three shillings and tenpence, a bunch of keys, penknife, expensive fountain pen; handkerchief, no laundry marks, and a railway ticket monthly return half; London to Bringle Sands.’
‘Is that all?’
Harry knew that his partner would ask for the identity card and he passed it across unrequested. Harry said, ‘Travelling light, this one.’
‘Or his pockets were rifled,’ said the doctor, not moving from his position on the sofa.
Harry met Douglas’s eyes and there was a trace of a smile. ‘Or his pockets were rifled,’ said Douglas to Harry.
‘That’s right,’ said Harry.
Douglas opened the identity card. It was written there that the holder was a thirty-two-year-old accountant with an address in Kingston, Surrey. ‘Kingston,’ said Douglas.
‘Yes,’ said Harry. They both knew that, ever since the Kingston Records Office had been destroyed in the fighting, this was a favourite address for forgers of identity documents. Douglas put the card in his pocket, and repeated his question. ‘What sort of game are you playing, doctor?’ He looked at the doctor and waited for an answer. ‘Why are you trying to mislead me about the time of death?’
‘Well it was silly of me. But if people are coming and going after midnight the neighbours are supposed to report them to the Feldgendarmerie.’
‘And how do you know that they didn’t report it?’
The doctor raised his hands and smiled. ‘I just guessed,’ he said.
‘You guessed.’ Douglas nodded. ‘Is that because all
your
neighbours ignore the curfew?’ said Douglas. ‘What other regulations do they regularly flout?’
‘Jesus!’ said the doctor. ‘You people are worse than the bloody Germans. I’d rather talk to the Gestapo than talk to bastards like you – at least they won’t twist everything I say.’
‘It’s not in my power to deny you a chance to talk to the Gestapo,’ said Douglas, ‘but just to satisfy my own vulgar curiosity, doctor, is your opinion about benign interrogation techniques practised by that department based upon first-hand experience or hearsay?’
‘All right, all right,’ said the doctor. ‘Let’s say three A.M.’
‘That’s much better,’ said Douglas. ‘Now you examine the body properly so that I don’t have to wait here for the pathologist before getting started and I’ll forget all about that other nonsense…but leave anything out, doc, and I’ll run you along to Scotland Yard and put you through the mangle. Right?’
‘All right,’ said the doctor.
‘There’s a lady downstairs,’ said the uniformed police Sergeant. ‘She’s come to collect something from the antique shop. I’ve told the Constable to ask her to wait for you.’
‘Good man,’ said Douglas. He left the doctor looking at the body while Harry Woods was going through the drawers of the escritoire.
The antique shop was one of the hundreds that had sprung up since the bombing and the flight of refugees from Kent and Surrey during the weeks of bitter fighting there. With the German Mark pegged artificially high,the German occupiers were sending antiques home by the train-load. The dealers were doing well out of it, but one didn’t need lessons in economics to see the way that wealth was draining out of the country.
There were some fine pieces of furniture in the shop. Douglas wondered how many had been lawfully purchased and how many looted from empty homes. Obviously the owner of the antique shop stored his antiques by putting them in the tiny apartments upstairs, and justified high rents by having them there.
The visitor was sitting on an elegant Windsor chair. She was very beautiful: large forehead, high cheekbones and a wide face with a perfect mouth that smiled easily. She was tall, with long legs and slim arms.
‘Now maybe someone will give me a straight answer.’ She had a soft American voice, and she reached into a large leather handbag and found a US passport, which she brandished at him.
Douglas nodded.
‘Is that all?’
Harry knew that his partner would ask for the identity card and he passed it across unrequested. Harry said, ‘Travelling light, this one.’
‘Or his pockets were rifled,’ said the doctor, not moving from his position on the sofa.
Harry met Douglas’s eyes and there was a trace of a smile. ‘Or his pockets were rifled,’ said Douglas to Harry.
‘That’s right,’ said Harry.
Douglas opened the identity card. It was written there that the holder was a thirty-two-year-old accountant with an address in Kingston, Surrey. ‘Kingston,’ said Douglas.
‘Yes,’ said Harry. They both knew that, ever since the Kingston Records Office had been destroyed in the fighting, this was a favourite address for forgers of identity documents. Douglas put the card in his pocket, and repeated his question. ‘What sort of game are you playing, doctor?’ He looked at the doctor and waited for an answer. ‘Why are you trying to mislead me about the time of death?’
‘Well it was silly of me. But if people are coming and going after midnight the neighbours are supposed to report them to the Feldgendarmerie.’
‘And how do you know that they didn’t report it?’
The doctor raised his hands and smiled. ‘I just guessed,’ he said.
‘You guessed.’ Douglas nodded. ‘Is that because all
your
neighbours ignore the curfew?’ said Douglas. ‘What other regulations do they regularly flout?’
‘Jesus!’ said the doctor. ‘You people are worse than the bloody Germans. I’d rather talk to the Gestapo than talk to bastards like you – at least they won’t twist everything I say.’
‘It’s not in my power to deny you a chance to talk to the Gestapo,’ said Douglas, ‘but just to satisfy my own vulgar curiosity, doctor, is your opinion about benign interrogation techniques practised by that department based upon first-hand experience or hearsay?’
‘All right, all right,’ said the doctor. ‘Let’s say three A.M.’
‘That’s much better,’ said Douglas. ‘Now you examine the body properly so that I don’t have to wait here for the pathologist before getting started and I’ll forget all about that other nonsense…but leave anything out, doc, and I’ll run you along to Scotland Yard and put you through the mangle. Right?’
‘All right,’ said the doctor.
‘There’s a lady downstairs,’ said the uniformed police Sergeant. ‘She’s come to collect something from the antique shop. I’ve told the Constable to ask her to wait for you.’
‘Good man,’ said Douglas. He left the doctor looking at the body while Harry Woods was going through the drawers of the escritoire.
The antique shop was one of the hundreds that had sprung up since the bombing and the flight of refugees from Kent and Surrey during the weeks of bitter fighting there. With the German Mark pegged artificially high,the German occupiers were sending antiques home by the train-load. The dealers were doing well out of it, but one didn’t need lessons in economics to see the way that wealth was draining out of the country.
There were some fine pieces of furniture in the shop. Douglas wondered how many had been lawfully purchased and how many looted from empty homes. Obviously the owner of the antique shop stored his antiques by putting them in the tiny apartments upstairs, and justified high rents by having them there.
The visitor was sitting on an elegant Windsor chair. She was very beautiful: large forehead, high cheekbones and a wide face with a perfect mouth that smiled easily. She was tall, with long legs and slim arms.
‘Now maybe someone will give me a straight answer.’ She had a soft American voice, and she reached into a large leather handbag and found a US passport, which she brandished at him.
Douglas nodded.
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