An Apostle of Gloom (15 page)

“That does not matter,”
Pickerell said,
“not to you, my dear. What matters to you is that unless you do what you are told I shall deal with you very severely.”
His voice hardened.
“This is enough! Take the money, do exactly as you have before. You will be watched, don't be foolish enough to try to betray me!”

The talking ceased. There was a rustling sound, sharp noises which might have been footsteps, and then the unmistakable banging of a door. A laugh, soft and gentle and somehow bloodcurdling; Pickerell, of course.

“I must try to make sure that the bank cashier will be amenable,”
Pickerell said.
“I wonder whether it is all necessary? I wonder if West will ever remember what happened on that day?”
His voice was barely audible and Roger bent down, his ear close to the phonograph.
“The unlucky 13th,”
Pickerell said, and then there was a sound as if he snapped his fingers as he added in a louder, more angry voice:
“This absurd superstition!”

There was nothing else.

Roger straightened up and looked into Mrs. Carrier's eyes. His were narrowed and yet shining. December the 13th, the unlucky 13th. He did not remember what happened that day but his files at the Yard would surely tell him and he would now be allowed access to them. With this record, he could end all doubts and all suspicion – Chatworth would have to believe him.

He could have kissed the lovely Mrs. Cartier!

“You see how important it is?” she said, eagerly.

“It couldn't be more so,” Roger said. “I want the record, of course.”

“Please take it,” said Mrs. Cartier. “Be careful with it, there is none other.” She took the cylinder off the machine, replaced it in its cardboard container and handed it to him. “You will keep your part of the bargain, Inspector; you will do all you can to make sure that the work of the Society is not interrupted?”

“I don't think you need worry about that,” Roger said. “Is there anything else?” He smiled. “No, I'm not greedy – I'm simply trying to make sure!”

“I should not like to be a criminal with you searching for me,” said Mrs. Cartier.

The remark was fatuous, of course, yet Roger did not quite understand why it struck a wrong note. He only knew that it did, that with the cylinder in his hand and the evidence he needed to clear himself there in unmistakable form, he was suddenly doubtful of her sincerity. It was as if his mind had opened for a split second, to allow him to catch a glimpse of something badly wrong, then closed up again and left him with an insistent, infuriating doubt. He did not think that he revealed it as she led him back into the other room.

The maid had been in; there was a tray with brandy and whisky and a dish of fruit. Two large, bowl-shaped brandy glasses were warming in front of a single bar of an electric fire. The woman approached the tray and looked at him questioningly.

“Will you have—” she began.

Without warning, there was a sharp exclamation in the next room, another, in the maid's voice, and then
Masher Malone's
clipped voice.

“Shut your trap! Where are they?”

 

 

The maid did not answer.

There was no sound until a sharp report followed as if he had slapped her face, and then the question again: “Where are they?”

“In—there!” gasped the maid.

Roger could picture her pointing towards the door. He went down and pushed the cylinder beneath a low table near the wall. Then he stepped to the door swiftly, getting behind it and motioning the woman towards the library. She took no notice of what he told her but stood staring, in line with the door. It did not open immediately, but one opened elsewhere. There was an oath from Malone and a stifled scream from the maid, who had given her mistress a moment's respite by misdirecting the man.

A thud – a cry – and silence.

Roger thought tensely: ‘Where the devil is Sam?'

He looked round the room and cursed the fact that there were no fire irons, nothing at all he could use as a weapon. He thought little of his chances of overpowering Malone, even if the man were not armed.

Doors opened and banged back. Roger picked up a small upright chair and kept close to the wall. He saw the handle turn before the door was flung open.

Mrs. Cartier cried: “No,
no!”

Roger swung the chair on the head and shoulders of the man who stepped in, but before it landed he saw that he had miscalculated. It was not Malone but a smaller man with pinched shoulders. The chair crashed down heavily and sent the man sprawling, the force of the blow carried Roger forward, so that he almost ran into the over-dressed figure of Malone. He saw the cosh in Malone's hand as it moved downwards and caught him a paralysing blow at the top of the arm, rose and struck him on the side of the head. He staggered against the far wall, his ears ringing, agonising pain shooting through him.

“This way,” Malone said.

Roger just heard the words but did not comprehend their meaning until two more men entered the room. The fellow whom he had hit with the chair was getting unsteadily to his feet; there was a trickle of blood on his cheek and he shot Roger an evil glance.

“We've got them,” Malone said, with an economy of words which would have seemed remarkable at any other time. He glanced at Roger, and two of the men stepped to Roger's side, one striking him with a clenched fist and sending him against the wall again.

Malone sidled across the room.

Roger, his eyes blurred with the tears of pain and the ache in his head and shoulder getting worse, stared at the man's profile. There was the familiar attitude of menace about Malone, but it seemed worse because he held the upper hand and there seemed no way to turn the tables.

Roger could only think of Sam.

Malone stood in front of Mrs. Cartier.

His oily hair, dressed high so as to increase his stature, hardly came up to her mouth. She looked down at him, and even through the mists of pain and mortification Roger could see her draw herself up, disdainfully. Yet he believed that she was frightened – as any woman would have been frightened by such a man in similar circumstances.

Malone spoke in his husky voice.

“Listen to me, sister. You have a dictaphone at your office. I want it. Where is it?”

Mrs. Cartier said: “I—I don't know—”

Malone moved his right hand and snapped his fingers under her nose. She moved back a step, involuntarily, and stumbled against the table. The tray of bottles shook and the whisky and brandy swayed up against the sides of the bottles.

“Don't get me wrong,” Malone said. His vocabulary was grotesque in its limitations, its sprinkling of quasi-American gangster slang. “Just say where it is, sister, and you won't get hurt.”

“I—I don't understand you,” she said.

Roger opened his mouth. “Don't—” he began.

One of the others struck him a flat-handed blow across the mouth. He felt the warm trickle of blood from his lips which had split against his teeth. He had intended to tell the woman to let Malone know, courage in such circumstances was not worth while, but he could not speak.

Malone struck Mrs. Cartier a savage blow on the right cheek, another on the left, a third and a fourth. Her head rocked from side to side, she would have fallen but for the rain of blows. Her teeth rattled and her hair, spilled out from its elaborate coiffure, fell over her eyes and face and then from about her shoulders. Malone gripped a handful and tugged at it savagely making her gasp with pain. Roger clenched his hands, but the men held him fast.

Malone stepped back, and Mrs. Cartier moved the hair out of her eyes. She looked older, her cheeks were red and already swollen and there was a scratch on the lid of one of her eyes.

“Tell him!” Roger cried. “Tell him!”

He was struck again, but half-heartedly; the men had not expected that advice from him. Malone threw a careless glance over his shoulder and then looked back at Mrs. Cartier.

“The guy's got sense,” he said. “Where's that machine, sister?”

“In—in the other room,” said Mrs. Cartier in a voice that Roger could hardly hear. She pointed an unsteady hand towards the library and then swayed back against a chair and slumped into it, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders did not move.

Malone turned to one of the men by the door – there were two more there, including the fellow whom Roger had struck – and said briefly: “Tell him. Keep your peepers open.”

“Okay,” said the larger of the two. He turned and went across the flat. Roger heard the opening of the door and at the same time realised how little noise had really been made. It was doubtful whether anyone in the adjoining flats would dream of anything out of the ordinary. He was filled with a sense of horror mingled with hopelessness and a desperate realisation that he must do something. The cylinder which meant so much lay on the floor, behind a table where he had kicked it when he had first heard Malone's voice – and before long they would start to look for it.

Then Pickerell came in.

He walked with a furtive air. He was not wearing glasses and his face had a hang-dog look. He averted his eyes from Mrs. Cartier, who did not look up, and went with Malone into the room where the dictaphone was.

“Bring in the slop,” Malone said.

Roger was hustled forward, unable to do or say anything to help the woman, but he wished that she would not sit there so hopelessly, her spirit so completely broken; she had been so brave, but the devastating suddenness and the cyclonic fury of Malone were too much for any woman. He had never regretted underestimating a man so bitterly, as he regretted his mistake with Malone. A small-time gangster! The man was not only powerful but possessed a ruthlessness which might carry him to many successes.

Malone stared at him, looking up with his narrowed, sultry eyes. Pickerell stood at one side of the dictaphone, Malone at the other.

“Can you work this thing?” Malone demanded.

Roger said: “Yes.”

“Okay, work it.”

Roger opened his mouth – and was struck across the face again. He licked his lips, wiped a trickle of blood from his chin, then picked up a cylinder from the cupboard, which was open. He pressed the switch and voices came through, a conversation between Pickerell and a man who spoke in broken English.

“Is that it?” Malone asked Pickerell.

“No, that's nothing.” Pickerell licked his lips.

“Try another,” Malone said.

He took the first cylinder from Roger's hands and flung it against the outer wall, where it broke into a dozen pieces. Roger fitted on the second with the same result – Malone flung that, too. There were perhaps two dozen cylinders in the cupboard and he tried one after the other. If Malone asked whether he knew where the wanted cylinder was, Roger doubted whether he would have the courage to keep silent. Only Malone's thoroughness, the slow deliberation with which he worked, enabled Roger to retain sufficient moral courage to say nothing.

Time was flying, but he did not give it serious thought. If Sam had been coming to help he would have raised an alarm by now. It seemed useless to hope for outside help.

The twelfth cylinder crashed against the wall before Malone said softly: “You sure you know the one, Pickerell?”

“Of course!” Pickerell was as frightened of the man as anyone. “The only one that could do any harm was one when I—I gave Lois Randall instructions. It would only have our voices, I'm quite sure of that, Masher.”

“My name's Malone,” the man said; “use it.” To Roger: “Go on, copper,”

Roger tried four more.

“Why don't you find out whether—” Pickerell began.

“Close your trap!” snapped Malone. “I'm the boss.” He nodded to Roger, who put on four more cyclinders only to take them off and see them smashed. The carpet was covered with the black fragments, and the wall was marked where the cylinders had crashed against it. There were four cylinders left in the cupboard and Malone seemed prepared to hear them all. Pickerell opened his lips as if he were going to make another suggestion, but thought better of it. Two more cylinders went the way of the others; two more breakages and then there would be the inevitable questions!

Roger, his nerve steadier by then, was able to think more clearly. It was probable that they would start to question Mrs. Cartier. It would be impossible to stand by and watch, he knew that he would have to speak. He knew, too, that having heard the record, he had the essential facts to work on; if he could not produce the record, Chatworth would have to take his word.

But when Malone found it he would guess what Roger had heard.

There was one cylinder left.

Suddenly from the outer room there came a shrill whistle, the sound which Mark had heard near the Saucy Sue. It was clear and distinct and Roger guessed at once what it was – the gang's signal of impending danger. Malone jerked his head up and Pickerell gasped: “What's that?”

“Pipe down,” said Malone; “someone's coming.” He moved past Roger and went softly towards the door. Looking after him, Roger could see Mrs. Cartier still slumped forward in the chair. There was a touch of the bizarre about the situation, the contrast from the position when he had first entered the room was so great that the other seemed a long way off, something which had happened in a different world.

Voices were raised, but not loudly enough for Roger to hear the words.

Malone came back and spoke softly and with that evil glitter in his eyes.

“The busies. So you're clever, copper?” His teeth showed in an ugly sneer. “One day you won't be, you'll be kicking up the daisies. Where's that record?”

“I don't know what—” Roger began.

“You know,” said Malone, “you
know!”
He moved his right hand with bewildering swiftness, and the cosh seemed to leap into it. He hit Roger over the temple, sending him lurching over the dictaphone, which crashed down with him. He did not try to pick himself up, for the room was going round and the blood was pounding in his ears. He thought he heard voices and a cry of pain but could not be sure. Doors opened and closed. There was silence except—yes, except for a woman sobbing. He dragged himself to his feet.

It was not Mrs. Cartier. She was on her knees beside the maid who was sitting in a chair and crying, just as Lois had cried, and her mistress was speaking to her in a soothing voice. The passage door was shut but footsteps were audible in the passage; then the bell rang. Only the three of them appeared to be left in the flat.

Mrs. Cartier looked up at him.

“Please open it,” she said.

Roger gulped down a lump in his throat and went unsteadily to the door. The bell rang again as he reached it. He fumbled with the latch and then pulled it open, stumbling as someone entered swiftly, as if to make sure that the door was not closed in his face. He thought he recognised the man but was not sure until a voice, for once lifted out of its habitual coldness, exclaimed: “West! What has happened—”

It was Superintendent Abbott!

Tiny Martin and two plain-clothes men came into the room and then the lanky Sam, at whom Roger stared with sudden understanding. The operative was grinning rather sheepishly. Roger knew that Sam had seen the mob come in and had guessed what they were going to do. Realising that on his own he would be useless, he had telephoned the Yard and made the summons urgent enough to bring Abbott and these men post-haste.

The thoughts flashed through Roger's mind as he looked at Abbott, licking his cracked lips.

Another thought came. Malone could have killed him and the woman, but had known that as the police had been summoned, it meant that he had probably been seen. After this, he would be wanted for assault and causing wilful bodily harm, but he had known better than to risk a murder charge. Nothing would start the police hunting so fiercely as that.

Malone's face seemed to loom in front of Roger, he took on twice the stature that he had in real life.

Abbott put a hand on Roger's arm and led him, gently, into the larger room. Then he changed his mind and took him to the bathroom. Only half aware of what was happening, Roger felt his face being sponged, warm water soaked into his cut lips, welcome and soothing. Abbott did not speak and his bony hands were surprisingly gentle.

It was over at last.

Roger dried himself on a towel which felt as smooth as silk. There were a few pink bloodstains on it but the bleeding had almost stopped. He dried his hair, which had been soaked in the front, and he was recovered enough to run a comb through it. His right eye was swollen but his left was all right and he could see Abbott clearly. The room was no longer going round and he felt normal, except that his lips seemed to touch his nose, and his head ached.

He said hoarsely: “I've never been so glad to see you!”

“I suppose not,” said Abbott, his thin lips twisting in a smile. “I shouldn't try to talk too much yet, West.” He led the way into the entrance hall and the lounge, where Mrs. Cartier was sitting in an easy chair, with coffee by her side. The maid was stretched out on the settee, her face red and swollen with crying.