The Lake District Murder (British Library Crime Classics)

by John Bude

  It was one of the most intensely exciting moments of his career when Meredith laid out his flexible rule for the final reading. And when his anticipation gave way to complete realization he experienced that sort of thrill which comes only once or twice in a man’s lifetime. His supposition was right! The underground shaft terminated at a point some three feet behind the Nonock pump! And that three feet would be occupied by one half of the underground petrol-tank! Which meant that the small-bore pipe from the still disappeared not into a blank cement wall, as he supposed, but through the cemented side of the petrol-tank itself! He now saw with absolute clarity the explanation for those confusing and spurious deliveries of petrol. The whole purpose of the bulk-wagon became apparent. What a fool he was not to have thought of it before! It was all Meredith could do to restrain his laughter. There he was again! Belittling himself because the problem appeared simple when the solution was in his hand. Naturally it did!

  But he had not time to stand there juggling with the niceties of logic. He must fetch his cap from the coping and replace the ladder precisely where he had found it. He had only just finished covering up his tracks when the constable’s portly form projected through the scullery window.

  “Hurry up and close that sash,” he called across. “It’s just on four-thirty!”

  “Coming, sir!” was the constable’s cheery answer.

  “Got that sample?” demanded Meredith as he was joined by his breathless subordinate.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then let’s get going, while the going’s good. It’s about time our friend turned up. We’d look a couple of prize idiots if he caught us here! Buckle into it! Start that engine.”

  The combination broke into a deep roar and shot off swiftly in the direction of Portinscale. And when some two hundred yards up the road a big Rover saloon swung round the corner, sped by and vanished up the road, Meredith broke into a chuckle.

  “My Lord, sir!” exclaimed Railton, leaning over and shouting into the Inspector’s ear. “That was a close shave!”

  “It was,” replied Meredith tersely. Then: “Railton,” he added sternly, “your breath smells of whisky! Am I to infer that——?”

  “Well, sir,” began the constable with obvious reluctance.

  “You did?” demanded Meredith.

  The constable nodded.

  “Just a nip, sir, by way of investigation. And, by jingo, it’s got a kick in it! A kick in it like a mule!”

  Meredith threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  CHAPTER XIX

  PIPES

  AFTER his customary high tea at Greystoke Road, Meredith returned in a thoroughly agreeable mood to the police station. Punctually at six o’clock he put through his call to Carlisle and in a few moments was in touch with Superintendent Thompson. He then gave a concise, though graphic, résumé of his afternoon’s activities; a report which, to judge by the warmth of his congratulations, evidently more than satisfied his superior.

  “That’s great news, Inspector. It looks as if the end of the case is in sight. Your next move, of course, is a re-examination of that bulk-wagon? Can you get that done to-night?”

  “I’m hoping to, sir. I’ll arrange with the Penrith station to run Dancy out to the depot with the keys.”

  “And what about that sample of the spirit?” was Thompson’s next query.

  “I sent it off at once to Maltman with a request for an immediate analysis. His report may give us an idea as to how the stuff is being planted on the public. Meredith laughed. “According to Railton, sir, I should imagine the stuff is somewhere round the region of a hundred over proof! But quite apart from his unofficial investigation, it’s pretty obvious that the strength would have to be broken down. Then again, there’s the matter of its maturity. The distillate is, as you probably know, sir, colourless. It doesn’t take on the proper amber colour until it’s been well matured in the wood. They must either store it somewhere until it’s fit for use, or else add the colouration by artificial means. But I’m looking to Maltman for the necessary technical information.”

  “Quite right,” agreed the Superintendent. “It’s always best to get in an expert where possible. I suggest that you should concentrate on ‘The Admiral’, or one of the other five hotels, the moment you’ve cleared up your investigations of the lorry and the garages. But before you do that I think it advisable you should come over here early to-morrow morning and put in a verbal report to the Chief Constable. You know how keen he is on the personal touch in these matters.”

  “Right, sir. Nothing more?”

  “No, Meredith. That’s all. Let’s say ten-thirty here to-morrow.”

  The moment the Superintendent had rung off, Meredith got through to Penrith and arranged for a police sidecar to bring Dancy out to the depot. He was to be there at seven o’clock with the necessary keys. Collecting Railton from the outer office, where Meredith had instructed him to be ready, the two men climbed into the combination and set off through the rain-fresh air to meet the yard-man.

  Dancy and the Penrith constable were already waiting outside the depot gates. Not wanting the yard-man to be present during his vital investigations of the bulk-wagon, Meredith tactfully suggested that it would be as well if he and the Penrith constable kept watch on the road. Dancy then handed over the keys and Meredith, accompanied by Railton, unlocked the big corrugated-iron doors and entered the yard. Familiarity with the lay-out of the place enabled the Inspector to make straight tracks for the garage, and in a short time he and Railton were examining the lorry behind carefully fastened doors.

  “Now then, Railton,” said the Inspector brusquely, “I’ll hold that torch, while you get down to work. We’ll deal with this wooden box first. Can you pick the padlock all right?”

  “I’ll have a shot at it, sir. It shouldn’t prove difficult.”

  After a brief inspection of the lock Railton drew out his array of little wires and got down to work. Now that he was nearing the final confirmation of his theory, Meredith was keyed-up to an intense pitch of anxiety. Everything depended on certain peculiarities of the feed-pipe and, despite an undercurrent of optimism, the Inspector dreaded that these peculiarities might prove to be absent. The constable’s drawn-out operations roused him to a frenzy of impatience.

  Then suddenly there came a welcome click and, with an exclamation of content, Railton thrust back the spring of the lock and drew it from the staple.

  “Here, hold this,” ordered Meredith eagerly, pushing the torch into the constable’s hand.

  Without wasting breath on further explanation, he pushed back the long lid and peered into the narrow trough. Side by side on the floor of the box lay two wire-and-canvas feed-pipes. Pulling out the one nearest to hand, Meredith up-ended it, snatched the torch from the puzzled constable and shone it directly into the mouth of the pipe. Then he let out a muffled oath. Here, at any rate, was nothing startling or confirmatory in the way of a clue. The pipe was exactly as one would have expected to find it. There was nothing unusual in its appearance or construction.

  With a quickening pulse, Meredith realized that all his hopes were now centred on the second of the feed-pipes. If that failed him he was, once more, up against a hopeless blank wall.

  But this time he was not to suffer disappointment. He plunged the rays of the torch up the inside of the tube and saw, in a flash, that his profoundest desires had been realized. He had imagined that pipe endowed with certain peculiarities and here, before his eyes, were those peculiarities made manifest. He swung round on Railton, who had been following his superior’s action with a look of perplexity.

  “Got it, Railton!” was his excited observation. “No mistake this time!” Then noting the blank look on the constable’s face, he added in more sober tones: “Take a look at this pipe. Notice anything curious about its design?”

  Railton craned over and examined it carefully.

  Then: “Good heavens, sir!” he exclaimed. “There’s a——!”

/>   “Precisely,” was Meredith’s incisive comment. “Just as I thought there would be.” He dumped the two pipes back into the box. “Now let’s leave that for the moment and have a look at these discharge valves.”

  Followed by the constable, he moved round to the rear of the bulk-wagon and indicated the locked metal box which encased the outlet pipes.

  “Can you manage this one as well, Railton?”

  The constable thought that it should prove as simple a matter as the first padlock and, in less than a minute, the box was open and the three valves revealed.

  Meredith was now in a mood of exhilaration and an examination of the three discharge pipes only served to heighten this mood. Everything was just as he had anticipated. Where before he thought his theory correct, he now knew it was. And the difference between these two mental states was the difference between failure and success.

  Success, save for one small point. A point which, in the light of his sanguine mood, he had no doubt could be instantly cleared up. But for all that, it was not until he had made an exhaustive examination, not only of No. 4, but of the remaining five bolt-wagons, that Meredith finally hit on the answer to the problem. But by the time Railton had replaced the padlocks and covered up all traces of their search, he knew that, as far as the lorry was concerned, his investigations were at an end.

  Inside ten minutes, after handing over the keys to Dancy and thanking him for his co-operation, Meredith and the constable were speeding back to Keswick.

  Early the next morning the Inspector set out for Carlisle, and after an exhilarating drive through the balmy springtime air, he reached that historical, old, walled city just as the clocks were striking ten. Half an hour later a constable entered the Superintendent’s office and said that the Chief Constable was ready to receive them.

  When they were comfortably settled round the room Colonel Hardwick lit one of his inevitable Henry Clay’s and signed for Meredith to go ahead with his report.

  “Where do you want me to begin, sir?” was Meredith’s respectful query.

  The Chief Constable smiled.

  “I have a predeliction for beginning at the beginning, Inspector, and then pursuing a story until I come to the end. Suppose you adopt that procedure now, eh?”

  “In that case, sir, I’d better go back to Constable Gratorex’s discovery at the Lothwaite because it was his report which first put me on to the track of a solution. You remember, sir, that up till that time we had an idea that the gang were engaged in the fraudulent sale of petrol. Well, this was all right as far as it went, but it didn’t go far enough. In fact, all my investigations along that line seemed to end in a blank wall. There was no secret tank on the lorry capable of holding 200 gallons. There was no conceivable way of the lorry delivering short on its genuine orders. Yet we were up against the fact that amounts varying from two to four hundred gallons were apparently being delivered at certain garages on No. 4’s route. The Superintendent then put forward an alternative theory. It was his idea that brandy or some other spirit was being smuggled into these coastal hotels which sported a Nonock pump. But as licensed premises are liable to Excise supervision, he thought that the brandy was being planted out on certain of the garages by means of the bulk-wagon.” Meredith turned to the Superintendent. “That was your idea, sir?”

  “It was,” agreed Thompson. “And we embellished it with the further theory that the lorry was also used to convey small quantities of the brandy, probably in bottles, back to the coastal hotels. But go on, Inspector, you’re telling the story.”

  Meredith turned back to the Chief Constable.

  “Well, sir, we were up against one or two nasty snags. To begin with, we couldn’t see how the brandy was dumped on the lorry from the hotels. We had the places under observation, but none of our men noticed anything suspicious about No. 4’s calls at these particular places. We imagined it would be handled in small kegs. But as our men didn’t spot anything in the shape of a keg, we had to search around for another explanation. Then again—nothing passed back out of the garages to the hotels. And to cap it all the expert opinion was that smuggling along that part of the coast would be extremely difficult, not to say impossible. The only bit of progress we made by following up this theory was that all the hotels were owned by the Bee’s Head Brewery—and that Ormsby-Wright owned the brewery!”

  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?”