Detective-Sergeant Meadows considered himself a minor authority on the Pope gang. He knew how they made their money--legally and illegally--and he could recognize most of the gang members by name and face. So when he heard the description of the two men who just ransacked a boardinghouse in Islington he wrapped up his business at the murder scene and headed there to see things for himself. The first description matched Richard "Dicky" Dobbs, the Popes' main muscle boy and enforcer. The other matched Robert Pope himself.
Meadows, as was his habit, paced the drawing room while Eunice Wright, sitting bolt upright in a chair, patiently recounted the story again, even though she had told it twice already. Her cup of tea had given way to a small glass of sherry. Her face bore the handprint of her assailant, and she had received a bump on the head when shoved to the floor. Otherwise, she was not seriously injured.
"And they didn't tell you who or what they were looking for?" Meadows asked, ceasing his pacing only long enough to ask the question.
"No."
"Did they call each other by name?"
"No, I don't believe so."
"Did you happen to see the plate number on the van?"
"No, but I did give a description to one of the other officers."
"It's a very common model, Mrs. Wright. I'm afraid the description alone won't be of much value to us. I'll have one of the men check with the neighbors."
"I'm sorry," she said, rubbing the back of her head.
"Are you all right?"
"He gave me a nasty bump on the head, the ruffian!"
"Perhaps you should see a doctor. I'll have one of the officers give you a lift when we're finished here."
"Thank you. That's very kind of you."
Meadows picked up his raincoat and put it on. "Did they say anything else that you can remember?"
"Well, they did say one other thing." Eunice Wright hesitated a moment, and her face colored. "The language is a little on the rough side, I'm afraid."
"I assure you I won't be offended."
"The smaller one said, 'When I find that' "--she paused, lowering her voice, embarrassed to say the words--" 'when I find that fucking bitch I'm going to kill her myself.' "
Meadows frowned. "You're certain of that?"
"Oh, yes. When you don't often hear language like that, it's hard to forget."
"I'll say." He handed her his card. "If you think of anything else, please don't hesitate to call. Good morning, Mrs. Wright."
"Good morning, Detective-Sergeant."
Meadows put on his hat and saw himself to the door. So they were looking for a woman. Maybe it wasn't the Popes after all. Maybe it was just two blokes looking for a girl. Maybe the similar descriptions were just coincidence. Meadows didn't believe in coincidence. He would drive back to the Popes' warehouse and see if anyone had spotted a woman hanging around there lately.
23
LONDON
Catherine Blake assumed that Allied officers who knew the most important secret of the war had been made aware of the threat posed by spies. Why else would Commander Peter Jordan handcuff his briefcase to his wrist for a short walk across Grosvenor Square? She also assumed that officers had been warned about approaches by women. Earlier in the war she had seen a poster outside a club frequented by British officers. It showed a luscious, big-breasted blonde in a low-cut evening gown, waiting for an officer to light her cigarette for her. Across the bottom of the poster were the words KEEP IT MUM, SHE'S NOT SO DUMB. Catherine thought it was the most ridiculous thing she had ever seen. If there were women like that--tarts who hung around clubs or parties listening for gossip and secrets--she did not know about them. She did suspect that such indoctrination would make Peter Jordan distrustful of a beautiful woman suddenly vying for his attention. He was also a successful, intelligent, and attractive man. He would be very discriminating in the women he chose to spend time with. The scene at the Savoy the other night was evidence of that. He had become angry with his friend Shepherd Ramsey for setting him up with a young, stupid girl. Catherine would have to make her approach very carefully.
Which explained why she was standing on a corner near the Vandyke Club with a bag of groceries in her arms.
It was shortly before six o'clock. London was shrouded in the blackout. The evening traffic gave off just enough light for her to see the doorway of the club. A few minutes later a man of medium height and build emerged. It was Peter Jordan. He paused for a moment to button his overcoat. If he kept to his evening routine he would walk the short distance to his house. If he broke his routine by flagging down a taxi, Catherine would be out of luck. She would be forced to come back again tomorrow night with her bag of groceries.
Jordan turned up the collar of his overcoat and started walking her way. Catherine Blake waited for a moment and then stepped directly in front of him.