London Murder Mysteries - Boxed Set. Freeman Wills Crofts

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.

      ‘I worked till the sweat was running down me, using anything I could find for a lever, but it was no good, it wouldn’t move. I went over all my friends in my mind to see if there was any one I could get to help, but there was no one close by that I thought would come in, and I was afraid to put myself in any one’s power that I wasn’t sure of. I believed Jim would be all right, but he lived two miles away and I did not want to go for him for I was late enough as it was.

      ‘In the end I could think of no other way, and I locked the house and drove the dray to Jim’s. Here I met with another disappointment. Jim had gone out about an hour before, and his wife didn’t know where he was or when he’d be in.

      ‘I cursed my luck. I was ten times more anxious now to get rid of the cask than I had been before to get hold of it. And then I thought I saw a way out. I would drive back to the yard, leave the cask there on the dray all night, get hold of Jim early in the morning, and with his help take the cask back to the empty house. If any questions were asked I would say Felix had given me instructions to leave it overnight in the yard and deliver it next morning to a certain address. I should hand over ten shillings and say he had sent this for the job.

      ‘I drove to the yard, and then everything went wrong. First, the boss was there himself, and in a vile temper. I didn’t know till afterwards, but one of our carts had been run into by a motor-lorry earlier in the evening and a lot of damage done and that had upset him.

      ‘“What’s this thing you’ve got?” he said, when he saw the cask.

      ‘I told him, and added that Felix had asked me to take it on in the morning, handing him the ten shillings.

      ‘“Where is it to go?” he asked.

      ‘Now this was a puzzler, for I hadn’t expected there’d be any one there to ask questions and I had no answer ready. So I made up an address. I chose a big street of shops and warehouses about four miles away—too far for the boss to know much about it, and I tacked on an imaginary number.

      ‘“133 Little George Street,” I answered.

      ‘The boss took a bit of chalk and wrote the address on the blackboard we have for such notes. Then he turned back to the broken cart, and I unyoked the horse from the dray and went home.

      ‘I was very annoyed by the turn things had taken, but I thought that after all it would not make much difference having given the address. I could go to the empty house in the morning as I had arranged.

      ‘I was early over at Jim’s next morning and told him the story. He was real mad at first and cursed me for all kinds of a fool. I kept on explaining how safe it was, for we were both sure Felix couldn’t call in the police or make a fuss. At last he agreed to stand in with me, and it was arranged that he would go direct to the empty house, while I followed with the cask. He would explain his not turning up at the yard by saying he was ill.

      ‘The boss was seldom in when we arrived, but he was there this morning, and his temper was no better.

      ‘“Here, you,” he called, when he saw me, “I thought you were never coming. Get the big gray yoked into the box cart and get away to this address”—he handed me a paper—“to shift a piano.”

      ‘“But the cask,” I stammered.

      ‘“You mind your own business and do what you’re told. I’ve settled about that.”

      ‘I looked round. The dray was gone, and whether he’d sent it back to Felix or to the address I’d given, I didn’t know.

      ‘I cursed the whole affair bitterly, particularly when I thought of Jim waiting at the house. But there was nothing I could do, and I yoked the box cart and left. I went round by the house and told Jim, and I never saw a madder man in all my life. I could make nothing of him, so I left him and did the piano job. I just got back to the yard and was going for dinner when you nabbed me.’

      When the prisoner had mentioned the address in Little George Street, Burnley had given a rapid order to the driver, and the statement had only just been finished when the car turned into the street.

      ‘No. 133, you said?’

      ‘That’s it, sir.’

      No. 133 was a large hardware shop. Burnley saw the proprietor.

      ‘Yes,’ the latter said, ‘we have the cask, and I may say I was very annoyed with my foreman for taking it in without an advice note or something in writing. You can have it at once on your satisfying me you really are from Scotland Yard.’

      His doubts were quickly set at rest, and he led the party to his yard.

      ‘Is that it, Palmer?’ asked Burnley.

      ‘That’s it, sir, right enough.’

      ‘Good. Hastings, you remain here with it till I send a dray. Get it loaded up and see it yourself to the Yard. You can then go off duty. You, Palmer, come with me.’

      Re-entering the car, Burnley and his prisoner were driven to the same destination, where the latter was handed over to another official.

      ‘If Mr. Felix will consent not to prosecute,’ said Burnley as the man was being led off, ‘you’ll get out at once.’

      The Inspector waited about till the dray arrived, and, when he had seen with his own eyes that the cask was really there, he walked to his accustomed restaurant and sat down to enjoy a long deferred meal.

      CHAPTER VIII

      THE OPENING OF THE CASK

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      It was getting on towards five when Inspector Burnley, like a giant refreshed with wine, emerged once more upon the street. Calling a taxi, he gave the address of St. Malo, Great North Road.

      ‘Now for friend Felix,’ he thought, as he lit a cigar. He was tired and he lay back on the cushions, enjoying the relaxation as the car slipped dexterously through the traffic. Familiar as he was with every phase of London life, he never wearied of the panorama of the streets, the ceaseless movement, the kaleidoscopic colours. The sights of the pavement, the sound of pneus upon asphalt, the very smell of burnt petrol—each appealed to him as part of the alluring whole he loved.

      They passed through the Haymarket and along Shaftesbury Avenue, turned up Tottenham Court Road, and through Kentish Town out on the Great North Road. Here the traffic was less dense and they made better speed. Burnley removed his hat and allowed the cool air to blow on his head. His case was going well. He was content.

      Nearly an hour had passed before he rang the bell at St. Malo. Felix opened the door, the visage of Sergeant Kelvin, his watchdog, appearing in the gloom at the back of the hall.

      ‘What luck, Inspector?’ he cried, when he recognised his visitor.

      ‘We’ve got it, Mr. Felix. Found it a couple of hours ago. I’ve got a taxi here, and, if convenient for you, we’ll go right in and open the thing at once.’

      ‘Right. I’m sure I am ready.’

      ‘You come along too, Kelvin,’ said the Inspector to his subordinate, and when Felix had got his hat and coat the three men walked up to the taxi.

      ‘Scotland Yard,’ called Burnley, and the car swung round and started citywards.

      As they sped swiftly along, the Inspector gave an account of his day to his companion. The latter was restless and excited, and admitted he would be glad to get the business over. He was anxious about the money, as it happened that a sum of £1000 would just enable him to meet a mortgage, which otherwise would press rather heavily upon him. Burnley looked up sharply when he heard this.

      ‘Did your French friend know that?’