Authors: R. D. Wingfield
“On my dear mother’s funeral plot, Mr Frost, if I had the slightest idea they were stolen, I would never have touched them.”
“How much did you give for them?” asked Frost.
The pawnbroker’s tongue crawled around his lips which had suddenly become very dry. “Thirty pounds each . . . one hundred and fifty nicker the five.”
“Thirty lousy quid!” scoffed Frost. “And you didn’t know they were stolen? That’s less than half of the market value.”
“I offered him a low price, Mr. Frost, expecting he’d push it up higher. That’s business. But he said, “Provided it’s in used fivers, you’ve got yourself a deal.” So, if he was happy I was happy. I gave him the fivers, and he gave me the sovereigns—all fair, square and above board.”
“Tell me the rest, Sammy.”
“The rest, Mr. Frost?”
“Thirty quid is a bulk price. He must have told you he had a lot more.”
“Really, Mr. Frost. I’d have known it wasn’t above board if he said he had a lot.”
Frost shook his head in disappointment. “OK, Sammy, we’re booking you for receiving stolen property.”
“Now hold on, Mr. Frost . . .” Suddenly his shoulders drooped. “All right. He said he had about fifty more. They were mine at the same price providing it was in used fivers. I didn’t have fifteen hundred quid in cash. I said I’d get it from the bank. He said he’d be back tomorrow.”
Frost grinned broadly. “Then I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, Sammy. The minute he puts his foot inside that door, you will phone the station and you will make certain he doesn’t leave your shop until the fuzz arrive. If we catch him, I’ll drop the receiving stolen property charge, if not, you’ll be eating Her Majesty’s porridge for a very long time.”
“I’ll co-operate with you in every way I can, Mr. Frost.”
“I knew you would, Sammy. Now put your coat on. We’re going walkies to the cop shop.”
The pawnbroker was crestfallen. “The station. But you said . . .”
“To look at some mug shots,” explained Frost. “To see if you can’t pick us out the bloke with the shooter. It’s part of co-operating with us every way you can.”
Glickman sat in Frost’s office hunched over yet another book of photographs that the bearded detective constable had dumped on the desk. His head was aching and the cup of stewed tea they had reluctantly provided to help him swallow the aspirins for his headache was sending acid ripples across his stomach. He wished he’d never admitted he could identify the gunman so he could now be indoors, in his cosy little flat above the shop, filling in his insurance claim form.
He sighed at the unfairness of life and opened the latest book, screwing his eyes as the monotonous rows of criminal faces shivered in and out of focus. He had looked at so many photographs he was now beginning to doubt his ability to recognize the man with the shooter even if he saw him face to face. A cough from the bearded detective prodded him to hurry so the current album could be replaced by yet another. The world seemed to be jam-packed with photographed criminals.
A creak as the door opened slowly, and Inspector Frost backed in carrying three more lethal mugs of stewed police tea. Dumping one in front of the pawnbroker, he asked, “Any luck yet?”
Glickman’s head shook from side to side. “I’ve never seen so many ugly faces in all my life.”
“You wait till you see Mr. Mullett’s wedding photos,” said Frost.
Glickman couldn’t even manage a polite laugh. He turned the page and scowled down on rows of faces all scowling back at him. Didn’t crooks ever smile? They were probably photographed after drinking this awful tea!
It was a job to concentrate with so much going on, so many people coming into and going from Frost’s tiny office. First there was a panic about a missing girl. It appeared that a neighbouring division had picked up a schoolgirl believing her to be a teenager called Karen Dawson who Frost had advised them was missing. As far as Glickman could gather, the trouble was that Frost had already found the girl but neglected to let the other divisions know. And then a little fat detective sergeant called Arthur Hanlon had been in to report on the interviews with various down-and-outs. It seemed that Frost was interested in the last hours of someone who was found dead, smothered in sick, down a public convenience. Glickman, shuddering at all the unpleasant details, felt like being sick himself.
Hanlon was sent out to find more tramps to talk to, and no sooner was he gone than there was a commotion about a return the inspector was supposed to have sent off the previous night, but hadn’t. And between all these interruptions, Glickman was expected to concentrate on page after monotonous page of faces that were all starting to look the same. He flicked over a page with barely a glance. A sharp tap on his shoulder from the frowner with the beard.
“You didn’t look at that page,” Webster admonished sternly.
Damn police. He felt like identifying anyone, whoever it was, just to end the ordeal. He turned the page.
Frost drained his tea, wiped his mouth, and poked in a cigarette. He clicked his lighter, but it failed to flame, so he rummaged through his desk for a box of matches.
“I can do you a nice automatic gold-plated lighter with your name engraved for only £29.95,” Glickman offered. “That’s cheaper than wholesale.”
“But a damn sight dearer than a box of matches,” said Frost. “You keep your big nose stuck in that book, Sammy, and stop trying to make a profit out of poor, overworked policemen.” He slouched back and stuck his feet up on his desk, knocking his mug over in the process. The phone rang. He picked it up and listened. “I’ve already told you, the crime statistics will go off tonight, definite . . . unless you keep interrupting me with these stupid phone calls.” He thumped the phone down.
No sooner had Frost disposed of that call than the door opened and a tall, important-looking policeman in a tailored uniform, all teeth, moustache, and buttons, marched in. The frowner stiffened to attention. Frost swung his legs off the desk, scrabbled for a file, and pretended to be adding up columns of figures.
“I was expecting your further report on the hit-and-run investigation,” said Mullett stiffly.
“Sorry about that, Super,” said Frost. “Lots of things have happened. We found that missing girl.”
“Yes, I heard, and apparently you failed to let other divisions know.”
“I got tied up with this armed robbery,” explained the inspector, who had hoped the Commander wouldn’t have heard about that little faux pas.
“I don’t want you to take on extra cases, Inspector,” Mullett told him. “I want you to concentrate on the hit-and-run. I get phone calls every five minutes from the House of Commons asking what progress we’re making. What about Julie King? I understand she confirms that Roger Miller was with her all night.”
“She looks the sort who would say anything, or do anything, for a couple of quid,” said Frost, failing to locate his ashtray and shaking ash over Mullett’s shoes.
Mullett stared down at his shoes and flicked them distastefully. “If, as he claims, the car was stolen from outside the girl’s flat, have you made house-to-house inquiries in the area in case anyone saw something?”
Flaming hell! thought Frost, I never gave it a thought, “The very next item on our agenda, Super,” he lied. “Just as soon as we’ve finished with this gentleman here. He’s the victim of the armed robbery.”
“The bullet missed me by inches,” said Glickman, putting in his two-penny-worth.
“And we’ve got a lead on those sovereigns,” added Frost, determined to throw in all the pluses.
Mullett drew in his breath. “All I am interested in, Frost, is the hit-and-run. I must have something positive to tell Sir Charles Miller. Put the house-to-house inquiry in hand right away.”
“Right away, sir,” Frost assured him, putting his thumb to his nose and waggling his fingers as soon as the door closed behind his Divisional Commander. Then he stood up and declaimed dramatically: “She was only a stripper’s daughter, so very good and kind—No stain upon her character, but a mole on her behind.”
Webster’s scowl deepened. How childish could you get? He squinted at his wristwatch. Nearly five past seven. He smothered a yawn and felt tiredness creeping over him. Hardly any sleep last night, already on duty for ten hours solid and they still had the house-to-house inquiries about the stolen Jaguar to make. He wouldn’t see the inside of his rented room much before midnight. Later he would realize what an optimistic estimate that was.
The phone rang. Frost listened and frowned. “Thanks,” he grunted, “I expected as much.” He hung up. “The red Vauxhall Cavalier,” he told Webster. “It was reported stolen at three o’clock this afternoon.” He stretched out his arms and yawned openly. “As soon as Sammy has identified the man with the golden gun, we’ll go home. I could do with an early night.” Webster reminded him of the house-to-house, but Frost wasn’t interested. “That can wait. We’ve got more important things to do than waste time trying to clear that little snot. No, we’ll have an early night.” He stared pointedly at Webster’s beard, then began to sing “Does Santa Claus sleep with his whiskers over or under the sheets . . . ?”
Glickman’s shoulders quivered with suppressed laughter. He thought the inspector was a real card. The bearded one had no sense of humour and was so easily riled. Glickman’s eyes travelled over a page filled with sneering punks and scowling skin-heads. He licked his finger and turned the page.
He stared. He blinked. Then stared again.
“It’s him!”
Frost and Webster leaned over his shoulder. “This one!” insisted Glickman, jabbing a pudgy finger on the glossy black-and-white.
“Are you sure?” Frost asked doubtfully.
“I’m one hundred fifty percent sure,” claimed the pawnbroker. “You can’t get any surer than that.”
The photograph was of a rather hopeless-looking individual with tight curly hair and a mournful expression. Webster read out his details. “Stanley Eustace, aged forty-seven . . .”
“I know who it is,” cut in Frost, who had found his matches but seemed to have lost his cigarettes. “Useless Eustace. He’s a petty crook, shoplifting, breaking and entering, nicking cars, stripping lead from church roofs. He usually gets caught because he’s so bloody stupid. But he’s never used a shooter in his life.”
“Well, he used one this afternoon,” Glickman said positively. “Can I go home now?”
No spare cars were available, so Glickman, bitterly complaining, was left to find his own way home. Frost then asked Webster to bring the Cortina around to the front. They were off to pick up Stan Eustace.
Webster hesitated. “He’s armed and dangerous. Hadn’t we better take some reinforcements with us . . . and a couple of police marksmen?”
But Frost scorned this suggestion. “I know him, son. I’ve nicked him enough times. He’s harmless. The gun was only for show.”
“For show!” exclaimed Webster. “He nearly blasted that showcase from the wall.”
“Probably got his finger caught in the trigger,” said Frost airily. “You can stay in the car if you like. I’ll go in the house and drag him out.”
He was slipping on his mac when an agitated Johnny Johnson poked his head in. “Sorry to interrupt you, Inspector, but you haven’t seen Dave Shelby on your travels, have you?”
“No,” replied Frost, “not since he delivered sexy Sue to us at The Coconut Grove round about two o’clock. Why?”
The station sergeant rubbed a hand wearily over his face. “I’m dead worried, Jack. Since he left you he hasn’t made any routine calls, hasn’t contacted us or answered his radio. He was supposed to report to me, here, at seven—he’s only doing a part-shift—but he didn’t show up.”
Frost didn’t think there was any cause for concern. “He’s probably in bed with some woman somewhere and forgotten the time.”
“I’m really worried, Jack,” insisted Johnson, and he looked it. “For all Shelby’s faults he’s never once failed to report in.” He waved away Frost’s offer of a cigarette.
“Have you had a word with Mr. Allen, Sergeant?” inquired Webster. “Shelby said he was going to see him about the anonymous phone call.”
“There’s your answer,” said Frost, tucking his scarf inside his mac. He sent Webster out to ask Allen. Within a couple of minutes Allen, accompanied by Sergeant Ingram, marched in.
“What’s this about Shelby?” snapped Allen. “I haven’t seen him all day.”
“I saw him this morning,” said Ingram, “but I’ve been off duty all afternoon.”
“He’s gone missing,” said Frost, giving brief details. “Johnny’s worried about him.”
“He hasn’t reported in for nearly five hours,” added the station sergeant.
“Five hours!” exclaimed Allen in disbelief. “Why have you waited five hours before telling anyone?”
The station sergeant looked embarrassed. “He was doing a job for Mr. Frost taking a WPC over to The Coconut Grove. I thought Mr. Frost might have commandeered his services and told him not to answer his radio.” It was Frost’s turn to look embarrassed. It wouldn’t have been the first time he had cut corners by doing that.
“For heaven’s sake,” said Allen, “he’s in a patrol car. You can’t lose a police officer and a patrol car.”
“I’ve asked all patrols to look out for him,” said Johnson. “No sightings yet.”
“Have you tried the hospitals?” asked Frost. The sergeant nodded. “Then what about his home? He might have gone straight there.”
“He would have signed off first,” said Johnson.
“Try his home anyway,” ordered Allen, “but be tactful. We don’t want to get his wife worried.”
Anxiously watched by all the others, Johnson dialled Shelby’s house.
“No, he’s not back yet,” replied Mrs. Shelby. “I’m expecting him soon. Any message?”
“Not really,” said Johnson, trying to sound unconcerned. He’s probably on a job for Mr. Frost, but I wanted to grab him before he left. Ask him to ring me when he gets in, would you?” He replaced the receiver slowly, his head bowed. “I’m worried,” he said. “Bloody worried.”
Ingram walked across to the wall map behind Frost’s desk. “I’ve had a nasty thought,” he said, and he pointed to the wall map. “North Street is here. The armed man in the getaway car was heading off in this direction . . . which would take him smack bang into Shelby’s patrol area.”