A Splinter of Glass

By John Creasey

A major gold bullion robbery has been pulled off by a totally ruthless and terrifying gang, ‘The Bullion Boys’. Murder along the way is if no consequence to them. Now, they must protect their haul and as they become increasingly desperate so the threat of violence increases. Roger West of Scotland Yard, its finest and most methodical detective, must solve the case, but the only clue he possesses is a splinter of glass.

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Stratus
• Release date: Nov 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780755138050

John Creasey

Master crime fiction writer John Creasey's near 600 titles have sold more than 80 million copies in over 25 languages under both his own name and ten other pseudonyms. His style varied with each identity and led to him being regarded as a literary phenomena. Amongst the many series written were 'Gideon of Scotland Yard', 'The Toff', 'The Baron', 'Dr. Palfrey' and 'Inspector West', as JJ Marric, Michael Halliday, Patrick Dawlish and others. During his lifetime Creasey enjoyed an ever increasing reputation both in the UK and overseas, especially the USA. This was further enhanced by constant revision of his works in order to assure the best possible be presented to his readers and also by many awards, not least of which was being honoured twice by the Mystery Writers of America, latterly as Grand Master. He also found time to found the Crime Writers Association and become heavily involved in British politics - standing for Parliament and founding a movement based on finding the best professionals in each sphere to run things. 'He leads a field in which Agatha Christie is also a runner.' - Sunday Times.

Book preview

Chapter One

The Splinter

Detective Officer Venables snatched his hand from the floor, and drew in a hissing breath. It echoed strangely about the big, empty room, reaching the hall where two men were talking. Venables, who had been crouching, sprang up like a jack in the box and looked at the puncture in his right forefinger. Blood was already welling up into a tiny globule which grew larger and began to run over the finger and drip on to the floor. He put his finger to his mouth and sucked, and at the same time took a handkerchief from the left hand pocket of his loose fitting grey tweed jacket. Doing so, he caught sight of a man standing in the doorway.

Finger in mouth, handkerchief ballooning as he shook it out of its folds, one of the youngest detectives in London’s Metropolitan Police Force came face to face with one of its senior and most renowned detectives: Chief Detective Superintendent Roger West.

Venables snatched his hand away, unaware that he smeared blood over his lip and chin.

Hurt yourself? demanded West.

Er—it’s nothing, sir. Just a splinter of glass.

They can be very painful, West said, glancing down at Venables’ right hand. The finger was throbbing painfully and the warm blood flowed. That’s more than a splinter, he went on. Let me have a look.

Reluctantly, Venables did so. He felt a little foolish and also felt chagrined, for this was the first time he had worked on a case with Handsome West in charge and he had had dreams of distinguishing himself. There was little chance now! Here was West, holding his wrist and turning the hand palm upwards and then straightening the forefinger by holding it on each side of the nail, as if he had had a lot of practice; as indeed he had, with his children. The blood still welled up.

Is the water still on here, do you know? he asked.

Yes, sir—at all events, the W.C. works.

Get that finger under the cold water tap, advised West. And you’ll need an antiseptic and a plaster. Green! he called.

Another man, who had stayed out of sight, came to the doorway.

Sir?

What Green saw became indelibly printed on his mind. West, a six footer, broad but lean at waist and hips, with hair that looked as flaxen as when he had joined the Force over twenty years ago, holding the hand of the very tall, very thin Venables, whose black hair was so thick and unruly it was almost as if he had given up trying to groom it. Clean shaven, his skin appearing unusually white by contrast to his hair, he had big eyes and bushy black eyebrows. Where Roger West was good looking in a film star way – once his looks had been a very great disadvantage – Venables was a caricature: too tall, too thin, with hands and feet disproportionately large.

Get the first aid box from the car and take it along to the kitchen, Roger ordered.

Really, sir, it’s nothing, Venables protested weakly.

Looks as if you gashed your finger, Green said. I’ll get the box, sir.

He went off. Venables wrapped his handkerchief about the finger, thanking his luck and his mother that it was clean, and moved towards the door. When he reached the doorway he felt a wave of dizziness, and almost staggered. For a moment he could not think clearly, but as the dizziness passed he became acutely conscious of West again, and straightened up. But the effort was too much and he swayed.

West, coming from behind, took his elbow and without a word, led him towards the kitchen. This house followed the pattern of many which had been built between the wars: solidly built, with the front door leading on to a fairly wide hall from which two doors opened, both on the right. A staircase rose straight and steep, and alongside was a passage leading to a doorway, wide open, and a small room and a kitchen beyond. The window of the kitchen was right opposite the door, and showed autumn leaves from fruit trees carpeting a long, narrow garden.

Passage, communicating room and kitchen were all empty. Footsteps of other policemen sounded on the bare boards overhead; West’s and Venables’ footsteps echoed in the narrower confines down here. The kitchen was fairly large, the sink unit, the only piece of equipment in the room, being in one corner behind the door.

West turned on the cold tap, and water spouted.

They certainly cleaned this place up, he remarked.

Looks like a professional job, Venables said. He still felt foolish and disconsolate, now that the dizzy spell had passed, he could not understand what had come over him. West adjusted the tap so that water flowed at a gentle pace, and then, holding Venables’ wrist, place the finger under the tap. Blood had flowed up into the crook of the fingers and spread along all the lines, making palm and fingers look like a map etched in bright red. With his other hand, West pushed back the cuff of Venables’ jacket sleeve; there was a button off the shirt cuff, so that went up too.

Suddenly Venables gave a nervous little laugh.

What’s funny? asked West, mildly.

This reminds me of a time when I was a kid, and cut my finger, Venables said. "My father did exactly the same as you have, and there was a button off that shirt cuff, too."

My wife used to spend her life sewing on buttons and mending tears. How does that feel?

It stings a bit, sir, but it’s nothing to worry about, really.

Roger West peered more closely at the finger, washed nearly clean of blood and revealing a small but obviously deep gash; a typical cut from broken glass. It looked clean enough. He placed his thumbs on either side of the cut, and pressed slightly, opening it; blood flowed again. He let it close and then pressed on top of the cut itself.

Hurt?

Not to say hurt, sir.

It would if there was any glass left in, Roger said. He heard Green coming along the passage, carrying a small first aid box which was standard equipment for all police cars in the Metropolitan area, and a roll of paper towelling. He stood aside, so that Green could take over, and asked almost as an afterthought: What did you mean by a ‘professional job’, Venables?

Venables thought: so he knows my name.

The way it was cleaned out, sir—hardly a speck of dust and the woodwork seemed polished.

How did you get that splinter?

Well, sir, said Venables, while Green was dabbing an antiseptic soaked cotton wool ball on the cut, I wasn’t sure whether the floor had been wax polished or whether it had been treated with Perma-Pol, that stuff which just has to be swept or vacuumed and lasts for years.

What was it, in fact? asked West.

Wax, sir. I was scraping some off with my fingernail.

More fool you, declared Green.

That remark, reflected Roger, explained why burly Green, at thirty nine, would never be more than a detective sergeant, whereas Venables, who couldn’t be much more than twenty five, would probably become an inspector in a comparatively short time. These days, promotion came quickly to a good man, and forty was a fairly common retiring age. There was no point in saying that this was a useful piece of investigation; no point in ruffling Green.

Any idea how long it had been done? asked Roger.

Fairly recently, sir. I’d already tried one spot and sniffed: the smell of the polish was fairly strong. Hadn’t hung about the room much, though. The windows must have been left open for some time, unless whoever did it used an air freshening spray. Venables’ words were in no way boastful or self righteous; he was very matter of fact about the whole thing, taking it for granted that observing and checking such things was his job. Do we know how long the house has been empty, sir?

Six days, answered Roger, according to local information gathered from several sources.

I thought it was seven—sir, Green intervened. He seemed a little put out, possibly because Venables’ information was being taken so seriously. I think this will be all right now, if I put a plaster on fairly tightly.

Nice work, Roger approved.

Sir, said Venables.

Yes?

May I know what we’re looking for? Venables tried to repress his eagerness but did not succeed. You mean you haven’t been told?

Er—not specifically, Venables said. I—er—I was just told to look for anything left behind by the previous occupiers, and any marks on the floor, walls and paintwork. There are very few, sir—everything has been so thoroughly cleaned. That’s why I thought it must be a professional job, sir. The paintwork has been washed with a strong detergent, so have the walls, which have a washable paint or distemper covering.

Roger West remarked: A really professional job, then. Yes: you may know why we’re in this house, but keep it to yourself, we don’t want a leakage to the newspapers. We have a pretty strong clue that some of the bullion from the London docks was brought here.

Bullion! exclaimed Venables.

Gold bars, explained Green, as if to a child.

Why, over a half million pounds’ worth was hi-jacked! Venables gasped.

That’s right, Roger agreed.

It must have been over six months ago, surely.

Eight, volunteered Green, as he finished placing the plaster into position. That should be all right.

Thanks. Venables pressed the injured finger gingerly. Seems fine.

Sergeant, Roger said to Green, go and see how things are getting on upstairs. And then take one officer and start checking the neighbours. We need to know if there have been many movements of vans or trucks noticed about the time the tenants left. We may have to make it a full scale check but see what information you get first.

Right, sir. Green went off with the first aid box, and soon they heard him clumping up the uncarpeted stairs.

Gosh! exclaimed Venables, boyishly. "You mean that the place may have been cleaned up to make sure there were no traces of gold left? Tell you what there is, sir—in this little in between room. The gangling man actually started for the in between room first, then stood aside for Roger to go ahead. This room had only a small window of frosted glass, so was very dark. There was a door leading to a kind of alleyway outside, and Venables pushed past Roger to open this; chill air and bright daylight swept in. See, sir?" He pointed to the floor alongside the wall which divided the room from the kitchen.

This was a tile covered floor, sealed at the skirting boards, as washrooms sometimes were. Some patches showed at one side, where a machine – or something heavy – had been stuck to the tiles; after the machine had been removed the adhesive had been scraped and sanded off; with the door closed, these marks had not shown up.

Something pretty heavy stood there, remarked Venables. See how the cement between the tiles is cracked?

Yes. What would you say it was? asked West.

Well, sir, if I didn’t know the association I might have said a big boiler, there’s been a flue here at one time or another. He pointed to a sealed hole in the ceiling. But too long ago to have been used recently. At a guess, I’d say a lathe—something you could turn the gold bars on, sir, and make shavings. Much easier to melt shavings down than the bars or ingots, and they could then make small bars which would be quite easy to carry and distribute. When West looked at him very straightly but didn’t comment, Venables went on anxiously; Don’t you think so, sir?

It’s quite possible, Roger conceded. We need some of those tiles up, to see if any gold filings worked their way underneath.

Good idea, sir, approved Venables happily. "Did you see that film Paint Your Wagon, by any chance? Quite good, in a way—there was a gang which tunnelled under the floorboards of bars and saloons where gold dust was used as cash, to filch all the dust which slipped between the cracks."

I don’t think we need to do any tunnelling, Roger said drily. "But we certainly need some of these tiles up. And the skirting boards need checking. My car’s outside. Go and tell Information on the radio that we need tools to get the job done. And it’s urgent," he added, almost grimly.

I’ll tell them, sir! Venables went off eagerly, holding his right hand chest high, as if to prevent it from throbbing.

Roger followed the young man thoughtfully. Venables was very bright and unself conscious and with luck and the right experience, would become a very good detective indeed. His appearance, although against him at first sight, didn’t really matter at all. He walked very lightly, in spite of his big feet, and all of his movements were supple, not clumsy in the way of many tall men.

Roger turned into the front room where Venables had caught his hand on the splinter of glass. Little spots of blood, now coagulated to chocolate brown, indicated the position. Roger went down on one knee, to examine the boards and to look for the splinter. At first he didn’t see it, and almost automatically he began to draw his finger along the polished surface, but suddenly he snatched it away: this was how Venables had cut himself. He couldn’t see the splinter, which was odd. Then, so was the whole place. He didn’t have very much doubt that the gold had been stored here, and that his clue had come too late.

That wasn’t surprising, since it had come from a dead man: a note caught in the lining of a wallet, giving the address: 17, Lyon Avenue, Chiswick, London, W.4. It was a long and peculiar story. For the dead man, David Margerison, was the only one who had been positively identified after the lorry load of gold had been hijacked from the London docks in as brazen a way as any crime committed in the past ten years. The call for Margerison, who had been recognised by one of the Port of London Authority policemen in charge of security inside the docks, had gone out at once. Not only all the police in Britain but Interpol had been asked to keep a lookout for him. There had been the usual crop of mistaken identities and no real clue about Margerison’s whereabouts until his body had been found, floating just beneath the surface of the Thames at Hammersmith – very close to Lyon Avenue. It had been hauled out of the water at half past nine; by half past ten, Roger had been told of the note in his wallet; by eleven o’clock, police from the Yard had arrived here.

It would have been difficult to work more quickly.

Studying the floorboards he suddenly got up, went to his case which Green had left in the hall, unlocked it and took out a magnifying glass with a finger long handle, fitted with a tiny battery and light. He went back to the spot and used the glass, focussing it until he could see tiny cracks in wood and polish which he hadn’t noticed before.

Ah! There was the splinter.

It had lodged nearly parallel with the boards, either entering where one had been split, or else splitting it, and a trick of light from the window concealed it from most angles. There was no sign of blood on it but there was a spot of blood very close. He took out a penknife and began to pry and probe, gradually loosening the splinter. As he worked it away from the wood, he saw how large it was – about an inch long and point narrow at one end, flat at the other, which was about as wide as a stick from a book of matches and jagged at the edge Venables had caught with his finger. Along one side there was a line of blue, which might prove