by John Creasey
‘Didn’t want to be seen,’ Brown suggested.
They turned back towards the road and the car tracks, and after a few seconds Roger said: ‘We’d better have this cordoned off, Super—’ He stopped abruptly, grinned, and asked: ‘Prefer to be informal?’
‘Arthur’ll do me.’
‘You know what they call me!’
‘Browny’ll do me,’ said Brown.
‘Better have it cordoned off, and get a couple of your chaps to look along that path and on the other side of the hedge,’ said Roger.
‘Can’t expect much from the road. It’s been used by about nine hundred people, in buses, cars, and on bikes,’ declared Tenterden. ‘But I’ll lay everything on from the office,’ and went back to the car.
As he reached it, someone shouted, and all three turned round. Soley was on the platform at the top of the silo, waving and beckoning. He shouted again.
‘What’s he say?’ demanded Brown.
‘Let’s go and find out,’ Roger said, and went at the double towards the silo, while Tenterden and Brown got into the car and began to swing it round.
Chapter Five
Second Body
Roger put his hands to his mouth, and shouted: ‘What have you found?’
Soley was leaning over the rail of the platform, one hand at his mouth, and he bellowed back: ‘There’s a woman’s body in here!’
‘I’ll come up!’ Roger called. The car drew alongside, and he stepped to it. ‘Arthur, will you get that corner cordoned off, we’ve got to make sure that too many workers don’t walk over it when they come out at five o’clock. Then fix a fire-brigade unit, will you? Soley says there’s a body in that silo, and we want to get it up as soon as we can.’
‘God!’ exclaimed Tenterden. ‘Man’s?’
‘A woman’s.’
‘I’m going up,’ said Tenterden decidedly. ‘I might know who it is. Take my car, Browny, will you? I told everyone at the station to take your instructions.’
Brown hesitated until Roger nodded; then Brown turned briskly to the car. Roger let Tenterden start to climb up the silo, and said to Brown sotto voce: ‘Get back to that corner as quick as you can. Ask the works to lend you some men to put up a barrier so that the crowd can’t trample everywhere.’
‘Right.’ Brown glanced up at Tenterden’s huge rear, and went on in a low-pitched voice: ‘Think he expected more trouble?’
‘Could be.’
‘He was certainly in a hell of a hurry to make sure we came down,’ Brown said, as if a little put out. ‘Not trying to take us for a ride, is he?’
‘He’s trying to make sure that he won’t be blamed for whatever goes wrong,’ said Roger. ‘And who are we to complain if we get on to a job quickly? Usually everything’s as cold as mutton before we get near it.’
‘Daresay you’re right about Tenterden,’ Brown said, without conviction. ‘Wonder who the woman is?’
Five minutes later, Roger, Tenterden, and Soley were looking down into the silo, which was no more than a quarter full.
Roger disliked the stench intensely, but did not let it put him off. The woman was lying on her back, her legs in a peculiar distorted position, one underneath her, the other bent so that the knee pointed upwards. Her arms were spread out, one hand was tight against the side of the silo. She wore a grey tweed coat, as far as he could judge – it might be a dark blue or a dark green. One shoe was on, one shoe was missing. She looked as if she were asleep down in those shadows, and until they could examine the body it would be impossible even to guess how she had died.
‘Not much doubt she was hauled up here, and tossed over,’ Soley said.
‘Won’t be any help to try to examine the body down there,’ said Roger. ‘No one got down there to kill her, so she was killed up here, or over there.’ He glanced towards the spot where he had seen the bicycle pump, and a kind of picture began to form in his mind. ‘Recognise her, Arthur?’
‘I wouldn’t like to swear to it from here, but I think it’s a woman named Doris Blake. Her husband’s an old pal of mine.’ Tenterden seemed almost to be talking to himself. ‘Married a girl half his age a few years ago. Never got over his first wife’s death, really. Hmm. Well, it won’t take long to get her up and find out what happened to her.’ He looked intently at Roger, giving the impression that there was something else he wanted to say, but that Soley’s presence prevented it. ‘If you don’t make it soon, you won’t see the works before most of the employees start leaving.’
‘It’ll have to wait,’ Roger said. ‘Let’s have a look at that piece of cloth.’
He was telling himself that he must be slipping, or he would have checked that fragment of fluttering fabric when he had been up here before. Tenterden got it off a rivet which stuck out and had a rough edge. It had been torn from a coat, and was the same colour as the coat on the dead woman.
A police car arrived with two of Tenterden’s men, who reported that the fire escape was on its way, with the tackle needed to raise the body. The men, both young and eager, obviously knew their job, and Roger was a great believer in letting younger men and local men feel that they were being given their head. So he let Tenterden drive him to the works, and reached there as a hooter went for five ‘clock. A few girls and several men appeared almost on the instant, and he could imagine what it would be like when all the plant’s departments closed at the same hour. By the time he reached the office at least two hundred people were surging forward, but the corner where the bicycle had fallen had been roped off, and there was no danger of the tyre tracks and other clues being destroyed.
A tall, very pale and youthful-looking man with thick-lensed glasses and gingery hair stood up from a desk in a small office opposite a much larger one, with the word managing director on the door. He had a twitch at his right eye, gave the impression of being very nervous, and spoke jerkily, as if he could not get the words out quickly enough.
‘Ah, Superintendent, so you’ve arrived. Rather late, I fear, but half the works will be working until six. Very busy. We have part of a very big overseas text-book order to complete next week,’ he added, and glanced at Roger. ‘Are you Superintendent West?’
‘This is Mr West, sir,’ said Tenterden. ‘Mr West, I asked Mr Sydney Richardson if he could take you round himself. Mr Richardson is the Works Managing Director.’
‘Glad to assist,’ said Richardson. ‘Shocking business. Poor Jensen. To die of violence. And nothing missing, nothing.’ He looked at Roger, rubbing his hands together. ‘Isn’t that remarkable?’
‘All murder is remarkable, sir,’ Roger said formally.
‘Yes, of course. Well, tell me what you want, I’ll try to oblige. The Superintendent here has been very helpful. Very. We had to use the other door to the office, poor Jensen was killed in that doorway. Most difficult, you’ll agree, not to use the office freely. This is the day before the wages are made up. However, we moved the machines and cards to a temporary office. This one hasn’t been used much today. I hope that it can be by tomorrow. Very difficult to make up the wages in any other room.’
‘We’ll try to get through,’ promised Roger.
He saw the camp-bed in the corner, the now empty desks, the card racks, the windows overlooking the yard, and the chalk marks showing where Jensen’s body had been found. Obviously the man had been crumpled up. There were some brown stains on the floor, on the door, and on the legs of one of the tables, all marked round with chalked circles. There was no doubt that the local police had been through this room thoroughly; there were all the indications – grey powder tests for finger-prints, chalk marks in several places, little plastic envelopes pinned or Scotch-taped into position, obviously containing hairs, dirt, or small objects which the police thought might be of use in the investigation. A detailed plan of all this was in the making.
‘Haven’t got much,’ said Tenterden. ‘Few hairs from the bed, but we haven’t unfolded it yet. They were at the side. Cigarette butts, some match-ends, a
few crumbs and dozens of finger-prints.’
‘I must say, it isn’t reasonable to expect all the staff here to have their prints taken,’ Richardson said uneasily.
‘Isn’t it, sir?’
‘Surely not.’
‘The only way we can find out if there are any prints which shouldn’t be here is to find out which ones should,’ said Roger. ‘Any prints taken with the co-operation of your staff would be destroyed immediately the case was solved, and would not be recorded except for the duration of the case. Do you expect the staff to raise objections?’
‘No, no, certainly not,’ said Richardson hastily. ‘But—is it really necessary?’
‘I should think so, sir.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Or tonight.’
‘No, really! It’s twenty past five. In ten minutes the office staff goes home.’
‘How many use this office?’ inquired Roger.
‘Very difficult to say.’ Richardson seemed to love the word. ‘Difficult matter altogether, so many of the workmen and women come here, of course, on wage queries. That kind of thing. You don’t intend to take all finger-prints, do you?’
‘It might be advisable, sir,’ said Roger, and saw another reason why Tenterden had been so anxious to get the Yard’s help immediately; he would find it heavy weather with this man, for one.
‘But it would cause serious dislocation of the works. And we are very rushed, very rushed indeed.’
Roger said quietly: ‘The man Jensen isn’t in any hurry now, sir.’
Richardson stopped blinking, just stared, and then said abruptly: ‘No. I’m sorry. Must help you all we can.’
‘You can be sure that we won’t cause any more inconvenience than we have to, sir,’ said Roger formally, ‘and we don’t relish the task of taking everyone’s finger-prints any more than you do. We hope we won’t have to. What I would like is a quick look round the works, especially to see where Jensen went last night – I understand that he’d had time to do one complete round of the main section of the works, but not the warehouses for storage.’
‘That’s right, yes. Come along, and I’ll take you round. Are you coming, Tenterden?’
‘Think perhaps I’d better, sir,’ said Tenterden. He gave Roger another of those knowing looks, and went on: ‘Many hands been off work today?’
‘Very few, very few indeed,’ answered Richardson. He glanced at Roger. ‘Among my tasks is that of personnel officer, nothing like a personal touch with the work-people. Any special reason for asking, Mr Tenterden?’
‘Just like to know of anything unusual.’
Roger thought: ‘Our Arthur’s a sly old fox.’ Then he took advantage of this opportunity to remark: ‘As you had only one night-watchman in a works this size, sir, I wondered if you had staff shortages.’
‘Sometimes. Never had more than one night-watchman, never been any need,’ Richardson answered. ‘We never keep much money at the works – it’s taken to the bank every night, and collected every morning.’
‘Thank you,’ Roger said.
They started their rounds. Richardson didn’t answer Tenterden’s question at first, and it looked as if he were going to evade it; but as they reached the Keyboard Room, where every one of the Monotype machines was being manned by a quickwitted operator, with its big keyboard and the little spool joggling all the time. ‘No one in the Keyboard Room here, no one downstairs, all the machine shops were at full complement,’ Richardson said abruptly. ‘Two engineers, one labourer, one reader, two girls from the bindery, two men from the warehouses, that’s the total of absentees.’
‘Who were the girls?’ asked Roger.
Richardson glanced at him uneasily. ‘A Nellie Williams and Doris Blake.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Tenterden, and they reached the first of the clocks which Jensen had used every night.
Richardson called the chargehand. Roger asked if anything at all unusual had been noticed when the staff had first arrived, and was assured that everything had been normal. The tap-tap-tap of the keyboards went on all the time; it was as noisy as being in a room with a dozen typists. Next door, the smell of molten metal was very strong, and the attendants were keeping a watchful eye on their machines. Roger found himself watching the bright silvery letters emerging from the complicated mechanism, and suddenly making up a line of print, but he did not pay these particular attention. They went through all the shops, and in some the roar of the machines was almost deafening. Two great rotaries were whirling round at unbelievable speed, and no one here took any notice of the newcomers.
One elderly man gave the same answers about the time clock in that room.
In the sewing and binding rooms hundreds of girls in white smocks and white caps were all doing their job swiftly and mechanically. Here and there was a little party, standing together and talking and laughing, completely unembarrassed by Richardson’s presence.
These were watching a long machine which was attaching the brightly coloured covers to paper-back books when one of Tenterden’s men came hurrying, and for the first time everyone seemed to stop, every eye was turned towards the detective. Tenterden stood still.
‘What is it, James?’
‘Thought you’d better know, sir, you were right about the identity of the second body.’
Richardson gasped: ‘Second?’
‘That’s right,’ said Tenterden, and rubbed his big jowl; Roger thought that he looked really distressed, although he tried to hide it. ‘Nearly through here now,’ he added, and they went on through the doorway which Jensen had used last night. Outside, he stopped, and went on: ‘All right for me to take Mr West into the Engineering Shop, sir?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Richardson said, and his eyes seemed to bulge. ‘Machine Shop. What are you telling me, Mr Tenterden? Are you going to see anyone in particular?’
‘Yes, sir. Charlie Blake.’
‘Is that second—?’ Richardson broke off.
‘Afraid it’s Doris Blake, sir,’ said the Corby superintendent. ‘I thought if we looked through the Engineering Shop on our way, so to speak, we could just have a word in passing with Charlie.’
Richardson said: ‘Doris Blake. Why, she’s worked here since she was fifteen.’
Yes, thought Roger, everyone belongs here. For the first time he felt a surge of annoyance with Tenterden, comprehending what Brown had suspected from the first. Tenterden was virtually taking charge, and yet operating under the cover of the two men from the Yard. He was doing exactly what he wanted to do, putting inquiries in hand without first asking Roger if that was the way he wanted the investigation to go, or if he agreed. It might become necessary to check him, but Roger let it pass this time. Richardson looked even more pale and nervous, and kept repeating the girl’s name.
It was Tenterden who opened the big Engineering Shop, with its lathes, its turning machines, its long benches with the racks of tools above them, the heavy odour of oil, and the sharp odour of metal which had just been worked.
Sitting in a small office which was partitioned off from the main shop was a handsome, grey-haired man, who was staring at them. Even at that distance, of thirty or forty feet, it was easy to see that he was red-eyed and pale looking; in fact, he seemed ill. He rose from his stool as the three men approached, and Roger was quite sure that he was sending Tenterden a silent appeal.
‘Don’t say a word to him yet, except about the time clock,’ Roger said. ‘I’d rather talk to him when he’s alone.’ Tenterden nodded, and they went forward.
Chapter Six
Suspect
Charlie Blake’s eyes were the eyes of a man with a load of worry on his mind, of a man who had not slept. There were lines of tension at his mouth, pulling down the well-shaped lips. Making allowances for this, he was exceptionally good-looking, and of really distinguished appearance, rather like a film actor playing the part of an engineer. He was tall, his hair was silvery white and plentiful, and it was crimped enough to be attractive w
ithout being effeminate. His skin was unusually clear for a man in his sixties.
When the three men entered the Engineering Shop he was sitting down at his desk. He stood up and came towards them. Beyond him, fastened to cup hooks round the walls, were sheaves of paper, obviously time-sheets, notes of instructions, and orders for materials. The little office was very tidy, and so was the desk. After that one long, pleading look at Tenterden, he spoke to Sydney Richardson.
‘Good evening, sir,’
‘Hallo, Charlie,’ Richardson said. ‘This is Mr West of Scotland Yard. He wants to know if you noticed anything unusual in the shop this morning, especially at the time clock.’
‘No, I can’t say I did,’ said Blake. He had a pleasant speaking voice, with less pronounced local accent than Tenterden. ‘It was going as usual. The card hadn’t been stamped, mind you.’ He moved towards the time clock, which was at one side of the office, and took out a card from a rack on the wall nearby; every clock had its card rack, and mechanism to register each of the night-watchman’s visits.
‘Anything wrong at all?’ asked Richardson.
‘No, sir, nothing unusual,’ said Blake. ‘They had that bit of trouble on the guillotine this morning. We had a two-hour stand-off on that, but we’ve had it before.’
‘Everything else normal?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thanks,’ said Roger, and led the way out of the Engineering Shop and towards a big paper warehouse, a maze of passages running among great stacks of flat paper which stretched high above their heads. Big hoists and trolleys were stored at one end of this warehouse. There were other warehouses with fat rolls of paper, sheds containing inks and general stores; and none of the time clocks in the warehouse section had been stamped.
They were back at the main offices when a siren blew. Almost instantaneously a dozen or so girls and several men appeared from doorways, and began to line up at the time clocks near the main gates, to stamp their cards. By the time Roger and the others reached the wages office a hundred people were waiting, and the clocks were going ting, ting, ting.
