Inspector West At Home iw-3

by John Creasey

  “Clay, you lie too easily,” said Mark, sorrowfully. He pushed past and reached the door. Clay swore and jumped at him, but Mark slipped through the doorway and hurried up the narrow wooden stairs. The house smelt of beer and decaying vegetables. There was a narrow landing with three closed doors and he wondered which of them was Joe Leech’s. »

  “. . . murder yer !” Clay was bellowing.

  Mark opened one door of a bedroom, the bed unmade. He closed it and opened a second door as Clay reached the top of the stairs and he stopped there breathing vengeance. Mark looked into a long, narrow room. It was a parlour filled with cheap modern furniture and with wallpaper so gaudy that it was an offence to the eye.

  Sitting at a table at the far end of the room was Joe Leech, a vision in puce pyjamas, with tousled hair, bloodshot eyes and sagging cheeks. There were two curious things about Joe; the visible one was his small, cupid’s mouth, soft and womanish; the audible one his pure tenor voice, not childish yet certainly not manly. He was proud of being self-educated and affected a horror of the Cockney accent; his was a neutral one and usually he managed most of his aspirates.

  Mark left the door open and stepped towards the man, who had a table-drawer open, pushed against his stomach, and his right hand hidden inside the drawer.

  “Why, Joe !” exclaimed Mark. “What’s all the to-do about? I only want a word with you.” Leech snatched his hand from the drawer and slammed it to; it caught at one side and gave Mark the opportunity of seeing an automatic. Then Joe slammed it home.

  “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “We’ve met before, Joe. What’s frightening the wits out of you ?”

  Joe gulped. “I — I — I’m not frightened.”

  “I thought I recognised all the symptoms.”

  “If you don’t sling your hook, mister, you won’t reckernise yer own dial,” growled Clay from behind him. The manager had a poker gripped in his right hand, his stiff movements holding a menace which made Mark back hastily to the wall. “Clear out.”

  “Tell him to go away, Joe,” said Mark.

  Leech darted a sidelong glance towards him, and licked his lips. He stood up and rounded the table, putting a hand on Clay’s arm.

  “It’s all right, it’s all right, Clay, I recognise Mr Lessing now.” He smiled weakly. “I didn’t know who it was at first, if I’d known it was Mr Lessing I’d have told you to show him up right away. You know I would, Mr Lessing, don’t you?”

  “Shut the door behind you, Clay.” Mark waited until the door was closed, watching Joe’s movement towards a corner cupboard, opening it and taking out glasses and a bottle. Joe’s head jerked backwards as he drank. He turned round, a glass in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other.

  “Have a drink, Mr Lessing? I was up all night, so it’s just a nightcap for me. I was going to have forty winks just before you came. No peace for the wicked, is there ?”

  “None at all, Joe,” Mark agreed. “No peace for the wicked at all.” He saw the blood-shot eyes widen and Joe’s Adam’s apple jerk.

  “You will have your little joke, Mr Lessing, won’t you? How’s the Inspector? He was with you the last time you come here, wasn’t he? I always said that you got a square deal from Mr West and that goes for you, too.”

  “You know why I’ve come, we’re only wasting time. You got some information about West — or you thought you did. Where did it come from ?”

  “What, me?” Joe’s voice rose to a shrill falsetto. “Why, I wouldn’t let a friend down, Mr Lessing, you ought to know I wouldn’t. Ha-ha-ha!” His voice cracked halfway through the laugh and he glanced towards the whisky bottle, giving Mark the impression that he would like to pour the lot down his throat. “Why, what’s happened to the Inspector?”

  “Talk quickly, Joe,” urged Mark.

  “I can’t tell you a thing, Mr Lessing ! If someone has been spreading lies about Mr West, it wasn’t me. I’m no squealer. Listen to me, Mr Lessing, I might be able to help you !” He raised the bottle high, in a grand gesture. “What about that?”

  “Who gave you information about West?”

  “I tell you I don’t know what—”

  “Look here, Joe,” said Mark, reasoningly, “you’re frightened of your own shadow. Have you upset the Masher?”

  He uttered the name ‘Masher’ simply because he had heard the old man outside use it and had wondered what it implied. But he was astonished at its effect on Leech, who dropped heavily into his chair, his hands shaking. He raised the bottle to his lips and gulped; a trickle of whisky escaped them and ran down his chin, soaking into the neck of his pyjamas. When he put the bottle down he almost knocked it over.

  “So the Masher frightened you,” murmured Mark.

  “You — you don’t understand,” muttered Leech, “you don’t understand, Mr Lessing! There’s a fella they call the Masher who thinks I welshed on him. He says he’s coming after me.” Leech’s colour was grey. “He’ll learn the truth one of 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’ve got a headache this morning. The Masher tried to beat me up last night and made me nervous.”

  “If the Masher is who I think he is, you’ll get more than a beating up.” Mark shrugged. “I might be able to help — in return for information.”

  “How do you know the Masher ?” gasped Leech.

  “I’m very interested in you and your friends.” Mark 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?”

  “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 one hand out, shaking violently. “If you can put Malone inside I’d do anything for you.”

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

  “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 first.”

  “After you’ve said your piece,” insisted 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!”

  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.

  “Don’t let them come in !” gasped Leech.

  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 b
eing flung into the street.

  “Open up, Joe,” a man said. 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 them out!” gasped Joe. 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 and 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 inches; 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?”

  “Leave me alone!” Still holding the gun, Leech jumped away from him and fired again. By chance, he scored a hit and blood welled up 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 a long time he stood looking at Leech, who held the gun in trembling fingers but did not fire again.

  “So you thought you’d keep me out,” the newcomer said. His voice was cold and harsh. He strode across the room, a swagger in every step, 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. 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 dropped 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. Mark stepped towards the newcomer.

  “Do you really have to do this?”

  Malone turned and looked at him insolently.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “Not a friend of Joe’s,” said Lessing.

  “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 was acutely aware of the menace in Malone’s 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.

  “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.

  “I came to see Leech on private business,” Mark said. “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 that 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.

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

  CHAPTER 8

  The Taxi-Driver ’ s Memory

  MARK WAS fascinated by the sneer on Malone’s face. He felt quite sure that the man had arranged the shooting so that he could not become personally involved. Mark turned away from him and knelt beside Leech, pillowing the man’s head in his arm.

  “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 oozing blood just above the heart. He doubted whether a doctor could save the man’s life. Malone stood there 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 pinch her waist. 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 Leech was muttering but Mark could not distinguish the words. He knew that he would learn nothing from the man — who had paid him to frame 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 overdressed 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 face, distorted in pain, with an inhuman curiosity. 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, the fear reflected in them.

  “He’s dead,” said Malone. “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.” 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.”

  More policemen arrived and statements were taken. While Mark was making his, an ambulance and two police cars drew up, finger-print and cameramen invaded 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 linked with Roger West yet. He was glad, too, that the situation was taken out of his hands.

  Clay spoke slowly when questioned. Several times he looked towards the dead 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, recently come on duty.

  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 to Mark’s fastidious nose. 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 hurried across the room, crunching glass underfoot. R
ose Street, that morning, was a place of fresh air and beauty compared with the interior of the inn.

  An 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 at the window. Roger came hurrying along the path as Mark paid off his cab.

  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. His eyes were hard and glittering.

  “No,” Mark said, and sharp alarm cut through him.

  Roger drew a deep breath. “I hoped 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?” Mark asked as they reached the front room.

  “I’ve told Pep and phoned Cornish,” Roger said. “Janet left Cornish at half-past eleven and as far as he knew she was coming straight back here. 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?”

  “It was a passing idea, that’s all. Confound it, nothing could have happened to Janet!”