‘Was it, by hell! So it was pinched by teddy-boys, was it?’
‘We don’t know. That’s why I’m here. When was your stock broken into?’
‘Last August. I know that because I was away on holidays at the time. It wasn’t broken into. It was just nicked… picked-up, as you might say. The stock’s kept in boxes of a dozen and one of them was open, with four sticks left. That was all that went. I said at the time one of our own men had taken it. Useful in poaching fish, you know. Dynamiting a pond or river. The blast kills the fish, they float to the surface and you scoop ’em out. I was mad about it. It’s a dangerous game having loose dynamite lying around. I questioned the men. Some of them would be quite up to such tricks and when I didn’t get any further, I sent for the local policeman, who happens to be my son…’
He nodded proudly.
‘That’s why I’m ready to help you all I can.’
‘Thanks, Mr.…?’
‘Gatton’s the name.’
‘Mr. Gatton. I don’t suppose he was able to get very far with the case, was he? I’ve had similar ones myself and they’ve come to nothing.’
‘That’s right. Short of torturing them or one of them splitting on another, there wasn’t a hope. We left it at that. Until the Evingden police came enquiring about an explosion at a bank there. Then, we began to think that, some way or other, some of the local bad lads had swiped the dynamite when nobody was lookin’, although it’s kept in a brick shed with a steel door.’
‘I suppose it’s left open until the gang leaves work?’
‘Very often it is. We keep other odds and ends in the same shed and have to open it from time to time. It might be left unlocked then, till I lock up at night.’
‘Had strangers been seen around at the time of the theft?’
‘There’s always somebody passing. It’s quite a well-used by-road, you know. Plenty of cars take the short cut across the hill.’
‘So I see. But was anyone seen prowling around the quarry about that time?’
‘Not particularly. We have visitors now and then. The directors come up about once a month after their meeting, which is held in Evingden. Our registered office is there. They make a point of inspecting the quarry and the stock, you know.’
‘Who are the directors?’
‘It’s a family affair. In the old days, it belonged to the Pochins. Then, the family died out. All girls, who got married and then the husbands of two of them looked after the business. Mr. Sandman, who married a Miss Beatrice Pochin, took over after the death of his wife’s brother, Mr. Rupert. Now there was a businessman for you. Mr. Sandman. This firm was getting on its last legs when Mr. Rupert caved in. Drink did it. Mr. Sandman put the whole show on its feet again. Pity he died so soon. Mr. Flaxley’s chairman now. He married another Miss Pochin.’
‘Is Mr. Sandman’s widow still interested in the concern?’
‘Sure. She’s on the board. She was the best of the Pochins. She was always interested in the quarries. Used to come riding up here on a lively horse before she married. A cut above Sandman she was, but there’s no accounting for taste.’
‘Was there a directors’ meeting here about the time the dynamite vanished?’
‘Yes. They came as usual after the monthly meeting. Why? Thinking one of them might have helped himself to some blasting sticks?’
‘Just routine, that’s all. What would they want with dynamite?’
‘You’re right. Miss Beatrice was the only one who understood anything about it. The rest are just businessmen. Miss Beatrice… Mrs. Sandman, that is… could have handled it. She knew everything that went on in quarrying in her day. She was up here so much, you see. It was a pleasant ride on her horse from Brantwood, where they lived, up to Rosealba. She used to stay here and drink tea with the men and enquire all about the jobs. Not much about freestone she didn’t know, either.’
‘Where do you buy your explosives?’
‘As I said, Mr. Rupert bought a big stock. I fancy a London traveller must have got at him when he’d had one over the eight, and sold it to him.’
‘I wondered if there was somewhere in Evingden that would sell it.’
‘No. Who could there be in a place like Evingden? And who would want to buy it?’
‘I saw a big ironmonger’s there. Viner’s… Vinters… What was the name?’
‘Vintner’s. No fear. It’s owned by a big-head called Alderman Vintner. He’s very lame. Know how? Explosives. He used to sell guns and cartridges. One day the shop got on fire right under the stock of sporting cartridges. The lot went up, with the alderman on top of ’em. Nearly killed him. He lost his leg up to the knee. After that, he wouldn’t have a gun or a cartridge about the place. Scared. The shock must have given him a sort of mental kink against them. Catch him with dynamite anywhere near him. Not likely.’
‘Where do your firm bank?’
The man looked surprised.
‘Funny question in an explosion enquiry, isn’t it?’
‘As I said before, mere routine, you know.’
‘It won’t be telling secrets to say that we bank in Evingden. Poor old Roper, who drowned himself at Brighton, was our manager. I wonder what made him do it. Perhaps he was wrong in his books, or a brain storm, or something. You never know when it will come, do you? It might be you or me tomorrow.’
Cromwell nodded sympathetically.
‘Did Roper ever come here?’
‘You think he pinched the dynamite and then drowned himself because he heard the police were enquiring about it? What would he do with dynamite? Blast open his safes instead of using a key?’
‘Routine!’
‘You and your routine! You’re deeper than you try to make out, Inspector. Well, take a load of this. Mr. Roper did come up with the directors in August. He came every quarter. You see, there’s a bank loan against the quarries and the manager calls regularly to see that nobody’s run away with them.’
Cromwell’s heart sank and his face lengthened. He’d expected to narrow down matters to one suspect. Now, he was being showered, overwhelmed with them. In a despairing gesture of masochism he asked, almost shouted: ‘Do you know Oswald Bugler? Does he ever come up here?’
Gatton gave Cromwell a sly look. He was wondering whether or not to admit it.
‘I might as well tell you now, that what he was doing isn’t illegal any more. He came nearly every week in his old car. He was a bookie’s runner for his brother-in-law, Bert Scriboma. He collected bets and football pool monies from the men here.’
In fact, the quarry seemed to have been a public thoroughfare for all the suspects in the case!
Cromwell went on with the torture.
‘What about Alderman Vintner?’
‘Never. Did you see that notice about blasting? The very sight of it would make the alderman run a mile the other way. I told you, didn’t I, about his accident?’
‘That’s right. Do you know Fred Hoop?’
‘Only by name. Read about his financial misfortune in the papers. The only director of Excelsior Joinery in Evingden that hasn’t been wiped out. What a state to be in. Wondering when it’s going to be your turn. If you’re thinking about whether he visited the quarry, the answer’s no, he didn’t. What’s all this about, in any case? Is it the dynamite? Because if it is, I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.’
‘Would it be possible for you to ask your workmen about any of them being around the dynamite store and behaving suspiciously in August, at the time when the sticks were missed?’
‘It’s a long time ago. Still, I don’t mind asking. As I said, my son’s in the force and I’m always ready to oblige a policeman. I’ll ask. All our men were here in August. We don’t often change hands in our business. Coming?’
They toured the hard, rough ground of the quarry and the stony workings wherev
er a man was busy. Did any of the visitors in August show particular interest in blasting operations or the dynamite and where it was stored? No; they didn’t. The answer came from first one man, then another. The question brought forth sarcastic remarks about the length of time and the tax on a man’s memory. Until, finally, patience was rewarded.
A small, wiry man in a big cap and a duffle coat which had seen better days thought he remembered something. It might have been in August, or even early September. August, because the football season hadn’t started and the Scriboma pools weren’t running.
‘That little chap, Trumpeter…’
‘Bugler?’
‘Bugler. That’s him. I recollect him suddenly gettin’ interested in blasting here. Said he’d not noticed the warning notice till then. Well, one thing led to another and he said he’d never seen a stick of dynamite. I told him if he’d give me a good tip for the 3.30 next day, I’d show him one. He did, too, and it won me a couple of quid.’
‘What happened?’
‘Took him to the explosive shed, which wasn’t locked on account of our checking stock for the directors arrivin’. I showed him a stick of dynamite and he said now he’d know.’
‘Was that all?’
‘Yes. Should there be more?’
‘Did you leave him alone in the shed or near it?’
The man spat out his diminutive cigarette end and slowly raised his huge cap from his brows as though to facilitate deep thinking.
‘Let me think. Yes. While we were in the shed, he said thanks for showing him and he gave me the tip for next day then and there. I owed him half-a-crown for my last bet and when I offered him a ten-bob note, he said he’d no change and could I ask one of the chaps if they could change the note. Which struck me as funny as he’d been collecting money all over the place. I hadn’t any change myself, so I crossed to Fred Kinnan and got it from him.’
‘Leaving Bugler in the explosive store?’
‘No. I took him outside and asked him to wait there, after I’d closed the door. I wasn’t running any risks.’
‘Did you lock the door?’
‘No. I was only away a couple of minutes.’
‘He’d time to go back and take another look if he wished?’
‘Yes, I suppose he had, but why should he want to? He’d seen all he wanted, hadn’t he?’
Cromwell thanked the man in the cap, shook Gatton’s hand heartily and thanked him, too. He also said he wished Gatton’s son, who was in the force, the best of luck.
Then he almost ran back to his car. In his haste, he passed through a built-up area exceeding the speed limit, and was stopped by P.C. Gatton, who solemnly took out his notebook. Cromwell equally solemnly took out his warrant-card, and all was well.
Thirteen
Dynamite Disappears
‘What did you do with the dynamite you took from the Rosealba quarries?’
‘Oh, God!!’
That was all Bugler could say at first. He broke into a sweat which brought drops like peas across his bald front, turned the colour of putty, and then sprawled across the desk with his head in his hands.
Littlejohn had sent Cromwell to bring him to the police station. Not an arrest, Bugler was told, but the need for more help in the case. Remembering the aroma of cigar smoke which had accompanied their last interview, he was giving Scriboma no more chances of eavesdropping behind the door.
Bugler had arrived looking apprehensive. He’d had something on his mind throughout the investigation and now he was faced with it.
‘So, it’s as bad as that, is it, Mr. Bugler? What made you wish to blow up the offices and kill three men into the bargain?’
Bugler leapt to his feet like someone stung.
‘I never… I’d nothing to do with the Excelsior explosion…’
‘But you took the dynamite. Why?’
Bugler was too confused to deny it. He was too busy struggling to disentangle himself from the Green Lane murders.
‘I never even used it.’
‘Why did you take it then?’
‘I never even used it.’
‘You’d better tell me who did. Otherwise, we shall assume that you were responsible for the Excelsior disaster. Let’s begin at the beginning.’
It took Bugler a long time to make up his mind which way to speak. He seemed torn between alternatives, but obviously decided that murder was the greater.
‘My brother-in-law asked me to get it for him.’
‘Scriboma. Why? What did he want with dynamite? You’d better make a clean breast of it, Mr. Bugler. There’s no easy way out, either for you or Scriboma. Did you marry Scriboma’s sister, by the way?’
‘I did not. He married my sister. I only had anything to do with him to protect her. I’m all she’s got except him. Not that he’s not good to her. She would marry him and this is where it’s landed her. His father came from Turkey or somewhere in that region. A gaolbird for a husband and another for a brother. What a mess!’
‘You’ve soon passed sentence on both of you, haven’t you? What have you both been doing? Shall I tell you?’
‘If you know, why ask me?’
‘Scriboma had taken an office in Elizabeth Street in which to open up his betting shop when it was ready. Two doors away was a new bank without a strong room, using safes to hold the cash temporarily. Scriboma must have watched the arrival of the safes and misjudged their strength. He also cased the building from his lookout above the street. He decided to try his luck on the cash safe when convenient. He failed miserably.’
‘He didn’t do it. He couldn’t open a sardine tin properly. It was a friend of his from London.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Bert Scriboma. All I did was to get the explosive.’
‘Why didn’t the professional operator bring his own materials?’
‘That’s what I said. But it seems the police had their eye on him for another job and to be found buying or in possession of “jelly” or anything like it would probably be the finish of him. Bert said he’d get the stuff himself,’
‘So, he told you to get it. Why you?’
‘He knew I went to the quarries regularly on business…’
‘Scriboma’s business?’
‘Yes. Collecting and paying out to the men.’
‘But how did he manage to persuade you to steal the dynamite? You know that’s what it was, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well?’
‘I got into financial trouble and Bert helped me out.’
‘Helped you out of what?’
A pause, whilst Bugler put the pros and cons to himself again.
‘A forged cheque.’
‘On whose account?’
‘Excelsior…’
Bugler sat upright and thumped the table in rage.
‘I was never paid properly or promptly. So, I drew a cheque myself…’
‘How much?’
‘Two hundred. It wasn’t much for all I’d done.’
‘You looked after Excelsior books and hoped to fiddle it through?’
‘You can put it that way, if you like.’
‘You forged the signature?’
‘Two of them. Yes. Fred Hoop’s and Dodd’s.’
‘How did Scriboma come into this?’
‘The cheque bounced. Dodd got a cheque in before me and Roper dishonoured the one I’d forged. Not because of the signatures, which passed muster, but for lack of funds in the Excelsior account! I’ve never had any luck.’
‘Well?’
‘I’d made it payable to myself as though it might have been for arrears of wages. I thought I could handle it better that way. Besides we always made cheques for wages and petty cash out to me. I paid it into my own bank, the C
ity and Counties, and drew a cheque for £150 on them in favour of Scriboma.’
‘Betting?’
‘Yes.’
‘And when the Excelsior cheque bounced from Home Counties, yours to Scriboma also bounced from City and Counties?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Even then…’
‘Bert played merry hell and said he ought to see me in gaol for issuing dud cheques.’
‘But he didn’t.’
‘No. He kept my cheque that had bounced and took the one I’d forged, too, and said he was going down to see Dodd about the Excelsior cheque and raise Cain. I couldn’t let him do that, could I? I had to tell him what I’d done. He actually laughed, put both cheques in his safe, and said sometime after I’d done him a good turn, he’d tear them both up.’
‘And the good turn was the dynamite.’
‘That’s what it amounted to. Is that all? Scriboma’ll wonder what I’m doing out so long.’
‘It looks very much as if he won’t be bothering much longer about where you or anybody else is. No; I’ve still one or two more questions. As a matter of interest, what happened at the bank?’
‘Scriboma’s friend couldn’t have been a professional, after all. Just a silly muddler. I don’t know exactly what happened. I’m no expert. All I know is they roused the town early in the morning, brought down the ceiling of the bank and blew out the windows, but didn’t make any impression on the safe at all. All my trouble for nothing.’
‘How much dynamite did they use?’
‘I gave four sticks to Bert. He’d said to get two sticks, but I was pushed at the quarries and didn’t know what I was doing when I took four. There was no time, you see. I was just able to grab what I could.’
‘They didn’t use four?’
‘No. They only used two. Bert hung on to the other two. Then on the day before the Excelsior fire, Bert gave the two back to me. “Get rid of those quick,” he said. His friend, Spicer, the one who tried to open the safe, had been picked up by the police. Bert thought that if Spicer spilled the beans about the Evingden bank break-in and the police decided to give Bert’s place the once-over, it would be a bit awkward if they found the dynamite there.’
Surfeit of Suspects Page 16