Trouble Brewing (32 page)

‘I've seen you use it, sir. Mr Hunt! You must explain to them. Tell them it's all a misunderstanding.'

She was standing between him and the car door. With a sweep of his arm he thrust her to one side and made a leap for the Wolseley. ‘Drive, Pearson, damn you, drive!'

Open mouthed, the chauffeur mechanically stepped towards the car, then stopped at the sight of Miss Clement, sprawling in the dirt.

Hunt shook him by the shoulder, his face inches away. ‘Never mind her! Drive, I tell you!'

There was the blast of a police whistle and round the corner came the sound of thudding feet. Agnes Clement set up a long, wailing shriek. ‘Mr Hunt! Stop!'

With a vicious jerk, he kicked away her grasping hands and, jumping over her body, ran towards the factory gates. There were policemen barring the exit. Hunt, hearing the sound of his pursuers close on his heels, veered off into the only bolthole left to him, the huge open doors of the factory itself.

Heart pounding, feet slipping on the tiled floor, he ran blindly into the bottling department.

Above the clang and clash of thousands of rattling bottles and great whooshes of steam from the sterilizing plant, he heard the repeated shriek of police whistles. A khaki-overalled figure reached out an arm. He lashed out with the umbrella he was still absurdly holding, sending the man crashing into a crate of stacked bottles.

They overturned in a deafening smash, sending loose bottles rolling over the tiles. Tripping and falling, he crawled along the floor, twisting out from under the clutching hands. Then he was on his feet once more, running with sweat filling his eyes, regardless of shouts and whistles, hitting out at everything in his way. He fell against the wall, and dimly saw a door a few yards away. With bursting lungs he staggered, then fell against it. It opened and he lunged through, slamming it shut behind him.

The corridor was oddly quiet. Leaning against the door, breath coming in huge gulps, he heard the shouts from the other side. A tiny flicker of thought took root in the blind panic that swamped him.

This corridor ran the length of the factory and then to the outside, didn't it? His insides twisted as he remembered the policeman at the gate. There would be more men there now . . . Wait! Across the open yard at the back lay the warehouse.

If he could get in there, then he could make his way out of the back doors, onto the wharf where the barges unloaded. Perhaps he could escape along the towpath or even hide on a barge. They wouldn't look for him on a barge. After that, all he had to do was to get back home, collect some money and his passport and get away to Brazil. He had money in Brazil . . . He'd squeeze something out of De Oliveria and he had his account in São Paulo. He'd do it yet.

Very cautiously, he started to walk forward. Then the door behind him was flung back, the noise of the factory swelled, and there was a cry of ‘He's here!'

With a sob, he forced his aching muscles to run. The sun streamed through the door at the end. He made it, got out into the yard, dodging round buildings, intent on the black hole that was the warehouse doors in front of him. More whistles blew and he flung up his arm as if to ward off a physical blow.

He hurled himself into the warehouse, a dusty, aromatic place with sacks of coffee piled up on pallets to the roof.

He dived amongst the pallets, trying to find a way between the narrow alleys of brown jute walls. He could hear footsteps and voices. ‘He's trapped now, good and proper,' said one.

He shrank back behind a great mound of coffee sacks, creeping round until he was in the dark passage between the sacks and the wall. Trapped, was he? He put a hand to his mouth to shield his laboured breathing. He'd show them. Had they heard him? His gasping must give him away. The footsteps were getting closer. He
was
trapped. He looked round wildly.

The warehouse was dark and he couldn't see the doors to the river. What he could see, between a narrow passage of coffee sacks, was a ladder leading up into the dim recesses of the roof. Perhaps he could hide in the roof. The ladder must lead
somewhere.
Putting down his umbrella, he crept forward, treading as quietly as he could.

The sound of footsteps was muffled by the walls of coffee. He couldn't tell where they were coming from. Sick with fear, he made it to the ladder and started up the rungs. Above him was the box of a cabin with a trapdoor in the floor. If he could make it to the box, then he could hide until this nightmare stopped.

Wheezing with effort, he pulled himself through the trapdoor. Exhausted, he lay sprawled on the wooden boards, dizzy with effort and fright. Gradually his breathing slowed and he realized where he was.

It was the crane! Raising himself to his hands and knees, he crawled towards the crane driver's seat. In front of him was a set of controls that looked like the gear lever of a car and, stretching out from the crane, a long wooden arm.

There was a sort of shuffling silence from the warehouse below. Still on his knees, he risked a glance over the side of the cabin.

A shout rang out. ‘There he is!'

He fell back, knocking the controls, and, with a creaking noise, the great wooden arm rose upwards. Amidst his panic, the glimmer of a plan came to him. He seized the controls and yanked them hard. The wooden arm moved left, then right. He pulled the levers feverishly, sending the arm rocking first one way, then another, building up speed until the cabin swayed sickeningly under the strain.

There were sacks of coffee attached to the massive hook and, laughing wildly, he brought the arm, hook and sacks round in a huge destructive arc, crashing into the towering walls of jute surrounding him. The crane cracked and splintered, hurling him out onto the falling mass of sacks.

With a soft whispering that turned to a roar, the sacks slid, bumped and thundered off the pallet. The pile caught another, and another, and across the entire warehouse, tons of coffee cascaded to the floor.

‘Look out!' yelled Jack, jumping back, pulling Bill with him. They missed the avalanche by inches, coughing in the thick wall of dust that mushroomed up. The noise of the falling sacks seemed to go on forever, followed by an eerie silence. On his hands and knees and spluttering in the choking cloud, he caught the faint sound of coughing from beyond the fallen mound of sacks.

Jack got to his feet gingerly. The stinging dust was like the worst of London fogs, but, very gradually, it started to settle. He pulled out his handkerchief and wrapped it round his mouth. A vague shape moved beside him. It was Bill. He tried to speak, but the attempt ended in a barking cough.

Jack moved forward, feeling the fallen sacks with his hands. With eyes closed he listened intently, trying to block out the sounds that Bill was making. There seemed to be a scrabbling noise from above him. It was like a giant rat . . . There it was again!

A gust of wind through the open doors blew a tunnel in the murk, showing him Frederick Hunt, climbing over the mountain of sacks, spreadeagled against them like a black spider. A hundredweight of coffee detached itself and bumped down. Hunt turned momentarily and Jack caught sight of the streak of white that was his face.

He cautiously climbed onto the sacks, then the wind dropped and he was in the grey dark. He closed his eyes to keep out the grit, and climbed by touch alone. The scrabbling grew more intense and a sack, kicked by Hunt, lumped past, striking his right shoulder.

Frozen by a jag of pain, he clung on, before grimly starting to climb again. He came out of the dust and saw Hunt clearly a few yards above him. He tried to increase his speed, and fell back as the sacks gave way.

Hunt was kicking out on purpose now, trying to get the sacks to fall. Jack flattened himself, inching forward, feeling as if he was living a nightmare where no matter how hard he ran, the ground rose up and clung to his feet and legs. More sacks slid past him. If one of those hit him squarely . . .

There was a yell of triumph above him. Hunt reached the top, crawling on his knees. Jack vainly tried to grab the flailing ankle, but Hunt launched himself down the other side.

Jack staggered the last few feet to the top and flung himself down the sacks in a wild slide. Shaken, he picked himself up at the bottom, and made a lunge for Hunt, blinded once more by the dust. His fingers closed on Hunt's coat, but he shook himself free with a yelp.

All Jack could see were undefined shapes, but the sound of running footsteps was clear enough. Then came a banging, as if someone were hammering wood, followed by a scuffle, a cry, and a series of choking sobs.

Hands outstretched, he walked forward towards the sobs, saw a blur in the dust and pounced.

‘Oy!' the shape said. ‘Let go.'

‘Merry?' Jack blinked in the gloom. ‘Merry, is that you?'

‘Absolutely it's me. Let go, will you? I'm kneeling on Hunt. I caught him at the doors. He's staying exactly where he is.'

A voice sounded from outside the doors. ‘What the hell's going on in there?'

‘Open the doors!' shouted Smith. ‘This is Captain Smith!'

There was a creaking noise and light spilled into the dust, revealing the bewildered watchman outside and a black, hunched, sobbing form at their feet.

The watchman coughed as a cloud of dust billowed out into the sunlight. As he saw the destruction in the warehouse, his jaw fell open. ‘Blimey! What in Gawd's name's happened? We won't have this mess cleared up in a month of Sundays
and
extra for overtime. Who's the daft sod who did it?'

Jack reached down and pulled Hunt to his feet. The watchman gazed at the battered, grimy figure without a flicker of recognition. ‘Who the 'ell is it?'

Jack held the limp man. ‘Mr Hunt.'

‘Blow me tight!' The watchman stepped back, looked round the warehouse, and slowly shook his head. ‘What did he think he was playing at?'

‘The police are after him. He was trying to escape through these doors.'

The watchman spat in delight. ‘Cor! The boss, you mean? He should've known the river doors are never open on a Monday. No deliveries, see? He should've known that. He never did come round here.'

Bill and three other policemen came round the corner, clambering over sacks. ‘You've got him, Jack! Good work.'

‘It was down to Merry here, and some very handy closed doors.'

Hunt stirred under Jack's grip. ‘What . . . What . . . What is the meaning of this?' he gasped, in a thin caricature of his earlier manner.

Bill smiled with grim pleasure. ‘It means, Mr Hunt, that I am arresting you as an accomplice to murder.'

‘Murder!' whimpered Hunt. ‘You can't arrest me for murder. Not
murder
.' His breathing was ragged. ‘You think I murdered my father, don't you? I didn't, I tell you, I didn't.'

‘Who's talking about your father?' asked Jack, quietly. ‘We never said a word about your father. I want to nail you for what happened to Sheila Mandeville.'

I
t was the early evening when Jack rang the bell of 14, Neville Square. The door was opened by a smiling Pat Tyrell.

‘Come in. I've got a surprise for you.' But Jack had already seen the man standing behind Pat.

‘Jaggard! My word, it's good to see you once more.'

Jaggard shook Jack's hand with a shy smile. ‘Pat phoned and said it was safe to come back. I've been holed up at a friend's place,' he added, leading the way into the morning room. ‘I say, he won't get into trouble for that, will he?'

Jack paused with his hand on the doorknob. ‘Why don't we draw a discreet veil over that? Rackham's conscience isn't allowed to be as elastic as mine. Where is he, by the way?'

‘In Uncle Frederick's study,' said Pat, ‘gathering up papers.' She hesitated then spoke in a rush. ‘Is it really true Uncle Frederick's guilty of murder? I can't work out what happened.'

‘I think I'd better explain everything,' said Jack. He opened the door. ‘Merry! I hoped you'd be here.'

‘I came with Rackham,' said Smith. ‘Legally speaking, I seem to be in charge of the whole shooting match, so I have to be here.'

‘You looked just like H.R.H. when you said that,' said Pat.

‘As I've said before, there are worse people to take after,' said Smith.

Bill came into the room. ‘I thought I heard you arrive. I've just about finished in the study.'

Pat went to the sideboard and poured them all drinks.

‘Thanks,' said Bill, taking his whisky. ‘I feel I've earned this. Now we've got Frederick Hunt tucked up safe and sound, it's all over bar the shouting. By the way, Jack, there was a marconigram from Robert Waldron waiting for me at the Yard. You'd better read it.'

Jack glanced at the yellow form. ‘That's much as we thought, isn't it?'

‘Major Haldean – Jack,' said Pat Tyrell. ‘Is Uncle Frederick guilty of murder?'

Jack nodded. ‘Technically, yes. He certainly knew all about it and kept quiet. The actual murderer was greedy, just like Frederick Hunt, but he was also cool headed, resourceful, and utterly self-centred.'

‘Laurence Tyrell,' said Jaggard grimly.

‘Laurence Tyrell?' repeated Meredith. ‘He can't have killed Valdez or Helston, Jack. He was in Brazil. His reports from the plantation . . .'

‘Were sent to Frederick Hunt. They might be dated December or January, but we only have Hunt's word for it that's when they were received.'

‘I see . . .' Meredith stopped. ‘No, I don't. Did Tyrell come over from Brazil to kill Valdez, then?'

‘I think,' said Jack, ‘I'd better go right back to the beginning.' He picked up a box of matches and lit his cigarette.

‘The beginning, in this case, goes back a long way. In 1917, Laurence Tyrell had run through all his money and was on the brink of being cashiered. In the middle of Passchendaele, with men dropping like flies around him, the thought of dying must have seemed fairly attractive. Especially if he didn't die at all . . . Now, I can't prove this, but I believe he deliberately marked down John Marsden of the Sixteenth Battalion, Royal Western Australian Regiment, as a useful person to be. He was certainly a very convenient person to be, as he had no family to identify him.'