If the police could identify all possible firms they could be checked and, with any luck, the one which should have received the marijuana could be isolated. (If there had been any marijuana due to be received. But since Finch had been peddling marijuana spice cake, this had to come from somewhere. If he was murdered, the probability had to be that he had stolen it. If he had stolen it, the probability had to be that it had come from cargo he’d been trucking.)
He picked up the internal phone and spoke to Yarrow in the general room, ordering him to go and see a manager of the Hendlesham Haulage Company and, using tact, to ask him to trace out all consignments of Moroccan dates which Finch had trucked in the past nine months.
*
It was the middle of August when the general manager of the Hendlesham Haulage Company phoned C.I.D. and named seven companies and gave their addresses.
Fusil studied the addresses. Two were in Fortrow, two in Barstone, one in Edgely Cross, and the remaining two were outside the county. Kirby, a member of the town hall staff, should be able to help him gain an initial assessment of the firms within the county. He phoned.
Kirby was a precise, pedantic man who dotted his Is, crossed his Ts, and then checked twice that he’d missed nothing. “Naturally, Mr Fusil, I will help. However, I must make it clear that I cannot pass on to you any confidential information.”
Fusil managed to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Of course I appreciate that — but right now all I’m looking for is a general picture of how long these firms have been established and whether their reputations are sound. I’ll read the names out and if you’ll see what you can do I’ll be very grateful.”
Kirby rang back two and a half hours later. He had been able to find out something about the local companies. Of the five, four were old-established trading firms who had been in business for tens of years, in one case even as many as a hundred and twenty, without the slightest touch of scandal. The fifth firm had commenced trading only four years before and surprisingly little was known about it. “But, Mr Fusil, you will understand that this in no way implies anything derogatory about the company. No doubt Elgin and Raves are every bit as trustworthy as the other four — it’s just that neither I, nor those whom I have approached, have had occasion to note the name, nor do we know either a Mr Elgin or a Mr Raves.”
If Kirby were paid for every unnecessary word he spoke, thought Fusil after ringing off, he’d be as rich as Croesus. He telephoned the general room and told Kerr to discover what he could about Elgin and Raves.
Kerr reported late that afternoon. “They’re a private company and the directors are Elgin, Scott, Perlon, Underwood, and Andrews. Most of the few issued shares are in Elgin’s hands. The purpose of the company is to import and export with the Middle East. I spoke to one bloke who said they don’t seem to do very much trade and he rather wonders how they keep going — the old, established companies have most of the trade sewn up. Another thing he said was that they have rather a lot of people around for the amount of business they do.”
Fusil stared through the window, not seeing the fine drizzle which had been falling ever since daybreak to make a mockery of summer. On the face of things, it fitted. A small company, newly formed, flaunting good business sense by entering a trade that was already sewn up, not doing enough business to warrant the number of staff… “I want a photo check run on their offices and warehouse for two mornings.”
Kerr looked almost as disgruntled as he felt. If there were anything more boring than a photo check, he didn’t know what in the hell it was.
*
For two mornings a ten-hundredweight van was parked opposite the main entrances to Elgin and Raves’ offices and warehouse. Overall it was light green and on each side was painted the legend ‘Johns of Fortrow’ in large silver and black letters. It was a combination of colours which considerable research had shown provided the best camouflage for a two-inch hole.
From nine in the morning until one in the afternoon, Kerr sat or knelt in the back of the van and photographed every fresh face he saw going in or coming out. It was a boring, frustrating, painful job. When he knelt, his knees soon ached, when he sat, his back soon ached: time after time, a passer-by would block the camera’s vision just as he was about to take a photo.
The rolls of exposed films were taken up to county H.Q. and developed. Prints, four by four, were made of each negative and these were returned to Fortrow.
A police cadet pinned the prints on to three boards which hung in the parade room, next to the photos of wanted men. Above the boards was placed the notice: ‘Do you recognise any of these people? C.I.D.’ Someone added in pencil: ‘If you do, tell your friends: if you don’t, tell us.’ When he saw this addition, the duty inspector angrily ordered the duty sergeant to rub out the offending words and to identify the culprit. The duty sergeant expunged the words, but made no effort to discover who’d written them, rightly believing this could only be a waste of time.
On Wednesday morning, a uniform P.C. reported to Fusil. “It’s about them photos, sir, which have been put up in the parade room. I’ve maybe seen one of the blokes before.” He spoke with a slight Northumbrian accent, with contrasted sharply with the local burr. “I can’t say for absolute certain, but I remember him as like two brass rings with a bloke we picked up in me last division.”
“Which was where?”
“Up north in Scarton, sir.”
“Do you remember the man’s name?”
“Not really, but I think it were something like Curry.”
“What was his speciality?”
“Pushing, sir.”
Chapter 19
It was going to be a gamble. Fusil recognised that from the beginning. Few would have blamed him if he’d decided that the odds against were too great. After all, what certainty about anything was there? And what a time to make a bad mistake — with amalgamation just around the corner. But Fusil hated to be beaten and at heart he was something of a gambler.
Obviously, to prove the case they needed to find marijuana on the premises, or at least proof of its having been handled there, so Fusil waited until a ship from Morocco docked with a consignment of dried fruit for Elgin and Raves. He then went before a J.P., noted for his helpful attitude towards the police, to ask for a search warrant. Even that J.P. expressed his surprise over the paucity of evidence, but in the end he granted the warrant.
The search party consisted of Fusil, Braddon, and Kerr, a uniform sergeant, four uniform P.C.s, and a dog handler with a black Labrador which had been trained for drug work. They drove on a Wednesday morning from eastern division H.Q. to Geronimo Road and there separated, two cars and the van turning left into Axley Street on which were the main entrances to the offices and warehouse, the third car turning right into Starpoint Avenue to cover the rear entrance of the warehouse.
Fusil led the six of them into the office, to the surprise and consternation of the young woman in the front office. “C.I.D., borough police,” he said. “If Mr Elgin’s in, will you ask him to see us, please.”
She spoke over the internal phone and then told him that Mr Elgin said to go through to his office, the first on the right along the passage. Fusil and Braddon went through, the others, led by Kerr, fanned out to cover the entrances to the offices and the warehouse.
Elgin met them at the door of his office. He was a large man, with a round, plump face, high forehead, and sleek black hair. His mouth was generous and when he smiled, which he often did, his teeth showed white and regular. His facial skin had a slightly moist appearance, as if he were a man who easily sweated. “Well, as they say, this is an unexpected pleasure!” He spoke with cheerful good humour.
“I’m Detective Inspector Fusil and this is Detective Sergeant Braddon,” said Fusil formally. For him first impressions were important and his first impression here was of a man who was happily confident that there was no reason in the world to be worried by a police raid.
Elgin went round behind
his desk, but did not sit down. “Now that the niceties have been observed maybe you’ll explain what all this is about?” There was a hint of amusement in his voice.
“I’m investigating the smuggling into this country of marijuana.”
“Really? Well, I’m afraid you won’t get much joy here. I haven’t smuggled anything since I was twenty and brought back four hundred cigarettes instead of two hundred.”
“I hold a search warrant, authorising me to search these premises.” Fusil handed it over.
Elgin read the warrant. “The English is a bit archaic, isn’t it, but I rather like all these seals. One may sometimes criticise the English law for its content, but never for its form.”
“Mr Elgin, have you or your firm at any time illegally imported any cannabis — popularly known as marijuana — in the form of leaf, alcoholic extract, raw resin, or resin mixed with other ingredients?”
“I’ve already confessed to you the total extent of my smuggling activities.”
“Is there any cannabis on these premises?”
“None.”
“Have you received a consignment of Moroccan dates on the S.S. Vizor?”
“Yes, I have… You’re very well informed, Inspector.”
“Where is that consignment?”
“In the warehouse. We haven’t yet begun to distribute it.”
“I want to examine it.”
“All of it? There are, I think, four thousand cases. And then, of course, there are all the raisins, sultanas, and currants, but those came from Greece. Perhaps you are not quite so suspicious about Grecian goods?”
“How many people do you employ here?”
“Forgive me, Inspector, if I appear to quibble over semantics, but we employ only two women, the young ladies in the office, and sometimes some casual labour. A number of people work for the company, but as they’re all shareholders, in the strictest sense of the word they are not employed.”
“Then how many shareholders are there?”
“Four, excluding myself. We are a very small — and at the moment insignificant — company.”
“Shall we go through and look at the dates?”
“By all means, Inspector. And if, unlike myself, you have a passion for them, I’ll be only too delighted to assuage that passion, if only temporarily… Shall I lead the way?”
As they followed Elgin, Braddon said in a low voice: “Smooth, oily bastard.”
Smooth, oily, and lucky, thought Fusil bitterly. Or maybe luck didn’t enter into it. Maybe all their cargoes were clean. Maybe they hadn’t imported an ounce of marijuana in their four years of trading.
The warehouse consisted of two sections, brick built, with steeply pitched roofs, which were separated internally only by regularly spaced pillars. Cartons, boxes, and sacks, were stacked up in different areas. A fork truck was parked near a pile of pallets and one man was seated on it. Three other men were lounging around, watching the police with antagonistic interest. The building smelled sweet and spicy: it was a smell which began by being attractive, but soon became cloying.
Fusil gave the order to work the dog.
They watched the Labrador check the piles of boxes, cartons, and sacks. It first went round each pile, scenting high and low, occasionally stopping for a more prolonged check, then climbed up on to the top and covered as much of this as was possible. When it finished searching the last pile of sacks, it returned to sit by the side of its handler.
Fusil, giving no indication of his feelings, spoke to Elgin. “Which are the dates which came in the Vizor?”
Elgin called out: “Bill — where are the dates?”
One of the men pointed. “That lot there.”
Fusil and Braddon walked across. The dates were packed in cardboard cartons which were stamped with their weight, shipping marks, and the words in English, ‘Produce of Morocco’, together with some Arabic lettering. Elgin had followed them and Fusil said to him: “May I have your permission to open a carton?”
“So long as it’s just one, I’m not going to complain. And as I said, you’re welcome to some dates if you like ’em. Me? They put me off alcohol for days.”
Braddon reached up and lifted down several cartons, then brought out one from the back of the space he had just created. He placed it on the floor and pulled open the lid. Inside, packed in rows three wide and four long, were blocks of dates, wrapped in waxed paper. Braddon picked out one of the blocks, looked briefly at it, then passed it to Fusil. He saw printed on the paper the words Morocco Dates in two lines. The type of print was exactly similar to the print on the scrap of paper which had been round the marijuana spice cake.
He unwrapped the block. Inside were dates, compressed into a stout block and not on their stalks. He broke the block, after considerable effort, and it contained nothing but dates. “Check a couple of hundred cartons for shipping marks,” he ordered. He re-wrapped the dates and returned the block.
Braddon called two P.C.s over and the three of them unstacked part of the pile in the centre. The shipping marks on each carton were carefully checked, special attention being paid to the Arabic lettering, but no differences were found which might have indicated to someone who could interpret them that the contents of any carton were different.
“Do you feel happier now?” asked Elgin. “Assured that our trade in dried fruit is bona fide?”
Had they, Fusil asked himself, chosen one of the consignments which was clear? Or was some other importer smuggling in the drug? Or was the interpretation of the presence of the waxed paper on the marijuana cake wrong? Finch might have used a label from Moroccan dates to wrap up that slab of marijuana cake which he’d obtained from somewhere else…
“Are we to be allowed to resume work this morning?” asked Elgin.
Elgin was laughing at them. But that didn’t necessarily signify anything. Authority was always laughed at when it publicly became unstuck. “Mr Elgin, do you own a boat?”
Elgin’s attitude didn’t outwardly change but to a trained observer such as Fusil there was suddenly a suggestion of watchfulness and the need to assess a new situation in the way in which Elgin reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, offered this, flicked open a lighter, and lit his cigarette, before he answered: “Is it of any importance if I do?”
“It might well be.”
Elgin smiled as if he had found the answer amusing. “Yes, Inspector, I do own a boat. A twenty-foot inboard-outboard power boat, designed for water skiing.”
“Did you go out to sea in it on the sixth of June?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“It was a Monday.”
“Then it’s very unlikely, since that’s a working day.”
“Have you ever lent it to anyone?”
“Certainly not. A boat is like a wife: one only lends in exceptional circumstances.”
“So if it did go out to sea on the sixth of June, you would have been aboard it?”
“I’m sorry to have to correct you. Inspector, but I cannot bear to hear you go on calling a boat ‘it’. All vessels are feminine, however humble, presumably because one can never be wholly certain how they’ll behave.”
“Would you have been aboard her?”
“Yes. But as I’ve said, she was not a sea…”
“What’s she called?”
“Rosalinde, after my wife’s name. But how on earth can that…”
“Andrew Finch was drowned on the sixth of June when he went out fishing in his boat and apparently fell over the side. But it’s possible he was thrown over the side of the boat and didn’t just fall.”
“Interesting!”
“Did you know him?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been aboard his boat?”
“Isn’t that virtually an impossibility, since I didn’t know him? Inspector, I’ve been very patient…”
“We’ll leave you in peace as soon as I’ve checked a list of boats which put to sea and were logged by the coastguards
at Single Head on that Monday.” He took a list from his pocket. Elgin’s boat was not on it. He swore silently. Had the coastguard just not bothered to log it? Then he looked up and saw the intentness with which Elgin was staring at him and abruptly he changed what he had been going to say. “Now that’s really odd!”
Elgin dropped his cigarette on to the concrete floor and stamped it out. Sweat began to prickle his face. He tried to smile with the same easy, relaxed manner as before, but couldn’t quite manage it.
“Did you forget that the coastguards log the boats which pass them?” asked Fusil.
The men who worked in the warehouse were plainly very uneasy and Kerr, a uniform P.C., and the uniform sergeant, moved with more noise than was strictly necessary to make it obvious that all exits to the warehouse were now effectively blocked.
“Maybe…” said Elgin, then stopped. After a couple of seconds, he started again. “Maybe when I think about it I did possibly go out that morning for a quick sail. I sometimes do. But that doesn’t mean… Look, I’ve told you, I never knew Finch. If I did go out in the boat it would only have been for half an hour to clear my head.”
“Who was with you?” Fusil pointedly looked down again at the list in his hand.
“I… I don’t remember.”
“Someone was.”
“Well, I just don’t remember who it was.”
“Your memory seems to work in fits and starts.”
“What’s it matter if it does?”
“I’ll try to explain. I believe you’ve been importing marijuana, under the cover of Moroccan dates. Something happened to one consignment when Finch was driving it from the docks to here and he discovered that at least some of the cartons contained marijuana spice cake, not dates. He stole the marijuana and began to push it on his own behalf, reckoning you’d never do anything for fear he’d shop you. He couldn’t have been more wrong. You watched him, learned he enjoyed fishing, followed him out to sea — way out, to the banks where the big fish are — and chucked him over the side of his boat, trying to make it look like an accident.”
Murder is Suspected (C.I.D. Room Book 10) Page 14