Strike for Death Page 17

  A detective appeared in the doorway through which Grannett had come. Grannett ran headlong for the bushes and trees, and they gave him some cover. Now that he was more used to the light, he could make out the five-foot wall. He tried to see whether there was broken glass or spikes at the top, but could not, and he made a running jump for it, hands outstretched to clutch the top. They fell upon rough concrete. He held on, and then scrambled over, hearing other men in the shrubbery now, heavy breathing, someone muttering. For a moment he was astride the wall, a clear silhouette against it; and that was the moment when a bright flash appeared in the shrubbery. He saw only the sudden, yellow light, and knew that he had been fired at. He heard the bullet strike the wall as he dropped down. There was another sharp crack and flash as he landed on grass; here, the garden was clearer, and he could see the gate of the next house leading to the street. He ran across it in a straight line, ignoring the risk of being shot at from the wall.

  Harrison fired again, as if wildly. Grannett heard only the bark of the shot. He reached the gate and vaulted it, and as he swayed on the pavement, looked round towards the cars and his motor-cycle. A detective was running towards him, he had no more than fifty yards’ start.

  He turned and ran, towards the wide streets and the narrow streets beyond, towards the fields behind Elling, and towards the factory where the night shift was working, and where the floodlit loading and unloading platforms were crowded with men, and from which a glow spread far and wide in the sky.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Chase

  Roger reached the porch as a shot came from his left. He ran towards the sound, and caught sight of two men, probably Harrison and Amory, disappearing round a corner.

  Roger saw a flash and heard another shot, then saw Harrison against the light of the flash. Only a few yards from him was Amory.

  Roger called out clearly: “Stop that shooting!”

  There came another shot, and Roger saw Harrison trying to haul himself to the top of the wall, with Amory pulling him down.

  Outside in the street, a police whistle sounded shrill and loud.

  Amory got hold of Harrison’s right arm, but couldn’t wrench the gun away. Roger reached up, and twisted; the gun dropped. Harrison kicked and struck out, swearing viciously, but they forced him against the wall. Suddenly he collapsed, as if all his strength had gone. Roger let him go, bent down, and groped for the gun. He straightened up, putting it in his pocket, and said to Amory: “Can you manage him?”

  “Yes, he’ll be all right now.”

  “Get him back to the house, will you?” Roger asked. “I’ll join you.”

  The police whistle sounded again, loud and alarming in the clear night. Running footsteps faded into the distance. Roger climbed the wall and ran across the lawn. When he reached the street, he saw a uniformed policeman disappearing round a corner; no one else was in sight, and until the whistle shrilled out again there was no other sound.

  He ran to his car.

  A Yard man was standing nearby, the man from the back of the house.

  “Colonel Harrison and Mr Amory came out the back way, and I followed them to the front,” he said, anxious to clear himself. “Harrison had a gun and was after Grannett, who ran for it. One of our chaps went after him, so I thought one of us had better stay here, sir.”

  “Quite right,” Roger said. “Go upstairs, get all the coffee cups and glasses and bottles from the library, and lock ’em up so that no one can touch them. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Then phone the Division for help, and don’t let anyone else leave.”

  “Right!”

  Roger got into the car, started the engine, and sent the car shooting forward, its engine roaring. He remembered Torrance and the near-fatality of the morning. He reached the corner and swung the wheel to the left, the way the policeman had turned. The bright beam of his headlamps showed the man at another corner; and as he drove along, Roger saw that there were turnings to both right and left, all drive entrances, and a dozen directions in which the runaway could have gone. Then he saw a solitary figure in plain clothes come dejectedly out of one of the gateways.

  Roger stopped.

  “Hallo, sir.”

  “Lost him?”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Can’t be helped, and he won’t get far,” said Roger. “We’ll go and pick up that copper, and get him back to his beat. Hop in.” The plain-clothes man climbed in by his side, and Roger went on: “Call the Yard on the radio for me, will you?” The man flicked the radio on, and soon the voice of a Yard Information Room sergeant came loudly into the car. “West here. Give me Mr Kimbell,” Roger said. There was a moment’s pause before Kimbell came on the line, mumbling as if he was chewing. “That you, Handsome? Got it all solved?”

  “I’ve got a runaway to pick up in a hurry,” Roger said. “Will you call the Divisional chaps right away and ask for a net to be spread round the Elling Hill area as quick as they can make it? We’re looking for Michael Grannett.”

  “He was my man from the start.” Kimbell sounded smug.

  “And in case he grabs a car or a bike, you’d better ask them to warn the men at the factory to look out for him, and also put out a general call,” Roger said. “Ask ’em to send a couple of men to his home, will you?”

  “Right. Is he armed?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “Desperate?”

  “Could be,” said Roger. “Here’s another piece of cheer. Sir Ian Munro is dying of strychnine poisoning at his home, and Colonel Harrison seems to have decided that Grannett was the poisoner, and started shooting at him. Care to send a team over pronto?”

  “Strewth, you’ve got quite a circus. Okay, I’ll fix it. Say, Handsome.”

  “Yes?”

  “Needn’t come in for a meal tonight, baked jam roll’s off.”

  “I’ll be lucky if I get a sandwich,” Roger said. “Did Knightley tell you about the possibility of a share racket?”

  “Possibly is as far as we can go.”

  “Listen,” urged Roger. “Harrison could be charged with shooting with intent to kill. That’s excuse enough to get a search warrant for his place. Torrance is in hospital, you ought to be able to fix a look at his flat. Try ’em both, will you, for any evidence of buying Munro Motors stock, or dealings with brokers.”

  “I’ll see what we can do. How about Amory?”

  “Amory and Malcolm rate, too, but I doubt if you’ll get into their places yet. The first two will do for a start.”

  “Okay,” Kimbell said.

  Roger rang off, and pushed his hand through his hair, impatiently, as the constable hurried to the car.

  “Hop in, and I’ll take you back,” Roger said.

  “Thank you, sir. Sorry I lost him. There are five different roads just here, though, once he got this far I knew we wouldn’t have much of a chance.”

  “You did all you could.” Roger sounded much more philosophical than he felt. “I’ve sent to your HQ. You stand by until you get special instructions.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, just what happened back at the house?” Roger asked the plain-clothes officer.

  The man told his story again in greater detail. Obviously Harrison, with the gun, had really jolted Grannett into running. Had he run out of fear for his life? Did he know about Harrison’s medical history? Had he realised that Harrison might be mad?

  Mad?

  They drew up outside Sir Ian Munro’s house.

  “I hope not to be more than ten minutes,” Roger said. “Stay here.”

  The plain-clothes man jumped out and opened the door and said: “Yes, sir.”

  The other, who had stayed at the house, was standing by the front door, which was now closed. “Doctor still here?” Roger asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lock up those things?”

  “In a linen cupboard, sir, I’ve the key.”

  “Keep it, and give i
t to the Yard team that’s on its way. Everyone else still here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thanks,” Roger said. He rang the bell, and had to wait nearly three minutes before a manservant answered the door and said almost before he could see who it was: “I’m sorry, Sir Ian can see no one tonight.”

  Was he covering up because he thought it the best thing to do, or because he’d had instructions?

  “Chief Inspector West,” Roger said, and the man stepped aside hastily. “Thanks. Where is everybody?”

  “The—the doctor and Miss Lee are upstairs in the library, sir, the others are downstairs in the morning-room.”

  “Mr Munro, Mr Amory, and Colonel Harrison?”

  “Not Colonel Harrison, sir. He left ten minutes ago, sir.”

  “My man said—” Roger began.

  “He left by the side door, sir.”

  He should have had at least four men here earlier, Roger knew. If anything else went wrong he could only blame himself. Even when he had left Harrison to Amory, he had taken the wrong choice; he should not have gone after Grannett.

  Roger went back to his car in a hurry, flicked on the radio, and said to the Yard Information Room: “Put an emergency call out for Colonel Harrison of Munro Motors. He’s on the rampage in Elling, probably in killing mood.”

  “We’ll see that Mr Kimbell’s told, sir.”

  “Thanks.” Roger went back to the house, and the footman watched him go upstairs. When he reached the library door Tessa Lee was just coming out. He remembered thinking how much he would like to see her smile, and that he had seen her laughing. Now, she looked tired, almost a tragic figure, and her eyes closed at sight of him, as if he was the last straw. The doctor was coming out of the room behind her.

  “Has he gone?” Roger asked, almost wearily.

  “Yes,” the doctor said. He looked old and tired, too, as if he had just finished a testing fight. “I’m informing the local police.”

  “Thank you,” Roger said. “But there’ll be a party here from Scotland Yard very soon.” He looked at the door, saw the key in the lock, and took it out. Sir Ian’s body still lay on the floor, covered by a rug; the doctor had known that nothing should be touched. Roger went to the window and saw a man on duty at the back standing only a few yards away. He opened the window, told the man to stay there, then went out of the room and locked the door. The doctor and the girl were at the foot of the stairs, and the doctor was saying: “You really ought to go home and get some sleep, or you’ll knock yourself up.”

  “Oh, I’m all right,” Tessa said, and there seemed more spirit in her manner. “I can’t go until I know whether Mr Munro wants anything else.”

  “All right. Tell them I’ll be in again later, will you?” The doctor nodded to Roger. “Good night, and thanks.” He went out, and Roger and the girl stood together, close to the door of a room where men were talking in undertones: the sound of their voices was just audible.

  “Were you in the room when they had coffee?” Roger asked.

  “No.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I was typing some letters in the morning-room. Where the others are now. The directors were going to have a letter handed to every foreman and charge-hand in the morning, to try to stop the strike. It was Mr Amory’s suggestion.”

  She spoke jerkily, and Roger knew she was fully aware of two possibilities. Malcolm Munro might be next; or might be the murderer.

  If she really accepted the second one, she couldn’t believe that Grannett was guilty.

  “Has anyone talked about what happened?” Roger asked.

  “No.”

  “Has anyone said who gave Sir Ian the poison?” Her answer came slowly. “Colonel Harrison said that Sir Ian named Grannett.”

  “Thank you. Miss Lee, do you know of anyone on the Board who has been trying to acquire shares from the company’s shareholders?”

  She looked surprised.

  “No, not really.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “There is often a little buying from distant relations, and adjustments whenever a shareholder dies.”

  “Has any particular individual always been very anxious to buy lately, while the price has been down?”

  “No.”

  She was quite emphatic, so Roger dropped the subject, and asked: “Are you coming into this session?”

  “Not unless you want me to.”

  “Do something for me instead, will you?” Roger asked. “Get them to make me a couple of sandwiches, I’ll eat them in the kitchen as soon as I’m through.”

  “Yes, of course,” Tessa Lee said. And smiled.

  She didn’t feel like smiling as she went to a small room near the kitchen, dropped into a chair, and stared blankly in front of her.

  Sir Ian dead, of poison.

  Malcolm present when he had died.

  It had been Grannett, it must have been.

  But …

  Supposing it hadn’t been?

  What lay behind this awful spate of killing? Why was Malcolm always in a position to have committed the crime? In the hospital, in the Chassis Shop, in the Paint Shop, and here in this very house.

  Why had he let Winn escape last night?

  Could Hugh Torrance really hate him so much as to try to have him blamed?

  Roger opened the door of the morning-room without knocking, but all he heard was what sounded like: “I don’t know where he’s gone.” Obviously that applied to Colonel Harrison. Amory stood with his back to an electric fire, tall and commanding; Malcolm sat on the arm of a chair, drawing at a cigarette. They were trying to put up a show of stoic calm, but they couldn’t be feeling very good.

  Amory was the first to speak. “Did you get Grannett?”

  “No, but we will, before long.”

  “I’ve heard that kind of talk before,” growled Malcolm. “I thought you people always got results.”

  “We get results, and we’ll get them this time. Who let Harrison go?”

  “I’m afraid I’m to blame,” said Amory. “I thought he had calmed down – he often has these excitable outbursts, but they seldom last for long.”

  “If he gets Grannett, good luck to him,” said Malcolm. “If you’d found out that Grannett was behind all this before, my father would still be alive.” He sounded bitter and hostile.

  “Malcolm, no one could have worked harder than Mr West in the short time at his disposal,” Amory interpolated. “Mr West, I’m afraid we’re all badly shaken and upset.”

  “I think I know how everyone feels,” Roger said. “I also know that if Colonel Harrison or anyone else tries to take the law into his own hands, he’ll run into a lot more trouble than he expects. What made him go berserk?”

  “Haven’t you anything to think with?” Malcolm demanded.

  Amory spread his hands and said: “He felt sure that Grannett put the poison in Sir Ian’s coffee.”

  “Are you also sure?”

  “Who else could have done?” Malcolm asked tartly.

  “There were five people present,” Roger said. “The last one I would expect to commit a murder in those circumstances would be Grannett – he would be sticking his neck out too far. Any reason to believe that he’s a fool?”

  Malcolm looked taken aback.

  “I know that he’s a desperate man,” Amory said. “Only Sir Ian stood between him and the success he’s always dreamed of. If he wins this wage claim for the workpeople, he’ll become one of the big figures in the Trade Union Movement. Much more than you might think depends on his success.”

  Malcolm couldn’t wait to exclaim: “Are you seriously accusing one of us, West?”

  “I’m not yet taking Grannett’s or anyone’s guilt for granted,” Roger said.

  “After this, you must be crazy!”

  “Think he killed his own brother?” Roger flashed.

  “I think he’s ruthless enough to kill anyone who gets in his way.”

  “How di
d his brother get in his way?”

  Malcolm said: “We don’t know everything yet.”

  “I think I know why Roy Grannett was killed,” put in Amory very quietly. “I think it was in order to stir up the factory workers to a point of anger and resentment, and so make sure that they would stand out for the wage increases, even if it came to a strike. I think he was killed as a sacrifice, whether it was done with his brother’s knowledge or not I neither know nor guess. I do know that his brother saw him when he was lying, drowsy and half conscious, in the hospital. I think that the quarrel which had been forced upon Mr Munro here created the chance to victimise and to vilify him. And I think Sir Ian was as sure of this, and that it was the real cause of his adamance. He was always a man of firm convictions. I believe that Grannett realised that if Sir Ian held out there would be a strike and the comparative failure of his own efforts.”

  Roger said: “Torrance was half drunk, and crazy enough to risk his own life in what looked like an attempt on Mr Munro’s. How do you account for that?”

  “That was a personal score.”

  “Why do you think Coombs was killed?”

  “I have little doubt that he found out who killed Roy Grannett.”

  “And Woods?”

  “I think that Woods committed suicide,” answered Amory. “In fact, I believe that it was he who actually killed Roy Grannett, Mr West. I think you will find that he comes from a fanatically Communist family, even if he did appear to be so mild-mannered, and that he was more responsible than we realised for the original cause of the trouble. He realised that it was only a matter of time before he was found out.”

  Malcolm said sharply on the last word: “Have you any better ideas, West?” He was aggressive, almost rude, and that might be because he was still suffering from shock. “Woods had the chance to kill Roy Grannett—”

  “Woods didn’t have a chance to kill Coombs,” Roger retorted. “An investigation team will be here from the Yard at any time,” he added. “They’ll want to know everything that happened here this evening. I want a broader picture. One director is dead, another has been murderously attacked, and three men at the plant have been killed.”