Mister Big

by Gerald Verner

  “I can do more than that,” wheezed the taxi-driver triumphantly. “I can tell yer who ’e was!”

  “You know him?” Mr. Budd’s voice was unusually excited.

  “I should say so,” said the taxi-driver. But that was as far as he got. There was a commotion in the hall and then the door swung open and a girl stumbled dazedly into the room.

  “Good God—Margaret!” cried Gordon. “What’s the matter? What’s happened . . .?”

  There was good reason for his question. The girl’s coat was torn and covered in mud. Her sheer nylon stockings were in shreds and her hair was wet and hung in strands over her dirty face. There was a large purple bruise on her forehead and across one cheek was a cut that was oozing blood. Swaying dizzily she grasped the door-frame for support, tried vainly to speak, and then before either Trent or John Stayner could reach her, slid down on the floor and lay still.

  Chapter Four

  Doctor Smedhurst was the first to reach the unconscious girl. After a quick examination he looked up at the others.

  “She’s fainted—that’s all,” he announced reassuringly. “Nothing serious. She seems to have been in some sort of accident. Help me get her on to that settee.”

  It was Gordon and Stayner who picked up the limp body of the girl and put it down gently on the settee. The M.P. looked worried and anxious.

  “How did she get like this?” he asked, but since nobody knew they couldn’t answer him. Gordon, anxious and fearful, hovered round the girl, not knowing quite what to do.

  Mr. Budd looked round at the gaping taxi-driver who was standing near, an interested and astonished spectator.

  “You wait in the hall,” he ordered. “I shall want you again in a moment.”

  The man nodded. He took off his cap, scratched his head vigorously, and went out into the little hall.

  “Get some water,” said Stayner, as he put a cushion under the girl’s head.

  “I’ll get some,” said Smedhurst.

  “The kitchen’s at the end of the hall,” put in Trent, and the doctor hurried out. In a few minutes he returned with a glass of water. Gordon took it from him and tried to force a few drops between the girl’s lips. Dipping his handkerchief in the remainder he gently bathed her forehead.

  “She’s coming round,” said Stayner as the girl’s eyelids quivered and she uttered a sigh.

  “An’ I’ll bet the first thing she says is ‘where am I?’” murmured Mr. Budd to himself, but he was wrong.

  Margaret opened her eyes slowly and stared up vacantly at Stayner and Gordon who were bending anxiously over her but without any sign of recognition. Then she smiled faintly and her lips parted as though she were trying to say something. No sound escaped her but the second attempt was more successful. She began to speak almost inaudibly.

  “I—I couldn’t get any further,” she whispered with an obvious effort. “I—couldn’t . . .” Her voice trailed away incoherently.

  “I’ll get some brandy,” said Gordon.

  He went over to the sideboard and picked up the bottle of Hennessy and poured out a generous portion.

  “Drink some of this, Margaret,” he said coming back to the settee. He held the glass for her and she drank some of the brandy. The effect was soon apparent. A tinge of colour crept into her cheeks and when she spoke her voice was stronger.

  “I tried—to reach—our flat above,” she said, “but I couldn’t make it. I suddenly—felt so dizzy . . .” She stopped and put up a hand to her head. “My—head . . . It aches terribly,” she complained.

  “What happened, my dear?” asked Stayner. “How did you get in this state?”

  “There was an accident,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “My taxi ran into a car . . . nobody was hurt badly . . . I was thrown out of the door.”

  “Then you haven’t been to Eileen’s?” said Stayner.

  She started to shake her head and winced.

  “I never got as far. I was on my way when the accident happened. The car came out of a side turning . . . I wish you’d phone to Eileen, daddy, and let her know . . .”

  “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” broke in Gordon.

  “Not really. I’m a bit bruised.”

  “How did you get back?”

  “In a taxi.” She smiled. “I was terrified we might have another accident.”

  Mr. Budd, who had hitherto been silent, now spoke.

  “If I was you, miss,” he remarked, “I’d get to bed as soon as possible.”

  He was standing behind the girl and he gave Stayner a significant glance. The M.P. grasped his meaning at once. Margaret had seen nothing of the dead man in the shadow of the writing-table. At any moment the photographers, the fingerprint men, and the police doctor would arrive and all the routine of an investigation into wilful murder get under way. Mr. Budd was anxious that the girl should see nothing of all this.

  “That’s a very good suggestion of yours,” said Stayner. “I’ll go and switch on the electric fires if you’ll bring Margaret up, Trent?”

  Gordon nodded.

  “I’ll look after her,” he said.

  “What about phoning Eileen?” asked the girl as he put out his hand to open the door.

  “We can do that upstairs,” said the M.P. and went out closing the door behind him.

  Gordon helped the girl to raise herself to a sitting position. He made her swallow a little more brandy and then assisted her to her feet. She was still a little weak but she clung to his arm and managed to walk slowly to the door.

  “Take it easy,” said Gordon. “There’s no hurry.”

  “All I want is a hot bath and bed,” she answered. “I shall be all right tomorrow.”

  He guided her to the door and Dr. Smedhurst opened it. As they went out, Mr. Budd relaxed.

  “Now,” he said, “we’ll have another word with that taxi-driver.”

  He called him but there was no reply. Going out into the lobby he saw that the man had fallen asleep.

  “Here, wake up!” said Mr. Budd, and shook him gently by the shoulder. The man rolled sideways and fell heavily to the floor.

  The stout superintendent uttered a sharp exclamation. Bending over the fallen man, he drew in his breath with a little hiss as he saw the handle of the knife which had been driven to the hilt between the man’s shoulder-blades and which glinted redly in the dim light of the overhead bulb.

  The taxi-driver was dead!

  Chapter Five

  “What’s the matter?”

  Attracted by the superintendent’s sudden ejaculation, Doctor Smedhurst came out of the sitting-room. He caught sight of the man sprawled on the floor and said sharply:

  “What’s happened? Is he ill?”

  “He’s dead!” snapped Mr. Budd harshly, and then as Leek followed the doctor: “Mister Big has been a busy man to-night.”

  “What do you mean?” Smedhurst’s large face changed. The muscles of his heavy jaw contracted. “You mean that . . .?”

  “I mean this man was murdered!” retorted Mr. Budd. He pointed to the knife that projected from the dead man’s back. “Don’t touch it!” he added quickly as the doctor moved over. “There may be prints.”

  “This is dreadful,” said Smedhurst, peering down. “When did it happen—while we were all here?”

  Mr. Budd nodded.

  “Must’ve. The front door wasn’t shut. He must’ve come in while we were occupied with that girl.”

  “He was all right when I went to fetch the water,” asserted Smedhurst. “He looked up as I passed.”

  He bent down and touched the cold wrist and lifted one of the eyelids.

  “He’s dead right enough . . .”

  “Yes, he’s dead right enough,” repeated Mr. Budd. “I didn’t think he was anythin’ else. Mister Big doesn’t do things by halves.”

  The doctor looked at him curiously.

  “Why should this man—what do you call him?—Mister Big—why should he want to kill this poor fellow?�
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  “Self-preservation,” answered Mr. Budd. “The biggest motive in the world, eh? This man saw too much.”

  “Of course!” ejaculated the doctor. “He was going to tell you who the man was who followed Jameson in here.”

  “He was,” agreed Mr. Budd sadly, “an’ if that girl hadn’t turned up when she did, he would’ve done. If she’d have come just a minute later we’d have had the name.” He sighed. “Oh, well, it can’t be helped now.”

  “How did the murderer know that this man had seen and recognised him?” demanded Doctor Smedhurst frowning. “Or that he was going to give him away?”

  “Maybe, he saw my sergeant talkin’ to the man, guessed that he’d seen somethin’, and when they came up here, he followed and listened. That blasted front door again. It ought to have been shut.”

  “Surely Miss Stayner would have seen him?” suggested the doctor, but the superintendent shook his head. When he spoke the excitement had died from his voice and it had reverted to its habitual lazy drawl.

  “She wasn’t well enough to notice anythin’,” he said, “an’ it was dark on the landin’. I wish those fellers I sent for ’ud hurry up. If there’s one thing I hate it’s bein’ kept . . .”

  He broke off as there came the sound of feet on the staircase outside. The bell rang and then the front door was pushed open and a man peered in.

  “Is this . . .?” he began, but Mr. Budd interrupted before he could say any more.

  “Come in, Smithers,” he said. “Nice to see you! What have you been up to, eh? Havin’ a joy ride round London?”

  A thin little man came into the dim light of the hall.

  “Waiting for the D.S.,” answered Smithers with a grin. “Dr. Salisbury was attending a drunk . . .”

  “And remarkably drunk he was,” said a cheerful voice belonging to a jovial, stoutish man who came in followed by a third man with a large bag. “What’s been happening here?”

  Mr. Budd told him briefly and the divisional-surgeon whistled.

  “Mister Big, eh?” He made a grimace. “It’s about time you people put a spoke in his wheel. I’ll have a look at the other one first. Then these chaps can get on with their photographs and dabs. In here?” He nodded towards the dor of the sitting-room.

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Budd.

  “You won’t want me, will you?” asked Doctor Smedhurst as the three men trooped into the sitting-room. “I’d like to go back to my flat downstairs.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, you live below, don’t you?” said Mr. Budd. “You get along. I wish I could go home, too, but I shall be here for a good while yet.”

  “If there’s anything I can do just let me know,” said Smedhurst and left them.

  Mr. Budd stood looking down at the dead taxi-driver in silence, pinching his fat chin between a finger and thumb. His brows were drawn together and his lips pursed. Sergeant Leek leant against the wall and closed his eyes. The superintendent was still standing there when Doctor Salisbury came back.

  “Strangled,” he said bluntly. “Drugged up to the eyes, too. Let’s have a look at this chap.”

  He knelt down beside the body.

  “Be careful how you remove the knife,” grunted Mr. Budd. “Draw it out by the guard an’ give it to Leek.”

  “All right, don’t fuss!” said the divisional-surgeon. “Done these jobs before, you know.”

  At that moment, Gordon and John Stayner came down from above. The elder man was in a state of suppressed excitement.

  “I say,” he said, “there’s something very strange about this night’s business . . .”

  “You surprise me!” said Mr. Budd sarcastically. “I thought murder was very ordinary.”

  “I’m not referring to that,” said Stayner hastily. “I mean about my daughter—I’ve just been on the telephone to her friend—she’s not ill. She never telephoned Margaret at all.”

  Mr. Budd became suddenly interested.

  “Oh,” he murmured softly. “So she didn’t, didn’t she?”

  “The message was a fake,” said Gordon.

  “Now that’s very interestin’ an’ peculiar,” said the superintendent, pulling at his nose gently. “Very interestin’ indeed.”

  “They wanted her out of the way in case she saw too much,” suggested Stayner, but Mr. Budd shook his head.

  “This murder wasn’t planned,” he said. “It was carried out hastily on the spur of the moment because this feller, Jameson, knew somethin’ an’ he had to be silenced—like the taxi-driver. It was all played off the cuff. No, there was some other reason for gettin’ Miss Stayner out of the way.”

  There was a muffled thud and a bright flash from the sitting-room.

  “What’s that?” asked the startled Gordon.

  “Takin’ photographs,” answered Mr. Budd absently. “Just a matter of routine. We shan’t catch Mister Big that way . . . Well, doctor?”

  The divisional-surgeon had risen to his feet.

  “The man was stabbed with a thin-bladed knife. It pierced the heart and the blow was struck with considerable force. He died instantly. That’s as much as I can tell you until after the P.M.” He brushed the knees of his trousers.

  “I thought he was strangled?” began Gordon.

  “We’re talkin’ about the taxi-driver,” explained Mr. Budd wearily. “There have been two killin’s here to-night.”

  Gordon Trent stared at him and then he saw the body by the chair.

  “Good God, this is awful,” he muttered.

  “I suppose you didn’t see anythin’ when you came out with Miss Stayner?” asked Mr. Budd.

  Gordon shook his head.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Did you, sir?” Mr. Budd turned to Stayner.

  “No, I saw him sitting there but he looked as if he’d fallen asleep,” answered the M.P.

  “It was a deeper sleep than he’d ever been in before,” grunted the superintendent. “I shall be leavin’ an officer here in charge but he won’t interfere with you, Mr. Trent.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Gordon.

  “I’m goin’ back to the Yard,” said Mr. Budd.

  “What do we do now?” asked the sleepy-eyed sergeant when they finally left the flats and emerged into Victoria Street.

  “I’m goin’ to do a lot of thinkin’,” replied his superior.

  “Then you won’t want me, will you?” said Leek with unconscious humour.

  “Thinkin’ isn’t your strong point,” agreed Mr. Budd. “But I shall want you all the same.”

  Leek who had had visions of a comfortable bed and a long sleep sighed unhappily.

  When they reached the stout superintendent’s office Mr. Budd settled himself in the padded chair behind his desk and lit one of his black, evil-smelling cigars. Leaning back with closed eyes, his hands clasped across his capacious stomach, he sat motionless, the ash from his cigar dropping unheeded down his waistcoat.

  Dawn was breaking greyly and the stub of the cigar, long since cold, still protruded from his lips, when he roused himself and brought his fist down with a bang on the desk.

  “Got it!” he exclaimed triumphantly.

  Sergeant Leek, fast asleep in a corner with his head against the wall, heard the noise, and dreaming that Mr. Budd had shot himself, smiled happily.

  Chapter Six

  Gordon Trent did not go to bed at all that night. After the departure of Mr. Budd and Leek, he and Stayner went up to the latter’s flat. A uniformed constable had arrived in answer to Mr. Budd’s telephoned orders, and he made himself comfortable after the two bodies had been removed, in the sitting-room. Gordon, worried about Margaret, welcomed her father’s invitation to come up for a drink.

  After he had looked in to assure himself that the girl was sleeping peacefully, Stayner came back and poured out two Johnnie Walkers, gave one to Gordon, and drank the other himself almost at a gulp.

  “By Jove, I needed that!” he declared pouring out another. “I
don’t like this business at all. I don’t mean those two murders, they’re dreadful, of course, I mean this bogus telephone call.” He helped himself to a little water. “Why should anyone want to get Margaret away?”

  “I don’t know,” said Gordon. “It couldn’t have had anything to do with the murders, could it? Budd doesn’t think it had.”

  “He didn’t impress me as being very bright,” said Stayner, falling into the misconception that most people who didn’t know the stout superintendent intimately usually did. “I’m very worried about this fake call. If it happened once it might happen again . . .”

  “She wouldn’t take any notice a second time,” said Gordon.

  “It may not be the same sort of thing a second time,” said the M.P. gravely. “I wish I could think of a reason.”

  But Gordon couldn’t help him. He was as much puzzled as the other. Somehow or other, he thought that it was rather a lucky thing for Margaret that the accident had happened. What would have waited for her if she had completed her journey? Would she have merely found out that it was only a trick or would there have been a more sinister ending?

  He mentioned this to Stayner and the M.P. nodded.

  “That’s what I’ve been wondering,” he said seriously.

  It was nearly five when Gordon got back to his own flat to find the constable asleep in the easy chair. The man woke up as he entered and Trent asked him if he’d like a cup of coffee. The constable was enthusiastic and Gordon went into the kitchen to make it. He was in the midst of this when the front-door bell rang.

  Wondering who it could be at that early hour, and concluding that it was probably the police, Gordon was going to see when he heard the constable forestall him.

  A high-pitched voice inquired ‘if Mr. Trent was in’ and Gordon almost ran out into the hall. A tall, rather gangling figure was standing at the open front door. The face of this individual broke into a wide grin as he caught sight of Gordon.

  “Hello, can I come in?” he called.

  “Of course,” said Gordon. “I’m just making some coffee.”

  “Good!” The newcomer threw his hat on the hall table revealing a mass of flaming red hair. “How did you know I was coming?”