Fear to Tread (26 page)

“What’s up?” said Sergeant Donovan.

“I really think,” said Mr. Wetherall slowly, “that we ought to get in touch with Sammy without delay.”

“He’s coming home lunch-time tomorrow,” said Mrs. Donovan.

“There’s something up,” said Sergeant Donovan. “What’s wrong? What is it, Mr. Wetherall?”

“We must find out where Sammy got those photographs. It’s a woman called Annie. It’s difficult to explain – but she’s a barmaid in a public house in Soho. It’s thought to be a sort of pay-office for Whittaker’s people.”

Sergeant Donovan said: “If Sammy got this photograph up at Holloman’s place—”

“I don’t see where else he could have got it from.”

“That’s right.”

“Then we ought to hand it over to Scotland Yard at once.”

“Scotland Yard,” said Sergeant Donovan softly, lifting one corner of his mouth.

Mr. Wetherall recognised that he had got ahead of himself.

“Well—the police—somewhere safe.”

The sergeant turned the photographs slowly over in his hand.

“Now look here,” said Mr. Wetherall with sudden authority, “tear it in half. You can keep half if you want, but I’m going to have the rest. It’s not safe here, so let’s split the risk.”

“Go on, Patsy,” said Mrs. Donovan. “It’s a good idea.”

Almost reluctantly, Sergeant Donovan tore the strip down the middle. Mr. Wetherall pocketed one piece and said: “You almost put it out of my mind what I came to tell you about. I saw Peter Crowdy on Wednesday.”

“Well now,” said Sergeant Donovan.

“You saw Peter,” said Peggy. “I am glad. Is he all right?”

“Happy as a sandboy. He’s grown a sweet little beard.” Peggy giggled. “It looks very fetching. He’s teaching art and being made love to by all the girls in—well, perhaps that had better remain my secret. Anyway, you can take it from me he’s safe and happy for the time being.”

“And I expect he had a lot to say to you when you saw him,” suggested Sergeant Donovan.

“Yes. We had a talk. He explained one or two things that I’d been wondering about.”

He told them about the Crossways scheme. It did not seem to occur to any of his listeners that they should present any moral judgement on it.

“What a boy,” said Peggy.

“Neat, that,” said the sergeant.

“Sure, there’s nothing new about it,” said Mrs. Donovan. “It’s a trick the boys used to play at Connemara Station.”

“There was another thing he told me.” Mr. Wetherall hoped that the switch from truth to lies did not sound quite so obvious to his audience as it did to him. “And I think it might explain, in part, why Mr. Crowdy was killed.”

There was no doubt about their interest.

“It was one of the vandrivers who was a friend of Mr. Crowdy’s. As I understand it, the drivers weren’t in the scheme at all. They were sort of innocent agents. But this one – Peter never told me his name, and come to think of it I don’t suppose his father told it to him – suspected something. Eventually Mr. Crowdy took him into his confidence, and he got involved too. The usual drill was that anything saleable – food or drink or cigarettes – was kept hidden in an old shed under one of the railway arches. Mr. Crowdy had the key. Whittaker or one of his crowd picked it up when they could and paid cash down and took it away in one of their vans. That was how it usually went. Only on one occasion there was a hitch – the van couldn’t turn up, and there was a lot of stuff piling up in the shed, and the Crossways men were getting nervous. So, rather against his will, Whittaker let Mr. Crowdy’s van-driver friend do the actual delivery. He was made to swear every sort of oath of secrecy – but, of course, he talked—to Mr. Crowdy.”

“That’s likely enough,” said Sergeant Donovan. “None of that sort can keep a secret better than a four-year-old child. Do you think that’s why they killed Crowdy? Just because he knew where this place was?”

“Not that alone,” said Mr. Wetherall. “I think he was sickening for a severe attack of conscience. I got that impression that night when he was talking to me. He was about ready to blow the whole works. They wouldn’t have liked that anyway – but they liked it a good deal less when they realised he knew the address of their central dump.”

“Yes,” said Sergeant Donovan. “I expect that was one reason. Another would be that he was an old man, and couldn’t hit back. That’s the sort they enjoy killing, Mr. Wetherall.”

There was a bitterness in his voice that was deeper than any spite or rancour. It had gone down into his own self and become part of him.

Mrs. Donovan spoke quickly, as one who wishes to turn an awkward moment.

“Did Mr. Crowdy tell Peter where the place was?”

“That’s just what he did,” said Mr. Wetherall gratefully. “And Peter told me,” He felt in his pocket for the plan he had drawn. “It’s an old factory block, near the North Circular Road.” He pointed the place out.

He had expected many different reactions to his bombshell. The one thing he had not anticipated was indifference.

“I’m afraid that’s out of date,” said Sergeant Donovan briskly. He got to his feet as he spoke. “We’ll let you into a little secret.” His glance included his mother. “We know where their place is. A friend of mine found it out for me – oh, about a week ago. The place you’ve got there must be the last one they used. This is near St. Pancras – over a paint factory. I’ve been meaning to pay them a visit for some time. What with one thing and another I’ve had to put it off. Just before you came we decided that tonight was right for it. You couldn’t have a better night. I know these evening fogs. It’s going to be so thick soon they couldn’t stop you not if they linked arms across the end of the road. You could crawl between their legs and they wouldn’t see you.”As he spoke he was putting on an old raincoat and winding a scarf round his neck.

Mr. Wetherall’s mind was racing in helpless circles like the screw of an up-ended motor-boat.

“Should I—would you like me to come with you?”

“There’s no call for you to get mixed up in this,” said Sergeant Donovan. He had his coat on now. It hung straight and heavy, and there was a curious bulge in both pockets. “You’ve done your bit. You keep clear. Give me a quarter of an hour to draw them off, and you can walk out and go home.”

Without another word, or a look behind him, he was gone, and they heard the front door shut softly.

Five minutes later, and it was one of the longest five minutes he had ever known, Mr. Wetherall had extracted himself, and was out in the street again. The fog was blinding. The nearest possible call-box would be somewhere along the Walworth Road. He broke into a shambling run.

Even before Mr. Wetherall had finished speaking, Hazlerigg had had a second telephone in his hand.

“Give me E Division on this line,” he said,” I want the DDI or his assistant. Then I want operations. And send Duffy up here. Please be as quick as you can.”

A buzzer sounded.

Hazlerigg said: “Operations. Will you get three crews moved out into the St. Pancras area. I can’t tell you exactly where they’re to go, because I don’t know myself, yet. And see if you can get one of the cars with an L Division man in it. It may be useful to have someone who can spot Sergeant Donovan. Donovan. Yes, that’s the chap. Tell me as soon as the cars are standing by.”

And, to a red-faced giant who came into the room a few minutes later. “Good evening, Duffy, I want to use your local knowledge. They say you know the St. Pancras district backwards.”

Sergeant Duffy grinned. “I’ve pressed every inch of it with my flat feet,” he said.

“I want to find a paint factory. It’s been described as being ‘near St. Pancras.’ I expect it may be a disused factory – or maybe partly used.”

“You mean the ground floor a paint factory and the floors above it vacant.”

“That’s exactly the sort of thing.”

“It’s not all that easy, sir. You won’t find anything big in that area at all. All the big factories are outside of London. But there’s quite a few little places. Places which mix up paint for builders – mostly cheap sorts of white paint and undercoat. A few of them make varnish and stain. Some builders will buy any old muck so they can save on their tenders. Then there’s one or two places that store paint. Regular old death traps. You remember, sir, we tried to get ‘em all under licence, but it didn’t come off.”

“I think he said factory. Not store.”

“Hm. Well, the best thing I can do is fetch you a street map and show you the ones I can remember.”

At that moment the DDI of E Division came up on the telephone and Hazlerigg told him what he wanted.

“I’ve got Duffy here,” he said. “Picking out likely places for us. I want you to check up on any addresses he gives us. It’s pretty urgent.”

The DDI said something.

“I agree,” said Hazlerigg. “We could do without the fog.”

Ratcliffe Lane was a cul-de-sac, and correspondingly easy to watch. Sergeant Donovan was, of course, aware of this, but he also knew that the sort of men Whittaker would be likely to use would be bad, unenthusiastic players without either the patience or the stamina for a long game.

On a night like this, anyone told off to watch the end of the lane was more than likely behind a pint pot in the nearest saloon bar.

Nevertheless he went carefully, moving quite silently on his rubber soled shoes, keeping to the middle of the road. After a few right and left turns, he breathed more freely. He was approaching the Walworth Road. The great overhead lamps blazed down, each shedding its cone of milky drifting light, hindering more than helping the traffic, which was here wedged in a tight blaspheming line from the corner of Albany Road right up to Blackfriars Bridge.

Happy in his obscurity, the sergeant padded along the pavement, and made his way to the entrance of the Walworth Road tube station. He booked a ticket for King’s Cross.

Had he realised it, he had taken all his precautions at the wrong place. The net which had been spread for him was of an altogether different kind, broader-meshed, more carelessly flung and correspondingly more difficult to evade.

Even as he moved to the head of the escalator, a newspaper vendor, with one leg and one wooden stump, hauled himself off the up-turned crate on which he was perched beside the booking-office, and stumped across to the line of telephone kiosks inside the station entrance. He knew Sergeant Donovan by sight. He had also heard the whisper that had gone round. He had no idea what it was all about, except that there could be something in it for him. If not money, then tolerance of some sort. He dialled a number, introduced himself as Len, and, after some delay, spoke to a man called Ted. From the background of shouts, screams, and rifle shots one might have supposed that Ted was on active service on a noisy sector of the front. (In fact he was proprietor of an amusement arcade near the Tottenham Court Road.) Ted sounded strictly disinterested, but thanked Len for his trouble. Len returned to his evening papers full of the particular satisfaction which comes from having kicked someone who cannot possibly kick you back.

Sergeant Donovan was by this time boarding his train. It was not full. As he sat down in an empty seat at the far end of the carriage, he was careful to arrange his raincoat on either side of him so that what was in the pockets rested squarely on the seat.

At King’s Cross he got off the train and climbed up and out into the fog again.

Old Chaos reigned at the crossing of the five roads outside that station. At the centre of a tangle of traffic two lorries stood, headlight to headlight, like two intractable cats endeavouring to out-stare each other. Up the road lights were flicking on and off. Horns were sounding. Drivers were getting out of their cars to unbosom themselves.

The sergeant grinned. He might have grinned even harder had he known that no fewer than three police cars were locked in the confusion.

He took a quick look around him. It was an empty precaution, for his nearest neighbours were dim ghosts. Then he plunged into a side street.

Away from the lights it was a little easier to see. He was now entering the peculiar area which is the hinterland of the great terminus stations. An area of tiny streets flanked by high walls; streets which often end abruptly where the great rail arteries cut across them; an area of little squalid shops, ramshackle garages and dangerous eating places; a place of steam and soot and frustration.

The sergeant made his way forward with some confidence. He had served his apprenticeship in E Division. At one point he unlatched a wooden gate, passed under a tunnel lined with dripping tiles, went down a flight of iron-shod steps, squeezed through a narrow opening and came out into an alley beyond.

Here his pace became slower. He knew that he was very near his objective. The white fog blanketed all sound. He might have been alone in the world.

He was feeling with his fingers along a wall made of up-ended railway sleepers. Twenty yards along he found a gate. It was shut and padlocked. He tested the padlock thoughtfully and decided it was beyond him. Then he felt for the top of the gate. It was just within reach. His fingers touched an iron stanchion and he guessed that there would be two or three rows of rusty barbed wire along the gate top.

That was not much of an obstacle for an active man. He grasped the bottom of the stanchion, used the padlock as a toehold, and heaved himself up. There was a tricky moment as he balanced on the gate, straddling the barbed wire, to reverse his grip. Then he dropped quietly down into the obscurity of the other side.

He was in a cinder covered yard. Ahead of him loomed the building. It was a two-storeyed affair of brick, which had once been yellow and was now the colour of slow death.

The sergeant felt his way round to the right, turned a corner to the left, and was stopped by a high boundary wall. Then he turned about and reversed the process, coming back to the same wall, or a continuation of it. He had an idea that behind this wall must lie the canal.

After that he turned his attention to the ground-floor windows. They were small and steel-framed. After a moment’s hesitation, he took out a silk handkerchief, wrapped it tightly round his bunched fingers, and knocked in a pane of glass.