the purloined parure 17

 

Chapter 17

 

“Still alive, then? Never mind,” said Barrett, jocularly.

“The little turds decided to go a-burgling first, rather than tangling with a senior police officer as their first choice, proving them to have some brains,” said Alexander. “And I’m going to be the laughing stock of the yard, the inspector who was burgled.”

“Morrell is having a field day.”

“Of course he is,” said Alexander. “He hates me more than I hate him, and without as much excuse.”

“He thinks that he has more justification than you.”

“Really? He hates me because I exist.”

“No, he hates you because he truly believes you are bent.”

“Then he’s a fool. My parentage and background are a matter of public record if he wanted to go and look; my family have been carefully building up wealth for generations, and that by not living it up.  If I was bent, doesn’t he think I’d indulge myself?”

Barrett sighed.

“From his point of view, you do; expensive clothes and car, eating out a lot of the time. It’s pure envy at bottom, but he genuinely thinks that a man of your wealth would avoid a hard job like being a copper if he could live  without the bribes he assumes must be your only reason for remaining in the job.”

“Doesn’t he have any concept of duty?”

“Not, I think, in the way you do,” said Barrett. “I’m not in your class, but I was raised to believe in the giving of duty as a part of noblesse oblige. My parents are borderline gentry.”

“Much as my family were, a hundred years ago,” said Alexander. “I haven’t asked Morrell about his background; I was afraid he might tell me.”

“He’s middle class, like Teal, but where Teal sets out to better himself, Morrell clings to his roots as the son of a Methodist minister in the rooting out of sins of the flesh, middle-class standards, and rigidly obeying the rules.”

“Well, you know what he’s going to get if he tries to both obey the rules and behave in a proper manner for his class,” said Alexander.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” said Barrett.

“A Morrell dilemma,” said Alexander.

Barrett swiped him across the back of the head for this terrible pun, and Alexander grinned at him.

“Morrell, poor bastard, is in the same situation in a way as a promotion by merit into the officer’s ranks, except he ought to adapt better as there has never been the elitism in the police that there is in the armed forces,” said Alexander.

He went out into the outer office, and Morrell sneered at him.

“Diamond cuff links shining so bright the cons followed you home to nab them?” he asked.

“Chummies picked up an empty jewellery box they thought might have something exciting in it,” said Alexander. “Do you really think I’m on the take?”

“Well, why would any rich bastard be a copper if he could afford to swan around the way you do?”

“Weren’t you brought up to have a sense of duty to the Crown and to the people, to do what you could for your country? If you had such a sterile upbringing devoid of moral obligation, I’m sorry for you, but it makes me wonder why you are a copper.”

“I was brought up well! My father’s a Minister of God!” snapped Morrell.

“Oh, I see; they say the son of a policeman fears not Mammon, but the son of a reverend fears neither God nor Mammon.  Well, Morrell, you’re going to come with me, and see exactly where my income comes from. I’m sick of your insinuations; you can bloody well run a financial check on me.”

Alexander seized Morrell by the arm and dragged him out to his car.

“Get in,” he said.

Morrell got in. Alexander was white with fury.

“I... what....?” Morrell managed.

“We are going to Child’s Bank, where my family has banked since my ancestress was a friend of Sally, Countess Jersey, who inherited it and ran it,” said Alexander in a low, tight voice. “You make my arrest record suspect and stop me from doing my job properly if you make even one person doubt my integrity.  I could have walked away from what I’m working on, with a four hundred thousand pound parure – that’s a jewellery collection that matches, if you didn’t know – but I didn’t. I am holding it in trust for the owner, who happens to be a con, but he fulfilled the terms of the will.  The last person the chummies I’m after believed to be in possession of it was tortured to death. His end was messy and agonising.  Now, I trust your integrity to hold the thing for Mickey Stubbins if you want to run the risk, and I’ll tell a murderous pair to whom I gave it, but I haven’t asked you, because I didn’t think it fair to put the risk on anyone else. They broke in to steal it, and when they found they only had the case, they’ll be back.  Now, are you ready for them to break into your house and start torturing you to get a case against two slippery customers who are likely to get away without the evidence of their sadistic insanity? If so, we can go to my parents’ house and collect it and I drop them the word.”

Morrell had gone white.

“B... but isn’t that entrapment?”

“No, because my custody of the thing was arranged by the family solicitor.  I didn’t ask anyone to come collecting on it.  The terms of the will are, anyone who finds it, and can keep it a year, owns it. In theory I could claim it, as it was where Mickey hides his stolen goods; but I count it as being the same as his quid of tobacco in his pouch, and other stuff from his pocket, his own property, held in trust for the little blighter while he does time. But that means they have a year to get hold of it, and hang onto it.  If they take it from me and keep it for a year, it is legally theirs. But torturing me to find out where it is, that’s not legal, and their inoffensive cousin deserves his legal revenge on them.  But waiting for them to decide if they are going to treat me the same as Marty is making me jumpy, so pardon me, I am not going to treat you with kid gloves to stroke your self-righteous ego.  Now, get in the bank.” They had arrived at Child’s.

Alexander demanded to see a manager.

“This is Police Inspector Morrell,” he said. “I have been accused of financial irregularities, and I not only give you permission, I demand that you show him my fiscal records, so that he may see for himself where my income comes from.”

“Is this an official investigation, Mr. Armitage?” asked the manager.

“No, it isn’t; but I want my colleague to be satisfied so that we can work together,” said Alexander. “Give him anything he wants;  feed him if it goes past lunch time. I’m parked illegally and I don’t want a ticket.”

He swept out, leaving an embarrassed and stammering Inspector Morrell, being led tenderly into a private office with marble, gilding, soft deep carpeting, and velvet-covered rosewood furniture, provided with a pot of tea and macaroons, and a clerk showing him Alexander’s ledgers.

 

oOoOo

 

“Armitage!”

Barrett bellowed as Alexander was about to head for his office.

“Sir?”

“Where’s Morrell?”

“I’d like to say he’s twenty feet down under the Thames with concrete overshoes, but alas, I cannot tell a lie, and last I saw, he was gingerly nibbling macaroons in Child’s Bank,” said Alexander.

“What? Why?”

“I demanded of him that he verify for himself that my wealth is legitimate,” said Alexander, in a hard voice. “It won’t make him less envious, indeed, it may make him more so, but he will have no further excuse to get on my case over my expenditure. I am not going to put up with his sly insinuations any longer.”

“Testy, ain’t you?”

“Yes,” said Alexander.

“I had a look at the images of you by that Henderson fellow; I wondered, but he really does have your number. Thank goodness, you’re not Mr. Bloody Perfect.”

“I never claimed I was,” said Alexander.

“It’s the impression you give,” said Barrett. “Having a temper makes me like you the better for having a human side. Now come in here; as you’ve stolen Morrell’s attentions, you can bloody  well work his case.”

“Oh, that will go down well.”

“I’ll make him feel guilty over abandoning it.  But it’s a trifle urgent.”

Alexander allowed himself to be ushered into the superintendant’s office.

“What’s urgent?” he asked.

“Missing girl,” said Barrett.

“Yes, that is urgent, I’m sorry I stole Morrell,” said Alexander. “Brief me.”

“The girl is... well, actually she’s not technically a girl, she’s over twenty-one, but she was seeing a man her father disapproved of. And he thinks she’s been abducted.”

“Photo?” said Alexander, and was soon looking at a pretty blonde flapper, the photograph hand-touched with colour. It was an expert job, and one could almost believe the picture to be a rare colour photograph.

“So, what’s the story?”

“Argument with her father – a wealthy industrialist – about her boyfriend. His name is Tom Kent, he’s a mechanic in a garage, and he’s souped up her car for her, little sporty red number, last seen heading north with a couple in it, assumed to be Tom and this Winifred Havilland.”

“And no doubt the police in the north asked to be aware, and yet missing seeing a sporty red car heading for Gretna Green?”

“Apparently,” said Barrett.

“Make of her car?” asked Alexander.

“No idea,” said Barrett. “Here,” he found a photograph.

“That,” said Alexander, in awe, “Is an Alfa Romeo.”

“Well, it seems to have attracted ’alf a Romeo, anyway,” said Barrett.

“Oh, nice one, sir,” said Alexander, who could never resist a pun. “Do we know what he looks like?”

“Father’s description is not helpful; ‘greasy great bastard, probably a Dago,’ which tells us that he’s probably got dark hair and might be swarthy.”

“As you say, insulting and not a lot of help,” said Alexander. “And, I fear, shows the ignorance of the lady’s father in using a generic pejorative for anyone of Hispano-Italian origin and probably with as much accuracy as calling anyone blond a Hun.”

“I did point out that if they have gone to Gretna, it’s their right to do so,” said Barrett. “But he is convinced that she is acting under duress.”

“I take it the lady has an apartment of her own?” said Alexander.

“Yes, and Morrell questioned the maid and chauffeur, and came up blank; he reckoned the maid was wanting.”

“A lady who buys a fancy sports car and has a chauffeur to drive it?”

“You have a chauffeur.”

“I use my car for work, he can drive when I’m tired,” said Alexander. “What did the maid look like?”

“Morrell did not say,” said Barrett.

“I’ll lay a tenner on it that the maid was Winifred Havilland in disguise, the chauffeur is her husband, married locally, and the car is a rapidly painted car of similar look and a couple of friends laying a false trail,” said Alexander.  “Got a copy of her photo?”

Barrett handed him a black and white copy.

With a black pen to colour out the frizzy bob, as if the hair was pulled back, Alexander cut out the shape of a maid’s cap from a piece of plain paper and stuck it onto the photo with gum arabic, sketching in details with a pencil.

There was a knock on the door, and Morrell, looking flustered, came in.

“Hello, old boy, Barrett had me on the carpet for taking up your time and asked me to look over your case,” said Alexander. “Would this happen to be the maid who told you she knew nothing about her mistress?”

Morrell looked suspiciously at the doctored photograph.

“That’s her,” he said.

“Chauffeur; dark hair, swarthy?” asked Alexander.

“Yes,” said Morrell. He looked at the photo again. “Good God! That’s the Havilland wench!”

“I thought it might be.  It was a hunch,” said Alexander, with a shrug. “The sort of woman who buys a sporty car does so to drive them; and that sort of woman does not have a chauffeur. So if the chauffeur was false, it struck me that the maid might be false, too, which is why I’ve been messing around producing an art work for you.”

“Well, if he didn’t coerce her into running away, there’s no case to answer,” said Morrell.

“I expect you’ll find they were married locally, too,” said Alexander. “She’s of age, wedded and doubtless bedded, and her father can do nothing about it. If he disowns her, that’s his prerogative, but I predict that in a couple of years, he’ll be showing people photos of his grandchildren.”

“I hope so,” said Morrell, gloomily. “Family splits are nasty.  You know more about servants than I do.” His voice was a little resentful again.

“I’m engaged to a girl who is considering what car she wants to buy when she celebrates her twenty-first birthday next month,” said Alexander. “She was interested in the same model Alfa Romeo as Miss Havilland, and she had a ‘No, you may not drive it’ look in her eye. I know about girls. I have sisters too.”

“And you don’t mind?”

“Mind? It makes no difference if I mind or not. I’d be a poor sort of husband to dictate to my life partner.  I can be justified in asking her to drive carefully. And to take her maid with her; Gladys drove ambulances during the war, and you have to be good to manage that.”

“I owe you an apology for doubting your source of wealth,” said Morrell, with something close to a snap. “I had no idea so much wealth existed.”

“We aren’t on the level of those of the upper ten thousand,” said Alexander, “But we’ve made careful investments. I can’t help it if you let the deadly sin of envy into your heart; I’m always ready to help out a colleague who needs doctor’s bills covered or anything of that sort, but I’m not going to give away my wealth to be on a par with the average man, because I don’t feel guilty about having it, and I don’t see why I should.  As you will have seen, I have increased it with judicious share purchases.  It’s a sacred trust to use to educate my children of the future, and make sure they are also sufficiently well off not to have to worry, before you say anything about rich men and camels, and needle’s eyes.  Are you going to leave off irritating me?”

“I have no choice.  And I have to thank you for breaking open my case.”

“Oh, glad to be of service.  You could ring and ask to see the maid and chauffeur again, and then confront her, and give her a good ear-wigging about wasting police time, and that sort of thing.”

“Yes, I believe I will. I’ve been worrying about that girl at the mercy of some brute of a ne’er do well, but the chauffeur was well enough spoken, not some brawny brute as her father represented him, and she’s been laughing up her sleeve at me.”

“She deserves a good telling off,” said Alexander. “And she should let her father know, so he isn’t in fear over Christmas.”

“I’ll soon sort her out,” said Morrell. He left the office with a bang.

“Armitage, did you just deflect all the irritation he is feeling towards you at the Havilland girl?” demanded Barrett.

“Yes,” said Alexander. “I don’t know her, so I don’t care.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Yes, sir, but I have my bad points too.”