Seeing is Believing ?

by Halcris

A series of strange incidents causes C.I.5 a lot of problems. But the mystery is finally solved and action is taken

Seeing is Believing, ?

Bodie and Doyle frequently arrived in the yard of C.I.5s Headquarters to report in together. But this morning as Bodie rolled up in his Capri, he saw that Doyle's car was already there. He parked neatly beside it and hurried up the stairs to find his partner in the rest room, reading the duty rota.

"You beat me to it this morning," he greeted him cheerfully. "I stopped off for a paper. What are we on today ?."

"No idea yet," replied Doyle. "Just says 'report to Cowley's office'."

And together they walked along the corridor, tapped on the forbidding door, and were called in.

Bodie waved the newspaper that he still held and showed his boss the glaring headlines on the front page. In large print it proclaimed

ARMED RAID ON BANK IN LEWISHAM.

"Is it Joe Verani's work again ?," he queried.

"Seems probable," replied his boss, "Very much his M.O., I understand."

"When are we going to get that man ?," demanded Bodie

Joe Verani had been a thorn in the side of both the police and C.I.5 for some time now. He was the kind of master criminal that all knew was behind a wide variety of criminal activities, but who was clever enough to avoid making errors to give the slightest opportunity for proof.

Not a big man physically, he made up for it by strutting about in expensive fashionable clothes and lavish gold jewellery and smoking big cigars He was accompanied everywhere by a huge black man, named Rojo, who acted as both chauffeur and body guard.

"However," went on Cowley, "for the moment it is not our business. I want you to go and have a look at a row of small shops in Nottting Hill. He handed them a paper with the address and some notes. "I've heard that an extortion racket there is becoming violent with racial overtones. Make a few enquiries."

As the pair turned to leave, their boss called them back. A memo had just been handed to him by his secretary.

"A bit of news you'll enjoy, Bodie," he said, "The police think they have got Verani this time. A girl cashier identified him. She and her boyfriend had arranged a 'one-off' visit to a casino, just to see what it was like. Verani had come in there, and had strolled about, talking to members for quite a while, so she got a good look at him before he went off to the back room. In spite of the raiders wearing stocking masks, which don't help, she is positive it was him leading the raid on her bank."

"I hope they are keeping her safe," said Doyle.

"Oh yes," said Cowley, "she'll be in protective custody, of course."

The pair left to get on with their assignment. Bodie had a grin on his face as they hurried down the stairs to the car.

"Well, he won't wriggle out of that, will he ?," he said cheerfully.

They drove to Notting Hill and talked to various shop-keepers, mostly Asian and very reluctant to talk. It took them most of the day, but eventually they had a fair picture of the situation and took the report back to Cowley. He would decide on any action.

They reported in the next morning hoping for something a bit more interesting. But instead they were sent out to take over a stake-out on a suspect house in Brixton. Bodie found it hard to suppress a scowl. He hated being stuck on stake-outs, which very often came to nothing. Hoping for a bit of favourable news, he turned back to ask his boss a question.

"Haven't they picked up Verani yet, sir ?," he asked. "Anson told me he was still out on the town last night. Why's that, if the girl identified him ?."

"Ah," replied his boss with a frown, "I'm afraid that has all gone wrong. The girl must have been mistaken, for Verani has come up with a cast-iron alibi. It seems that he had taken a girl for a week's holiday in Torquay. They arrived on Sunday night, and started squabbling and arguing right from the start. Their evening meals became a veritable 'slanging match', disturbing other guests. The manager stood it for a bit, but on the Wednesday, he asked them to leave. The girl packed her bags and stormed off in her car which they had come down in. So Verani was stuck without transport, until the next day when a car driven by a big black man collected him. On the Tuesday afternoon, when the raid took place, he has an alibi, vouched for by quite a number of people."

"Damn," said Bodie forcibly, as he followed his partner out of the office, "I really thought they'd got him this time."

He allowed his disappointment to colour his mood and grumbled continually as they went to take over the stakeout.

"Give it a rest, Bodie," protested Doyle at last. "So she made a mistake. That can happen to anyone."

Little did he know how soon those words were to come back at him.

As so often happened, the stake-out turned out to be both boring and unproductive, and after a couple of days they were told to close it down. They packed up the equipment and carted it back to base.

As they reported in early the next morning, they were wondering what would be next on their agenda. Something with a bit more action, hopefully.

They tapped on Cowley's office door and were called in. As usual, their so efficient boss came straight to the point.

"I've had a request from the Met.," he began, "for assistance before a current situation becomes any worse."

Doyle knew from experience how Bodie would re-act to that, so he stepped in quickly before his partner said something he would regret.

"What's it about, sir ?," he asked.

He got glared at for interrupting, but he didn't mind that, as Cowley went on.

"They've got two rival gangs at odds with each other. At first, it was only rows and arguments, occasionally ending in fist-fights. But now it's beginning to escalate, with gang members being mugged and beaten up in dark alleys. Some have ended up in hospital. The police fear the next step will be murders."

"What's wrong with that ?," said Bodie, "Let them wipe each other out."

This time he got glared at by both his listeners.

"That's enough, Bodie !," snapped Cowley, "I'd prefer not to have the streets of my city littered with bodies !."

Trying to ease the situation, Doyle ventured a question. "Have we details of the gangs, sir ?," he said quickly.

Cowley knew very well what he was trying to do. Thank goodness one of my best team has some common sense, he thought. But he complied.

"One team is led by a man called 'Gander'. His real name is James Brown, so how he got his nickname is a mystery, for he's not telling. He has quite a large group who look to him as leader. They are mainly 'cat burglars' and car thieves, minor but persistent criminals, who are often in and out of prison. Up till recently, they had no history of violence."

And the other lot ?," queried Bodie, wisely beginning to show interest.

"A more serious proposition," said Cowley. "Their leader is one called Vince Marco."

"I have run across him," said Doyle, "He's a nasty piece of work."

"I agree," said Cowley, "He's well up in the drugs scene. Most of his adherents are dealers, pushers, or drug addicts. And many of them do have a history of violence. There are also strong suspicions about his connections with the Mafia. His money comes from the clubs and casinos he owns. Gander's, on the other hand, is from property. He owns quite a lot of blocks of rented flats, including some that are now derelict and due for demolition and re-development."

Then their boss really got down to business and issued his orders. "What I want you pair to do first, is to find out all you can about both Marco and Gander. The more we know about them the better. It may give us a lead on how best to deal with them."

Dismissed, the pair hurried out to get on with the job.

"Where do we start ?," asked Bodie, frowning.

"I suggest a quick look in Records first," replied his partner, "and then a tour round all our informants to see what they know."

Trust Doyle to come up with a practical answer, thought Bodie to himself, practical but a bit dull, though. He would have preferred something more active. Still, it might give us a start, he thought.

Records gave them quite a lot of information, including addresses of where both targets lived and the clubs and pubs they visited most often.

"That gives us a bit to go on," said Doyle cheerfully. "Now let's see if our favourite 'snouts' can add anything helpful."

As they were only at the enquiry stage, they decided to go their separate ways for the rest of the morning. They arranged to meet up mid-afternoon to compare notes, and, with a bit of luck, to grab something to eat, before reporting back all they had learned.

Towards the end of the morning, Bodie received a call from his partner. "Hi," said Doyle cheerfully, "I've been hearing some interesting stuff about our two villains."

"So have I," replied Bodie. "What have you heard, then ?," he asked.

"Apparently, Marco is the violent one," Doyle began, "and Gander is scared of him. So scared, in fact, that he's left his house, and is hiding out in one of his own empty properties."

"Interesting," commented Bodie.

"I called you," went on Doyle, "because I'm just around the corner from one of those places, the row of old houses in Rockfort Road. As I'm so near, I thought I'd pop round and have a quick look."

"Hold on a minute," said Bodie, "You're not going to confront him are you ? We're not ready to pick them up yet."

"Course not," replied Doyle. "I'm not going in anywhere. I'm only going to have a look round outside, to see if there's any sign he's hiding here. It's just that as we're keeping tabs on them it would be helpful to know if he's here, wouldn't it ? I'll meet you as planned later."

To avoid possibly attracting attention, Doyle parked his car on the main road and strolled casually around the corner into the poorly-maintained Rockfort Road. There was no sign of any car parked anywhere, but at the far end of the road there was a block of three garages any of which could be concealing a vehicle.

Doyle walked down as far as these and looked for any sign that one of them was in use. But the ground in front of them was dry concrete and showed nothing.

He turned and surveyed the row of old houses. As it was daylight, there were no helpful revealing lights. He sauntered back down the road, casting short side-glances at each house, trying not to be too obviously looking. Nothing of interest. They all looked equally blank and empty, in various states of decay, ready for the demolition that would soon come their way.

He found the alley that led to the lane at the back of the row and slipped down it. It was cluttered with rubbish and old dead leaves and showed no sign of being in use. He shuffled his way down to the end of it, glancing sideways into the gardens as he passed. Nothing significant caught his interest.

Ah well, he thought, it was a good idea and worth checking.

As he relaxed, for once his instincts failed him.

He turned, _ and walked straight into a solid fist that caught him on the chin and drove him back to hit his head hard against the brick wall behind him. Caught on the hop, he was knocked out cold and slumped limply to the debris-littered ground. His assailant stood over him, glaring at the supine form, and was joined by another equally burly man.

"What have you done, mate ?," the newcomer exclaimed. "He looked like he was leaving."

"Maybe," replied the man, "but I couldn't risk it. I know him. He's a copper !."

He nudged his companion into action. "Quick," he said, "help me get him indoors out of sight, in case he's not alone."

"I didn't see anyone else," replied his worried mate.

Together they pushed open a garden gate, and carried the limp form along a rather over-grown path and in through a kitchen door.

"Find me something to tie him up." ordered the more dominant one, and the other scuttled to obey. He quickly bound Doyle's hands and ankles and found some duct tape in his bag to effectively silence him too.

Then he got his mate to help him carry the helpless form through into the main living room, dumping him behind the old sagging sofa they had found and dragged into use.

It was at this point, that Gander came down from the upper floor where he had been having a rest after his sleepless night fleeing from his home. He came into the room and immediately saw the form half-hidden behind the sofa.

"Joe !," he exclaimed in alarm, "What have you done ? Who is this ?."

"I had to, boss," Joe tried to explain, "I caught him snooping about outside. I recognised him from years ago. He's a copper."

"A policeman ?," queried Gander, getting more agitated by the minute. "Are the police after us ? How did they find us so quickly ?."

"Shall we get rid of him ?," said his other man eagerly, "There's a canal not far away. We could dump him in that."

"No !," Gander almost shrieked, "Cop-killing, no way !. The police never let up if one of their own is killed. I'd be 'on the run' for ever."

Gander was falling apart. Scared by threats from Marco, he had made a hurried flight from his home to somewhere he thought was a safe hiding place, and now this had happened. He would have to run again.

"What are we going to do then ?," demanded Joe. Gander struggled to control his panic.

"We'll leave at once," he said, "Joe, you go and get the car, and we'll start putting together the few bits we brought with us. I do have other properties we can go to."

"What about him ?," queried Joe, looking at his victim.

"We'll just leave him," replied Gander, "his colleagues will be looking for him. He'll be found sooner or later."

By now Doyle had regained consciousness. Responding to training, he did not let it show straight away. He kept still, eyes closed and listened. He had immediately recognised the panicky voice of Gander. So he had found him !

As he assimilated the edgy conversation, he decided that his best option was to keep still and quiet, to attract as little attention as possible. If they did as Gander said, and just left him, as soon as they had gone he could try to free himself. Failing that, there was, of course, Bodie !

As soon as he failed to turn up for their planned meeting, Bodie would come looking for him. Fortunately, this time he would know where to start. He'd find Doyle's car, and then he wouldn't stop till he had located his partner.

Joe had gone to fetch the car, which had been concealed in one of the garages at the end of the road. The other man had gone into the kitchen to collect and re-pack the food they had brought with them.

Gander had hurriedly piled a lot of papers back into a brief case, and was now pacing up and down in an agitated fashion, occasionally peering out of the window, watching for the arrival of Joe and the car

He was very anxious to get away, to seek safety somewhere else.

Then suddenly everything changed !

There was the sound of a car. But not the gentle purr of the vehicle that Joe maintained so carefully. Instead there was the harsh roar of something much larger and more powerful, as a big black car swept into the road and pulled up in front of the house.

Three men jumped out of the car and charged towards the front door which Joe had left on the latch. There was a bang as the door crashed back against the wall, and a loud voice shouting.

"Where are you Gander, you little weasel ?," it yelled.

The two still in the front room recognised the voice immediately. Unmistakably it was that of Vince Marco !

Doyle was the first to re-act. With an innate instinct for self-preservation, he immediately began to wriggle backwards, to get himself as far behind the large sofa as possible.

Gander, on the other hand, was frozen stock still in shock.

One of the men accompanying Marco shot upstairs, while the other made for the kitchen. From there came a loud yell, then the sound of a gun-shot, followed by a thud and then an ominous silence.

Marco himself, a large florid dark-haired man, swept into the front room. "Ah, there you are, you little worm," he yelled.

Gander, white with fright, was backing away towards the window. "Please, Marco," he almost whimpered. "I'll do anything you want. Don't hurt me !."

But Marco was not to be so easily placated. "Shut up," he shouted. "I've had enough of you and your devious ways."

And without delaying a further moment, he produced his gun, and fired several shots almost point-blank at the petrified man before him.

Gander crumpled lifelessly to the floor.

In his hopefully well-hidden position, Doyle held his breath, and waited.

Marco's two men came back into the room, and he turned back towards them.

"Nobody else about, boss," they reported.

"Good," replied Marco, in a satisfied tone, and led the way out of the house.

Doyle released the breath he'd been holding, as he heard their car roar away. He knew very well he'd been very lucky. If Marco had noticed him, he would have been dead too, for sure.

Relieved, he began trying to loosen the ropes round his wrists, ropes which had already numbed his hands. He was eager to be free to report to Cowley.

Now that Marco had shown himself in his true colours, he could be classified as 'a menace, a danger to society', and C.I.5 would be totally justified in going after him. He counted himself very lucky that Marco had been so intent on confronting Gander, that, hiding behind the ancient sofa, he had managed to evade notice.

Another very lucky one was Joe. He'd had a struggle with a very stiff padlock and had only just got the garage door open when he heard Marco's car turn into the road. Moving swiftly, he had slipped inside, and eased the door closed again. He stayed stock still, holding it shut, hoping that his movement hadn't been spotted.

When, he heard the sound of shots, he trembled where he stood. He had no doubt in his mind about what had happened. Marco and his men had almost certainly killed his boss. He was afraid that any minute, a hand would wrench his door open and he too would be shot. But time passed and it didn't happen. When he heard the car go, he almost collapsed with relief. Now his one thought was to get as far away from here as he could. He was not in the least concerned about anyone else. He opened the garage door, climbed into the car, and left without a backward look.

Sitting in the little café that was their arranged rendezvous, Bodie gave his watch another look, and frowned. Doyle was late. That was not like him. He hesitated about giving him a call. He might be in the middle of getting something from a 'snout', and an interrupting call could ruin that.

I'll give him another five minutes, he thought to himself, and ordered another cup of tea and a sticky bun. But when he'd demolished both items, and still had no response from his partner, he felt the first flickering of concern. Had something untoward happened ?

Making a decision, he pulled out his R.T. and thumbed the call button. He waited. Nothing ! It sounded as if it was 'beeping' as it should, but there was no response.

Squirming about on the dirty floor, Doyle heard the sound, but could do nothing about it, as the instrument was safely tucked up in an inner pocket of his zipped-up jacket, and there was no way he could get at it.

Come on, he silently admonished his absent friend. Realise that something is up, and come looking, please.

As if in answer to the unspoken plea, Bodie moved into action. He got up, paid his bill, and hurried out to his car. What was the address his mate had said ?

Ah yes, Rockfort Road. He knew where that was, not so far away.

Ten minutes later, he was pulling his car neatly in behind Doyle's Capri. He got out, walked around the corner, checking his gun and his R.T. as he went. No sign of any cars in the road. At the far end, he noticed an open garage door flapping in the wind.

He moved forward slowly, looking about him carefully. Halfway down he saw the wide open front door of one of the old houses and moved cautiously towards it.

Gun in hand, he entered one step at a time. The first door he came to was the main room, and looking in, he immediately spotted the sprawled body. After checking that there wasn't anyone hiding behind the door, he moved swiftly over to it, and recognised it. Bullet-ridded and very obviously dead, it was Gander !

Then he heard an odd muffled sound. He swung round, fearing an attack, but saw no-one. The sound continued, and this time he knew where it was coming from. He yanked aside the decrepit old sofa, and there was Doyle !

Bound and gagged, and squirming like an eel, but clearly alive and uninjured.

Holstering his gun, Bodie made quick work of freeing his partner, who gratefully accepted the helping hand easing him to his feet.

"About time," grumbled Doyle, but with a smile "I was getting a bit cramped."

He pointed to the body on the floor. "It was Vince Marco," he told his mate, "Murdered him, deliberately."

Then he added a thought. "I expect you'll find another body in the kitchen," he said, "and there was another man, Joe Wilson."

"I think you'll find he's gone," said Bodie, and told him about the empty garage he'd noticed.

"He recognised me from years ago," explained Doyle, "He must have spotted me snooping, and thought I was on to them. That's why he jumped me."

Together they located the body in the kitchen. Bodie called into base for a clear-up team to come and sort things out. Then he followed Doyle out to where their cars were parked.

"See you back at base," said Bodie, "but it's not a race. I know you're eager to tell the boss about it, but don't drive like a maniac. You've had a bump on the head, remember." He'd had a quick look under his mate's patch of blood-matted hair but didn't think it was too bad. He'd make sure it was checked out properly later.

"I'm all right," protested Doyle, as he climbed into his car and set off, closely followed by Bodie. They reached base without incident, parked neatly side by side as there was plenty of room, and hurried up the stairs to report to Cowley.

He listened carefully as Doyle re-counted all that had happened.

"Well, Marco has over-stepped the mark this time," he said in a pleased tone.

"I'll take it from here. Doyle, you can go and get your report written up."

The pair left and went along to the rest room. Bodie busied himself making a cup of coffee, while Doyle found a pen and paper and started to write his report. He was eager to get it all down in black and white, so that at last Marco could be brought to book. He'd got away with so much for ages, but now he would be on a murder charge. He couldn't dodge that !

He finished it off, checked it carefully, and took it along to Cowley's office. He handed it to his secretary, as Cowley had in the meantime left for an important meeting.

At Bodie's insistence, he stopped off at the doctor's office and let him have a quick look at his head injury. The doctor cleaned up the minor cut and declared it nothing to worry about.

Now off-duty, they parted company as they went down to their cars, and went home to their respective flats, Doyle to make himself a meal and have a quiet night with a book he wanted to finish, and Bodie to start making a few phone calls to see which of his lady-friends was available.

Both were relaxed, feeling that though it had been an unexpected sort of day, it looked as though a good result would come of it, when Cowley got into action.

They reported in as usual the following morning. As they reached the top of the stairs, they encountered Murphy.

"Ah, Doyle," he said, "Cowley wants to see you straight away."

As the pair began to move towards Cowley's office, Murphy caught Bodie's arm. "Not you, Bodie," he said, "Just Doyle."

That's a little odd, thought Doyle as he continued along the passage. And the feeling was intensified when he was called in, and found, to his surprise, an armchair pulled round in front of his boss's desk.

Cowley gestured to him to sit down. Warily, he did so, as Cowley retreated to his own seat behind the desk.

Cowley was looking at him with an unreadable expression. What have I done, or not done, Doyle thought to himself ?.

Cowley's first words were even more of a surprise.

"Are you well, Doyle ?," he asked.

Puzzled, Doyle replied, "Perfectly well, sir."

"According to your report, you did hit your head on a brick wall yesterday," said Cowley.

"Dr. Thornton checked that last night," replied Doyle, "It was only a tiny cut. It's not even sore this morning."

"Concussion ?," queried Cowley.

"Most definitely not !," replied Doyle, "I've had that before and I know what it feels like."

"You haven't been over-doing things lately, have you ?," Cowley asked.

"No sir," replied Doyle. He was getting more and more puzzled by his boss's odd questioning.

"What's this all about, sir ?," he demanded.

"Vince Marco," replied Cowley. And then he dropped the bombshell he'd been delaying as long as he could. "He's got an alibi."

Momentarily stunned, Doyle just stared at his boss. Then he was on his feet.

"He can't have," he almost shouted. "I saw him, close as I am to you, sir. He deliberately murdered Gander."

"About what time was that, Doyle ?," asked Cowley, struggling to keep calm in the face of his agent who was clearly close to anger.

"About half past one," said Doyle, thinking back carefully.

"From twelve-thirty till well after two, Marco was in the Casualty department at Vale hospital getting a badly-sprained ankle examined and strapped up," stated Cowley in a flat tone.

"Impossible," replied Doyle, "I saw him, at Gander's place, shooting him."

"A doctor, a nurse, and several other patients saw him at Vale Hospital," Cowley stated baldly.

Doyle lost his temper completely. He was furious. "And you take their word against mine," he shouted, "Thank you for that !."

And as quick as a flash, he snatched his gun from its holster, and his I.D, card from his pocket, and all but threw them onto Cowley's desk.

Then he stormed out, slamming the door behind him, and ignoring Cowley's desperate call of "Wait a minute, Doyle."

He hurried from behind his desk and re-opened his door. Alerted by the shouting, Bodie had appeared in the doorway of the rest room.

He had just seen his partner, with a face like thunder, shoot past him, and disappear down the stairs at break-neck speed. He moved to go after him, but Cowley called him back.

"Wait, Bodie," he ordered. "Come in and let me explain."

Bodie was in two minds as to whether to obey his boss. He instinctively wanted to go after Doyle, seeing the state he was in. But Cowley called him again, and he decided it might be better to go and find out what it was all about. He turned and followed him back into his office. He was pleased that he had done so, for in as succinct words as he could, the somewhat shaken man told him exactly all that had just happened.

"I'm afraid he took it badly," said Cowley.

"I'm not surprised," replied Bodie, "After all he's done, you doubted him !"

"Bodie," said Cowley, "I was just trying to check that he hadn't cracked up, over-work or stress, maybe ?."

"Not Doyle," declared Bodie decisively. "We've worked together all week, and he's been perfectly fine. No wonder he was angry. So am I, and I'm going now to find him, before he does something stupid."

And he also shot out of the room like a rocket, and down the stairs, ignoring Cowley's call to him to wait.

With an exasperated expression, Cowley returned to his desk. That pair, he thought crossly. A brilliant team they may be, but at times they are the very devil to handle. Neither of them gave me a chance to explain.

Bodie took his car and drove as fast as he could towards his mate's flat. He was very relieved when he saw Doyle's car neatly parked in its usual place. He'd been half afraid that his partner might not have gone home.

Doyle heard his doorbell but ignored the sound. He was busy packing a rucksack with essentials. He could take that on his motor-bike. He couldn't continue to use the car, as it belonged to C.I.5. He didn't know quite where he would go, but he had to get away somewhere to think things through. He'd behaved wildly with Cowley, losing his temper.

He regretted it now, but there was no way back, was there ?

Bodie stuck his thumb on the doorbell again, but still did not get a response. You're a stubborn blighter, Doyle, he thought to himself. But I'm not giving up yet.

He pushed open the letter-box and peered in. "Doyle," he called gently, "I've got a key, remember, but I'd rather you let me in yourself. Come on, mate, we need to talk."

He waited, and then to his relief, he saw a figure emerge from the bedroom door, and come towards him.

Doyle opened the door, and immediately turned away. Bodie hurried after him, following him into the lounge. Doyle went straight over to the window and stared out, keeping his back to his mate.

Bodie took one look at the rigid figure. This was going to be difficult. With a gentle sigh, he turned away and retreated to the kitchen. He quickly filled the kettle and put it on. He set out a couple of mugs and searched in vain for some biscuits.

Doyle had heard the sound of the kettle coming to the boil. He had left his earlier position and was now standing in the doorway.

"That's your solution, is it ?," he questioned in a bitter, sarcastic tone. "A cup of tea solves everything ?."

"No, mate," replied Bodie, in the calmest tone he could muster, "But sitting down quietly to drink one does help a person to think."

Doyle turned and went back to the lounge. Bodie made the tea, put two cups on a tray, and carried it through, to find his partner sitting on the sofa, his head in his hands. He put the tray down on the coffee table, pushed one steaming cup towards his partner, took up the other, sank quietly into the armchair, and waited.

After a while, his patience was rewarded. Doyle reached for the tea, blew on it gently, and started to drink it. He began to look much calmer. Then suddenly, he put the cup down and turned to Bodie.

"I did see Vince Marco murder Gander !," he declared vehemently.

"I'm sure you did," replied Bodie firmly.

"Cowley isn't," snapped Doyle. "He says Marco has an alibi."

"There's got to be some mistake," said Bodie, nursing his cup. "He couldn't be in two places at once."

He gave his friend a concerned look. "Tell me exactly what Cowley said," he asked.

Doyle did his best to recall and relate the whole conversation, and Bodie listened intently.

Cowley sat back in his chair, fingers steepled before him and thought very hard. Coming to a decision, he sat forward and reached for the phone He made several calls altering or postponing various appointments, and then one final one, calling for his car to be brought round. He walked thoughtfully down the stairs, and out to the yard, to the big car waiting for him. He dismissed his driver and set off himself to an address he knew but had not visited before.

Doyle had completed telling his partner all he could remember of his recent conversation with his boss. Both were sitting quietly, deep in thought.

So they were very startled to hear the sound of the doorbell, and exchanged puzzled looks. It was Bodie who finally rose from his chair and went to the door. He peered through the spy-hole and was staggered to see who was standing there. He hurried to clear the security-locks and open up.

"Thank you, Bodie," said Cowley, and swept past him towards the lounge. Bodie quickly locked up again and rushed after him.

Doyle was on his feet, standing stiff as a ramrod, with a closed look on his face.

But Cowley was ignoring him, taking off his hat and coat, laying them aside, and taking over the only large arm-chair.

Bodie hovered beside him, very uncertain of what to do. "Would you like a drink, sir ?," he offered, "There's tea or I know Doyle has a good malt somewhere."

"Later, Bodie," replied Cowley calmly. "Come and sit down."

Bodie obeyed, sinking down on one end of the sofa facing his boss. Doyle stayed where he was, a defiant look clouding his face.

Cowley leaned back in the comfortable chair and stared steadily at him.

"Doyle," he said at last, "We need to talk, but I'm going to get a crick in my neck if you continue to tower over me. Please sit down."

Confused by his boss's amiable, almost friendly attitude, Doyle subsided onto the sofa next to Bodie, but he remained wary, perched upright on the edge.

Cowley eyed the pair of them, considering. Then folding his hands on the briefcase nestled on his lap, he began what he had come to do.

"In my position as Controller," he began, "I have no obligation to explain myself to those I employ, but just this once I have decided to do just that."

Bodie and Doyle exchanged glances. This was something new.

"Many different cases come to my attention," continued Cowley, "and my job is to assess them, and decide what action to take. Many are straightforward. The problem is clear, and the solution is obvious. I can immediately give orders and select agents to do what is necessary.

But every so often something comes along that is far from that simple. Then I have to take time and a great deal of thought to deal with it."

The pair in front of him, with serious alert expressions, were listening very attentively, as he continued.

"I have to consider every aspect of the situation," he said, "including all the very worst scenarios, unpleasant as most of them are. It is sometimes a long and wearying task, but it has to be done to help me make the best decisions. Do you understand ?."

Bodie nodded. "Yes, sir, "he said. Cowley had rarely seen him look so solemn. He looked towards Doyle, who didn't say a word but nodded silently.

Satisfied with their response, Cowley went on.

"This business with Marco and Gander is one of those times," he declared. "I have spent half the night pondering over it."

"Which resulted, Doyle, in our conversation this morning." he said. "it stemmed from considering some of the most worrying possibilities."

He looked straight at his curly-haired agent. "Doyle," he asked directly, "at any time during our conversation, did I call you a liar ?"

Doyle was startled and began thinking furiously, as his boss answered his own question.

"No, I didn't," he declared firmly. "Of course, it crossed my mind, as one of the worst answers, but it was rejected immediately. I know you too well. I know both of you can lie convincingly when the job entails it, but never with something like this. We have a real problem here. There is something very wrong going on, and it's going to take our best efforts to sort it out. I could do with my best team working on it."

Doyle relaxed visibly and sank back on the sofa. He had been a stupid fool and re-acted far too quickly. He saw that now.

Cowley reached into his briefcase and drew out two objects, which he held out towards Doyle. "Would you like to take these back ?," he asked quietly.

Doyle was almost speechless with relief. "Yes, sir," he whispered, as he reached for his gun and his I.D. card, and tucked them both away in their usual places "Thank you, sir."

Cowley turned to Bodie. "I think we might have that drink now," he said, "but not tea, please."

Bodie jumped up and scuttled away into the kitchen, to search in Doyle's cupboards for glasses and the special bottle he knew was there somewhere.

Left together, Cowley turned to Doyle."I thought you had that temper of yours under better control," he said reprovingly.

"So did I," replied Doyle ruefully, "I'm very sorry, sir."

"Well, the situation is so strange," said Cowley, "I suppose one odd lapse is forgivable."

Bodie came back in, having found what he was looking for. He poured the drinks and passed them round.

"You have good taste, Doyle," his boss commended, as he downed the malt.

Then he rose from his chair, reached for his hat and coat, and returned to his usual brusque manner.

"We have wasted a morning," he declared. "I now have a working lunch appointment almost due. I suggest that you two also get some lunch. Report to my office at two o'clock. Be prompt and in the meantime give some thought to our current problem."

He swept out of the room. Bodie hurried to see him out. He returned to find his partner flopped on the sofa, looking completely staggered, as well he might.

It had been a memorable morning. So much had happened in such a short time.

"He's amazing, isn't he ?," he said simply, and Bodie nodded.

"He let you off lightly, didn't he," he said, "We'd better give him our best effort on this one. It's a bit of a mystery, isn't it ?"

"Indeed it is," agreed Doyle, "How can someone be in two places at once ?. Marco isn't an identical twin, is he ?."

"Not that I've ever heard off," replied Bodie.

"I suppose he could have a 'double'," suggested Doyle.

Promptly at two o'clock they tapped on the office door and were called in. With his shrewd eye, Cowley detected an eagerness in Doyle's manner, and knew he had something to say.

"What's on your mind, Doyle ?," he asked.

"Sir, I know you don't like co-incidences," Doyle began, "but there is one."

"Go on," encouraged his boss. He knew from experience that Doyle, a real thinker, often came up with useful ideas.

"Do you remember, months ago," he said, "that we thought we had Verani on a bank raid job, but it came to nothing because it was accepted that the girl cashier, very young and inexperienced, had made a mistake ?."

Cowley nodded, recalling the case vaguely.

"Well, maybe she didn't, _ any more than I did," Doyle stated boldly. He gave his boss a moment to take that in. Then he added, "I'd like to talk to her, sir."

Cowley thought for a moment. "Verani's alibi was unshakeable," he said. "As is Marco's. The police went to his home and found him sitting by his pool with his foot up, being waited on by several girls from his clubs. They took pictures to the hospital, and both the doctor and the nurse are adamant that is the man they treated."

But Doyle didn't seem to be fazed by this news.

"I think something very clever is being done with 'doubles'," he said, "in fact, something even better, more like 'identical twins'."

"Neither Verani nor Marco has a twin, to my knowledge," said Cowley.

"Maybe they are being created," continued Doyle eagerly. "Remember how clever that man Shroeder was with make-up and disguises ?. He fooled people."

Bodie had been listening quietly to Doyle's clever words. "It is a feasible explanation, sir," he said, supporting his partner, "and not impossible."

Cowley got up from his desk, walked over to the window. He took off his glasses, and twiddled them idly, as he pondered Doyle's idea. The other two waited silently.

At last, he turned and came back to his desk. "Yes, it is feasible," he admitted, "but it lacks one vital element, - proof !."

He looked from one to the other of his waiting agents. "You are off all other duties," he said briskly. "Get out there and find that vital element for me," he ordered, "as quickly as you can."

The pair shot out of the office almost at a run.

"Where do we start ?," demanded Bodie.

"Records, I think," replied his partner, "to see if there's anything to help us find Joe Wilson. He knows that Marco was there. But he fled, and he's running scared, so he'll be hard to find."

"There's a few I can ask," said Bodie thoughtfully.

"Then I want to talk to that girl cashier that saw Verani," said Doyle.

They found an address, and the names of a few known associates in Joe's file, items which might be a help. Bodie noted those and went off to chase up some of his regular 'snouts'.

Doyle was not so lucky. He phoned the bank at Lewisham but found that Clare Morton no longer worked there. He was given her last known address, but when he arrived at the small flat, he found that it now housed a young woman with a baby.

However, Clare had left a forwarding address for her mail, an address in Crawley. Doyle sensibly let his partner know where he was going and set off. It took him a little while to get there as the traffic was very heavy. The address turned out to be a pleasant bungalow in a residential area.

He walked up the path and rang the bell. The door was opened by an elderly lady, who regarded him suspiciously.

Doyle turned on the charm and smiled at her. "I'm looking for Clare Morton," he said pleasantly.

"My granddaughter," admitted the lady, "What do you want with her ?."

"Just a few words," replied Doyle. "She may be able to help me."

"She's working in the local shop," said the lady, re-assured by his easy manner, "Just up there." She pointed up the road to the right.

Doyle drove a few hundred yards up the road and found a parking space. He strolled into the shop. It was a small-scale supermarket with six checkouts, only three of which were manned. As two had mature ladies sitting there, he went straight to the girl on the third.

"Miss Morton," he checked, "I would like to talk to you. Your grandmother told me where to come." This last bit re-assured the girl.

"I'm due my tea-break," she said, "I usually take a sandwich to the park across the road."

"I'll join you, if I may ?," asked Doyle politely. He bought himself a pack from the display and followed the girl across the road. They found a convenient bench in the neatly fenced, shady green space. He began wrestling with the plastic wrapper.

"I'd like to talk to you about the bank raid, when you recognised Verani," he began.

A closed look came over the girl's pretty face. "Must we ?," she said bitterly. "I lost everything over that. My job, my flat and my boyfriend. They said I was an attention seeker, making it up. They didn't believe me !."

"I do," said Doyle instantly. Surprised, the girl stared at him.

"I do," repeated Doyle, "because the same thing happened to me. I saw one gang leader deliberately kill another, and then was told he had an unshakeable alibi."

At this point, he produced his I.D., told her who he was and what he did. She listened carefully, almost mesmerised by what she was learning.

"We think there is a very elaborate deception going on," he concluded, "but so far we have very few leads to help us. You were very sure of what you saw, weren't you ?."

"Yes," she answered eagerly. "I knew the man was a villain, I'd heard about him. But he was such a showman, the way he was behaving, that I watched him very carefully. He was fascinating in a frightening sort of way."

"Your boyfriend didn't back you up ?," queried Doyle.

"No, he didn't see him," replied the girl, "he had gone out to the gents, and was away quite a while."

"Stocking masks can be very concealing," commented Doyle.

"I know," she said, "but I saw his signet ring, and a gold ear stud, too. But they wouldn't listen when I tried to tell them that."

She stood up. "I have to get back," she said, "Have I helped at all ?."

"Perhaps," said Doyle and thanked her, after warning her not to tell anybody about their conversation. "If we get a result, we may want to speak to you again."

He escorted her back across the road, returned to his car, and set off back to base. Those last details could be useful, he thought, but I'll keep them to myself for now. Revealing them could well put the girl's life in danger.

Back at base, Doyle wrote up a brief report on his conversation with the girl, saying only that he believed her story.

He had just finished when Bodie came strolling in, not looking too pleased.
"Fine 'wild goose chase' you sent me on," he complained. "I haven't yet found any trace of Joe Wilson."

"I'm not really surprised," replied his partner. "If I thought Marco was after me, I'd keep very quiet."

"You do realise he might well be ?," retorted Bodie. "You know what the 'grapevine' is like in the criminal world. If he hears that you saw him…."

"Is that likely ?," queried Doyle, who up till then hadn't thought of that. "Who would tell him ?."

Bodie shrugged, but inwardly resolved he'd be extra careful to watch his mate's back. Marco was a nasty piece of work, and obviously quite ruthless.

For the next few days the pair worked tirelessly, talking to every 'snout' and informant they could think of, sometimes together and sometimes separately, which worried Bodie, as he felt that Doyle wasn't taking the possible danger from Marco seriously.

But they weren't getting any results. Most had heard that Gander had been murdered, and had strong suspicions as to who was responsible.

But Marco was hobbling about on crutches, lording it, and making the most of the situation, and the doubts that was causing.

Late one afternoon, Doyle returned to his car, a bit down after a fruitless spell of enquiries. They weren't making any progress at all and it was getting very frustrating.

He opened the car door and was surprised as a piece of paper fluttered to the floor, almost blowing away in the stiff breeze. He grabbed it quickly, got in the car, and smoothed it out to see what it was. It was written in a rather wobbly scrawl, and said, 'Hear you have a problem. Meet me six o'clock at the usual place. I might be able to help. Alf.'

Doyle felt a surge of excitement. Alf was a very reliable informant who had helped him a lot when he had first joined C.I.5. He hadn't heard much from him in the last six months because the elderly man had been very ill.

He had a quick look at his watch. Nearly five-thirty ! He'd have to get a move on if he wanted to make it. The rendezvous was some way away, and at this time of day, traffic got pretty heavy. He put his foot down and drove with all the skill he could muster. He was lucky enough to grab a parking-place as someone pulled out and made it with barely a minute to spare. He walked the last few yards, and spotted the familiar figure, sheltering in a shop doorway. As Alf stepped out to meet him, he was saddened to see how the man had aged. He looked so frail, but still greeted Doyle with an alert look.

His first words were encouraging. "I've been hearing about a puzzle with villains and alibis," he said, "You'll have to find the Batwoman."

But that was all he said, for suddenly, out of nowhere came a big grey saloon car. Driving at a terrific speed, it struck the two men standing on the narrow pavement, sending one flying to strike hard against the wall behind him, while the other went down under the racing wheels.

Screams and yells came from startled onlookers, as the murderous vehicle sped away, disappearing into the distance in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

Several hurried forward to see if they could help the fallen pair. One very sensible man dashed to a nearby phone-box and called both the police and the ambulance services.

It was later than usual when Bodie eventually got back to base to write up his frustrating negative report. He'd been passed from one possible informant to another and had kept on in the hope that one of them might be able to give him something useful. But it had been a vain effort, and he felt as if he'd had a wasted day. I wonder if Doyle's done any better ?

He looked for his mate's car as he went in, and spotted it parked not in its usual spot but at the far end of the yard. Odd, he thought, idly. Maybe the yard was busy when he came in.

He hurried up the stairs, mentally composing his report. He expected to find Doyle in the rest room doing his, but he wasn't there. He's probably found a quiet desk somewhere, he thought. He found pen and paper, and quickly completed his annoyingly short record of a long, tedious and fruitless day's work. He'd be glad to get away to recuperate. Was Julie free tonight ?

He went along the corridor. Cowley's door was open, but he was on the phone, so Bodie slipped next door to hand the paper to his secretary, Betty.

"Has Doyle finished his ?," he asked her, "Do you know where he is ?."

But another voice answered him. Cowley was standing in the doorway. "He's in St. Richard's Hospital," he said.

"What ?," exclaimed Bodie, spinning round.

"It's not bad," continued his boss. "That was Dr. Fenton on the phone, bringing me up to date. Seriously severe bruising, he says. He's a bit concerned about his left knee, so he's keeping him in overnight in case he needs to send him for X-ray in the morning."

"What happened ?," asked Bodie anxiously.

"A 'hit and run' that was not accidental," replied Cowley succinctly. "Not in the car, so I had that fetched in."

"I tried to warn him that Marco might try something," said Bodie angrily.

"You are assuming that Marco is responsible," said Cowley, "again without proof. But you are probably right."

"I'll go and see him," said Bodie and hurried out.

He found his partner lying against slightly raised pillows, with a wire cage keeping the covers off his suspect knee. He looked restless and far from happy.

Bodie greeted him cheerfully. "There you are," he said, "see what happens when you don't listen to me !."

Doyle was not in the mood to respond to banter. "Bodie," he said in an agitated tone, "I can't find out about Alf. If I ask they only say "are you a relative.?"

Bodie saw immediately that this was upsetting his friend.

"Hang in there, mate," he said gently, "I'll go and sling my weight about a bit and see if I can find out."

He was gone for quite a few minutes, and when he returned his expression was sombre. "I'm afraid it's not good, Ray," he said, "He's so old and frail they don't think he'll make it."

He watched his partner's expression as he told him what he'd learnt. He knew him so well.

"And now you're going to blame yourself, aren't you ?," he said.

"He did come to help me, to tell me something," replied Doyle. He looked very puzzled.

"But he wasn't making much sense," he went on, "All he had time to say was something about finding Batwoman."

"Batwoman ?," echoed Bodie, in a bewildered tone, "What on earth has she to do with anything ?. He's a bit old for comics, surely ?."

"I don't understand it," said Doyle, "and if he dies, we'll never know, and his effort will have been in vain. All my fault."

"Stop that right now," said Bodie sternly. "You weren't to know what Marco would do."

"I should have listened to you," Doyle admitted sadly.

At this point a Sister came in and shooed Bodie out. "Time to go, sir," she said firmly. "Mr. Doyle needs to rest. He's going to be very stiff in the morning, I'm afraid."

Reluctantly, Bodie left and went home, still pondering. Batwoman ? What possible connection could she have with their problem ?.

Sister had been right in her prediction. When Doyle awoke in the morning, he was very stiff and sore. He fidgeted about, unable to find a comfortable position. He was quite glad when breakfast was followed by the offer of pain-killers. As those took effect, he began to feel more cheerful, hoping he might be discharged.

But this hope was dashed when Dr. Fenton made his rounds. "I'm not happy about that knee," he said, "so I'll send you to x-ray later this morning."

His depression increased when he asked about Alf and was told that he had died during the night.

So when Bodie strolled in during the afternoon, he found a thoroughly dejected patient.

"Come on, Ray," he said, trying to cheer him up, "there's some very pretty nurses about, I noticed."

Just then, Dr. Fenton came bustling in. "Good news, my friend," he said gaily, "it's not as bad as I feared."

"Then I can get up ?," asked Doyle eagerly.

"Not yet," replied the doctor, "one more day's bed rest to let the swelling go down, and then you should be all right with a strong support bandage. But no energetic dancing for a while, eh."

Their friend's customary cheerfulness and humour was infectious, and Doyle felt better.

Bodie pulled a chair up to the bedside. "A bit more patience, mate," he said. "Give you a chance to ponder about Alf's words. I've told Cowley, and spread it around, but no-one's come up with anything yet. Did he mean Batwoman as in the comic? Or might it be someone who studies or keeps bats. ?."

"I don't think anyone actually keeps bats," said Doyle thoughtfully, "but people do study them in their natural habitat,"

"That still doesn't give us much of a connection, does it ?," Bodie mused. They chatted easily for a while on other topics, and by the time Bodie left, Doyle was feeling more cheerful. So much so that when the nurse came to settle him for the night, he noticed she was a pretty one he hadn't seen before.

As she pushed the pillows into position and smoothed the covers, she had to hurriedly stifle a yawn. "Sorry," she said, "Long night last night. I was with the old chap who died."

Then suddenly remembering, she turned to Doyle." "You knew him didn't you ?," she asked gently, and Doyle nodded.

"He went very peacefully," she told him, "He wasn't in pain. He was a bit delirious and was chatting happily, though it didn't make a lot of sense."

"What did he say ?" Doyle demanded anxiously.

"Well, he was rambling a bit about Batwoman," she said, "He seemed to think it was funny. 'Not 'bats that fly' was one thing he kept saying, and B A T, buy a twin. That sounded silly. You can't buy a twin."

An idea suddenly flashed into Doyle's quick mind. Maybe it wasn't so silly after all. Perhaps you could 'buy a twin', if someone created one for you.

He mulled that thought over for some time before he finally fell asleep. With a bit of luck, he would be discharged tomorrow. He couldn't wait to talk his idea over with first Bodie and then Cowley.

Doyle was discharged the following day. Bodie came for him, and he left with their doctor friend's words ringing in his ears.

"Use a stick if you need to, stay off your feet as much as you can, and let Bodie do the driving for the next week."

They went straight back to base. Unfortunately, Cowley was out and not likely to be back for a while.

Doyle used the afternoon to write up his report, first on the 'hit and run' that wasn't an accident. Then he wrote a careful piece detailing what Alf had said before they were hit and concluding with what the old man had said to the nurse before he died.

In his mind he had a clear picture. Somewhere there was a clever woman offering criminals a way to 'get away with murder' by supplying them with a faked 'identical twin' who would be trained to put on an act that would guarantee to arouse attention, while they were elsewhere doing their choice of villainous act. No doubt she charged an exorbitant fee for the service. But then she was targeting a select clientele who could afford it.

When Cowley eventually came in, he did his best to put that picture to his boss. Cowley listed intently, but with a frown on his face.

"Doyle," he said at last, "I hear every word you say and I'm sure you are right, but we still lack the vital element, 'proof'. And as I see it, you do not have any leads, either."

Unfortunately, Doyle had to admit that this was true. Alf had been the only informant who had offered any hint, and his input was lost.

"All we can do," continued Cowley, "is press on with the work in hand, and keeping listening for any whisper of information."

Doyle had to be content with that. Several days passed. Bodie drove him about as they made enquiries about the drug dealers they had been dealing with before.

Then, one day, Doyle got a call to say that Marge Harper would like to see him. The message said that she had something that might interest him.

"Come on, Doyle," said Bodie, looking at his partner's reluctant expression, "It might be good. She has a lot of contacts."

Doyle didn't look impressed, so Bodie teased him. "Come on, mate," he said cheerfully, "I'll be there as your chaperone, you know, if you're worried."

Doyle gave him a glare but got up from the table and led the way down to the car. Bodie followed grinning widely.

Marge was a clever woman, but she was inclined to be a bit 'full on' with Doyle, her favourite. Still, he wasn't going to let Bodie think that he was afraid to see her.

She greeted them warmly but got straight to the point. "I have a client," she began, "who makes frequent trips to Europe. He brings things back, sells them to me and I sell them on. He gets a little profit, I get some as well, so it suits us both."

"And you don't enquire as to where he gets the items," interjected Bodie.

She glared at him but nodded and went on quickly. "He was here the other day," she said. "When he got his wallet out he dropped a business card and it went under the table. He's a bit portly so I got down to fish it out for him. But he was so agitated about it, almost snatching it from me, that it made me curious. I have a great photographic memory, so when he'd gone, I did a quick sketch of it."

She handed Doyle a piece of paper. When he saw what was on it, his attention was immediately caught. She had drawn what looked like a business card. The heading was three capital letters B A T, followed by a Box number and an address, 27 Bankhurst Road, Barnet.

Eagerly Doyle showed it to Bodie.

"Very interesting," he said but responding to a warning look from his partner, gave nothing more away.

"Does it mean something to you Ray," she asked interestedly.

"It might do," he said. "Thank you very much."

He wasn't going to tell her any more, for with her many contacts, she could spread rumours as well as collect them.

She was still curious and pressed them to stay but they made their excuses and left quickly. They took the sketch and the information straight back to Cowley.

"At last we've got something to work on," said Doyle exultantly.

"Shall we go and have a look at this address ?," Bodie asked eagerly.

"No," said Cowley at once, "Your interest might be too obvious. I'll send one of the girls, who will make sure she's inconspicuous."

Later in the day they were called in to hear Sally's report.

"the address is a shop," she began, "A general store, like a large corner shop, which serves a close residential community. Next to the door, there's a large notice board, with lots of ads pinned up on it, things for sale, local events, rooms to rent, etc. Looks well used, and th ad is tucked in one corner.

Apparently, any replies by letter are just pinned to the board and left to be collected. It's a very busy shop, the staff work shifts, and it stays open till eight at night."

"Very comprehensive, Sally. Thank you," said Cowley as she left.

"I think you could safely pay a casual visit," ordered Cowley.

Acting on the presumption that there might be more men about then to help them blend in, they made their visit in the early evening. They parked their car a little way away and walked in separately.

Bodie went straight to where a couple of men were looking at the selection of beers, comparing prices.

Doyle picked up some milk, then wandered round looking at various products on the shelves. He ended up before the big notice board, standing beside a middle-aged lady, who seemed to be reading about things for sale.

"All sorts of ads here," he said conversationally. "very useful." The lady nodded in agreement. "It's very popular," she said.

Doyle spotted th card in the corner and indicated it. "What's that ?," he asked curiously. The lady looked where he was pointing.

"B A T," she read, "I wonder what that stands for ? I don't know."

"I do," interrupted a girl assistant who had just come to add another card. "I was curious, so I asked the girl who brought it in. She said it stood for Beauty Aid Treatment. I asked what kind of treatment, but she said I'd have to apply to find out."

"Did you ?," asked the first lady.

"Nah," replied the girl scornfully, "I guess it's some weird foreign thing, too expensive for the likes of us." She pinned up the new card and retired to the cash desk.

Doyle was in a bit of a quandary. He could ask to see the manager, produce his authority and enquire about the girl who had brought the card in. But if he did that, he doubted whether the man would be able to act normally next time he saw her. The girl would be alerted and they'd lose the contact.

On second thought he decided to see if he could do a bit more with local gossip.

"Do you know the girl ?," he asked the friendly lady still standing beside him.

"Not personally," she replied, "I've seen her come in for bread and milk but I've never talked to her." Then she had a thought "But I've an idea where she works," she added. "When I was walking my dog early one morning, I saw her going into Winton House."

"Oh, where's that ?," asked Doyle trying not to sound too eager.

"It's in Corston Road," replied the obliging lady. "It's a big old-fashioned place. I think two foreign ladies live there but we don't know much about them. They don't mix with local people and they never come in the shop."

The lady was quite pleased to gossip with this personable young man and was disappointed when he suddenly thanked her and moved away towards the back of the shop.

He moved past his partner, conveying an unspoken message that he was leaving. Then he went to the counter, paid for his milk and left. Bodie waited a few moments, chose a six-pack, paid for it and followed his mate. He found him sitting in the car looking rather impatient. He got in beside him and listened as Doyle told him all he had learned.

"Sounds promising," he said at last. "Let's get it back to the boss." He started the car and they sped off.

Cowley was still in his office and listened intently as Doyle poured out all the information he had gleaned. They could almost see the shrewd brain assimilating all the facts.

"A good evening's work," he said at last. The listening pair smiled inwardly at the unexpected praise. "You're off-duty now, but report in the morning. Meanwhile I'll commission all that is known about Winston House, Corston Road, Barnet."

When they reported in the following morning, they found Cowley waiting for them with a file in his hand. He had evidently had people working on the computers all night for there appeared to be a lot of information in the folder. He handed it to them to read and together they scanned it quickly trying to gather all the details.

Winton House had belonged to a Frenchman named Alphonse Dubray. He was well known in the clothes trade and in the highest-class couturiers in London and Paris. His wife was English. They had two daughters, Madeleine and Eugenie. But soon after the second child was born, the wife died. The two little girls were sent to Paris and were brought up by Dubray's sister along with her family. Both girls grew up to become actresses. The younger one was more successful, so the older one moved into teaching drama and did well. Two years ago, the father had died, leaving his daughters the house and a sizeable fortune. They had moved over to live in the house just over a year ago. At first, they socialised with their father's wide circle of friends, but this gradually declined and now they were virtually reclusive.

Having read through and endeavoured to assimilate the information, they handed the folder back to their boss.

"An actress and a drama teacher !," exclaimed Bodie. "Sounds ideal to be doing what we suspect."

"But once again, pure speculation, Bodie." snapped Cowley. The dark-haired agent looked a little crestfallen.

"How are we going to get them then ?, " he asked crossly.

A surprise answer came from his partner. "Answer the ad," said Doyle.

"What ?," gasped Bodie, looking blankly at him.

"Send a letter to the Box number and see what the response is," went on Doyle.

"That's not such a bad idea," said Cowley surprisingly, "and I know just how to do it."

Both agents looked towards him with interest as he continued. "Your friend Marge was cagey about the identity of her client, but I know who he is. I'll give you his details and you can go and pick him up. If he hasn't already applied to B A T, we'll persuade him to do so."

"Go down to Records," he ordered. "I'll call Simpson to have the address ready for you. Bring him into the Interrogation Centre." As the pair moved to the door, he added "Gently, of course, Bodie."

The pair collected the details from Records and were soon on their way out to Hampstead where their quarry lived.

He wasn't expecting visitors and was totally unprepared as he opened his door and was suddenly and forcefully propelled back into his hallway by two intruders. Agitated, he protested violently.

But Doyle spoke calmly but firmly. "No need to panic, Mr. Jacobs," he said, "Our boss just wants a little word with you."

But it took Bodie's firm grip on his arm to persuade him to come quietly. They hustled him out to the car and drove swiftly to the Interrogation Centre where they found their boss waiting for them.

Cowley took the scared looking man by the arm and gently pushed him into a chair. His other hand neatly extracted a wallet from an inner pocket. He opened and examined it, taking out a familiar business card. He placed this on the table between them.

"This is what we are interested in, Mr Jacobs," he said. "Tell us about it."

"I don't know anything about it," protested the flustered man.

"Not true, Mr. Jacobs," said Cowley quietly. "You do know about it, because Vince Marco told you when he gave it to you."

The startled look on the man's face confirmed that his guess had hit the mark. But Jacobs was so petrified that he continued to bluster. "I don't know Vince Marco," he said.

"Lying again, Jacobs," said Cowley. "I happen to know that for the last three years Marco's nephew has been your son-in-law."

Bodie and Doyle exchanged looks. Once again, they were staggered to hear what their well-informed boss knew.

Cowley abandoned his gentle approach and quickly used a serious, more menacing tone. "Jacobs," he said sternly. "I know enough about your activities to put an instant stop to them. It would pay you to be a bit more co-operative."

The frightened man capitulated and visibly sagged in defeat. "What do you want ?," he almost whispered.

"I want you to reply to this ad.," said Cowley, indicating the card lying on the desk.

"But I don't want what they offer," protested Jacobs. "It's criminal, and anyway I couldn't afford it. I've heard it's very expensive."

"You won't have to pay," Cowley re-assured him. "we'll help you draft the letter, and you'll bring the reply straight to us. We'll take it from there."

"Marco will kill me," cried Jacobs. "I daren't !."

"He won't get the chance," replied Cowley. "He's going to be finished when we deal with this. My man saw him murder Gander."

Jacobs eyes opened wide when he heard this. The underworld had been rife with rumours, but here was C.I 5 confirming it. And knowing their reputation, he could well understand that they wouldn't stop till they had dealt with the man.

It made him feel a lot better. He was very scared of Marco and would like to see him dealt with.

The plan went forward. Cowley drafted the letter, and Jacobs wrote it out. It was duly posted.

Now they had to wait, to see what the response was. It only had to be self-incriminating to give them the excuse to make their move.

Cowley kept the pair busy on other work. As the days passed they began to fear that perhaps the plan had failed.

Then Jacobs got a reply and hurried it in to Cowley. As Bodie and Doyle happened to be in the duty room, he called them in to see it. It was just what he had hoped for. In clear cold print it offered a service and stated the details.

We will search for and find a suitable 'look-alike'.

We will carefully groom him cosmetically to produce an 'identical twin'.

Then we will train him to act out a suitable scenario that will ensure he is seen by several reliable people at a selected time.

This will free you to carry out any action you choose during that time.

The final part of the service will be to alter the appearance of the 'twin' and to relocate him well out of London.

Our fee for this service is ten thousand pounds.

The letter was signed by Madeleine and Eugenie Dubary.

"Wow," exclaimed Bodie. "Just what we needed. Proof !"

"Expensive," commented Doyle.

"What do we do now ?," Bodie asked eagerly.

"For the moment, nothing more," said Cowley.

Doyle had a job to hide his smile at the expression on his mate's face. Bodie was always such an 'action man'.

Even Cowley almost smiled. "What did you expect, Bodie ? An armed squad raid to pick up two women ?"

"No," he continued, "Now we hand over everything we've got to the police. I've been speaking to some senior officers and have been assured of immediate and concentrated attention. It's up to the police and then the courts to deal with them. I've a feeling it will be a very long-drawn-out case"

"What can they be charged with ?," mused Doyle. "Aiding and abetting a criminal."

"Interfering with the course of justice," volunteered Bodie.

"Accessory to murder, if they knew what Marco intended, but that might be difficult to prove," added Cowley

He looked towards the tall dark-haired agent. "Disappointed not to be involved, Bodie ?," he said. "Don't be. There's still a vital job for us."

Bodie looked puzzled, but Doyle brightened visibly.

"Verani and Marco !," he exclaimed.

"Right," said Cowley, "You know how effective the ''criminal grapevine' is. As soon as those two get a hint of what is happening, they will know that their false alibis are blown. They might try to leave the country, and I for one, wouldn't like that to happen. We'll take care to prevent it."

The listening pair nodded in agreement.

"I think I'd like the pair of them receiving our hospitality until the police want them," said Cowley.

Bodie grinned happily, He liked that idea.

"I'll send Jax and Anson to pick up Verani," went on Cowley, "and you two can collect Marco. As fast as you can, I suggest, for he may already have been alerted. He has a wide range of contacts."

The two eager agents didn't need telling twice and shot out of Cowley's office almost at a run. They raced down the stairs and out to the car.

They knew where Marco lived, for in spite of his wealth accumulated from his various criminal activities, Marco chose to stay in the comparatively modest suburban house that had belonged to his parents. His money was invested in a luxurious villa in Spain instead.

With Bodie's skilled but hair-raising driving which had Doyle clinging to his seat, they made excellent time and screeched to a halt outside the pleasant building. They shot out of the car and made for the front gate.

But as they pushed it open, the neighbour next door, busy mowing his lawn, called out to them. "If you're looking for Mr. Marco, you've just missed him. He went off a few minutes ago, with a lot of suitcases in his car. Looked as if he was going on holiday. He has a place in Spain, hasn't he ?."

Bodie and Doyle exchanged glances in dismay. How unlucky was that !

Bodie' grabbed his mate's arm and all but dragged him back to the car. He was gunning the engine as Doyle scrambled in. He sped away taking the first corner perilously fast.

"Where are we going ?," gasped Doyle, hanging on grimly.

"One of the things I learned about Marco," replied Bodie, "was that he has a private plane kept at a small airport in Croydon. I know where it is."

Fortunately, the streets were not too busy as Bodie swept through them at break-neck speed. Reaching his target destination, he pulled into the half-empty car-park behind the airport buildings and shot into a convenient space.

"That's Marco's car," yelled Doyle as he scrambled out of the car. "You got the right place, Bodie."

"I hope he's still here," replied his mate, as together they charged towards the airport building and the stretch of tarmac beyond.

This time their luck had held !

As they swept around the corner they could see the sleek aircraft standing there. A small flight of steps was in place leading to the still-open door.

The plane's engine was ticking over idly. Clearly all was ready to go !

Then came the sound of an opening door and voices.

Marco emerged from the flight office and began to walk towards his plane.

""Freeze !, yelled Bodie, as both he and his partner held their weapons steadily trained on the fugitive villain.

But Marco re-acted extraordinarily quickly. A young woman was walking towards the flight office. In a moment, he had seized her, and with an arm round her throat had clasped her in front of himself as a human shield. His other hand held a pistol, which he had against her head as he began backing towards the plane.

"Come a step nearer and I'll kill her !," he shouted wildly.

Bodie and Doyle stood stock still. They did not dare to shoot. One of Cowley's strongest tenets was the avoidance of harm to innocents caught up in a situation.

Marco was evil enough to do as he said.

They watched in dismay as he backed away, dragging the terrified girl with him. He had almost reached the steps.

Then came an unexpected interruption. The door to the flight office opened and a man emerged. "Laura !," he yelled at the top of his voice, appalled at what was happening to his wife.

Momentarily distracted, Marco swung round, and loosed off a wild shot towards the man. His hold on the girl had slackened and she was pulling away from him.

Simultaneously, the sound of two more shots rent the air.

Marco and the girl tumbled to the ground.

But to the immense relief of the two C.I.5 men, the girl was moving, scrambling to get away from her fallen captor.

The man from the office dashed forward and gathered her into his arms. Frightened but clearly unhurt, she clung to him and sobbed on his shoulder.

Bodie and Doyle walked forward and gazed down at the other figure on the ground, a villain whose reign was definitely over.

"Cowley would probably have preferred him alive," Doyle said morosely.

"We had no option, mate," said Bodie firmly. "He'd have killed her without a second thought."

He holstered his gun and pulled out his radio-phone.

"Besides," he said, "look at it this way. We've saved the tax-payer a lot of money. Murder trials are very expensive !."

It was an abrupt and dramatic end to a long-drawn out investigation.

But a devious criminal scheme had been uncovered and now brought to a stop.

And a vicious murdering villain had met his end, and with it hopefully his evil empire.

So C. I. 5 had done its job well, and made London's streets a little safer.