Mister Big

by Gerald Verner

  But there was still no reply.

  “There can’t be anyone in,” muttered Colin. “You’ve kicked up enough row to wake the dead.”

  He realised that it was an unfortunate simile as soon as he spoke.

  “There must be somebody here,” said Gordon. “They wouldn’t go out on a night like this. Besides, there’s that car.”

  “Let’s go round to the back,” said Colin.

  They followed a little path that led round through a rustic archway until they came to a small lawn. Gordon stopped suddenly and gripped Colin by the arm.

  “Look!” he cried and pointed.

  The french window of a room on the ground floor was wide open and one of the glass panes smashed.

  “Come on!” said Gordon. He ran to the window. The reporter took a torch from his pocket and played the light about the room beyond. He caught a glimpse of a table laid for a meal and going inside he found an electric switch by the door and switched it on. The light came on and he looked quickly about.

  Over near the french window the carpet was stained by the marks of muddy feet, a chair by the table had been overturned, and on the white table-cloth was a great irregular splash of crimson.

  “Good God, what has been happening here?” said Gordon huskily. He went to the stain and touched it with his finger. It was blood and it was still wet. With Colin’s help he searched the room but there was nothing else.

  “Look,” said the red-haired reporter, “take the car and find the nearest police station. There’s one in Godalming. Ask the station sergeant to send someone up here at once. Then ring up the Yard and tell Budd what we found. Be as quick as you can.”

  “Can’t we save time by trying to find out ourselves what . . .?”

  “No!” broke in Colin firmly. “Apparently Stayner and his daughter have been carted off somewhere. More than one person must’ve been involved. Heaven knows where they are but if we find them we shall need help. I’ll hold the fort while you’re gone, but be quick!”

  Without further argument Gordon went out the shattered window. Colin heard his footsteps fade away along the path and later the sound of the car as it started and moved off. He was wondering what he should do to fill in the time until Gordon’s return when he saw a spark of light flash for a second in the darkness some distance away.

  Instantly he switched out the light. He could see better now. The star-point of light gleamed again, shone for a moment, and then went out.

  It came from the midst of a wood at the back of the house that grew almost down to the garden and Colin decided to try and find out who was there with a torch.

  The light didn’t show again and when he had reached the fringe of trees he paused irresolutely. He listened but he could hear nothing but the drip of the trees. Whoever had been there with the light had gone. But which way had he gone?

  Colin stood still, looking from left to right. He almost made up his mind to return to the cottage when he heard a rustle behind him and swung round.

  But he was a second too late! A muffled figure loomed out of the wet darkness, a hand gripped him by the throat, and the round muzzle of a pistol was jammed into the back of his neck.

  “Got yer!” grunted a menacing voice. “If you move or make a sound you’re as good as dead!”

  The voice was the voice of Sergeant Leek!

  *

  Mr. Budd opened his eyes and stirred uneasily. His head throbbed and at first he could see little. The only light came, so far as he could make out, from a single candle that flickered in a strong draught so that every now and again it almost blew out. He was lying on a bare floor of earth and above his head was the sloping wooden roof of some building.

  Several sacks stood in a corner and there was a broken packing case near them. Some of the sacks had burst and grain lay heaped on the floor. In the middle of the floor stood a barrel and on this had been stuck the candle. Standing round this were the men who had broken into the cottage—weird figures in the dim and wavering light, faceless because of the stocking masks that had been pulled over their heads.

  Margaret, her eyes wide with fear, was propped up against one wall. She had been securely bound and there was a gag in her mouth. Of John Stayner there was no sign.

  What, thought Mr. Budd, had happened to the M.P.?

  He was soon to learn.

  The door of the barn, for that is what it seemed to be, opened and Mister Big came in. He paused inside the door and turned his head in its nylon covering from side to side.

  His eyes through the mask met those of the helpless superintendent.

  “Come to your senses, eh?” he said closing the door behind him and moving forward. “John Stayner was luckier. He didn’t!”

  He went over to Margaret.

  “You’re the real reason for all this,” he continued. “You know what I want from you?”

  He took from his pocket a folded paper and signed to one of the other men. He came forward and untied the girl’s hands and removed the gag.

  “You’d better not scream,” said Mister Big. “It would not do you any good. This is a very secluded place.”

  The girl tried to speak but her mouth was so dry that it was some time before she succeeded.

  “Where . . . where is my father?” she whispered huskily.

  “Either in heaven or hell,” said Mister Big. “You can please yourself.”

  She shrank back as he put the paper down near her.

  “Here is a pen,” he said pushing one into her hand. “Sign that! And don’t let’s have any more trouble. I don’t want to hurt you . . .” He stopped but there was no mistaking the threat.

  Margaret drew in her breath and bent over the document.

  “Where—where do I sign?” she faltered.

  “There!” Mister Big pointed, and with difficulty she signed her name.

  He snatched up the paper eagerly.

  “Re-tie her hands and gag her,” he ordered.

  He went over to the barrel and laid the document down beside the flickering candle.

  “Two of you come and witness this,” he said. Two of the men came forward and appended their signatures. Mr. Budd wondered what would happen next.

  He was soon to learn. Mister Big waited for the ink to dry and then he folded the document and put it carefully away in his pocket.

  “Now we can get finished here and go,” he said. He came over to Mr. Budd. “You won’t be troubling me any more, or anyone else. I have always thought that cremation was the most sanitary method of disposing of the dead. It applies to the living as well.”

  He swung round to the other men.

  “Get the petrol!” he ordered. “And hurry! The quicker we get away the better.”

  From behind the pile of sacks they brought several cans of petrol.

  “Make a good job of it,” said Mister Big. “Swamp the place thoroughly. It should burn like a bonfire!” He took a torch from his pocket and blew out the candle. “We don’t want a premature conflagration . . .”

  “Stop!” A sharp incisive voice cut through the barn. One of the stocking-masked men was covering Mister Big with a long-barrelled automatic.

  “What the hell . . .” began Mister Big furiously, but the other interrupted him.

  “I’ve got a big score to settle with you,” he said. “It’s been piling up for twenty years. I’m going to settle it now!”

  At the sound of his voice Mister Big staggered back.

  “You know who I am, don’t you?” said the man, and tore the stocking mask from his face.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The muzzle of the pistol was pressed closer into Colin’s neck, and the hand was removed from his throat.

  “Now then,” grunted Leek. “Let’s have a look at you. Who are you?”

  “I’m Colin Dugan,” gasped the reporter. “You know me quite well . . .”

  Leek opened his mouth wide in astonishment.

  “Dugan!” he exclaimed. “What are yer doin’ her
e?”

  “What are you?” demanded Colin. “Take that thing out of the back of my neck.”

  The barrel of the pistol was removed.

  “Tell me what you’re doin’ here?” said the sergeant.

  Colin told him.

  “Things are beginnin’ to move,” said Leek. “So Mr. Trent’s gone to the police, has he? H’m!” he scratched his long chin.

  “How long have you been in this wood?” asked the reporter.

  “About an hour an’ a half,” said Leek. “I followed a feller down from London. I’ve been watchin’ him for days. He met two other fellers at the station. Well-known crooks they was so I concluded there was somethin’ doin’. I was hopin’ that they’d give me a line to this Mister Big. But I missed ’em. I traced ’em as far as this wood, an’ then they give me the slip. I was havin’ a look round when I saw you. I thought I’d got one of ’em.”

  He shook his thin head despondently.

  “You don’t know what happened at the cottage?”

  Leek sighed.

  “Didn’t know there was a cottage,” he said. “I’ve been searchin’ about in this wood for the past hour . . .”

  “Where did you lose sight of the men?” asked Colin.

  “Over the other side.” Leek jerked his head in the direction of the far side of the wood. “About a mile away. I couldn’t keep too close to ’em, you see, an’ I lost ’em in the wood.”

  “Didn’t you hear anything while you were looking about?”

  “Nothin’ at all,” was the lugubrious reply.

  “We’d better get back to the cottage,” said Colin. “We can’t do any good here.”

  He started to retrace his steps and with a sigh, the melancholy Leek followed. They found the cottage exactly as Colin had left it. They made a thorough search of the place but they found nothing to tell them what had happened to the occupants.

  With the exception of the dining-room the rooms were all in order and tidy. They found where the telephone wire had been cut, and Colin was examining this when he heard the sound of a car approaching, and Gordon appeared with an inspector of police and a constable.

  “Have you found anything?” he asked eagerly. “This is Inspector Parsons. I’ve told him what happened.”

  “It looks like a pretty serious business, sir,” said the inspector seriously. “What do you think happened to these people?”

  Colin shook his head.

  “I’ve no idea,” he answered. “Unless they were taken away by car.”

  “In that case there would be traces on the road,” said the inspector. “Let’s see if we can find any.”

  They went to the gate but they found nothing—only the marks of Gordon’s car.

  “That’s a police car,” said Leek when he saw the car that Mr. Budd had come in. “What’s it doing here?”

  Nobody could answer him. They knew nothing of the superintendent’s visit.

  They went round to the back of the cottage and examined the ground. On the sodden gravel of the path that bordered the little lawn there was a confused jumble of footprints and the marks of something heavy having been dragged over the grass. The tracks led directly to the wood where Colin had encountered Leek.

  “The tracks end here,” said the local inspector. “It’s impossible to follow ’em further among these dead leaves.”

  He broke off as he stumbled over something that was hidden by the fallen leaves. It was the body of a man!

  Gordon felt the blood drain from his face, and then Leek broke in.

  “That’s Gould,” he asserted. “That’s the feller I followed from London.”

  “He’s been tied up,” said the local inspector.

  The man was conscious but securely bound. His little pig-like eyes glared up at them and his heavy jaws worked to try and shift the gag that had been wedged in his mouth.

  They freed him and took off the gag. The man spat out a lump of turf which it had kept in place and swore fluently.

  “That’s enough of that!” snapped Inspector Parsons sternly. “Who tied you up like this?”

  “I don’t know,” snarled Gould.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “What I say. If those swine think they can do a double-cross on me . . .”

  “Who are you talking about?” demanded Colin.

  A look of cunning spread over the fox-like face.

  “Nobody,” he grunted. “I ain’t talking about nobody.”

  “That won’t wash,” said Leek. “You came down ’ere for Mister Big, didn’t yer? I know because I followed you from London. Come on, you’d better spill it.”

  “I’m no grass . . .”

  “All right,” said the sergeant. “Take him along to the cooler. We can charge him with bein’ concerned with breakin’ into that cottage . . .”

  “What are you talking about?” cried Gould. “I don’t know nothin’ about a cottage . . .”

  “Don’t waste time over ’im,” said Leek. “Get him to the station an’ lock him up . . .”

  “Look here—I’ll tell you what happened if you’ll let me go . . .”

  “Go on then,” said Leek. “If your information helps us it’ll go in your favour. That’s all we can promise you.”

  Gould hesitated and then he began to talk. He had been ordered to come to Godalming station and meet another man named Swire from whom he was to receive further instructions. He had done so and been taken to a disused barn where he had been told to put on a stocking mask over his head. He had been told by Swire to go to the edge of the wood that overlooked the cottage and wait there until he was joined by some other men. This he had done, but while he was waiting someone had crept up behind him and knocked him out. That was all he could tell them.

  “Sounds a pretty thin story to me,” remarked the melancholy sergeant. “Where’s this nylon stockin’ you’re supposed to’ve been wearin’?”

  “Whoever knocked me out took that,” snarled Gould.

  “Where’s this barn?” demanded Gordon.

  “On the other side of this wood. Almost in a line from here.”

  Colin dragged the man to his feet.

  “All right,” he said. “You can show us.”

  The inspector gripped him by the arm.

  “Now then,” he said sternly. “Get a move on!”

  They set off through the trees. A quarter of a mile further on they emerged into a clearing. As they did so they heard a sound that brought them to a sudden halt.

  Muffled but distinctly audible in the silence of the night came two reports. The sharp staccato bark of an automatic!

  *

  Mr. Budd couldn’t see the face of the man because he had his back to him, but Mister Big’s reaction was swift. He ducked, swept round his arm and knocked over the barrel on which the lighted candle stood, plunging the barn in darkness.

  Almost at the same instant a spurt of flame slit the blackness from where he had been a second before. There was a sharp cry. A second stab of flame followed the first, this time from the other man. The two reports came closely together. There was a heavy fall and a smothered groan and then silence. But only for a moment. It was broken by the excited voices and shuffling footsteps as the other men made a panic-stricken rush for the door.

  Somebody stumbled over Mr. Budd and cursed loudly. There was a clatter of metal as eager hands groped blindly at the door fastenings, a sudden draught of cold air, and then from outside a shout, and the quick patter of running feet.

  A bright beam of light shone out and two more shots drowned out all other sounds. Mr. Budd had a hazy view of struggling figures in the open doorway, silhouetted against the torch light. Then it went out and all was darkness again.

  But only for a second. The light flashed out again and played round the inside of the barn. It rested on the bound superintendent, and the man who held it gave an exclamation. He came over and tore the gag from Mr. Budd’s mouth.

  “Thank you, Dugan,” croa
ked Mr. Budd. “Can you cut these infernal ropes?”

  Colin pulled a knife from his pocket and slashed through the cords at the superintendent’s wrists and ankles. He helped Mr. Budd to his feet, and the stout man rubbed at his legs ruefully.

  “Miss Stayner is over there. Go an’ see how she is.”

  Colin turned but it wasn’t needed. Gordon had already found the girl and she was crying on his shoulder.

  Mr. Budd looked round. The other men, stripped of the stocking masks, were in the hands of Leek and a constable, brutish-looking ruffians with all the fight gone out of them. Nearby stood another man with a big lump on his forehead.

  “Where did he come from?” asked Mr. Budd.

  “We brought ’im along with us,” said Leek. “Found him knocked out in the wood.”

  “I see.” Mr. Budd went over to the huddled body by the door. The face was gaunt, the hair close cropped and of the same auburn hue that flamed in the straggling beard. This was the convict—William Sutton. Mr. Budd glanced from him to the man with the bruise on his forehead. He guessed how Sutton had rung the changes . . .

  The man was quite dead. The shot from Mister Big as he overturned the barrel had proved fatal.

  “Is that the king pippin?” asked Colin at the superintendent’s elbow.

  Mr. Budd shook his head.

  “No,” he answered. “The king pippin is there.”

  He pointed to the man who sprawled across the barrel, his dead fingers still clutching the butt of the automatic in his hand.

  “Those two shots in the dark were lucky,” murmured Mr. Budd. He bent down and stripped off the nylon stocking that covered the head and face. Colin gave a startled exclamation.

  “It’s Stayner!” he cried.

  Mr. Budd shook his head.

  “That wasn’t his real name,” he said. “His real name was Carlin.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the body of the bearded man. “That was the real John Stayner, the girl’s father.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It took Mr. Budd nearly two weeks to complete his report—two weeks of hard and patient labour. But at the end of it he had uncovered the mystery of the man known as Mister Big.