The Cask · Part I · Chapter 7 (1/2)

VII

The Cask at Last

Inspector Burnley reached Scotland Yard, after dropping Constable Walker at his station with remarks which made the heart of that observer glow with triumph and conjured up pictures of the day when he, Inspector Walker, would be one of the Yard’s most skilled and trusted officers. During the run citywards Burnley had thought out his plan of campaign, and he began operations by taking Sergeant Hastings to his office and getting down the large scale map.

“Look here, Hastings,” he said, when he had explained his theories and found what he wanted. “Here’s John Lyons and Son, the carriers where Watty is employed, and from where the dray was hired. You see it’s quite a small place. Here close by is Goole Street, and here is the Goole Street Post Office. Got the lay of those? Very well. I want you, when you’ve had your breakfast, to go out there and get on the track of Watty. Find out first his full name and address, and wire or phone it at once. Then shadow him. I expect he has the cask, either at his own house or hidden somewhere, and he’ll lead you to it if you’re there to follow. Probably he won’t be able to do anything till night, but of that we can’t be certain. Don’t interfere or let him see you if possible, but of course don’t let him open the cask if he has not already done so, and under no circumstances allow him to take anything out of it. I will follow you out and we can settle further details. The Goole Street Post Office will be our headquarters, and you can advise me there at, say, the even hours of your whereabouts. Make yourself up as you think best and get to work as quickly as you can.”

The sergeant saluted and withdrew.

“That’s everything in the meantime, I think,” said Burnley to himself, as with a yawn he went home to breakfast.

When some time later Inspector Burnley emerged from his house, a change had come over his appearance. He seemed to have dropped his individuality as an alert and efficient representative of Scotland Yard and taken on that of a small shopkeeper or contractor in a small way of business. He was dressed in a rather shabby suit of checks, with baggy knees and draggled coat. His tie was woefully behind the fashion, his hat required brushing, and his boots were soiled and down at heel. A slight stoop and a slouching walk added to his almost slovenly appearance.

He returned to the Yard and asked for messages. Already a telephone had come through from Sergeant Hastings: “Party’s name, Walter Palmer, 71 Fennell Street, Lower Beechwood Road.” Having had a warrant made out for the “party’s” arrest, he got a police motor with plainclothes driver, and left for the scene of operations.

It was another glorious day. The sun shone out of a cloudless sky of clearest blue. The air had the delightful freshness of early spring. Even the Inspector, with his mind full of casks and corpses, could not remain insensible of its charm. With a half sigh he thought of that garden in the country which it was one of his dearest dreams some day to achieve. The daffodils would now be in fine show and the primroses would be on, and such a lot of fascinating work would be waiting to be done among the later plants.⁠ ⁠…

The car drew up as he had arranged at the end of Goole Street and the Inspector proceeded on foot. After a short walk he reached his objective, an archway at the end of a block of buildings, above which was a faded signboard bearing the legend, “John Lyons and Son, Carriers.” Passing under the arch and following a short lane, he emerged in a yard with an open-fronted shed along one side and a stable big enough for eight or nine horses on the other. Four or five carts of different kinds were ranged under the shed roof. In the middle of the open space, with a horse yoked in, was a dray with brown sides, and Burnley, walking close to it, saw that under the paint the faint outline of white letters could be traced. A youngish man stood by the stable door and watched Burnley curiously, but without speaking.

“Boss about?” shouted Burnley.

The youngish man pointed to the entrance.

“In the office,” he replied.

The Inspector turned and entered a small wooden building immediately inside the gate. A stout, elderly man with a gray beard, who was posting entries in a ledger, got up and came forward as he did so.

“Morning,” said Burnley, “have you a dray for hire?”

“Why, yes,” answered the stout man. “When do you want it and for how long?”

“It’s this way,” returned Burnley. “I’m a painter, and I have always stuff to get to and from jobs. My own dray has broken down and I want one while it’s being repaired. I’ve asked a friend for the loan of his, but he may not be able to supply. It will take about four days to put it right.”

“Then you wouldn’t want a horse and man?”

“No, I should use my own.”

“In that case, sir, I couldn’t agree, I fear. I never let my vehicles out without a man in charge.”

“You’re right in that, of course, but I don’t want the man. I’ll tell you. If you let me have it I’ll make you a deposit of its full value. That will guarantee its safe return.”

The stout man rubbed his cheek.

“I might do that,” he said. “I’ve never done anything like it before, but I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”

“Let’s have a look at it, anyway,” said Burnley.

They went into the yard and approached the dray, Burnley going through the form of examining it thoroughly.

“I have a lot of small kegs to handle,” he said, “as well as drums of paint. I should like to have that barrel loader fixed till I see if it’s narrow enough to carry them.”

The stout man unhooked the loader and fixed it in position.

“Too wide, I’m afraid,” said the Inspector, producing his rule. “I’ll just measure it.”

It was fifteen inches wide and six feet six long. The sides were of six by two material, with iron-shod ends. One pair of ends, that resting on the ground, was chisel-pointed, the other carried the irons for hooking it on to the cart. The ends of these irons made rectangles about three inches by two. Burnley looked at the rectangles. Both were marked with soil. He was satisfied. The loader was what Watty had used to cross the wall.

“That’ll do all right,” he said. “Let’s see, do you carry a box for hay or tools?” He opened it and rapidly scanned its contents. There was a halter, a nosebag, a small coil of rope, a cranked spanner, and some other small objects. He picked up the spanner.

“This, I suppose, is for the axle caps?” he said, bending down and trying it. “I see it fits the nuts.” As he replaced it in the box he took a quick look at the handle. It bore two sets of scratches on opposite sides, and the Inspector felt positive these would fit the marks on the padlock and staple of the coach-house door, had he been able to try them.

The stout man was regarding him with some displeasure.

“You weren’t thinking of buying it?” he said.

“No, thanks, but if you want a deposit before you let me take it, I want to be sure it won’t sit down with me.”

They returned to the office, discussing rates. Finally these were arranged, and it was settled that when Burnley had seen his friend he was to telephone the result.

The Inspector left the yard well pleased. He had now complete proof that his theories were correct and that Watty with that dray had really stolen the cask.

Returning to Goole Street he called at the Post Office. It was ten minutes to twelve, and there being no message for him he stood waiting at the door. Five minutes had not elapsed before a street arab appeared, looked him up and down several times, and then said:⁠—

“Name o’ Burnley?”

“That’s me,” returned the Inspector. “Got a note for me?”

“The other cove said as ’ow you’d give me a tanner.”

“Here you are, sonny,” said Burnley, and the sixpence and the note changed owners. The latter read:⁠—

“Party just about to go home for dinner. Am waiting on road south of carrier’s yard.”

Burnley walked to where he had left the motor and getting in, was driven to the place mentioned. At a sign from him the driver drew the car to the side of the road, stopping his engine at the same time. Jumping down, he opened the bonnet and bent over the engine. Anyone looking on would have seen that a small breakdown had taken place.

A tall, untidy looking man, in threadbare clothes and smoking a short clay, lounged up to the car with his hands in his pockets. Burnley spoke softly without looking round⁠—

“I want to arrest him, Hastings. Point him out when you see him.”

“He’ll pass this way going for his dinner in less than five minutes.”

“Right.”

The loafer moved forward and idly watched the repairs to the engine. Suddenly he stepped back.

“That’s him,” he whispered.

Burnley looked out through the back window of the car and saw a rather short, wiry man coming down the street, dressed in blue dungarees and wearing a gray woollen muffler. As he reached the car, the Inspector stepped quickly out and touched him on the shoulder, while the loafer and the driver closed round.

“Walter Palmer, I am an inspector from Scotland Yard. I arrest you on a charge of stealing a cask. I warn you anything you say may be used against you. Better come quietly, you see there are three of us.”

Before the dumbfounded man could realise what was happening, a pair of handcuffs had snapped on his wrists and he was being pushed in the direction of the car.

“All right, boss, I’ll come,” he said as he got in, followed by Burnley and Hastings. The driver started his engine and the car slipped quietly down the road. The whole affair had not occupied twenty seconds and hardly one of the passersby had realised what was taking place.

“I’m afraid, Palmer, this is a serious matter,” began Burnley. “Stealing the cask is one thing, but breaking into a man’s yard at night is another. That’s burglary and it will mean seven years at least.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking abaht, boss,” answered the prisoner hoarsely, licking his dry lips, “I don’t know of no cask.”

“Now, man, don’t make things worse by lying. We know the whole thing. Your only chance is to make a clean breast of it.”

Palmer’s face grew paler but he did not reply.

“We know how you brought out the cask to Mr. Felix’s about eight o’clock last night, and how, when you had left it there, you thought you’d go back and see what chances there were of getting hold of it again. We know how you hid the dray in a field close by, and then went back down the lane and waited to see if anything would turn up. We know how you learnt the house was empty and that after Mr. Felix left you brought the dray back. We know all about your getting over the wall with the barrel loader, and forcing the coach-house door with the wheel-cap wrench. You see, we know the whole thing, so there’s not the slightest use in your pretending ignorance.”

During this recital the prisoner’s face had grown paler and paler until it was now ghastly. His jaw had dropped and great drops of sweat rolled down his forehead. Still he said nothing.

Burnley saw he had produced his impression and leant forward and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Look here, Palmer,” he said. “If you go into court nothing on earth can save you. It’ll be penal servitude for at least five, and probably seven, years. But I’m going to offer you a sporting chance if you like to take it.” The man’s eyes fixed themselves with painful intentness on the speaker’s face. “The police can only act if Mr. Felix prosecutes. But what Mr. Felix wants is the cask. If you return the cask at once, unopened, Mr. Felix might⁠—I don’t say he will⁠—but he might be induced to let you off. What do you say?”

At last the prisoner’s self-control went. He threw up his manacled hands with a gesture of despair.

“My Gawd!” he cried hoarsely. “I can’t.”

The Inspector jumped.

“Can’t?” he cried sharply. “What’s that? Can’t? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know where it is. I don’t, I swear. See ’ere, boss,” the words now poured out of his mouth in a rapid stream, “I’ll tell you the truth, I will, swelp me Gawd. Listen to me.”

They had reached the City and were rapidly approaching Scotland Yard. The Inspector gave instructions for the car to be turned and run slowly through the quieter streets. Then he bent over to the now almost frantic man.

“Pull yourself together and tell me your story. Let’s have the whole of it without keeping anything back, and remember the truth is your only chance.”

Palmer’s statement, divested of its cockney slang and picturesque embellishments was as follows:⁠—

“I suppose you know all about the way Mr. Felix hired the dray,” began Palmer, “and painted it in the shed, and about my mate Jim Brown and me?” The Inspector nodded, and he continued: “Then I don’t need to tell you all that part of it, only that Jim and I from the first were suspicious that there was something crooked about the whole business. Mr. Felix told us he had a bet on that he could get the cask away without being caught, but we didn’t believe that, we thought he was out to steal it. Then when he told us that stevedore fellow was to be fixed so he couldn’t follow us, we were both quite sure it was a do. Then you know how Felix and I left Jim and him in the bar and went back to the shed and repainted the dray? You know all that?”

“I know,” said Burnley.

“We waited in the shed till it was getting on towards dusk, and then we got the cask out to Felix’s, and left it swinging in a set of chain blocks in an outhouse. Well, sir, I asked more than twice the pay he’d promised, and when he gave it without a word I was certain he was afraid of me. I thought, ‘There’s some secret about that cask and he’d be willing to pay to have it kept quiet.’ And then it occurred to me that if I could get hold of it, I could charge him my own price for its return. I didn’t mean to steal it. I didn’t, sir, honest. I only meant to keep it for a day or two till he’d be willing to pay a reward.”

The man paused.

“Well, you know, Palmer, blackmail is not much better than theft,” said Burnley.

“I’m only telling you the truth, sir; that’s the way it was. I thought I’d try and find out what part of the house Felix slept in and if there were others about, so as to see what chances there’d be of getting the dray up again without being heard, so I hid it in a field as you know, and went up the lane. I don’t think I would have done anything only for Felix going away and saying the house was empty. Then it came over me so strongly how easy everything would be with the coast clear and the cask swinging in the chain blocks. The temptation was too strong for me, and I went back and got in as you said. I suppose you must have been there all the time watching me?”

The Inspector did not reply, and Palmer went on:⁠—

“It happened that for some time I had been going to change my house. There was an empty one close by I thought would suit. I’d got the key on Saturday and looked over it on Sunday. The key was still in my pocket, for I hadn’t had time to return it.

“I intended to drive the dray down the lane behind this house and get the cask off it, then run round and get in from the front, open the yard door, roll the cask in, lock up again and return the dray to the yard. I would make an excuse with the landlord to keep the key for a day or two till I could get the money out of Felix.

“Well, sir, I drove down the lane to the back of the house, and then a thing happened that I’d never foreseen. I couldn’t get the cask down. It was too heavy. I put my shoulder to it, and tried my utmost to get it over on its side, but I couldn’t budge it.