by John Bude
The Chief gave vent to an exclamation of surprise. His interest deepened.
“Then I received Gratorex’s report,” went on Meredith. “He’d seen Wick, the proprietor of the Lothwaite, emptying something out of an oil-drum into the beck. I naturally went into the matter and the upshot of it was that I discovered the true nature of the racket. Perhaps the Superintendent has explained how I arrived at that conclusion, sir?”
The Chief Constable shook his head.
“I should have told you, Inspector—I’ve been up in London for the past week. Only came back late last night. In consequence, I’m not exactly up to date in the affair. So you’d better let me have the details.”
Thus prompted, Meredith went on to describe his experiment with the box-frame, the collecting of the tell-tale sediment and Maltman’s analysis of the residue. He then explained how he had discovered a beck in the near neighbourhood of each of the four suspected garages and how he now had conclusive evidence that illicit distilling was being carried on by the proprietors of these four places.
“You knew, of course, sir, that we had found out about this illicit whisky-making?”
“Just the bare fact, Meredith. No details, naturally. The Superintendent rang through on my return last night.”
“Well, sir, once we had established this fact the rest was fairly easy. I faked a means to get Higgins away from the Derwent and made a methodical search of the premises. In the floor of a locked and empty cupboard I found a cleverly concealed trapdoor. Beneath this I found the still—the whole apparatus for large-scale distilling operations.”
Meredith then went on to describe the salient points about the subterranean distillery, the type of still in use, its proximity to the sitting-room chimney, the strange tunnel driven out from the vertical shaft and the small-bore pipe which ran along the cement wall. When he had created a graphic picture of the place, he switched over to his interpretation of the various peculiarities which he had noticed during his search.
“One thing puzzled me at once. At some distance from the still I found a second glass container. I couldn’t see the point of conveying the whisky from one underground point to another. At least, sir, not until I noticed the electric drum-pump a couple of yards away.”
“A drum-pump!” exclaimed the Chief. “What on earth for, Meredith?”
“To pump the spirit up through the petrol tank, sir.”
“But why spoil excellent spirit by pumping it into a tank full of petrol?”
“Not into—but through the tank, sir. The pipe passed through the side of the petrol tank and then curved up into the mouth of the countersunk intake pipe behind the Nonock pump!”
“Good Heavens! I see now what you’re hinting at. The lorry received the spirit while it was discharging the petrol?”
“Exactly, sir. Mind you, I haven’t actually been able to set eyes on this section of the spirit-pipe, but I’m dead certain that when we can make the necessary examination, we shall find it there right enough.”
“In other words, Meredith, you’ve picked up the footprints on the other side of the stream? Is that it?”
“Very neatly put, sir,” laughed the Inspector. “That’s exactly what I did do. Last night I made a second examination of the bulk-wagon. Inside the feed-pipe I found a second small-bore pipe, coinciding exactly with the diameter of the pipe which passed in through the side of the Derwent’s petrol tank. Finally to clinch the whole business, I discovered a similar pipe inside the centre of the three discharge valves at the rear of the lorry. This was fitted with a curiously designed union nut, obviously made so as to prevent any vestige of the petrol getting into the spirit. I imagine that the section which emerges into the mouth of the garage intake pipe is fitted with a similar union. I’m not an expert on engineering matters, but it looked to me as if a very simple operation would enable the lorry-men to connect up the small-bore pipe, whilst to all apparent purposes they were just coupling up the petrol feed-pipe. Essential, of course, since they depended on this genuine link with the garages to cover up the hidden link inside the bigger pipe.” Meredith paused and looked across at the Chief. “I hope I’ve made all this clear, sir?”
“Startlingly so!” was Colonel Hardwick’s smiling reply. “One of the neatest criminal arrangements I’ve ever come across. But don’t let me interrupt, Inspector. You’d traced the whisky as far as the discharge valves at the rear of the bulk-wagon. Then where did it go?”
“Well, sir, as far as I could see there was only one place where it could go. But for the life of me I couldn’t see exactly how they wangled it. Mr. Weymouth, the Penrith Weights and Measures official, had already proved to us that the tank itself was in order. It had been certified to contain 1,000 gallons and according to his calculations it couldn’t contain more than 1,000. So I naturally ignored the tank and concentrated on the bodywork and chassis. Then I made my final discovery. I grant you, sir, I haven’t yet been able to prove my supposition up to the hilt, but I think you’ll agree with me that I’m on to what might be called a ‘probable certainty’. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the design of the Nonock bulk-wagons, sir?”
The Chief shook his head.
“Hardly in my province, Meredith. But I daresay I’ll catch hold of your explanation all right. At any rate, go slowly and I’ll try!”
“It’s like this, sir,” went on Meredith. “The tank itself is circular. It’s rather like a slice out of an enormous tree trunk.”
“A large cylinder, in fact,” put in the Chief.
“The very word I was looking for! Well, on the bulk-wagons the base of this cylinder projects through the floor.” Catching the puzzled expression on the face of both the Chief Constable and the Superintendent, Meredith went on hastily. “Let me explain like this, sir. Imagine a long, narrow picture frame with a long, narrow tin fitting into it in such a way that the majority of the tin is above the frame. Then to keep that tin steady two long narrow wedges are fixed on either side of it.”
“Go on,” prompted the Chief Constable.
“Well, in the case of the lorry, these two long, narrow wedges are, as you can imagine, pretty big. They run the length of the tank and are made of stout wood reinforced with a series of iron brackets. At first glance I naturally thought they would be solid. The weight of the tank obviously called for a pretty strong sort of support. Well, sir, to cut a long story short I found that on all the other lorries, save No. 4, these wedges were solid. Solid wedges of wood cut out in one piece. But in the case of No. 4 there was no doubt left in my mind that they were hollow. When I rapped them I got quite a different note. And thinking things over I came to the conclusion that these wedges were ostensibly of wood, whilst actually they had been constructed of metal with a thin veneer of wood over the outer surface. I further argued that when the whisky-pipe had passed through the centre discharge valve it divided, passed through the two sides of the tank and discharged the spirit into the hollow wedges! About as neat an arrangement as one could wish for!”
“Perfect!” exclaimed the Chief Constable with a delighted chuckle. “The very simplicity of the scheme was its chief safeguard against discovery. The only thing which perplexes me is why the trick was not found out at the depot. Surely there are some honest men in the Nonock company?”
“I think you’re right about that, sir. Ormsby-Wright wouldn’t be such a fool as to let too many into his secret. In my opinion there’s only Rose, Bettle and Prince who are in the know. The rest work with petrol only!”
“Then how do they manage it?”
“Like this, sir. At every point where that small-bore pipe could be seen, it was boxed in and locked and the key held by the lorry-men. Take the garage intake-pipe first. It’s protected by a metal cap and the cap is secured to the pipe by a padlock. The Nonock men hold the key. The feed-pipe itself is kept in a wooden box, again secured by a padlock and again Bettle and P
rince held the key. Finally, the discharge valves are encased in a locked metal box and, once more, the key is in possession of the lorry-men. This is the normal arrangement, sir. It applies to the men on all the bulk-wagons, and as each driver and his mate are responsible for their own bulk-wagon, it stands to reason that the trick couldn’t come to light.”
“Well, Inspector,” said the Chief Constable, rising and glancing at his watch, “it’s been a most interesting half-hour. I’m pleased, very pleased with the progress you’ve made in the case. We’re in a position now to make a wholesale arrest, but I’ve a strong feeling that it wouldn’t be in the best of our interests to do so. And for two very good reasons. First we’ve still got to find out how the whisky is being taken in by the pubs and how it is being planted on the public. Both very necessary investigations if we’re to lay our hands on the proprietors of the hotels. Secondly—there’s the murder case—the major case, of course. I understand that you’ve come to a standstill in that direction?”
Meredith nodded glumly.
“True enough, sir—unfortunately.”
“Well, I’m not going to lay down any hard and fast rules for your procedure. I’m going to leave the modus operandi to you. You’ve got the details of the case at your finger-tips. I haven’t. But I’ll just say this—I want results! Don’t let your satisfaction at the solution of the first problem cool your ardours in pursuit of the second. Talk things over with the Superintendent and keep me posted up to date with your progress in the case. That’s all, gentlemen. Thank you.”
Chapter XX
The Admiral
“One thing’s certain, Inspector. They’re not selling the distilled spirit directly to the public. There must be an intermediary process.”
Meredith and Maltman were seated in the latter’s office at Turnpike Road. They were busy trying to evolve a theory as to how Ormsby-Wright was planting his illicit whisky on the public. Maltman had made an overnight analysis of the sample which Meredith had sent him and they were now trying to base their theory on the facts deduced from the results of this analysis.
“What makes you think that?” asked Meredith.
“Well, the distillate is somewhere round the region of sixty-five over proof. Do you know anything about the maturing and blending of whisky?” Meredith shook his head. “The matured spirit generally varies from genuine proof to ten over proof. The distillate is broken down, matured in sherry casks to get rid of the fusel oil and when ready for consumption, stored in bond. It’s usually bottled and labelled in bond and then distributed to the retailers. So we can be certain that this illicit stuff is broken down with water before it goes over the counters of the pubs.”
“If it goes over the counters,” put in Meredith cautiously. “We’re only assuming that the Bee’s Head tied houses are mixed up in the racket. We don’t know. It’s possible the stuff is being sold privately. Say to shady night clubs, or even private individuals.”
“Quite,” acknowledged Maltman. “But that doesn’t alter the fact that it’s got to be broken down. No man would be such a fool as to sell spirit at sixty-five over proof, when by simply adding the requisite amount of water he could make the stuff go four or five times as far. Then again—what about the maturing? Any man with a palate could detect raw spirit at the first sip. To say nothing of the colouring. The distillate is opaque. Matured spirit is amber. So they’ve either got to let it mature in the normal way or else add some form of colouring matter. In other words—somewhere or other this illicit spirit is going through another process before it’s being handed on to the public. The question remains, how is it being done and where?”
“Exactly. Any ideas yourself, Mr. Maltman?”
“Well,” began Maltman slowly. “I see a way in which it could be done. I lay awake until the small hours last night, trying to unravel this particular knot. In the end I was left with two possible explanations.”
“And the first?” asked Meredith.
“Yours,” replied Maltman shortly. “Sale by private treaty, as it were. Suppose Ormsby-Wright gets the lorry to dump the raw spirit at one of his tied houses. There it’s secretly broken down with water, coloured, probably with caramel, bottled and labelled and then secretly sold to private individuals at about twice the cost of manufacture. As you know, the duty on a 12s. 6d. bottle of whisky is 8s. 4d. So I reckon that if our friend sold the stuff at 3s. 6d. a bottle he’d net a handsome profit for himself and more than satisfy his customer at the same time. Of course, there are snags in this scheme.”
“The labelling, for example,” suggested Meredith. “What about that?”
“Well, if it was for private consumption that wouldn’t matter. Nor would it enter in if the stuff were being sold at night clubs. There’s no need to produce the bottle every time you sell a whisky and soda is there? On the other hand it would be quite easy to print off labels of a recognized brand and stick ’em on the bottles. The only danger in that scheme would be if some connoisseur cottoned on to the fraud and lodged a complaint with the genuine firm.”
“Such an obvious danger,” put in Meredith, “that it looks as if the scheme would be knocked on the head at the start.”
“That’s my opinion,” went on Maltman. “Now let’s come to my second theory. Suppose the raw spirit is dumped at the tied houses, broken down to somewhere between genuine proof and ten over proof, and then blended with a recognized brand. The chances of the fraud being detected then are pretty remote. See the point? One bottle of genuine whisky is made to net the profit of two!”
Meredith whistled.
“I see what you mean! The seal on a genuine bottle is broken and half the whisky decanted into a second bottle, also bearing the label of a recognized brand. The deficit in each bottle is then made up with the diluted raw spirit and two bottles of genuine whisky are sold over the counter instead of one!”
Maltman nodded. He was obviously pleased with the Inspector’s acute interest in his suggestion.
“Think of the profit!” he went on emphatically. “Just think of it! At a guess I should say that the illicit stuff could be turned out at about ninepence a quart bottle. Say a shilling to cover the overhead charges. In other words, on every two bottles of the half-and-half spirit sold, Ormsby-Wright nets a clear 11s. 6d., plus the normal profit made by the retailer on two quart bottles of genuine whisky. Man! It’s a colossal scheme! All those tied houses do a roaring counter trade, to say nothing of what they do in the off-licence department. The Bee’s Head places probably retail the stuff to half the private houses in the district! To say nothing of Working Men’s Clubs, Public Functions and Dances. I wouldn’t dare make a guess at his yearly profits from the ramp. They must be staggering!”
Meredith grinned affably at the thinly disguised note of admiration in Maltman’s voice. It was obvious that the Excise Officer was carried away by the subtle manner in which the spirit duty was being evaded. It appealed, no doubt, to the professional side of his nature.
“Hang the profits, Maltman! I’m not concerned in how much Ormsby-Wright makes out of this racket. I want to know exactly how he does it. You suggest a secret blending and bottling department in one of the tied houses?”
“Or in all of them,” cut in Maltman quickly.
“All of them if you like. But the question remains, have you ever had a hint of these illegal operations when you were making your usual tour of inspection of the premises? You haven’t, eh? Just as I thought. Yet you still persist in your theory?”
“I do. You must remember that I’m more concerned with checking-up the stock in hand rather than nosing around for an illicit bottling department.”
“And your checking-up always tallied with the proprietor’s books, of course?”
“Naturally. The man wouldn’t be such a fool as to show more stock than he had taken out, under our supervision, from bond. He’d keep the extra spirit hidden away until
it was needed and then pop it over the counters to the public.”
“What about his sale returns?”
“Nothing doing, Inspector. An Excise official has no entry to a publican’s books. It’s his duty to keep a check on the actual stock and premises. Nothing more.”
“Suppose your supposition is right. What action would you suggest that we take?”
Maltman considered the point carefully for a moment, toying with the pens and pencils on his desk. Then he looked up and suggested:
“Why not buy a bottle of whisky from The Admiral? We could then compare it with a genuine bottle of the same brand bought at a safe place. If on analysis we can prove that the blend has been tampered with—well, that’s all we need know, isn’t it?”
“A sure test, you think?”
“Not absolutely,” admitted Maltman. “Blends of the same brand vary. But the difference in this case would be too marked to leave us much in doubt.”
Meredith nodded.
“That would certainly take us part of the way but not the whole road. We’d still have to prove that the stuff was being tampered with on the premises.”
Maltman laughed and looked across at the Inspector with a knowing look in his twinkling eyes.
“In other words—a search of the premises! All right, Inspector. I’m game—if that’s what you’re after. When shall it be?”
“To-day?”
“Good enough. We’ll tackle The Admiral. I’m about due to take a look round there, so our appearance won’t start a panic. Are you known in this district? You’re not? Good! Then you’re being trained up to the job of Excise official. I’m showing you the ropes. You’re a bit old for an apprentice but we’ll let that pass. Shall we say two-thirty outside The Admiral?”
“Splendid! I want to have a word with the local Superintendent, then I’ll get some lunch and meet you outside the pub.” Meredith rose and grabbed up his hat from Maltman’s untidy desk. “And if we don’t find something startling it won’t be for the want of trying!”
