An Apostle of Gloom (4 page)

“Indignant female expresses herself forcefully,” murmured Mark. “This is a conspiracy of silence. They wouldn't have acted this way and certainly wouldn't have put Abbott on the job if they hadn't meant to make it as hot as they could, so they must have a reason. They may not be sentimental but they're not fools. So the reason's a good one.” He grew sober. “It's no use blinking at facts, is it?”

“No-o,” conceded Roger, glumly.

“I suppose I should start getting supper,” said Janet, opening the door. “I won't be long.”

Neither of the men commented on the fact that she obviously wanted to commune with herself while preparing the meal. They sat in silence most of the time, both admitting that there was no point in talking for the sake of it. No one telephoned.

At a quarter past eight Janet brought in a savoury cheese dish on a trolley and they had supper sitting round the fire; conversation was at a minimum. With every minute that passed the seriousness of the position weighed more heavily on Roger and, after he had drawn the black-out, he waited on tenterhooks for the arrival of Pep Morgan.

That amiable little private detective arrived just after nine-fifteen.

They heard him open the gate and Roger reached the front door before he knocked. As soon as the door was closed again Roger switched on the light and looked at the smiling, rosy face of Morgan. A shiny man from his thin grey hair to his polished shoes – bright enough to see his face in, Morgan boasted proudly. In a good light, he scintillated. His cheeks shone like a new apple, his bright eyes gleamed, his astonishingly white teeth behind a full mouth seemed to sparkle. He was a chunky man, well- dressed but running to fat about the waist.

“Hallo,
Handsome,” he greeted and patted Roger's elbow. “This is a game, isn't it?”

“Come in, Pep,” said Roger and let the little man into the lounge, where he shook hands ceremoniously with Janet and smiled brightly at Mark.

“So you did your stuff, Mr. Lessing! I was upstairs, and believe me I thought you would have the police on you for disturbing the peace – marvellous, it was, marvellous!” He looked back at Roger and his smile grew strained. “Handsome, you won't take me wrong, I know, but I'm staking my reputation on you.”

Janet and Mark faded into the background. Roger smiled, faintly, and asked: “How's that, Pep?”

“It's a remarkable business, it really is,” said Morgan, suddenly grinning too widely. “You've guessed I came here when Abbott was on the spot, and removed a little trifle from upstairs?”

“Yes,” said Roger.

“One thousand pounds,” said Morgan, softly. “One thousand and of the very best in five-pound notes, that's what I found upstairs, underneath your wardrobe, Handsome. Facts are facts, aren't they?” he added earnestly. “Look!” He took out his wallet and extracted two crisp, clean five-pound Bank of England notes. “I've brought two of them. I thought I'd better not bring them all in case Martin saw me come in and wanted to know what I was doing – he
might
have insisted on searching me. That wouldn't have done, would it?” Morgan was nervous but perky with it. “I don't know who's got their knife into you, Handsome, but someone wants to put you on the spot.”

Roger said nothing, he just stared at him.

“You must feel pretty bad about it,” said Morgan, “and so do I, Handsome, believe me, so do I. When I heard what was coming to you I did some pretty hard thinking, and I came to the conclusion that it was a racket and I couldn't let you down. Lucky thing you've got some friends at the Yard, Handsome.”

Roger said slowly: “What do you mean?”

“Well, it was like this,” said Morgan, moving to the table and sitting on the corner. He swung his legs and the electric light glinted on the polished caps of his shoes. “I was tipped off, you know what I mean. No names no pack-drill, but I was chatting with one of the women at the Yard and she started to talk about you. Some of the ladies get a proper crush on him, Mrs. West!” Morgan shot a quick glance at Janet but did not pause. “She didn't exactly
tell
me, in so many words, but she did say she'd got a nasty job on this afternoon, and she rambled on a bit – talked about having been told there would be some dough in the bedroom of a Yard man some time after lunch and it would be curtains for him if it was found – she didn't say
you
were the man concerned, Handsome, but she'd been talking about you and when she went she gave me a wink – kind of telling me that if I couldn't put two and two together she would be disappointed in me. So I did some high-powered thinking and then decided I'd better act. I rang up Mr. Lessing and then came along here and did my stuff upstairs.”

After a long pause, Roger said: “And you found a thousand pounds in notes?”

“Two hundred five-pound notes as sure as my name is Pep Morgan,” declared Morgan, soberly, “and I don't mind admitting I was pretty scared; if they'd found that dough on me they might have asked a lot of awkward questions. So what I did was to tie it up and register it and send it to
Post Restante,
Lower Strand, addressed to a Mr. North. I thought that sounded better than ‘Smith',” added Morgan anxiously, “but it's a bit close to West, perhaps. I hope I didn't slip up there.”

“No-o, you didn't slip up,” said Roger, smiling into the little man's eyes. “Pep, I don't know how to say thanks.”

“Oh, forget about it,” said Morgan awkwardly. “After all, you've done me many a good turn, and I know if they found that dough here you would have a taste of what you dish out to others, but I don't believe you would take bribes, Handsome.” He took out his cigarette-case but Janet stepped forward with a box. “Oh, ta,” he said, beaming upon her, “bit of a shock for you, Mrs. West, I expect.”

“It wasn't a pleasure,” Janet admitted.

“I'll say it wasn't!” exclaimed Morgan. “Well, I've told you all I know, Handsome. I don't mind admitting that when I think of my being upstairs when Abbott was down here I go all over goose-flesh! I needn't say that you won't let me down – ‘course not!” He laughed and then drew on his cigarette. “What a business it is, isn't it?”

“Did Winnie Marchant tip you off?”

Morgan wrinkled his forehead and repeated: “No names, no pack-drill – was she here?”

In spite of himself, Roger smiled.

“Yes, and told Janet what she thinks!”

“Well, I'm not the only one you have to thank,” Morgan said. He slid from the table and stood up, frowning, barely reaching Roger's chin. “Handsome, what's it about? Who'd do the dirty on you like this?”

“I don't know,” said Roger, slowly.

“You must have some idea,” protested Morgan.

“I haven't,” Roger insisted, “but one day I will have.” He spoke much more lightly. “I hope it won't be too long. What are you going to do now, Pep?”

“I'm not going to do anything!” Morgan declared hastily.

“Are you busy?”

“Oh, I've got enough to do—”

“Will you take a commission from me?” asked Roger.

Morgan stared at him, little eyes glistening.

“I never thought I'd come to the day when a Chief Inspector had to ask me that, Handsome! We-ell – it's all in the way of business. I suppose there's no need for anyone to know how I came into it. You might have sent for me, for all they know. That's a good idea,” Morgan went on hastily; “you could have phoned me and asked me to try to find out whether anyone's trying to put you on the spot. It would be a natural thing to do, seeing that you can't do much yourself, wouldn't it? What's happened? Suspended?”

“Not yet,” said Roger, “but probably I will be.”

“Nothing to prevent you from looking round yourself, is there?” asked Morgan, “and Mr. Lessing would lend a hand, too – as well as me. These fivers might help. Inspector West works from home, so to speak!” He laughed, quite gaily. “What do you want me to do?”

“Just make general inquiries,” Roger said, “and try”—he paused and looked uncertainly about him—”try to find whether anyone has a grudge against me. I suppose someone who's just come out of stir might be getting his revenge—”

“I thought of that,” said Morgan “but it would have to be a big shot – I mean, a thousand pounds isn't small money, is it? I've been thinking about those who've come out in the last month, and I don't know of anyone who could lay his hands on a thousand quid. If it had been fifty—still, I don't mind trying, Handsome. There won't be any secret about it, will there?”

“None at all,” said Roger.

“Okay, then, I'm hired!” Morgan smiled about him and looked embarrassed when Janet came forward and shook hands and added her thanks. “He'd do the same for me,” he mumbled and hurried to the door. Roger watched him disappear into the gloom.

Then, frowning, he stepped along the path. Janet and Mark were in the hall but he did not speak to them, just hurried in Morgan's wake. It was not quite dark and he could see Morgan's shadowy figure – and suddenly he saw two others converge on the private detective and heard a voice which he knew was Martin's, saying: “I want a word with you, Morgan.”

Morgan protested in a high-pitched squeak and Roger drew nearer.

 

 

Perhaps because he thought that Roger would be following, Morgan held his ground and argued, loud-voiced, at being sprung upon out of the gloom. He talked to Tiny Martin and the other policeman luridly enough to cheer Roger up as he drew nearer, keeping against the hedges of the small gardens of Bell Street so that he would not be noticed if Martin looked round. Ten feet away, he stood still.

“There's no need for you to behave like that,” growled Martin, forsaking his usual imitation of Abbott's voice, “you've co-operated with us before, haven't you?”

“I haven't had anyone run out at me and make me jump out o' my skin!” snapped Morgan, “and I won't stand for it, don't make any mistake about that. Now you've done it, what do you want?”

“Superintendent Abbott would like a word with you,” said Martin, climbing down reluctantly.

“Well, he knows where I live, don't he?” demanded Morgan truculently. “He seems to have gone off his rocker
and
so do you, Tiny.” Although still aggrieved he sounded mollified – a wise reaction to ‘Superintendent Abbott would
like
a word with you.'

“I've just been along to see Handsome West – you must be daft if you think he's crooked.”

“Never mind that,” said Martin; “if you're wise, Morgan, you'll come along to the Yard and see the Superintendent.”

“Who does he think he is?” demanded Morgan. “If he wants me, why doesn't he ring me or send to my home – a man can't walk about the street in peace.” But he made no further protest and went with Martin to King's Road. Roger stayed on the other side until a bus lumbered out of the gloom, stopped for the two men and then went lurching onwards. Roger hesitated and then turned back to Bell Street. The other Yard man was still near the house and Roger caught a glimpse of him on the other side of the road. Resisting the temptation to call out, Roger went back into the house but did not return to the lounge.

“What are you doing?” Janet asked. It was an indication of her frame of mind, for he was putting on his raincoat.

Roger smiled, thinly.

“I'm going to the Yard,” he said.

“Do you think—” began Janet, but broke off.

“Is it wise?” asked Mark, outlined against the light of the lounge, looking gaunt, spare and thoughtful.

“I'm not suspended yet,” said Roger, “and I might pick up a hint from someone – if Winnie Marchant was prepared to let Pep know, one of the others might give me a hint of what it's all about.” He hesitated and put his hands on Janet's shoulders and kissed her lightly. “I don't expect I'll be late,” he said. “Make Mark play backgammon with you. If I'm going to be delayed I'll ring you.” He stood back and added more lightly: “It'll be interesting if only because we can see what it's like on the other side of the fence!” He lit a cigarette, looked at Mark with an unspoken ‘keep her cheerful' and then went out, closing the door firmly behind him.

The plain-clothes man was near the gate.

Roger drew on his cigarette so that his features were illuminated, then shone his torch into the other's face, taking the fellow by surprise and making him back away in confusion.

“Good evening,” said Roger, coldly, and he was glad that it was raining and cold enough to make the man's vigil an ordeal. He walked briskly once he had grown accustomed to the gloom, but did not wait for a bus, thinking that the last one had probably gone. He kept his eyes open for a taxi but had reached Sloane Square, after a little under half an hour, before he saw one. He was not sure that the Yard man had kept up with him, but thought it likely.

As he waited on the kerb while the taxi turned in the road, footsteps, soft and stealthy, drew near him. He took it for granted that it was the plain-clothes man and ignored the approach. The taxi pulled up and the driver expressed himself tersely on the weather, before demanding: “You aren't going far, are you?”

“Scotland Yard,” said Roger. The shadowy figure behind him had loomed nearer and he wondered what the man was thinking. As he was climbing into the cab, the figure moved forward and a soft voice, certainly not belonging to the detective, broke the stillness.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Roger turned his head, when half-in and half-out of the cab.

“Yes?” He was in no mood for casual encounters.

“I hope you won't think this an impertinence,” said the stranger, nervously, “but I am most anxious to get to Piccadilly and the buses seem to have stopped running. I wonder if you would mind if I shared your cab?”

“What erbaht askin'
me?”
demanded the driver, sourly.

“Oh, yes, of course – if your fare wouldn't mind—” The man looked towards the cabby. Roger noticed that he wore a trilby hat pulled low over his forehead and his coat collar was turned up. As he saw the pale blur of his face he thought, impatiently, that it could not have happened at a less favourable moment. Yet in these days of taxi famine it was usual enough. He said: “Of course,” and hoped that he sounded cordial.

There was no sign of anyone else nearby.

“Thank you so much,” said the stranger, eagerly. “Cabby, I will make it worth your while—”

“Go orn, ‘op in,” said the driver.

Roger moved to the far corner and the newcomer sat back with a sigh of relief. After a pause, he murmured that taxi-drivers were getting far too independent, it was most embarrassing to ask favours of them; it was very good indeed of Roger to allow him to share the taxi – and he had overheard him say that he was going to Scotland Yard.

That was an invitation to talk, but Roger made an evasive remark and sat back. Not affronted, the other continued to talk of the weather, the war situation, the possibility of rationing lasting for a year or more after the armistice, the price of furniture and income-tax. Roger heard only a little of it but wished the man would stop talking.

At last the cab drew up outside the gates of Scotland Yard and the cabby opened the glass partition and said: “Needn't take yer right in, need I?”

“No, this will do,” said Roger.

He squeezed out, stumbling over the other man's outstretched legs and hearing garrulous apologies. In a rising temper he paid off the driver and watched the rear light fading into the murk of the night. He heard the footsteps of the policeman on duty and, a moment later, a bull's eye lantern was switched on, making him blink.

“Is that necessary?” he snapped.

“Oh – sorry, sir,” said the policeman, putting the light out hastily. “Nasty night, sir, isn't it?”

“Yes,” growled Roger and strode towards the steps. It was some consolation to know that rumour had not yet reached the police on the gates and that the man had no instructions to stop him. He went up the steps and into the hall, where a sergeant on duty saluted. He was an oldish fellow with a wisp of yellow hair and very thin features. It might have been the light and shades of the hall, but to Roger he seemed surprised as he said “Good evening.”

“'Evening, Bates,” grunted Roger.

He passed no one downstairs nor on the stairs, but the walls themselves seemed cold and hostile. He had never been in the Yard before except when he had felt the friendliness of its warm atmosphere. He began to realise how much the place meant to him. The dimly lighted passages, shadowy now, seemed to hold a menace which was no less disturbing because its cause was unwarranted. He even hesitated before turning the handle of his own room. He saw the light at the bottom of the door and at the sides and knew that one of the other three C.I.s with whom he shared the office was in.

He opened the door quickly and stepped through.

Eddie Day was sitting at his desk with a watchmaker's glass screwed to one of his prominent eyes. He looked up – and the glass dropped out, bounced from his desk and rolled along the floor. He gaped, his prominent teeth parted.

Roger repressed a sour comment, loosened his coat and approached Day, looking down at the startled man.

“So you've heard, have you?” he said.

“H-h-heard w-w-what?” stammered Eddie.

Roger shrugged. “Why pretend that you haven't, Eddie? Is it all round the Yard?”

Eddie closed his mouth, then bent down to retrieve the glass. His face was red when he straightened up and looked into Roger's narrowed eyes. Then, abruptly: “Handsome, what the heck have you been up to?”

“It has spread, then?” Roger insisted.

“I've heard a rumour”—Eddie said and to his credit he stopped pretending and did not try to make light of it. “You could have knocked me down, you could, with a feather, Handsome. I don't know what to make of it, I really don't. You're the
last
one I would have thought—” he broke off and shrugged. “What are you doing here, you've been suspended from duty, haven't you?”

“I haven't been told so,” said Roger.

“Oh! Oh, well, perhaps that's a rumour,” Eddie said, a shade more brightly. “I hope it is, Handsome. I can't believe—” he paused and then went on: “Did Abbott have a search-warrant?”

“He did, and he used it.”

“Crikey!” exclaimed Eddie, pushing his lips forward and eyeing Roger wide-eyed. “I just couldn't believe it when I heard – Solly Bennett told me, I thought he was joking, but he said he'd seen the warrant. What's the Old Man got to say?”

Roger said: “The Assistant Commissioner hasn't thought it worth discussing with me.”

“Strewth!” exclaimed Eddie. “The old—”

Roger interrupted, sitting on the corner of the desk, unconsciously letting water soak from his mackintosh on to some blotting-paper. Red and green ink on the paper grew blurred and indistinct.

“Eddie, give me a break,” he said, speaking softly. “If you know what they think I've been doing, if you've any idea from where they got the tip, tell me. I was bowled right over and I was pretty sharp with Abbott. I know nothing about it, of course. What do you know?”

“We-ell,” began Eddie, uncomfortably, and then he leaned forward and whispered: “Handsome, I'm with you. I think it's all a lot of nonsense. I can't understand the Old Man thinking you'd do such a thing. All I know is that you're supposed to have accepted bribes over the last three months.”

“From whom?” Roger demanded.

“The squeak came from Joe Leech.”

“Oh,” said Roger, standing up and stepping restlessly to the fireplace, where the fire, burning low, glowed red. He knew Joe Leech, a bookmaker in the East End who kept within the law and was – in his own opinion – allowed to go to the extreme limits because he was a regular purveyor of information to the police. His information was usually reliable and the police were often obliged to act on it. Few at the Yard had any regard for Leech, whose bad reputation in the East End was well known. Two or three times a year he had to be given police protection after he had squealed and when relatives and friends of his victims had threatened violence. Roger had a better understanding of the reason for Abbott taking action. Leech would not have squealed, knowing that there was no truth in the allegation, unless he had been heavily bribed.

“Don't say I told you,” pleaded Eddie. “I shouldn't really, Handsome, but I don't believe—”

He heard someone approaching and put his glass hastily to his eye. The footsteps passed. Eddie stared at Roger with his glass at his eye and his forehead and nose wrinkled.

“It's a bad do, Handsome, that's what I say, but—”

He broke off when the telephone on his desk rang. He answered it and Roger judged, from his manner, that it was Chatworth. Eddie was more impressed – even awed – by the Assistant Commissioner than most of the others, although Chatworth had a reputation for being a martinet. Bitterly, Roger reflected that he had always thought the A.C. well-disposed towards him. For the first time a vague suspicion crossed his mind that this was all being done deliberately, to make it appear that he was in bad odour with the Yard and so that he could work more freely outside it. His heart leapt, but on reflection the idea was patiently absurd.

Eddie replaced the receiver and stood up, gathering some papers from his untidy desk.

“Got to go and see the Old Man,” he said, in a confidential undertone; “he wants my report on those dud notes – you know the ones I mean.”

“Yes,” said Roger, with a flicker of interest. “Are they slush?” He thought of the
£1,000 now at the Strand P.O. waiting for ‘Mr. North' but it was too early to ask Eddie's opinion of the two specimens; Eddie was not a man to be trusted in these circumstances. There were two Yard men who might take the risk of helping him, and one, Sloan, was on holiday.

“Stake my reputation on it,” said Eddie, half-way to the door, “but they're good – no one else at the Yard would have told them from the real thing. Er—good luck, Handsome, if I can do anything let me know.” He went out, perspiring partly because of his coming interview but partly because he felt that the situation was beyond him.

Alone in the office, Roger looked about him, putting his hands in his raincoat pockets. He felt an envelope in there but thought nothing of it. The green-distempered walls with a few photographs, including one, old and faded, of a Suffragette procession down Whitehall in 1913, two cricket XIs, one of them including himself, two or three maps of London districts and several calendars. On one of the desks was a small vase of fading daffodils. The fireplace was littered with cigarette ends and the carpet, with several threadbare patches, had a few trodden into it. The desks were bright yellow but, in places, the polish had worn off and the bare wood showed. There were little partitions for different papers –
‘For Attention' – ‘For Review' – ‘Mail In.'
Suddenly he stopped reading the black stencilled letters, for his own desk was absolutely empty; everything had been removed since he had been there that morning.