Mister Big

by Gerald Verner

  Chapter Seventeen

  Margaret knew that she had been tricked as soon as the taxi had left Wellington Mansions. The man at her side gripped her arm and said in a low voice:

  “You’d better do what I tell you. If you try to call out or attract help, I’ll kill you. Get that?”

  She saw the automatic in his hand and nodded.

  “If you behave yourself, you’ll be all right,” he said. He let go her arm but he kept the pistol resting on his knee.

  He sat in silence until they reached Trafalgar Square and then, leaning forward, he tapped on the window and gave fresh instructions to the driver.

  “Why are we going to Mecklenburg Square?” she asked, but he only grunted in reply.

  Margaret sat back in the corner of the cab and wondered what she could do. She realised her foolishness in going out with a man she did not know, whatever the excuse. But she hadn’t stopped to think. It had seemed quite natural that she should be wanted at Scotland Yard. Would it be any good trying to enlist the help of the driver? A glance sideways showed her the automatic, its muzzle towards her. The man had meant what he said. If she did try to get help, she would be shot.

  She opened her handbag and instantly her wrist was gripped.

  “What are you up to?” snarled her captor.

  “I want my handkerchief . . .”

  “I’ll get it!” He picked up her bag and thrust his hand inside, feeling about in the interior.

  “Here’s your handkerchief,” he growled ungraciously. “I thought you had a gun!”

  “Do your female companions usually carry guns?” she asked.

  “Never mind what they do!” he snapped. “You just shut up and do as you’re told!”

  He relapsed into silence until the taxi stopped. Then he tapped her on the arm.

  “Go on, get out,” he ordered, “and don’t forget what I told you!”

  She could have screamed as she got out into the quiet square, but was sensible enough to know that it would do her no good. The taxi-driver was an old man—no match for her captor. If there had been a policeman in sight . . . But, of course, there wasn’t!

  The man thrust some money into the driver’s hand and waited until he had driven away. Then he led her towards a big closed car that waited by the kerb further up on the same side of the square.

  He opened the door to the back.

  “Get inside!” he ordered. “Sit in the corner and keep still!”

  She did so and he followed her. He said nothing to the silent driver at the wheel but as soon as they were inside, the car moved smoothly forward.

  “Where are you taking me?” asked Margaret.

  “Don’t talk!” retorted the man beside her. “You’ll see, if you wait!”

  The car sped onwards and presently they were clear of London. The sweet air of the country came to her nostrils, the heavy scent of flowers from old gardens and the fresh smell of newly turned earth. They were making good speed. The engine ran smoothly and the driver seemed to know exactly where they were going for he never faltered for a second though they followed a twisting course that took them through narrow lanes and little-used tracks.

  Presently the car slowed down and she guessed that they must be nearing their destination. The man at her side spoke again:

  “I’ll give you a word of advice. Don’t ask questions. Do as you’re told, and keep quiet. That’s good advice.”

  The car turned through a gateway into a narrow way and the twigs on either side brushed continuously against the sides.

  They swung to the left at the end and came upon a low-built house set against a background of straggly trees. Evidently they were expected because as the car came to a stop, the front door of the house opened and a thin man came out. He walked over to the car.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  Margaret’s captor nodded curtly.

  “Yes, here you are,” he replied. He opened the door and pushed the girl out.

  “You come with me,” said the thin man, and to her surprise, instead of going towards the house, he led her down a side path to a high brick wall at the end.

  Taking a key from his pocket he opened a heavy door and made her go through into a neglected kitchen garden. At the other end there was a long low-roofed building that looked like stables. He opened another door in this building and Margaret found herself in a brick room with a stone floor.

  The place had been roughly furnished. There was a table, a chair, a bed, and a square of matting on the floor. In one corner a tap dripped monotonously.

  “Wait here,” said the thin man, pushing her in front of him. “I may as well warn you that you can scream as much as you like. No one will hear you!”

  He turned, went out, and slammed the door behind him. She heard the rasp of a key and the noise of a bolt. There was a dim light burning in the roof. It came from a dusty electric light bulb.

  After the thin man had gone, Margaret stood for a moment looking about and then she sat down on the side of the narrow bed.

  Up to now she had scarcely thought coherently, but suddenly the full realisation of her situation flooded over her. She was in the hands of the people who had been responsible for the murders in Gordon’s flat. What they wanted with her she had not the least idea, but they had tried to get her twice before and there must be some very serious reason to have gone to all this trouble and risk.

  She felt physically exhausted and put this down to anxiety and nervous strain. To counteract her tiredness she went over to the dripping tap and bathed her face and hands. The water was icy and she looked round for a towel to dry herself. But there wasn’t anything of the kind and she had to make do with a sheet which she pulled from the bed.

  She felt a little better, and searched in her handbag for her cigarette-case and matches. Lighting a cigarette, she breathed in the soothing smoke, and tried to think.

  She had no idea what they had brought her here for, but she realised that she was in a perilous position. Her first feeling of fear had been replaced by a cold anger. She finished the cigarette and decided to lie down for a few minutes. She must have fallen asleep for the next thing she remembered was sitting up suddenly and hearing the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Almost immediately the bolt was withdrawn and a key rasped in the lock. She stared at the door as it opened and a man came in. He was muffled in a heavy coat and scarf and over his head and face was drawn a woman’s nylon stocking.

  She crouched back on the narrow bed away from him, and he stood just within the doorway regarding her. The stocking rendered him featureless and hideous.

  “So you are Margaret Stayner,” he said in a high-pitched voice, and it was a statement rather than a question.

  She stared at him in silence, and closing the door he came nearer.

  “I suppose you are wondering why you’ve been brought here?” he said after a pause. “Well, you’ll soon know. If you do as you’re told you won’t be hurt.”

  She moistened her lips but she still remained silent.

  “Do you understand?” he demanded impatiently.

  “What do you want me to say?” she asked.

  “I don’t want you to say anything,” he answered. “I want you to write what I shall tell you to write.”

  “Supposing I refuse?”

  He uttered a queer little laugh.

  “I shouldn’t advise that,” he said.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “That doesn’t matter,” he retorted. “Do as I ask and you will be allowed to go free. Refuse and you’ll never leave here alive!”

  He said it in a calm and completely matter-of-fact way that was more menacing than any outburst. It carried conviction.

  “What do you want me to write?” she asked, forcing herself to a coolness she was far from feeling.

  “I want you to sign a certain document. I have it ready . . .”

  “What is it?”
r />   He saw the bewilderment in her face but he did not satisfy her curiosity.

  “That doesn’t matter,” he said. “There is no reason why you should know that. All you have to do is to sign it.”

  “Are you the man they call Mister Big?”

  “I am,” he answered. “So you know what to expect unless you do as I tell you. I’ll fetch the document.”

  He turned quickly and went out, locking and bolting the door behind him. She had not expected this abrupt departure. She had imagined that he had brought the document, whatever it was, with him. Apparently, he hadn’t.

  She expected his return almost at once, but the time went on and he did not come back. After a long time she gave up waiting for him, and dragging the table over to the wall in which there was a barred grille, climbed up and looked out.

  It was getting light outside and she could make out a small yard. It was filled with rubbish and weeds and seemed to have been neglected for years.

  Almost opposite the barred window was a tumbledown barn, and by its side a smaller building. Beyond this she could see a high wall crowned with broken splinters of glass.

  There was no clue to the locality of her prison, except that it was in the country. Somewhere in the distance she heard a train whistle and the faint rumble of a train. There must be a railway near at hand, but this was little help. England was a network of railways, she could be anywhere.

  The light was quite strong and she concluded that she must have slept for longer than she thought. She got down from the table and wandered about the stone room disconsolately. After a while sheer weariness made her sit down.

  She tried to imagine what the document could be that the man wanted her to sign. She was still puzzling over this when she fell asleep again. She awoke to see the door shutting. Somebody had come and gone quietly while she slept, leaving behind a tray on the table.

  It contained food and tea and the sight of it made her realise how hungry and thirsty she was. She ate the food and drank the tea gratefully.

  The sun was up and a thin shaft of its light filtered through the barred window and illuminated a patch of wall.

  Nobody came near her. There was no sound of life or movement anywhere, except the occasional rumble of a train. Presently it began to grow dark outside. The dim bulb in the roof had been left burning all the time but its light was faint.

  At last there came the sound of whispering voices and the door was opened. The man in the stocking-mask came in followed by the thin man who had received her.

  Mister Big took a folded paper from his pocket. Opening it and spreading it out on the table, he pointed to a space at the bottom.

  “Here is a pen,” he said, holding it out to her. “Sign there!”

  He kept his hand over part of the document. She hesitated. The thin man was holding an automatic.

  “Come on—sign!” repeated Mister Big.

  She took the pen from him and went over to the table. And then she saw between his fingers four words.

  Last Will and Testament . . .

  She flung the pen away with a cry.

  “I’ll not sign!” she cried. “I’ll not sign!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gordon Trent had some friends who lived in Bloomsbury. They occupied a tiny flat at the top of one of those new blocks of buildings that are springing up like mushrooms in this district.

  Usually Gordon enjoyed an evening with the Lesters and after a restless day during which he had tried to work but found it impossible, he had suddenly made up his mind to go and see them.

  Lester and his pretty wife were glad to see him. But Gordon was in one of those peculiar moods when he didn’t know what he wanted to do. Five minutes after he arrived at the Lesters, he was searching for an excuse to get away again. He fell back on the age-old excuse of a headache.

  He wasn’t sure that either of them believed him but it worked. Half an hour after he got there he had left and was walking back to his own flat. He strolled leisurely along, electing to walk through the quiet of Mecklenburg Square. As he came into the square he saw a taxi come round on the other side of the central garden and stop. Without much interest he noted two people get out, a man and a woman, but he was too far away to see them very clearly.

  The taxi started again and passed him as it left the square. He noticed the man and the woman walk towards a car that was drawn up near the railings of the central garden. The car was a saloon and as the woman got in he caught a clear view of her face.

  It was Margaret Stayner!

  Gordon felt his heart quicken. What was the girl doing? Of course she might be with a friend but, after what had happened before, Gordon was a little suspicious. The door of the car was slammed and it began to move away.

  Gordon quickened his pace. His instinct told him that something was wrong but he was too far away to do anything. The car gathered speed quickly and swung round out of the square. Gordon broke into a run. He knew that it was useless to try and keep up with the car but he hoped that he would be lucky enough to find a cab, so that he could follow and find out where Margaret was going.

  But there was no cab in sight. The car containing the girl was rapidly vanishing down the road. Gordon stopped and looked up and down. There was no sign of a car of any sort, taxi or otherwise. And then he saw the motor-bicycle!

  It was standing outside a house unattended. Gordon didn’t hesitate. Here was something that was even better than the cab he had wished for!

  A second later he was astride the saddle and kicking frantically at the starter. The engine was warm and sprang to life instantly. Gordon shot off down the road, taking no notice of the shouting behind him.

  There was no sign of the car he was pursuing, but he increased his speed, and hoped that it had not got too good a lead. At the end of the road he was in he could see a main thoroughfare. He came out into a broad highway and slowed down, glancing quickly from right to left.

  The street he was in he recognised. It was Southampton Row. The question was, which way had the car gone? It was answered almost as soon as it entered his mind.

  It was speeding along in the direction of Holborn. He sent the motor-cycle chugging along after it. At Theobald’s Road he got into a traffic hold-up and chafed until the lights changed. When he finally got away again the car had disappeared altogether.

  He succeeded in picking up the trail again at the junction of Fleet Street and the Strand. The car was heading towards the City and travelling pretty fast. There wasn’t a great deal of traffic, and Gordon was able to keep the car easily in sight. He didn’t want to overtake it, just find out where it was going.

  This excursion of Margaret’s might be perfectly legitimate and he didn’t want to look a fool. If it wasn’t he would be no match for the two men in the car, particularly if they were armed. His best plan was to find out their destination and then notify the police.

  He was pretty sure that this was an extension of the two other attempts to get hold of Margaret, and the route the car was taking helped to convince him that he was right.

  Reaching the Bank it swung round and headed in the direction of Highbury and Islington and continued on towards Finsbury Park. From there it branched off in the direction of Highgate. Wherever it was going it was taking a circuitous route to get there.

  On and on they went along broad highways and narrow byways, through small towns and villages, with Gordon sticking doggedly on behind.

  He had by now lost all sense of direction and had no idea whereabouts they were. He prayed that the tank was full of petrol, or at least that there would be enough to last until they reached their destination.

  But it wasn’t lack of petrol that proved his undoing.

  With a loud report his front tyre burst; the motor-cycle wobbled dangerously, swerved to the side of the road, and landed in a ditch with Gordon underneath it.

  The ditch was dry and Gordon was unhurt except for some minor cuts and bruises. Extricating himself from the machine he
scrambled to his feet and looked ruefully at the motor-cycle.

  The car with Margaret was already out of sight and he wondered what was to be done next. He decided to abandon the useless motor-cycle and continue on foot in the direction the car had been going. He might be able to pick it up again if it was nearing the end of its journey. Anyway, it was the only thing he could do.

  He lit a cigarette and set off along the deserted road. It seemed to continue for miles without a break and this was an advantage for the car must have gone straight on.

  Presently, however, he came to a turning and hesitated, trying to decide whether to explore this side lane or go straight on. The surface of the road was hard and dry and showed no marks, but going a short distance down the lane he was luckier. There was a slight dip in the surface under some overhanging trees and the ground here was still damp. Plainly visible in this patch were the tyre-marks of a car.

  Of course there was nothing to tell him that this was the car containing Margaret, but Gordon decided to risk it. He continued along the lane which grew narrower and narrower as he proceeded. There was no sign of the car but in another damp patch he came upon some more tyre-marks.

  Presently the lane swung sharply to the right and ended at a five-barred gate which had been fastened back with a large stone. Beyond this the lane continued, and then again curved sharply to the right.

  And there in front of him was the car!

  It was drawn up in front of a gap in a straggling hedge and beyond, among some trees, was a house. Gordon proceeded with caution now. There was no sign of anyone near the car and he concluded that Margaret, the driver, and the other man had gone to the house.

  He waited concealed by the hedge in case there might be someone still in the car, edging his way nearer until he could see into the interior. It was empty.

  Creeping through the gap in the hedge he surveyed the house. It appeared to be uninhabited for the windows were without curtains.

  He was undecided what to do next.

  Now that he had found out where Margaret had been brought, would it be better to go and invoke the aid of the police? It was the sensible thing to do, but he had no idea where the nearest police station might be. And the search would take time. In the meanwhile, what was happening to Margaret?