Strike for Death Read online

  “Good night.” Roger felt sure that she was asleep almost before the response was out.

  He lay on his back for a while, letting thoughts of what had happened trickle through his mind, still working on the problem, still wondering how deep it would go. There were cases which were easy from the start, and there were others which promised, even in the first hour or two, to be as stubborn as any could be. The truth about the Munro job was that he did not yet understand the tensions and emotions under the surface. He doubted whether anyone was telling the whole truth.

  He went to sleep.

  He woke a little after eight Janet was downstairs, and he could hear the boys in the garden; every now and again there was the sneezing sound of Martin-called-Scoopy’s airgun, and the clatter of a tin-can whenever a slug caught it. Roger wondered if a similar noise had woken him, smiled lazily, yawned and stretched, and then heard Janet walking to the foot of the stairs. She called in a voice pitched low enough not to wake him.

  “Want a cup of tea yet, Roger?”

  “Sounds wonderful!”

  In a moment she came hurrying up, and he knew that she was as eager to see him as she had been sixteen years ago, when they had been newlyweds; and he was as glad to see her. At forty, her dark hair was marked with only a little grey, her eyes and mouth showed hardly a wrinkle, her complexion was as fresh as a girl’s. She was wearing a transparent plastic apron over a white blouse and darkgreen skirt, and carrying a big cup of tea and the newspapers. She put these down and sat on the edge of the bed; it was good to kiss her.

  “Did you get my message?”

  “Yes, when I’d given up hope!”

  “How’re the boys?”

  “They want to get off early, there’s some kind of racing practice before school, so they’re going to have breakfast while you’re shaving.” That was good, for it gave him and Janet twenty minutes on their own. “I’ll send them up to say goodbye,” Janet went on, and got up with obvious reluctance. “If I don’t go, they’ll be late. Are you in a hurry this morning?”

  “Ought to leave before nine,” Roger said ruefully.

  “And not home until two, I bet!” But she was not vexed, not even disappointed, so she had expected it

  Roger sipped the tea and opened the newspapers, including the Globe and the Wire. It didn’t surprise him to see his own and Malcolm Munro’s face staring up at him, Munro’s an excellent studio portrait taken quite recently. There was a smaller picture of Roy Grannett, too, looking very young.

  When he had lain unconscious or dozing on a bed of sanctuary, someone had crept in and smashed a murder weapon down on his skull.

  The story, though not yet one of murder, had been given big treatment. There was a sketch of the Mark 9, and a brief story of its sweeping successes on the export market, but the main story was of the wage-demand meeting, the fight, and the death of the youth. Nothing hinted that there had been any other cause of death. The Wire discussed objectively whether this would be a charge of manslaughter, and mentioned almost in passing that murder was ruled out.

  On the whole, the newspapers were neutral.

  The boys came hurrying upstairs, Martin nearly five feet ten tall, with a broad, smiling face and eager eyes; Richard a head shorter at the age of thirteen, slighter, with ears which stuck out rather, but gave his equally eager face a kind of piquancy. They were excited about the strike news and the case Roger was on, especially details of the cars. Had he seen them being made? Had he seen any of the new Mark 9s? Had he seen the marvellous test driver, Torrance? Then Janet called them from downstairs, and reluctantly they left.

  The house seemed very quiet when they had gone.

  Did the Grannett household feel the same kind of quiet? Or was there real grief in that ordinary little home?

  Roger reached the Yard at a quarter past nine, threw ‘good mornings’ right and left, and bustled along to his own office, anxious to find out which of his recommendations had been acted upon, and which had been referred back for discussion. It was too early to expect many fresh reports in yet, but he was always hopeful for miracles.

  A glance at the notes on his desk showed that Knightley had agreed with all of his main recommendations. Three extra men were already at the factory, and Sheppard had gone there to brief them. No Superintendent could have been better served. The Yard was digging deep into the pasts of young Munro, the girl, Torrance, and Grannett. Nothing had come in about any of Munro’s assailants; it was quite possible that they would draw a blank.

  But there was a report, telephoned from the factory by Charley Coombs, giving the names of the people known to have been in the hospital and having access to the room where the boy had lain, at the time that he had been there. Roger studied the list.

  Torrance he knew about; he had been there for twenty minutes. Amory didn’t surprise him. Colonel Harrison did. Michael Grannett had been to see his brother; in fact had been at the hospital all the time, but out of the room for ten minutes or more. Those ten minutes might prove to be the vital time factor.

  Who else?

  Malcolm Munro had been there, too. There was one note which Roger read twice.

  Malcolm M. did not report to the Day Sister, but was seen to enter the hospital and the room where the injured man lay. He was seen to leave five minutes afterwards. He did not report to the receptionist, and entered and left by a side door.

  Chapter Nine

  The Test Driver

  Roger called at the Divisional Headquarters on his way to the factory, but there was no further news. The Detective Inspector, Green, was on duty, and said that he would be at the factory within an hour. He was curious about the reason for extra Yard men being sent, but Roger didn’t tell him about the pathologist’s report, not wanting too many to know about it for the time being. Torrance was due to make a test run at ten-fifteen, and Roger was anxious to be there, to judge the man’s equality before questioning him.

  Roger was admitted by the gatekeeper, and given a brisk good morning. The place, which had seemed so strange the previous day, now had a familiar look, and was much brighter because the sun was out. The massed cars no longer seemed derelict, but to be standing ready for cellulosing; as they were. There was a briskness about the way people moved. The boxes cordoning off the spot where young Grannett had lain had been removed; but there was a biggish patch cordoned off with stakes and ropes outside the office building. Malcolm Munro’s maroon-and-grey Rolls-Bentley was outside, so were several other expensive cars. Just inside the gates were hundreds of old battered cars, some new, tiny and shiny, hundreds of motor-cycles and motor-scooters, thousands of bicycles.

  A little group of men, obviously executives, were moving from a corner of the white office block; they disappeared. Roger drove to the corner and saw them going through a gate in a high fence; there he heard the roar of an engine, so loud that it might have been that of an aircraft, not a motor car. A big sign on the fence read:

  testing ground

  keep out

  Would Torrance be driving yet?

  Roger waited until the group had gone through the gateway, recognising Amory, Harrison, and Malcolm Munro among them, and got out of the car. He wasn’t surprised to see Charley Coombs waving to him from a spot half way across the yard to the Assembly Shop, and he waited, lighting a cigarette and enjoying the sunshine; it was ten degrees warmer this morning than it had been yesterday.

  Coombs looked very bright and clear-eyed, and more youthful looking than many men still at the Yard; a grey-haired cherub.

  “’Morning, Handsome, want to go and see the fun?”

  “Try-out on, yet?”

  “Torrance is going to give one of his demonstrations, and there are two Americans and a Swede among the prospective customers touring the factory today, so it’ll be good.”

  “Anything need doing in my office?” Roger asked.

  “No. Your army’s there, Sheppard’s out and about, trying to get a line on young Munro’s attackers. He�
�s going round the factory with three or four Divisional chaps.”

  “All right, we’ll see what happens after Torrance tries to break his neck,” Roger said, and they fell into step and went towards the testing-ground gate. “Thanks for your reports, Charley, they’re worth a small fortune.”

  “Want to know something?” Coombs was looking straight ahead.

  “Always willing to learn.”

  “Torrance is drunk,” Coombs said.

  Roger saw the test driver standing in front of a standard Mark 9, a sleek, slim-looking semi-sports car, very low on the ground. The group of men were approaching him, tall, well-dressed, with Malcolm Munro talking to one of the Americans, whose voice floated back in a pleasing southern drawl. There were two repair pits on this large private track, and some low buildings, a petrol tender, and a single petrol pump. Two or three mechanics stood about. Only the one car was in sight. Torrance was getting into this. At a distance, he seemed little more than a boy; in fact, he was in the middle thirties, slim, with dark curly hair, looking more like a southern European than an Englishman. He waved as he dropped into his seat,

  Roger said: “You sure he’s drunk?”

  “As near as I can be.”

  “Does Munro know it?”

  “I don’t talk to the Munros of this world unless they talk to me.”

  “If Torrance is drunk he mustn’t drive,” Roger said. “Tell Munro that I want a word with him urgently, will you?” He left Coombs, and hurried towards the track; only a concrete ridge separated it from the uneven grassland of the enclosure. He ignored a shout from a mechanic and a wave from Torrance. The engine was roaring again, and as the man opened the throttle, the air seemed to quiver. A mechanic came running, waving a flag at him, to get off the track. He ignored the man, and ran straight towards the waiting car. By that time, Coombs had reached Munro. All of the party was standing still and staring towards Roger, doubtless thinking him mad. Then, Torrance started the car.

  He was fifty yards away, and Coombs said that he was drunk. He was alone in that car, which could travel at a hundred and thirty miles an hour. The bright sunlight shone on it, making it look as if it were painted in blood. The engine roared and then settled down to a steadier note. The wheels began to turn, and the car headed straight for Roger. The mechanic stood only ten yards away, off the actual track, and now his words could be heard: he was almost shrieking: “Get to hell out of here! Get off the track!”

  Roger slowed down to a brisk walk. The car was less than thirty yards away now, and still moving slowly, but it had tremendous acceleration, and Torrance was magnificent at the wheel. Now, Munro was also waving and shouting something, but he was farther away.

  Roger semaphored with his arms, for Torrance to stop. There was still good time, but it didn’t look as if the man meant to obey. He was a daredevil at the best of times, and if he was really drunk, would probably accept this challenge and rely on the car and the roaring engine to make Roger give way. Roger didn’t slacken his pace any more. He reckoned the chances of making a leap to the right or left; if he had to jump for it, he would go to the left, where the grass verge was nearer. His heart was thumping; he wasn’t enjoying this, but if he gave way now his stock at the factory would drop to zero; a dozen men were watching, and the story would spread like wildfire.

  Ten yards.

  The engine roared deafeningly; frighteningly. Roger missed a step. He could see Torrance’s screwed-up face, could see the glittering bright blue eyes behind the curved windscreen. If he did come on faster—

  The car stopped.

  Roger put a hand to his forehead, felt the sweat, but didn’t wipe it off. He was only five yards away from the red beauty, meeting Torrance’s angry glare. Men came running towards him, and he believed that one of them was Malcolm, although he couldn’t be sure. Mechanics were coming from the pits, too, but it was the test driver who jumped out of the car in a single, sweeping movement, slammed the door and reached him first.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Who the devil do you think you are?”

  Drunk?

  Undoubtedly whisky was strong on his breath, and it wasn’t yet half past ten. His speech was a little slurred, if hardly that of a drunk man; but a drunk could sober up very quickly.

  Now Malcolm arrived, walking the last few yards, breathing a little heavily. His lip was still swollen and his right hand was bandaged.

  “Take it easy, Hugh,” he said, and might have been talking to his best friend. The calmness of his voice proved that he had his temper under rigid control. “This is Chief Inspector West of Scotland Yard.”

  “I don’t care a damn whether he’s the Commissioner at the Yard and Mr Home Pomposity rolled into one, if he gets in my way again when I’m on the track I’ll run him down first and see who he is afterwards.” Torrance was very pale, and his eyes still glittered; there was no friendliness in his voice or manner when he glanced at Munro. “Get him off the track. I’m supposed to be showing the foreign gentlemen what the car can do.”

  “Before you drive round, Mr Torrance, I’d like a word with you,” Roger said, and glanced at Munro. “In private, if that’s all right with you.”

  Munro didn’t speak, but looked at Torrance almost as if with appeal. Three mechanics were out of earshot, waiting for instructions and surprised that they hadn’t yet been given. The group of buyers stood a little way off, watching silently. Coombs was near them.

  “Well, it isn’t all right with me,” Torrance growled. “Get off the track, copper.”

  “Hugh, Mr West is in charge of investigations into Roy Grannett’s death.”

  Torrance flashed round at him.

  “He’s in charge of finding out what started the fight in which you killed young Grannett, and if he’s any questions to ask, why doesn’t he ask you? I wasn’t present. If I had been, I would probably have broken your neck.” Torrance glowered at Roger. “You going to get out of my way or not?”

  “Mr Torrance,” Roger asked, without raising his voice, “how long were you with Grannett in the hospital yesterday afternoon?”

  Torrance seemed to shake, as under an impact.

  It was impossible to judge Munro’s reaction, but Roger had an impression that he was surprised. There were several seconds of silence, during which Torrance seemed to be fighting for self-control. He was handsome in his dark, Sicilian way, and his manner suggested that he also had trouble with his temper.

  Tessa Lee seemed to attract men like that.

  “Well?” Roger asked. “How long, Mr Torrance?”

  An answer came angrily.

  “Two or three minutes, that’s all, but what the hell difference does that make?”

  “Was he conscious?”

  “He looked in a damned bad way to me.”

  “Was he conscious?”

  “He didn’t speak to me, if that’s what you mean. What are you driving at?”

  “There might be reason to believe that Grannett was encouraged to pick a quarrel with Mr Munro, and if he was, I want to know who encouraged him. Did he talk to you, Mr Torrance?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know him?”

  Torrance didn’t answer.

  “He wouldn’t be likely to know one of the Assembly Shop apprentices,” Munro put in.

  He did everything he could to ease the situation for Torrance, but every time he spoke, Torrance seemed to spark. Now, he glared at Munro and said roughly: “That shows how much you know about what goes on in your own factory. Young Roy was a damned good mechanic, and he wanted to come into the pits and work for me. I saw a lot of him. Tried him out, too. In a few months’ time he would have been one of my crew.”

  “So you knew him well?” Roger said.

  “Well enough to wish the man who killed him to hell!”

  Munro didn’t speak.

  “Did he tell you that someone had persuaded him to pick a quarrel with Mr Munro?” Roger insisted.

  “No, he didn
’t. And I don’t believe he would pick a quarrel with anyone unless there was a good reason for it. They don’t come any better than young Roy. If someone’s sold you the idea that he was paid to pick a quarrel, forget it I thought you were a good detective,” he added with a sneer. “That’s the kind of story you’d expect to hear about him now – it’s the only way that Munro could establish the so-called fact that Roy started the fight, and the only way he can creep out of a manslaughter charge. Wouldn’t you spread that canard if you were in danger of being sent to gaol for a couple of years?”

  “Was anyone else with you when you saw Grannett at the hospital yesterday afternoon?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anyone else go into him, after you’d left?”

  “Yes, I saw him.” Torrance poked a thumb towards Munro. “And I met Roy’s brother outside, he said that he was going to see him, too. And that’s the last word I’m going to say to you today, copper. I’m going to drive that car or else I’m going to throw my hand in.”

  Munro said: “Is there any objection to Mr Torrance driving now?”

  “No,” said Roger coldly. “Provided he’s sober enough.”

  Torrance swung round and went back to the car, waving the mechanics away. Roger turned with Munro towards the grass at the side of the track, and as he went, he asked very quietly, making sure that his words didn’t carry: “Does Torrance always drink before driving?”

  Munro missed a step. “Of course he doesn’t.”

  “He’d soaked up plenty this morning,” Roger pointed out. They stepped on to the grass, and the engine started up again, roaring. “Did you know that someone had put Roy Grannett up to picking a quarrel, Mr Munro?”

  “It hadn’t occurred to me.”

  “If it’s true, do you know who might have fixed it?”

  “I can’t even believe it’s true.”

  “Mr Munro,” Roger said, clearly enough for Munro to hear every word, “last night you helped one of your assailants to escape. This morning, you’ve done all you can to protect Torrance, who is known to be ill-disposed towards you. Your life is obviously in danger. What makes you behave so handsomely towards your enemies?”