An Apostle of Gloom (8 page)

“So the Masher frightens you,” murmured Mark.

“You—you don't understand,” muttered Leech, “you don't understand, Mr. Lessing! There's a fella they call the Masher, ‘e thinks I welshed him, says he's coming after me.” His colour was grey and his grin positively nauseating. “'E'll learn the truth one o' these days and then it'll be all right. Mr. Lessing, if I was some people I'd ask the police for protection, that's what I would do, but I wouldn't sink so low, I
couldn't!
That's me, that's Joe Leech. I—I've got a ‘eadache this morning and the Masher tried to beat me up last night and made me nervous, that's all; don't you start thinking I've done anything wrong.”

“I know what you've done,” said Mark, “and if the Masher is who I think he is, you'll get more than a beating up.” He shrugged. “I might be able to help, but not unless—”

“'Ow'd
you
know the Masher?” gasped Joe Leech.

“I'm very interested in you and your friends and your enemies,” Mark assured him. He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. Leech did not smoke. “What name does he go by to you?”

Leech's little eyes narrowed.

“You sure you know him, Mr. Lessing?”

Mark laughed, ridiculing any doubts. “I know him well enough to have him put inside, Joe, and if he were inside he couldn't do you any harm, could he?”

Leech rose unsteadily from his chair, rounded the table and approached Mark. When he was a yard away the stench of whisky was nauseating. He stretched out a podgy hand and gripped Mark's coat, peering up into Mark's eyes.

“Mr. Lessing, you wouldn't lie to me,” he said, hoarsely, “you wouldn't play such a trick on a man in my condition, would you? Look at me! Look at me hand!” He held out one hand and it shook violently. “I don't mind admitting I'm scared stiff, Mr. Lessing, but if you can put Malone inside I'd do anyfink for you, I would truly.”

“Where did you get the information about West?” demanded Mark. “I'll look after Malone if you tell me that.”

“I—I'd have to look up some records. I didn't get it direct,” said Leech, backing away and narrowing his eyes craftily; “it would take me two or three days, Mr. Lessing. If you could put Malone away—”

“I will, when you've said your piece,” said Mark.

“Now, listen, Mr. Lessing—”

From the street, floating clearly through the open window, there came the shrill blast of a whistle, not full enough for a police call. It broke the quiet outside and cut across Leech's words. He swung round and rushed to the table, pulled open the drawer and snatched up the automatic. His fingers were shaking so much that Mark stepped hastily to one side.

“That's him!” gasped Leech. “That's the Masher, he—”

There was a scurry of footsteps in the street. A woman cried out in alarm, someone swore, someone else laughed unpleasantly. A clattering sound followed and the swish of water and then a thud and a volley of oaths suggesting that someone had kicked over Lizzie's bucket. A heavy bang on the bar door was followed by several others and footsteps sounded on the stairs, slow and deliberate – the approach of Clay.

“Save me!” gasped Leech. “Don't let them come in, don't let them come in!”

Downstairs, a door crashed open and footsteps clattered in the bar. A single loud crack, the breaking of a bottle, was followed by a pandemonium of breaking glass and strident, jeering laughter. Clay burst in, his grey face a sea of perspiration. He closed the door and shot home the bolt but before he reached Leech someone was hammering on the door. The uproar continued downstairs; judging from the sounds, bottles were being flung into the street.

“Open up, Joe,” a man said, and Mark was surprised by the clearness with which the voice sounded above the din. “You'll only make it worse for yourself if you don't.”

“Keep—keep them out!” gasped Joe. “Don't let them come in.” He pointed the gun towards the door and his finger was unsteady on the trigger. After a pause a heavy blow splintered two of the door panels, the sharp point of a pick showed; it was wrenched away, then used again. By levering the pick, a hole was made. A hand poked through and groped about for the bolt.

Leech fired at the hand.

He missed by a foot; the bullet struck the wall on the side of the door but the hand was not withdrawn. The steadiness with which its owner sought for the bolt was an object lesson. Mark stepped swiftly to Leech and pushed his arm aside.

“Do you want to be charged with murder?” he snapped.

“Leave me alone!” Still holding the gun, Leech jumped away from him and fired again. He scored a glancing hit and blood welled on the man's finger but the bolt was pulled back and the door flung open. A man strode in, small, neat and flashily dressed. His dark, wavy hair was glistening with brilliantine, his narrow-featured face, handsome after a fashion, was twisted contemptuously. For an appreciable time he stood looking at Leech, who held the gun in trembling fingers but did not fire again. He looked too frightened to take any action, his teeth were knocking together like castanets.

“So you thought you'd keep me out,” the newcomer said, harshly. His voice was cold and metallic. He strode across the room, a swagger in every step, the padded shoulders of his suit swaying. Clay reared up against the wall and stared at him, terrified. Leech drew in a shuddering breath and levelled the gun but the newcomer brushed it away contemptuously, as he held up his hand, from which the blood was streaming. “That's something else I owe you, Leech.” He struck the bookmaker across the face and the blood from his wounded finger splashed into Leech's eyes and dripped on his pyjama jacket.

The pandemonium downstairs was increasing. A crowd had gathered outside and Mark thought there were several brawls in progress; the police would surely arrive before very long. He stepped towards the newcomer, whom he assumed to be ‘Masher' Malone, and said calmly: “Do you have to do this?”

Malone tinned and looked at him, dark eyes smouldering.

“Who're you?” he demanded.

“Not a friend of Joe's,” said Lessing, “and—”

“It's a lie, it's a lie!” screeched Joe. “He said he could put you inside, Masher; he said he knew you and could put you inside! That's what he said!” He pointed a quivering finger at Mark, who grew suddenly aware of the menace in Malone's smouldering eyes. He knew that, true to his nature, Leech had seen a chance of buying safety with information. The snide went on shouting until Malone shot out a hand and struck him across the lips. Although he still held the gun, Leech made no attempt to use it. He backed against the wall, gasping and slobbering.

“Is that true?” Malone demanded.

“Do you often believe him?” countered Mark.

“Don't try to be funny.” Malone suddenly shot out his hand. Apparently he expected Mark to be as hypnotised as Leech; certainly he did not expect Mark's quick evasive action, nor the clenched fist which knocked his hand aside. He did not change his expression, nor did he strike out again.

“Listen to me,” said Mark, feeling anxious, “I came to see Leech on private business. He was frightened out of his wits by you. I told him I could put you inside to make him give me some information. Take it or leave it.” He spoke with praiseworthy nonchalance.

Leech moaned: “It's a lie, Masher, he come to ask me about you, wanted to know more about you, said he could—”

From the landing there came a sharp report. Mark heard it and turned his head. He thought he saw a movement by the door but could not be sure; he did hear a man running down the stairs until the sound of his progress was drowned by the new outburst of noise below. He looked round – and there was Leech sliding down the wall, eyes wide open and terrified, hands clutching at his chest. He was breathing convulsively.

The Masher asked: “Who did that?” but stood sneering at the bookmaker as he slid to the floor and began to gasp for breath.

 

 

Mark was fascinated by the sneering grin on Malone's face. He felt quite sure that the man had arranged the shooting so that he could not become deeply involved, the cynical question was a form of protection. Mark turned away from him and went down on his knees beside Leech, pillowing the man's head in his arm, and said, reassuringly: “It's all right, Joe. Clay, fetch a doctor and send someone here with some water and a towel.” He opened the front of Leech's jacket, tightening his lips when he saw the little hole, oozing blood, just above the heart; he doubted whether a doctor would save the man's life. Malone stood leering, not speaking until Lizzie came in. She flounced past him, carrying an enamel pail of water and a towel. Mark glanced up in time to see Malone pull her hair. She jerked her head away, deposited the pail and towel and went out, making a wide detour to avoid the flash crook. At the door, she turned and put her tongue out, then disappeared.

Joe was muttering incoherently, but Mark had no hope that the words were about Roger. He stopped the bleeding by folding the towel and holding it over the wound but he felt helpless and out of his depth. He caught Malone's eye and the over-dressed man grinned at him. It was quieter downstairs but a shrill voice called: “Police!” The Masher made no attempt to get away but pushed his hands into his pockets and watched Leech's distorted face with cold sardonic interest. The plump body grew convulsed, Leech began to struggle and tried to shout – only to relax, gasping for breath before becoming very still. His eyes closed – opened again – and became fixed, with the fear reflected in them.

“He's croaked,” said Malone. “Listen, you, there isn't much I don't know about Leech, and I'll sell what you want to know – at a price. Just ask for Masher Malone, you'll find me.” He walked across the room and went out, without glancing behind him, as a stentorian voice bellowed up the stairs: “Leech! You up there, Leech?”

Clay, who was nearer the door, called stiffly: “He's been shot.”

“Cripes!” exclaimed the man with the stentorian voice and he hurried up the stairs; Mark was not surprised to see his uniform as he entered. “So Joe's got it,” the man said and looked curiously at Mark, as out of place there as a peacock in a poultry run. “Malone, don't you go,” he called.

“I should worry,” came Malone's voice.

“How'd it happen?” the policeman asked, taking it so calmly, that Mark knew he was not even mildly surprised. “Was it Malone?”

“Malone was in here when the shot came from the door,” Mark said. “He didn't fire it.”

“And doesn't know who did fire it, copper,” Malone said from the door. “I came to ask Leech some questions but before the louse could answer, someone who didn't like him got busy. Show me the guy and I'll handle him for you.”

Mark could imagine the man's leering smile, looked towards the door and felt, as he imagined the policeman felt, that he was completely out of his depth. Other policemen arrived and statements were taken and, while Mark was making his, an ambulance and two police cars drew up, finger-print and camera men disgorged upon the Saucy Sue.

It was an hour before Mark was given permission to leave. None of the Divisional men recognised him or his name, to his satisfaction, for he did not want this affair associated with Roger until the latter had heard about it. He was glad, too, that the situation was taken out of his hands.

Clay spoke slowly when questioned, every word seemed an effort. Several times he looked towards the grotesque body of his master. Mark wondered what queer twist of loyalty had bound Clay to the bookmaker. Mark asked no questions and kept himself in the background; consequently he knew nothing of the extensive inquiries, although, when he reached the bar, he saw three plainclothes sergeants talking to three members of the pub's staff, who had recently arrived.

The broken glass had been swept to either side of the bar so as to make a path. The floor was swimming in beer and spirits and the stench was overpowering. The shelves were wrecked but one empty bottle stood untouched near the end of the bar – it seemed to be the only whole one left. The beer-taps had been opened and kept open, otherwise so much beer could not have escaped. Mark, faintly nauseated and more amazed, held his breath as he hurried across the room, crunching glass underfoot, and reached the clear air of the street. Rose Street, that morning, was a place of beauty compared with the interior of the inn.

A large excited crowd had gathered and half a dozen policemen kept the gangway clear. At the front of the crowd was the old man, still in shirt and trousers and worn boots, chattering to himself. Mark looked at him narrowly, decided that it was not the time to ask him questions, and stalked off. Loud hoots of derision followed him.

He did not go to the river but towards Mile End Road and, near Aldgate Station, he found a taxi. He went straight to Chelsea and when the cab drew up outside the Wests' house he saw Roger's face at the window. Roger disappeared and came hurrying along the path as Mark paid off his cabby.

Mark turned and then missed a step, he was so startled by the expression on Roger's face.

“What—?” he began.

“Have you seen Janet?” Roger demanded. He was pale, his eyes were hard and glittering.

“No,” Mark said.

Roger drew a deep breath. “I hope she'd decided to come and give you a hand,” he said. “She should have been here about twelve. It's half past one now and there's no sign of her.”

“Have you done anything?” They reached the lounge and Mark sat on the arm of an easy chair as he spoke. Roger stood in front of the empty fireplace.

“I've told Pep and phoned Cornish,” he said. “Janet left Cornish at half past eleven and as far as he knew she was coming straight back here.” He ran his hand over his head and went on, heavily: “Mark, last night you suggested that they might be trying to get at Janet as well as me. What made you think so? Was it anything more than the fact that she was supposed to have made those payments?”

“No-o,” Mark said, slowly, “it was a passing idea, I don't think I meant it seriously. Confound it, nothing could have happened to Janet!”

“Couldn't it?” growled Roger.

Mark said: “No, and she'll turn up – she's probably had a brainwave and gone to try to solve the mystery herself!” He smiled reassuringly and stood up. “It's not two hours yet, old man, you're worrying yourself over nothing. Did Pep have anything else to say?”

Roger pursed his lips and stared at his friend, his eyes filled with shadows. The ticking of the mantelpiece clock seemed loud, the sound of people passing in the street was very noticeable. They did not speak for fully three minutes, then Roger moved, snapping his fingers, and said abruptly: “You're right, I'm being a fool! What did you say?”

“Did Pep tell you anything?” Mark asked.

“No. I rang him up because Cornish had identified the taxi-driver for me and I've sent him to interview the fellow.” His tension appeared to relax as he smiled at Mark and added: “You've had a morning on the tiles, haven't you?”

“Do I smell of beer?” asked Mark, startled.

“You look as if you've been swimming in it!” Roger declared, and then: “What about Leech? Did you—?”

Mark stood up and smoothed the back of his head, in turn looking so grim that Roger broke off short. He had to wait for what seemed a long time before the other, speaking quietly, told him what had happened to Joe. Only a deepening of the frown on Roger's forehead betrayed emotion while Mark, well under way, elaborated the story and filled in the details. He excelled himself with a description of the damage done to the Saucy Sue and the character of Masher Malone.

When he finished, Roger said, slowly: “Malone impressed you, didn't he?”

“He made me look over my shoulder all the way here from the pub,” Mark said, frankly. “I didn't like the gentleman at all. Do you know him?”

“I've heard of him,” said Roger. “He has a gang but he's never been caught. Race-course stuff and probably some black market – I didn't know he was important.”

“If he isn't he will be,” Mark said, forcing a smile. “I've never seen anyone so sure of himself. He might be swollen by his own conceit but he's got guts and—oh, confound it, you know what I mean!”

“Ye-es,” said Roger. “I wish I knew more about him, but the Division looks after the gangs, we don't touch them much at the Yard unless they go too far. It's Corny's old Division, he'll know what there is to know about Malone.”

“Isn't to-day's affair ‘too far'?” asked Mark.

Roger smiled, ruefully.

“I wouldn't know! Chatworth will probably have one of our men there because you put in an appearance, but as far as I can see it's a straightforward business except for one thing. He – I mean Malone – sent his gang on to wreck the pub. That's done often enough. He probably arranged for the murder to take place when he was in the room, so that the police couldn't touch him for that, although they might get him for disturbing the peace. He'd probably admit that the gang got out of hand and smashed up the place but”—Roger was frowning and rocking to and fro on his heels—”the very fact that he was behind the wrecking would suggest that he knew nothing of intent to murder.”

“Why?” demanded Mark.

Roger said: “He, or his gang, had a grievance against Leech, probably because he's squealed and put one or two of them inside. The Masher's retort was to break Leech's place up – an eye for an eye. But if he intended murder, would he trouble to do the wrecking? Even to a man like the Masher, death is enough payment for betrayal. D'you follow me?”

“Ye-es,” said Mark, slowly.

Roger smiled. “Only part of the way.”

“No, farther than that,” Mark said, more quickly. “The wrecking was a cover for the murder and Malone thought it would clear him, but—would the police accept that argument?”

“Not if they could prove anything else against Malone, but I think he's arranged it so that they can't. He'll probably even be able to ‘prove' that he had nothing to do with the mob which broke in – I don't doubt they all got away. What did you actually see him do?”

“Unbolt the door—and he had some nerve!—and strike Leech,” Mark said.

“With Leech threatening him with a gun? It's hardly a crime to strike someone who's threatening to shoot you,” Roger said. “I'm beginning to rate Malone high, Mark; he's handled this well.”

“Do you seriously think he'll get away with it?”

“I do,” said Roger, briefly.

“Surely they'll hold him for questioning?”

“Oh, yes, but with a good lawyer he'll get off even if he is taken as far as the police court, but I doubt whether it will be allowed to go so far. There's no sense in bringing a case and putting Malone inside for a few days or weeks – which would be the absolute limit. More likely, the case would fail and he'd be able to cock a snook at us.” He smiled at the ‘us', the wound was still very raw. “If they arrest and charge him and he gets off, it would make it more difficult to get him on a similar or more serious charge, afterwards. Even the biggest rogue can claim that he's being persecuted and get a lot of public and judiciary sympathy.” He laughed. “Don't become a policeman, Mark!”

After a pause, Mark asked quietly: “You said it was straightforward with one exception, didn't you?”

“Yes!” Roger was crisp. “Why did it coincide with your arrival? Pub wrecking is a pastime that's indulged in often enough, but usually it's done after dark, when the pub is open. In the confusion the gang can escape and the police get tangled up with the innocent customers who've joined in for the fun of the thing. A morning bust is rare. I think—” he paused.

“It surely can't have had anything to do with me,” said Mark, uncertainly.

“I think it almost certainly had,” said Roger, smiling a little obscurely. “You probably saw no one
en route
to the pub, but a hundred people saw you go in. If Malone wanted to make sure Leech didn't squeal about him he'd have lookers-out everywhere and he'd learn within five minutes that you'd arrived. You say there was a whistle and Leech knew immediately that it was a sign of Malone?”

“Yes.”

“The gang was approaching and someone had seen Malone and gave the signal to start,” said Roger; “that gave Malone time to deal with you and Leech. The main question is whether he knew you, as yourself, were there, or whether he just wanted to make sure that Leech did not confide in any stranger.”

“How the dickens could he have known of me?”

Roger looked at him oddly.

“Mind not working well this morning?” he asked. “If Malone was connected with the
canard
about me he would know that you've often lent me a hand.”

Mark stared. “I can't believe—”

The telephone interrupted them and Roger, proving that Janet was still in the forefront of his mind, stepped swiftly forward and lifted the receiver. “There is a call for you,” said the operator. “Hold on, please.” Roger heard her speaking to the caller. “Press button A, please – you're through.”

“Roger!” cried Janet.

“Oh, thank God!” said Roger, sitting down heavily on the arm of a chair. Mark saw perspiration on his forehead and an inane grin on his lips. “Jan, where—?”

“I've had the very devil of a time!” Janet said, hurriedly. “I've never been so scared, darling! I'm at Chertsey now—”

“Chertsey?”

“Yes. I left Cornish and thought I would walk across St. James's and get a bus from Victoria Street. I was in the park when two men came alongside me.” She spoke breathlessly, obviously still feeling the effect of her experience. Roger's smile faded and his lips set in a grim line. “They told me to obey orders if I wanted to be unhurt – Roger, it was fantastic! There were hundreds of people about and there was I walking between them, not daring to raise my voice. They hired a taxi, I don't think the driver was in the know, and made me get in. I didn't hear where they told him to go but they climbed in after me and —Roger, they just didn't speak! It was crazy, but they just didn't speak, and whenever I started to, they snapped at me to be quiet.”