Give a Man a Gun

by John Creasey

  Since then he had seen nearly everyone connected with the campaign, including Ruth Linder and Brammer’s girlfriend, Pauline Weston. He had learned nothing new.

  The telephone bell rang.

  Two other DIs, both on night duty, looked across at Sloan as he took the receiver. His body seemed to tighten up, as if there was an even added strain on his taut nerves; and that there was also a tension of hope.

  “Sloan speaking.”

  “Any news?” It was Chatworth.

  The fact that hope was deferred again showed vividly in Sloan’s manner. He relaxed, but it wasn’t the relaxation of relief.

  “No, sir.”

  “Anything about the newspaperman, Brammer?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Sloan, listen to me,” Chatworth said. “These are orders, understand? Go home, go to bed; don’t show up again for at least ten hours.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sloan said, as if he’d no feeling in his voice.

  Chatworth rasped: “I said they were orders!”

  “Yes, sir,” Sloan said.

  “’Night,” grunted Chatworth.

  He rang off. Sloan pushed his fingers through his stiff hair, and stood up slowly. He took his hat off a peg, turned and raised a hand towards the other DIs, and went out. He didn’t go far, but turned into the Detective Sergeants’ room nearby. Peel was one of half-adozen still there, and Peel looked almost as tired as Sloan.

  “We’re going home, Jim,” Sloan said, “Come on.”

  “But—”

  “Come on.”

  Peel shrugged, and picked up his hat, too. They went along the wide passages of the Yard without a word, then down in the lift, then out into the courtyard and the starry night. Traffic was thin on the Embankment; but there was a sharp noise, of a car-horn.

  “Only we’re not going to the home Chatworth told me to go to,” Sloan said, as he opened the door of his car.

  They got in.

  “Where?” asked Peel, eagerly.

  “Brammer’s flat,” Sloan said. “He’s not officially missing and we can’t get a search warrant, but I still want to go there. Ready to take a chance?”

  “Hurry,” Peel said.

  Chapter Twelve

  Love From Ruth

  Brammer lived in a small flat in a narrow street close to Covent Garden market. It was on two floors, the front door on the landing of the second floor of the building. The slightly sour smell of overripe fruit was wafted into the doorway and up the narrow staircase as Peel and Sloan walked up. They made plenty of noise. They passed a lighted doorway, and paused to listen, but heard no sound.

  The landing outside Brammer’s flat was in darkness.

  Sloan switched on a torch. It showed on a brass letterbox and knocker which needed polishing, and on varnish which had lost its shine, and on a doorbell.

  Peel pressed this, but nothing happened. He pressed again, and knocked loudly. There was still no answer.

  “I always said I’d make a good thief,” he said, and grinned as he took a picklock out of his pocket. “Now all that has to happen is being caught in the act. We’d be on a charge of burglary or—”

  “Get on with it.” Sloan was edgy.

  Peel grunted, and began to work on the lock. It was easy to open, and it soon clicked back. Silent darkness met them from inside the flat. Peel pushed the door open wider, and muttered: “Anyone who has a lock as old as that ought to pay double insurance. A kid could force it.”

  “Let’s get the door shut,” Sloan said.

  Peel closed the door.

  They waited in the silence before switching on the torch; Peel found the light switch and pressed it down. They were in a small hallway. Doors led to the right and left, and just in front of them was another flight of wooden steps.

  The room on the left was a little bit of everything. A divan in one corner was rumpled, as if someone had used it recently. There were two easy chairs and a small couch, a round table of polished mahogany which shone very brightly and a pedestal desk in one corner. On this was a portable typewriter and a litter of papers – all the paraphernalia a man would want when writing. Above it and on the nearby walls were bookshelves; in another corner was a baby grand piano. A recent photograph of Pauline Weston stood on that in a silver frame. The black-and-white colouring hardly did justice to her delicate complexion, but the candour and the calmness of the girl showed.

  There were letters from Hann-Gorlay and from the man who was giving him a lot of support in the Citizens’ League organization – a Rodney Matthewson; all the letters were about some forthcoming meetings; Sloan glanced through these, as Peel sniffed.

  “Fusty,” he said. “Brammer hasn’t been here for several days, that’s certain.”

  “Nip upstairs and see what’s doing,” Sloan said.

  Peel went, moving very quietly for a big man. Sloan began to search the desk, careful to leave everything as he found it. With a search warrant, he did a job like this every week of his life; without one, he felt as if he were committing a desperate crime.

  He could hear Peel moving about in the room above, but there wasn’t much noise. He finished his own search, and convinced himself that nothing here would help the quest for Roger.

  Peel came downstairs.

  “Anything?” he asked, and there was a casual note in his voice – a shade too casual.

  “No—what have you found?” Sloan demanded.

  “How about this?” asked Peel, and held out a photograph. “In a dressing table drawer,” he added.

  It was a photograph of Ruth Linder, and across the bottom corner was a boldly written: To Bram. With Love, Ruth.

  Sloan stood looking at it for some time. Peel fidgeted with cigarettes, but didn’t light one.

  “If Roger had found this he would have asked Brammer a lot of questions,” Sloan said softly. “According to him, Brammer’s always trying to convince him that Ruth is behind it all. This says that he’s been pretty good friends with the woman he’s trying to fix. Film stars and prima donnas might give away signed photographs ad lib, but not the Ruth Linders of this world. But it isn’t much.” Disappointment echoed in his voice. “I’m losing my grip. I’d kidded myself that we’d really find something worthwhile here. We can take it that Brammer’s really missing.” He gave a little shudder. “Every time I lift the telephone I think I’m going to be told that Roger’s been found dead.” He paused. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Soon they were in the street, with two lamps spreading a little light, and the stars above. The slightly sour smell was much more pronounced as they walked into the wind and towards Sloan’s car.

  A girl was standing near it. Sloan looked at her curiously, then recognised Pauline Weston, as she moved forward.

  “Is Bram back?” she asked sharply.

  “No.”

  “You aren’t much use, are you?” she said, and there was bitterness in her voice. “You can’t find either West or Bram.”

  She turned on her heel, and walked briskly along the street. A man joined her near the corner.

  “See who that is,” Sloan said quickly.

  Peel was already on the move.

  Pauline and her companion made no attempt to evade him. It wasn’t long before he recognised young Charles Mortimer. Peel didn’t speak, but watched them get into a taxi. He didn’t follow, but went back to Sloan.

  “It’s Mortimer—one of Ruth Linder’s boys, and a friend of Prescott’s.”

  “I’d like to know what Ruth is playing at with Mortimer,” Sloan said, and added peevishly: “We need two men for every one we’ve got, that’s the hell of it.”

  They got into the car, Peel switched on the radio-telephone.

  A voice came over it, but Sloan couldn’t catch the words. He sensed that Peel stiffened, and glanced at him sharply. He could just see Peel’s face in the passing lights which shone into the car.

  “What is it?” he demanded sharply. “What—”

  “Quiet!”
>
  Sloan jammed on the brakes as a taxi cut in front of him, then swung the wheel as he went too close to a bus. Its gleaming red sides loomed over him like a mountain.

  “Sorry,” Peel said at last. He was shaky. “Four uniformed men have been shot tonight—all in different divisions, two while intercepting thieves, two without any known reason. They’ve just been concentrating men on the four divisions.”

  “We’d better get back to the Yard,” Sloan said.

  It was possible, although by no means certain, that the two policemen shot without any known motive might have intercepted thieves. It was soon established that each one of the four, two of whom died that night, had been shot with .32 automatic pistols.

  Janet West awoke, when it was still dark. She could not guess the time. The street lamps were on, and a man was walking steadily along the pavement. She guessed that it was one of the policemen on special duty in Bell Street.

  There was no sound from the boys.

  She turned over, feeling desperate and despairing. She knew that she wasn’t likely to get off to sleep again. Her last thought before falling asleep had been of Roger; it was her first, now. Sleep seemed to bring no rest, no pausing in the flow of tormented anxiety—she was as keyed up for a ring of the telephone and the news that Roger had been found dead, as she had been when she had come to bed.

  Roger had been missing for three days now; three and a half days.

  If she went to the shops, she sensed that the neighbours and tradesfolk were watching her and pointing her out. On a bus, it was the same. In the street, she dreaded the thought that she would be stopped by a neighbour with the kindly but so hurtful questions.

  “Is there any news, Mrs West?”

  If she picked up a newspaper, she would see Roger’s name in a headline on the front page. The first day the news had broken, it seemed to crowd everything else off the newspapers. The Courier had coupled it with the fact that Brammer had been missing for the same time – in fact for an hour or two longer, as far as it could be proved.

  But the worst, by far the worst, was the silent waiting – the longing – of the boys.

  On the first day they had burst out with questions, and Janet had just broken down. She hadn’t realised what had happened to them, but something significant had. Next time they came home from school they asked the questions only with their eyes. Now she could picture those eyes – Richard’s deep blue and huge, Martin’s grave and steady and grey, asking, pleading: “Please, Mum, is there any news?”

  They didn’t speak, and she didn’t answer, except by looking away from them.

  There had been anxieties before; fears, too; and at times a feeling that Roger wouldn’t come back. Never before had the boys been deeply affected. It told her that they were growing up. It added to the torment, gave it a poignancy which was almost unbearable.

  She wasn’t alone any more in being obsessed by fear. At school, in the streets and while playing, Richard and Martin felt the same.

  She heard a car turn into the street.

  Her heart almost stopped, and then began to thump. Why should a car pass along at this hour? – it was dark, pitch dark outside.

  She sat up.

  The car drew nearer. She felt as if she were being suffocated. Could it be Roger?

  The car stopped.

  She caught her breath, made herself fling the bedclothes to one side, and started to get out of bed.

  “Who—” she heard a man say, and knew that it was one of the police in the street.

  Next, she heard the shots. There were four of them, in quick succession. They roared out, blasting the silence. There was another choked cry and then unfamiliar noises. She thought she heard men falling.

  She screamed.

  She knew that it was mad to scream; part of her mind was telling her not to wake the boys, but she couldn’t keep the scream back. She was moving all the time, getting out of bed, stumbling towards the window.

  The engine of the car snorted. As she neared the window, headlights blazed out. Looking out she caught a glimpse of a man on the pavement, lying flat; and of another in the road.

  It looked as if the car were going straight over this one. She saw something else, something which looked like a huge box, near the gate.

  She was hysterical, and screamed again.

  “No, no, no!”

  Then there came a voice behind her.

  “Mum, don’t.” It was Martin, desperate. “Mum, please don’t, please.”

  She spun round, and ran towards him. He was sturdy and massive, and something to clutch tightly. She couldn’t find words, but at least she didn’t scream any more. She felt his arms go round her, and could hear the beating of his heart. There were other sounds, now, and she thought that she heard voices outside.

  “Mum, what’s the matter, what’s happened?” Martin asked. “Is Dad—”

  “No,” she said hoarsely. “There was—shooting. Martin, what am I saying, there wasn’t anything, I’m just—”

  “Mum, please don’t pretend,” Martin said. “I’m old enough to know if anything awful’s happened. Was there shooting?”

  She could only just see him; he was ten years old, and he was in desperate earnest.

  “Yes,” she said. “I—I ought to ring 999, Scoopy darling, didn’t I? I was so frightened, I hardly knew what I was doing, but I’m better now you’re here.”

  She clung to him as he turned towards the telephone.

  He lifted the receiver, dialled 999 and asked for the Information Room at the Yard. He told them that there had been shooting in Bell

  Street, Chelsea, outside the home of Chief Inspector West.

  He put on the light.

  By then there were undoubtedly voices in the street; men and women’s. Martin went across to the window. Janet felt that she should stop him, but didn’t feel that she could. He leaned out. Below, men were bending over the outstretched bodies another was standing by the big crate. Words came floating up.

  “Send for a doctor.”

  “I’ve told the police,” Martin called, out very clearly. Everyone below looked round, startled. “They’re bound to bring a doctor,” he added.

  Janet was close by Martin at the window, and visible against the light. That reassured the neighbours in the street. Someone came out of another house, nearby, and looked at the crate.

  “Scoop, you must get your dressing-gown,” Janet said.

  “Well, you ought to have yours on, too.” Martin was quite matterof-fact. “It’s a quarter to six, Mum. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “I—yes, Scoop darling, I’d love one!”

  “I’ll just pop a kettle on,” Martin said, and turned towards the door.

  As he reached it, a man outside exclaimed: “Look! There’s a man in this crate—a body!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Crate

  The relief from tension which Martin had brought disappeared at the words spoken in the street. Janet stood rigid, felt her colour fleeing, coldness gripping her limbs. She saw Martin hesitate just outside the door. He stopped and turned.

  “Sure?” a man asked from outside.

  “Yes. Got a torch?”

  “Mum,” Martin said, very firmly, “I’m just going to pop downstairs and see what I can do to help.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned and hurried off. All Janet’s instinct was to call out: “No! Come back!” but she couldn’t find the words. Martin disappeared, while men muttered in the street.

  Janet was sure of the truth; and believed that Martin had sensed it. There was a man in the crate which had been dumped outside this house; why dump it here, if it weren’t Roger?

  “There’s a man in this crate—a body!”

  Janet moved towards the window. She didn’t want to look out, yet knew that she had to. As she reached it, she saw Martin running into the street while two men shone torches on to the wooden crate. Then Martin drew level with them, and peered between the bo
ards.

  Two cars turned into Bell Street, one from each end, and each had headlights shining. These were the patrol cars answering Martin’s summons. Their engines were loud, and yet they seemed not to break the silence.

  There were the wounded, perhaps the dead or dying policemen and other neighbours and the two by Martin – and all of them were looking towards Martin. Janet was, too. He had peered between the boards, and then slowly backed away. Janet couldn’t see his face, but could see the reaction of the others, who saw him.

  It was as if they were struck dumb.

  Then Martin raised his head, and looked at Janet.

  Perhaps it was a trick of the light, due to the brilliance of the headlamps; whatever the cause, he seemed to be sending her a message, a desperate: ‘It’s happened, it’s happened, I’ll look after you’ kind of message.

  Then the police cars stopped and men hurried out. The tableau was broken. Voices sounded normal again.

  “What is it?”

  “Who’s hurt?”

  “Two men, shot.”

  “Two?”

  “Did anyone see—”

  “And there’s Chief Inspector West.”

  “Did anyone see—” A pause. “What?”

  “Chief Inspector West, in that crate.”

  “Good—God!”

  Silence fell again, on everyone. It was only for a second, but it existed. Martin broke it, very clearly.

  “Please,” he said, “will someone let my father out?”

  One of the police from a patrol car had the sense to think about Janet. He came hurrying upstairs with Martin. Bursting with a sudden frenzy of anxiety to get downstairs, Janet met them on the landing, fumbling with the sash of her dressing gown.

  “Sure you ought to come outside, Mrs West?” The policeman took her arm firmly.

  “Of course!”

  “All right—don’t trip up,” the man said. His calmness was like a douche of cold water. “Take it easy. You go first, nipper—you’re Martin, aren’t you? Call you Scoop or something, don’t they?” The gruff voice was like a steady hand.

  A brawny arm went round Janet’s waist. They got to the hall, and Martin hesitated, then went boldly forward. A rending sound outside told that the boards of the crate were being prised open.