in very good condition. And I think that’s usually a sign things are worth something.’
‘But he’s clean?’
‘Well I haven’t turned him over, sir. But he’s clean I’d say: clean but not kosher.’
This had become the English policeman’s way of describing offences to which he would turn a blind eye.
‘Stay there, Jimmy,’ said Douglas. ‘I’ll come over and have a look round myself.’
Chapter Ten
The top storey of the house had been burned out by incendiary bombs, and Douglas could see through empty spaces that had once been windows, to charred rafters crisscrossing the sky. The ground floor windows were boarded up, the high price of glass made that a common sight in this neighbourhood. The suspect’s rooms were on the second floor. Jimmy Dunn led the way.
He’d rightly described the furniture as valuable. There was enough in this room to keep a man for a decade, a choicer selection by far than the items for sale in the Shepherd Market antique shop.
‘Still no sign of the caretaker?’ said Douglas.
‘There’s a bottle of milk outside his door. Looks like he’s been out all night – missed curfew and stayed overnight perhaps.’
‘Douglas nodded. Breaching German regulations –which required special permission for anyone, except the registered occupiers, to stay in a house overnight – was common enough.
‘Is there something funny about this place, Jimmy? Or am I just getting too old?’
‘In what way, sir?’
‘Valuable antiques in this room, and a cracked soap-holder in the bath; priceless carpet on the floor and dirty sheets on the bed.’
‘Perhaps he’s a miser, sir.’
‘Misers don’t buy soap at all,’ said Douglas. It was a silly answer but he knew this wasn’t the squalor of the niggard. ‘Smell the mothballs?’ Douglas got downon his hands and knees, and sniffed the carpet, but that had not been wrapped with mothballs. ‘It’s been in a storeroom,’ said Douglas, getting to his feet and brushing his hands to remove the dust. ‘That would be my guess.’ Douglas began going through the small chest of drawers, turning over a few shirts and underclothes, most of them British army issue. ‘There
must
be something more personal here,’ said Douglas as he rummaged, ‘…ration books, discharge papers, pension book or something.’
‘A lot of people carry all those sort of things with them,’ said Dunn. ‘There’s so much housebreaking. And it takes so long to get papers replaced.’
‘And yet he leaves all these valuables, without even a decent lock on the door?’ Douglas opened the next drawer, and went through it carefully. ‘Ah! Now what’s this?’ Under the newspaper that lined the drawer, his fingers found an envelope. Inside it he found half-a-dozen photos; Spode’s parents standing in a suburban garden somewhere, with two young children. A child on a tricycle. ‘A man finds it difficult to throw these kind of souvenirs away, Jimmy,’ he told the Constable. ‘Even when his life is at stake, it’s difficult to throw away your family.’ The next photo depicted a bride and groom. It was a snapshot, slightly out of focus.
Douglas looked through all the pictures. The largest one was an old press-photo; sharp, contrasty, and well printed on glossy paper. It was of a group of laboratory workers, in white coats, standing round an elderly man. He turned the photo over to read the caption. Rubber stamps gave the date reference number and warned that the photo was the copyright of a picture agency. The tattered typewritten caption-paper said, ‘Today Professor Frick celebrated his seventieth birthday. With him at his laboratory were the team who worked with him when, last year, his experimentsbrought him worldwide acclaim. By bombarding uranium with neutrons to form barium and krypton gas, he proved previous theories about the disintegration of the uranium nucleus.’
It was hardly the stuff of which newspaper headlines are made. The names of the
‘But he’s clean?’
‘Well I haven’t turned him over, sir. But he’s clean I’d say: clean but not kosher.’
This had become the English policeman’s way of describing offences to which he would turn a blind eye.
‘Stay there, Jimmy,’ said Douglas. ‘I’ll come over and have a look round myself.’
Chapter Ten
The top storey of the house had been burned out by incendiary bombs, and Douglas could see through empty spaces that had once been windows, to charred rafters crisscrossing the sky. The ground floor windows were boarded up, the high price of glass made that a common sight in this neighbourhood. The suspect’s rooms were on the second floor. Jimmy Dunn led the way.
He’d rightly described the furniture as valuable. There was enough in this room to keep a man for a decade, a choicer selection by far than the items for sale in the Shepherd Market antique shop.
‘Still no sign of the caretaker?’ said Douglas.
‘There’s a bottle of milk outside his door. Looks like he’s been out all night – missed curfew and stayed overnight perhaps.’
‘Douglas nodded. Breaching German regulations –which required special permission for anyone, except the registered occupiers, to stay in a house overnight – was common enough.
‘Is there something funny about this place, Jimmy? Or am I just getting too old?’
‘In what way, sir?’
‘Valuable antiques in this room, and a cracked soap-holder in the bath; priceless carpet on the floor and dirty sheets on the bed.’
‘Perhaps he’s a miser, sir.’
‘Misers don’t buy soap at all,’ said Douglas. It was a silly answer but he knew this wasn’t the squalor of the niggard. ‘Smell the mothballs?’ Douglas got downon his hands and knees, and sniffed the carpet, but that had not been wrapped with mothballs. ‘It’s been in a storeroom,’ said Douglas, getting to his feet and brushing his hands to remove the dust. ‘That would be my guess.’ Douglas began going through the small chest of drawers, turning over a few shirts and underclothes, most of them British army issue. ‘There
must
be something more personal here,’ said Douglas as he rummaged, ‘…ration books, discharge papers, pension book or something.’
‘A lot of people carry all those sort of things with them,’ said Dunn. ‘There’s so much housebreaking. And it takes so long to get papers replaced.’
‘And yet he leaves all these valuables, without even a decent lock on the door?’ Douglas opened the next drawer, and went through it carefully. ‘Ah! Now what’s this?’ Under the newspaper that lined the drawer, his fingers found an envelope. Inside it he found half-a-dozen photos; Spode’s parents standing in a suburban garden somewhere, with two young children. A child on a tricycle. ‘A man finds it difficult to throw these kind of souvenirs away, Jimmy,’ he told the Constable. ‘Even when his life is at stake, it’s difficult to throw away your family.’ The next photo depicted a bride and groom. It was a snapshot, slightly out of focus.
Douglas looked through all the pictures. The largest one was an old press-photo; sharp, contrasty, and well printed on glossy paper. It was of a group of laboratory workers, in white coats, standing round an elderly man. He turned the photo over to read the caption. Rubber stamps gave the date reference number and warned that the photo was the copyright of a picture agency. The tattered typewritten caption-paper said, ‘Today Professor Frick celebrated his seventieth birthday. With him at his laboratory were the team who worked with him when, last year, his experimentsbrought him worldwide acclaim. By bombarding uranium with neutrons to form barium and krypton gas, he proved previous theories about the disintegration of the uranium nucleus.’
It was hardly the stuff of which newspaper headlines are made. The names of the
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