Who Killed Dick Whittington? by E. & M.A. Radford

Author:E. & M.A. Radford [Radford, E. & M.A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2019-03-04T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XIII

MR. OPPENHEIMER’S FIRE

The Hammersmith Fire Brigade received a call at 11.30 on a dark night, and turned out with clanging bells along the road linking Hammersmith with Shepherd’s Bush Green, and into the Uxbridge Road, as far down as the junction of that thoroughfare and Montmorency Road. There, round the corner, flames were just starting to shoot through the roof of a two-storey dwelling. Hoses were run out, a ladder pushed up and from above and below firemen played water on the blaze. Little by little the flames died down, until, at last, the fire was officially returned as extinguished.

Now, following the visit of Mr. Redwood, the insurance company’s legal representative, to Scotland Yard, and the arrangements made by the Assistant Commissioner and Doctor Manson, the companies had presented to the police a fist of certain premises the contents of which were particularly combustible, and which for no reason that could be given a name the companies viewed with perturbation. Also a request had gone to the heads of the various fire brigades that any fire which broke out in any business premises should at once be notified to the police, without waiting for the extent of it to be ascertained. The report was asked for within as early a time from the call as was physically possible. Thus, at roughly a quarter to twelve on this particular night, Mr. Redwood was telephoned by Scotland Yard and asked whether any of his companies would be interested in a fiery beacon of two-guinea frocks now reaching to the sky through the roof of Modern Gowns, Ltd., of Montmorency Road, Shepherd’s Bush.

Mr. Redwood replied that he was intensely interested, so much so that he would be obliged if Scotland Yard would put into effect the arrangements made between the Assistant Commissioner and himself. And he would present himself on the scene at, say, eight o’clock the next morning.

Thus it came about that a guard of the salvage corps was posted round the burned building and its contents, with instructions that nobody was to enter unless they bore a special permit issued by the Assistant Commissioner, or was known to be a police officer not below the rank of inspector. At 7.30 a.m. Mr. Izzy Oppenheimer arrived, having been informed of the fire by a policeman way out in the wilds of his Commercial Road, East, rooms, from which he had, unfortunately, been absent when that same policeman had called earlier in the morning. He was proceeding to enter the premises when a captain of the salvage corps barred the entrance, explaining that nobody was allowed admittance until the police had inspected the place.

Mr. Oppenheimer waved his arms at the captain. “But I am the owner isn’t it?” he announced. “All my beautiful frocks have gone. I am ruined.”

“Well, sir, you can’t bring them back now, can you?” retorted the captain. “And they won’t come to any more harm by waiting until the police come. In any case you aren’t allowed to go in.

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