Strike for Death Page 10

  Munro didn’t answer.

  They stood with their backs to the small group, and watched the car as it roared past; its engine gradually quietened, and it was easier to hear themselves speak while watching the scarlet streak at one of the steeply banked corners of the track.

  Then Munro said: “Hugh Torrance isn’t an enemy of mine, Mr West. He is my closest friend. He’s had a difficult time emotionally, and gets easily upset. You annoyed him. As for anyone picking a quarrel with me – no, I can’t see why they should. I don’t believe anyone did. Now if you’ll forgive me I ought to get back to the others, they are overseas buyers likely to place large orders for the Mark 9.”

  “What will happen if there’s a strike?” Roger demanded abruptly.

  “I don’t think there is going to be any strike,” Munro responded. “There won’t be if I can stop it.” He gave a quick, unamused smile, and added: “You will excuse me, won’t you?” and went striding off to join the two Americans, Harrison and the Swede. Coombs still stood by. The car had completed one circuit, and the noise was deafening again as it hurtled past. At the nearest corner it looked as if it would be bound to go over the top. Instead, it roared down into the straight again. Then Torrance began to stunt, sending the car at a hundred and twenty miles an hour, swerving and swinging about, as if intent on causing a spill. Roger was nearer the group now, and heard the Swede say in excellent English: “Well, it has quite remarkable road-holding qualities, that I must agree.”

  “It’s almost impossible to turn it over,” Munro said, “and it’s as safe at corners as anything on four wheels.”

  Torrance had settled down again. For a moment, on a corner, it looked as if the car was heading straight for them, but it changed direction swiftly and hurtled along the straight. The engine roar was harsh with menace. It made another complete circuit, and that was when Roger noticed a change in Munro’s manner, saw him looking at the scarlet streak as if anxiously. The mechanics were standing more tensely, too. There had been no change in the roar of the engine, no indication of trouble that Roger could see, but these experts suddenly felt anxious. Harrison’s colourless face betrayed the same anxiety.

  The Colonel held a stop-watch.

  He glanced at it.

  “He’s going too fast,” he said, as if to himself. “A hundred and thirty-five is asking for trouble. Asking for trouble.”

  So that was it. Torrance was in sole control and was driving the car faster than it had ever been driven before. The Munro men had expected him to slow down, but he showed no signs of doing so. He rose up a banked corner so fast that it seemed impossible for him to keep on the road. Munro and Harrison held their breath, one of the Americans shut his eyes, the Swede seemed to be muttering under his breath. But the car flew along the upper edge of the track, and then swept down again.

  Roger felt sweat breaking out over his forehead, and had no doubt that the others felt the same.

  Surely Torrance would slow down now.

  He did not,

  “For God’s sake, Hugh!” Munro gasped, as if the driver could hear.

  Then Harrison said: “Get away from here. This way, all of you, hurry,” He pushed the Swede and an American towards the pits, the other American and Roger followed, but Malcolm Munro stood where he was.

  “Malcolm, come on!” Harrison shouted.

  The roar of the engine drowned the words so far as Roger was concerned. Munro held his ground. Harrison still hustled the others off. Roger saw that the Mark 9 was on the banked corner closest to them again, and this was the spot where, on the last circuit, it had looked as if the car was coming off the track towards them, but where it had straightened up.

  Would it this time?

  It hustled down the slope, and was heading straight for Malcolm Munro. Roger was twenty yards away from him, the others twenty yards farther away. Harrison was shouting something, but the only sound was that of the roaring engine, screaming as if it were a dive bomber.

  Then the car left the track.

  Chapter Ten

  Crash

  There was danger for them all. If the car overturned there was no telling where it might fling itself, no telling where wreckage might fly. Now it was just a scarlet blur, not far from Roger. He saw a dozen things at the same time. The face of the driver, twisted either in fear or in fury, hands tight on the wheel. Munro leaping away from the oncoming terror, trying to save himself. Harrison and the watching party, eyes rounded and mouth agape. The mechanics, two of them running, two others, whom he hadn’t seen before, climbing into a little fire-fighting jeep which had been standing by. Of all these things, the most vivid was the red streak. This was now so blurred that Roger could no longer see the face of the driver, could only just make out the shape of his head.

  As the car passed Munro it struck a hole in the ground, lurched, seemed to be flopping over on one side, then suddenly turned almost a complete circle, and headed back towards the track. Could Torrance hold it? Had he done this deliberately, to frighten rather than to kill?

  The car gave a sickening lurch and turned a complete somersault; once, twice, thrice.

  Then it seemed to fall apart.

  Roger thought: ‘He can’t live through it, he’s killed himself,’ and stood oblivious of danger as the fragments flew off the car; wheels, pieces of metal and glass, smaller oddments all crashed about him, but none touched him. He expected the car to burst into flames, but it didn’t. He was nearest; and the jeep was rapidly catching him. Then he saw that Torrance was half out of the driving-seat, that a door was open but jammed against the ground so that there was no room for Torrance to get out even if he had the strength. The driver’s eyes were open, his face was that of a man in agony.

  Roger had a split second to decide whether to defy the risk of an explosion.

  He saw the jeep jolting to a standstill as he sprang forward, reaching Torrance and the car before anyone else. If he could ease it up a little, Torrance might be able to crawl out; it was useless pulling at the man. He saw the bright blood on Torrance’s forehead and chin, and the desperate appeal in the blue eyes. He reached the car, breathed in the reek of petrol, felt roasted by the heat which seemed to promise a sudden explosion. The car was a lightweight; he simply got his shoulder beneath the body close to the partly open door, and heaved. Lightweight? He felt as if there were tons of metal on top of him, and the smell of petrol was much stronger; choking. He heard a crackling sound, too, and the noise of Torrance breathing. Then a man appeared by his side, saying: “Hold the strain a minute.” This was a mechanic, who was on one knee, trying to pull Torrance out. There followed a hissing sound; another mechanic was playing a fire extinguisher over the car. Roger gritted his teeth and heaved, and the car went back an inch or two. The wheels were off and the broken hubs were deep in the ground, that was why he had such difficulty in getting it up. Another man appeared by his side, facing him, bent down and did exactly the same thing as he.

  Munro.

  “Both together,” Munro said clearly. “I’ll call three. One—two—three.”

  They heaved. The car lifted. The mechanic dragged Torrance free and then to a safe distance. One of the Americans arrived and took some of the strain while Roger and Munro got clear. The car thumped and rattled back on its side. The extinguisher was still hissing. Another car engine sounded, and when Roger glanced towards the gate he saw that it was a white ambulance, with Coombs clinging to a door. Dozens of people were streaming through the gateway, there was to be another major sensation. He muttered: “How is he?”

  “Looks as if his legs got it,” Munro said. “I—” He broke off, hesitated, and then said: “If he lives, he’ll have to thank you.”

  Roger managed a grin.

  “Pleasure,” he said. “Thank God the thing didn’t blow up.” Then he asked, while everything was still sharp and raw in Munro’s mind, “Do you think he did it deliberately? Did he mean to kill himself and take you with him?”

  “It was an
accident,” Munro said, but he looked shaken and ill. “It must have been an accident; it must have been.”

  An hour later, Roger walked through the Assembly Shop, and this time practically every worker at the conveyors stopped to look round at him. It coincided with a morning break, and a little group of people, mostly youngsters and girls, were gathered round a tea trolley. One of them called out: “Good show, Inspector!” and there was a spontaneous outburst of applause. That was pleasant. In some ways, the past hour had been, too: an hour when Roger had been able to bask in a kind of glory. In it, he might easily have forgotten that he was here to find a murderer. Worse, he had warmed to the management because of their obvious gratitude, and the way in which he had been accepted. Not patronised, accepted. He had been in the directors’ room at the main office building, with Sir Ian, Robert Amory, Harrison, A. C. Cobb, and several others, all falling over themselves to express their gratitude, to assure him that there was nothing they wouldn’t do to help, and had left just before the first of the newspapermen had arrived. Soon there would be swarms.

  He must be very careful indeed on this tight-rope. If the workers once thought he was pro-management he could do a great deal of harm, and his present popularity made the potential harm greater.

  It would not take much to make a strike inevitable, and he knew that if it came, it would be long and bitter. If he kept his head and an even balance he might be able to help prevent the stoppage; so there were two sides to the job.

  Sheppard was coming towards him.

  “Thanks,” Roger called to the little group, and waited until Sheppard drew up. “Lucky thing young Munro had the guts to weigh in,” he said to the sergeant, “I’d be a goner if he hadn’t.” He appeared to be addressing Sheppard, but everyone nearby heard, although no one commented; the words would sink in, getting thoughts under firmer control.

  “How’s Torrance?” Sheppard asked, smoothing his bald head, a mannerism which betrayed excitement of some kind. They were nearing the office.

  “The factory doctor thinks it’s a matter of broken legs and a few cuts and bruises, but he’s not sure yet,” Roger said. “He should come through.”

  “Think he did try to kill Munro?”

  “Who suggested that?” Roger was sharp.

  “It’s all over the place,” Sheppard said, and grinned a little too broadly, no doubt uneasily, as if he feared that Roger really disapproved. “It’s known that Torrance and Munro haven’t exactly been bosom friends recently. Started with the Lee girl breaking off her engagement to Torrance.”

  Roger said with a resigned grimace: “This place is like a village.”

  “Oh, well, that’s nice and neighbourly. Had any reward for your labours?”

  Sheppard asked that as he opened the office door. An elderly man with surprisingly dark hair got up from a desk which had been brought in since last night. He was a heavy, rather ponderous-looking individual, with tired grey eyes.

  “Hallo, Pop.” Roger nodded to him. “Sit down, and keep at it.”

  ‘Pop’ obeyed. His nickname did not imply age, but was a shortened form of the surname: Popham. Roger had known him for years as a painstaking keeper of records with a sound memory: exactly the right man to take notes and telephone messages, and to study and correlate them. He seldom had much to say for himself.

  “You had any luck?” Roger asked Sheppard.

  “I think I could name two of the men who attacked Munro here last night, an Arthur Winn and a Robert Pegnall,” Sheppard said. “They were seen climbing the fence not far from the gatehouse by a night-watchman. But I can’t prove it, and there’s nothing we could use for a charge. I’ve sent Tilbury and Marino, the DOs from the Yard—good pair, sir, the Yard’s looking after us!—to pick up more information if they can. They’re out in the shops, trying to get the oddments found last night identified.”

  “Such as?”

  “A penknife, a ballpoint pen, a handkerchief, and a comb.” Sheppard was briskly factual. “Our chaps are especially after the two main suspects, Winn and Pegnall. If we can prove their ownership of any of the exhibits, they’d pay for questioning again.”

  “Do they work here?”

  “Yes – both night-shift labourers.” Sheppard pointed to a note on the desk. “There are the addresses.”

  “Right,” said Roger. “Have ’em picked up, but don’t do it anywhere near the factory. You’d better take ’em to the Yard for questioning, that might put the wind up them more than if you talk to them here or at the Division. I’ll talk to them myself, if they don’t make a confession! All we want is to know who put them up to the attack on Munro, and whether they know anything about the second attack – and can they name any one of the three who made it? Got all that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We can keep the ‘sir’ until someone else is in earshot. Anything special in about Michael Grannett?”

  “There’s a kind of case history here,” Sheppard said, “and Mr Knightley rang up to say he’s sending over a dossier on everyone concerned.”

  “Fine. What’s the mood of the workers this morning?”

  “I’d say it’s mixed,” answered Sheppard reflectively. “Old Charley Coombs has been listening wherever he could, and has several factory policemen under him, who mix with the men. On the whole, I’d say it was fifty-fifty – half saying that Munro killed young Grannett and ought to be sent to gaol, the other half saying that Grannett started it, it was just an accident. There’s only one thing that’s really general.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Woods, the orange-thrower, has been reinstated, and everyone sees that as a defeat for the management. Funny thing, but young Munro made more enemies because he made Woods collect his cards than he did because Roy Grannett died.”

  “Anything new on the Grannett family?”

  “Michael is married, two children, pretty wife, house divided into two flats, the mother and young boy lived at the top. The mother’s pretty cut up, I’m told.”

  “I can believe it,” Roger said. “Have you seen Michael Grannett this morning?”

  “Yes, in the Paint Shop, where he’s foreman.”

  “I think I’ll go and see him,” Roger said. “You go and work with Tilbury and Marino, get after those two night-shift labourers, and go and see young Woods, too. If Roy Grannett stood up for him so quickly, they may have been good friends. Tell me what you make of him, before I see him myself.”

  “Right,” said Sheppard.

  An hour before Roger had given those instructions young Woods left his mother’s little house in the poorer part of Elling, and, edgy and nervous, went to a café where he often met Roy and his other friends. He had a sick kind of feeling whenever he thought of Roy being dead.

  Woods had not much of a mind, and his thoughts were mostly sensuous or emotional. Now he was scared, because he believed that Roy’s death had been murder. He even knew what weapon had been used, and felt sure he knew who had used it.

  As he drew near the cafe he saw two men loitering outside: two night-shift labourers at the plant. They were looking at him in an odd way, and that made his mood of nervous tension even worse.

  They barred his way into the café.

  “Going somewhere, Woody?” That was a man named Winn.

  “I—I’m just going to get a cuppa, that’s all, no harm in that, is there?”

  Winn took his arm tightly.

  “Thought you preferred oranges, Woody!” He was a big, tough-looking, brutish man, with a powerful grip. “How about coming and having a slap-up vegetarian’s dinner with us, eh? It’ll be our treat.”

  “No! My ma expects me back soon, I mustn’t.” There was no outward reason for it, but Woods felt the hold of terror upon him. “Let me go.”

  “Aw, come on,” Winn said, and twisted Woods’ wrist enough to make him wince. “That hurt? You won’t get hurt if you do what we tell you. Come on.”

  The other man was just behind Woods.

&n
bsp; He could shout for help, but knew that wouldn’t do any good, it would only postpone the inevitable, for these men were known and feared. He took refuge in words.

  “What—what do you want me for? I don’t know anything, I swear, if I did I wouldn’t tell anybody!”

  “If you know your way about you might even get paid for not telling anybody,” Winn said, and now he seemed earnest, “We’re not going to hurt you, Woody. We just want to get a few things straight, and there’s a little job you can do for us at the plant. Don’t argue. Come.”

  So Woods went with them.

  But he was still afraid.

  Chapter Eleven

  Paint Trouble

  Roger put thought of Woods and the two night-shift labourers out of his mind when Sheppard went out: the sergeant wouldn’t miss much. He was anxious to see Michael Grannett again, but a word with Popham would be timely. A man who thought he was taken for granted always lost his enthusiasm and was more liable to error.

  “Someone will have to persuade Sheppy to wear a wig,” Roger said; “he can’t do that conjuring trick with his hat all the time.”

  Popham found that a huge joke. “I’ll have more thatch than him when I’m ninety!”

  “I’ll bet you will. Things all right with you?”

  “As far as I know, sir. I’m card-indexing all messages and reports this way …”

  Roger spent three minutes looking over the system and approving it, and then said: “That’s fine. You’ve got special cards for Munro, Harrison, Amory, Teresa Lee – that’s a good thought – Torrance, and Michael Grannett. Add that hospital Sister, Marsh, and young Woods, will you?”

  “Yes, right away.”

  “Thanks. That stuff from the Yard should be here soon, but don’t send for me unless there’s something sensational.” Roger went out, leaving Popham purring, and asked his way to the Paint Shop and the elder Grannett. ‘Paint Shop’ proved to be an almost ludicrous misnomer. It was another vast building, brightly lit, and the smell of paint and cellulose was overpowering to anyone not used to it. It was fascinating to see the car bodies on their never-ending conveyors, going into one long tunnel painted a dirty reddish brown, coming out at the other end bright and shiny apple-green, and then going into a second tunnel, which was obviously sealed, and at the side of which were some steps leading up to an opening marked: Observation Platform.