Maurice Procter - Two men in twenty

'Thank you, Mr. Lewis,' Martineau said, and then he went back to Headquarters. He had much to think about. If the clock had been acquired by one of the XXC mob some time ago complete with pendulum and works, it might not be easy to find the person who had sold it. But if the works had been missing when the thing changed hands, the vendor would be almost sure to remember. Would the crook realize that when he bought it? In any case, would he think that he was taking a risk? Probably not. He would assume that at the most the police would only get a vague description of him. They might make the vendor look at a lot of photographs but-assuming that he had a police record-he would not expect his own face to be picked out of thousands.

But suppose the vendor was shown only one single sheet of photographs? If the crook's face was there, he would pick it out. That was a reasonable certainty. 'If this ingenious fellow is one of my top twenty, I've got him spotted,' the chief inspector decided.

Twenty-four hours later his faith in his own methods was justified. Detective Constable Ducklin walked into the premises of a second-hand dealer called Haworth, and was met by a sturdy man whose serious brown eyes were enormous behind thick spectacles.

'Police,' said Ducklin, and the man came close to him to look up at his face.

Ducklin was amused, but he did not risk causing offence by showing it. 'Want to see my warrant card?' he asked.

'No. I'll take your word for it.'

'Have you read the paper this morning?'

'No. I haven't had time yet.'

'Have you sold any grandfather clocks lately?'

'No. Not for ages. Years, I should think.'

'You're sure?'

'I'm sure.'

'Ah.' Ducklin was turning away.

Haworth said: 'I did have a clock case a month or two back. I got it in a job lot. A fellow bought it for firewood.'

'Ah,' said Ducklin again, in a different tone. A photograph appeared in his hand. 'Was it anything like this?' He let the man peer as close as he liked.

'That's it,' was the verdict. 'Or one just like it. I can tell by the carving round the face, and the style of that beading on the top. You see, I had it in here a week or two, wondering when I'd find time to break it up.'

'Can you remember the man who bought it?'

'Well, I don't know. I'd have to have a look at him before I could be sure. You see, I don't stand close to customers as a rule. They might not like it. But I did get a fairly good dekko at this chap out in the street, where the light's better. I helped him to put the clock case in his car.'

'Did he talk like a local man?'

'No. Like a Londoner. He was a smart-looking chap. That's why I noticed him.'

Ducklin controlled his rising excitement. 'Just a minute,' he said. He thought that he just might be lucky enough to need a witness, and he went to the door of the shop and beckoned to Detective Constable Evans, who was sitting in a car at the kerb.

When Evans arrived, Ducklin pulled Martineau's twenty-man poster from his pocket and unfolded it. 'Take a look at these fellows,' he said to the dealer. He spread the poster on a dusty table. 'Take your time. No hurry.'

'I could see better at the door,' the man said as he stooped over the poster.

Ducklin reflected that if ever Haworth was called upon to put the finger on anybody, the identification parade would have to be held out of doors in the police-station yard. He also thought of the quality of light in a courtroom. 'Try it here, first,' he said.

Haworth was trying it. 'That looks like him,' he said, with one finger on the poster. 'Yes, that's him.'

'You're sure?'

Haworth was still peering. 'Yes, I'm sure,' he said.

'Take this pencil and write your initials there, just beside his ear, then there's no doubt about which picture you mean.'

With Ducklin's ball-point pen the dealer initialled the photograph. 'Now,' the detective said. 'Take it to the door, and if you find you've made a mistake, don't be afraid to say so.'

At the door Haworth said: 'I haven't made a mistake. I'm absolutely certain.'

Ducklin took the poster and folded it carefully, and pocketed it. 'Now,' he said. 'What about his car? What make was it?'

'Eeh, I never noticed.'

'Did you notice the number?'

'No.'

'Any part of the number?'

'No.'

'What colour was it?'

'Black or dark blue. A dark colour.'

'About how big?'

'Medium size. Happen as big as a Ford Consul or a Vauxhall.'

'Was anybody with him?'

'No. He were on his own.'

'Thank you, Mr. Haworth. You have been very helpful. You might be called upon to identify this man, when we lay hands on him.'

'What's he done?'

'He used your clock case to carry an oxygen cylinder into Sable's.'

Haworth's mouth dropped open. 'Well, fancy that. A smart chap like him. I'd never a-thought he were a robber.'

* * * * *

In this manner Howard Cain was identified as a member, and possibly the leader, of the safe-breakers who had been such a nuisance to the police of London and Granchester. Moreover, there was some evidence to connect him with the Sable robbery. It was hardly enough evidence for a conviction but, when the time came, it would help.

And when the man's full record was put before him Martineau saw a possible answer to a question which had been in his mind for some time. Previous to his bad luck with the wallet, Cain had been convicted with others for stealing cigarettes by the vanload. The gang had been sufficiently well organized to have receivers in several big towns, and though nothing had been divulged there was evidence to show that one of the receivers had had premises in Granchester. And the first target of Cain's XXC mob in the city had been the firm of Hendry Brothers, wholesale tobacconists. The coincidence was too strong to be ignored. Hendry Brothers had been carrying a large 'float' of cash, about which they had given a lame explanation. Cain had known or suspected that they would be carrying the cash. He had assumed that Hendry's would still be buying stolen goods from somebody.

'It's amazing the way things come out,' Martineau reflected. 'The next time there are stolen cigarettes in town I'll know where to look for them.'

* * * * *

P.W. Dale dutifully kept the Arlington Street district under her keen young eye. With an older colleague she loitered near the bus stops, or sat in a café and watched the shoppers pass, or toured the streets in a car. Wales Road, the main thoroughfare of Mossbank, was invariably thronged with people and traffic for the most part of every working day. The days went by, and Policewoman Dale looked at so many faces that she was sometimes oppressed by a secret fear that she would fail to recognize her woman suspect when she saw her.

But in the forenoon of the Friday of the week following the Sable break-in, she was walking with her team mate in the hazy sunshine of Wales Road when she was rewarded with a glimpse of Dorrie Cain entering a shop.

'There she is!' she exclaimed. 'Just gone into that butcher's. I'm certain it's her.'

It had been a long, long, monotonous patrol. Dale's companion, P.W. Seymour, was inclined to be excited too. She controlled herself. She was the senior, here to guide this youngster.

'We'll wait here till she comes out, then I can get a look at her,' she said. 'I'll stand with my back to the shop, and you look over my shoulder. What's she wearing?'

'A light fawn coat, and she has a red-and-white shopping basket. I'll tell you when she comes out.'

So they stood as if in conversation, across the street from the butcher's shop, but not directly opposite. Seymour was several inches shorter than Dale, who had no difficulty in looking over her shoulder and could have looked over her head.

Ever since the Sedgeworth incident, Dorrie had been very wary when she was out of doors. Now, waiting to be served by the butcher, she looked first at the passers-by and then changed the focus of her gaze to look across the road. As far as the traffic would allow she looked at everybody, and especially at men and women of an age to be in the police force. She saw Dale and Seymour. Her glance passed on, and then quickly returned to them. There was something wrong about them. She did not realize until later what made her look twice at them, but it was because they were the only two women in sight who were not holding some sort of shopping basket. If they were not shopping, Wales Road was not the right place for them. It was not a street where women strolled and gazed at the shops in longing.