Strike for Death

by John Creasey

He saw Harrison, stocky, grey, outwardly calm, hurrying with military precision towards the spot. So Harrison must have been in this part of the plant when the chassis had fallen.

  Harrison saw Charley, and blanched. He looked nearer human than he had at any time. He stared down, lips parted, then gulped and looked up at Roger.

  He muttered: “Ghastly.”

  Roger said in a hard voice: “I want to see the control panel, and I want to see it quick. I’ve had the shop doors shut, and I’ve asked for a loudspeaker announcement that no one must leave the shop for the next half hour. Not until I’ve given permission. Confirm it, please.”

  “But—but what good will that do?” Harrison, stammered.

  “It might keep in the man who touched the control for this chassis.”

  “Surely—such an accident might happen anywhere.”

  “Let’s get that announcement confirmed,” Roger said. “Do you have a loudspeaker control in the shop office?”

  “Yes. Yes, I—” Harrison moistened his lips again. “It’s unbelievable.” He glanced at Coombs and his crushed head, and at the wrecked and twisted chassis. The First Aid men arrived; even they stopped short when they saw what had happened. “Come along,” Harrison managed to say. “Dreadful. Dreadful to have happened just now.” He looked as though he would faint

  “What difference does the timing make?” Roger could have struck him, was in a savage enough mood to strike anybody, to throw all his careful humouring of these men to the winds.

  “We were having a tour of inspection,” Harrison muttered. “All of us. With—with some clients from overseas.”

  Roger didn’t comment.

  A group of men stood by the glass walls of the office in this shop. Roger recognised the two Americans, the Swede, and three members of Munro’s board. Everyone on the other suspect list was here except Mike Grannett, and Grannett would have fellow shop stewards, probably many friends, everywhere in the plant.

  “We—we were examining the control panel. One—one of us must have touched it by accident,” Harrison muttered. “Each—each chassis is separately controlled. The release button should not be pressed until the chassis has been lowered.” He seemed to need words to help him. “Oh, God, this is ghastly, ghastly.”

  The others were approaching, slowly. Fearfully?

  Roger went to meet them.

  As they met, the clatter and the rattling, the hum of machines and the clatter of footsteps stopped, and as they stopped, men ceased to talk and there was strange silence everywhere.

  Chapter Fourteen

  One Man Out?

  It was Amory who spoke, while Sir Ian opened his mouth, closed it again, then set his lips tightly, as if he did not intend to allow a word to escape.

  “We are most dreadfully sorry about this,” Amory said. “Is it true that it was ex-Inspector Coombs?”

  “Yes.” Roger spoke like a different, ruthless man. The shock of Coombs’ death laid an icy hand upon him. Once he had absorbed it, he might see much that had been hidden before. His first job was to try to make sure who had caused Coombs’ death. But he must still watch his step, must not put a foot wrong avoidably. “I understand that all of you were at the control panel when it happened,” he went on.

  “That is so.”

  “I’d like you all to come back to it with me,” Roger said. He did not appear to glance at the two Americans and the Swede, two tall and one short man, all immaculately dressed, but he saw their expressions.

  Bewildered?

  The taller of the Americans said: “We would like to associate ourselves with Mr Amory’s sentiments, we are very sorry, very sorry indeed.”

  “Terribly sorry,” the other emphasised.

  “Most regrettable,” said the Swede.

  “Gentlemen, will you please go back to the directors’ room?” Amory said. “We will come just as soon as we can.”

  “I’d like everyone to come with me,” Roger said. “No exceptions, please.”

  Amory looked surprised, Sir Ian opened his mouth again, but swallowed comment; perhaps Amory had made him realise that he had talked too much already.

  “Surely that isn’t necessary?” Amory could also be sharp.

  “Essential,” Roger said. “Don’t let’s waste time.”

  He felt a desperate need of urgency; seconds might count. Coombs had made his discovery only a few minutes ago, and in those few minutes his death had been plotted and murder carried out. It was uncanny speed, and in that speed must lie part of the answer to all the problems. Find who had made that chassis fall, and the case would break. He must be as fast as the killers.

  Behind Malcolm Munro and the others was Tessa Lee. Roger was surprised to see her, but as she was secretary to the sales director, it wasn’t really surprising. She led the way, with Malcolm a step behind her. A silent company of workers stood watching, strangely like mourners. The only sounds came from the corner where Coombs lay dead, and these were hushed, and would not have been heard had the conveyors been working.

  The party reached the offices, which were like those in the Assembly Shop, with glass walls round the outside, and frosted glass keeping the managerial staff out of sight of the factory itself. Here were time-clocks and racks of time-cards, a dozen clerks working or staring around. A short, brisk-looking man in his shirtsleeves came up.

  “How long will we have to keep the belts still?” he asked Amory.

  Amory looked at Roger.

  “I don’t want to interfere with more than I must,” Roger said, “but we’ll have to make an exhaustive examination of the chassis which fell, and of the conveyor hooks from which it fell. We’ll also need to examine that section of the control panel which controls Conveyor 3.” He tried to hide his surging impatience.

  The short man said as if outraged: “But that’s impossible! We’d have to stand a couple of hundred workers off for the rest of the day, and we’re desperately short of chassis.” He appealed to Amory, as to an oracle.

  “If you’d like to consult my superiors, please do, but don’t waste any time,” Roger said. “I have to telephone them at once, anyway.”

  “I’ll let you know in ten minutes or so,” Amory promised the short man. “Keep everything at a standstill. Better give the working shift its break now. The canteens can cope, and that might see us through.”

  “Very good idea, sir.” The short man looked almost malevolently at Roger.

  “I will give the order,” Harrison said.

  “You won’t forget that no one is to leave the shed until I’ve given the word, will you?” Roger asked crisply.

  He felt the resentment of everyone present, but wasn’t sure how deep it went. Those earlier efforts to win their co-operation might come in useful now, or might prove to have been a waste of time. Certainly the smooth flow of production meant much more to them than the life or death of Charley Coombs. But no one argued any more. Harrison stamped ahead, and before the others reached the office his voice came over loudspeakers placed all about the great shed. It seemed very loud, because of the unaccustomed stillness.

  Then they all reached the office. The short man, presumably the Shop Manager, led the way along the glass-walled passages and up a short flight of steps to the big central room, rather like a control room at Scotland Yard, but with much larger panels, each with dozens of finger pushes, each with many red lights glowing. This was higher than the rest of the offices, and glass walls ensured a clear view of the vast shop. The panels faced the end where Coombs had been struck down, and the easily identifiable figure of Coombs must have been clearly visible from here.

  Roger saw that there was one panel for each conveyor, there would be no difficulty in identifying Number 3. Harrison was standing at the side of the loudspeaker unit. Three control-board operators were standing by, all in their shirtsleeves; youngish, leanfaced men.

  “Get some chairs,” Harrison ordered abruptly.

  The three men moved at once, and now everyone who could have
touched that control button was here; the murderer was present, impassive of face, but probably desperate with fear.

  Roger picked up a telephone.

  “Give me the Scotland Yard officer in the Assembly Shop, please … Hallo, Popham? Is Sheppard there? … Good, put him on … Sergeant, there has been a fatality in the Chassis Shop, involving Mr Coombs … Yes, Coombs.” He heard the horror in Sheppard’s voice. “I want you to postpone the other job, and come to me at the Chassis Shop office at once. Have Popham bring in Tilbury and Marino to stand by … yes, leave the visit to Woods and the other pair … Right, thanks.” He rang off, and saw the three control operators bringing in small chairs. He lifted the receiver again, said: “Whitehall 1212, please,” and looked round at Amory: “Would you like to speak to Superintendent Knightley yourself?”

  “You talk to him first,” Amory said.

  “Thanks.”

  “This is Scotland Yard …”

  “Mr Knightley, please, West here.” There was only a brief pause. “Hallo, sir. We’ve had more trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Knightley demanded sharply.

  It took Roger four minutes to explain tersely, another minute for Knightley to promise to send experts at once, and to say: “Handle it exactly as you think it needs, Handsome. If anyone there raises any objection, refer them to the Assistant Commissioner. Whoever touched that control button’s right under your nose. Get him.”

  “I will. Thanks.” Roger rang off, and said to the others, most of whom were now sitting down: “A senior officer and technical experts will be here soon, gentlemen, but I am to proceed with the inquiry forthwith. Directly the experts arrive, they will decide how soon work can be resumed. I’m sure I can rely on your co-operation. Were all of you present in the control room when the chassis fell?”

  Malcolm said immediately: “Miss Lee wasn’t. She came with a message just after the accident.”

  “Thank you. But I’d like her to stay here for the time being.” Roger looked at the girl, with her face of such classic beauty ringed with dark hair; she seemed to have recovered from last night, and looked very fresh. Malcolm was holding her arm, protectively.

  No one had protected Charley Coombs.

  “Now I’d like each one of you to take up the exact position he was in at the time of the accident,” Roger said. “Can you be sure at precisely what time it happened?”

  An operator said: “Dead sure. We had a warning flash the minute the chassis came off. It was one-thirty-one, sir, just after the B section lunch signal had finished. See this model conveyor system, sir.” He pointed to a miniature of the whole Chassis Shop, and went on: “If anything mechanical goes wrong a red light flashes here, and makes an automatic time recording there, sir. So we know the moment there’s trouble, and can stop it from getting worse.”

  “Thanks,” Roger said. He heard footsteps outside, and he looked round to see Sheppard coming. At the doorway Sheppard wore his hat; as he stepped inside he took it off, and the bright light glistened pinkly on his pate. “Sergeant, I want you to draw a diagram which will show exactly where each of the gentlemen present was standing when the chassis fell.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sheppard took out a notebook and pencil.

  “Tell you what,” said Harrison unexpectedly. “We have some blueprints of the control room. One be helpful?”

  “Very, sir, thank you.”

  The blueprint was soon stretched out and pinned down on to a desk, and the party was shuffling from one place to another. Roger let them sweat, and said to Sheppard: “Check all the push buttons for prints, Sergeant.”

  Sheppard did the simple thing, and breathed on the plastic press buttons, then peered at them; but the tip of a finger, even a fingernail, would give sufficient pressure. Sheppard soon looked up, and shook his head.

  By then, the others were in position. Young Munro was farthest away from Number 3 panel; it looked as if Munro must have been out of reach of the deadly press-button. The girl was near him, now. So were two of the operators, who had been at other panels. But the main group, Amory, Sir Ian Harrison, and the men from overseas were all clustered round the operator at Number 3. One of the Americans was saying in an infuriatingly relaxed voice: “Were you in front of me, Sam, or was I in front of you?”

  “I was in front of you,” said the man named Sam.

  “I was exactly here.” The Swede was at one side, and was not near enough to touch the board without stretching; almost certainly this had been done surreptitiously. Only those who knew how to handle the controls were likely to be involved; Roger wanted the overseas men as witnesses rather than as suspects.

  From here anyone could see all over the shop; could see the fallen chassis and the spot where Coombs had been. The First Aid men had gone now, but others were there; probably including a doctor. Divisional CID men should be there soon, to take photographs, draw diagrams as Sheppard was now doing, questioning everyone who had been near.

  Not one of the people present showed any sign of panic or alarm, the guilty one concealed his guilt with remarkable self-control; but no one else could have touched that press-button. The man who had killed Coombs was here, remember; a man who had acted with bewildering speed, learning of danger from Coombs and snatching at the opportunity to silence him.

  That speed held a secret.

  But minutes were flying, and no one seemed to be suffering from particular strain; they accepted the silence Roger forced on them.

  Sir Ian spoke at last; abruptly.

  “How long are you going to keep us here like a lot of stuffed dummies?”

  “Not a moment longer than I must,” Roger said. “You haven’t forgotten that someone here touched the press-button which killed Coombs, have you?” Sir Ian didn’t speak; no one showed any reaction, although Tessa Lee and Malcolm seemed to grip hands more tightly. “I am now going to ask each one in turn if he is satisfied that he is in the same spot as he was when the chassis dropped and the alarm signal showed,” Roger went on, “and also if he is satisfied that his neighbours are in the same position.”

  “Goddammit, man!” Sir Ian exploded. “Anyone would think we were under suspicion!”

  “Someone in this room touched that button, so someone in this room killed ex-Inspector Coombs,” Roger said coldly. “I am only interested in finding out who it was and why it was done. That is the official police attitude, sir.”

  Amory’s hand rested on Sir Ian’s shoulder, as if placatingly. The American named Sam said: “Well, I have to congratulate you on the way you set about the problem, Chief Inspector.”

  “Thanks,” said Roger, and watched Sheppard making circles on the blueprint, then writing in the names of the people standing on the spots represented by those circles. Harrison, Sir Ian, and the operator had been handiest to the panel, and Malcolm Munro, Amory, and the two Americans could have reached it by stretching.

  Sheppard said: “I’ve finished, sir.”

  “Thanks. Now, operator,” Roger went on, “exactly how much pressure is needed to release a chassis?”

  “Just a touch of the finger, sir,” the operator of Conveyor 3 said.

  “No real pressure?”

  “No, sir. Placing the finger in the right position is what matters, so as to make contact. The whole panel is power-operated.”

  “Did you touch any button during the inspection?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you see anyone who did?”

  “No, sir.” The operator looked uneasy, for Sir Ian was glaring at him, as if waiting for him to say the wrong thing.

  “If anyone touched a button he would have been seen,” Amory pointed out.

  “Unless there was a distraction,” Roger said.

  “As a matter of fact, sir, there was,” asserted the operator eagerly. “The telephone rang, and in turning round towards it, I bumped into one of our guests, sir – trod on his toe, in fact.” The man’s eyes were glowing. “Everyone moved away a bit.”

 
“I recall that distinctly,” Harrison said.

  “It was my toe,” declared one of the Americans dryly.

  “Thank you,” Roger said, and looked at Amory. He longed for someone to show even the slightest sign of cracking. “Now I would like to have the full use of the nearest office, please, to interview each of you in turn. You’ll understand that after each interview I must make sure that you cannot communicate with anyone who has not been questioned.”

  “No! I won’t have it!” Sir Ian exploded. “This is an insult to my guests.”

  “Don’t worry at all, Sir Ian, it’s okay with us,” said the American named Sam.

  “I fully accept the officer’s request,” said the Swede, with a stiff bow.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Roger said. “It won’t take long.”

  The questioning took him forty-five minutes. At the end of it he still did not know who had touched the fatal button.

  “I’ve never seen such a lot of poker-faces,” Sheppard said, when they were alone in the office in the Chassis Shop. “It was like a conspiracy. We ought to reduce the possibles down to those who were in the hospital yesterday afternoon and in the control room today. Torrance is out, for one.”

  “Not altogether.” Roger had forced away the depression which had followed the absolute failure. “There could be collusion. But it looks as if someone in that control room knew that Coombs had made a damning discovery, and seized the chance to try to kill him. I wish to God Charley hadn’t been so cautious over the telephone.” He was silent for a moment, and then went on in an easier voice: “Then we need the Divisional chaps and everyone we’ve got to spare to find out what Charley’d been doing.”

  “I can tell you this much,” said Sheppard. “As he was looking for something beneath a pile of scrap iron just outside, the guided tour party passed him. I got that from a chap as I came into the shop. Charley must have picked up something pretty hot. I expect it was the hammer.”

  “The killer didn’t lose a moment, and Roy Grannett’s killer acted pretty fast, too.” The question of speed still nagged at Roger, but he changed the subject. “Send for a snack from the canteen, will you? We’ll have a bite and get everything shipshape before the others come from the Yard. The quicker we can get that shop working, the better, and I’m not thinking of the directors, either.” For the first time since he had found it, Roger took the hammer out of the newspaper and spread the paper out on the desk. “We want a quick test for prints on the handle, then a lab test on the head for the hair and blood groups. Send it to the Yard by special messenger.”