Free Beware This Boy by Maureen Jennings Page A

would have brushed them down, given half a chance.
    The secretary came out of the pantry. “I have made myself available if you need me, sir. I am a competent shorthand typist, if you have need of that also.” He tapped his coat pocket. “I have a complete list for you of all of Endicott’s employees. All those who were present yesterday are in red ink. I have indicated beside each name which shift they were on, where they were working at the time, and so forth.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Cudmore. Very, er, competent.”
    The secretary turned pink. He was probably in his late fifties and his face was deeply seamed, as if he’d shouldered too much responsibility from an early age. Everything about him was neat: his smooth, sparse blond hair, his dark, conservative suit and tie. He put Tyler in mind of an undertaker, an impression accentuated by the black arm band he was wearing. But his eyes were shrewd and there was something about him that Tyler liked.
    “Where would you like to begin, sir?”
    “Perhaps you can explain the usual working procedures first. What happens here on the floor, for instance?”
    “This area is where the shell casings are calibrated and buffed. Probably doesn’t look like much compared to the big factories, but we keep three shifts running seven days a week. We do our bit.”
    “The casings are made elsewhere, I presume.”
    “That’s right. They’re delivered to the loading dock that you can see in that far left-hand corner. From there the crates are placed on the conveyor belt and carried to each operative. When their particular task is complete, the crates are again put on the conveyor belt and, er, conveyed to the far end. From whence they are all taken to the next stop, which is Section A.”
    “Keeps everybody busy, I imagine,” said Tyler.
    “Most of the time, things run along smoothly,” said Cudmore with a quick nod. “If anybody does slack off on their part of the job or a machine malfunctions, there is a log jam, of course. Tempers can get a bit frayed when that happens, but I do have to say, Inspector, our workers are for the most part hard-working and conscientious. We’re fortunate.” He glanced at Tyler. “I do let them know whenever I can. People appreciate a good word now and then, don’t you think?”
    “I certainly do.” Actually, Tyler thought, he himself could do better in that department with his own constables. He should keep it in mind.
    “This is not a dangerous area as such,” continued Cudmore, “but all workers, even the office staff, are expected to leave any contraband in the cloakrooms when they clock in. That is, cigarettes, matches, lighters, and so forth.”
    “And do they?”
    “I would say so. Everybody is aware of the necessity for these rules.”
    “Could something get by?”
    The secretary frowned. “It isn’t likely but I suppose notutterly impossible. Young women being what they are, the supervisor has to keep a close eye on them. Unimportant things to their minds – a hair grip, a piece of jewellery – but potentially dangerous if they work in the danger sections. Anything metal that might create a spark has to be excluded.”
    “Have you ever had an accident on this floor?”
    “Nothing serious, thank goodness. The odd bit of metal dust in the eye, bruised fingers.” He sighed. “The work is tedious. I’m always trying to find ways to keep up the workers’ spirits and energy. Mr. Endicott is opposed to piping in music because he thinks it might be distracting. I myself believe it would help relieve the boredom and therefore make everyone more efficient.”
    “That makes sense. I’m to write a report after my investigation. Maybe I can include that in my recommendations,” said Tyler. “Or at least that the matter have some further study.”
    Cudmore beamed. “Thank you, sir. It would be much appreciated.”
    “Righto. We can move on.”
    The secretary led the way to the opposite side of the floor.
    “Here are the