Chapter Twenty-Two

Clayton

CID MAN FEARED DEAD
ALL-NIGHT EFFORTS AT RESCUE

‘In an underground chamber of a derelict warehouse, now known to have been used by food thieves, police and other rescue workers fight for the life of Chief Inspector Roger West of Scotland Yard. By their sides waits his anxious wife.

Earlier in the day, the Yard had tracked a gang of food racketeers to their lair. In an underground gun-battle, several men were wounded. Big stores of stolen food were found.’

ECHO REPORTER SAFE
PRISONER OF FOOD GANG

‘Echo reporter, Tommy Clayton, was rescued by the police last night after the warehouse gun-battle in the East End. In hospital, Clayton is cheerful and likely to be about again very shortly. He was captured while observing a suspect at a food factory, taken to the warehouse where he was later found, and escaped from his captors in the confusion caused by the arrival of the police.’

TRIUMPH FOR THE POLICE
HIDDEN HOARDS FOUND

‘The CID quickly responded to the Echo’s demand for urgent steps to cope with the food thieves. Within a few hours, information received led Divisional Superintendent Bellamy and Chief Inspector West of Scotland Yard to one of the main hoards – many tons of food were discovered and two arrests were made.

The Echo understands that none of the food discovered was that stolen from vans belonging to the Perriman company. Most of the goods were Danish or Dutch, and obviously had been smuggled ashore from ships unloading at the London Docks. The food found was …’

Roger put down the newspaper and stretched out for a cigarette. He laughed ruefully, and it was loud enough to attract Scoopy’s attention.

“Is that you, Daddy?” he called from the hall.

“Yes, I’m all right, old chap.”

Scoopy was already hurrying up the stairs, and in his wake came Richard and, just behind them, Marjorie Goodwin.

Janet’s footsteps sounded in the hall. “Scoopy – Richard! Where are you?”

“Any chance of a cup of tea?” called Roger.

“Darling!” Janet flew up the stairs. “You’re awake!”

“Hallo, my sweet.”

The children watched their mother and father wide-eyed, and when Janet drew back Richard said: “Daddy’s all right.”

“Are you, Roger? You feel—”

“Fine!”

“Boys, you go downstairs and tell Auntie Nell that Daddy’s awake,” said Janet. “You go with them, Marjorie.” She sat on the edge of the bed as they went off. “You look all right,” she conceded.

“I am all right,” said Roger firmly. “Bit stiff and sore in places, but nothing to worry about. How long have I been lazing in bed?”

“You’ve nearly slept the clock round,” said Janet. “You came to in the ambulance—don’t you remember us putting you to bed?—and that was just after ten o’clock yesterday morning. It’s nearly half-past nine now. Oh, darling, I thought I’d lost you!”

Roger gripped her hand.

In the pause, Nell Goodwin appeared in the doorway with a teatray. She didn’t stay long, and Janet poured out tea.

The front-door bell rang and Janet went downstairs. Roger heard a man’s voice, next Janet’s, rather uncertain, and then he recognised a curious little laugh. Tommy Clayton had called!

“Send him up!” called Roger.

“Please don’t stay too long,” said Janet. “All right,” she called to Roger, and then showed Clayton up to the bedroom.

Like Roger, he had some scratches and bruises, but his eyes were clear and he looked well and cheerful. He was dressed in a pair of flannels and a black-and-white check sports jacket! Roger looked at the jacket ruefully as the reporter sat down.

“Do you buy them by the dozen?” he asked.

Clayton chuckled.

“Managed to get hold of a length of cloth, and there was enough for two coats,” he said. “Just as well, the other one isn’t exactly wearable. Any idea who the cove was in the dump?”

“Not yet,” said Roger, “but I’m out of touch this last day or two.”

“You’ll soon be in it again,” said Clayton dryly. “And thanks for trying to get me clear. You know that quite a lot of stuff kept in Perriman’s warehouse at the docks was shifted to the other place through that passage, don’t you?”

“I didn’t,” said Roger.

“They are keeping you in the dark. The hole in the Perriman warehouse wall was near a door – it was jammed and they had to break the wall down. The gang was in cahoots with a couple of Perriman’s night-staff. Stuff was taken from the ships to the warehouse and lifted during the night. Stock-sheets and the rest were rigged. I’d discovered that before I went out to the Woodhall factory. There seemed to be an accomplice at Woodhall, working with the two rogues at the docks.”

“How did you get on to it?” demanded Roger.

“I chanced on a story down in the docks. These two warehousemen at Perriman’s slipped quite a lot of the small presents to their friends and did a little illegal trading on their own, so I followed it up and got one of them tipsy. He didn’t exactly give the game away, but said enough to make me very curious about Perriman’s stocks. Then you helped me a bit when you got that little chap, Relf. I knew he had a brother, and found the said brother often went to that derelict warehouse. Then he got the job at Perriman’s Dispatch Department, so I hung around.

“I was too careless – they recognised me, and next time I poked my nose near the derelict warehouse after dark, they cracked me on the head. I thought it was a case of curtains. Can’t quite make out why they didn’t kill me. They took my clothes and left me my pants and apparel I wouldn’t like to be seen dead in. They kept me in the tunnel on a bread-and-water diet.”

Roger nodded.

“And they told me that they’d made arrangements to scuttle if they were discovered. Actually when you arrived, they got scared and careless. I got away, as you know. But they grabbed me, and clouted me over the head again. But something went wrong and they had to leave me behind in the tunnel. No doubt they all slipped through that hole in the wall and out of the Perriman warehouse.”

“I don’t know,” said Roger.

“Well, Peel tells me that’s what happened,” said Clayton. “Now you’ve driven ’em out of Wignall’s garage and also out of the warehouse. I wonder where they’ll bob up next.”

“Any ideas?”

“Not a glimmering,” said Clayton. “My trail ended at Perriman’s. Mind you, I think some of their staff are in the know.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Roger.

“Run across Jeremiah Scott much?” asked Clayton, changing the subject and assuming an air of innocence.

“As the brother of Mike Scott, I’ve met him.”

“Rum cove,” said Clayton. “Seems to have the run of Perriman’s. I’m told that he was at the dock warehouse when Peel and Chatworth went along there looking for you. I’ve checked on him quite a bit. Gets around plenty, and Perriman’s aren’t the only food companies he knows. More than just a salesman – he’s a director of Tucktos. Doesn’t just pop into the buying offices and book orders, he goes into the works, sees what the cartons and boxes are needed for, submits designs – in fact, he can pretty well go where he likes on the customers’ premises.”

“He’s a first-class salesman,” Roger remarked, “and his firm delivers the goods.”

“Perhaps that’s the answer. How’s Mark Lessing getting on these days? Having a nice time at Brighton?” asked Clayton with a grin. “Oh yes, we know he’s at the same hotel as Sybil Lennox. They’re by way of being friends already, which isn’t bad work on Mark’s part. Trust Sybil?”

“I don’t trust anyone until I prove I can,” said Roger dryly.

Janet came in, to insist that Clayton had stayed long enough. Actually, the talk had stimulated rather than tired Roger, and he was eager to get to the Yard.

Instead Peel came to see him.

Peel’s reports were largely negative. It was true that two men had been caught at the derelict warehouse and had talked freely. They swore that they did not know who was behind the racket. Relf and a man named Wilkins had given them their orders, but they had no idea who instructed Relf and Wilkins. On the night of the hold-ups, the warehouse had been deserted. The two prisoners confessed to taking part in an attack, but they had not known that others were taking place.

They did not know where other stores were kept.

“Find anything on them?” asked Roger, who was now up and dressed.

Peel was sitting opposite him in the front room.

“Only one thing that will interest you much,” said Peel. He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Roger. “One from each man,” he added, and Roger opened the envelope and took out two programmes; they were for the previous Fulham home match.

“Questioned them about this?” asked Roger sharply.

“No – I thought it might be wise to let it sweat.”

“When are Fulham at home again?” asked Roger.

“The day after tomorrow.”

Roger grinned. “We’re going to see a football match! Nice to mix a bit of pleasure with duty sometimes, isn’t it?”

Peel laughed.

“And there’s nothing else?” said Roger.

“Well, no – you know that Randall’s pal, Wilson, has been at Perriman’s, don’t you? He’s spent a lot of time with Akerman, and he’s obviously trying to make sure that he digs the Crown company well in, and keeps Tucktos out.”

“Can’t blame him,” said Roger. “And is that the lot?”

“There have been several food robberies at shops and warehouses up and down the country. There’s one queer thing too. We haven’t traced a quarter of the stolen food, and I’d say that a lot of it hasn’t been released. But it will be, soon, and I’ve been wondering how. We’ve always rather assumed that Perriman’s themselves would be above a racket, but they’ve a perfect set-up for disposing of stolen stuff, haven’t they? Thousands of shops.”

Roger said: “I’d need a lot of convincing that they’re in it. Why steal their own stuff to sell in their own shops?”

Peel leaned back.

“They get insurance for the original loss and good prices for what they sell. They could pass it on to some of their own shops too. They’d have to use the manager and possibly some of the assistants at picked shops, but it could be done. It would mean that a good flourishing business would be ruined if it were found out, which makes me wonder whether someone in Perriman’s, someone high up, might be behind the racket, using the stores without the knowledge of the other directors.

“It is possible, isn’t it?” insisted Peel, when Roger didn’t answer.

Roger said slowly: “Yes. The seaside branches might be worth watching. We’ll send word round to some of the coastal resort police and get them to keep a look out.”

“I suppose Mr Lessing couldn’t do anything at Brighton,” murmured Peel.

“I’ll have a word with him.”

Peel left soon afterwards.

Mark Lessing telephoned later in the afternoon. He had nothing much to report, except that Sybil Lennox appeared to be benefiting from her rest. He saw a great deal of her, although she wasn’t by any means easy to approach, and so far she wouldn’t go places with him, beyond a walk along the promenade.

Roger detected the keen note in Mark’s voice when he was asked to keep an eye on the Perriman branches in Brighton.

“All I want to know is, if there appears to be anything unusual – unusual type of customer, dirty work at the back door after shop hours, mysterious vans – that kind of thing. Don’t do anything – just keep your eyes open,” Roger added.

“Trust me,” said Mark.

Roger was at the office next day, and had been through an accumulated mass of letters and memos when the telephone bell rang.

“Liverpool CID on the line, sir,” said the operator. “Superintendent Haythorn.”

“Put him through,” said Roger.

A man spoke in a gruff, north-country voice.

“That Inspector West … Haythorn of Liverpool here. You may remember, we met two years back, when you came up on the Larramy job.”

“Oh yes, of course – how are you?”

“I was all right,” said Haythorn dryly, “but I’m not feeling so good right now. We’ve just discovered some big losses at the docks. Bacon and canned foods mostly, taken during the night wi’out being noticed. Must be most of a hundred tons gone, and the night-watchman with it. Reckon it’s part of your business?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Roger heavily, and drew a pencil and paper towards him. “Fire away.”

Haythorn gave him a detailed story and rang off.

Three-quarters of an hour later the telephone operator said: “Southampton CID on the line, sir.”

Another port.

“Put ’em through, please.”

The Southampton man’s voice, oddly enough, was as broad Lancashire as Haythorn’s had been; and his story was on similar lines.

Liverpool, Southampton, Plymouth, Bristol, Cardiff, Newcastle, Hull, Harwich – from all round the coast, during the next twenty-four hours, came reports of similar losses. The robberies had all been bare-faced; lorries had driven up and the stuff loaded and taken away, aided and abetted by night-watchmen or other members of the warehouse staff.

More and more reports came in from the provinces and from all over London.

Next morning the Echo’s headlines screamed the story.