The Lake District Murder (British Library Crime Classics) (17 page)

After they had taken leave of the Chief, Thompson accompanied the Inspector to the garage where he had left his motor-bike.

“By the way, Meredith, I don’t want to damp your ardour, but two points occurred to me just now when you were talking to the Chief. You remember the conversation you overheard yesterday morning at the Lothwaite?”

“Word by word, sir,” said Meredith promptly.

“Well, in the face of your theory, how do you account for the following points? Firstly, why did Prince, in speaking to Wick, say, ‘We thought we might have something to take in since you’ve been working overtime’? Doesn’t that strike you as rather curious? If the lorry was making a fraudulent delivery, why should Prince talk about ‘taking in’? Surely that should have been Wick’s expression. Again, what about that reference to ‘overtime’—where exactly does that fit into your theory?”

For the moment Meredith was nonplussed. In the excitement of working out and perfecting his plans, he had entirely overlooked this point.

“I suppose Prince couldn’t have been joking,” was his final suggestion. “The ‘taking in’ expression might have referred to the money due on the last fraudulent delivery. And the ‘overtime’ rather suggests that Prince was pulling Wick’s leg because he had sold more petrol than was usually the case. With Higgins out of the running at the Derwent, this increase in Wick’s sales would be understandable. He would be getting a good deal of the Derwent’s custom over at the Lothwaite.”

“That’s a possible explanation,” conceded Thompson. “Particularly as Prince made a remark about Higgins being out of the race. Again—what about Wick’s reference to ‘output’? You remember he said something about it being impossible to keep up the output? How do you account for that?”

“Simply, sir. Wick meant that it was impossible for him to sell enough petrol at the Lothwaite to equal the average amount usually sold by the Lothwaite
plus
the Derwent.”

“Again I agree that it’s a plausible explanation. But now for my second point. If Rose is the head of a concern defrauding Ormsby-Wright, why does Bettle say something about orders being orders and that if O.W. gets a qualified bee in his bonnet it’s no concern of his? Can you explain that away Inspector?”

This time Meredith shook his head and had to acknowledge himself beaten. Try as he would, he could not fit Bettle’s racy observation into the theory which he had formed. According to that theory, Ormsby-Wright was the pigeon and Rose the plucker. Why, then, should Bettle suggest that Ormsby-Wright was the man from whom he received his orders?

“Mind you,” went on the Superintendent, noticing Meredith’s comical look of disappointment, “I’m not suggesting that you’re wrong in your theory. I was merely trying to see if we could fit these awkward bits into the puzzle. In any case, we’ve everything to gain and nothing to lose by following up your proposed scheme. The only thing we’ve got to guard against is rousing the gang’s suspicion. Once do that, and they’ll shut up shop before we can say ‘knife’. Well, keep in touch with me, Inspector, and I’ll let you know all about our progress at this end.”

His ardour somewhat cooled by the Superintendent’s perfectly justifiable criticism of his theory, Meredith drove back over the bleak, undulating road to Penrith on his way to Keswick. He kept on turning over Thompson’s last point in his mind. Why had Bettle mentioned Ormsby-Wright as his boss, instead of Rose? It was inconceivable that Ormsby-Wright was running the petrol racket. He had nothing to gain by cheating
himself
! There was the possibility, of course, that the majority of the capital invested in the company was not his own. In which case, to increase his own share of the profits, he might be in league with his manager over the cooking of the books. But somehow Meredith felt that the method was too clumsy, and that the resultant profits would be too small for a man of Ormsby-Wright’s calibre.

To a man who thinks in thousands, a hundred pounds one way or the other would make little difference, and as far as Meredith could gauge the profits resulting from the fraudulent sale of the petrol could not amount to more than a few hundreds in a year. It would depend, of course, on how many garages were collaborating in the dishonest scheme. But even if there were a dozen or more, and even if hundreds of gallons were secretly discharged into their tanks per week, the Inspector was still disinclined to believe that the game would be worth the candle for an already wealthy man.

But the question remained. Why had Bettle mentioned Ormsby-Wright? Meredith cast his mind back to the conversation he had overheard. He ran that particular sentence of Bettle’s through his mind, over and over again, as one might run a short length of film through a projector. Then suddenly—an idea struck him!

Had Bettle mentioned Ormsby-Wright?
He had certainly referred to somebody as O.W., but these initials might not apply to the owner of the Nonock Company. Was it possible he had not heard aright? Mightn’t Bettle have said something about ‘old W.’? Meredith recalled the difficulty he had had in catching the gist of sentences, let alone any isolated word. In that case, might not “old W.” refer to “old William”? And wasn’t William the manager’s Christian name? He remembered the occasion in the Beacon when Charlie Dawson had first given him Rose’s name and address. Surely he had hit on the real explanation of the puzzle! Rose
was
the boss! Not Ormsby-Wright! And if Rose was the boss of the gang, then it was pretty well certain that his theory about the fraud was correct.

It was in an elated frame of mind that Meredith called in at the Penrith station and inquired for Sergeant Matthews. The Sergeant, however, had little to report. He had gathered in replies from all the Penrith bank managers but none of them knew anything about a Mr. Mark Higgins or a Mr. Gurney Wick. Dancy had been waylaid in the lunch hour and had provided six of the ten addresses necessary to the tracing of the lorry-men’s movements. He had promised to supply the remaining four that evening, after a look at the wage-sheets. He thought he would have no difficulty in getting into the office, as the manager was due up at the railway goods yard that afternoon, to check in the new petrol consignment that had come in during the morning. His own address was—24 Eamont Villas, Careleton Street. The Sergeant assured Meredith that his men were already making inquiries about the men at the six addresses which, so far, had come to hand. He promised to let the Inspector know the result of these inquiries at the earliest possible moment.

At Keswick Meredith found another message waiting for him, on his desk.

Cockermouth reports unable to trace banking accounts of Mark Higgins or Gurney Wick in this town. All listed banks applied to for necessary information.

“So much for that,” thought Meredith. “It looks as if Wick and Higgins are a bit more cautious than their one-time partners!”

But for all the negative result of his inquiry, he could not help feeling that somewhere the men had hidden away a couple of nest-eggs similar to those which had been discovered in the case of Peterson and Clayton.

A thought struck him. Was it possible that Higgins was living up to his income? That would do away with the necessity of banking any surplus cash. Dawson had spoken of him as being a bit of a dandy and it was obvious that he spent pretty freely over at the Beacon, let alone the local pub at Braithwaite. Goreleston, the manager of the Westminster, had stated that once a month Clayton drew out £16, which was divided between the partners. That meant Higgins’s share in the garage profits was £2 a week. Ten shillings went to Mrs. Swinley for her services, which left Higgins with thirty-five shillings. Out of this he had to pay his food, clothing, personal expenses, and share the general running expenses of the cottage. On top of this he ran a high-powered motor-bike and made frequent journeys to Penrith, often staying over the week-end at the Beacon. The singularity of these facts so impressed Meredith that he decided to put through a call there and then to Charlie Dawson.

The manager’s cheerful voice boomed at him over the wire.

“Hullo, Mr. Meredith. What’s the trouble to-day? You can’t persuade me that you’ve rung up to inquire after my health.”

Meredith laughed.

“Right, as usual. I haven’t. It’s about Mark Higgins again. Have you any idea how much he spends over at your place? I don’t mean the actual amount, but does he appear to be pretty free with his money?”

“Free’s not the word!” chuckled Dawson, thickly. “He fairly throws the stuff about. I’ve known him stand every chap in the bar a couple of rounds or more when he’s a bit on. To say nothing of taking a bottle of whisky up to his room when he’s staying in the hotel. The best room, mind you. Nothing’s too good for friend Higgins. He’s that sort, Inspector. He likes to cut a dash.”

“Just as I imagined,” said Meredith. “I suppose he’d run through a good bit of money in a week-end?”

“Two or three quid, easy, what with one thing and another. To say nothing of what he loses on dead certs and napped doubles and the like!”

“Horse-racing!” exclaimed the Inspector.

“Oh, don’t sound so shocked, sir!” was Charlie’s laughing reply. “Registered bookie! All above board, I assure you.”

“All right, Mr. Dawson. I wasn’t casting any reflection on the good behaviour of your house. Well, I think you’ve told me exactly what I wanted to know. Thanks very much. Good-bye.”

Meredith registered an oath, there and then, that if Mark Higgins wasn’t obtaining money from illegal sources he’d eat his hat! No man could carry on as he was carrying on unless he had money to burn. And it was certain that this money did not owe its origin to the garage business. Higgins might have a private income, but if so, why didn’t he run a banking account? That, in the circumstances, would have been the normal and sensible thing to do. On the other hand, if his money did accrue from illegal sources, Meredith realized that Higgins was gifted with enough cunning to avoid any official record being kept of his finances.

He had just reached this point in his argument when Tony burst into the office with a sheaf of damp prints in his hand.

“Take a look at these,” was his triumphant command, as he spread out the photos on the desk. Meredith examined them in silence and finally selected the three portraits which were to be sent to the Yard.

“Good work, Tony. There should be no difficulty in identification if any of these men have passed through the hands of the Metropolitan Police. They’re beautifully clear. Now, if you’ll wait here while I finish drafting this letter to Scotland Yard, we can get the photos away by the night mail.”

“Righto,” said Tony, dropping into a chair by the fireplace. “And then, if you’re coming home to tea, dad, we could take a look in at Simpson’s on the way back. That new three-speed——”

“Quiet!” exclaimed Meredith sternly, without looking up from his work. But, in secret, he was smiling for all he was worth! The single-mindedness of this younger generation! Phew!

CHAPTER XIII

MEREDITH SETS HIS SCHEME IN MOTION

O
N
Sunday Meredith took a well-earned rest and spent a lazy day before a roaring fire with the newspapers and the wireless. But Monday saw him early at the station in anticipation of a hard day’s work. Now that the Chief had sanctioned his plan for keeping watch on the garages he was eager to work out and perfect every detail before the organization was put in motion. His two principal jobs were to interview Dancy and persuade him to get copies of the advance-orders for the specified days and to make a round of the Nonock garages in order to find out where his men could be concealed.

In the meantime, a long report had come in from Penrith. To date, undeniable alibis had been established in the case of seven of the lorry-men, and Sergeant Matthews hoped that the movements of the other three would be accounted for in the near future. As Meredith had anticipated, no less than five of the men had spent the evening in the Beacon public-bar. Another had been at the cinema with his wife—a fact which had been verified by the commissionaire, who knew the man intimately. The seventh had spent the evening in one of the Working Men’s Clubs; his presence being vouchsafed for by the secretary of the concern and several reliable habitués.

The result of these inquiries was much as Meredith had expected. Right from the start he had seen no reason why any one of these ten men should be connected with Clayton’s murder. Not one of them had been seen near the Derwent on the night of the crime. Whereas Bettle and Prince had called at the garage shortly before Luke Perryman had discovered the body. Their lorry had acted in a suspicious way after leaving the Derwent. That it had parked up a side-turning was now certain, though in cross-examination both Bettle and Prince stated that they had made the homeward run direct. This meant that the men had been lying, and what other reason could they have for lying than that they wished to conceal something from the police? Everything, in fact, pointed to Bettle and Prince as being the murderers. But until Meredith could prove his suspicions he was bound to explore every other avenue of possibility—which, as he clearly saw it, meant an establishment of the other lorry-men’s innocence.

Another point puzzled him. Were these other Nonock employees part and parcel of the manager’s illegal traffic? Did it mean that the fraudulent sale of petrol took place not only on No. 4’s round, but on the company’s other five routes as well? To verify this would necessitate a county-wide police investigation, the cost of which would be enormous. But, in Meredith’s opinion, it would be time enough to enlarge the scope of the police inquiries when No. 4’s activities had been duly noted and recorded.

A call through to the Penrith station was sufficient to ascertain the time Dancy arrived home for his lunch, and punctually at twelve-thirty the Inspector turned into the end of Careleton Street on his way to 24 Eamont Villas. He had no difficulty in locating this uncompromising block of cottages. Every door and window in the unbroken, yellow-brick façade was identical with those to either side, and only the numbers on the doors distinguished one cottage from another. Strolling casually down the length of the street, Meredith became intensely interested in the windows of a pawnbroker’s shop. For nearly ten minutes he seemed to be engaged in sizing up the multifarious objects displayed behind the plate-glass. Then suddenly he turned from the window and returned smartly up Careleton Street, where he almost ran into the arms of Mr. Dancy.