Mr. Budd flung the note down on his desk and picked up the house phone.
“Get me the man on the door,” he snapped to the switch-board, and when he was connected: “Who brought that note for me just now?”
The note had been delivered by a youth of about eighteen. He was wearing the usual leather jacket and jeans. Nothing to distinguish him from hundreds of others.
Mr. Budd slammed down the telephone and lighted his cigar. He was too cross to go out and eat. He sat glowering at his blotting-pad. There was very little to cheer him up. Colonel Blair’s remarks had been very pungent indeed.
There was just one hope and the thought of it cleared a little of the gloom from his face. The idea that had come to him after the murders at Wellington Mansions, was well under way and might at any moment produce something.
When he had finished his cigar he left the Yard and went round to the little tea-shop nearby, where he ordered his usual meal of tea and hot buttered toast.
For an hour he sat munching and drinking and thinking, and when he returned to his office he felt better. At four o’clock that afternoon a report came through that the Thames Division had taken the body of a man out of the river near the Pool. He had not been drowned. He had been shot squarely between the eyes. The description of the dead man left no room for doubt as to who he was.
Mr. Budd went down to the station where the body had been taken. As he had expected it was the body of Gabby Smith.
“There was nothing on the body at all, sir,” said the station sergeant.
“I didn’t expect there would be,” said Mr. Budd.
“He was a grass wasn’t he?” asked the sergeant.
Mr. Budd nodded.
“Do you know if he had any relatives?”
“I don’t know anythin’ about him at all,” said the stout superintendent. “I don’t even know where he lived. Poor little devil! What a life, eh?”
“And what a death!” said the sergeant.
“He knew the risk he took,” said Mr. Budd. “He preferred doin’ what he did to an honest day’s work. Queer! He’d have been better paid doin’ some kind o’ work.”
“And he’d still be alive,” said the sergeant.
And that was Gabby Smith’s epitaph!
When Mr. Budd got back to the Yard there was an item of news awaiting him. The man who had been making inquiries concerning the original owner of the warehouse had made a discovery.
“It was owned by a man named William Sutton, sir,” said the man standing beside the superintendent’s desk.
“William Sutton, eh?” remarked Mr. Budd softly. “Very interestin’. I’d like to meet this man Sutton. I think he might be able to tell us quite a lot.”
“Maybe they’ll pull him in, sir,” said the man.
“Let’s hope they will,” agreed Mr. Budd.
When he was alone again, he sent for Leek, but that lugubrious man was not to be found. He had left no message to say where he had gone or when he would be back.
Mr. Budd grunted.
“Gettin’ independent in his old age,” he muttered. “You just watch your step, Leek. Just watch your step!”
He sat on, his eyes closed and his hands clasped across his capacious stomach until he decided that he’d had enough for one day and prepared to go home.
He left the Yard by the Embankment entrance and as he turned out of the gates his hat was sent flying from his head. The second bullet fanned his cheek; the third ripped a strip of cloth from his coat.
He jumped for the cover of a convenient pillar and glared at the stream of traffic that was passing. The shots might have come from any one of the numerous cars and trade vans. There had been no sound but a silencer would have accounted for that.
After a pause, Mr. Budd picked up his hat. A neat hole had been drilled through the crown. Death had passed very close indeed!
At that moment, seated in the interior of a harmless-looking laundry van, Sergeant Leek slipped a revolver into his pocket and issued fresh instructions to the driver.
His voice was despondent and he looked mournfully out through the front window at the passing traffic.
He was full of chagrin for he had missed his man!
Chapter Sixteen
Colin Dugan was given to boasting that except from the angle of news value women held no interest for him at all. He was rather contemptuous of the softer emotions, and during his few hours of leisure definitely preferred the company of his fellow men.
“I’m bachelor-minded,” he asserted when anyone raised the subject. “Girls don’t mean a thing in my life!”
Considering this point of view it is rather curious that immediately after his first meeting with Eileen Barnard he should have cast round in his mind for some excuse to see her again.
His connection with the Post-Bulletin provided one and he set off for the girl’s house ostensibly on behalf of that enterprising journal.
Apparently the Post-Bulletin had developed a passionate interest in Miss Barnard, for the first visit resulted in a second and a third. On this last occasion it was apparently necessary to take Eileen out to dinner and a theatre. Their conversation during the evening would most certainly not have interested the readers of the Post-Bulletin, even if it had ever been printed. Which of course, it was not!
Gordon Trent came to hear of this sudden change in Colin’s habits from Margaret, and when next he saw his friend, he mentioned the matter.
Colin’s face assumed a hue that nearly matched his hair.
“Purely business,” he declared. “Got to work some human interest into this Mister Big stuff.”
“That was all, was it?” asked Trent.
“Oh, well, of course, she’s a very nice girl, you know. Got quite a good line of talk for a woman. I thought she might prove helpful . . .”
“There’s no need to make excuses,” interrupted Gordon. “It happens to the best of us sooner or later.”
Colin smiled—it was a rather sickly, sheepish smile. Hastily he changed the subject.
“Things seem rather at a standstill,” he said. “I saw Budd this morning. He seemed rather gloomy. The Big Man has suddenly dried up altogether.”
Five days had elapsed since Mr. Budd had been shot at on the Embankment. In truth nothing fresh had happened. The stout superintendent had searched in vain for something to give him a lead. The fire had destroyed any traces there might have been at the warehouse, and Sullivan and Davis, so far as useful information was concerned, were no good at all. They both adopted an attitude of hostile and obstinate silence.
“They may know somethin’ or they may not,” said Mr. Budd, talking the matter over with one of the chief constables at the Yard. “If they do know anythin’ we’ll never get it out of ’em. A bit of the American third degree stuff might do it, but our methods won’t.”
The grey-haired man was scandalised.
“We can’t do anything like that,” he said, and Mr. Budd nodded despondently.
“I know we can’t, sir,” he agreed. “We’ve got to treat ’em with kid gloves an’ cotton-wool. They just laugh at us! It doesn’t matter, of course, that several people have been killed. They’re only the victims of violence. Nobody’s interested in them! No half-baked psychologist is goin’ to rant an’ rave over them! It’s only the murderers an’ the thugs an’ the hooligans that have to be looked after an’ cosseted an’ found excuses for! We mustn’t do anythin’ that might hurt their tender feelin’s!”
He walked away, leaving the chief constable staring after him with dropped jaw and popping eyes.
Mr. Budd’s usually equitable temper was becoming ruffled. His failure to make any headway over Mister Big was getting on his nerves.
The murder of Gabby Smith had been given prominence in the newspapers. Mr. Budd’s favourite evening paper had, on the previous evening, carried a leading article concerning the incompetence of the police. It had leaked out that Smith had been a police informer and the editor had seized on this
with avidity.
The police cannot even protect the lives of those who work for them (stated the Evening Planet). This man Gabby Smith is known to have supplied them on various occasions with useful information. His work was highly dangerous and he should have been given adequate protection. Is it likely after the fate of this man that anyone possessing knowledge that could help the police will come forward?
There was a great deal more on the same lines, and the article ended by demanding that the methods of the police be reviewed and considerably tightened up.
The stout superintendent had thrown the paper away, but the contents of the article had remained in his mind and rankled. To a certain extent he did feel responsible for Gabby’s death. It was true that Smith was well paid for the information he had managed to get hold of. It was also true that he knew the risks that attached to his calling—if such a degraded form of livelihood can be so catalogued. But despite this, Mr. Budd had felt a little remorseful when he had seen that pathetic figure lying in the mortuary at Thames police station.
Nothing more had been seen or heard of the man who had attacked Stayner. Despite the fact that he was being searched for all over the country, he had completely vanished.
Mr. Budd had questioned Stayner about him, but the M.P. had denied all knowledge of William Sutton. He had never heard of the man before, and could offer no suggestion as to why he should have attempted his life.
There was no reason to suppose that he was lying. It was just one more unexplained event. He felt that he was collecting a series of these events, rather like a theatregoer who had seen the first act of a play and come out for a smoke in the interval. He was waiting for the bell that would warn him the curtain was rising on the second act, and curiously enough it was a bell that did warn him.
He was in the habit of staying late at the Yard; sitting huddled up in his padded chair behind his desk and chewing thoughtfully on the end of one of his villainous black cigars. It was in these quiet moments that he worked out most of his ideas and sorted through the facts in his possession. But this evening he decided to leave early.
He was back in his own office which had been repaired since the explosion, and he was just considering going home when the telephone bell rang. Stretching out a stubby hand, Mr. Budd pulled the instrument towards him and lifted the receiver.
“There’s a Mr. John Stayner on the line for you,” said the switch-board.
“Put him through,” said Mr. Budd.
The voice of the M.P. came over the wire.
“Is that Superintendent Budd?” it asked.
“Speakin’,” grunted Mr. Budd. “What is it?”
“I’ve just got back from the House,” said Stayner. “If you’ve finished with my daughter I’ll come and fetch her home.”
“Your daughter?” repeated Mr. Budd.
“Has she left?” asked Stayner.
Mr. Budd’s jaw tightened. He nearly bit through the cigar stub.
“She hasn’t been here . . .” he began, and Stayner broke in quickly.
“But you sent for her earlier this evening,” he said.
“No!” snapped Mr. Budd curtly.
The voice of the M.P. grew suddenly agitated.
“She left a note to say she was seeing you,” he said. “It was urgent and you sent a cab . . .”
“I didn’t send a cab and I haven’t seen Miss Stayner,” cut in Mr. Budd sharply. “I’ll come over right away.”
He slammed down the receiver, pulled the house telephone towards him and ordered a police care to be waiting at once. Struggling into his overcoat he picked up his hat and hurried down the stairs. The car came round just as he came out of the entrance and a few moments later he was ringing the bell at the Stayners’ flat in Wellington Mansions.
Stayner himself opened the door and almost dragged Mr. Budd into the sitting-room.
“This is dreadful,” he said huskily. “What can have happened to Margaret? Where . . .?”
“Wait a minute,” said Mr. Budd checking him. “It won’t help to rush things. Tell me exactly what happened?”
Stayner poured out a stiff Johnnie Walker and drank it at a gulp.
What he had to tell was not very helpful. He had been over at the House most of the day. He had returned home to find a message from his daughter saying that Superintendent Budd had sent for her to go to Scotland Yard. The daily woman who usually left at six had stayed at Margaret’s request to get a meal ready for her father. It was she who had mentioned the cab.
“Is she still here?” asked Mr. Budd.
Stayner nodded.
“Send for her,” said the superintendent briefly.
When the frightened woman came, Mr. Budd succeeded in extracting her story from her. Margaret had been out to tea but had returned just before six. Mrs. Billet had been on the point of leaving when the front door bell had rung. She had answered the door and found a man standing on the step. He had inquired for Miss Stayner, saying that he had come from Scotland Yard with a message.
When Margaret had appeared he said that they wanted her at Scotland Yard in connection with the murders at the flat. Superintendent Budd wanted to see her. He apologised for troubling her but he said that it was urgent and he had a cab waiting to take her.
Margaret had left a message for her father and asked Mrs. Billet to stay until she got back. Margaret had left with the man and that was all she could tell.
“What was this man like?” asked Mr. Budd.
The woman was vague.
He was of medium height and dark. She thought he had a moustache but she wasn’t sure. The description was so vague as to be practically useless.
“What time did Miss Stayner leave?”
On this point the woman was more definite. It had been a quarter to seven—she had heard Big Ben chime the three quarters—as Margaret left the flat.
“If we’d’ve sent for her we should have sent a police car,” grunted Mr. Budd, “but, of course, she wouldn’t know that. If this man had a taxi I may be able to get some news of it. I’ll come back in a minute.”
He left the greatly worried M.P. pouring out another Johnnie Walker to steady his nerves, and hurried down the stairs and out into Victoria Street. There was one cab on the rank that almost faced the flats. Mr. Budd approached the driver.
“Were you here about a quarter past six?” he asked.
The driver nodded.
“Been ’ere since a quarter to five,” he answered dolefully. “People don’t want cabs much these days. Too expensive for one thing an’ there’s too much traffic for another. Yer can’t get about quickly no more. Where d’yer want to go?”
“I don’t want to go anywhere,” said Mr. Budd. He showed the man his warrant card. “Did you see a taxi stop at that block of flats this evening?”
“Yes, I did. What’s up?” said the man.
“Just an inquiry,” answered Mr. Budd. “Did you notice the number?”
Rather to his surprise the man nodded. He had not only noticed the number but could describe the cab. It was a Renault, rather old-fashioned and painted black. The number was XZ6o88.
“You’ve been a great help,” said Mr. Budd. “What made you notice this cab?”
The driver chuckled.
“I backs ’orses,” he explained. “If I sees a car or a cab with four sevens, I knows I’m goin’ to be lucky, see?”
As simple as that!
Mr. Budd hurried back to the flats. With a brief explanation to the anxious Stayner, he went to the telephone and rang up the Yard.
“Hello!” he called. “Superintendent Budd speakin’. I want the Information Room . . . Listen, a girl, Miss Margaret Stayner, has been kidnapped this evening. Warn all stations an’ patrol cars to look out for a black Renault taxi, number XZ6o88. Pull in the driver and hold him for questioning. Got that? Right! That’s all.”
He put down the receiver.
“I’m going back to the Yard,” he said. “I can’t do any good here.”<
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“Would you like a drink before you go?” asked the M.P. He indicated the Johnnie Walker bottle.
Mr. Budd shook his head.
“You’ll let me know directly you’ve any news?” Stayner asked anxiously as he went with Mr. Budd to the front door.
The big man promised and took his departure. On his way out he called at Gordon Trent’s flat but there was no reply to his ring.
When he got back to his office in Scotland Yard, he ordered hot coffee from the canteen and settled down to await any reports that might come in concerning the black Renault, number XZ6088.
At eleven o’clock that night, the driver of a black Renault taxi with that number was picked up by a patrol car and brought to the Yard. Here, he was interviewed by a weary Mr. Budd.
“I picked up this feller near the British Museum,” said the taxi-driver in answer to Mr. Budd’s question. “We went to Wellington Mansions an’ I waited until this chap come back with a young lady. They got in the cab an’ we drove off . . .”
“Where?” snapped the superintendent.
“’E told me to go to Waterloo first, then ’e changed his mind an’ said to set ’em down in Mecklenburg Square. I thought it was funny, but it weren’t no business o’ mine.”
“Did the lady make any protest to you?”
The man shook his head.
“No,” he answered.
“She didn’t ask you for assistance?”
“No. I thought she looked a bit ill-like,” said the driver.
“Take me to this place where you set them down,” said Mr. Budd, and a few minutes later he was standing in the quiet square.
“It was here, was it?” he asked.
“That’s right,” said the taximan. “There was a car just along there. A blue saloon, it were.”
The stout superintendent walked along the gutter until he came to a small pool of black oil.
“Here?”
The taxi-driver nodded.
The car had evidently waited for some time. There was no proof that Margaret had gone in it, but it seemed probable that she might. The next step was to find out where the car had gone, when it had left Mecklenburg Square.
And that was not going to be easy.
Mister Big Page 9