Trouble

by Michael Gilbert

  They could see the dock. The Marie-Louise was coming in.

  Scotland Dock had acquired its name in the nineteenth century, when it was a depot for ponies coming south from Scotland to be sold into slavery in the Kentish coal-mines. The rings to which the animals had been fastened could still be seen. It ranked as a ‘timber dock’, since it possessed no cranes of its own. All the work was done by the ship’s own gear.

  The Marie-Louise had already started unloading.

  There were two men on the dockside, thickset men with flat expressionless faces. One had slicked down black hair. The other, who seemed to be directing operations, was bald. Tinus Meagher would have recognised both of them.

  The ship’s crane swung the heavy packing case off the ship and on to a trolley. Three other men came ashore and manhandled the trolley to the transit shed. Blackhair and Baldy followed it in. It was placed on the long wooden bench, and pushed along to the far end where a small bespectacled man was standing.

  Baldy, who spoke good English ornamented with Flemish gutturals, said, “We ordered a lorry. It is here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we will get the stuff on.”

  “It will have to be examined first.”

  “Who says?”

  The words echoed round the emptiness of the shed.

  “I’m the Docks Superintendent. I have the apparatus here.”

  “You can stuff your apparatus.”

  The other three men had come into the shed. One of them was the gorilla who had scared Tinus. The others looked equally formidable.

  Baldy said, “There’s no one within a mile of this place so don’t start throwing your weight about, little man. Right?”

  “Wrong,” said Every.

  “He and Groener had positioned themselves at the far end of the shed, with their backs to the wall where there was a stack of crates awaiting collection. He guessed that all of the men from the ship would be armed and he would only start a fire fight if he had to. Baldy, he felt certain, was one of the men who had tortured and killed his stepson. He would shoot him first. Groener might be able to knock out the black-haired man, after which they would dive down behind the packing cases and hope to hold them off until ‘C’ Troop arrived.

  Baldy had swung round. He stared at Every and Groener for a long moment, as though summing up their potential opposition. Then he said, “Two of you? Two to five is long odds.”

  Every came out, perched himself on the edge of one of the packing cases and crossed his legs. Groener stayed where he was, with his legs apart and a scowl on his face. He was angry at the liberties being taken with his river and very ready to fight.

  “Just what do you propose to do?” said Every.

  “No time to waste. Either you stand aside or we shoot your legs off and get on with the job.”

  “And then?”

  “We push off.”

  “The Marie-Louise won’t move until we say so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the lock gates are operated by electricity and the power has been cut off.”

  “Well, well,” said Baldy. He walked across and pressed one of the wall switches. No light came on. “So it has.” He was looking at Blackhair. They seemed amused, not alarmed.

  “It doesn’t worry you?”

  “Why should it? We’ve finished with the ship. You can keep it. You’ll find the skipper locked in his cabin. And one of the sailors, who got naughty, has got a bullet in his leg.”

  Of course, thought Every. He was being stupid. Arrangements to get the men home would have been part of the bargain. They’d be out of the country, by air, before anything could be done to stop them. Where the hell were ‘C’ Troop? Surely to God they could cover three miles in twenty-five minutes, even cross-country? That was the sort of thing they’d been trained to do. Come on, come on.

  He said, “That vehicle we found outside. I gather its job is to take the stuff away. And, maybe, give you and your friends a lift to somewhere where you can catch a train.”

  “Correct. And before we go, we shall make quite sure that you are not in a position to interfere. That may not be so pleasant.” He smiled at the black-haired man who said, “We could nail them to the table.” This was in French, understood by Every and Groener, but not, fortunately, by Larwood.

  Every realised that he had only one card left. He played it reluctantly, since he knew what it would provoke. He said, “No doubt the driver has been well paid and will do what you tell him. There’s one snag. The vehicle is immobilised. We’ve confiscated a vital part of it.”

  For the first time Baldy looked really ugly. A gun had appeared in his hand. He said, “Then you’ll give it back. Now. Quickly. Which of you has it?” He turned on Larwood. “Have you got it?”

  “No.”

  “Who has? Come on. Where would you like the first bullet? In your knee or your ankle?”

  Larwood jerked his head at Every. “It’s in his pocket.”’

  “Right.” He swung round on Every. “Hand it over. And what’s the joke?”

  Every had heard the crunch of boots outside. He said, “You mentioned that two to five was poor odds. What about five to fifteen?”

  This was an underestimate. Captain Musgrave had brought eighteen men with him. He said, “Sorry we were so long, sir. Corporal English fell into a drainage ditch and had to be pulled out. What do you want done with this crowd?”

  It was clear there was not going to be a fight. Baldy was a realist. The gorilla made a dash for the door at the back. A neat group from a Hechler-Koch machine pistol, which reached the door ahead of him, discouraged him. He came back.

  Every said, “We’ll split the party. This is Superintendent Groener of Thames Division. He’ll hold these men, with your help, until reinforcements arrive. I take it a charge of threatening a port official with firearms will be enough for the moment?”

  “More than enough,” said Groener.

  “This crate will have to be looked after. Have you got a lock-up store?”

  Larwood nodded. His face was grey and covered with sweat. He said, “Sorry. Yes, there’s the old In-bond Store.”

  “Please show these men where it is. Handle that crate carefully. And put a guard on the door, David. Next thing, I’ll need six of you.” He spotted Sergeant Whitaker, whose ankle had, somehow, stood up to the cross-country run. “You’ve been looking for a fight, Sergeant. If you’ll pick five others and come with me, I’ll find you one.”

  The vehicle outside was one of the new four-wheel-drive Caravelle Synchros. It had steel-linked chains on all four wheels. The driver, a young West Indian, was dozing in the cab with the heating and the wireless full on. When Every opened the door, he opened his eyes.

  “Come on out, Sambo. I’ve got new orders for you.”

  “I’m not Sambo,” said the driver with dignity. “I’m Mr. Delroy. And who are you? First, you abstracticate a vital component of my vehicle. Now you start giving me orders.”

  “I thought it was time you changed sides.”

  The driver looked at the grim bunch behind Every and said, “OK, I’ve changed sides.”

  “Good boy. Your new orders are dead simple. Go where you were told to go. You’ll have a different cargo, that’s all. Jump in, chaps. I’ll ride in front. Every had never actually seen a Caravelle Synchro, but he knew that the normal drive on one set of wheels was supplemented by a drive on the other set as soon as the going became slippery. This and the chains on the wheels, warned him that they were going across country.

  Half a mile down the road they swung left on to something which was certainly not a road and hardly a track. The entrance was crisscrossed with the tyre marks of some vehicle that had tried to turn into it and had either backed, or been towed out.

  “This way for cows and horses,” said the West Indian cheerfully. He was handling the Caravelle like a craftsman, meticulous and careless at the same time. And he was more relaxed than Every, who had his heart in his mout
h every time they hit a soft place.

  He said, “What happens when—Ouch. I thought we were stuck then.”

  “Don’t you fret, Colonel. This baby, she’ll skate over cobwebs.”

  “What happens when we hit the road?”

  “What we do then is we keep right clear of all the folk what’s milling around. Cross Wynns Common and Plumstead Park. Then round the outside of Woolwich Common. There’s a house up at the top, with a big garden full of statoos. You know it, maybe?”

  “Yes,” said Every softly. “I know it. What were you to do when you got there?”

  “Stop by the gate in the side road and sound off with my horn. Two short – one long.”

  “Pull up just where you were told to,” said Every. “But you needn’t bother about sounding your horn. We’ll announce ourselves.”

  “I gather,” said Professor Meiklejohn with a smile, “that the upshot of your deliberations is that I may not read out this report. But since I wrote it very recently and have an excellent memory, I am quite prepared to dispense with it. The first question which arose from an examination of the site was the nature of the explosive used.”

  “So far we have two candidates,” said Diwaker. “Cordite and open-cast gelignite.”

  “Yes. Well, it certainly wasn’t cordite. In the circumstances in which I understand it was used, it would have exploded, but it is most unlikely to have detonated. And it would not have caused anything like the damage. It would have made a mess. Nothing more. Added to which it would not have produced the immediate and intense heat which was noted.”

  “Then what about open-cast gelignite?”

  “More plausible, certainly. But there are two things against it. It has a low-velocity detonation speed of 3,000 metres per second and its explosive wave is lateral. In this case the main force of the explosion was vertical. Imagine the device was on a table in the centre of the room. The tiles underneath were shattered and even the cement sub-base was cracked. Also, although it is a hotter explosive than cordite, I thought it unlikely that it could have generated such intense heat of its own accord.”

  “Did you come to a conclusion then as to what the explosive substance was?”

  “Oh yes. I don’t think there’s much doubt about that. I took some samples of plaster from the wall on either side and submitted them to thin-layer chromatography. As I expect you know—” he turned courteously to Mr. Norrie—“this is a process which breaks down a sample into its constituent parts.”

  “I did know that much,” said Mr. Norrie. “But go slowly, I’m trying to get this down.”

  “Certainly. Apart from the plaster and paint, a number of substances were present. First, cyclotrimethylene trinitramine, otherwise known as Research Department Explosive, or RDX. Secondly, trinitrotoluene or TNT. Neither of these would be found in open-cast gelignite. But it was the third substance which was really interesting. Aluminium. Finely powdered aluminium. This burns at such a high temperature that it causes what is known as an exothermic reaction. The gases given off by the explosion expand and generate further heat.”

  “And your conclusion from this?”

  “Almost certainly, the explosive was torpex.”

  The word hung in the air. People in court started to look at each other and then switched their eyes to the accused.

  If what this old man was saying was right, and he certainly seemed to know his stuff, was it possible, was it even probable that the accused were innocent? Innocent, anyway, of the more serious charges.

  Mr. Norrie said, “Is torpex obtainable in this country?”

  “Only through official channels, sir. Being incendiary it is largely used for aeroplane bombs. Most of the supplies are held by factories in France and Belgium.”

  There was a long pause. It was observed that Diwaker was still on his feet. He said, “That is our evidence, sir, as to the type of explosive. Professor Meiklejohn has some additional points on the method of detonation which, though not strictly relevant to the charges, will I think be found of interest.”

  “Please,” said Mr. Norrie.

  “I mentioned,” said the Professor, “that chromatographic analysis threw up a number of substances which were present in the explosive device. One of these I found very puzzling. It was a quantity of mercury.”

  Everyone was hanging on his words now. What other rabbits was this astonishing old creature going to pull out of the hat?

  “A very possible explanation only occurred to me when I was extracting plaster from the wall. I found something which had been impacted into it by the force of the detonation.”

  “Exhibit IM5,” said Diwaker.

  Norrie said, “Might I see it, please?”

  Exhibit IM5 was extracted from its plastic envelope and handed up. Mr. Norrie said, “This looks to me like the back-plate of a very small gold wrist-watch. What did you make of it?”

  “The same as you, sir. It think it is undoubtedly part of a wristwatch. The most likely explanation is that there was a second detonator. The main one would be in full view: the torch battery which Major Webster discovered, the alarm clock and the home-made detonator. All that stuff. The secondary one would have been concealed. It was very much smaller. A tiny wrist-watch and an equally tiny mercury battery. The sort of thing which is used in a deaf-aid.”

  “And what would be the object of it?”

  “As to that, I can offer no firm opinion, sir. But it occurs to me that if Edward Drummer and his friends thought that the explosion would not take place for, say, eight hours, they could have intended to place the device in the headquarters of their Pakistani rivals. What they would not have known was that, in fact, it was timed, by this secondary device, to go off almost immediately. I can only offer this as a suggestion.”

  Everyone in the court, except Anthony, had their eyes on the Professor as he said this. Anthony was looking at Abel Drummer. Registered successively on his face were surprise, deep relief and blazing anger. He saw him edge his way towards the exit and shoulder his way out. No one thought of stopping him. No one except Anthony really noticed him. All the drama was with the Professor in the witness-box.

  The Caravelle drew up short of the west wall of Arthur Drayling’s garden and Every dismounted. They could hear the roar of the crowd some way ahead of them, but the road was deserted.

  “Two of you at the back,” he said. “Two round in front of the house and keep your heads down. If anyone comes out running, shoot at once. Understood? Sergeant Whitaker and Baylis with me.”

  He climbed the low garden wall and moved forward, dodging among the marble figures. His two men had spread wide on either side of him. The sky was already overcast and darkening. He thought that snow was coming.

  Maybe the best way into the house would be to circle it, find the kitchen quarters and open a window. He was under no illusions as to the danger of what he was doing. Liam had killed at least three policemen in direct confrontation.

  Then he saw that the front door was open. It might be a trap, but it offered an unexpected alternative. As he was thinking about this he heard two shots. He had no idea what was happening, but it was a diversion and must not be wasted. He charged through the door and down the passage. Baylis remained outside; Whitaker followed him, crouching.

  Every kicked open the drawing-room door and jumped inside. The room stank of powder. Abel Drummer was still holding the shotgun. With one barrel he had killed Arthur Drayling. With the other he had blasted the man who called himself Liam and whose real name was Stefan Slowaki.

  Stefan said, speaking slowly, the words bubbling out of his mouth, “Late as usual, Colonel. It took a fucking amateur to show you how to do it.”

  Every said nothing. The man was dying.

  24

  “He said, ‘an amateur’,” said Every to Bearstead. “And, by God, he was right. A professional would have made a cautious approach and probably got shot in the process. Drummer walked straight in and killed them both.”

 
“Has he explained why?”

  “Certainly. He was only too glad to talk. He regarded them as the murderers of his son. His boys had got wind of the Pakis stealing the army cordite and were determined to get in first. Neither side wanted to kill the other, you understand. Just to bust up their headquarters. Ted knew his father would help. What he didn’t know was that for all his skite about his RE expertise, he was pretty rusty on detonators and timing devices. However, Arthur Drayling had introduced him to a man who seemed to know it all.”

  “Slowaki, otherwise Liam.”

  “Otherwise a dealer in goldfish, otherwise half a dozen other things. I know he had a supply of torpex, because he used some of it to try to blow my hand off. He built the bomb for Drummer and showed him how the alarm clock could be set to detonate it after an eight-hour interval. What he didn’t mention, of course, was that there was a second device which would set it off one hour after the first one was started.”

  “Guessing that the boys would take it to their own headquarters and sit round admiring it while they planned to plant it on the opposition later that evening.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that it would blow them all to shreds.”

  “Yes. And that the Pakis would at once be suspected. Drayling had told him all about the feud. And that there would be an unholy row, which he could use very nicely, since it was bound to escalate when committal proceedings came on. All he had to do was time the arrival of the ship for that particular afternoon. He reckoned the authorities would have their hands full. He wasn’t to know that they’d take away all the police from Scotland Dock. That was a piece of good luck.”

  “Or that Sergeant Montgomery would talk to Leone. That was bad luck.”

  “At the last moment,” said Every, “the very last moment. I still sweat when I think of it.”

  “Another amateur to the rescue of the professionals,” said Bearstead. “I make the final score – Gentlemen two. Players nil.”

  “What will they do now?” said Sandra.

  Anthony said, “Norrie adjourned the hearing. He couldn’t really do anything else. My guess is that the charges of arson and manslaughter will be withdrawn. Unless the Crown can find a bigger expert than Professor Meiklejohn.”