Mister Big

by Gerald Verner

  He decided to have a look round on his own. He crept stealthily up the neglected path until he could see the house more clearly. In the lower windows were the torn and faded bills of an estate agent advertising the place for sale.

  The whole place was neglected and uncared for; the lawn in front was covered with rank grass over a foot high, and what had once been flower-beds were now a tangled wilderness of weeds.

  Gordon made a careful circle of the entire building without seeing or hearing any sign of life. Some distance away from the house were a number of outbuildings, as neglected as the rest of the property. From the appearance of these, he concluded that the place had at one time been a small farm. He couldn’t see these outbuildings very well because they were enclosed by a high wall. There was a door in this wall but when he tried it, he found that it was locked. Except for the car the whole place might have been empty.

  He had to be careful how he explored the place. It was dangerous to go too near in case he should be seen from one of the many windows. Searching round he presently found a spot from whence he could see the front of the house without risk of being seen. It was a small patch of shrubbery, and in the middle of this he took up his position. It was dark now, but there was little he could do except watch. It would have been foolhardy to make any move until he knew what was going on.

  In the meantime, he was near at hand and would be able to help Margaret when he had discovered just what was going on.

  The hours passed slowly. Gordon grew cramped and stiff, but nothing happened. The house remained still and silent. There was no light to be seen anywhere, and nobody appeared. To add to the unpleasantness of his vigil, he was ravenously hungry.

  And then, suddenly, the door opened and a man came out. He was followed by another. The first man, who was tall and thin was saying something to his companion but Gordon was too far away to hear what it was.

  They walked round the side of the building, and Gordon followed cautiously. They were making for the door in the wall.

  The thin man took a key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and went in, followed by the other man. Gordon hoped that they would leave the door unlocked, and his hope was realised. It opened easily when he tried it.

  He slipped cautiously through the door and closed it again behind him. He was in an enclosed patch that had been a kitchen-garden from the look of it. The two men he was following had gone over to one of the outbuildings and he heard a door open and shut.

  He waited a moment and then picked his way through the tangled mass of undergrowth towards this building, found the door and listened.

  He could hear a faint mumble of voices but nothing of what was being said. Among the deeper tones of the men, however, he heard the lighter voice of a girl. It must be Margaret!

  Suddenly the girl’s voice rose to a scream and he heard her say:

  “I won’t sign! I won’t sign!”

  A heavy blow caught him on the back of the head and he toppled forward, unconscious!

  Chapter Nineteen

  He came back to life slowly.

  His head was hot and sore and when he tried to raise a hand to his aching forehead he found that it was impossible.

  His wrists and ankles had been skilfully tied and he was unable to move. He opened his eyes and looked about. It was a painful process that sent shooting pains through his head.

  He was lying on a stone floor in a big brick room that was lighted by a dim bulb in the ceiling. Most of the place was in shadow but he was able to distinguish the four occupants.

  They consisted of three men and Margaret!

  The girl was sitting on a narrow bed, her face was white and strained and she was staring at a man who had a nylon stocking pulled over his head and face and who was talking in whispers to the other two men. One of these was the tall thin man, the other was short and thick-set. He looked round as Gordon watched and muttered something. The man in the stocking mask came over and looked down.

  “Recovered, have you?” he grated. “You’ll be sorry you poked your nose into my business.”

  “Not so sorry as you’ll be!” retorted Gordon huskily. “What have you been doing to Miss Stayner?”

  “That is no concern of yours,” snapped the man in the stocking mask. “You’ve got enough to do to worry about yourself.”

  “How long do you think it’ll be before the police get here . . .?”

  “Don’t try to bluff. It won’t get you anywhere.” The man in the mask turned to Margaret. “Who is this man?”

  Margaret remained silent.

  “Answer me!” he demanded.

  “I’ll answer you,” interposed Gordon. “I’m Gordon Trent. If you don’t stop this nonsense . . .”

  “So you’re Trent, eh? Jameson’s friend . . .”

  “You’re the man they call Mister Big, are you?”

  “I’m not wasting any more time,” said Mister Big. He went over to the shrinking girl. “Come! Don’t let’s have any more nonsense. Sign that document!”

  “I won’t!” she answered. “It’s a will. I won’t sign it!”

  “You will. And now. I can’t wait any longer!”

  “You can’t make me!” cried Margaret defiantly.

  “We’ll see about that,” he said softly. “I think you’ll soon change your mind.” He looked over his shoulder. “Give me a penknife, one of you.”

  The thick-set man took a small knife from his pocket and gave it to the other.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked curiously.

  Mister Big took the knife and pressed open one of the blades.

  “You’ll see,” he said. “Got a lighter?”

  The thin man produced one.

  “Light it,” ordered Mister Big.

  The thin man obeyed.

  Mister Big held the knife blade in the flame. Gordon watched with a chill in his heart. He guessed what he was going to do and he, Gordon, was powerless to stop it. If only he were free.

  He began to strain at the cords at his wrists and ankles. None of them was paying him any attention. They were watching Mister Big . . .

  Mister Big turned the blade of the knife in the little flame of the lighter.

  “You have beautiful eyes,” he remarked conversationally. “It would be a pity to destroy them.”

  The thin man jerked the lighter away.

  “My God, you can’t do that!” he protested.

  Mister Big turned on him like an angry tiger.

  “Hold that lighter up,” he ordered. “Do as you’re told and mind your own business!”

  The thin man held up the lighter, but his hands were shaking.

  Mister Big turned to the girl.

  “Going to change your mind and sign?” he asked.

  She could only stare at him in mute horror. In her mind she knew that once she had signed the will nothing could save her life. This man would kill her. Otherwise there was no object in his insistence that she should sign the will at all.

  “The alternative will be very painful,” said Mister Big and advanced the heated blade to within an inch of her left eye.

  It was at this moment that Gordon succeeded in getting free. He sprang to his feet and hurled himself on the man in the stocking mask.

  The attack was so unexpected that Mister Big staggered and fell. Gordon picked up a lump of brick which he had marked for a weapon and hurled it at the glowing bulb in the ceiling. The bulb exploded with a flash and the room was plunged in darkness.

  There was a snarl of rage from the man he had knocked over, and a cry of alarm from the other two. A hand found his throat but Gordon, his temper at boiling-point, lashed out and felt his bunched fist strike flesh. There was a grunt of pain and the fingers at his throat relaxed.

  He backed to the wall as someone rushed at him. Again he hit out with all his strength. But this time his fist met only air. He felt his legs gripped and kicked desperately. There was a howl of pain as he recovered his balance.

  A circle of
white light flashed out. Gordon saw the face of the thin man close to him and drove his right fist at the face, but the man ducked. Gordon struck again, but again the man twisted out of his reach. Then the muzzle of an automatic was thrust into his neck.

  “You’ve caused a lot of trouble,” snarled Mister Big, “but you won’t cause any more!”

  Margaret screamed. The report of the pistol and the flash from the muzzle almost split his ear-drum and singed his cheek. But the bullet only chipped a piece out of the wall, for at the moment that Mister Big pressed the trigger there came a thundering banging on the door which spoilt his aim.

  “Open this door!” cried a voice authoritatively.

  It was the voice of Mr. Budd!

  Chapter Twenty

  Dead silence followed.

  Mister Big caught his breath with a sharp hiss. His body stiffened and his hand gripped the butt of the automatic more tightly.

  The thin man scrambled to his feet and stared at the door.

  “Open this door!”

  Mr. Budd’s voice sounded peremptory and impatient.

  “If you don’t open it we shall break it down!”

  The words were followed by the thud of a heavy body against the woodwork.

  “Put the light out!” breathed Mister Big and the torch was extinguished.

  In the darkness Gordon heard the soft movement of his feet and then another sound that puzzled him. A sighing breath that ended in a stifled gasp.

  “What was that?” whispered the thin man.

  “I caught my foot against something, that’s all,” answered Mister Big under his breath. “Come over here. I want you!”

  What the other man answered was drowned in the noise of a rain of blows on the door. The bolts rattled and the wood creaked under the onslaught. But the heavy door held.

  Suddenly the noise ceased and there came the mutter of voices from outside. There was a pause and then:

  “Now—altogether!”

  There was a tremendous crash and a chink of metal on stone as something struck the floor.

  That’s one of the bolts, thought Gordon. He began to edge his way along the wall towards where he had last seen Margaret. Another crash shook the building and there was the sound of splintering wood.

  The next one will do it, thought Gordon. He was right. At the third attack the lock snapped with a report like a pistol shot and the door smashed back on its hinges.

  A fan of light split the darkness and the guttural voice of Mister Big cried:

  “Keep back—all of you. If you move a step nearer I’ll kill the girl!”

  He was focused in the white ray of the torch that one of the policemen held, and he was holding the frightened girl in front of him, like a shield, the muzzle of his automatic pressed against her head.

  “You’ll do better to give in quietly,” said the voice of Mr. Budd calmly. “You can’t get away. You’re only makin’ matters worse for yourself.”

  “Get away from that door,” snapped Mister Big. “Unless you want to see this girl die!”

  “Don’t take the risk!” shouted Gordon. “He means it!”

  “Get inside—away from the door. Stand over by the opposite wall!” said the man in the stocking mask. “Hurry! I’ve no time to waste!”

  “You will have!” retorted Mr. Budd, moving inside the door. The other had the whip-hand and the superintendent knew it. If they didn’t do what he demanded Margaret would die. The man was desperate, taking the one chance that offered a possibility of freedom.

  Reluctantly he ordered the men who were with him to move over against the wall. As he moved his light shifted and Gordon saw the two men who were lying huddled up on the floor. The grey stone was dappled red.

  He remembered that stifled cry in the dark. That had marked the passing of the thick-set man, the other had been killed during the sound of the onslaught on the door. Mr. Budd saw the bodies too.

  “They knew too much,” said Mister Big. “They might have grassed . . .”

  “So you killed ’em!” Mr. Budd’s voice was hard and stern.

  “There was no alternative. Get over there—as far away from the door as possible!”

  He moved round as they obeyed, keeping his face with its weird nylon covering towards them. Reaching the open doorway, he backed out.

  “Don’t try and follow me—if you wish the girl to live!” he said, and disappeared in the darkness, dragging Margaret with him.

  “We’ve got to do something,” began Gordon, but Mr. Budd interrupted him.

  “There’s nothin’ we can do,” he said. “He’s beaten us for the present . . .”

  “We can’t let Margaret go with him . . .”

  “She won’t be hurt,” said Mr. Budd. “He won’t take her very far. All he’s anxious about at the moment is his own safety. He’ll get rid of her as soon as possible. Don’t worry!” He went over and looked down at the two dead men on the floor. “H’m,” he continued, “I know these fellers. They’ve been through our hands a good many times. That’s ‘Snippy’ Jackson an’ that thin feller’s Sam Gates. Cheap little crooks both of ’em.” He looked at Gordon. “How did you get here?” he asked.

  “Look here,” said Gordon. “Never mind that. What about Margaret . . .?”

  “I tell you she’ll be all right,” said the superintendent. “How did you get here?”

  Gordon told him as briefly as possible.

  “Where’s that document he wanted her to sign?” asked Mr. Budd. “You say it was a will?”

  They made a search but there was no sign of it. Mister Big had taken it with him.

  “For God’s sake let’s stop wasting time!” exclaimed Gordon. “I’m going after Margaret . . .”

  “You’ll stay where you are!” ordered Mr. Budd. “We are doin’ all we can do—an’ that’s nothin’! I know how you’re feelin’, I’m not feelin’ so good myself, but the best thing we can do is wait. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wasn’t back here pretty soon.”

  His prophecy was justified. A stumbling step sounded outside and the dishevelled figure of Margaret almost fell across the threshold.

  The next second she was sobbing in Gordon Trent’s arms.

  *

  Gordon volunteered to take the girl back to London. Mr. Budd offered no objection to this, in fact he seemed rather relieved, and one of the men with him was sent to find the nearest police station.

  He was instructed to bring back a doctor an ambulance and a police car to take Gordon and Margaret back to London.

  While they were waiting for the man’s return, Mr. Budd put some questions to the girl about the document she had been asked to sign.

  But she was as much puzzled as they. She had no money or property of any kind nor had her father. There seemed no explanation for Mister Big’s desperate endeavours to get her signature to a will.

  “It’s all a bit involved,” agreed Mr. Budd shaking his head dubiously. “How did this man make his escape? In the car that brought you?”

  Margaret nodded.

  He had, she explained, taken her with him as far as the car and then let her go. She was obviously suffering from the shock of her experience, and Gordon hoped that it would not be long before he could get her home. She needed rest and lots of it.

  It was nearly an hour before the police officer got back, accompanied by a doctor, the local inspector, and a sergeant. The doctor’s examination was brief and purely a matter of routine.

  “Both these men were stabbed,” he said and Mr. Budd nodded.

  “He’s fond of the knife,” he remarked. He began to explain to the local men what had happened. Gordon left him to it and took Margaret to the police car that was to transport them back.

  When he had gone, Mr. Budd and the local men made a close search of the outbuildings and the house, but nothing of any value to them was found, nor was there anything in the pockets of the dead men to offer a clue.

  The house was empty and evidently had been for a number
of years. There was dust everywhere and a few articles of broken furniture. Evidently Mister Big had somehow known of the existence of the house and used it for the occasion. Perhaps he had used it before for something.

  Mr. Budd was tired and weary by the time they had finished. He accompanied the local inspector to the police station and there concluded the necessary routine jobs that authority demands in the case of murder. The bodies of the two men were taken to the mortuary to await the inquest.

  It was with a sigh of relief that the stout superintendent got into the police car which had brought him down and set off for Scotland Yard.

  It had been pure accident which had enabled him to arrive on the scene so opportunely. A furious and rather incoherent young man had reported the theft of his motor-bicycle while it had been standing outside a house in Bloomsbury. Mr. Budd might never have heard of this and certainly would never have connected it with Margaret Stayner, but for the fact that when a description of the blue saloon was issued several men on point duty remembered having seen such a car and mentioned the fact that it had been closely followed by a man on a motor-cycle.

  A patrolling policeman reported that a saloon car which answered the description of the wanted vehicle had passed him on the St. Albans road travelling at high speed. Again the motor-cycle was mentioned.

  Mr. Budd was a little puzzled concerning the motorcyclist, but it helped to identify the car he was after. Patiently in a police car, and accompanied by four of his men, the stout superintendent traced its course.

  The last time it had been seen was passing through a small village named Stendon, and after this they lost trace of it entirely. But having got so far, Mr. Budd was determined not to give up.

  He cast round, exploring roads and lanes, and came upon the motor-bicycle in the ditch. It hadn’t been difficult after that. When they found the car standing outside the gap in the hedge their search was over.

  They had tried the house and found it empty, but a number of footprints led to the door in the high wall, and following these had brought them to the outbuilding.