Strike for Death Read online

  “Are you telling us this?” Malcolm asked abruptly.

  “I’m reminding you, and pointing out that both management and men have been killed. There is probably a single motive.” Roger gave the others a chance to speak, but this time they let it pass. “I’ve reason to believe that different men have been involved in the murders,” Roger went on, “a group of them.”

  “But why?” demanded Amory.

  “There must be different motives,” Malcolm said.

  “It’s hardly likely. Mr Munro, we know that Mr Torrance believes he has a reason for personal vengeance. Has anyone else?” When they didn’t answer, he went on: “Or has anyone tried to acquire a larger interest in the company?”

  It was Amory who said: “Yes, Colonel Harrison. But—”

  He was explaining that Harrison acquired every share he could over the years when the team arrived from Scotland Yard.

  It took Roger ten minutes to brief the teams, five more to bolt down sandwiches and coffee, three to reach his car and make sure that the search for Harrison and Grannett was stepped up. Then the Yard Information Room said: “Mr Kimbell would like a word with you, sir.”

  “Put me through.”

  “Yes, sir—”

  “Hallo, Handsome!” When Kimbell came on he was unusually excited. “You’re a lucky swab, it’s falling into your lap. Harrison’s been buying up every share he could from distant relations for years. His wife lost her nerve when our chaps went to her home. She knew that hubby was working to bring Munro stock down and buy all he could at bottom, and apparently Sir Ian had suspected it. And in Harrison’s bedroom we found strychnine in tablets which look like saccharin.”

  Roger breathed: “That’s got the mad Colonel! Any idea who he worked through at the factory?”

  “Pretty certain to be Torrance or Grannett,” Kimbell said. “Why don’t you tackle Grannett’s wife? Most of the factory trouble started in Grannett’s department. Go after him.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Factory Again

  The narrow street with terraced houses on either side was in the older part of Elling. At each end was a corner shop, and at each end a parked police car. Roger was aware of being watched by several policemen as he drove slowly to Grannett’s house, Number 47. There were lights at some of the ground-floor windows; more lights upstairs. At Number 47 the only light was at the front door, which showed a pale glow from a light some distance inside. Outside it were two plain-clothes men.

  One came to Roger, peered and recognised him, and saluted smartly.

  “Has he come here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Who’s in?”

  “His wife and mother,” said the plain-clothes man.

  “When did you last speak to them?”

  “Half an hour ago, sir, when we first arrived.”

  “Searched the place?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. They let us look round.”

  “Garden?”

  “We haven’t overlooked a thing, sir, take it from me.”

  “Thanks.” Roger got out and turned to the plainclothes man in the car. “Stay there, keep the radio on, and let me know if there’s any flash about this job.” He hurried to the little front door, and rang the bell, one of the battery type attached to the door; it sounded very loud. Almost immediately the glow of light showing against the glass panel became brighter, and there were footsteps in the passage. Then the door opened, and a woman whom Roger could see was youngish, and whose dark hair looked wavy and shiny against the light of a room beyond, stared at him.

  “Mrs Grannett?”

  “Yes,” she said, and there was sharp disappointment in her voice, as if she had expected her husband.

  “I’m sorry to worry you again. I’m Chief Inspector West of Scotland Yard, and I’d like a word with you.”

  She hesitated, then opened the door wider and stood aside.

  “You’d better come in.” She watched him as he did so, then closed the door. Another, older woman appeared at the end of the passage, and called out in a husky voice: “Is it Michael?”

  “No, mum, I’ll tell you the minute he gets in. It’s another policeman.”

  Roger had an impression of a vigorous young woman who knew exactly what she was about, and of a frail, sad old lady. The older woman turned back to the lighted room, while Mrs Grannett stepped into a front room, switched on a light, and said: “We’ll go in here, I don’t want to upset mother any more than I must.”

  She was quite a beauty in her way. Small and sturdy and high-breasted, with a shapely waist. Gypsyish? That impression was probably caused by her dark eyes and black hair; there was something of the southern European about her. She moved briskly, too. Her gaze was searching, and Roger could imagine that she would take a lot of fooling.

  “Well, what do you want?” she asked flatly.

  He kept looking at her, but she didn’t shift her gaze. Nor did she repeat the question. She knew quite well that he was trying to unnerve her; and was probably sure that he hadn’t a chance.

  At last, he said: “Where is he?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea,” she declared, and her chin lifted an inch. “If I had, you wouldn’t make me give him away.”

  Roger could believe that.

  “I think you know where he would go,” he said.

  “Well, I don’t know.”

  “Mrs Grannett,” Roger said, “your husband escaped from us when being questioned about a serious crime. We have good reason to believe that another man, probably armed, intends to kill him. We want to make sure he can’t.

  He had worried her, but she surprised him by the question she asked.

  “Who’s the man after him?”

  “Colonel Harrison.”

  “Oh!” she said, and the suspicion died out of her eyes. “Mike always said he was crazy. I still don’t know where Mike is. I could make a guess, but I don’t suppose that would be any good to you.”

  “Try it.”

  She said: “There are only two things in the world he’s interested in, one is his home and family, and the other is that blasted factory. I don’t know what you think he’s done, but if you think he’d do anything to make trouble there, you’re a pretty bad policeman.”

  Roger said: “That could be, too. Why did he hate Sir Ian Munro?”

  “He’s never hated anyone in his life.”

  “If you want to help him, the only way is with the truth,” said Roger. His voice was very low; he did not want what he said to travel along the passage to the other woman’s ears. “We’re looking for him in connection with the murder of Sir Ian.”

  Mrs Grannett raised her hands sharply. Her eyes, shiny and very bright until then, seemed to go dull. She actually backed away from him, as if fending off some evil thing.

  “I mean it,” Roger said. “The murder of Sir Ian.”

  “It’s impossible!”

  “It happened tonight, soon after your husband went to Munro House. Why did he hate Sir Ian?”

  Grannett’s wife was breathing hard now, and Roger believed that she had some of the dead Munro’s qualities; her husband’s qualities, too. She would fight with everything she knew.

  “I tell you he didn’t hate anyone. He simply hated the things some of them stood for.”

  “It could be as important.”

  “He wouldn’t kill anyone. Oh, he told me that you seemed to think he knew something about Roy’s death, but that’s crazy!” Her voice rose, and she was almost hysterical. “He loved Roy, nothing was too good for Roy. He mixed with the wrong set, but Mike was positive it wouldn’t have come to anything.”

  “Did your husband try to break the association?”

  “He—he wanted to, anyhow.”

  “Did he try to?”

  “Yes!”

  “Was young Woods a Communist?” When she didn’t answer Roger gripped her arms and words were forced out of him. “Was he? Was your husband fighting a Communist group who meant to ma
ke trouble?”

  “Yes,” Mrs Grannett gasped. “Yes!”

  So he had been right to assume that one man had not committed these crimes: it looked as if political fanatics who wanted only to make trouble had seized the chance, creating disaster, killing with that terrifying speed, and dovetailing all they did into the follies of both Sir Ian Munro and his son. There had been a confusion of motives to create confusion in investigation, but now – Roger was beginning to grasp the full significance of the situation.

  All of this flashed through his mind after Mrs Grannett had gasped: “Yes!”

  Now, he asked swiftly: “Did your husband have any particular association with Roy’s friend, Woods?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “With a man named Winn, or another named Pegnall?”

  “No!”

  “Did Roy have anything to do with them?”

  “I don’t think so,” Mrs Grannett cried. “It’s no use asking me, I just don’t know.”

  “Did your husband have any association with Mr Torrance, the test driver?”

  “No, but Roy did.” The woman was on the point of tears. “Mr West, my husband has only one thing at heart, that’s the good of the workers at Munro’s. I’m as positive of that as that I’m standing here.”

  A sharp tap at the front door broke across her words. Roger hurried along the passage, and as the door opened, saw the plain-clothes man who had been standing by his radio.

  “Just had a flash, sir. Colonel Harrison’s been stopped at the factory. He says he believes Grannett is heading for the Powerhouse, meaning to blow it up.”

  It took fifteen minutes to reach the factory gates and five to find Harrison. He was with a group of Yard and Divisional men, and the factory police on night duty, at the Assembly Shop offices. In the great building itself, nothing seemed different from the daytime, except that there were fewer clerks in the offices.

  Harrison was still ashen pale, his eyes glittered, he looked desperately ill. A crazed man? Would a madman buy up Munro shares so avidly? Would a madman take the chances which had been offered?

  Remember how cunning the mad could be.

  “I tell you Grannett’s in the Powerhouse by now, we’ve got to get after him.” Harrison’s voice was clipped and toneless; as if defying the fierce brightness of his eyes. “I’ve always known he would rather see the factory in ruins than let the directors win. He knew he couldn’t win, he knew Sir Ian was too strong.”

  Give Harrison his head, and he might lead to the whole truth.

  “That’s why he poisoned Sir Ian,” Harrison went on, savagely. “He came to get his own way or to kill Sir Ian, the way he killed the others. And now he knows he can’t get away with it, he’ll bring ruin on the factory. That’s why he’d head for the Powerhouse. If he can damage that seriously he can bring everything to a standstill, every man and every machine. For the love of God get moving, West! We’ve got to stop him. If he can get at the main control switches he can wreck the plant for months.”

  They reached the squat, square building, with its small windows and its single squat chimney, and Harrison, with two Divisional men alongside him, led the way to the main entrance. His voice rasped at the men on gate duty.

  “Have you seen Grannett tonight?”

  The man said promptly: “Oh, yes, sir, he’s inside. Came in five minutes ago.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Powerhouse

  Inside, the Powerhouse looked a mammoth place, stark and new, with a kind of beauty of line in the very severity of the design of the machines, the control panels, the dynamos. It reminded Roger of the control room in the Assembly Shop, but was on a much bigger scale. Here and there men in khaki overalls stood by the controls, or sat thoughtfully by them. There was little noise, except a deep, pulsating throb. A small man in a khaki smock came out of a door marked: management only, a ferret with beady eyes. He looked at the dozen men as if astonished, and said to Harrison: “Everything all right, sir?” He had a twangy voice.

  “You seen Grannett?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, he’s here, and we want him.”

  “I’ll use the loudspeaker and ask for reports,” said the little ferret. “If he’s here, he’s probably at the main switchboard.”

  “We’ll go there,” Harrison said. “You put out a message for him.” He turned and hurried down the wide stone passage between the great square steel structures which encased some of the engines; it was like a huge liner’s engine-room, without the noise, the heat and grease, the pulsating machines.

  Roger followed, and the others followed in turn, most of them looking about them as if overawed by the hugeness of the place. Their footsteps echoed, if Grannett was here he would have plenty of warning of their approach. Then suddenly a voice sounded, strangely hollow, and the echoes fell about their ears in waves.

  “Attention all Powerhouse staff. If Michael Grannett is with you, please report to management at once. Will repeat that. If Michael Grannett is with you …”

  Harrison reached a junction of two wide passages, and turned left. Ahead lay a huge wheel, revolving so swiftly that it seemed not to be moving at all. Near it was a big control panel, with four men standing there on duty. A faint hum came from the wheel, that was all. Steps led downwards to an enormous, well-lit cavern, where the gigantic, pulsating machines were housed. Obviously this was the centre of the Powerhouse: that humming wheel represented the heartbeats of the factory.

  There was no sign of Grannett.

  One of the four men lifted a telephone and said quite clearly: “Main Switchboard Operator calling Management, Michael Grannett was here two minutes ago, and went down to the engine-room. Repeat. Michael Grannett …”

  Harrison broke into a run, but didn’t get even a pace ahead of Roger or the Divisional men. He went hurtling past the man at the telephone. More noise came, too, mostly a deep throbbing note. Down there was the very bowels of the Powerhouse; all the machines, the pipes, cables, meters, and fittings which might have been expected above ground level were mostly underground. Here was life and death to the great plant.

  And here, at the foot of the steps, was Michael Grannett.

  He was standing quite still. Obviously he had expected something like this, and was quite prepared for it. He carried what looked like an old army revolver in his right hand.

  “There he is!” screeched Harrison. “Kill him before he does more harm.”

  He snatched his right hand from his pocket and leaped at Grannett.

  Roger saw a flash of something silvery as he snatched at Harrison’s hand. A Divisional man grasped Harrison’s other arm. Harrison tried to hurl the silvery thing away, but Roger caught it, felt it cold to his touch, and stood holding it.

  It wasn’t until an hour later that he knew it was nitroglycerine: enough to have wrecked the Powerhouse, and have blown him to smithereens.

  “Why did you run away after Harrison was stopped at Munro’s house?” asked Roger of Grannett.

  Grannett said dryly: “I ran away from you, after Harrison gave me the chance. It looked as if they were determined to frame me.”

  “How did you think running away would help?”

  “Believe it or not, I didn’t trust the police to find out the whole truth,” Grannett said. “I didn’t trust anyone but myself. I was pretty sure that some of the Commies were stirring up trouble, but I couldn’t see the Commies I knew as murderers. I had a pretty good idea that Old Lanky was a Commie, and might know more than he’d said. He does occasional night-shift work in the Powerhouse, so I went there. I put the fear of death into him,” Grannett added, in a hard voice. “I told him I believed he’d pushed young Woods into that tunnel, and that I’d tip you off. He cracked.”

  “Where is he?” Roger asked.

  “At the other end of the Powerhouse. Want to see him now I’ve done your job for you?” Grannett jeered. Then he said swiftly: “I take that back.”

  Lanky w
as a badly frightened man, now only too eager to talk. He had seen Harrison in the Paint Shop, near the tunnel, and had seen Woods there about the same time; that was the last time Woods had been seen alive.

  “Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Roger demanded. “Did Harrison bribe you?”

  “No, Pegnall did. He said he’d push me in the tunnel if I didn’t keep my mouth shut. Him and Winn, they’ve always done the dirty work for Torrance, and they’ve paid cash to other comrades who’ve done what he wanted.”

  “Such as paying you for fixing the heat in the tunnel so that a lot of bodies were overheated.”

  Lanky grunted: “They’d’ve given me a hell of a bad time if I hadn’t, the Party didn’t order that, the Party didn’t know what was going on.”

  “I can believe it,” Roger said. “Torrance always had a few Commies among his hero-worshipping crowd, didn’t he?” He looked at Grannett. “I don’t know this plant like you do, Mike, but I can put two and two together. Torrance always had his hero-worshippers. Some of them would do anything he told them. Roy was a hero-worshipper, and Torrance wanted him to make trouble for Malcolm Munro. Right?”

  Grannett didn’t answer.

  Lanky said: “Yeh, Mike, that’s right, Roy was out to make trouble all right.”

  “And he made it,” Roger went on quietly. “He also knew that sooner or later you’d get the truth out of him, so Torrance killed him, as he’d served his purpose.”

  “Yes,” agreed Grannett heavily. “I can see that’s how it worked out.”

  “And Torrance used Pegnall to do a lot of other things,” Roger added. “It would be Pegnall who bribed that front-office commissionaire to disappear when young Munro was attacked. It would be Pegnall who told Woods to fetch the hammer from the hiding-place, but Charley Coombs got there first. Who killed Charley? Was it Harrison?”

  “I dunno,” Lanky said.