An Apostle of Gloom (11 page)

“Yes,” said Roger. “Shall I hire another cab?”

“Don't you leave me aht o' this,” snapped the cabby with quick resentment. “I drove all through the blitz, didn't I? What's a little thing like this to the blitz? Where to?”

Roger said: “Clapham Common, I'll—”

Then he broke off. Looking along the street, he saw a Daimler limousine turn the corner and approach slowly. He did not know whether Mrs. Sylvester Cartier was inside but recognised her chauffeur, the man with the economical name of ‘Bott'.

 

 

AS Roger stepped away from him, showing no desire to get into the taxi, the cabby drew himself up to his full height, which was not exceptional, puffed out his chest and thrust forward his square, unshaven chin, narrowed his shrewd eyes and spoke with deep feeling.

“Guv'nor,
will
yer make up your mind? Are you a fare or aren't you? Do you want to go to Clapham Common or—”

Roger looked over his shoulder and frowned, then returned to the man as the Daimler began to slow down. He took a handful of silver from his pocket, thrust it into the cabby's hand – which was promptly held forward – and spoke quietly.

“Give me some change, make it look as if I'm paying you off.” He waited only for the man's startled expression to change to one of understanding before going on “Drive along the street and wait where you can follow the Daimler when it moves off. Wait as long as necessary with your flag down, and when you've finished following it, telephone my Chelsea house. The number is Chelsea 0123. Keep the chase up all night if necessary.”

“What erbaht petrol?” the cabby demanded, putting a threepenny piece and some coppers into Roger's hand. “There's yer change, Guv'nor!”

“Do the best you can,” said Roger. He looked at the trifling change, saw the man's grin and smiled in spite of himself. “I'm relying on you,” he added, “and I'll make it worth your while.”

He turned and approached the house again.

The Daimler had drawn up and chauffeur Bott was standing, stiff as a ramrod, by the door. A man stepped out, tall, elegant and impressive-looking. He turned to assist Mrs. Sylvester Cartier from the car and the two of them, tall and making an impressive couple, stood eyeing the crowd which had gathered, the policeman and the evidence of a fire – for belatedly a fire-engine had been summoned.

“Now
what has happened?” demanded the man. He spoke resignedly, his voice low-pitched but audible to Roger. “Has one of your sorrowing gentlemen lost his head, d'you think?”

“Probably,” said Mrs. Cartier, distantly.

She looked at Roger. There was no sign of recognition on her remarkably beautiful face but she beckoned him – it was an imperious gesture, that of a woman whom no man disobeyed. He moved towards her, reluctantly. Her eyes held an expression which he could not name, yet he read warning in it – the fact that she did and said nothing to suggest that she knew him might have been the reason for that. She had been instrumental in bringing him here – obviously that had been the real purpose of her call that morning – and consequently he was prepared to play her game.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

He thought he saw a quick, appreciative gleam in her eyes.

“Can you tell me what is happening here?” she demanded.

“Yes – there's been a fire.”

“Where?” Her voice hardened.

“On the top floor,” Roger said, “but no great harm was done, they got it under control quickly. I think there was some other trouble,” he went on, “and a man was shot.”

“Shot!” ejaculated the elegant man. “Great heavens! He wasn't killed?”

“He isn't dead yet,” Roger said.

“You see, Antoinette!” The man turned to Mrs. Cartier, his large, expressive eyes filled with concern. “This is what happens when you indulge in such whims. A shooting affray!” He turned to regard Roger. “Are the police up there, do you know?”

“Yes,” said Roger.

“My dear,” said the elegant man, sadly, “I have always told you that if you persisted in this absurd quixoticism you would one day regret it.”

The woman smiled at him. “You are always so helpful, darling!” she said, but her words and her smile hid barbs. “We must go upstairs and find out what has happened. Thank you!” She smiled radiantly upon Roger and then swept towards the door. Her companion – presumably her husband – sent Roger a single expressive glance, shrugged his shoulders and went in her wake.

“Strewth!” exclaimed the cabby, appearing from nowhere. “Did you see
‘er?”

Roger turned abruptly, tempted to rebuke the man for not waiting farther down the road. He decided that by his comment the cabby was simply proving himself human, and it would attract less attention if he drove off now. Roger ignored him and the cabby went to his taxi, marvelling. Bott stood rigidly by the closed door of the Daimler, looking past Roger as the latter glanced at him.

The remarkable behaviour of the beautiful Mrs. Cartier confused Roger. If the cabby did a good job, he would shortly know where Mrs. Cartier lived and what calls she made that day. He would not have been surprised had she decided to hurry away from the scene when she had learned what had happened but, apparently, as President of the Society, she was determined to see it through. If he believed all the inferences possible from the brief conversation between her and the man—was he her husband, he wondered?—the Society was a hobby which she took seriously and of which he disapproved.

He wished that he could place the man, who had seemed vaguely familiar.

Undecided, he strolled towards the end of the street and waited. He smoked two cigarettes before the woman reappeared, followed by the elegant one, who, even at a distance of fifty yards, looked discomposed.

Mrs. Cartier stood outside the house, ignoring Bott and the man. She looked in either direction and Roger crossed the end of the street, deliberately. He saw her out of the corner of his eye. She turned on her heel and began to walk towards him, leaving the man staring after her. He took a few steps in her direction but she looked over her shoulder and said something which made him stop, at the side of a ladder reared against the wall. The woman had passed under it, the man stepped to one side. Then she swept along the street, tall, graceful, imperious. Passers-by stared at her in admiration and as she drew nearer Roger could see the heightened colour of her cheeks and the angry gleam in her eyes.

Roger walked back across the road, judging it so that they reached the corner together. She looked at and through him, but as she passed him she spoke out of the corner of her mouth.

“I must see you to-night, 11 Bonnock House.”

She went past. A man nearby must have heard her speak but Roger doubted whether he had heard everything, the words could only have been intended for him. He had the presence of mind not to stare at her, but continued walking slowly. Mrs. Cartier looked about her, raised a hand when a taxi appeared, climbed into it and was driven away. Roger did not hear what address she gave.

Roger felt like swearing.

His plans were completely upset, for the cabby would follow the Daimler but not the woman, whose movements were what mattered. It was too late to do anything to remedy that, for the elegant man had entered the Daimler, which was already moving in the opposite direction. Roger saw the taxi come out of a side-street and follow it.

Roger felt as if he had been battered by a high wind, incapable of constructive thought. The woman had behaved like a wilful termagant and yet had kept her head. Obviously she had seen him, suspecting that he would be near at hand, and chosen that way of giving him a message,
11 Bonnock House',
he hoped that it would be a sufficient address. Thrusting one hand in his pocket, he looked at the traffic passing along the street.

Two Yard men passed him, on their way from the scene of the fire.

“This won't do!” Roger said aloud.

He hoped that Abbott would have Pickerell's home visited but decided that there was no point in going there himself. As things dropped into the right perspective he realised that his first charge was to try to see Lois Randall. He dallied with the idea of telephoning Mark and asking him to go to the girl's address but decided that it might lose precious time. He smiled ruefully as he realised that he would have much explaining to do when eventually he reached Chelsea. He looked at his note of the girl's address – it was 29 Chapel Street, St. John's Wood – and then found a taxi.

Twenty minutes later, he entered the Chapel Street house.

A board in the gloomy hall told him that the place, a large one standing in its own grounds and with an untidy garden and drive, was divided into furnished flatlets – two, said a notice, were vacant. Cards pinned against other numbers told him the names of the occupants and he found
‘Miss Lois Randall'
opposite number 9. Another notice told him that was on the third floor.

He walked up the stone steps, his heels ringing and making the quiet of the rest of the house seem ominous. He heard no other sound until he reached the door of number 9. There were two flats on that floor, opposite each other. He heard movements inside, flurrying footsteps, voices. One was a man's, youthful and persistent – it sounded more frequently than the girl's, but hers was unmistakable.

Roger rang the bell.

The man stopped talking as the bell rang. There was a brief, startled silence before the girl said: “Don't open it! Don't open it!”

“Lois, you can't—”

“I tell you not to open it!” she said urgently. “It might be—” she broke off.

In a low-pitched voice, the man said: “Look here, Lois, if you won't tell me what's frightening you and who you think might be coming to do you any harm, how can I help?”

“You can't,” she said. “Oh, Bill, I—”

Roger raised his voice, making sure it would reach the room beyond the door.

“Don't let her go out the back way, it might be dangerous.” The words sounded melodramatic but he believed they would have effect. There was another short silence and then ‘Bill's' decisive voice.

“I'm going to see who it is. I can deal with him if—”

“Bill! If you do I'll never—”

She did not finish, for Bill's footsteps sounded in the room and then the door was opened abruptly. A young man stood squarely in front of Roger, a well-built fellow with untidy hair and intense blue eyes. His sizeable right hand was clenched and raised. He wore a tweed coat which had seen better days, baggy flannels and an open-necked shirt; he looked as if he had just stepped out of a bath.

“Well?” he demanded, ominously.

“Oh!” exclaimed Lois, standing on tip-toe and looking over his shoulder. “It's—”

“Do you mind if I come in?” asked Roger. He pushed past Bill, who seemed so startled by the girl's reaction and the obvious relief in her voice that he made no protest. Roger closed the door behind him and stood regarding the girl.

“Who are you?” demanded Bill gruffly.

“My name—” began Roger.

“He's a policeman!” Lois exclaimed. “He came to the office to make inquiries. Bill, send him away! I won't say anything, I'll have nothing to do with him!”

Bill growled: “Did you hear that?”

Roger smiled. “Look here, supposing we behave like sensible human beings? Miss Randall will be hysterical in a few minutes if you let her go on like this and you won't help matters by looking bellicose.” He took out his cigarette case and offered it to the startled Bill. The diamond ring on the girl's finger caught his eye. “I am a policeman but I am not on duty and my inquiries this afternoon are private ones. Miss Randall can help me; I hope she will.”

“Send him away!” gasped Lois. “I—”

Bewildered, Bill turned to her.

“Darling, surely you're not afraid of the police?”

“Will you tell him to go?” she flared. “Or do you want to send me to jail, do you—”

“Nothing you have done under pressure will be held against you,” Roger said, reassuringly, “and I've made it clear that I'm here in a private capacity, nothing you say now will be used in evidence against you.” He was prepared to say anything to get her into a more reasonable frame of mind, although he knew that she was so much on edge that she was not likely to listen. In fact, he did not know how the situation would have developed but for the movement in a room behind them.

He heard it – a sharp sound, as if something had been knocked over. The girl gasped, turned and stared at the other door, terrified and obviously surprised that anyone was in there. Roger stepped to the door while Bill stood with his fists clenched, his bewildered expression angering Roger.

Roger stretched out a hand but before he touched the handle the door opened.

He did not know why he was quite so shocked, although at the first glimpse he identified the man standing in the doorway. The man had a twisted smile on his narrow face. His hands were deep in his pockets and he was clad in a narrow-waisted suit with padded shoulders, a gaudy tie and wide trousers. He wore no hat and his hair was carefully Marcelled.

Roger thought: ‘Malone, for a fortune.'

“What's all the noise about?” demanded Masher Malone, swaggering forward and eyeing first Roger, then Bill and finally the girl. “Hallo, honey, aincha pleased to see me? I've just come to take you out for a little ride.” He looked at the men again and his lips curled. “Scram,” he said, “you ain't wanted. Vamoose and make it snappy. I don't like the sight of your faces! Get me?”

He stared at them insolently and with astounding confidence.

 

 

The man expected them to go. It did not seem to occur to him that they would refuse. It was as if he had surrounded himself with a thick crust of self-conceit which did not permit any question of his ascendancy over others. In his wide experience Roger had met nothing quite like this swaggering confidence.

Bill stared open-mouthed at him but the expression in his eyes suggested that his temper was rapidly coming to boiling point. The girl looked only at Malone; she was breathing deeply; obviously she knew him.

Bill made the first move, stepping forward and speaking in a high-pitched, wondering voice:

“What the devil do you think—”

“Bill, don't argue with him!” exclaimed Lois. “Go away, please, both of you go away! I shall be all right, he – he's a friend of mine. Yes, a friend,” she repeated in a pitiful effort to sound convincing. “Don't worry about me, Bill, I—”

“You heard her.” Malone cut across her words; he put his head on one side and peered at Bill. “Scram, mister, in case you get hurt. I'm a friend of hers, see, a buddy. Get on your way.”

Roger watched the younger man and saw the slow metamorphosis. At first he had felt impatient with Bill, who seemed absurdly naive and young for his age, but the man's eyes narrowed and his expression grew more shrewd. He closed his mouth and a wary expression filled his blue eyes. Then – the most surprising thing – he smiled faintly.

“So you're a friend of hers, are you?” he asked.

“You heard me the first time,” snapped Malone. “Listen, mister, I don't want to get rough. Scram!”

Bill's smile widened.

“Come on, get rough,” he invited gently; “I'd like to see you. Lois isn't leaving here with you, now or at any other time.”

“Bill!” cried the girl.

Malone's eyes narrowed, his expression grew indescribably evil. He moved forward, sliding his feet over the carpet and taking his hands from his pockets slowly. Roger looked closely for a knife or a razor, expecting the gang leader to resort to some such weapon; as if he read Roger's thoughts, Malone strained his hands wide open – they were quite empty. Bill stood without moving, body relaxed, hands loose by his sides. It was a curious situation. Roger felt as if he were outside it; the girl had obviously decided that it would have to be left to the two men.

Malone stopped in front of Bill, stared at him for an appreciable time, then moved his right hand swiftly and snapped his fingers under ‘Bill's' nose. Bill
blinked.
He did not move, he did not back away hastily nor raise his hands. It became fascinating; the loudest sound in the room was Lois's breathing.

“You heard me,” Malone repeated.

“Have I got to say my piece again?” asked Bill, lightly.

“You've said plenty,” Malone snapped. “Clear out of this place pronto, or—”

“Go on,” urged ‘Bill', “I'm waiting to hear what you're going to do – or
think
you're going to do.”

But for the girl and all the circumstances that had led up to this – the murder of Joe Leech was well to the forefront of his mind – Roger might have been looking at two youths, swollen with the sense of their own importance, showing off in front of a girl for whom they were competing. But there was a deadliness in Malone, matched – perhaps only temporarily – by the remarkable and confident calm of the unknown Bill.

Lois tried again. “Bill, it's all right, you don't understand. I'm going with Mr. Malone.” When there was no answer from either man she went on quickly: “I'm ready, let's hurry!”

“Keep your trap shut,” Malone flung at her over his shoulder. “Listen, fella. I said—”

He moved his knee up sharply towards Bill's groin.

‘So that's it,' thought Roger, not really surprised by the tactics. He stepped forward swiftly, expecting Bill to be taken by surprise and stagger away, gasping with pain. The man did nothing of the kind – he swerved to one side so that Malone's knee caught him on the thick part of the thigh. At the same time he raised his hands and struck Malone on either cheek, flat-handed blows with the reports like pistol shots. Malone backed away, dumbfounded. Dark red marks showed on his cheeks and into his eyes there sprang an ugly glitter. Malone whipped his right hand to his waistcoat and drew out a knife.

The swift movement would have deceived most men but Bill grinned widely, moved his right hand and caught Malone's wrist. The knife dropped to the floor. Lois screamed. Bill seemed to move his arm negligently and Malone gasped and went flying against the wall. He came up against it with a thud which shook the room and made his Marcel waves fall over his eyes and face. Bill stepped forward and trod on the knife; the blade broke into several pieces.

“Would you like some more?” he inquired, amiably.

Roger chuckled aloud but no one took the slightest notice of him.

Malone straightened himself up, brushed his hair out of his eyes and shrugged his coat straight. More wary and with the evil glitter in his eyes enough to frighten most people, he approached, crouching, his hands outstretched and fingers crooked, like a wrestler. Bill kept quite still, relaxed and yet giving an impression of latent strength.

“Come on,” he taunted, “I'm waiting.”

Malone flew at him, relying on the uncanny speed of the movement to carry the other man backwards. Bill moved to one side, gripped the man's arm again and repeated the first manoeuvre. The only difference was that he did not stand back after Malone hit the wall, but followed, grabbed his left wrist and brought it behind him in a half-Nelson – it was simplicity itself after the holds he had shown before. He dragged Malone upright and then for the first time acknowledged Roger's presence.

“Open the door, will you?” he asked, politely.

Roger was startled enough to obey.

“Thanks,” said Bill. He ran Malone forward and the man could do nothing to save himself. Roger watched them go out of the room and saw Malone stagger down the first steps. Bill was clearly determined to make a thorough job of it, for he pushed the Masher down the stairs, their footsteps echoed clearly and the heavy breathing of Malone was audible. It went on for a long time before there was a scuffling and then Bill's confident voice: “I shouldn't come back, if I were you.”

The girl stood rigid in the centre of the room. Roger stepped swiftly to the window and drew aside the curtains. Malone was walking unsteadily in the road, obviously crossing to the opposite pavement to get farther away from the human cyclone which he had released. His shoulders slumped and he was so utterly dejected that Roger could not repress a chuckle of satisfaction.

“It's not funny!”

The words burst from Lois, startling him so much that he swung round. Her eyes were blazing with anger but he saw that she was close to tears.

“Miss Randall, I—”

“You don't know what Malone will do to him!” she cried.

“He'll never forgive him, it couldn't have been worse. You—you're a policeman, aren't you? You've got to help Bill, you've got to make sure that he doesn't get hurt!”

“He seems capable of looking after himself fairly well,” Roger said, dryly.

“You don't understand. Malone won't forget, he'll—”

“Go on,” Roger said, gently, “what will he do?”

“Oh, what's the use of talking! I've warned you – why didn't you stay away, why did you have to come here? I might have persuaded Bill to be sensible!”

“I doubt it,” said Roger. “I think he's a very self-assertive young man who would naturally resent Malone and his type. I shouldn't worry about him, if I were you.” He spoke with more confidence than he felt, for he knew that in Malone the surprising Bill had made a bitter, vengeful enemy. “Who is he?”

She stared. “Who? Malone—”

“I know Malone,” said Roger. “I mean Bill.”

“Oh! He—he's a friend of mine.”

“What's his name?”

“Bill.”

“Yes, I know,” said Roger, patiently, “but—”

He heard Bill coming up the stairs, running up the last few steps and walking breezily into the room, smiling with deep satisfaction. He had eyes only for Lois, although he spoke to Roger, proving that he had heard the tail end of the conversation.

“My name's Tennant, and I'm more than a friend of Lois's, I'm her
fiancé
– although sometimes she doesn't seem very sure about it!” He grinned, looking twice as confident as he had before Malone's arrival. “Darling, this has got to stop, you know. I can see you've been having trouble while I've been away but it can't be as bad as you seem to think. Don't let an over-dressed rat like Malone frighten you, his type can be handled easily enough. Ask the policeman!” He beamed invitingly at Roger.

“In more ways than one,” Roger said.

“Eh? Oh, I see what you mean! I didn't think the rat would give me a chance,” Bill went on cheerfully. “I thought he would be all threats and no do – he won't forget this afternoon for a long time!”

“No-o.” Roger was sober. “Do I understand that you've been away and come back to find Miss Randall in difficulties?”

Tennant frowned.

“Yes, that's just what's happened – I've been up north for a few months and I'd no idea that this was happening until—” he paused, as if doubtful whether it was wise to go any farther. After consideration he added pointedly: “But that's none of your business, West. Do you mind leaving, so that Lois and I can go into things privately.”

Roger smiled widely.

“Yes, I do mind! I'm in this, Tennant.”

“I don't see—” the other began, obstinately.

“You will, in time,” Roger assured him. “Lois has been persuaded to contribute one or two things towards ruining my reputation at Scotland Yard,” he added, “so I've a deep personal interest.”

“I don't believe it!” Tennant said abruptly, but he looked at Lois with a puzzled expression in his eyes. “Lois, it isn't—”

She stared at him intently, tears coming to her eyes; in anyone else Roger would have said that she began to cry deliberately, to get Tennant's sympathy and to save herself from further questioning. But he thought this girl's breakdown was genuine. She turned sharply, her shoulders shook and she walked blindly into another room, the door of which was ajar. She did not close the door after her and Roger saw her fling herself, face downwards, on a single bed.

“Oh, Lord!” exclaimed Tennant, stepping towards the bedroom.

Roger laid a restraining hand on his arm.

“I shouldn't do that,” he advised. “I'd leave her for a few minutes. Is there a telephone in the flat, do you know?”

“There's one on the next floor – a public call-box.”

“I'll be back in a few minutes,” Roger said, and tightened his grip on the other's arm. “Tennant, don't let Lois leave here. Don't encourage her, don't let her persuade you to take her out the back way. If you're gone when I come back there'll be more trouble than you expect, and she won't be safe unless she's with friends all the time. Do you understand?”

He expected the man to demand what he meant by ‘safe' but Tennant looked steadily into his eyes, then nodded slowly and said: “I'll keep her here, don't worry.”

“Good man!” said Roger.

He hurried downstairs, finding the phone on the landing and taking out some coppers. There was no sound of movement in the house. He kept his eyes on the stairs leading to the street, not convinced that Malone would accept even temporary defeat. He dialled his own number, grew worried because there was no immediate answer and was already imagining disaster at Chelsea when he heard Janet's voice.

“This is Chelsea 0123.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. West,” said Roger.

“Roger, you ass!” Then in a loud aside: “Mark! It's him! Roger, when you come back, I'll—”

Roger chuckled. “Save your threats for another time, my sweet. I am in great need of feminine assistance, to take charge of a damsel in distress. I cast my mind round and after much deliberation decided that I knew no one better qualified for the post than you, so—”

He heard Mark's voice, Janet telling Mark to be quiet, then he went on: “I'm at 29 Chapel Street, *St. John's Wood, and I think Mark had better come with you. Will you hurry, darling?”

“Yes, of course,” said Janet. “I—oh, I had the wind up thoroughly. Cornish telephoned and said that Pep had been shot and he wanted to speak to you. Has he been shot?”

Roger sorted out the confusion.

“Yes, but I haven't! Jan, just a moment.” He took the receiver from his ear and reflected for a few seconds, then spoke again. “A quarter of an hour won't make any difference, so before you come here go to Pep's home, will you? Tell his wife that he's been shot in the leg, that it's not serious and that I'll see her as soon as I can. I'm not sure what hospital he's at—”

“It's the London,” Janet said in a strained voice. “Cornish told me.”

“Oh, good! You'll let her know and tell her not to worry?”

“How glib that sounds!” Janet said, after a pause. “What do you think women are made of, darling?” Her voice was honey sweet and Roger coloured a little. “All right,” she went on more naturally, “I'll be there as soon as I can.” Then, suddenly anxious: “Roger, be careful!”

“What fools you think men are!” said Roger, more lightly.

“No, I mean it. Darling, I couldn't bear it if—”

She rang off abruptly and Roger replaced the receiver, scratched his ear, then walked slowly up to the top flat. Janet was usually the least emotional of women, particularly when he was engaged in a dangerous case. She seemed easily upset now – probably because he was in danger from two sides. Yet, it was unlike her to show her feelings, it troubled him.