The Man Who Hated Banks & Other Mysteries

by Michael Gilbert

  At the end of it Bobby said, “Well, well, well – that’s not good, is it? Quite contrary to Scout Law. Did you say you clobbered him. With a plate?”

  “I lost my temper. It was a stupid thing to do.”

  “Excusable, in the circumstances. We shall have to do something about this. Won’t we?”

  “The sooner the better,” said Mercer.

  “Just you leave it to me,” said Bobby. He sounded excited.

  When he got back to Wilfred Street, Mr. Henderson was waiting for him. He was sitting in a big chair in front of the open window smoking a cigar. The only light in the room was reflected from a lamp on the patio outside the window. He listened to what Bobby had to say. When he had finished, he asked, “Has it all been cross-checked?”

  “It certainly has. When Mercer heard this meeting might be taking place he had Banks follow him. And in case there was any slip-up, Loveridge followed Banks.”

  “And they both say that Russ met Morrissey and sat in the car with him for half an hour?”

  “Right.”

  The tip of the cigar glowed red in the half-darkness as Mr. Henderson drew on it. He said, “A dangerous man.”

  “A stupid little two-timer really,” said Bobby.

  “I wasn’t referring to Detective Sergeant Russ. I was speaking about Morrissey. He used to be the C.I.D. head of Number 1 District. Now I hear he’s in charge of the Metropolitan section of the Special Crimes Squads. Ten years ago I watched him boxing in the police heavyweight finals. He didn’t just knock his man down.” Mr. Henderson smiled at the thought. “He knocked him clean out of the ring.”

  “Oh, he’s a tough character,” said Bobby. “No question.”

  “So now we must think what to do about stupid little Sergeant Russ.”

  “Yes,” said Bobby. He sounded like a boy who is hoping he might be offered a bar of chocolate.

  “You’d enjoy dealing with him yourself?”

  “I most certainly would.”

  “Have you got any ideas?”

  Bobby hesitated, but was encouraged by the benevolent look on Mr. Henderson’s face. He said, “There was a thing. I read it in one of my – well – it was in one of those comics you got me from America. These gangsters took one of the gang. They found out he’d been betraying them. They took his clothes off and fastened him by the heels to the back bumper of their car and dragged him along the road, face downwards. What was left of him at the end, they threw into the river.”

  Mr. Henderson was watching Bobby’s face while the words tumbled out. He seemed to be sharing the enjoyment which he saw there.

  He said, “No. I’m afraid not, Bobby. It’ll have to be something a lot simpler than that. Have a word with Mercer. He’ll help you set it up.”

  “I don’t need Mercer to help me,” said Bobby, pouting.

  “All the same, you will use him,” said Mr. Henderson gently. “That is an order. And you know what happens to you if you are disobedient.”

  “I’m not being disobedient.” Mr. Henderson could tell that tears were not far away. “It’s just that I wanted to do this all by myself, to help you.”

  Mr. Henderson slid one arm round the boy and drew him up to him. He said, “That was very nice of you, Bobby. But you’ve got to be careful. We’re dealing with dangerous people. Use Mercer. He’s a professional. He’ll set it up for you.”

  “As long as I can do the actual killing.”

  “Yes. You can do it. And I expect you can manage to hurt him a bit while you’re doing it. But nothing too elaborate. You’re not cross with me?”

  “Not any longer,” said Bobby. He sounded happy again. The chocolate had been given back.

  “Of course I’ll help,” said Mercer. “I loathe the guy. The only thing is, I’d better not chop him myself. Seeing I’ve already busted a plate on his head. If something happens to him in the near future, I’m likely to be the number one suspect.”

  “That’s right,” said Bobby. “I’m going to kill him myself. Mr. Henderson promised me I should.”

  “Okay. Had you got any ideas?”

  “I was thinking perhaps we could trap him in his house. We’d tie him to a chair and I could use this gun. I’m a good shot.”

  “You lowered Arnold Rowe in two, from across the road,” agreed Mercer.

  Bobby looked up and said sharply, “Who told you that?”

  “These things get about. The boys respected you for it, you know.”

  “I suppose there’s no harm in people knowing. This gun’s a German Army P.38. It carries eight bullets. What I was thinking was, I could put one shot in each of his legs, one in each arm, two in the stomach, then two in the heart. Of course, I’d wait some time before firing the last two shots. I like seeing people squirm, you know.”

  Mercer looked curiously at the boy. His eyes were bright, his lips slightly open. He said, “He’d certainly be squirming by that time. But I don’t think we can do it quite like that.”

  “Why not? The gun’s got a silencer. No one’s going to hear.”

  “The trouble is, he doesn’t live by himself. He’s got a wife. And a daughter.”

  “We could tie them up too and let them watch.”

  Mercer nearly said, “You’ve been reading too many horror comics, sonny.” Instead he affected to consider the matter, then shook his head.

  “Too complicated,” he said. “Too many things might go wrong. No. Keep it simple. Here’s how we must do it. Tomorrow evening I’ll get Banks to watch the police station. That’s the Divisional Headquarters Station which Russ operates from. We shall have to know the moment he comes off duty. Unless there’s something special on hand it’s normally around seven o’clock. As soon as he starts for home, Banks telephones me. I’ll be waiting for the call at the café near the end of Swains Lane. You’ll be in a car, which you’ll have to steal for the job, parked opposite the corner of the street. Okay so far?”

  “It doesn’t sound very exciting.”

  “It gets better as it goes along. When Russ turns the corner I shall be coming from the other direction. I’ll time it so that I’m opposite to him, but on the other side. I’ll call out something which will stop him in his tracks. He may even start to cross the road to take a poke at me. That’s when you fire. Aim for his legs first. When he’s down on the ground you can empty the gun into him if you like, only for God’s sake don’t waste too much time.”

  “That sounds more like it,” agreed Bobby.

  “The only thing is, I hope you really can shoot. I don’t want you to hit me in the leg.”

  “Don’t you worry,” said Bobby. The thought of stealing a car seemed to have cheered him up a lot.

  At six o’clock on the following evening Mercer finished packing the second of two large suitcases. A smaller case with Shallini’s personal belongings in it had already been packed.

  He said, “When you wrote to your sister in Portsmouth telling her to expect you tonight, you did warn her not to write back or try to telephone you?”

  “I did. She must have thought it most peculiar.”

  “Blame it on me. I’ve ordered a car. It will be here in five minutes. The driver has been told that he has to take you to Waterloo. There’s no need to say anything to him. When you get there, the driver will help you with the suitcases.”

  “What about the furniture?”

  “Are you very attached to it?”

  Shallini looked at it and shuddered. “Not very. No.”

  “Then you won’t be sorry to hear that I’ve sold it to our landlady. She was so glad to get rid of us, she paid what I asked, without arguing.”

  Shallini said, “You are going to do something horrible and you will not tell me what it is.”

  Mercer put an arm round her and said, “You’re imagining things, love.”

  “I am not imagining. You have spoken in your sleep.”

  Mercer seemed more amused than alarmed. He said, “What did I say?”

  “First you sai
d, ‘Bobby’ Several times. Then you said, ‘Mr. Henderson.’ Bobby is Mr. Henderson’s friend, is he not? His close friend.”

  “That’s a very delicate way of putting it,” said Mercer. “Listen. I think I can hear the car.”

  He picked up both the large suitcases, one in each hand. They were heavy cases, but seemed to cause him no difficulty. Shallini took the small case, her coat and handbag, and followed him out onto the landing. She took a last look back, switched off the light, and shut the door.

  By the time she reached the front hall, Mercer had already put the big cases into the back of the car and had come back and was standing in the open doorway. He stood aside to let Shallini pass. This brought him up against the telephone table. He put one hand out and wrenched the telephone cord out of the wall.

  As Shallini climbed into the car, the room door behind him opened and a small man shot out. Mercer’s bulk was blocking the front door.

  The small man had opened his mouth to say something, when Mercer’s hand landed on his chest and shoved him back into the room. Outside in the street they could hear the car starting up.

  Mercer said, “Watch it, chum. You were put in here as a spy. Not as a muscle man. There’s no call for you to commit suicide.” With a final push he propelled the small man into an armchair.

  He said, “I imagine you’re doing this on commission for old man Henderson. Right?”

  The man said, “I can’t—”

  “No. Of course you can’t. Just listen to me. If you value your hide, you’ll creep back into whatever hole you came out of and stay there. There’s going to be a raft of trouble very soon. Unless you want to get involved in it, get clear and stay clear. It’s a last chance. Do you get me?”

  The man in the chair seemed to be past speech. His mouth was opening and shutting, but no sound came out. Mercer looked at him thoughtfully.

  He said, “What I ought to do is tie you up, cover your face with sticking plaster, and put you in the bath. But it would be troublesome and I don’t think it’s necessary.”

  “No need to do that,” said the man. “No need at all.” His voice rose into a squeak which almost made Mercer laugh. “I’m getting out.”

  “That’s sensible,” said Mercer. “Stop here for half an hour. Then you can go.”

  The man nodded his agreement to this suggestion. He nodded so hard that a handsome top set of false teeth became detached and had to be eased back into place.

  Mercer came out of the Bluebell Café and waved a hand towards the battered Volkswagen which was parked opposite the end of Swains Lane with all its windows shut. Then he walked without haste down the street and propped himself up against a garden wall twenty yards farther on. He had timed exactly how long it took Russ to get home from the police station. Seventeen minutes. Unless, of course, he stopped for a drink on the way, but this was unlikely with his supper waiting for him. Five minutes.

  He wondered what other men, apart from Banks, Bobby, and himself, Mr. Henderson had put onto the job. He was a person who liked to check and double check all his operations. The fact that he could see no watchers proved nothing.

  Ten minutes.

  He wondered what Bobby was doing. Fiddling with the safety catch of the P.38 probably. He hoped that he was as good a shot as he thought he was.

  Fifteen minutes.

  Any moment now. Was that Russ turning into the road? Yes, that was him all right.

  Mercer moved deliberately towards him, keeping to the opposite side of the street. As he reached a point across from Russ, he shouted, “Hullo Russo, how’s the head?” Russ stopped and swung round. Mercer saw the window of the Volkswagen go down and the glint of a gun. Russ was already halfway across the street. He was limping slightly from the kick he had had in the knee, but that wasn’t stopping him.

  Mercer shouted, “Dodge, you fool! The car behind you. Dodge or fall down.”

  Russ jerked his head round. Mercer saw the flash, heard the dull plop of the silenced gun, and saw Russ go down. He wasn’t sure whether he’d been hit or was taking evasive action.

  At that moment a police car, coming down the main road, squealed to a halt, ramming the Volkswagen as it did so. Two uniformed policemen piled out. Another shot went off. Mercer said, “Damn, the stupid bugger. He’s hit one of them.”

  The driver was out of the police car by now, coming round the far side of the Volkswagen. There was a swirl of bodies, a crash of broken glass, and Bobby was dragged out onto the pavement. One of the policemen had a firm grip of his long blond hair, the other had him by one ankle.

  Russ was on his knees, clasping his left shin. Blood was showing through the trouser leg. It seemed to be oozing, not spurting.

  “Missed the artery,” Mercer thought. As long as Bobby hasn’t killed the squaddie, the score to date looked about right. It was time he made himself scarce. He doubled off, fast, down the pavement. Russ shouted something after him. Mercer did not turn his head. Seconds later he was round the corner. As soon as he was out of sight he stopped running and started to walk.

  “I told you, quite clearly, that you were never to telephone me here, even from a call box, except in an emergency.”

  “This is an emergency,” said Mercer.

  “Oh?”

  “The attempt on Russ went off half-cocked. It wasn’t anything we could have foreseen. A patrol car came along as Bobby let off the first shot. He winged Russ, all right, then the police tumbled out and there was a scrimmage.” Mercer could hear the hiss of indrawn breath.

  “Bobby. What happened to Bobby?”

  “He got off one more shot. It may have been a mistake. You know what it’s like, when you’re all struggling together and one man has got a gun.”

  Mercer was drawing out his words, seeming to speak with conscious deliberation. Mr. Henderson, making an effort at self-control, said, “How long ago did this happen?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “What!”

  “Maybe a little more.”

  “Then why the hell didn’t you ring before.”

  It was the first time Mercer had heard Mr. Henderson swear, almost the first time he had heard him raise his voice. He said apologetically, “I thought it would be more useful if I scouted round a little first, to find out what they were going to do with Bobby.”

  “Well?”

  “I assumed they’d be taking him to Divisional Headquarters Station and they started out in that direction, but they must have got orders on the car radio. They went to Leaman Street Substation instead. It’s the smallest of the Divisional Stations, right down at the end of Leaman Passage. Ten minutes after they’d got there, Superintendent Browning arrived. You know, the one they call Bull Browning.”

  “Why—?” Mr. Henderson seemed to have some difficulty in getting the words out. “Why should they take him there?”

  “Well, it’s quiet, you see. If they wanted to give him a bit of a working over. You know how savage they get if a policeman’s killed. And Browning’s a rough character.”

  There was such a long silence after this that Mercer thought the man at the other end had gone away. But when Mr. Henderson spoke his voice was under control, cold and clear.

  He said, “How many men in that substation?”

  “At this time of night? A duty sergeant and one other man probably. Then there would be the men who brought Bobby in. They could still be there. And Browning.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Henderson. “When we remove Bobby we mustn’t forget to deal with Superintendent Browning.”

  “Remove Bobby?”

  “You heard what I said. We shall need two cars and six men. Banks, Loveridge, Manton, and Foxwell. And you. Everyone will be issued shotguns and will, of course, be masked. One car to block the end of Leaman Passage and prevent any interference. The second car to go straight in. Understood?”

  “I understand the plan,” said Mercer slowly, “and it might work, I suppose. Surprise and brutality. But there’s just one thing.”


  “Well?”

  “This isn’t like robbing a bank or holding up a payroll. It’s a direct attack on the police. I think the boys will do it. But they’d feel happier if you were there yourself.”

  “Of course I shall be there,” said Mr. Henderson. “I shall be in the car that goes in. Foxwell to drive. Banks and Loveridge with me. You and Manton to hold the end of the Lane. We meet at Foxwell’s garage exactly one hour from now. So you haven’t much time.”

  “Time enough,” said Mercer. And again, after he had replaced the receiver, “Time enough.” He stood for a few moments without moving. Anyone watching him would have supposed from the absorbed look on his face that he was pondering some difficult problem in philosophy or ethics.

  Leaman Street Station was, as Mercer had said, the smallest substation in the Division – indeed, one of the smallest in the Metropolitan area. It had originally been occupied by the Water Guard, who controlled the barge and lighter traffic in the reaches between the Surrey Docks and the Isle of Dogs. When the Guard had abandoned it, the police had taken it over as a useful staging post and a contact point with their colleagues in the River Police. It was not much used. The next economy drive would probably see it abolished.

  Sergeant Baxter, who was in charge of the substation and had been looking forward to a peaceful night, was a badly puzzled man.

  First, he had been ordered to empty the cells of prisoners. This had been easy, since their only occupant was a drunken Irish coal heaver. Then he had been told to send home Constable Mulligan, who would normally have manned the telephone and kept him company during the night. Finally, he had been given instructions which mainly involved doing nothing, in circumstances in which he felt certain he ought to be doing a great deal.

  However, the instructions had been clear and categorical and had come from Superintendent Browning himself.

  The Superintendent had arrived at the substation on the heels of those instructions. He had gone straight up to the office on the first floor, presumably to conduct the interrogation of the prisoner who had been brought in an hour before and who was going to be charged, so Baxter understood, with shooting at and wounding Probationary Detective Tolhurst in an affray earlier that evening.