by John Creasey
“Well—”
“This side, most of the way; he crossed up there.” A boy standing nearby pointed eagerly. “I didn’t see him, but Jim Tee said he did. Jim’s delivering his papers now, sir. Are you—are you Handsome West?”
“Idiots to call me that, aren’t they?” West smiled. “Walk along the way this chap went, will you, slowly? See if you can see anything red and wet on the pavement.”
“Who, me?” The boy’s eyes glowed.
“Why should I do all the work?” Roger smiled at him again. “It might look brown and tacky.”
The boy hurried along, looking down at the ground. The Putney policeman obviously couldn’t make up his mind whether he approved or not.
Peel finished, and came hurrying.
“Have ’em send a bloodhound here,” Roger said. “Rush it. We might get that blood-trail if we hurry.”
“Right.” Peel ducked back into the car.
The boy was walking ahead, with three others, all talking eagerly. His head was bent; he could not have scanned the ground more closely had he hoped to find a fortune. The other boys did the same. One suddenly dropped down on his knees, and began to crawl along, sniffing the ground.
Roger had to chuckle.
“You know, West, if there is a trail it will be covered by this crowd walking over it.” The Putney man could no longer keep his disapproval out of his voice. He glanced round at part of the crowd, which was beginning to follow. “And it’s hardly a joking matter.”
Roger shot him a glance which was suddenly frosty.
“Isn’t it?” he said. “Perhaps it’s a laughing matter that you—” He broke off.
The other flushed.
“What were you going to say, Chief Inspector?” His voice was stiff, hostile.
“Forget it,” Roger said shortly.
“What’s this?” yelled one of the lads.
He was a few yards ahead of his fellows, and crouching low by the kerb. The crowd behind surged forward. Police with them threw a protective cordon immediately. In a moment, the boys, Roger and the Putney man in charge were ringed by police, and the police were ringed round by people, mostly men.
The boy was pointing to a brownish stain on the grey stone of the kerb. Roger went down on one knee and touched it gently with a forefinger. He broke the surface; blood glistened beneath it.
“Nice work, son,” he said warmly. “So our killer was crossing the road. See what you can find over there.”
“Okay!” Eager lads forced their way through the two cordons.
“It looks as if he’d been holding his hand up, or perhaps had his hand in his pocket, and blood gathered in a pool,” Roger said. “Then a lot splashed down at once. Our good luck.”
Almost opposite the spot where the boy had found the blood was an alleyway leading to the Thames. Beyond the end of the lane, the river flowed gently, the surface sparkling. The boys were already at the far end. Roger and the Putney man led the rest of the procession to join them.
They reached the wide road beyond the alley.
The boys were now standing at railings which protected the pavement from the river itself, pointing and talking excitedly. There was a small landing stage, where pleasure boats loaded and unloaded passengers.
“Any luck?” Roger asked the boys.
“Looks like it, Guv. See!” One of them pointed to brownish smears on the top rail, just above steps leading down to the landing stage. “Ain’t that blood?”
Roger stared, and went closer …
“Yes, it is. Now we want someone who saw our man go off in a boat, Symes. Will you get cracking?”
Whatever the Putney man felt, he didn’t hesitate.
“Right away,” he promised briskly.
“Anything more we can do, Guv?” asked the boy who had first spoken to Roger.
“Give me your names and addresses,” Roger said. “And that’s about the lot.”
They began to scribble …
A man who had been fishing on the riverbank, a hundred yards along, had seen a youth leave the landing-stage in a small motorboat.
Roger promptly started things moving along the river.
River police and riverside patrols were brought into the hunt. Hundreds of police began to question thousands of people. The motorboat was trailed farther down-river, to Wandsworth Bridge, then Battersea, then Albert. It took time, but the reports were clear-cut; there was no doubt that it was the same motorboat.
A description of the youth in it was quickly built up.
Dark hair, sallow-faced, wearing a brown coat and flannel trousers, with leather patches at the elbows of the jacket. A lock of hair falling over his forehead. He needed a haircut. He needed a shave. He kept his left arm bent and pressed against his chest. He had a thick bandage of some kind round his left hand. He was medium height, perhaps a little short of it. He kept looking behind him.
So it went on: Dark hair – needs a shave and haircut – brown coat with patched elbows – the reports were too consistent for there to be any doubt.
By ten-thirty Roger was at his office at Scotland Yard. Peel was with him, and Detective Inspector Sloan, another big, boyish and powerful man, was also there. Two telephones kept going. Roger made more and more notes, and kept a third telephone free for outgoing calls.
“Get three men who saw this fellow up here as soon as you can,” he said to Peel. “Have them go through the photographs in the Rogues Gallery.”
“Right.”
“Have river police and our chaps and the City Police ready, so that we can get moving as soon as we know where the motor boat stopped,” Roger said a moment later.
“Right.”
“If he went as far as the Pool and the docks, we’re not going to have much luck,” Roger mused, in a temporary lull. “See if they can still make tea downstairs, Jim, will you?”
“Okay,” said Peel, and used the telephone again. “Coming up,” he added.
Roger lit a cigarette.
“Half past ten on a Sunday morning,” yawned Sloan, his fair hair standing almost on end, and his blue eyes looking tired. “I’ll bet Mary’s still in bed.”
“I’ll bet Janet is, and the kids on either side of her,” Roger said, and grinned. “She swears that she gets up early on the Sundays when I’m out of the house by eight, but I doubt it. It’s just as well they don’t know we’ve just been authorised to carry guns on this job. I—Here we go.”
The telephone bell rang again.
“Hallo?” His pencil was poised, but he didn’t use it. He stood up quickly; the others moved across to get their hats. “Right, thanks.” He banged the receiver down. “Waterloo Bridge, south side,” he said. “Come on, we’ll walkie-talkie others to get there.”
Chapter Four
The Trap
Hundreds of police converged on the area about Waterloo Station. Dozens invaded the station and began questioning the station staff. Finding a young man with dark hair, in need of a haircut and shave, and with his left hand injured, should be easy.
Others rounded up known criminals in the area. The police on duty at the time were interrogated. Now and again there was a false alarm.
Roger West, Sloan and Peel sat in a police car near the station, hearing the rumbling of the trains, watching the traffic as day trippers crowded the station entrances. The radio-telephone was on practically all the time. The car was just a blue fug of smoke.
Then an authoritative voice came over the radio, with a sharp note that might have been excitement.
“I think we’ve got something—Pole Street, up round by the Elephant & Castle. A plain-clothes man was picking up a conman, and saw a youth who might be our man go into Number 24. We could be wrong.”
“How long ago?” Roger rapped back.
“An hour and twenty minutes.”
“Surround the house at a distance, don’t let anyone go too near. Anyone can go into the street, no one must come out of it without being stopped,” Roger said. “Let th
em get round the nearest corner before stopping them.”
“Right, sir.”
“What are you waiting for, Jim?” Roger asked, and grinned as Peel switched on the engine.
They drove fast towards Pole Street, which was ten minutes away. Three other police cars were already drawn up near the end of the street, and a dozen policemen were standing about, but all were out of sight of the houses in Pole Street itself.
Two men hurried forward as Roger’s car arrived, one a tall, thin, very dark man.
“Hallo, Raiment,” Roger said. “How are you?”
“Fine, thanks.” Raiment was a DI from the local Division, and the man who had sent the call. “If we’ve got the right chap, I can tell you something about him. He’s been lodging at the house for several weeks. He keeps odd hours—two or three of our lads have noticed him getting home at four one morning. He was questioned once, and said he played in a dance band.”
“Did he have any instrument with him?”
“A trumpet.”
“Could be,” Roger said. “Where’s the policeman who questioned him?”
“At the station—he told me about this several days ago. The youth’s name is Prescott, Roy Prescott.”
“Prescott?” Roger echoed, and for some reason thought of Neil Harrock and Ruth Linder; she was still fresh in his mind. He thrust thought of her aside. “Is anything known about the people he lodges with?”
“The man’s something on the railways, at Waterloo. Youngish chap. There are two children, both toddlers.”
“Hmm,” said Roger. “Well, it would be worth getting in touch with your men who’ve seen Prescott get back late, and finding out what nights he was out. Then we could check if anything happened on those nights—armed hold-ups or bank robberies—you know what.”
“I’ll fix it,” said Raiment. “How are you going to tackle Prescott now?”
“The simple way,” Roger said. “I’ll walk straight up.”
“But—”
“We can have men approaching, keeping close to the houses on the same side of the street,” Roger said. He looked along Pole Street, which was long, narrow and drab, with two-storeyed terraced houses on either side. A few children were playing in the street, one was cycling round and round aimlessly. “I’ll look as little like a copper as I can.” He took off his hat and flung it into the car.
“Don’t forget he’s armed,” Sloan warned. “You ought to wait until we close in at the back, too.”
“Five minutes,” Roger said. “And haven’t I got a gun, too?” It was heavy against his hip.
He lit another cigarette.
Five minutes later, keeping close to the houses on the even-numbers side of the street, he walked towards Number 24. A line of plain-clothes men followed him; another line was coming along the street in the other direction. The back of the house was being closely watched now.
The playing children stopped, to stare.
Roger walked briskly, still pulling at his cigarette.
A youth who had killed once might kill again.
The youth didn’t know that he’d killed, though – couldn’t be sure. But he had been prepared to kill. There were too many like him. They were young, ruthless, deadly – dangerous misfits in society. They were an anxiety to many of the public and a curse to the police. They weren’t professional crooks and couldn’t be tackled in the way that regulars could.
No regular criminal would shoot his way out of trouble. Roger watched the windows of Number 24. There were cream-coloured curtains at them; no curtain moved. Roger glanced up. No one appeared to be looking out of the upper window.
He waved to his men to stop where they were, and went forward on his own. Anyone watching from Number 24 could see him, but not the others; but those others would come rushing at any sign of trouble.
Roger stopped at the front door. It was freshly painted and varnished brown, with an iron knocker and an iron letterbox. He knocked twice, not too heavily, trod out his cigarette and lit another.
No one answered.
He knocked more heavily. The sound echoed up and down the street. The children were all staring at him, so were several adults. There was a hush everywhere. Roger listened, hoping that he would hear something from inside the house, but he didn’t.
He knocked again.
Then he heard shuffling footsteps, a child’s voice, running footsteps. So it was normal enough. He drew back. The door opened, and a woman wearing a skirt, with a big shawl round her shoulders, opened the door. She was young, her hair glittered like brass, and she had a pert, pretty face. Two small girls stood by her side. She clutched the hand of one, and held the shawl in front of her with the other hand.
“What is it?”
“Roy Prescott in?” Roger asked, very quietly.
“Who wants him?”
“A friend,” Roger said.
“Okay, wait a minute,” the woman said, and turned away. She pushed the door to.
Roger put his foot forward, and it didn’t close. The woman looked at him sharply, but made no protest. She walked towards the flight of narrow stairs, with the child still clinging to her hand, and the other glancing from Roger to her.
“Roy!” she called shrilly.
A voice came at once; the voice of a young man, who had obviously been listening.
“Who wants me?”
“Says he’s a friend.”
“Who—” Roy Prescott began again.
His voice was that of an educated man. He came from a room at the head of the stairs, and Roger first saw his feet and legs – and then saw that his right hand was bunched inside his trousers pocket, as it might be if he held a gun. His left hand was out of sight.
Roger moved forward, thrusting one child behind him.
“Keep still, Prescott, and don’t—”
There was no time to finish. He saw the fist bunch inside the man’s pocket. He flattened himself against the wall, and snatched out his own gun. He heard the roar of the shot as Prescott fired over the woman’s head. The bullet smacked into the wall.
The woman screamed and grabbed the other child.
Roger had a clear view, and fired as Prescott took his gun out of his pocket for a second shot. Roger’s bullet caught the youth in the wrist. The gun dropped, clattering on oilcloth. The woman screamed again. The child behind Roger whimpered. A door alongside the stairs opened and a man came rushing out.
“What the hell—”
“Just keep still, Prescott,” Roger said, and covered the youth with his gun.
Had Prescott another weapon?
Other police were rushing into the house.
“What the hell?” repeated the man hopelessly. He put an arm round his trembling wife. “Where’s Doris, where—”
“Daddy!” screamed the child by Roger.
Prescott swung round and moved towards the room he’d come from. Blood dripped from his right hand now; his left was heavily bandaged. Roger didn’t hesitate, but fired at his legs; the one shot brought him down. As Prescott fell, Roger raced up the stairs three at a time, and other police streamed after him.
Prescott still had the strength and guts to squirm round, on the floor, and kick out at Roger.
“Don’t make it harder for yourself,” Roger said stonily, “or for anyone.”
Prescott, lips turned back over strong white teeth, poured a stream of oaths at him.
Prescott was sent to hospital, with two police in attendance. He was in no danger, but it would be at least three weeks before he could get about again. He had refused to say a word, once he had stopped swearing.
The frightened woman, her husband and the children had quickly been shepherded into a downstairs room. Judging from their reaction, they hadn’t known that Prescott was dangerous, although they probably knew that he was a thief.
Roger, Sloan and the local man Raiment went up to Prescott’s room.
In fact, there were two rooms; an archway had been knocked into a wall which had
once made them quite separate. They were surprisingly well furnished. One room, the bedroom, had a double bed, a small wardrobe, and a lot of photographs, mostly of girls.
The other was a kind of living room cum parlour. It was pleasantly furnished, with a portable radio in one corner and a table-model television in another. There was a square of carpet and well-sprung armchairs. This was much more than the degree of comfort that Roger expected to find in a house in Pole Street.
Shelves of books were on either side of a gas fireplace. Prescott had a wide range of reading; Maupassant was there in the original French. Everything suggested a young man of some culture.
“I wonder if he had time to plant the money from the bank anywhere else,” Peel said.
“I shouldn’t think so. Let’s have a look round.”
They opened cupboards and drawers, moved the books, and shifted the furniture. For a few minutes, they found nothing.
It was Raiment who discovered a wad of notes, fifty or more, poked down by the side of one of the chairs. In a few seconds the others found more; until practically the whole amount stolen from Putney was found. Every possible hiding-place had been used.
“Just about one of the quickest jobs we’ve ever done,” Peel said and grinned with satisfaction. “Cut and dried in a few hours. Here’s another wad.” He drew more money from behind some books. “I—Hal-lo.”
In a recess behind a row of books he found two more automatic pistols.
“Let’s keep at it,” Roger said grimly.
They worked in silence, and with an increasing sense of strain. They found seven automatic pistols, and at least a thousand rounds of ammunition; it was a small arsenal. A dozen knives were found, too, hidden in the most unlikely places.
There was a small box beneath floorboards in the parlour. Inside were rings, brooches, earrings and other small pieces of jewellery, all of good quality.
“He hasn’t done so badly for himself,” Raiment said, “but why seven guns?”
“That’s worrying me, too,” Roger said. “Let’s try the bedroom.”
They went through the archway.