R. Wingfield - A Touch of Frost

“Already done, sir,” said Sutton flatly. He didn’t need to be told to do something as basic as that.

“And you’ve warned Control that the man is armed and dangerous?”

“Of course, sir.” Or as basic as that, either.

Glickman, piqued that he was no longer the centre of attraction, said peevishly, “Do you want to know what else happened, or am I of no further interest now I’ve done half your work for you?”

Frost hitched himself back up on the counter and waved for Sammy to go on.

“Like I said, I’m screaming to an empty street. He must have got fed up with me yelling at him because he swings his shooter round and fires point-blank range. But he misses me and hits that showcase.”

Frost looked at the showcase and lined up the angles. “Either he was a rotten shot, Sammy, or he only meant to frighten you.”

“He certainly frightened me, Inspector. I’ll be putting the biological washing powder to the test tonight, I promise you. Anyway, I fling myself facedown on the pavement until I hear the car roaring off. Then everyone comes running out to see what’s up. When I’m screaming, “Stop thief,” and being fired at, the street is empty. The minute he’s gone they’re standing eight deep on the pavement.”

The shop door opened and Webster, with the other uniformed man, returned to report that they hadn’t come up with a single witness who had seen anything other than a red, or a blue, or a black car roaring off in the distance. Plenty of people said they had heard the gunshot but thought it was a car backfiring.

“If it was an atom bomb going off, they’d say it was a car backfiring,” muttered Glickman.

Frost’s cigarettes were passed around again, and soon the little shop was thickly hazed with smoke. “One thing for sure,” said Frost, ‘whoever did this was either a smalltime crook or a first-timer.”

“How do you make that out?” asked Webster.

“Well,” said Frost, adding a salvo of smoke rings to the already murky atmosphere, ‘if you go in for armed robbery it’s a minimum of seven years, for starters. So why risk seven years robbing a little shithouse like this when, for the same risk, you could rob a bank or a decent jeweller?”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Frost,” said Glickman, sounding offended.

“My pleasure,” replied Frost. “Secondly, he didn’t saw off the barrel as any self-respecting gunman would do. This means he couldn’t keep the gun concealed in a deep pocket. He’d either have to tuck it inside his coat as he crossed from the car to the shop or blatantly wave it about. Finally, what does he do when he gets in here? He dashes in, sweeps odds and ends of Mickey Mouse jewellery into a dustbin sack and is out again in seconds. He could have taken his time and nicked all sorts of things of value, but he was in too much of a hurry. Why?” Like a schoolmaster, he looked around for an answer.

“Because he was bloody scared?” suggested Sutton.

Frost nodded his agreement. “Exactly what I think, young Sutton. It was all so amateurish.”

“It wasn’t amateurish the way he fired that gun at me,” objected Glickman. “He missed me by inches.”

“Thirty-six bloody inches,” said Frost. He pushed himself off the counter and wandered behind it to the till. “I suppose he didn’t touch the takings?” He pressed the No Sale key and the drawer shot open.

“Only the jewellery,” said Glickman, craning his neck to keep an eye on Frost. Some policemen had very sticky fingers.

The till drawer held about seventy pounds. Not rich pickings, but it would have increased the gunman’s haul by about ten percent. Frost was pushing the drawer shut when he saw the small envelope tucked behind the bank notes. He had seen envelopes like that before. Exactly like that. Taken from a drug addict, newly purchased from a pusher and full of heroin.

Sammy Glickman had been mixed up with a lot of shady dealings in the past, but never with drugs. Frost pulled the envelope out. It was far too heavy for heroin. The flap was sealed. He stuck a finger beneath it and ripped it open, then tipped the contents into his palm. Gold. Gold coins. Five golden sovereigns each bearing the head of Queen Victoria.

“I’m waiting to hear the ding of the till drawer being closed,” called the pawnbroker anxiously, finding it difficult to see what Frost was up to through the thickening smoke screen. Frost obliged him and firmly closed the drawer with a satisfying ding. But he didn’t put the sovereigns back. He walked back around the counter and held out his hand.

“What are these, Sammy?”

The eyes behind the thick lenses blinked furiously as they focused on the coins. “I buy all sorts of precious metal… coins, lockets, gold teeth. You can see the sign outside… Best Prices Paid… there’s no crime in it.”

“I didn’t say there was, Sammy.”

Webster craned his neck so he could see what the inspector had found. At first he didn’t realize what the coins were. They looked small and insignificant, not much bigger than a new penny. Then he saw the George-and-Dragon pattern on the reverse. Of course! The stolen Queen Victoria sovereigns. “Where did you get these?” he demanded.

The pawnbroker wriggled in his chair. “I’ve been robbed, I’m wounded, I’m in a state of shock. I demand to go to hospital.”

“Where did you get them?” repeated Webster.

“I bought them this morning. It’s all legitimate.”

If it’s legitimate, then why are you looking so bloody guilty? thought Frost to himself happily. “Who did you buy them from, Sammy?”

“A young bloke about twenty-five, dark hair cut short, black leather jacket. I’ve never seen him before. What’s this all about, Mr. Frost? I’m the innocent victim of a brutal crime. I’m entitled to sympathy, not harassment.”

The summonsed ambulance pulled up outside the shop. Sammy gave a sigh of relief. It would take him to the peace and quiet of the hospital and away from these searching questions.

“Send the ambulance away,” Frost instructed the two policemen, ‘then get back on patrol. Webster and I can handle it from here.”

Glickman’s face fell. “I need hospitalisation, Mr. Frost. I’m feeling bad. It’s delayed reaction from the shock.”

“I’ll get the police surgeon to have a look at you when we lock you up,” said Frost. He said it so matter-of-factly that at first Glickman couldn’t believe what he had heard. Then he did a double take as the import struck home.

“Lock me up? What are you talking about?”

“Terribly sorry, Sammy,” said Frost, ‘but the sovereigns are stolen property. We’ll have to book you for receiving.”

Glickman’s eyes, magnified behind the lenses, opened wide with feigned amazement. “Stolen property in my shop? I can’t believe it. He said they were family heirlooms.”

“So they were,” said Frost. “Heirlooms of the family he nicked them from.”

“On my dear mother’s funeral plot, Air 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.”