Mr. A. Jacobs’ business was over.
Sullivan felt his way down the dark stairway and out into Upper Thames Street. He lit a cigarette and walked quickly away.
Behind him shuffled an ill-clad figure, glancing apprehensively about him as he followed the man in front. And there was reason for his apprehension.
Gabby Smith had learned something that night that would make him a very welcome visitor at the narrow door where certain men pass into Scotland Yard under cover of darkness—always provided that he could reach his destination alive.
Chapter Eight
Sergeant Leek gazed mournfully at the melancholy reflection of his long, thin face in the mirror of his dressing-table. With a sigh he patted his black bow-tie into position, adjusted the cuffs of his soft dress-shirt, and picked up the dinner-jacket that lay ready on a convenient chair.
His lank figure looked a little peculiar in the dinner-suit, rather like a half-starved crow, but he seemed fairly satisfied. He wondered what Mr. Budd would say if he could see him now? Something rude most likely. Oh, well, he didn’t care! He was going to enjoy himself! This was the proper way to live he decided. It is doubtful if Mr. Budd would have survived the shock of his usually seedy and weary subordinate, but at that moment Mr. Budd was entirely occupied speculating on the approaching interview with Gabby Smith to worry about the lean sergeant. In point of fact he had forgotten that he existed!
Except for the habitual melancholy of his expression which nothing could alter, Leek looked as happy as it was possible for him to be. He put on his overcoat, remembered the white silk scarf, and put that on too, pulling the collar of the coat over it. Locking the door of his room, he walked down the stairs into the street.
The Kennington Road does not cater for gentlemen in evening dress. They are rare and far between in this district. Several people turned to look at the tall, thin figure in black as it passed and decided that it must be an undertaker going on his lawful occasions.
A taxi came along in the direction of Westminster and Leek hailed it. He gave the driver a brief direction and was driven rapidly away.
Outside a club in Regent Street he alighted, paid off the taxi, and went into the vestibule. By what means he gained admittance was known only to himself, but after a few words with the fat manager, who was also the owner, he was bowed down a flight of steps in the converted cellars which formed the premises called the Silver Shoe.
Why it was called the Silver Shoe was known only to the people who named it. Perhaps some childish recollection of Cinderella had influenced them. Certainly there was nothing childish about the Silver Shoe except the clientele who paid exorbitant prices for inferior food, inferior drink, and inferior entertainment.
The head waiter conducted Leek to a vacant table at one corner of the small dance floor. The band had just finished playing the latest hit by the Insects, a captivating little ditty called ‘Baby, Please put the Cat Out Instead of Me’ and the dancers had already returned to their various tables. The party of three who sat in one of the alcoves had an uninterrupted view of the arrival of the sergeant.
“Look, surely that’s the sergeant who came with Superintendent Budd to my flat?” said Gordon Trent, turning to John Stayner in astonishment.
The M.P. looked over to where Leek was settling himself in his chair.
“Yes, I think it is,” he replied. “What’s he doing here, do you imagine?”
“I hope it isn’t a raid,” said Gordon. He looked at the girl beside him. “I should hate to let you in for that.”
“I shouldn’t mind,” she said. “But it would look rather bad for father. M.P.s have to mind their reputations.”
Except for a slight cut on one cheek and a large bruise on her left arm she had quite recovered from the accident of the previous night. It had been at her suggestion that they had come to the Silver Shoe. She had never been to a night club and although they both tried to dissuade her, she insisted that that was where she wanted to go, so they capitulated.
Gordon looked carefully around. The waiters were going about their duties unperturbed. They must have known that Leek was a police officer, at least the management must. They know all of them by sight, and they didn’t seem in the least worried.
He mentioned this to the other two.
“Perhaps he’s just enjoying himself,” said Margaret. “I suppose he can when he’s off duty, if he wants to?”
“He doesn’t look as if he were enjoying himself,” remarked Stayner. “What’s that he’s ordered?”
They watched with interest. A waiter brought a gold-topped bottle to Leek’s table.
“Champagne at five pounds a bottle!” breathed Gordon. “He’s doing himself well. It looks decidedly fishy to me! They don’t pay police officers as well as that.”
Fishy or otherwise the champagne was opened and the foaming contents creamed into the glass at Leek’s elbow. Consulting the menu, the sergeant gave an order and proceeded to sip his champagne.
“He doesn’t look as if he liked it,” said the girl.
“They buy the bottles, empty, from reputable hotels and restaurants from the waiters, it’s quite a business. Then they fill ’em with inferior champagne, put in a fresh cork and cover it with gold foil, and—voila! A bottle of champagne bearing a famous name and vintage.”
“But that’s fraud!” exclaimed the girl. “Can’t they be stopped?”
“Who’s going to give’em away?” asked Gordon. “My word! Caviare! I say he’s going strong!”
The band began another number and Gordon looked at Margaret. She nodded and they got up and joined the other dancers on the floor.
When the band-leader in a nasal voice had several times assured everybody ‘It was Nobody’s Fault but My Own’ the band stopped playing and they rejoined John Stayner.
Leek was no longer alone, but had been joined by a stout, flashy looking man. In the intervals of eating his caviare, Leek was listening to what he was saying. He had apparently ordered a second glass for his companion who gulped it noisily between sentences. The sergeant waited until he stopped and then he nodded. The stout man took something from his pocket and slid it across the table. Leek took it and slipped it into his jacket pocket. The stout man smiled. Leek refilled his glass and the stout man took a tremendous gulp.
When Gordon and the other two took their leave Leek and the stout man were still talking . . .
It was a fine night and the air smelt cool and sweet after the stuffy, smoke and perfume-laden atmosphere of the club, and they declined the taxi that swerved into the kerb, and decided to walk.
“I enjoyed myself thoroughly,” declared Margaret, “but I don’t think I should like a sustained course of night club life.”
Gordon laughed.
“They are rather an acquired taste,” he said.
“That police sergeant seems to have acquired the taste pretty well,” remarked Stayner dryly.
“It looks queer to me,” said Gordon. “I think it ought to be brought to the notice of his superiors . . .”
“Oh, why?” protested Margaret. “It might get him into trouble. Let the poor man amuse himself that way if he wants to.”
“Poor men don’t amuse themselves at places like the Silver Shoe,” replied Gordon truthfully. “However, I suppose it’s really no concern of ours.”
They began to chat about other things until they crossed the broad space by the Houses of Parliament which narrows into Victoria Street.
“Eileen’s coming to tea tomorrow,” said Margaret after a short silence.
“You mean today,” corrected Stayner with a smile.
“Yes, I suppose I do,” agreed the girl. “Why don’t you come too and meet her, Mr. Trent?”
“I’d like to,” said Gordon.
The street was deserted, but as they neared the entrance to Wellington Mansions, Gordon saw the figure of a man come out of a dark doorway further along and walk slowly towards them.
He appeared to be a rather shabbily dressed ind
ividual in an old raincoat. His chin was covered with a stubble of beard and he wore no hat. Gordon glanced at him casually as he passed and took no further notice until they had almost reached the entrance to the flats. Then some instinct, a warning of approaching danger, made him swing round suddenly.
He was only just in time!
The shabby stranger had doubled back and was in the act of lunging at John Stayner’s back with something that glittered in the street lamps.
Gordon sprang forward and knocked up his arm. The man gave a grunt of pain and the long-bladed knife flew from his hand and clattered on the pavement.
Trent made a grab at the attacker’s shoulder, and received a blow on the chin that sent him staggering against the M.P. Before he could recover his balance, the shabby man had taken to his heels and was flying down the street.
“That was a close call!” panted Gordon. “He nearly got you!”
John Stayner said nothing, but he had gone white to the lips and there was a look of fear in his eyes.
Chapter Nine
The attack on Stayner kept Gordon awake half the night. It was not until the very early hours that he finally fell asleep and by then he had made up his mind.
In spite of the fact that the M.P. had denied all knowledge of the shabby stranger, Gordon decided to go round to the Yard and tell Mr. Budd about it.
He found the stout superintendent sitting behind his big desk, a weary and rather disgruntled man. Nothing had happened to help him at all in his investigations and he was suffering from that most nerve-racking of all nervous complaints, frustration.
He listened attentively to Gordon’s story, put a question now and again, and finally shook his head.
“Interestin’—very interestin’,” he remarked. “An’ that’s even more interestin’.” He cocked a sleepy eye at the knife which lay before him. Gordon had picked it up and brought it with him. “That’s Government property,” he went on. “See that broad arrow cut into the handle. How did he get hold of it, eh? Must’ve picked it up somewhere. Anythin’ else you can tell me about him?”
“Nothing more than I’ve already told you.”
Mr. Budd sighed.
“You think Stayner knew this feller?” he asked.
“Well,” answered Gordon cautiously, “I won’t go so far as that but I noticed a very peculiar look in his eyes . . .”
“If some lunatic had nearly stuck a knife in my back,” he said, “you’d have noticed a very peculiar look in my eyes! I can’t think of anythin’ more likely to make me look peculiar.”
“You know very well what I mean,” said Gordon. “It was a queer look—almost fear.”
“You think that he knew the reason why this chap was tryin’ to knife him?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then why keep it a secret?” demanded Mr. Budd.
“I don’t know, but he definitely didn’t want to discuss it,” said Trent.
“H’m! Maybe I’ll have a word with him about it,” said the stout superintendent. “I’m very glad you came along an’ told me. If we lay our hands on the feller I’ll get you to identify him.”
Gordon got up to leave. At the door he stopped and hesitated.
“There’s something else you ought to know,” he said.
Mr. Budd looked at him and the sleepy expression had gone from his eyes.
“Yes?” he enquired.
“I saw your sergeant last night—at the Silver Shoe.” Gordon told him what he had seen and Mr. Budd listened without comment until he had finished.
“The Silver Shoe, eh?” he remarked. “Gone gay? Well, well, fancy that now! Fancy Leek turnin’ into a bright young thing. I shouldn’t have thought he could’ve kept awake long enough!”
“I thought at first he might have been on duty . . .”
“Just innocent amusement, Mr. Trent,” murmured Mr. Budd gently. “Just innocent amusement.”
He sank back comfortably in his chair, and at that moment a constable entered to announce that Colin Dugan wished to see him.
“No rest for the wicked,” grumbled Mr. Budd. “Shoot him in.”
“I wonder what he wants?” said Gordon.
“Tryin’ to pick my brains,” retorted the big man.
Colin came in briskly and looked rather surprised to see his friend.
“Hello!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here? Anything fresh?”
“What’s brought you along so early?” demanded Mr. Budd before Trent could answer. “Got somethin’ to tell me?”
Colin grinned and shook his head.
“I was hoping you might have something to tell me,” he answered.
“What did I tell you?” Mr. Budd made a grimace at Gordon. “The day I learn anythin’ from a reporter will give me such a shock I’ll probably never recover.”
Colin’s sharp eyes had spotted the knife on the desk.
“Hello,” he cried. “What’s that?”
“That very nearly found a home in John Stayner’s back last night,” retorted Mr. Budd. “You can keep this to yourself. I don’t want it broadcast through that rag of yours.”
“All right. Go ahead.”
Mr. Budd repeated the story that Gordon had told him.
“What do you make of that?” he asked.
Colin Dugan shook his head.
“Nothing! Jolly queer, isn’t it?”
“You’re a fat lot of help!” growled Mr. Budd.
“Where’s the connection between all these various events?” frowned the reporter. “There must be one. They can’t be isolated . . .”
“I agree with you,” said Mr. Budd. “But I’m hanged if I can puzzle out what it is. I can’t see what reason there was for getting that girl out of the way. Jameson didn’t call to see her. He wasn’t even in the same flat.”
“I still think that was somebody’s idea of a joke,” said Gordon.
“Was that someone’s idea of a joke too?” said Mr. Budd pointing at the knife.
“There was no joke about that,” answered Trent seriously. “If I hadn’t been there, Stayner wouldn’t be alive now.”
“You say the attack didn’t surprise him?” asked Colin.
“Not exactly. I got the impression that it didn’t. But I may have been wrong.”
“There are a lot of these half-baked lunatics goin’ around these days,” growled the superintendent. “Don’t know what’s come over most people these days. We never used to get such a lot of violence . . .”
“You dry nurse ’em, don’t you?” said Colin. “They kick some poor devil half to death and what happens? They get let off with a fine and told not to do it again. And some idiot talks a lot of rubbish about being mixed up and frustration complex and all the modern nonsense. Bring back the cat for violence. I’ll bet you it ’ud stop in next to no time. These hooligans only understand one thing—physical pain.”
Mr. Budd nodded slowly.
“You’re quite right, of course,” he said.
“But you can’t go back to flogging,” protested Gordon. “This is a civilised age . . .”
Colin uttered a hoot of derision.
“Civilised, my foot!” he cried. “There never was an age when cruelty was so rampant. Most of the younger generation are a lot of sadists, both girls and boys. Belsen would’ve given them a great kick. They have no morals, no standards of behaviour, and precious few brains. The wonder to me is that everybody is so complacent about it. Surely there must be somebody who has brains enough to realise that unless very drastic steps are taken, and soon, the menace of these thugs will swamp the country.”
“We can’t do anythin’,” said Mr. Budd. “I believe you’re right, but the problem must be tackled at the highest level. The trouble is that the people in power don’t know a thing about it. They don’t come into contact with violence themselves. All they do is appoint a lot of half-baked committees to prepare a report. Has a committee ever done any good? Of course not! They spend years arguing and discussing and fin
ish where they began.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s get back to the job in hand. I’ve cabled the West German police an’ asked ’em to trace up Jameson’s movements from the time he went there five years ago. If we can find out what happened to him, who he was in contact with from the time he went there to the time he turned up at your flat, it might give us a line to somethin’.”
“It would help a great deal more if you could find out where he came from to Trent’s flat,” said Colin. “That would help you a great deal more.”
Mr. Budd regarded him across the desk with eyes that had grown thoughtful.
“Explain what you mean by that?” he said.
“Colin thinks he was kept a prisoner somewhere,” put in Gordon.
“I suppose you noticed the mark on his ankles,” said Mr. Budd. “I had the same idea, you know. He escaped an’ naturally made his way to his friend’s address. That it?”
Colin made a grimace.
“You don’t miss much,” he commented.
“It’s my job not to miss anythin’,” said Mr. Budd. “I don’t always live up to that, but I try. Why should Jameson have been kept prisoner?”
“Because he knew something about Mister Big?” suggested Gordon.
“Meanin’ that it was the Big Feller who was keepin’ him prisoner?” said the superintendent.
“Yes.”
“Well, we shall see.” Mr. Budd yawned and stretched himself. “Now, I’ve got a lot do so you’d better clear out. We shan’t catch this feller by sittin’ here talkin’.”
When they had gone, he sat for a moment or two staring at the ceiling, then he pulled the house telephone nearer and gave an extension number to the switch-board. When he was connected, he said:
“I want a man to trail Sergeant Leek day and night. He’s not to be lost sight of for a single instant. He’s not to know that he’s being tailed. Have him picked up when he leaves here. That’s all.”
He put down the receiver, took out and lit one of his black cigars, and leaned back in his chair with a sigh.
“You’d better go carefully, Leek, my friend,” he murmured softly to himself. “If you don’t you’re goin’ to get yourself in trouble—bad trouble!”
Mister Big Page 5