“Thanks for coming, Mr. Collins. I’m sorry to have taken you away from your business, but this is a pretty serious affair, and I’m relying on you to help us.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Sit down.” He waved me to the Windsor chair, then
glanced at Hollis. “Think it’s too early for a cup of tea,
sergeant?”
“I’ll see what I can do, sir.”
When Hollis left the office, Rawson took out his cigarette
case and offered it. I took a cigarette.
“I seem to be out of matches,” he said, fumbling in his
pockets.
“I have one.”
I lit his cigarette and then mine and dropped the match
into the ash tray.
“You couldn’t spare that box, could you, Mr. Collins? I
shan’t get out until after lunch, and I’m a heavy smoker.”
“That’s all right,” I said, and pushed the box across the
desk.
“I’m much obliged. Thank you.” He put the box in his
pocket and grinned at me. “They call me Scrounger Rawson
here. Looks as if I’m living up to my reputation.”
He had the knack of making me feel at ease, and I
relaxed back in my chair.
“No fun being without a light.”
“That’s a fact. Well, now, Mr. Collins, I understand Bill
Yates was a friend of yours?”
“He was my best friend: we served together during the
war. I’ve only just heard of his death. What happened?”
Hollis came in at this moment with two cups of tea. He
put them on the desk and went out again.
“What happened, Mr. Collins?” Rawson said, pushing
one of the cups towards me. “I’ll tell you. The mail van was ambushed in Wood Lane. A car overtook it and pulled in front of it. Three men jumped out, carrying revolvers and wearing masks.
They ordered the driver, Mackson, who helps load and
unload the van, and Yates to get out. Yates touched off the
alarm bell, but it failed to operate. The driver and Mackson got out of the van; then Yates got out. One of the bandits covered them while another moved the car out of the way. The third man got into the mail van.”
Rawson paused to sip his tea,
frowned, went on. “It was while the car was being moved that
Yates attacked the gunman. It was a damned plucky thing to
have done. The driver who told us the story said Yates moved
so fast the gunman seemed bewildered. Yates got a judo hold on him and threw him across the street. He landed on a gravel bin and seemed badly hurt.
“The man in the mail van jumped out and went for Yates,
but Yates knocked him down.
“While this was going on Madison ran down a side street,
shouting for help. The driver, an elderly man, remained where
he was, his hands still raised.
“If he had gone to Yates’s help or if Mackson hadn’t run
away, I believe the ambush would have failed. Two of the
bandits were out of action: one permanently, the other
knocked silly for the moment.
Although the remaining man
was armed he might have lost his nerve if the three of them
had rushed him. Unfortunately, Yates had to tackle him alone.
“Yates had been provided with a new anti-bandit
weapon. It’s a pistol firing a special cartridge. The contents of the cartridge is a chemical that leaves a bright blue stain which can’t be removed.
“Yates was determined to mark the bandit. He ran across
the road. The bandit pointed a revolver at him and shouted to
him to stop, but Yates kept on. He discharged the contents of
the cartridge in the bandit’s face as the bandit shot him
through the head. He was killed instantly, but the driver of the van says the bandit’s head end shoulders were covered with
the blue stain.
“The driver didn’t wait to see what happened next. He
bolted. Well, that’s how your friend died, Mr. Collins. He was a very brave man. I shouldn’t be surprised if they don’t give him the George Medal.”
“That won’t do him any good, will it?” I said, looking down
at my clenched fists. “Did you get a description of the man
who killed him?”
“He was a big fellow, wearing a black suit and a black
slouch hat. He won’t be difficult to find now, Mr. Collins.
Thanks to Yates, we should pick him up pretty quickly.”
Dix!
“We have reason to believe,” Rawson went on, “that this
gang must have spent some time watching the movements of
the vans from the sorting-office. Did you happen to notice anyone hanging about in Eagle Street during the past few days who might have been a member of the gang, Mr.
Collins?”
I looked up.
“No, I can’t say I did.”
“Or did you happen to notice a man answering the killer’s
description. He was exceptionally big and massive.”
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t notice anyone like that.”
Rawson stubbed out his cigarette.
“That’s a pity. Well, never mind. Now, Mr. Collins, tell me
about this telephone call you received. It was from Anton?”
“Yes.”
“Would it surprise you to learn there is no record of a call
to your garage from Anton?”
“Isn’t there?”
“No. Mr. Collins. Did the operator say anything to make
you think the call was coming from Anton?”
“No. It didn’t occur to me that the call wasn’t from Anton.
The man said he was a doctor. I think he said his name was
Mackenzie, and he said he was phoning from Anton. I
accepted his word for it.”
“Quite so. It’s obvious an attempt was made to get Yates
out of the way. I don’t know why because if he wasn’t on the
van, someone else would have taken his place. It’s rather odd, Mr. Collins: almost as if someone was anxious he shouldn’t run into trouble.”
“Yates was a champion boxer,” I said steadily. “They
may not have fancied coming up against him.” Rawson nodded.
“That’s possible, but how would they know he was a
boxer, do you think, Mr. Collins?”
“I don’t know.”
There was a long pause while we sat looking at each
other, then Rawson said, “Is there anything else about the
‘phone call you would like to tell me, Mr. Collins?”
I stared at him, not knowing what he meant: it was
almost as if he were inviting me to tell him that I had invented the ‘phone call.
“I don’t think so, but perhaps you could tell me
something. I saw Bill on to the train. How did he get back in
time to go with the van?”
“Dr. Mackenzie happened to be on the train, and they
met in the corridor,” Rawson said. “At the next stop Yates
telephoned to a neighbour who went out to his home and
found his parents were all right. The neighbour phoned Yates who waited at the station, and he took the next train back to London. Where he went wrong was in thinking it was a practical Joke. He should have told us, Mr. Collins.”
He should have told me, I thought bitterly. If he had told me he was going on the van I would have taken the risk and
given Dix away.
“I see,” I said.
“I understand, Mr. Collins, on Friday night you went over
to the sorting-office with tea for one of the night workers, a
man called Harris.”
Here it comes, I thought, and although my heart was
beating rapidly, I was outwardly calm, and I forced myself to look Rawson in the face.
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