The Freedom Trap. Desmond Bagley

my shoulder, and with a muffled ‘Sorry!’ I passed the packet to him and continued in the direction of Holborn.

      I hadn’t gone far when I heard the smash of glass behind me and a confused shouting. That postman had been smart; he had wasted no time on the door but had broken the window as a means of drawing attention to himself. Also he hadn’t been unconscious for as long as I had hoped – I hadn’t hit him nearly hard enough.

      But I was safe – far enough away not to be spotted by him and moving farther all the time. It would take at least five minutes to sort out the confusion and by that time I intended to get thoroughly lost – and I hoped Mackintosh was doing the same. He was the hot one now – he had the diamonds.

      I ducked into the rear entrance of Gamage’s and made my way through the store at an easier pace, looking, I hoped, like a man who knows where he’s going. I found the men’s room and locked myself into a cubicle. My coat came off and was reversed – that so carefully chosen coat with the nicely contrasting colours. The natty cap came from my pocket and the hat I was wearing was regretfully screwed into a shapeless bundle. It wouldn’t do it much good to be jammed into my pocket but I didn’t want to leave it lying around.

      Clothes make the man and a new man left that men’s room. I wandered casually about the store, drifting towards the front entrance, and on the way I bought myself a new tie just to have a legitimate reason for being in Gamage’s, but that precaution was unnecessary. I emerged on to the pavement of Holborn and set off to walk west. No taxis for me because taxi-drivers would be questioned about pickups in the area at that time.

      Half an hour later I was in a pub just off Oxford Street near the Marble Arch and sinking a thankful pint of beer. It had been a good smooth job but it wasn’t over yet, not by a hell of a long way. I wondered if I could trust Mackintosh to do his half of the job properly.

      V

      That evening, as I was preparing to go out on the town, there came a firm knock at the door of my room. I opened it and was confronted by two very large men dressed very conservatively and in the best of taste. The one on the right said, ‘Are you Joseph Aloysius Rearden?’

      I didn’t have to bend my brain too far to realize that these two were coppers. I gave a twisted grin. ‘I’d rather forget the Aloysius.’

      ‘We are police officers.’ He flipped a wallet in front of me negligently. ‘We hope you can assist us in our enquiries.’

      ‘Hey!’ I said. ‘Is that a warrant card? I’ve never seen one of those before.’

      Reluctantly he flipped open the wallet again and let me read the card. He was Detective-Inspector John M. Brunskill and indubitably the genuine article. I babbled a bit. ‘You see these things happening at the bioscope; I never thought it would happen to me.’

      ‘Bioscope?’ he said dubiously.

      ‘The films – we call a cinema a bioscope in South Africa. That’s where I’m from, you know. I don’t know how I can help you in any enquiries, Inspector. I’m a stranger to London – in fact, I’m a stranger to England. I’ve been here only a week – less than that, really.’

      ‘We know all that, Mr Rearden,’ said Brunskill gently.

      So they’d checked on me already. These boys moved fast – the British police are wonderful.

      ‘May we come in, Mr Rearden? I think you will be able to help us.’

      I stood on one side and waved them into the room. ‘Come in and take a seat. There’s only one chair so one of you will have to sit on the bed. And take your coats off.’

      ‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Brunskill. ‘We won’t be staying long. This is Detective-Sergeant Jervis.’

      Jervis looked an even harder nut than Brunskill. Brunskill was polished and had the suavity that maturity brings, while Jervis still had his sharp corners and was all young, rock-hard cop. But Brunskill would be the more dangerous – he’d be tricky.

      I said, ‘Well, what can I do for you?’

      ‘We are making enquiries about the theft of a package from a postman in Leather Lane this morning,’ said Brunskill. ‘What can you tell us about it, Mr Rearden?’

      ‘Where’s Leather Lane?’ I asked. ‘I’m a stranger here.’

      Brunskill looked at Jervis and Jervis looked at Brunskill and then they both looked at me. ‘Come, Mr Rearden,’ said Brunskill. ‘You can do better than that.’

      ‘You’ve got a record,’ said Jervis suddenly.

      This was the shot across the bows. I said bitterly, ‘And you johns will never let me forget it. Yes, I’ve got a record; I did eighteen months in Pretoria Central – eighteen months of stone cold jug – and that was a long time ago. I’ve been straight ever since.’

      ‘Until perhaps this morning,’ suggested Brunskill.

      I looked him straight in the eye. ‘Don’t pull the old flannel on me. You tell me what I’m supposed to have done, and I’ll tell you if I did it – straight out.’

      ‘Very good of you,’ murmured Brunskill. ‘Don’t you think so, Sergeant?’

      Jervis made a nasty noise at the back of his throat. Then he said, ‘Mind if we search your room, Rearden?’

      ‘It’s Mr Rearden to sergeants,’ I said. ‘Your boss has better manners than you. And I most certainly do object to you searching my room – unless you have a warrant.’

      ‘Oh, we have that,’ said Brunskill calmly. ‘Go ahead, Sergeant.’ He took a document from his pocket and slapped it into my hand. ‘I think you’ll find that in order, Mr Rearden.’

      I didn’t even bother to look at it, but just tossed it on to the dressing-table and watched Jervis do an efficient overhaul of the room. He found nothing – there wasn’t anything for him to find. As last he gave up, looked at Brunskill and shook his head.

      Brunskill turned to me. ‘I must ask you to come to the police station with me.’

      I was silent and let the pause lengthen for a long time before I said, ‘Well, go ahead and ask.’

      ‘We’ve got ourselves a joker here, sir,’ said Jervis. He looked at me with dislike.

      ‘If you do ask I won’t come,’ I said. ‘You’ll have to arrest me to get me anywhere near the nick.’

      Brunskill sighed. ‘Very well, Mr Rearden; I arrest you on suspicion of being involved in an assault on a postman on premises in Leather Lane at about nine-thirty this morning. Does that satisfy you?’

      ‘It’ll do to be going on with,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

      ‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ he said. ‘Anything you say will be noted and may be used in evidence.’

      ‘I know the form,’ I said. ‘I know it only too well.’

      ‘I’m sure you do,’ he said softly.

      I expected them to take me to Scotland Yard but I found myself in quite a small police station. Where it was I don’t know – I don’t know London at all well. They put me into a small room unfurnished except for a deal table and two bentwood chairs. It had the same institutional smell of all police stations anywhere in the world. I sat in a chair and smoked one cigarette after another, watched by a uniformed copper who stood with his back to the door, looking undressed without his helmet.

      It was nearly an hour and a half before they got around to doing anything and it was tough boy Jervis who started the attack. He came into the room and waved abruptly at the uniformed john who did a disappearing act, then he sat down at the other side of the table and looked at me for a long time without speaking. I ignored him – I didn’t even look at him