Cargo of Eagles (20 page)

Branch had not earned the nickname ‘Jumbo' for his figure alone; his long and incorruptible memory was considered to be more reliable than most filing systems. He came into the room so quietly that Throstle who was organising his notes did not hear him and the big full blooded man was sitting at the opposite side of the table before he raised his head.

‘Shopping list, eh?' Branch had a strong East Anglian accent and the appearance of a substantial farmer. A cherubic fringe of golden curls still decorated the dome of his forehead and a healthy growth of hair sprouted from the upper part of his cheekbones.

‘That's the way, boy. Sort it out, then we'll know where we stand. A powerful lot of thrashing around there's been but not a single rat has put his nose out of the stack. Mustn't let 'em stay in their holes.'

Throstle snorted. ‘I've had a sniff at everyone I can find,' he said. ‘And I'm no forrader. I know enough about Hector Askew's private life to fill a book and very dull, dirty reading it makes. I know every scandal in Saltey for the past ten or twenty years and I think I could put a name to nearly every one of my letter writers. But there's nothing that would stand up in a court of law and nothing to connect them with Askew. You're right about my shopping list. Here's item one—Askew's past. Is there a point I've missed in this lot?'

Throstle's extensive file with its prim wording seemed to delight the Inspector. He thumbed through it, mouthing an occasional name and chuckling reminiscently. ‘Mavis Prentis . . . no . . . Prunella Wisdom, there's a proper joke for you . . . Helen Price-Cattermole . . . wouldn't waste powder and shot on her . . . you've done a thorough job. You could have ten for a penny if you ask me without any man in the country giving anything more than a hearty vote of thanks. Now, what about the property angle? That's a subject people get wholly riled about
if they're crossed. Askews have always dealt in property and pretended they didn't. Crompton Badger and Keene in Silver Street, which means old Sid Badger in fact, handle the business officially but he and the Askews are thicker than thieves. They have a regular method. Old Percy or the boy Hector run a place down to the sorrowing widow who is their client—say a house that's too big for her now her husband's dead. She takes their advice and sells out quick and cheap—Cromptons buy for an alleged client who's just a nominee and they split the proceeds. It's a dirty game and a man could make enemies by playing it. Thought of that?'

‘Yes,' said Throstle. It pleased him to be a little ahead of his mentor. ‘In the next folio. But it's The Hollies I'm interested in. Askew was killed there and all the letters are aimed at scaring Dr Jones into selling. That suggests the Askews, but Hector's death wouldn't help or hinder the sale by a day if she decided to pull out. Then who could want the place and why? See page seven for my list of possibles.' He paused while Branch turned the leaf and added ruefully, ‘They're nearly all over seventy and all female, except for Jonah Woodrose and he has the most watertight alibi I've ever come across and I've broken a few in my time. I accept it, in fact. He's out. Bringing me to a dead end so far.'

Branch's eyes twinkled. ‘Item two, to my way of thinking, is what you might call “A funny thing happened on my way to Mob's Bowl”. Am I right?'

‘I have it down under “Unexplained Incidents”,' said Throstle stiffly. ‘The broken glass. My man beaten up. Dr Jones' young American friend walking round the place with the kind of black eyes you get from having been hit on the head. Jonah Woodrose showing signs of having been in a fight, probably in London if my information is accurate. And an old man called Mossy Ling has died suddenly of thrombosis apparently. There may be no connection but I'd like your opinion.'

Throstle detailed his information. The careful accurate
summary took some time and Inspector Branch opened his eyes very wide and pursed his lips as he listened. The London man. he decided, was rather brighter than he had first supposed.

‘All of this brings us to Teague and Burrows,' he said at last. ‘That's about the size of it. You're wondering if they could be back in circulation?'

‘It's just about on the cards.'

Branch considered the proposition. ‘The last of the Pirates,' he said at last, ‘Dashing Jim Teague and One-Eyed Target. Very romantic. That could be, I reckon, but somehow it makes a wonderful untidy fit. If there was loot on the barge
Blossom
and she did lay off the Bowl that time, then both of them should know where it is, for one wouldn't trust the other and that's for certain. I'd bet my pension on it. At most it was about six hundred quid, as I recall, and in pound notes which you couldn't hope to pass today without a powerful lot of explaining. If anything else was hidden up near the Bowl, and I'm thinking of The Hollies in particular, Target who was never caught, never even charged, would have sneaked back and pinched it long since. If they're both around they must have met up by now and what their game might be is anybody's guess. I doubt they're lying low in Saltey but there's a lot of old tubs anchored out in the creek so we'll lay on a search there, just to be certain. Teague has failed to report after coming out and Burrows is still wanted for questioning for his share in the raid twenty years ago.'

‘Someone has been throwing stones at the weathercock lately,' remarked Throstle. ‘And that was Thomas Alfred Burrows' trademark according to the locals. I don't see why he should advertise himself.'

‘Nor don't I.' Branch laughed reminiscently. ‘You know why he used to do that? That old lantern on the sail lofts was used as a lookout post by Harry Morgan who used to be the Customs chap in these parts. He'd hide up there all day with his glasses to watch what came into the Bowl and where it came from. Target knew that, of course, and he used to fling
him up one for luck whenever he came ashore. It was his way of cocking a snook and he was a wonderfully good shot with a stone. He could hit a man on the back of the head at twenty paces and half brain him but we could never catch him at it. He and Teague were the biggest villains for miles when it came to the smuggling business, but for all we could prove we might just as well have sat and twiddled our thumbs. Old Waters, who had The Foliage as it was called then, Septimus Kytie, Matt Parsley and Jonah Woodrose himself—they were all in the racket one way or another and the only man we ever caught was a yacht steward who came ashore there with a packet of heroin in '37 and he was a poor silly foreigner from Kent.'

‘Smuggling.' Throstle seized on the word. ‘Could it still be going on? Those tearaways who seem to make the Bowl their headquarters—could they be mixed up in the racket?'

‘They're a nasty bunch of young hoodlums and one or two certainly use Purple Hearts if nothing worse.'

He turned to a third file. ‘Three have records: Norman Catchpole, 20, mechanic, theft from employer. Ronald Lewis, 18, grievous bodily harm, and Desmond Riddler, 17, breach of the peace and offensive weapons, meaning razor blades. They mean anything to you?'

‘Trouble-makers,' said Branch promptly. ‘They come from outside my baileywick, North London, Islington way, and organise punch-ups at the coastal resorts mostly just for the heck of it. But drugs in a big way? I doubt it. They wouldn't be reliable enough, for to my way of thinking they haven't a brain between them. Maybe someone's using them as carriers. It's possible, but . . .'

He paused and eyed Throstle over his glasses.

‘You're a little off course, mister, aren't you? Drugs—narcotics—that's a job for the boys in the next department. Vice squad they call 'em now. Pass it on, man, pass it on. I doubt Hector Askew ever saw anything stronger than aspirin or cough lozenges in his life.'

Throstle's expression became obstinate. ‘I know where my manor ends,' he said. ‘Officially, at any rate. But those young no-goods fit into the picture somewhere. They're violent and there's been violence.'

As a concession to the conventions he added, ‘I'll watch my step, though. Narcotics can have anything I turn up and welcome.' He glanced down at his own notes and asked, almost as an afterthought, ‘Does the name Hamilton Dashwood mean anything to you?'

It was a long shot and to his surprise the older man responded more respectfully than he had anticipated. Inspector Branch sat back, brushed a cloud of cigarette ash from the furrows on his stomach, closed his eyes and began to recite from his celebrated filing system.

‘That could be a wonderfully smart question, Mr Throstle. H. Hamilton Dashwood, eh? Real name Henry Harvey Done—same initials—they often do that. Changed it quite legally by deed poll in 1947. Small time crook who used to hang round the halls in the days of variety shows. Occasional job as the chap they threw custard pie at. Robbed or swindled old ladies on the strength of being an actor. Did a bit of time for it, six months if I recall aright. Nothing known in the past five years, but he gets around—all along the coast from Southend to Yarmouth. Travels for a small firm in Ipswich who make carnival novelties, streamers, funny hats and so on. Short wave radio ham but registered and apparently all above board. We keep tabs on him every so often, when we can spare the time.' He patted his waistcoat absently. ‘Yes, you might get someone from your end to look him over.'

He pulled out a gunmetal watch at the end of a leather strap. ‘Ten to twelve. I think we'd be the better for a pint. By the way—one other thing about your tearaways. Nearly forgot it because it's one of my headaches and no concern of yours. Next Saturday to Monday—Whitsun weekend and Bank Holiday.'

‘What about it?'

‘Trouble expected with the ton-up lads, the mods or rockers or whatever. Apparently there was a fight last Saturday at The Demon. The word is that they're coming back in strength for a real old fashioned punch-up. I'm sending down all the chaps I can spare, which will be about four—say six with the local man and a sergeant. It should be enough but we're liable to be thin on the ground if Clacton or Southend ask for additional chaps—as they have.'

He stood up and stretched himself.

‘It might give you a lead if you're still minded that way.'

SATURDAY, THE FIRST
day of the Whitsun holiday, began so gently that the sun did not disperse the veil of mist until it was no longer dawn but full morning. In the main estuary the three anchored merchantmen remained silhouettes without detail, sleeping on water as featureless as frosted glass. The promise of heat hung in the air and only the gulls failed to recognise that this was an hour for laziness and whispering. They swerved and screeched about the Bowl as the tide ebbed, quarrelling petulantly over mysterious treasures in the mud.

From his bedroom window Morty observed the plain clothed figure of Sibling emerge from a door in the sail lofts on his extreme left, retrieve a lady's bicycle from behind one of the brick piles on which they stood and vanish silently towards Forty Angels and presumably breakfast. A solitary bather crunched across the pebbled yard, still rubbing his back with a multicoloured towel and presently two men in yellow oilskins loaded a boat with baskets and tackle and rowed away towards the shipping, their path making a wide swathe of light on the pearly water.

Morty descended to the reassuring atmosphere of bacon and eggs and put his head into the kitchen to announce his arrival. The poet of the saltings had avoided his guest since their encounter but Dixie appeared to be at some pains to ignore the affair, if indeed she was aware of it. She greeted him cheerfully as she looked up from a large pan of Demon cakes which she was cutting into squares.

‘A lovely day, Mr Kelsey dear. Makes you want to sing “Oh what a beautiful morning!” I hope it stays that way.'

‘Any reason why it shouldn't?'

Her forehead puckered as she concentrated on the equal divisions of cake. ‘Well, there is, you know. We had that silly man Simmonds here last night, full of warnings about mods and rockers and I don't know what else, telling me I needn't open the pub if I didn't want to—as if I didn't know my rights—advising me to watch my step. I told him it was up to him to keep things in order outside and that indoors I'd look after myself, thank you.
I have
, too.'

‘Hired a few chuckers-out?'

She laughed. ‘That's about the size of it. A couple of lads from Firestone are coming in as extra barmen and the whole of the darts team are spending the evening here. You'll be away all day, I expect? I hear the doctor is coming down . . . ?'

Morty accepted the enquiry with a grin.

‘I guess I'll look in at The Hollies. You can count me out if you're worried about tables for lunch.'

Dixie patted his hand. ‘Just as well,' she agreed. ‘You've made your peace with her, then? You should never have let that wicked little tart pick you up, Mr Kelsey dear—it's no way to do your courting with a real girl. I'd give Saltey a miss over the holiday as far as you can. It'll be overrun with trippers and tourists which is fine for me, since I've a business to run, but no good for people like yourself. I doubt if we'll see half a dozen regulars all day. They don't like strangers. Run along now and I'll get your breakfast.'

The invasion began whilst he was still eating. Three motor cycles roared and skidded over the forecourt, disappearing towards the sea wall and reappearing from the opposite direction, having established a rough-riding circuit of the inn regardless of property. Presently a vehicle which had once been a London taxi but was now painted shocking pink and decorated with slogans arrived by the edge of the Bowl and disgorged a group which might have come from a quatrocento harlequinade.

‘Don't blow your cool,' proclaimed their transport. ‘This is a Freak Out. Watch it, Fuzz!'