“My pleasure,” replied Frost. “Secondly, he didn’t saw off the barrel as any self-respecting gunman would do. This means he couldn’t keep the gun concealed in a deep pocket. He’d either have to tuck it inside his coat as he crossed from the car to the shop or blatantly wave it about. Finally, what does he do when he gets in here? He dashes in, sweeps odds and ends of Mickey Mouse jewellery into a dustbin sack and is out again in seconds. He could have taken his time and nicked all sorts of things of value, but he was in too much of a hurry. Why?” Like a schoolmaster, he looked around for an answer.
“Because he was bloody scared?” suggested Sutton.
Frost nodded his agreement. “Exactly what I think, young Sutton. It was all so amateurish.”
“It wasn’t amateurish the way he fired that gun at me,” objected Glickman. “He missed me by inches.”
“Thirty-six bloody inches,” said Frost. He pushed himself off the counter and wandered behind it to the till. “I suppose he didn’t touch the takings?” He pressed the No Sale key and the drawer shot open.
“Only the jewellery,” said Glickman, craning his neck to keep an eye on Frost. Some policemen had very sticky fingers.
The till drawer held about seventy pounds. Not rich pickings, but it would have increased the gunman’s haul by about ten percent. Frost was pushing the drawer shut when he saw the small envelope tucked behind the bank notes. He had seen envelopes like that before. Exactly like that. Taken from a drug addict, newly purchased from a pusher and full of heroin.
Sammy Glickman had been mixed up with a lot of shady dealings in the past, but never with drugs. Frost pulled the envelope out. It was far too heavy for heroin. The flap was sealed. He stuck a finger beneath it and ripped it open, then tipped the contents into his palm. Gold. Gold coins. Five golden sovereigns each bearing the head of Queen Victoria.
“I’m waiting to hear the ding of the till drawer being closed,” called the pawnbroker anxiously, finding it difficult to see what Frost was up to through the thickening smoke screen. Frost obliged him and firmly closed the drawer with a satisfying ding. But he didn’t put the sovereigns back. He walked back around the counter and held out his hand.
“What are these, Sammy?”
The eyes behind the thick lenses blinked furiously as they focused on the coins. “I buy all sorts of precious metal… coins, lockets, gold teeth. You can see the sign outside… Best Prices Paid… there’s no crime in it.”
“I didn’t say there was, Sammy.”
Webster craned his neck so he could see what the inspector had found. At first he didn’t realize what the coins were. They looked small and insignificant, not much bigger than a new penny. Then he saw the George-and- Dragon pattern on the reverse. Of course! The stolen Queen Victoria sovereigns. “Where did you get these?” he demanded.
The pawnbroker wriggled in his chair. “I’ve been robbed, I’m wounded, I’m in a state of shock. I demand to go to hospital.”
“Where did you get them?” repeated Webster.
“I bought them this morning. It’s all legitimate.”
If it’s legitimate, then why are you looking so bloody guilty? thought Frost to himself happily. “Who did you buy them from, Sammy?”
“A young bloke about twenty-five, dark hair cut short, black leather jacket. I’ve never seen him before. What’s this all about, Mr. Frost? I’m the innocent victim of a brutal crime. I’m entitled to sympathy, not harassment.”
The summonsed ambulance pulled up outside the shop. Sammy gave a sigh of relief. It would take him to the peace and quiet of the hospital and away from these searching questions.
“Send the ambulance away,” Frost instructed the two policemen, ‘then get back on patrol. Webster and I can handle it from here.”
Glickman’s face fell. “I need hospitalisation, Mr. Frost. I’m feeling bad. It’s delayed reaction from the shock.”
“I’ll get the police surgeon to have a look at you when we lock you up,” said Frost. He said it so matter-of- factly that at first Glickman couldn’t believe what he had heard. Then he did a double take as the import struck home.
“Lock me up? What are you talking about?”
“Terribly sorry, Sammy,” said Frost, ‘but the sovereigns are stolen property. We’ll have to book you for receiving.”
Glickman’s eyes, magnified behind the lenses, opened wide with feigned amazement. “Stolen property in my shop? I can’t believe it. He said they were family heirlooms.”
“So they were,” said Frost. “Heirlooms of the family he nicked them from.”
“On my dear mother’s funeral plot, Air Frost, if I had the slightest idea they were stolen, I would never have touched them.”
“How much did you give for them?” asked Frost.
The pawnbroker’s tongue crawled around his lips which had suddenly become very dry. “Thirty pounds each… one hundred and fifty nicker the five.”
“Thirty lousy quid!” scoffed Frost. “And you didn’t know they were stolen? That’s less than half of the market value.”
“I offered him a low price, Mr. Frost, expecting he’d push it up higher. That’s business. But he said, “Provided it’s in used fivers, you’ve got yourself a deal.” So, if he was happy I was happy. I gave him the fivers, and he gave me the sovereigns all fair, square and above board.”
“Tell me the rest, Sammy.”
“The rest, Mr. Frost?”
“Thirty quid is a bulk price. He must have told you he had a lot more.”
“Really, Mr. Frost. I’d have known it wasn’t above board if he said he had a lot.”
Frost shook his head in disappointment. “OK, Sammy, we’re booking you for receiving stolen property.”
“Now hold on, Mr. Frost…” Suddenly his shoulders drooped. “All right. He said he had about fifty more. They were mine at the same price providing it was in used fivers. I didn’t have fifteen hundred quid in cash. I said I’d get it from the bank. He said he’d be back tomorrow.”
Frost grinned broadly. “Then I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, Sammy. The minute he puts his foot inside that door, you will phone the station and you will make certain he doesn’t leave your shop until the fuzz arrive. If we catch him, I’ll drop the receiving stolen property charge, if not, you’ll be eating Her Majesty’s porridge for a very long time.”
“I’ll co-operate with you in every way I can, Mr. Frost.” “I knew you would, Sammy. Now put your coat on. We’re going walkies to the cop shop.”
The pawnbroker was crestfallen. “The station. But you said…”
“To look at some mug shots,” explained Frost. “To see if you can’t pick us out the bloke with the shooter. It’s part of co-operating with us every way you can.”
Glickman sat in Frost’s office hunched over yet another book of photographs that the bearded detective constable had dumped on the desk. His head was aching and the cup of stewed tea they had reluctantly provided to help him swallow the aspirins for his headache was sending acid ripples across his stomach. He wished he’d never admitted he could identify the gunman so he could now be indoors, in his cosy little flat above the shop, filling in his insurance claim form.
He sighed at the unfairness of life and opened the latest book, screwing his eyes as the monotonous rows of criminal faces shivered in and out of focus. He had looked at so many photographs he was now beginning to doubt his ability to recognize the man with the shooter even if he saw him face to face. A cough from the bearded detective prodded him to hurry so the current album could be replaced by yet another. The world seemed to be jam-packed with photographed criminals.
A creak as the door opened slowly, and Inspector Frost backed in carrying three more lethal mugs of stewed police tea. Dumping one in front of the pawnbroker, he asked, “Any luck yet?”
Glickman’s head shook from side to side. “I’ve never seen so many ugly faces in all my life.”
“You wait till you see Mr. Mullett’s wedding photos,” said Frost.
Glickman couldn’t even manage a polite laugh. He turned the page and scowled down on rows of faces all
