Sport For Inspector West

by John Creasey

  “Anything special to report?”

  “I saw the man Scott – Jeremiah Scott – at the factory this afternoon. He was looking at some cartons in the warehouse, and I thought Mr West should know that he’s obviously familiar with the warehouse and the Dispatch Department.”

  “Quite right. Jeremiah Scott, eh. How long have you been here?”

  “About half an hour,” said Peel. “Thought much about this?”

  “I was wondering whether by any chance there is a Perriman’s warehouse near here,” said Peel.

  “Same thought struck me,” said Chatworth. “Check it, will you? I’m going to that café across the road to get a sandwich – missed my dinner. Come and have a snack when you’ve finished.”

  “Thank you very much, sir,” said Peel.

  He went to the public-house and borrowed the telephone directory, looked down the P’s and came upon the imposing little section, in heavy black type, which covered the Perriman enterprises. The fifth out of nine addresses of the company was: ‘Middleton Dock and Warehouse, Wapping.’

  He went to Chatworth, and had hardly passed on the information before the superintendent and a middle-aged, sharp-featured man arrived, carrying large sheets of cardboard under their arms. Inside these were maps. Chatworth commandeered two tables in the café, and the sharp-featured man began to speak in a rather aloof voice, pointing with a long, tapering forefinger at different spots in the first map.

  The derelict warehouse was marked with a red blob, and the stranger, who was from the surveyor’s office at the Town Hall, said acidly: “This is where we are now. There’s the river, these loops and whorls here show locks, quays, waterways – it’s an irregular series, rather like an indented coast-line, although it’s all built up. These here”—he pointed to a number of squares—“are the warehouses within a hundred yards radius.”

  Chatworth bit into his sandwich. “Tunnels?”

  The forefinger stabbed again and traced thin, black lines.

  “Known tunnels or underground passages here. There are plenty of them, as you can see. At one time a lot of the warehouses around here were owned by the same firm, but they split up and the tunnels were mostly walled-up – not all of them.”

  Chatworth said: “I see. Thanks.”

  “Where’s Middleton Dock Warehouse?” asked Peel.

  Chatworth looked at him sharply.

  “Oh, Perriman’s place,” said the surveyor. He stabbed at the second sheet and indicated a square which was about two hundred and fifty yards from the derelict building.

  “That’s it. Biggest and most up-to-date on this part of the river. Any special reason for asking?”

  “I’d heard it was a fine place,” Peel murmured, and earned a covert glance of approval from Chatworth and a glare from the superintendent, who had no time for such irrelevancies.

  Chatworth said to the surveyor: “That’s very helpful of you – thank you very much, sir.” The surveyor’s severe expression thawed somewhat. “Where can we get you if we want you in a hurry?” Chatworth added.

  “I’d like to go and have a look at the place where the trouble started,” said the surveyor.

  “Yes, yes, by all means.” Chatworth waved the surveyor out of the café, and said: “Middleton’s is really Perriman’s, is it?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Peel.

  ‘Middleton’s’ was surrounded by a ten-foot wall, but the tall, iron gates were open and a light burned above them. There were lights inside the yard too, spreading a glow over lorries and drays which were being loaded. Half a dozen men stood about and a gate-keeper in uniform approached when the little party entered the cobbled yard. The warehouse was spotlessly clean. Strip lighting everywhere made the huge storerooms look bright. A night-watchman took them in a lift down to the floor below, and then led them along a wide passage towards the main underground chambers. Imported and expensive goods of all kinds were stored here, he informed them.

  He led them round a corner.

  A man, who was standing in front of a big bin, turned and glanced at him – and at sight of Peel his expression was startled at first, then sardonic.

  “Good evening, Mr Scott,” Peel said gruffly. “This is Mr Jeremiah Scott, Sir Guy.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Clayton’s Story

  Scott took out his gold cigarette-case, flipped it open and thrust it in front of Chatworth, who shook his head. Scott’s grin was almost a sneer as he lit a cigarette himself.

  “My, my,” he said to Peel. “You get around, sergeant.”

  “What are doing here?” countered Peel.

  “Business,” said Scott. “Perriman’s want a special airtight carton for some of this stuff, and I want to find out what the storage conditions are like.”

  “I’m not satisfied with your explanation,” Peel said.

  “That’s all you’ll get,” said Jeremiah flatly.

  Chatworth asked: “How long have you been here?”

  “About an hour.”

  “How many people have you seen down here?”

  “Not many – they’re working upstairs tonight.”

  “Have you seen Inspector West?” demanded Chatworth.

  Scott opened his mouth and gently rubbed the corner.

  “So West’s in trouble, is he? Lost him?”

  Chatworth said: “Mr Scott, I don’t like your manner, and I agree with Sergeant Peel that your answers have been extremely unsatisfactory. I shall ask—”

  He was interrupted by a sudden exclamation from their guide, who had gone round the corner. Peel ran forward and saw their guide standing and staring at a hole in the wall. The passage was thick with rubble, bricks, and dirt. Near it were footprints and little blobs of dirt; a number of men had walked this way recently.

  Peel reached the hole quickly, shone a torch inside, and stepped through.

  The wall was nearly a foot thick, and beyond it was a narrow passage. The torchlight fell on crumbled earth and bricks, much the same as that at the other end of the passage. There must have been two explosions, and both ends of the tunnel were blocked.

  The others joined Peel inside the hole, and Scott said softly: “Well, you’ve certainly found something!”

  Peel switched on his torch and swivelled the beam swiftly. Next moment, the beam struck a man’s foot. It travelled up the body swiftly, but before it fell upon the face, Peel knew that it wasn’t Roger West.

  It was Clayton.

  Orders were given for digging to start at this end immediately. Clayton’s head was injured, but he regained consciousness while they bent over him.

  He was taken to hospital, but was unable to tell a coherent story. The escaping crooks had either left just before Scott’s arrival or else he had seen them. The escape-hole was next to a small, steel door, painted the colour of the walls, and which they obviously hadn’t been able to open. It had been jammed by the blast from the explosion.

  Peel was in the warehouse cellar; Bill Sloan; Eddie Day, who had arrived only half an hour before, just after four o’clock – heaven knew how he had managed to learn of the trouble. There was a woman, too, from a nearby Sailors’ Mission, who had brought in food and a tea urn and cups and saucers. They rattled on a hastily erected trestle-table.

  And Janet was there, fetched by Chatworth, tense and pale.

  The men were still working in the tunnel, and they had cleared nearly twenty feet. Janet knew that they were afraid that they might find Roger buried under the rubble.

  Chatworth was talking to a big fellow to whom she had been vaguely introduced – the local superintendent. Janet watched them, rather dully. She knew now something of what the miner’s wives felt like when there was a fall in the pits and their men were entombed.

  Entombed …

  “Oh, Mrs West.” It was the Mission woman, who was just at her elbow. “I want to slip away for a few minutes to get some more bread, I wonder if you would look after the urn for me.”

  “The urn—oh—o
h yes.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  It was good to have something to do, and the little woman probably realised it. Men, smeared with dirt, their faces streaked with perspiration, came from the tunnel and had a cup of tea and a sandwich, while others took their places; a dozen were working in relays of three, now, and there was a chain of men moving buckets of earth and pieces of rubble, dumping them in a corner of the cellar.

  Someone inside the tunnel exclaimed: “Careful!”

  “Found something?”

  “Looks like …”

  The cup fell from Janet’s hand, tea splashed on to her shoes and stockings. The man waiting swung round, the tea forgotten. Chatworth and Peel sprang to Janet’s side, and the little woman stopped spreading butter on the bread.

  “Take it easy,” a man said.

  “It’s his foot.”

  His foot!

  Chatworth tightened his grip on Janet’s arm but did not speak. She walked round the trestle-table towards the hole, and Chatworth went with her. She peered along the well-lighted tunnel. The lanterns were hanging at intervals of a couple of feet on each wall. She stepped through the hole, and Chatworth followed her. Now the men were standing on piles of rubble and working from the top.

  She saw Roger’s leg.

  It was clear from the knee; one leg – no, his other leg was visible now.

  Janet began to tremble.

  “Easy, m’dear,” said Chatworth. “Easy.” He looked round. “The doctor there?”

  “Waiting,” said Peel. “We’ve got oxygen, we’re all ready.”

  “Good.”

  Janet’s trembling became more violent.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Clayton

  CID MAN FEARED DEAD

  ALL-NIGHT EFFORTS AT RESCUE

  ‘In an underground chamber of a derelict warehouse, now known to have been used by food thieves, police and other rescue workers fight for the life of Chief Inspector Roger West of Scotland Yard. By their sides waits his anxious wife.

  Earlier in the day, the Yard had tracked a gang of food racketeers to their lair. In an underground gun-battle, several men were wounded. Big stores of stolen food were found.’

  ECHO REPORTER SAFE

  PRISONER OF FOOD GANG

  ‘Echo reporter, Tommy Clayton, was rescued by the police last night after the warehouse gun-battle in the East End. In hospital, Clayton is cheerful and likely to be about again very shortly. He was captured while observing a suspect at a food factory, taken to the warehouse where he was later found, and escaped from his captors in the confusion caused by the arrival of the police.’

  TRIUMPH FOR THE POLICE

  HIDDEN HOARDS FOUND

  ‘The CID quickly responded to the Echo’s demand for urgent steps to cope with the food thieves. Within a few hours, information received led Divisional Superintendent Bellamy and Chief Inspector West of Scotland Yard to one of the main hoards – many tons of food were discovered and two arrests were made.

  The Echo understands that none of the food discovered was that stolen from vans belonging to the Perriman company. Most of the goods were Danish or Dutch, and obviously had been smuggled ashore from ships unloading at the London Docks. The food found was …’

  Roger put down the newspaper and stretched out for a cigarette. He laughed ruefully, and it was loud enough to attract Scoopy’s attention.

  “Is that you, Daddy?” he called from the hall.

  “Yes, I’m all right, old chap.”

  Scoopy was already hurrying up the stairs, and in his wake came Richard and, just behind them, Marjorie Goodwin.

  Janet’s footsteps sounded in the hall. “Scoopy – Richard! Where are you?”

  “Any chance of a cup of tea?” called Roger.

  “Darling!” Janet flew up the stairs. “You’re awake!”

  “Hallo, my sweet.”

  The children watched their mother and father wide-eyed, and when Janet drew back Richard said: “Daddy’s all right.”

  “Are you, Roger? You feel—”

  “Fine!”

  “Boys, you go downstairs and tell Auntie Nell that Daddy’s awake,” said Janet. “You go with them, Marjorie.” She sat on the edge of the bed as they went off. “You look all right,” she conceded.

  “I am all right,” said Roger firmly. “Bit stiff and sore in places, but nothing to worry about. How long have I been lazing in bed?”

  “You’ve nearly slept the clock round,” said Janet. “You came to in the ambulance—don’t you remember us putting you to bed?—and that was just after ten o’clock yesterday morning. It’s nearly half-past nine now. Oh, darling, I thought I’d lost you!”

  Roger gripped her hand.

  In the pause, Nell Goodwin appeared in the doorway with a teatray. She didn’t stay long, and Janet poured out tea.

  The front-door bell rang and Janet went downstairs. Roger heard a man’s voice, next Janet’s, rather uncertain, and then he recognised a curious little laugh. Tommy Clayton had called!

  “Send him up!” called Roger.

  “Please don’t stay too long,” said Janet. “All right,” she called to Roger, and then showed Clayton up to the bedroom.

  Like Roger, he had some scratches and bruises, but his eyes were clear and he looked well and cheerful. He was dressed in a pair of flannels and a black-and-white check sports jacket! Roger looked at the jacket ruefully as the reporter sat down.

  “Do you buy them by the dozen?” he asked.

  Clayton chuckled.

  “Managed to get hold of a length of cloth, and there was enough for two coats,” he said. “Just as well, the other one isn’t exactly wearable. Any idea who the cove was in the dump?”

  “Not yet,” said Roger, “but I’m out of touch this last day or two.”

  “You’ll soon be in it again,” said Clayton dryly. “And thanks for trying to get me clear. You know that quite a lot of stuff kept in Perriman’s warehouse at the docks was shifted to the other place through that passage, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t,” said Roger.

  “They are keeping you in the dark. The hole in the Perriman warehouse wall was near a door – it was jammed and they had to break the wall down. The gang was in cahoots with a couple of Perriman’s night-staff. Stuff was taken from the ships to the warehouse and lifted during the night. Stock-sheets and the rest were rigged. I’d discovered that before I went out to the Woodhall factory. There seemed to be an accomplice at Woodhall, working with the two rogues at the docks.”

  “How did you get on to it?” demanded Roger.

  “I chanced on a story down in the docks. These two warehousemen at Perriman’s slipped quite a lot of the small presents to their friends and did a little illegal trading on their own, so I followed it up and got one of them tipsy. He didn’t exactly give the game away, but said enough to make me very curious about Perriman’s stocks. Then you helped me a bit when you got that little chap, Relf. I knew he had a brother, and found the said brother often went to that derelict warehouse. Then he got the job at Perriman’s Dispatch Department, so I hung around.

  “I was too careless – they recognised me, and next time I poked my nose near the derelict warehouse after dark, they cracked me on the head. I thought it was a case of curtains. Can’t quite make out why they didn’t kill me. They took my clothes and left me my pants and apparel I wouldn’t like to be seen dead in. They kept me in the tunnel on a bread-and-water diet.”

  Roger nodded.

  “And they told me that they’d made arrangements to scuttle if they were discovered. Actually when you arrived, they got scared and careless. I got away, as you know. But they grabbed me, and clouted me over the head again. But something went wrong and they had to leave me behind in the tunnel. No doubt they all slipped through that hole in the wall and out of the Perriman warehouse.”

  “I don’t know,” said Roger.

  “Well, Peel tells me that’s what happened,” said Clayton. “Now you�
��ve driven ’em out of Wignall’s garage and also out of the warehouse. I wonder where they’ll bob up next.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Not a glimmering,” said Clayton. “My trail ended at Perriman’s. Mind you, I think some of their staff are in the know.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Roger.

  “Run across Jeremiah Scott much?” asked Clayton, changing the subject and assuming an air of innocence.

  “As the brother of Mike Scott, I’ve met him.”

  “Rum cove,” said Clayton. “Seems to have the run of Perriman’s. I’m told that he was at the dock warehouse when Peel and Chatworth went along there looking for you. I’ve checked on him quite a bit. Gets around plenty, and Perriman’s aren’t the only food companies he knows. More than just a salesman – he’s a director of Tucktos. Doesn’t just pop into the buying offices and book orders, he goes into the works, sees what the cartons and boxes are needed for, submits designs – in fact, he can pretty well go where he likes on the customers’ premises.”

  “He’s a first-class salesman,” Roger remarked, “and his firm delivers the goods.”

  “Perhaps that’s the answer. How’s Mark Lessing getting on these days? Having a nice time at Brighton?” asked Clayton with a grin. “Oh yes, we know he’s at the same hotel as Sybil Lennox. They’re by way of being friends already, which isn’t bad work on Mark’s part. Trust Sybil?”

  “I don’t trust anyone until I prove I can,” said Roger dryly.

  Janet came in, to insist that Clayton had stayed long enough. Actually, the talk had stimulated rather than tired Roger, and he was eager to get to the Yard.

  Instead Peel came to see him.

  Peel’s reports were largely negative. It was true that two men had been caught at the derelict warehouse and had talked freely. They swore that they did not know who was behind the racket. Relf and a man named Wilkins had given them their orders, but they had no idea who instructed Relf and Wilkins. On the night of the hold-ups, the warehouse had been deserted. The two prisoners confessed to taking part in an attack, but they had not known that others were taking place.