Strike for Death Read online

  Sheppard went off, obviously excited, and Roger switched to the six witnesses who had stayed late. Each story was substantially the same. Two youngish men were evidently bitterly resentful towards Malcolm Munro. Two elderly men tried to make it clear that they thought the director had acted under severe provocation. Two were neutral. Under questioning, each of them admitted that Munro had gone for Grannett furiously, and that the youth hadn’t had a chance. All agreed that when he had fallen, Munro had stood back; there was no question of an attack while he had been on the ground. No one seemed to think that Munro and Roy Grannett had known each other before, and there seemed no reason to believe that there was any personal motive behind the savagery with which Munro had gone into the attack.

  The younger witnesses said that Munro had started the fight.

  The others said that he had been pushed from behind, bumping into Grannett, who had promptly struck out.

  Roger asked each man in turn: “Did you think Roy Grannett was badly hurt?”

  And the answer was “No,” in each case.

  “Did he seem to hit the ground hard enough to injure him badly?”

  “No.”

  “Were you surprised to hear that he was dead?”

  “Yes.”

  The Sister had been, too, and her professional pride had been stung. Roger was anxious to get the medical report, almost as anxious to see Munro and size up the young director for himself, but wasn’t sure whether it would be better to bring Munro here or to go to the director’s office in the main building.

  There were undercurrents which could sweep him right off course if he were not very careful; tensions which could become explosive. It was an atmosphere he’d heard about but never experienced, worker-employer relationship at breaking point.

  If he showed the slightest sign of leaning one way or the other, he could easily make things worse. Emotionally, the workers were probably more sensitive, but if he veered too much in their favour, it might have a chilling effect on the management, and lose him their co-operation.

  He had to look as if he was sitting on the fence. The best way would be to be ultra-polite when alone with the management, deferring in manner if not in fact: but be more bluff with the workers, giving an impression that at heart he was one of them.

  He decided to see Malcolm there, and telephoned the director’s office. A girl answered.

  “This is Mr Malcolm’s secretary.”

  It was half past six, and that meant that the girl, Tessa Lee, was working late. Was it true that Munro was ‘sweet’ on her? If so, did she feel the same way about Munro? Had Coombs meant that there was a genuine love affair, or had he implied that the association was man and mistress? In a different kind of investigation, Roger would need to find out at once; but he didn’t see that it mattered yet.

  “Is Mr Malcolm Munro there, please?”

  “Who shall I say wants him?”

  “Chief Inspector West, speaking from the Works Office.”

  “Oh, yes,” the girl said. She wasn’t flurried or flustered and had a nice speaking voice. “I’ll put you through.” There was only a momentary pause, before a man said: “Mr West? Would you like to see me?”

  “Yes, please, if it’s convenient for you to come here.”

  “I’ll be right over,” Munro promised, and rang off.

  There was nothing in his voice or manner to suggest that he was on edge, but one of the advantages of a good education, and of military added to public-school training, was that it was easy to hide one’s feelings. Did this Munro feel guilty as hell, or was he indifferent? Had Mike Grannett been right when he had said that Munro had set out to teach the men a lesson, had meant to establish who was boss? Or had that idea been born out of Grannett’s deep sense of dedication to the cause of the workers?

  A telephone bell rang. Roger hadn’t yet discovered which bell was attached to which instrument, made a wrong guess, then picked up the right one. It was Sheppard.

  “I’m at the Elling Hospital, sir. I’ve just been talking to Mr Cartwright, the surgeon who performed the operation on Roy Grannett. I think you ought to come and see him as soon as you can.”

  “Why?” demanded Roger.

  “There are one or two factors which seem a bit peculiar, sir,” Sheppard told him, and then added cautiously: “Unusual, sir, perhaps I should say.”

  The Sister’s attitude began to look much more significant.

  “How long will Mr Cartwright be at the hospital?” Roger asked.

  “Until half past seven, he … just a moment, sir …” There was a pause. Then: “He says that if you can’t get here by then, he’ll be glad to see you at his home any time after nine o’clock. I’ll get the address.”

  “Right. Thank him for me,” said Roger, and rang off.

  Sheppard had said just enough, but been cautious over the telephone. He was as good as sergeants came, Roger decided, and he made some notes, guessing that it would be five minutes or more before young Munro arrived.

  Tessa felt Malcolm’s fingers firm on her shoulder when he left the office, but he didn’t say a word. He had said very little since the Board meeting, and she wasn’t at all sure what he was thinking; she suspected that he was going through a kind of private hell. It was hopeless to try to help; nothing could alter the fact that the youth had been killed as a result of the fight.

  What could anyone feel, having caused a human being’s death?

  Tessa turned to the window and looked into the window-lit grounds. The night shift had been at work for over an hour, every light in the factory seemed to be on, except those in this general office building. Floodlights blazed upon the loading and unloading platforms. The tragedy of the labour crisis was in its timing. They were working two shifts and sometimes three, after several years of short time or limited shifts. They had been difficult years, but Mark 9 had lifted them right out of the troubles. If there were a long strike …

  The telephone bell rang, and Tessa turned round and picked it up without rounding the desk, which was quite empty. There was nothing to keep her here, and Malcolm had told her to go home, just before he had squeezed her shoulder and left.

  Probably only he knew that she was still here.

  Her heart began to beat very quickly.

  “Tessa, I thought you were still here, you always tell me when you’re going.” It was the operator on duty, Moira Sharp. “I say, I wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone else, but I’ve just got to tell someone or I’ll scream I There’s something funny about Roy Grannett’s death.”

  Tessa’s heart seemed to stop.

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Well, I only heard by accident. I was putting a call through to that Chief Inspector West—isn’t he a looker, by the way? I didn’t think that policemen were like that – and I happened to hear a sentence or two. The Scotland Yard sergeant was talking to West, and he asked West to go and see the surgeon who started the operation. Apparently there’s something ‘peculiar’, that’s the very word he used. What do you think it could be?”

  Tessa made herself say: “I haven’t the faintest idea, and for goodness’ sake don’t go spreading this around.”

  “Oh, I won’t, you can count on me! But I just had to unburden myself to someone. How is he, dear?”

  “Who?”

  “Now, Tess! Your Malcolm.”

  “Moira, you really mustn’t talk like that, it just isn’t justified,” Tessa said, and felt helpless to a point of uselessness. “I don’t know much more than you do. He hasn’t said a word since he heard what had happened, and there’s no reason why he should talk to me. Moira, I hope you’ll make quite sure that you won’t—”

  There was a shout from outside, then a scuffling, all sounding very clear through the open window. There came more shouting and scuffling, followed by a sharp explosive sound, like a fire cracker. Tessa leaned forward quickly, to look out of the window, leaving the other girl hanging on, and she saw a dozen or more shadowy fig
ures, all men, surrounding one man who stood alone about thirty yards away from the steps of the office entrance.

  The lone man was Malcolm.

  The others were attacking him, and some of them had sticks.

  Chapter Five

  Cry Vengeance

  As he stepped from the hallway of the office building, Malcolm Munro shivered. It was much colder than it had been during the early afternoon, and wind was sweeping across wasteland beyond the factory. There were odd little sounds, as of paper and leaves frisking along the ground, and rustling in the shrubs and the trees which grew outside the building He saw two or three men some distance off, clear in the light of one of the workshop buildings; no one seemed near.

  He noticed that the night commissionaire wasn’t on duty; that needed putting right. It was Harrison’s job, and what little he knew of the Works Manager suggested that it would not be done until he was told. Harrison was an odd fish, ex-cavalry, Sir Ian’s brother-inlaw, loyal, wholly reliable, and completely unimaginative.

  Malcolm wondered what the Yard man would be like.

  He glanced up at the window of Tessa’s office, hoping that she would be standing there; if she was, he would wave, and if he waved and anyone saw him, gossip would spread all over the works by tomorrow. So he wouldn’t wave. He saw the back of her head, and fancied that she was at the telephone.

  He turned away from her.

  For the first time, he realised that several men were in the shadows at the far end of the building, all moving towards him. There was nothing sinister about this, as far as he could see, it was simply puzzling; the kind of thing that happened during the lunch hour, or other mealtime breaks. Many of the workers liked to sit and look over the lawns at the far end of the office building, which were floodlit by night. But this wasn’t a mealtime.

  Running footsteps sounded behind him, and he looked round. Three or four men were rushing at him from the far end of the building.

  Then he realised what this was all about.

  The light was good enough to show that three men, coming fast, were between him and the factory buildings. Two others were between him and the entrance to the office block, cutting him off from that; and at least four were approaching from each end of the building. Three or four were carrying long sticks.

  Then something smacked heavily into the ground at his feet, and something else whizzed over his head.

  He could run.

  If he did, there would be a reasonable chance of dodging the men between him and the factory workshops, and reaching sanctuary there; he was quick on his feet and quicker off the mark than most. But if he ran it would show that he was frightened. Things were already bad enough; but if the word ‘coward’ was flung at him he might as well throw his hand in.

  He had only seconds in which to make up his mind.

  A stone caught him on the shoulder.

  He spoke sharply, voice clear on the wind. “What the devil do you think you’re doing? Get back to work.”

  “We’ll show you what we’re doing,” one of the nearer men growled, “we’re going to make you wish you’d never been born.”

  A stone struck Malcolm on the arm.

  One man was nearer than the rest, big, youngish, his face set and grim; he didn’t carry a stick. Tackle him, beat him, and it might win time, might keep Malcolm on his feet until help came.

  Help?

  He leaped at the man.

  They met, body to body. As they collided, Malcolm knew that this wouldn’t be easy and might not even be possible; there was hard, brutish strength in the other. Of course there was: they would choose someone powerful, someone able to do to him what he had done to young Grannett. He took a slug of a blow on his chin, and it hurt. He got through the other’s guard with a hook and a straight left, then felt himself seized and held in a hug with arms so powerful that he felt as if his ribs would crack. One moment he had been breathing normally; the next the breath seemed to be squeezed out of his body, and he couldn’t draw another in. It was like being suffocated.

  It was like being crushed.

  But he had been trained to kill, and all his military training came to his aid. He brought his right knee up viciously, felt the brute sag, heard him grunt. He freed himself from those bear-like arms, rammed both fists savagely into the man’s stomach, and won the satisfaction of seeing him staggering away. But that was only one man out of a dozen. He felt a sharp blow at the side of his head which hadn’t been caused by a fist, but a stick. He saw a man making another sweeping blow at him, and shot out his hand. In a lucky snatch his fingers closed round the weapon, which was smooth like a broomstick. He wrenched it free and swept it round, catching the man on the crown of the head, so two were momentarily out of action.

  Another stick jabbed him in the ribs; yet another cracked on his legs; a stone caught him in the nape of the neck. All he could do was to swing the broomstick round and round, hoping to keep the gang at bay; but he knew that he hadn’t a chance. A man darted behind him, thrust a stick between his legs, and levered it.

  Malcolm crashed down.

  He thought: “This is it,” and covered his head in his hands. He felt their heavy, steel-tipped boots, the sticks, the murderous intent, and wondered how long he would suffer, how long he would be conscious.

  And he wondered if they meant to kill.

  It was the moment when Malcolm wrested the stick from one of his assailants that Tessa saw what was happening. She sprang round and cried into the telephone: “There’s a gang, attacking Malcolm! Send help at once!”

  “Wha—” Moira began.

  Tessa dropped the receiver without noticing that it didn’t fall squarely on its platform, and ran to the door, out into the wide, carpeted passage to the general office, across this and past three women cleaners, who gaped at her. They couldn’t help. She didn’t waste breath speaking to them, but reached the swing doors which led to the first-floor landing. No one was here, either. She raced down the stairs, with no more idea of what she could do than when she had left the office, knowing only that she must do something, those men might kill Malcolm. She reached the great marble hall, where the night commissionaire should be; but no one was on duty, the whole of the ground floor seemed to be deserted.

  She reached the top of the steps.

  In the dim light, for the floodlamps were out, she saw a dozen men in a struggling, seething heap, and knew that Malcolm wasn’t in sight. So he must be underneath them.

  She screamed for help as she ran down the steps, then caught her foot against a stone, and lost her balance. It took seconds to steady herself, and each one was agonising. Yet the pause brought relief. A shrill whistle sounded above all other noises, and immediately the seething mass of bodies seemed to rise up, as in an eruption. Men sprang away from the spot and turned and ran. Tessa did not know why and did not even think of a reason. They were running; and Malcolm lay on the ground, quite still.

  She could not reach him quickly enough, but she was terribly afraid.

  He did not move.

  Other things moved. Engines were roaring, men shouted, car headlamps spread a wanted light, but Tessa was aware of none of these. She reached Malcolm, almost fell down on her knees beside him, and cried his name over and over again, quite distraught. He lay with his legs stretched out, one arm under, one arm over his head, as if he had tried to protect himself. Somehow, she fought panic back, and managed to turn him round enough to see his face. There was a trickle of something dark at one lip. Blood. His eyes were closed.

  She fought for self-control

  “Malcolm, darling,” she said hoarsely. “You’ll be all right, darling, don’t worry, you’ll be all right.” She heard footsteps nearby, and looked round, still holding Malcolm close. “Please get a doctor,” she begged of a man who was just a creature on two legs, a dark head outlined against the white building.

  “It’s all right, Miss Lee, I’ve sent for one.” This was Robert Amory, and he bent down on the other side of
Malcolm. “There is no need to worry.” How did he know, the fool? “Ease him round this way a little, will you?” he asked, and felt for Malcolm’s pulse. The calm way he did that made Tessa feel ashamed of her own panic; and for the first time she realised just what she had done.

  The director must have heard her saying so desperately: “Malcolm, darling.”

  She shivered, suddenly chilled, and stared into Amory’s face as he held Malcolm’s wrist, then saw him relax and smile. “Not much the matter there,” he assured her, “nothing that a rest won’t cure, anyhow. Ask one of the car drivers to turn the car this way so that we can have more light, will you? I’d like to have a look at his face.”

  She got up and did what he told her; and she shivered again. A dozen men were here now, and more were coming, and there were three cars, including Amory’s. As she told a driver what to do, her teeth began to chatter.

  “You’d better get inside, you need a drink,” the driver said. “Hey! Charley! You there, Charley? Better come and look after Miss Lee, she’s just about all in.”

  Roger glanced up from studying notes and reports while waiting for young Munro, realised that it was a quarter of an hour since he had telephoned him, and said aloud: “The fool can’t have ducked out, can he?” when a telephone rang again. This time he was right at the first pick; and this time it was a stranger’s voice, rather agitated.

  “Is that Chief Inspector West?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve a message from Mr Coombs, sir. He says that Mr Malcolm Munro was attacked in the grounds, and will you come to the office building at once?”

  Roger said sharply: “Is he badly hurt?”

  “I don’t know anything more, sir.”

  “I’ll be right over,” Roger promised, and was on his feet before putting the receiver down. He took his hat from a hook behind the door and hurried out into the brightly lit passage.

  It was odd to be there with windows overlooking the vast Assembly Shop; to see the fabulous conveyors making the cars look like giant caterpillars clinging to the spindly veins of moving leaves. He stepped into the shop itself, and had to pause to make sure which way to go. Then he moved at the double. Dozens of people stared, the night shift obviously knew as much as the day shift, but no one stopped him. The noise was still deafening, but he noticed some workmen talking to each other, and they did not appear to shout. He reached the main entrance, and saw the office block about two hundred yards away. The floodlights were on now, showing everything clearly. Silhouetted against the white building and against the headlamps of cars were a dozen or so men, and the big figure of Charley Coombs was unmistakable among them. Then Roger heard Sheppard call out from one side.