The Lake District Murder (British Library Crime Classics) (30 page)

“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

W
HEN
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 by 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.

“My fifth and last point is the motive for the crime. Now I’ve been over the case again and again in an attempt to shake my original theory. But for all that, I’ve found myself unable to supply a more feasible motive. I still hold to my original opinion— Clayton was murdered because the gang valued his silence at a higher price than his life.” The Chief pushed aside his papers, capped them with a paperweight and sprawled back in his chair. “Well, there we are. Those are the known facts. Any questions?”

Meredith nodded. “About that chemical apparatus, sir. You don’t think it possible that the murderer thought to gain time by using it instead of the exhaust?”

“I don’t quite see how you mean, Inspector.”

“This way, sir. If Prince and Bettle
did
murder Clayton, then the first thing which concerned them was the establishing of an alibi. They had to prove that they were back in the depot at a time which would have made it impossible for them to have committed the crime. In other words—they had to juggle with time in such a way as to make it look as if they left the Derwent
earlier
than they actually did. If you’ve no objection, sir, I’d like to tabulate the various events which took place on that Saturday night. Chronologically, I mean.”

“Yes, do, Inspector. I’m still a trifle hazy about the all-important time-factor.”

At the end of five minutes Meredith had made out a neatly written time-table, which he handed over to the Chief. It ran as follows:

5.45.
Lorry leaves the Lothwaite
.

6 o’clock (circa).
Braithwaite postman stops at Derwent
.

6.20 (circa).
Driver and fireman see lorry parked on roadside near Jenkin Hill
.

7.20.
Major Rickshaw and wife draw up for petrol at the Derwent. Served by Clayton. Lorry standing by pumps
.

7.35.
Freddie Hogg cycles past Derwent. Sees Clayton standing in garage entrance. Lorry gone
.

7.55.
Frank Burns sees lorry passing at high speed through Threlkeld
.

8.35.
Lorry arrives back at depot
.

“I think that makes it quite clear, sir,” said Meredith when Colonel Hardwick had studied the paper. “You can see at a glance that we’ve got the lorry’s movements pretty well pinned down. We know that it must have left the Derwent at some time between 7.20 and 7.35. And we can fairly safely say that before 7.35 it was parked up that side-turning—otherwise Freddie Hogg would have met it on his way back from the Keswick cinema.”