by John Bude
Meredith shook his head.
“No need, Mr. Maltman. Your opinion fits in too neatly with the other facts of the case.”
“Which means, Inspector?”
Meredith gave a triumphant chuckle.
“That Mr. Ormsby-Wright and his minions have been caught by the short hairs! That’s my opinion, anyway.” Then: “Illicit stills!” he exclaimed after an electric silence. “Why the devil didn’t I think of it before? But there—that’s always the way. It’s so darned easy to be wise after the event!”
Chapter XVIII
Meredith Goes to Earth
Meredith’s report to Carlisle fetched the Superintendent over to Keswick early the next morning. The new slant on the case needed carefully going into, and the two men settled down to a long discussion of ways and means. Although, as the Superintendent pointed out, they were now in a position to arrest Wick on suspicion of being engaged in illicit spirit-making, it was his idea that the arrest should be postponed. As he put it, “We don’t want to raise a red flag to warn the rest of the gang.” Meredith was of a like opinion.
“We’ve now got undeniable proof of the nature of their racket,” he said, “but I’d like to unearth one of the stills. Once find out where the stills are hidden and we ought to catch ’em red-handed, sir.”
Thompson nodded.
“Can you tell what spirit they’re making from the nature of the residue?”
“Maltman’s making an analysis of the stuff this morning, sir, and phoning through the result. He has an idea it’s whisky.”
“Then I wonder how the deuce they’re planting the stuff on the public? Any ideas?”
“None, sir. That’s one of the first things we’ve got to find out. And the other problem to be solved is how exactly the lorry picks up the stuff and delivers it at the pubs.”
“Well, we ought to get a line on that. You’ve got those four garages under day and night observation.”
“I think the idea you put up when we were working on the lines of a smuggling racket is the probable one, sir.”
“You mean small kegs? Yes—it strikes me as the only feasible method. Well, Meredith, what’s your next move going to be? The Chief still wants to be posted up to date, so if you’ve got any world-shaking scheme up your sleeve you’d better trot it out.”
“I’m going to make a thorough search of one of the garages,” was Meredith’s prompt answer.
“Can you manage that without giving the game away?”
“Take a look at this, sir,” replied Meredith, handing the Superintendent a copy of the mid-weekly Cumberland News. “You see, I’ve blue-pencilled an advert under the ‘Weekly Car Mart’ section.”
“You mean this—‘Second-hand Rover saloon for sale. Good condition. Only done 6,000. Bargain price. Trial run by appointment. Apply Higgins, Derwent Garage, Braithwaite.’’’
“That’s it. I’ve rung up a friend of mine in Ambleside and got him to write a letter to say he’s interested in the car. He’s trying to fix an appointment with Higgins for to-morrow afternoon at three. At Ambleside, of course. And as our friend is now running the place single-handed, it looks as if we shall have an hour or two in which to make our search without fear of interruption.”
“Good, Inspector. Well, I won’t keep you longer. I’ve—”
“Just a minute, sir,” interposed Meredith as the phone bell started ringing. “This may be Maltman.” He lifted the receiver. “Yes—speaking.…I see. Very kind of you, Mr. Maltman. No—nothing further at the moment. But I shall probably be worrying you again a little later on. Thanks. Good-bye.” He turned to the Superintendent. “Maltman has made that analysis. It’s just as he thought. Whisky, sir.”
“One more fact in our pocket,” observed the Superintendent, as he made ready to go. “Let me know the result of your investigations at the Derwent. I’ll expect your call about six to-morrow evening.”
More news came in the next day. The constables on night duty at the Filsam and the Stanley Hall both reported suspicious behaviour on the part of the proprietors. In each case the men had been seen crossing to the nearby becks and emptying something into the water. They both thought the men had been carrying large oil-drums, though they wouldn’t swear to this fact.
Meredith was delighted. Here was more incriminating evidence to back up his suspicions. But to balance up his satisfaction came negative reports from the day watchers. Although No. 4 had coupled up with the Filsam, the constable secreted in the barn had seen nothing in the nature of small kegs or casks being loaded on to the lorry. On the other hand, the proprietor—whose name Meredith had discovered was Wilkins—had acted in the same curious way as Wick. On the approach of the lorry he had disappeared into his cottage, emerging some ten minutes later after Prince had coupled up with the pump. He had then signalled with his hand and Prince had, at once, turned off the valve. That this coincidence was significant Meredith no longer doubted. But it was beyond him to find an explanation for the men’s peculiar behaviour.
At twelve-thirty his friend, Mr. Barrow, rang up from Ambleside. It was all fixed up. Higgins had promised to be over at his house at three o’clock that afternoon. A study of his map enabled Meredith to gauge roughly the amount of time he would have at his disposal at the Derwent. He reckoned that Higgins would set out about two-fifteen and return, at the earliest, at four-thirty. After warning Railton to be ready with the combination at one-thirty, Meredith set off for Greystoke Road and an early lunch.
On his way back to the station, however, he was detained by one of those incidents, which trivial in themselves, cannot be ignored by a member of the Force. Rounding the corner of Greystoke Road, he was aware of a sudden shout of alarm, followed by an appalling crash of broken glass. From a side-turning, only a few yards up the street, there debouched a crowd of excited youngsters. The apparent ring-leader of this juvenile gang, intent only on putting as great a distance as possible between himself and the broken glass, rushed straight into the arms of the Inspector.
“Now then, sonny,” said Meredith, shooting out a hand and detaining the lad. “What’s all this about? Throwing stones, eh?”
The boy whimpered out an unconvincing denial and attempted to break away from the Inspector’s grip. As he urged his squirming captive toward the side-turning, Meredith demanded his name.
“Andy Pearson,” snivelled the lad. “An’ it weren’t my fault as it happened. We was only playing gunmen.”
“Gunmen, eh?” Meredith looked into the boy’s face and could scarcely restrain his laughter. The small, pinched features were almost obliterated by a dirty green felt hat pulled well down over one ear. The upper lip was adorned with a false moustache, and round the boy’s neck was suspended a cap-pistol on a long string. Thrust into a leather belt round his waist was a huge wooden knife, the tip of which had been painted a lurid scarlet. This fiercesome get-up contrasted comically with the lad’s obvious timidity at being in the hands of the law.
Meredith, after placating the enraged householder whose window had been broken and taking down the lad’s address, delivered himself of a stern homily. Once freed, the boy departed at great speed, with the Inspector’s threat of a parental retribution hanging over his head. Meredith, who knew Pearson, felt sure that the young culprit would be suitably dealt with at home. Then, annoyed by the delay, he bid the householder good day, and hurried off to the police station.
At Portinscale, Meredith instructed Railton to take the left fork in the village, instead of continuing along the Braithwaite road. About a hundred yards up the turning he signalled the constable to stop. Then, lounging casually against a cottage fence, he waited.
He did not have to wait long. Shortly after two o’clock a blue Rover saloon swung round the bend by the post office and vanished in the direction of Keswick. Quick as its passage had been, Meredith had not failed to recognize the man at the wheel.
“Come on, Railton. Step on it! We can’t afford to waste time!”
The constable dutifully “stepped on it”, and in a few minutes the combination drew up outside the Derwent. A rapid survey of the place left no doubt in the Inspector’s mind that it was deserted. The garage doors were shut and locked and a notice pinned on to them: “Closed until 5 o’clock.”
“This way,” snapped Meredith. “We’ll try the cottage first. I’ve an idea we shan’t find what we’re looking for in the garage itself. Too public, Railton.”
With the constable close on his heels, the Inspector strode up the path and tried the handle of the front-door. As he anticipated, it was locked. The windows, too, were closed and fastened. Skirting round the path to the back of the cottage, he then tried the back door and the two windows of the scullery. This time luck was with him. One of the windows, although shut, was not fastened with an indoor catch. With the aid of a penknife it was the work of moments to slide down the sash and, in a short time, both he and the constable were standing in the stone-floored scullery.
Meredith realized that he had not been inside the building since the tragic night when Clayton’s body had been carried in from the lean-to and laid out on the sofa. He was surprised to find the place so untidy. Mrs. Swinley was evidently adequate rather than efficient. The tiny sitting-room was littered with all sorts of odds and ends—old newspapers, odd garments, hats, coats, books and business letters. There was scarcely a clear space in which to sit down. The same chaos was repeated in the upper rooms, where Meredith set about making a methodical search of every nook and cranny. But at the end of twenty minutes he felt sure that the distilling apparatus was not concealed in the upper part of the house. He even sent the constable up a rickety pair of steps to see what lay beyond a trap-door in one of the bedroom ceilings. But there was nothing under the rafters save an old tin bath, a broken gramophone, and a number of empty packing-cases.
“Now for the sitting-room,” said Meredith briskly, when the constable had safely negotiated the flimsy ladder.
An even more meticulous examination followed on the ground floor. Instructing Railton to move the table on one side, Meredith rolled back the threadbare carpet and went over every inch of the stone floor on his hands and knees. But there was no sign of a trap. The cement between the stones was unbroken, and no single slab appeared to be in any way loose. Replacing the carpet and table, their next move was to inspect the fireplace. It was of an old-fashioned design, with a high mantel-shelf, the three sides of the recess framed in enormous oak beams. An ordinary kitchen-range had been fitted into the recess with the usual damper and flue-pipe arrangements at the back. But despite Meredith’s exhaustive examination, the fireplace failed to yield a single clue.
“Now for these cupboards,” said the Inspector, pointing to the two large, built-in cupboards which flanked the hearth. “You take the right. I’ll take the left.”
The handle of the left cupboard, though stiff, yielded to a little pressure, and a glance sufficed to show that every shelf was loaded with crockery and other ordinary domestic utensils. But scarcely had Meredith shut the door when an exclamation of surprise switched his attention over to Railton.
“Won’t budge, sir. Feels as if it’s jammed,” he said, struggling with the door of the other cupboard.
“Here, let’s take a look.”
Meredith examined the handle and lock closely.
“Naturally it won’t budge,” was his immediate verdict. “It’s locked! No key here, either. Looks as if we’ll have to do a little amateur housebreaking, Railton. Have you got that length of wire and those hooks?” The constable nodded. “Then hurry up and get to work. We can’t afford to waste time!”
Railton, who had studied the niceties of lock-picking in his leisure hours, drew out an array of implements and got down to the job. In less than five minutes there was a sharp click as the lock turned over. Meredith caught hold of the handle and pulled the door open.
Then he swore roundly. Although he had refused to be carried away on a wave of optimism, the locked door had decidedly stimulated his hopes. He had expected to find something, a clue perhaps that would point the way to other more valuable clues. Instead there was nothing. Literally nothing! The cupboard was empty!
But hardly had he swallowed his disappointment when a new thought struck him and his hopes rapidly revived. Why was the cupboard empty? He cast his eye round the room at the litter of hats and coats and newspapers.
“You’d think Higgins could have done with cupboard space, wouldn’t you, Railton? Yet, look here—bare as a bleached bone! There’s something odd here or I’m a Dutchman. Let’s have a look at the flooring.”
Dropping on to his hands and knees, he began sounding the stone floor of the cupboard with a poker he had snatched up from the hearth. Then, with a gleam of triumph in his eye, he looked up at the constable.
“Listen hard, Railton. And then tell me what you think of it?”
He rapped first on the stone in front of the range and then again inside the cupboard.
“A different note, sir,” was Railton’s verdict. “The floor of the cupboard’s hollow!”
“Out of the mouths of babes!” grinned Meredith. “I thought the same thing myself. But there can’t be a trap-door of any sort because these two slabs here in the cupboard project out into the room.”
“I don’t quite see—” began Railton, puzzled.
“Well, look here, man!” said Meredith impatiently.
“There’s a wooden sill across the base of the cupboard that the door shuts on to. And you couldn’t lift either of the stones without first removing this sill, could you?”
“Perhaps they do remove it,” was Railton’s lugubrious reply. “Let’s heave on it, sir!”
Half-heartedly Meredith lent the constable a hand. To his intense amazement, without the exercise of the slightest effort, the wooden sill came away in their hands. Although evidently nailed securely into position, it had only been lightly jammed between the two uprights of the door-frame.
“Good heavens, Railton. Take a look at that!”
He was pointing to that part of the two stone slabs which had previously been concealed by the sill. A wide crack ran across them.
“Then they don’t project out as we thought, sir.”
“Of course not! Come on, out with that penknife of yours. I’ve an idea that we can prise up the whole of the cupboard floor. Got it? Good. Now shove it underneath. Steady! Easy does it!” Then with an exclamation of triumph: “There you are, Railton—what did I say? A trap-door! Come on, man, don’t stand there gaping. Get out your torch and let’s investigate!”
Drawing back the two loosened slabs, Meredith grabbed the constable’s torch and shone it down into the hollowed space under the cupboard. Against the back wall of the shaft he noted the dim outlines of a cat-ladder. Wasting no time, calling on Railton to follow, he got his feet on to the upper rungs and began to descend. In a few seconds his feet encountered solid ground again and he found himself looking down a low horizontal shaft, which he judged to be driven directly under the garage. For the time being, however, he left the exploration of this tunnel, to devote his attentions to an unusual object recessed in the left wall of the vertical shaft. Noticing an electric switch at the foot of the ladder, he clicked it on. Immediately the well in which he was standing and the whole length of the tunnel itself was flooded with light.
“Electrics!” ejaculated the constable, who had now arrived on terra firma. “They’ve made it cosy enough, sir!”
Meredith nodded.
“Not only cosy, Railton, but efficient. Take a squint at this.”
“Good Lord, sir—what’s that?”
“That, if I’m not mistaken, is what the Encyclopaedia Britannica calls a ‘Coffey’s still’. It’s a patent still for making whisky. I mugged it all up in the public li
brary yesterday evening. It’s pretty obvious that money’s been no object. You couldn’t make a piece of apparatus like that under a thousand. Looks as if our investigations are more or less at an end, Constable.”
“What about that shaft, sir?”
“Yes—I’m coming to that in a minute. First of all let’s take a look at the still. Does its position suggest anything to you, Railton?”
The constable shook his head.
“You know,” went on the Inspector admiringly, “they really have made a very neat job of this racket. You may not know it, but during the process of distillation you’ve got to get rid of the fumes—to say nothing of smoke if you’re distilling over an open fire. So they’ve done the sensible thing and shoved this contraption bang under the sitting-room fireplace. Clever, eh? No extra chimney needed.”
The constable was suitably impressed.
“And what about that aquarium up there, sir? What’s that?”
“That aquarium, as you call it, is probably the collecting chamber. You can see it’s half full of spirit now. Yes. There’s the intake pipe from the analysing column and the outlet pipe runs along the wall of the tunnel.”
Railton, who had crossed over to look at the tank in question, observed: “It looks more like water to me than whisky.”
“It would. Newly distilled spirit is colourless. It only takes on colour after it’s matured. Now let’s follow this outlet pipe. It interests me far more than that still, Railton.”
Bent almost double, for the horizontal shaft was not much over four feet high, Meredith and the constable set off to track down the termination of the pipe. As they proceeded on their back-aching way the Inspector’s admiration grew apace. Everything about this subterranean plant had been most beautifully thought out and constructed. The sides of the tunnel were riveted with cement and the ceiling formed by a series of broad stone slabs. The tiny metal pipe dropped in a gradual decline from the glass container beside the still, until about thirty feet up the tunnel, where it ran into a second glass tank.
