by John Creasey
Cary averted his gaze and didn’t answer.
Ross said: “Look,” in a very gentle voice.
Cary glanced up — and found the muzzle of an automatic only a yard from his face. He reared back, putting up his hands as if they would fend off bullets. He had a thin face with a button of a nose, and his ears stuck out.
“Supposing we don’t argue. Who sent you?”
Cary muttered: “Tiger.”
“Oh, really.”
“I — I tell you it was Tiger, but if he finds out ...”
“Tiger who?”
“Just — Tiger.”
“Oh,” said Ross, and wondered if by chance there was a man in London whose surname was Tiger. “What did he tell you to do?”
“I — I had to open your tin.”
“Oh,” said Ross, puzzled. “Sardine tin?”
“Tin, can, safe,” muttered Cary. “That’s what I had to do, but if Tiger finds out I’ve told you ...”
“What were you to take from my safe?”
“Everything!”
“Well, well,” said Ross, “he’s a pretty hopeful chap, this Tiger. Nothing special?”
“No!”
“Were you to look anywhere else?”
“Just the safe,” said Cary.
“Now I wonder what particular thing Tiger wanted,” said Ross and looked down into the barrel of the automatic. “Nasty things these, aren’t they, and I’m told it’s legal to shoot a house-breaker caught red-handed and threatening violence.”
“Mister, you wouldn’t...”
“You’d be surprised what I would do if I’m roused,” said Ross. “What were you looking for at Mae Harrison’s flat this morning?”
If Cary had pleaded for the next twenty-four hours that he had never heard of Mae Harrison, his expression would have given him away. He didn’t answer to the maid’s description very well, but there was no doubt that he had searched Mae’s flat. He stared at the gun, which was now levelled towards him, as if afraid that it might go off at any moment. His long hands clutched the arms of his chair, his lips were parted, and his tongue kept darting out, running along his lips from one corner to the other and then disappearing again. He was breathing heavily; that was the only sound in the flat.
“Well, what did you want from that flat?” asked Ross.
“I don’t know.”
“I see — you just have to close your eyes and wish, and you’d be inspired to know what Tiger wanted.”
“I only had to do the job, I didn’t have to look for anything, I had a cove with me.”
“Tiger?”
“No,” said Cary, and as nearly as he could, while feeling so scared, he sounded derisive. “Just a pal to keep a look-aht. ’E couldn’t come this time.”
“Your bad luck. Sure it wasn’t Tiger?”
“Tiger never does the job hisself, you ought to know that.”
“Don’t blame me, blame my father,” said Ross, “he must have neglected my education. So you had someone with you when you went to Miss Harrison’s flat, and he knew what he was after, but didn’t tell you.”
“Tha’s right!”
Ross said softly: “You’re a liar. What did you go for?”
Cary muttered: “Tiger just told me to look rahnd, take what I could put me ’ands on. Anyfink.”
That could be true. But why?
“How did you get in?” Ross asked.
“He had a key.”
“And here?”
“Tiger give me a key. That’s the truth, he give me one!” Cary wriggled to one side and dived his hand into his pocket, then drew out a Yale key and held it aloft, triumphant. “See!”
“And he didn’t tell you where he got it?”
“Of course he didn’t,” said Cary, witheringly. “Tiger never tells you anything. Mister, I didn’t do you no ’arm, I wouldn’t ’ave ——”
“They ought to have christened you George Washington,” said Ross, mildly. “Ever met Miss Harrison?”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Where did you meet this man who was at the flat with you?”
“ ’E come wiv me.”
“Did Tiger know?”
“No — just give me the job.”
“Where does Tiger live?”
Cary said: “If you don’t know, you can find out easy enough. Mister, I didn’t want to do the job, but I got a wife and kids, I gotta live, they ...”
“I seem to have heard that one before somewhere,” said Ross. “It won’t work, Cary.”
He glanced away from the prisoner towards the safe, which was in a corner, hidden by a small, built-in cupboard. The door was open, but the contents were still there. Most of the contents would have been no use to any burglar; there were deeds of properties, his will, a few share certificates, a few trifles of jewellery, watches, two more cigarette-cases. There was nothing about the Department there, and that was the only thing he could imagine Cary’s employer wanted.
“Where does Tiger live?” he asked, turning slowly.
“Cor’ strewth, why arst me? Whitechapel, everyone knows Tiger. Mister, I never did you no ’arm, did I? I ’aven’t busted the safe, you can lock it again, it’s only an old one — why, any kid could open a can like that. You don’t ’ave to ...”
“I ought to, you need a few months in the cooler, Bert. I’ve your name and address and can put the police on to you in five minutes. You know that.”
Cary didn’t speak.
“Go into the kitchen and wait there,” said Ross.
Cary got up slowly, looking as if he thought this was also a trick, and sidled towards the door. Ross grinned as he watched the man glance at the front door, and then turn towards the kitchen; he knew the way, which meant that he had looked through the flat before starting work on the safe. Ross closed the door with a bang, and then went to the telephone and dialled Craigie’s number. He watched the door all the time, but there was no sound and no sign of movement.
Craigie answered.
“There’s a little man, forty-ish, five-feet six, light-brown suit, greying hair, pot-bellied, and with pointed shoes and a tie that is a lineal descendent of Joseph’s coat,” said Ross.
“Where?” asked Craigie.
Ross chuckled.
“In my kitchen. I’m going to let him go in a few minutes. How long will it take you to have someone here to follow him?”
“Twenty minutes,” said Craigie.
“Will you fix it?” asked Ross. “I’ll hold on, I’ve one or two other things.”
“Yes.”
Craigie went off, and next moment Ross heard his voice as he spoke into another telephone. Ross watched the door, half-expecting Cary to be outside, turning the handle or trying to listen at the keyhole.
Craigie was soon back.
“What’s the rest, Peter?”
“There’s a Samuel Bray, plumpish and all merry and bright, one of the new socialites who’s often at the Dive,” said Ross. “I think he’ll be worth checking. Nothing definite, but he took unholy joy in my row with Mae last night. His latest girl friend is Dolly Leeming, ex front row of the chorus. Ten years ex. She was with Bray last night. And then there’s a sleek, smooth type, named James Barnard, who used to know Mae well and who’s an outsider. Can you vet them all?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks,” said Ross. “And have you ever heard of a man named Tiger?”
“Willy Tiger?”
Ross gulped.
“I didn’t ask his pet name. He lives in Whitechapel.”
“That’s right, Seventeen Millicent Street,” said Craigie promptly — and chuckled. “I think you might enjoy meeting the Tiger. Thinking of trying to?”
“What’s the snag?” asked Ross suspiciously.
“He’s just ...” said Craigie, and broke off. “Sorry, it’s not important, I’ve a caller.” He rang off, leaving Ross holding the receiver with one hand and smoothing the back of his head gingerly with the other. Ross shrugged and
put the receiver down. He glanced at his watch; it was five minutes to one. He went to the door silently, and pulled it open abruptly.
Cary wasn’t there.
Cary was sitting on the kitchen draining-board, looking thoroughly miserable.
He sprang up.
“Can I go?”
“Not as soon as all that,” said Ross. “Cut me some sandwiches, there’s a chunk of meat in the larder, and make me some coffee. Open a small tin of fruit, and lay that tray — for one, I’m not giving free meals. Then you can scram.”
He went out again, sat back in his living-room, eyes closed, head aching slightly, very preoccupied about a man named Willy Tiger.
Cary brought in the tray; a Savoy waiter couldn’t have done a better job.
“Now clear out,” said Ross.
Cary didn’t waste any time saying thanks, just streaked for the door, casting one swift look back, as if he expected the gun to pop out of Ross’s pocket again. As a precaution he slammed the door. Ross heard him running down the steps and across the mews, but didn’t get up. If he’d troubled to do that, he would have seen the wiry Perry following the little crook.
Ross ate leisurely and thought still more about Willy Tiger. Craigie didn’t rate him high, but Cary did; and Cary’s employers were Mae’s kidnappers; they were using Tiger, and that suggested that they also rated him fairly high. Was it possible that Craigie had made a mistake? It was possible, but not likely.
Ross could get more information, Miller and others at the Yard would be free with it, but that would prejudice him. He wanted to meet Willy Tiger and form his own opinions.
He left the flat at five past two.
13
TIGER
WHITECHAPEL was noisy and crowded. Cars hummed, lorries roared, two-decker buses grumbled, and cyclists thronged the sides of the roads. Outside nearly every shop a man or woman stood waiting hopefully for custom and talking persuasively to anyone who dawdled nearby. A sergeant and a policeman stood on a corner, watching the flowing traffic and the hurrying people with an almost regal air. Now and again a flashily dressed girl passed; as often, a youth with broad, squared shoulders and a suit which looked too big for him; without exception, these wore ties which competed with Cary’s. Barrow-boys pushed their barrows and cried their wares, fruit on the barrows looked bright and appetising. An old woman sat in front of a huge flower-stall on the corner opposite the policeman, and seemed to be nodding herself to sleep.
Ross drew alongside the policeman. The sergeant leaned towards his car.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“I’m looking for Millicent Street.”
“Oh,” said the sergeant, a large man, and paused, as if to take in the gleaming car and the well-dressed driver. “Any special part of it?”
“Just Millicent Street, I’m told it’s nearby.”
“Yes, sir.” A large forefinger pointed. “Third on the right and then second left, that’s it, sir. The Mission is right at the other end.”
“Oh, thanks,” said Ross, and smiled as if his only interest was the Mission.
He nodded and slid into the stream of traffic.
The second turning on the left was past the shell of the big church and the clock-tower of the library. He slid round the corner, out of the hustle and din of this hub of the East End, into drab quiet. The road was long, narrow and dingy. Small terrace houses with front door opening on to the pavement were on either side. Near the corner a woman stood against a doorway, a baby at her breast, while another, much older, talked to her in a whining undertone. Several children, all tiny, all looking much healthier than the women, were running along the pavement with a muted eagerness which hardly seemed natural. A youth leaned against a lamp-post, reading a newspaper — The Sporting Times. As Ross passed, the youth glanced at him over the top of the page, and followed him as he drove slowly towards the far end. He had to go slowly; there were more children, and they darted into the roadway without warning, without caring that he was there. A young girl waved to him; the sun glistened on her lipstick and made the only touch of brightness here.
The road curved.
As Ross reached the middle of the curve, he saw two larger buildings, nearly opposite each other. Each had a big placard, and that on the right read:
GARAGE
YOU CAN BE SURE OF
SHELL
The garage consisted of a large tin shed. Outside it were several bicycles, two motor cycles, and three cars, two very old and dilapidated, the other glistening and modern — a streamlined Morris.
The sign on the left read:
CRUSADE FOR YOUTH
MISSION
H.Q.
The Mission House was a shed as large as the garage, and was actually farther along the road. There was nothing outside except a small sports car, parked near the kerb. The front of the Mission shed was of wood, and had been freshly painted; several placards outside it offered a pithy challenge to passers-by. The two buildings seemed to vie with each other, and for attractiveness, the Mission House had it.
The house next to the garage was Number 15. So the garage was Number 17.
As Ross pulled up, eyes appeared at nearby windows, and a youth with long hair, an oily face, and a pair of patched dungarees slouched from the garage doorway towards the solitary petrol-pump.
“ ’Ow much?”
“Hallo,” said Ross, and climbed out.
He nodded and walked past the youth. The shed was huge; several cars stood about in various stages of repair, and three mechanics were working; they seemed to be working hard. A lathe was running at the back of the shed, and sparks came off a piece of metal which was being buffed. No one took any notice of Ross. At the far end was a large window, very dirty, but admitting some light, and in a corner near it was a wooden partition, on the door of which was the legend: OFFICE.
The youth drifted up.
“Want someone?”
“Is Tiger in?”
“ ’E’s busy.”
“Pity,” said Ross.
He went towards the door, and a hand clutched his sleeve. The oily-faced youth looked at him in alarm; no other word could describe it.
“I told yer, ’e’s busy.”
“Not too busy to see me,” said Ross.
The youth let him go. The expression in the bright eyes was one of wariness, warning, and cynical amusement; he couldn’t have said “You’ve asked for it” any more clearly. Ross reached the door, and heard voices. There was no window in the office, it was impossible to see what was happening inside. He didn’t tap, but pulled the door open.
A man said in a raucous voice:
“That’s it and all abaht it, you clear aht. I don’t want you arahnd. Get to ’ell aht of it!” the man went on in a vicious tone, and glared at Ross.
Ross didn’t move, but slid his right hand into his coat pocket.
The man sitting at a small, littered desk was in his shirtsleeves, and the neck of the shirt was open to show the top of a hairy chest and a dirty singlet with a blue trimming. He had a huge neck, a small head, and big, tawny brown eyes. He hadn’t shaved for days. There was strength and power in his body, in the great arms resting on the desk, in his enormous hands. His eyes were huge, and their unusual colour made them remarkable. He had a broad nose, a big chin, and a wide mouth, and the lower lip was thrust forward so that the two sabre teeth showed, white and pointed. No one could have lived up to his name more than Willy Tiger.
He spoke from the back of his throat in a guttural roar.
“You ’eard me — get to ’ell aht of it!”
“Good afternoon,” said Ross, and went farther in.
He looked at the second man, who was standing up; a youngish, clean-cut man, red-haired, fresh-faced — and flushed. He wore a clerical collar and a suit of clerical grey.
“Listen!” growled Willy Tiger, “I’m a patient man, I am. I can stand a lot of trouble, but I just don’t want to see more of you — neiver of you. Just do me a
favour and scram. Vamoose. Skedaddle.”
“But there’s so much I want to say to you, Tiger,” said Ross.
“Reely.” Tiger breathed through distended nostrils. “So you got a lot to say, like this slab-sided son of a ...”
“Be quiet, Willy,” said Ross, and drowned the last word.
His voice blared out much louder than Tiger’s, startling the man into silence.
The clergyman said: “It’s hopeless, the man’s a menace to the whole district. Tiger, if you take any more of my boys away, I’ll find a way of dealing with you. I’ve tried persuasion, but you won’t listen to reason. In future you’ll run into a lot of trouble.”
He turned away.
“Trouble! Me! Why, you ginger-haired baboon, what do you think you’re doing? Threatening me.” Tiger jumped to his feet, and Ross was startled; he wasn’t much more than five feet tall, but vast across the chest and shoulders. He shook his huge fist and rounded the desk, looked as if he would hurl himself at the clergyman. “Don’t you come into me garrich agine, understand, or I’ll throw you aht. You needn’t think you can ’ide behind no dog collar wiv me, I don’t pay any attention to your smooth talk. Don’t give me any threats, mister, or I’ll...”
He grabbed the clergyman’s wrist.
Ross said: “Steady, or ...”
And then he moved back, for the clergyman drove his free fist hard into Tiger’s stomach, brought an ouch of pain and astonishment, wrenched his right hand free and clipped Tiger on the jaw. Tiger, completely unprepared for such tactics, swayed back, hit against the desk and sent a bottle of ink to the floor. Blue ink splashed and then spread in a widening pool.
“Why — why, you ...” breathed Tiger, and drew himself up, then bounded forward.
He had long arms, brushed the clergyman’s right arm aside, and drove a blow at his stomach. He didn’t get home. The clergyman pushed his arm away and let go with a straight left which smashed into Tiger’s mouth, sending Tiger reeling back.
He said softly: “I’ve warned you, Tiger.”
Before Tiger could recover or speak, while he was still tasting the salt blood at his lips, the clergyman swung out of the office. The youth and two others had been gaping spectators of the fight, and backed away as if afraid that the battling cleric would start on them. He strode across the garage and went out like a storm.