by John Bude
“What on earth’s the idea of this second container?” demanded Meredith, puzzled.
“Sort of storage tank, maybe, sir. At any rate, we can straighten up now. The roof’s a good seven feet high at this spot.” Suddenly the constable threw out his arm. “What in the name of thunder is that, sir? Another blooming gadget!”
Meredith took a couple of rapid paces forward and bent down to examine the object which had caught Railton’s attention. It was a small piece of machinery, firmly bedded on concrete and evidently wired for electric power. It stood some two yards beyond the second container, linked to it by means of another small-bore metal pipe, which, passing through the machine, continued for a short distance up the shaft and then abruptly disappeared into the face of a blank wall. It was obvious at a glance that this wall completely terminated the shaft.
For a moment Meredith stood stock-still, contemplating these perplexing factors, then with a sharp cry of realization he bent double and raced back up the shaft. Whipping out his flexible steel rule, he began to measure up the length of the tunnel from the base of the vertical shaft to the wall through which the pipe so mysteriously vanished. This done, he jotted down the result in his note-book and called on the constable to follow him.
In a couple of shakes he had gained the top of the cat-ladder, where he perched, for a moment, staring out through the cupboard door into the room.
“Now then, Railton,” he called down, “I’m going to hold out my arm in what I consider to be the direction of that shaft. I want you to stand directly below me and correct me if I’m wrong. Ready?”
“Right, sir.”
Meredith flung out his arm.
“Well?”
After an upward glance, the constable stared down the lighted vista of the shaft, then back again at the Inspector’s rigid limb.
“A few degrees left, sir. Not much. Whoa! That’s it.”
“So?” thought Meredith, following the line of his outstretched arm across the sitting-room, out through one of the front windows, across the garden to the corner of the garage building. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes to four. Unless anything unforeseen occurred, Higgins would not return for another forty minutes, at least. Time enough, he felt, in which to prove his supposition up to the hilt.
He looked down on to the head of the waiting constable.
“Look here, Railton—I’ve got to take another measurement. In the meantime, I want you to draw off a sample of that spirit. I shoved a medicine bottle into my pocket. Here it is—catch!”
Leaning over the little well, he dropped the bottle neatly into the constable’s hands.
“There’s probably a tap in that container. I didn’t notice at the time. As soon as you’ve done that, turn off the light down there, get these stones back into place and re-fix the false sill. Then get to work with your fancy bits of wire and relock the cupboard door. After that, if I’m not back, join me outside.”
The moment he had delivered these instructions Meredith fixed his eye on the flue-pipe of the office stove, brought the centre frame of the casement in line with it and began to measure up along this imaginary line. The distance from the cupboard to the skirting-board under the window proved to be a little over twelve feet. Adding to this another foot to include the thickness of the cottage walls, he clambered out through the open window in the scullery and ran round to the front of the house. Again he took a line of sight. Standing directly in front of the centre frame of the casement, he now brought the trunk of an apple-tree, which he had previously marked down in the room as being a point on his imaginary line, into alignment with the flue-pipe projecting from the garage roof. Keeping the trunk always in front of the pipe, he then measured up from under the window to the foot of the tree. Fourteen feet. He made a note of it. He next strode through the wicket gate, which gave on to the cinder track dividing the side of the garage from the garden wall. Taking up his position at a point somewhere below the flue-pipe, he then brought the trunk into line with the middle of the casement. Then, working toward the trunk, he measured up between the wall of the garage and the apple-tree. This time he noted down ten feet.
He was now faced with a problem. How was he to project his imaginary line through the corner of the building and take the necessary measurements? If only he had a ladder! Surely it was within the bounds of possibility that there was a ladder lying about somewhere on the premises? With one eye on his watch, Meredith made a rapid search of the cottage back-garden and the rear of the garage itself. Luck was with him. Lying flat on the ground, half overgrown with rank grass, was a short and rickety fruit ladder. It was a matter of seconds to rush it round to the front of the garage and set it up against the coping. In no time, perched on the top rung, he had brought the flue-pipe, the apple-tree and the casement into line again. Then, climbing up on to the flat roof, allowing a foot for the overhang of the coping at each arm of the angle, he took the necessary measurement. Before descending, he placed his tweed cap on the edge of the coping, thus forming a fourth point along his imaginary line. The rest was simple. Backing out into the road, he brought one of the petrol pumps into alignment with the cap and the flue-pipe, and, with his heart in his mouth, began to take his final measurement. His previous measurements had accounted for forty-five of the tunnel’s fifty-seven feet. He had, therefore, exactly twelve feet to play with. And if the distance from the rear of the pump to the base of the wall beneath his cap proved to be within a foot or so of twelve feet—well…so much the worse for Messrs. Bettle and Prince!
It was one of the most intensely exciting moments of his career when Meredith laid out his flexible rule for the final reading. And when his anticipation gave way to complete realization he experienced that sort of thrill which comes only once or twice in a man’s lifetime. His supposition was right! The underground shaft terminated at a point some three feet behind the Nonock pump! And that three feet would be occupied by one half of the underground petrol-tank! Which meant that the small-bore pipe from the still disappeared not into a blank cement wall, as he supposed, but through the cemented side of the petrol-tank itself! He now saw with absolute clarity the explanation for those confusing and spurious deliveries of petrol. The whole purpose of the bulk-wagon became apparent. What a fool he was not to have thought of it before! It was all Meredith could do to restrain his laughter. There he was again! Belittling himself because the problem appeared simple when the solution was in his hand. Naturally it did!
But he had not time to stand there juggling with the niceties of logic. He must fetch his cap from the coping and replace the ladder precisely where he had found it. He had only just finished covering up his tracks when the constable’s portly form projected through the scullery window.
“Hurry up and close that sash,” he called across. “It’s just on four-thirty!”
“Coming, sir!” was the constable’s cheery answer.
“Got that sample?” demanded Meredith as he was joined by his breathless subordinate.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s get going, while the going’s good. It’s about time our friend turned up. We’d look a couple of prize idiots if he caught us here! Buckle into it! Start that engine.”
The combination broke into a deep roar and shot off swiftly in the direction of Portinscale. And when some two hundred yards up the road a big Rover saloon swung round the corner, sped by and vanished up the road, Meredith broke into a chuckle.
“My Lord, sir!” exclaimed Railton, leaning over and shouting into the Inspector’s ear. “That was a close shave!”
“It was,” replied Meredith tersely. Then: “Railton,” he added sternly, “your breath smells of whisky! Am I to infer that—?”
“Well, sir,” began the constable with obvious reluctance.
“You did?” demanded Meredith.
The constable nodded.
“Just a nip, sir, by way of inve
stigation. And, by jingo, it’s got a kick in it! A kick in it like a mule!”
Meredith threw back his head and roared with laughter.
Chapter XIX
Pipes
After his customary high tea at Greystoke Road, Meredith returned in a thoroughly agreeable mood to the police station. Punctually at six o’clock he put through his call to Carlisle and in a few moments was in touch with Superintendent Thompson. He then gave a concise, though graphic, résumé of his afternoon’s activities; a report which, to judge by the warmth of his congratulations, evidently more than satisfied his superior.
“That’s great news, Inspector. It looks as if the end of the case is in sight. Your next move, of course, is a re-examination of that bulk-wagon? Can you get that done to-night?”
“I’m hoping to, sir. I’ll arrange with the Penrith station to run Dancy out to the depot with the keys.”
“And what about that sample of the spirit?” was Thompson’s next query.
“I sent it off at once to Maltman with a request for an immediate analysis. His report may give us an idea as to how the stuff is being planted on the public. Meredith laughed. “According to Railton, sir, I should imagine the stuff is somewhere round the region of a hundred over proof! But quite apart from his unofficial investigation, it’s pretty obvious that the strength would have to be broken down. Then again, there’s the matter of its maturity. The distillate is, as you probably know, sir, colourless. It doesn’t take on the proper amber colour until it’s been well matured in the wood. They must either store it somewhere until it’s fit for use, or else add the colouration by artificial means. But I’m looking to Maltman for the necessary technical information.”
“Quite right,” agreed the Superintendent. “It’s always best to get in an expert where possible. I suggest that you should concentrate on The Admiral, or one of the other five hotels, the moment you’ve cleared up your investigations of the lorry and the garages. But before you do that I think it advisable you should come over here early to-morrow morning and put in a verbal report to the Chief Constable. You know how keen he is on the personal touch in these matters.”
“Right, sir. Nothing more?”
“No, Meredith. That’s all. Let’s say ten-thirty here tomorrow.”
The moment the Superintendent had rung off, Meredith got through to Penrith and arranged for a police sidecar to bring Dancy out to the depot. He was to be there at seven o’clock with the necessary keys. Collecting Railton from the outer office, where Meredith had instructed him to be ready, the two men climbed into the combination and set off through the rain-fresh air to meet the yard-man.
Dancy and the Penrith constable were already waiting outside the depot gates. Not wanting the yard-man to be present during his vital investigations of the bulk-wagon, Meredith tactfully suggested that it would be as well if he and the Penrith constable kept watch on the road. Dancy then handed over the keys and Meredith, accompanied by Railton, unlocked the big corrugated-iron doors and entered the yard. Familiarity with the lay-out of the place enabled the Inspector to make straight tracks for the garage, and in a short time he and Railton were examining the lorry behind carefully fastened doors.
“Now then, Railton,” said the Inspector brusquely, “I’ll hold that torch, while you get down to work. We’ll deal with this wooden box first. Can you pick the padlock all right?”
“I’ll have a shot at it, sir. It shouldn’t prove difficult.”
After a brief inspection of the lock Railton drew out his array of little wires and got down to work. Now that he was nearing the final confirmation of his theory, Meredith was keyed-up to an intense pitch of anxiety. Everything depended on certain peculiarities of the feed-pipe and, despite an undercurrent of optimism, the Inspector dreaded that these peculiarities might prove to be absent. The constable’s drawn-out operations roused him to a frenzy of impatience.
Then suddenly there came a welcome click and, with an exclamation of content, Railton thrust back the spring of the lock and drew it from the staple.
“Here, hold this,” ordered Meredith eagerly, pushing the torch into the constable’s hand.
Without wasting breath on further explanation, he pushed back the long lid and peered into the narrow trough. Side by side on the floor of the box lay two wire-and-canvas feed-pipes. Pulling out the one nearest to hand, Meredith up-ended it, snatched the torch from the puzzled constable and shone it directly into the mouth of the pipe. Then he let out a muffled oath. Here, at any rate, was nothing startling or confirmatory in the way of a clue. The pipe was exactly as one would have expected to find it. There was nothing unusual in its appearance or construction.
With a quickening pulse, Meredith realized that all his hopes were now centred on the second of the feed-pipes. If that failed him he was, once more, up against a hopeless blank wall.
But this time he was not to suffer disappointment. He plunged the rays of the torch up the inside of the tube and saw, in a flash, that his profoundest desires had been realized. He had imagined that pipe endowed with certain peculiarities and here, before his eyes, were those peculiarities made manifest. He swung round on Railton, who had been following his superior’s action with a look of perplexity.
“Got it, Railton!” was his excited observation. “No mistake this time!” Then noting the blank look on the constable’s face, he added in more sober tones: “Take a look at this pipe. Notice anything curious about its design?”
Railton craned over and examined it carefully. Then: “Good heavens, sir!” he exclaimed. “There’s a—!”
“Precisely,” was Meredith’s incisive comment. “Just as I thought there would be.” He dumped the two pipes back into the box. “Now let’s leave that for the moment and have a look at these discharge valves.”
Followed by the constable, he moved round to the rear of the bulk-wagon and indicated the locked metal box which encased the outlet pipes.
“Can you manage this one as well, Railton?”
The constable thought that it should prove as simple a matter as the first padlock and, in less than a minute, the box was open and the three valves revealed.
Meredith was now in a mood of exhilaration and an examination of the three discharge pipes only served to heighten this mood. Everything was just as he had anticipated. Where before he thought his theory correct, he now knew it was. And the difference between these two mental states was the difference between failure and success.
Success, save for one small point. A point which, in the light of his sanguine mood, he had no doubt could be instantly cleared up. But for all that, it was not until he had made an exhaustive examination, not only of No. 4, but of the remaining five bolt-wagons, that Meredith finally hit on the answer to the problem. But by the time Railton had replaced the padlocks and covered up all traces of their search, he knew that, as far as the lorry was concerned, his investigations were at an end.
Inside ten minutes, after handing over the keys to Dancy and thanking him for his co-operation, Meredith and the constable were speeding back to Keswick.
Early the next morning the Inspector set out for Carlisle, and after an exhilarating drive through the balmy springtime air, he reached that historical, old, walled city just as the clocks were striking ten. Half an hour later a constable entered the Superintendent’s office and said that the Chief Constable was ready to receive them.
When they were comfortably settled round the room Colonel Hardwick lit one of his inevitable Henry Clay’s and signed for Meredith to go ahead with his report.
“Where do you want me to begin, sir?” was Meredith’s respectful query.
The Chief Constable smiled.
“I have a predeliction for beginning at the beginning, Inspector, and then pursuing a story until I come to the end. Suppose you adopt that procedure now, eh?”
“In that case, sir, I’d better go back to
Constable Gratorex’s discovery at the Lothwaite because it was his report which first put me on to the track of a solution. You remember, sir, that up till that time we had an idea that the gang were engaged in the fraudulent sale of petrol. Well, this was all right as far as it went, but it didn’t go far enough. In fact, all my investigations along that line seemed to end in a blank wall. There was no secret tank on the lorry capable of holding 200 gallons. There was no conceivable way of the lorry delivering short on its genuine orders. Yet we were up against the fact that amounts varying from two to four hundred gallons were apparently being delivered at certain garages on No. 4’s route. The Superintendent then put forward an alternative theory. It was his idea that brandy or some other spirit was being smuggled into these coastal hotels which sported a Nonock pump. But as licensed premises are liable to Excise supervision, he thought that the brandy was being planted out on certain of the garages by means of the bulk-wagon.” Meredith turned to the Superintendent. “That was your idea, sir?”
“It was,” agreed Thompson. “And we embellished it with the further theory that the lorry was also used to convey small quantities of the brandy, probably in bottles, back to the coastal hotels. But go on, Inspector, you’re telling the story.”
Meredith turned back to the Chief Constable.
“Well, sir, we were up against one or two nasty snags. To begin with, we couldn’t see how the brandy was dumped on the lorry from the hotels. We had the places under observation, but none of our men noticed anything suspicious about No. 4’s calls at these particular places. We imagined it would be handled in small kegs. But as our men didn’t spot anything in the shape of a keg, we had to search around for another explanation. Then again—nothing passed back out of the garages to the hotels. And to cap it all the expert opinion was that smuggling along that part of the coast would be extremely difficult, not to say impossible. The only bit of progress we made by following up this theory was that all the hotels were owned by the Bee’s Head Brewery—and that Ormsby-Wright owned the brewery!”