The reporter read the illiterate scrawl:
I ment to come and see you but beleve I am suspectted so I am riting this mister big has got a place in upperthames street an orfice in the name of jacob were he meets a man caled sulivan e is meeting him there ternite at 8.30 I will be under the arch near lundun bridg and show you the place S.
Colin’s eyes gleamed as he finished deciphering this epistle.
“If this is true we ought to get Mister Big tonight,” he said.
“I hope so,” said Mr. Budd fervently. He was a very tired man for he had had little rest since the murders at Wellington Mansions. “I’m goin’ to arrange for a raid,” he went on. “I thought you might like to come along.”
“You bet I would,” asserted Colin.
“You’d better meet me here at seven-thirty,” said the superintendent. “I’ll plan the raid for eight-forty. That will give us plenty of time.”
“Do you mind if I bring Trent?” asked the reporter.
Mr. Budd hesitated.
“I suppose you can,” he said. “Yes, bring him along if you want to.”
When Dugan had gone he pressed a button on his desk. To the constable who presently answered the summons he said:
“Find Sergeant Leek and send him to me,” said Mr. Budd. After a little delay the lank form of the sergeant entered, and stood blinking, his melancholy face even more lugubrious than usual.
“We’re makin’ a raid on an office in Upper Thames Street to-night,” grunted Mr. Budd. “I shall want twenty men. They had better come in a van of some kind. Arrange that, will you?”
The sergeant nodded.
“I’ll attend to it,” he said. “What time?”
“Be ready to leave here at seven-forty,” said Mr. Budd.
“D’you think anythin’ ’ull come of it?” asked Leek gloomily.
“It’s the best chance we’ve had to date,” replied the stout superintendent. For half an hour he discussed the arrangements with the sergeant. When he had finished Leek went over to the door.
“I’ll be seein’ you later,” he said.
“Don’t be late,” warned Mr. Budd. “If you sleep all the afternoon you may wake up feelin’ that the world is a better an’ brighter place.”
Sergeant Leek went slowly down the corridor, a frown on his long face. Calling in at the canteen he had a cup of tea and presently left the building by the Whitehall entrance. He was quite unconscious of the inconspicuous man who followed him as he walked in the direction of Charing Cross.
Reaching Soho, he entered a coffee bar in Greek Street. A man sitting at one of the tables reading a newspaper looked up and nodded as Leek went over to the counter and bought a cup of coffee. He carried the cup over to the table where the man with the paper was sitting.
“Well?” The man looked at him questioningly. “What have you got to tell me?”
Leek sat down.
“There’s goin’ to be a raid tonight, eight-thirty,” he said under his breath. “We’re takin’ twenty men and surroundin’ the place.”
His companion grunted.
“Tell me all about it,” he said.
The sergeant proceeded to talk rapidly but in so low a tone that the other had to lean forward to catch what he said. When he had finished the man laid his folded paper on the table and got up.
“I’m off,” he said. “Keep in touch with me and let me know if you get hold of anything else.”
With a curt nod he went out and a few minutes later the melancholy sergeant followed him, taking the newspaper the man had left.
Reaching his lodgings and locking the door of his room, he took a thin packet of notes from the folds of the newspaper, put it away in a drawer, and lying down on his bed was soon fast asleep.
*
Upper Thames Street was deserted; a dreary waste with refuse-strewn gutters and pavements that glistened in the meagre light of the street’s standards.
It had started to rain, a thin drizzle that promised to continue all night. Except for the rats no sign of life stirred. The rats scurried from one side of the street to the other, nosing among the refuse in the gutters; fat, sleek shapes, with vicious teeth, that squeaked angrily when one of their own tribe deprived another of a dainty morsel.
Presently, during the night, an army of these rodents would come up from the river and cross to the warehouses in search of food. Hundreds of them, dangerous if cornered, swarming in this infested district, overrunning the offices as well, leaving the marks of their filthy feet on walls and woodwork.
Eight o’clock was striking when a large covered lorry came slowly down the street, and backed into the space before a wide gate leading on to a wharf. The vague forms of men slipped out of the lorry and took up positions in dark doorways and passages.
The whole of this unusual activity was over in a matter of minutes and then the street was deserted again. This time even more so, for the rats had vanished, hiding, like the men who had come out of the lorry behind anything that offered cover.
Curiously enough this was only applicable to the immediate vicinity of the building that housed the offices of the mysterious Mr. Jacobs.
At the expiration of a quarter of an hour, a man came walking swiftly from the direction of London Bridge. He wore a dirty raincoat and a cap that was pulled low over his eyes. It was difficult to see what he looked like. Without pausing, he turned into the entrance to Mr. Jacobs’ building.
Mr. Budd, watching in company with Gordon Trent and Colin Dugan from the convenient concealment of a narrow alley almost opposite, pressed Colin’s arm.
“Number one,” he whispered, and turned to the thin, wizen-faced little shrimp of a man who stood shivering at his side. “How many are comin’ to this party?”
Gabby Smith shook his head.
“Dunno,” he whined in a strong cockney twang. “I on’y know about Sullivan. I don’t know nuthin’ about no others.”
“How does Mister Big come?” asked Colin.
Smith shook his head again.
“I dunno ’ow ’e comes,” he answered. There were beads of perspiration on the little man’s face and he was shaking with either excitement or fear. It was curious fact, which the stout superintendent had noticed before, that not once did he refer to Mister Big as anything else than ‘he.’
“Is there another entrance at the back?” asked Mr. Budd.
“No, there ain’t.”
“Then how the devil does he get in?” demanded Mr. Budd irritably.
“Couldn’t tell yer. Nobody ain’t ever seed ’im go in or come out.”
“He can’t live there,” grunted the superintendent, “so there must be some other way in. Well, he won’t get away this time. Once he’s inside we’ve got him bottled up. The place is surrounded. He’ll have to perform a miracle to get through my cordon without being spotted.”
He broke off. Another man had appeared at the other end of the street. He was short, rather stocky, and walked with an assured swing to his broad shoulders.
“That’s Al Davis,” said Gabby in his nasal whine.
This man too disappeared into the gloomy entrance to the building housing Mr. Jacobs.
“Give it another ten minutes an’ then we can start the fireworks,” grunted Mr. Budd.
“You won’t want me any more, will yer?” whined the little man pleadingly.
“All right, you can hop it,” said Mr. Budd, and with a scared look round him, Gabby Smith shuffled off rapidly, keeping in the shadows until he vanished from sight.
The other three waited patiently after he had gone, until a single stroke from the church clock denoted the half hour.
Mr. Budd waited five minutes and then he stepped from the darkness of the alley, took a torch from his pocket and flashed it twice.
Instantly three other men materialised from the surrounding gloom and joined him. They had a muttered exchange and then all six crossed the road and entered the doorway of Mr. Jacobs’ building.
�
��We shall have to break down the door with as little noise as possible,” whispered Mr. Budd as they prepared to ascend the narrow stairs. “It’ll give ’em a few seconds warning, but we can’t help that.”
Followed by Colin and Gordon, he led the way, flashing his torch to light the steps, and quietly they mounted to the third floor. Mr. Jacobs’ door was shut.
They stopped outside it. Mr. Budd drew a revolver from his pocket.
“Now,” he murmured softly.
The two burliest of the men with him hurled themselves against the door. It cracked but the lock held.
“Again!” rapped Mr. Budd.
At the second onslaught the door crashed open with a splintering of wood.
Mr. Budd was the first to cross the threshold, and as he did so there came a startled cry of alarm from an open doorway facing him.
And then the dim light in the outer office went out.
“Guard the door,” ordered Mr. Budd, and lumbering over to the flap in the counter flung it back. Almost as the words left his lips, a vicious pencil of flame split the darkness and a bullet snarled past the superintendent’s head.
Two more shots followed so closely together that they almost sounded as one. One of the men who had entered behind him, gave a cry and collapsed on the floor clasping his leg.
Mr. Budd dropped to cover behind the counter.
“Blow your whistle!” he shouted. The whistle was drowned in the fusillade of shots which whined round him. A muffled laugh came from somewhere, and then a rush of feet on the stairs, and a dozen men poured into the room.
“The people we want are in there,” said Mr. Budd, and led the way to the door of the inner office. The door fell with a crash and they saw the stocky man, Davis, cramming a fresh clip of cartridges into his automatic.
Colin knocked the weapon out of his hand and the man, with a snarl of rage, closed with him. They both fell to the floor fighting desperately. Davis was enormously strong and got his hands round Colin’s throat. Gordon saw what was happening and went to his friend’s assistance. Gripping the man round the neck he half strangled him until he was forced to let go.
Davis writhed and twisted to try and free himself. He might have succeeded if Colin hadn’t jumped up and banged his head on the floor, after which he took no further interest in the proceedings.
Both panting heavily, Colin and Gordon looked about to see what was happening. In the light of the torches carried by the police they saw that Sullivan had been secured in handcuffs and stood sullenly staring at the floor.
“Where’s the other man?” demanded Mr. Budd sharply.
“These two were the only ones in the building, sir,” answered one of his men. He indicated Sullivan and Davis.
“Are you sure nobody got away?”
“Nobody got past us,” answered the man guarding the door. “Did they, Bill?”
The other man shook his head.
Mr. Budd went over to Sullivan.
“What’s happened to the man called Mister Big?” he demanded.
“Find out!” Sullivan snarled the reply through his teeth.
“Make a thorough search,” ordered the stout superintendent, “and see if you can find another exit to this place.”
“Right, sir!”
Six of the men who had taken part in the raid left the room.
“You look after that feller who’s wounded, will you?” went on Mr. Budd looking at Gordon and he nodded.
Colin Dugan was carefully testing the walls of the inner room to the sneering amusement of Sullivan.
“Looking for secret panels?” he scoffed. “Been reading sensational thrillers, eh?”
“You won’t be readin’ ’em, you’ll be livin’ ’em,” snapped Mr. Budd. “You’ll go down for twenty years.”
“You’ve got nothing on me,” retorted Sullivan.
“Wait till you hear the charge,” answered Mr. Budd. “It’ll make you feel that Jack the Ripper was a boy scout!”
He turned his back on the scowling Sullivan and joined Colin.
“Found anythin’?”
Colin shook his head.
“Not yet. These walls are solid.”
Mr. Budd rubbed irritably at his bristly hair.
“He can’t have vanished into thin air,” he grunted. “There must be some way out.”
“Perhaps he wasn’t here at all,” suggested Colin. “If there was a back exit the men surrounding the building would’ve seen him.”
One of the men forming the search party came back at that moment.
“We’ve searched the entire building, sir,” he reported. “There’s no other way out or in.”
“That’s that!” growled the disappointed superintendent. “He can’t have been here after all . . .” He broke off as Colin uttered an exclamation. “What is it?”
“This part of the wall sounds hollow,” said the reporter and tapped a portion of the wall above a small table.
Mr. Budd tested it himself.
“You’re right,” he declared. “Let’s see if there’s anythin’ behind it.”
Two of his men attacked the wall with clasp knives. A panel slid back revealing a screen of fine wire gauze. Into the small chamber beyond, Mr. Budd flashed a light and started back.
“Quick!” he cried exultantly. “He’s in there!”
Ripping the wire screen down he covered the figure crouching in the chair with his automatic.
“I want you!” he said. “Put your hands up and come out.”
The man in the chair remained motionless. With sudden uneasiness Mr. Budd reached out and caught the man by the shoulder. The head fell on one side and the reason for his stillness was revealed.
The thing in the chair was a wax dummy!
Chapter Thirteen
A complete examination of the building revealed the ingenious method by which Mister Big had avoided the possibility of any of the people he employed betraying him.
He had never actually entered the office occupied by the mysterious Mr. Jacobs at all. The doors, the panel, and the lights were all electrically controlled from another office in a warehouse farther down the street.
They were able to trace this by the wires that ran down the side of the building to the warehouse. Behind the dummy they found a loudspeaker and a microphone leading to a second loudspeaker and microphone in the warehouse office. By this means he had been able to talk to the people who came to him and hear their replies as easily as if he had really been seated behind the wire gauze as they supposed.
He was completely immune from capture. His safety was assured.
“Quite a clever idea,” remarked Mr. Budd. “This feller’s got brains whoever he is.”
It was long after midnight by the time they had finished, and, tired out, Gordon fell into bed and was almost instantly asleep. He was still in bed when Colin called on the following morning. Getting up he pulled on a dressing-gown, and went into the sitting-room.
“Well, how are you feeling this morning?” greeted Colin.
“I shall be better when I’ve had some breakfast,” grunted Gordon. “I’m famished.”
“I had mine hours ago,” said the other virtuously. “But don’t let me stop you. Eat, drink and be merry . . .”
“Don’t complete the quotation,” said Gordon. “Help yourself to cigarettes. I’ll bring you some tea when it’s made.”
He went out into the kitchen and put the kettle on, laid a tray, and rummaged in the fridge for bacon and eggs. When the tea was made and the breakfast cooked he carried it in to the sitting-room.
“You’re an early bird,” he said as he poured out tea and handed a cup to Colin. “Guilty conscience?”
“I’m on my way to see Budd,” replied Colin. “I came here first because I thought you might like to come with me.”
“What’s on?” mumbled Gordon, his mouth full of egg and bacon. “I shall never get any work done until they get this chap Mister Big . . .”
“Don’t come if you
’re busy . . .”
“Of course, I’m coming. I won’t be long.” He hastily finished his breakfast, had a quick bath and shave, shoved the dirty dishes in the sink, and announced himself ready.
Mr. Budd looked a very weary man when they were shown into his office.
“I’ve been workin’ most of the night with precious little to show for it,” he growled. “This feller’s clever. That conjurin’ trick he worked in Upper Thames Street was pretty smart.”
“How did he know when anybody called?” asked Gordon.
“They gave a special signal on a buzzer which rang in his private bolt-hole in the warehouse,” replied Mr. Budd. “I got that bit out of Sullivan with a lot of persuasion. When he got the signal he operated the control for the door and the lights. Simple, isn’t it?”
“Can’t you trace him by the people who rented him the office?” asked Colin.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But we can’t. The buildin’s owned by the firm that occupies the ground floor. They’re fishmongers on a large scale. Two years ago they let this one room to a feller who called himself an inventor. He was a thin chap with dark hair and a little black moustache—looked like a foreigner, according to them. Said his name was Lubeck. He paid a year’s rent in lieu of the usual references, said he didn’t know anyone in London and paid in cash. He brought a lot of electrical and mechanical stuff. Of course, nobody questioned this because he said he was an inventor. In fact, they didn’t take much notice of him at all.”
“Pity!”
Colin Dugan frowned.
“What about the other place—Jacobs’ office? Who took that?” he said.
“I drew another blank there,” sighed Mr. Budd. “It was rented about the same time by a little Jewish chap who said he was in the canned goods trade. Like the other feller, Lubeck, he paid in advance. I got a description of Jacobs. There are about a hundred thousand people walking about the streets of London exactly like him!”
Colin lit a cigarette, blew out a cloud of smoke and watched it drift towards the ceiling.
“So the raid didn’t help very much?” he said.
Mister Big Page 7