Mister Big

by Gerald Verner

  “I didn’t, you ass!” said Gordon. “I was making it for myself and the constable.”

  “I see,” the red-haired young man grinned. “No V.I.P. treatment. Glad I didn’t have to wake you up. Been having a bit of a beano here, haven’t you? Old Pillbox sent me to gather all the gory details.”

  “I’m glad he sent you, Colin,” said Gordon. Old Pillbox was the name by which Mr. Pillbeam, the night news editor of the Post-Bulletin was known to his staff.

  “Who else could they send with the same amount of genius!” remarked Colin Dugan. “I am the greatest crime reporter in Fleet Street!”

  “And the most modest obviously,” said Gordon. “Go into the sitting-room and I’ll fetch the coffee.”

  He hurried back to the kitchen just in time to stop the percolator boiling over. Colin and he were great friends. They had first met during Gordon’s free-lance reporting days, and remained friends ever since, though they seldom met.

  Dugan was lank and tall and raw-boned with a face that kindly people called ‘rugged,’ and heavily peppered with freckles. His favourite attire were a pair of narrow, very creased flannel trousers and a suede jacket. A duffle-coat which he wore on wet or cold days completed the ensemble. He usually wore a tweed hat that looked too small for him perched on his flaming hair, and he owned a scooter which looked in imminent danger of falling to pieces. He had once, and only once, persuaded Gordon to ride on the pillion, and his friend was convinced that only a beneficent providence had allowed him to survive the ordeal.

  “Now,” said Dugan when Gordon brought in the coffee, “tell me about the excitement.”

  “I’ll tell you as much as I know,” said Gordon. He lit a cigarette and pushed the box across to his friend. “And that isn’t much.”

  The constable had discreetly retired with his coffee to the kitchen so he was able to speak quite freely. Colin listened without comment until he had finished, then he whistled softly.

  “Well, you certainly had the lot, didn’t you?” he remarked. “Why do you think these two chaps were killed?”

  Trent took a gulp of coffee before he answered.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Poor Jameson knew something about this man, Mister Big, and so did the taxi-driver. They were killed to shut ’em up.”

  Colin helped himself to a cigarette and frowned at it.

  “H’m!” he grunted non-committally. “How d’you suppose Jameson got in that condition?”

  Gordon shrugged his shoulders.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” he answered. “I can’t account for it.”

  “It’s a bit queer that he should’ve turned up suddenly like that after such a long time. It strikes me as very curious. He disappears for five years and then turns up out of the blue looking like a tramp an’ full of drugs. How did he know where to find you?”

  “That’s easy,” replied Gordon. “I was living here when he went to West Berlin. He wrote once to this address.”

  “You say there was absolutely nothing in his pockets—nothing at all?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How do you account for it?”

  “I can’t.”

  “There’s one explanation,” said Colin thoughtfully.

  “What?”

  “That for some time before he came to see you, he was kept a prisoner somewhere . . .”

  “By the man they call Mister Big?”

  “Seems reasonable. If this fellow had discovered who he was . . .”

  “Why keep him prisoner?” interrupted Gordon. “It would’ve been easier to kill him—and safer.”

  “There’s a point there,” agreed Colin. “I can’t suggest a reason off-hand.” He ran a bony hand through his hair. “This girl,” he went on. “How does she come into it?

  “I don’t know that she does come into it,” said Gordon. “I don’t see how she can . . .”

  “Oh, now, come off it!” expostulated Colin. “You’re not going to tell me that that telephone call was just a coincidence?”

  “I don’t see that it could have been anything else.”

  “I distrust that kind of coincidence,” grunted the reporter. “It fits too well.”

  “It’s certainly queer . . .”

  “Very! I’d like to know what would have happened if she hadn’t had that accident.”

  “Presumably, she’d have gone on to her friend’s house and found that the whole thing was a hoax,” said Gordon. “Like some more coffee?”

  Colin shook his head.

  “I wonder if that’s all that would have happened?” he said.

  He uncoiled himself and got up, went over to the window, and tapped gently on the glass. Then he swung round quickly.

  “Look here,” he said. “Are you busy?”

  “Not very.” Gordon looked at him in surprise. “Why?”

  Colin came back to the settee.

  “I shall get the job of ‘covering’ this for the Bulletin,” he explained. “We’ve been interested in the activities of this Big man for a long time. Suppose you and I join forces and see what we can discover between us?”

  Trent looked a little dubious.

  “I don’t know much about this sort of thing,” he began, but Colin interrupted him.

  “You don’t have to,” he said. “All you’ve got to do is use your common sense. If we could find this man, Mister Big, it ’ud be a big scoop for the paper—no joke intended, by the way!”

  “How d’you propose to set about it?”

  “Well, we know two things about him which we didn’t know before,” answered Dugan. “Both are suggestive and might help.”

  “What do you mean? What two things?”

  “The taxi-driver recognised him, didn’t he? That’s why he was killed. So he’s fairly well known in this district. Right?”

  “Go on.”

  “That’s one. The other is that the phone message that sent this girl on a false errand was supposed to come from a great friend of hers. If it was sent by Mister Big . . .”

  “We don’t know that it was . . .”

  “I said ‘if,’” continued Colin. “Don’t interrupt! If it came from Mister Big he must have a good knowledge of the Stayners’ private affairs to know that the girl had a friend named Eileen. See what I mean?”

  “I hear what you say,” said Gordon cautiously. “We’ve no proof that the telephone message had anything to do with the rest of it, have we?

  “If it was just a joke,” said Colin, “we must find the joker.” He flicked the ash from his cigarette on to the floor. “Who did you say was in charge of the case?”

  “A big, fat chap. Looks as if he was half asleep all the time . . .”

  “Budd!” exclaimed Colin. “Don’t you be misled by that sleepy stuff. It’s all bunk! I’m going back to the office now. I’ll come back again in about an hour. Have some breakfast ready and then we’ll pop over to the Yard and see Budd. O.K.?”

  “I suppose so,” agreed Gordon reluctantly. “Can’t you get your own breakfast?”

  “Always be hospitable, old boy. That’s the thing to win friends and popularity!” He went over to the door. “Toast and marmalade’ll do,” he said and departed.

  Gordon decided that he could do with a spot of sleep. He didn’t fancy going to bed so he made himself as comfortable as he could on the settee and almost instantly fell asleep.

  When he woke up it was just on seven o’clock. He shaved, had a bath, and felt better. The daily woman who ‘did’ for him had not yet put in an appearance. She wasn’t supposed to come before eight and since Colin might come back at any moment, Gordon decided to get the breakfast he had demanded.

  He found some eggs and some bacon and he was cooking these when Colin re-appeared.

  “That smells good!” he greeted, following Gordon back to the kitchen. “I’m as hungry as a starving tramp!”

  “You asked for toast,” retorted Gordon maliciously. “The eggs and bacon are for me!”

 
“Men have died for less than that!” cried Colin. “If you’re going to hog all the eggs and bacon . . .”

  “Don’t get all worked up, there’s plenty for both of us,” said Gordon. “Here, get hold of a tray and make yourself useful.”

  Presently they sat down to breakfast and invited the constable to join them, which he did with alacrity. They were just finishing when the cleaning woman arrived. She gaped at the sight of the policeman, and gaped even wider when Gordon explained why he was there. They left her to clear away the remains, assisted by the constable, and went to seek out Mr. Budd at the Yard.

  They found him seated behind his desk, more sleepy-eyed than ever.

  “So you’re in this business, are you?” he grunted when Colin was shown in. “I hope you enjoy it! Goin’ to work together, are you? That’ll be nice an’ frien’ly. Come to pump me, have you?”

  Colin grinned.

  “If you’ve anything fresh,” he said.

  “Well, I have,” said Mr. Budd grimly. “But it’s not for publication—understand?”

  “You know me,” said Colin. “Close as an oyster, I am.”

  “Take a look at that!” growled the superintendent. He stretched out a chubby hand and picked up a slip of paper which he flicked across the desk. Colin glanced at it and his face was suddenly serious.

  Keep out of my business. This is a warning. I shall not repeat it. Don’t force me to treat you like the taxi-driver.

  There was no signature but they all knew who had sent it.

  “When did you get this?” asked Colin. “By this morning’s post?”

  “No. I found it in my overcoat pocket half an hour ago. Good staff work, eh?”

  Mr. Budd took a cigar out of his pocket, looked at it, and put it back again.

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

  Mr. Budd shrugged his wide shoulders.

  “Nothin’,” he answered, and yawned. “A lot of people have sent me warnin’s, but I’m still alive an’ kickin’—which is more than some of them are,” he added.

  “This chap doesn’t utter idle threats,” said Colin. “You’re going to find life full of possibilities during the next few days.”

  Mr. Budd took out the cigar again, sniffed it and rolled it gently between his fingers.

  “Life is always full of possibilities,” he remarked sententiously. “I’m not underrating this warnin’. I know just how dangerous this feller is. But I’m not exactly a Sunday school treat myself, you know!”

  The sleepy eyes had gone suddenly hard and there was an edge to the usual drawling voice. Gordon Trent sensing the steel behind that lethargic exterior was inclined to agree with him.

  Chapter Seven

  Half-way down Upper Thames Street, that unsalubrious and malodorous thoroughfare that runs parallel with the river, stands a ramshackle building that looks in imminent danger of falling down.

  Not that this description would be sufficient on its own to distinguish it from it’s immediate neighbours, for the buildings in this district are pretty much the same.

  This particular building is, however, rather more smoke-grimed and mean-looking than its fellows. Its narrow entrance with the dirty stone steps, dark and forbidding even on the brightest day, is not inviting, but this is a business area were people care little for outward appearances.

  A list of names painted in dingy black lettering on an equally dingy grey wall, testified that a number of firms used this unpleasant building as a place of business. This wall had once been white, but age and dirt and smoke had combined to reduce it over the years to a uniform grey that made it difficult to decipher the names of the tenants that were displayed on its flaking surface.

  There was one, however, that appeared to be a little fresher than the others. ‘A. Jacobs. Third Floor’ was obviously of more recent origin.

  Dusk was falling on the evening following the murders in Gordon Trent’s flat, and the work of the day had long since ceased, for the denizens of Upper Thames Street begin early and finish early, when a man in a dirty raincoat turned into the entrance to the flight of steps that lead down from London Bridge, and began to walk quickly along the narrow and almost deserted street.

  He wore his hat pulled down low over his eyes so that it was difficult to distinguish his face. He walked with the assured step of one who is very familiar with the ground he traversed, and at last he came to the entrance of the building which housed Mr. A. Jacobs of unmentioned occupation.

  He turned into the dark entry and mounted the grimy stair to the third floor. A dirt-encrusted window faced him on the landing, and on his right a single door, on which the name of Mr. Jacobs had been repeated in letters of a dubious whiteness.

  The man in the raincoat stopped outside this door and pressed a small bell-push in the door frame. He pressed it three times quickly, paused, and then gave a long ring. There was no sound from within of a bell but he wasn’t surprised at this because he knew that the bell had been replaced by a soft-toned buzzer that could not be heard from outside.

  There was a slight interval after he had removed his finger from the push, and then with a faint click, the door opened an inch.

  The visitor pushed it wider and stepped into the darkness beyond. The electrically controlled door closed behind him.

  For a moment he stood in complete darkness and then a dim bulb glowed in the ceiling. He was in a small room, divided in half by a counter that stretched from wall to wall with a flap in the middle. An ancient filing cabinet stood in one corner and behind the counter was a table with a chair, both old and almost falling to pieces.

  The window was shuttered and over the shutters had been pasted sheets of brown paper that sealed it completely. The room was empty, but lifting the counter-flap, the man in the raincoat crossed the bare, uncarpeted floor to a door that faced the one by which he had entered. Again he pressed a small bell-push—two long presses followed by one short this time—and again there was a click and the door swung open.

  “Come in, Sullivan.” The voice came out of the darkness, metallic, toneless, almost inhuman.

  Sullivan entered. The door closed at once and clicked shut. There was no illumination here at first. Then a very dim light glowed from the ceiling, dimmer than the one in the outer office. This room, too, was empty, but Sullivan seemed to find nothing unusual in this. He walked over to a small table set against the wall and sat down in the chair in front of it.

  He waited and presently part of the wall above the table slid back. An aperture less than two feet square and covered with a screen of fine wire gauze was revealed. Beyond the gauze was nothing, only darkness.

  “You failed last night, Sullivan,” said the voice that had spoken before, unnatural and inhuman.

  “Yes,” answered Sullivan. “It wasn’t our fault. The girl never turned up.”

  “Her taxi met with an accident. No blame attaches to you or Brooks. Another attempt must be made—at once.”

  “We can’t use the same stunt again,” began Sullivan, but the emotionless voice interrupted him.

  “I’m not suggesting that you should,” it said. “You, Brooks, and Cameron must keep Wellington Mansions under close watch. Use the taxi and the van and take it in turns. The girl doesn’t often go out after dark without someone with her, but there will be an opportunity. You must get her, and get her soon.”

  “It’s goin’ to be difficult,” said Sullivan. “We don’t know what she looks like. It was different last night, we knew she was comin’. . .”

  “She’s tall, slim build, and fair-haired. She wears a grey squirrel coat or if it’s wet a pink raincoat. She’s the only girl like that in the flats. The only other girl there is small and dark.”

  “We’ll do our best,” said Sullivan.

  “I don’t want your best—I want a certainty,” snapped the disembodied voice. “That girl’s got to be in my hands by the end of next week at the latest. Don’t make any mistake, Sullivan!”

  Th
ere was menace in the voice, and Sullivan gave a little shiver.

  “It’ll be done,” he said. “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow morning a man called William Sutton is to be released from Norwich Prison. He must not reach London alive. Get somebody you can rely on. There’s five hundred pounds for the man who does the job.”

  “I’ll get Al Davis. For five hundred quid he’d shoot his own mother! What’s the idea of bumpin’ off this feller, Sutton?”

  “That’s my business,” answered the voice. “You do as you’re told and don’t get curious. It’s a bad habit. Cure it!”

  “I’m sorry,” muttered Sullivan.

  “There is another thing,” went on the voice. “Who was responsible for letting the man, Jameson, get away? It was very nearly disastrous.”

  “It was Willings. I was after the girl. I couldn’t be in two places at once . . .”

  “I don’t want excuses! You should have seen that the man who was guarding Jameson was reliable. Now, listen carefully. There is a man, Superintendent Budd. I want him disposed of. I’ll tell you how it is to be done. This is the plan. You’ll need to use Charley . . .”

  “That little ‘dip,’” broke in Sullivan.

  “Don’t interrupt. I told you to listen!”

  Sullivan listened, while the voice outlined the plan for the disposal of Mr. Budd.

  “That’s clever,” he said when the voice ceased.

  “You must attend to the girl and Sutton first. They are priority. Now, you’ll find your usual payment in the drawer of the table. Be here at the same time the day after tomorrow. And don’t fail to carry out your instructions this time!”

  The panel in the wall slid back covering the aperture. The interview was over.

  Sullivan got up and opened the narrow drawer in the table. He took out a thin packet of notes which he put in his pocket. Going out into the other office he touched the bell-push. The door of the inner room which he had just left closed with a sharp click. He repeated this procedure with the outer door of the other office. Immediately the light went out and that door, too, closed behind him.