by John Creasey
Half a pound of treacle.
That’s the way the money goes,
Pop goes the weazel!”
Roger grinned.
Janet, next to him, for Nell Goodwin had insisted on sleeping in the dining-room that night, was facing the window, and appeared to be fast asleep.
Roger got up and went to Scoopy’s room – and as soon as he opened the door the singing stopped. Scoopy was sitting up in bed and wearing his dressing-gown.
“Good morning, Daddy!”
“Morning, old chap. Pipe down, will you? Mummy’s very tired and Richard’s still asleep. I’ll bring your orange juice in a minute.”
“Could I come and help you, Daddy?”
“Well, all right – but put your slippers on.”
“They are on,” declared Scoopy, and scrambled out of bed, wearing a gay pair of felt slippers. They went downstairs, the child chattering, and as they reached the hall Richard called out in a sleepy voice: “S’oopy! I’se awake.”
Roger made the tea and prepared orange juice for the boys. Richard was already on the landing, his dressing-gown on but unfastened, one sash dragging on the floor, his slippers in his hand, his great eyes heavy with sleep. He was much slighter than Scoopy, and at first glance the more attractive. Scoopy was his idol.
“Now put those slippers on,” began Roger, “and—”
The telephone rang, bringing the news of the night’s raids.
Chapter Eighteen
Headlines
The foreman of the Dispatch Department looked badly shaken when Roger arrived at Perriman’s just after half-past nine. But he was on top of his job. He had reports of all the hold-ups, which coincided with provincial police-reports which Roger had collected from the Yard. The only man badly hurt was Sandy McKay, and he was in hospital with a smashed rib, caused by a kick. His head injuries weren’t serious. A number of the other drivers and vanmen had been slightly hurt when resisting; all the robberies had been completely successful.
The foreman had prepared a total of goods lost.
“Worst we’ve ever had,” he said. “It’s awful.”
“How often have you had trouble before?” Roger demanded.
The foreman cited at least a dozen robberies.
“I’d like to get this clear,” Roger said quietly. “There’s a regular schedule of journeys, and a copy of each schedule goes to various departments. On the schedule there’s an hour-by-hour statement of where the vans ought to be – an estimated log. Right?”
The foreman nodded.
“And if a man got hold of a copy of that log, he’d pretty well know where to find the vans,” Roger commented. “When are the schedules prepared?”
“Saturday for Monday’s journeys, Wednesday for Thursdays,” said the foreman. “Here’s one.”
He took down a large pink folder which, when opened out, covered most of his desk. Printed on it were the names of branches within a hundred-mile radius of London – others within a two-hundred-mile radius. Beneath each branch was printed ‘Regular Weekly’ and, in ink, additional ‘special’ items requested by the branch were entered. On the reverse side were details of the vans which were doing the various journeys, and the estimated time of arrival at certain points along the road and at the branches.
Roger glanced at the foot of the sheet, and saw the words:
‘Printed by Tucktos Ltd, London, NW.’
“Who has copies?” Roger asked.
“Branch Sales Department, Central Warehouse, General Office, Secretaries’ Office, London HQ, and two stay down here,” said the foreman. “This is one for last night.”
“The sheet and regular orders are printed in quantities, and the other details are filled in by ink, then?” Roger said.
“Yes.” The man looked on a shelf on which were a number of ledgers and papers, and took down some of the folders. He glanced at them quickly and put them aside. Then he looked at Roger in bewilderment.
“The other one’s missing,” he said worriedly.
“When did you last see it?”
“Well, yesterday some time,” said the foreman. “They’re always on that shelf.”
“Did Relf ever come into the office?” demanded Roger.
“Yes, to sweep up,” said the foreman. “I’ve seen him messing about these shelves too, and gave him a piece of my mind. I never did like that fellow.”
“Would the buying office in London have access to one of these sheets before the deliveries?” asked Roger.
“Not a prepared one, that goes to London later. They get the printing done, of course.”
“So they know about the schedules?”
“Oh yes. And Mr Samuel or Mr Akerman might have access to one, if it comes to that – any one of the bosses.”
“Anyone ever come here to examine them?” asked Roger.
The foreman rubbed his chin.
“Well, yes, sometimes, but no one from London; this doesn’t affect the London people much. They’re fairly new – only started them in this form seven months ago; used to have a book. I had a hectic day going through the books and drawing up the lists! Chap from the printers was here with me part of the time – nice chap,” added the foreman. “We happened to mention football, and he’s a Fulham supporter, like me.”
“Oh,” said Roger, as if casually. “I go along to the Cottage occasionally too. Now, I’ll want one of these journey-sheets as a sample – an old one or an unused one will do.”
Every van-driver and assistant was questioned that day, and pressed to describe the assailants. One or two vague descriptions were forthcoming, but most of the hold-up men had been disguised or had worn masks. Relf didn’t return to his lodgings, but the police discovered where he had spent his evenings, what friends he had, and went on probing. He was the other Relf’s brother.
Obviously the overall plan was only now beginning to unfold; Randall’s murder had brought it to light. This was food robbery in a big way, so there must be ready outlets for the stolen food. Find it, and they’d be on their way to solving the case.
A small hoard of bacon was found in one shop; it was the same cure as others found elsewhere, and the Perriman chemists stated without hesitation that it was a Perriman product. Canned goods, although their labels had been taken off them, were found to come from Perriman’s.
Within twenty-four hours of the robberies much of the goods had been found in small shops all over the country, whose owners were prepared to buy cheap with no questions asked, and to restaurants and cafés. Stolen Perriman goods were marketed as far north as Carlisle, and as far south as Bournemouth and Brighton.
It was on the day after the discovery of the body in the dump that the newspapers began to storm about the outbreak of food hold-ups. They had been fully reported in all the Press on the following day, but the Echo, with a dozen provincial dailies in the same chain of newspapers, now came out with startling front-page headlines – and they all said virtually the same thing.
Roger read the Echo at his desk at the Yard.
FOOD THIEVES MURDER ECHO REPORTER; POLICE INQUIRIES FAIL
‘It is believed by the police and by this newspaper that the body of a man found on a rubbish dump at Perriman’s factory at Woodhall was that of the renowned Echo reporter, Thomas Clayton, whose sensational articles dealing with all aspects of crime are known to all our readers. The body was horribly mutilated and partly burnt. The Echo believes that Clayton’s investigations led him to Perriman’s and that he had advance information about the series of crimes perpetrated on England’s main roads two nights ago.
And Clayton was ahead of the police in this.
The Echo does not believe in belabouring the police. Scotland Yard has a mighty task, and on the whole performs it well. But there are features in this crime – one of a series of crimes – which we find disturbing. Twelve food vans were held up; at least thirty-six men were involved in these outrages; not one has been detained. As far as we know, little of the stolen foodstuff h
as been recovered. The scoop was sensational, and police inquiries have been foiled.
It would not have been worthwhile but for the scandalously high price of food.
The Echo therefore urges the Government to institute an official inquiry into food prices, food monopolies, and food distribution and supports Sir Elias Perriman in his demand for this in the House of Commons.
We again tell the Government that their dear food policy is creating not only hardship to millions but also the odious crimes which are the result of it.
Eddie Day looked up from his desk.
“Bit hot, aren’t they?” he remarked.
“Can’t blame them,” said Roger, “although we don’t know that the body was Clayton’s.”
“Only want proof,” sniffed Eddie.
“Useful thing for us to have,” said Roger with a grin. He telephoned the police-surgeon’s office – speaking to the man who had first seen the charred body. “It’s West here – anything fresh about the body in the dump, or aren’t you worrying about it?”
“Needn’t be sarcastic,” growled the police-surgeon. “As a matter of fact, we’ve got Clayton’s dentist coming out this afternoon. He’s been down with ‘flu, couldn’t come before. Want to see him?”
“Yes, please,” said Roger. “What time?”
“Half-past two,” said the police-surgeon.
Roger watched Clayton’s dentist poking about inside the mouth of the dead man, peering through a tiny magnifying-glass with the help of a small electric torch, and disliked this more than most postmortems.
“Whoever it was, it wasn’t Clayton,” the dentist said at last. “This mouth has different fillings from those I use. Clayton may be dead, but this isn’t him.”
Roger said: “Thanks. Now we want to find the dentist who actually did that work; then we might find out who the victim was.”
Back in his own office, he first telephoned the Echo and told them to stop running the story that it was Clayton’s body; then he telephoned Mrs Clayton.
He had hardly replaced the receiver when the telephone rang. A superintendent of the East End Division was on the line, a terse, laconical man.
“West?”
“Yes?”
“I think we can put our hands on your man Relf,” said the superintendent. “At an old warehouse near the docks. We were looking for stolen foods, and heard this chap had been seen to go into the warehouse on the night that Peel was attacked. Arrived on a motorcycle that someone else drove off. Coming over?”
“Am I! Done anything yet?”
“I’ve got the place surrounded,” said the superintendent. “Any chance of getting the AC to authorise guns, d’you think?”
“I do,” said Roger.
Half an hour later he reached the docks, with two sergeants and three DOs; each man carried a revolver, and Roger had a spare one for the superintendent, a bulky, pale-faced man wearing a bowler hat, who was standing at a corner of a narrow street leading to the docks when the Yard car drew up. Roger got out, and saw that half a dozen Divisional men were about.
“Any move?” he asked.
“Not yet – no one’s come out or gone in.” He pointed to a raggedly dressed man with unkempt hair who stood miserably between two uniformed policemen. “He squeaked,” he said.
Roger approached the man.
He had dirty skin, broken teeth, bleary eyes and a whining voice. He knew Relf – slightly, just as he’d known Relf’s brother. Used to help at the garage, that’s how. He’d seen a man he thought was Relf drive up on a motorcycle on the evening in question, and go inside; someone else had come out and driven the motorcycle off. The warehouse was supposed to be empty, but he’d seen other men go in and come out, always after dark.
“Where’s the warehouse?” Roger asked the superintendent.
“Can’t see it from here – we’ve only covered the approaches so far,” said the other. “We’ve got it under surveillance from the windows of a rubber warehouse next door.”
Five minutes’ walk took them to a huge, grey building, not far from the docks. They could see the tops of the ships that were being unloaded, hear the occasional hoot of a tug’s siren, the clatter of cranes and machinery.
Outside the grey-walled warehouse there was a curious, heavy smell – not the smell of manufactured rubber, something different, rather overpowering and choking. Inside, bales of rubber were piled up from floor to ceiling. The Divisional police had made the necessary arrangements with the foreman, and Roger, the superintendent, and a Yard sergeant named Coker entered the warehouse, watched by porters who trundled bales of rubber along on hand-trolleys.
They reached a lift, and were taken up to the fifth and top floor by a little lascar.
This floor was nearly empty – huge storerooms had only a few tons of rubber dotted about, but there were a lot of odd bales. Two of these were placed in front of a small window, and Roger stood on them and looked at the warehouse next door.
It was only a few yards away from this one – and was little more than a shell. The windows were blackened, and a part of the roof had caved in. It looked derelict and useless – and on either side were bombed-sites, piled up with rubble.
“What’s the roof like over there?” asked Roger.
“Part of it’s all right,” said the superintendent. “So I’m told by the district surveyor, anyway. Going in from the top? If you ask me, we should wait until after dark.”
“They’ve more chance of slipping through after dark,” Roger said. Strictly speaking, this was the superintendent’s responsibility, and he didn’t want to insist. “I’ll use my men, if you like.”
“Like hell you will! Have wondered whether it’s wise to wait myself. Don’t worry about me, West; tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll fix it.”
“Thanks,” said Roger. “You take a squad to the front entrance and send another to the side door. I’ll tackle the roof with my chaps. We want some stout ladders to span it.”
“Can do,” said the superintendent.
Three-quarters of an hour later, strong ladders had been placed across the narrow gap between the two warehouses, and the police had ropes round their waists in case they slipped. It was about five o’clock, and the sun was warm and bright, although a great bank of clouds was in the south, sluggishly approaching London.
Roger led the way across the ladders.
He paused on the other roof, which was flat where it wasn’t broken. A gaping hole showed on one side, but it looked as if most of the roof was sound, and on the sound part was a big roof-light, railed off and with the window shut.
Roger led the way to the roof-light.
He approached it carefully, and went down on one knee before he looked in. All he saw was an iron ladder leading down to a narrow passage. He stood back, and one of his men opened the light. Roger went down first.
The ladder was covered with dust, and when he stepped on the concrete below, he stirred up a great cloud. Immediately he wanted to sneeze. He stifled it as best he could, but men above started sneezing; they needed muslin masks to keep out the dust. He listened intently but heard no sounds from below, so at last he beckoned the others.
The passage led to a doorway, but there was no door. Beyond was a flight of wooden steps, and they walked softly, although nothing could prevent the boards from creaking. The dust and cobwebs convinced Roger that the upper floors hadn’t been visited for a long time; if Relf’s friends used the place, they stayed downstairs.
The staircase led to a huge, deserted chamber, with glassless windows and a musty smell. The next landing was a replica of the first, and there were three more. The first-floor landing was much cleaner. There were places where a broom had been drawn across the dust, and piles of dust were in the corners.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Roger said softly.
He slipped his right hand into his pocket; the unfamiliar feel of the gun was reassuring. He paused, and fancied that he heard a noise but couldn’t b
e sure. The front doors of the warehouse were closed, but a window immediately above them let in some light.
He crept down the stairs to the ground floor, the five men in single file after him.
There was a basement below – cellars probably. But there was plenty to interest him here. Men had come in and out of the warehouse frequently; a regular path had been trodden through the thin coating of dust. He went to the big doors. A smaller one was set in one of them, and he examined the Yale-lock and the knob. There were traces of oil, and when he turned the knob, the barrel of the lock moved easily.
There were oily marks leading from the inset door to the stairs which went down into the basement – marks of a heel, a toe – sometimes just a smear. Obviously there was a patch of oil somewhere outside, and the men who used the warehouse trod on it every time they entered.
“One of you by the door,” ordered Roger.
A detective-officer moved across, Roger and the others turned towards the basement.
Roger heard footsteps ringing out clearly on the stairs below, and then a man appeared, a little fellow with square shoulders, a wasp waist, a knotted scarf which was tied like a cravat, and a mop of greasy, black hair. The police hadn’t time to dodge out of sight; the man saw them before he had reached the top of the stairs. His mouth opened and his eyes bulged, even before Roger snatched out his revolver.
“Keep still!” hissed Roger. “And keep quiet!”
The little crook stood gaping. One of the sergeants advanced a few paces, and as he did so a man out of sight called: “What’s up, Percy?”
‘Percy’ made a curious, little, whistling noise in his throat – then turned and leapt down the stairs before anyone could stop him.
Chapter Nineteen
Hide-and-Seek
The sergeant nearest the stairs jumped forward as Roger glanced round at the man by the door and called: “Warn the men outside!”
The sergeant reached the top of the stairs as running footsteps sounded in the cellar, accompanied by raised voices – orders, Roger fancied. A door slammed. The sergeant slipped on the top step, and Roger grabbed him.
