TWENTY-FOUR Alec recognised the approaching figure by his walk when he was still several houses away on the opposite side of the street. “It’s my man, sir. DC Piper. The one I sent to interview the supervisor of the brewery’s yard.” He laid his hand on the super’s arm as Starke started to move. “Don’t worry, he’ll find us.” “Sorry!” came a whispered apology. “I’m rustier than I thought. Must get out of the office more often. Of course, Rosworth may yet turn up.” Ernie walked up to the officer who was strolling back and forth smoking. “Got a light, mate?” “Hang on.” A book of matches appeared. For no obvious reason, since the night was still, it took three strikes for Ernie’s Woodbine to catch. “Blast!” and “Must be damp. This damn weather!” came to Alec’s ears, but the scratch of the matches was louder than the exchange of information he knew was going on. “Ta, mate.” Cigarette between his lips, Ernie came across the street in the leisurely manner Alec had recommended earlier to the two local DCs. His dark mac blended into the shadow of the next tree, then he emerged briefly into comparative light before joining them in their own patch of shadow. He dropped the cigarette and ground out the remains with his heel. “Sir.” He nodded to Starke, having evidently been told who he was. “Bad news, Chief.” “Hell!” Alec swore softly but vehemently. “Not that bad! We’ve got a good chance at him. You want it here?” “He’s not likely to turn up?” “Shouldn’t think so.” “We’ll go back to the station. Your fag went out. Go back and get another light. Tell him he and his pal are on obbo till relieved. They don’t have to stay where they are; probably better over here. When Tom comes out, he’s to come to the station. You’d better keep straight on in the direction you were going, then head back through the alley behind the row. You’ll recognise the house?” “Chief!” said Ernie reproachfully. “There’s a local inspector and a constable back there. Tell ’em the same: Stay till relieved. Off you go.” Ernie shook another cigarette from his packet. He crossed back to the other pavement. “Sorry, mate, it went out. Definitely damp.” A further exchange of flame and information took place, then Ernie went briskly on his way. When he turned the corner, Alec and Starke sauntered out from their shelter and took the direct route back towards the station, their pace increasing as soon as they were out of sight of the house. “Both your men are admirable,” Starke observed. “I rely on them a good deal. They both use their heads and usually know what I want without long explanations. DS Tring is extremely good at what he does. DC Piper is headed upwards, if I don’t miss my guess. He’s young yet.” “I wonder what he meant.… Well, no use speculating. We’ll find out soon enough.” “Sir, is the chief constable going to be a problem? Whatever Piper has to report, we’ll probably have to move fast. I won’t ask you to tell tales, of course, but I’d prefer to know what I’m likely to face in the way of interference, so that I can plan a way round—” “You leave Sir George to me. He’d like to have a finger in every pie, though he doesn’t understand police business. Occasionally he needs to be reminded of it.” Starke sighed. “Bursting though I am with curiosity, you and your men had better find an out-of-the-way corner to do whatever you need to do. My men and the telephones and so on are at your disposal, of course. In that case, I hope you’ll let me know later what’s what.” “Of course, sir. I’m very grateful—” “Tush, man, as Sir George would say, we have a multiple murderer on the loose. Anything I can do to help.” Ernie was on their heels when they reached the station. A Bentley was parked outside, a chauffeur lounging at the wheel. “Sir George’s,” said Starke gloomily. They went in. Sergeant Copeland looked up from something he was writing with a very industrious air. “Sir! Thank goodness you’re back! The CC is … a bit annoyed at finding nobody higher than a sergeant waiting for him. He went up to your office.” “Bloody furious, is he? Thanks, Sergeant, I’ll deal with him. Find a room down here to hide Mr. Fletcher in, will you? And don’t let anyone interrupt him except me or DS Tring.” He made for the stairs. “Unless there’s a phone call or message from the Yard,” Alec amended, “or if the blown-up photos arrive.” “A wire came just a minute ago, sir.” Copeland held out a memo slip. “I was just logging it in. Very slowly, in case the CC came down again and found me with nothing to do.” ARRANGEMENTS COMPLETED RING CRANE YARD SOONEST MACKINNON Alec passed it to Ernie. “I suppose you’ve already logged the time you received this?” he asked the sergeant. “Yes. Sorry, sir, it’d be as much as my job’s worth to change it.” “Of course. Never mind, just don’t log us or Mr. Starke into the station just yet, will you?” “Right you are, sir. Luckily the CC don’t concern himself with such petty details as log books. I take it you don’t want me to get the Yard on the line for you!” “No, but come to think of it, you’d better send a wire to DS Mackinnon: ‘Urgent all morning dailies hold space front page photo,’ signed, ‘Fletcher.’” “Will do. Now, where am I going to hide you? Short of the broom cupboard or the lock-up—” “Any office will do. If Mr. Starke can’t hold Sir George off, I don’t want to look as if we’re hiding from him. We wouldn’t mind being interrupted by a cup of tea, if it’s not too much trouble.” “No trouble at all, sir. Down the passage there, second door on the left, should suit. There’s a telephone if you need it.” The room, with its drab paint and the well-worn furniture was just as Alec expected. He and Ernie sat down on either side of one of the two desks, Ernie already reporting before his trousers touched the seat. “I know where Rosworth ought to be, Chief. Course, I don’t know if he’s there. If he is, there’s a chance he may try a get-away to the Continent.” “Mackinnon says he’s arranged for the watch on all ports.” “On passenger ferries, not freighters. Mr. Garvey says every few months the brewery ships a load over to Amsterdam and Rotterdam, via Harwich and The Hook. There’s hotels over there that cater to English businessmen, and they want English beer. Rosworth’s conscientious and reliable so it’s generally him that drives the stuff to Harwich and sees it on board. He actually goes on board to see it properly stowed, so I reckon he could stow himself away easy enough.” “When?” “He left midday yesterday, Mr. McMullen not expecting his drivers to work on Sundays. Union members, TGWU, means overtime pay. The ship’s expected to load tomorrow morning and sail when the cargo’s all aboard. The harbour’s not tidal, it seems. But because it’s a freighter, not a ferry, the schedule’s erratic.” “All the same…” Alec reached for the telephone. “Garvey gave you the name of the ship?” “SS Mayfly. May Line: May Tree, May Queen—” “Sergeant Copeland here,” said the phone. “Copeland, it’s DCI Fletcher. I must send an urgent wire to the Harbour Master at Harwich.” “Just dictate it, sir, and I’ll phone it in. Ready when you are.” As soon as Alec picked up the phone, Ernie had started writing. Now he pushed his notebook across the desk. He had written a list of the essential facts, so that all Alec had to do was string them together in as few words as possible. With distaste, he began: “Epping Executioner…” He hated the phrase, but it would get attention. He didn’t want to waste time compressing his message into an absolute minimum number of words, so it came out rather lengthy. The Hertfordshire and Essex police could fight it out with the Met over who was to pay for it. “Details photograph follow,” he ended, and signed it in full, “Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher CID Scotland Yard.” “Got it, sir.” “Read it back, please.” Copeland obliged. “Right, thanks, send it.” Once the cable was winging its way towards Harwich, Alec felt his tension lessen slightly. “Surely we’ve got him. If he goes there.” “Let’s hope. He left the brewery with the lorry on Saturday morning. If he went somewhere else with it, it’ll be found.” “But whether he’ll still be with it is another matter. Where’s that damn photograph? If it’s any good at all, we need to get it into the morning papers. The early editions will be going to press.… Great Scott, is it really half past ten?” “Nearly. Chief, I think he probably will—” Ernie stopped as the door opened. Tom came in, carrying a tray with three mugs of tea. “Not a sausage.” He sat down, shaking his head. “Waste of bloody time. The old duck said she’d never had such an uncommunicative lodger—paying guest—before. That’d be why he kept changing lodgings, Chief. Didn’t want to get too pally with anyone, considering what was on his mind. Mr. Copeland said we’re looking at Harwich?” “Explain, Ernie.” Sipping tea, Alec listened closely to Ernie’s exposition, hoping some helpful scrap of information might come out that had previously eluded him. The story was substantially the same, until Ernie said, “And I was just about to tell you, Chief: The last two shipments to Holland were about the times of the disappearances of the first two victims. Mr. Garvey couldn’t give me exact dates—we’d have to go back to Hodder for those—but there’s always a couple of weeks’ notice.” “Ah!” said Tom. “It looks as if Rosworth might have been planning all along to escape by sea.” “Possibly,” Alec agreed cautiously. “More likely coincidence. He couldn’t possibly know that the bodies would be found so soon after a fresh burial.” Remembering the stench of Halliday’s corpse, he amended his words, “Comparatively fresh. The dog might not have found it till a couple of weeks or even months later, long after the ship had sailed.” Tom nodded. “True.” “Still, with no alternative we’ll have to concentrate on Harwich. I’d like to be there, but I’m going to have to return to the Yard to pacify the super and to make sure the photo gets to the papers pronto. I’ve a mind to send the two of you. You know everything there is to know. You can brief the Harbour Master, the Customs and Excise people, and the local police.” “You’re not expecting us to take charge, Chief!” Tom protested. “Great Scott, no! Neither of you has the rank. But that might be better—if any of them are touchy, I might get tied up in jurisdictional disputes. You two are more likely to be easily accepted in a purely advisory capacity. You’ll take our car. You know how to get to Harwich, Ernie?” Ernie had studied a road-map of Essex when they were first called in to the triple murder. With an abstracted air, he now consulted the map in his head. “Bishop’s Stortford, Braintree, Colchester, I should think, Chief. It won’t take a moment to check the map in the car. Sixty miles or so, I reckon, and good roads. Shouldn’t be much traffic, so a couple of hours at most.” “Excellent. I’ll ask Superintendent Starke to telephone ahead to tell them you’re on your way with photos. He’ll get me back to town as quickly as possible, I’m sure. Thank goodness he’s cooperative, and seems able to cope with his CC.” The telephone bell rang. Ernie picked up the receiver. “DC Piper.” He listened. “That was quick! Yes, please, Mr. Copeland, right away. The photos have come, Chief.” Copeland came in with a large manila envelope. Handing it over, he said, “The photographer’s my cousin. He was in his dark-room printing up some christening photos from this morning, so he got onto it right away. He’s put the negative in, in case you need more copies, but he’d like it back, please. And the print—he thought you might need the names.” “You have useful relatives, Sergeant.” Alec took out the wad of prints and set it in the middle of the desk, face up. They all crowded round. It was a good, clear photo, there was no denying that. Nor was it possible to deny the accuracy of Shadd’s description: darkish hair and nondescript features. The grim expression did not make the thin face more distinctive. Since the disastrous failure of the General Strike the previous month, the faces of many working-men bore the same look. Alec sighed. “By the time that’s been reproduced in the papers, it could be any one of millions. Might help in Harwich. Here you are, Tom.” He returned half the pile to the envelope and handed it over. “Off you go, the two of you. If he’s there, you’ll find him.” Copeland wished them luck, then turned back to Alec. “What’s next, sir?” “I’ve got to get back to London as fast as possible, if not faster. Tell me how to find your super and the CC, and put these in an envelope for me, please. I’ll pick it up at your desk as I leave.” As Alec took the stairs two at a time, a bold idea came to him. He knocked on the door Copeland had directed him to and went straight in. With Starke was a balding man in evening dress, sitting bolt upright and looking irritable. “Here’s DCI Fletcher now, Sir George,” said the superintendent with relief. “Chief Inspector, I really cannot put up with being kept in ignorance of what’s going on in my county!” “I’ve no desire or intention of keeping you in ignorance, sir. However, the investigation has moved out of your county for the present. My men are on their way to Harwich.” “That’s no—” “If you’ll pardon me, sir, it’s of the utmost urgency that I return to the Yard with the greatest possible speed. I wondered whether perhaps the motor-car you came here in would be able to get me there quickly. If you can spare the time, I could brief you on the way.” Sir George looked flabbergasted. “In my car?” “My chaps have taken mine. Is yours a powerful vehicle?” “Good God, yes, man. It’s the latest Lancia. And my chauffeur is an excellent driver. No nonsense about speed limits, eh? with you aboard on an urgent errand. What are we waiting for?” The road from Hertford to Westminster passed in a blur. If any traffic policeman had the temerity to attempt to hold them up, Alec didn’t see him. Sir George wanted every detail of the case to date. His enthusiasm made Alec suspect he was not as a rule provided with much information about what was going on in his county. When the chauffeur pulled up at the Embankment entrance to New Scotland Yard, Sir George said wistfully, “I’d love to come in and look round, but my wife will be worrying.” “Another time, sir,” said Alec, already half out of the car. “My thanks for the lift.” Hurrying in, he arranged with the sergeant on duty to have the photos sent immediately by motorcycle to the morning papers with the highest circulations. “Clement Rosworth, wanted for questioning in connection with … etc.” The negative would go straight to the photography department for more enlargements to be made. The most pressing business taken care of, Alec slowed down. He was in no rush to talk to the super, but at least his recital of the facts to Sir George had got everything straight in his mind. “I don’t suppose Mr. Crane is still in?” “’Smatter of fact, he is, sir. In his office or in the Epping Executioner room.” Smirking at Alec’s wince, the sergeant reached for his phone. “You want me to find out—?” “No, I’ll find him. Get those photos moving.” “Yessir.” The man glanced at the clock. “Too late for first edition, but most of those go to the North and Scotland anyway.” Alec hoped Rosworth had not taken off for the North or Scotland. Though his roots were in London and the Southeast, with his skills he wouldn’t find it hard to get a licence to drive and a job under an assumed name anywhere in Britain. The Continent would be much more difficult. Was it a mistake to concentrate on Harwich? No, the port was the only direct indication they had of Rosworth’s possible movements. And Alec wasn’t disregarding the rest of the country. He entered the Epping Executioner room, as it had apparently been dubbed in his absence. He found Superintendent Crane presiding, and Mackinnon missing. “Fletcher! At last! I’ve been expecting to hear from you.” “I’ll tell you all about it, sir, but DS Mackinnon ought to hear this as well. Where is he?” “He’d set everything going as you requested. I sent him to find a corner for a couple of hours sleep. Better if he’s fresh tomorrow. I’ve taken over for the present, so get on with the story.” With a raised finger, he summoned a stenographer. “We’ll have it taken down and typed so that you can go home for a kip, too, instead of writing up your report.” Alec was sure his mind was too busy for sleep, but a rest wouldn’t come amiss. He tried—and failed—to remember at what point in the saga he had last brought the super up to date. Crane had been extremely forbearing, not pestering him for constant reports. Though in part, no doubt, he had the weekend and his dashing hither and yon to thank for that small mercy. He started at the beginning, skipping quickly over the bits that had turned out to be irrelevant, but mentioning the common opinion of the characters of the three victims. From the second visit to the Barley Mow onward, he went into more detail. Finally, he explained the urgency of his rush back to town, which had prevented his ringing Crane earlier. “Good work, Fletcher. I can’t see how you could have done better. Let’s hope the man falls into your chaps’ hands in Harwich, but if not, you’ll tackle the job better tomorrow if you take a break now.” “You’ll ring if I’m needed, though, sir?” “Can you doubt it? One more thing: Mrs. Fletcher, she’s not anywhere near Harwich, is she? You said she’s somewhere in Essex.” “She was in north Essex, sir. Harwich is in the east. But in any case she’ll be safe back at home by now.” “I hope so, Fletcher, I hope so.”