Eye of the Needle(51)

He stirred in his chair, trying to shake off his thoughts so that he could sleep. England was full of heroes, Godliman had said. Well, if Die Nadel got away…

First things first….

Someone shook him. He was in a very deep sleep, dreaming that he was in a room with Die Nadel but could not pick him out because Die Nadel had blinded him with a stiletto. When he awoke he still thought he was blind because he could not see who was shaking him, until he realized he simply had his eyes closed. He opened them to see the large uniformed figure of Superintendent Anthony above him.

Bloggs raised himself to a more upright position and rubbed his eyes. “Got something?” he asked.

“Lots of things,” Anthony said. “Question is, which of ’em counts? Here’s your breakfast.” He put a cup of tea and a biscuit on the desk and went to sit on the other side of it.

Bloggs left his easy chair and pulled a hard chair up to the desk. He sipped the tea. It was weak and very sweet. “Let’s get to it,” he said.

Anthony handed him a sheaf of five or six slips of paper.

Bloggs said, “Don’t tell me these are the only crimes in your area—”

“Of course not,” Anthony said. “We’re not interested in drunkenness, domestic disputes, blackout violations, traffic offenses, or crimes for which arrests have already been made.”

“Sorry,” Bloggs said. “I’m still waking up. Let me read these.”

There were three house burglaries. In two of them valuables had been taken—jewelry in one case, furs in another. Bloggs said, “He might steal valuables just to throw us off the scent. Mark these on the map, will you? They may show some pattern.” He handed the two slips back to Anthony. The third burglary had only just been reported, and no details were available. Anthony marked the location on the map.

A Food Office in Manchester had been robbed of hundreds of ration books. Bloggs said, “He doesn’t need ration books—he needs food.” He set that one aside. There was a bicycle theft just outside Preston and a rape in Birkenhead. “I don’t think he’s a rapist, but mark it anyway,” Bloggs told Anthony.

The bicycle theft and the third of the house burglaries were close together. Bloggs said, “the signal box that the bike was stolen from—is that on the main line?”

“Yes, I think so,” Anthony said.

“Suppose Faber was hiding on that train and somehow we missed him. Would the signal box be the first place the train stopped at after it left Liverpool?”

“It might be.”

Bloggs looked at the sheet of paper. “An overcoat was stolen and a wet jacket left in its place.”

Anthony shrugged. “Could mean anything.”

“No cars stolen?”

“Nor boats, nor donkeys,” Anthony replied. “We don’t get many car thefts these days. Cars are easy to come by—it’s petrol people steal.”

“I felt sure he’d steal a car in Liverpool,” Bloggs said. He thumped his knee in frustration. “A bicycle isn’t much use to him, surely.”

“I think we should follow it up, anyway,” Anthony pressed. “It’s our best lead.”

“All right. But meanwhile, double-check the burglaries to see whether food or clothing was pinched—the victims might not have noticed at first. Show Faber’s picture to the rape victim, too. And keep checking all crimes. Can you fix me transport to Preston?”

“I’ll get you a car,” Anthony said.

“How long will it take to get details of this third burglary?”

“They’re probably interviewing at this minute,” Anthony said. “By the time you reach the signal box I should have the complete picture.”

“Don’t let them drag their feet.” Bloggs reached for his coat. “I’ll check with you the minute I get there.”





“ANTHONY? This is Bloggs. I’m at the signal box.”

“Don’t waste any time there. The third burglary was your man.”

“Sure?”

“Unless there are two buggers running around threatening people with stiletto knives.”

“Who?”

“Two old ladies living alone in a little cottage.”

“Oh, God. Dead?”

“Not unless they died of excitement.”

“Eh?”

“Get over there. You’ll see what I mean.”

“I’m on my way.”





IT WAS the kind of cottage that is always inhabited by two elderly ladies living alone. It was small and square and old, and around the door grew a wild rose bush fertilized by thousands of pots of used tea leaves. Rows of vegetables sprouted tidily in a little front garden with a trimmed hedge. There were pink-and-white curtains at the leaded windows, and the gate creaked. The front door had been painted painstakingly by an amateur, and its knocker was made from a horseshoe.

Bloggs knock was answered by an octogenarian with a shotgun.

He said, “Good morning. I’m from the police.”

“No, you’re not,” she said. “They’ve been already. Now get going before I blow your head off.”

Bloggs regarded her. She was less than five feet tall, with thick white hair in a bun and a pale, wrinkled face. Her hands were matchstick-thin, but her grasp on the shotgun was firm. The pocket of her apron was full of clothes-pegs. Bloggs looked down at her feet, and saw that she was wearing a man’s working boots. He said: “The police you saw this morning were local. I’m from Scotland Yard.”