And all the trouble they had taken had been for nothing, thought Mr. Budd wearily, as he lay with closed eyes against the cushions of the police car. It was true they had found the girl, but Mister Big had eluded him. There might never come a chance like that again.
He called in at the Yard to see if there was anything awaiting him that was urgent and ran into Colin Dugan.
“Hello,” greeted the red-haired reporter. “I’ve been looking for you . . .”
“I’ve got nothin’ to tell you, an’ I’m too tired even to think,” growled Mr. Budd. “Come back later, much later.”
“Hold on,” persisted Colin. “I’ve seen Trent. What do you make of all this will business?”
“I don’t!” snapped Mr. Budd. “It means nothin’ to me.”
“What about the car?” asked Colin. “Have you traced who it belongs to?”
“It belongs to an officer in the Guards,” said Mr. Budd with a tremendous yawn. “It was stolen from Piccadilly. It was found abandoned in a turnin’ off the Strand . . .”
“How do you know that?”
Mr. Budd picked up a slip of paper that lay on his desk.
“Because it says so here,” he replied. “Now cut along an’ leave me alone!”
He sank heavily into the chair behind his desk.
“All right, I’ll go,” said Colin. “Have you tried Somerset House?”
“About this will, d’you mean?” the stout man nodded. “I’m puttin’ a man on to make inquiries. Now get goin’. I want a rest.”
Colin left him slumped in his chair with his hands clasped over his capacious stomach and his eyes closed.
After he had snatched a short sleep, Mr. Budd got up wearily and drove to Wellington Mansions. He found John Stayner in his flat and engaged in packing a suitcase.
“Sit down, superintendent,” said the M.P. “Will you have a drink?”
He indicated a bottle of Johnnie Walker and glasses on a tray. Mr. Budd shook his head.
“No thank you, sir,” he answered. “Goin’ away?”
“I’m taking my daughter into the country for a few days,” replied Stayner. “She’s had a bad time and it’ll do her good. I’ve got a small cottage near Godalming. I must thank you for what you did. God knows what would have happened to my little girl if you hadn’t turned up in time . . .”
“How is she?” asked Mr. Budd.
“Fast asleep!” answered the M.P. “Utterly exhausted. Best thing for her. I shan’t wake her until it’s time for us to leave.”
He shut the suitcase and went over and poured himself out a Johnnie Walker.
“Sure you won’t have one?”
“Not at the moment, sir.” Mr. Budd broached the subject which had brought him, but Stayner was unable to help him.
“I can’t make it out at all,” he declared. “I’ve got a little money—not very much—and that would go to Margaret on my death . . .”
“But she wouldn’t get it if she predeceased you,” said Mr. Budd. “That can’t have got anything to do with this will business. You’re sure she hasn’t inherited any money or property?”
“Quite sure,” asserted Stayner. “I can’t make it out at all . . .”
Mr. Budd pursed his lips.
“Mister Big wouldn’t have taken the trouble an’ risk unless there was somethin’ in it,” he said. “An’ quite a lot in it.”
He left eventually no wiser than when he had come. Getting into the waiting police car, he instructed the driver to go to an address in the city, and settled himself in a corner. The man he was going to see was a lawyer with a none too savoury reputation. He had on more than one occasion come near to being struck off the register. But he knew and had dealings with nearly all the crooks in London. He had helped the police before and there was a chance that he might be able to again. If anyone could find out about this mysterious will Amos Lucas was the man.
He was so completely occupied with his thoughts that he failed to notice the car that was following them. It crept closer until seizing its opportunity it ran alongside the police car.
“Look out!” shouted the driver and Mr. Budd ducked.
He was only just in time. Two muffled reports came from the other car and the window near him splintered as the bullets crashed through the glass and thudded into the upholstery of the seat within a few inches of where Mr. Budd had been sitting!
Chapter Twenty-One
By the time Mr. Budd had recovered from the shock and the driver had stopped the police car, the other car had put on speed and swung into a side turning.
As Mr. Budd scrambled out a police constable came running up, and the usual crowd had gathered round. The stout superintendent briefly explained what had happened, but no one apparently had noticed the number of the car. The only description they got of it was that it was painted dark green and was a Jaguar.
“Probably stolen,” grunted Mr. Budd.
He got back in the police car while the constable moved on the crowd, and continued on his journey. He didn’t expect a second attempt but he kept a sharp look out.
A disappointment awaited him when he reached his destination. Mr. Amos Lucas was out of town and would not be back for a week. Gloomily, the stout man returned to the Yard.
Pulling a folder towards him he carefully went over everything that was known about the activities of Mister Big. The actual facts amounted to very little. Although it was common knowledge that Mister Big was the brains behind all the large robberies there was nothing tangible to connect this elusive personality with any of them. It was only from rumours and a number of things let drop by little crooks who had come into the hands of the police, that the existence of the man known as Mister Big was even suspected. But there was definitely someone behind the sharp rise in crime and Mister Big was as good a name as any.
And that was the trouble. He remained only a name.
The first concrete appearance he had made was at Gordon’s flat and his efforts to get hold of Margaret Stayner. Also the attempt on the life of John Stayner came into it somewhere. The will! That seemed to be part of a carefully prepared plan. And it must have offered an enormous profit to Mister Big, for he must have been very rich already from the proceeds of the bank raids and other robberies of which he was the instigator.
For the rest of that day and the whole of the one following, Mr. Budd tried to plan a fresh line of action. But he had little to go on. There was still the report of the man who was searching the files at Somerset House, but he had little to go on and the investigation might take time.
On the evening of the third day, just as he was contemplating going home, the telephone rang. It was John Stayner!
“I thought I’d better ring you,” said the M.P., “but we seem to be having some rather alarming happenings down here.”
“What kind of happenin’s?” demanded Mr. Budd sharply.
“There was an attempt to break into the cottage in the early hours of this morning,” answered Stayner. “It might have been just an ordinary burglar so I didn’t say anything. But tonight just after I’d finished tea, I went into the garden, and somebody shot at me from the adjoining wood.”
“Shot at you?” repeated Mr. Budd.
“The bullet went unpleasantly close,” said Stayner grimly.
“Where is your cottage?”
“Just off the Godalming road. It’s called Willowbend.”
“I’ll come down at once,” said Mr. Budd.
He scribbled a note and gave it to a messenger and ordered a car. Ten minutes after he had put down the receiver from John Stayner’s call he was on his way to Godalming. Dusk was falling when the car drew to a halt outside the cottage.
It was a low, rambling one-storeyed building, that stood in an acre or so of ground. It was sited half-way down a narrow lane and was enclosed by straggling hedges. There was a miniature wood at the back, but there didn’t appear to be a willow tree in sight.
His arrival had been heard for, as he opened
the gate to walk up the paved path to the porch, the door opened and the M.P. appeared. His face looked drawn and worried as he greeted Mr. Budd.
“Glad you’ve come,” he said. “I don’t like the look of things at all. I tried to phone you again a little while ago to see if you’d left. The wire was cut!”
“Cut!” ejaculated Mr. Budd.
Stayner nodded.
“A whole length taken out of the wire where it runs up the wall of the house,” he said. “Don’t say anything to Margaret.”
He led the way into a comfortable sitting-room. Margaret was sitting in a low chair before the fire reading a book. She looked up as they entered.
“Superintendent Budd has come down to see me about the attempted burglary, dear,” explained Stayner, and she smiled a welcome.
“I’m glad,” she said. “I was feeling a bit scared. Particularly as the servants have had to be sent to hospital . . .”
Mr. Budd’s sleepy eyes narrowed.
“Why was that?” he asked.
“It’s a mystery to us,” Stayner said. “We have two servants here, a man and his wife. They live here permanently. After lunch today they were taken ill. I had to send for a doctor. He thought they were suffering from ptomaine poisoning. They were so ill he had to send them to hospital in an ambulance.”
Mr. Budd felt a slight stirring of his pulses.
Something was brewing!
“So except for myself you’re all alone here?” he said.
“And your driver,” said the M.P.
“I didn’t bring a driver. I drove myself.”
The stout superintendent was beginning to wish he had brought someone with him. This was a lonely spot. And the telephone was useless!
If Stayner’s message hadn’t reached him before the phone was put out of action, the M.P. and his daughter would have been alone, at the mercy of whatever was being planned against them.
And something was obviously about to take place that night—something that necessitated the absence of the servants. Mr. Budd felt the bulge of the automatic in his pocket and it was very comforting.
“I expect you’d like a drink after your journey,” said Stayner.
“I think I would,” said Mr. Budd.
“Whisky?”
“Thank you, sir.”
Stayner went over to a side table and poured out two large Johnnie Walkers.
“You’ll stay to dinner, won’t you?” said Margaret as the M.P. brought the drinks back.
“That’s very kind of you—I should like to,” said Mr. Budd.
Stayner was standing by the window, glass in hand. He turned round.
“Bring your drink and let me show you the rest of the cottage,” he said. He gave Mr. Budd a meaning look and the stout man got up. As soon as they were out in the hall, Stayner said:
“I didn’t want to alarm my daughter, but there are some men in that wood at the back. I saw them among the trees.”
“How many?” asked Mr. Budd.
Stayner pushed open a door.
“Come in here,” he said. “You can see for yourself from the dining-room.”
He led the way over to a french window opening on the garden.
“Look!” he said.
They both peered out the window.
“I can’t see anythin’,” muttered Mr. Budd. “It’s gettin’ pretty dark. Are you sure you weren’t mistaken?”
“There were two,” said the M.P. “I think I saw a third but I wouldn’t be certain about that.”
Margaret came in at that moment and put on the light.
“What are you doing in the dark?” she asked in astonishment.
Mr. Budd quickly pulled the curtains across the window.
“We were lookin’ at the garden,” he said.
“It’s much too dark to see anything,” said the girl. “I’m going to lay the table. I hope you don’t mind a cold meal.”
“Anythin’ ’ull do me,” declared Mr. Budd. “Don’t you worry.”
Dinner was not a particularly jovial meal. Stayner was obviously worried although he did his best to hide the fact, and Mr. Budd was alert and watchful. He sensed that there was trouble coming. Margaret kept up the conversation as best she could but she, too, was uneasy and kept looking from one to the other.
It was a relief when the meal was over and they went into the sitting-room for coffee. Stayner produced cigars and a bottle of Hennessy. They sat drinking coffee and brandy and began to feel slightly relaxed.
It had started to rain and the patter of it on the window was the only sound that broke the stillness outside. Margaret was telling Mr. Budd how beautiful it was down here in the summer and how much she preferred it to London, when Stayner held up his hand.
“Listen!” he said sharply.
“What is it?” asked Mr. Budd as the girl broke off.
“I thought I heard something—outside the window,” said the M.P.
Mr. Budd listened but he could hear nothing except the rain which was falling more heavily. And then he did hear something. It was the clink of a boot on stone.
“There is someone out there!” cried Stayner and before Mr. Budd could stop him he sprang to his feet and wrenched aside the curtains.
Even as he did so the window flew open with a crash and there appeared framed in the opening three figures, one of which wore a nylon stocking drawn over his head and face.
Margaret uttered a scream and flew to Stayner’s side.
“Don’t move!” ordered the man in the mask, and Mr. Budd saw that each of the men carried a long-barrelled automatic. “It’ll be the last thing you do, if you do!”
“What is the meaning of this outrage?” said the M.P., his arm round the frightened girl. “How dare you burst in like this . . .?”
“Put a sock in it, guv’nor!” snarled one of the men harshly. “We want the girl.”
Mr. Budd moved his arm and instantly there was a flash and a report. Margaret screamed again as the stout superintendent staggered and fell with a crash that shook the room.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Gordon Trent prowled restlessly about his sitting-room. His state of mind was neither conducive to idleness nor work.
He had tried working; had tried reading, but all to no purpose. He couldn’t keep his mind from thinking about Margaret and wondering if she was all right. If she had been at home he would have suggested taking her out for the evening. But she wasn’t at home. She had gone down to that confounded cottage.
Why had her father wanted to cart her off to that lonely place? Why did people want to go to the country, anyway? It would have done the girl more good to have come out with him, had a good dinner and gone to a show. That’s what she wanted, to get over her shock. Not brood all by herself in the depths of the country . . .
And then an idea struck him. Why not get out his small car and run down and see her? Almost before he had thought of the idea he was at the telephone.
But there was no reply to his dialling. After two attempts he called the operator. She tried, but only with the same result.
“I’m sorry, there’s no reply.”
“Try again,” snapped Gordon irritably.
There was a lot of buzzing on the line and then another voice broke in:
“This is the supervisor. We cannot get your number. Something is the matter with the line.”
Gordon banged down the receiver. What could have gone wrong with that line? He knew the cottage. He had been down once. It was isolated. And there were only Stayner and the girl there and a couple of old servants.
If there should be another attempt . . .?
He made up his mind. He would go down to Willowbend and he’d get Colin to go with him. Just in case . . .
He called the Post-Bulletin and after a little delay got Colin on the line. The reporter listened to what he had to say.
“It sounds serious to me,” he said gravely. “We’ll go down at once. Pick me up at the office.”
He
struggled into his overcoat and went tearing down the stairs and out into Victoria Street. Twenty minutes later he was in Fleet Street.
“There’s something up,” said Colin as he squeezed into Gordon’s small car. “I’ve checked with the exchange. They say Stayner’s number is completely unobtainable. It’s either a breakdown or . . .”
“Or it’s been cut,” finished Gordon.
“Yes, that’s about it,” said Colin. “Come on, get cracking! The quicker we get there the better!” He put his hand in his pocket and took out a revolver. “It’s fully loaded,” he said. “It’ll come in handy if there’s any argument!”
“I hope we shan’t need it!” said Gordon.
“Be prepared is my motto,” answered Colin. “Bare fists aren’t much use if the other chap’s got a gun!”
“We shall probably find them all sitting round drinking coffee,” said Gordon. He spoke lightly but he didn’t feel easy. The peculiar instinct which comes to some people now and again and which it is as well to heed because it is nature’s warning signal, told him that all was not well. There was danger. He could almost smell it in the air, like you can smell the coming of rain.
He and Colin spoke little during that journey. Each was too occupied with his thoughts to make conversation. The rain started before they left the outskirts of London and by the time they arrived at the cottage it was coming down in sheets. It was Colin who first noticed the police car outside. It was only his warning that stopped Gordon running into it.
“Stupid thing to leave the thing there without lights!” grunted Gordon as he brought his little car to a sudden stop. He got out followed by Colin. “There are no lights in the house, either.”
“They may be at the back,” said Colin but there was doubt in his tone.
They squelched up the soft path to the front door and Gordon knocked. They waited but there was no reply and he knocked again.
Dead silence! Not a sound from within the dark cottage.
Gordon looked at Colin. What had happened? The occupants couldn’t have gone to bed. He knocked again and this time found the bell and rang that as well.
Mister Big Page 12