“Got a job, Alfie?”
“No.”
“Got a wife? A mother, a dad, anybody we should notify?”
“No. Let’s get this over with.”
“Solicitor?”
“Don’t they give you one?”
“If you haven’t got your own the court will appoint one for you. What’s this, Alfie, you new at this game?”
“I got no bleeding record if that’s what you mean. I’m clean as her ladyship’s fingernails, copper.”
“Not after tonight you’re not. All right, come over here and empty out the pockets, that’s a good lad—let’s see what you made off with.”
There was no helping it. Physical reluctance would only make them treat him with greater caution and he didn’t want that. He emptied everything out onto the desk. He managed to turn while he was doing it so that he had a good view through the sergeant’s open door—the back of the officer on the desk, the counter, the small squad room, the outside door beyond. A hell of a gamut to run but he had one thing in his favor: none of them was armed, they didn’t carry sidearms.
The sergeant watched him with shrewd cop’s eyes. Kendig passed his jacket to the sergeant and turned his pants pockets inside out to show he’d emptied everything. The sergeant went through the jacket meticulously. “Swank stuff for a Soho tramp. Paris label. Where’d you steal the threads, Alfie?”
“I paid good money.”
“Whose?”
“You got me on nothing, copper. I stand on me rights.”
“Rights? It’s dead to rights for you, Alfie. But have it your own way. Now there’s a money belt under your shirt. You can take it off or we can take it off for you. Which’ll it be?”
He pulled his shirttails out and undid the canvas belt and dropped it on the desk. The sergeant gave his jacket back to him. He thrust his shirt back into his waistband and put the jacket on. He had a reason for doing that but it didn’t arouse the sergeant’s suspicion.
The sergeant intoned, “One length wire, heavy gauge, coiled. Probably coat hanger. One pocket calendar, plastic, Kensington Close Hotel. One knife, pocket clasp, two blades, one awl.”
“That ain’t no switchblade,” Kendig snapped. “Just you make it clear, copper.”
“Not a switchblade,” the sergeant drawled wryly. “Pocket coins—let’s see, fifteen, seventeen, shilling, hate this bloody coinage mess—make that thirty-five new pence. Pounds sterling, loose”—the eyebrows went up as the sergeant counted it like a bank teller, moistening his thumb and flipping up the corners of the notes—“blimey. I make it three hundred forty-six quid. Hit yourself a jackpot, didn’t you Alfie.”
“I didn’t lift that money. Nobody can prove I did.” In the outer office the cops were milling to and fro. The telephones rang now and then; two men laughed easily at something one of them said.
“Stole the governor’s pasport, I see,” the sergeant observed. “Know whose house that was you chose to break and enter, Alfie?”
“Boffin or something, in’t he? But what’s it matter anyhow.”
“Hardly a boffin, mate.” The sergeant chuckled. “Bit of a laugh, old Chartermain getting invaded by a common thief.”
“I ain’t no common thief,” Kendig said loudly. “I was just—”
“You were just what?”
“Nemmind. I talk to my solicitor.”
“Do that,” the sergeant said. “One passport, diplomatic, property of William David Chartermain, Esquire. One wallet-size photograph of suspect identified by himself as Alfred Booker. One money belt, canvas. One ring of car keys to fit a Rover automobile. Rover, Alfie? Traveling in style, aren’t we.”
“I just happened to find those keys.”
The sergeant glanced at the youth who was copying down the items. “Those aren’t Chartermain’s keys—I think it’s a Jaguar he drives.”
“And a Mini. No Rover—I know the house, sir.”
“Right. Let’s have a look for a stolen Rover in the neighborhood. Just getting in deeper every minute, aren’t we Alfie.”
“You can go right to bloody hell, copper.”
“Let’s have a look at the inside of this belt now.… Well well well! Seems our friend the master spy must keep a devil of a cash fund in his library—and American dollars at that.… Let me make the count.… mmmhm … Roll me over, laddie, this would dent the bloody Westminster Bank.… five one, five one fifty, five two … Mark this now, seven thousand one hundred fifty dollars in notes of fifty and one hundred denominations. We’ll run a list of serial numbers but you’d best keep it to a single original, no copies. Chartermain may prefer there be no record. We’ll have to clear it with him.”
“Aye Sergeant.”
The sergeant hit his intercom key. “Are you chaps ready to fingerprint our boy?” He released the key and said to the youth, “Ought to find a proper way to hint to the old boy he ought to put first-class locks and alarms on his house if he means to keep this sort of lot on hand—”
Kendig scooped up the little photograph from the desk and made his break. He went out like a projectile: vaulted the phone desk, rammed shoulder-first into a policeman and hurled the man against his partner, dodged among the desks, caught glimpses of their faces agape, elbowed a third in the ribs, slithered past a belatedly swinging club, stiff-armed the last cop off his feet, wheeled through the door and sprinted into the night.
He had a forty-yard jump on them before they came boiling out into the street. There was the shrill silly bleat of their whistles, the clamor of their voices, the rattle of their feet; he rah around the corner and pushed along as fast as his legs could pump, aiming straight for the traffic light at the intersection. That was his only prayer of reprieve, the traffic light. Cars flowed through it along the high street; it was changing as he ran and they were stopping in their neat obedient column. He flung a glance over his shoulder—some of them were a lot younger than he was, some of them had longer legs and better wind; the pack was dissipating but the leaders were gaining on him frighteningly fast.
He heard himself gasping when he shot across the curb. The light held; the cars hadn’t started to roll. He aimed for the front car of the row. If that door was locked …
He jerked it open. The man stared at him open-mouthed. Kendig gripped the man’s arm and yanked him bodily out of the driver’s seat. Crammed himself into the car and searched for the gearshift with his left hand. It had been in gear and when the original driver’s foot came off the clutch it had stalled out and now he had to find the key and the pack was just into the intersection now and the driver was lurching to his feet shouting.
Kendig punched the door-lock button and the driver heaved helplessly on the outside handle. The key turned, the ignition meshed. Behind him a burly fool was emerging threateningly from a van. Kendig popped the clutch and roared away through the red light.
They’d be in cars within ninety seconds. He’d ditch this one within five minutes. The escape had worked but he had nothing now, nothing but his wits and the clothes on his back—no money, no papers, not a single possession except the two-inch-square photograph of himself that had been the most important object on the sergeant’s desk.
Now they had him naked and running and when he left the car in a dark passage and dogtrotted away into the night he was breathing deep and grinning from ear to ear.
– 21 –
THE TELEPHONE BROUGHT ROSS awake and he fumbled for it in the darkness.
“Up and out, Ross. Meet me in the lobby in five minutes. Our man’s broken surface.”
“The hell time’s it?”
But Cutter had hung up on him. He found the lamp switch and threw the sheet back and plunged into his clothes. He slid his expansion-banded watch on—it was just past two o’clock in the morning.
Cutter was irritatingly natty in a dark blue suit, tie knotted properly; how much advance warning had he had? Or hadn’t he been to bed yet? The lobby was empty except for the hall porter. Cutter said, “Car’s picking us up,” and led the way out onto the curb of Park Lane. A few taxis whizzed by. A faint drizzle misted the air but there was no real fog. Ross buttoned up his topcoat against the chill and raked fingers through the mess of his hair. “What’s happened?”