“There was another thing he told me.” Mr. Wetherall hoped that the switch from truth to lies did not sound quite so obvious to his audience as it did to him. “And I think it might explain, in part, why Mr. Crowdy was killed.”
There was no doubt about their interest.
“It was one of the vandrivers who was a friend of Mr. Crowdy’s. As I understand it, the drivers weren’t in the scheme at all. They were sort of innocent agents. But this one – Peter never told me his name, and come to think of it I don’t suppose his father told it to him – suspected something. Eventually Mr. Crowdy took him into his confidence, and he got involved too. The usual drill was that anything saleable – food or drink or cigarettes – was kept hidden in an old shed under one of the railway arches. Mr. Crowdy had the key. Whittaker or one of his crowd picked it up when they could and paid cash down and took it away in one of their vans. That was how it usually went. Only on one occasion there was a hitch – the van couldn’t turn up, and there was a lot of stuff piling up in the shed, and the Crossways men were getting nervous. So, rather against his will, Whittaker let Mr. Crowdy’s van-driver friend do the actual delivery. He was made to swear every sort of oath of secrecy – but, of course, he talked—to Mr. Crowdy.”
“That’s likely enough,” said Sergeant Donovan. “None of that sort can keep a secret better than a four-year-old child. Do you think that’s why they killed Crowdy? Just because he knew where this place was?”
“Not that alone,” said Mr. Wetherall. “I think he was sickening for a severe attack of conscience. I got that impression that night when he was talking to me. He was about ready to blow the whole works. They wouldn’t have liked that anyway – but they liked it a good deal less when they realised he knew the address of their central dump.”
“Yes,” said Sergeant Donovan. “I expect that was one reason. Another would be that he was an old man, and couldn’t hit back. That’s the sort they enjoy killing, Mr. Wetherall.”
There was a bitterness in his voice that was deeper than any spite or rancour. It had gone down into his own self and become part of him.
Mrs. Donovan spoke quickly, as one who wishes to turn an awkward moment.
“Did Mr. Crowdy tell Peter where the place was?”
“That’s just what he did,” said Mr. Wetherall gratefully. “And Peter told me,” He felt in his pocket for the plan he had drawn. “It’s an old factory block, near the North Circular Road.” He pointed the place out.
He had expected many different reactions to his bombshell. The one thing he had not anticipated was indifference.
“I’m afraid that’s out of date,” said Sergeant Donovan briskly. He got to his feet as he spoke. “We’ll let you into a little secret.” His glance included his mother. “We know where their place is. A friend of mine found it out for me – oh, about a week ago. The place you’ve got there must be the last one they used. This is near St. Pancras – over a paint factory. I’ve been meaning to pay them a visit for some time. What with one thing and another I’ve had to put it off. Just before you came we decided that tonight was right for it. You couldn’t have a better night. I know these evening fogs. It’s going to be so thick soon they couldn’t stop you not if they linked arms across the end of the road. You could crawl between their legs and they wouldn’t see you.”As he spoke he was putting on an old raincoat and winding a scarf round his neck.
Mr. Wetherall’s mind was racing in helpless circles like the screw of an up-ended motor-boat.
“Should I—would you like me to come with you?”
“There’s no call for you to get mixed up in this,” said Sergeant Donovan. He had his coat on now. It hung straight and heavy, and there was a curious bulge in both pockets. “You’ve done your bit. You keep clear. Give me a quarter of an hour to draw them off, and you can walk out and go home.”
Without another word, or a look behind him, he was gone, and they heard the front door shut softly.
Five minutes later, and it was one of the longest five minutes he had ever known, Mr. Wetherall had extracted himself, and was out in the street again. The fog was blinding. The nearest possible call-box would be somewhere along the Walworth Road. He broke into a shambling run.
15
THE PAINT FACTORY
Even before Mr. Wetherall had finished speaking, Hazlerigg had had a second telephone in his hand.
“Give me E Division on this line,” he said,” I want the DDI or his assistant. Then I want operations. And send Duffy up here. Please be as quick as you can.”
A buzzer sounded.
Hazlerigg said: “Operations. Will you get three crews moved out into the St. Pancras area. I can’t tell you exactly where they’re to go, because I don’t know myself, yet. And see if you can get one of the cars with an L Division man in it. It may be useful to have someone who can spot Sergeant Donovan. Donovan. Yes, that’s the chap. Tell me as soon as the cars are standing by.”
And, to a red-faced giant who came into the room a few minutes later. “Good evening, Duffy, I want to use your local knowledge. They say you know the St. Pancras district backwards.”
Sergeant Duffy grinned. “I’ve pressed every inch of it with my flat feet,” he said.
“I want to find a paint factory. It’s been described as being ‘near St. Pancras.’ I expect it may be a disused factory – or maybe partly used.”
“You mean the ground floor a paint factory and the floors above it vacant.”
“That’s exactly the sort of thing.”
“It’s not all that easy, sir. You won’t find anything big in that area at all. All the big factories are outside of London. But there’s quite a few little places. Places which mix up paint for builders – mostly cheap sorts of white paint and undercoat. A few of them make varnish and stain. Some builders will buy any old muck so they can save on their tenders. Then there’s one or two places that store paint. Regular old death traps. You remember, sir, we tried to get ‘em all under licence, but it didn’t come off.”
“I think he said factory. Not store.”
“Hm. Well, the best thing I can do is fetch you a street map and show you the ones I can remember.”
At that moment the DDI of E Division came up on the telephone and Hazlerigg told him what he wanted.
“I’ve got Duffy here,” he said. “Picking out likely places for us. I want you to check up on any addresses he gives us. It’s pretty urgent.”
The DDI said something.
“I agree,” said Hazlerigg. “We could do without the fog.”
II
Ratcliffe Lane was a cul-de-sac, and correspondingly easy to watch. Sergeant Donovan was, of course, aware of this, but he also knew that the sort of men Whittaker would be likely to use would be bad, unenthusiastic players without either the patience or the stamina for a long game.
On a night like this, anyone told off to watch the end of the lane was more than likely behind a pint pot in the nearest saloon bar.
Nevertheless he went carefully, moving quite silently on his rubber soled shoes, keeping to the middle of the road. After a few right and left turns, he breathed more freely. He was approaching the Walworth Road. The great overhead lamps blazed down, each shedding its cone of milky drifting light, hindering more than helping the traffic, which was here wedged in a tight blaspheming line from the corner of Albany Road right up to Blackfriars Bridge.
Happy in his obscurity, the sergeant padded along the pavement, and made his way to the entrance of the Walworth Road tube station. He booked a ticket for King’s Cross.
Had he realised it, he had taken all his precautions at the wrong place. The net which had been spread for him was of an altogether different kind, broader-meshed, more carelessly flung and correspondingly more difficult to evade.
Even as he moved to the head of the escalator, a newspaper vendor, with one leg and one wooden stump, hauled himself off the up-turned crate on which he was perched beside the booking-office, and stumped across to the li
ne of telephone kiosks inside the station entrance. He knew Sergeant Donovan by sight. He had also heard the whisper that had gone round. He had no idea what it was all about, except that there could be something in it for him. If not money, then tolerance of some sort. He dialled a number, introduced himself as Len, and, after some delay, spoke to a man called Ted. From the background of shouts, screams, and rifle shots one might have supposed that Ted was on active service on a noisy sector of the front. (In fact he was proprietor of an amusement arcade near the Tottenham Court Road.) Ted sounded strictly disinterested, but thanked Len for his trouble. Len returned to his evening papers full of the particular satisfaction which comes from having kicked someone who cannot possibly kick you back.
Sergeant Donovan was by this time boarding his train. It was not full. As he sat down in an empty seat at the far end of the carriage, he was careful to arrange his raincoat on either side of him so that what was in the pockets rested squarely on the seat.
At King’s Cross he got off the train and climbed up and out into the fog again.
Old Chaos reigned at the crossing of the five roads outside that station. At the centre of a tangle of traffic two lorries stood, headlight to headlight, like two intractable cats endeavouring to out-stare each other. Up the road lights were flicking on and off. Horns were sounding. Drivers were getting out of their cars to unbosom themselves.
The sergeant grinned. He might have grinned even harder had he known that no fewer than three police cars were locked in the confusion.
He took a quick look around him. It was an empty precaution, for his nearest neighbours were dim ghosts. Then he plunged into a side street.
Away from the lights it was a little easier to see. He was now entering the peculiar area which is the hinterland of the great terminus stations. An area of tiny streets flanked by high walls; streets which often end abruptly where the great rail arteries cut across them; an area of little squalid shops, ramshackle garages and dangerous eating places; a place of steam and soot and frustration.
The sergeant made his way forward with some confidence. He had served his apprenticeship in E Division. At one point he unlatched a wooden gate, passed under a tunnel lined with dripping tiles, went down a flight of iron-shod steps, squeezed through a narrow opening and came out into an alley beyond.
Here his pace became slower. He knew that he was very near his objective. The white fog blanketed all sound. He might have been alone in the world.
He was feeling with his fingers along a wall made of up-ended railway sleepers. Twenty yards along he found a gate. It was shut and padlocked. He tested the padlock thoughtfully and decided it was beyond him. Then he felt for the top of the gate. It was just within reach. His fingers touched an iron stanchion and he guessed that there would be two or three rows of rusty barbed wire along the gate top.
That was not much of an obstacle for an active man. He grasped the bottom of the stanchion, used the padlock as a toehold, and heaved himself up. There was a tricky moment as he balanced on the gate, straddling the barbed wire, to reverse his grip. Then he dropped quietly down into the obscurity of the other side.
He was in a cinder covered yard. Ahead of him loomed the building. It was a two-storeyed affair of brick, which had once been yellow and was now the colour of slow death.
The sergeant felt his way round to the right, turned a corner to the left, and was stopped by a high boundary wall. Then he turned about and reversed the process, coming back to the same wall, or a continuation of it. He had an idea that behind this wall must lie the canal.
After that he turned his attention to the ground-floor windows. They were small and steel-framed. After a moment’s hesitation, he took out a silk handkerchief, wrapped it tightly round his bunched fingers, and knocked in a pane of glass.
The noise seemed to die in the fog.
Carefully he pushed his hand in and undid the catch.
III
“Curse the fog,” said Hazlerigg mildly.
“That’s all the paint factories, and all the stores,” said Duffy. “They seem to be O.K. Unless it’s a lot further from St. Pancras than we think.”
‘”Over a sort of paint factory near St. Pancras.’” repeated Hazlerigg.
He stared out of the window at the drifting curtain. It was yellowing now, as the grime of London settled upon it.
Suddenly Duffy made the noise of one who has had an inspiration and said: “Quigleys.”
“What’s that?”
“You couldn’t really call it paint. They make some paint. Chiefly it’s boat varnish and printers’ ink.”
“Where is it?”
Duffy pointed down at the map on the table.
“That’s in St. Pancras all right,” said Hazlerigg. “Backing on to the canal.”
“What made me think of it,” said Duffy, “was that I remembered that Quigleys never used more than the ground floor. It was an old building they took over. Too big for them, you see. In my day, the top storey was used for hides.”
“Could be what we want,” said Hazlerigg.
He got on to the DDI.
“I’ll send a man just as soon as I’ve got one,” said that harassed official. “They’re all out in the fog now.”
Hazlerigg rang off and tried operations.
“I’ll chance sending a car straight there,” he said to Duffy. “I’ve got a feeling about this.”
The junior inspector in charge of the operations room reported back a minute later.
“I’ve given the order,” he said, “It may take a little time to carry out. I’m told there’s a sort of private hell going on at King’s Cross.”
IV
The room Sergeant Donovan was in was full of varnish. The darkness was full of it, a sweet, sickly resinous smell. Without using his torch, he picked his way to the door and found it unlocked.
From the hallway, a flight of shallow wooden stairs ran up, with one turn, to the first-storey landing. Here there was another door, which was locked. There was a white card tacked on to it and there was some sort of printing, but the words were too grimy to be read easily.
The door was old and ill-fitting and the lock was a catch lock. He produced from his top pocket a flattened cone of stiff talc and inserted the small end between the jamb and the door edge. A gentle pressure and he felt the tongue of the lock give way. The door opened inwards.
There was a further short passage with partitioned rooms on either side, and beyond that a very large storeroom.
This was full of stuff. Most of it was in crates and cartons but some was spilled out on to benches and tables. Sergeant Donovan, picking his way among the jumble, used his torch more freely. A wooden box with the label of a well-known whisky distillery caught his eye and he bent to inspect it.
As he did so he heard the sounds which told him he was not alone.
Someone was coming up the stairs; worse than that, there were people inside the room already, near the door.
There was very little time to do anything. He jumped towards the ladder which his torch had shown him at that end of the room and went up it. It was a short ladder, four or five steps, leading up to a sort of loading-platform, with crates on it. He had no hope of hiding. He just wanted to get his back to something solid.
The platform ended in double doors, which were shut and barred. He turned with a grunt of satisfaction. He could hear men below him moving in the darkness.
Then all the lights went on.
Some of the fog had got into the room and hung in shreds round the overhead lamps, but there was plenty of fight for Sergeant Donovan to see his pursuers. There were five of them, all looking up at him with the bleak intent look of a pack who have had a long run but are close to a kill.
He knew every one of them.
There was Guardsman, with his scrubbed cheeks, his immature nose and knowing eyes. Beside him, like a banner, the red mop of big Whittaker, and Sailor Jackson with his black hair, white face and dead eyes. Behind them stood
the coffee-coloured boy from Jamaica. His face alone had a sort of excitement in it, out of keeping with the solemnity of the others. The ex-boxer Prince was the fifth. He had just come through the door. As the lights came on, he shut it behind him and came forward, blinking his single, puffy eye in the sudden glare.
As they closed on the platform, Sergeant Donovan, instead of retreating, came forward to meet them. He put his foot out and kicked the ladder away. It fell on to the floor with a noise which emphasised the silence.
Without a word Jackson stooped to pick the ladder up.
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Sergeant Donovan.
He had taken his right hand out of his pocket and was holding something lightly and lovingly in it.
All movement in the room ceased.
“It’s powerful stuff,” said Sergeant Donovan. “Makes the old Mills grenade look like a penny cracker. Incendiary too, as well as explosive. And whilst we’re talking about fires, I hope you’ve none of you forgotten what you’re standing on top of. Did you ever watch varnish burn? All right, Whittaker, I can see you’ve got a gun. What good do you think it’s going to do you? The pin’s out. Take a look. No deception. It’s a short fuse, too. I’ve only got to open my fingers and there’ll be just three seconds between you and the bonfire.”
He spoke slowly, relishing his words.
“You weren’t thinking of going, were you, Prince?”
Four heads jerked round. Prince had taken a few furtive steps back towards the door.
“I could toss this beauty right into your lap from here. Like to see if you can catch it? I’ve got another with me in case you miss. Three seconds should be plenty. That’s right. Back you come. All nice and cosy.”
“Look here,” said Whittaker. He seemed to be the only one who had a voice. “We don’t want any trouble. You clear out and we’ll let you go. Is that right?” He looked quickly at the others. There was a murmur of agreement from everyone except Jackson whose hungry eyes had never left the man on the platform.
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