by John Bude
As both Meredith and the Superintendent anticipated, the jury elected to retire. At the end of thirty-five minutes they filed back into the stuffy little courtroom. Then in tense silence the Coroner put the usual question and a thrill of horror animated the public benches when a verdict was brought in of wilful murder by some person or persons unknown!
CHAPTER VII
THE PARKED PETROL LORRY
“MAJOR RICKSHAW has been on the phone, sir,” said the Sergeant on duty as Meredith passed through the office on his way from the inquest. “Wants to have a word with you.”
“Who the devil’s Major Rickshaw? Never heard of him!”
“Retired Indian Army man, sir. Only just come to live in the district. He’s rented that house near the Old Toll Gate on the Grasmere road.”
“What’s it about? Did he say?”
“The Clayton case, sir. Said he was unable to come down and see you as he was confined to his bed with a chill.”
“I’ll go up at once.”
Railton being off duty, Meredith took the combination out of the garage and drove off in the direction of the Toll Gate. He had no difficulty in finding the house—a square, grey, weather-beaten edifice overlooking Derwentwater, standing back off the road in a fair-sized garden. The maid showed him at once into the Major’s bedroom, where the patient, a mahogany-skinned, hatchet-faced man, was lying propped up in bed reading the Cumberland News.
“Come in! Sit down, Inspector,” he croaked. “Excuse my voice, but I’ve got a chronic touch of throat. That’s it—draw up that chair. The closer you are the better. I’m damned if I can manage much more than a whisper.”
“That’s all right, sir,” said the Inspector heartily. “I understand you’ve got something to tell me about the Clayton case.”
“Quite right. I have. Saw that notice of yours in the paper.” He waved the Cumberland News in the air. “This paper. Mid-weekly edition only came out this morning—otherwise I’d have got in touch with you before. Are you ready to take down my statement? Good!”
In a series of fierce, staccato whispers Major Rickshaw described how he had visited the Derwent garage on Saturday night. He had been speaking at a Conservative meeting over at Cockermouth and was returning home with his wife in the car. At the Derwent he stopped for a couple of gallons of petrol, and was served, in his own words, “by the young chap with the Hitler moustache who was usually in charge of the pumps”. He supposed he had reached the garage about twenty minutes past seven. Neither he nor his wife got out of the car and as he handed over the exact money for the petrol he had no cause to hang about the garage for any length of time.
“What happened to the money? Did you notice, sir?”
“Yes—the fellow shoved it into the pocket of his dungarees.”
“Buff dungarees?”
“That’s it, Inspector.”
“What was the denomination of the coins you handed over, sir?”
“Just one coin, Inspector. A half-crown piece. I always swear by the cheaper forms of petrol. Never pay more than one and threepence a gallon. Though I don’t quite see——?”
“Just a small point. Nothing of importance,” returned Meredith quickly. “The really important question is this—did you notice anybody else hanging around the garage?”
“Not a soul! There was a light in the office, I remember. Couldn’t see if anybody was inside. Frosted glass, you see. There was a petrol-lorry drawn up in front of one of the pumps——”
“A lorry! Then there must have been somebody about!”
“Possibly,” snapped Major Rickshaw with some irritation. “But I’ve already told you, Inspector, that I didn’t see them.”
“Did you notice the name on the petrol-lorry?”
“Yes, I did! Nonock Petroleum Company. That’s Ormsby-Wright’s affair. Got shares in the concern. What’s more, they actually pay a dividend!”
“You feel quite certain in your own mind that the man who served you with petrol was Clayton, I suppose?”
“Confound it all, Inspector—I know a face when I see it.” With an irascible gesture the Major smoothed out the newspaper and jerked his finger at a photograph reproduced at the bottom of the column dealing with the tragedy. Where the Press had unearthed it Meredith could not imagine. Probably from the Reades.
“That’s Clayton, isn’t it, eh?” went on the Major. Meredith nodded. “And that’s the face of the chap that served me with petrol. Good enough—what? If you want a second opinion, I’ll ring for my wife.”
“It might be as well,” remarked the Inspector. “Not that I doubt your identification. But it was a dark night, remember, and one can’t be too careful in a case of this sort.”
The Major, therefore, pressed the bell and sent the maid to fetch Mrs. Rickshaw. After introductions had been effected, Mrs. Rickshaw, a somewhat wispy, faded lady of about fifty, corroborated her husband’s evidence in a tremulous voice, which drew forth a triumphant “I told you so!” from the bed.
Satisfied that he had gained all he could from the Rickshaws, Meredith drove back to the station in a thoughtful frame of mind. It was extraordinarily curious how the Nonock Petroleum Company kept cropping up. First there was Higgins’s customer, the manager of the Penrith depot. Then his encounter with the fast-driven lorry on the road just outside Braithwaite. And now on Saturday night a Nonock lorry had been drawn up beside the Derwent petrol pumps. He had already determined that inquiries would have to be made about the men on the lorry, and he decided to drop in at the Penrith depot on the following day.
In the meantime, what exactly had he learnt from his interview with Major Rickshaw? Precisely—nothing! It was annoying that the Major hadn’t stopped at the garage, say, at eight-thirty. He already knew that Clayton was alive and kicking at seven-thirty-five. He had Freddie Hogg’s word for that. What he really wanted, was to narrow down the time in which it was possible for the murder to have been committed. If only somebody turned up who had called at a later hour at the garage!
The next day, Inspector Meredith, in plain clothes, boarded the Penrith bus. The day was clear and sunny, though a cold wind was blowing up from the Borrowdale valley at the end of the lake. The vast hump of Saddleback rose gilded in the frosty air, laced with the white threads of distant waterfalls. Little patches of snow still clung to the weather-sides of the higher peaks, but already in the valleys there stirred the first subtle promise of approaching spring. The wine-like air filled Meredith with energy and optimism. Somehow he had a premonition that before the end of the day he would be able to look back on a considerable amount of progress. Why this feeling was so insistent he could not say. He rather doubted if he was going to gain much from the lorrymen. They must have left shortly after Major Rickshaw, because when Freddie Hogg cycled past some ten minutes later the lorry was no longer there. Still, as a matter of routine, the men would have to be questioned.
Nearing the depot, Meredith stopped the bus and alighted. He did not want anybody to see him entering the place and he knew that one or two Keswick people on the bus had already recognized him. The less the locals knew about his peregrinations the better were his chances of solving the case.
After a brisk walk he came to the entrance of the depot. The entire place was surrounded by a tall corrugated-iron fence, above which projected the roofs of the garages and stores. About a hundred yards behind, and slightly above the rear of the depot, ran the Cockermouth–Whitehaven branch-line of the L.M.S. Meredith noted a tank-car which had been shunted off on to the Nonock siding and a couple of stout poles from which dangled two flexible pipes, obviously used to connect with the union on the tank-car. Open meadows rose in a gradual slope from the siding, and the depot itself, standing quite on its own, looked unutterably bleak despite the clear March sunshine.
Just inside the gateway, which was ajar, Meredith noticed a little brick-built office raised on a platform of cement. At first glance the place seemed entirely deserted, and it was not until he drew level w
ith the office that he noticed a man watching him from a window. Mounting the steps which led up to the office door, the Inspector rapped sharply and the face disappeared, to reappear a few seconds later in the open doorway.
It was then that Meredith had one of the biggest thrills in his life!
It was all he could do to suppress a sharp cry of astonishment, for the face which peered uncertainly into his was as clearly impressed on his memory as the title on the cover of a book. Not that he had ever met the man before. He hadn’t. But there was no gainsaying those thin, clean-shaven features, the weak eyes enormously magnified by the thick lenses of a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. Even if Meredith had doubted the evidence of his eyes, the moment the man opened his mouth he knew that he had not been deceived in his belief. That slight stutter offered conclusive proof. The man who confronted him was the man whom Mrs. Swinley had, on two occasions, seen at the garage cottage!
“Well,” demanded the man, with a rather truculent air, “what can I do for you?”
“Can I speak to the manager of the depot?” asked Meredith with emphasized politeness. “It’s a personal matter.”
“You’re speaking to him,” replied the man shortly. “My name’s Rose. What’s the trouble?”
Again Meredith suffered a sudden surprise. So this was the man with whom Mark Higgins had made that appointment on Sunday morning! It looked as if Mr. William Rose had a pretty close connection with the partners of the Derwent.
“I won’t keep you a moment. May I come in?”
Meredith grew more affable every minute.
“All right,” said the manager, kicking an office stool in his direction. “Sit down, won’t you?”
“Thanks,” said Meredith. “First let me introduce myself, Mr. Rose. My name’s Johnson and I’ve just rented a place for the winter at Braithwaite. Well, two days ago I was driving round a sharp bend in the middle of Portinscale when I was nearly run down by one of your lorries. I shouted to the driver to stop but I’m sorry to say, Mr. Rose, he ignored my summons and drove on. If I hadn’t had my wits about me I don’t mind telling you that I shouldn’t be here now talking to you.”
“Well?” demanded Rose acidly. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“My first idea,” went on the Inspector in an unruffled voice, “was to take up the matter with the police. But on thinking things over I decided to come over here and see you first. After all, I don’t want your man to lose his job or have his licence suspended. My idea was that you might give the fellow a straight talking-to and leave the matter at that.”
“I see.” Mr. Rose seemed to contemplate the facts for a moment, then: “You’re quite certain it was one of our lorries, I suppose?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“What time did this happen?”
The Inspector smiled to himself. It was rather a novelty being cross-examined for a change; besides, the fertility of his invention amused him highly.
“Let’s see—about seven-thirty in the evening.”
A look of sneering triumph came over the manager’s sunken features.
“Then I’ve got you! Our lorries aren’t on the road after six o’clock. They’re scheduled to garage here at six when I check in their returns. You’ve made a mistake, Mr... . Mr... .”
“Johnson,” smiled the Inspector pleasantly. “But I assure you that... .”
“Impossible,” snapped the manager. “If you doubt my word, you can darn well stay here till six o’clock and see ‘em come in. They’re all out to-day. Six lorries. So you can stand in that gateway and count ‘em. That’s fair enough, eh?”
“Well, really... .” Meredith’s confusion was admirably genuine. “I don’t quite know what to say, Mr. Rose. It looks as if I must have been mistaken. I apologize, of course. Can’t imagine how I could have made an error like that. Your lorries are green aren’t they? Green with yellow lettering?”
“That’s settled it! You have made a mistake. Blue and red—that’s us !”
Meredith’s apologies grew profuse. He couldn’t imagine how he could have been so stupid. Now he came to think of it, the Nonock lorries had blue tanks with red lettering, hadn’t they? He’d noticed them about quite a lot in the district.
“I expect you’ve got a pretty flourishing connection in these parts? Interesting work, eh?”
“So-so,” said the manager in surly tones.
“Oh, well,” observed Meredith spaciously, “we all think other people’s work more interesting than our own. Now I’m a commercial traveller—at least, I was until I had a nervous breakdown. Haberdashery—that was my line. Ever been on the road, Mr. Rose?”
The manager eyed his interlocutor suspiciously, and nodded.
“Off and on,” was his non-committal reply.
“But now that you’ve got a regular round for your lorries I suppose it means you’re tied to the office?”
“That’s about it.”
Meredith rose suddenly, with an apologetic air, and held out his hand.
“But I mustn’t take up all your time, Mr. Rose. I’m sorry I’ve troubled you. I still can’t see how I made that mistake. Well—good morning.”
“Good morning,” answered Mr. Rose in level tones as he escorted the Inspector down the steps.
Aware that the manager had followed him cautiously to the gates and was now watching his departure, Meredith sauntered casually along the road in the direction of Penrith. There was no bus due for another forty-five minutes, so he decided to walk into the town and improve the shining hour at the Beacon. Once round the bend of the road, screened by a high stone wall, Meredith swung into a brisk stride, a form of exercise which always acted as a stimulant to his brain.
He was delighted with the result of his visit to the depot. He now felt sure that there was some definite connection between the manager and the partners of the Derwent. That it was a purely business interest Meredith dismissed. Rose had as good as told him that his work lay solely in the little brick office. The Nonock company had already worked up an excellent connection with the garages in the surrounding areas, as witness the number of places which sported their blue and scarlet pumps. He had already noticed a pump of this description at the Derwent. So it hardly seemed probable that Rose’s nocturnal visits to the cottage could be connected with a desire to further the trade of the petrol company. What, then, was the basis of the intimacy between the two factions? Was the Chief right in his theory? Were these men united in the running of some nefarious concern under cover of their respective trades?
Meredith could not suppress a chuckle when he recalled the shock he had received when Rose had confronted him in the office door. Thank heaven his powers of invention hadn’t failed him at the crucial moment! As Mr. Johnson, the retired commercial traveller, he had at least gained a glimmer of useful information, which would most certainly have been denied him if Rose had guessed his real identity. Complications had accrued, of course. He would now have to interrogate the lorry-men away from the depot. It would never do for Rose to see him cross-examining the men. That would immediately put him on his guard.
And why had the lorry been seen at the Derwent at seven-twenty when he had the manager’s assurance that all the Nonock transport was in the depot by six o’clock? The significance of this discrepancy struck Meredith at once. Did it mean that the lorry-men were vitally concerned with Clayton’s death—in brief, were they the murderers? It was a possibility, but a possibility discounted by Freddie Hogg’s evidence. The lorry was no longer there when he passed at seven-thirty and Clayton was definitely alive. The men might have parked the lorry up a side-turning and returned on foot to the garage. That was another possibility. If only he could have established the time at which the lorry reached the depot on Saturday night! On the other hand, why not follow up the supposition that the lorry had parked and make an exhaustive examination of the probable side-turnings up which it could have been concealed? Meredith decided that this, coupled with a cross-examinat
ion of the lorry-men, must be his next move.
Charlie’s amiable countenance expanded into a vast grin when Meredith walked into the hotel entrance of the Beacon.
“Hullo, Inspector. Taking a day off?”
“You’ve said it!” replied Meredith with a wry grimace. “No such luck, Mr. Dawson. Can I have a word with you in the office?”
“Right-o. This way. Mind the mat!” He went to a side-table and poured out a couple of whiskies and sodas. “No need to ask,” he observed with a sly chuckle as he handed Meredith the tumbler. “Here’s luck, Inspector!”
Meredith grinned as he raised his glass.
“I need it,” he answered tritely. “You saw the result of the inquest on Clayton, I suppose?” The manager nodded. “Well, between ourselves, I’ve got a hunch that I’m on to something. Nothing certain. But I believe you’ve got some information that I can do with, Mr. Dawson.”
“Right-o. Go ahead, Inspector.”
“What exactly do you know about the Nonock Petrol Company? That’s my star question.”
Dawson considered the query for a moment, pulling at the lobe of his right ear, a habit of his when thinking.
“Well, I don’t know much,” he acknowledged, at length. “Ormsby-Wright is the owner of the concern. It’s a newish business. Been running about ten years. The company’s well organized and paying their shareholders an annual dividend of seven and a half per cent. As far as I know, there are only two depots—one here and one just outside Carlisle. I can’t tell you anything about the Carlisle place, but I’ve picked up a good bit of information about the local depot.”
The Inspector leant forward eagerly.
“Good—that’s just what I’m after. To begin with, how many people are employed there?”
“Let’s see—there’s Rose, the manager. I’ve mentioned him before, you remember. Then there’s six lorry-drivers and their mates. That’s another twelve. And a yard-man. That’s the lot, I think.”
