Bluebolt One

by Philip McCutchan

  A little later the Jaguar slackened speed and then turned down a side street to the left. Shaw, watching the line of buildings, said, “Keep right on across that turning, Thompson. I’ve a feeling it may be a cul-de-sac.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The van held its course, crossed the head of the turning, going slow. Looking left, Shaw caught a brief glimpse of the Jaguar disappearing through some big gates in a high wall at the end, beyond which there seemed to be a biggish yard. Shaw could see the high side of a warehouse, and over the gateway was a sign in the form of an arch, in gilt lettering fixed to a metal framework. The sign read: Emco (Importers) Limited.

  Shaw snapped, “Right, Thompson. Journey’s end. Stop her and back up until you’ve got a clear view of that cul-de-sac.”

  The van stopped and backed, pulling up on the opposite side of the road just clear of the turning. Thompson took his hands off the wheel, rubbed them together. “Well, sir. Now what?”

  “This is where Pelly and I go in and take a look round.”

  The ex-sailor asked pensively, “Sure you wouldn’t like some help, sir?”

  Shaw grinned, put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’d like nothing better than to have you along, but I’ve got something else for you and Archer to do.” He looked round at Pelly and Archer in the back. “Righto, you can hop out now.”

  “Glad to, sir!” Pelly, a squarely built, homely man, slid back towards the rear door of the van. “Apart from getting cramp, I’m nearly asphyxiated.” He grimaced, screwing up

  deep-set eyes in a leathery face. “One thing about this Outfit, sir, we do go in for plenty of authenticity.”

  Shaw gave a brief, tight smile. “Take a deep breath then, Pelly. It’s going to get a whole lot fishier before long!” As the two men clambered out of the back, he turned to Thompson again. “There’s a call-box over there—see it?” Thompson nodded. “Give me a minute or two after I’ve left you, then ring the Admiralty. Speak to Mr Latymer personally. Tell him where I’ll be—Emco’s warehouse in—” He glanced through the window. “Calcutta Street, Canning Town. After you’ve done that, come back to the van and keep an eye on what comes out of Calcutta Street. Archer had better scout around for a back exit and watch that. Ring Mr Latymer at once if that Jag appears again, and then wait for Pelly and me. If the Jag doesn’t come out, give us a full hour from now. If we haven’t appeared again by that time you’ll report to the Chief by phone—after which, of course, you’ll be under his orders again. Clear?”

  Thompson nodded. “Yes, sir, all clear and understood. And—best o’ luck, sir.”

  “Thanks, Thompson.”

  Shaw got out and joined Pelly, then swung away angularly, his tall frame striding ahead of his companion towards the warehouse gates. Thompson nodded to Archer, who went off to look for the back entrance, and then he sat there behind the wheel and watched Shaw and Pelly go, shaking his head and whistling softly between his teeth. He didn’t feel easy in his mind. . . Commander Shaw, he thought, he’s a real gentleman, and if anything looks like happening to him I know what I’d like to do: Go in there fighting.

  Thompson, however, like Shaw, was still a sailor at heart; and he knew he just had to hang on and obey orders. He got out of the van, yawned, stretched as though he hadn’t a care in the world; then he went across to the telephone-box and called Whitehall. After that he went back and settled himself comfortably behind the wheel of the van again, lit up his pipe, and pulled a folded newspaper from his pocket. The headlines were all about some state in Africa—place called Nogolia. Thompson had only vaguely heard about it. They seemed to be having plenty of trouble just now, like the rest of Africa . . . Thompson turned the page. As he read he kept a careful eye on the street and on his driving mirror, watching for the Jaguar.

  Nothing would get past him, or Archer for that matter.

  Three minutes after leaving the van Shaw and Pelly walked in through the gateway of Emco’s yard, which was littered with straw and tissue packing, lids of old crates, and other broken woodwork. Away across the cobbles to their right was a big loading bay, with piles of sacks stacked in the rear and several lorries loading at the raised platform. At the back of this bay was a sign saying Inquiries and an arrow pointing towards the door of an office.

  They went across and Shaw tapped at the door. He entered a small room with a counter running across it. Behind the counter, at a desk, a neatly-dressed clerk was making entries in a ledger. He glanced up as Shaw and Pelly came in, and got to his feet.

  “Yes?”

  Shaw said, “Good morning. I’m making some general inquiries about import statistics . . . I was wondering if I might have a word with your managing director?”

  The clerk pursed his lips. “I don’t know if Mr Canasset’s here, sir. He doesn’t come down every day, not to the warehouse, you see. I’ve no appointments for him to-day—not that I’ve been told of, that is.”

  Shaw said, “No, that’s quite right, I haven’t an appointment as it happens. Only as I was in the vicinity I thought I’d call—”

  The clerk interrupted him firmly. “I’m sorry, sir. Mr Canasset never sees anyone except by appointment. Even if he is here. He’s very particular about that.” He half turned from the counter, dismissingly. “If you’d like to make an appointment by letter?”

  “I’m afraid that won’t do.” Shaw’s expression hardened. “Look, this is very important. If you’d be good enough to find out if Mr Canasset is in, and tell him. . . tell him Mr Ross would like to see him, I feel quite certain he’ll see me.”

  Shaw was watching the clerk’s face intently, but there was no reaction. The young man said doubtfully, “Well, I can ring and ask, if you like.”

  “Thank you.”

  The clerk went back to his desk and took up a house telephone. There was a brief conversation, apparently with a secretary, and then the clerk looked up at Shaw and said, “He’s in all right.” He held on for a while and after nearly a minute he said, “Very good, Mr Canasset, sir. Yes, sir, two gentlemen, that’s right.” He put down the receiver and got up. “Mr Canasset’ll spare you a few minutes, sir,” he told Shaw. “Mr Verity, that’s his personal assistant, he’ll be down in a moment.”

  Almost V.I.P. treatment, Shaw thought sardonically. He nodded, folded his arms, and leaned back against the counter. Off-handedly he asked, “What kind of importing do you do, mainly?”

  “Natural products entirely, sir, chiefly from Africa. There’s millet, cocoa, palm-oil. . . all that kind of thing. Quite varied. You interested in those lines, sir?”

  “Among others,” Shaw murmured. His gaze wandered round the office, out through the grimy window. It all looked ordinary enough, he supposed, but then of course it would. And that Jaguar had definitely come in here.

  Mr Verity was down very quickly, coming through a doorway opening into the section of the office behind the counter. By the look of him he’d been hurrying—he was hot, and a little out of breath. His plump stomach rose and fell with the effort of taking in air, the round moon-face had its mouth open to give him a surly, adenoidal look.

  Blinking rapidly he asked, “Mr Ross? If you’ll kindly come this way, gentlemen.” He opened a flap in the counter and Shaw walked through, followed by Pelly. They emerged from the back of the office into the main body of a large warehouse stacked high with crates and sacks and round baskets. Verity led the way along a narrow gangway between the piled goods, and as he went along Shaw glanced at the black-stencilled markings on some of the goods, noting the ports of origin. . . Monrovia, Port Harcourt, Accra, Lagos, Freetown, Pointe Noire, Lobito, Walvis Bay . . . there was no doubt about it, Messrs Emco had plenty of contacts with the Coast.

  Verity was making for a wooden stairway which led up to a gallery running along the far wall of the warehouse and suspended over the vast space. Off this gallery offices opened, seemingly the offices of the various executives and directors.

  He stopped at a door marked: P. J. Canasset, Manag
ing Director, knocked, opened the door, and stood aside. Shaw and Pelly walked in, and Verity left them. As Shaw entered he felt his pulse quicken.

  From behind a desk a bald, fleshy man got up to greet them, a flabby man with overmatched clothes, a man not quite English, though it would have been hard to point to an exact nationality; a man whom Shaw had recognized immediately as the man who had been at the Ship’s Biscuit the night before, alongside the African behind that naked coloured girl, the man who had fired at him. A piece of sticking-plaster covered the gash made on his face by the broken glass of the window. The man’s eyes were wary, suspicious, but he didn’t appear to have recognized Shaw as the one who had been on the window-sill. Shaw didn’t find that surprising; after all, he hadn’t been in sight for long and the light would probably have caused a reflection on the glass until it had shattered.

  Shaw decided to keep his knowledge of the night-club and the Cult to himself for the time being. It would be more of a shock, would have a more salutary psychological effect when he got the man back to what they called the ‘grill-room’ in the Outfit.

  He said, “Mr Canasset, I’m making enquiries about a young lady. . . ."

  Canasset blustered it out to the end and he seemed absolutely confident.

  He knew nothing whatever about any girl and although he admitted having a black Jaguar in the firm’s garage, its number was not that of the one Shaw had followed.

  Shaw said, “Well, you won’t object if I just take a look round the premises, will you? After all, if you’ve nothing to hide . . . .” He shrugged.

  Canasset snapped, “I’ve nothing to hide—and you’ve no authority to search my premises.”

  “No, that’s quite true. But I assure you that some one’s going to take that look round, and it might suit you better if I, and not the police, did it.”

  Canasset glowered, then made a gesture of resignation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but . . . oh, very well, then. Just to satisfy you.” He reached out for a telephone. “I’ll get Verity to show you—”

  “Oh no, you don’t!” Shaw was on his feet already. He took two strides forward and his hand came down in a hard grip on Canasset’s wrist. “You’ll come round with us yourself—if you don’t mind! And there’s absolutely no need to tell any of your staff what you’re going to do. Right?”

  Canasset’s lips tightened murderously. He snapped, “When you’ve finished, I shall report your behaviour to the proper quarter, I assure you. I have friends—”

  “I’ll take a chance on getting a black mark, I think.” Shaw let go of the man’s wrist and stood back. “Now—let’s go. I’ve got a gun handy, and it’ll be right behind you all the time even if you can’t see it I suggest you take me straight to Miss Ross—”

  “There’s no Miss Ross here, damn you—”

  “All right, all right, we’ll see. I may as well warn you, if you try anything I don’t like, I’ll shoot. We know this is big business, Canasset, and I’m not taking any chances now. When we’ve found the girl you’re coming with me, and you’re going to talk.” Shaw grasped the man’s shoulder. “Get going.”

  Canasset, his face furious but with no trace of fear in it, moved to the door.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Canasset led the way down the wooden staircase into the body of the warehouse. Tight-Upped, he asked, “Where d’you want to go?”

  “Everywhere. We may as well start with this building as any other.”

  “You won’t find anything. You’ll get nothing but trouble for yourself as a result of this.” The man seemed utterly confident as though he scarcely needed even to protest any more. Shaw had one nasty moment of self-doubt and then his hand went inside his jacket and he said in a quiet voice.

  “Just lead the way, Mr Canasset.”

  Canasset was right, though; it didn’t get them anywhere.

  Canasset grew more and more confident as Shaw grew wearier with his unavailing search; but Shaw fancied that the managing director was in fact keeping his eyes on the go as much as he and Pelly, continually looking, as Shaw suspected, for a means of letting some one know what was going on just in case Shaw should stumble on something which he didn’t want known about.

  After a time it began to seem pretty hopeless. In the firm’s garage Shaw found a black Jaguar; but it bore the registration number as indicated earlier by Canasset. Shaw was positive there had been a switch of number-plates for the job, but he couldn’t prove it; the records showed the car’s true registration as the one Canasset had given, and Shaw could get nothing out of the garage foreman. Nevertheless, he examined the car minutely just in case there should be any traces of the girl. There was nothing. Further, Shaw could find no evidence of a back entry to the yard, and the sole means of entry and exit appeared to be by way of the Calcutta Street gates, a fact which Canasset confirmed when he was asked. The man looked briefly triumphant, gloating, when he noticed Shaw’s baffled expression.

  It was only as they were crossing the yard back to the big warehouse that Shaw caught sight of something which looked as though it could have interesting possibilities. Beyond a boiler-house there was a dark passageway built on to the side of the warehouse itself, and ending, so far as he could make out, in a blank brick wall.

  Plainly, though, it must lead to something more than that.

  Shaw said, “I’ll just take a look along there.”

  “Certainly. It only leads to the cellars.”

  “Which you haven’t mentioned before, have you... I think we’ll just go down for a look round.”

  Canasset said, “They haven’t been used for years.”

  Shaw looked at him sardonically. “You mean they haven’t been used for the storage of goods.”

  “Hava it your own way.” Canasset shrugged.

  As they came under the lee of the passage roof into the shadows, Shaw brought his Webley right out and jabbed it into Canasset’s back. He felt a prickly sensation run along his spine; he was certain now that he was getting nearer the heart of things, even though Canasset didn’t appear worried. He said harshly, “Careful what you do. Remember what I told you. If this is a trap, I’ll shoot first.”

  “It’s no trap. I told you—we’ve nothing to hide. You’re making a big mistake.”

  They were at the end of the passage now and there was little light. Shaw groped along, kept his gun in the small of Canasset’s back. Canasset stopped, reached up, and flicked a switch. A dim light came on overhead and showed up a heavy, iron-bound door set in the warehouse wall and a dirty, red-painted sign which read: NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT AUTHORITY OF WAREHOUSE MANAGER Canasset took a bunch of keys from his pocket and opened up a glass frame beside the door. From this he took the key of the cellar. Shaw asked, “Why the ‘No admittance’?”

  “Because it’s not safe down there—stairs are rotten and the floor’s shaky, but we don’t want to waste money on doing up a place we never use. Is there anything else you want to know?”

  “Not for the moment,” Shaw murmured.

  Canasset put the key in the lock and turned it. Then he lifted an iron bar set in brackets across the entrance, and swung the door itself back on its hinges. Reaching forward, he fiddled with another switch, and a second light came on inside, a feeble yellow light which showed up wooden steps descending into the blackness.

  The hairs at the back of Shaw’s neck seemed to rise up as he and Pelly followed Canasset carefully down the steps. The place was damp, forbidding, mildewed perhaps from the river’s seeping nearness; a stuffy, dank smell came up, a smell like the grave.

  It was, Shaw thought fancifully, just like that—opening up a grave. He shivered. It had the air of having been used more for some kind of prison than as a store, and indeed part of the smell seemed to come from age-old human sweat and misery, from close-packed humanity like a present-day Black Hole of Calcutta. . . in Calcutta Street, Canning Town . . . Shaw checked himself. Imaginings didn’t help at a time like this, he needed his wits about h
im. But in solid fact these building were old, had seen much history, might have been used for many things in their time. The smell, now he came to think of it, seemed to hold some of the pungency of African sweat... could this, perhaps, be one of the meeting-places of the Cult, then? That was something he would find out from Canasset when they got the man back to the Admiralty.

  Dimly in the light’s radiance, though this didn’t extend far into the gloomy places, he saw that the vast cellar was partitioned off by thick walls into cubicles with narrow alleyways running between, rather like a wine-cellar. Once, it had very likely been such a place.

  Canasset turned at the bottom of the steps and said, “Well—there you are. You’ve seen the lot now. I told you there wasn’t anything down here.”

  His voice seemed to echo round the walls as they stood in that small pool of light from overhead, echo away until it was lost in the total darkness beyond, leaving behind it a silence which seemed to reach out clammily and touch Shaw. The whole place had a wrong feel, an evil feel. It was almost as though there was some physical presence there, eyes watching him from the dark. He shivered suddenly, caught up again in those vivid imaginings, hearing again the horrible throb of those African drums last night, wondering what could have gone on down here too, what ceremonies, perhaps, what gruesome rites had been performed recently in the name of the Edo Cult to leave their aura in the atmosphere.

  He gave himself a slight shake, ridding himself of such fancies. He said, “I’d just like to look right through.”