by John Bude
Meredith let out an exclamation of delight.
“Smuggling, sir! Rum-running!”
“Precisely,” was Thompson’s dry observation. “Though I suggest brandy rather than rum. There’s a high duty on the stuff coupled with a pretty ready sale. Well, I looked at it like this. Suppose The Admiral is mixed up with a crew of smugglers. The job would be worked something like this, I imagine. The stuff’s put ashore off the cargo boat and dumped by means of a dinghy on an isolated stretch of the foreshore. Then, by some means or other, it’s transported to the cellars of The Admiral. To make the risk worth while the profits would have to be fairly high. This means storing the spirit in bulk. Now, as you probably know, all licensed premises are liable to inspection at any time, by the local Excise Officer. How then are they to conceal the illicit spirit without the Excise man finding out? How would you set about minimizing the risk, Meredith?”
“I should unload the bulk of the stuff at places which are not under Excise supervision.”
“Exactly,” agreed the Superintendent. “In our case, the isolated garages!”
Meredith let out a whistle.
“I see, sir! I see what you’re driving at now! You mean that No. 4 collects the stuff in some way from The Admiral and then dumps it at certain garages on its route?”
Thompson nodded.
“Small quantities could then be retained on the hotel premises without risk of discovery. Then when the stock runs low, Rose gets an S.O.S. and the lorry picks up a further small quantity from one of the garages and delivers it at The Admiral. Rather a clever scheme.”
“Brilliant!” agreed Meredith. “Brilliant, sir! And how do you suggest the lorry takes in the spirit from the hotel?”
“Well, suppose they’re smuggling French brandy. It’s put up in small kegs. What’s to prevent them from slipping a couple of kegs into the cab of the lorry? After all, Prince and Bettle have got a perfectly genuine excuse for stopping outside the place. It’s my idea that they only take in the spirit when an actual load of petrol is being discharged.”
“Then it’s strange they don’t put in an advance order like any other place,” objected Meredith. “That would make it seem more genuine than ever. Instead of which they apparently have a standing arrangement with Bettle and Prince for the lorry to call whenever there’s a surplus on board.”
“Certainly a curious point,” acknowledged the Superintendent. “But remember, so far, we haven’t got down to details of their scheme. To continue, Meredith. We must now suppose that the call at the Stanley Hall and the two calls, noted by you, at the Lothwaite, were made for the purpose of taking in bottles of French brandy—let’s say half a dozen at a time. Wick and the others probably open up the kegs and decant the stuff into bottles. How does that explanation strike you?”
“Well, it gives us the probable meaning of Prince’s curious remark which I overheard that morning, sir.”
“Namely?”
“ ‘We thought we might have something to take in.’ Prince was referring, of course, to the brandy.”
“Yes, I see that. Go on.”
“On the other hand I didn’t see the stuff being put on to the lorry last Saturday morning at the Lothwaite. Prince disappeared with Wick into the office. But when he came out, I swear he hadn’t anything in the nature of a bottle about his person. Not one bottle, sir, let alone half a dozen!”
“Umph! Awkward. Very awkward. Are we on the wrong track again, Meredith?”
“There’s another point, sir,” went on Meredith, ignoring the Superintendent’s leading question. “If No. 4 is picking up the brandy and conveying it in small quantities to The Admiral in Whitehaven, why did it call at the Stanley Hall on its homeward run? Surely that would heighten the risk of discovery? The men would have to conceal the stuff somehow when they got back to the depot.”
“Awkward,” repeated the Superintendent glumly. “Very awkward.”
“And again, sir. No. 4 called at the Lothwaite on Saturday morning. But the lorry didn’t call on The Admiral Hotel until to-day. Surely the obvious thing to do would be to call on the two places in the same day? The spirit would then be aboard the lorry only for a short time.”
“In other words, Meredith—my theory doesn’t hold water!”
“No—I wouldn’t say that…yet, sir. I’m merely taking a review of the known facts and trying to fit them in with the new supposition. For example, where does Ormsby-Wright enter into this smuggling scheme?”
Thompson laughed.
“This time I have got an answer for you, Inspector. I mentioned before that Ormsby-Wright has got his finger in a good many pies. For all we know he may own The Admiral Hotel. I’ll go further than that. I’m going to suppose that he owns all the hotels which are served by the Nonock lorry. You recall—there were six licensed premises sporting Nonock pumps? That means he would have a chance of getting rid of exactly six times the amount of smuggled spirit. With a consequent increase in illegal profit.”
“That’s a point we should investigate, at once. Don’t you agree, sir?”
“Most decidedly,” was the Superintendent’s emphatic answer. “See what the result is of our final observation campaign tomorrow. Have the Lothwaite watched day and night as I suggested. Then on Wednesday, start investigations over in the coast towns. Concentrating, of course, on those six hotels.”
“Right, sir.”
But Tuesday turned out to be a blank day. No. 4 went out with five advance orders totalling a capacity load, and did not call at any other pump en route. On Wednesday, therefore, Meredith arranged for two plain-clothes constables to keep alternate watches on the Lothwaite, whilst he, himself, set out for Whitehaven.
Thompson had given him the address of Maltman, the Whitehaven Excise official. But on calling at his office in Turnpike Road, he learnt from his assistant that Maltman was out at Hensignham supervising a brew of beer. Armed with the address of the brewery, Meredith set out at once for the suburb. It did not take him long to run the Bee’s Head Brewery to earth. It was situtated on the fringe of a newly developed building estate, which fronted on to the Whitehaven–Egremont road. Meredith saw at a glance that it was not a big place—a few tall brick buildings, surrounded by one or two long, corrugated-iron sheds, the whole enclosed by a high brick wall. An inquiry at the main office sufficed to bring Maltman from his job. After Meredith had introduced himself and briefly stated his business, Maltman suggested a retirement to his own office.
“I have the loan of one,” he explained, “while I’m working in the brewery.”
Here he produced cigarettes, and as soon as they were comfortably settled, Meredith fired off his questions.
“I want some information, Mr. Maltman, about The Admiral Hotel. You know the place?”
“Naturally, Inspector.”
“Then you can probably tell me who owns it?”
Maltman laughed. “Well, that’s simple enough. It’s owned by this brewery. It’s one of their tied houses.”
Meredith glanced up sharply.
“A tied house. I see. And who owns the brewery?”
“Well, the shares are held by a number of directors; but if you mean who is the largest shareholder, then that, of course, would be the Chairman of the Board.”
“And the Chairman?”
“I daresay you’ve heard of him, Inspector. He lives out your way. A fellow named Ormsby-Wright.”
Hardly able to conceal his interest and excitement, Meredith leaned forward eagerly.
“Ormsby-Wright! You’re sure about that?”
“Certain. He’s got his money in all sorts of business concerns. You may have heard of the Nonock Petroleum Company?”
“I have,” replied Meredith drily. “And I understand he owns that as well. So The Admiral Hotel belongs to Ormsby-Wright? Are there any more tied houses attached to this brewery?”
“Yes—five. Two more besides The Admiral in Whitehaven, two in Workington and one in Maryport.”
“Half a minute,” exclaimed the Inspector. “I’ve got a list here.” With an impatient hand he drew out his list of Nonock customers. “Now, Mr. Maltman, can I have the names of those five other places?”
“Certainly. There’s the Dragon’s Head and Isle of Man in Whitehaven—then in Workington there’s the Station Hotel and the Blue Anchor.’’
“The first in Merrydew Street and the second in Trueman’s Yard,” put in Meredith, elated. Maltman looked up in surprise. “Go on, Mr. Maltman! Go on!”
“Then there’s the Maryport place—”
“The White Hart,’’ cut in Meredith. “In Seaview Road. Am I right, sir?”
“Absolutely, Inspector. You seem to know more about these places than I do!”
“Well, I know something about them now, all right!” was Meredith’s triumphant return. “Thanks to you. But perhaps I ought to explain why I’m interested in these hotels. If the police suspicions are correct, then it’s more in your province than in ours. Listen, Mr. Maltman.”
And in a couple of minutes Meredith had outlined the Superintendent’s theory about the brandy smuggling. Maltman’s eyes grew rounder and rounder as the Inspector proceeded…incredulity gave way to doubt and doubt to a very lively interest.
“Well, I’ll be blowed!” was his comment when the Inspector had concluded. “So you think Ormsby-Wright’s a wrong ’un, do you? Maybe you’re right. Though from what I know of the man he’s straight enough. Reserved, mind you. A bit of the Pierpont Morgan touch about his methods. You know, Inspector—‘What I says goes, and don’t you forget it!’ That sort of attitude. But for all his high-handed ways I believe he’s generally liked here.”
“Know anything about the managers of the tied houses?”
“Only in a general sort of way. Never heard anything against them, if that’s what you mean.”
“Who engaged them?”
“Ormsby-Wright, of course. He keeps the administrative side of the brewery pretty well in his own hands.”
Meredith noted this point. It was suggestive.
“What’s your opinion as to the possibility of smuggling along this coast?”
Maltman shrugged his shoulders and threw out his hands, with a non-committal gesture.
“Well, frankly, Inspector, I don’t think it could be done. There’s a pretty efficient coast-guard patrol along this stretch of the shore. A clever crew might bring it off once, but as a regular practice, I should say it’s out of the question.”
“You supervise The Admiral premises, I suppose?” Maltman nodded. “Ever come across anything suspicious?”
“Never!”
“Well, Mr. Maltman,” said the Inspector, rising. “I won’t keep you away from that brew any longer. But I should be obliged if you’d keep a strict eye on those tied houses in the meantime. If you can do it without advertising the fact, so much the better.” He held out his hand. “Thanks, I may look you up again later.”
It was with a feeling of triumph and satisfaction that the Inspector drove back to Keswick. Here, at last, was real honest progress! The two concerns which had come under police suspicion were owned by the same man. That in itself was of enormous significance. So the boss, referred to by Bettle, was Ormsby-Wright, after all! And the investigations into a petrol fraud had been so much wasted time and energy. There was absolutely no doubt now that No. 4’s call at The Admiral on Monday afternoon was a prearranged visit. In all probability, the lorry called there every Monday afternoon. Meredith wondered if the other five tied houses were served with the same regularity. He would certainly have to get all six places under constant observation. If kegs of brandy, or the like, were being dumped in the lorry from any of these premises, it was certain that the trick would be discovered sooner or later. And once establish the fact that Ormsby-Wright and Co. were dealing in illegal spirit, it should prove a simple matter to find out how they were doing it, and to run the various members of the gang to earth.
And that done—what then? Meredith made a wry grimace. What a fool he was! Absorbed in his later investigations, he had all but forgotten Clayton’s murder. There was still that problem to solve. The major problem, in fact.
A great deal of his previous optimism evaporated at the thought. He realized, with a pang of hopelessness, that he still had a long way to go.
Chapter XVII
The Muslin Bag
Four days passed without anything new coming to light. No. 4 had behaved with exemplary frankness. No calls had been made at any of the six public houses, nor had any contact been made with the Derwent, Lothwaite, Filsam or Stanley Hall garages. Meredith now had every one of these places under observation. The Lothwaite was being watched day and night. Extra precautions were also being taken by the coast-guards and every likely landing-place had been specially ear-marked and a man put on duty at night.
The Inspector was disturbed. Did it mean that the gang had got wind of the police suspicions and were lying low for a time? It was quite possible that one of the numerous watchers had been spotted and the news flashed round among the members. If that were so, good-bye to any chance of clearing up the mysteries or arresting the murderer of Clayton. Despite the springtime weather, Meredith remained in an obstinate mood of depression.
Then on Monday morning there came news!
At his office Meredith found Constable Gratorex waiting for him, note-book in hand, success written all over his cheerful, rubicund features. The Inspector waved him into a chair and sat down at his desk.
“Well, Constable—out with it!”
“It’s the Lothwaite, sir. I was on duty there last night from eleven o’clock. I’ve got something to report.”
Meredith drew a sheet of paper toward him and unscrewed his fountain-pen.
“Right.”
Flicking open his note-book, Constable Gratorex began to deliver the report in his best court-room manner.
“At twelve-twenty-two a.m. on Monday morning the party under observation came out of the cottage adjoining the garage. He appeared to have something bulky in his arms. Moving round to the back of the buildings, he entered the wood in which I was secreted. Thinking his actions suspicious, I decided to follow him. This I did. There was a bright moon and when he entered a small clearing I saw that he was carrying an oil-drum. I followed him for a matter of four hundred yards up the slope. Arriving at a deep gully formed by a beck, the party stooped and set down the drum. Taking advantage of the noise made by the beck, I crept forward to within some ten yards of where the party was standing. He then disappeared down the side of the gully, enabling me to take up a position in some bramble bushes at the top of the bank. The party then unstoppered the oil-drum and poured the contents into the beck. After that the party returned with the empty oil-drum to the cottage. There was nothing further to report during the remainder of my watch.”
“Very clear and concise,” was Meredith’s comment when Gratorex had concluded. “You had no doubt that it was Wick?”
“No, sir. None at all.”
“Any idea as to what was emptied from the drum?”
“No, sir. When Wick was safe back in the cottage I cut up through the wood again and took a look into the beck. But although I made a close examination with my torch I found nothing in the way of a clue.”
“The beck was flowing fast at that point?”
“Very, sir. In spate after Saturday’s rain.”
“Then anything thrown in at that point would soon be carried away,” observed Meredith. “How big was the drum?”
“I should say it held about four gallons, sir.”
“Who’s on duty at the Lothwaite to-night?”
“I am, sir.”
“Very well. I shall join you there at eleven o’clock.”
Meredith, with his usual efficiency, was there to the tick. Gratorex had just taken over from Peters, who was working the shifts with him. In reply to the Inspector’s whispered query, Peters stated that, so far, nothing untoward had taken place. He had seen the lorry pass on its homeward run about five-thirty.
“Right. That’s all.”
The man melted away into the shadows.
Then for more than an hour nothing happened. The night was intensely still, abnormally warm for the time of year, and moonlit. Meredith could just discern the outline of the constable’s features in the faint glow dispersed by the lighted petrol-pumps below. At midnight these flicked out, and save for a single light burning in one of the cottage windows the place was in darkness. Ten minutes later this light, too, went out. Meredith held his breath. Did it mean that Wick was now in bed or was he—?
He felt the constable’s hand on his arm.
“Look, sir!” came the tense whisper. “There he is again. Heading for the beck, too, by the look of it!”
“Quietly does it,” hissed Meredith. “We’ll follow him up as close as we dare. Come on!”
With infinite caution they set off through the larch trees, preceded by the dimly discernible figure of the loaded man. By the manner in which he laboured up the slope, Meredith guessed that the oil-drum was pretty weighty. Gratorex was right. It looked as if it would hold just about four gallons of—what? Oil? Meredith smiled. Hardly that. A man doesn’t empty four gallons of oil into a beck. All day he had been puzzling over the contents of that drum. Petrol? Brandy? Nothing plausible had suggested itself.
