

Smashwords Edition

Published by Smudgeworks

## The Missing Gun

Hawker of the Yard

W H Oxley

Copyright 2014 W H Oxley

For an author's blog with a difference try

Riviera Lowlife

whoxley.blogspot.com

https://whoxley.blogspot.fr/

By the same author

Srebrenica

The Shanghai Policeman's Daughter

A Hanging Job

Hitler's Banner

An Accidental Millionaire

Steam

The Teaboy

Hawker of the Yard series

The Great Petrol Coupon Robbery

Did the Butler Do It?

Who Killed Alfie

Hawker Goes to War

The Body at the Brickworks

Bombs Beef and Bullets

The Home Guard Raiders

Limehouse Blues

The Flying Squad

Originally set up in 1919 to combat a spate of armed robberies and keep tabs on known offenders, the Flying Squad was a mobile squad of detectives based at Scotland Yard able to operate anywhere within the Metropolitan Police district regardless of divisional boundaries. In addition to investigating armed robberies, their task was to maintain close contact with the criminal community and collect information on past and future crimes. As this would involve frequenting the pubs and clubs of London's underworld, it was not a suitable career choice for a teetotaller. Drinking in those days was somewhat restricted by licensing hours: in addition to having to close at ten pm, all pubs had to shut between two and six in the afternoon.

By 1940 forensic science had made great strides, particularly in ballistics, blood grouping and fingerprints, but the existence of DNA and much else remained unknown; thus, in the Holmesian tradition, detection still relied heavily upon observation, deduction and interrogation. At a time when neither computers nor mobile phones existed and the wavebands used by radio patrol cars tended to be unreliable in built-up areas, the easiest way for police to keep in touch with headquarters was by making use of the numerous police phone boxes (since immortalised as Dr Who's Tardis) scattered about London at strategic points.

# Chapter 1

'He was wearing a gas mask and carrying a violin case when he walked into the shop. Well I didn't think much of it at the time: a lot of people go around wearing gas masks. There's a little old lady in our street who hardly ever takes hers off, terrified of gas she is. You see her go past our house on her way to the grocer's shop, clutching her shopping basket and purse, with her face covered by her gas mask. My little brother reckons she looks like a Martian in a Flash Gordon film. The air raid warden tried to explain to her that she only has to put it on when the siren goes off, but she won't take any notice. Says she doesn't trust air raid sirens any more than she trusts Germans. So when this man walked into the shop wearing a gas mask, I just thought that maybe he'd been gassed in the last war and didn't want to take any risks this time. My dad was in the last lot, and he told me some terrible stories about chaps being gassed in the trenches. He never goes anywhere without his gas mask, does my dad. Mind you, he's not daft enough to wear it all the time.

I wanted to join the army as soon as war broke out, but Mr Goldstein said I was indispensable. I know the business so well that I can usually tell what sort of people they are as soon as they walk in the shop. We get all sorts in there, and one of the things that made me think this chap in the gas mask was the nervous type was his behaviour: he was all twitchy and kept walking up and down. A lot of people are like that in a pawnbroker's shop, particularly if they want to pawn something. So I just left him to it. If they want to redeem something I can help them, but I'm not allowed to value the pledges. Mr Goldstein has to value the pledges, and he wasn't going to be back for at least another hour. That's why the pledge department was closed. Valuing is a specialised business, particularly the musical instruments – we specialise in musical instrument you see. The pledge department has a separate entrance, but sometimes when it's closed they come into the shop. We get a lot of violins, and so when I saw what he was carrying I thought that maybe he wanted to pawn one. I noticed that he seemed to be paying a lot of attention to the jewellery on display, and so I said, 'Can I help you, sir?' but he ignored me. We get a lot of them like that. It's usually because they can't make up their minds whether they want to pawn it or not. Sometimes they just walk out without a word and come back ten minutes later asking how much we can let them have on such and such a thing.

When he placed the violin case on the counter, I thought that he'd finally made up his mind to pawn a violin, but when he opened the case it was empty – nothing inside! So I thought that perhaps being in a hurry he'd forgotten to put the violin in the case when he came out. It wouldn't be the first time something like that's happened. A lot of people are bit anxious about going to a pawnbroker's, and they make all sorts of silly mistakes. We had a woman came in once and said, 'How much can you let me have on this clock?' Then she reached into her bag and took out a turnip. It wasn't until Mr Goldstein pointed it out to her that she realised what it was. Then again, there was always the possibility that it was empty because he'd already pawned a violin and wanted to redeem it.

So I asked him, ever so politely, 'Excuse me, sir, but are you trying to redeem a violin or pawn one? But I couldn't understand his reply because of the gas mask. So I said, 'Maybe it would be a good idea if you were to take your gas mask off, sir.' That's when he pointed to the trays of wedding rings. There's a big demand for wedding rings at the moment, what with all the fellows rushing off to get married before they're sent over to France. So I said to him, 'I will be delighted to show you the rings, sir, but before I do so I must ask you to remove your violin case from the counter.'

That's when I saw the gun! It suddenly appeared in his hand, and for a moment I thought he wanted to pawn it, but then I realised that he was pointing the gun at me. 'If this is some sort of joke,' said I, 'I don't think...' That's when I heard the click as he released the safety catch. He didn't say anything, but kept the gun trained on me with his right hand, while gesturing to the trays of rings and the violin case with the other. So I assumed that he wanted me to put the rings in the violin case. 'I don't believe it's loaded,' said I. 'I think you're bluffing.' Well, that confused him all right. He didn't seem to know what to do. He just stood there pointing his gun at me. We both stayed like that for nearly a minute with neither of us moving, and I thought to myself, 'that's fixed you, mate, I knew you were bluffing.' He was obviously trying to work out what to do next. He couldn't reach over from that side of the counter to grab the rings so he was going to have to come around to my side, and it occurred to me that if he did, I might be able to grab his gun. I'm pretty fit, you see. I used to play rugby for my school. He hesitated for a bit before doing so, but when he finally came round, he realised he had another little problem: the display cabinet was locked. I thought to myself, I've got you now, you blighter. Then, holding up the key, I said, 'Is this what you're looking for?' and held it out towards him. As soon as he reached out for it, I tried to grab the gun, but I wasn't quick enough. There was a loud bang, and I felt something hot in my hand. After that I don't remember very much. I must have passed out. The next thing I recall was Mr Carter, the newsagent next door, wrapping a handkerchief around my hand.'

The speaker, a powerfully built young man with fair hair, held up a right hand wrapped in bandages. They were sitting around a table in a small room just off the casualty ward at St Mary's Hospital. It appeared to be some sort of kitchen used for making the patient's tea or coffee.

Detective Inspector Hawker of the Flying Squad lit a match, applied it thoughtfully to his pipe and struck a Holmesian pose that emphasised his bushy eyebrows and beaklike nose. Hawker, an avid Sherlock Holmes fan, had spent his boyhood eagerly following his hero's latest adventure in The Strand Magazine.

'Your description of the robber is rather vague, Mr Purvis.' Hawker waved his pipe. 'Is there nothing further you could add?'

'Not really, sir. He was of average height and build and wearing a long grey gabardine raincoat and a trilby hat.'

'Shoes? Trousers?' Hawker exhaled a dark cloud of smoke that lingered briefly in the air before slowly drifting up towards the ceiling.

'I didn't particularly notice them when he came through the door, and for the rest of the time they were hidden from my view by the counter.'

'What about hair colour?'

'His hair was hidden by the hat and gas mask.'

'No wisps showing?' Hawker raised a questioning eyebrow.

The beefy young man shook his head. 'Not that I noticed, sir. He must have had a short back and sides.'

'Was his hand steady when he held the gun?'

'Yes, as far as I could tell.'

'When he released the safety catch, did he fumble?'

'No, sir. That's when I realised he meant business.'

'Hmm, sounds like a professional...' Hawker chewed pensively at his pipe. 'What about his voice, was there anything distinctive about it?'

'Hard to tell, sir, with the gas mask on.'

'What sort of gloves was he wearing?'

'He wasn't wearing gloves, sir.'

'No gloves!' Hawker was so surprised that the pipe almost dropped out of his mouth. 'Are you sure about that?'

'Er... um, well, I'm almost certain, not a hundred per cent, but almost...'

'That is very interesting...' Hawker carefully rested his pipe on the table, sat back, placed his fingertips together and asked, 'Can you recall whether he touched anything in the shop?'

'Only the violin case, sir.'

'What about the door handle?'

'I suppose he must have done...'

'Suppose? Aren't you sure?'

'Well, sir, sometimes the customers don't always shut the door properly, and so he could have pushed it open.'

'How long was it since your previous customer?'

'About thirty minutes. He didn't stay long. He just wanted to know how much the cheapest wedding rings were.'

'Really... That's very interesting.' Hawker picked up his pipe, struck a match and sucked away thoughtfully. Peering at him through the clouds of tobacco smoke, he asked, 'Could you perhaps describe him?'

'Oh that's easy,' the injured man brightened up, 'short and wiry with bright red hair and wearing the uniform of a private in the Royal Horse Artillery. Like I said, we get a lot of them in at the moment wanting to get married. It's often a rush job. They get married by special licence and have just enough time for a week's honeymoon before being shipped over to France – and that's if they're lucky.'

Hawker tapped the table with his pipe, rose to his feet and turned to Detective Sergeant Brightwell who was sitting behind him. 'I think we may have a bit of a problem, sergeant. We won't be able to take the fingerprints of this gentleman's right hand,' he indicated the bandages, 'but at least we can take the one set of prints. So while I get on the blower to see if the forensic boys are on their way, would you attend to his left hand.'

Then, returning his attention to the young man, he asked, 'It is in order to eliminate your prints, sir. I hope you don't mind?'

'No no, of course not, inspector, and if I can assist in any other way...'

'Don't worry, sir,' Hawker placed his bowler hat firmly on his head, 'I won't hesitate to get in touch with you.'

'So, what do you make of it, Brightwell?' murmured Hawker, as they exited the hospital and strolled down the steps towards the Wolseley 18.

'Not the usual run of the mill sort of robbery, sir.'

'Attempted robbery, Brightwell, attempted robbery: don't forget that nothing was stolen.'

'Thanks to our young hero, sir.'

'Yet he didn't strike me as the heroic type.'

'Why not, sir?'

'Oh nothing special, it's probably just me being cynical. He struck me as being far too clever to be heroic. I saw enough heroes in the last war, and none of them were very bright. All the really clever ones were like me: got themselves into a job that kept them well away from the front line.'

'Military police, wasn't it, sir?'

'That's right. Patrolling the bars and bordellos of France was a lot safer than patrolling in no-man's-land.'

'So, you don't think he was telling the truth?'

'He was probably telling the truth as he saw it, but you know how unreliable witnesses are. Everything happens so fast, and then they try to piece it all together afterwards. His whole story sounded too much like a cowboy film.'

'The wounded hand is real enough, sir.'

'Yes, but according to the doctor it is slap in the middle of the palm of the hand. Not the sort of injury you'd expect if he was try to grab the gun.'

'So what do you think happened, sir?'

'More or less as he described it. The robber is obviously a complete amateur: even the most stupid criminal would have had the sense to wear gloves. Our young friend back there probably stuck his hand out, the robber thought he was going to grab him, panicked and fired a shot.'

'That would certainly explain the position of the wound, but why didn't he say so?'

'He was probably scared shitless and doesn't want to admit it. I wouldn't be surprised if he really believes it himself. He wouldn't be the first witnesses to exaggerate their role in an armed robbery – and it certainly hasn't done his reputation any harm. Look, he's even managed to push Hitler out of the headlines.' Hawker pointed to a newspaper placard; it read: HERO FOILS ROBBERY.

'That's nothing, sir. I was having a word with one of the nurses and–'

'I'll bet you were!'

'All in the line of duty, sir...' Brightwell coloured slightly. 'As I was saying, apparently young Purvis has received twenty telegrams from women wanting to marry him.'

'What, only twenty? Arthur Grindley, the axe murderer, got five hundred,' grunted Hawker, as he opened the passenger door. 'Come on, Brightwell, hop in. You can drive.'

'Where to now, sir?'

'St John's wood.'

'To visit the scene of the crime, sir?'

'No, to visit the Royal Horse Artillery.'

'To look for the red-headed soldier then?'

'Yes. He's our only suspect at the moment – and a strong contender. According to my deductions, we are looking for someone who is probably not a regular criminal but has access to firearms and knows how to use them. Furthermore, he was enquiring about cheap wedding rings. Maybe he needs to get married in a hurry and can't afford one.'

'But he was in uniform half an hour before the robbery.'

'The robber was wearing a long raincoat and a hat. Also, being a soldier, he would have a very short haircut, which would explain the witness's failure to notice hair colour. At least, our man shouldn't be too hard to find: there can't be that many red-headed privates in the Royal Horse Artillery. So, with a little bit of luck, we should obtain a confession, make an arrest and have whole matter sown up before the pubs close. Then you can buy me a pint to celebrate.'

# Chapter 2

There being fewer cars on the streets of London thanks to the introduction of petrol rationing, the drive to Saint John's Wood Barracks took a little over five minutes. Leaning up against the high wall that surrounded the place, a soldier and a girl were locked in a passionate embrace oblivious to the world around them, as Brightwell parked the car and Hawker leaped out.

'Wait here while I have a word with the duty NCO in the guardhouse,' he grunted, before placing his bowler firmly on his head and marching briskly up to the two soldiers guarding the gate. His time spent with the Royal Military Police in the previous war having given him an intimate knowledge of army procedures and how to circumvent them, he was able to cut through the red tape and obtain all the information he needed within a very short time. Brightwell had barely finished his cigarette before Hawker was heaving his backside onto the passenger seat.

'Where to now, sir?'

'The pawnbroker's.'

As they drove in silence, Hawker sat staring straight ahead with his fingertips together and his expression sphinx-like. Brightwell knew better than to interrupt him when he was thinking. After turning right onto Finchley Road, he drove a short way along in the direction of Swiss Cottage before turning left. The pawnbroker's shop stood on a corner next to a newsagent's and opposite The Duke of York, an imposing Victorian pub. Three brass balls and the name Isaac Goldstein picked out in gold lettering glittered in the autumn sun. The were two entrances to the shop, an imposing glass door planted firmly at the front and a solid brown one marked Pledges lurking in the side street. Brightwell parked the car outside the pub and waited...

After a couple of minutes, Hawker came out of his trance. 'It looks as if it's going to be a case of good old-fashioned detective work, Brightwell. No short cuts in this case – and very few clues. Let's hope the forensic chaps can find something.'

'I take it you didn't locate the red-headed soldier, sir.'

'Oh I found the blighter all right. That was the easy bit. They've got him in the guardhouse. He's even admitted being in the shop at nine o'clock, but he's got a perfect alibi: he was under arrest and locked up at the time of the robbery. Apparently he was supposed to be on duty that morning but sneaked out of the barracks to enquire about wedding rings, and he was caught climbing over the wall as he tried to slip back in. I've put in an application to formally interview him as a witness, but it has to be approved by the adjutant. So I don't suppose we'll get to see him until tomorrow. He probably won't be much help, but as he was in and out of the shop shortly before the robbery he may have seen something or someone – and we've got bugger all else to go on at the moment.'

'But he was there half an hour before the robbery, sir. Surely the robber wouldn't hang around that long.'

'If you were about to rob a shop and saw a soldier in uniform go in, what would you do?'

'Clear off, and maybe come back later.'

'Exactly! Meanwhile, let us hope that our amateur criminal has left us a fingerprint or two, even though we are unlikely to have his dabs on record. Come along, Brightwell; let's see if we can find something useful in here.'

There was a constable on duty at the door, and Hawker flashed his warrant card before checking that his instructions had been followed.

'Yes, sir,' said the policeman saluting, 'nobody has been permitted to cross the threshold, but we have allowed the pledge department to open. Mr Goldstein, the proprietor, is in there now. I take it that was okay, sir.'

'Yes that's fine, constable. It's only the scene of the crime that I want examined. Has there been any sign of the forensic chaps?'

'Not yet, sir, but they'll probably have their work cut out. A lot of people were in the shop after the incident: Mr Carter the newsagent, the ambulance men and Doctor Greenslade. It was Mr Carter who found this on the floor. I took charge of it. It's a nine millimetre, probably from a Luger. I got to know quite a bit about small arms in the last war.' He handed Hawker a cartridge case.

'Hmm...' Hawker examined it carefully. 'Let us hope that ballistics can make something of it.'

As he slipped the cartridge case into his waistcoat pocket, he gazed across the road at the Duke of York and licked his lips at the thought of a pint of bitter. 'Did they witness anything?' he asked, pointing to the pub.

'No, sir, the landlord and his wife were out at the time, and the barmaid doesn't report for duty until twelve.'

'Did anyone hear the shot?'

'A few people did, but they thought it was a motorbike backfiring. Only the newsagent realised what it was. That's why he was the one who found Mr Purvis.'

'And what about the gas mask, surely someone must have noticed a man with a gas mask wandering around?'

'Not wearing one, sir, but almost every other person you meet these days is carrying theirs about with them. I've always got mine with me, sir, and...'

He was interrupted by a squeal of brakes as a black Morris 8 raced to a halt and two men leapt out hauling bulky bags.

'Humph, forensics, and about time too,' muttered Hawker. 'What kept you?' he called out.

'There is a war on, sir,' answered the tall thin one in the grey herringbone suit.

'Aye. And all the civilians in our department have joined the army, leaving us to carry the can,' added his morose looking companion.

'How long will it take you?'

'We can only spare an hour,' gasped the herringbone suit, as he dragged a heavy bag across the pavement. 'There's a war on.'

'Well, do try to take as many photographs as possible of the inside of the shop – and a few of the outside as well.' Hawker pointed with his pipe. 'Here and here...'

'I'll do my best, sir, but I've only got a dozen plates: there is a war on, you know.'

'Humph! So you keep telling me,' he grunted following them into the shop.

A miscellaneous selection of clocks and cameras were on view behind the counter, while beneath it, a motley collection of jewellery and watches were displayed behind glass; a typical pawnbroker's save for one thing: the musical instruments hanging from the ceiling. A cosmopolitan collection of brass and wood with the occasional flash of silver, they came in all shapes and sizes, packed together as tightly as commuters on a rush hour train.

'What do you make of it, sir?' asked Brightwell, joining him.

'Not much. There's nothing to contradict Purvis's story, from the position of the counter to the location of the blood stains. Let's leave it to the scientific experts while we have a word with the proprietor himself.'

In contrast to the conventional image of a pawnbroker, Mr Goldstein was a dapper, white-haired, little man with a smiling face and twinkly blue eyes framed by gold-rimmed spectacles. If his goatee beard had been a little bushier he might have been mistaken for Santa Claus.

Hawker found him in the pledge department. 'My apologies for keeping you out of your shop, Mr Goldstein, but it was absolutely essential not to touch anything until it had been examined by our scientific experts who are at this very moment collecting fingerprints and other clues. We will also need to take your fingerprints for elimination purposes. They will, of course, be destroyed when we have done so. I hope you have no objection?'

'Not at all, inspector, not at all – and if there is anything else?'

'There is one other thing, sir. We are unable to fingerprint Mr Purvis's right hand at the moment, and we need to eliminate as many prints as possible. Is there anything of Mr Purvis's here, like a teacup or glass, which might have his fingerprints on?'

'I don't know, inspector.' The pawnbroker stroked his beard thoughtfully. 'Perhaps we might find something in the storeroom.'

Having led them into a small backroom with a barred window that contained a large green safe, two cupboards and a drum kit, he pointed to one of the cupboards. 'That's where young Purvis keeps his personal bits and pieces, inspector. Maybe you can find something in there. Now, if you will excuse me, I think I have a customer.'

'Got your gloves handy, Brightwell?' asked Hawker as soon as the pawnbroker had left.

'Yes, sir, right here.'

'Right, slip 'em on, and let us discover if our young hero has anything of use to us in there.'

Wearing gloves, Brightwell carefully opened the cupboard door. The only items inside were a raincoat and a cardboard box. Having felt the coat pockets – empty – he carefully removed the box and placed it on the floor. It contained a pile of books.

'Humph,' snorted Hawker, as he peered down at the collection of paperbacks, 'trashy crime stories, I might have guessed it! What sort of book is the hardback one, sergeant? Turn it over so we can see the title.'

Holding the book carefully at the edges, Brightwell turned it over and gave a chuckle. 'It looks as if you and he have something in common, sir. It's The Case-book of Sherlock Holmes.'

Hawker didn't bother to reply. He just grunted.

'You could be right about Purvis, sir.' Brightwell pointed to the paperbacks. 'He may well be a bit of a fantasist.'

'I wasn't far out when I said his story sounded like a cowboy film: he's been reading all this nonsense and couldn't resist enhancing his roll.'

'Sherlock Holmes, nonsense, sir?' Brightwell grinned mischievously.

'I was not referring to the Sherlock Holmes book!' snapped Hawker. 'You have obviously failed to deduce that being a hardback The Case-book of Sherlock Holmes is totally out of place among this collection of trash. It was probably a birthday present or something.'

'Of course, sir, I didn't think of that.' Brightwell looked a little chastened. 'What now, sir?'

'His fingerprints must be all over them, so I suggest that we hand the lot over to our forensic chaps. Then I'd like to go next door and have a word with Mr Carter, the newsagent. He would appear to be the only other witness.'

The newsagent was a bald-headed, tubby little man, with a white, nicotine-stained walrus moustache and an impressive beer belly that spoke of a lifetime devoted to the supping of ale. He was in his shirtsleeves and had a habit of throwing back his shoulders and sticking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets as he spoke.

'Yes, guv, I heard the shot all right. I jumped like a roo. Been in this shop seven years, I have, and we've never had anything like this happen. As soon as I heard it I knew what it was. You can't spend four years in the trenches and not know that sound. It was me that found the cartridge case. Spotted it right away, I did, cos I knew what to look for.

'You've had this business seven years, was that when you came back from Australia?'

'That's right, guv. '

'Working in construction out there were you?'

'Yes, guv, I'm a carpenter by trade. It's a good country to make money if you don't mind a bit of hard graft.'

'And a far better alternative to the Foreign Legion if you wanted to forget a woman.'

'I'd have to agree with you there, guv. It certainly was in my case. I had no trouble forgetting her once I was down under.'

'But you didn't forget the war?'

'You never forget the war, guv. The instant I heard that shot I dropped to the floor and waited for the second one: there was always a second shot back then. I didn't think; I just dropped; it was an instinctive reaction. There was never time to think on the front line. If you heard a shot, you dropped. If you waited and thought about it you were a dead man – seen it happen enough times...'

He paused and tugged at his moustache, before continuing. 'Anyhow, that was my first instinct, but soon as I realised I was in my shop and not on the front line I got up and peeped out of the door. There was nobody around. Then, as carefully as if I was on patrol in no-man's-land, I crept up to the shop next door and looked inside. That's when I saw Mr Purvis lying slumped across the counter. His hand was bleeding very badly, but I knew what to do. I've done it dozens of times in the trenches. So, I took out my handkerchief and wrapped it round his hand to stop the bleeding. He was just starting to come to when Dr Greenslade took over from me – the doctor's place is just along the road.'

'What number?'

'Number forty-five, guv, but it's no good going now. The doctor's always at the Woman's Clinic in Paddington on Wednesday afternoons, and won't be back until after four o'clock.

'Make a note of that please, sergeant.'

'Yes, sir.'

As Brightwell scribbled in his notebook, Hawker returned his attention to the newsagent. 'Now, sir, would you mind telling me how much time elapsed between you hearing the shot and leaving your shop?'

'Not more than thirty seconds, guv, probably less.'

'And you saw nobody.'

'Not nearby, but I didn't think to look round the corner.'

'So, Mr Goldstein's shop being on the corner, if someone ran out of the shop and into the side street you would have been unaware of it.'

'I reckon that's about the size of it, guv. Will there be anything else?'

'Just one other thing, would you object to us taking your fingerprints for elimination purposes, sir?'

'Of course not, guv, I'd be more than happy to oblige. It will be an honour to assist you with your investigation and to help catch the bloke that did it.'

'Thank you, sir, and if you happen to remember anything else, such as any suspicious characters hanging around over the last few days, don't hesitate to call us at Scotland Yard.'

'Last few days?' The newsagent chewed his moustache thoughtfully. 'I thought you only wanted to know about today, guv.'

'If you have any other information, sir...'

'Bertie Smalls!'

'Bertie Smalls?'

'I saw him last week,' guv, 'Dressed as a gentleman, he was, but I recognised him at once. I'd know that crafty face anywhere, even after twenty years.'

'So, you were comrades-in-arms, were you?'

'We may have been in the same regiment,' the newsagent puffed out his chest, 'but we were not comrades. I was a sergeant and he was the worst private in the battalion. They should have shot him, but he managed to bullshit the court-martial into letting him off. He was always a good bullshiter, was Smalls – talk the hind legs off a donkey, he could.'

'What day did you see him?'

'Eleven-forty-five on Monday last.'

'You're very precise about the time, sir.'

'A habit I picked up when I was a sergeant, guv. If I saw a private who wasn't where he should be, particularly someone like Smalls, I would make a note of the time just in case something went missing.'

'How was he dressed?'

'Black overcoat, bowler hat and carrying an umbrella – he was even wearing spats. If I hadn't recognised the little toerag I'd have mistaken him for a gentleman.'

'And you are absolutely sure it was him?'

'I'm positive, guv. That's why I went to the door and kept an eye on him to make sure he didn't pinch anything. I think he realised I was on to him because he sneaked off down the side street.'

'He could have been going to pawn something.'

'I suppose you could be right, guv. I didn't think of that.'

'Ah yes, I remember him well; he was a real gentleman.' Goldstein stroked his beard and shook his head. 'There is no sadder sight than financially distressed gentlefolk; we've been getting more and more of them in recent years.'

'I take it he wanted to pawn something?' said Hawker.

'Yes, a solid gold Swiss watch – a Rolex no less.'

'I assume you have his address?'

'Naturally, I do.'

'It was rather a valuable item, sir, did you ask for any identity?'

'Oh course I did, inspector!' The pawnbroker looked offended. 'He showed me his driving licence.'

'May I see the watch, sir?'

'Certainly, inspector, step this way.'

Hawker followed him into the storeroom with the barred windows, and watched as Goldstein opened the safe and removed a small package...

'Hmm, nice watch.' murmured Hawker glancing at the contents.

'Yes, very nice...' The pawnbroker was looking anxious. 'Is there a possibility that it has been stolen, inspector?'

'I have absolutely no idea, sir, but if you could let me have the gentleman's name and address, I will make a few enquiries.'

Goldstein brought out a ledger and thumbed through it... 'Ah, here we are... Major de Brand, 21 Dorchester Terrace, Kensington. I also made a note of the driving licence number.'

'Thank you, sir. If you could just write all that down for me – and also the number of the watch...'

The Goldstein carefully inscribed the details on a slip of paper with his fountain pen.

It's just routine, sir,' murmured Hawker, carefully folding the note and slipping it into his pocket. 'I'll get on to the Yard immediately and ask them to check this out. We have a highly efficient system in place, and if there is any problem I should be able to inform you within the hour.'

'If you need to make a phone call, inspector,' he pointed to the wall-mounted telephone, 'you are more than welcome to use mine.'

'I wouldn't dream of troubling you, sir. There's a police box round the corner, I'll call from there while my sergeant is taking your fingerprints.'

'How did it go, sir,' asked Brightwell, when Hawker emerged from the police box.

'I've asked records to check out the watch, the driving licence and any information on Bertie Smalls – though I doubt if he's involved in the robbery. I'll phone them in an hour to find out if they've had any luck. Meanwhile, I would suggest we investigate the comforts of the Duke of York while we ponder what little facts we have at our disposal. This has the makings of a three-pint problem.'

'Don't you mean a three pipe problem, sir?'

'Well done, Brightwell. I'm impressed. And if you can tell me which one of Sherlock Holmes's adventures that quote appeared in, I'll buy you a pint.'

'Sorry, sir, I've no idea: I read it on the back of a cigarette card.'

'In that case, you can get the beer in. It was The Red-headed League – and, appropriately enough, it not only involved red hair but also featured a pawnbroker.'

The saloon bar was empty, though the murmur of many voices drifted in from the public bar along with the yeasty smell of beer and overcooked cabbage. Hawker gazed thoughtfully at the stuffed pike in a glass case above the bar before rapping on the top of the counter with his pipe. A well endowed blond with scarlet lips appeared, greeted them with a friendly smile and took their order.

He smacked his lips as the beer engine pumped out the pints, partly in anticipation of the beer, but mainly as a reaction to the barmaid's bosom. She was wearing a low-cut blouse, and each pull of the handle enlarged her cleavage until it looked as if they were about to pop out. As she handed him his pint he gave her a friendly leer, and she responded with a look that would freeze a tribe of Eskimos in their igloos.

Unperturbed, he began filling his pipe with the dark heavy shag to which he was partial. First massaging the tobacco until it was crumbled to the correct consistency, before carefully packing the bowl, tamping it down and sucking. Satisfied with the draw, he struck a Swan Vest match and applied it to the pipe. Once it was burning well, he reached out for his pint and took a large swig.

'By Jove, I needed that!' he declared.

'I give up, sir...'

'Give up what, Brightwell?'

'Trying to work out how you were able to deduce that the newsagent had gone to Australia to forget a woman and worked on a construction site.'

'Elementary: his right hand was larger than his left and the muscles more developed, suggesting that he had once been engaged in manual work, which judging by his complexion had been performed outdoors over a long period of time in a sunnier climate, while his reference to a roo, an Antipodean abbreviation of kangaroo, pointed to Australia.'

'But how did you know he went there to forget woman, sir?'

'You obviously failed to observe the tattoo...'

'I most certainly did notice the tattoo! It was of a heart and a serpent: nothing to indicate a woman.'

'The serpent had been added later in such a way as to hide the name Ann – and the fact that a serpent was used was particularly significant.'

'Hmm, I must admit I didn't see that, sir...'

'But you did spot tattoo. Well done, Brightwell!' Hawker waved his pipe majestically. 'And now perhaps you will be so good as to let me have your thoughts on the case itself.'

'Well, I have to say it all seems a bit bizarre to me, sir: gas masks, guns and empty violin cases.'

'As the great man himself once said, 'The more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify.'

Brightwell didn't need to ask which great man, as far as Hawker was concerned there was only one great man: Sherlock Holmes.

'But we don't have a face to identify, sir, even a commonplace one.'

'But we do have the facts, Brightwell, however bizarre they may be, and we also have this...' Hawker slid the cartridge case out of his pocket and placed it on the bar.

'Well, it's a start sir.'

'As we are probably dealing with an amateur, I doubt if the weapon can be linked to a previous crime, but it is all we have to go on at the moment. So we'll just have to hope and pray the backroom boys at the Yard can match this or the fingerprints, though I'm not optimistic.'

'Are you sure it was an amateur, sir? Purvis may have been mistaken about the gloves, and even a career criminal can make a balls-up of it, like that bank job a couple of months back where he left the money behind.'

'That was almost certainly Alfie Peck. He's not an amateur, he's just a complete bloody idiot, but even he had the sense to use one of the best getaway drivers in the business. And that's another thing that makes this job look amateurish, how was the gas mask bandit supposed to make his getaway?'

'Speaking of getaways, sir, any news on Fox? He was suspected of having been the getaway man, wasn't he?'

'No. He's disappeared without trace; though rumour has it that Sid Weston buried him in the concrete foundations of that big air raid shelter they're building on the Mile End Road.'

'What about Bertie Smalls, sir, I got the impression that you know him?'

'Know off him, would be more like it. That's why I used the police box: I didn't want Goldstein listening while I made the call. It was back in the twenties when I was a detective constable in Hammersmith. He was a small-timer passing himself off as an ex-officer, usually a major, and specialising in conning little old ladies. I pulled him in once for the three-card-trick, but he wouldn't have the bottle for armed robbery.'

'Was he dealing the cards?'

'No, that takes a bit of skill. Bertie was one of the stooges – which just about sums him up: second division.'

'But the watch he pawned was first division.'

'I expect he persuaded some wealthy widow to part with it under some pretext or other. That's just about his level.'

'I take it we won't be working late tonight, sir?'

Hawker raised a questioning eyebrow. 'A woman I suppose?'

'Er, yes, sir. One of the nurses has–'

'I'll bet she has! You're a fast worker, Brightwell, which one?'

'Nurse Williams, the one who made the tea.'

'Mmm... yes... I remember her – nice little arse! I'll bet she bangs like a shithouse door.'

'How's the wife keeping, sir?'

'Take my advice, Brightwell: don't get married!' Hawker picked up his glass and drained it in one gulp, before rapping on the counter in the hope of summoning the big-bosomed barmaid. To his chagrin it was a plump jolly fellow in a yellow waistcoat, the landlord himself, who bounced in from the public bar.

'I can let you gentlemen have a couple of quick pints,' he said, grabbing Hawker's empty glass, 'but you'll have to drink 'em up fast. It's closing time in four minutes. Normally I can be a bit more relaxed, but what with that little spot of bother across the road the police are all over the place, and I wouldn't want to lose my licence.'

'Bloody police,' agreed Hawker, 'a lot of little Hitlers. All they ever seem to do is harass honest businessmen like you and me, too damned lazy to go out and catch real criminals.'

'Aye, you're right there,' grunted the landlord. 'I sometimes wonder what we pay our taxes for.'

'Why, to pay for their big fat pensions, of course,' said Hawker, placing a half crown on the bar.

'Ha! Ha! That's a good one,' giggled the landlord, pushing the coin back. 'The drinks are on the house, gents.'

# Chapter 3

'It looks as if you were wrong about Smalls, sir.' Brightwell gripped the steering wheel of the Wolseley as they raced along Bishops Bridge Road and flashed past the rear entrance to Paddington Station.

'Robbery with violence, our Bertie has certainly moved up a peg or two in the crime world. I wonder what brought about the career change.'

'How many watches were stolen, sir?'

'About a couple of dozen; all high-class stuff.'

'Maybe he didn't do the actual robbery; he could be just fencing the stuff.'

'I doubt it. He may have gone into a totally different branch of criminal activity, but it's still got his signature all over it: Bertie never could resist the theatrical touch. I mean, walking into a shop wearing a Crombie overcoat and bowler hat with an umbrella on your arm, and introducing yourself as Lieutenant Commander somebody or other...'

'I thought you said he usually passed himself off as a major?'

'An army officer never has a beard. It's against regulations.'

'He had a beard!!'

'And a monocle; typical Bertie that: he always has to overdo it. Still, I suppose it was a good disguise.'

'So he comes into the shop pretending to be a naval officer, asks to see the most expensive watches, clobbers the shopkeeper on the head and makes his getaway.'

'That's about it in a nutshell.'

'What type of weapon?'

'Probably a cosh, but as the victim didn't see it coming we don't know for sure, though it does virtually rule him out of the pawnshop job: if he had a gun he'd have used it for the watch robbery.'

'Do you think he's disposed of his haul, sir?'

'I doubt it. It doesn't look as if he's using a fence. He's probably done the down-on-his-luck gentleman routine in a few pawnshops around town, but no more than that. There's a limit to how many times you can work that trick in London without drawing attention to yourself. He'll stash away the loot, wait 'til his probation's up, and then do a grand tour of the provincial hock shops.'

'He's on probation!!'

'Yep! Got caught with a load of petrol coupons that he couldn't account for, which is why we know where he lives.'

'Is it a big posh house, sir?'

'Let's just say it's in a class of its own...

Rillington Place was a festering slum, with feral cats prowling among overflowing rubbish bins and abandoned mattresses while flea ridden dogs licked each other's backsides in greeting. Each of its once grand houses with colonnaded porticos sheltered at least a dozen families, some living six or more to a room. The front door to number ten was wide open. Inside, the air was thick with overcooked food and under-washed bodies, while the walls of the hallway had been blackened up to shoulder height by dirty hands and greasy clothing rubbing against it over the decades. Having been in and out of these places at regular intervals over the years, Hawker's brain had learnt to filter out the smell but Brightwell held a handkerchief to his nose.

'I'll bet you wish you'd brought your gas mask, Brightwell,' grunted Hawker as they climbed the stairs. 'You can nip back to the car and fetch it if you want to.'

'I'll manage, sir.'

'Don't worry, Brightwell. A couple more years on this job and you won't even notice it.' He paused outside one of the doors on the second floor and listened for a moment before knocking: tap...tap-tap-tap...tap-tap... 'Useful tip, Brightwell, never knock like a copper,' he murmured.

The door opened a couple of inches, and they caught a fleeting glimpse of a pale face and clipped military moustache before it slammed shut.

'Kick it in, sergeant!'

It only took one good kick, and the door burst open to reveal Bertie dressed in nothing but a shirt dragging a suitcase towards an open window. He stood up and glared at them defiantly with the shirttails flapping against his spindly legs.

'You can't come in here without a search warrant!'

'We don't need one, Bertie: you invited us in for tea. He did, didn't he sergeant?'

'That's right, sir. He asked if we wanted Earl Grey or Darjeeling.'

'I know my rights!'

'Kick him in the balls, sergeant.'

'With pleasure, sir...'

'Eeeoow!!!'

Bertie went down like a sack of potatoes and lay there with his hands clutched between his shirttails and his bare arse writhing about on the linoleum.

Ignoring him, Hawker contemplated the suitcase.

'Do you want me to open it, sir?' volunteered Brightwell. 'I am wearing gloves.'

'Better not risk it, sergeant. It may be booby-trapped: a constable lost an eye opening one a few years back. Perhaps we should ask our little friend with the bare backside if he will have the kindness to open it for us.'

'I'd like to see your search warrant first,' muttered Bertie.

'Proper little glutton for punishment isn't he, sergeant? I wonder if...' Hawker paused: something caught his eye. Striding over to the mantelpiece, he picked up the tightly furled umbrella that was resting against it and felt the weight before very carefully examining the handle.

'Have you found something, sir?' asked Brightwell.

'Yes, a very nasty weapon. The wooden knob has been hollowed out and filled with lead. You could crush a man's skull with this.'

'It's not mine,' muttered Bertie. 'I just borrowed it because it was raining.'

'Did you also borrow this because it was raining, Bertie?' Hawker picked up a monocle that was lying on the mantelpiece and dangled it in front of him.

Bertie said nothing.

'Robbery with violence, Bertie, you should have stuck to sweet-talking little old ladies.'

Bertie remained silent.

'Be a good little boy and open that case. We've already got enough to put you away for a few years, and you wouldn't want us to march you down the street in just your shirt with your willy hanging out, would you?'

With a sigh, Bertie knelt down and opened the case.

Hawker peered down at the watches. 'Hmm, quite a nice little collection – your contribution to the war effort, I presume.'

'Am I under arrest?'

'Not yet, Bertie, we haven't finished searching your room.'

'But you've got the stuff.'

'But not the gun, we're looking for a gun...'

'G-g-gun?' Bertie turned white and his naked knees started knocking.

'That pawnbroker's you hocked the Rolex with. Somebody tried to turn it over this morning. A man was shot!'

'Sh-sh- shot... Is he d-dead?'

'Not yet, but...'

'What time?' Bertie recovered his composure.

'Nine o'clock.'

'I've got an alibi,' he smiled.

'I'll bet you have...'

'I was with my probation officer!' He folded his arms to emphasize the point.

'Humph!'

'So I can't help you,' he smirked.

'Oh but I'm sure you could if you really wanted to. It's a little bit too much of a coincidence: you turning up a few days before a crime is committed. You must know something about the robbery.'

'I am not a grass.' Bertie drew himself up with as much dignity as was possible for a man clad in only a shirt.

'Listen to me very carefully, little man. If you do know something you'd better start talking, because if you don't, I am going to give Sergeant Brightwell a black eye...'

Bertie's jaw dropped in amazement, and he stood speechless as Hawker continued...

'Then I am going to arrest you for grievous bodily harm to an officer of the law – and you know what that means don't you, Bertie?'

Bertie furrowed his brow.

'Robbery with violence and GBH-ing a copper, you'll probably get the cat... Would you like me to tell you all about the cat-o'-nine-tails, Bertie?'

Bertie shook his head.

'No? Well, I'm going to tell you anyway. The cat is a whip ending in nine knotted cords, each intended to inflict the maximum amount of pain – hence the nine tails.' Hawker paused and licked his lips... 'And they call it the cat because with each lash across your naked back it will leave a mark on your skin like the claws of a cat...'

Bertie said nothing. He just stood there with his knees knocking and the water trickling down his legs.

Hawker glanced at the puddle forming on the linoleum and grunted, 'I think we can safely say he doesn't know anything, sergeant. Come on, Bertie, put your trousers on and let's get you back to where you belong.'

'That black eye trick of yours worked really well, sir' said Brightwell, as they stood on the pavement outside Paddington Green police station.

Hawker grinned. 'Yes, it did, didn't it? Just as well he wasn't wearing trousers.'

'And it's just as well he didn't call your bluff.'

'Who said I was bluffing...'

'Oh!'

'Cheer up Brightwell; it's all in a good cause.'

'Er, yes, sir... er, what next, sir?'

'Now that we have Bertie safely under lock and key, all the little old ladies of London can sleep soundly in their beds but it doesn't help us with the pawnshop job. So, while I stay on here and sort out the paperwork, you take the car and nip along to the hospital for the ambulance men's fingerprints. Then drop in at Dr Greenslade's on your way back here and ask the usual questions.'

'What about Dr Greenslade's fingerprints, sir?'

'Get them if you can, but people can be a bit funny about it, and you may have to use all of your persuasive charms, but don't overdo it – I'd rather not have any of the witnesses tampered with.'

'Tampered with, sir?' Brightwell frowned.

'Dr Greenslade is a woman – and a very attractive one too, from what I hear.'

'Really, sir, that's very interesting...' Brightwell carefully smoothed back his hair and straightened his tie.

# Chapter 4

There was nothing of interest in the News Chronicle. Now that Poland had capitulated, the war appeared to have ground to a halt and very little seemed to be happening. Nonetheless, Hawker remained firmly entrenched behind his newspaper. It was the only safe place to be at breakfast time. Hilda sat opposite, glaring at him over the silver-plated toast rack that had been a wedding present from her mother. He couldn't see her, but he could feel her eyes burning through the News Chronicle just above the picture of Hitler taking the salute at a victory parade. There was always the risk of her setting fire to it, but she hadn't done so since the outbreak of hostilities – the Anglo/German hostilities: not the hostilities in the Hawker household. They had begun long before Hitler came to power in Germany. He wondered if perhaps the best way to solve the international situation would be to put Hitler and Hilda in a cage together and let them fight it out, but gloomily rejected the idea when he realised who would emerge the winner.

The kids had left the breakfast table, and the thumping sound coming through the ceiling indicated they were getting ready for school, but Hilda remained doggedly in position, poised like the German army, ready to attack the moment he lowered his guard. Hunkered down in his newsprint bunker, he finally heard the welcome sound of crashing of crockery. Good! It meant that she was working off a bit of steam by banging the breakfast things together as she cleared the table. Soon it would be safe to emerge, and with a bit of luck he should be able to make a dash for the coat rack and be through the front door while she was in the kitchen.

He knew from experience what was coming next, and crouched like a sprinter waiting for the starting pistol. When it came, an incredibly loud CRASH from the kitchen, he leapt from his chair, raced to the hall, grabbed his coat, hat, umbrella, briefcase and gas mask, and shot out of the front door with the velocity of a human cannonball. Once he was safely through the garden gate and into the street he relaxed: he was on neutral territory, and even Hilda respected the Geneva Convention. Whistling It's a Long Way to Tipperary, he joined the stream of men in bowler hats, with gas masks, brollies and briefcases, tramping along Grove Road in the direction of West Lamberley station.

The office was situated within the labyrinths of Scotland Yard, and its windows commanded a fine view of a brick wall. When Hawker marched in, Brightwell was already there tapping away at a typewriter.

'You're bright and early,' he said dumping his gas mask on the desk.

'Yes, sir, I wanted get this report finished.'

'Anything on the fingerprints?' he asked, planting his brolly firmly in the umbrella stand.

'Not yet, sir. I had a word with them, and we should have something definite by lunchtime at the latest, but it doesn't look too hopeful.

'Meaning that ballistics is our last hope,' muttered Hawker, tossing his bowler onto a peg.

'I don't know if it's anything to do with case, sir, but the newsagent phoned in to report finding a dead cat in his rubbish bin. He said it had been shot.'

'Shot! Did he find a bullet in it?'

'Apparently not, sir.'

'Then what makes him think it's been shot?'

'He says it's definitely a bullet wound, and he should know because–'

'Because he was in the trenches for four years! The poor sod's bomb-happy: I saw enough of them go like that. We'll drop in and humour him after we've seen the red-headed soldier...' Hawker paused as he was removing his overcoat, and stared disapprovingly. 'Why are you dressed like that, sergeant, you look like a pox-doctor's clerk?'

Brightwell was wearing a brown, double-breasted suit with broad stripes and sporting a very loud tie.

'Sorry, sir, I couldn't get home last night because of the blackout and had to spend the night at a friend's place.'

Hawker raised his eyes heavenwards. 'Nurse Williams I suppose.'

'Yes, sir, and very obliging she was.' Brightwell smacked his lips and grinned. 'Yes, very obliging...'

'That's no excuse, sergeant. You should have left early this morning, and gone home to change before reporting for duty. I can't have my officers going around looking like black marketeers.'

'I tried to, sir, but she wouldn't let me go. I had to fight my way out in the end.'

'Humph, you're not the only one,' grunted Hawker, as he plonked himself down at his desk and picked up the folder lying on it. 'What's this?'

'The photographs of the scene of the crime you asked for, sir.'

'Did you look at them?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And?'

'And what, sir?'

'Did you see anything in them?'

'What's there to see, sir?'

'It is my belief, Brightwell, that by studying a photograph of the scene of a crime one is, on occasions, able to detect something that one missed when at the scene itself.'

'Who said that, sir, Sherlock Holmes?'

'No, I just did!'

Ignoring the folder on his desk, Hawker picked up his pipe, packed it with tobacco, lit it and sat for a few minutes wreathed in tobacco smoke. Then leaning back in his chair, he placed his feet up on the desk and grabbed the folder. There were four whole-plate sized photographs: two of the interior of the shop and two of the scene outside. For five minutes he remained in position with his pipe clamped firmly in his mouth as he examined the pictures one by one. Suddenly, he planted both his feet firmly on the ground and resumed his normal seated stance. With a quiver of excitement, he yanked open a drawer, pulled out a large magnifying glass, and proceeded to examine one of the photographs with great care. Brightwell, knowing from experience that nothing must disturb the master's train of thought on such occasions, stopped typing and waited.

Hawker broke his silence at last. 'Come over here and have a look at this, Brightwell.'

Standing behind him and looking over his shoulder, Brightwell scrutinised the picture. It was of the interior of the shop, and the counter and display cases were picked out in sharp detail, as were the musical instruments that hung from the ceiling like poultry in a butcher's shop at Christmas.

'Notice anything?' asked Hawker.

'I see what you mean about looking at a photograph, sir. I hadn't realised there was so much musical stuff hanging in that shop. There's enough there for an orchestra by the look of it.'

'A small orchestra, perhaps,' murmured Hawker, waving his pipe like a conductor. 'Sherlock Holmes once discovered a Stradivarius worth over three hundred guineas in a pawnbroker's shop on the Tottenham Court Road. He paid fifty-five shillings for it.'

'What's a Stradivarius, sir?'

'A violin.'

'Well, there's no shortage of violins. There must be at least a dozen of them.'

'Which is what makes this one just a little bit odd...' Hawker tapped the spot with his pipe.

'Odd, sir?'

'It's been damaged. See? There's a big chip on it. Now why would a pawnbroker accept damaged goods?'

Brightwell shrugged. 'Maybe it's a mark on the negative.'

'No. I've examined it with the magnifying glass. It is most definitely not that.'

'Does it mean, anything, sir?'

'Probably not, but we now have a chipped violin to go with the missing violin case... Hmm... I wonder where they found the bullet.' Hawker replaced the pipe between his teeth and knitted his eyebrows.

'It was lodged in a panel just behind where Purvis was supposed to be standing. It must have passed clean through his hand.'

'That would confirm his story if nothing else, but it couldn't have caused the damage to the violin – unless there were two shots.'

'According to Purvis there was only one shot. He seemed to be quite definite about that, sir.'

'Yes, but we must bear in mind the fact that, even if he didn't pass out immediately, he would have been in a state of shock.'

'The newsagent also stated quite emphatically that there was only one shot, sir. According to his statement, he actually paused and waited for a second shot before dashing out of his shop.'

'Hmm, then I suppose that just about settles it. Still, it wouldn't do any harm to keep an open mind about the second shot, and since we have to go and inspect his dead cat it'll give us an excuse to have another word with him. It might be an idea to see Purvis again as well. Is he still in hospital?'

'Yes, sir. Jessie told me that–'

'Jessie?'

'Nurse Williams, sir. He's got blood poisoning. They might have to amputate.'

'Poor bastard. The way this war's going, he'd have been safer in the army.'

'According to Jes– I mean Nurse Williams, he's really desperate to get out of the hospital. He keeps saying he wants to get back to the shop.'

'Humph! What on earth for? He must be a bigger bloody fool than I thought he was.'

'Now we don't need them for fingerprints any more, I could run his books over to the hospital. It would give me an excuse to have a few words with him.'

'Give you an excuse to have a few words with Nurse Williams, you mean.'

'I don't need one, sir: I know where she lives.' Brightwell lit a cigarette and exhaled luxuriously. 'Speaking of fingerprints, would you like me to find out how they're getting along?'

'No, I'll go. I've got to report our progress to the superintendent. Anyway, we can't have you wandering around Scotland Yard in that outfit, sergeant: they might mistake you for a pimp and lock you up.'

It was over an hour before Hawker returned, and when he did, one glance at his face told Brightwell there was a problem.

'No luck with the fingerprints, sir?'

'Absolutely none, though at least the super was happy about us bagging Bertie for that other robbery.'

'What about ballistics?'

'Jesus! I could murder a pint!'

'The pubs are closed, sir.'

'I know, don't rub it in.'

'Cheer up, sir, only half an hour 'til opening time.'

'Humph! Anything new?'

'Not much, but I did remember something odd that Goldstein said when I was taking his fingerprints. According to my notes, Purvis said that he wanted to enlist in the army and Goldstein asked him not to, but according to Goldstein Purvis has just received his call-up papers. He also mentioned something about a fourteen-year-old boy that helps out on Saturdays who could start fulltime.'

'Hmm, that's interesting... A school-leaver would be cheaper – and I've yet to meet a pawnbroker who was free with his money. I think I'd like another word with Purvis. Get on to it, Brightwell.'

'I've already done so, sir.'

'Nurse Williams?' Hawker sighed.

'It was quicker than going through official channels, sir.' Brightwell grinned.

'And?'

'They're going to amputate.'

'His hand?'

'The whole arm, he seems to have developed a particularly virulent form of blood poisoning.'

'Humph, then he can forget all about those call-up papers. He won't be much use to the army now.'

'I suppose there's no chance of the wound being self-inflicted, sir?'

'That was one of the first possibilities I considered. There's been a rash of those since conscription began. I heard of a garage up in the Midlands where all three apprentices managed to get their hands crushed in the same week – always the left one mind you. But if Purvis did shoot himself, what became of the gun? He had no opportunity to dispose of it, and by all accounts was in no condition to do so. Also, if the newsagent was observant enough to notice a cartridge case he'd hardly miss a gun, and if it fell under the counter or some such place the forensic chaps would have found it. Besides, it was Purvis's right hand that was wounded.'

'He's left-handed, sir.'

'Is he now...' Hawker reached for his tobacco pouch and put his feet up on the desk. 'I suppose we must give thanks to Nurse Williams for saving the Metropolitan Police a great deal of time – as well as giving them a good time...'

'All in the line of duty, sir...'

'I'll bet it was!'

'At least it gives Purvis a motive, sir.'

'But let us not forget the missing gun, Brightwell. Where did it come from, and where did it go?'

'I get the impression you're hiding something from me as usual, sir. Why do you always do that?'

Hawker shrugged. 'Because it is far too easy for me to start chasing one particular theory, and I get a different point of view from you if you don't know everything – and a few fresh ideas are what I'm going to need after seeing that ballistic report.'

'Was it that bad, sir?'

'Worse: it's back to the drawing board – or should I say drawing pints. They should be open in five minutes. Come on, Brightwell, grab your hat. I'll tell you all about it in the pub.'

# Chapter 5

The saloon bar was warm and inviting, all mahogany, brass and etched glass windows. Its proximity to Whitehall, Scotland Yard and the Houses of Parliament meant the clientele were mainly a mixture of men in uniform, civil servants and plainclothes policemen, with maybe the odd Member of Parliament lurking in the background. As the barmaid pulled their pints, Hawker ran his eyes over her and licked his lips. She was blond, brassy, slightly vulgar and sexily clad in a tight fitting sweater.

'At least something good has come out of this war,' he grunted as he raised his glass.

'Really, sir.' Brightwell frowned.

Hawker nodded in the direction of the barmaid's backside. 'With so many men in the army, the pubs have been obliged to replace them with tasty little popsies like that.'

'I'm thinking of enlisting, sir.'

'Don't be a bloody fool, Brightwell! You're in a reserved occupation: coppers aren't allowed to enlist.'

'There's been some talk of them changing the rules...'

'You'd still be a bloody fool, Brightwell. Forget it!

'But I feel that it's my duty, sir.'

'Oh my God, duty,' sighed Hawker. 'Saints preserve us from duty. I suppose you've been reading the Daily Mail...'

'Well, I er...'

'Then, if you must, you must,' Hawker shrugged, 'but at least have the sense to make sure you wangle your way into the Royal Military Police. That should keep you well away from the front line, and if you're lucky you'll end up spending the war hanging around railway stations looking for deserters.'

'Actually, sir, I was planning to volunteer for the infantry.'

'What! You must be bloody mad!'

'It's a man's duty to fight for his country and risk his life in a just cause.'

'What are you babbling on about, Brightwell? You sound worse than the Daily Express. What's come over you? You weren't like this yesterday; why have you suddenly...' Hawker paused, and a sly grin appeared on his face. 'Ah yes, of course,' he winked, 'Nurse Williams...'

'Well, er...' Brightwell coloured slightly.

'You hardly present a challenge to my deductive powers, Brightwell. When you turn up dressed like a bookies runner and express a desire to start killing perfectly inoffensive Germans there could only be one possible explanation.'

'Well, sir, you see–'

Hawker brought his fist down on the top of the bar with a mighty crash. 'Barmaid!' he roared.

'Yes, sir?' The blond came running.

'Give my colleague a double whisky. He's sick.'

'Nothing too serious I hope?'

'Nothing you couldn't cure.' He winked.

'Ah, yes, sir,' she gave him a cheeky grin and wiggled her hips, 'there's a lot of it about at the moment. It's the war, you know. They're queuing up for marriage licences down at the registry office.' As she handed Brightwell his whisky, she patted his hand. 'If you take my advice, love, you'll go home and have a nice cold bath.'

Hawker watched as Brightwell downed the whisky in one gulp. 'Is that better?' he asked.

'Yes, sir, but I must emphasize that I was only considering enlisting.'

'It is my opinion, Brightwell, that you are in danger of making two fatal errors, and I am not too sure which of them is the most lethal.'

'Two, sir?'

'Enlistment and Marriage!'

'Why marriage, sir?'

'Because it is a fate worse than death...'

'Hmm...' Brightwell gazed thoughtfully into his beer. 'Would you mind if we change the subject, sir? You were going to tell me about the ballistics report.'

'Ah yes, the case of the vigilante gun...' Hawker applied a match to his pipe.

'Vigilante?' Brightwell fumbled open a packet of Craven A, extracted a cigarette and lit it. 'That's more the sort of thing that happens in America. Was it a murder?'

'No, nobody even got hurt. It was about ten years ago. Someone fired three rounds into the house of a known child molester, breaking a couple of window panes and a bust of Queen Victoria. Our chaps dug one bullet out of the grandfather clock, found one in the wall and the third was lodged in the roots of an aspidistra plant, but they never found the gun or the gunman. The only thing we do know is that it was almost certainly a Lugar, meaning it was probably a souvenir from the last war.'

'What became of the victim?'

'It had the desired result: he moved out of the area.'

'Where did the shooting take place, sir?'

'Golders Green.'

'That's only about three miles up the Finchley Road from the pawnbroker's.'

'Exactly!'

'Phewee... I see what you mean about back to the drawing board, sir. It's blown your theories sky-high. Maybe it wasn't a robbery after all. Is it possible that Purvis has been taking an unhealthy interest in children?'

'Obviously we are going to have to take that possibility into consideration, and it would certainly give someone a jolly good reason for wanting to frighten him – or even wound him. It would make a lot more sense as a motive: a man who believes he has the right to enforce his own twisted version of the law is unlikely to start robbing pawnshops.'

'So how do we find out about Purvis's sexual inclinations, sir? We can hardly ask his family, and now that the newspapers are making him out to be a hero we'll be well and truly in the shit if we're wrong.'

'We ask an expert!' Hawker held up a business card. 'The fingerprint boys found this among his paperbacks.'

'Keeping me in the dark as usual,' grumbled Brightwell, as he took the card. 'Mitzi, phone Olympia 3402... Have you managed to trace the address from the phone number, sir?'

'I don't need to. It's in a block of flats just up the road from the Olympia Exhibition Centre.'

'How do you know, sir?'

'She's a whore, been at it since you were in short trousers. I know her from my salad days in Hammersmith when she was an informant. She'd pass on an occasional bit of tittle-tattle and we'd let her carry on her trade in peace. But bang goes another theory, because if Purvis really has been banging that old brass I doubt if he's into little girls: she's old enough to be your mother let alone his.'

'Mitzi...' Brightwell looked thoughtful, 'unusual name. Is she French?'

'She was born in Battersea, and the only French she knows is a French letter. Her real name is Vera Mavis Smith, but she was known in the division as Venal Vera – and has given many an over-inquisitive young copper a dose of the clap.'

Long black cigarette holder in her hand, a pink negligee clinging to her body, and her immaculately made-up face framed by the golden curls brushing her cheeks, Mitzi reclined on a chaise longue amidst the glitzy splendour of her art deco apartment.

'Why, dahling, how nice of you to drop in.' She greeted Hawker with an imperial wave of the cigarette holder. 'I'm afraid I don't really do freebies for the force any more,' she murmured, casting an approving eye over Brightwell, 'but I might make an exception for your rather dashingly attired assistant.'

'Sorry, Mitzi, he never fucks on duty.'

'Pity!...And I see your language has not improved, dahling, you always were a bit of a rough diamond. But if it is not personal services you are seeking, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?'

'I'm enquiring about one of your punters.'

'Clients, dahling, clients: punters are people who patronise common streetwalkers. Is it any particular client that you are seeking?'

'Can't you guess?'

Mitzi sighed. 'The pawnshop boy... I thought you'd be turning up sooner or later. How is he?'

'They're amputating his arm!'

'Blimey!'

'How well did you know him?'

'You never really get to know them in this business, dahling...' She toyed thoughtfully with one of her curls. 'He was one of my regulars, came once a fortnight.'

'Once a fortnight at the prices you charge! What was it, half price for children's matinee or have you dropped your prices because there's a war on?'

'Don't talk to me about the wretched war, dahling. What with all the men in army, I can barely afford to keep my maid on. And just for good measure they've cancelled all the exhibitions and trade fairs at the Olympia. They were always a reliable source of business.'

'Cheer up, Mitzi. I heard a rumour that the place is going to be turned into an army training centre.'

Mitzi stretched luxuriously. 'In that case, dahling, I'm looking forward to doing my patriotic duty.'

'What do you charge these days, Mitzi?'

'Are you asking in an official or personal capacity?' she purred, giving a fleeting glimpse of a creamy white breast.

'Official!'

'My basic fee is three guineas – that does not include extras.'

'That's more than Purvis earns in a week! Were there any extras?'

'He always wanted his bare bottom smacked, but I never used to charge him for that.'

'Why, because he was a regular?'

'No. It was more because I felt sorry for him. I suppose he must have brought out my maternal instincts.'

'Sorry for him?' Hawker frowned. 'Why was that?'

'Well you know how they like to talk, dahling: half the men who come through that door just want to talk. I gather his boss gave him a hard time and his father, an even harder one. The father was always on at him to be a man and join the army.'

'Did he ever ask you to wear a school uniform or pretend to be a little girl?'

'I think I'm a bit too old for that,' she giggled. 'If he was into that sort of thing I would have sent him along to one of the girls that specialises in that particular branch of the business – I've sent enough coppers over the years.'

Hawker ignored the provocation. 'Do you think perhaps he's interested in small boys?'

'I doubt it. You get a sort of feeling about them. If you ask me, he's looking for a mummy. Why else would he keep coming back to me?'

'Hmm... and paying for it...' Hawker looked thoughtful for moment, before asking, 'Do you have any idea where he was getting the money for your services?'

'I haven't the foggiest. It's one of the funny things about this business: they like to pretend that they are not paying for it. Once they've paid me my fee, money is the one thing they never talk about.'

'Did he ever mention guns?'

'A couple of times when I was sucking him off and he was about to come he shouted out something about a safe gun, but they say all sorts of things when they're like that. I only remembered it because it made even less sense than usual. Probably something from one of those crime stories of his.'

'Bang goes the vigilante theory,' said Brightwell as they tramped down the stairs of the block of flats. 'I can't see anyone who's into little girls paying more than his week's wages for a session with Mitzi. She may be a bit over the hill but she is definitely all woman.'

'And small boys would certainly be a lot cheaper than her. Forget all the fancy theories, Brightwell. It was probably a good old-fashioned robbery that went wrong.'

'Where to next, sir?'

'St Johns Wood Barracks; let's hope our red-headed soldier can lighten our darkness.'

Brightwell looked thoughtful as they walked down the stairs. When they reached the lobby he paused. 'I hope you don't mind my asking, sir, but you and the lady, were you ever... er, well you know...'

'If you mean did I ever poke Mitzi, of course I ruddy well did. That was just after the last war when I was a young constable and this was my beat; it was one of the perks of the job. She was in her late twenties then, and a real beauty.'

'I can well believe it, sir. She's still in pretty good shape for her age.'

'She has to be. It's her living. Do you know what turns a well shaped pretty girl into a bag of spanners, Brightwell?'

'Er, no, sir...'

'A wedding ring: as soon as you slip it on her finger, there's a puff of smoke and – Bride of Frankenstein!'

Brightwell grinned. 'I think you're exaggerating a bit, sir.'

'Maybe a little bit. I have to admit that mine did at least have the decency to wait until a week after the honeymoon.'

As they stepped out into the autumn sunshine, a fresh-faced special constable was standing next to the Wolseley with a notebook in his hand. Hawker paused on the steps to straighten his bowler and light his pipe before approaching.

'Is this your vehicle, sir?' The special sounded very officious.

'It is...'

'Are you aware that it is causing an obstruction, and so I must ask you to...'

With a sigh Hawker flashed his warrant card...

'Sorry, sir,' the special saluted, 'but a notorious prostitute resides in that block of flats, and her punters are always leaving their cars parked outside.'

'Clients, constable, not punters: clients.'

'Really, sir...' The fresh faced special looked puzzled.

Hawker looked him up and down. 'Why aren't you in the army, constable? A strapping young fellow like you should not be wasting his time on traffic duty. You should over in France ready to teach those Nazi swine a lesson.'

'Well, sir, I had been thinking of enlisting. Someone recommended the military police.'

'Nonsense! You won't see any action with the military police: you'll probably spend the entire war on traffic duty. A dashing young chap like you should be in the front line. Join an infantry regiment!'

'By George, you're right, sir! As soon as I'm off duty, I'll go straight to the recruiting office!'

'That's fixed you, you little prick,' murmured Hawker, as he opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat.

# Chapter 6

The provost sergeant was waiting. Immaculately turned out in full uniform with brass buttons glittering like gold and waxed moustache bristling with superiority, he stood with his legs apart, hands behind his back and his boots planted firmly on the ground. The guardroom itself was tastefully decorated in khaki and bore testimony to many generations of spit and polish. Along one wall, a parade of rosters hung at exactly the same distance apart ready for inspection. The duty NCO, a corporal, stood next to the sergeant, legs apart and hands behind back. Even at ease the two of them remained as rigid and unmoving as guardsman on parade: when confronted by a civil authority the army will always display a united front.

It was a formidable defensive position, and it took Hawker almost five minutes to penetrate it. He knew from experience not to waste time with a frontal attack, and concentrated on probing around the sides looking for an opening. After a few skirmishes he found one: he and the provost sergeant had a mutual comrade-in-arms in the 1914/18 war. After that the atmosphere eased and information was easier to come by.

'Between you and me, sir,' said the sergeant tapping his nose, 'I think Private Oldenshaw is more than happy to be where he is.'

'How come?'

'Well, you know what squaddies are like,' he winked, 'particularly with regards to the fair sex. Well to put it as delicately as possible, I think he's been leading a young lady up the garden path.'

'How far?'

'All the way, from what I gather. You see, we were supposed to ship over to France last week, but it was postponed for two weeks. As I understand it, in order to persuade her to go a bit further than usual, he promised to marry the lady this coming Saturday thinking he'd be safely out of the country.'

'Heh heh, the crafty little blighter, I wish I'd thought of that one.'

'Are you married, sir?'

'Yes, but don't rub it in.'

'So is the adjutant – and you should see his missus. Anyhow, that's why Oldenshaw is to remain behind bars until the battalion leaves for France.'

'It sounds a bit harsh.'

'Did you happen to notice a couple of men hanging around outside the gate?'

'Yes. I thought they looked a bit suspicious. That's why I made a note of them. One was a big burly youngster and the other, a thickset middle-aged fellow, looked like and old-time boxer.'

'Her father and brother...'

'Ouch!'

'Don't worry,' the sergeant winked, 'he's safe where he is. The army always looks after its own – and talk of the devil...'

The duty NCO and another soldier marched in with the prisoner. He was younger than Hawker expected and not particularly good-looking, but his vivid red hair and freckles gave him a boyish look.

'Attention!' bellowed the sergeant.

The prisoner snapped into position like a clockwork soldier, and stood there, legs together, arms at his side and eyes staring straight ahead.

'Right, Private Oldenshaw! There is a gentleman here who would like a few words with you! Luckily for you, he is from the police and not the father of one of your girlfriends! He would like to ask you a few questions about your visit to a shop to enquire about wedding rings!' The sergeant turned to Hawker. 'He's all yours, sir.'

'Thank you, sergeant. Do you think you could ask him to stand at ease, and maybe if we could sit down together at this table...'

'You heard the gentleman, Oldenshaw. Sit!'

'I understand,' said Hawker as soon as they were seated, 'that you paid a visit to Goldstein's yesterday to enquire about a wedding ring,'

'Aye, that's right, sir.'

'Would you tell me in your own words exactly what happened when you went into the shop.'

'Well, there's not much to tell, sir. There were this lass who kept on at me to get married. She were a bonny lass right enough, so I thought to meself it'd do no harm to ask the price of wedding rings.'

'Did you notice anyone loitering outside the shop?'

'No, sir. Just a couple of old ladies.'

'Did you stay long in the shop?'

'Only a minute or so, sir.'

'That was quick.'

'I got this feeling that lad behind counter didn't want to serve me. Very abrupt he was. A right stuck up prick – if you'll pardon my French, sir.'

'Have you any idea why he was so abrupt?'

'Dunno, sir, but I got the feeling I'd interrupted him or something.'

'Any idea what?'

'Dunno, sir, but he looked a right wanker.' Oldenshaw grinned. 'Maybe he was having a wank!'

The Provost Sergeant coughed twice.

'Sorry, sir, pardon my French, sir.'

Hawker placed a photograph of the interior of the shop on the table. 'Whereabouts was he standing when you spoke to him?'

'There, sir, where that string is.'

'But there's no string there.'

'Let's have another look... Aye, you're right, sir, it's gone, or maybe it's there but hasn't shown up on photo. They don't always come out right do photos.'

'But are you absolutely sure that there was a piece of string hanging down at that point?'

'Aye, sir, a hundred percent positive. I remember wondering if I was supposed to ring for service or something, and when he was so shitty I almost told him where to stuff it.'

Hawker gave a flicker of a smile. 'So what happened after you almost told him to stuff it.'

'Nothing really, sir. I just came out of the shop and came straight back here. That's when they caught me climbing over wall and put me in jankers.'

'Meaning that you will not now be able to get married.'

'Yeah, shame, init, sir?' he was grinning from ear to ear.

The long fingers of mist were creeping along the yellow brick wall surrounding the barracks and swirling round the chromium plated headlamps of the car as Brightwell sat in the driver's seat watching the bowler hatted figure pace up and down in the gloom. He knew the symptoms: Hawker was on to something but couldn't quite work it out. He may not have had the words do-not-disturb written on his bowler but Brightwell knew there was nothing to do but wait. After fumbling around in the car, he located a packet of cigarettes, extracted one with his mouth and lit it.

Once a Bobby always a Bobby, and Hawker's early years spent as young policeman on the beat made the rhythm of his pace unmistakeable. The two undesirables loitering by the barrack gate had no difficulty in recognising him for what he was, a copper in plainclothes, and slunk away into the gathering fog. Brightwell finished his cigarette, crushed it in the astray, picked up the book he'd been reading and left Hawker to his plodding...

He had almost reached the end of the story when there was a sharp rap on the window. He wound it down.

'I need to talk to young Purvis as soon as possible. What's the latest on his condition?'

'How would I know, sir?'

'Don't insult my intelligence, Brightwell. I know exactly why you parked the car here while I was in the guardhouse.' Hawker pointed to the bright red telephone box. 'So would you please be so good as to let me have Nurse Williams's latest report on the condition of the patient.'

'He's out of the operating theatre, sir, and they're hoping for the best, but it doesn't look too good.'

'That's all we need.' Hawker looked grim. 'If he snuffs it, then it becomes murder, and we'll have the press on us like a pack of wolves. They'll forget all about Hitler and train their guns on us.'

'Any luck with the soldier, sir?'

'Not really, though I can't pretend I was expecting much. There is one small point he mentioned that I wanted to check with Purvis, but that's about it...'

'I thought you were on to something, sir. The way you were walking up and down.'

'So did I. There's something at the back of my mind, but I just can't bring it to the front.'

'You mean you want to be back-to-front?'

Hawker frowned.

'Sorry, sir. I keep forgetting that you have no sense of humour.'

Hawker shrugged. 'I can't say I've ever found a use for one, but there is one thing I could definitely find a use for right now...'

'And what is that, sir?'

'A pint of good strong ale!'

'The pubs won't be open for another twenty minutes.'

'Bollocks!'

'Where to then, sir?'

'I assume you're in a hurry to get away?' Hawker sighed.

'Not really, sir. Jessie's on night duty.'

'In that case, take me to the nearest pub. We're just going to have to sit outside and twiddle our thumbs until they ruddy well open.'

As Hawker flopped into the passenger seat, Brightwell started the engine and slipped into gear. 'We could go over the case while we're waiting, sir.'

'Good Lord no! I'm sick of the bloody case,' Hawker muttered, pushing a wad of tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. 'Let's change the subject. What was that book you were reading?'

'The Case-book of Sherlock Holmes.'

'Ah that's more like it! Purvis's copy I take it?'

'Just borrowing it, sir.'

'Which story?'

'The Sussex Vampire.'

'Ah yes, one of my favourites. Holmes demonstrates his deductive powers by actually solving the case before he leaves Baker Street. When he gets to Sussex he merely ticks off the points to confirm his deduction. I wonder which one Purvis was reading?'

'The Problem of Thor Bridge if his bookmarker is anything to go by.'

'Mmm, another good one, Holmes is totally stumped until he has a flash of blinding inspiration and he...'

Hawker said nothing for the rest of the short drive, but as Brightwell pulled up outside a pub on the Finchley Road he suddenly came to life and bellowed, 'Where the bloody hell are we?'

'Outside a pub, sir. You asked–'

'To hell with the pub! Take me to the pawnshop!'

# Chapter 7

The fog was closing in as Hawker, belching tobacco smoke, swept into the shop like the Queen Elizabeth sailing into New York Harbour. Mr Goldstein was out, but a callow youth with greasy hair, acne and a sallow complexion stood behind the counter. Having given him a quick flash of his warrant card, Hawker ignored him and focused his attention on one of the violins hanging from the ceiling. After carefully depositing his pipe on the counter, he peered up at the damaged instrument.

'Sergeant, nip out to the car and fetch the torch.'

'Which one, sir?'

'The big one.'

When Brightwell returned with the torch, he found Hawker still gazing pensively upwards.

'Ah, thank you, sergeant. Grab that chair and bring it over here will you.' Then turning to the youth, he asked. 'I hope you don't mind if I stand on the counter.'

'Er, well, I don't know, sir...'

'I am conducting a criminal investigation!'

'Mr Goldstein, he left me in charge and–'

'Listen, sonny,' Hawker growled, 'if you don't stop pissing me about, I'll arrest you for obstructing an officer of the law in the execution of his duty, lock you up and throw away the key! Got it?'

The sallow complexion turned green. 'Sorry, sir, please go ahead, sir.'

'Thank you,' grunted Hawker, climbing first onto the chair and then up onto the counter. Having carefully examined a chip on the edge of the violin and a long scratch across it, he switched on the torch and pushed it up between the violin and a trombone. After peering up at the ceiling for a few moments, he gave a grunt of satisfaction.

'Find anything, sir?'

'I think so, sergeant. Would you be so good as to help me down?'

'Certainly, sir.'

His boots planted once more on the floorboards, Hawker ran his eyes along the counter to the wall, smiled and nodded his head.

'What did you find, sir?'

'I found what I expected to find.'

'Have you solved the case?'

'I don't know yet, but if my deductions are correct, our Mr Purvis is certainly a very clever young man, though perhaps just a little bit too clever for his own good.'

'In what way, sir?'

'Is there anything you'd give your right arm for, sergeant?'

'I can't think of anything at the moment, sir.' Brightwell scratched his head.'

'Neither can I...'

The solid mahogany counter ran across the centre of the shop. At one end a glass topped display cabinet was fitted snugly between the counter and a section of wall that jutted out. Hawker tapped on the wall at that point; it was hollow.

'Looks like an old chimney breast, sir. I expect there's a fireplace behind the display case.'

'My thoughts exactly,' murmured Hawker, shining the torch upwards and peering through the tangle of musical instruments that hung by the chimney breast.

'See anything, sir?'

'I think so, but I'm going to have to take a closer look.'

'You're going to have a bit of a problem then, sir. You can't stand on that glass cabinet.'

'Hmm, we're going to need a ladder.' Hawker turned to the sullen youth standing behind the counter picking his nose. 'Is there such a thing as a ladder in this shop?'

'You'll have to ask Mr Goldstein. I don't know nuffin'.'

'How about the chair, sir?' offered Brightwell.

'I'll give it a go. Bring it over here.'

Having climbed up onto the chair and pushed aside a guitar with the torch, Hawker peered through the gap. 'Hmm, now that is very interesting,' he murmured.

'What is it, sir?'

'There's a hole in the chimney breast...'

'I expect it's a vent. They sometimes put them in disused chimneys so that the air can circulate and stop the damp building up inside.'

'You're probably right. Now, let's see if I can get this ruddy guitar out of the way.'

'Would you mind telling me what this is all about, sir?'

'All in good time, sergeant, all in good time... It looks as if this guitar's hanging on a hook. So if I just lift it very gently... Good. That's got it... Grab hold of this, sergeant.'

As Hawker lowered the guitar, Brightwell took hold of it and placed it on the counter in front of the sulky youth, who moaned, 'I don't know what Mr Goldstein will say about all this.'

Ignoring him, they both gazed up at the hole in the wall.

'It's definitely a vent, sir. Only someone's removed the grill.'

'And why do you think they'd do that?'

'I've no idea, sir. Perhaps it was to make it easier for Sant Claus to deliver the presents.'

'The youth behind the counter giggled.'

'Well, at least someone thinks you're funny, sergeant. And now you are going to have the opportunity of giving him something to really laugh at.'

'Why's that, sir?'

'Because I am determined to take a closer look at that vent, and since we cannot lay our hands on a ladder there is only one way I can reach it.'

'How, sir?'

'By climbing up onto your shoulders.'

'You're joking, sir!'

'Then why aren't you laughing?'

'Because it's not funny.'

'Neither are your jokes.'

'But it's my best suit, sir.'

'Good! It will teach a lesson: not to report for duty dressed like an American gangster! But don't worry. I only need a piggyback. I won't have to stand on your shoulders, just sit on them. So if you could hold on to the back of this chair I'm standing on and crouch a little, I should be able to climb on. Then by using the back of the chair to give a bit of leverage, if you push down with both arms you should be able straighten yourself up.'

'What if I lose my balance?'

'In that case, our spotty little friend will have something to really laugh at. Come on, sergeant, squat!'

As the youth with acne watched the performance open-mouthed, Brightwell followed his instructions to the letter. Once aloft, Hawker examined the vent. His head being a little below it, he could not see into the hole, but when he reached up and felt inside with his hand he gave a grunt of satisfaction.

'Have you found what you were looking for, sir?' mumbled a voice somewhere between his legs.

'I have indeed, sergeant. That young man is wasted working in a place like this.'

'Who, spotty-face?'

'No, the other one! We need chaps like him in wartime.'

'What has he done, sir?'

'What hasn't he done's more like it,' muttered Hawker. 'Well, to put it as simply as possible, young Mr Purvis has ingeniously–'

'What on earth is the meaning of this circus?' The pawnbroker's voice cut through the atmosphere like a red-hot knife going through a block of ice, and his beard bristled with indignation at the spectacle of a black suited middle-aged man in a bowler hat perched on the shoulders of a younger man in a brown striped double-breasted suit, wearing a very loud tie.

'It weren't my fault, Mr Goldstein,' wailed spotty-face. 'He said I was pissing him about and threatened to lock me up and throw away the key!'

'Is that correct, inspector?' Goldstein's voice was like ice.

'I simply asked the young gentleman if he would help us with our enquiry and he agreed.' Hawker folded his arms and assumed a dignified position.

'Did you use the word pissing, inspector?'

'Did I use the word pissing, sergeant?'

'I certainly didn't hear it, sir.'

'Since when did Scotland Yard inspectors start behaving like acrobats in a circus?'

'I wasn't aware that they had started doing so, sir.' Hawker remained pokerfaced, arms folded.

'Then what is the purpose of this performance?'

'This, sir, is not a performance. This is a police investigation into a very serious crime.'

'I've had enough of this nonsense!' Goldstein's face was flushed with anger. 'If you do not leave my shop immediately I will call the police!'

'We are the police, sir.'

'Then I will lodge a complaint about police harassment!'

'Would you mind crouching down, sergeant, so that I can dismount with a little dignity. Thank you, sergeant.'

Once back on terra firma, Hawker drew himself up to his full height and addressed the indignant pawnbroker. 'Now, sir, I realise all this must be a little confusing for you, but I needed to follow a line of enquiry, and as you do not keep a ladder in your shop, I was obliged to–'

'But there is a ladder outside, inspector, why did you not use that?'

'He didn't ask for no ladder,' grumbled the youth, 'he just said 'is there such a thing as a ladder.'

Hawker ignored him and continued, 'As you can see, Mr Goldstein, there has obviously been an unfortunate misunderstanding.'

'That's quite all right, inspector. You must excuse me for being a little tense, but I have a daughter getting married next week, and what with the war...'

'Oh, I shouldn't worry about the war, sir. Now that Poland's surrendered and Hitler keeps saying he wants peace, the whole thing should be over by Christmas.'

'I do hope you are right, inspector. It would not be good for my people if Germany were to invade England...' Goldstein stroked his beard thoughtfully and glanced towards the door. 'So if you have finished your work here...'

'All done, sir, but I do have a bit of a problem. You see, while I was examining that air vent up there...'

'What were you looking for, inspector?'

'That's a very long story, sir. I'll explain it all to you when you have a bit more time. But you see, sir, I was trying to take a sample of the dust for forensic examination, and not having anything else to hand I used my car key. Unfortunately, while I was doing so, it fell down the chimney...' Hawker opened his arms in a gesture of despair.

'Do you not have a spare one?'

'Normally we would, sir. Sergeant Brightwell always has one in his pocket, but as you can see, today he is not dressed in his usual attire.'

Goldstein sighed. 'So what are you planning to do, inspector.'

'Well, sir, I happened to notice that this display cabinet is not fixed to anything. So the sergeant and I could have it out in a jiffy, thus giving me access to the fireplace.'

'Very well, inspector...'

Having moved the cabinet they discovered a wooden panel covering what used to be the fireplace. A jemmy made short work of it while the Goldstein stood by wringing his hands. Excavations completed, Hawker pulled on his gloves, peered into the gaping hole and grunted like a pig that had just located a truffle.

'Find anything, sir,' asked Brightwell peeping over his shoulder.

'I have found everything, sergeant, everything...'

'Ah, you've found your key, thank goodness.' Goldstein sighed with relief.

'Key? Oh yes, the car key... er, would you, by any chance, happen to have a couple of cardboard boxes handy, Mr Goldstein?'

'Cardboard boxes, inspector, Goldstein looked puzzled, 'how big?'

'Something about the size of a shoebox should do the trick.'

As spotty-face slouched off to fetch the boxes, Hawker began to pull string from the fireplace watched by a perplexed Goldstein.

'That is an awful lot of string, inspector.'

'Actually, sir, it's a heavy duty fishing line, and according to my calculations there should be nearly ten feet of it.'

'Where does it end?'

'Right here, sir.' Hawker rose to his feet and held up the line in his hand. Hanging from the end of it was a what looked like a wheel from a toy truck and cylindrical shaped lump of iron with a ring in it.

'My life! It's a weight from an old grandfather clock!' exclaimed Goldstein. 'What on Earth was it doing in there?'

'That, sir,' murmured Hawker 'is a very long story... No! No! Don't touch it!' Placing the weight very carefully in the cardboard box, he added, 'We have to check it for fingerprints.'

'Was it what you expected to find, sir,' asked Brightwell.

'More or less, sergeant – and there's more to come.'

'More to come, sir?'

'You know me, sergeant. I always save the best 'til last. Meanwhile, if you could locate that penknife of yours and cut this line...'

Once his discovery had been safely sealed in the box, Hawker plunged once more into the fireplace, and, like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, he emerged with something a lot more deadly dangling from the end of the line. It hung like a condemned man at the end of a rope: an ugly looking black pistol. Goldstein let out a shriek and went white, while the pimple-faced youth looked as if he was about to wet himself.

Even Brightwell looked surprised. 'But how the devil did you know where it was, sir?' he asked, as Hawker carefully deposited the Lugar in the box.

Picking up his pipe, Hawker applied a match to it and puffed away enigmatically, sending dark clouds of smoke drifting up into the orchestra above his head, before taking the pipe out of his mouth and uttering just two words: 'Sherlock Holmes...'

# Chapter 8

The journey back to Scotland Yard was slow, with the car creeping through the fog at the pace of a geriatric snail. Peering through the windscreen, Brightwell strained his eyes as they crawled along the Edgware Road, past Marble Arch, down Park Lane and followed the wall around Buckingham Palace onto The Mall. By that time the fog had cleared a little, and he was able to coast along at ten miles an hour for the rest of the way. Hawker uttered not a single word for the entire journey. It had been a long day, and his brain had been stretched to its limit. He was fast asleep...

But as soon as the Wolseley passed under the ornate brick archway into Scotland Yard he awoke with a raging thirst and bellowed at his puffy-eyed companion. 'Come on Brightwell, shift your hindquarters; if I don't get a pint soon there's going to be Hell to pay!'

'But what about the evidence, sir? The fingerprints on the gun and–'

'Stuff the evidence! I've already solved the case!'

'If I may make a suggestion, sir, why don't I deliver it to the fingerprint section, while you go straight to the pub?'

'Capital idea, I'll buy you a pint! What'll it be?'

'It's been a long day, sir. I think I'll settle for a pint of mild and bitter.'

'Mild and bitter it is! I'll have it on the bar waiting for you.' Hawker opened the door and leapt out.

'One moment, sir! Which pub?'

'The one we were in at lunchtime! I'm hoping to take down the barmaid's particulars!' shouted Hawker as he dashed away.

Brightwell found him sitting gloomily at a table in a far corner, puffing furiously at his pipe. A glance in the direction of the bar told him why: a middle-aged woman bearing a remarkable resemblance to Winston Churchill was pulling pints. Her arms would not have looked out of place on a construction site.

'Hard luck, sir,' he said, nodding in the direction of the pint-puller.

'It's the war, Brightwell. We all have to make-do in wartime.'

'I suppose we do, sir, but would you mind if we talked about the case, because try as I might I can't even start to get my head around this one.'

'Neither could I until I realised that Purvis had been reading The Problem of Thor Bridge...'

'But what has it got to do with finding the gun?'

'Why not read it and find out?'

'Look, sir, it's been a long hard day, we've been chasing all over London, I've just driven here in one of the worst pea-soupers we've had in years, I've ruined my best suit and Jessie is on night duty. So can't you make an exception just for once and sum it up without me having to wait to read your report? If I'm going to have to put up with this performance every time you crack a case, I think I'd rather join the army.'

'Humph, if you do, you'll soon find out that they will keep you a damned sight more in the dark than I do. However, since you are obviously cursed with the impatience of youth I will throw a little light upon your darkness.' Hawker picked up his glass and drained it in one gulp. 'By Jove that's better! Where was I? Ah, yes, explaining the case of the missing gun... but first a spot of lubrication. Would you be so kind as to go to the bar and purchase a pint of good old English ale?'

Before I begin,' said Hawker, after he had sampled the beer. 'What's the latest on Purvis?'

'I thought you'd want to know, sir. That's why I phoned to check while I was over at the Yard. Also, I asked them to keep the amputated arm just in case we need absolute proof of the fingerprints of his right hand.'

'Crikey! Why didn't I think of that? Well done, Brightwell, you showed splendid initiative.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'So, what is his condition?'

'He's in a coma. All they can do now is keep their fingers crossed. They reckon he's got a fifty/fifty chance of making it.'

'The bloody fool!' Hawker puffed aggressively at his pipe. 'The poor sod was just too damned clever for his own good.'

'So it was definitely self-inflicted?'

'Almost certainly, but of course we won't have the final proof until the fingerprints have been checked.'

'So, how did he do it?'

'He got the idea from The Problem of Thor Bridge. To sum up the story, a woman was accused of killing the wife of a man with whom she had a platonic relationship. The wife was found dead with a bullet in the brain on Thor Bridge. She was lying in the middle of the bridge with a note from the accused woman clutched in her hand. There was no gun anywhere within the vicinity of the dead wife, but a gun of the same calibre was found in the other woman's wardrobe. Furthermore, one bullet had been fired from it recently.'

'Pretty damming evidence.'

'That is exactly what Holmes said when he was called in to prove her innocence.'

'I take it he succeeded in doing so?'

'Yes, by proving it was a suicide, and that the dead woman had framed her imagined rival by planting the revolver in her wardrobe.'

'But how could she do that if she was dead.'

'She planted another gun identical to the one she used to kill herself with – they didn't have forensic ballistics in those days.'

'But what happened to the gun she killed herself with?'

'That was the problem of Thor Bridge: the missing gun – the same problem we had.'

'But why was it missing. What became of it?'

'Initially, Holmes was puzzled by a chip in the stonework of the parapet – remember the damaged violin that so interested me. He could make neither head nor tail of it, but later, in a blinding flash of inspiration he realised what it meant. The wife had tied the gun to one end of a of piece of string and attached a heavy stone to the other – remember the grandfather clock weight – then she hung the stone over water, stood in the middle of the bridge clutching the note from the other woman in her hand and shot herself in the head. The moment she fired the shot, the gun was wrenched out of her hand, whisked over the bridge and disappeared into the water.'

'It sounds like a good story. I wish I'd read it.'

'Then why don't you?'

'Because you've just told me the ending! But at least I'm starting to understand how Purvis did it, though I still don't quite see how he actually did so. It would have been a comparatively easy matter for the wife to make sure the gun went over the bridge and into the water, but Purvis had to ensure that the gun went through that small vent and down the chimney. And what about all those musical instruments, wouldn't they have been in the way.'

'That is where our Mr Purvis showed great ingenuity. Just above the damaged violin I found a rail attached to the ceiling, running parallel to the counter, and an ordinary rolling pin hanging in a wire loop in such a way as to act as a roller. Inside the vent I found another roller adapted for the same purpose. Thus, with two rollers to keep it on course, a weight in the chimney and that wheeled device to guide it along the rail, the gun was almost certain to end up in the fireplace – and even if it didn't, it would have been out of sight, tangled up in the celestial orchestra. If that had happened, the gun would have been discovered eventually: which is probably why Purvis was so keen to return to work. If the gun was caught up in the musical instruments, he'd only need a few minutes to cut it free before cutting the cord at the vent and releasing the weight. Even if he didn't have time to remove all the string it wouldn't really matter too much. Not once the gun and weight were gone.'

'What about the dead cat. Do you think it had something to do with the case?'

'Ah yes, the cat! I almost forgot about the body in the bin. It could be just a red herring... or it could mean that Purvis took the precaution of checking just how much damage a pistol shot would do to flesh at close quarters by practising on the cat. He may have got the idea from another of Holmes's adventures, Black Peter, when Holmes used a pig's carcass to prove a point.

Whatever the case may be, you have to admit that the whole episode showed great ingenuity, and if our young friend had been just a little bit more fortunate he would not only have avoided military service but been acclaimed as a national hero, whereas now he'll be pilloried by the press and forced to spend the rest of his life in disgrace and ignominy.'

'That's if he lives...'

'He'd bloody well better!'

'Oh yes, of course: the vigilante gun...'

'Exactly! This case is not closed yet, not until we discover who the vigilante is – and the quickest way to find out is to ask Purvis.'

'Do you think he will talk?'

'Have no fear on that score. I know the type. He'll sing like a canary when he realises the game is up.'

'If he lives...'

'We live in hope. Meanwhile, let us celebrate a famous victory. What'll it be, Brightwell, another mild and bitter?'

The last train rumbled away from West Lamberley station leaving Hawker standing on the unlit platform clutching his brolly, briefcase, gas mask and torch. With his bowler hat perched firmly on his head, he ambled along the platform to the little potbellied ticket collector who touched the peak of his cap in recognition.

A blackout being in force as a precaution against German bombers, West Lamberley was in total darkness, but as there was a reasonable amount of moonlight he didn't need the torch. The walk helped to clear his head, but the nearer he got to home the more he dreaded the fate that awaited him. He knew she'd be waiting. It was an hour and a half past her bedtime but she'd be waiting – she always waited. He'd had a successful day and a congenial evening, but now he must pay the price. He wondered if Hitler had the same problem: arriving home late at night, having just annexed Austria or conquered Poland, to find Eva Braun waiting for him with a rolling pin. Not that Hilda would ever hit him with a rolling pin. She didn't need one. She had a tongue that could cut through armour plating and slice open a German tank as easily as opening a tin of sardines. He wondered what it was going to be tonight, food rationing, school fees, the war, fixing the dripping tap or... No, he knew what it was going to be tonight: his drinking.

As he approached the house he felt a twinge of hope, the place was in total darkness. Even though there was a blackout in force, it was only meant to be effective against German bombers, and he could usually detect a few chinks of light at this distance. Gingerly he crept up the garden path. He didn't approach the front door directly, but sneaked around the side to find out if she was lurking in the kitchen. Nope, not even a hint of light. He stood there for a full five minutes, unsure whether to risk it or not. What if she was waiting in the dark ready to pounce? Finally, with a shrug of his shoulders he decided to take the plunge. If he kept very quiet he should be able to sneak in without waking her and get a good night's sleep on the couch. Tomorrow was another day, and there would be Hell to pay, but tonight all he wanted to do was curl up somewhere nice and warm.

Silently he slid the key into the lock and turned – it wasn't even double locked – then he gently pushed the door open... only it wouldn't open: it was bolted top and bottom. That's when he noticed a piece of paper sticking out of the letter box. He took it out and switched on the torch. It read, Your pyjamas are in the Anderson shelter. There are two blankets and a pillow in there for you as well.

Normally located at the end of the garden, an Anderson Shelter was an air raid shelter designed to protect a family from the blast of a bomb dropped by a German plane. A prefabricated corrugated iron construction 6ft high, 4ft 6in wide and 6ft 6in long, it was buried in the ground and covered with earth. This hole in the ground could be expected to afford a reasonable degree of protection should a bomb explode nearby, but never a degree of comfort.

# Chapter 9

Outside the hospital a newsvendor stood yelling 'star-news-or-standard!' next to a placard reading HITLER WANTS PEACE. Once Brightwell had brought the car to a halt, Hawker stepped out onto the pavement and drew in a lungful of fresh air. Even London air tastes fresh and sweet after a night in an Anderson Shelter. He fumbled in his pocket for some small change and bought a copy of each paper.

'I'd better check to make sure nothing about the gun has leaked out,' he muttered as Brightwell joined him. 'I think we can trust old Goldstein to keep quiet but I'm not too sure about that grubby little assistant of his.'

'Do you think they'll let us see him, sir?'

'If Nurse Williams's unofficial report is anything to go by, I doubt it. With the family around the bedside on death-watch they're hardly likely to let us question him.'

'Do the family know yet, sir?'

'You mean about Purvis's little charade? I hope not, but now the fingerprints have been confirmed...' He shrugged.

The ward sister recognised them immediately, and gave Brightwell a look of disapproval before addressing Hawker.

'I'm afraid that you are too late, sir. He passed away twenty minutes ago.'

As they both removed their hats, Hawker asked, 'Is his family still with him?'

'Yes, sir, the mother is taking it very badly. Hopefully, the medal will be some compensation.'

'What medal?' asked Hawker sharply.

'There was something in yesterday's newspaper. Do you think it will be awarded posthumously?'

'I'm afraid you'll have to ask the newspapers,' grunted Hawker. 'They seem to be better informed than I am.'

'It was young Mr Purvis's employer who mentioned it.'

'Mr Goldstein?' Hawker frowned. 'When was he here?'

'Yesterday evening, such a considerate gentleman he was. He wanted to know whether young Mr Purvis was conscious, and he had a word with the older Mr Purvis who appeared to be very impressed and commented on Mr Goldstein's kindness.'

'I suppose that puts the lid on our chances of finding out where he got the gun,' grumbled Brightwell, as they loitered in the corridor outside the casualty ward.

'Not really. I just wanted to tick off a few points and confirm them with Purvis. He'd have told me what I wanted to know once he realised that I knew everything.'

'And do you know everything, sir?'

'A night in an Anderson Shelter does wonders for the imagination, Brightwell, and when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

'I suppose it was Sherlock Holmes who said that?'

'Correct: A Study in Scarlet.'

'So you have cracked it then, sir?'

'I have...' Hawker lit his pipe and sat back with a smug expression on his face.'

'I don't suppose you're going to tell me...?'

'Later, Brightwell, later...'

Brightwell sighed... 'So what now, sir?'

'Sooner or later the family will be coming through that door. I want to have a quick word with the father. He's going to find out eventually, and it's a dammed sight better that it comes from me rather than the newspapers. I just hope the war has livened up enough to keep the press off our backs. All this talk of peace is has made them hungry for something interesting to print.'

The sad little trio emerged from the casualty ward. The weeping grey-haired mother was supported on one side by the father, whose erect soldierly bearing bore testimony to twenty years service in a guards' regiment, and on the other, by the sister, a pretty girl with long chestnut tresses and a body that was a collection of well shaped curves. Brightwell's eyes lit up and he straightened his tie; Hawker glared at him.

Taking charge, Hawker steered the mother and sister to a couple of chairs before inviting the father to one side and explaining as gently as he could the result of his investigation. The old soldier took it well, asking how much time he had to break the news to his wife. Hawker promised to delay the official announcement until the evening.

'It just goes to show what a real gent that Mr Goldstein is,' said the father. 'Did you tell him about this, inspector?'

'Definitely not. We didn't know for certain ourselves until this morning when the fingerprints were confirmed.'

'Well then, I just hope he doesn't regret his generosity. You see, he brought my son's wages to the end of the month. He even said he'd be happy to carry on paying them until he was fit to return to work, not that it matters any more. It's just as well Mr Goldstein took the keys.'

'The keys?' Hawker's eyes lit up.

'My son kept a set of keys to the cabinets.'

'And Mr Goldstein asked for them?'

'That's right, inspector. He was a bit anxious about them.'

'I appreciate that this must be very painful for you, sir, and I can assure that it is just a routine question, but did your son have any friends who were, shall we say, not exactly respectable?'

'He didn't have many friends.' The old soldier sighed and shook is head. 'You see, inspector, he's always been a very quiet boy; he didn't even have a girlfriend. He just used to sit up in his room with his books and Meccano set making all sorts of mechanical things.'

'Thank you, sir. I won't keep you any longer; though, if I may make a suggestion, if you happen to have friends or family living outside London who could put you up, it might be a good idea to take the family there until things quieten down. Because once this gets out you'll have the gentlemen of the press camped out on your doorstep.'

'Hmm...' The father looked thoughtful. 'Perhaps you're right, inspector.' He cast an anxious glance in the direction of his wife. 'I don't think the old girl could cope with something like that; she's been through more than enough already. Her brother has a farm in Devon, and I was already thinking of evacuating the family down there for the duration of the war in case the Germans started bombing London.'

'Then I would recommend that you do so, sir, and with a bit of luck the war will be over by Christmas.'

'Do you think so, inspector.'

'Let us hope so, sir...'

The interior design of the English pub reached its high point at the beginning of the twentieth century, and the lounge bar was a splendid example. With its wooden panelling, carved mahogany furniture, etched mirrors and nickel plated electric light fittings it resembled more a gentleman's club than a pub. Hawker was reclining in one of the dark leather armchairs, smoking a big fat cigar, when Brightwell placed a large whisky on the table next to him.

'Thank you,' he murmured, reaching out for the siphon and squirting a dash of soda into the glass. Sitting back wreathed in cigar smoke, he gazed appreciatively at his surroundings. 'Ah, Brightwell, you must admit that it is magnificent: this is what we are really fighting for!'

'I thought we were fighting for Poland, sir.'

'The Poles are stuffed! Everyone knows that. No, what the nation is fighting for now is to avoid a fate worse than boredom: having to sit in beer cellars drinking ghastly German ersatz beer.'

'Really, sir... but to get back to the gun, you were about to explain how Purvis managed to lay his hands on it.'

'Ah yes...' Hawker took a sip of whisky before proceeding. 'First, I had to eliminate the impossible. One way for him to have got hold of a gun would be the criminal fraternity, but could you ever see that overgrown schoolboy mixing in such company. He'd have stuck out like a sore thumb. The lad had "play up play up and play the game" and "jolly good show" written all over him; they would have eaten him alive. His only real hope of finding his way into the underworld would have been to ask Mitzi – and she's a snout. So, even if she didn't tip off the local CID, she would have certainly told me.

Next, I considered the more likely possibility that the gun was in the possession of someone he knew, probably a war veteran who'd kept it as a souvenir. Since it was illegal for them to have a gun in the first place, they'd have kept quiet about it if it disappeared. The two most obvious contenders would be his father and Carter, the newsagent. Both served on the front line in the last war, and had ample opportunity to get their hands on one. But there was a problem: neither of them were in England when the gun was used in that shooting ten years ago, Carter in Australia and Purvis senior with his regiment in Ireland.'

'How did you find that out, sir?'

'An old army pal of mine works in the records department at the War Office. It saves a lot of time.'

'A bit like Nurse Williams, sir.' Brightwell grinned.

'Hmm, I never thought of old Bert that way... Anyhow, having eliminated the impossible in our search for the vigilante's gun, we are left with the improbable.'

'And what is the improbable, sir?'

'Goldstein...'

'Goldstein!! You're joking, sir.'

'I never joke; you should know that by now.' Hawker drained his glass. 'Think about it while I'm replenishing this. Do you fancy a scotch?'

'No thanks, sir. I'll stick to Guinness.'

'Guinness it is. I'll be back in a jiffy. Let me know what you've come up with.'

'Yes, sir...' sighed Brightwell, fumbling in his pocket for his cigarettes.

He'd barely had time to light one before Hawker was back. 'Well?' he said, placing a bottle of Guinness in front of him.

'He's certainly the most improbable, sir: he's far too mild mannered. Do you have any evidence?'

'I didn't get much sleep last night. So I spent most of the night mulling over the missing gun. Obviously, I disregarded Purvis's own story as a pack of lies and concentrated on what little I knew to be true. First, his cryptic comment about a gun being safe, and secondly the fact that he was spending a lot more money than he was earning. If the money was stolen, then the most likely victim would be his employer.'

'But wouldn't Goldstein have noticed if the money went missing, sir?'

'If Purvis took it from the till, yes, but Goldstein wouldn't be the first businessman to have a bundle of fivers hidden away from the taxman. And where would he keep it? The same sort of place he'd keep a gun: tucked away at the back of his safe. Purvis wasn't babbling on about a gun being safe but being in the safe. Somehow or other he must have managed to get his hands on a duplicate key, which left me with another problem: what was a nice old gentleman like Goldstein doing with a gun in the first place. Then I remembered he had a tin leg.'

'I didn't notice that, sir.'

'Neither did I initially, but there was a metallic clank when the door of the safe knocked against it as he was opening it. So, first thing this morning I contacted my source at the War Office and ask him to check up on Goldstein and Purvis senior. His information not only eliminated the impossible, Purvis senior, but made the improbable, Goldstein, very probable.'

'But he's too old to have been in the war.'

'Not if he volunteered. His first wife and their son were killed by a bomb dropped on London from a Zeppelin in 1915. He promptly joined the army and got to France just in time to take part in the first battle of the Somme. It was also his last: he was badly wounded, but not before he'd killed a trench-full of Germans.'

'He sounds like a very brave man.'

'Or a man bent on revenge...'

'But he lives in Hampstead and the vigilante attack was–'

'He was living in Golders Green ten years ago! And he had three daughters at school there.' Brightwell remained silent as Hawker continued. 'None of it was conclusive, but it would have been enough to confront young Purvis with. I wasn't too sure what to do when I found out he was dead, but when the ward sister told me that within moments of wishing us goodbye Goldstein had journeyed through one of the worst fogs we've had in years to the hospital, I was convinced that that my deductions were correct, particularly when I learnt from the father how was anxious he'd been to get hold of the keys.'

'Was the key to the safe with them, sir?'

'I doubt it. Purvis would be unlikely to keep it on the key ring. He'd hid it somewhere.'

'You mean like in his shoe?'

'I suppose so, and if we could just find that key...'

'Would this be the key you're looking for, sir?' Brightwell held up a small key. He was grinning like a Cheshire cat with a bowl of cream.

Hawker took the key and examined it closely. 'A key to a Chubb safe – Goldstein's safe is a Chubb! Where did it come from?'

'Inside one of Purvis's shoes, sir.'

Hawker sighed. 'Nurse Williams I suppose.'

'Yes, sir, I managed to have a quick word with her while you were talking to Purvis's father.'

'And you didn't think to tell me about it?'

'Well, sir,' Brightwell grinned, 'you've always kept me in the dark – and as you said you'd already solved the case...'

'I can see a bright future for you at Scotland Yard, Brightwell,' Hawker grunted, as he raised his glass and emptied it. 'You'll probably turn out to be an even bigger bastard than I am!'

'Thank you, sir. I'll take that as a compliment. Same again?'

'Please! And make sure it's Johnny Walker.'

When Brightwell returned with the drinks Hawker was toying with the key. 'So what are we going to do with this then?'

'Confront Goldstein I suppose, sir.'

Hawker shook his head. 'He's a respectable member of the community, not Bertie Smalls. We can't just smash his door down and kick him in the goolies, and you can bet your life he's cleaned house: if there was anything incriminating in that safe, it's long gone.'

'So we can't prove anything?'

'Oh I probably could if I wanted to...' Hawker sat back in his chair and puffed away at his cigar. 'Purvis's fingerprints weren't the only ones on that gun. There was also an unidentified print that could have been anyone's, but I'm prepared to bet a bottle of Johnny Walker that it's Goldstein's.'

'In that case, sir, if it is his fingerprint on the gun and this is the key to his safe, we'd then have very strong case against him.' Brightwell tapped on the table with his cigarette lighter to emphasize the point.

'So you think we should turn up at his daughter's wedding next week and put the handcuffs on him do you?'

'Then what do suggest we should do, sir?'

'Let sleeping dogs lie. After all, there is a war on.'

'The papers are saying it'll be over by Christmas, sir.'

'I don't mean that war. I mean the real war: the war on crime. We've got the gun and Purvis has spent most of Goldstein's ill-gotten gains on Mitzi. I'm fed up with this case, and bored with all these respectable people – the dregs of society are a lot more interesting. Let's just file the report, forget about it and get back to doing what we're supposed to be doing: catching real criminals!'

Brightwell smiled. 'Would Sherlock Holmes have let him off, sir?'

'He did so in quite a number of his investigations: even murder. In two of his adventures, when the murderer confessed, Holmes decided not to inform the police, telling one to go back to Australia, and the other to disappear back into the jungles of Africa, and on another occasion actually witnessed the murder of a blackmailer but kept quiet about it.'

'You mean to say that Holmes was actually there when the murder was committed?'

'Yes, he was burgling the blackmailer's house at the time. Would you like to know which story?'

'I'd rather not, sir: I might want to read it one day.'

'I'd recommend that you do...'

'What about the key, sir, do we tell Goldstein?'

'Good lord no! Let him sweat a bit: it'll teach the blighter a lesson.'

'So what shall I do with it?'

'Got your penknife handy?'

'Here, sir.'

'Thanks.'

Brightwell watched gloomily as Hawker proceeded to hack away at the key. 'You'll ruin the blade,' he muttered.

'All in a good cause, Brightwell, all in a good cause... There that's fixed it! I'll dump it down the nearest drain.'

'Pardon me for asking, sir, but is the case closed now?'

'Not until I've finished this cigar, why?'

'Well, I promised to take Anastasia out one evening, and you told me not to tamper with witnesses...'

'Anastasia? And who, might I ask, is Anastasia?'

'Dr Greenslade, sir...'

https://whoxley.blogspot.fr/

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