by John Bude
Without wasting a moment they got down to work.
Except for three or four large casks firmly fixed on trestles the wall was blank. It presented no buttresses or recesses, but stretched from one side of the cellar to the other, an unbroken, whitewashed wall of stone. But Meredith refused to be disheartened by its apparent solidity. Snatching up a spigot from the floor he began, with his usual thoroughness, to sound every inch of the surface. For ten minutes he and Maltman continued with this task until every stone in the wall had been meticulously tested. But the result was nil. Every stone seemed to be tightly cemented in place and there was no suggestion of hollowness in the whole length of the wall.
“Well, that’s that!” observed Maltman, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “What now?”
“The floor,” replied Meredith tersely. “There might be a trap leading to a shaft driven under the wall. That would account for its apparent solidity, anyway. If there is a trap I think we can rely on it being this side of the cellar. They wouldn’t want to make that shaft longer than was absolutely essential. Suppose we test a strip eight feet wide? That should tell us if we’re on the right track or not.”
“Right!” said Maltman incisively. “Let’s jump to it!”
Another ten minutes of frantic tapping and listening followed. But the result was the same. Everything was normal. There was no trap in the floor—not even the slightest suggestion of hollowness.
“Confound it,” exclaimed Meredith. “I’m sure there’s an opening here somewhere. It might run out of the main cellar, of course, with a right-angled shaft to bring it to the rear of the Nonock pump. But this seems the obvious place. Twenty feet from the pump! We must be right, Maltman!”
“Doesn’t look as if we are, for all that,” commented the excise official. “We’ve been over every inch of that wall and along this strip of the flooring. And there’s not——”
“Hold on!” exclaimed Meredith, clipping his fingers. “You’ve given me an idea. You say that we’ve been over every inch of that wall?”
“Well, we have!”
Meredith shook his head.
“That’s just where you’re wrong. We haven’t! What about those barrels? There’s a circular spot behind each of those casks that we haven’t tested. “Come on, Maltman, help me to drag these trestles away from the wall. I shan’t be satisfied with our test until we’ve had a look behind the barrels.”
Seizing hold of the first trestle they tugged with all their might. The trestle refused to budge.
“Good heavens,” cried Maltman. “They’re fixed. Look, they’re clamped on to the stone!”
“And the barrels are clamped on to the trestles,” added Meredith. “Surely that isn’t usual, Maltman?”
“Extraordinary,” said Maltman in puzzled tones. “I can’t quite see——”
But wasting no time on further speculation he suddenly strode down the line of casks, sounding them with the toe of his boot.
“Three full—one empty,” was his report.
“Which is the empty one?” asked Meredith.
“This one. The third from your end. But I still don’t see——”
But Meredith made no attempt to enlighten the mystified official. He was already kneeling in front of the empty cask tugging at the circular end into which the wooden spigot had been driven. Suddenly the whole end of the barrel gave way and Meredith all but fell backwards on to the floor of the cellar.
Maltman took an excited step forward and peered into the yawning hole.
“But, good heavens!” was his excited observation, “there’s no——”
“Exactly,” snapped Meredith. “There’s no back to the barrel. Just as I anticipated. And I’ll tell you why there isn’t any back to the barrel—because this particular cask is the entrance to that shaft we were looking for. Clever, eh?”
“You mean?” stuttered the amazed Maltman.
“I mean that if we crawl through this barrel we shall eventually find outselves in that secret blending and bottling department. No wonder we got no reaction from the wall itself. We shouldn’t. The vault probably lies behind a good thick slab of mother earth. Our friends weren’t taking any chances. At any rate, don’t let’s stand here theorizing. We’ve only got to crawl through that barrel to make certain.” Meredith glanced at his watch. “We’ve been down here for about twenty-five minutes. Is it safe to stay any longer?”
Maltman, after a quick consideration of the point, thought that it was. At his suggestion, however, Meredith was to crawl through the barrel, whilst he, Maltman, fitted the false end into place. Then if anybody should come down into the cellar the Excise man would merely be about his official duties. If Beltinge turned up, Maltman would be ready with an explanation to account for Meredith’s absence.
This line of action decided on, Meredith, with a joking remark about obstacle races, crawled on all-fours into the cask and disappeared into the hole which had been driven through the wall. No sooner was he well inside when Meredith heard Maltman refixing the false lid and the last vestiges of light were swallowed up by complete darkness. Groping for his torch, he clicked it on and directed the rays down the narrow, arch-shaped tunnel which ran away in front of him. Although it was very airless and uncomfortable in the shaft, the cement floor was dry and the bricked arch which supported the earth comparatively clean. On his hands and knees Meredith made rapid progress to where he had already noticed a slight bend in the tunnel. Turning this corner, he came suddenly on the very thing he was looking for! The shaft continued for about another eight feet and then terminated in a small, square vault!
Gaining this vault, he was able to straighten up and take stock of his surroundings. A single glance sufficed to show that he had reached, as it were, the very nerve-centre of the racket. The little cellar was chock full of whisky bottles, some full, some empty, some labelled, some ready for labelling. Crates filled with capped and sealed bottles lay piled one on top of the other along one wall. In a corner stood a small table on which were stacked little bundles of labels and boxes of metal caps. A pot of gum, one or two wire-brushes for cleaning the bottles, several squares of wash-leather, two or three glass funnels, a couple of graduated beakers and a large tank full of water completed the apparatus. Above the tank was a tap, obviously connected up in some secret way with the water-main which supplied the hotel. From the right wall projected a short length of small-bore metal pipe, which curved down into a glass container half-full of raw spirit. Meredith saw at a glance that the principle in action here was the same as that he had seen at the Derwent. It was evident that the small-bore pipe passed through the cement side of the petrol tank and thus up into the mouth of the countersunk intake in the yard above. If he had had any doubts as to how this end of the business was being managed, now they no longer existed. Maltman’s second theory was right. It meant that genuine whisky was being blended with the diluted products of the illicit stills and sold as bona fide stuff over the counters of the public house above.
All the unused labels bore the wording and trade marks of recognized brands. The empty, unlabelled bottles were similar in shape and size to those favoured by certain genuine whisky distilleries. What could be simpler? thought Meredith. With a good supply of labels, bottles and illicit liquor, the ramp could be carried on wholesale. And if the other five tied houses belonging to Ormsby-Wright were fitted up in the same way, the profits from the racket must be enormous.
Only waiting long enough to verify the contents of the glass container, Meredith crawled into the shaft and worked his way back as fast as he could to the barrel. Once inside it, he stopped dead and listened. There were no voices. Only the sound of Maltman’s measured footsteps passing up and down the stone floor. Softly he tapped on the end of the cask.
“Right,” came Maltman’s low answer. “It’s all O.K.”
Meredith felt him tugging at the false end of the barrel and the next minute the Inspector was standing upright in the cellar.
/> “Well?” demanded Maltman, excitedly.
“It’s the goods right enough,” was Meredith’s quick answer. “Tell you about it later.”
“I was right?” Meredith nodded. “I thought as much. Now we’d better leg it as quick as we can back to old Beltinge’s office. We’ve been down here just three-quarters of an hour. He may smell a rat. Come on, Inspector.”
Together they raced up the cellar steps and, at a more demure pace, passed down the panelled corridor to the proprietor’s office.
Beltinge greeted them with an expansive smile and held out his hand for the keys and invoices.
“Well, Mr. Maltman—everything in order? No complaints, I take it?”
“Nairy a one, Mr. Beltinge.”
“That’s good. Would either of you gentlemen care to join me in a spot of Scotch?”
Maltman and Meredith exchanged glances.
“Well, speaking for myself, I’m not averse to the suggestion. What about you, Johnson?”
“Every time,” replied Meredith with a broad grin.
“Good stuff this,” said Maltman when he had set down his glass.
“It is that, Mr. Maltman. We only stock the best brands, as you know. Inferior quality spirit never pays in the long run. My customers want the best and I see that they get it.”
“And a very sound business motto it is!” commented Maltman. Then, thrusting out his hand:
“Well, we won’t keep you from your figures. You look as if you’re snowed under with work.”
“See you some time, I expect, Mr. Maltman.” Beltinge turned his moon-face in Meredith’s direction. “And you, too, sir, if you haven’t left the district. Drop in any time you like. There’s always an odd spot locked away in the cupboard, you know.”
“Thanks,” said Meredith. “I daresay we shall meet again all right. Good day, Mr. Beltinge.”
Once out of sight of the Admiral, Maltman turned on the Inspector and burst out laughing.
“Poor devil! The irony of your last remark was entirely wasted on him. I reckon he’d sleep ill o’ nights if he so much as guessed what you were hinting at. But tell me—what exactly did you find, Inspector? I’m dying to hear.”
When Meredith had concluded his story, Maltman whistled.
“So you’ve now got ‘em by the short hairs, eh? Looks to me as if the case is at an end.”
“It is,” agreed Meredith. “That case.”
“Is there another?”
“You’re forgetting that a man named Clayton was found murdered in his garage on the night of March twenty-third. What about that little packet of trouble?” Meredith sighed. “If only I could find a stepping-stone across the stream. Known facts on both sides with nothing to link them together. That’s the situation. And between you and me, I don’t think we ever shall find that stepping-stone, Maltman. The scent’s grown cold.”
CHAPTER XXI
RECONSTRUCTION OF THE CRIME
WHEN Meredith had put in his report to Thompson that evening a late phone call came through from Carlisle bidding him attend a conference at headquarters the following morning. He wondered what was in the air. Did it mean that the Chief had decided on the gang’s immediate arrest, in the belief that Clayton’s murderer would never be run to earth? The crime had been committed over a month ago, and, except for a few unconnected clues, Meredith was no nearer a solution of the mystery. He believed that Prince and Bettle were mixed up in the affair. But he could not prove it. He believed that the motive for the murder was rooted in the gang’s determination to silence a man who might turn King’s Evidence. But again there was no proof. Facts without proof. That was the situation in a nutshell.
It was with a mixed feeling of trepidation and curiosity, therefore, that Meredith knocked on the door of the Chief Constable’s office the next morning. Was he to be congratulated in bringing one half of the case to a successful conclusion? Or was he to be hauled over the coals for his inability to lay his hands on the murderer?
Colonel Hardwick’s first words dispelled his uneasiness. The Chief, seated at his desk behind the inevitable blue haze of cigar-smoke, beamed all over his face as the Inspector entered.
“This is great news, Meredith. I can’t tell you how pleased I was to get your report last night. I didn’t expect you to get a conclusive result so quickly. Anyhow, sit down and put on a pipe. You too, Thompson. We’ve got one or two rather tricky problems to discuss and my time’s unfortunately limited.”
“First of all, Inspector, about this man, Ormsby-Wright. I’m having him shadowed. We can’t afford to let him slip through our fingers, because it’s pretty evident that he’s the brain and boss of the racket. And once he’d got wind of our investigations, he’d be certain to nip across the Channel and bury himself in some ungodly corner of Europe. According to the report which came in yesterday, he’s still living in his house at Penrith. Going about his usual business in a perfectly normal sort of way. Obviously unsuspicious of our attentions. So far so good. The question remains, how long do we dare hold up the arrests, in order to give you time to complete your investigations of the murder case? As our future actions hinge on this point, suppose we run over the various facts which you have discovered and see if we’ve missed anything. Agreeable, Meredith?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“Very well, then—let’s see what we know.” The Chief picked up a few sheets of paper from his desk and slipped on his reading glasses. I spent yesterday evening tabulating your isolated bits of evidence. The result runs briefly like this. (1) On the night of the crime No. 4 bulk-wagon called at the Derwent. It delivered petrol on its inward journey instead, as one would expect, on the outward. Why? It arrived after dark at the Derwent owing to engine-trouble. Was this engine-trouble faked so that the roads might be reasonably clear of traffic returning from the football match at Cockermouth? After leaving the Derwent we have conclusive proof that No. 4 parked for a few moments up a side-turning. Why? We know that the lorry could not have parked long up the side-turning because just before eight o’clock on the night of the crime a man named Burns saw the lorry speeding through Threlkeld on its homeward run to the depot. So much for the lorry. Now for the next point. (2) The hose-pipe. We know that the length of hose attached to the exhaust of Clayton’s car came from the rubbish dump behind the Nonock depot. Care had been taken to conceal this fact and to suggest that the length had been cut from a hose-pipe hanging in an outhouse at the Derwent. The boot-blacking clue. Are we to infer, therefore, that the murderer was employed by the Nonock Company? (3) The broken glass. A very puzzling factor. Are we to dismiss it as irrelevant or try to find some connection between the broken glass and the crime? Now what do you think about this, Meredith?”
Meredith pondered the question for a moment before making reply. He was not anxious to commit himself to an opinion, for the simple reason that the clue—if, indeed, it was a clue—had puzzled him quite as much as it had puzzled his Chief.
“Well, sir,” he vouchsafed at length, “you’ve set me a bit of a poser. I certainly found the glass at a spot where the lorry, in all probability, parked, but it’s beyond me to say if it has any actual bearing on the case. Dr. Burney had an idea that it might have been the shattered remains of some piece of chemical apparatus. Such as a test-tube or small flask or a retort. But I can’t see what chemical apparatus has to do with the crime.”
“Well, let’s see if we can’t forge a link,” suggested the Chief. “Consider how Clayton met his death. He was asphyxiated by the inhalation of carbon-monoxide fumes. Are those facts in any way suggestive? What do you say, Thompson?”
The Superintendent smoked for a minute in silence.
Then: “I think I can see a way in which we could connect the glass with the crime, sir.”
“You do. Good. Then let’s hear it.”
“Your marshalling of the facts has just put the idea into my head, sir. Chemical apparatus. Carbon monoxide. Isn’t it possible that the gas had been manufactured b
y the murderer and the incriminating apparatus afterwards destroyed?”
“But why, Thompson? Why manufacture the carbon monoxide by chemical means when there was a perfectly good source of the poison in the exhaust of Clayton’s car?”
Thompson shook his head.
“I can’t answer that one, sir, I’m afraid.”
“Well, we won’t dismiss the idea. Suppose we look up carbon monoxide in the encyclopædia there, Meredith. On the shelf just above your head. Got it? Now turn to the Cs, and read out what it says about the stuff.”
“Carbon monoxide,” began Meredith, when he had found the required reference. “Formerly known as carbonic acid. A gas formed during the combustion of——”
“You can cut that,” broke in the Chief with an impatient gesture. “All we want to know is how it is formed chemically.”
Meredith ran his finger rapidly down the paragraph.
“Here we are, sir! It is prepared in the laboratory by the action of concentrated sulphuric acid on oxalic acid.”
“Good enough,” commented the Chief. “Now, suppose the murderer did prepare the gas in this way. He’d probably have two small flasks. One containing sulphuric and the other oxalic acid. By pouring the contents of one flask into the other he’d get off carbon monoxide, which could be led off through a rubber tube terminating in a face-piece—say the kind used by dentists. He would then be in a position to asphyxiate his victim without having to resort to the exhaust-fumes of the car. But, if he did do this, I can’t for the life of me see why.”
“There’s another point,” broke in Thompson.
“Wouldn’t the grass show some sort of stain where you found the broken glass, Meredith?”
“Not necessarily, sir,” replied Meredith. “The murderer might have emptied the residue of the acids into a drain. He’d probably realize the danger of leaving a clue like that behind him.”
“Now, gentlemen,” cautioned the Chief Constable, “don’t let’s wander off up side tracks. We’re going to assume that the murderer manufactured that carbon monoxide. What we want to know is, why did he go to all that trouble when there was a perfectly good flow of gas coming from the exhaust? Did he imagine that the car might not start up at the critical moment? Was the apparatus merely a second string to his bow? Or had he some mysterious reason for gassing Clayton first and sitting him in the car afterwards? But before we go into that question, suppose we consider the rest of the known facts. The fourth point on my list is marked—Trional. The keystone of the whole case, as I see it. For if Clayton hadn’t been drugged, we shouldn’t have felt so certain that he’d been murdered. Now the drug had to be administered in such a way that Clayton’s suspicions weren’t aroused. This, I think, is a strong argument in favour of the Bettle–Prince solution. They were both well-known to Clayton. From Major Rickshaw’s evidence, we must suppose that the men were in the office when Clayton served him with petrol. I think we can assume that Clayton returned to the office, was offered a drink of whisky from a pocket-flask and engaged in conversation until the veronal took effect. So much for the drug.
