The Cask, Freeman Wills Crofts [snow like ashes series .txt] 📗

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