Reuben Gosling's murder.'

‘Haven't we, Marriott?' Hardcastle leaned forward, hands linked on his desk and an earnest expression on his face. ‘Wilfred Henwood, Villiers's butler, has told us that Villiers wasn't at home on the night of Gosling's murder. And that begs the question as to where exactly he was.'

The house where Rabbi Levi Rosner lived in Hannibal Street, Bow, was a modest dwelling in a row of equally modest dwellings. But it was well cared for, the paint was new and the windows sparklingly clean. The doorstep appeared to have been whitened that day. But it was probably whitened every day.

Hardcastle raised his hat as the rabbi answered the door, an enquiring expression on his face.

‘Rabbi Rosner?'

‘That is me, my friend.' Rosner had a full beard, wore rimless glasses, and was soberly dressed in a dark suit and the traditional yarmulke. Hardcastle guessed he was at least sixty.