Chapter 6
In his office, Fusil sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. He must be getting old. Pressure of work was making him feel tired now where, five years before, it would not have done so.
If he was going to make the top ranks, he thought, eyes still shut, he’d have to get promotion before long. Of course, he wasn’t going to hang on in the borough force, but if this became amalgamated in the county force in time, it would be difficult to know whether to remain then or to apply to another and larger force. A man could ruin his career by guessing wrongly at this stage: many a detective chief superintendent was less efficient, less able, than the detective inspectors under him, but had guessed right.
The telephone rang. The county forensic laboratory reported that traces of the drug, Pentothal, and some alcohol, had been found in the viscera of the dead man and traces of paraffin had been detected in the charred wood. Fusil began to doodle on a sheet of paper. “What can you tell me about Pentothal?”
“It’s an ultra-short action barbiturate, of anaesthetic duration. Alcohol adds dangerously to its hypnotic effect. If you’ve had an operation, you may have come across it. One moment you’re conscious, the next you’re not. It comes in powder form or solution. One interesting point, normally it’s metabolised by the body and it’s only if the liver is degenerated that you can expect to find traces of it. You’ll remember, this man’s liver was degenerated.”
“He was drugged, then?”
“Depends in what sense you use the word. He could have been addicted to the stuff.”
“To Pentothal?” asked Fusil, in surprise.
The scientist laughed harshly. “You can’t name a barbiturate that someone hasn’t become addicted to.”
“Is there any way of proving he was addicted, or not?”
“We can’t tell you. That information will have to come from your end.”
Fusil dropped the pencil on to the paper. “Even if he was addicted, surely he wouldn’t take the stuff just before starting on a robbery?”
“Don’t forget the alcohol. He could have taken a small dose that normally wouldn’t have impaired his actions, then helped himself to a drink in the cellars — he might not have known what hit him.”
Fusil thought it unlikely that a villain addicted to Pentothal wouldn’t know from experience the effects of adding alcohol, but he didn’t argue. “Moving on to the traces of paraffin — can you say at what sort of concentration it was?”
“Not really, but the fact we could trace it that long after the fire means it was pretty generously applied.”
After thanking the other, Fusil rang off. Assuming the manager of Verlay’s was correct and was telling the truth, there had been no paraffin on the premises and therefore this fire had to be arson. Had the intruder, high on the barbiturate, poured himself out a quick drink after setting fire to the cellar and then collapsed? It made a very unlikely sequence of events.
Fusil left his room and went through to Braddon’s. Braddon was talking on the telephone. As Fusil waited, he stared at the wall calendar which showed a young lady displaying as many of her natural charms as she was probably legally allowed to. In a vague sort of a way, he was surprised at Braddon’s having such a calendar.
Braddon replaced the receiver. “That was the manager of the Northcote Company, sir. They can tell us the hydraulic jack was made five years ago, was probably sold in the south-east, and nothing more.”
“Hell!” Fusil sat down on the edge of the desk. “Don’t they believe in records?”
“Not the kind that will help us.”
“Bloody inefficiency.”
Braddon waited, then said: “I’m just back from the Jack of Hearts. The owner of the café gave me the name of a bloke who saw the villains arrive and nick the lorry.”
“Did he!” exclaimed Fusil.
“It’s no good, sir. I saw the bloke, O’Farrell. He was in the cab of his lorry with a broad. He was so het-up he hardly knew whether it was night or day.”
“D’you mean to tell me he can’t help at all?”
“He saw a van and two men. He doesn’t begin to know what the men looked like. He saw them drive the lorry off and never thought anything of it. About the only thing he did notice was that one of the men seemed to walk stiffly on one leg, but what…”
“Stiffly?” said Fusil sharply. “What’s he mean — limping?”
“Not really limping — just not as smoothly as normal. But is that of any significance?”
“The P.M. found the dead man had a congenital hip defect which probably made him move with some slight difficulty.” Braddon thought about it and then shook his head. “But if the dead man helped nick the whisky, why bother to break into a wine shop that night? He’d have had enough booze to drown in.”
“If it’s the same man, the answer has to be that he didn’t. He was murdered and the fire was to try and hide that fact.”
“If it is the same man.”
Fusil did not need to be reminded how tenuous was the evidence for this.
*
Below South Castle Gate, the only remaining medieval city gateway, the character of High Street changed from a shopping area to one of commerce and the offices and warehouses became shabbier the nearer they were to the docks.
The shipping offices, halfway between South Castle Gate and the docks, were far more comfortable than the exterior of the building suggested. Kerr went in and came to the reception area which was staffed by an attractive brunette. He told her he’d come to see the marine superintendent. In the days before he’d been engaged, she’d have made a very tasty dish. She smiled at him and suggested he sit down while she telephoned Captain Elliott. As she spoke on the telephone, he noticed how slim was her waist. Just made for holding. Her smile had plainly said she was free for a night out.
Captain Elliott’s office was up on the first floor. He was a youngish man, well dressed, and with a pleasant, friendly nature that was far removed from the traditional picture of an autocratic ship’s captain.
“A considerable quantity of drink is loaded aboard the passenger ships for passenger consumption,” said Captain Elliott, in answer to Kerr. “This is especially so when they’re off on a long trip to New Zealand and the west coast of U.S.A., or an extended cruise which starts from the U.S.A. But as to how many bottles of whisky go aboard and who knows when they’re due, I just don’t know. You need a word with someone who deals with catering. Would you like me to try to get hold of someone?”
“If you could, please.”
Captain Elliott looked at his watch. “It’s getting on, but Charlie should still be around. Charlie knows everything.”
Charlie proved to be a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit, with horn-rimmed glasses and the harassed expression of someone who was underpaid yet was called on to cope with almost everything that went on in the office.
“Charlie,” said Captain Elliott, “Detective Constable Kerr is from the local C.I.D. and he wants to know how all the whisky for the passengers is delivered to our ships, who’s responsible for receiving it, who would know when it’s due to arrive, and all that sort of thing.”
Charlie had so hoarse and gravelly a voice it was as if his vocal chords had been attacked with sandpaper. He had a habit of plucking at the lobe of his right ear. “At the end of each trip, the chief steward makes out his stores lists. They’ll show the drink consumption over the past trip. Then, when he’s told for certain the duration and destination of the next voyage, and how many passengers, he makes out a requisition note for all the drink he’ll require.”
“What happens to that?” asked Kerr.
“It comes to this office, is checked, and the orders are put through.”
“Is the drink ordered direct from the distillers?”
“Depends on discounts and quantities. We usually get several tenders from various wholesalers and sometimes, when they deal direct, from distillers.”
“Do you order direct from MacLaren?”
“We do, yeah. Just after they started the big advertising on the telly, they offered to deal direct with us for orders over a hundred cases at a time: they quoted delivery F.O.B. at a price a bob a bottle under anyone else. We’ve bought a lot of whisky from ’em, especially now it’s got so popular. The wholesalers moaned, of course, but they couldn’t match the price.”
“Who would give the time of delivery?”
“This office. We say the time and dock and the distillers arrange it all. We’ve been let down, but it’s never been MacLaren’s fault — the stuff got pinched, like the other day. They’ve always got another load to us in time for sailing, though.”
“Was the load you’ve just lost for the Maltechara?”
“That’s right.”
“And the whisky was for the same ship the other times?”
Charlie thought back. “That’s odd! I’m pretty sure it was for her each time. Hey — what does that add up to?”
Kerr did not answer directly. “Who gives the distillers the actual delivery time?”
“Mostly, it’s me,” replied Charlie. “I like to see it aboard at least five days before she sails — that way, if there’s any trouble there’s time to put it right. Send a ship off without any Scotch aboard and you’ll never hear the end of the complaints from the passengers.”
“Would you tell someone aboard when the whisky was due?”
“I give the chief steward the day and time.”
“Who would he tell?”
“The stewards he’d need for the loading party. They have to load their own stores — always moaning about it. Never yet met a steward who liked work.”
“Who’s chief steward on the Maltechara?”
“Jackson. Been on her for several years, now. Come to think of it, he must be close to being the senior chief steward in the fleet.”
“Would he be aboard?”
Charlie fiddled with the lobe of his ear. “Now you’ve got me,” he admitted reluctantly.
“We can soon check,” said Captain Elliott.
The chief steward was aboard the ship. Kerr thanked the two men for their help, then left the offices and caught a bus to the New Docks.
The New Docks — no complex of berths, but a two-mile long wharf — were in sharp contrast to the Old Docks. Built just before World War 2, almost bombed flat, and then rebuilt in the early 40s, they were clean, airy, and recently largely modernised, with special passenger terminals and bulk handling facilities. The M.V. Maltechara lay at berth 16. She was an eighteen-year-old, twenty-five-thousand-ton ship, modernised three years before at a sum greater than she had originally cost. In addition to her passenger accommodation there were four holds, three for’d and one aft, which carried chilled or frozen cargo homeward and general cargo outward.
Kerr boarded by the for’d of two gangways. A seaman asked him for his boarding pass and Kerr showed his warrant card. The seaman sullenly allowed him aboard.
Ships always offered romance to Kerr. They contained the mystery of foreign lands, the glamour of tropical islands, the beauty of moonlit seas. Even to walk down the long, featureless alleyways, off which were cross-alleyways and cabins, was to sample this romance… A night of calm with the ship barely moving to the gentle rolling Pacific swell. The moon, low in the tropical sky, sending its yellow-silver shaft across the sparkling water. The stars, as sharply bright as coruscating diamonds. Helen, nestling against him, loving, passionate, her horizons swept wide open by their tumultuous love… Hell, thought Kerr, where did one go to buy the tickets?
The chief steward’s cabin was right down below, somewhere near the waterline, on B deck, just for’d of the complex of galleys, store rooms, and frozen food lockers.
The door to the cabin was open: Kerr knocked on it.
“Come on, come on, man. What’s it now?” Jackson was working at his desk which was inches deep in papers.
“Mr. Jackson?”
Jackson looked round. “Yes?” He spoke testily. He was a large man, with a body that was rapidly slackening as muscle turned into fat. He was almost bald, his complexion was florid, and his cheeks bagged out as if he were squirrelling nuts inside them.
“Detective Constable Kerr, borough C.I.D.”
Jackson’s face was far too expressive: it portrayed first surprise, then fear.
Kerr stepped inside the cabin. “Would you have a moment or two to answer some questions?”
“What… what’s wrong?” Jackson muttered, trying to cover up his feelings and as a result beginning to speak far too quickly. “I mean, what brings the police aboard? It’s the first time… It’s years since…” He tailed off into silence, as if realising the contrary effect his hurried, scrambled words must have.
Kerr, unasked, sat down on the settee. One thing was certain — the chief steward was engaged in some sort of fiddle or he couldn’t possibly be so upset by the arrival of one lowly D.C. “I’d like a word about the whisky that gets delivered aboard.”
“The… the whisky?” croaked Jackson.
Kerr almost began to feel sorry for the other. “It’s delivered each trip, isn’t it, for the passenger stores?”
“That’s right. But…”
“But what?”
“Nothing,” mumbled Jackson.
“You know when a delivery of whisky is due?”
“No. That is…”
“Your shore office seemed to think you’re always given the date and time of any coming delivery.”
Jackson gulped heavily. “I… I didn’t know that’s what you were talking about,” he said weakly.
“D’you pass this information on?”
“Of course not. Never.”
“Then you don’t have to detail any stewards who are going to load it?”
“Oh! …Oh, yes.”
“How long beforehand do you tell them?” Jackson began to sweat and he tried, absurdly, to wipe the sweat from his face under the guise of blowing his nose. “A… a couple of days.”
“Have you ever told anyone else about the time and date of the deliveries of whisky?”
“Certainly not. Of course I haven’t.”
“Are you quite certain?”
The sweat rolled down Jackson’s face.
“Has anyone ever approached you to try and discover when the whisky from MacLaren’s distillery is due?”
“No.”
“The facts suggest someone has.”
“I swear it’s not me.”
“Four times a load of MacLaren whisky has been hijacked on the road. This is the only ship which has been in port on each occasion and the whisky was always for this ship.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.” His voice rose. “I’m not the only person who knows about the deliveries. The people in the shore office know. Go and ask them…”
“We’ll be questioning everyone who matters. We’ll check bank accounts and savings accounts for unexplained sums of money. We’ll be looking for regular housekeeping drawings that are suddenly stopped for a while — because money is being obtained from somewhere else. We’ll search for a car that’s too expensive for a bloke’s wage, new furnishings in the house, too many visits to expensive restaurants… It’s an odd fact how difficult it is to hide money if one tries to lead a normal, respectable life.” Kerr sat back and waited. Fusil had taught him the value of silence.
He was watching Jackson closely and he saw a sudden tightening of the other’s mouth. That could surely signify only one thing — Jackson, frightened and frantic, was desperately going to try and save himself by denying everything, no matter what the evidence against him might be.
Kerr spoke in a casual, almost bored voice, as if he didn’t give a damn what the other did. “With a first offender, the courts are often lenient — provided that first offender has helped the police in their investigations. Of course, if he’s tried to obstruct them, the courts play it really rough.” The judges’ rules, thought Kerr, would not approve of what he’d said — the
y’d term his words both threat and inducement: but something else Fusil had taught him was that in times of mental stress few ‘amateurs’ would ever remember the exact words a detective used.
Jackson’s features dissolved into an expression of acute misery. He tried to speak twice, but couldn’t find the words. He looked at Kerr, then away. He licked his lips. “I… I didn’t realise… I mean I thought it wouldn’t really matter…”
No one could deny the brilliance of his interrogation, thought Kerr.
*
“So you persuaded him to confess,” said Fusil. He looked up. “What are you waiting for now? Immediate promotion?”
“No, sir,” said Kerr stiffly.
“That’s just as well, isn’t it?” Fusil smiled. “Did you take a statement and get him to sign it?”
“Yes, sir, here it is.” Kerr handed over his notebook.
Fusil read through the statement. “Blast!” he muttered. “Doesn’t get us very far, does it? Still, that’s not your fault,” he added, with rare magnanimity. “Well done. Leave the notebook with me.”
Looking pleased with himself, Kerr went out.
Fusil began to read the statement through again, but was interrupted by the telephone. It was a call from county H.Q. The fingerprints of the dead man had been identified as being Edward Finnigan’s. He had plenty of form.
After writing down Finnigan’s last known address, Fusil rang off. He began to tap on the desk with his fingers. Had Finnigan and others conceived the whisky job and carried it out from the beginning, or had they merely been employed to do the hijacking? The answer to this would tell whether there was a centre-man. How in the hell was the whisky being disposed of?
Chapter 7
Fusil stared down at the list of all the wine shops and wholesalers in Fortrow. Out of all the names there, only two had a sufficient trade in MacLaren whisky to be able to absorb the quantities which had been stolen over the past two years.
Who’d organised the thefts? A Londoner? Wouldn’t a London villain have employed a London mob to carry out the hijacking? Yet Finnigan was a local villain. Again, Finnigan had been murdered — why? — several hours after the hijacking. Surely it was inconceivable that any London mob would have hung around Fortrow that long? Accept the theft had been organised locally and the stolen whisky was being flogged locally, how was the sale of it being covered up? A few bottles to each pub? There weren’t nearly enough pubs in the area and not a single publican reported any such approach. Were the labels on the export bottles being soaked off and being replaced by ordinary labels? All the labels from the bottles which his D.C.s had brought in had been rushed up to MacLaren by passenger train, car, and aircraft for expert examination. The result: All had been declared genuine. (The police canteen supervisor had moaned like hell at having to buy so many unlabelled bottles of MacLaren whisky all at the same time.) Then how were the bottles being sold, if they were being sold locally? This question brought him back in a full circle to Findren and Sharman. Only they had the volume of sales to provide the necessary cover.
Guilt Without Proof (C.I.D. Room Book 4) Page 6
