by John Creasey
“I’ve known food thefts have been increasing for years but didn’t realise how big it was,” Gideon replied. “Has the autopsy on Larsen been held?”
“No.”
“Get it done, quick. This afternoon, without fail.”
“Right.”
“And we need to trace Larsen’s movements for the past few days,” said Gideon. “If he was the man who set fire to the warehouse we need to know very quickly, because he wouldn’t do it for the excitement.”
“Cash,” Lemaitre said. “We found two hundred and fifty in notes stashed away, and some car or van keys. The only way we can check for that vehicle is to try all the cars and vans parked nearby. I’ve started the tracing, George, but—”
“There aren’t any buts on this job, Lem.”
“But I’ll have to withdraw the chaps I lent for the house-to-house search for Dalby and that wench.”
Gideon drew in a deep, almost painful breath. Lemaitre was quite right to raise the question, of course, and the decision had to be made. If they didn’t find the escaped murderer and the girl soon, her chance of survival was slim indeed: but the other issue was so much bigger.
“Withdraw your men. I’ll try to get some more in from the outer divisions,” he added, but he knew that it was not going to be easy. August was still the great holiday month, policemen with families liked to be away in school holiday time, and forces were stretched thin. But he must try. He rang for Tiger, who appeared at once.
“Sir Bernard asked if he could see Records and the Information Room, sir. He’s happy.”
“I wish I were. Get onto all the perimeter – not the central divisions, and see if we can get some men in for the Dalby search. There’s another emergency in NE and we’re going to have to get some of their men back.” He nodded dismissal and was lifting the telephone again while Tiger was still in the room, calling the superintendent in charge of the house-to-house search. The least he could do was tell the man what was to happen and promise as much help as possible tonight and tomorrow.
“Quite understand,” the other said. “I did hope we’d be through by Friday but it could go into the weekend, now. Overtime pay all right?”
“Yes,” replied Gideon.
“Someone will love us,” the other replied, and rang off.
Janice heard the front door of the flat open; heard it close; heard “him” go into the kitchen. There were little thumping sounds, she could not place. She was beyond real thought and near coma, the ache at her arms and shoulders intolerable. She had swooned off several times and woken up to a sweat and a frenzy of fear.
The key of her prison turned; the door opened. Fear flared again, and merged with thought, and she wanted to plead with him, promise anything, if only he would let her go from this awful position.
He touched the top of her head; gently. Gently. He unfastened the scarf round her mouth and drew it away. He freed the rope from the chain and then from her wrists, and not once did he hurt her. He slid his arms round her waist and hoisted her slowly to her feet; she could not put any weight on them because her legs were so numbed; and pins and needles began an agonising tattoo. He eased her into the big room, and helped her onto her own bed. He took her wrists, one at a time, and rubbed quite gently.
“Okay,” he said at last. “You just had to know who’s boss, that’s all. Do what you’re told and you’ll be all right.” He smiled down at her as if he really meant that and was full of affection, then said: “I’ll go and make a cuppa.” Over his shoulder, he added: “I got some milk and cream, and – but wait until you see what I got. Enough for a week, I shouldn’t wonder!”
A week?
A week here with him, now that she knew what he could be like?
She shivered violently . . .
And yet when he brought in the tea, put the tray on the foot of the bed, helped her to sit up and then poured out, the horror of her ordeal began to blur. He was obviously pleased with himself, proud of his shopping, ready for the time being to treat her well.
But what would happen if something she did or said sparked off another of those rages?
“Fascinating,” declared Dalyrymple. “Absolutely fascinating. I’d read and heard a lot about the Records room and Information but to see them in action—” He gave a gentle smile and brushed his silky, near-white moustache with an affectionate gesture. He was a tall, willowy, pink-faced man; and his manner had the benignity of a clergyman who had absolute faith in his calling. But he was nervous, Gideon thought. “I’m most grateful for the time you’re sparing, and dare to hope that it will be mutually helpful. Commander, am I right in thinking that you are more at home with a man of few words than one who tends to be over-prolix?”
Gideon smiled faintly, and said: “I like a man to be himself, sir.”
Dalyrymple looked sceptical, and then he actually chuckled. “An excellent precept – though one not always wise to follow. And now to business. It has come to me through various trade sources that the police are deeply concerned with the matter of the theft of food in bulk. Further, that you have reached a fair and reasonable conclusion that stolen food finds a retail outlet, fairly quickly. Am I right?”
“Yes,” Gideon said.
“And may I take it that what I say to you is in absolute confidence?”
“Unless it concerns a crime committed by you or known by you to have been committed, sir.”
“You are precise, Commander. I have only suspicions; but I have held them for some time. It may be said that when one gets burned one looks for the cause of the fire. I am chairman of the Board and of the largest single food retailing business in the United Kingdom, and also this year’s president of the National Association of Food Retailers.” He paused to allow Gideon to take this in, and then added: “For my own company I am concerned: for many of the members of the association I am gravely perturbed. Many face ruin. My company faces severe reductions in reasonable profits and so reductions in dividends to our shareholders. We have known for some time – a year, at least – that a carefully considered campaign of price-cutting has drawn a great deal of our custom away. By our, please take it that I mean my company and the Association members. Price-cutting is not new. It comes in various guises – or should I say disguises? But now, for over a year we have faced genuine and steadily maintained price-cutting. As a result, many of our customers have gone to the place where they can get the best value.” Again, he paused.
“So would most housewives,” Gideon said, flatly.
“Yes, indeed. And most understandable.” A smile appeared only to die at once. “We – our experts – have checked the prices against which we are having to compete. In the beginning we suspected, at this juncture we feel convinced that it, can only be done at a loss. There are no ways in which the price-cutter concerned can cut his own expenses – we have checked most carefully, have planted our own staff in a number of their stores and know that either they are losing money heavily in the short term to get the long term benefit—”
“How much do these losses run to?” asked Gideon.
“Our estimates are that one particular firm which has a variety of outlets, chiefly a supermarket chain, loses at least twenty-five million pounds a year.” Now, the tall man’s eyes were bright and questioning. “At least, Commander.”
“A pretty high total for short term losses,” Gideon said.
“Yes, indeed. Unless, of course, the losses are being offset by some other means.” Sir Bernard Dalyrymple uttered these words both slowly and solemnly. Gideon studied him intently, wondering how much guile there was behind that benign exterior, sure there was a great deal. Dalyrymple accepted the long scrutiny without any sign of embarrassment and did not change his expression until Gideon said quietly: “Offset, for instance, by buying stolen goods in bulk.”
“We understand each other perfectly,”
Dalyrymple said.
“I’m not sure I do comprehend the situation,” replied Gideon. “If our estimates are right, the total thefts might be as high as five or as low as four per cent of the wholesale turnover. Would that make such a difference? Is five per cent sufficient for such serious price-cutting?”
Dalyrymple answered so quickly that he had obviously been prepared for the question. He leaned forward, and spoke with greater vehemence than before.
“Of itself, perhaps, no. But it is enough to attract a very large share of the customers. Its extra buying potential enables it to buy its other goods at higher discounts. Add these together – a profit from bulk thefts and a profit from extra large bulk buying, and – well, Commander: at least two sizeable chain stores are in difficulty, because they cannot match the low prices quoted by this particular company. They can give neither the quality nor the service competitively. And over two thousand small shopkeepers – food shopkeepers – have gone bankrupt in the past twelve months.”
Gideon nodded, and for the first time since he had arrived Dalyrymple began to show some indications of what Gideon read as nervousness. Now he felt sure of this, for Dalyrymple went on apologetically: “This is only suspicion. The means, I mean. The facts are indisputable, but—well, the chain concerned has an American efficiency expert for its secretary, it is just conceivable that he has managed to cut corners honestly. Only just, but none the less conceivable. And it is also conceivable that some giant corporation overseas is trying to buy its way into our market at any price. But I know the American firms well, and—”
“You plump for the bulk thefts,” Gideon said.
“I do,” admitted Dalyrymple. “I’ve come to that conclusion since making the closest possible study of the present position and – let me freely admit it – since you have shown such an interest. It is a matter of great – delicacy. I can hardly accuse the Board of a successful competitor. And until I felt virtually certain I did not feel justified in coming to see you. Now—”
“Which is the company?” asked Gideon bluntly.
Dalyrymple drew in a deep breath, gave the impression that he would like to be evasive, and then answered unequivocally: “Quickturn Superstores, Commander. On their board is the Honourable Horatio Kilfoil, a son of one of the most highly respected men in commerce; Mr. Lancelot Black, who has been a member of our Association since he was a barrow-boy in London twenty years ago; one or two others who are – if I may say so—names simply to impress—the secretary is a Joseph Graaf.”
Having delivered himself of these facts, Dalyrymple went on more easily. “May I beg you not to take action until you have evidence enough to satisfy you completely? I cannot offer evidence: only suspicions and indications. But if I am right, then this company is seriously attempting to control food in the United Kingdom. It is as easy to overcharge, once one has killed the effective competition, as to undercharge. And it might be disastrous to act too quickly, to catch the small fry and allow—”
Sir Bernard Dalyrymple stopped. Possibly that was because of Gideon’s expression, possibly some warning signal sounded in his own mind. He shifted in his chair and then gave an impish smile.
“Now I am becoming prolix! And intruding into your province. Do please forgive me. And do please”—in a flash he was earnest again, even pleading, and his voice took on a deeper tone”—please prevent what could be a disaster, Mr. Gideon. Napoleon once called us a nation of shopkeepers and also remarked that an army marches on its stomach. A nation exists on its food; health, the Social Services, even political issues, depend on this.” He pushed his chair back, stood up, looked down at Gideon and went on in a slightly lighter tone: “But you are fully aware of that, I am sure, Commander.”
Gideon said: “Sir Bernard, I shall be sending some of my officers over tomorrow morning –Thursday –to scrutinise all the reports you’ve collated. Can I rely on you to give them every facility?”
“No one will ever be more welcome, and no one will have greater facilities,” Dalyrymple promised.
“Could Sir Bernard Dalyrymple be trailing a red-herring?” wondered Gideon.
Could he possibly be the man behind it all?
He was still wondering when his Yard exchange telephone rang. He did not answer for a moment, he wanted time to think over Dalyrymple’s visit, all he had said, all he had implied. He wished he had had the interview recorded, but there was still something distasteful about taping a conversation with a man who had come in good faith. The bell rang again on a longer burst, and Gideon lifted the receiver.
“Mr. Lemaitre, sir,” the operator said, and almost on top of her words there came Lemaitre’s voice with overtones of excitement.
“Commander? . . . We found the van for those keys. . . . It was parked in the yard of a Quickturn Supermarket in Whitechapel . . . . Got Charlie Larsen’s prints all over it . . . . And what’s more, it must have been outside the warehouse about the time of the fire. There are some of its tyreprints in a patch of oil, and the near-side front tyre of Larsen’s van has a lot of oil in the tread. But that’s not all—”
Lemaitre had to pause because he was out of breath; and Gideon needed the pause, to take in what he had been hearing. Thought of Dalyrymple had been driven from his mind, after mention of the yard of a Quickturn Supermarket. Between what Dalyrymple had told him and Lemaitre had to say, he had to make a decision: and he had to make it soon.
20
DECISION
“ARE you there, Commander?” Lemaitre asked at last. His voice was more controlled, the excitement less evident.
“Yes,” Gideon said.
“Larsen’s van was almost certainly used to carry at least twenty cans of jelly recently. There are some torn labels which came from the stolen cans, and marks on the inside of the van show where they stood. Larsen didn’t keep his van very clean, he carried some kind of powder, probably flour, before, and it had settled on the floorboards. The tins made marks which match up exactly with the gelignite cans for size.
Gideon had a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Do you know where he took the stuff?”
“Can’t even be sure he took it anywhere, there might have been another driver,” replied Lemaitre. “But the answer’s no, so far. I’ve put a general call out for anyone who’s seen the van, it’s a green Vauxhall with hinged sides and back.”
“Send me a note of the number,” Gideon said.
“Right.”
“Lem—have you any idea what that gelignite is to be used for?”
“I know one bloody thing, it’s going to be used to blow open safes, or strongrooms, or— hey, George!” Fresh excitement drove all formality away. “What about the refrigerator stores at Smithfield?”
“Do they lock them?” asked Gideon.
Lemaitre shook his head. “I don’t know— Commander, I’ve an urgent message coming through. Will you hold on or shall I call you back?”
“I’ll hold on,” Gideon said.
It gave him time to think. He could do with it. Now! What did he really have? He answered himself without hesitation. He really had an explanation which would fit all the circumstances, and he had it from a man who was the authority on the subject. It was absurd seriously to suspect Dalyrymple, although he might reasonably wonder whether the man’s concern was really for the general public or whether it was primarily for Serveright Stores. Nor did that greatly matter. Dalyrymple had tried to avoid implicating himself in a charge against Quickturn but he would not have named the chain, nor its directors, especially Kilfoil, unless he felt sure they were responsible. So, he came back to the question he had to decide: go slowly, amass more and more detailed evidence, or, make a move against the leaders, now.
He always favoured direct action.
But then, there was always a case for patience.
“Commander,” L
emaitre said, without warning, “that was a false alarm. Sorry.”
“Forget it,” Gideon said, and rang off. He did not wait long before pressing for Tiger and sending for Cockerill and Firmani. It was time they were brought up to date. They would see things from a different angle.
Firmani arrived first, a spring-heeled jack even when he came into the office as sedately as he could. He had a folder of papers with him but hardly needed to refer to this as he made his report. There was as yet nothing absolutely positive, but the van salesmen all seemed to work for a small wholesaler who dealt in every variety of food, except fish. The company was an old-established one but had recently been taken over by a larger group of wholesalers.
“Who wouldn’t be associated with Quickturn, would they?” asked Gideon.
Firmani made no attempt to conceal either his surprise or his disappointment.
“Connected is the word,” he said. “The new owners are a subsidiary of Quickturn, who are extending fast in the wholesale and the supermarket sides of the business. What made you gue—er—how did you know?”
Gideon was saved the need of answering, for Cockerill came in at that moment. His face still showed signs of the battering it had taken, but there was a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. He said decisively: “I think we’ve got something, sir.”
“Good. What?”
“We’ve been keeping tabs on six drivers and a few other men who seem to be involved,” Cockerill said, “and they’ve nearly all had instructions to attend a meeting at Gnocchi warehouse tomorrow at twelve noon. Officially it’s a union meeting, but the union knows nothing about it. They think the drivers might be planning a wildcat strike, but there’s no certainty. We picked the information up at pubs, and—”
“Details can come later,” interrupted Gideon. “You are quite sure of this?”
“They’ll be at the meeting all right,” Cockerill assured him. After a pause, he added: “We could get the place bugged – I mean wired up, sir – and find out what’s going on. Safer than trying to get someone into the meeting, don’t you think?”
