by John Bude
“Hullo, Inspector. Taking a day off?”
“You’ve said it!” replied Meredith with a wry grimace. “No such luck, Mr. Dawson. Can I have a word with you in the office?”
“Right-o. This way. Mind the mat!” He went to a side-table and poured out a couple of whiskies and sodas. “No need to ask,” he observed with a sly chuckle as he handed Meredith the tumbler. “Here’s luck, Inspector!”
Meredith grinned as he raised his glass.
“I need it,” he answered tritely. “You saw the result of the inquest on Clayton, I suppose?” The manager nodded. “Well, between ourselves, I’ve got a hunch that I’m on to something. Nothing certain. But I believe you’ve got some information that I can do with, Mr. Dawson.”
“Right-o. Go ahead, Inspector.”
“What exactly do you know about the Nonock Petrol Company? That’s my star question.”
Dawson considered the query for a moment, pulling at the lobe of his right ear, a habit of his when thinking.
“Well, I don’t know much,” he acknowledged, at length. “Ormsby-Wright is the owner of the concern. It’s a newish business. Been running about ten years. The company’s well organized and paying their shareholders an annual dividend of seven and a half per cent. As far as I know, there are only two depots—one here and one just outside Carlisle. I can’t tell you anything about the Carlisle place, but I’ve picked up a good bit of information about the local depot.”
The Inspector leant forward eagerly.
“Good—that’s just what I’m after. To begin with, how many people are employed there?”
“Let’s see—there’s Rose, the manager. I’ve mentioned him before, you remember. Then there’s six lorry-drivers and their mates. That’s another twelve. And a yard-man. That’s the lot, I think.”
“There are always two men to a lorry, then?”
“Always—yes. I’m sure of my facts in this case, Inspector, because most of the lorry-men patronize my public bar of an evening.”
“What time do they knock off?”
“Six. They start off at nine in the morning, see? Each lorry has a definite itinerary to cover. If they can do their round in less than the scheduled time then they garage their lorries before six. Actually their itineraries are so worked out that it takes them a full working day to cover the mileage. Fast driving, as you can guess, is not encouraged. They’re heavy machines, at the best of times, and the wear and tear is pretty bad, without the chaps speeding.”
“Quite. Does the same lorry always cover the same itinerary?”
“That’s the idea. There are six lorries, see, and six different districts to be covered. For example, one chap does the Kendal district, another runs between here and Carlisle, a third takes in Keswick, Cockermouth and the coast towns. Get me?”
Meredith nodded.
“You’ve given me some useful information, Mr. Dawson.”
“Always ready to oblige the police,” grinned Mr. Dawson. “Anything more, Inspector?”
“Yes. Do you know the men who work the Keswick–Cockermouth route?”
“Course I do. Bettle’s the driver—big, bull-necked chap with a fist like a leg o’ mutton. Carnera, I call him on the Q.T. Slow-thinking sort of chap he is. Never says much. Just the opposite to his mate, Prince. He’s a lively little box o’ tricks. Wonderful with cards! Sleight of hand and so forth. A darn good mimic, too. I tell you, Inspector, things always look up in the bar when young Prince sticks his head round the door. Talk? He never stops talking. Keeps us all in fits.”
“You say that Higgins is often over here. Ever seen Higgins talking to these men?”
“Well, only in a general sort of way. Higgins never seems particularly pally with ’em. I reckon they’re a cut below his style. Mark Higgins rather fancies himself as a bit of a dandy. Leastways, that’s my opinion.”
“What about Rose?”
“Oh, he knows him all right. Whenever Mark Higgins is over from Keswick it’s ten to one that he and Rose will have fifty up in the billiards saloon. Both keen players. Good, too. Why I’ve seen young Mark make—”
Meredith tactfully allowed Dawson the satisfaction of delivering a eulogy on Higgins’s skill with a billiard cue before glancing up at the clock with the information that his bus was due to start in three minutes.
Feeling more than pleased with his morning’s investigations, he returned home, ate a hearty lunch, and shortly after two o’clock tramped off across the sodden fields to Portinscale. He had already decided on four possible by-lanes in which the lorry could have been concealed. Two of these, on the righthand side of the road, petered out in farm-yards by the head of Bassenthwaite, whilst the two on the left eventually converged on the main, lakeside road to Grange and Seatoller. Meredith, for obvious reasons, chose to examine the right-hand roads first. The men would have naturally selected a road on which traffic was negligible. Passing the first of the side-turnings, he came to the second, which was a little over a quarter of a mile from the garage. Unobserved, he turned into the narrow, grass-bordered lane and, working up each side, made a close examination of the ground.
Although the lane itself was stony and unyielding, the turf at the sides was still soft from the recent rain. If, then, the lorry had drawn in at all when stopping, it was almost certain that the tyre-marks would be visible. On the other hand, if the driver had his wits about him, this was just the sort of clue he would avoid leaving. So when, at the end of half an hour, Meredith found his way barred by a high gate, he was disappointed but still disinclined to abandon his theory. It was true that there were several vague outlines which suggested the recent passage of traffic up the lane, but the heavy rainfall disallowed any possibility of distinguishing one blurred track from another.
He felt, however, that it was imperative for him to make a number of inquiries at the farm-house, in the hope that one of the inmates had noticed the stationary lorry. But although he questioned some half-dozen people about the place, nobody could give him any information. The owner of the farm, a Mr. Thomas Thornton, felt sure that if anybody had seen the lorry there on Saturday night the news would have soon got around. Anything unusual would certainly be made much of, for the simple reason that unusual happenings so seldom occurred in the district. Meredith felt inclined to agree with this line of reasoning and, after thanking Mr. Thornton for his help and courtesy, he made his way back to the lane.
Whatever faults may be attributed to the British police force by the American or continental critics, a lack of thoroughness is not one of them. And in accordance with his early training, Meredith patiently re-examined every foot of the lane and its grass-grown skirtings. And this time his thoroughness was rewarded! He found something. Not exactly what he was looking for, but something unexpected enough to rivet his attention.
Scattered over an area of about a yard square, almost invisible in the grass, were hundreds of tiny pieces of glass. There was nothing in the shape of a bottle-neck or base to indicate their origin. The individual bits were so tiny, in fact, that Meredith concluded the original object must have been deliberately broken up. Probably with one of the several loose stones lying nearby. With immense patience he at length collected a good handful of the jagged pieces and poured them carefully into an envelope. A cursory inspection of his find had brought one fact to light. A distinct curve was noticeable in the larger pieces, suggesting that the original object might have been a bottle or a globe. But the extreme thinness of the glass puzzled Meredith intensely. Offhand, he could think of no commonplace article which would have been manufactured from such fragile stuff. The idea of an electric-light globe flashed through his mind. But surely the filament was welded into a thick tongue of glass, projecting from the metal holder? A watchglass, too, was out of the question. One wouldn’t collect a large handful of remains from a shattered watch-glass. Meredith therefore decided to call in Dr. Burney to pe
rform, what he mentally registered as, a post-mortem!
The rest of his afternoon’s work proved disappointing. Although he spent the best part of two back-aching hours examining the other three turnings he found absolutely nothing in the shape of a clue. If the lorry had parked for a quarter of an hour up any of the four lanes it was obvious that unusual care had been taken to cover up all traces of the fact. That the broken glass had any bearing on the crime, Meredith doubted. Try as he would, he could forge no link which would connect his discovery with Clayton’s death. At a quarter-past five, therefore, he flagged the local bus and returned to Keswick. Before going to his desk he called in on Dr. Burney and asked his opinion about the glass. The doctor, after a meticulous examination, was non-committal.
“It’s the sort of glass that is manufactured for laboratory use—beakers, test-tubes, retorts and so on. But I’m not going to say that the original object belonged under that category. Foreign glass, for example, used for ordinary domestic articles is notoriously thin.”
“I suppose you wouldn’t hazard an opinion as to what the vessel contained?”
Burney laughed sarcastically.
“What? After it’s been lying out there in the rain—probably for days. Rather not. A laboratory test would be waste of time. Sorry!”
Meredith returned disgruntled to the police station. Although outwardly he had expected no result, subconsciously he had rather hoped that the broken glass would supply some startling data. Oh, well—this detection business was full of annoying cul-de-sacs. One took a likely road and after a tiring tramp it ended abruptly in a blank wall. Frustration, confound it, was part of his job!
The Sergeant was off duty and Railton pro tem in charge of the office.
“That clock right, Constable?” asked Meredith, jerking his thumb at the wall.
“Ten minutes past five—yes, that’s right, sir.”
“Well, I want you to go on point-duty until six o’clock. Understand?” Railton looked puzzled.
“Point-duty? Where, sir?”
“At the bottom of the street on Greta Bridge. I’m expecting a Nonock petrol lorry to come through Keswick within the next few minutes. If it does, stop it, and bring the occupants up here. I want to talk to ’em.”
Railton, secretly disgusted at having to abandon the comfortable heat of the office, put on his helmet and departed.
Chapter VIII
Prince And Bettle Explain
In ten minutes the constable rapped on the door of the inner office.
“The gentlemen are outside, sir.”
“Show ’em in,” said Meredith briskly. “And I shall probably want you to take down a statement.”
For all his outward calm, Meredith was experiencing a lively undercurrent of excitement. Although as a practical-minded man he was inclined to scoff at intuition, he could not help feeling that the approaching interview would prove of paramount importance to his investigations. If these men failed to tell him anything then the future of the case stretched out before him with all the uncompromising bleakness of a moorland road.
The moment the bull-necked Mr. Bettle came through the door Meredith appreciated the aptness of Charlie Dawson’s nickname. Brute strength was the keynote of his physical appearance; accruing from a massive torso, a somewhat smallish head and a broad and prominent jowl. Mentally he looked, if not actually deficient, considerably under average quota, whilst the slow roving of his eyes spoke of a nature that was suspicious rather than credulous. Beside this cumbersome giant his companion offered a strange and ludicrous contrast. Well under average height, dapper and nimble of movement, Prince was a Cockney to his finger-tips; embodying in his small, dynamic person all the ready wit and intelligence of the type. In view of the dissimilarity between the two men, Meredith decided, at once, that it would be politic to question them apart.
After they had revealed their names, the Inspector stated his reason for wanting to see them. And although he was watching them closely he was unable to detect the flicker of an eyelid at his first mention of the murder. Bettle looked straight at him with a sort of bewildered stupidity, whilst Prince seemed overwhelmed with an impatient desire to speak. Both men acknowledged that they had seen the report of the inquest in the local paper, also the police demand for information, but as they had only stopped for a short time at the garage, and as Clayton was alive and in a normal frame of mind when they left, they had decided that there was no point in their coming forward.
The Inspector hastened to correct this mistaken viewpoint.
“In a case of this sort any information, however slight, may be of importance. You were the last people to see Clayton alive, so I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me all you can. Any objection?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned,” replied Prince promptly.
“Same ’ere,” grunted Bettle.
“Very well. Suppose I take your statements separately? It will make things easier.” Meredith opened the door and called the constable. “The Sergeant back yet?”
“Just come in, sir.”
“Good. Then suppose you sit in the other office for a minute, Mr. Bettle, whilst Mr. Prince and I have a word together in here. All right, Railton. I shall want you. Now, then, Mr. Prince—let’s have the details of your visit to the garage on Saturday night.”
Prince seemed more than ready to oblige. He delivered his evidence with such swift volubility that it was all the constable could do to take down the main points of his statement.
“Well, it’s like this,” began Prince. “Me and my mate work the Keswick–Cockermouth district for the Nonock. We don’t have no half-day off on a Saturday. That’s a rule of the firm. Thursday’s our day, see? Well the last garage on our round is the Derwent. We’d had an order through on Friday to deliver two ’undred gallons without fail next day. So we pulls up and, after a word or two with Clayton in the office, connects with the tank and delivers as per schedule. I suppose we were the best part of ’arf an hour on the job, what with one thing and another. Clayton’s a talkative chap—leastways, I suppose I should say he was a talkative chap—and we had a bit of an argument about ’oo was going to win the F.A. Cup this season. At any rate, about ’arf-past seven, after Clayton had signed the delivery slip, taken a dip of the tank and O.K.’d the load, we left for the depot. He was right as rain then, though a bit absent minded, if you take me. I’ve heard he’s a moody chap, Inspector, but whether that’s true or not I can’t rightly say.”
“You didn’t notice anybody hanging about the place when you left?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you certain about the time you started for the depot?”
“Pretty near positive. You see, I ’appened to look at my watch, because we were already overdue at the depot.”
“Overdue?” said the Inspector sharply. “Why was that?”
“Engine trouble. Spot of water in the carburettor feed, as it turned out. Took us the best part of an hour to set the thing right.”
“Where did this happen?”
“D’you know Jenkin ’Ill, about ’arf-way between Hursthole Point and Braithwaite Station? We called on time at the Lothwaite and then ran into this patch of trouble. Consequence was we didn’t arrive at the Derwent until near on seven o’clock.”
“I see. And after you left the Derwent you returned straight to the Penrith depot? No stops, I take it?”
“None. A clear run. Mr. Rose—that’s the manager—was waiting back for us and checked us in.”
Meredith rose from his desk and held out his hand for Railton’s hurriedly written statement.
“Thanks, Mr. Prince. Perhaps you’d just read this through and attach your signature.”
As soon as this had been done, Railton ushered in Bettle, whilst Prince vanished into the outer office.
Bettle was far less glib in the delivery of his evidence. Whene
ver Meredith slipped in a terse question, the driver pondered deeply, rubbed the back of his head with his cap, and answered with a deliberation that was distinctly irritating. Every one of his slow utterances seemed to have a heavy chain attached to it, and it was all the Inspector could do to drag the necessary information out of Bettle’s dull cranium. But the sum total of his evidence coincided in every detail with that of his mate. They had been overdue because of carburettor trouble. They had stayed for a time at the Derwent arguing with Clayton about the chances of the various football teams, and left for the depot at seven-thirty. Bettle remembered Prince taking out his watch and looking at it. His mate, in fact, had mentioned the time and suggested that they ought to get a move on. They had had a straight run home and Mr. Rose had checked them into the depot.
When Bettle had laboriously read through his deposition and attached an ill-written signature, Meredith explained that there was nothing more he wished to see them about, and the men hurried out into the street and climbed into their lorry.
In a second Meredith was back at his desk. Opening a drawer, he took out a Bartholomew’s mile-to-the-inch map of the district and began to scale the exact distance between the Derwent and the Nonock depot. His final reckoning was exactly nineteen and a half miles. Assuming that the tank was more or less empty, Meredith concluded that the lorry could have covered the distance in an hour or a little over. At the most, it could not have taken longer than an hour and twenty minutes. Suppose, therefore, he compromised and said an hour and ten minutes—that would mean Rose had checked in the lorry at eight-forty. One of his next moves was to get a glimpse of the manager’s books without Rose’s knowledge. How the devil he was to manage that Meredith could not imagine. He would have to think out a scheme.
And beyond this matter of times, what exactly had he gained from the interview? Little enough! The promise of his intuition had not been fulfilled. The men had put foward a perfectly feasible explanation for their belated arrival at the Derwent. It was raining. What more natural than a spot of water in the petrol feed-pipe? He ought to check up on their statement and find out if anybody had noticed the lorry parked on the roadside between Hursthole Point and Braithwaite Station. Their last call had been at the Lothwaite. He could easily check up there with the proprietor the time of the lorry’s departure. He could, in fact, kill two birds with one stone. He had already decided to have a look over the lakeside garage in consequence of the Superintendent’s story about the Hursthole Point tragedy. Was it, he wondered, in any way suggestive that the lorry formed a link between the two fateful garages? Possible but not probable, was Meredith’s inward comment.