The Tiger In the Smoke (12 page)

A nasty job just down the street at Holloway and Butler's, sir, thirty-seven Grove Road. Someone broke in the front and rifled the office on the ground floor. Old Creasey, the caretaker, who was in the basement at the back talking to one of our own men, young Coleman, must have heard something, so they went up, leaving the bedridden old woman behind. They're all dead, sir, the woman as well. Knifed. Blood everywhere, the witness says. He's Mr Hammond, an elderly employee of the firm's who lives alone in the attics. He took his time getting downstairs, which was wise of him. Whoever did it got clean away through the little bit of a garden at the back which leads to Pump Path.

In the split second before the Chief Inspector went smoothly into action, ordering calls to the fingerprint department, the divisional surgeon, the photographers, the forensic laboratory, and all the other units which make up the machinery of detection, Campion caught a picture of him which he never forgot. Detective Coleman had been one of Luke's white hopes. He had liked the boy for his eagerness and had taken a great deal of trouble with him. The present assignment had been in the nature of a personal pat on the head for him.

He did not speak as he heard of his death but a grunt escaped him, a sound of rage, and he stood momentarily arrested, one long hand outstretched, warding off realization. No great actor ever expressed the instant of tragedy more vividly or with greater economy. To see him was like glimpsing a flame, an epitome of grief's impact. Yet he was sublimely unaware of any self-betrayal and as he snapped out the orders his voice was clear and impersonal.

Meanwhile, Mr Campion's own response to the news was of interest. ‘Holloway and Butler were Elginbrodde's solicitors,' he said. ‘Meg mentioned it the other day. In fact, I went down there for her and had a word with the senior partner, a Mr Frederick Smith. We were trying to get a better photograph of Martin, but they couldn't help.' His eyes met Luke's own. ‘Elginbrodde's jacket, Elginbrodde's solicitor – ?'

‘And Elginbrodde's successor, by God!' said Luke, startled into impiety. ‘There's still no sign of Levett.'

Oates had moved out into the C.I.D. Room, where the first reports from the detectives who had raced to the scene of the new crime were just coming in. Now he stepped back for a moment. There was colour in his sallow cheeks and his eyes were bleak.

‘All three victims have clean, expert wounds,' he said briefly. ‘Over the collar-bone, into the jugular. Schooled professional stuff. Victim taken utterly by surprise in each case. Notify the Flying Squad for me, Luke. Tell Bob Wallis he's wasting his time hunting for contacts. This is where Havoc has been.'

—

MEANWHILE, EARLIER THAT
afternoon, by the time Geoffrey Levett had accosted Duds Morrison some thirty yards up the dark street from the police station, and had persuaded him into The Feathers by the simple process of gripping his elbow and thrusting him through the door, one great anxiety was safely off his mind. This man, whoever he was, had never been married to Meg.

From Geoffrey's point of view the whole afternoon had been a nightmare and the last two hours of it very nearly unbearable. He was not an experienced shadower and was by nature rather a participator in than an observer of events. Nor had he realized before that he was capable of such jealousy. This discovery embarrassed him, putting a foreign restriction on his actions and introducing him to the misery of indecision. Acting on impulse he had paid off the cab and had followed Meg at a distance, because he wanted to see for himself the man who was threatening his happiness, but for a reason which he refused to pursue, he would rather have died than let her know it.

The result was that he found himself hanging about outside the dreary Crumb Street police station, like a boy outside a rival's window, terrified of being seen. He had no idea what was happening inside, and was tortured not only by curiosity but by anxiety lest the business was not being handled intelligently. But above all he wanted to make sure for himself that Elginbrodde had not returned from the dead.

Therefore, by the time Duds stepped swiftly out of the police station and set off up the pavement, Geoffrey was in the mood for reckless action.

He hurried after the man, hampered by passers-by, slipping upon the greasy stones, and caught up with him at last just as Duds himself was cornered by a woman with a load of parcels and driven up against the windows of a shop. Geoffrey took him by the elbow.

‘Listen – '

The man made a futile effort to escape, found it hopeless, and began to whine.

‘You can't do this, you can't do this to me. I've been on the carpet all the afternoon and they've let me go. The rozzers have let me go.'

The sound of the voice, the slang, the whole attitude of the man, poured soothingly over his captor. Relief produced its own reaction and his grip tightened.

‘Splendid. Now perhaps I can help you. I want to talk to you anyway. Come on.'

The bray of a street band starting up not far behind them seemed to devitalize Duds. He shuddered, struggled half-heartedly, and gave in.

Geoffrey pushed him on down the street and into the doorway of the first hostelry they reached. The little bar parlour was deserted and dim with fog, and the noise in it was considerable. A radio was relaying a noisy adventure play on the other side of the glass screen which divided the room from the saloon next door; the woman behind the bar was talking relentlessly to someone who was presumably listening to her; and from the street the cacophony of the band came ever nearer.

Geoffrey fixed the stranger's dull black eyes with his own.

‘Listen to me,' he said distinctly. ‘Get it well into your head from the outset. This may be worth your while.'

It was an approach which he had used with varying degrees of subtlety to a great many people in his time, and had seldom known it to fail. He noted the flicker of interest, faint but unmistakable, with rising satisfaction. The tenseness in the arm he held slackened, and the stranger stood more firmly on his heels.

As the talking woman moved along the bar towards them, Geoffrey gave her an order hurriedly. She served them without wavering for a moment in her harangue to the unseen radio listener. Levett drew out his wallet and pencil, still keeping an eye on his captive, who watched him with the apprehension of the cornered. He was licking his lower lip, however, and had come a step nearer.

By now the street band was immediately outside the door and the noise was so great they could not hear themselves speak. Levett scribbled on the back of an envelope and handed it to Duds, who took it dubiously and read it. When he raised his eyes, Levett had taken a bank note from his case and appeared to be studying it. After a while he looked up.

Duds remained interested and after a further pause Geoffrey handed him the money. The band passed by.

‘The rest when you come to see me.'

Duds regarded him sulkily. ‘What do you want?'

‘Only the story.'

‘Newspaper?' All his terror had returned and he made a movement towards the door, but there something seemed to check him although there was nothing to see. He glanced back uncertainly. Geoffrey was shaking his head violently. The abominable band had returned and until it repassed the door he was forced to be silent.

‘No,' he said, when speech was at last possible. ‘Nothing like that. It's purely for my own personal information. Surely you can understand that?'

To his astonishment, it was clear Duds could not. There was greed in the pale face fighting a losing battle with fear, but no comprehension whatever.

Geoffrey was bewildered. As far as he could see, his name, which he had written on the envelope, had not registered on the stranger at all. The explanation occurred to him, bringing with it a return of all his former alarm. He took hold of the coat sleeve once more.

‘Who employs you?' His anxiety made him over-eager and he saw the white face grow wooden.

‘No one. I'm unemployed. I told the rozzers so. I'm an actor. I'm not working.'

‘I don't mean that. I only want to know one thing, and make no mistake. I'll pay for it. Who instructed you to get your photograph taken in the street?'

The man's leap for freedom took him by surprise. Duds jerked his sleeve out of his grip and flung himself at the frosted glass panel of the swing-door as if he were pitching himself into water. A draught of freezing air broke over the parlour like a shower of spray. Geoffrey slammed down a ten-shilling note and shot after him, leaving the woman behind the bar gaping, too astonished, for once, to speak.

He was on Duds' heels but the street had darkened considerably since the shops had put up their shutters, and for a second he thought he had lost him in the fog. But almost at once he reappeared, running back, this time almost into his arms. Geoffrey stepped forward, but Duds saw him in time and swerved, darting into an unsuspected opening between the houses.

It did not dawn upon Geoffrey that some other enemy must have turned his quarry. He merely saw his man and went blindly after him into the alley, led by the sound of his flying footsteps, hollow and panic-stricken in the narrow way.

The noise behind him did not register on his mind for several seconds. He was closing on Duds, who had slowed as the path turned, and his hands were within inches of his coat before he became aware that they were both being overtaken. A rush of lightly shod feet, accompanied by the heavy chink of something which sounded like harness, bore down upon them both and an instant later a violent blow on his shoulder sent him reeling past Duds and against the wall.

Then a tide of men swept over the two of them, pinning them close in the dark. At first there were no voices, no words, only heavy breathing, the slither of soft feet on the stones, and once more the clink of metal.

Very close to his shoulder Duds whimpered. It was a shred of a sound, high with fear.

‘Where's the Gaffer, Duds?'

The faces were so close that the question came warm out of the icy mist. It seemed to Geoffrey, spread-eagled against the wall, that the inquiry came from many lips. Urgency was there, and menace, but they were muted, controlled, kept just under the surface. ‘Where's the Gaffer? Where's the Gaffer?'

‘Inside.' The words arrived explosively. ‘Parkhurst. Been there years.'

‘Liar. You always was a liar, Duds.' The blow which followed the statement passed so close to Geoffrey's own face that he felt its wind, and the sound it made as it touched flesh made his own wince.

He felt Duds sliding down slowly at his side. He struggled to get an arm up to shield his head, but at that moment the crowd yielded to pressure from behind as army boots thudded down the passage. Geoffrey was carried forward some yards away from the figure on the ground. Panic swept over him and he struck out, swearing savagely and loudly in the darkness. Instantly he was seized and lifted bodily off his feet. A hand found his mouth, almost dragging his chin from his face, and something hard and round hit him above the ear so that blackness denser than the fog descended upon him and he fell.

*

His first conscious thought was that even for a nightmare it was extraordinarily cold and uncomfortable, and the noise was incredible. The sensation of being unable to speak was more familiar to him in dreams, and he moved his throbbing head restlessly, fighting as he thought with sleep. Soon he realized that he was awake, but in such an astonishing position that he doubted his sanity.

He was wedged tightly into a little wheeled chair, midway between an invalid carriage and child's go-cart, his arms pinioned to his sides under an old khaki mackintosh fastened behind him, and his cramped legs drawn up and strapped to the undercarriage of the chair. His mouth was sealed with a strip of adhesive plaster, which irritated abominably and paralysed the lower part of his face. He was wearing a knitted balaclava helmet which covered his entire head save his eyes, and he was being wheeled swiftly along a foggy gutter in the midst of a rabble of marching men, who kept time to the thin music of a mouth-organ.

At this point he remembered what had happened to him up to the instant at which he had been knocked out, and he had the presence of mind not to attempt any violent movement which would have betrayed his return to consciousness. Having made certain that he really was helpless, trussed neatly by experienced hands, just able to breathe but no more, he concentrated cautiously on his kidnappers.

There were ten or a dozen of them, drab, shadowy figures who kept very close to him, shielding him with their bodies from passers-by who could scarcely see their own hands in front of their faces in the brown mist.

From where Geoffrey sat, very close to the ground, they towered above him, and lighted buses crawling by looked big as showboats and as remote. His head was spinning and he was still fighting with incredulity, but by this time the shuffling ghosts nearest to him had resolved into men and he noticed with a shock that there was something odd about each one of them, although for people with such emphasized disabilities they seemed to move with surprising freedom and lightness. The only heavy feet were those which stamped immediately behind his chair. The rest padded softly round him in the lamplit gloom, their clothes whispering and rustling in his ear.

The man directly in front of him was leading the way. He was tall and made monstrously so by the fact that on his shoulders he carried a dwarf, a small man whose normal conveyance was no doubt the wheeled chair now occupied by the prisoner. It was the dwarf who played the mouth-organ. Geoffrey could see his small elbows moving in an ecstasy of excitement and pleasure. Geoffrey's own dark hat, punched up into a billycock, sat on the back of the little man's bulbous head, and from time to time he paused in his playing to jam it more securely in position.