“That’s all?”
“When the driver goes out to pick up his lorry two cases of butter are gone from the back and there’s ten pounds in notes under the driver’s seat.”
“I see,” said Mr. Wetherall. It seemed simple and fairly foolproof. He thought back to his visit to Pop’s cafe. It could have been going on all round him. He would have been no wiser.
“Where does the stuff go then?”
“Into Pop’s storeroom for a day or two. Then the boys come and collect it.”
“Red, and Sailor and Guardsman and the rest?”
“That’s right. Your boy friends. They run two or three lorries of their own. Quite legitimate. My guess – it’s only a guess – they run the stuff up Central somewhere and store it.”
“You don’t think Pop’s is the only place of its kind.”
Sergeant Donovan leaned back in his chair. “I’m damned sure it isn’t,” he said. “And I’ll tell you something else, Mr. Wetherall. As soon as you shut one, they’ll open another. The word gets round—”
“Then as I see it, the people who are essential to the running of the thing are Red and his crew.”
“They’re just a heap of muck,” said Sergeant Donovan. “If you got rid of them tomorrow there’d be another lot doing it the next day. There’s no shortage of muck in this town, if you’re prepared to pay the rates for dirt.”
“Yes. But this happens to be the particular heap of muck who are doing the work at the moment.”
“That’s right.”
“Who are they working for?”
“If I knew that,” said Sergeant Donovan, and the gust of his anger blew him to his feet, “if I knew that I shouldn’t be arsing round here wasting—” He caught a look from his mother.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “It’s got me down.”
“That’s all right. I really wanted to know. Is there any sort of lead up from this crowd to the man above them. If I follow what you said, these men collect the stuff and dump it somewhere, and distribute it to the Luigis and others. And they collect the money from them, and get tough with them when it’s necessary. But unless they’re the people actually running it—”
“Not them. They haven’t got enough brains to run a fried fish shop.”
“Then they must pass the money on – less their cut – to someone else. Perhaps they don’t all know who it is, but someone must know what the arrangements are.”
“They may know. They won’t talk.”
“Guardsman might talk,” suggested Mrs. Donovan softly.
There was silence in the little kitchen. A draught from the window was swinging the unshaded electric light bulb and chasing the shadows across Sergeant Donovan’s scarred face.
“He’s had a two-stretch,” went on the old lady. “He’ll collect a handful next time.”
“Something in that,” said Sergeant Donovan. He sat down as abruptly as he had got up. “Mother means that if Guardsman was actually took, on the job, he might talk to save his skin. He’s had a full prison sentence already. It’d be five years penal servitude next time he was caught.”
“Caught doing what?”
Sergeant Donovan thought seriously about this.
“Assaulting the police,” he suggested at last with a smile.
Ten minutes later Mr. Wetherall was back in the Walworth Road. Sammy who had escorted him, brushed him down, and said: “If you want any help, Mr. Wetherall, don’t forget me.”
“All right,” said Mr. Wetherall, and he meant it. It had gradually become plain to him that he was involved in a business where a bald head full of brains might be less use than courage and red hair.
10
FLEET STREET AND PALL MALL
On the following morning Mr. Wetherall paid two visits in the Fleet Street area.
The first was to a twenty-four-hour cafe in St. Columbus Street much used by newspaper men. At two in the morning it was usually crowded, but was emptyish at more conventional times. Here, at a scrubbed wooden table in the corner, he found Todd.
Five minutes’ talk brought Todd up to date. Mr. Wetherall poured it all out, in no sort of sequence – the failure of the identity parade, the row in committee, the conversation with his solicitor, the trouble over Sergeant Donovan – and Todd sat, stirring his coffee, his head tilted, his eyes bright.
For no particular reason it was one of the pictures which was to remain in Mr. Wetherall’s mind when more significant matters had faded.
When he had finished, Todd drank the last dregs of his coffee, spooned out about an inch of damp sugar, and said: “Down in the forest something stirred. Could be a tiger, could be a bird. Or could be a red herring. Plenty of life in this jungle.”
“You think it all hangs together?”
“Of course it does. It’s the technique. If you’d listened you’d have heard me telling you about it the other night.”
“Even my troubles in committee?”
“Certainly.”
“I refuse to believe that Miss Toup is a member of a gang.”
“I doubt if she realises it herself,” said Todd. “And the fact that you can say that, shows what a darned clever crowd you’re up against. Or else it’s just because your ideas are so old-fashioned that you’re incapable of grasping what’s happening. These boys don’t sit around in cellars, in hoods. They’re big business. They know how to use friends and influence people. Look here – I’ve no more idea than you have how it was worked, but suppose – just for the sake of supposing – that someone, some influential person who was vaguely ‘something in the City’ approached your Miss Toup and said that he happened to be a trustee of a large fund which could only be used for educational purposes. He himself had heard of the South Borough Secondary School – and the good work which Miss Toup was doing on the committee – and would like to make a handsome donation to the school. There was only one snag. His fellow trustee was a very staunch Tory. He wouldn’t countenance giving a penny to a school where the headmaster’s politics were suspect. They had heard that Mr. Wetherall – it was doubtless only a rumour – was actually a member of the Communist Party. Could she find out the truth of the matter? Perhaps if she raised it in committee – etc., etc. – you see what I mean?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Wetherall slowly. “I should think that she’d be very susceptible to an approach like that. She’s got a hide like a hippopotamus and about as much brain as a bee. What about Sergeant Donovan? The same technique?”
“I’m not sure. They may have played off the wrong foot there. They had to move very quickly. And when you move too quickly you’re apt to put yourself out of position for the return shot.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, it was awkward. They so much prefer to play this game at business-man level. Influence and blarney and threats and bluff. Sergeant Donovan went and spoilt all that. He waded in and used his fists. And what’s more, he turned up some real information. There was only one thing to do. They had to put him on the spot. Raise a public stink, so that whatever he’d found out no one would dare to use it. A normal citizen would have gone to the Commissioner and lodged a complaint. They couldn’t do that. Too risky, and too slow. So they go to their patent poison-pen man and get him to write to the Press. That blows it up all right. The police were bound to act on that. Only thing is, as I said, in their anxiety to move quickly they may have moved too quickly.”
Todd did not develop this. He tilted his chair until he was balanced crazily on the back legs. His mind seemed suddenly to have moved two squares forward.
Mr. Wetherall was on the point of asking for further explanations when another thought distracted him.
“Any luck with Annie?”
“Annie?” Todd moved back to the present with an effort. “Why, yes. I think I’ve solved Annie.”
“For goodness’ sake—!”
“It was an exercise in empirical logic. Like a crossword puzzle. Your first three answers are guesses. The fourth
fits them all, and locks the thing together. First a fact about which there’s no doubt. All ‘the boys’ use the private bar at the Double Four. It’s a sort of thugs clubhouse. I’ve seen them all now. Last night I spotted little ‘Pretty,’ the Jamaican, a sweet boy with the nicest smile. I imagine he used to smile just that way when he sat on his mammy’s knee, disembowelling the cat, or whatever kids do before bedtime in Jamaica. Second thing is this. You remember me saying I didn’t think it’d be a good place for handling stolen food and drink. Correct conclusion, wrong premise. They don’t handle food. All they hand over to Annie is money. She’s cashier and paymaster.”
Mr. Wetherall nodded. Since he had had his talk with Sergeant Donovan he had been working the thing out for himself, and that was how he saw it must go.
“I take it they’ve got a central warehouse of some sort,” he said. “They take the food and drink there by lorry from the collection points – places like Jock’s Cafe, I mean – and they distribute it from there to the restaurants. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. The people who are really running the show never touch the stolen stuff at all. They just get the money.”
“You mean the boys pay it over the counter to Annie and she—what does she do with it. Take it to Mr. X, the next man up?”
“I don’t suppose she takes it personally.”
“Posts it, then.”
“Yes. I think that’s how she’d do it.”
“That makes it a bit awkward, doesn’t it? If we want to get any further we shall need post office help.”
“I had an idea about that, too,” said Todd. “I told you I’d been doing some thinking. Remember, Annie’s no fool. And it’s absolutely essential that the link between her and Mr. X shouldn’t be spotted. She wouldn’t just package up the pound notes and send them off openly to him. She’d want some sort of cover. Well, she’s got one ready made. It’s the sort of stupid thing that’s so damned obvious no one sees it at all. It’s that patent medicine merchant. What would be easier. Everyone knows about Annie and her patent medicine. She writes to him quite openly. She sends him money from time to time. I expect it’s the sort of firm that gives you money back on the bottles. That would be another excuse for sending off packages.”
“It could be,” said Mr. Wetherall. “There’s nothing to show either way. And it still isn’t going to be easy to prove.”
“If it had been easy,” said Todd, “it wouldn’t have been right. This isn’t an easy league we’re playing in.”
“Who is the medicine man?”
“It’s a company. Hollomans Cures Ltd. Somewhere off the North Pentonville Road.”
“Hollomans. I’m sure I’ve heard the name.”
“They advertise a lot.” Todd glanced down the advertisement page of his evening paper. “They’re not in today, but you often see them. ‘Lumbago, Sciatica, Blood Pressure, Boils and Fallen Arches. Why waste money on the doctor when Hollomans can kill you just as quickly.’ That sort of line.”
“I wasn’t thinking of advertisements,” said Mr. Wetherall.
He was folding back his copy of the Kite. “It was in the jobs column, I thought I’d seen the name somewhere. I cut these out for my boys if they look promising. I’m pretty certain—yes, there you are. And it was in yesterday, too.”
“Smart Boy wanted,” said the advertisement. “General dispensing, packing, and clerical work. Salary by arrangement. Prospects. Apply the General Manager, Hollomans Cures Ltd., 5, Strudwick Road, N. Only written applications will be considered.”
Mr. Wetherall and Todd looked at each other.
“It’s certainly an opening,” said Todd. “Had you anyone particular in mind?”
“Sergeant Donovan’s brother, Sammy. He’s a smart child, with eyes on both sides of his head. And one blessing, we shan’t have to explain it all to him. He knows most of it already.”
“Yes, that sounds all right.”
“The next thing is to make sure of landing the job.”
“Keep his price low enough and fake up some references. What with national service, boys aren’t all that easy to get nowadays. Come to think of it, you’d better not write him a reference yourself. If it is the same crowd the mere sight of the name of the South Borough Secondary School will make them leap like mountain goats.”
“I’ll get him one from his scout master,” said Mr. Wetherall. “That always goes down well with an employer.”
“All right. And I’ll back it up with a good social one. What would you fancy? A judge or a bishop? We’ve got both on the pay roll.”
As they got up to leave Todd said: “You’re sure Sammy’s got his wits about him?”
“He’s a sensible boy,” said Mr. Wetherall. “A good boxer at his weight, and as sharp as they come. After all, it isn’t as if we wanted him to do anything very startling. Just to keep his eyes open and see if he can spot any funny business. Why?”
“A sudden attack of goose-flesh,” said Todd.
II
Mr. Wetherall’s second call that morning was in Hoopmakers Court and he was fortunate enough to find Mr. Bertram in his office. It is true that he had taken the precaution of telephoning to make an appointment, but an appointment was not always a guarantee of Mr. Bertram’s presence. He was a one-man firm, and if something more important cropped up a client had to wait and like it.
He listened attentively to what Mr. Wetherall had to say, breaking off only twice to answer the telephone, and once to sign a bundle of pink forms which the boy brought in.
“There isn’t much you can do about it,” he said at the end.
“But she was making a dead set at me – insinuating the most frightful things. Isn’t it libel or something? Supposing I lose my job?”
“She told the committee you had once been a member of the Communist Party?”
“Yes.”
“As you had?”
“Certainly. But—”
“She went on to ask you if you were still a Communist?”
“Yes.”
“Which you’re not?”
“Certainly not.”
“But you refused to tell her so?”
“It was none of her business.”
“Certainly it was her business,” said Mr. Bertram calmly. “What’s a school committee for if it isn’t to look into the character of the headmaster.”
“Politics is nothing to do with character.”
“In any event, she’d be completely covered by the defence of privilege – unless you can prove that the whole thing was done from spite.”
“No. I don’t think it was quite that. But I don’t see why she should be privileged and not me.”
“I can’t explain it,” said Mr. Bertram. “It’s not logical, but then the law of defamation is not in the least logical. It’s just one of those things you’ll have to take my word for.”
“All right,” said Mr. Wetherall. “It doesn’t seem right that she should be able to get at me without me getting back at her. Still, if you say so. There’s one other thing. Isn’t there some place near here where you can find out all about companies?”
“Any member of the public is entitled to make a search at the registry at Bush House.”
“And you can find out who runs a company and what sort of business they do?”
“You can ascertain the names of the directors,” said Mr. Bertram precisely, “although I am afraid that will not always tell you who runs the company. As for the business being done, that would depend on whether the company has to file its accounts. Some do, some don’t.”
“I see. I should imagine this company would be just about as secretive as it could possibly be. But I’d like you to see what you can get. Would you be able to do that for me?”
Mr. Bertram reflected.
“It would really be just as easy for you to do it yourself,” he said, “It’s not the sort of thing you need a solicitor for at all. However, I’m sending the boy down to the stamp office bef
ore lunch, so if you want me to, I’ll have him look in and see what he can pick up. I’ll drop you a line on Monday.”
III
“A Mr. Todd to see you,” said the club waiter to Mr. Pride.
Mr. Pride sighed. “You didn’t tell him I was here?”
“Certainly not, sir. I said I would ascertain.”
“Who is he? Did he say?”
“I did gather, sir, that he was from the Press.”
“Oh.” Mr. Pride clothed himself with indifference as a novice puts on a white sheet. It caused the waiter, who was a student of human nature, considerable pleasure. “Well. Perhaps I’d better see him then.”
“I put him in the small card-room.”
“I’ll be along in just a minute.”
“Very good, sir.”
“The penalty of fame.”
“Quite so, sir.”
The small card-room was so called because it had been used, at the turn of the century, to accommodate a few members who preferred the new and noisy game of auction bridge to the dignified solemnities of whist, but it was now chiefly used as a repository for bound numbers of the Illustrated London News and the Estates Gazette. Mr. Pride found Todd waiting for him, seated on a table, swinging his legs.
“Mr. Pride?”
“Yes. I’m afraid—”
“I’m from the Kite.” He presented his card.
“Oh, yes. I expect you want to ask me about my Syrian letter.” Mr. Pride settled himself happily into one of the chairs. “I am sure that the views I expressed were somewhat revolutionary—”
“It wasn’t your Syrian letter, Mr. Pride. Although, speaking for myself I found it very stimulating. But our readers were interested in—what shall I call it—your metropolitan letter.”
“My—?”
“I’m sure you remember the one I mean. Your letter criticising the conduct of a sergeant in the Metropolitan police.” Todd unfolded his notebook with a vigorous snap. He was not looking in the direction of Mr. Pride, but a picture of Queen Victoria opening the Fishguard Ferry afforded him an excellent reflective surface.
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