Thompson nodded. “Yes, sir, all clear and understood. And — best o’ luck, sir.”
“Thanks, Thompson.”
Shaw got out and joined Pelly, then swung away angularly, his tall frame striding ahead of his companion towards the warehouse gates. Thompson nodded to Archer, who went off to look for the back entrance, and then he sat there behind the wheel and watched Shaw and Pelly go, shaking his head and whistling softly between his teeth. He didn’t feel easy in his mind… Commander Shaw, he thought, he’s a real gentleman, and if anything looks like happening to him I know what I’d like to do: Go in there fighting.
Thompson, however, like Shaw, was still a sailor at heart; and he knew he just had to hang on and obey orders. He got out of the van, yawned, stretched as though he hadn’t a care in the world; then he went across to the telephone-box and called Whitehall. After that he went back and settled himself comfortably behind the wheel of the van again, lit up his pipe, and pulled a folded newspaper from his pocket. The headlines were all about some state in Africa — place called Nogolia. Thompson had only vaguely heard about it. They seemed to be having plenty of trouble just now, like the rest of Africa… Thompson turned the page. As he read he kept a careful eye on the street and on his driving mirror, watching for the Jaguar.
Nothing would get past him, or Archer for that matter.
Three minutes after leaving the van Shaw and Pelly walked in through the gateway of Emco’s yard, which was littered with straw and tissue packing, lids of old crates, and other broken woodwork. Away across the cobbles to their right was a big loading bay, with piles of sacks stacked in the rear and several lorries loading at the raised platform. At the back of this bay was a sign saying Inquiries and an arrow pointing towards the door of an office.
They went across and Shaw tapped at the door. He entered a small room with a counter running across it. Behind the counter, at a desk, a neatly-dressed clerk was making entries in a ledger. He glanced up as Shaw and Pelly came in, and got to his feet.
“Yes?”
Shaw said, “Good morning. I’m making some general inquiries about import statistics… I was wondering if I might have a word with your managing director?”
The clerk pursed his lips. “I don’t know if Mr Canasset’s here, sir. He doesn’t come down every day, not to the warehouse, you see. I’ve no appointments for him to-day — not that I’ve been told of, that is.”
Shaw said, “No, that’s quite right, I haven’t an appointment as it happens. Only as I was in the vicinity I thought I’d call—”
The clerk interrupted him firmly. “I’m sorry, sir. Mr Canasset never sees anyone except by appointment. Even if he is here. He’s very particular about that.” He half turned from the counter, dismissingly. “If you’d like to make an appointment by letter?”
“I’m afraid that won’t do.” Shaw’s expression hardened. “Look, this is very important. If you’d be good enough to find out if Mr Canasset is in, and tell him… tell him Mr Ross would like to see him, I feel quite certain he’ll see me.”
Shaw was watching the clerk’s face intently, but there was no reaction. The young man said doubtfully, “Well, I can ring and ask, if you like.”
“Thank you.”
The clerk went back to his desk and took up a house telephone. There was a brief conversation, apparently with a secretary, and then the clerk looked up at Shaw and said, “He’s in all right.” He held on for a while and after nearly a minute he said, “Very good, Mr Canasset, sir. Yes, sir, two gentlemen, that’s right.” He put down the receiver and got up. “Mr Canasset’ll spare you a few minutes, sir,” he told Shaw. “Mr Verity, that’s his personal assistant, he’ll be down in a moment.”
Almost V.I.P. treatment, Shaw thought sardonically. He nodded, folded his arms, and leaned back against the counter. Off-handedly he asked, “What kind of importing do you do, mainly?”
“Natural products entirely, sir, chiefly from Africa. There’s millet, cocoa, palm-oil… all that kind of thing. Quite varied. You interested in those lines, sir?”
“Among others,” Shaw murmured. His gaze wandered round the office, out through the grimy window. It all looked ordinary enough, he supposed, but then of course it would. And that Jaguar had definitely come in here.
Mr Verity was down very quickly, coming through a doorway opening into the section of the office behind the counter. By the look of him he’d been hurrying — he was hot, and a little out of breath. His plump stomach rose and fell with the effort of taking in air, the round moon-face had its mouth open to give him a surly, adenoidal look.
Blinking rapidly he asked, “Mr Ross? If you’ll kindly come this way, gentlemen.” He opened a flap in the counter and Shaw walked through, followed by Pelly. They emerged from the back of the office into the main body of a large warehouse stacked high with crates and sacks and round baskets. Verity led the way along a narrow gangway between the piled goods, and as he went along Shaw glanced at the black-stencilled markings on some of the goods, noting the ports of origin… Monrovia, Port Harcourt, Accra, Lagos, Freetown, Pointe Noire, Lobito, Walvis Bay… there was no doubt about it, Messrs Emco had plenty of contacts with the Coast.
Verity was making for a wooden stairway which led up to a gallery running along the far wall of the warehouse and suspended over the vast space. Off this gallery offices opened, seemingly the offices of the various executives and directors.
He stopped at a door marked: P. J. Canasset, Managing Director, knocked, opened the door, and stood aside. Shaw and Pelly walked in, and Verity left them. As Shaw entered he felt his pulse quicken.
From behind a desk a bald, fleshy man got up to greet them, a flabby man with overmatched clothes, a man not quite English, though it would have been hard to point to an exact nationality; a man whom Shaw had recognized immediately as the man who had been at the Ship’s Biscuit the night before, alongside the African behind that naked coloured girl, the man who had fired at him. A piece of sticking-plaster covered the gash made on his face by the broken glass of the window. The man’s eyes were wary, suspicious, but he didn’t appear to have recognized Shaw as the one who had been on the window-sill. Shaw didn’t find that surprising; after all, he hadn’t been in sight for long and the light would probably have caused a reflection on the glass until it had shattered.
Shaw decided to keep his knowledge of the night-club and the Cult to himself for the time being. It would be more of a shock, would have a more salutary psychological effect when he got the man back to what they called the ‘grill-room’ in the Outfit.
He said, “Mr Canasset, I’m making enquiries about a young lady…"
Canasset blustered it out to the end and he seemed absolutely confident.
He knew nothing whatever about any girl and although he admitted having a black Jaguar in the firm’s garage, its number was not that of the one Shaw had followed.
Shaw said, “Well, you won’t object if I just take a look round the premises, will you? After all, if you’ve nothing to hide….” He shrugged.
Canasset snapped, “I’ve nothing to hide — and you’ve no authority to search my premises.”
“No, that’s quite true. But I assure you that some one’s going to take that look round, and it might suit you better if I, and not the police, did it.”
Canasset glowered, then made a gesture of resignation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but… oh, very well, then. Just to satisfy you.” He reached out for a telephone. “I’ll get Verity to show you—”