Detective Watters Mysteries

Chapter 3-2

The question steadied Sinclair further. “Yes, Sergeant. Yes, I am insured.”

“Then I suggest you put in your claim,” Watters said. “I also suggest you improve the security of your shop, or any future insurance claims will be invalid.”

“What more could I do?” Sinclair asked.

“Put iron plates on the ceiling and floor,” Watters said, “or the next burglar will follow the same technique. If they can’t get in the doors or windows, they’ll come in from above or below.”

Sinclair nodded vigorously. “Yes, Sergeant, I’ll see to it right away.”

“You do that,” Watters said. “And maybe employ a dog.”

“A dog?”

“Nothing daunts a thief more than a dog. Employ a couple of dogs, a large one with lots of teeth, and a small terrier that barks the alert. A dog is better than a padlock and more reliable than a human watchman.” Watters paused. “Watchmen can be bribed or coerced to look the other way.”

Having given his advice, Watters had a last scout around the shop. The light reflected on something small on the ground, and he stooped to pick it up. It was a rectangle of thin metal, less than half-an-inch long.

“Is this from your stock, Mr Sinclair?”

“Let me see.” Sinclair hurried over, anxious to retrieve any of his stolen goods. “No,” he shook his head in disappointment. “That’s cheap metal. We don’t stock anything of such inferior quality.” Sinclair examined it. “You see how it has broken off? That’s part of a small buckle. A lady’s shoe perhaps, or a pair of braces.”

“Thank you, Mr Sinclair,” Watters put the piece of buckle safely in his pocket. “I’ll keep hold of this for just now.”

Duff was watching. “Is that another clue, Sergeant?”

“It may be Duff, or maybe a customer dropped it.” Watters lifted the rope he had detached and left the shop. “Come on, Duff, we have some investigating to do.”

“What do you think, Sergeant?” Duff stopped outside the shop, where Sinclair could not hear him. “What do you think happened?”

“Two men, Duff. One was a professional who knew exactly what he was doing. At some time over the last few days, he checked the house above the shop, got an impression of the lock and had a false key made. I suspect he came in the guise of a prospective tenant.”

“Does the agent keep a list of viewers, Sergeant?”

“You can check, Duff,” Watters said. “One of the prospective tenants was a police officer, which might help. Last night, our cracksman returned to the house, wearing rubber overshoes, and with a companion who wore old, worn shoes, a man who is not a success in his profession. He bored the holes to weaken a section of the ceiling, scrambled down the rope, picked the showcase locks, took the best of the jewels, and left the same way. I want to know how many professional thieves in Dundee could do that and who viewed the house.”

Duff scratched his head. “Do you think Mr Sinclair was involved, Sergeant?”

“You mean another insurance fraud? Mr Sinclair stealing his own stock and claiming the insurance as well? That’s a possibility. I am not discounting any possibility.” Watters passed the rope to Duff. “Find out about this rope, Duff. See if it’s special in any way and if we can trace it.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“I’m going to speak to the factor of the close,” Watters said, “and we’ll find out which policeman was interested in renting the house above the jewellers.”

John Munro was a plump man with a friendly demeanour and hard eyes. He greeted Watters with an outstretched hand, invited him into his office and produced a pile of documents about the house.

“I’m the factor for the entire close,” Munro said. “That residence, 1/1 – the first house on the first floor - has been troublesome for some time, indeed, with a succession of less than reliable tenants.” He lowered his voice as if imparting a great secret. “Some of them were Irish.”

“Ah,” Watters nodded. “Irish.”

“I imagine you know all about the Irish, Sergeant.” Munro put a finger alongside his nose. “You’ll deal with them a lot in your line of work, I imagine.”

“My wife is Irish,” Watters said blandly. “She’s from Dublin.”

“Oh,” Munro looked away.

“Now, Mr Munro,” Watters did not pursue the subject. “Did you keep the names and addresses of the people who were interested in this house?” Watters asked.

“Yes, Sergeant.” Munro fumbled through his papers and produced a list.

“Thank you,” Watters scanned the names. He knew the cracksman would have visited to inspect the house and get an impression of the lock. However, he would have used a false name. Although some criminals attempted to be very clever by assuming the same alter-egos, in this case, none of the names was familiar. “I see you have a man pretending to be a police Lieutenant,” Watters pointed to the name. “Lieutenant Kinghorn.”

“Pretending?” Munro said. “I am sure it was no pretence, Sergeant,” Munro said.

“Describe him to me,” Watters demanded.

Munro looked blank, as Watters had expected.

“Did you meet him?”

“No, Sergeant.”

“We have no Lieutenant Kinghorn in the Dundee Police,” Watters said. “Who would have met this fellow?”

“The counter clerk,” Munro said. “Lieutenant Kinghorn would pick up and sign for the house keys, then return them when he had viewed the property.”

The counter clerk had experience in dealing with all the riff-raff of the city. He met tenants daily, from the honest and respectable to the shifty-eyed rogues who would smile as they lied and deceived. He grunted when Watters asked about Lieutenant Kinghorn.

“He seemed a decent fellow,” the clerk said. “He was tall, as policemen are, and as far as I remember, he was quietly spoken and polite.” The clerk reread the name. “Not all our customers are like that.”

“Could you describe him to me?”

“No. He was only another possible tenant. I see twenty a day.” The clerk ran a jaundiced eye over Watters. “He was taller than you, sergeant, and dressed in his lieutenant’s uniform.”

“Thank you for your help,” Watters said. He expected no more. Why should anybody recognise a stranger they passed in the street or one customer out of a hundred? In his experience, the average person’s descriptions were widely inaccurate at best, and only after gathering half a dozen at least could he create a general impression.

Watters walked back to the police office, swinging his cane. He had learned a little and made a start towards discovering the identity of the cracksman, with the broken buckle and the two footprints. Watters swung his cane and watched an invisible golf ball speed down the Nethergate. He had a hunch, no more, that there was a connection between the scuttling and the thefts, but for the life of him, he could not see how. At present, it was only a policeman’s suspicion, the result of years of experience.