by John Creasey
“I know,” said Ross. “Why make a set at me, when the normal reaction would be to make me get more stubborn and jump into the case with both feet.”
“Could he know that Mae wants to keep you out?”
“Someone who knew about the row,” murmured Ross, and his eyes sparkled. “I haven’t told the world. Mae certainly wouldn’t. Leaving you, Bill, and one or two others from the Department out, what do we have?”
“Everyone who was at the Dive last night,” said Craigie.
Ross jumped up.
“Eye-witnesses to the ring’s return trip — there weren’t more than thirty. Half of them I know by name, and Sam will know the rest. I’m on my way, Gordon.”
11
SAM
THE DIVE had a reputation for being spiced with danger, moderately illegal, and consequently mildly risky. In fact, it was as respectable a bar as could be found in London. The causes for its fashionable success were as puzzling as the causes of women’s fashions. It had been opened by a prize-fighter who had retired from the ring, bought by an ex-naval commander, passed on to a syndicate, sold out to a peer of the realm; and it had neither flourished nor failed spectacularly. Finally, a mild-mannered, husky-voiced Lancastrian, who was warned that he was buying a white elephant because all the wide boys of London would fleece him, had bought the place at a modest price.
According to the owner, Higson, on his first day of business a soft-voiced ebony streak, whose name was Ebenezer Theodore Wilson White, had sidled through the doorway, wormed his way into the nearly empty bar, wriggled through the narrow door behind the bar which led to the owner’s office; there, grinning with nervousness, twisting and rubbing his black hands, and scraping one foot against the other, he had stood in front of the Lancastrian.
He was known to be a Jamaican who had been a steward on many steamship lines, knew the world, and liked London. Apparently he had been out of work and was broke. Higson had often said that all he remembered of that first interview was white teeth, big eyes which rolled and a mop of frizzy black hair — and Sam’s voice. Higson also said that but for that rich, deep yet soft voice, and the way in which Ebenezer Theodore Wilson White had uttered each syllable with husky relish, he would not have given him a job.
A Canadian, the first to drink one of the new barman’s Dive Specials, had called him Sam.
Now he was Sam to hundreds.
It was twenty past eleven — and the first customers at the Dive could be expected soon after eleven-thirty — when Ross reached the bar. Sam was behind the polished counter, giving a little extra polish to glasses. He was immaculate in a starched white coat and black trousers, wore a winged collar and a black bow, and as Ross entered he dropped a glass. He grabbed at it wildly, backed, made the many-coloured bottles on the shelves ring, and finally lifted the unbroken glass high, in excited triumph.
“Good morning to yo’, sah. I’m mighty glad to see yo’ so early. Get’s kinda lonesome before opening time, yessah. Yo’ all that thirsty, Massa Ross?”
“It’s too early to be thirsty.”
“Sho’ t’ing, if yo’ intend to be legal,” agreed Sam. “I kinda can’t understand the laws in this country, Massa Ross. Human beings ain’t made fo’ laws, that’s my opinion. No, sah. It’s ridiculous, Massa Ross, at one minute to opening time yo’ ain’t thirsty, and at one minute after — oh, boy, yo’ so thirsty yo’ can drink just as much as yo’ like. Ain’t I right, Massa Ross?”
“Not far out, Sam.”
“What’s it going to be, Massa Ross?”
“A pink gin, on the stroke of eleven-thirty.”
“Sure t’ing, on the very stroke of eleven-thirty,” said Sam, and held up his huge hand to display an R.A.F. wrist-watch with great pride. He contrived to prise the top of the watch from his wrist and turn the hands gradually, peering at it with his eyes nearly popping out of his head. “See that, Massa Ross? Half past eleven exactly! Yo’ said pink gin?”
“Pink gin, Sam.”
Sam turned and did conjuring tricks with bottles and a glass. His face was set and serious, lips pursed, and Ross saw all that in the big mirror behind the bar.
“Sam.”
“Yes, sah?”
“Do you remember anything unusual happening here last night?”
“Who, sah? Me, sah? No, sah!”
“Sam.”
Sam turned, slowly, and with a flourish put the drink down on the counter.
“Pink gin, sah.”
“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Sam?” Ross pushed a pound note across the desk, and Sam flicked it towards the till and rang three shillings. He busied himself with change.
“No, sah, I wouldn’t lie to you or any other gennulmen. I didn’t notice anything unusual in this place last night; how should I know if it’s unusual, Massa Ross? I don’t understand what yo’ want me to say I saw if I didn’t see nothin’.”
“Sam.”
Sam’s face was like ebony after rain.
“It ain’t none of my business, Massa Ross, if some of my clients hab diff’rences of opinion; yo’ must admit that’s the solemn truth. Yes, sah, I don’t have eyes where my eyes didn’t ought to be; I got better use for my eyes than anything like that, Massa Ross. If anyone was to ask me, I wouldn’t even be sure yo’ and the lady were here last night, no, sah. Seventeen shillings change, Massa Ross.”
“It’s yours, Sam.”
“You’re mighty kind, Massa Ross. I’m telling yo’ I clean forgot you and the lady was in this Dive.” Sam beamed with enormous relief. “Yo’ don’t need to worry, Massa Ross, and I’m ashamed of yo’. Yes, sah, I’m ashamed of yo’, thinking that I would tell anyone that I’d seen something I couldn’t have seen because I wasn’t looking. I wasn’t even sure that yo’ were in the Dive, Massa Ross!”
“Anyone else been asking you questions, Sam?”
“No, sah!”
“You’ve a wonderful memory.”
“Yes, sah! There can’t be a better memory in London if I saw a thing, but I couldn’t remember a thing I couldn’t see, Massa Ross. Don’t you worry. How is the lady?”
“She’s fine. Did you see her when she left?”
Sam shifted his feet, noisily, and corrected the position of his tie, enabling it to dodge his Adam’s apple.
“Sho’, seeing it’s you that’s asking me, sah.”
“Did you see everyone else in the Dive?”
Sam’s forehead wrinkled into black corrugated iron, and his eyes darted to and fro. There was no sound on the staircase, nothing to suggest that anyone else was near, although he gave the impression that he was looking for salvation, having no love for this conversation.
Then he beamed, as if suddenly delighted with the world.
“Massa Ross, I don’t properly understand yo’, no sah. I always told myself and Massa Higson, true as I’m here, I always told the two of us that there wasn’t a nicer gennulman than Massa Ross, anywhere in the world, and I’ve travelled all over the world, Massa Ross, and I’ve always told ——”
“Were there any strangers here, Sam?”
Sam stopped talking, his forehead smoothed out, he looked about ten years old.
“Yo’ mean, did I see anyone I didn’t know before?”
“Yes.”
“No, sah, they was all old clients. I don’t understand yo’, Massa Ross.”
“Sure you recognised them all?”
“Certain sho’.”
“Could you name them?”
Sam licked his lips and leaned on the bar.
“Why don’t yo’ ask what you want to ask, Massa Ross? I wouldn’t hold out on a gentleman like yo’.”
“Did you find anything here, after I’d left?”
“Find?’ echoed Sam, in a ruminative fashion. “No, sah, I didn’t find anything. You lost something?”
“Yes.”
“I’m mighty sorry ‘bout that. What was it, Massa Ross?”
“I just lost something.”
“Well, I didn’t find nothin’.”
“Then someone else did, Sam, and I want to know who was here, because if I know who was here I can tell who found this thing.”
“Sho’,” said Sam, in a hushed whisper. “Sho’ yo’ could. I’m not so dumb I can’t understand a simple thing like that.”
Ross took out a slip of paper; there were nineteen names on it. He turned it round so that Sam could see, and Sam’s eyes, nearly popping out of his head, concentrated on that list. It was now really twelve o’clock, but no one else had come in. Sam’s pink tongue ran along his lips, and he took a propelling-pencil from the pocket of his stiff white coat and added two more names, then licked the pencil and stared up at the ceiling and almost immediately added another three. Then he looked round the room, staring at each table and set of chairs in turn, as if making a mental calculation. He added more names, at intervals, then counted the number of the list and did more counting on his fingers; they moved with ridiculous ease and speed.
He finished.
“That’s the whole lot, Massa Ross.”
Ross didn’t say “Are you sure?” but took the list. Sam had an upright schoolboyish writing, but it was legible; and Ross remembered three of the people he’d noted down as having been at the Dive when he had quarrelled with Mae. He folded the list and put it in his pocket.
“Have a drink with me, Sam?”
“You’re mighty kind, Massa Ross. I don’t mind if I do, sah.”
“And another pink gin for me.”
“Sho’.”
“Any of these people who don’t come often, Sam?”
“They come and they don’t come, if you see what I mean, boss.”
“Any of them been here with Miss Harrison?”
Sam closed his eyes and wrinkled his forehead again, exuded a long, slow breath, mixed the drink, slapped them on the counter, and said:
“Not lately, sah.”
“How long ago?”
“ ’Fore you came along, Massa Ross, maybe t’ree, maybe four months ago.”
“Who was it?”
“Why, Mr. Barnard, sah.”
Ross had a quick mental picture of James Barnard, tall, sleek, wealthy, who had been a friend of Mae’s; not her only friend by a long way.
“Anyone else?”
“No, sah.”
“Sam, you’ve been wonderful, and you have the best memory in the world, remember?”
“You got me dead right, Massa Ross!”
“Can you remember any of these people who were always around when I was here with Miss Harrison, and who came in after us and left soon after, too?”
“Massa Ross,” said Sam feelingly, “yo’ sho’ do ask the most diff’cult questions. Now lemme see. You and Miss Harrison come in, and then this guy comes in and you goes out and he goes out. That right?”
“Exactly right, Sam.”
“Last night?”
“Last night and any night.”
Sam said: “I — I dunno, sah.”
Ross sighed.
“Now try hard.”
He read the first name on the list, aloud. Sam looked blank. The second and third — a man named Bray.
Sam hesitated.
“Bray, now,” said Ross. “What did he do last night?”
“Massa Bray, sah, he looked mighty pleased after yo’ had gone, I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell yo’ that a gentleman looked so pleased he grinned all over his face. He was kind of looking down, and if you remember, Massa Ross, he was in the corner.” Sam pointed to an empty space, and stabbed his finger towards another. “You and Miss Harrison was there, sah, and Mr. Bray, he was there. You and Miss Harrison had yo’ little misunderstanding, but Massa Bray was very busy, I guess he wouldn’t notice. He was with a lady, sah — and then when you’d gone, I guess he wasn’t long after yo’. The lady, she went with him, and Massa Bray was mighty pleased. I guess he an’ the lady had come to an understanding.”
“Possibly, Sam,” said Ross. Ross read out the other names, but Sam was vague. He finished and narrowed one eye. “You’ve a very bad memory, haven’t you?”
Sam gaped.
“You don’t remember me asking any of these questions, do you?”
Sam grinned, and his face was like a mirror.
“You beat dem all, Massa Ross, yo’ sho’ do. Yaash, sah, I got the worstest mem’ry in all of London. He-he-he!” Sam slapped the counter and then his side, and doubled up with merriment and was all teeth. “I just don’t recall a word you’ve said, Massa Ross, not a word, not now or any other time.”
“Wonderful, Sam! Oh, Mr. Bray was with Dolly Leeming, wasn’t he?”
“That’s right, sah.” Sam looked troubled.
“Thanks.”
Ross winked, finished his drink, and went to the cloakroom. Light voices sounded on the stairs as the door swung to; and three minutes afterwards, when he went back, eight people were in front of Sam, and others were coming in; the Dive was beginning to wake up. He went out, casting a swift glance at the telephone, decided that he would call Craigie from his flat, and drove there, fast.
He was thinking of Sammy Bray, a man known to hundreds of the Mayfair and the Dive set, short, chubby, genial, everyone’s friend, every girl’s uncle, a man with a hundred fingers and each one in a pie. He didn’t know why he felt so sure that Bray was the man he was after; there was a lot to do before he could be sure.
He opened the front door and stepped inside.
A man behind the door smashed a cosh at his head.
12
ATTACK
ROSS glimpsed the arm, hand, and cosh as he was moving, flung himself forward and felt the weapon sharply on the back of his head; painful but not deadly. He swivelled round on one foot, with the other leg stretched out, and cracked his toe-cap against the assailant’s knee.
The man, short, lean, unshaven, was striking at him again. Ross got home first, the second blow of the cosh just brushed his shoulder. He went like a bullet at his assailant next, pummelling face and stomach, driving the man back to the wall. The cosh dropped with a heavy thud, the man began to moan in protest and surrender.
Ross dropped his arms and stood back.
“Good morning,” he said.
The man leaned against the wall, arms by his sides, mouth open, blood smearing his lips and chin and spotting his white shirt. He had greying hair and a pot-belly, the top button of the trousers wouldn’t do up.
“Tired?” asked Ross.
The man gulped in an effort to speak, but couldn’t make it. Ross moved forward, and the other cringed back, but all Ross did was to dip inside his coat pocket and bring out a tattered wallet and two envelopes, and to pat his other pockets, to make sure he hadn’t another weapon. Then Ross bent down and picked up the cosh. It was black and smooth, about a foot long, thicker at one end than the other. He felt it, and the lead shot with which the head was packed moved sluggishly under the pressure. He swung it through the air, and it made a hissing sound — and also made its owner cringe away again.
“So you only want to hand it out,” said Ross. He moved away, tossed the cosh on to a hall chair, and looked through the wallet. He didn’t expect to find much, and wasn’t pleasantly surprised. There was a registration card and a few other oddments, but nothing which was likely to give Ross much information — except the man’s name and address. According to the registration card, he was Herbert William Cary. The two letters were addressed to H. Cary in an almost illiterate scrawl; he did not think that he would learn much from the letters, but slipped them into his pocket with the wallet — and smiled. He felt more at ease now than he had since he had first started out for Shepperton; this encounter had done him good. So had the fact that although he’d walked into it, blind as a bat, he hadn’t lost a moment. No one could complain about the way he’d reacted; he didn’t even want to complain to himself.
“And do they call you Bert or Bill?” he asked.
Cary licked his lips.
“
Thirsty?” asked Ross. “Come and have a drink.”
He turned his back on the man and thrust open the door of the living-room. He expected Cary to make a rush for the front door, but Cary seemed dazed, and meekly followed him, shuffling his feet. He wore long, pointed shoes, a light-brown reefer suit which needed cleaning and was frayed at the cuffs, a soiled white shirt, and a tie with so many colours that it had to be seen to be believed. He also wanted a haircut and a shave. He shuffled into the living-room, while Ross held the door open for him and made a mock bow.
“Do sit down,” said Ross.
The man obeyed, dropping into an arm-chair and making a spring groan.
“Whisky?” asked Ross.
Cary looked at him from bloodshot eyes, as if he were sure he would wake up in a moment, and then the nightmare would really begin. This wasn’t real, to him. He gaped as Ross went to the cabinet and took out the whisky.
“Soda?”
Cary gulped.
“Sure — sure.”
Ross was sparing with the soda, and pushed the glass into Cary’s unsteady hand. Cary stared at him, at the drink, and then gulped it down as if he were afraid that it might be snatched away from him. Ross watched this performance, smiling mildly, one hand in his pocket. Cary put the glass down on a handy table, and drew in his feet.
“You’ll feel more talkative after that,” said Ross. “Who sent you here, Bert?”
“I ...”
“Go on,” said Ross encouragingly. “Who sent you? A mysterious man you’ve never seen except in the dark, whom you always meet by appointment, and whose name you don’t know.”
“Lumme!” breathed Cary. “How did you guess?”
“Oh, it always happens that way,” said Ross airily. “I’ve come across it a dozen times, and haven’t you read it in books? Perhaps you don’t read books. They’re as good as racing form, Bert, and would do you much more good. Who sent you?”
“I — I don’t know, he ...”
“Now listen,” said Ross, “we’ve had the fun. You hit me over the head, and I hit you back, and then to make up the difference in ages, I gave you a drink. That makes us square — no offence taken, none intended. But I want to know who sent you.”