copper's cruise 22

 

Chapter 22 Import Duties

 

“I will be distancing myself from you for the journey and when we first disembark,” said Alexander. “But Mégret has called ahead to ensure that there is police back-up for catching whoever was supposed to receive the opium. I have my own theories, but we shall see. I will be wearing a false moustache, as Paul Martin wore one; otherwise, I will have to rely on them not knowing the courier. And I suspect they do not know the courier, or he would not carry a means of identification, which I believe the guide book he had to be. I am hoping to get a lead on the ones above those meeting me, so no arrests unless I signal.”

“I do wish you’d let me do it, sir,” said Campbell.

“You aren’t a copper and don’t have powers of arrest,” said Alexander. “Keep a close eye on me, and don’t let them bundle me into a car or anything like that.”

“Nossir,” said Campbell, stoically, who would let himself be run down to stop anyone kidnapping his master.

 

They boarded the plane, and it was easy enough to keep at a distance, with the line of single seats down the side of the aircraft, and an aisle between them.

“Ah, yes, the seats where one chooses the airline for modernistic and uncomfortable seats, or classic and uncomfortable seats,” said Ida, to Dorothy, who was waiting, with her mother, for the same plane.

“I am not looking forward to it,” said Dorothy. “I feel as if I have been kicked all over.”

“I think that’s a part of getting well,” said Ida. “But you can reflect that doubtless the rest of us will feel the same by the time we land.”

Dorothy managed a half laugh.

“I suppose so,” she said.

The journey from Paris to Croydon was not long, fortunately. Alex had his guide book tucked into his breast pocket on his overcoat, sadly a much-needed garment in the chilly climes of northern Europe. He heard Ida murmur to Dorothy, ‘I can hardly believe that a few days ago I might have wanted to take off every piece of clothing to try to cool down.’

Dorothy laughed a little.

“I don’t suppose your policeman would mind.”

“Probably not, so long as it wasn’t somewhere he had to arrest me for it,” said Ida. “But we are supposed to be behaving until we get married when I’ve done my degree.”

“Strong willed,” sighed Dorothy.

“You have the strength to do what you have to do, as well,” Ida insisted.

“I expect mummy will put me in a sanatorium so I have no choice,” sighed Dorothy.

“You’d do it better if you can make it on your own,” said Ida. “You will feel tempted to rebel if you are under a tough regimen in a sanatorium. And you should argue that.”

“I will, but she may not listen,” sighed Dorothy.

“Well, if she doesn’t, you are coming off it for you, not for her, so think of that when you want to rebel,” said Ida.

“I’ll try,” said Dorothy.

Alexander sighed. He hoped that the girl’s mother would not take the supposedly easy option of a sanatorium.

 

Then they were descending, and going through the heavy clouds to touch down on the runway at Croydon. Alexander waited until they were down, and collected his hand luggage, holding his guide book with his suitcase as if he had been flicking through it on board and made his way off the tarmac and into the airport building, flashing his passport, murmuring ‘nothing to declare.’ He was moving out front when he felt the gun in his ribs, and became aware there was a heavy on each side of him.

“Where is it?” asked the gun artist.

“Not here, obviously,” said Alexander, testily. “I was bloody lucky to get out, it’s been shut down so this is likely to be the last consignment.”

“That won’t please the boss,” said the gunman.

“Hardly my fault,” said Alexander. “Some nosy flatfoot stuck his big nose in while he was on holiday, and he called in the Quai d’Orsay. They rounded up everyone.”

“How did you get out?”

“Put it in condoms and swallowed them,” said Alexander. “I had a few nervous hours, I can tell you till I got the whole lot back. Not fun. I deserve a bonus for quick thinking and personal discomfort.”

“That’ll be up to the boss,” said the speaking part. “Where’s the stuff?”

“In the post,” said Alexander. “I mailed it to myself.”

“Why didn’t you mail it to the boss?”

“Oh, really, because he’d thank me if a parcel came in the post for him and he got nabbed because he’s being watched,” said Alexander.  “Besides, he might just forget to pay me if he had the stuff.  Tell Mr. Shearer I’ll be happy to meet him any time he wants to hand it over, and he’d better have a bonus for all my trouble. And I want a public place for a meet so he can’t have you lads gun me down and take it.”

“Where should he contact you?”

“Scotland Bloody Yard,” said Alexander, sarcastically. “I wasn’t born yesterday; tell him to put an ad in the ‘Times’ in the Lonely Hearts, for Swallow.”

“Right,” said the speaking part.

The gun withdrew and Alexander was alone.

He took the third taxi on the rank into the centre of Croydon, to the bus depot. He went to the lavatory, and shut himself in a stall, to see if he was followed in. The doors were wooden and full length, and he unlocked the door and stood behind it as he heard footsteps. The door was pushed slightly, and he heard the other stall opened too.

“He’s given us the slip,” grumbled the former speaking part of the duo who had accosted him.

“We’ll go watch the buses; he must be on one of them,” said the other. He had a rather high speaking voice, which was not intimidating. That explained why his partner did the talking.

Alexander slid out of the toilets and back out front. Here he took a taxi back to the airport, where the rest of his party were waiting.

“Having fun?” asked Ida.

“Yes, actually,” said Alexander. “I’ve got the chance at the collar of a lifetime.”

“Not Shearer?” asked Campbell.

“The very same,” said Alexander. “Let’s see Alma home on the way into Essex.”

 

oOoOo

 

“You’re looking very chipper, considering how busy I hear you’ve been,” said Superintendent Barrett, when Alexander turned up in the office next day.

“I’ve got a line on Harry Shearer,” said Alexander. “Sheer luck. Well, you know I played decoy for a dead man?”

“That sounds like a bad detective novel title,” said Barrett. ‘Decoy for a Dead Man,’ starring Rudolf Valentino as the suave detective, and Constance Talmadge as the femme fatale.”

“I’d go to see it to laugh at all they got wrong,” said Alexander. “A couple of heavies tried to hassle me, and I told them I’d had the stuff mailed to myself. I told them that Shearer owed me a bonus for personal risk and great ingenuity – the dead guy having died of opium when one of the condoms full that he swallowed decided to fail.  They didn’t blink when I mentioned Shearer by name, and I’m waiting for an ad in the personal columns of the ‘Times.’

“It’ll be hard to make it stick,” said Barrett. “Besides, Shearer knows you.”

“So long as it’s poky enough, I can pass as Paul Martin for long enough,” said Alexander. “I need to get him to agree that it’s opium he’s buying, and in quantity for dealing.”

“We’ll have to see if we can get a way to overhear the deal when you find out where it’s going down,” said Barrett.

 

oOoOo

 

 

The ad was in the times.

“One Swallow does not make a summer; all are going to the dogs. Enlightenment found at the White City[1], I am the way Rev. 1:4, Tim. 7:30” services Fridays

“The devil quoting scripture for his own purposes,” said Alexander, happily. He took the paper into Barrett’s office.

“Now you decipher all that claptrap for me which sounds like some religious nut job,” said Barrett.

“It’s quite clever, I thought, to make it look like a religious nut job,” said Alexander, mildly. “How is Alma? Has she recovered from the exigencies of the rather busy holiday yet?”

Barrett laughed.

“Alma is better than she has been for years. She rather enjoyed watching you at work, and the warmth has set her up wonderfully, thank you.”

“I’m glad of that.  I suspect she and Penelope Beauchamp will be keeping in touch too.”

“Well, I imagine Mrs. Beauchamp will be glad of a friend, there’s bad news waiting for her when she gets home, as she forgot to leave forwarding details,” said Barrett.

“Oh?” asked Alexander, mildly.

“Her husband had a heart attack and died, not long after she left.  Apparently she left a letter telling him she was leaving him for good, as she blamed him for their middle son’s suicide, and the butler thinks that this was what caused the heart attack. It was sudden and quick. He had got dressed after she left, and as the letter was on the nightstand, presumably found it there, when he was ready to go downstairs, and then had a heart attack on reading it.”

“Any autopsy?” asked Alexander.

“No, there was no suggestion of any reason for one, I only noted it as a family which had been of interest.”

“Good, best not to have more fuss made about it,” said Alexander, who decided not to speculate whether Penelope had managed to introduce an air embolism by syringe to her husband before she left, giving herself a near perfect alibi.

After all this time, it was unlikely that a small pin-prick would be found, anyway, even if it was in anyone’s interest to prosecute.

And he was an unpleasant man capable of having a heart attack in anger over being left. Alexander preferred to think that to be the case.

“As to the message, it is to ‘Swallow,’ which was the pseudonym I suggested, and I know illegal dog racing goes on at the old White City stadium,” he said. “‘Going to the dogs’ rather seems to confirm that. I am guessing that ‘I am the way Rev. 1:4’ is ‘Revolving Gate 14,’ nothing to do with the Book of Revelations; and we dial ‘T-I-M’ for the time, so as well as standing for the book ‘Timothy’ which should be specified as one or two Timothy, we have the time, 7:30.  And that’s pm, not am, obviously. He had to put ‘Friday’ in clear for services. The underworld has long used cyphers, codes, and rebuses.”

“Well, I trust you to work it out,” said Barrett. “Backup?”

“Yes, and if you can get a tout to carry a phonograph in exchange for being let off some small charge, we can get it on wax cylinder,” said Alexander. “I’m going to have to have some contraband opium oil to hand over.”

“Fine, we can arrange that,” said Barrett.

 

oOoOo

 

Alexander went to some pains to dress as a Frenchman abroad; Harry Shearer would be alive to the differences in dress, and would note that first. The moustache in place, a nondescript wig, lightly waved with a Marcel wave, not the unruly curls of his own locks if permitted to grow, and a shade or two darker than his own brown locks, All in all he achieved the look an Englishman would consider ‘not quite the thing.’ He balked at the concept of the German blown glass lenses on his eyes to change the colour, and would rely on the dark and doubtless smoky atmosphere to hide the bright blue of his eyes.

He carried his guide to the pyramids, and a small box, tied with string.

The box contained a bottle with pure opium oil in it.

His destination was not far from the stadium of Queen’s Park Rangers at Loftus Road, where they had settled in the last year of the war, after having had twenty venues previously. Now, they were in the League, in the Third Division, South. Alexander enjoyed a match from time to time, and had followed QPR since having been to see a match of theirs as a small boy at Kensal Rise Athletic Ground, even though it seemed unlikely that they would ever rise in the league. Alexander was not such a devotee that he turned up every week of the season, regardless of the weather, but he attended the occasional match, and followed their fortunes.

 

There was a seediness about the old stadium, and people drifted into it with an air of furtiveness. It wasn’t illegal, per se, except on a Sunday, but nor was it legal, which is to say, it was organised by criminal gangs but hung in a legal limbo of unsanctioned yet not forbidden.

The stadium smelled. It stank of cigarette smoke of various kinds, pipe tobacco, cheap perfume and hair oil, stale beer, vomit, urine, sweat, and dogs.  It was a smell Alexander associated with criminal endeavour; whatever lengths criminals went to in order to make money, hiring cleaners was not one of them. Doubtless the lavatories provided were long since blocked, and the floors awash, even if most of the punters did not prefer to go where they had a good place to watch rather than miss any of the action. Alexander knew fine well that the habits of some of the clientele even in legal places of enjoyment left much to be desired, but legal places of enjoyment threw people out if caught, and hired people to clean up. He had only ever once sat down at an underground film theatre showing dirty movies. He had had to throw those trousers out. It had been an object lesson.

 

Alexander found gate 14 and exchanged a glance with a tout.

“Eh bien, I know nothing of racing dogs,” he said.

“You’ll enjoy yourself, squire,” said the tout. “’Ere, ʼow abaht a flutter on Copper, ʼere?”

“What’s the odds?” asked Alexander.

“Free ter one,” said the tout, and showed him the gramophone recorder in his stand.

“Fine, I’ll have a fiver on ‘Copper,’” said Alexander. “That’s better odds than usual.”

“Speak fer yerself,” said the tout.

Alexander laughed, and cast furtive eyes about for other bobbies, and for his quarry.

Several somewhat uncomfortable-looking men in unaccustomed flat hats stood about with newspapers and betting slips in hands.

And then Harry Shearer came in, suit a little too loud, patent leather shoes below spats, just a little too shiny. Alexander sidled over after the manner of an Arab street vendor. Paul Martin had been half Algerian, and it would have rubbed off.

“Patrone,” said Alexander. “Did they tell you how I saved your shipment?”

“Yes, and there are fifty notes in this envelope for my appreciation,” said Shearer. “You have it?”

“Twelve ounces of purest opium oil, less a bit of wastage from pouring back and forth,” said Alexander. “Some of it clung to the condoms.”

“Understood. And it is the purest?”

“Yes, effendi, the purest,” said Alexander. “Four degrees from dealer’s cut, eight from street cut.”

“And you swallowed it all in condoms?”

“They have new, fine, latex ones from America,” said Alexander.

“That could have been nasty if one had a hole in it,” said Shearer, with a coarse laugh. “A bit more of a sudden surprise than for a wench whose lover’s French letter had a hole in it, and a lot quicker, but more certainly deadly.”

“A calculated risk,” said Alexander.

“And this, you say, is the last opium?”

“Yes, effendi, the French police have shut down the supply, and the middle men, even those police who were on the payroll to look the other way.”

“And you got away?”

“Nobody looked inside me when they searched so they had to let me go.”

“It’s ingenious.  Go back and source a supply and send carriers, but have them put condoms double thick to carry it,” said Shearer. “I don’t want to risk losing consignments, nor having the police put wise to the method.’

“Yes, effendi,” said Alexander.

He caught the eye of one of the policemen, who produced a police whistle and blew it.

A pile of uniformed men burst in.

Shearer and his men gave up without a fight and were hustled out. Alexander retrieved the phonograph recorder.

“He won’t know a thing about your part in it,” he told the tout.

“Well sod off, I’m about to be busy… oh, and take your winnings,” he thrust four fivers at Alexander.

“Dine out on me,” said Alexander. “But don’t tell the story until Shearer’s away for a good long time.”

“I ain’t bleedin’ stupid,” said the tout.

 

Alexander was his normal spruce self when he got back to Scotland Yard, having stopped to change in his mews flat. He had played the phonograph while he did so, and was satisfied that the quality was good enough for court. Shearer had mentioned ‘opium’ as well as having agreed to take delivery of it.

It should be tied up right and tight.

 

“Having arrested Shearer with cause, we were able to raid his club,” said Barrett, happily. “It’s ongoing, but I had a call from Morrell. He has a lot of contraband we are interested in, and it should put him away for a long time.”

“Good; give Morrell the credit for the pinch. I’ll be anonymous in this; you have the recording.”

“Are you sure?”

“Morrell is a good cop. I don’t like him, but he’s hardworking and thorough, and has a touch of the nose when it counts.”

“Very well.”

 

oOoOo

 

Harry Shearer was swearing revenge, fairly futilely, as he was sentenced to life hard labour for various infractions on drug dealing, involuntary detention, slavery, and blackmail.

“And that,” said Alexander to Morrell, “Is a greater pick-me-up than a cruise.”

Morrell sniffed.

“Some cruise,” he said. “I heard you broke his dealership.”

“No, no, not me,” said Alexander. “I passed on a few things to the proper authorities, is all. I was on holiday; none of my business.”

“You don’t fool me,” said Morrell. “I was wrong about you; can we start over?”

“Hello, my name is Alexander,” said Alexander. “Friends call me Alex, and my mother still calls me ‘Bunny’ when she forgets. I used to woffle my nose when I was a baby.”

“Good to meet you, Alex; my name’s Jeffrey. I’ve never been called Jeff. I follow Queen’s Park Rangers.”

“You, too?  Tell you what, Jeff, let’s go take in a game one Saturday, and go and eat fish and chips out of the newspaper afterwards.”

“It’s a date,” said Jeff Morrell. “I promise never to call you ‘Bunny.’”

“If you do, I’ll never buy you a pint when we’re working together.”

 

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[1] White City Greyhound track was established in 1926 at the old Olympic site, which fell into disuse by 1922, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it was used illegally.