The Cask. Freeman Crofts Wills
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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’ld 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. Any one 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 grey 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 passers-by 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.
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