Buried Treasure.
As so often happened, Bodie and Doyle met as they parked their cars in the yard at C.I5 Headquarters. So they ascended the stairs together. Doyle was trying hard to elicit from his friend which girl he'd favoured with his company the previous evening, and Bodie was being provocatively evasive.
They were still bickering light-heartedly as they entered the duty-room, to see what was on their list for today. Against both names it just said, 'see Cowley.' So they turned on their heels, moved a few yards down the corridor and tapped on the boss's door.
A brisk 'Come' took them in. Cowley was standing behind his desk, reading some papers in a file. He looked up as they entered.
"The name Jim Ferris mean anything to you ?," he asked.
A 'yes' and a 'no' came simultaneously from the pair in front of him.
"When I encountered him," Doyle clarified, "he was a small-time thug, given to a bit of GBH, but I haven't met up with him for years."
"And you won't again," said Cowley. "His body washed up in the Thames last night, with a bullet-hole in his head."
"Any significance for us ?," queried Doyle.
"Not really," replied Cowley. "It was just in the routine police report that I get daily, and I know you have a good memory for odd villains you may have come across in your police days."
"As I recall," said Doyle thoughtfully, "he worked for the Rinaldi brothers. They were a minor group then, not the full-scale villains they are now."
"Ah, yes," said Cowley with a grimace. "Carlo, Bruno and Felix, a nasty lot that we haven't been able to quite pin down yet."
He closed the folder, put it down on the desk, and picked up another. "However," he said, "That's not what we're on today." And he went on to discuss with his top team, the reports that had come in about a new dealer on the drug scene.
They began to work on these, following up on every little lead that came to light, and success came quite quickly. Some of the addicts they encountered were so 'out of their heads' that it was comparatively easy to persuade them to tell all they knew. The rogue dealer was picked with quite a lavish haul still in his pockets, and was passed on to the police drugs squad to deal with.
As they reported in the next morning, Bodie was passed a message that his friend Martell would like a word with him. As Martell was a legitimate, if slightly dodgy, arms dealer, who wouldn't have bothered them if it wasn't important, they arranged to meet him that afternoon on the Woolwich Ferry, his favourite rendezvous place.
It turned out to be a pleasant break, for it was a sunny afternoon, and the muddy waters of the Thames actually managed quite an attractive sparkle, as the vessel made its ponderous way across. They found a secluded corner, and Martell came quickly to the point.
"I think C.I.5 might be interested," he began. "We've been getting rumours of some illegal gun trading, - arms being brought in, hidden up, and then shipped out again to prohibited groups abroad."
"The Rinaldi brothers ?," queried Doyle.
"No," replied Martell, "It's not them ! Oh, we know that they do get up to that sort of activity, but they are far to fly to leave traces that would let anything be pinned on them."
"Don't we know it," said Bodie bitterly, "We've been after them for ages."
"This is someone else," went on Martell. "I've heard he's come over from Italy, _ he's certainly using an Italian code name – 'Corsaro' – means corsair or pirate."
"We've not come across that yet," said Doyle, thoughtfully. "Do you know any more about him ?"
But Martell declared that he didn't, and Bodie trusted him, even if his mate was a little dubious.
On the way back to base, the pair decided that as the rumour was so tenuous, they would make some enquiries among their best informants before taking it to Cowley. They knew, anyway, that if their boss had had any information on the issue, they would have been told of it.
When they reported in to Cowley the next day, he was again skimming through his daily police report.
"Another body in the Thames," he commented. "Know this one, Doyle ?," he asked, passing the paper to him.
Doyle ran his eye rapidly down the page. This time the name meant nothing to him. He was about to pass the paper back, when something in the description of the victim caught his eye.
"Sir," he exclaimed excitedly, inadvertently interrupting what Cowley was saying to Bodie.
The other two looked towards him and he quickly apologised. "It's this bit here, sir," he explained. "It says the man was wearing a red T-shirt with the logo 'CORSARO' on it."
Then he and Bodie went on to explain to their boss what Martell had wanted to tell them. He listened intently, for it was the first he'd heard of it.
"It wasn't an accidental drowning," went on Doyle. "This man was shot in the head, just like Jim Ferris."
"So ?," queried Bodie, not understanding what his mate was getting at.
"Don't you see ?," said Doyle. "First one of Rinaldi's men, and then this one, both killed in a similar way."
"Ah," exclaimed Cowley, catching on. "You are thinking perhaps we've got a 'gang war' !"
"Good," said Bodie. "Let them get on with it, and wipe each other out."
Both the others glared at him, for the callous flippancy of this remark.
"We'd better intensify our enquiries," ordered Cowley. "Make it a priority."
They really did try to do so, putting several men onto it, but achieved very little success. Nobody seemed to know much about 'Corsaro' !
Then suddenly something happened that changed the situation !
Cowley heard it first from the police. Bruno, the middle one of the Rinaldi brothers, had been badly injured in a car crash, and had been rushed to Vale hospital.
Acting on a sudden intuitive guess, Cowley contacted the appropriate section of the police, and was told, as he had expected, that the incident was not considered an 'accident'.
Swift action was imperative. He called the switchboard. "Where are Bodie and Doyle ?," he demanded.
"They're off this morning," answered the man on duty. "They did a double shift last night when Forbes and Spenlow were taken ill."
"Oh, yes, I remember," said Cowley. "Well, find them fast, and tell them to meet me at Vale hospital, on the double."
Doyle was quickly found. He'd just got back to his flat with some grocery shopping, and was unshipping his purchases into his 'fridge. He responded at once to the urgent order, and was swiftly on his way.
Bodie took a little longer, but was found in a café near Covent Garden, where he was entertaining an attractive young florist's assistant that he was getting to know. Although with some reluctance, he quickly made his apologies, and left abruptly.
Doyle got to the hospital first, and waited by the entrance. He was joined moments later by his boss.
"Where's Bodie ?," demanded Cowley, as he greeted his man.
"On his way _ almost here," replied Doyle, and as if to confirm it, they heard the sound of a car being pushed as only Bodie could do it. They watched him sweep in, and spin neatly into a convenient space. He climbed out and quickly joined the other two.
"What's up ?," he enquired cheerfully. His boss explained.
"Bruno Rinaldi has been badly injured in a car crash _ and it wasn't an accident," he informed them succinctly.
"Hell's bells," exclaimed Bodie. "The Rinaldi's will run amok, _ we really will have a 'gang war;."
"That's why I'm here so fast," said Cowley. "I'm hoping I might be able to prevent it." He led the way into the entrance. "I want to talk to Carlo Rinaldi, _ he's not a fool."
He made a quick enquiry at the reception desk, and then gestured towards the lift.
"Third floor," he told them, "Room 129."
They were only just in time !
As they moved along the corridor, searching for the designated number, two men emerged from a door further along and came towards them. The younger of the two looked very angry, and was spouting a torrent of Italian, loudly and furiously. The pair stopped as the three C.I.5 men moved towards them.
"What do you want, Cowley ?," shouted Felix, "Come to gloat, have you ?"
"Certainly not," said Cowley firmly, as the older man put a restraining hand on his brother's arm. "How is Bruno ?," he asked politely.
"Not too bad," responded Carlo Rinaldi. "He will recover, in time. But have you heard, Cowley, that it was no 'accident' ?."
"Yes," replied Cowley, "and I understand Felix's anger, but I think we should talk about it a little more calmly."
Carlo Rinaldi nodded in cautious agreement.
"The waiting room just back there is empty at the moment," said Cowley. "Shall we go there ?."
Felix looked ready to protest, until he eyed the back-up behind Cowley, and knew they would insist, with force, if necessary, and decided to comply. The five men moved into the empty waiting room, closed the door and found themselves seats.
Felix still looked mutinous but a few quick words from his brother silenced him.
"Taci ! Ascolteremo e poi fare quello che vogliamo," said Carlo fiercely. ( Be quiet.! We will listen, and then do as we choose.)
But little did either of them realise that Cowley understood every word they had said, thanks to his military experience. He smiled inwardly. It was no more than he had expected, but it was now up to him to persuade them into giving him a little bit of co-operation. He got straight to the point.
"Are you blaming Corsaro for your brother's accident ?," he asked.
Felix's face showed astonishment, and even Carlo's austere countenance, schooled to give nothing away, showed a flicker of surprise.
Good, thought Cowley to himself, one up to me.
"Did you think that we didn't know about Corsaro ?," he queried. "Don't underestimate us, Rinaldi, - we know more than you imagine."
The older brother gave the C.I.5 head a calculating look. Perhaps he had underestimated him.
"Have you any proof that Corsaro was responsible ?," went on Cowley.
"No, nothing definite," Carlo admitted reluctantly.
"That's the problem, isn't it ?," continued Cowley. "This Corsaro has only recently come on the scene, and already we suspect him of many nefarious activities, including bringing in guns, and selling them on illicitly. But we, too, need proof."
"He covers his tracks well," said Carlo thoughtfully.
Just as you do, thought Cowley. Then he started in on his main aim. "No doubt you plan revenge," he stated baldly. "But we do not want the start of a 'vendetta' on our streets."
"What do you suggest ?," asked Carlo cautiously.
"An exchange of information," declared Cowley. "If we pool what we know we may be able to remove him without bloodshed."
Rinaldi looked a little doubtful, and Felix was scowling. Co-operation with the police was something unheard of in their world, and they were very suspicious.
"Think about it," ordered Cowley. "No doubt you'll be visiting your brother tomorrow. Meet us here, same time. But in the meantime, no more bodies in the Thames. Understood ?."
Rinaldi nodded, and watched thoughtfully as Cowley rose to his feet, and led his men away.
As they emerged from the hospital entrance, Bodie ventured a question. "Do you think you'll get anything, sir," he asked curiously.
"I really don't know," replied his boss. "But I hope I've prevented an attack on Corsaro. Or maybe I'm just stalling – playing for time."
The following day the three C.I.5 men turned up together and made their way to the designated waiting-room. Fortunately, it was again empty. A few moments later they were joined by Carlo Rinaldi, on his own. He apologised for his brother's absence.
"Felix is young and impulsive," he said. "He is all for action. He does not think too deeply."
"And you do ?," asked Cowley.
"I agree with you that we do not want a war on our streets," said Carlo, "but there is not a lot I can tell you."
"Anything would be a help," said Cowley encouragingly.
"I am not totally sure about this," said Carlo slowly, "but it may be worth your investigation."
"Go on," said Cowley.
"You know those old abandoned factories, in the East End, down by the area called Fraser's Wharf ?," began Rinaldi.
"Yes," said Cowley, "I hear there's work to resuscitate some of them."
"That is true," said Carlo, surprised that Cowley knew. "Though it is proceeding very slowly, - one at a time, I understand, starting at the southern end. The buildings at the northern end are even more derelict and dangerous."
"Well," he continued, "There are now two buildings in use. One of these is a depot where textile goods are brought in, and distributed to various markets. There is a manager in charge, by the name of Rocco. But we think that it is a front, - that Corsaro is using it as a cover."
"We'll follow that up," said Cowley. "Anything more ?."
"Not at the moment," replied Rinaldi. He was evidently being cautious. "But if I learn more, I will let you know."
The C.I.5 men had to be satisfied with that for the present. But at least the situation appeared to have been somewhat de-fused for the moment. Cowley made polite enquiries into Bruno's progress, and then they left.
Work was immediately started on enquiries about the old factories being rejuvenated. As Rinaldi had said, one was a textile staging-post. The bottom floor of the other one had been developed into a series of small offices, though, as yet, only half of these had been taken up. But enquiries established that these were occupied by legitimate small firms, who needed a postal address, and a phone number to help them deal with incoming orders for their products.
They were more interested in the textile storage depot, managed, as Carlo had said, by a man called Rocco. But in spite of a lot of searching, nothing doubtful was found. A report from an agent, who had gone in, purporting to be a potential customer, was pretty conclusive. He said that the whole of the ground floor was in use, open-plan, with shelves and benches laden with textile goods. A small wooden-partitioned office was in one corner, but there was no hidden storage space anywhere.
Cowley showed the report to Bodie and Doyle.
"Do you think Rinaldi is pulling a fast one," suggested Bodie, "trying to fob us off."
"I doubt it," replied Cowley. "Felix might, but Carlo has too much sense for that. No, I think it's a genuine rumour he's heard."
He looked again at the report in his hand. "Rocco has a shipment of goods coming in late on Thursday," he said, "So we are having that closely watched – that may tell us something."
Bodie and Doyle went in early on Friday morning hoping to catch this report. Cowley showed it to them and it made interesting reading.
The men watching had seen a number of crates unloaded from a small, shabby cargo ship that had pulled into Fraser's Wharf. A fork-lift was waiting and began moving the crates the short distance into the old factory depot run by Rocco. It seemed fairly routine, and much as they had expected.
But then had come an unexpected deviation. There were only a few crates still sitting on the wharf-side, when suddenly another vehicle appeared on the scene, - a small low-loader lorry. The crane from the ship went into action again, and lowered half-a-dozen crates straight onto its back platform. The driver and his mate quickly secured their load, and made off at speed.
There hadn't been time for the watchers to collect their car to pursue it, but one had had the sense to take several photographs with his 'night-light' camera.
"Now, I wonder where they shot off to," said Bodie.
And that was their problem. If this had been a shipment of arms for Corsaro, where had they gone ? Where was his hiding-place ?
"We'll just have to look for the big 'X'." said Bodie cheerfully.
The other two stared at him, not understanding his humour.
"Well," he explained, "Corsaro's a pirate, isn't he ? He's hidden his treasure somewhere. And hidden treasure is always marked with an X, isn't it ?"
Cowley scowled at his man, but Doyle laughed. "Right," he said, "Trouble is, mate, we haven't got the map."
The photographs had been rushed to a specialist unit, who had managed with their particular skills to 'blow-up' the number-plate of the vehicle. This had let them trace it to a small local firm.
Bodie and Doyle made their way there. They found that the vehicle had been returned that morning by the two men who had collected it the previous day. It was sitting there in the yard. Bodie immediately called in a forensic team, who swarmed all over it, but learned very little.
They got little help either, from the man currently in charge. He was elderly, and confused, standing in temporarily for his son, the owner, who was away on business. Being very flustered, he could only vaguely describe the men who had come for the lorry. Just ordinary workmen, was all he would say.
The pair took their report back to Cowley. None of them were very pleased about it. They had to admit that Corsaro was clever, leaving no loose ends and covering his tracks well.
A late report had come in from the 'photo-lab'. They had put in some work on the stencilled markings, barely visible on the crates, and these confirmed that they contained small arms. Bodie would have recognised the marks easily. It was his field of expertise.
Cowley had a brief meeting with Rinaldi, but told him only the barest facts. He did, however, confirm that C.I.5 now believed the rumours were true. There was someone, probably the man calling himself Corsaro, bringing in illicit arms. Every effort was being made to follow this up, and to discover where he was storing them.
A few days later, he received another message from Rinaldi. It said that he had heard that there had been some signs of activity in a similar block of old buildings one street away from Rocco's depot, and suggested that it might be worth a look.
Investigations were started, with difficulty, for these sites were in an even worse state than the lot by the wharf. Many were boarded up with large notices saying DANGER _ DO NOT ENTER. This was due to dodgy gas and electric connections awaiting expert attention. Many were beyond help and would soon be scheduled for demolition.
Marks in the dust at the building at the far end suggested that somebody had been ignoring this warning, though it was possible that the intruders could have been vagrants or potential squatters, or even super-adventurous children.
It was decided to make investigating this a covert night exercise, as too much attention during the day might alert any wrong-doer who saw it.
And of course, the assignment went to Bodie and Doyle.
So late one night they parked their car in a convenient side street, and, collecting a large torch, made their way towards their designated target. They approached cautiously, but all the doors were firmly secured. There were no lights anywhere, so they thought it safe to assume there was no-one about. A little sensitive jiggling with some skeleton keys soon had a small side door open, and they moved silently inside. The building was dark and empty, with the dust of years carpeting the floor. But a few marks in the dust did seem to suggest that the place had had visitors fairly recently. Following the scuff-marks by the light of the powerful torch, they came upon a solid-looking door. It was closed but not locked, and when opened, revealed steps down into a cellar. They descended these and began to look around the large space. There was very little to see except dark stone walls and layers of dust.
Then suddenly, without the least warning, there was the most tremendous explosion, and the whole building came crashing down upon them.
Doyle came to his senses slowly, aware of a splitting headache, and a mouthful of dust. He coughed heartily to clear his throat. Then suddenly he recalled what he had been doing just before blackness had descended upon him.
"Bodie," he called. Getting no immediate response, he yelled again loudly, "Bodie !."
"Steady on, mate," came a familiar voice out of the dark around him. "I'm not miles away."
Relief washed over Doyle, as he hoped his friend hadn't picked up on the note of panic in his voice.
"The torch," said Doyle, "I must have dropped it."
He moved to get up to search for it, and let out a sudden yelp.
"Ray," came Bodie's voice anxiously, "What's wrong ?."
"My elbow," replied Doyle, "It gave way. I must have done some damage."
He used his other arm to push himself up onto his knees, shedding small lumps of debris as he did so, and began to feel the ground all around him, searching for the missing torch. At last his fingers closed over the familiar object. He pressed the switch, and to his great relief it was still working. He swept the strong beam round in the direction where Bodie's voice had come from.
He didn't like what he saw !
His mate was lying flat on his face, with a large chunk of fallen masonry across his legs.
Scrambling to his feet, he hurried over to him. He ran the torch over the block of debris, and was relieved to see that it wasn't solid stone, but rather a big section of a breeze-block wall, evidently added to the building later. At least that wasn't quite so heavy, so it might not have done too much damage.
But as he attempted to transfer the torch to his other hand, so that he could try to shift the weight off his partner, he found that his left arm was totally useless, his fingers wouldn't even grip the torch.
Dismayed, he realised he wasn't going to be much use to his friend. He squatted down beside him and looked around. He spotted a small chunk of debris. Standing up, he used a foot to pull it nearer, and managed to prop up the torch so that its beam lit up the offending chunk of wall.
With a lot of contortions, using his teeth and his good hand, he managed to engage the zip on his jacket, and pull it up half-way. Then he tucked his useless left hand into it, making a make-shift sling.
Then he moved round to the other side of Bodie, took hold of the lump of wall, and tried with all his strength to lift it clear. But although he heaved with all the power he could muster one-handed, it didn't shift an inch. He tried again, grunting with the effort.
"Stop it, Ray !," ordered Bodie fiercely. "It's too heavy, and you'll only injure yourself further."
Doyle gave up and came round to squat beside his friend. "I'll have to get help," he said, trying to think how he would manage that. Then he remembered his radio-phone. Why didn't I think of that sooner, he berated himself. He pulled it out, but found that however much he pressed the button, and jiggled it about, there was no response. Now, was that because it had been damaged when he fell, or was it the preponderance of solid stone all around them ?
"Bodie," he said, "Your phone, is it working ?."
Even in the diffused light from the torch, he could see the ashamed and apologetic expression that crept over his friend's face. "Sorry, mate," Bodie admitted, "I left it in the car."
"You're always doing that," exclaimed Doyle, rather crossly. "Look," he said at last, "I'll have to leave you in the dark for a bit, while I scout round, to see if I can find a way out."
"Go ahead, sunshine," said Bodie cheerfully. "I'm not going anywhere."
Doyle stood up, picked up the torch, and began to move away, shining the strong beam on the walls and roof as he went. A few yards along, he encountered a pile of stone blocks and rubble, blocking any further progress that way. He lifted the beam to point towards the roof, and found a gaping hole.
Gazing upwards, he could see part of a wall, and beyond that, dark sky and stars. That might well be a way out, but it was of no use to him, as the edges of the hole were far too high for him to reach, even if he clambered up the heap of rubble. He turned back, reaching Bodie's recumbent form again, and told him what he had found.
"It's open to the sky," he reported. "So at least there's plenty of air. We won't suffocate.
"Might get a bit cold, though," mused Bodie. He's taking this very calmly, thought Doyle.
"Well I could always cuddle up to you to keep warm," he replied, trying to match his friend's manner.
"Could do worse," retorted Bodie.
"I'll try the other direction," said Doyle, "It's a big old place. The cellar extends quite a long way."
He carefully stepped round Bodie, and moved forward into the other section of the dark space. He flashed the torch beam around. This way the roof and walls seemed sound, apart from the heap of rubble on the right, where the steps that they had come down were demolished and clogged with debris from the building above. He eased past that, and moved on.
Then he made a real discovery.
Almost at the end of the cellar area, he came across several piles of wooden crates, half of them partly hidden under fallen debris. He recognised that the numbers stencilled on them indicated arms, though Bodie would know better than him what type,- that was his field.
Had they discovered Corsaro's 'hidden treasure' ?
He flashed the beam of the torch round the roof and the walls, but could see nothing that suggested a possible way out. Disappointed at that, he returned to sit down beside his mate. He told him what he had found.
"Well," said Bodie philosophically, "At least we know there was some truth in the rumour Rinaldi told us about."
Moving carefully because of his injured arm, Doyle eased himself down to lie alongside his friend. "It looks as if we'll have to possess ourselves in patience till the cavalry turn up," he said.
"What makes you think they will ?," asked Bodie mournfully.
"Course they will !," retorted Doyle, determined to lighten his partner's mood. "We'll be missed, and then they'll start calling on the radio-phone. When they don't get any answers, they'll look for the car."
"That'll take some time, grumbled Bodie morosely. "They don't know where to look."
"Yes, they do," retorted Doyle. "Cowley got the hint from Rinaldi. He knew we were investigating these abandoned factories."
He spoke cheerfully, trying to encourage his friend. "They'll find the car, and then they'll hear about the explosion, and if they don't put two and two together and make five, someone's going to get a rollicking for not using their intelligence."
"Hm," was Bodie's only response. Obviously he wasn't impressed, and lapsed into silence.
Doyle waited silently until his mate's regular breathing told him he had dozed off. Then he switched off the torch to conserve the battery, and very gently edged closer till their sides were touching. It was going to be a cold night.
Doyle dozed fitfully during the long night, as his elbow was causing him considerable pain, and he didn't seem able to position it in any way that helped.
So he awoke quickly when a sudden shout pervaded the silence.
"Hullo, anyone there ?," came a call.
Doyle sat up quickly, switched on the torch and scrambled to his feet. The first early light was showing through the hole open to the sky. He moved in that direction, and shone the torch beam upwards.
A ring of yellow hard hats edged the gaping hole, with concerned faces under them.
"Am I glad to see you," he called back, with a huge surge of relief.
"Doyle ?," called a voice he recognised, - Murphy's. "Are you all right ? What about Bodie. ?"
Doyle shouted back, trying to explain that Bodie was stuck under some masonry which he couldn't move. Even as he spoke, several hard hats moved out of sight, to be replaced a few moments later by booted feet as a couple of men began to descend into their prison, lowered on stout ropes. Soon they were beside him. Following the torch beam, he hurried them back to where Bodie was lying. He was just beginning to stir, blinking in the sudden light.
Using their own powerful torches, the men quickly assessed the situation. One returned to under the hole, and began shouting instructions to the men above. Things moved swiftly after that. Several more men descended into the cellar, bringing various bits of equipment.
Two of them were medics. One shot straight over to Bodie to assess his condition, while the other talked to Doyle. He could see at once that this man would not be able to climb a rope, even with help. He led him back to the hole, and called to someone above. A lifting harness was lowered. The medic helped Doyle into it, and soon both were pulled up and out. A thermal blanket was whipped round his shoulders, and he was hustled out of the building and into a waiting ambulance where the medics persuaded him to lie down, as they tried a preliminary assessment of his injury.
So he didn't actually see the clever work that was going on below, as the men used powerful jacks to shift the heavy slab off his mate. The medic looked Bodie over carefully and supervised as he was rolled gently onto a stretcher, with a precautionary back-board, and carefully hoisted out.
Having been given a pain-killing injection after a medic had tried to straighten his cramped arm, causing him acute agony, Doyle was only vaguely aware of the moment when his friend joined him in the ambulance. Wrapped in warm blankets, and only half 'with it', neither of them really appreciated the vehicle's swift passage through the early-morning deserted streets of London, as it sped them to St. Richard's Hospital
It was mid-morning when Cowley swept into the hospital, and was met by the ever-cheerful Dr. Fenton. He'd already had a report from Murphy, who had accompanied the pair in the ambulance. He had spoken with Doyle, who had woken up again. Doyle had been particularly anxious to pass on the information about the arms cache that he had found. Cowley had already issued orders about that.
He'd come to assess the condition of his men. "Well, Dr. Fenton," he demanded briskly, "How are they ?"
"Doyle's fine," replied the doctor in his usual cheerful manner. "He's done some damage to his left elbow, but I'm going to have a go at repairing that this afternoon. He usually heals pretty well. A couple of days, and then a few sessions with a physiotherapist should get him back on form."
"And Bodie ?," inquired Cowley.
"Might take a little longer," admitted Fenton. "He's on his way down to X-ray right now, so I'll know more later. Could be possible fractures. But we'll sort him out, never fear."
Cowley had to be satisfied with this first report. But he knew that Dr. Fenton would ensure that his men got the best care possible.
"I'll leave you with your problem, then," he said, and turned to leave.
"What problem is that ?," asked the doctor curiously, not understanding.
"Why, those two in your care at the same time," replied Cowley. "Do you put them in a room together, or keep them apart ?. Either way you'll have trouble, for they are not the most patient of patients, are they ?."
Dr. Fenton laughed. "We'll cope," he said. "I've got a new senior Sister, - she's a real dragon. She even scares me ! She'll sort them out, I expect." He grinned widely at the thought.
"Good luck," said Cowley.
.
Cowley returned to his office and sank wearily onto his seat at the big desk. He'd teased Dr. Fenton about having a problem with Bodie and Doyle, but he had quite a few of his own !
One aspect was being dealt with. A team of army engineers was on its way, to liaise with the police and the demolition squad at the site. They would ensure that the crates of arms were safely removed and transferred to somewhere secure.
But several questions remained to be answered. He still had to discover the cause of the explosion that had injured his men.
Could the place have been set up, booby-trapped ?
Could Corsaro, or even Rinaldi have been responsible ?
Or was it, as the police seemed to think, a gas explosion, an accident.
He would find out.
Cowley was feeling rather frustrated. They seemed to be making little progress in this case. He had been deprived of the services of his best team, and had little to show for it.
True, they had recovered a large quantity of illegal arms which would now not go to the terrorist groups they had been intended for. But they had nothing to link these with the man calling himself 'Corsaro', - nothing to prove he was behind it.
But then reports began to come in. The first was from the forensic team, who had taken pictures of the discovered crates, 'blown them up' for every detail, and now confirmed that these were the ones that had been put on the lorry at Fraser's Wharf. They were only part of the find, however, and they were working on trying to find out more about the bulk of the hidden cache.
Then, a day later, came a special report from the police. The demolition squad working to make the building safe, had found a body ! The police had investigated, naturally, and had come to the conclusion that it was probably the body of a tramp or vagrant, who had come in seeking a night's shelter. They concluded that he had either lit a cigarette, or tried to start a fire, and had, unfortunately, been too near a pocket of gas, which could have accumulated slowly from a leaking pipe, and so had caused the massive explosion.
Cowley read the report through carefully. It seemed to be the logical answer. So it had been purely an accident, and neither Corsaro nor Rinaldi were in any way involved. So there was nothing more to be done about that. But there weren't any other leads that he could think of, so they were rather at a standstill.
Just after mid-day on the following day there was a tap on his door. It opened and Doyle entered. He still had his arm in a sling, but he looked bright and alert. Although he didn't betray it by word or expression, Cowley was glad to see him. Doyle had a clever mind, and even incapacitated, he could still do good work, making enquiries and delving into records.
"Good afternoon, sir," Doyle said cheerfully. "I'm not back on active duty yet, as I've still to have some sessions with the 'physio', but I thought I'd come in and see if there's any progress."
Cowley quickly brought him up to date on the reports he had received.
"So it was only an accident," said Doyle thoughtfully, "but at least we found that cache of arms. They won't be going where they were intended, so some trouble's been averted."
"It leaves us very little to go on," said Cowley morosely.
"I've had an idea about that," replied Doyle. "I was wondering whether we got all we could about the men driving the lorry. I'd like to go to that yard again."
"You're not back on duty," protested his boss.
"I know, sir," said Doyle, "but I can still talk to people and ask questions."
Cowley saw the sense of this, of course.
"Besides," went on Doyle, "We won't have Bodie back for a while, his leg's quite badly damaged. So I'll have to work with someone else, and for now it might as well be a driver to ferry me around."
Cowley thought about it and decided to comply. "Right," he said. "Go and get a coffee in the canteen, while I see what I can arrange."
He knew who he wanted to send with Doyle, - Murphy, who would see that he didn't overdo it, but he wasn't sure what he was currently working on.
Doyle had just finished his coffee, when his friend came in and walked up to the table where he was sitting.
"One chauffer reporting for duty," Murphy said with a smile.
"Great," replied Doyle, very pleased. If he'd had any choice, it would have been Murphy. The pair left together and made their way to the yard, and Murphy's choice of car from the pool.
"Where do you want to go ?, " asked Murphy, as they settled themselves comfortably.
"The yard where the low-loader was hired," replied Doyle and gave him directions.
It didn't take them long to reach the yard, and Murphy pulled neatly into convenient space. A man came out of the office, and walked towards them.
"Can I help you ?," he asked politely.
"We've come about your low-loader," Murphy began.
"You wish to hire it ?," said the man in a rather disbelieving tone. They didn't look the type.
Quickly Doyle drew out his I.D. card and explained who they were. The man led them into the office, and introduced himself as Philip Fordham, the owner of the business.
"What's it all about ?," he asked.
Doyle began to explain about the lorry, but Fordham interrupted him.
"When was this ?," he asked worriedly, and Doyle told him.
"That must have been when I was up North on business," he said. "Dad was in charge, but he never told me anything about it."
"We did talk to him," said Doyle, "but he wasn't able to give us much help."
"I'm not surprised," said Fordham, "Dad's great at keeping the books straight, and he's very handy with repairs and maintenance, but he's not good with people. He gets confused and flustered."
He smiled apologetically at the pair opposite. "Will you please tell me about it, and I'll see if I can be more help."
When Doyle had finished his story, Fordham pulled a big ledger from under a shelf, and flicked through the pages.
"It all seems to have been done correctly," he reported. "I remember now, I took the order about a week before, and explained our terms. They were complied with exactly. The men left a large deposit when they collected the vehicle and paid the hiring charge when they returned it. Dad's put it all down correctly."
He showed them the book. It was just as he had said.
When they handed it back to him, he looked more closely at the entry. "Odd, though," he remarked. "They couldn't have gone far. They only clocked up twenty-one miles."
That made more sense to Doyle. The vehicle must have been parked up somewhere nearby before and after the short trip it had made with its load of crates.
"Did you ask Dad to describe the men ?," asked Fordham.
"Yes, but he was very vague about them," replied Doyle. "Said they were just ordinary workmen."
"You do have 'mug-shot' books, don't you ?," asked Fordham excitedly. "If I am with him, to keep him calm, he might be able to help there. He's pretty sharp and observant, really."
"I'll see if I can arrange that," said Doyle. "It would really help."
He and Murphy returned to base, and reported to Cowley. With his orders, it was arranged that the Fordhams would get the opportunity to look at the 'mug-shot' books the following morning.
So the next morning found Doyle busy in Records, where Murphy had left him, before going off to collect the father and son from the yard. Doyle busied himself getting all the books set up on a table, being careful to lift only one at a time, as he still didn't have full use of his left arm.
Then Murphy arrived with the Fordhams. Doyle met and greeted them, and got quite a surprise. The older man, who shook his hand firmly before seating himself at the table, was a different person from the one he'd spoken to days ago. Backed up by his son's support, he was calm and alert. He opened the books, studying each page carefully before moving on to the next one. He was totally concentrated on his task.
The first few volumes appeared to yield nothing, but as he reached the end of the last one he turned back several pages. Then he looked up at Doyle. "I can't find the other one," he said, "But this one is the man who drove the lorry." He was pointing at a photo at the top of the page.
"Are you sure ?," asked Doyle.
"Totally sure !," said Fordham Snr. "I'm not good at talking to people, but I do remember faces."
Doyle looked up the indicated man's details and found a name, Mick Porter.
He and Murphy thanked the two men for their help. Murphy led them out to run them home, while Doyle carried his report up to his boss.
"Mick Porter," he said, "He's done time on several occasions. Car theft when he was younger, and a couple of terms for 'robbery with violence' since."
"Do you know him ?," asked Cowley.
"No," replied Doyle, "I don't think I've ever run across him,"
"Good," said Cowley. Then he answered Doyle's questioning look. "Well if you do run across him, he won't remember you, will he ? So he won't be instantly suspicious."
Doyle saw the sense in this, and marvelled inwardly at his boss's astuteness. Cowley continued. "We'll get him located and carefully shadowed, but that could take some time. In the meantime…."
"I've been thinking about that," interrupted Doyle. "Corsaro must be hopping mad,- he's lost valuable stock worth a great deal of money. At first he might have suspected sabotage by the Rinaldis, but by now he'll have heard the police verdict that it was an accident, a gas explosion probably caused by a tramp."
"So," said Cowley, trying to follow his train of thought
"Well," continued Doyle, "He's probably got clients screaming for the goods they've likely already paid for. So he'll have to bring in a new consignment as soon as he can arrange it."
"Yes, of course," said Cowley. "I'll get a watch set up on Rocco and on Fraser's Wharf. Do you think they'll use the same lorry ?"
"In ordinary circumstances, I think he'd have been too clever for that, but he's being pushed, so he might, as there isn't another one anywhere near. I'll call in there tomorrow and alert them, and set up a contact so that they can let us know if they are approached. They are sensible men, very willing to help us."
The next morning Doyle had an appointment with the physiotherapist. He arrived promptly and was surprised (and pleased) to find that it wasn't the man he had seen before, but instead a pretty young woman. She put him through a long series of gentle exercises, and declared that she was very satisfied with his progress. She said he could now start to use his arm gently, as long as he didn't attempt any heavy lifting. Rather cheekily, he asked if lifting a glass would be all right, and invited her out. Smiling at his impudence, she declined, saying that she didn't think her husband would like it. That was enough for Doyle. On principle, he never dated married women. Not especially for ethical reasons, but mainly because jealous husbands could cause a lot of trouble and interfere with his work.
As he was already at the hospital, he popped up to see Bodie. He found him sitting up in bed, looking remarkably fit and cheerful. The only evidence of his problem was the outline of some sort of contraption holding the covers off his legs.
"How are you doing, mate ?," he asked.
"Not so bad," replied Bodie. "There are lots of pretty nurses, and they look after me very well. But you know me, I'd rather be out there doing something."
"Well actually there's not a lot of action at the moment," said Doyle. "We're just waiting for Corsaro to make his next move." He went on to explain to his partner all the reports that Cowley had received, and to tell him about what he and Murphy had been doing.
"So now we're just marking time," he said. "Waiting for the next step."
The wait became very tedious. The one man, Mick Porter, who they had a lead on, was located and put under discreet surveillance, but even that produced no results, as the man did nothing out of the ordinary. He had a daily job collecting trolleys at a super-market, and as far as the watchers could tell, wasn't contacted by anyone.
Doyle's arm improved rapidly, and although he was not officially back to full duty, as he still had one more session with the physiotherapist, he felt ready to resume normal work. So he was very pleased when the final session went very well, and he was officially discharged, particularly as he was given permission to resume driving. He'd found being chauffeured everywhere irksome.
Feeling free at last, he went to visit his friend, and was very surprised to find him out of bed and up on his feet, learning to manage some crutches, under the watchful eye of a pretty nurse. So Bodie was making good progress too. Declaring he'd had enough for one day, she supervised his return to bed, and left them to talk.
"Well, mate," said Bodie cheerfully. "How are things going on the case ?"
"They're not !," said Doyle morosely. "Nothing's happening at all. At this rate you'll be back with us by the time anything moves."
"You're too impatient," said his mate. "It appears that Corsaro has lost a great deal of vital stock. He'll have to replace it, or he'll have some very nasty characters after his blood."
"There's no sign of anything yet," said Doyle.
"I'm not surprised," retorted Bodie. "It's going to take him time, and a lot of money ! You can't just waltz into a shop and order guns over the counter, you know ! But it'll happen soon, for his customers will be demanding action."
Bodie's optimistic tone cheered Doyle up quite a bit. Even more so, when the next few days looked like proving him right.
First of all Cowley got a report that Rocco was expecting a consignment of goods, to be delivered at Fraser's Wharf in four days time. This in itself was not conclusive, as this small business needed regular deliveries to keep it going. But it was a possibility, and arrangements were made to keep a careful watch.
But the following day, another report came in. It was from the contact arranged for the Fordhams, and told them that the firm had been contacted again for the hire of the low-loader. And it was for the right date !
This was the news they had been waiting for !
Doyle immediately shot off to visit the yard, to talk to the Fordhams. This time he had Jax with him. He carefully ushered the men back into the privacy of the little office. Meanwhile Jax made a casual tour round the lorry, and out of their sight, carefully deposited a couple of 'bugs' in it, one under the driver's seat, and the other on the body of the vehicle. Now they would be able to trace it wherever it went, but it was felt that it was not necessary for the owners to know that.
Doyle spoke to the father and son. He emphasised to them that they must behave perfectly naturally when the men came for the lorry. "You must be very careful," he warned them, "that nothing you say or do makes them suspicious."
"We understand that," said Philip Fordham. "We'll be very careful."
"We'll just treat them like ordinary customers," his father added.
Re-assured, and confident in their good sense, Doyle thanked them again for their co-operation, and he and Jax left. Now it was only a matter of waiting till the evening of the delivery at Fraser's Wharf. Preparations for what would be done then were well in hand, with Cowley's usual efficiency.
Although keeping busy on some minor tasks to help pass the time, Doyle managed to find a space to go in to see Bodie, and to bring him up to date.
"How are you, mate?," Doyle greeted his friend.
"Doing very well," replied Bodie. "In fact, they're so pleased with me, they'll let me go home if I can find someone to come in and help me with the things I can't manage." He looked appealingly at his friend.
"Not me, mate," said Doyle hurriedly. "Sorry, but I can't take on anything till we've got this 'Corsaro' business sorted out."
He gave Bodie a sly grin, and added, "Why don't you try some of the office girls ? I'm sure if you asked them, they'd rally round."
"Good idea," said Bodie happily, "That could be rather fun, couldn't it "
At last, the day they'd been waiting for arrived. Doyle took Jax with him again. They collected the receiver for the tracking device, made their way towards the Fordham's place, and parked in a side road, out of sight.
They had to wait for quite a while. Then the receiver came to life, telling them that the vehicle was on the move. Using the instrument they followed at a discreet distance. It was only a short journey, for after a few miles the lorry came to a halt. They parked up and waited, but the lorry didn't move. Jax was busy, searching out the location on a map.
"It seems to be at the end of Morgan Street," he informed Doyle.
"That makes sense," said Doyle, "The last address we have for Porter, the driver, is just round the corner from there." He thought for a moment. "Porter hasn't seen us, so I think we can risk driving casually past the area, just to check."
They did this and while Doyle kept his eye on the road, Jax's sharp eyes looked out for the lorry. He quickly spotted it, parked up on a piece of waste land, and told Doyle.
"Good," said Doyle. "Now I reckon it's just going to sit there until later this evening. Porter has gone home for his dinner, I expect."
He reported in to Cowley, who thought for a moment, then issued further orders. "I'll send in someone to watch it," he said. "You and Jax can take a meal break, and then take up position near Fraser's Wharf, ready for later."
Doyle and Jax received this reprieve gladly. They would have been very bored if they had had to sit and watch a stationary lorry for several hours. They waited for the relief men to turn up, and then left them to it. But they were back and ready in good time, taking up their station close to Fraser's Wharf. Doyle spoke to the men who were watching the wharf, and told them to let him know as soon as the cargo ship arrived.
C.I.5 were out in some force, as they did not know how many more men Corsaro might have, apart from the two in the lorry. Several more cars came into the area, taking up positions unobtrusively in side streets, ready to follow the lead that the tracker would give.
One of these pulled up alongside Doyle, and deposited Cowley himself. He climbed into the car behind Doyle and Jax, who was nursing the tracking device, ready to activate it as soon, as the ship came in. He'd hardly settled himself, before the call came from the men watching the wharf, to say that the small ship had docked, and that unloading had started.
Jax activated the clever machine, and the signal came up, showing the 'bugged' lorry to be still sitting on the waste ground near Porter's home.
They had to wait a little while, but then the signal altered, showing the lorry was on the move. They watched carefully and, as expected, it showed the vehicle coming back towards them. Eventually it moved onto the dock and stopped.
A few minutes later the car phone sounded. Doyle picked it up.
"They've just loaded ten crates," said the man on the wharf, "and they are busy slinging a tarpaulin over them and securing them. They'll be on the move any moment now."
Doyle thanked him, and alerted all the accompanying cars to be ready to move. He started the engine and waited for Jax to give him directions. Thanks to the clever machine they were using, they did not need to follow too closely, so there was less risk that the men in the lorry would suspect they were being trailed..
Jax, alternating his attention between the tracking device and the relevant street map, told Doyle which roads to take, and he drove steadily on. One by one the others cars joined in, and a small procession of vehicles moved steadily through the deserted streets.
They had being going for a while, when Doyle spoke over his shoulder to his boss. "He's not making for another of those old factories," he reported. "We're well clear of that area now."
"No, he isn't," agreed his boss. "He's evidently found a new place somewhere."
Eventually they came into an area that Doyle was more familiar with. "We could be nearly there, sir," he suggested. "There are a lot of old derelict warehouses round about here."
He was right. A few minutes later the signal they were following changed, indicating that the lorry had come to a halt. Jax urgently consulted his street map.
"Looks as if Doyle's right ," he said. "It's stopped in Gilmore street. That's a very abandoned area with several warehouses on the list for demolition quite soon."
"Can you pin-point which building," demanded Cowley.
"Working on it, sir," replied Jax.
Taking a quick look at the street map, Doyle drove on a little further until he reached a quiet side road just off Gilmore Street. As it was a non-residential area, and very run-down as well, there was no traffic about. He pulled the car to a halt, and a few moments later several other cars pulled in behind him.
Cowley climbed out of the car and turned to meet his men emerging from the other vehicles. He began issuing his orders. "We have the element of surprise in our favour," he began, "So I want this to be a short and sharp event. No shooting unless absolutely necessary, and then no 'kill-shots'. This lot may well be able to give us useful information about their suppliers and their customers. Understood ?" As one, his men nodded their agreement, but all were checking their weapons, as they were well-trained to do, ready to act if things didn't go as planned. They knew their work well.
Together the little force moved quickly but silently round the corner into Gilmore Street and up to the door of the designated warehouse that Jax had identified for them. The two big sliding doors which could be moved back to allow vehicle access were closed but as they neared they could see that they were not locked, for an open padlock, still with the key in it, hung loosely from the hasp of the door-latch.
Careless, thought Doyle to himself, but at least it showed that those inside were not expecting anyone else to be about.
Cowley gestured to his men to take up positions either side of the opening, two each side, holstering their guns to take a grip on the door. At his signal, they applied their considerable combined strength, and the big doors slid back smoothly, allowing the main body of men to sweep in.
As Cowley had said, the element of surprise served them well. But he also had a surprise. He had allowed for being met by a formidable gang, but it had been over-enthusiastic, for the group of startled face turned to them numbered only five !
Mick Porter, the lorry driver and his mate were there, along with a couple of sturdy-looking men who appeared to be helping them unload the lorry.
But it was the fifth man who took Cowley's attention.!
He was standing by, as if supervising. Of average height, dressed in a very smart suit, with a sallow complexion, dark hair slicked back, and a neat moustache, there was little doubt who this was !
The little group made no attempt at resistance, as they caught sight of the weapons in the hands of the advancing men, and the working four immediately shot their hands in the air.
Cowley advanced towards the fifth man. "Corsaro, I presume," he said. He was rewarded only with a snarl.
Things moved rather swiftly after that, as Cowley snapped out orders. Some men to take their prisoners to the Interrogation Centre, others to stand guard over the crates until the Army arrived to remove them, and two to return the lorry to the Fordham's yard.
Neither Doyle nor Jax were involved as these tasks were delegated. As they moved back towards the car with Cowley, Doyle ventured a comment. "Bit of an anti-climax that, wasn't it, sir?"
"Yes," agreed Cowley, "I suppose it was. But I had to err on the safe side. We had no idea how many men Corsaro might have had. If it had been the Rinaldi's it would have been very different."
"Still, it was a success," said Doyle cheerfully, "We've stopped Corsaro's activities, and we might be able to get a bit of information out of him and the others. Perhaps even something on the Rinaldis !"
Cowley's face brightened at that thought.
Most of the next day was spent in questioning the five men they had brought in, with varying degrees of success. Mike Porter wasn't very co-operative. Nor was one of the others whose name was on record. The other two, who had no records, were scared of what might happen, and ready to talk, but they knew little that was any help.
Corsaro himself was taciturn and unhelpful, and left them rather frustrated, but as his boss said, as he called it a day, and sent Doyle off-duty, they hadn't let the experts loose on him yet. Time would tell.
Doyle went off home, and refreshed himself with a quick meal and a shower. Then he decided, as it was still early, that he would go round and see his mate. He'd heard during the day that he was now at home.
He reached the flat and rang the door-bell. He leaned casually against the wall, expecting that he would have to wait a bit, as his friend, still on crutches, might need a few moments to get there.
To his great surprise, the door was opened immediately, by Julia, one of the girls from the office. "Oh, Doyle," she said, with a smile, "Do come in. We're just getting Bodie some supper." She led the way into the lounge. Doyle followed her and found to his considerable amazement, that two more of the computer room girls were there.
Bodie was seated in an armchair, with his legs up on a stool. One of the girls was carefully tucking a rug over them. The other was dispensing coffee. She carefully stirred it, before handing it to him.
Doyle was astonished. Bodie was evidently lording it here, holding court, and being waited on hand and foot !
Accepting a cup of coffee himself, he sank into a chair opposite his friend. He'd wait till later to bring him up to date on all that had happened.
"Well, mate," he said cheerfully. "I don't know how you do it !. Here I've been slaving away, working, while you're living it up like a king !"
"Ah," said Bodie, with a grin. "It's a talent, you know. You've either got it or you haven't !"
And you've definitely got it, thought Doyle, with a degree of envy.