by John Bude
“Wick—Gurney Wick.”
“You’re the proprietor of this place?” Wick nodded. “Nobody work with you?”
“Yes—I’ve got a lad who comes in from Cockermouth every day in the summer. But in the winter I run the place myself to keep down the overhead. I was in partnership here two years ago, but I daresay you remember that rotten affair at Hursthole Point?”
“You mean Peterson’s suicide?” Wick nodded and made a mournful grimace.
“Never understood it myself, though I daresay the loneliness got on his nerves. It’s pretty dull here in winter.”
Meredith smiled to himself. Wasn’t this a replica of Higgins’s suggestion as to the reason for Clayton’s supposed suicide?
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“There,” answered Wick, pointing to a dilapidated wooden shack attached to the side wall of the brick garage. “Do for myself and everything, as a matter of fact. I’ve no time for a woman about the place. More trouble than they’re worth.”
Wick expectorated with a mingled air of disdain and disgust and pulled out a packet of Woodbines. He had now completed the charging of the petrol tank and was leaning back against one of the pumps, watching the Inspector with ill-concealed impatience.
“Now look here, Wick,” said Meredith briskly. “I want to know something. What time did the Nonock lorry leave your garage last Saturday night?”
Wick slowly lit his cigarette, considering the point.
“About a quarter to six or a bit earlier, perhaps.”
“Wasn’t that rather late for them? I mean, they usually pass here on their homeward run earlier than that, don’t they?”
“It varies,” answered Wick shortly. “Can’t be too cut-and-dried on their job. What I mean is this—if they’ve got to deliver in comparative small quantities it takes ’em longer to do their round. Then again it depends on where they’ve got to place their load. Some of their garages lie a bit off the beaten track, you know.”
“I quite see that. So you wouldn’t consider them particularly overdue here on Saturday?”
Wick shook his head. “Though I did hear that they made the depot pretty late on account of engine trouble. I was talking about it only this morning because it made ’em late at the Derwent—and I’ve no need to tell you what happened there on Saturday night, have I, Inspector?”
“Exactly. And you can see why I am anxious to trace the exact movements of the lorry.”
Wick broke out into a sudden roar of laughter.
“You don’t mean to tell me, Inspector, that you suspect Bill Bettle and young Prince had a hand in the job? Good Lord—that’s ripe—that is!”
“It’s my job to suspect everybody and nobody,” replied Meredith tersely. “You’d better think that over, Mr. Wick. Now, how much was the petrol?”
The Inspector paid what was due and after a quick yet comprehensive glance round the place, he straddled his bike, turned in the road and made for Braithwaite Station.
There, as luck would have it, he found he had only ten minutes to wait before a train was due in from Penrith. The sole official at the station was able to supply him with all the information he needed. The Penrith–Cockermouth route was a shuttle-service, divided into two shifts, and after consulting a timetable, the station-master-cum-porter assured Meredith that the driver and fireman of the approaching train would have run the 6.25 from Cockermouth into Braithwaite on Saturday.
Dead on time the train steamed into the station and drew up with a jerk. In a matter of seconds Meredith had clambered on to the fire-step and stuck his head into the overheated, oil-reeking cabin. The driver, a Keswick man, recognized the Inspector at once.
“Good Heavens, Mr. Meredith, what on earth are you doing here? Not bad news, is it?”
Meredith quickly set the man’s mind at rest and explained the reason for his appearance. After a moment’s consultation, both the driver and the fireman came to the conclusion that they had seen the lights of a stationary vehicle on the Cockermouth road, but neither of them could say exactly where it had been parked. They thought it was about a mile up the line.
“Well, we can easily make certain as to that,” cut in Meredith. “How far was the road from the line when you saw the vehicle?”
The driver scratched his chin with the tip of a grimy forefinger.
“Now you’ve got me, Mr. Meredith. Let’s say from about here to that haystack over there. Not nearer, eh, Ted?”
The fireman agreed.
“Good enough,” replied Meredith. “About three hundred yards. Thanks, gentlemen.” Then with a broad wink: “You’ll have to step on it if you want to keep up with schedule. Still, blame the police if there’s trouble. Good day.”
On his way back to Keswick Meredith’s attention was equally divided between keeping a watch on the road and trying to elucidate certainties from the various new facts which he had gleaned.
He now felt quite sure that the Chief was right. Behind Clayton’s murder lurked the shadowy suggestion of a well-organized, criminal activity. What it was he could not say, for the simple reason that there were so many illegal practices to choose from. That the Derwent and Lothwaite garages were in some way under the thumb of the Nonock Petroleum Company seemed more than probable. Hadn’t Wick spoken to Bettle and Prince about “the boss”? Hadn’t the whole of that overheard conversation suggested that the men were united in carrying on some form of illicit business? “Orders is orders” had been Bettle’s trite remark. That hinted at what the “twopenny bloods” would call a “master-mind”—a master-mind behind the working of the organization. Was the master-mind Rose? Meredith thought not. The depot manager had not impressed him as a particularly subtle or intellectual man. Then what about this O.W. that Bettle had so picturesquely referred to? Who was O.W.? Was he the brain behind—?
In a sudden rush of inspiration Meredith narrowly escaped collision with an oncoming farm-cart. What a fool he’d been not to take up the point at once! O.W. could only be one person! Ormsby-Wright—the owner of the petroleum company! What better alibi could a man have than a position of authority, responsibility and trust, when secretly engaged in the running of some nefarious organization? Who would suspect the respectable head of a well-known business concern of being a criminal? The more Meredith thought about it the more certain he grew that he’d hit the nail on the head.
But if this were so, the police were up against a bigger thing than they had first suspected. A man of Ormsby-Wright’s calibre wouldn’t dabble in petty criminality. If Meredith knew anything about crime he would set about things in a big way. He would demand big profits. And to make those big profits the turn-over of his illegal concern would have to be considerable. Whether this would prove a stumbling-block to the solution of the mystery the Inspector could not rightly say. But he was inclined to think, perhaps optimistically, that the more people there were in a “racket” the greater were the police’s chances of running that “racket” to earth.
He knew one thing all right. If he could bring off the job single-handed it would be a feather, not only in his own cap, but in that of the County Constabulary.
Chapter X
Discoveries at the Depot
Meredith lingered over his lunch, waiting for Tony to return from Penrith. He suffered a mild lecture from his wife for sending the boy on what she called “one of your silly underhand police tricks”. Mrs. Meredith bore no love toward the Force. In her opinion it made enough demands on her husband’s time, without it having to interfere with Tony’s proper lunch-hour. Hadn’t she done all in her power to kill the boy’s absorbing interest in police affairs? She really thought Meredith might have shown a little more consideration for her feelings.
Tony’s entry put an end to a well-worn argument. He was excited and triumphant.
“Got three beauties, Dad!” he announced before he was half-w
ay through the door. “The chap came outside the gate and stood chatting to another chap. Gave me just the chance I wanted!”
“Good lad, Tony. You weren’t seen?”
“Oh, don’t you worry,” cut in Mrs. Meredith witheringly. “He’s not been a Boy Scout for nothing.”
And with this Parthian shot she swept into the kitchen.
Tony laughed.
“There’s something in what mother says, you know. Boy Scout training does help in this sort of job.”
“You couldn’t hear what they were talking about, I suppose?”
“Couldn’t I! I never missed a word, Dad.”
“Then you were luckier than I was,” thought Meredith. Aloud, he added: “Well?”
“It was about that Rose chap not being at the depot this afternoon. He’d got business in Penrith and the other chap was not to expect him back until five o’clock. Then our chap gave the other chap a few orders about things he wanted done in the yard and then cleared off.”
“And this other chap,” grinned Meredith. “What did you take him for?”
“Sort of odd-job chap, I should say.”
“Now what about these photos, Tony—when can you let me have the prints?”
“Well, I ought to get the second lot before nine tomorrow morning, hadn’t I? So if I rush through the developing and printing I ought to have the whole lot ready for you by four o’clock.”
“Splendid! I shall be able to get them off to the Yard by the evening post. You’ve done well, Tony.”
“Thanks,” said Tony. “By the way, that new three-speed Raleigh in Simpson’s—”
Meredith laughed and reached out for his cap.
“It won’t hurt you to go on thinking about it,” he said. “Thinking never hurt anybody.”
And with this non-committal remark he set out for the station.
Hardly had he arrived at his office when the Superintendent stuck his head round the door and asked if he could come in. Meredith placed him a chair.
“Anything new, Inspector?”
Meredith outlined his morning’s work.
“So we can take it,” observed the Superintendent when Meredith had concluded, “that Bettle and Prince were telling the truth about that breakdown?”
“Well, they were seen on the road at the time stated. So I think we can safely say that they did stop for about an hour on Jenkin Hill. But whether they did have carburettor trouble is another matter.”
“But what other reason would they have had for stopping?”
“This,” answered Meredith. “The Keswick F.C. were playing Cockermouth on the away ground last Saturday. A good few people would be over watching the match. That would mean a tidy bit of traffic past the Derwent until well after six o’clock. Bettle and Prince must have known this. Assuming that they did murder Clayton it would be essential for them to offer a plausible reason for arriving at the Derwent as late as seven o’clock, wouldn’t it? Hence the carburettor trouble.”
“There might be something in that,” acknowledged the Superintendent. “At any rate, with all those people coming back along the Cockermouth road you ought to be able to check up on the engine-driver’s statement.”
“Re the parked lorry? Yes—I’d thought of that.”
“Then there’s another thing which has occurred to me,” went on the Superintendent. “That’s the chief reason why I’ve come over. I was looking through that copy of Mrs. Swinley’s deposition, which you sent over. Didn’t it strike you, Inspector, that the conversation she overheard between Higgins and Clayton was pretty significant?”
Meredith looked puzzled. “Just a minute, sir.” He searched through a file on his desk and produced a small sheaf of papers. “Here we are—this is the bit you mean, isn’t it?” He pointed to a paragraph of his own neatly written report.
“That’s it. You notice that Clayton says, ‘It’s all very well for you, but I’ve got to get out of this concern’?”
“Exactly. A reference, I take it, to the garage partnership.”
“But is it?” demanded the Superintendent quickly. “That’s just where I’m inclined to disagree. Notice Higgins’s reply. He says something about it being the worse for Clayton if he does back out. According to Mrs. Swinley it sounded as if Higgins was threatening his partner. But why such a strong attitude if it was the mere dissolution of the partnership in the garage?”
“You mean?”
“That Higgins wasn’t referring to the partnership at all! He was referring to something of far more vital importance to his well-being.”
“The illegal business running under cover of the garage!” exclaimed Meredith. “The Chief’s supposition? I see it now!”
“And you see how it suggests a motive for the crime? The motive already put forward by the Chief. Clayton was clearing off to Canada with the girl to make a fresh start. Once over there, what was to prevent him from turning King’s evidence? His silence was essential. It could be guaranteed in only one way. So they murdered him in time to prevent his get-away.”
“And this illegal business, sir?”
“You’ve got me there. I’m inclined to think that the Nonock company has got something to do with it.”
“You mean in conjunction with the garage.”
“Garages,” corrected the Superintendent. “Don’t forget the Lothwaite. My theory is that the lorry forms the link between, what we might call, H.Q. and company headquarters. Your report of what you overheard this morning helps to strengthen my theory. If O.W. stands for Ormsby-Wright, what more natural than Wick and the lorry-men speaking about him as ‘the boss’? A common boss at the head of the illegal concern.”
The Superintendent settled himself more comfortably in his chair and thrust out his feet toward the glowing coal-fire.
“It seems to me, Meredith,” he went on after a pause, “that we’re up against two problems. Clayton’s murder and the nature of this illegal concern. From the data already to hand I think we can assume that the two problems are pretty closely connected. Solve one and I think we shall solve the other. But the question is—on which of the two problems shall we concentrate first? I agree that we have collected more information about the murder. That was natural because the idea of the illegal concern didn’t enter our heads when we started our investigations. Again the murder is a fact. We haven’t got to ask ourselves, ‘Was Clayton murdered?’ We know now that he was. The second problem, on the other hand, is still in the realms of pure theory. When we come to look closer into it, we may find that it doesn’t exist. So on the face of it, it looks as if we ought to settle with the murder problem first. The question remains, can this be done without bothering our heads further about the solution of problem number two?”
“Well, sir,” said Meredith cautiously, “we’ve got to assume problem number two if the motive you put forward for the murder holds good. It seems to me that we ought to tackle both problems at the same time.”
“I don’t agree with you there, Inspector,” said the Superintendent bluntly. “And I’ll tell you why. Once let any of the gang suspect that we’re investigating something more than the murder, and we’ll have them on their guard. At the moment all they’ll be concerned with is covering up the facts of Clayton’s death. Always assuming, of course, that Bettle and Prince are the murderers. The probability is that they’re still running the illegal business without a thought that we suspect anything.”
Meredith agreed.
“You know, sir—the same thing occurred to me when I was sitting over lunch to-day. You remember what I overheard this morning?” Meredith pulled the notebook out of his pocket and handed it to his superior. “Take a look at that first sentence again, sir. What do you make of it?”
“Thought we might have something to take in,” read the Superintendent slowly. “Working overtime…Mark’s naturally out of the running…
the Derwent settled down.” He looked up inquiringly. “That the bit you meant?”
“That’s it. Remember it’s Prince speaking to Wick. Now I tried filling in the gaps and the result I got went something like this—‘We thought we might have something to take in since you’ve been working overtime. Mark’s naturally out of the running until affairs over at the Derwent have settled down.’ Does that let the light in at all, sir?”
“By Jove, it does!” exclaimed the Superintendent, suddenly sitting upright in his chair. “It means that since Clayton’s death Higgins has had to lie doggo. He can’t carry on with the illicit job until police interest in the garage has calmed down a bit. In consequence, Wick, at the Lothwaite, has had to work overtime. And further it looks as if the lorry acts as a sort of collecting van for the ‘racket.’ You agree, Meredith?”
“In detail, sir,” said Meredith warmly. “Now take the next bit.” He held out his hand for the proffered notebook. “…all very well…boss can’t expect…up the output…impossible,” read the Inspector. “Which I read something like this—‘That’s all very well, but the boss can’t expect me to keep up the output. It’s impossible!’ Which suggests that Wick was finding himself hard put to it, to do the Derwent work as well as his own.”
“But what? What?” demanded the Superintendent with a comical note of despair. “What work?”
Meredith shook his head.
“That is problem number two,” he pointed out. “Find out what they’re up to and I reckon we should be able to get ’em inside the net. Do you know anything about this Mr. Ormsby-Wright, sir?”
“Little enough, I’m afraid. He’s got a big house up on the Carlisle road near Penrith Beacon. ‘Brackenside’, I think it’s called. But beyond the fact that he’s a member of the local Conservative Club, a churchgoer and a sound business man, I know nothing. I’ve heard he’s worth a bit, of course. It’s common property that he’s got a finger in a good many industrial pies. But although the Nonock’s his chief concern, he takes no active interest now in the running of the company. More or less leaves it to his two branch managers, I understand.”