Mister Big

by Gerald Verner

  The constable withdrew and Leek read the brief note, his long face growing longer as he puzzled it out.

  Have not got infermashun. To dangerus to come.

  Being watched. G.S.

  Without comment the sergeant put it down.

  “We may as well go home,” remarked Mr. Budd. “I thought it sounded too easy; just sit here an’ wait for Smith to come an’ tell us the identity of Mister Big.” He shook his head. “Too easy. We shan’t catch the feller that way.”

  He gripped the edge of his desk and hoisted himself laboriously out of his chair.

  “You look as if some sleep ’ud do you good,” he remarked as he took down his coat from the peg and struggled into it.

  “I could sleep standin’ up!” declared Leek fervently, uncoiling his long length from the chair and stretching.

  “You usually do!” retorted the stout superintendent.

  Before the sergeant could think of a reply to this, the telephone bell rang.

  “Now what is it, I wonder?” growled Mr. Budd. He put the receiver to his ear. The call was from the officer in charge of the night staff and the weary Leek saw Mr. Budd’s face change.

  “All right, I’ll get round there in three minutes,” he snapped. “No, I’ll take Sergeant Leek with me. Tell ’em not to touch anythin’ until we get there.”

  He slammed down the receiver.

  “You won’t get any sleep yet,” he said to his yawning subordinate. “There’s been a murder at Wellington Mansions in Victoria Street. A man’s been killed in a flat belongin’ to a feller called Gordon Trent. From what I can make out Mister Big’s got somethin’ to do with it.”

  Mr. Budd plucked a rose from the vase, inserted it in the lapel of his overcoat, and went over to the door.

  “How do you know the Big man’s got anythin’ to do with it?” asked Leek as he followed.

  “Pure deduction!” growled Mr. Budd as they hurried along the corridor to the lift. “A torn scrap of paper with the words ‘Mister Big’ scrawled on it was found in the dead man’s hand!”

  Chapter Three

  The advent of the person known as ‘Mister Big’ as a public menace had been gradual, mixing with the ordinary routine of life much as drop of pungent pigment will slowly colour a quantity of water. Various stories and rumours began to reach the ears of the police. Little crooks, pulled in for various small offences, spoke of the Big Man, the Planner, the Boss Man, but remained silent when they were asked for further information.

  Others, higher up the social scale of organised villainy, smiled when they too were questioned but maintained a dumbness equal to their lesser confreres. The police rightly, look askance at the possibility of a master criminal, experience telling them that outside the covers of sensational novels there is no such thing. But it became increasingly obvious that there did exist someone who planned a number of the major robberies. This person who became known as Mister Big, ruled by fear and had only one way of dealing with those who sought to betray him—the way Al Dane, the jewel thief had gone, when in a moment of drunken expansiveness and tempted by the reward he had been promised to lead a squad of detectives to the place where Mister Big could be found. Dane had been in the act of stepping into the police car outside Scotland Yard when a bullet put an end to his career.

  Who had fired the shot or whence it came was never discovered, for the shooter had used a silencer, and there had been a stream of pedestrians and motor traffic passing at the time.

  The incident had proved that Mister Big was not just someone who had been imagined by a handful of crooks but a real and potent force behind the crime wave that had to be reckoned with.

  Inquiries were set on foot by patient men who worked night and day to lift the veil which shrouded the man’s identity but results were meagre. At the end of sixteen months, during which period a number of daring, and well-planned raids involving many thousands of pounds were carried out, they had made little progress. Mister Big remained a name and nothing more.

  Squads of detectives haunted night-spots and public houses, clip-joints and such places where criminals of all classes frequent, questioning, cajolling, threatening. But at the mention of Mister Big there would come instant silence and a half fearful glance over the shoulder. The fate of Al Dane was remembered and acted as an awful example.

  The main reason for Mister Big’s continued obscurity can be attributed to the fact that he did not control a gang. He took his choice from those who were most suitable for the job in hand. When he had finished with them they were paid off and dispersed.

  In this way there was no one group of people associated with him. Mr. Budd had been put in charge of the campaign to find this formidable menace and had been unable to make any headway. Every fresh line he tackled ended in a blind alley.

  The crime wave in London and the surrounding districts took an upward trend and behind each fresh outrage could be seen the directing hand that had planned it. But no one could give a name to the owner of that hand—except the fanciful one of ‘Mister Big.’ Behind the screen of that name lurked a powerful personality, clever enough to keep his identity secret even from those he employed.

  Mr. Budd had hoped, though with less optimism than Sergeant Leek, that Gabby Smith might provide the information he sought, but the informer had failed him. Perhaps this murder at Wellington Mansions would yield something.

  He turned into the entrance to the flats, followed by the weary Leek, who looked even more lugubrious than usual. The lift wasn’t working and they had to climb the stone stair. There was an open door on the third landing from which a wedge-shaped light fanned out.

  “That’ll be the place,” panted Mr. Budd, breathless from the exertion of the staircase. “An’ if you ask me how I know, it’s just deduction!”

  He stabbed at the bell-push with a fat finger, and Gordon appeared in the hall. His hair was rumpled and his face white and strained.

  “I’m glad you’ve come!” he exclaimed when Mr. Budd had introduced himself. “Come in! I scarcely know whether I’m awake or dreaming.”

  “Sergeant Leek will sympathise with you,” grunted Mr. Budd. “That’s his natural state!”

  They followed Gordon across the small hall to the room from which he had emerged.

  Two men were standing silently by the fireplace and looked up as they came in.

  Trent introduced them.

  “This is Mr. John Stayner who lives in the flat above,” he said, indicating the taller of the two, a military-looking man with grey hair, “and this is Dr. Smedhurst.”

  The other man nodded curtly. He was large-boned and loosely built; his clothes fitted him badly. His face was rugged and his jaw was underslung. Mr. Budd summed him up as a man who it would be unpleasant to have as an enemy.

  “This is a nasty business, superintendent,” said the grey-haired man in a deep, pleasant voice. His eyes flickered to the huddled form near the writing-table and flickered away again.

  “All murder is unpleasant,” said Mr. Budd, allowing his eyes to travel slowly round the room. “Though you’d think these days that the murderer was somethin’ to be coddled an’ respected. That’s what we call progress! We don’t care a hoot about the victim. It’s the killer who gets all the sympathy.” He went over and looked down at the dead man. “Is this how ’e was found?”

  “Practically.” It was the doctor who answered. “I may have moved him slightly when I made my examination.”

  Mr. Budd bent down and peered at the upturned throat and the congested face.

  “Looks as if he was strangled,” he murmured. He pointed to the bluish bruises on the skin.

  “He was,” said Smedhurst. “Those are the marks of the murderer’s fingers. No very great pressure was necessary in his weak state.”

  “No?” Mr. Budd caressed his fat chin with an equally fat hand. “Starved was he?”

  “Partly,” agreed the doctor. “Mostly due to drugs, I think.”

  “Drugs, eh?” The s
tout superintendent raised his eyes sleepily and looked up. “A drug addict, was he?”

  “I’m pretty sure of it,” answered Smedhurst.

  “You must be wrong,” interposed Gordon quickly. “Ronald Jameson was the last chap to take drugs . . .”

  “I’m only going by the condition of the body.” Smedhurst shrugged his shoulders. “His whole system is saturated with heroin . . .”

  “Then it was given to him,” said Trent. “I’m certain he would never have taken it himself.”

  Mr. Budd, still gently scratching his chin, turned wearily towards the emphatic young man.

  “Look here,” he remarked almost apologetically, “suppose you tell me exactly what happened.”

  Gordon ran his fingers through his already untidy hair, hesitated for a second, and then plunged into an account of what had happened up to the time he had gone to fetch Dr. Smedhurst.

  “I was some time making the doctor hear,” he concluded. “When I got back with him the whole place was in darkness. Jameson was lying just as he is now.”

  “You left the light on in the hall?”

  “Yes, both in the hall and in here.”

  Mr. Budd went over to the lamp on the writing-table and regarded it with a frown as though it had offended him, he looked up at the centre pendant, and then at the switch by the door.

  “Are both lights controlled from the switch?” he asked.

  “Yes. There’s a separate switch on the table lamp,” said Gordon. “That switch puts ’em both out.”

  “You can’t put on the table lamp without putting on the centre one as well?”

  “No. I’ve been going to have it altered but I’ve never got around to it.”

  “Must be quite awkward,” murmured the big man. He sighed. His expression was one of infinite boredom. “I see. An’ they was both out when you came back with the doctor?”

  Trent nodded.

  “How long were you away?”

  “About three minutes, possibly four.”

  “Durin’ that time someone came in through the front door which you had left open, turned out all the lights, an’ killed this feller—what’s his name?”

  “Jameson.”

  “Quick work,” remarked Mr. Budd pursing his thick lips. “Remarkably quick work. Your friend must’ve been followed here.

  “I think he was and he knew it,” said Gordon. He repeated what the dead man had said.

  “There was death outside—for him,” murmured Mr. Budd. He sniffed gently at the rose in his button-hole. “Why did he come here to-night?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t the least idea. I’ve not seen or heard of him for over five years. He was so changed I didn’t recognise him at first . . .”

  “Five years is a long time. I don’t suppose I’d recognise Leek in five years.” He looked across at the melancholy sergeant who was leaning against the doorpost waiting sleepily for orders. And he got them.

  “There’s a cab-rank within sight of the entrance to these flats,” said Mr. Budd. “Go down an’ have a word with the drivers. Ask ’em if they noticed who went in an’ out of these flats durin’ the past hour.”

  Sergeant Leek yawned and detached himself from the doorpost.

  “Find out, if you can, if a car or a taxi stopped here round about eleven,” went on Mr. Budd. “I’d ask you to hurry only I know it’s against your principles!”

  Leek gave him a reproachful look but without a word went out. Mr. Budd turned to Gordon.

  “There was a paper or somethin’ found in the dead man’s hand, wasn’t there?” he asked. “I’d like to see it.”

  “Here you are.” Trent went over to the writing-table and picked up a small jagged piece of paper from the blotting-pad. Mr. Budd took it from him and regarded it with a fishy eye.

  “H’m,” he remarked. “Not much here.” He laboriously deciphered the wavering writing. “‘Tell the . . .’ Then there’s a bit missin’ an’ then the words ‘Mister Big.’ After that it looks as if his pencil had slipped.” He sighed. “That’s when he was interrupted an’ strangled.” He shook his head regretfully. “I’d give a lot to know the rest of the message.”

  “The murderer tore it out of the dead man’s hand,” put in Dr. Smedhurst. “Thought he’d got it all, I suppose.”

  “Did you take this piece from his hand?”

  The doctor nodded.

  “I wish you hadn’t,” continued Mr. Budd. “I wish you’d left it where it was. I don’t suppose he was fool enough to leave any prints but if he did you’ve obliterated ’em.” He sighed again. “I’ll get our fellers to look at it, anyhow.” He put the scrap carefully away in his wallet. “Maybe there’s somethin’ in his pockets that’ll help us.”

  He knelt down with difficulty and made a quick but thorough search.

  “Nothin’ at all,” he grunted disappointedly and scratched his head. “Now that’s very curious.”

  “Why?” asked Stayner. He removed his arm from the mantelpiece on which he had been leaning and came over.

  “It’s curious because most people carry somethin’ in their pockets, don’t they, sir?”

  Mr. Budd rising from his knees dusted the knees of his trousers with great care. “You wouldn’t find even a tramp without somethin’.”

  “The man who killed him took whatever there was, I expect,” said the M.P.

  “I doubt it,” disagreed Mr. Budd. “He wouldn’t have had the time. You say you hadn’t seen Jameson for five years?”

  “About that,” answered Trent.

  “Where did you last see him?”

  “At the Berkley Grill. We dined together before he left for Germany on the following day.”

  “Germany?” Mr. Budd looked surprised. “What was he going to Germany for?”

  “Jameson was a chemist,” explained Gordon. “He was going to Germany to study some new experiments that were being carried out in West Berlin. I don’t know what they were—he didn’t tell me.”

  “Did you hear from him while he was away?”

  “One very short note to say that he’d arrived and was very busy.”

  The superintendent examined his fat thumb with great interest.

  “You didn’t hear or see anythin’ of him again until he turned up here to-night?” he asked after a pause.

  “Nothing!” declared Gordon. “You wouldn’t be surprised if you’d known Jameson. He hated writing letters.”

  “I knew a feller like that,” said Mr. Budd. “This feller never wrote to anyone unless he wanted somethin’ an’ then he’d forget to post it! Any family?”

  “Jameson? No, he was an orphan. There was an uncle somewhere, I believe, but he died while we were at Charterhouse.”

  “Wasn’t married, I suppose?”

  Gordon shook his head.

  “Not as far as I know.”

  Mr. Budd nodded several times and his eyelids began to droop. He looked as if he was in imminent danger of falling asleep, but after a moment his eyes opened again.

  “How was he off for money?” he asked.

  “I never knew anything about his private affairs,” answered Trent. “He always seemed to have plenty of money.”

  “It doesn’t look as though he’d had much lately,” murmured Mr. Budd glancing at the shabby figure by the writing-table. Then, almost to himself, he added: “I wonder what he knew about Mister Big.”

  “Who is this ‘Mister Big’?” asked Stayner.

  “I wish I could tell you, sir,” said Mr. Budd fervently. “Nothin’ would give me greater pleasure, I assure you.” He walked over to the writing-table. “I’d like to use your phone,” he said, and without waiting for permission picked up the receiver.

  His conversation was short.

  “The photographers an’ fingerprint men ’ull be here very soon,” he said unnecessarily for they had heard him. “I wonder what’s happened to my sergeant. Maybe he’s fallen asleep somewhere. He thinks all the time he’s awake is time wasted.”


  But the lean sergeant was very much awake. He came in almost as Mr. Budd finished speaking, accompanied by a thick-set man with a remarkably red face, and swathed in a voluminous overcoat that added several inches to his girth.

  “This man’s been on the rank most of the evenin’,” announced Leek, “an’ bein’ naturally of a curious disposition he can tell you everybody who went or came out of these flats up to a few minutes ago.”

  The red-faced taxi-driver nodded his agreement with this statement.

  “That’s right,” he said in a husky whisper. “From eight o’clock I bin stuck on that blasted rank. People don’t want cabs like what they used to. There weren’t nobody up to a few minutes past eleven. Then a young woman in a fur coat came out o’ these ’ere flats an’ drove away in Sam ‘Iggins’ cab . . .”

  “That was my daughter,” put in John Stayner. “She was on her way to visit a friend who was taken ill.”

  Gordon suddenly realised that in the general excitement he had forgotten about the girl. Now that he had been reminded he experienced once more that vague uneasiness. He kept silent, however, and the taxi-driver went on:

  “Well, after she’d gone,” he said, speaking with the deliberation of his kind, “another chap called, and then old Jack, the porter, left to go ’ome. ’E stopped an’ ’ad a word with me, like ’e usually do, if I’m on the rank. I didn’t see another blinkin’ soul until just after twenty past eleven when a chap come staggerin’ down Victoria Street, ’alf runnin’ an’ ’alf walkin.’ ’E was a shabby feller, looked drunk to me. I was surprised when ’e turned in ’ere . . .”

  He broke off as for the first time he became aware of the man by the writing-table.

  “Cor lummy!” he ejaculated, staring. “Why that’s ’im! That’s the chap! ’Ere what’s ’appened?”

  “Did you see anyone else?” broke in Mr. Budd impatiently.

  The taxi-driver dragged his fascinated gaze away from the body.

  “Yes, I did,” he asserted. “I seed a bloke come down the street arter ’im an’ follow ’im in ’ere . . .”

  “Can you describe this man?” asked Mr. Budd.