Beware This Boy

by Maureen Jennings

  Tyler made a sympathetic cluck. “I’m with you on that, mate. These toffs don’t understand how it works down on the front line, do they?”

  Riley scowled. “You can say that again. Nobody docks their wages, do they.”

  Cudmore melted into the woodwork. Tyler offered Riley a cigarette, which he took and lit hungrily.

  “Tell me in your own words what happened on Sunday.”

  Riley nodded in the direction of the secretary. “No offence, but does Mr. Cudmore need to be here?”

  “He’s taking notes for me, but he’ll leave if you prefer.”

  “It’s just that I don’t want anything I say to go beyond this room, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” said Tyler. “Mr. Cudmore?”

  “Think of me as simply a recording machine.”

  “Right. Now where were we?”

  Riley took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his nose. Tyler was rather surprised to see that he seemed on the verge of tears.

  “Sorry, sir. Nasty it was.” He blew hard into his handkerchief, then folded it carefully away in his pocket. “I was by myself in the magazine shed. It’s my job to keep track of the number of detonators that come in and out. Yesterday there was a problem with the count. I was missing fifty detonators. What I had coming in filled from Section A didn’t agree with the number that was on the sheet as had been delivered. I was doing a recount. I can’t just let the fuses go out without a proper tally, can I.”

  “And did you find the discrepancy?” Tyler asked.

  “Matter of fact, I didn’t. We never got back to it, given what happened.”

  “What did you do when you heard the explosion?”

  “I ran out to see what was going on.” Riley’s shoulders were tense. “It was a horrible sight. I knew all of those girls, you see. Nicer bunch you couldn’t hope for.” The handkerchief came out again and Tyler waited until Riley could continue.

  “I should have been more helpful, I know I should, but I didn’t know what to do. Fortunately we’ve been well drilled on fires and there were men from the floor on the spot. The one bench was burning and there was a hole in the roof, but they had the hose on it. I just made sure the other workers were got out of the building. We didn’t know if the whole thing was going to blow, you see.”

  “Quick thinking, Mr. Riley,” murmured Cudmore, and Riley gave him a nod of gratitude.

  “Mr. Riley, in your opinion is there any bad feeling among the workers that might lead them to … lead them to try to disrupt the work of the factory, for instance?”

  “Blimey. You mean sabotage? Fifth-column stuff?”

  “You could call it that.”

  Riley shook his head emphatically. “Not here. Sure, there’s the odd whingeing and moaning, but everybody knows we’re in this together. Besides, it’s too dangerous to play around. The whole damn – excuse me – the whole darned place could blow up if the Danger Section explodes.”

  He was making a good point, Tyler thought. If it was sabotage, the saboteur was taking quite a risk with his own safety, unless he was able to plan to get out of the way in good time. “And as far as you know, none of the operatives would have been the target of a personal attack?”

  Riley stared at Tyler as if he had lost his mind. “An attack? Like an assassination? What we’d like to do on Hitler?”

  “Something of that sort.”

  “How could that be? There wasn’t anybody important in that section.”

  Tyler knew what he meant but he couldn’t help thinking about what Cudmore had told him. One of the women had two children. She was certainly important to them.

  “Mr. Riley, I’d like to have a look at the actual fuses. Would that be possible?”

  “The empty ones are stacked in the magazine shed. You can see those.”

  “Good. Let’s go, shall we.”

  The shed was situated between the two sections, which were connected to it by short passageways. It was long and narrow but it did have windows, although they were small and high up. Wooden boxes were stacked on shelves that lined one of the walls.

  “Walk me through what happens to the fuses, will you, Mr. Riley.”

  The magazine-keeper indicated a ramp that led up to the door. “The dillie man brings the filled fuses in that entrance. They’re in a box such as is on the shelves here. He’s picked them up from Section A, where they’ve been filled with powder. He puts the box down here.” He pointed. “I count them and check them against the delivery slip that he gives me. He’s got that from the lorry that brings the casings to the factory. While I’m doing me counting, dillie man goes out that exit ramp to Section B with another magazine box that’s been marked all present and correct. That’s it, really. I divide me time between here and Section A, where I help supervise what’s being done.”

  “The dillie man doesn’t wait while you do the count?”

  “Not usually. He’s coming and going with his deliveries.”

  Tyler removed a black pot from one of the boxes. It was light, made of some sort of papier mâché, and cylindrical in shape. He placed it on the floor and, squatting down, he tapped it with his finger. It wobbled a little. He gave it a harder tap and it fell over.

  “It’s not very stable,” he said to Riley.

  “I know. Mind you, when it’s filled with fuses, it’s heavier, but I’ve never thought it was very safe myself.”

  “The centre of gravity should be higher.”

  “I think you’re right there, Inspector.”

  Tyler replaced the pot in the box.

  Cudmore was standing at the head of the exit ramp, and with Tyler and Riley in the middle of the floor, the space felt cramped.

  “There’s not a lot of room in here, is there, Mr. Riley?”

  “No, there aren’t.”

  Tyler went on. “When you were counting the detonators for the second time, was anybody else with you?”

  “What do you mean by that, sir?”

  “Earlier you said, we. ‘We never got back to it.’ Was anyone else helping you with the count?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Not the dillie man, for instance?”

  “No.”

  “So you were by yourself?”

  Riley slapped at his own head. “Blimey, I almost forgot. I asked the supervisor of the incoming shift to give me a hand. But we’d only just got started when the explosion happened.”

  “I understand that is Mrs. Castleford?”

  Riley nodded. He was looking decidedly uncomfortable.

  “Did she go with you to see what had happened?”

  “Lord, no. I’d a feeling it was going to be bad. You don’t get a bang like that in a munitions factory without it being bad. I made her stay where she was while I went and checked.”

  Tyler glanced over at Cudmore, whose expression was inscrutable. “Thank you, Mr. Riley. That’s all for now. You’ve been most helpful.”

  Tyler insisted that Riley go home, and Cudmore promised him he would in fact be paid overtime for coming in today.

  “Mick Smith is waiting in the canteen,” said the secretary. “Shall I fetch him?”

  “Seeing as there’s nobody in, why don’t I talk to him there. My, er, office quarters are on the tight side.”

  “Sorry, Inspector. But by all means we can move operations. I can probably make us some tea if you’d like.”

  “Tea all round, Mr. Cudmore.”

  He followed the secretary back to the factory floor. A few dim lights were on around the periphery but the place was deep in shadow. The canteen was brighter but also empty except for a man reading a newspaper at one of the tables and a cleaner in overalls who was mopping the floor.

  As they came over towards him, the man put away his paper at once and leapt to his feet. Cudmore introduced him as Mick Smith and he and Tyler shook hands. Cudmore explained they would do the interview there in the canteen.

  “Fine with me,” said Smith.

  Ty
ler indicated the cleaner. “Maybe he could go somewhere else for the time being.”

  “I’ll take care of it, sir,” said Cudmore.

  He was about to rush off when Tyler stopped him. “Oh, Mr. Cudmore, you said the caretaker was in the factory yesterday. I might as well speak to him next.”

  “I’ll let him know.”

  He trotted off and Tyler sat down at the table across from Smith. He was probably in his early forties, dark complexioned, with dark, curly hair cut close. There was something of a Gypsy look to him.

  Tyler offered him a cigarette. “We’ll just wait for Mr. Cudmore if you don’t mind. He’s taking notes for me.”

  Smith grinned. “Good secretary then, in’e?” He lit the cigarette and they smoked in silence until Cudmore returned with two cups of tea. Tyler took a swallow, as did Smith.

  “Strong enough to stand by itself, as my granny would say.”

  “And sweet enough to charm any man,” added Smith.

  Tyler put down his cup and gave Smith more or less the same preamble he’d given Riley.

  Smith was quiet for a few moments, concentrating on his tea. “To my knowledge, there was nothing different at all in the routine. I picks up the crates containing fuse casings from the lorry, like I usually do, and puts ’em on the conveyor belt so they can be properly calibrated. Then I drives around to where they’re coming off the belt. I picks ’em up and transports ’em to Section A. There I picks up a finished box and brings ’em into the magazine shed to be counted. The supervisor, Phil Riley, has to make sure they is present and correct.” Smith’s accent was pure Brummie and Tyler had a hard time understanding him some of the time.

  “And did he? Yesterday, did Mr. Riley make sure all was in order?” he asked.

  “Well ’e did and ’e didn’t. We was all right at start, but at the end of shift ’e was in a lather because delivery sheet wasn’t tallying with number of fuses that had been filled. ’E kept going on about missing some, or having too many. Sorry to say, sir, I didn’t pay ’im much mind. ’E’s a mitherer and often keeps me back fussing over the numbers, which always turn out to be wrong. So I just carried on and left ’im to sort out the other stuff.”

  “Was yours the last box to be delivered to Section B before the accident?”

  “It was. The first shift hadn’t finished their quota. There’s often an overlap between shifts, so that wasn’t unusual. Normally the dillie man picks up the assembled fuses and takes ’em back to the loading dock. That’s when we have to wave our red flag, because we go through the main floor and we don’t want anybody walking into us.” He tapped his finger to his nose. “I can see what you’re thinking, Inspector. Why go through the main floor?”

  “I was wondering about that.”

  “Because Mr. Endicott doesn’t want the expense of building a separate passageway, that’s why. Am I right, Mr. Cudmore?”

  The secretary pursed his lips. “We are looking into it.”

  Tyler rescued him. “When you were transporting the magazine boxes, Mr. Smith, did you notice anything at all that was out of the ordinary?”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but like what?”

  Tyler waved his hand. “Oh, I don’t know. Anything. Did the box seem the usual weight or was it heavier than usual? Did any of the pots look damaged?”

  “Like I said, sir, I’d swear on my mother’s grave the boxes were no different from the usual. And I don’t mess around with that stuff. No, sir. Them’s deadly weapons we’re dealing with. No, I would have noticed if anything was tampered with … which is what you’re getting at, isn’t it?”

  “Frankly, I’m treating this incident as an accident. I’m more interested if you noticed if the pots were badly packed or something like that.”

  “No, sir, I didn’t see that they were.”

  Tyler finished his tea. “You did say ‘tampered with,’ Mr. Smith. If such a thing had happened, God forbid, but if it had, do you yourself have an opinion as to how it might have occurred?”

  Smith contemplated the question with pursed lips. “Truth to tell, sir, I don’t. It’s not that the detonators are guarded exactly but they are always somebody’s responsibility. I’m not keen to blow myself up, nor I doubt is Phil Riley nor Joe Abbott, who is the afternoon dillie man. ’E does the same job I do.”

  “You’ve got a point there. Are the fuses always within your view?”

  “While they’re on my trolley they are.”

  “And by the same token, are you yourself always within sight of the other workers?”

  Smith had gone back to his cigarette, and he blew out some more smoke. “Come to think of it, there’s two places where I’m not. When I get the casings from the loading bay, I’m on the floor with the other workers. But when I’ve got the finished ones from the conveyor belt, I exit through a fire door to Section A. You can see it from here if you look down. If you think of yourself coming into the main floor as facing north, which strictly speaking you’re not, but anyways, let’s say you’re facing north. The exit to the passageway is northeast. The loading dock is northwest. With me so far?”

  “I am indeed, Mr. Smith. Please go on.”

  “So I go through that fire door with me casings by way of a short connecting passageway, more of a tunnel really – no windows. Yet another door, just to make my life more difficult, and I’m in Section A. Then they all see me and I see them. After that, with a new load, I come back through the same door into the same passage, but instead of going back to the floor, I veer off into the magazine shed for the count. Mr. Riley is of course in there, and unless he’s distracted, he sees me.”

  Smith was speaking slowly and deliberately as if Tyler were a dull pupil. Either that or he wanted to make sure Cudmore was keeping up. From what Tyler had seen so far, the secretary had no difficulty.

  “All right so far, sir?”

  Tyler nodded.

  “So I’d got myself to the magazine shed, hadn’t I.”

  “Yes, you had. Do go on.”

  “Me, I don’t know why we have to have a count at this stage. I mean, where are the fuses going to go to? If they’ve come in, as they have, from the floor, there should be exactly the same number of them coming from Section A. However, them’s the rules and not for me to question why. So, from the magazine shed I pick up a box that’s passed muster and is marked as such and I exits through another short tunnel, which connects into Section B.”

  He glanced over at Tyler. “Now, you asked me if I was always in somebody’s sight. Well, truth is, nobody sees me in those two passageways. If I want to pick my nose or scratch my balls, I can. Begging your pardon, Mr. Cudmore.”

  The secretary managed a smile.

  “And how long are you in each passageway, Mr. Smith?” Tyler asked.

  “Less than a minute. Seconds, really. But I get the drift of what you’re saying, Inspector. If anybody was doing some dirty work, like, where could they do it?”

  “And?”

  “Can’t tell you. Me, I’m not a loonie. This place, you blow up one thing, the whole lot could go. Like I said, I’ve not got any desire to do myself in. Too much living I want to do.”

  “Given the routine as you’ve described it to me, I’d think that’s a lot of moving around for such dangerous material.”

  “I agree with you there, sir. An awful lot of moving around. It should be looked into. Right, Mr. Cudmore?” He stubbed out his cigarette. “When do you think we can get back to work, sir? We mustn’t slow down production. We’ve got to get the weapons to our soldiers or we’re done for.”

  “You’re quite right about that, Mr. Smith. But I’m confident we’ll never be defeated. Too much toughness in us Brits for that, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I certainly would, sir.”

  “Some areas of the factory will be in operation tomorrow,” interjected Cudmore.

  “Is that it, then, sir?” Smith asked Tyler.

  “Yes, it is. Thanks for your help.”

&nbs
p; Smith got to his feet. “Just call on me if you need to.” He turned smartly on his heel and left.

  Tyler gave himself a stretch while he was waiting for Cudmore to fetch the caretaker, who’d been relegated to the kitchen. He thought about the two interviews so far. Riley had seemed nervous and edgy. He was covering up something. Tyler sighed. He guessed it was because Riley was having a bit on the side with Mrs. Castleford. Unfaithfulness in marriage tends to sully the conscience, as he knew only too well. Smith, on the other hand, seemed straightforward enough. He’d made a good point about the excessive moving around of the detonators. That should be looked into. But there was something niggling at the back of Tyler’s mind about his Brummie friend. He couldn’t put his finger on it.

  Cudmore returned. “He’ll be here directly, sir.” He got his notebook at the ready.

  “His name is Dmitri Wolfsiewicz but we all call him Wolf. Easier all round. He’s a refugee from Poland. He’s been here for three months. Good hard-working fellow. Doesn’t speak much English. But then we can hardly blame him. English is such a peculiar language, isn’t it.”

  Tyler blinked at him. “Not anything I’ve given much thought to, Mr. Cudmore, but you’re probably right.”

  The caretaker appeared. He’d removed his overalls and was wearing a brown tweed suit that was too large for him and practically shouted “donation from the WVS.” He was young, probably still in his twenties, but his face was thin to the point of emaciation. He moved like somebody much older.

  What had happened to him? Tyler wondered.

  “I won’t keep you long, Mr. Wolfsiewicz,” he said. “Just a few questions.” The man looked at him in surprise.

  Tyler realized he’d made the common faux pas of speaking more loudly than usual, as if Wolf were hard of hearing rather than short of English. He lowered his voice to a normal volume. “I wonder if you could tell me about Sunday.”

  “What you like to know?”

  “Frankly, anything you can tell me. I’m just trying to figure out what happened. I understand you are the caretaker here. Were you in the vicinity when the explosion happened?”

  Wolf was watching Tyler’s lips as if he were indeed deaf. “Yes, I do caretaking. I was in – on the floor.” He spoke slowly, enunciating carefully.