Consequences.
As so often happened, Bodie and Doyle met as they parked their cars in the yard at Headquarters. They moved together up the stairs to the duty-room, and from there on to the office of their boss, Cowley. As he waited for them, he had been studying a morning newspaper, with its rather lurid headlines. As the pair entered, he waved it at them.
"Have you read this ?," he demanded.
Bodie took hold of the paper, and scanned the bold print on the front page.
It read, SERIAL RAPIST ROAMING CLAPHAM.
"Nasty !," he commented.
"Yes," agreed Doyle, reading over his mate's shoulder. "I hope they catch him soon, before it turns to murder."
"Is that likely ?," asked Cowley curiously.
"From my police experience, yes," said Doyle, and explained. "When he does it a few times, and doesn't get caught, he gets cocky. Thinks he's safe and untouchable, and gets a bit careless. Something goes wrong. He panics, and then you get a dead girl."
"Yes, I can see how that might happen," said Cowley thoughtfully, thinking to himself that Doyle's past experience was a real asset to one of his best men, and indirectly, to him as well.
"But, continued Doyle, "That's police business, not ours, isn't it ?."
Cowley's mind was instantly back on the job in hand. "Normally, yes," he declared, "but last night made it our business. One of our girls was attacked !."
"Who ?," was Bodie's instant demand.
"Is she all right,?," Doyle's concerned query followed.
"It was Jenny from the computer office," said Cowley. "She had been visiting a sick aunt, and had stayed longer than she intended. So it was getting late as she crossed the Common. She's a bit battered and bruised, but she did manage to fight him off, so he didn't succeed."
"But that makes it our business," declared Bodie firmly.
"Right, said Doyle equally decidedly. "Did she manage any sort of description, sir ?, he asked eagerly.
"Not really," said Cowley. "It all happened very fast. He was wearing dark clothes and a black ski-mask. All she could say was that he was of average height and build, but very strong. It tallied with what some of the other girls have said, but it doesn't help very much."
Doyle was looking thoughtful. "There are quite a few over-night hostels and 'doss-houses' in that area," he said, "He might hang out in one of those."
"My thought too," said Cowley. "So I want someone under cover to look at those."
"Me," said Doyle instantly. "Not him !," he grinned, pointing at his partner, "He'd stick out like a sore thumb."
"I've often said you'd make a good tramp," retorted Bodie.
But in spite of their teasing banter, both were taking the situation very seriously. One of their own had been attacked, and that merited some action as quickly as possible.
"Yes, I think we might give that a try," said Cowley. "You could well hear or see something that would give us a lead."
They didn't waste any time putting the plan into action. Doyle raked out an old navy track-suit, and some scruffy trainers. A morning without shaving, and he was ready to go. It took all of the first day, trailing round the various hostels, trying to find a vacancy, but he managed it at last, and booked himself in for a couple of nights.
As he'd been wandering around, he been looking carefully at the type of men hanging about, and realised that the rather vague description given by the girls who'd been attacked, would fit quite a lot of them, himself included.
He spent the first evening having a meal at the hostel, and trying to get to know some of the other men there. Some were quite chatty and friendly, but others were morose and silent. This particular hostel had a 9 o'clock curfew, which meant that you had to be in by that time to claim your place, or it would be given to someone else. Keeping this in mind, Doyle spent the next evening, fortunately a dry one, wandering about the Common, getting back just in time for a cup of cocoa, and a night on one of the none-too comfortable beds.
In the morning he quite enjoyed the substantial breakfast of porridge supplied to the men, who began to drift away as they finished it.
Then he got a bit of a shock !
Two young policemen entered the room. He waited with some interest to see who they were going to talk to. But to his great surprise, they marched straight up to where he was sitting, and said he was wanted in for questioning.
Doyle had a moment's hesitation. Although he was not carrying his I.D. card, it would be very easy for him to identify himself, and one phone call would do it. But if he did that too publicly, word would quickly be spread around, and his cover would be broken. So he decided to play a waiting game, till he could speak privately to a more senior officer.
So he threw himself into his role, and protested furiously. "What are you picking on me for ?," he demanded. "I haven't done anything."
One of the young coppers grabbed his arm. "Come on," he said. "We saw you wandering round the Common last night."
"So I like a bit of fresh air before bedtime," protested Doyle. "No law against that, is there ?."
He was being pulled to his feet, and although he could very easily have dealt with the two eager but inexperienced constables, who were being a bit rough, he let himself be carted out and pushed into the waiting patrol car, though continuing to mutter protests.
As they shot through the streets, he ventured a question."Who's your Inspector ?," he asked.
"Inspector Ibbotson," replied one.
"Why ?," demanded the other fiercely, "What's it to you ?"
Doyle ignored the brashness of the young copper, and said mildly, "I might know him, that's all."
Inwardly he was breathing a sigh of relief. He had served under Ibbotson for several months during his police years, and knew he was a clever, reasonable man. If he could get a quiet private word with him, everything would be quickly resolved. And so it worked out. Once in the police station, Doyle persisted in his request to see the Inspector, and eventually the man came down from his office on the second floor.
As Ibbotson walked into the room, he looked questioningly at the rather scruffy-looking man waiting for him. Then he looked more closely, and recognition dawned. He peremptorily dismissed the two young constables, and closed the door on them firmly. Returning to the table where Doyle stood up to meet him, he spoke quickly.
"Doyle," he said, "What are you up to ? I thought you'd moved on, - to C.I.5. I understood."
Thankful that the man had remembered him, Doyle quickly told the Inspector the full details, including why C.I.5 was interested.
"I understand," said Ibbotson, when he completed his story. "Are you making any progress ?."
"I'm afraid not." said Doyle regretfully. "I haven't heard or seen anything useful. In fact, I've a 'meet' with my boss soon, and when he gets my report, I think he'll pull me out."
"Pity," replied Ibbotson, "We're not getting anywhere yet, either."
They rose from the table. The inspector called the two young policemen back in, and without giving them any explanation, ordered them to release Doyle, and take him back to the hostel. This they did, though they didn't look very pleased about it.
Then, a couple of days later, as he was having breakfast at a 'drop-in' centre, the scene was replayed again, in almost identical fashion. The same two constables marched in, and accosted him, seeming remarkably eager to do so.
"You've got nothing on me !," Doyle protested angrily. "You've picked me up before."
"So we're picking you up again," retorted the young copper. "Perhaps we're right this time," he added, pulling Doyle to his feet a little more roughly than was necessary.
Resignedly, Doyle let himself be carted off once again. He was pushed into an interrogation room, and was surprised to find Inspector Ibbotson already there. As Doyle sat down at the table, the Inspector ordered the two young officers to wait outside. They looked a bit taken aback by this unusual order, but could hardly argue with their superior. They obeyed reluctantly and the door closed behind them.
"What's all this about ?," demanded Doyle rather crossly. "You know who I am, and that I'm not responsible."
The Inspector looked at him gravely. "We've got a bit of a problem this time," he said. "This girl has come in, and swears you attacked her. She described you perfectly, and gave us your name."
For a moment Doyle stared at him incredulously. Then his clever mind went in to action. "When did she say this happened ?," he demanded
"About 10 o'clock last night," replied the Inspector.
"Well that lets me out," said Doyle triumphantly. "You remember I told you my boss was calling a 'meet' ? It was at 8 o'clock last night at Headquarters. There were several agents there who have been pursuing other lines of enquiry. I put in my report, hoping I'd be pulled out, but Cowley said to give it a few more days. Then we all spent a couple of hours poring over 'mug-shots' of rapists from all over London and beyond. It was 11.30 before we packed it in."
He paused and looked at Ibbotson, to see if he was believing him. "It was too late then to get into a hostel, so I spent the night in my own bed, and only came back this morning. One call to my boss will verify all that."
"Well," said the Inspector, getting a word in at last. "I knew her story didn't ring true, so I tried to call him, but they said he was out. So I left a message for him to ring back, but he hasn't done so yet." At this point there was a sharp tap at the door. It opened, and a figure very familiar walked in. Doyle jumped to his feet.
"Sir," he acknowledged his boss.
Cowley nodded to him, and then extended his hand to the other occupant of the room. "Inspector Ibbotson," he said, "George Cowley. I got your message, and as I wasn't far from the area, I decided to come in personally."
The Inspector shook the proffered hand warmly. He knew this man's reputation, but had never actually met him before.
"Now what's all this about ?," asked Cowley, and the Inspector explained briefly and succinctly.
"I knew it wasn't true," he finished, "but as the girl had described and clearly identified Doyle, I had to have him brought in for appearances' sake, while I got a message to you."
"Has he told you where he was last evening ?" asked Cowley.
"Yes," replied Ibbotson instantly.
"And I'll confirm it," said Cowley.
His quick eyes took in the friendly way that the man was looking at Doyle. "So you know him ?," he asked. "Has he served under you, then ?."
"Yes, for about 6 months," replied Ibbotson with a smile.
"How was he as a policeman ?," asked Cowley curiously.
"Very good," said Ibbotson. "Always keen, but a little bit obstreperous sometimes."
"He's still that, now and then," said Cowley.
Doyle felt decidedly uncomfortable being talked about as if he wasn't there, which was, of course, exactly what the two older men intended. Cowley relented. "All right, Doyle," he said. "There's nothing to be gained by you staying under cover any longer. You'd better go home, and have a bath and a shave."
"But you still have a problem," put in Ibbotson. As Cowley looked questioningly at him, he continued. "This girl was blatantly lying. We know that. But why ? Is she just an attention-seeker ? But she clearly named Doyle, so did someone put her up to it ?."
"That's a thought," said Cowley seriously. "Give us her details, will you, and we'll follow it up."
He turned to his waiting agent. "Come on, Doyle," he said, "I'll give you a lift back, though I may have to get the car fumigated afterwards."
Accepting his boss's attempt at humour more meekly than he felt, Doyle followed him out to the car. He smiled wryly as he was ordered into the front beside the driver. Cowley evidently didn't want him too close, in his present scruffy state. As they started moving, he swung round in his seat to pose a question.
"Do you want me to have a go at the girl, sir ?," he asked.
To his surprise he got a vehement 'No' "I don't want you to have any contact with her," explained Cowley. "I'll get Bodie and someone fierce to pick her up."
He smiled grimly, and went on. "If they scare the wits out of her, she may tell us who put her up to accusing you."
"Bodie can be pretty scary himself," commented Doyle/
"Aye, he can," his boss agreed. Especially where it concerns you, he thought to himself. "You can have the rest of the morning off," he said, "to get yourself cleaned up. Then come in and look through the latest reports, Jenny is back at work. You could have a word with her. See if she's remembered anything more."
These tasks kept Doyle occupied for the rest of the day, but he was able to knock off at a reasonable hour, to spend a quiet night in, grateful to be back with all the creature comforts of his own flat. He reported in at the usual time next morning and was told to go straight up to Cowley's office. He met Bodie at the office door, and they entered together.
Their boss was just putting the phone receiver down. "Good news," he reported. "They've caught the rapist ! They used a decoy, a policewoman."
"That's dangerous !" exclaimed Doyle. He'd seen such ploys go wrong.
"Not when the lass in question has a black belt in karate," said Cowley, with almost a grin.
"He wasn't from either of the hostels you stayed in, Doyle, "but from one the other side of the Common, in fact. He wasn't on our books, either," he added. "He'd recently come down from Liverpool."
He turned to Bodie. "Tell him about the girl who accused Doyle," he ordered.
"Radford and I picked her up," said Bodie. "She's a small-time prostitute, usually works in Soho. We glared at her for a bit, - no more, I promise, and she told us it all. Apparently she was approached by phone and paid by post, to make the accusation, and then to drop it after a couple of days. It was a man's voice, and he told her it was a practical joke on a friend."
"Huh, not my idea of a joke," exclaimed Doyle.
"Well," said Bodie, "he offered her good money, so she did it. He described you, told her your name, and exactly what to say."
"Have you any idea who might be responsible ?," asked Cowley.
"No, sir," replied Doyle instantly. "None of my friends are into practical jokes, except maybe Bodie," he said, turning to glare at his partner.
"It wasn't me, mate !," protested Bodie indignantly.
"It could take a while to find out," said Cowley, "but it doesn't really matter, does it ? That business is over and done with now, and we've more important things to get on with." He indicated the pile of folders on his desk, and soon all three of them were engrossed in the vital new information that had just come to light.
I'd still like to know, thought Doyle to himself.
An hour or so later, Bodie and Doyle left the office, each with a long list of checks and enquiries to be made. In his typical pragmatic way, Doyle put the events of the last few days behind him, and was giving his full attention to the new assignments.
Not so, Bodie ! Although he, too, was concentrating on the tasks before him, there was still a niggle persisting at the back of his mind. Who had they encountered who had thought it worth paying out good money, just to cause trouble for his team-mate ? He didn't buy it being someone's idea of a practical joke. No, someone had deliberately targeted Doyle, to interfere with his work, and cause him trouble, and he, Bodie, didn't like that one bit ! But a couple of really busy days helped him dismiss it from his mind, and as his mate seemed to have completely forgotten about it, he let it go.
Little did he know that it wasn't over yet !
It was the practice with C.I.5 to move their top operatives at regular intervals into different flats, for security reasons, and to preserve their anonymity. Most took this in their stride, adapting quickly, accepting the advantages of their new place, and putting up with any snags or drawbacks.
Doyle was quite pleased with his latest flat. It was quite comfortable and spacious, at least for a single man. One 'perk' he was pleased about was his resident's parking permit. The street outside was a busy one, and mostly double yellow-lined, but just outside the entrance foyer, was a long marked-off strip, just for the use of residents. It had space for four cars, but as only two others of the current residents had cars, parking was easy. It was nice coming back after a hard day, whatever the time, to slip easily into a space right outside one's door.
Making his usual early start, with the prospect of a busy day ahead, Doyle showered, dressed, had some breakfast, and left the flat. To his great surprise, his car wasn't where he expected it to be !
He'd left it almost opposite the entrance, but it wasn't there. He glanced up and down the street, and was astonished to see it - 10 yards away ! He moved quickly towards it. It was now on double yellow lines, and sporting a parking ticket.!
He stared at in disbelief ! He'd been out to a meal with friends last night, and had come home quite late, but they'd only had a couple of glasses of wine with the meal. He certainly hadn't been drunk ! How had he managed to park the wrong side of the designated line ?
He examined the car carefully .It was still locked, and seemed to be just as he had left it. He opened the door, climbed in and started it gingerly. Everything seemed normal, so he tried to relax, and drove into work as usual, - completely uneventfully. Knowing the kind of ribbing he would get, he didn't tell Bodie, and they put in a full day's work together, getting through a lot of important checks.
When he went home, he concentrated on what he was doing, and when his car was neatly parked, the rear bumper was a good two yards into the permitted zone. Maybe I was a bit careless last night, he thought. But when he emerged the following morning, he couldn't believe his eyes !
Once again his car was on the double yellow lines, 6 yards back from where he'd left it !
What is going on, he thought ? Is this someone's idea of fun ? Then he remembered. It was barely a week since someone had tried to cause trouble for him, saying it was just a practical joke. Was this another attempt, by the same person ? He made all speed into Headquarters, and, collecting Bodie from the duty-room on the way, hustled him straight to Cowley's office. There he told them both the whole story. At first Bodie was inclined to laugh, but a glare from his boss stopped him.
"This isn't funny, Bodie," he snapped. "So far this joker hasn't done Doyle any harm. But he could easily have done so, and who knows what else he's planning." This sobered Bodie up, as he realised the truth of it. If the car could be moved, it could equally easily have been booby-trapped. So he quickly suggested a plan to do something about it. Cowley listened to his idea, and gave his approval.
Later that night, when a blue van crept quietly down the street, none of its occupants noticed that the parking bay now had its full complement of vehicles, with a large black unlit car just in front of Doyle's. As they had done the two previous nights, four burly men climbed out of the van, approached Doyle's car, ranged themselves round it, and prepared to roll it back as they had done before. Their leader, known as 'Fingers', started to demonstrate his prowess with a metal strip on the front window, as the others bent to take hold of the car.
Suddenly, they discovered they were not alone !
The unlit car next to them had disgorged several dark-clothed men, who weighed into them with a will. It didn't take long before the four were subdued, and then man-handled into the back of their own van.
"Take them into the Interrogation Centre," ordered Bodie who had been leading the ambushing group. "Let them stew overnight. We'll talk to them in the morning."
He turned to the slighter man beside him, who had been playing his part in the tussle. "You'll be all right now, sunshine," he said cheerfully. "Go and get your beauty sleep. See you in the morning."
The van and the black car shot off into the night, and Doyle went back into his flat, well satisfied with the night's action, but still wondering who was behind it. Someone had arranged the interference with his car !
But the interrogation of the four men in the morning brought them no more satisfaction than the one they had had with the girl who'd accused Doyle of rape. The men had been contacted by phone, and paid by post, as she had been, and equally had no idea who had hired them. Bodie was feeling particularly frustrated. His aggressive questioning had cut no ice with the men, - they just didn't know the answers to his demands.
As he and Doyle walked away down the corridor, Bodie glanced at his mate. He didn't look too concerned.
"Aren't you annoyed about this ?," he demanded.
"Of course I'm annoyed, - damned annoyed !," retorted Doyle. "But since there don't seem to be any answers, I'm not going to lose any sleep over it. We've already wasted quite enough time."
They had to let the men go, as trying to convict them of anything would have been a hassle, and more waste of time. Whether the police were going to charge the girl with wasting police time, they didn't know, and didn't really care. They had far more important matters to be concerned with. These kept them pretty busy. There was word of a big drugs drop, and a suspect flat to watch.
Several days later found Bodie moving down a busy High Street, following, at a discreet distance, a suspect 'mule', a drugs courier. He was on his own, for Doyle had been sent to look at the stake-out at the suspect flat, to decide if it was worth continuing.
As he neared the corner of the road, he glanced idly at the car that had just pulled up at the red light. And couldn't believe his eyes, as the met those of the man in the passenger seat ! But as he stared, taken aback, the light turned to green, and the car sped away, moving so fast that he only got half of the licence number.
He gazed after it, then suddenly realised that if he wasn't careful he was going to lose his quarry. He hurried round the corner, and up the road, and was relieved to find that he had caught up with his man again.
But what he had seen was still troubling his mind. Was it really him, he asked himself, or did I imagine it ?
He continued with his task. He was joined by other agents, and together they picked up both the courier and his contact. Leaving it to the others to take the men into the Interrogation Centre, he called in and made his report to Cowley, who pronounced himself satisfied with the outcome.
But Bodie still had something on his mind. He called in again, to the switchboard this time. "Betty," he said to the girl on duty, "Do you know where Doyle is ?"
"Yes," she replied instantly, "He's with Murphy, wrapping up that stake-out in Finchley."
"Of course," exclaimed Bodie, "I'd forgotten about that."
"Do you want me to put you through to him ?," asked Betty helpfully.
"No, thank you," replied Bodie. "It's not work, so I'll call him later at home."
Questioning himself as to why he'd made that call, Bodie realised that he'd only wanted to be sure Doyle wasn't alone. Why ? Had what he'd seen given him a premonition of danger to his mate ? He didn't go straight home, but made a few diversionary visits to some of his best informants, asking them to make a few enquiries for him. Perhaps they would confirm or refute what was bothering him. He'd just about managed to wash and change, and get himself a quick meal, before his home phone rang.
It was Betty, still on duty on the switchboard. "There's a man wants to speak to you," she said, "Wouldn't give his name, but said you'd know him."
"All right, put him through," said Bodie, thinking it might be one of his earlier contacts getting back to him with information.
But although he did recognise the voice that came through, it wasn't one that he was expecting.
"My dear chap, how are you ?," it said.
"Leitener !," exclaimed Bodie.
"So you did recognise me ! I thought you had," went on the smooth voice.
"Listen, Leitener," interrupted Bodie, "You leave Doyle alone, do you hear."
"Calm down, dear boy," came the suave voice. "That's why I called you. I know last time we spoke, I was threatening that when I came back I'd kill him. But things have changed, old lad. So just calm down and let me explain."
Bodie tried to comply, but the fear he had felt when he first thought he'd recognised Max Leitener was still there.
"By the way," said Leitener, "don't bother trying to trace this call. I'm well on the outskirts of London, and I'd be long gone before you got there."
"I'm listening," said Bodie tersely.
"Well," continued the erstwhile villain who had caused such havoc in their lives some time ago, "I went to South America, - I'm not telling you just where. I've started a nice little business there, and I've found a nice little lady, too, to help me build it up. I'm only back in this country to liquidize all my assets, so that I can pour all the money I possess into my new venture, and it's quite 'legit' , I promise you."
Bodie began to feel a little calmer, as Leitener went on. "I know I once had grand schemes of vengeance against Doyle, but those days have all gone. I don't think I could kill him, anyway. I like him too much, - the dear boy amused me a lot."
And then he added a really significant remark. "But I've been having a lot of fun annoying him, - making him cross. He has been cross, hasn't he ?"
Light dawned on Bodie. "You were behind moving his car, weren't you ?" he exclaimed.
"Yes," said Leitener, with a chuckle, "That was clever, wasn't it ?.And he looked so puzzled, standing by the space he thought he'd parked it."
"You saw him ?," asked Bodie.
"Yes," replied Leitener, "I was in the building opposite. So you see, I could have shot him if I'd wanted to. And I hired that naughty girl from Soho too, but I didn't get to see the trouble that caused, - pity."
"What now?," demanded Bodie.
"Well, I'm busy collecting in the last of my cash," said Leitener, "and then I'll be on my way. I doubt whether I'll have time for anything else, so this could be 'good-bye', Bodie, old chap. Give my best wishes to our dear boy, too." And before Bodie could say any more, the line went dead.
Bodie sat down heavily in his favourite armchair, his mind racing over what he'd just heard. Could he believe it ? Could he trust Leitener's word that Doyle was not in danger ? Somehow he felt he could. The man had been an inveterate villain, but there was something charismatic about him, that made him almost likeable.
He reached for the phone to call his mate. Then he remembered that Doyle had told him that he was going to a concert with some friends this evening. Ah well, it would have to wait till the morning.
He made a point of being into the yard at Headquarters early the next morning. He waited till he saw his partner's car pull in. Then he slipped quickly into the passenger seat beside him. About to protest, Doyle saw the serious look on his friends face, and stopped.
"What's up, mate ?, he asked.
So Bodie told him all about last night's phone call. Doyle listened intently until he finished the story. He gave a low whistle.
"That's a turn up for the book, isn't it ?" he said. They sat in comradely silence for a moment as they thought it all over.
"Should we tell Cowley ?," asked Bodie.
"I think we have to," said Doyle. "It clears up what's been happening to me, doesn't it ?"
So they made their way up to their boss's office, and Bodie related the whole tale again, trying to remember the actual words spoken as accurately as he could. Cowley was silent for a few moments as he considered what he had heard. At last he gave his opinion.
"As it sounds as if he's clearing off for good, I don't think we need to spend any time or resources trying to find him. I'll inform the police, and it they want to take action to apprehend him for past crimes, that's up to them, but I suspect by the time they organize anything, he'll be long gone anyway."
He turned back to his desk and picked up a folder."Now, what do you know about a small chemical firm called Compton's ?" he asked briskly.
Both Bodie and Doyle had to confess ignorance of the name, so soon all three were engrossed in the information contained in the folder, - suspicions reported by other agents.
"This looks interesting," commented Bodie.
"I thought so," agreed Cowley, "So let's find out more." Stake-outs and investigations soon had Bodie and Doyle and several other operatives very busy, so all thought of what had happened before cleared from their minds.
But it wasn't over yet !
A few busy days later, Bodie had another evening phone call, and instantly recognised the voice.
"Positively last call, dear boy," said Leitener brightly. "I'm off very soon, but I just couldn't resist one last trick to show you both that I meant what I said."
"What do you mean ?," demanded Bodie.
"Just to prove that I could," went on Leitener, "I've caught our curly-haired friend, albeit with some assistance, I admit. He's lying on the floor in front of me, glaring at me very ferociously. You're cross with me aren't you, Doyle ?" he said teasingly, nudging the recumbent bound form with one elegant foot. Impeded by a gag, the muffled sound of Doyle's fiercest imprecations came to Bodie's ears.
"I thought you weren't going to harm him," protested Bodie. "Let him go !."
"I'm going to," replied Leitener. "That's why I rang. But I've got to give myself time to get clear. So listen carefully, dear boy, and I'll tell you where to find him."
"Go on," said Bodie, more calmly than he felt. He still didn't entirely trust this man, who was as devious as they came.
"I've sold nearly everything I owned," went on Leitener, "but I've still got a car. A beautiful old Chrysler, given to me by a friend who died. She was a real star in her day, but she's reached the end of the road. I couldn't sell her, for the cost of parts and repairs is prohibitive, and the bodywork is beyond redemption, I'm afraid. But she still runs well. I've been using her all this week. I'm going to dump our treasure in the nice big boot, and then tell you where to find him. There's still half a tank of fuel, so I'll leave the keys in the glove compartment, and you can both take her for a spin if you like."
"Where do I have to go ?," asked Bodie impatiently.
"No rush, dear boy," said Leitener soothingly. "It's just far enough away to give me time to be well away before you get here."
"Tell me," demanded Bodie, becoming irritated by the man's infuriatingly casual manner.
"It's in the car-park under the Winton Hotel in Epsom," said Leitener at last. A black beauty, you'll find her. So I wish you both a fond good-bye. I've enjoyed knowing you." With a final click, the line went dead.
Pausing only to grab his keys, his radio-phone, and an A to Z directory, Bodie dashed out of his flat, and down to his car. There was no point in calling his boss yet, as he'd said earlier that he was going to a meeting tonight. He'd inform him when he got a priority was to find the car and rescue his partner.
It was a good job it wasn't rush hour, for Bodie showed scant regard for the speed limits, as he tore through the dark streets. He stopped only once, pulling in to the kerb to consult his A to Z. Then he raced on again, and before long was pulling into the underground car-park at the Winton. He jumped out of his car, and scanned the rows of cars parked either side of the space. There weren't that many. He estimated about twenty vehicles in total, and half of them black. He ran quickly down the row one side, turned and came back down the other. He stopped short. There was no black Chrysler !
Rapidly he checked again, unable to take it in. The car just wasn't there ! Damn Leitener, he thought. I might have known not to trust him.
He spotted the flight of steps that led up into the hotel, he assumed, and dashed up them into the foyer of the Winton. A man, sitting behind the reception desk, reading a newspaper, got quickly to his feet.
"How may I help you, sir," he asked politely.
"Have you a Mr. Leitener staying here ?," asked Bodie.
"I don't think so, sir," said the man, looking rather puzzled. He pulled out the book from under the shelf, and quickly scanned the names.
"No, sir," he said, "No-one of that name. I would have remembered."
"Owns an old black Chrysler ?," asked Bodie desperately.
The man's face lightened. "Ah, Mr. Lopez," he said, beaming widely. "But you've missed him, sir. He's gone up North on business."
"With the car ?," queried Bodie.
"Oh, no, sir," replied the man. "On the night train. He left the car. Said he would phone when he was coming back." You'll be lucky, thought Bodie.
The door marked 'Manager' opened behind him. Having heard voices, unusual at that time of night, the manager had come out to investigate.
"Is there a problem ?," he asked, eyeing Bodie warily.
"This gentleman is looking for Mr. Lopez," explained the receptionist. "I was just explaining he's gone away on business."
"Yes," said the manager, "I saw him drive out as I came in."
"Oh, no, sir," exclaimed the man on the desk. "I saw him into a taxi for Euston, earlier than that."
"The car isn't there !," said Bodie tersely.
"Are you sure ?," asked the receptionist. "I parked right alongside it when I came on duty."
"It isn't there now," reiterated Bodie.
"It's been stolen !," exclaimed the manager. "We'd better call the police."
"I'll do that," said Bodie. "Can you give me its registration number.?"
The two older men looked blankly at each other. "I don't know it," said one. "I've never noticed," said the other.
Bodie glared at them, forgetting that registering car number plates was a practiced skill with C.I.5 men, and not everyone was good at it. It was hardly their fault, but they weren't being much help.
"Young Mr. Norton would know," volunteered the receptionist. "He admired the car and talked a lot with Mr. Lopez about it."
"Who's Mr. Norton ?," demanded Bodie.
"One of our regulars," explained the manager, "But he retires early when it's a week night. He leaves at 5 am for work. I can't wake him !."
"I can," declared Bodie, and flashed his I.D. card. "Which room ?."
The manager hesitated, but the receptionist responded almost automatically,
"No 17, sir,"
Bodie shot up the stairs, found the right door, and hammered loudly on it. A few moments later it was opened by a rather dishevelled young man clad in pyjamas. Bodie wasted no time in explanation.
"Can you give me the licence plate number of Mr. Lopez's Chrysler ?," he demanded.
To his great relief, the man rattled off the details immediately. "But why are you asking ?," he gasped, somewhat shaken by Bodie's fierce manner.
The manager, who had followed Bodie up the stairs, but not at such a pace, told him, "We think it's been stolen," he said.
"Oh, no !," exclaimed the young man, "What a shame ! Was it joy-riders, do you think ? I hope they don't crash it."
So do I, thought Bodie, though his concern was not for the old car, but rather for its cargo. Throwing a brief word of thanks to them all, Bodie shot off again downstairs and out to his car. Once there, he was quickly on the car-phone, calling for an urgent A.P.B. on the Chrysler. There would be immediate action, of course, but as there was no indication as to which direction the car had gone in, it was not going to be easy finding it.
Next he called Cowley. He was now at home, and none to be pleased to be called this late at night, as his meeting had been prolonged and difficult. But as soon as Bodie told him the whole story, he was instantly alert and efficient again.
"Meet me at Headquarters," he ordered. "I'll get there and start making a few calls."
Bodie was inclined to protest, but his boss quelled him with his sensible words. "It's no use you driving round aimlessly, looking," he said. "Any news will come straight to H.Q. If you are there, you'll hear it as soon as I do."
But although they waited for hours, only negative information came through. Bodie was driving his boss crazy, as he paced the floor of the office, but Cowley didn't complain about it, as he knew his man was desperately frustrated, fearing his mate was in danger, and needing to take some action.
Meanwhile, what had happened to the Chrysler and its contents ?
As the men at the hotel has suspected, it had indeed been stolen, by a couple of drunken youngsters. They had entered the underground garage, at first with only the intention of breaking into cars and stealing anything they could. But when they had forced an entry into the big black car, and had found the keys in the glove compartment, they had decided their luck was in !
For a while they had only driven round aimlessly, taking turns to enjoy the smooth performance of the old car. They had also been taking turns in drinking from a large bottle of vodka, and having been in the pub most of the earlier evening were now pretty inebriated.
Then one had what he considered a bright idea. "Let's go down to the seaside," he declared, and the other nodded eagerly.
Though they had no idea where they were making for, they were not too drunk to realise that if you headed south out of London, you would eventually reach the coast somewhere. So they set off in that direction.
All the while they had been driving about, they had been aware of intermittent thumping noises from somewhere in the back of the car. But in their intoxicated state, they had ignored these, thinking it was only due to car's age, and general declining state.
And the old car, in spite of being badly handled served them well. As dawn brought the clear light of a promising new day, they were well down into the far west of Sussex.
But there, just as they were on a road which gave them a long view down to the sea, their luck ran out. ! The brave old car spluttered and died, out of petrol at last, and coasted to a halt.
The drunken pair, cross that they could see the sea, but hadn't quite reached it, decided irrationally to take it out on the car. With some pushing and shoving, and turning of the steering wheel, they had it facing towards the distant sea, and with a final push, sent it rolling down the sloping fields.
The stupid pair watched in glee, as the doomed vehicle sped on, gathering speed and bouncing wildly as it hit each little hump and rocky outcrop on the sloping hillside. As it reached the final slope, not a cliff, fortunately, but a steep rock-strewn bank, the bucking became wilder. Doors flew open, then the bonnet, and finally the boot, depositing its contents onto the cragged rocks. Then with a final 'whump', it landed, still upright, onto the soft sand of a beach. As it was out of fuel, there was no fire, just a few creaks and groans, as the abused chassis finally settled. Then all was still and quiet. And so it remained for a couple of hours, with only the squawks of scavenging seagulls wheeling over the bay.
Then a figure came into sight, an elderly gentleman, leaning heavily on a stick, taking his early morning walk with his dog, a big black Labrador. As he rounded the bend and spotted the car, he hastened his pace, his dog bounding ahead of him. He peered in through the broken windows. He was very relieved to see there appeared to be no occupants. He had had a momentary dread that he might discover bodies in there.
Then he heard his dog barking, and turned to see him scrabbling up the rocky hillside. "What is it, Blackie ?," he called, "What have you found ?."
Shielding his eyes with his hand, for the morning light was very bright, he tried to see what was attracting his dog's attention. He was startled when he realised he was looking at someone's legs among the boulders on the hillside.
Oh dear, he thought, maybe the driver was thrown clear. Knowing that he wasn't fit enough to scramble up the slope as his dog had done, he recalled him, and set off as fast as he could back to his home to summon assistance. He called first the police and then the coastguard. Putting Blackie onto his leash, he went out again to direct whoever came to the right spot.
Soon, led by the police, there was considerable activity !
A stretcher party, clambering expertly up the rock-strewn hill, found a man among the boulders, injured and unconscious, but still alive. But they were very surprised when they saw that he was bound hand and foot. So he was not the driver, obviously ! He was hurriedly transported to the local hospital, where those taking off his clothes to assess his injuries had another surprise. Their patient was wearing a shoulder-holster, though the gun was missing. There was nothing else on him to give a clue to his identity.
So while the doctor and the nurses got on with the job of treating his injuries and making him comfortable, the police were left with a mystery. What kind of man carried a gun, and ended, tied up, in a wrecked car ? Was he maybe some sort of crook ? Or the victim of a gang-land feud ? A man was stationed to sit with him, to question him as soon as he recovered consciousness.
"But that might take some time," warned the doctor in charge, "Apart from his other injuries, he's had a nasty bang on the head. That could mean he might well have concussion, or temporary amnesia. And if so, I won't allow you to badger him. He'll need a lot of rest."
He was concerned about his patient, whoever he might be. He had multiple injuries, a broken leg, cracked ribs, and a great deal of serious bruising, as well as the head injury. The police might suspect that he was a criminal, and want to keep a close eye on him, but he was first and foremost his patient, and he would protect him. But he did seem to be pretty fit and strong, so he was hopeful that he would recover well.
Bodie had refused to go home, and was still at Headquarters. Cowley was there too. Both of them were waiting anxiously for any news, but so far there had been none. The search for the car, promoted by the A.P.B. on it, had spread quickly all through the London area.
It now seemed pretty sure that the vehicle must have gone further afield. But where?
Cowley had his own bed in the back office, and Bodie managed some rest on the couch in the duty-room, but both were back in the office in the early hours of the morning. Reports were now coming in from further out, but they were still negative.
It was going to take some time to cover all the possibilities. Leitener had said there was still half-a-tank of petrol in the car, and estimates had been made as to how far the car could have gone on that. But as they didn't know in which direction it had gone, they had to cover the whole radius out of London.
It was Blackie, the big black Labrador, that supplied the solution. The elderly gentleman was again taking him on his usual morning walk along the beach. The wrecked car was still there, of course, cordoned off by police, to protect it from the curious sight-seers who had turned up the previous evening.
Blackie was, in his usual fashion, charging easily up and down the rock slopes, his nose very busy, and his tail waving like a flag. His owner, walking slowly past the wreckage, called him in. He came obediently, but with something in his mouth. He came to the man, and as he was well-trained, gave it to him on command.
The man looked at the object carefully. It was a leather wallet with some cards in it. As he didn't have his reading glasses with him, he couldn't make out what they said. But he guessed that it probably belonged to the man they had found. The sensible man carried it home with him, and called the police, who at once sent someone to collect it. It was delivered into the hands of the senior man at the police station. He examined it quickly, and found an I.D. card, which he read and recognised with some excitement. He had some important phone calls to make !
The phone rang in Cowley's office. He picked it up quickly. It was a friend of his, a Chief Constable, called John Stevenson.
"George," he said cheerfully, "Are you looking for one of your men, a Raymond Doyle ?"
"Yes," exclaimed Cowley, "Has he been found ?"
Bodie was instantly alert, listening intently to one side of the conversation. Cowley was scribbling on a notepad as he listened.
"In hospital ? Where ? Its name please. Thank you so much, John." he said as he put the phone down, and turned to Bodie. "Those stupid joy-riders crashed the car on a beach in West Sussex. Doyle was thrown out. He's alive, but quite seriously injured, I understand."
Responding to the pleading look on Bodie's face he picked up the phone again. "I'll arrange for a car and a driver, and we'll have a trip to the seaside," he said, relief making him attempt to be humorous. Bodie smiled too. It could have been a lot worse news.
Later that morning the police inspector strolled into the hospital and asked to see the doctor. He handed him the wallet. "You'll be pleased to hear that you mystery man is not a villain, He said cheerfully. "In fact he's one of the 'good guys'."
The doctor looked at the I.D . "C.I.5, a law enforcement agent.," he read. "Well I never ! I would have treated him the same whoever he was, but I'm rather glad he's not a crook."
Doyle was out of commission for some time, of course. After a short spell in hospital, he was brought back to London, and was under the care of their own medical man. But he recovered well. As soon as he was relatively mobile, on crutches, and needing a chauffeur, of course, he was to be found in the Records office, or the computer room, storing up useful information.
Bodie began to get quite envious of the way the girls fussed round his friend, pampering him and waiting on him with coffees etc. But Ray took it all in his stride, and when they talked over what had happened, he didn't seem to be harbouring any resentment, either against the stupid joy-riders, or against Leitener.
"He couldn't have known that would happen," he said forgivingly. "It's hardly his fault."
He'd long forgotten about it all, when three months later something odd happened. He'd taken a girl to the restaurant of his old friend Marco, and was enjoying a pleasant meal, when Marco came to the table and handed him an envelope.
"A lad brought this in," he said, "to be given to you."
Doyle opened the envelope curiously. It held a key, labelled, for a safety deposit locker at Victoria Station.
"I can't think who's sent this," he said, "but I'll investigate tomorrow."
He did just that. Completing his morning's work early, he found time to call into Victoria. He found the designated locker and opened it. It contained a letter and a package. He began to read the letter, which said,
'Dear boy, I've only just heard what happened to you. I am so sorry. I never envisaged that ! I meant Bodie to find you quickly. I am doing exceptionally well here, so please accept the enclosed, as compensation for your pain and inconvenience. Sincerely, Max Leitener.'
Astonished, Doyle opened the package, and stared at the contents, a wad of banknotes !
What on earth do I do about this, was his dumbfounded thought ?