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 te
a 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