Hardcastle's Secret Agent Read online

  ‘Do we know it was his glove, sir?’

  ‘Well, put it this way: there is no single left-hand glove in the Ropers’ house, and that seems to indicate that the right-hand glove we found didn’t belong to Frank Roper. The only thing it tells us is that if it’s the murderer’s, he was right-handed.’ Hardcastle cynically added, ‘And that should make him easy to find.’

  ‘Might it be a good idea to have the fingerprint people carry out a closer examination of the other properties concerned in case there’s a stray fingerprint that might help us, sir? One that was missed the first time around.’

  ‘That would be a pointless exercise, given the time lapse,’ said Hardcastle. ‘And I doubt that Mr Cherrill would be prepared to come down here to examine the Ropers’ place again or, for that matter, send one of his people. He’s probably the best fingerprint officer in the world and I wouldn’t like to be the one to suggest he might’ve missed a mark. Apart from anything else, it’s quite on the cards that our murderer has no previous convictions, which means his prints won’t be on record anyway.’

  ‘And if he’s an Abwehr agent, his prints wouldn’t be anyway, sir,’ said Bradley. ‘At least, not here.’

  In the weeks that followed the murders of Frank and Helen Roper, little progress was made in finding their killer despite Hardcastle’s best efforts. The fingerprints that weren’t the Ropers’ were confirmed as being Mrs Timms, and the glove was taking a while to pin down. Progress was not helped by a plethora of new Defence Regulations that the police were obliged to enforce, much of which had to be undertaken by the CID.

  Christmas 1939 came, but it was not the sober and austere celebration for which the government had hoped. It was as if the population realized that conditions were going to get worse and that this was their last chance to have a ‘good’ Christmas. Some doomsters even suggested that it might be the last Christmas before the jack-booted, goose-stepping Germans invaded.

  Rationing had yet to be introduced, although curbs on bacon and butter had been promised for January. The blackout prevented any sort of display that contravened the regulations and, in some cases, family get-togethers were more sober than usual because the head of the household was absent. Quite a few men had been reservists, and had been recalled to active service together with those elements of the Territorial Army that had been mobilized, and were spending their Christmas in France as part of the British Expeditionary Force. Regrettably, some men had already been killed in action in France and the Middle East. Furthermore, some of the children who had been evacuated to the countryside had come home for the Christmas holiday, and the authorities feared that they might be tempted to stay.

  In common with other detectives, one of the increases in crime that Hardcastle had noticed was that the blackout had brought about a rise in the number of burglaries as criminals took advantage of the lack of street lighting to carry out more audacious housebreakings. Shortages of food and luxuries had caused black marketeers to become active, too. All of which increased pressure on the police.

  Although there were further burglaries on V Division, there was none that Hardcastle could liken to the one that had ended with the murder of the Ropers, and none involving Moore employees. He wondered if the murderer had been called up and was now serving with one of the armed forces, or even if he had been killed in the opening stages of the war on the Continent. Maybe he had found what he was looking for and fled the country; in which case, they had no chance of ever catching him.

  Despite the problems of shortages, and the difficulties of travelling, Walter and Muriel Hardcastle and their three children managed to get to Kennington Road on Boxing Day.

  It was some time since Walter had spent any part of the Christmas holiday with his parents, but the house seemed exactly the same. Even the Christmas decorations were as he remembered them. There were paper chains from each corner of the sitting room to the central light pendant. In one corner stood a Christmas tree of a similar size to the one the elder Hardcastles always had and decorated in much the same way. But now there was the addition of Christmas presents beneath it for the younger Hardcastle family.

  Walter’s father, Ernest, now sixty-eight years of age, looked no different from the day he had retired from the police some nine years previously. He had, however, mellowed during those days to the extent that he would make a fuss of his grandchildren. But then he turned to his son and displayed some of the old familiar sharpness that Walter remembered so well.

  ‘Have you solved that double murder in Kingston yet, Wally?’

  ‘Not yet, Pa.’

  ‘Why not? What’s keeping you?’ Ernest then launched into a rambling lecture about how to solve murders, and recalled some of the cases he had investigated and how he had gone about the investigation. ‘And then there was the woman’s body that was found under Palace Pier in Brighton a couple of days after the Armistice …’

  Walter listened in patient silence. It would be futile to try to explain that since his father’s days in the job, great advances had been made in the various forensic sciences that supported and assisted detectives. He held back because he knew his father would make some acerbic comment, pointing out that it had not helped his son on this occasion.

  ‘By the way, Pa, Mr Marriott sends you his regards.’ Walter Hardcastle decided to change the subject.

  ‘Ah! Young Marriott. What’s he now? Must be a detective chief inspector, I suppose.’

  ‘He’s a deputy assistant commissioner, Pa.’

  For some time, Ernest Hardcastle stared at his son, astonishment clear on his face. ‘Of course, he was properly trained as a sergeant, Wally,’ he said eventually. ‘Assisting a good DDI is where you learn the art of the thief-taker.’

  ‘And Mr Catto is chief constable CID now.’

  ‘Good God!’ After a few moments of silent introspection, Ernest Hardcastle added, ‘Of course, he was trained at Vine Street. Like me.’

  ‘It sounds to me as though you miss the job, Pa, even though it’s nine years since you put your papers in.’

  Ernest took out his pipe and polished the bowl on his trouser leg. He accepted Walter’s tobacco pouch without a word of thanks. ‘You really ought to try St Bruno, Wally,’ he said, but still filled his pipe with his son’s offering. ‘You never lose it, you know,’ he commented reflectively. ‘Locking up villains is in the blood, and if they asked me to go back tomorrow, I’d go like a shot. Now is when they need experienced detectives, good thief-takers.’

  ‘Well, you might get called back, Pa.’

  ‘D’you think so, Wally? Have you heard anything?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, stop talking shop, you two,’ said Alice, Walter’s mother, ever the peacemaker. ‘It’s about time you poured us all a drink, Ernest, while Muriel and I put the finishing touches to the Boxing Day dinner. It’s hot work in the kitchen and we’re dying of thirst before we even start.’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ said Ernest, recognizing that his wife was using his full name, instead of Ernie. Always a warning sign that her temper was shortening.

  Ernest however, was not to be silenced completely. ‘I’m beginning to wonder when this war’s going to start,’ he proclaimed. ‘Nothing much seems to be happening in France and there’s certainly been none of the raids the government told us to expect. I don’t wonder it’s being called the phoney war.’

  ‘Drinks, Ernest!’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  The dinner went well and by three o’clock the men expressed their satisfaction and raised their glasses to toast the two Hardcastle women for their efforts, made no easier by the food shortages.

  Ernest Hardcastle, now in a quite jovial mood, led the grandchildren back to the sitting room and handed them their Christmas presents. The two sets of Hardcastles exchanged gifts and by the time they left the house everyone declared it had been a most enjoyable day.

  Ernest Hardcastle could not resist a parting shot at his son. ‘You make sure you get those murders cleared up
, Wally. The reputation of the Hardcastles depends on it. If you want any advice, you can always ring me up and I’ll do my best to help you out.’

  ‘Thanks, Pa.’ Wally kissed his mother and shook hands with his father. ‘By the way, Detective Superintendent Aubrey Drew sends you his regards.’

  ‘D’you mean that Special Branch chap?’

  ‘That’s him, Pa.’

  ‘How do you know him anyway, Wally?’

  ‘Can’t say, Pa.’ Wally smiled. ‘But there’s something big going on. The army are talking about setting up a special investigation branch and seconding detectives from the Metroplitan Police for deployment in France. I may just be one of them.’

  ‘A superintendent, eh?’ muttered Ernest, ignoring his son’s news. ‘I can see this war has done some people some good. Perhaps I should’ve stayed on a bit longer.’

  ‘Ernest!’ Alice spoke sharply. ‘They’ve got a train to catch.’

  TEN

  In the last days of May 1940 came the devastating news of the Dunkirk evacuation. On the June day it was completed, Walter Hardcastle, now back on V Division after his secondment to France, was in the Lower Richmond Road in Putney where a body had been recovered from the river.

  ‘Hello, Wally. How are you?’

  ‘I’m all right, Ted. How about you?’ Edward Hunter, an inspector in Thames Division, had joined the Metropolitan Police on the same day in 1918 as Walter Hardcastle. ‘What are you doing down here, anyway? I thought inspectors in the river police stayed in the warm at Wapping.’

  Hunter laughed. ‘I was inspecting the station books down at Barnes and cadged a lift on the despatch boat to Waterloo when we got this shout about a floater near Putney Bridge. This is your manor now, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is, and I’m dying to know why you sent for me. Has the body been identified?’

  ‘It’s all a bit bloody mysterious, Wally,’ said Hunter. ‘The PC on the beat spotted this parachute floating in the river. He called us and to no one’s surprise, there was a dead body attached to the parachute. According to the papers on the body, he’s Hauptmann Konrad Fischer, but the odd thing is that he’s dressed in plain clothes, and the parachute is definitely German. And as if that’s not enough, he has a leather despatch case chained to his left wrist. The other thing is that he was wounded, but it appears likely that he shot himself. I don’t know if it’s relevant, Wally,’ continued Hunter, ‘but we had a report of a downed two-seater Messerschmitt beyond Wapping at about the time that this guy Fischer was seen floating down to Father Thames. The aircraft contained only the dead pilot.’

  ‘Where are you taking him?’ asked Hardcastle, turning to one of the ambulance attendants.

  ‘Putney hospital mortuary, guv’nor.’

  ‘Right. I’ll meet you there and once I’ve made a few phone calls, I’ll know what to do next.’

  ‘What d’you reckon, Wally?’ asked Hunter when the ambulance had departed complete with a police escort, the constable having been told to stay with the body until relieved.

  ‘Another unsuccessful attempt at landing a spy?’ suggested Hardcastle. ‘We’ll have to wait and see what Special Branch has to say about it.’ He spent a few moments lighting his pipe. ‘Has this business at Dunkirk affected your outfit, Ted?’ he asked.

  Hunter scoffed. ‘Don’t talk to me about Dunkirk, Wally. We asked the guv’nor if we could take the boats across to pick up some of our troops, but he turned us down flat. He said that the boats were far too valuable to risk losing them.’ Hunter paused, reflecting. ‘I suppose he had a point, really, but all the same, the lads were bloody annoyed by his decision.’

  ‘According to the news, about three hundred and forty thousand of our boys have been saved and brought back to England. I heard that the arrivals hall at Dover was awash with blood.’

  ‘Yes, so I heard.’

  ‘I just hope to God that the German army doesn’t follow our troops across, Ted. If they do, we’ve had it. We just haven’t got the resources to resist.’

  ‘If they come up the Thames,’ said Hunter, ‘they’ll have the river police to contend with.’

  ‘Mind you don’t damage the boats, then,’ said Hardcastle, ‘or your guv’nor will be cross.’

  Hardcastle returned to Putney police station to find that Jack Bradley was waiting for him with some news.

  ‘Since you’ve been out looking into that floater, sir, some progress has been made regarding the Roper murders. I think I’ve found someone who can give us a lead on the glove. I spoke to an official at the Worshipful Company of Glovers yesterday. He said that if we showed him the glove, he might be able to tell us where it came from. He did, however, warn me that it’s more likely to be one made for the mass market.’

  ‘Good work, Jack. When can this man see us?’

  ‘Any time during office hours, sir.’

  Hardcastle glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Half past three. No time like the present, then. These two murders have been on the books far too long, and I don’t want Mr Marriott breathing down my neck. Or my father, come to that.’ He was also acutely aware that this was his first double murder case since gaining his promotion, and he desperately needed a good result.

  ‘Christopher Waring, gentlemen. ‘Delighted to meet you both.’ He was probably somewhere between forty and fifty years of age. He shook hands with his left hand – his right arm was missing – and a severe limp impeded his progress. ‘The other bits of me are somewhere in Beaumont-Hamel,’ he explained with a laugh.

  ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of V Division, Mr Waring. I understand that you’ve already met Detective Sergeant Bradley.’

  ‘Only on the telephone. He explained that you have a glove to show me.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Sergeant Bradley probably told you that we’re investigating a double murder. This glove was found at the scene and I was hoping that you might be able to give us some idea about its origins in the hope that we would be able to trace the owner. I appreciate that it’s something of a long shot.’ Hardcastle took the glove from an evidence bag and placed it on Waring’s desk.

  Waring took out a pair of spectacles and opened its arms with an adroit flick of his remaining wrist. Putting them on, he looked closely at the glove. Apparently dissatisfied, he opened a drawer of his desk and took out a magnifying glass with which he examined the glove more closely than before.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Waring, as he straightened up. ‘Have a look at this pattern.’ Selecting a pencil from a pot of them, he slowly traced the stitching on the back of the glove. ‘Normally, the stitching is in three rows radiating from the wrist up to the points where the fingers begin. It is usually a very simple design, but in this case, the pattern is far more elaborate with loops and figures of eight.’

  ‘Have you any idea where it might have originated, Mr Waring?’

  ‘Yes, but let me check.’ Waring turned to his bookcase and, with some difficulty, took down a heavy volume. Riffling through the pages, he eventually looked up. ‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘Unless I’m sadly mistaken, that glove was manufactured by a firm called Otto Krause of Cologne. The stitching is unique.’

  ‘Unfortunately, there’s no chance of going over there to find out who they sold this glove to,’ said Hardcastle gloomily. ‘However, Mr Waring, I’m much obliged to you. It certainly gives us a lead of sorts that might help us to track down the murderer.’ What he did not say was that it lent credence to his suspicion that the killer was a German agent who had somehow learned that Frank Roper was looking for a spy on the Alan Moore and Company payroll. But the DDI had not lost sight of the fact that Frank Roper had worked in Germany prior to returning to England. It was possible, therefore, that the glove belonged to him, but if that were the case, where was the matching glove for the left hand? He knew it wasn’t at the Ropers’ house.

  ‘A German agent wouldn’t wear a pair of German gloves, surely, guv’nor?’

  ‘You’d be surprised at the
compromising things that have been found on German spies, Jack.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s a double bluff,’ muttered Bradley.

  Hardcastle decided that while he was in central London, he would call in at the Yard and bring Detective Superintendent Aubrey Drew up to date.

  The Special Branch reserve sergeant, having carefully examined the warrant cards produced by Hardcastle and Bradley, eventually conducted them to Drew’s office.

  ‘Take a seat, Wally. You too, Sergeant Bradley.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve not made much progress with the glove in the Roper murders, sir,’ said Hardcastle, and repeated what Waring had told him.

  ‘I’m sorry if your time has been wasted and progress hampered by not knowing about the deception involving the Ropers. As I told Canning in my report, unfortunately the sergeant who was told to give you this information was posted abroad before he was able to see you. Entirely my fault, I’m afraid. I should have checked.’

  ‘I see, sir.’ Despite being curious, Hardcastle did not bother to ask why a Special Branch officer had been sent abroad during the war; he knew he would not get an answer.

  ‘The Ropers had both done a bit of amateur dramatics with the British community, Wally, and it was simplicity itself for them to play the part of a couple of innocents.’

  ‘Unfortunately, sir, that doesn’t help much with finding the murderer.’ Hardcastle then told Drew about Thames Division finding the dead body of Hauptmann Konrad Fischer, and that there was a despatch case chained to his wrist.

  ‘Thank you, Wally,’ said Drew. ‘You can leave the matter entirely to us. Where is the body at the moment?’

  ‘In the mortuary in Putney hospital, sir, under police guard.’