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 plain-clothes 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’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
