Chapter Twenty

Alone

There was a bright, flickering light in front of Roger’s eyes, which caused a pain like the slash of a knife across his forehead. The back of his head was sore. He smoothed his forehead with the palm of his hand; the pain eased and the light grew steadier.

He opened his eyes wide for the first time, and looked about him. He was in a tiny compartment, with wooden walls, a dusty, concrete floor and a dirty ceiling. The light came from a naked electric lamp suspended above his head, and it was swaying slightly to and fro.

He was lying on the floor, on his side. He straightened up slowly, until he was sitting with his back to the wall with his legs stuck straight out in front of him. The effort of moving made the pain at the back of his head worse, and the sharp knife-like flashes across his forehead came more frequently.

His hands and feet weren’t tied, and the door of the little cubicle was ajar. Was he in the cellar of the warehouse?

He stood up slowly.

The blood thumped through his head, and he leaned against the wall with his eyes closed until the pain eased. Then he moved away from the wall and stepped towards the door; every movement brought the blood flooding to his head again. How long had he been here? He glanced at the wrist-watch on his left wrist, and thought for the first time of Janet, who had given him the watch. Janet would soon be told that he was missing. It was nearly nine o’clock. And the watch was ticking. He must get a move on; open the door. Oh – his gun! He tapped his pocket, but it was gone.

He pulled open the door and stepped through into a passage. It was dark out here, the only light came from the room. He stood on the threshold, peering right and left, and heard rats scurrying. He tapped the floor with his toe; it was hard and smooth; more concrete. And it was cold down here.

Then he caught sight of some electric switches near the door, moved quickly, and pressed one down. Light came on some distance away along the passage. Great cobwebs hung from the ceiling and the walls, and everything seemed dirty. One of the walls was cemented, but the other was of brick – rough brick-work, with the mortar showing between the bricks and places where it had fallen out. The passage was narrow – about three feet wide. He heard a new sound.

At first it scared him, but he listened intently. It was a distant tapping noise, interspersed now and again with a loud boom. Men were trying to break through a wall – of course, that was it!

He moved cautiously towards the tapping sound and towards the light. They ought to get a pneumatic drill to force a way through the wall, that would get him out in no time.

The wall—was it a wall?—was a long way off.

Why hadn’t the crooks killed him?

Silly question. Murder was seldom committed without a powerful motive; even these men would hesitate to kill for the sake of it. He had been knocked out to prevent him from helping Clayton, that was all.

This was a hell of a long passage.

He turned and looked over his shoulder, seeing the light coming from the cubicle at least fifty yards away.

The tapping was nearer. Perhaps he was—

There came something new – a fierce, wild roar, blasting the air with a stunning crash.

Explosion!

The ceiling and the floor moved darkly, as if they had been stirred up by a gigantic spade, and then he heard the roar of falling earth and bricks and stone – and felt the blast. It swept him off his feet and blew him yards along the passage. Not only him, but earth and bricks and dust, so that he was caught up in a fantastic maelstrom.

He was just aware of the tightness and difficulty of breathing, of being lifted off his feet. He was surrounded by dirt and dust, was struck a tattoo of blows on his back, his arms, and legs – he’d been turned round although he did not realise it.

He crashed down on to the floor and lay still. Debris fell about him, something cut his forehead. He couldn’t see, gulped for breath, then began to cough. It was dark again.

The spasm of coughing ended, leaving him limp, weak, dazed, and not fully aware of the fact that he was breathing more easily now. He lay there for a long time, until the throbbing in his ears grew fainter and he was able to move his arms and legs. He tried to get up, but a heavy weight pressed on his back and legs. He managed to press his hands against the floor, to try to lever himself up with his arms; but couldn’t manage it.

Something was pinning him down. His fingers went into something soft. It felt like pushing his fingers into the soil of the ground when he was planting in the garden.

The ceiling had come down and the earth above had been loosened. He was buried alive, and …

Then a second explosion came, something smashed on his head, he lost consciousness again.

Sir Guy Chatworth, big in sandy-coloured plus fours, wearing a bright-blue, pork-pie hat, stood by a hole which had been made in the wall of the warehouse cellar, nearly an hour before. There had been a small, steel door, with piles of rubble behind it, and making the hole had been easier than tackling the door. Sergeant Peel stood by his side, with the superintendent and half a dozen men who were resting on their spades and shovels. Beyond the hole men were working – shovels were striking bricks and stone as they made a narrow tunnel through the earth, but it was a slow business.

Peel was saying, “We were nearly through when we heard the explosion. The blast knocked half a dozen of us over, and it was some time before we were able to get working again.”

Chatworth grunted.

Peel moistened his lips.

“No way of telling how much earth we’ve got to move. We’ve had an engineer in from the docks. We’ll have to start carrying the rubble from the passage into here, so that there’s room to move, and shore up the roof. There isn’t room for more than one man at a time, with a shovel or spade – that’s part of the trouble. And the engineer says he can’t get a mechanical cutter into the confined space. We’ve got a team working and they’re bringing some buckets so that we can shift the rubble.”

Chatworth grunted again.

The superintendent said: “Can’t be sure West’s in there. Might have been taken out at the other exit.”

Chatworth looked at him balefully. “Know your district, superintendent?”

“Every inch of it, sir.”

“Then why can’t you tell us where the other end of this tunnel comes out?” Chatworth went forward and looked through the hole in the wall. The men, working by the light of hurricane lamps, were stripped to the waist.

He turned away.

“Got maps of the vicinity?” he asked.

“Oh yes, sir,” said the superintendent. “We’ve some at the station, but I’ve sent to the Town Hall to collect others from the surveyor’s department. It’s possible that this passage leads to another warehouse. Underground passages aren’t unusual round here – some old sewers were converted after the main sewers were laid deeper.”

Chatworth nodded and moved off, stepping gingerly over the sacking. He reached the door at the extreme end of the sacking, then suddenly turned round.

“Peel!” he called. “Peel!”

Peel went forward.

“Thought you were at Perriman’s factory,” said Chatworth.

“I am, by day, sir.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I telephoned to report to Mr West, and learned what had happened, so I came straight over.”

“Anything special to report?”

“I saw the man Scott – Jeremiah Scott – at the factory this afternoon. He was looking at some cartons in the warehouse, and I thought Mr West should know that he’s obviously familiar with the warehouse and the Dispatch Department.”

“Quite right. Jeremiah Scott, eh. How long have you been here?”

“About half an hour,” said Peel. “Thought much about this?”

“I was wondering whether by any chance there is a Perriman’s warehouse near here,” said Peel.

“Same thought struck me,” said Chatworth. “Check it, will you? I’m going to that café across the road to get a sandwich – missed my dinner. Come and have a snack when you’ve finished.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” said Peel.

He went to the public-house and borrowed the telephone directory, looked down the P’s and came upon the imposing little section, in heavy black type, which covered the Perriman enterprises. The fifth out of nine addresses of the company was: ‘Middleton Dock and Warehouse, Wapping.’

He went to Chatworth, and had hardly passed on the information before the superintendent and a middle-aged, sharp-featured man arrived, carrying large sheets of cardboard under their arms. Inside these were maps. Chatworth commandeered two tables in the café, and the sharp-featured man began to speak in a rather aloof voice, pointing with a long, tapering forefinger at different spots in the first map.

The derelict warehouse was marked with a red blob, and the stranger, who was from the surveyor’s office at the Town Hall, said acidly: “This is where we are now. There’s the river, these loops and whorls here show locks, quays, waterways – it’s an irregular series, rather like an indented coast-line, although it’s all built up. These here”—he pointed to a number of squares—“are the warehouses within a hundred yards radius.”

Chatworth bit into his sandwich. “Tunnels?”

The forefinger stabbed again and traced thin, black lines.

“Known tunnels or underground passages here. There are plenty of them, as you can see. At one time a lot of the warehouses around here were owned by the same firm, but they split up and the tunnels were mostly walled-up – not all of them.”

Chatworth said: “I see. Thanks.”

“Where’s Middleton Dock Warehouse?” asked Peel.

Chatworth looked at him sharply.

“Oh, Perriman’s place,” said the surveyor. He stabbed at the second sheet and indicated a square which was about two hundred and fifty yards from the derelict building.

“That’s it. Biggest and most up-to-date on this part of the river. Any special reason for asking?”

“I’d heard it was a fine place,” Peel murmured, and earned a covert glance of approval from Chatworth and a glare from the superintendent, who had no time for such irrelevancies.

Chatworth said to the surveyor: “That’s very helpful of you – thank you very much, sir.” The surveyor’s severe expression thawed somewhat. “Where can we get you if we want you in a hurry?” Chatworth added.

“I’d like to go and have a look at the place where the trouble started,” said the surveyor.

“Yes, yes, by all means.” Chatworth waved the surveyor out of the café, and said: “Middleton’s is really Perriman’s, is it?”

“Yes, sir,” said Peel.

‘Middleton’s’ was surrounded by a ten-foot wall, but the tall, iron gates were open and a light burned above them. There were lights inside the yard too, spreading a glow over lorries and drays which were being loaded. Half a dozen men stood about and a gate-keeper in uniform approached when the little party entered the cobbled yard. The warehouse was spotlessly clean. Strip lighting everywhere made the huge storerooms look bright. A night-watchman took them in a lift down to the floor below, and then led them along a wide passage towards the main underground chambers. Imported and expensive goods of all kinds were stored here, he informed them.

He led them round a corner.

A man, who was standing in front of a big bin, turned and glanced at him – and at sight of Peel his expression was startled at first, then sardonic.

“Good evening, Mr Scott,” Peel said gruffly. “This is Mr Jeremiah Scott, Sir Guy.”