Strike for Death Page 11

  Grannett was standing by a small desk, with a lot of papers spread out in front of him. He glanced round at Roger, but didn’t smile.

  ‘”Morning.”

  “Good morning,” said Roger, and lost no time. “Still think that Munro murdered your brother?”

  “I do, and I always shall.” Grannett looked wary, but there was less bitterness in his voice than there had been yesterday, and perhaps not the same hardness in his eyes. “And I expect you to prove it.”

  “What makes you harp on the word ‘murder’?”

  “Because that’s what it was.”

  “Under law, if Munro started the fight it would be manslaughter; if he didn’t, accidental death.”

  Grannett said: “I call it murder.” He stared hard into Roger’s eyes, and went on: “And whatever the police or the law call it, I shall always say that it was murder. My brother hadn’t a chance.”

  “Did you know that it was being said that he was put up to pick this quarrel?”

  “It’s a damned lie.”

  “Sure?”

  “All right, Mr Chief Inspector,” Grannett said, with a scowl, “you’re on the side of the directors. Who’s surprised? Old Munro is married to the sister of a cabinet minister. He’ll pull plenty of strings, and you’ll dance to whatever strings he pulls.”

  “Now you listen to me,” Roger said very quietly. “I want to find out the truth, and I’m not satisfied I’ve got it all yet. If I felt that it would be justified, I’d make a charge of manslaughter or even murder. Can you be absolutely positive that your brother wasn’t paid to pick a quarrel with Munro?”

  “Hell of a lot of time he had, hadn’t he?”

  “It was known that Munro usually reached the factory about that time, it was known he was due, so there’s nothing odd about it. The quarrel could have been laid on beforehand. If it comes to that, you could have staged the meeting where you did to make sure that the crowd was in the car’s way.”

  Grannett’s eyes narrowed again, in a kind of tired hostility.

  “So that’s it. I’m supposed to have put my brother up to picking this quarrel. That’s the way the Munros want it, and perhaps that’s the way they’ll get it, but it isn’t true. Oh, I know what they’ll say: that I knew Munro was a crazy hot-head, and if he ran into trouble he’d turn the workers against him, and that would strengthen my hand. I’m blamed for every item of trouble there’s been at Munro Motors in the last five years, ever since I became chief shop steward. Well, as a matter of fact, Mr West, I’ve toned down a lot of claims on the management. There are plenty of Communists here who are spoiling for a strike all the time, and who want to make all the trouble they can between management and men. If I let them lead me by the nose we’d have more labour trouble at Munro’s than anywhere else in the country. But what do we get? Far less than the average. You can’t show me another car manufacturer with such a clean record. Doesn’t it strike you as peculiar that while I’ve been the men’s spokesman we’ve had so little trouble? Do you think that’s all because of the management, or Mr Amory? Take it from me, it isn’t. All I’ve ever asked for is a fair cut for the workers, and I’ve had a hell of a time getting it, but I’ve always got it. I always knew who was the chief obstacle. It wasn’t Paul Munro, the one who died; he was reasonable enough. It wasn’t Amory – if it hadn’t been for him, the only director who could see the workers’ point of view as well as the management’s, we’d have had trouble all along the line. The real obstacle’s been Sir Ian, and he’ll have his own son on his side all right. That’s why we’ve got to get this extra ten per cent now. If we don’t, there’ll be hell to pay later on.”

  “Why should there be?” Roger asked.

  He was oblivious of the dozens of people nearby, many of them standing and looking on. His interest was only in Grannett; and he had to admit the reasonableness of Grannett’s manner, and the logic of most of his arguments. His resentment of Sir Ian was as strong as ever, and obviously it spilled over on to Malcolm; but it wasn’t the blind, fanatical hatred of a man of one class for another. It had been fed on bitterness.

  “If you’d studied labour problems the way I have, you’d know without asking,” Grannett answered at last. “Probably you don’t know there are any problems. Let me tell you about some of them. We’ve got our share of Commies, as I’ve said. We’ve had our share of trouble because of high prices on the export market and Suez and a lot of other things. We know that if we’re to hold our jobs, we’ve got to keep prices down, but you can’t do that by keeping wages down, too. What you’ve got to do is raise wages high, and then get the production out of the workers. Handled the right way, they’ll give it.

  “But they’re always being needled,” Grannett went on, and he gave Roger a very firm impression: that he was really dedicated to his job. Every word seemed to prove that. “This time, they’ve done a damned good job on Mark 9. They’ve produced ten per cent more than was estimated, too. They’ve got them down to a price which can compete with German, Italian, and French cars, and beat most of them. Now the orders are streaming in. The factory will be working at full stretch for twelve months, simply on the strength of those orders, and it’s making a fortune for the shareholders. So the men want a share of what’s going, and they’re going to get it. Don’t give me the argument that they’ve got to produce the goods first and get the bonus afterwards, because it never works out that way. Something always comes along to make it impossible for the management to pay up. And if the men work for six months on the present standard wage, make a fortune for the shareholders, and then ask for their bonus, they’ll run into Sir Ian and either a flat’ no’ or a small offer. Then they’ll be really mad. Then the Commies will get at them. And then Munro’s will really have strike trouble, and trouble I can’t control. That’s why I want the ten per cent now.”

  Roger said slowly, thoughtfully: “And you think Sir Ian stands in the way of it?”

  “I know he does.”

  “And that’s why you hate him?”

  That surprised Grannett.

  There was a pause, and then he said deliberately, looking Roger straight in the eyes: “That’s why I hate what he does.”

  “And you think his son will be on his side?”

  “I’m damned sure he will be. I know the type.”

  “And is that why you have set out to discredit Malcolm Munro?”

  The question came almost gently, and at first Grannett didn’t see its significance. When he did, he set his jaw tightly, and Roger thought that he would turn away.

  A tall, thin man with a broken nose and wearing a paint-daubed overall came over, a little splay-footed, touched his forehead to Roger, and said to Grannett: “Ready to change over to red, Mike. How about it?”

  “How many green have you done?” Grannett switched his thoughts on the instant.

  “Two hundred.”

  “Do another hundred, will you, Lanky?” Grannett said. “There’s been a new order, they phoned up ten minutes ago. How’s the heat tunnel? “

  “It’s okay.”

  “We don’t want any more of that blister trouble.”

  “We won’t get it, it was just a mistake.”

  “It was a damned expensive mistake,” Grannett said, and when the man had gone off he made an entry in a book on the desk, then turned to Roger and said unexpectedly: “I’m trying to save the firm money, but you wouldn’t believe that, would you? I’m trying to make sure that we all get a good profit. I don’t like waste any more than the Munros like it, and as far as I can, I make sure that we don’t get it. That new heat tunnel cooks the cellulose,” he added when he saw Roger staring at the doorway marked Observation Platform, through which the tall man disappeared. “The car bodies go through that spray tunnel, and then into the heat tunnel, where they’re cooked, or heated, to make sure of even drying and resistance to all kinds of weather conditions. The last time we did apple-green, Lanky set the temperature too high, and we ruined fifty jobs b
efore it was discovered. Like to know who got called down for that? I did. The Works Manager would have fired me if he’d had a bit more guts.”

  Roger said: “No one doubts your guts, but how about answering my question?”

  “You’re a copper,” Grannett said, and now there was a faint smile at his lips, almost a sneer. “You have to ask questions. I think you’re probably a good copper, too, and you’ll do your best. I hope you get all the right answers while you’re here, but you won’t if you stay with the directors too long, and drink too much of their whisky. I didn’t set out to discredit Malcolm Munro. I didn’t have to. He did it all by himself.”

  “I hope I don’t find out anything different,” said Roger. “Do you know the men who attacked him last night?”

  “No.” Now, Grannett grinned more broadly. “And I didn’t set them on to him, either.”

  “Did you know he was attacked at his house, just before you arrived with that ill-advised note?”

  “Ill-advised, my foot,” Grannett said jeeringly. “That letter will do Ian Munro more harm than anything else I can think of. It’ll get him worried and make him unsure of himself – now his son’s future’s at stake, see? The old devil will bluster, but he’ll be careful. I know what I’m doing.”

  “And you’ll use your brother’s death as a tool to make the Munros do what you want. Is that it?”

  Grannett’s smile faded into grimness, and he answered very softly: “Yes, if needs be, I’ll do that. Listen, Mr West. There are over six thousand employees at this factory, and they’ve got about twenty thousand dependants, probably more. Old folk, sick folk, kids, babies, more babies on the way. Munro Motors are life and death to them. It’s a lot of people to have to worry about, and I’ll use anything I can get to win everything they need. Sentiment won’t stop me. Let me tell you something else, too. When Munro killed my brother and sacked young Woods, he put the whole factory against him, and that also means against the board of directors. The fact that some young fools tried to beat him up doesn’t alter the situation. I’m told that Woods has been reinstated, but the damage is done, don’t make any mistake. When I say ‘strike’ the men will come out, and I’ll say strike unless the Board gives us what we’re asking for. Don’t make any mistake about that, either. We’ve got the Board where we want them. They may not know it yet, but they soon will. Most of this has arisen because my kid brother was killed. I’d be smearing his memory if I didn’t use his death the best way I could.”

  Roger obviously puzzled him by smiling as he finished, and then remarking: “Didn’t I hear you call Sir Ian Munro ruthless?”

  “That’s the word,” Grannett agreed, and broke off and moved away quickly. The door into the heat tunnel was open, and the lanky, splay-footed man came hurrying.

  “What’s up?” Grannett called, above the clanking of the metal and the whirr of the machines. “Don’t tell me that blasted oven’s too hot again.”

  “It’s a bit high already,” the lanky man said. “If you ask me, there’s something wrong with the thermostat. We ought to stop work until the electricians have had a go at it.”

  “Or maybe you forgot to turn a switch,” Grannett growled. “I’ll have a look myself.” He strode to the observation platform, and Roger followed, saw him climbing up into a small platform built into the tunnel. Beyond him was the interior of the heat tunnel. Roger saw the apple-green cars hanging nose downwards, and passing one after the other. Grannett pulled a switch and the conveyor belt stopped. He examined some other switches, then went down into the shop again, Roger with him. “I think you’re right, Lanky,” he said. “I’ll ask Colonel Harrison to bring the chief electrician along.”

  “So long as you don’t blame me,” Lanky said gloomily.

  “We won’t, if it’s not your fault.”

  “Want me to turn off the heat?”

  “Not yet,” Grannett said. “Not until they’ve been to see it.” He went back to the desk, ignoring Roger, lifted a telephone and asked for the Works Manager. Then he said: “It’s Grannett speaking. There’s something wrong with the heat tunnel, ask him if he’ll come along with Mr Willson, will you? Yes, quick.” He rang off, pushed his fingers through that wiry red hair, and looked sombrely at Roger. “I’m going to have my hands full for the rest of the day, this is one of the worst bottlenecks in production. If you’ve got anything else to ask, you’d better make it snappy.”

  Roger said: “Thanks. How long had your brother been friendly with Hugh Torrance?”

  “Friendly isn’t the word I’d use,” said Grannett promptly. “He hero-worshipped him. I tried to stop it, because one of these days Torrance was going to break his neck, but the kid was fascinated by speed. If I knew what I know now, perhaps I’d have encouraged him to have his fun while he could.” Grannett paused, then widened his eyes, and actually grinned crookedly. “You get around, don’t you? And you persuade people to talk more than they want to. So you think that Torrance hated Munro’s guts because of the girl, and maybe he put Roy up to quarrelling with Munro? That’s two theories you’ve advanced, Mr West. You’d better take your choice.”

  He looked towards the main entrance to the shop, and his expression changed swiftly, becoming granite hard: Roger did not think he had ever seen such bleakness in a man’s eyes, and turned to see why.

  Sir Ian, Colonel Harrison, and Amory were coming along the side of the motionless conveyor belt.

  Roger waited.

  Sir Ian nodded brusquely. Amory was not his usual smiling self, and gave the impression that he was keenly aware of the possibilities of an open clash between the shop steward and the Chairman.

  It was Harrison who said with an accusing sharpness in his voice: “Why has the belt stopped, Grannett? Haven’t we had enough trouble here already? “

  Roger thought: ‘I don’t know what good Harrison is, but either he wants to goad Grannett into losing his temper or he’s a complete fool.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Rumour on Wings

  Grannett maintained his composure surprisingly well; almost too well. One would expect him to be more edgy than usual after the shock of his brother’s death, but he seemed to be able to shake it off. It was easy to remember that he intended to use the tragedy cold-bloodedly, so as to get his way over the wage claim.

  “It was getting too hot again,” he said. “The control man’s been watching it specially, since the trouble last week. He had the right switches down and the right temperature control, but it was getting too hot. I checked. Then I stopped the belt, because I thought we’d better lose some production than risk a lot more spoiled jobs and possible complaints from customers.”

  Harrison grunted.

  Amory was perhaps a little over-anxious to conciliate.

  “Very wise, and the quicker we find out the cause of the trouble, the better,” he soothed.

  “I’ll see you in the office,” Sir Ian said, and nodded again to Roger and walked on. Grannett behaved as if he didn’t exist, and walked with Harrison and Amory to the door at the side of the tunnel. Roger heard them talking, knew after five minutes that they had decided to turn the heat off, let the tunnel cool down, and then find out what was wrong with the heating units. He gathered that these had to be inspected from inside the tunnel, but the technical terms used were too unfamiliar for him to know exactly what they meant.

  Another man came up, short, freckly, earnest. Harrison greeted him as Willson, so this was the electrician.

  “… how soon can you get it started?” Amory asked.

  “We’ll cool it down in ten minutes, should be able to see what’s what then,” answered Willson. He was not quite Cockney. “I won’t take a minute longer than I can help, I promise that.”

  “Sure you won’t,” Amory said. “George—” That was to Harrison. “Will you stay here until Willson’s got the unit down, and let me know how bad it is?”

  “Yes.” Harrison’s nod was like a salute.

  “Thanks,” said Amor
y, and turned to Roger, smiled apologetically, and went on: “I wonder if you can spare me half an hour, Chief Inspector?”

  “Yes, of course,” Roger said. “Right away?”

  “Please.”

  The others were at the observation platform, and Roger walked briskly along with Amory, and in the wake of Sir Ian. Amory didn’t speak until they were out of the Paint Shop. The fresh air smelt particularly good, quickly relieving Roger’s slight feeling of nausea from the cellulose.

  Sir Ian Munro, just outside, looked very sturdy, very lonely, and somehow, Roger thought, a little pathetic.

  Beyond him was a tall, new-looking building with two squat chimneys; it had the look of a power station, and was exactly that: the station which supplied all the power to the plant, which had much more automation in than most. Roger had seen it several times before, but had not been so close as he was now.

  “They’ll telephone us about the heat tunnel,” Amory said. “I shouldn’t think it’s serious.”

  “It’s not only serious,” Sir Ian asserted, in a growling voice, “it’s deliberate. We’re going to have hold-up after hold-up in production. It’s a form of blackmail. How far is that a crime, Chief Inspector? How far is it a crime wilfully to obstruct the nation’s economy? Isn’t it a form of sabotage?”

  “Can it be proved?” asked Roger mildly.

  “Proved,” echoed Sir Ian, in a hopeless bark, “how can it be? Whispers here, whispers there. A movement of a switch. The breaking of a fuse through deliberate overloading. Mixing wrong colours. Time and time and time again we have trouble due to sabotage, but proof—”

  He broke off abruptly, stared straight ahead of him, then took out a fat gold cigarette case and proffered it. “I haven’t thanked you sufficiently for saving my son’s life last night, Mr West. I don’t suppose I can ever thank you enough. And I’m grateful that you’ve taken the precaution of having him escorted wherever he goes. I would like to ask a favour of you.”