by John Bude
“But that’s impossible, sir!” exclaimed Meredith. “For one thing, Dancy took that copy from Rose’s books in the office. If four hundred gallons was entered up against Drake’s name, then Drake would have to be charged for the full amount. Otherwise Rose wouldn’t be able to balance his accounts. Secondly, sir—take a look at this little table I’ve drawn up. It’s compiled from those four reports I showed you on the genuine deliveries.”
The Superintendent took up the sheet of paper and examined it carefully. It ran as follows:
Garage Address Advance Time taken to
Order Deliver
Ennerdale 11 High St., Whitehaven 200 galls. 7 1/2 mins. appr.
Queens St. 63 Queens St. “ 200 galls. 7 mins. 20 sec.
Whittaker’s Marine Place, Maryport 200 galls. 7 mins. 35 sec.
Drake’s The Memorial, Cockermouth 400 galls. 15 mins. appr.
“Good heavens, Inspector!” ejaculated the Superintendent when he had fully absorbed this astonishing document. “What the devil does it mean?”
“I only wish I knew, sir! But there’s no doubt that the full four hundred was delivered at Drake’s, is there? These times are just what we should expect. The Cockermouth order should have taken just twice as long to deliver as the other three orders.”
“That’s obvious. Then how on earth—?”
“Exactly, sir. How on earth, since the capacity load has been accounted for, could No. 4 deliver a further 200 gallons at the Stanley Hall garage?”
For a moment there was a silence, broken only by the tinkling of falling coals in the grate. Then—
“What about a false tank, Meredith? Or perhaps Dancy was wrong about the lorry’s capacity being only 1,000 galls.”
“Impossible, sir. These things are checked up by the Weights and Measures official. A dip is made of every new lorry that goes out on to the road. Dancy wouldn’t lie in the matter. He’d know as well as we do that it would be a perfectly simple matter to check up on the tank’s registered capacity. As for a false tank, sir. Well, that’s out of question. You couldn’t conceal a couple of hundred gallons surplus petrol on a lorry without altering the whole construction of the chassis. It’s too big an amount.”
“But good heavens, Meredith, have you any other suggestion? It’s obvious now that some sort of fraud is going on. You’ve offered objections to all my theories. It’s time you put up one of your own.”
“As far as I can see,” went on Meredith after a long silence, “there is only one other way in which the business could be managed.”
“And that?”
“The tanks of the genuine garages have been tampered with. In consequence of this a short delivery is made at each place, leaving a surplus in the bulkwagon.”
“But how could the garage tanks be tampered with?”
“Well, sir, I don’t quite—”
“Exactly!” snapped the Superintendent. “Neither do I! Now I’m going to make a suggestion. As this is a technical matter I think we should call in an expert. Mr. Weymouth, the Weights and Measures official over at Penrith, happens to be a friend of mine. It’s now seven o’clock. Suppose we motor over there straight away and have a word with him.”
Chapter XV
The Inspector of Weights and Measures
In consequence of the Superintendent’s decision, shortly after eight, a police car pulled up outside a largish house in Milton Avenue, Penrith. In answer to Thompson’s inquiry, the maid informed him that her master was in, and a minute or so later the three men were seated before a cheerful fire in Mr. Weymouth’s sitting-room. The official, though elderly, was a keen, quick-witted individual, with twinkling blue eyes and a decisive, almost blunt manner of speaking.
While Thompson outlined the reasons for his visit, Mr. Weymouth refrained from uttering a word. At the conclusion of the Superintendent’s story he let out a sharp whistle, however, and began to ply him with questions.
“You say the bulk-wagon went out with advance orders totalling 1,000 gallons, and that after these deliveries had been made a further delivery of 200 gallons was run into the Stanley Hall pump?”
“That’s correct.”
“But the thing’s manifestly impossible, Thompson! The capacity load of those Nonock tanks is exactly 1,000 gallons. I checked them myself before they went out on the road.”
“How long ago was that?”
“About seven years. When Ormsby-Wright’s new manager took over, an entirely new convoy of lorries was put on to the road. Three-compartment affairs. Up to date.”
“And you haven’t checked them since?”
Weymouth shook his head.
“No need. Once a dip has been taken of a new tank it’s never taken again. After all, you couldn’t squeeze in more than the registered capacity load without altering the shape of the tank, could you?”
Thompson and Meredith agreed in unison.
“When was this Stanley Hall delivery discharged—on the outward or homeward run?”
“Homeward,” said Meredith promptly.
Weymouth glanced across at him sharply.
“You’re sure? But, good heavens, they passed that garage on their outward run, didn’t they?”
The Inspector nodded.
“Well, it beats me,” exclaimed Weymouth. “It’s odd, to say the least of it. Here is a 200-gallon delivery to be made and instead of lightening the load on the outward run, they carry the stuff with them all round the coast towns. Now why the devil did they do that?”
“Perhaps Meredith has got an explanation,” said the Superintendent, with a sly chuckle. “He’s knocked all my pet theories on the head. Now it’s our turn, Weymouth!”
“Well, Mr. Weymouth,” said Meredith diffidently, “my suggestion was this. If they could deliver short on their genuine orders, they would then have something left over for their dishonest delivery at the Stanley Hall. That, at any rate, would account for their failure to deliver there on the outward run.”
“Umph,” grunted Weymouth. “Something in that. But how the deuce could they deliver short?”
“That’s just what we’ve come to you for, Weymouth—to find out!” put in Thompson. “Tell us—how do these garage people keep a check on a lorry’s delivery?”
“Simple!” said Weymouth, settling himself deeper into his arm-chair. “I don’t know if you’re familiar with the construction of a petrol pump? No? Very well—I’ll explain. First of all there’s the storage tank under the pump, and as that’s the part which concerns us, I won’t bother with the mechanism of the pump itself. When a new tank is installed, it’s my job to supervise the business. I have to see that the tank is, what you might call, well-founded. That is to say cemented into the pit and a good lining of sand laid between the cement and the surrounding earth. A fire precaution, of course. I then take a dip of the tank, check up the pump itself and see that the whole business is properly sealed in. After that I make periodic visits to see that the indicator on the pump is registering the true amount. That’s to protect the public. There are two inlets to the storage tank. Both in the form of countersunk pipes. On one of these there is a union to which the lorry’s delivery pipe is coupled. This countersunk pipe is also fitted with a padlocked cap, of which the employees of the petrol company hold the key. The second inlet is, in the strict sense of the word, not an inlet at all. It’s merely there so that the garage people can take a dip after a delivery has been discharged. You understand, gentlemen?”
Thompson and Meredith both nodded.
“You keep on talking about taking a dip, Weymouth. How is this done exactly?”
“By means of a calibrated brass rod. This rod is fixed to a cap, which seals up the second of the countersunk pipes. This cap, like the other, is usually locked and the key kept by the garage people. When a delivery has been made, the cap is unlocked and the brass rod pulled
up from the tank. By the simple method of breathing on the rod, they get an indication of the petrol level. The dry part mists over and the dividing line between the misted and clear surfaces is then checked off on the numbered calibrations. That’s the complete process in a nutshell.”
“And very interesting, too,” commented Thompson. “The question remains, could a tank be so tampered with that a short delivery would pass unnoticed?”
“Well, it could be done,” acknowledged Weymouth with a faint smile. “But the chances of the fraud not being detected are slight. For example, if small stones or quantities of lead shot were poured down the intake pipe, the petrol level would be automatically lifted. Where the original capacity of the tank was say, 500 gallons, it might be diminished by this trick to 400 gallons. The petrol company would therefore have to deliver a hundred gallons less to bring the tank up to capacity. But even so, I don’t see how the fraud could go undetected for long. As soon as the garage people began comparing their pump sales with their delivery costs, they’d be bound to notice the discrepancy. Quite frankly—I don’t think there’s a single way in which a garage could be successfully cheated by a petrol company.”
At the conclusion of Weymouth’s speech the police officers looked at each other despairingly. Then how, in the name of heaven, was the fraud being managed? If the bulk-wagon was in order on leaving the depot and the garage tanks had not been tampered with, how could 1,000 gallons of petrol be metamorphosed into 1,200 gallons? It was surely inconceivable that the lorry had stopped at some unknown spot and taken in that extra two hundred? What would be the point of it, anyway? The extra petrol would have to be paid for, so where would the profit come in?
Meredith had not felt so utterly depressed since the case had started. Try as he would, he could see no way out of the labyrinth. And on the top of the first puzzle Weymouth had set another. Why had the bulk-wagon made the Stanley Hall delivery on its homeward run?
Suddenly Meredith sat up! The homeward run! What about No. 4 on the night of the crime? That order which had to be delivered at the Derwent?
“Good heavens, sir!” he said, turning to Thompson. “I believe I’ve hit on something!”
“Out with it then!”
“Why did No. 4 leave the Derwent delivery till last on the Saturday night when Clayton was murdered? Doesn’t it strike you as significant, sir?”
“You mean that they deliberately made a late delivery so as to arrive at the garage after dark?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“But you’re not suggesting that the reason why they delivered late to-night at the Stanley Hall was because they intended to murder the proprietor?”
Meredith laughed.
“Hardly that, sir. The two cases aren’t the same. Remember the Derwent delivery was a genuine advance order. I’ve seen the record of it in Rose’s books. To-night’s was—”
“Well, what was it? You can’t answer that question, Meredith, so it’s no good trying. But I agree with you about the other point. It’s certainly an incriminating bit of evidence against Bettle and Prince.”
Weymouth looked bewildered.
“I’m afraid I don’t quite—”
“Sorry, Weymouth,” laughed the Superintendent. “Just shop. I forgot you weren’t in the know. Now we really must be getting on, my dear chap. We’ve taken up enough of your valuable time. Any other point, Inspector?”
“Just one, sir. Would it be possible for Mr. Weymouth to take a dip of No. 4 and certify that thousand gallon capacity?”
“Officially, you mean?”
“Not exactly. An official inspection would put the men on their guard. Particularly as it’s not usual to take a second dip after the tank has been certified correct. My idea was to get Dancy’s help. We could then slip into the yard after dark and have a look at the lorry. On the Q.T.”
“You give me a ring,” said Weymouth promptly. “I’ll be there, Inspector.”
“Good,” concluded Thompson. “Now it’s time we were off. Come on, Inspector!”
As the Superintendent was returning direct to Carlisle, Meredith had arranged to catch the 9.40 train back to Keswick. Thompson, therefore, directed the constable at the wheel to drive at a slow pace to the station. There were still some twenty minutes to go before the train was due, and he felt the time could be profitably spent in a discussion.
“What are you going to do now, Meredith?” was the Superintendent’s first remark, when they had dropped into the back seat of the car. “It’s your case, remember.”
“No need to rub it in, sir,” replied Meredith with a rueful laugh. “I don’t quite see what we can do. We might get a line on the dockyard manager and try to prove the fraud from that end. But I’m doubtful if we’d get results. I still think Rose is the brain of the gang. Of course,” he added, brightening a little, “we’ve got these garages under observation for another three days. There’s a chance something may turn up. But the outlook’s none too bright at the moment.”
“I’m not so sure,” countered the Superintendent in measured tones. “We know now that something irregular is going on and we didn’t know that for certain this morning. That spells progress, anyway. Then there’s that bit of incriminating evidence about No. 4’s late delivery on the night of the crime. Further, we’ve discovered a number of ways in which the fraud is not being carried on. Negative, I admit. But helpful.”
“Then there’s another point which struck me,” went on the Superintendent, after a moment’s silence. “Don’t you think, Inspector, that we might find out as much by watching one garage as by keeping the whole lot under observation? I don’t mean abandon our wholesale test at once. We’ll carry through with that according to plan. But take the Lothwaite, for example. We’re pretty certain now that it’s mixed up with the racket. When you questioned Wick that Friday morning, it was obvious that he was lying to you. Then there was that very suggestive conversation you overheard. Combine these facts with the suspicious circumstances surrounding Peterson’s suicide, and I think we’ve got good cause to keep the place under observation. What I suggest is this. Watch the place, according to plan, until the Tuesday test is over. After that keep the place under constant observation. Day and night. It might even pay us to shadow Wick if he leaves the garage. He must get away sometimes to shop and so on.”
“You mean work it in shifts, sir?”
“That’s it. You might split up the work between yourself, say, and a couple of constables. Try it for a few days, at any rate, then if you get no result we can discuss the matter again.”
“Very good,” said Meredith as the car slowed to a standstill. “This looks like the station now, sir. Meeting at the same time to-morrow night, I take it?”
The Superintendent nodded and after “good nights” had been exchanged, Meredith saluted and hurried off to catch his train, which had just drawn into the station. An hour and half later, tired out, chilled to the marrow and dispirited, he reached Greystoke Road. There, after a long-deferred meal and a short domestic, fireside chat with his wife, he switched off the wireless, locked the front door and wended his way to bed.
On reaching his office the next morning he found Dancy’s overnight report lying ready for him on his desk. The make-up of the lorry’s load was virtually the same as that of the day before. Advance orders again totalled 1,000 gallons. Three orders were for 200 gallons and one for 400. Two of the garages were in Workington, one in Maryport and one in a coastal village near Whitehaven.
Constable Brennen had also sent in his written report of the Stanley Hall incident. But although Meredith perused it with extreme thoroughness, he gained no more than he had done over the phone the previous evening.
In a dissatisfied mood he set off, therefore, to take up his position in the larch wood overlooking the Lothwaite. Hiding his motor-cycle behind the opportune tar-barrels, he was soon installed at his post, where
he settled down for a long and dreary wait. Several cars and tradesmen’s vans passed along the road. A goods train chuffed laboriously up the valley. Later a motor-cyclist drew up at the Lothwaite pumps and Meredith saw Wick come out of the garage office and attend to his customer’s wants. Then followed a blank half-hour. For the time being all traffic on the road and rail seemed suspended. A thin rain began to fall, sweeping in misty pillars up the grey and silvered surface of the lake. Meredith, cursing under his breath, drew his muffler tighter round his neck and buttoned the collar of his trench-coat. How he loathed this waiting job! And some people imagined that the detection of crime was an exciting and glamorous pastime! Little they knew about it! Glamorous? Brrr!
Then suddenly he was jerked back to the realities of his job. From up the road he heard, unmistakably, the approach of a heavy lorry. Wick, too, seemed to have caught the sound, for he shot out of the garage and took a hasty look up the road. Then, to Meredith’s amazement, he made tracks for the door of the adjoining cottage and disappeared within. A minute later the Nonock lorry drew up at the pumps.
Prince climbed down from the cab, whilst Bettle switched off the engine. After a quick look up and down the road, Prince then began to couple up the feed-pipe. He removed the manhole lid which protected the countersunk pipe, unlocked the padlock and took off the metal cap. Returning to the lorry, he opened the long wooden box, which ran parallel to the base of the tank, and drew out the feed-pipe. With a second key he then unlocked a metal box, which overhung the lorry’s rear light and coupled the feed pipe, by means of a union, to the middle of the three valve pipes projecting from the tank. This done, he completed the job by connecting the other end of the feed-pipe to the garage tank.
Wick then reappeared in the doorway of the cottage and called out something, which, owing to the adverse direction of the wind, Meredith was unable to hear. Prince’s reply was a wave of the hand and an observation which sounded like “O.K.” He then crossed to the rear of the tank and opened the valve. Meredith looked at his watch. 10.44. He made a note of it.