Graveyard to hell, p.26
Graveyard to Hell, page 26
Duncan Craig leaned over a bench, spot-welding a length of steel rod to what looked like the insides of a computer. He glanced up as the door opened, killed the flame on the blow torch and pushed up his goggles.
‘Hello there,’ he said. ‘And what have you two been up to?’
‘Nick took me to the Flamingo,’ Harriet said. ‘Quite an experience, but I’ll tell you all about it later. Keep him occupied while I get the supper.’
The door closed behind her and Craig offered Miller a cigarette. ‘She seems to have enjoyed herself.’
‘How could she fail to? Seeing Max Vernon fall flat on his face must have quite made her day.’
Craig’s expression didn’t alter. ‘Oh, yes, what happened then?’
‘Apparently the casino was using crooked dice. There was quite a fuss when it was discovered.’
‘My God, I bet there was.’ Craig contrived to look shocked. ‘This won’t do Vernon much good, will it?’
‘He might as well close up shop. There’ll be a prosecution of course, but even if it doesn’t get anywhere, the damage is done.’
‘How did he react?’
‘Oh, he said he’d been framed. That the loaded dice must have been passed by one of the players.’
‘But that’s ridiculous,’ Craig said. ‘I could imagine a player trying to substitute dice that would win for him, but not a pair that would lose. Anyway, a club’s dice have to be specially manufactured and accounted for. It’s a regulation of the Gaming Act expressly aimed at stamping out this sort of thing.’
Miller moved along the bench and picked up a small stick of lead. ‘Easy enough for a man with some technical know-how to inject a little lead into a pair of plastic dice.’
‘But what would be the point of the exercise?’
‘I think that’s been achieved, don’t you?’
‘Well, I’m hardly likely to shed tears over Max Vernon, am I?’
‘I suppose not.’
Miller wandered round the bench and paused beside a curious contrivance – a long, chromium tube mounted on a tripod. It had a pistol grip at one end and what appeared to be a pair of small headphones clipped to a hook.
‘What’s this – a secret weapon?’
Craig chuckled. ‘Hardly – it’s a directional microphone.’
Miller was immediately interested. ‘I’ve heard of those. How do they work?’
‘It’s a simple electronic principle. The tube is lined with carbon to exclude side noises, traffic for instance. You aim it by ear through the headphones. It can pick up a conversation three hundred yards away.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Of course these are even handier.’ He picked up a small metal disk that was perhaps half an inch thick and little larger than a wrist watch. ‘Not only a microphone but also a radio transmitter. Works well up to a range of a hundred yards or so if you use a fountain pen receiver. Wire that up to a pocket tape recorder and you’re in business.’
‘What as?’ Miller asked.
‘That depends on the individual, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose you’re aware that all these gadgets are illegal?’
‘Not for the Managing Director of Gulf Electronics.’
Miller shook his head. ‘You’re a fool, Colonel. Carry on like this and you’ll be in trouble up to your neck.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Craig smiled blandly. ‘By the way, harking back to what you said earlier about doctoring the dice. One would have to get hold of them first.’
‘Easy enough to get into a place like the Flamingo, especially in the small hours just after they’ve closed.’
‘I should have thought that might have presented some difficulty.’
‘Not for the kind of man who broke into a Vichy prison in 1942 and spirited away four resistance workers who were due to be executed next morning.’
Craig laughed. ‘Now you’re flattering me.’
‘Warning you,’ Miller said grimly. ‘It’s got to stop. Carry on like this and you’ll go too far and no one will be able to help you – just remember that.’
‘Oh, I will,’ Craig said, his smile still hooked firmly into place.
‘Good.’ Miller opened the door. ‘Tell Harriet I’m sorry, but I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.’
The door closed behind him. Craig’s smile disappeared instantly. He stood there staring into space for a while, then pulled down his goggles, re-lit the blow torch and started to work again.
Max Vernon walked to the fireplace and back to his desk again, restless as a caged tiger, and Carver and Stratton watched him anxiously.
‘This is serious,’ he said. ‘Don’t you stupid bastards realize that? One single scandal – that’s all you need in a prestige club like this and you’re finished. My God, did you see their faces? They’ll never come back.’
‘Maybe things aren’t as bad as you think, Mr Vernon,’ Carver ventured and Vernon turned on him.
‘You bloody fool, we’ve been living from day to day, waiting for things to build up. I’ve been using the take from the Flamingo to keep the betting shops running. Now what happens?’
He sat down behind his desk and poured himself a brandy. ‘Who’s done this to me – who?’
‘Maybe it was Chuck Lazer,’ Stratton suggested.
‘Do me a favour?’ Vernon drained his glass. ‘I know one thing. Whoever it is will wish he’d never been born before I’m through with him.’
He slammed his fist down hard on the desk and something dropped to the floor and rolled across the carpet. Vernon leaned over and frowned. ‘What was that?’
Stratton picked up the small steel disk and passed it over. ‘Search me, Mr Vernon. It fell off the desk when you hit it. Must have been underneath.’
Vernon stared down incredulously and then grabbed a paper knife and forced off the top. ‘I’ve seen one of these before,’ he said. ‘It’s an electronic gadget – a microphone and transmitter.’ His face was suddenly distorted with fury and he dropped the disk on the floor and ground his heel into it. ‘We’ve been wired for sound. Some bastard’s been listening in.’
He reached for the brandy bottle and paused, eyes narrowing. ‘Just a minute – Craig’s Managing Director of an electronics firm, isn’t he?’
Stratton nodded eagerly. ‘That’s right and his daughter was here tonight remember.’
‘So she was,’ Vernon said softly. ‘Plus that nosy copper, Miller. Come to think of it, that’s twice he’s stuck his nose into my business in one night. That won’t do – that won’t do at all.’
‘Do you want Ben and me to handle it?’ Stratton said.
Vernon shook his head and poured himself another glass of brandy. ‘Not on your life. Contract it out, Billy. A couple of real pros should be enough. One of the south London mobs might be interested. Just make sure they don’t know who they’re working for, that’s all.’
‘How much can I offer?’ Stratton asked.
‘Five hundred.’
‘For Craig?’ Stratton’s eyes widened. ‘That’s a good price, Mr Vernon.’
‘For both of them, you fool. Miller and Craig.’ Vernon raised his glass of brandy in an ironic salute. ‘Down the hatch,’ he said and smiled grimly.
10
It was dark in the office except for the pool of light falling across the drawing board from the anglepoise lamp. Duncan Craig put down his slide-rule and stretched with a sigh. It was almost eight o’clock and for the past two hours he had worked on alone after the rest of his staff had left.
There were footsteps in the corridor and as he turned, the door opened and the night guard entered, a black and tan Alsatian on a lead at his side. He put a thermos flask on the desk and grinned.
‘Just checking, Colonel. I’ve brought you a cup of tea.’
‘Thanks very much, George.’ Craig ruffled the dog’s ears. ‘What time’s your next round – nine o’clock isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, sir. Will you still be here?’
‘The way this thing is going I’ll probably be here all night.’
The door closed behind George and Craig stood there listening to his footsteps move along the corridor outside. When they had finally faded away, he went into the washroom quickly and closed the door.
When he reappeared five minutes later he presented a strange and sinister picture in dark pants and sweater, and wearing an old balaclava helmet, his face darkened by a brown make-up stick. In his left hand he carried a canvas hold-all. He dropped it on the floor beside his desk, picked up the telephone and dialled a number.
The receiver was lifted instantly at the other end. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m leaving. I’ll ring you again in thirty-five minutes.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
He replaced the receiver, picked up the hold-all and opened the door, listening for a moment before moving into the corridor.
He took the service lift down to the basement, walked through the work’s garage, helping himself to a jerry can full of petrol on the way, and left through a small judas gate. It was raining slightly and he crossed the yard, keeping to the shadows, scrambled over the low wall and dropped down onto the grass bank that sloped into the canal.
He crouched at the water’s edge, opened the hold-all and pulled out the collapsible dinghy it contained. When he activated the compression cylinder, the boat inflated with a soft hiss and he dropped it into the water and pushed off into the darkness.
He’d kept Gibson’s Furniture Factory under careful observation for three days now from the top floor of his own factory, even going to the lengths of obtaining a ground-floor plan of the place from the City Engineer’s Department, for most of the area was scheduled for demolition and municipal development.
It was no more than four hundred yards up the York Road from Gulf Electronics and an approach from the rear via the canal had seemed obvious. He grinned as he paddled out into mid-stream to pass the barge and moved back into the shadows again. Just like the old days – other times, other places when to live a life like this had seemed as natural as breathing.
He passed the coaling wharf of the steel plant, dark and lonely in the light of a solitary yellow lamp. The furniture factory was the second building along from there and he paddled in quickly, scrambled out onto a narrow strip of mud and pulled the dinghy clear.
The brick wall above his head was about nine feet high, but old and crumbling and in spite of being encumbered with the jerry can he found no difficulty in scaling it. For a moment he sat there peering into the darkness and then dropped into the yard below.
A light glowed dimly through the dirty windows and he moved round to the front of the building keeping to the shadows. The whole area was enclosed by a crumbling brick wall. The main gates were of wood, ten feet high and secured by a massive iron bar which dropped into sockets on either side.
In one corner of the yard was a jumbled mass of packing cases and rubbish which had obviously accumulated over the years and it was for this that he had brought the petrol. He emptied the jerry can quickly, scattering its contents as widely as possible, and then returned to the gates and removed the holding bar.
He checked his watch. It was exactly fifteen minutes since he had left his office. From now on, speed was essential.
He hit his first snag when he reached the main door of the factory. It was locked. He hesitated only for a moment and then tried his alternative route up an old fire escape to the second floor. The door at the top was also locked, but several panes of glass in the window beside it were broken and it opened with little difficulty.
He stood in the darkness listening, aware of voices somewhere in the distance, and moved along a short corridor. There was a door at the end with a broken panel through which light streamed. He opened it cautiously and was at once aware of a strong smell of whisky.
He was on a steel landing. The hall below was crowded with crates, and a large six-wheeler truck, which certainly didn’t look as if it belonged, was parked a yard or two away from the main doors.
The voices came from his left and he went along the landing, passing a small glass-walled office which stood in darkness. There was a light in a room at the very end of the landing and he peered round the edge of the glass partition and found three men playing poker.
He withdrew quietly, went back along the landing and descended the iron stairs to the hall below. The truck was loaded with crates of whisky consigned to London Docks and when he looked inside the cab, the ignition key was in the dashboard.
The main doors were the real snag. They were chained together and secured by a large padlock. He examined it carefully, turned and went back upstairs.
He crouched in the darkness of the little office, the ’phone on the floor beside him, and dialled the number he wanted carefully.
The reply was instant. ‘Police Headquarters. Can I help you?’
‘Central C.I.D. – Detective Sergeant Miller,’ Craig said in a hoarse voice. ‘I think you’ll find he’s on duty tonight.’
Miller was sitting behind his desk listening to a well-known housebreaker indignantly deny the offence with which he was charged when the ’phone rang.
‘All right, Arnold, you can take a breather,’ he said and nodded to Brady, who leaned against the wall cleaning his fingernails with a penknife. ‘Give him a cigarette, Jack, while I see what we’ve got here.’
He picked up the telephone. ‘Detective Sergeant Miller.’
The voice at the other end was strangely hoarse and completely unfamiliar to him. ‘Gibson’s Furniture Factory on the York Road – interesting place – they even make their own booze. You’d better get round here quick and bring the Fire Brigade with you.’ He chuckled harshly. ‘I do hope Vernon’s insured.’
Craig replaced the receiver and looked at the luminous dial of his watch. He was running late, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He waited exactly four minutes, went back downstairs and climbed into the cab of the truck.
He pulled out the choke, pressed the starter and the engine burst into life with a shattering roar. There was a cry of alarm from the landing above his head and he rammed the stick into first gear, let in the clutch sharply and accelerated. The doors burst open and the truck rolled out into the yard. Craig swerved sharply, braking to a halt near the outside gates, switched off and jumped to the ground taking the ignition key with him.
He struck a match quickly and tossed it onto the stacked crates, picked up his jerry can, turned and ran into the shadows. Somewhere in the night, the jangle of a police car’s bell sounded ominously.
When he drifted into the side of the canal below the wall of his own factory yard five minutes later, there was already a considerable disturbance in the vicinity of the furniture factory and a red glow stained the darkness, flames leaping into the night from the stack of burning crates.
He took a knife from his pocket and slashed the dinghy in several places, forcing out all air so that he was able to stuff it into the hold-all again, then he tossed it over the wall with the jerry can and followed them.
He left the can with a stack of similar ones on his way through the garage and returned to the tenth floor in the service lift. The moment he was safely inside his office, he reached for the ’phone and dialled his home. As before, the receiver was lifted instantly at the other end.
‘You’re late,’ Harriet said.
‘Sorry about that. I must be getting old.’
She chuckled. ‘That’ll be the day. Everything go off okay?’
‘Couldn’t be better. I won’t be home just yet, by the way. I want to finish the details on the vibrator modification in time for the staff conference tomorrow.’
‘How long will you be?’
‘Another couple of hours should do it.’
‘I’ll have some supper waiting.’
He replaced the receiver, went into the washroom, scrubbed the filth from his body and changed quickly. He had hardly returned to the other room when there was a knock on the door and George came in.
‘Hell of a fuss going on up the road, sir. Don’t know what it’s all about, but everybody seems to be there. Fire, police – the lot.’
‘Go and have a look if you like,’ Craig said.
‘Sure you don’t mind, sir?’
‘Not at all. I’d be interested to know what’s happening myself.’
He sat down at the drawing board and picked up his slide-rule and George went out quickly.
Miller and Grant stood by the ashes of the fire and surveyed the scene. The Fire Brigade had left, but the big black van that was known throughout the Department as the Studio was parked just inside the gates and the boys from Forensic were already getting to work on the truck.
‘So no one was around when the first car got here?’ Grant asked, for he had only just arrived on the scene and was seeking information.
‘That’s right, sir. Whoever was here must have cleared off pretty sharpish. Of course the fire was bound to attract attention.’
‘What about the truck?’
‘Hi-jacked two days ago on the A1 near Wetherby. Carrying a consignment of export Scotch to the London Docks. Valued at £30,000.’
Grant whistled softly. ‘That’s going to bring the county’s crime figures down a bit. And you say you didn’t recognize the informer’s voice?’ he added incredulously.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Well, all I can say is you’ve got a good snout there, by God.’
Jack Brady emerged from the factory and came towards them, an open document in one hand. ‘We’ve found the lease on this place in a filing cabinet in the office, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s made out in the name of Frank O’Connor. The property’s been made the subject of a demolition order so it’s owned by the city. O’Connor’s a citizen of Eire by the way.’
‘And probably on his way back there as fast as he can run at this very moment,’ Grant observed and turned to Miller. ‘You’re sure the snout mentioned Vernon’s name?’
