Pressure had come down from on high, through the appropriate channels and settled on the ample shoulders of Detective Inspector Roberts. It was a burden the inspector could well have done without, especially at the weekend, but one he couldn't shirk. He knew he would be under the scrutiny of the Branch and Whitehall, as well as that of his ordinary masters until he had brought the matter to a satisfactory conclusion. Roberts knew he hadn't a cat's chance in hell, but knew also, that he had to go through the motions all the same. He began by narrowing down the time when they had been misplaced or stolen.
"Mr. Winters, when did you last see your travelers’ cheques?" asked Roberts.
"I'm not exactly sure. I know I had them when we boarded the flight. I remember checking everything then."
"Did you have occasion to use them after you boarded the flight?"
"No."
"Did you keep a list of numbers of the cheques?"
"Yes, I have it here." Winters pulled his passport out of his pocket and removed a slip of paper which had been inserted into the back of it and handed it to the detective.
Roberts looked at the slip of paper, studying the numbers written on it.
"There just seems to be one series of numbers here Mr. Winters. Is that right?"
"Yes, they were all $100 dollar cheques. One hundred of them in all."
"Let's recap then, Mr. Winters. You left home when?"
"Yesterday evening. Late."
"And you left with one hundred $100 American Express Travelers' che
ques, which you carried on your person. Where exactly?" Winters indicated the left inside pocket of his jacket.
"Is there anything else missing from the pocket or anywhere else? Perhaps you could look through your things as well, Mrs. Winters, just to be on the safe side."
They both went through their pockets and Emily Winters checked through the contents of her handbag as well.
"Do you have your luggage here at the Embassy?"
"Yes, I left it at the reception desk when we arrived."
"Sergeant Heath, perhaps you'd be so good as to have the luggage brought in here."
The sergeant duly obliged. When they had checked the luggage, it was clear that there was no sign of the missing cheques.
"Which airline did you travel with?"
"Pan-Am."
“Sergeant. Ring Pan-am at Heathrow." He turned to Winters and asked, "It was Heathrow airport you arrived at?" Winters nodded. "When you get through to Pan-Am, Pat, speak to their security officer and ask if anything has been handed in, in the way of American Express
Travelers’ cheques. Don't mention the amount." Returning to Winters he asked,
"What time did your flight arrive
Sir?"
"About an hour and a half ago, I think."
"Sergeant!" Roberts shouted, causing Heath to stop halfway through the door, "Check back as far as two p.m., to be safe."
"Did you have any reason to go to that pocket before you left the airport terminal, Mr. Winters?"
"No, I've told you."
"You're sure of that
Sir?"
"Quite sure."
"How did you get from the terminal to the Embassy?"
"We took a taxi from the rank outside the terminal building."
"Did you walk up to the taxi or did it come to you?"
"Wh
at difference does that make?" the American snapped.
"It might make a difference,
Sir," replied Roberts, softening his tone to calm Winters down. "Please bear with me."
"O.K." Winters sighed deeply. We went to the taxi. We walked from the door to the taxi and got in. That's all."
"Was it raining?" Roberts switched tack, surprising the American.
"Why?" Roberts could feel that Winters was on the point of losing his temper, so
he explained the reason for his question.
"I asked because you're both wearing your raincoats. Now, I know that most American visitors always assume it's going to rain in London, but I wondered if it was actually raining when you arrived at the airport."
"Yes, dear," answered his wife, "It was raining at the airport. I remember, because I put my rain-hat over my hair and only took it off in the taxi."
"Were there many other people coming out of the terminal at that time?"
"Quite a few," continued Emily Winters, giving her husband time to regain his composure.
"And none of them wanted taxis?" Roberts increased the pace of his questioning, not giving the Americans time to think, only time to respond.
"Yes, of course they did!" Winters shouted, rising to his feet, his exasperation growing each second.
"But the
re wasn't a queue for the taxis," persisted Roberts, standing his ground, keeping eye-contact with Winters.
"Yes! There was," interjected Emily, once more giving her husband time to cool down.
"But you didn't join it. Why not?" Roberts directed his question towards Winters, ignoring his wife.
"Because someone
signaled to the cab and he pulled off the rank to where we were standing and the guy who called the taxi over to us, opened the door for us to climb in and helped with the luggage."
"Thank you Mr. Winters. Now we know where to look." Roberts studied Winters face, as the American
realized the importance of the nearly forgotten details, which went a long way to explaining how and when the travelers’ cheques had been stolen.
The door opened, admitting Heath who had been in earshot, waiting for a lull in the conversation before daring to enter. He knew better than to interrupt his boss in full flow.
"What news?" Roberts asked him.
"Nothing yet,
Sir, they're still checking."
"Let's pay them a surprise visit." Roberts suggested.
"Have you finished with us?" asked Winters.
"Yes, thank you Mr. Winters, we're quite finished for the moment. We'll be on our way and let you know if we find anything. Where can we get in touch with you?"
"We'll be at the Savoy, I guess, until we get settled."
"Right and by the way, don't forget to inform American Express of the loss. They'll want to have a complete record of the numbers and the amount to put on their computer. Best do it right away, I expect you'll find their number in the book.
“Goodbye." They left the Americans to it.
"How much of that did you overhear Pat," asked Roberts as soon as they were outside.
"I think I got most of it. You think it was someone playing the good Samaritan on the taxi rank?"
"A pound to a penny it was and if we get over to Heathrow a bit sharpish, we'll have a word with the lads and see which faces they remember from this afternoon."
Information from Heathrow was slow in forthcoming, nothing coming to light until the officers covering the same shift as when the cheques had disappeared, came back on shift. D. I. Roberts and D. Sgt. Heath were on another call when they received a message that one of the undercover team had 'moved-on' a character known for his specialty in 'dipping' the crowds. The Criminal Record Office supplied the rest of the information they needed.
The Yard closes in
When they had obtained the necessary search warrant they drove to the Tooting address of Fred 'Ferret face' Jefferson. To save possible embarrassment and possible confusion later, they liaised with the local Tooting police through New Scotland Yard, leaving the local police to keep surveillance on the address until they arrived with the warrant.
When everyone was quite ready and with his own D.S., covering the back of the premises with a couple of the local uniforms, Roberts strode briskly up to the front door and thumped it loudly three times with his clenched fist and waited. The knock could be heard half-way down the street and already several curtains were hastily being drawn back to see what was happening. There was no answer. Roberts knocked again with greater force. Hearing scuffling noises from the other side of the door he decided to wait no longer.
"Alfred Arthur Jefferson," Roberts bellowed, "This is the police. If you don't stop wasting my time and come out within the next few seconds, I shall have to come in and get you. Don't
... make... me... do... that!" Roberts was a daunting physical specimen, 6 feet 7” tall and built like a brick shit house. He had a voice to match.
There were more noises from behind the door, then the sound of the catches being drawn back. The door opened a couple of inches, kept from opening further by
a safety chain. A woman peeped through the gap between door and the jamb.
"Mrs. Jefferson?"
"What if I am?"
"Open the door please. We're here to see your old man."
"You got a warrant?" Roberts unfolded the paper and showed it to her. As soon as she had opened the door, Robert's foot was through the gap, preventing any possible re-closure.
"Where is he?"
Madge Jefferson said nothing, but knowing she could do nothing to prevent a full scale search of the house, she nodded her head in the direction of the staircase. Roberts took the stairs two at a time to the landing at the top. He had three doors to choose from and automatically chose the one giving access to the rear of the building. It was locked. Roberts was reluctant to use force against the door, as the last time he had tried that particular move he had dislocated his shoulder.
"Can you hear me Jefferson? This is Detective Inspector Roberts
... Serious Crimes Squad. Don't make me come in there after you... you haven't got any witnesses... and if you're thinking of scarpering out the back, I've already got it covered. Be a good lad... open up and stop wasting my bloody time. Jefferson saved him the trouble by coming out. "Good lad," he said, shoving the man back into the room onto his bed, "You were cutting that fine, son. Sit down, shut up and let me get my breath back!" Roberts checked the window and tried to open it but it was stuck fast. It had been nailed shut on the inside of the frame.
"No wonder you didn't try a runner son
... you've nailed the bloody thing shut."
"I forgot."
"Why did you nail it shut then?"
"Well
there are a lot of tea-leaves about."
"Don't make me laugh, you're one of the biggest in the area ! "
"That's not true Mr. Roberts, you know it's not."
"Shut up for a moment and stop trying my patience."
Roberts turned to a uniformed constable and said, "Nip out the back, son and tell my D.S. to get himself in here; then get her down below to rustle up some tea... and tell the wrecking crew not to get started until I've had a few words with chummy here." Roberts ordered one of the uniform constables.
As soon as Heath arrived, Roberts started the questioning.
"Right Jefferson, let's start with what you had for breakfast yesterday morning." Roberts loomed over the little man.
"Cornflakes," he answered, thrown by the unusual nature of the question.
"Anything else?"
"Cup of tea
. "
"And that's all?"
"Yes." And where did this auspicious breakfast take place?" asked the Detective Inspector, pacing the room, pausing now and again to make his presence felt.
"In the kitchen. There ain't nothin' wrong wiv' that."
"Do you always have breakfast in the kitchen?"
"Yes."
"Except when you're not here?"
"But I'm always here."
"You weren't bloody well here yesterday afternoon were you, so stop messing me about."
"I was." Jefferson squealed, frightened they were going to hit him.
"Don't be bloody stupid, son. We know where you were yesterday afternoon. That's the name of the game... we only ask questions when we've already got the answers."
"Where was I then?
" The Ferret's voice sounded worried.
"Shall we say out west a bit, not a million miles from here."
"As the crow flies." Added Heath cryptically.
"That's right, I forgot. I went to see my auntie off from Heathrow."
"Wonderful thing memory, how quickly it comes back. How long was your auntie's flight delayed?"
"It wasn't delayed."
"We know it wasn't delayed, because your auntie wasn't there, so stop mucking us about."
"I'm not. Honest."
"You were seen in terminal three from half-past two on. You were 'moved-on' out of the terminal at four o'clock. Christ, we've even got you on video-tape for the best part of half an hour, so it's pointless pretending you weren't there."
"What do you want?" h
e asked, grudgingly, hoping they would go easy on him if he co-operated.
"We just want you to tell us of your movements from the time you left terminal three up to the time you left the airport, including how many scores you made when you were working the taxi queue."
"You know about that?" asked the Ferret, suitably impressed.
"We do now," added Willis, smiling.
"You bastard!"
"Where you made your mistake, old son, was with the American couple
... you remember, the ones with the matching Burberry Macs, the man middle aged, fair and slim together with a middle-aged woman who was ‘twin-set and pearls’."
"Who was he?"
"That's where your luck ran out. You picked on a member of the Embassy of the United States and he's not a happy bunny."
"Shit!"
"Exactly, my son and you're in it right in a pile of it right up to your little neck. You know what's involved now, because of the embassy - you deal with me, or I will give you to the 'funnies' from the Branch and MI5.., the rubber-heeled lot. So what did you do with the travelers’ cheques?"
"I've got them here, under the floor." By now, the Ferret was prepared to believe in fairies if it meant saving his scrawny neck.
Roberts stepped back and flipped the carpet up with his shoe. He tested the loose board with his foot before asking the Ferret to open it up. Roberts bent down and recovered an oil-cloth wrapped package from the space between the joists. He unfastened its drawstrings and upended its contents onto the bed. There was a motley assortment of cheque-books, credit cards, a couple of imitation gold pens and Winters' pouch of travelers’ cheques.
“Sergeant Heath, have you got your note-book ready?"
"Sir."
"Alfred Arthur Jefferson, you are hereby cautioned that you are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be given in evidence. Do you wish to say anything?" The caution was a formality. The Ferret said exactly what Roberts expected him to say
.., nothing.
Outside, Roberts approached the ranking officer from the local station.
"Thanks for your help on this one inspector. We've got what we wanted, but we haven't searched the premises properly. I'll leave that pleasure to your lads."
Roberts contacted the American Embassy from the police station and informed Winters that the che
ques had been found and that was where he made his first mistake and the point when the rest of his weekend off, began to vanish.
The duty manager in the American Express office was pleased to hear that the che
ques had been found and that the thief had been caught, but sounded more than a little surprised at the news.
"I didn't expect you to get them back," explained the manager.
"Why's that? No faith in our boys in blue?"
"No, it's a little more complicated than that. You see, at least 20 of those $100 che
ques have already been cashed."
"That's impossible. I've got them all here. One hundred $100 U.S. American Express
Travelers’ cheques."
"I was afraid of that, Inspector. When were they reported stolen to you?"
"Last night. We received a call from the Embassy at about five o'clock. Winters had just flown in from the States. What's troubling you?"
"According to our computer, seven of these che
ques were paid out by Thomas Cook in Leicester three days ago; another five through the clearing banks yesterday and eight more today. So unless we believe in gremlins, I don't understand how Winters could have lost all of them last night, when some of them had already been cashed two days ago.
“You and me both,” opined Roberts.
The 'Rapide' sped Pascoe and Sam through the night. Pascoe had given up on all thought of sleep, the motion of the train too unsettling for him to relax. With the Rapide there was just enough noise and vibration to remind you of the tenuous link with terra firma, a sensation amplified by every twist and turn of the track. Pascoe found it most frightening when the brakes were applied at its top speed, when even after 10 seconds or so the train was still travelling at nearly 100 miles per hour. He couldn't imagine how Sam had coped with the faster T.G.V. That was beyond him. Sometimes, just as he was dozing off, there would be a slight application of the train's brakes and suddenly he'd be wide awake again, his heart pounding away.
Sam, however, was impervious to the motion of the train and had quickly settled down to sleep, resting her head on Pascoe's chest shortly after they had left Maçon. She woke later, when Pascoe extricated his arm which she had also leaned on.
"Good sleep?" h
e asked, seeing her stir. Sam merely yawned and stretched as far as she could in the confines of the seat. The return of circulation to his arm gave him 'pins and needles'. He massaged it slowly back to life, grimacing at the strange sensation.
"What's wrong?" a
sked Sam, sensing the movement.
"Nothing to worry about. My arm was trapped under you and I didn't want to wake you."
"Didn't you sleep?"
"I was too scared to sleep."
"Scared of what?"
"Just the sensation of speed. Every time I doze off, something happens to wake me up
.., noises of the track, the brakes or a change in tone of the engine."
"That's silly."
"I know, but I can't help it. It's the first time I've travelled so fast by train."
"Then why didn't we fly?"
"Because it would have meant an international flight from Switzerland to France."
"So what?"
“They check passports on international flights and make passenger lists."
"Is that important?"
"Of course it is. Pretty soon we will have to reveal our real identities and we don't want some super-cop getting readouts from a computer and putting two and two together."
"But we've used different names all the way."
"Yes, but after they check all the information for common names who have visited all the places we have, they will start looking for types and assume the names were changed."
"I'm not with you." Sam yawned.
"It's simple Sam. If they interview the Americans or the people at the office, they will know that two of us are involved, one male and one female. They will check and find males and females who booked the Grosvenor, stayed at the hotel at Liverpool Street, flew to New York and possibly Dallas and made their way to Geneva on the relevant dates. Every time we have to show our passports, use a name, book a flight or hire a car, that trail lengthens and can eventually lead straight back to us. So, by leaving by rail, we didn't use our passports and if we don't have to hire a car or stay anywhere tonight, the trail will stop at Geneva."
"W
here are we heading for then?" questioned Sam, anxious to learn of their final destination.
"Cacassonne
, eventually."
"Why there?"
"Because it's beautiful and interesting and I know the area. You'll love it."
"When will we arrive?"
"Good question."
Pascoe took a Cook's Continental Time-table from his flight bag and spent the next ten minutes studying it.
"We're due to arrive at Arles at 23.15 p.m., and we'll have a two and a half hour wait before the 02.11 a.m., to Narbonne where we catch the 04.24 a.m., to Carcassonne."