Dick Barton and the Great Tobacco Conspiracy

by Mike Dorrell

Barton turned to wink at Snowey and Sir Richard. Then, he resumed his conversation: ‘Well, let’s say it’s a rich auntie of mine stranded in the East End and wants me to go and collect her. But the silly old trout forgot to give me the address. You wouldn’t want me to be cut off without a shilling, would you?’

  Snowey smiled to himself. Trust the governor. Once in Normandy, he’d even convinced the Jerries that they had reinforcements by dragging a load of bushes through the woods after him.

  Barton was still talking into the phone. ‘Where? W. H. Brattigan and Sons, 103 Old Street, Barking. Got it.’ He tried his charm again; ‘You’re a lovely girl – remind me to send you a pair of nylons.’

  Then, he replaced the receiver on the hook, and turned to Snowey. ‘Barking, here we come.’

  ‘I’m coming too,’ Sir Richard protested.

  ‘You’d be better employed, sir – if you’ll forgive me saying so – standing by the phone here in case we have any further calls from our playmates.’

  There was no arguing with Dick Barton’s decisive tone, Sir Richard could see that. Still, in this instance he didn’t mind taking orders from his ex-employee. Barton was the man for the job, that was clear.

  ‘Oh – very well,’ Sir Richard muttered.

  ‘Come on, Snowey.’

  And with that, they disappeared into the night.

  W. H. Brattigan and Sons turned out to be a warehouse premises in an unsalubrious part of Barking. It was part of a complex of Victorian buildings riddled with alleyways, loading bays, and arches that had seen better days.

  The Riley Monaco screeched to a halt in front of a brown painted sign with a peeling logo. Barton and Snowey quickly got out of the car clutching their torches.

  ‘You take the back, Snowey.’

  It was like being back in the old times, Snowey thought as he set off down an alley-way to the side of the warehouse.

  Barton himself started examining the main wooden door which covered most of the front of the building. It was a large affair, with a smaller door set into it. When he pushed the smaller door it swung inwards revealing a pitch black interior.

  Dick Barton stood there for a moment, waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the blackness. It was a trick he’d learnt on night patrol. Then, he squared his shoulders and stepped cautiously over the sill. Inside, it was even blacker than he had expected. After a few steps, he stopped and listened. A scuttling sound came at him through the darkness. He switched on his torch to see a a large rat scuttling between two wooden crates. He switched off his torch again. The brief moment of light had shown him that the whole interior was full of rows of crates.

  Slowly, he advanced further into the warehouse. He could feel the dark wooden towers at either side of him. Then, from the far end of the building, he heard footsteps.

  ‘Snowey?’

  ‘Got it in one, guv,’ said the friendly voice, as it punctuated the darkness.

  ‘Seen anything?’

  ‘Not a thing, sir.’ There was a slight pause. ‘Hang on, though, a minute. There’s something here.’

  The beam from Barton’s torch showed Snowey crouching in the aisle between the rows of stacked crates. He appeared to be reaching for something on the ground.

  ‘Look out, Snowey!’

  Barton had shouted almost before what he had seen had registered properly. One of the stacks of heavy crates teetered for a moment and then began to fall towards where Snowey was crouching.

  From his position, Snowey looked up, startled. The mass was moving towards him. The crates were falling slowly, slowly. It seemed an age as they came down towards him.

  Horrified, Barton watched the heavy wooden crates smash into the floor at almost the exact spot Snowey had been crouching. Then, from the top of the next pile of crates, Dick Barton saw a dark shape in a flat cap. The crates moved as the figure leapt on to the next stack. Dick Barton took a flying leap after the figure, and grabbing hold of the top of the nearest pile, managed to heave himself up on to it. After standing for a few seconds to get his bearing, Barton chased the fleeing figure across the warehouse, leaping from one pile of crates to another. Whoever it was was obviously heading for the window at the far end of the building. Dick Barton saw a chance to cut him off and took it.

  He caught up with the mystery man as he was struggling with the window. But Barton was in luck, the window was jammed. The thug turned as he sensed someone behind him, and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket for a gun.

  Barton tried one of his famous rugby tackles, and brought the man to the floor. As he fell, his cloth cap came off revealing a head that was completely hairless. Then, a heavy boot landed in Barton’s face, and he was forced to let go.

  As he got to his feet he was in time to see the window shattering as his adversary dived straight through it.

  It was only seconds later that Barton himself arrived at the opening. The cold night air blasted in. The ground outside was littered with broken wood and shards of glass. And, crunching over the debris, he could hear the sound of feet. Leaning out further he saw a large lorry waiting with its engine running, and the bald headed man was wrenching open the door of the passenger seat. Seconds later, the lorry roared away towards the warehouse gates.

  Meantime, Snowey White had managed to scramble out from the pile of crates. Luckily, they had only given him a glancing blow. As he looked up, he saw Dick Barton coming towards him over the top of a pile of crates.

  ‘Blighter got away, I’m afraid. You all right, Snowey?’

  Rubbing his head ruefully, Snowey said: ‘Not so dusty, sir. The old onion’s taking a beating tonight, but I missed the worst of it, thanks to you.’

  Barton vaulted lightly down from the crates. ‘Well, at least we know who one of our adversaries is now.’

  Snowey got to his feet. ‘You know him, sir?’

  ‘Indeed I do, Snowey – Curly Cohen – a very ugly customer in every sense of the word.’

  Snowey was slightly disappointed. ‘That’s it, then, sir, is it?’

  ‘Hardly, Snowey,’ Barton said firmly. ‘Curly’s strictly small time. A former pugilist who hangs around the East End picking up what crumbs of dirty work he can from the big boys.’

  Snowey didn’t quite understand all this. But he was beginning to enjoy being back in action again – in spite of his sore ‘onion’. ‘Still ...’

  ‘Just before that bit of excitement you said you’d seen something.’

  ‘That’s right! I did see something – it must be down there under them crates now.’ He pointed to where they had fallen. ‘Something sparkling.’

  ‘Well,’ Barton replied, as he rubbed his hands together and started to walk towards the pile. ‘Let’s get to it.’

  Barton began to push at the top crate. But the thing was heavier than he had expected. ‘Give us a hand, Snowey. Put those well known muscles to use.’

  Snowey walked over to the pile. ‘Right you are, sir. I could do with a bit of exercise.’

  Together, they both began to heave and push at the crate. It was Snowey’s help that did the trick. After a moment, the crate began to slide. A bit more effort, and down it went, unblocking the aisle.

  Snowey spotted what he was after. ‘There! There it is, sir.’

  He pointed towards the glistening thing that lay on the floor in a space between two crates.

  Dick Barton squeezed into the small space, and bent down and picked it up. It turned out to be something that he recognised. He held it up and said thoughtfully: ‘One of Miss Marley’s, I think.’

  ‘It’s an ear-ring, sir.’

  ‘That’s right, Snowey. And there’s something else, too.’ When he had finished speaking, Dick Barton bent down again and squeezed into the small space. When he emerged he was clutching two tiny scraps of torn newspaper.

  ‘These look as if they’ve been deliberately torn from whatever paper it was.’

  Snowey watched as Barton examined the newspaper. He was impatient. ‘What do
they say?’

  Barton looked at his companion. ‘Just the two words,’ he said slowly. ‘One’s got the word “chase” on it; the other word is “ever”.’

  Snowey scratched his head in bewilderment. ‘Chase ever?’

  ‘Or ever chase,’ Barton muttered.

  ‘Neither way don’t seem to mean a lot,’ Snowey commented after a while.

  ‘No,’ Barton agreed. He was thinking hard. ‘But Miss Marley obviously meant them to mean something and equally obviously meant us to find them.’

  They looked at each other in puzzlement. The mystery was getting deeper.

  Later that same night, outside the peeling logo that read ‘W. H. Brattigan and Sons’, Barton and Snowey were sitting in the Riley Monaco. They were having trouble. The starter motor was turning but the engine wouldn’t catch.

  Barton frowned at his predicament. It was highly unusual for the Riley to break down on him. It was a piece of quality machinery and he took care to see that it was maintained in impeccable condition He pressed the starter button again the same thing happened.

  ‘Strange,’ Dick Barton muttered. Then, he looked across to Snowey, who nodded at him, and they got out of the car from their respective sides.

  It was a cold night for mechanics, and Barton suspected that whatever had happened was nothing to do with a lack of maintenance. He lifted the bonnet.

  ‘Look at that sir,’ Snowey said almost immediately.

  And there, to the side of the well designed engine that had made the name of Riley famous in the racing fraternity, was a carburettor that had been deliberately smashed.

  ‘Someone’s deliberately sabotaged us, Snowey.’ It made Barton furious to see such craftsmanship so crudely damaged.

  ‘Carburettor looks like it’s been through the mangle,’ Snowey commented sympathetically. He knew how the governor felt about his car.

  ‘I noticed an all-night garage up the road,’ Dick Barton said. ‘We’ll get a cab home.’

  They started to walk down the street.

  It was about a quarter of an hour later when Barton spotted a cab with its sign lit up.

  ‘Taxi!’

  The cab stopped, pulled into the side of the road, and the driver leaned out. ‘Where to, gents?’

  ‘Somerset Mansions,’ Barton said as he walked across and began to open the door. ‘But first stop at the all night garage up the road.’

  ‘Right you are,’ the cabbie replied. Then after Snowey and Barton had got in, he changed gear and set off.

  The garage was the usual kind of place that stayed open all hours in the East End. There were a few petrol pumps, a small kiosk, and behind these, a few large sheds that must, Barton thought, be the workshops. The taxi drew into the forecourt.

  ‘Just tell them where the car is, Snowey,’ Barton said as his ex-sergeant got out of the car. ‘And that it’ll need a new carburettor.’

  ‘Right Mr Barton,’ Snowey made his way towards the garage.

  It was then that the cabbie turned around in his seat. ‘Not Mr Dick Barton is it, guv?’

  ‘That’s what my identity card says.’

  ‘Lumme,’ said the cabbie, with a look of astonishment on his face. ‘This is a turn-up for the book and no error. There’s a china of mine awaiting for you at your flat.’

  A smile crossed Dick Barton’s face.

  The man waiting for them was huddled in the doorway of Somerset Mansions with a cocoon of overcoats over him. He was obviously a determined character, Barton thought, as he got out his door key. And an enthusiastic one too.

  Barton had scarcely introduced himself when the cabbie started to talk furiously.

  ‘I sees you drive up and the young lady get out, then – just as you was driving away – these two men – nasty looking characters – comes up to her.’

  Barton let himself into the hall. Snowey and the cabbie followed behind.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I’m telling you, ain’t I?’ The cabbie continued. ‘They comes up to her – she was looking for the key in her bag – and they says something to her. Course – I couldn’t hear what they said – not at that distance.’

  ‘Quite.’

  The cabbie readjusted his pile of overcoats, then rubbed his hands together. ‘But anyway, whatever it was they said, they said it and she goes off with them in the lorry.’

  A look of interest had crossed Barton’s face at the cabbie’s last words. ‘A Leyland registration number,’ he said shrewdly.

  ‘Right!’ The cabbie was amazed at Barton’s piece of deduction.

  The special agent turned to Snowey. ‘The same lorry our friend Curly got away in tonight.’

  ‘I’d noticed the number cos it was parked just up the street and I thought to myself, I thought, that’s a queer place for a lorry, I thought.’ The cabbie was becoming quite competitive.

  Barton wanted to get to the bottom of the matter. ‘Did she resist them at all?’

  “Nah! Went off quiet as you please, guv.’

  Snowey didn’t like the sound of that: ‘That’s queer, Mr Barton, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all, Snowey.’ Barton had already been making a series of fast connections. ‘Not if they told her they were taking her to her brother.’

  The penny dropped with Snowey. ‘Oh,’ he commented. Barton took out his pigskin wallet and turned towards the cabbie who was still engaged in burrowing himself into his overcoats. ‘Well chum,’ he said as he extracted two crisp one pound notes. ‘You seem to have earned your two quid.’

  The cabbie took the money without protesting. He hadn’t been hanging about all night for nothing. ‘Thanks squire, you’re a gent.’

  Then the cabbie left and Dick Barton went into the living room of his flat followed by Snowey who was yawning something terrible. But, still as crisp as ever, Barton strode over to the telephone and dialled a number.

  As he watched Barton wait to be connected, Snowey began to wonder, and not for the first time, where the governor got his energy from. He still seemed fresh as the proverbial daisy and they’d already been on the go more than half the night.

  ‘Scotland Yard?’ Barton was saying into the telephone. ‘Detective Inspector Harrington, please ... Hello, Jimmy ... Dick Barton ... I want you to do me a favour ... Oh that was nothing.’

  Snowey had an idea of what was going on now. He knew that Dick Barton had helped the police in the past. He tried to stifle another yawn as the telephone conversation continued.

  ‘Wouldn’t you have done the same . .. ? Right then. No I’ve run across a spot of skulduggery and I want to trace the owners of a lorry that seems to be mixed up in it.’

  Snowey then heard Barton give the registration number of the Leyland vehicle that they had seen at the warehouse in Barking.

  ‘What?’ There was surprise in Barton’s voice. ‘That’s right. Where? Right – we’ll meet you there.’

  Barton put the phone down and turned towards Snowey. ‘Here we go again then,’ he said.

  Snowey heaved himself up from the armchair he had just settled into. A grin crossed his tired face. He followed his governor out.

  Then, when they were sitting in a taxi speeding across London once more, Barton began to explain.

  ‘It appears that the very same lorry was involved in a robbery at a bonded warehouse earlier tonight.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Or should I say this morning?’

  Snowey didn’t even try to stifle his yawns anymore. ‘Call it what you blooming well like, sir; it’s past my bed-time, I know that.’

  The bonded warehouse was a very different affair from the premises that they had visited in Barking earlier that same night. It was quite an impressive building with a stucco covered front, wrought iron railings, and a pair of high iron gates leading into the loading yard.

  The taxi dropped Barton and Snowey outside, a police constable opened the gates for them, and there were other signs of official activity; two police cars and an ambulance were parked nearby, and around
the immense sliding doors of the warehouse, a group of fingerprint experts were working

  Dick Barton strode across the yard to where a burly character was standing in conversation with two colleagues. Barton had no difficulty in recognising Detective Inspector Harrington – they’d met on several occasions in the past, and had developed a respect for each other. More particularly, Harrington had developed a respect for the Barton powers of deduction.

  ‘This is a rum ’un, Mr Barton,’ Harrington remarked when Barton appeared by his side.

  ‘Why so rum, Jimmy?’

  Harrington seemed glad to have someone to talk to about the mysterious occurrence. ‘They go to all the trouble to break in here, cosh the watchman and tie him up, then don’t do anything.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Not a blessed thing,’ Harrington continued. A look of bewilderment crossed his face. ‘I’m flummoxed, I don’t mind telling you.’

  ‘Doesn’t make much sense, does it?’ Dick Barton was also puzzled.

  ‘It doesn’t make any sense at all.’ It was apparent to Dick Barton that Harrington’s notions of thievery were confounded. ‘They had all the time in the world and they didn’t take a thing.’

  ‘What’s in this warehouse?’ Barton said to Harrington as Snowey appeared at his side after finishing his look around.

  ‘Tobacco.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘About half a million quid’s worth,’ Harrington replied slowly.

  Snowey let out a quiet whistle.

  ‘Right,’ Harrington commented. ‘That lorry, they could have got away with a dozen bales, I reckon?’

  ‘Worth?’ Barton wanted as much information as he could obtain.

  Harrington shrugged his shoulders. ‘Fifty thou’.’

  ‘And they just didn’t bother?’ There was a thoughtful expression on Barton’s face.

  Harrington seemed happier now that he was back in the world of routine officialdom. ‘We’ve checked against the bills of loading. Not one bale missing – not one.’

  Even Snowey began to wonder how the governor was going to get to the bottom of this one.

  ‘How do you know this lorry was involved?’ Barton asked.

  Still dealing with facts already known, Harrington was confident once again. ‘That’s how the whole thing was discovered,’ he said. ‘One of our men on the beat saw it coming out of the gates an hour or so ago – thought it was suspicious and came in to investigate.’