A Dip Into Murder (David Mallin Detective series Book 10)

by Roger Ormerod

  “ ... lying on his back in the buggy, his nose and his toes sticking up. Ian, the guard was certainly dipped in the paint, but he was dipped lying horizontal. His nose and his toes were sticking up clear of the surface. Then, when he was withdrawn, the toes would dip under, but not the nose. It means that there was something inside that tank for him to be lying on. It would have required a solid surface about eight inches below the level of the paint. And if you work it out, Ian — ”

  “I have no intention of doing so.”

  “If you work it out, those thirty-seven tons of steel would just fit nicely in the paint-dip tank. Give or take a few inches.” I laughed. Ian wasn’t pleased, because he guessed what I was about to say. “And you’ve had men guarding it for days, standing looking at our steel with a few inches of paint on top of it.”

  He grunted, pleased, but not willing to concede everything. At least, it went along with his theory, that the steel had not left the factory grounds.

  Then suddenly he snapped his fingers. “But of course, now I see why he was dipped. He must have remained conscious long after he threw away the key, long enough anyway to get up to the factory and see what was going on. But there was a lot of paint around there, and maybe he collapsed just as he arrived, and got red primer on his uniform. Then he’d have been left to lie there, while they got on with the job, and in the end they had a dead man on their hands. So what, Elsa, could they do with a dead guard with red paint on him? Wherever they took him to be found, it’d be a dead giveaway, because it’d be obvious he’d been in the region of the paint-dip tank.”

  “Clever Ian,” I murmured, holding the Dolomite on the limit round an island.

  “But if they dipped him completely in the paint,” he finished in triumph, “then it’d be taken for a lark. As it was.”

  “Was it, Ian?” But I didn’t want to dent his enthusiasm.

  He thought for a moment. “But what did they do with the hundreds of gallons of paint that were in there?”

  “Haven’t you seen them, Ian, those fume extractors? Great fat piping going from every machine underground, and then popping up like chimneys out of the roof. They could’ve drained the paint, or pumped it, down into that piping, and there it’s been lying, stinking the place out ... ”

  “Oh my God, yes!” He turned to me, startled. “And one spark could have ... ”

  “Exactly.”

  But fortunately this was Friday night, with none of the factories working a night shift. The whole complex was dark, with only the odd dim light from the guard huts, where they dozed comfortably, apparently without the aid of chloral hydrate. But nine sets of headlights threw the buildings into bleak profile, all saw-edged roofs and towering corrugated iron. Safe enough now, with no stray cigarette to trigger a fire, and it would need only a probing hand to verify my theory.

  We had approached the grounds in the straightest line from the open-cast site, and so entered the main gate. This was convenient. It led us past gate No. 3, and straight up the roadway towards the despatch end, and therefore the paint-dip end, of the Heavy Axle Case factory. Headlights shot the building into stark relief.

  We pulled to a halt in a flurry of skidding tyres. Nobody had considered that perhaps we would not be able to enter the place. They had eyes only for the objective, though of course the men in the cars could not know exactly what that was.

  But this was not for me. I was tired and strangely depressed. Ian got out the other side, and stood for a moment with the open car door in one hand. Dimly to one side, the shadows there being etched deeper behind the concentration of the headlights, I thought I detected a movement. I stared into the blackness, and a shadow very like the Mini-buggy seemed to take shape. I had not time to consider what this might mean, because there was a shout, and pointing fingers.

  I turned quickly. The roof of the factory was just above the main concentration of light, but I could see a shape etched against the outline of one of the extraction chimneys, a shape that was less sharp than the conical hats they all wore.

  The realisation came in the space between two heartbeats. Rimlock could perhaps have believed that Ian Carefree, at the handover, would be told exactly where to find the steel. Rimlock might then, determined to complete his contract, be expected to take up a position directly above the paint-dip, where he could hope to welcome Ian, in due course.

  Ian was now standing exactly there, himself caught in the headlights behind him, a perfect target.

  I cried out, but something happened to my throat and nothing useful emerged. But Ian himself was now aware. Perhaps seized in a moment of relaxation after the earlier attempt, perhaps annoyed that he had not thought of it, he was poised and still. With awful fascination I saw that he could not move, and my eyes returned, drawn, to what was now obviously a figure on the roof.

  Then time seemed to flow past steadily without anything happening. It was like a fixed tableau, the scene blindingly locked in the unbending light. I thought for one moment that Rimlock would be dazzled, but he was above the rim of illumination. But I was aware, in the corner of my eye, that a shadow moved and a voice called, and in that second Rimlock fired.

  I saw the flash from his weapon and heard the snap, followed by the contained echo, from the shot. Then the flash seemed to grow, was gripped, and as it grew was drawn downwards. Fleetingly the whole roof was illuminated redly by a glare that spread out sideways beneath the brim of the chimney’s hat, and then was sucked voraciously downwards. There was no sound for a whole second. Rimlock stood clear in a fiery glow. Then the roof lifted and the chimney disappeared, and with a roar of flame more than an explosion the factory seemed to split apart, and a cone of fire sprang high in the air.

  I was aware, then, that the shadowed movement, which had begun before the shot, was still incomplete. Two figures, interlocked, rolled in front of my wheels, and the white light turned orange as the roar of flame lifted into the night.

  Ian clambered to his feet. Peter was a little slower. His best suit was ruined, and his face was twisted in pain. I thought at first that he had fallen on his left arm, then I saw that a stain, black in the light of the fire, was spreading on his shoulder.

  “Peter!”

  He looked at me through the windscreen. I leaned over to the open door and called out: “In here. Let me see.”

  He put his head in the door. “It’s only a scratch.”

  “All the same ... ”

  Smiling weakly, he slid into the passenger’s seat. “I tell you, it’s nothing.” He gestured. “Ian seems to be all right. That’s what matters. Poor old Rimlock!”

  I felt sickened and sad at the old man’s terrible death. It was ironical that he had brought it on himself, his own shot providing the flash to ignite the fumes. It was, too, proof that my guess as to the disposal of the paint had been correct.

  “There’s nothing wrong with Ian,” I agreed. “I could run you round to the hospital.”

  “Not now,” he said quickly. “Later perhaps. I couldn’t go now.”

  There is a terrible fascination about a fire. I think it’s the power of it and the uncompromising viciousness it represents. This one was something special, consisting entirely of the consuming fumes of the paint. There was very little besides that in the factory to burn, but inside five minutes the corrugated iron walls were glowing with the heat, and cars were backing off frantically. Even inside the Dolomite I could feel the buffeting heat, and I backed and manoeuvred with the rest of them.

  Ian was directing the operation, making a clear way for the fire engines he had radioed for. The first to arrive was the company’s own fire service, night team, but their equipment was pitiful against this. Nobody could do anything but watch.

  It was obvious that it would be hours before this end of the building would be cool enough to enter. Hours before I could have confirmation that my theory had been correct.

  Then two fire engines from the town brigade roared onto the scene, and the activity became franti
c. Ian found his captaincy usurped, and came to lean on the Dolomite’s roof.

  “Got to thank you,” he said to Peter gruffly. “What’s the matter with your arm?”

  “A nick. Nothing more.”

  “We’ll see about that. The hospital for you, my lad.”

  “No ... really.”

  “I can run him there,” I offered.

  “Yes, yes,” said Ian absently. “I’m going to be busy for while, Elsa. It’s a pity we can’t confirm it, but there’s nothing I can do here for the present.”

  “What is there to do elsewhere?”

  He stuck his chin in the open window. “Going to round ’em up right now. Going to have a nice tidy ending to it.”

  “I’ll wish you the best of luck.”

  He nodded, gave a half grin at Peter, and said: “Now off to the hospital with him.”

  Which was, in practice, not so easy, what with the two fire engines and their trailing hoses and the police cars negotiating to release themselves from the tangle.

  “What can’t you confirm?” Peter asked, as we waited.

  “My theory about where they’d hidden the steel.”

  “And where was that?”

  “In the paint-dip tank.”

  “You worked it out yourself?” he asked.

  “Yes. Wasn’t that clever of me? But with a little help from you, Peter?”

  “How did I help you?”

  “By getting knocked out by Ian. It was the way you lay, on your back, your nose all white in the moonlight. It is quite a prominent nose, Peter.”

  “I’m rather proud of it. And you guessed from that ... ”

  “That the guard had been dipped in a horizontal position, so he must have been lying on something beneath the surface of the paint.”

  “That’s good reasoning.”

  “Thank you. I’ve had a lot of training from my husband. It’s a pity, though, that I didn’t have enough time to develop the idea with Ian.”

  “There’s more?”

  “A great deal more.”

  The to-ing and fro-ing was easing as the police cars gradually lined themselves up to depart in convoy.

  “There’s a lot of things coming clear,” I explained, “once you realised what happened. This thing was very carefully worked out. Not just timed for Bernie Fitch’s coming-out, but timed for the special job involving the special order of steel. All that steel had to fit neatly in the tank, then the job would be easy with a few fork-lift trucks, simply a matter of taking the bundles from one end of the factory to the other, pumping or draining the paint out, and dumping the steel in its place. Then, all that remained to be done was to prevent that paint-dip tank from being used until after the ransom was paid.”

  “Yes. I can see that.”

  “How’s your arm?”

  “It’s hurting. What were you saying?”

  “I’m pleased you’re interested. I was talking about the absolute necessity of keeping attention from the paint-dip. Of course, the removal of the steel was going to have the effect of stopping the factory working, and if necessary I suppose a bit of background work could be done to cause trouble with the men, preventing work in any event. But over and above all that there was one all-important thing to be done. Do you think I can edge past that fire engine?”

  The heat had now subsided, but the factory seemed to be distorted and crippled by its effect. It seemed to me it would be some time before work could commence, even if damage had not been done to some of the very expensive machinery.

  “No,” said Peter. “Wait a minute. What had to be done?”

  “Well ... it would be necessary to create an impression that the steel had been taken out of the factory grounds. It was all a matter of impressions, you see. And of course the steel gates at No. 3 were ideal for that. If those were found to be open, and perhaps a tractor unit and a trailer reported to be missing — and found later abandoned ... then no search would be made inside the grounds. But everything went wrong for the person who was supposed to do this.”

  “Person?” he said. “One?”

  “You said that yourself. It would need only one. And it could be done after the steel had been hidden away. Long after. But things went wrong. The guard was drugged and the key was not available. In fact, the guard was dead. And there was a tractor unit, Ian said, had been moved, as though it’d been driven down to gate No. 3, before it was discovered that the key had gone. So the plan was foiled. There was going to be no illusion that the steel had been taken away. So what had he left, this man all on his own? He had a dead man, that’s what. A dead man down at his hut whatever Ian might say to the contrary.”

  “That couldn’t have been much help.”

  “Depends what was done with him, doesn’t it! What this person did was hang him with a noose ... a noose, mind you, and the very mental image of a man hanged by a noose is of a vertical hanging. He hanged him from the electrical hoist, which I’ve no doubt can be worked by one man, and he dipped him in the paint. The illusion, Peter, and only the unpainted nose to spoil the effect. Now ... wasn’t that very clever of him? By drawing attention to the paint-dip tank as the apparent instrument of the man’s death, he drew attention away from it as a receptacle for the steel. Mind you, Ian’s got a slightly different idea, but I do think mine’s more logical.”

  “I think you could get the car out now. This arm really is throbbing.”

  “It’s exactly the sort of inverted thinking that I’d imagine would appeal to you, Peter.”

  “Oh, it does,” he said without enthusiasm.

  “In fact, you’re just about the only person I can think of who’d do such a thing. And it appears to me that you were very lucky, or very knowledgeable, to have been able to reach here tonight even before we did. You must have known the steel was here, and therefore that Rimlock would be, too.” I shook my head at him sorrowfully. “And you led me to believe you knew nothing.”

  “I want to get away from here.”

  “No,” I told him. “You’d like to get away from yourself. You’ve let yourself down, Peter. You’ve never been involved before, not in the actual crimes. You’ve only been a witness. Or a non-witness, rather.”

  “We really should get moving,” he said uneasily. “How could I be a non-witness to something that was going to be secret?”

  “Then why allow yourself to get involved?”

  He moved in his seat irritably. “Because I’d heard a rumour about Rimlock being sent for. I had to be in on it in some way or other. It was the only way, Elsa. Not in it, but close to it. Now please, can we get moving?”

  “What about Ian? He might work all this out himself.”

  “Don’t you realise that you’ve got £100,000 in cash in your boot? Elsa ... please!”

  “Though perhaps,” I suggested, “he won’t want to hear your alibi. Perhaps he guesses what it is, and he’s afraid to press for it.”

  He stared at me. “But that was a lie. You must have realised that. That’s why I didn’t want to tell Ian. I’ve never had to give him a false one before.”

  I was still laughing when the rear door opened. I was not quick enough looking round. A woman’s voice, low and husky, said from behind me:

  “Just do what I say, and nobody’s going to get hurt.”

  I twisted, although she hadn’t said I should. Surely enough, she was carrying the necessary backing to her words, a large and I was sure very heavy pistol. This was Bernie’s girlfriend, Clara the enigmatic.

  “Simply,” she instructed, “drive away from here. Nobody will stop you. Head for the Domino. There’s a share-out to be made.”

  Peter groaned, maybe in pain. “I told you. Didn’t I tell you to get away from here!”

  13

  We encountered no special difficulties. The firemen were very helpful, waving us around the obstacles, even clearing away one or two of them. I smiled my gratitude. There was no sound from behind me, but I was uncomfortably aware that the pistol was avai
lable, and that she had not seemed to have herself completely under control.

  We proceeded slowly along the side roadway beside the factory building. Signs told me that I was limited to 10 mph. I obeyed them. We approached gate No. 7, where two men chatted idly at the guards’s open door. One was the guard. The other, as we came closer, I saw to be Bill Rogers.

  Seeing us approach he threw his cigarette away, and I took it as a signal, and pulled to a halt beside him. He opened the rear door.

  “Thought you were never coming,” he said.

  “Get in and shut up,” Clara told him.

  He turned his head. “’Night Fred.”

  “’Night Bill.”

  We drove off. I knew the route by that time and needed no instructions. But I drove as slowly as I could without drawing comment.

  “Is it in the back?” asked Rogers.

  “Mind your own business.”

  “It is my business. I worked it out for you.”

  It occurred to me that this was a dangerous admission to make in the presence of witnesses. Then it occurred to me that those witnesses, to be useful, had to be alive. I drove even slower.

  “Speed it up,” said Clara nastily. I sped it up.

  “Now what?” I whispered to Peter.

  “We wait and see.”

  “That’s useful. What’s the clever little brain doing?”

  “Worrying about Frances,” he said.

  I concentrated on the road. An accident, I thought. Dare I deliberately provoke a collision in these circumstances? But this was a heavily industrialised area, which hibernated from Friday evening until Monday morning. Hardly anything stirred, although it was barely ten. The only vehicle I could see was a tall and bulbous taxi, but that was behind me. It was behind me for so long that I became suspicious. I peered carefully into the rear-vision mirror.

  The driver looked very like the fat one called Merridew.

  Then we entered a long straight stretch of the road, which allowed the taxi to draw alongside. But it made no attempt to go ahead, simply kept station, and I saw that the five occupants were Bernie’s mob.