Mr. Campion's Lucky Day & Other Stories (19 page)

Detective Inspector Parker pounced upon him as he stepped through the barrier.

“Joseph Thurtle!” he said.

The man swung round, and as he faced his captor there was an expression in his eyes which was almost relief. It had come at last, then. The wearing uncertainty was over. “Yes,” he said quickly. “Yes. You are a police officer, aren’t you? Very well. I’ll come with you, only don’t make a scene here!”

D. I. Parker was a man who took an officious pride in his job. He recited the formula of arrest clearly and unnecessarily loudly, and then, producing his handcuffs, slipped a bracelet over the older man’s right wrist.

“Surely that’s unnecessary? I said I’d come with you.”

The man who had shunned publicity all his life glanced nervously at the curious crowd which was beginning to collect.

“I’m sorry!” The inspector spoke curtly. The other bracelet of the handcuff was attached to his own wrist now, and together they walked across the platform, a small section of the crowd streaming after them.

On the top of the steps, in the archway to the station drive, D. I. Parker paused for an instant to glance behind him, ostensibly to look for Murdoch. It was only for a moment, but it gave the photographers time. A faint smile of satisfaction spread over the inspector’s face, as he hurried over to his waiting taxi.

Had he been a little less pleased with himself, it is conceivable that he might have noticed a single swift glance which passed between the driver of the cab and a plumpish, fair young man, who had come out of the station by another door. It is also just possible that the inspector’s sharp, well-trained eyes might have observed that the driver, although remarkably like, was, indeed, not the actual man who had driven him from the Yard less than twenty minutes before.

“I suppose you’re taking me to a police station?”

The crumpled, dejected prisoner, who sagged against the leather upholstery of the cab, turned an inquiring eye upon the lean and wiry man at his side. The two wrists, handcuffed together, lay upon the seat between them.

Inspector Parker vouchsafed no reply. The cab was passing Westminster Abbey. When they came upon the Embankment the traffic thinned because of the wide road and the cab gathered speed. The policeman sat up stiffly. His mind was far away, rehearsing just exactly what he was going to to say to Superintendent Wetherby. The job had been so simple that it was going to be difficult to introduce any element of self-congratulation.

He was still pondering on the problem when something occurred which materially altered the whole course of Inspector Parker’s career.

A large moving-van stood by the side of the road, its doors gaping and its drawbridge apron down. It was growing dusk and, save for a bus and a few other taxis, there was very little traffic. The inspector was gazing through the glass, when the utterly incredible occurred. The cab driver slowed down, dropped into low gear, and, crouching over his wheel, suddenly swerved and charged straight at the back of the van.

There was a jolt as the front wheels hit the bottom of the apron, the engine roared as the cab took the strain, and the next minute they were plunged into darkness as they entered the van. The doors clanged to behind them and a figure swayed through the window towards them in the darkness and something hard and circular was pressed into his ribs.

“Sit still!”

The strange voice was calm, almost conversational. “Don’t start yelling or I’ll fire.”

The inspector jerked the wrist of his prisoner. “I suppose you think you’re very clever, Thurtle,” he said. “But this will mean another ten years on your sentence.”

“I don’t understand.” The man’s voice was genuinely afraid. “I can’t move myself.”

It was at this point that the inspector realised that a second assailant was leaning through the other window of the cab. Meanwhile, the van had begun to move. He could feel its wheels beneath him. The whole plot had been worked so smoothly and neady that it was unlikely that anyone witnessing the incident would have guessed that anything was seriously wrong.

It took Inspector Parker some moments to grasp the enormity of the situation. Then he became angry. Only the gun muzzle in his ribs prevented him from becoming violent. He was not a timid man, however, and he leaned back against the cushions with at least a show of ease.

“I suppose you realise the penalties for this sort of thing?” he remarked.

The owner of the gun in his ribs laughed.

“The trouble with you cops is that you believe you’re invulnerable,” he said. “You shouldn’t have handcuffed yourself to your prisoner. As it is, I’m afraid you’ll have to come the whole way. And something tells me, Inspector Parker’—the voice was soft, almost caressing—’something tells me that you’re going to find that very unhealthy indeed.”

“I don’t know who you are,” said another voice out of the darkness, which the inspector recognised as his prisoner’s, “but you are doing me a great disservice. Why don’t you let this man arrest me in peace?”

Once again the soft, explosive laugh, which was beginning to grate on the inspector, sounded in his ear.

“Good heavens!” the second man said. “What do you think we are? A charity organisation? If you’ve come from the States, Mr. Thurtle, you ought to know you’ve been hijacked. Perhaps you’d like me to translate for you, inspector? You’re one firm, as it were, Mr. Thurtle is another. And the bright lads who are taking you on this joy ride represent a third party who happens to be interested. Have you got that clear?”

The van swerved round a corner and in its depths Inspector Parker leaned back, the gun still in his ribs as he cursed beneath his breath.

At police headquarters Chief Detective Inspector Guthrie of C Division was talking to one of his more promising young men. “Well, Fisher, we’ve found the taxi. Fortunately, Murdoch was able to identify the number. And we’ve found the moving-van. But the men, Thurtle, and Parker have vanished. This is a serious business for us. When a world-famous financier is arrested by a Yard inspector on Victoria station, and they both disappear, together with the taxi in which they are riding; that makes for newspaper crusades and questions in Parliament.”

The young man at the desk looked up from the plan which almost covered it. He was a big fair-haired officer with sharp grey eyes.

The Chief Detective Inspector continued: “That WX-Fifteen district, where we found the cab, is a vortex—a thieves’ vortex. They just stand there and it swallows them up. It has happened time and again; only unlike a vortex they come up again—somewhere else.”

He walked across the room and stood looking over Fisher’s shoulder.

“There you are!” he said, running his finger round an area marked in red on the large-scale plan. “Here’s Perry Street, Perry Square, Winton Street and Winton Mews and surrounding them Oxford Street, Tottenham Court Road, Charlotte Street, Goodge Street. Then in the centre is this interesting little patch, apparently as innocent as the Bank of England—and yet that is the spot. If a villain gets there he can disappear.”

Fisher passed his fingers through his fair hair. “I’d just like to make sure, sir, exactly what has been done already.”

“Everything is in the file. You’ll find all action undertaken during the last nine months there but I’ll give you a brief resume myself. I first noticed something odd about this particular district a little under a year ago. A jeweller’s shop was broken into in Oxford Street. To all appearances it was an ordinary smash and grab carried out with clever team work. The two fellows who took most of the valuables went off in a car and were chased. They turned down St. Francis Passage and got into Tottenham Court Road.”

Guthrie paused. ‘The odd thing was, Fisher, that the raid was staged at night. We had a cordon right round the district looking for the Hendridge kidnappers. It was in the small hours and every car was stopped. The district was alive with police. These smash and grab raiders were seen to abandon their car at the corner of Goodge Street and turn into Perry Square. From that point they disappeared.

“Now that, I expect, is not a very extraordinary story to you, and it wasn’t to me at the time. I thought it was poor police work and that our men had not been as smart as they might have been.

“But that was only the beginning. Since then, a peculiarly clever brand of organised crime in the West End has been on the increase. The villains have always used this method of escape, and the procession of incidents connected with this area came to the fore again last night with this kidnapping.

‘That district has got to be laid open. The rat hole must be plugged. Now I want results. That is why you are handling the case. Take my advice and pin your faith to the WX-Fifteen district. That’s where the solution of this mystery lies. We cannot surround this area and the crooks know we cannot.”

Bob Fisher bent over the plan. “As I see it, sir,” he ventured, “Winton Mews, where the cab and moving-van were found, seems to be the centre of interest. Both vehicles were stolen early yesterday morning. It’s rather strange that the mews was built in the middle of a block like that, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think so. The two sides that face on to the square are modern. They are made up of flats and tailors’ workrooms. The other two sides are older and consist of the original houses to which the mews used to belong. Some of these have shops on the ground floor. Then just across the road there’s a block of luxury flats called Southwold Mansions and beside them is a yard leading to a warehouse.”

He bent over the other’s shoulder and indicated on the plan the buildings he mentioned.

Fisher nodded comprehendingly. “And all these places have been searched?”

“Searched!” Guthrie threw out his hand in an expressive gesture. “Ask Ames if you want to hear about that. Here is some more background. This is Joe’s cafe. He’s a very honest fellow, reputed to put pea flour in the coffee. That is all that is known against him. Next there is the laundrette. Man and his wife run it. They let lodgings. We know all about them. The cigarette shop next door is clean; so is the music shop, and the sandwich bar has nothing to hide. Now we come to the mews itself. Most of the garages are used by private owners, all respectable. We’ve gone over them. There isn’t even a cellar under most of them.

“Only two are used as dwellings. This one here is a store room for the laundrette. The husband and wife sleep above. There’s nothing there. Next door, of course, is old Mrs. Wheeler. She’s a fine old London character. She says she is a hundred and five next birthday. Bedridden, you know, and lives all alone except for welfare folk who hover around her and the tourists who come and have a look at her. We thought at one time that she might have done a little fortune-telling but nothing more sinister.”

Fisher nodded.

“What’s underneath this district?”

“There’s the Underground, the Forty-Y sewer and the old Post Office tube now used by the Westbridge Stores to join its two branches for parcels delivery, so they can avoid the traffic from the Oxford Circus shop. There is no entrance, as far as we can see, to any of these underground ways from the WX-Fifteen district. But your first task is to recapture Thurtle. I don’t think his friends are in it, by the way. I think it is private enterprise on the part of some other villains. Parker must be rescued and you must lay your hands upon the man who is organising this district—the man with the brains and the escape system.”

The phone rang and the older man picked it up.

“This is for you, Fisher,” he said. “Sounds like a private call.”

Fisher took the call with a feeling of embarrassment.

“Bob, is that you at last? Look here, I’m in a flat—a furnished flat. I’ve taken it—not pinched it, you know, rented it. It’s for my aunt, as a matter of fact. She’s coming to town tomorrow and I don’t think it’ll suit her. You must come here and have a look at it, and I think you’ll agree with me.”

In spite of his exasperation, Fisher smiled. The request was typical of George Box, that idle soul whom he had met on holiday earlier in the year, and whom he had bumped into several times since in the West End.

“Look here,” he said. “I’m sorry. I can’t manage it. I’m frightfully busy. Yes, busy. I can’t talk now, either.”

“But, Bob, I say!” The tone was aggrieved. “I’m putting something in your way. This is important. You come along. You’ll regret it all your life if you don’t. Listen, Bob!” The voice was lowered mysteriously. “I can’t say much over the phone, but I believe you’ll find this a very interesting place.”

Fisher caught a fleeting glimpse of Guthrie’s irritated expression, and he spoke severely into the mouthpiece.

“I’m sorry, Box, I’m busy,” he said. “If you’ll give me the address I’ll see what I can do later.” He pulled a scribbling pad towards him. “Hello, yes—3-A Southwold Mansions, Perry Street.”

He stood staring at the address he had scribbled down and then turned and spoke into the phone with considerably more interest than before.

“Did you say Southwold?”

“Yes—Southwold Mansions. You come along!”

“Right. I will. Goodbye!”

Fisher put down the receiver to find Guthrie looking at him.

“That’s a queer coincidence,” he said.

“Very odd,” agreed Fisher.

“Is your friend wealthy?” the older man said. ‘Those are expensive flats. Dacre, the actor, has one. A surgeon lives on the first floor, and there’s a stockbroker above him.”

Fisher smiled.

“Box has taken it for his aunt. I believe she’s quite wealthy. I think I may drop in there tonight.”

“I think it would be wise,” Guthrie agreed. “Eh, Davidson? What’s the matter?”

The lugubrious man who had just entered said bluntly, “Inspector Parker’s been found, sir. He was discovered by a nature class with the back of his head blown out. The local police have got rid of the children but they’re holding the boy who tripped over the body until we arrive. It is thought Parker was dumped from a car, the tracks are plain and they’ve followed them on to the main road where there’s a lay-by. So far there is no trace of Thurtle.”

Chief Detective Guthrie sucked air through his clenched teeth.