interest. Roger went to the slab which was being used as a table and looked through the oddments already on it. A sodden handkerchief, keys and a small knife on a chain, a small reel of Scotch tape, three credit cards, common in the United States, little known in England. They showed the name of Ed Scammel.
He took them to the searcher.
Where did you find these?”
“Funny thing,” the man said. “You’d expect them to be in his wallet, wouldn’t you? They weren’t, though. The lining of his pocket was torn, these were inside the lining. I was just checking the unlikely places first.”
“Good,” said Roger. “Sergeant — what’s your name?”
“Day, sir.”
“Day, don’t tell anyone this man was probably an American. Don’t tell the others in the office, just have it on record he’s not identified yet but there’s nothing unusual about him. Clear?”
There was a chorus of “yes, sirs”.
“Thanks.” Roger examined everything taken from the dead man’s pockets, but nothing seemed to offer help.
The door opened, and Wirral came in, lowering his head to miss the lintel. Roger and Sloan went across to him. For a few moments they stayed near the door, while the others continued to work, shooting curious glances towards them.
“Raincoat took a taxi, George got another,” he said. “You satisfied him, I should think. I’ll have word from Stebber’s Garage in ten minutes or so.”
“Fine,” said Roger, and smiled, trying to relax; but he couldn’t.
He had, in fact, been unable to relax since the moment he had heard that the child had been kidnapped. The kidnapping had tied a knot in his vitals, and everything else had drawn the knot tighter; even Lissa Meredith. Now, he wanted evidence of an association between the American found in the Thames with his throat slashed, the missing child, the Austin A70 with the American driver, and the Buick which had been seen at London Airport. Kidnapping was always vicious, standing out wickedly among crimes, the work of criminals without feeling, ruthless, deadly. Like the murder of the man whose credit cards named him as Ed Scammel, of Elizabeth, New Jersey. Behind all that was the atmosphere Marino and Lissa had created. From being relaxed to a point of boredom on his way to the Yard that morning, he had become as taut as a wire rope: a thin wire rope.
“Fine,” he repeated. “Wirral, I’ve asked these chaps not to mention that the dead man is American. That really matters, for an hour or so. Fix it, will you?” He hardly gave Wirral time to nod. “Will you have everything found in his pockets packed up and taken to the Yard right away? Marked for me, to go into Hardy’s office.” That was the one way he could make sure that no one blundered.
“Yes,” said Wirral. “What else?”
Roger grinned.
“How soon can I have a picture of the chap?”
“I’ll have one rushed through,” Wirral promised.
“Get plenty done, we might need ‘em soon,” Roger said.
Ten minutes later, they were back at the police station. The message from Stebber’s Garage had arrived: no one had been seen hanging about the garage, it had been just another day, except for Peel’s inquiries about the Austin A70.
The wet print came up quicker than Roger had expected. He put it between a fold of blotting-paper before going out.
Stebber’s was just another garage, small, untidy, reeking of petrol and oil, with two youths and a mechanic in dirty overalls, one at a bench, two with their faces buried in the engine of a fifteen-year-old car. There was the usual hoist on its thick, greased pole; the steady beat of an engine charging accumulators and batteries made a monotonous song. Stebber was a little plump man in a stained grey suit, who came hurrying from a small office, glass walled on three sides. He had a pencil behind his right ear, grubby fat cheeks creased in a smile that was probably more anxious than it looked. He rubbed his hands together.
“What can I do for you, gents?”
Roger showed his card. “About this American and the Austin A70 — did he give you an address?”
“No, sir, he didn’t,” said Stebber, and now the anxiety showed through. “Not that there was any need,” he added defensively. “Just wanted the job done quick. There’s no law that says —”
“Had you seen the man before?”
“No, and I ain’t seen him since. I’ve answered all these questions once, and —”
“I’m just checking up,” Roger said.
“Stolen, was it?”
“We’d like to find it,” Roger temporized. “Any special characteristics, did you notice?”
“No, I didn’t, but Bert, that’s the mechanic who did the job, wasn’t in when the other cop — the other ‘tec come,
“Only
“Bert!” bellowed Stebber.
Bert was in dingy white overalls and a new trilby hat with a few oily fingermarks on the brim. He had seen cars fitted to take two or three number plates — examined them for the police, he explained — and this Austin might have been fitted for that, but there had been only one number plate.
