“I must say these fellows are quick,” he said grudgingly as he sat at his desk. “Quicker than when I was a young man. A bit slap-dash, of course, but that’s to be expected. Everything’s a bit slap-dash these days.”
Rogers grunted. He’d heard all this before and wasn’t interested.
“Got your watch back, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, it’s back,” James said. He pulled at his moustache, frowned. “They have no record of the fingerprints. It’s the first time I’ve tried that little dodge it’s failed. Well, it just shows you.” He looked up and fixed Rogers with his piercing blue eyes. “Let this be a lesson to you, my lad. Never tamper with the gentry, and the next time you think a young lady friend of Mr Crane is a wrong ‘un, I’ll thank you to keep the information to yourself.”
“Very good, sir,” Rogers said, and hid a grin. He knew that James had also suspected Grace, and was disappointed that the trap he had sprung had come to nothing.
James pawed over the contents of the despatch case.
“Now what have they got here to worry me?” he muttered, took up a printed sheet of paper to which a photograph was pinned. He studied the paper for some time, then put it thoughtfully back on his desk. “Now here’s a strange coincidence; a very strange coincidence if you like,” he said, taking out his pipe and looking at it gloomily. He caught Rogers’s eye. “I’ll trouble you for a fill of tobacco. A young fellow like you shouldn’t smoke so much. You’d better wait until you’re my age before you ruin your wind. You never know when you’ll have to use it.”
Rogers was used to handing over his tobacco pouch, He pushed it across the inspector’s desk. “What’s the strange coincidence, sir?” he asked.
“This ‘ere,” James said, tapping the printed sheet of paper. He took the pouch and began to fill his pipe. “Now this only goes to show how careful you have to be. The London police are looking for a young woman, aged twenty-two medium height, brown hair and eyes, stone deaf, lip reads well, has served ten days for stealing, and is now wanted in connection with a further theft and as an accomplice in a crime of violence.”
Rogers pulled at his thick nose. “Stone deaf and lip reads, eh?” he said. “Got ‘er photograph there, sir?”
Silently James handed it over and as silently Rogers studied it.
“I know what you’re thinking, my lad, but you’re wrong,” James said evenly. “You’re thinking this Mrs Brewer and this Grace Clark are one and the same. Now, admit it. That’s how your mind’s working, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t say that, sir,” Rogers said cautiously, “but like you, I’d say it’s a very strange coincidence.”
“And so it is,” James returned. “What do you think of the photograph?”
“I would have said it was the same girl if you hadn’t proved different,” Rogers returned. “You’re sure about that watch?”
“The only thing I’m sure about in these difficult days is that I like to hear a young police officer say ‘sir’ when speaking to his superiors,” James returned acidly and took the photograph from Rogers to study it again.
“Yes, sir,” Rogers said, unabashed. He had worked with James now for two years and knew his bark was a lot worse than his bite. In fact, he liked James, admired him, would have liked him for a father-in-law, although he had been discreet enough not to let James have an inkling of any of these facts.
“Yes, I’m sure about the watch,” James said slowly; “and what’s more, I’d have said it was the same girl myself if I didn’t know better. It just goes to prove how careful a policeman has to be.”
“You’re quite sure about the fingerprints, sir?” Rogers persisted.
“I’m sure the young lady handled the watch,” James said sarcastically. “That means she left her fingerprints on it. I’m quite sure I put it in a box and delivered it to Headquarters. I’m equally sure that Headquarters found three perfect female prints on the watch and there is no record of them.” He scratched his chin, went on, “If this young lady staying with Mr Crane is Grace Clark, then how is it the Yard hasn’t a record of her prints? Answer me that one and I’ll believe she is Grace Clark, but not before.”
“It beats me, sir,” Rogers said, scratching his bullet head and frowning at the photograph. “The likeness is remarkable.”
While he was speaking James had broken a heavy red seal on the back of an envelope marked ‘Secret’. He drew out a printed notice and waved Rogers to silence while he was reading.
Rogers watched him with considerable interest. It was some time since they had received a ‘Secret’ envelope from Headquarters, and that was during the war in connection with information concerning espionage.
“Well, blow me!” James said sharply, laid down the notice and regarded Rogers with astonished eyes. “Now, look here, my lad, I’m to pass this information on to you, but no talking mind! I know what you young fellows are. Always trying to impress your girl friends with your importance, but this is ‘ush-hush, see? and it’s to go no further.”
“I understand, sir,” Rogers said, stiffening.
“This young woman Grace Clark was last seen in the company of a man known as David Ellis,” James said, waving the printed notice. “They give his description here and you’d better study it carefully. But this is the bit that’s secret. This David Ellis may very possibly be Edwin Cushman, the renegade, who is known to have escaped from Germany and believed to be hiding in this country. What do you make of that?”
Rogers was startled. “Cushman? The fellow who broadcasted for the Huns?”
“That’s the chap,” James returned grimly. “It’d be a pretty fine thing for Taleham if we managed to lay our hands on him, wouldn’t it?”
“It would indeed, sir,” Rogers said, his brain buzzing with the possibilities of promotion. They might even transfer him to the Yard if he caught Cushman and then he would be in a position to marry Daphne. “May I see the paper, sir?”
“All in good time, my lad,” James said, studying the notice with irritating slowness. Rogers saw his face fall as he read on. “Hmm, well, it doesn’t look as if he can be in our district. Last they saw of him was at King’s Cross, and they think he’s gone north.”
“But he was with this Grace Clark, sir?”
“So they say. A taxi-driver identified the pair of them. Apparently they knocked their landlady over the head — half- killed her, before they made off.”
Rogers came over to the inspector’s desk and read the notice over his shoulder.
“Funny thing the girl’s down here and he’s in the north, isn’t it, sir?” he said thoughtfully.
“Who said she was down here?” James snapped. “You be careful, my lad. I’ve already proved to you that she isn’t here.” The two men exchanged glances; there was doubt in both their eyes. “If it wasn’t for those damned fingerprints . . .” James went on, pulling at his moustache. He picked up the photograph again. “It’s like her, but these ‘ere photos are so unreliable. If she wasn’t deaf . . .”
“Just a minute, sir,” Rogers said excitedly. “Mr Crane did see a fellow snooping near the clubhouse. I’ve got his description in my book.” He pulled out his well-worn notebook and flicked through the pages. “Here we are, sir. Young, aged about nineteen, tall, dark hair, wearing a blue suit, brown shoes, green shirt and black tie. He wore no hat and walked with a slight limp. How does that compare with Cushman’s description?”
“Not at all,” James said a little sourly. “Cushman’s under five foot eight, slim, aged thirty-five, sandy hair, believed to have a self-inflicted knife scar from his right eye to his chin, last seen wearing a brown suit, white shirt and blue tie.”
“I wonder if Mr Crane noticed the scar,” Rogers said, reluctant to abandon such a clue.
“Now you’d better hop off on your round, my lad,” James said shortly. He felt Rogers was getting too many ideas. “The way your mind is working will lead to trouble.” He put the papers away in his desk drawer and locked it. “Mr Crane’s a man of considerable influence. We don’t want to tread on his corns. You leave this business to me. It wants handling with tact, and tact, let me tell you, is my strong suit. You just leave it to me.”
“Very good, sir,” Rogers said, determined to do no such thing. “Then if there’s nothing else, sir, I’ll be getting along.”
James scratched his chin, stared down at his boots.
“I wonder who this Mrs Julie Brewer is,” he said thoughtfully. “I didn’t know Mr Crane had a married sister, did you?”
“No, sir, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t. We don’t know much about him, do we?”
“Not yet, we don’t,” James said softly, “but we might keep our eyes open a bit; no harm in that.”
“I suppose not, sir,” Rogers said, a little puzzled.
James picked up the London telephone directory, glanced down one of the columns of names, grunted, shut the book.
“She’s in the book; same address as her identity card. 47c Hay’s Mews, Berkeley Square, Mayfair. Good address. We’ll have to be careful, Rogers, but I think we might make a few discreet inquiries.”
“Yes, sir,” Rogers said, his round red face lighting up.
“I don’t think we’ll make the inquiries through the Yard. It wouldn’t do to start something we couldn’t finish,” James said, getting to his feet. “I’ve got a day off tomorrow. I might run up to London. Yes, I think I’ll have a look round, might even go to Somerset House. Have you ever been to Somerset House, Rogers?”
“Can’t say I have, sir,” Rogers returned. “That’s where they record births and deaths and wills, isn’t it?”
“And marriages too. I’d like to know something about Mr Brewer as well as Mrs Brewer,” James said. “Now, you hop off, my lad, and leave this to me.”
“Right-ho, sir,” Rogers said, his mind seething with his own plans. “Then I shan’t see you until tomorrow evening?”
“That’s right. Keep an eye on things and don’t be late in the morning, and listen, Rogers, don’t you go poking your nose anywhere near Mr Crane’s place while I’m away, understand? That’s an order.”
Rogers nodded, his face falling. “Very good, sir,” he said, but as he bicycled down the village High Street, he decided that he was going to take a look at Crane’s bungalow as soon as he came off duty.
“Who knows?” he thought, grinning to himself. “I might even find Cushman up there. My word! What a surprise for poor old James — him and his Somerset House.”
CHAPTER EIGHTTEEN
The light of the big harvest moon that floated serenely in the clear sky turned night almost into day. The white, dusty road winding through Taleham and towards the downs showed up in the moonlight like a phosphorus ribbon of paint.
P.C. Rogers wheeled his bicycle from the wooden shed at the back of his billet, and pushed the machine up the garden path to the road.
Casey, the owner of the local public-house, happened to pass at this moment.
“Going out?” he asked, surprised. “And not in uniform, eh?”
Rogers grinned at him, bent over his lamp and adjusted the smoking wick.
“I’m making a call,” he said with a wink.
“Wish I was coming with you,” Casey said gloomily. “But I reckon my courting days are over. Careful ‘ow you go, George. They’re mighty quick to catch you if they can.”
“I’ll be careful,” Rogers returned, swinging his leg over the machine and settling himself on the hard saddle. “So long, Casey,” and he peddled away along the twisting road.
It was a two-mile ride to Crane’s bungalow and Rogers was in no hurry to get there. He knew the district well and he wanted to give the moon time to climb a little higher above the belt of woods surrounding Crane’s place. He didn’t intend to grope about in the dark, nor did he wish to use an electric torch. If he reached the bungalow in half an hour’s time the light would be just right for him.
He passed Inspector James’s house and noted with satisfaction that a light showed in the sitting-room. That meant the inspector had settled down to listen to the nine o’clock news. He wasn’t likely to move out now, for Rogers knew his habits well: he liked to get to bed early.
Rogers slowed down as he came to the end of the inspector’s garden, got off his machine and stared up at Daphne’s window. The light was on but the yellow blind was drawn. He waited for several minutes, hoping at least to see her shadow on the blind, but the yellow glare revealed no sign of her. With a sigh of disappointment, he mounted his bicycle again and rode on.
Although stolid and placid by nature, Rogers was aware of a vague excitement as he rode out of the village. So much depended on what he might discover up at Crane’s place. Ever since he had found out that Daphne had been seeing Crane on the sly, not telling her father that she had been for rides in the big Buick, Rogers had disliked the big, fleshy fellow. It wasn’t his business to tell James what his daughter was up to, although once or twice he had been tempted to, but had hesitated at the last moment, not knowing how the inspector would receive gossip about his daughter.
There was something about Crane that Rogers didn’t like. He didn’t know what it was. On the surface he seemed a decent enough fellow. He turned out for the village cricket team and on the field treated Rogers like an equal. He played a good game too, and his slow off-breaks had won many a match when the furious bowling of Rogers was receiving a pasting. But there was something about the fellow — two-faced perhaps. You couldn’t believe that he was being pleasant because he liked you, but rather because he thought it might pay him to be nice to you. That’s the feeling Rogers had got from the infrequent meetings he had had with the chap.
He was a bit too free with the women too. At one time girls used to come to the bungalow in smart cars with London number plates and stay late — stay all night more often than not. Rogers had spotted their cars parked in Crane’s drive while out on his late patrol. Once or twice he’d seen the girls in the garden: smart, hard and as slick as new paint. It worried Rogers when Daphne became friendly with Crane. They had met at the village dance, and Rogers had spotted her in the Buick several times, seen her at the local cinema with Crane. He didn’t like it.
But would Crane deliberately shelter a rat like Cushman? It was unlikely. Crane had a fine war record. He had been one of the Battle of Britain pilots: had won the D.S.O. and D.F.C.: had shot down eleven enemy aircraft, had been shot down twice himself. But you never knew. These rich, daredevil types were up to all kinds of tricks: he might be sheltering Cushman just for the hell of it: then again he mightn’t even know the chap was Cushman.