by John Creasey
“Then what are we standing here for?” demanded Owen, harshly. “Where is she?”
Roger said: “She’s at a house in Epping, and the Epping police know where.”
“Why isn’t the house being raided?” Owen forgot that he was talking to a senior officer.
Roger said: “It will be raided when we’re ready.” He looked at Owen very straight, realising that the man was desperately anxious to go to the rescue of the woman. That kind of reaction was natural, but there was a better way for Owen to help. Roger had a sense of inevitability, that Owen had been fated to take a part in this as well as to become emotionally involved.
Roger went on: “Take it easy, Owen, I’ve a job for you soon.” He could tell from the man’s tense expression that Owen expected to be put on to a stop-gap job, but he didn’t retort, and Appleby came up, wearing an old alpaca jacket and a straw boater. He looked at the group gathered about the dead policewoman, went down on one knee, and inspected the hands and the ankles.
The police surgeon from the Division said:
“I can’t make those marks out, Dr. Appleby. Can you? See the snag marks round the ankles of the stockings? All the ladders start there. And then the marks round the wrists—” he broke off.
Appleby went squatting down. A car engine started up. People at the back of the crowd were talking noisily, and a policeman said: “Move along, there, make a gangway.”
“Yes,” said Appleby. “They’re f-f-finger-marks, not rope or card marks. See the mark of the f-f-finger-nails just here?” He pulled the leg of the jeans up a little, and showed three crescent shaped marks on the fair clear skin. On the stockings were some greasy looking marks, and he put his nose down and sniffed. “B-b-bacon fat,” he announced. “The man had just handled fat bacon.” He stood up, went to the side of the sand, and pointed to some marks. “Looks as if this b-b-bit’s been left undisturbed. See the mark? Two men swung her to and fro, holding wrists and ankles, and then l-l-let her go. She landed there. With luck, she was almost unconscious by the time she landed.”
“I’ve checked the place where she was struck on the back of the neck,” the Divisional Police Surgeon put in quickly. “She was unconscious when she was buried.”
“Yes,” said Appleby. “Unconscious but b-b-b-buried alive.” He straightened up. “Handsome,” he said, “we’ve always known this was an ugly job. We can see it’s even ug-ug-uglier. How many men were involved in the mass raids?”
“Sixty-six, at least.”
“They wouldn’t use every man they’d g-got. There must be eighty or more.”
“Yes,” Roger said.
“Know the leader yet?”
“We think we know a bit,” Roger said cautiously. He pushed his hair back from his forehead, thinking how near Cockell’s store was, that the killers had probably come from there. But he mustn’t be precipitate; he had a big job to do. “The leader’s got Ruth Endicott a prisoner.” He broke off, looking into Appleby’s eyes, fully aware that Baker was puzzled by his manner, that Appleby was too, while Owen looked both mutinous and sullen. “The main job is to pick up all those eighty men,” he said. “If we don’t, then we’ll be coming up against them for years. See my problem?”
Appleby nodded.
“But if Slessor of Cockell’s is the man, and you pick him up—” Baker began, but stopped as if understanding dawned on him.
“The usual method would be to cut off the head and let the limbs wither away, but can we?” Roger demanded. “Dare we? Think how many killers there are involved. Look at what’s happened here.” The grease spots on that sheath-like stocking seemed to show up more vividly as he looked down. “If they lose their leader they’ll lie low for a bit, but they’ll start again, because—”
He didn’t finish.
“Trained to it,” Appleby said.
“What is this?” demanded Baker, and one of the Divisional men muttered something under his breath. Traffic rumbled in the distance, and a policeman said again: “Move along there, move along.”
“What this is,” declared Appleby, looking even more boyish than usual, “is the established fact that sixty or more trained crooks are at large. They might be warned, and split up into ones and twos. That’s Handsome’s worry. Is there a way of c-c-catching all of ‘em in one go? Eh, Handsome? If there is, it will justify t-t-taking risks with the Endicott girl. That it?” Roger said: “That’s it.”
XXI
POKER
INTO a tense silence, Baker said: “You mean they’re specially trained to kill.”
“Some of them, I’d say,” said Appleby. “That’s been Handsome’s worry from the beginning.”
“But surely—”
“Nothing remarkable about training men to kill,” said Appleby. “We’re doing it all the time. How old are most of the ch-ch-chaps we’ve had reports on?”
“Early twenties,” said Baker.
“Don’t doubt they got their training in the armed f-f-forces,” said Appleby. “Some leader of men selected those without consciences, the natural killers, and g-g-got ‘em together.” He glanced down at the pale-blue stillness of the dead policewoman. “If the photographers have finished, there’s no reason why she shouldn’t be moved.”
Roger sensed that he was making a diversion to allow more time to think, and Roger certainly needed it.
Appleby was absolutely right; he had a nose for a situation like this, and could see it in proper perspective. Baker couldn’t. Young Owen might be able to, but didn’t want to, this time, because Endicott’s widow meant a lot to him. But the basic and frightening fact remained: there was an organised army of thieves trained by men without scruple or conscience.
“Mr. West, if you can’t make up your mind—” Owen began.
Roger said: “Take it easy. George,” he went on to Baker, “let’s go to 37 Brasher’s Row. We can talk more freely there.”
“Talk!” cried Owen. “Who the hell wants—”
Roger said coldly: “Don’t get under my feet, Owen.” He moved towards the gateway, the police cleared a path among the gaping crowd, and in less than five minutes they took over the house in Brasher’s Row, filling it to overflowing, and with hundreds of sightseers already in the street.
Roger, Baker, Appleby and Owen were in the living-room with the doors closed. It was unbearably stuffy, and Owen had a wild look.
“Now that we can talk without being overheard, let’s get a move on,” Roger said briskly. “Owen, if we raid this place in Epping, anyone there might be warned. If they behaved in character, they’d first kill Mrs Endicott and fight their way out. There’s just one way we might be able to get most of this mob in one place.”
Baker said: “I can’t see it.”
Appleby was smiling faintly and holding his ancient straw in one hand, and picking at the ribbon with the other.
“Owen,” said Roger, “whether we like it or not, you’re the key man in this. We know from the Walsh’s that these people have been asking about you. They know the situation between you and Mrs. Endicott. They guess you’re a policeman. That all puts you in a special position. See that?”
Tightlipped, angry from the rebuke, Owen said: “Yes, sir.”
Appleby was nodding and smiling and picking.
“What we’ve got to do is to draw these killers into one spot.”
“Think they’ll just walk into the parlour?” Baker asked, but now Owen looked at Roger very intently, all anger gone.
“Owen, I want you to telephone Slessor,” Roger went on. “I want you to tell him that you know where he lives, and you know that Ruth Endicott is there. I want you to tell him exactly who you are, and to say you’re not reporting to the Yard yet—that you’ll keep quiet if he’ll let the woman go free.”
“He’ll never buy it!” cried Baker.
“Look what he’ll think he’s b-b-buying,” interposed Appleby. “A day’s grace at least, and a chance of security. Go on, Superintendent.”
Owen’s ey
es now held a curiously bright glitter.
“If Slessor does the obvious thing, he’ll ask you to go to this house on your own,” continued Roger. “First to prove you really know where he is, second to try to make some kind of deal. He’d cut your throat and the girl’s as soon as he was clear, but if you can make him think you’ll go alone, he may let you in. Once in, you’d have a chance to look after Mrs. Endicott, and to trap the mob. You’d be gambling with your life, mind you.”
As he spoke, Roger thought bitterly: “I wish to God I could gamble with mine.” In fact, Slessor might believe that a man of Owen’s rank was corruptible, but he would feel almost sure that Roger wasn’t.
“I’ll gamble,” Owen said, after a moment’s pause. “But how will this get his killers all in one place?”
“If you tell Slessor that at shop closing time tonight, we’re going to have each Cockell shop raided, and are going to pick up all the assistants who can’t prove where they were between four and six o’clock on the day of the mass raids, he’s almost certain to warn any guilty men to get away before the raid. He’s likely to have a rendezvous where he gives them orders, and where the loot is delivered. It’s almost certainly in central London. We’ll watch Cockell Shops from the time you telephone, find out where the men are going, and wait until we can pick them all up together.”
Roger broke off. Baker pushed his hat further to the back of his head, and Appleby said: “Quite a b-b-brainwave, Handsome.”
“But Slessor will kill Owen and this Endicott girl the moment he knows that Owen’s fooling him,” declared Baker.
“That’s the risk,” Roger agreed. “That’s why Owen is going to be ready for trouble. Knowing what is likely to happen will give him an odds-on chance.” He was watching Owen closely as he went on: “Ready to take this chance?”
“Take me to Epping as fast as you can,” said Owen huskily. “Just get me to a place where I’ve got half a chance to get Ruth out of trouble.”
After Owen was on his way, Roger talked to Hardy by telephone. The Commander took his time before saying: “I think you’re justified in all you’ve done, and in taking the risk. I’ll check with the Assistant Commissioner at once, and get back to you in time for you to stop Detective Constable Owen if the Assistant Commissioner disagrees. How long can you wait?”
“Half an hour at most,” said Roger. “Very well,” said Hardy.
It was a long half-hour, but no warning came through.
About the time that Roger was talking to the Commander Ruth Endicott moved across the small room, where she had listened to Fats and the other man. She was feeling dreadful, for Fats had bellowed and threatened her wildly. Very cautiously, she pushed open the door of the big room, and looked inside. This room was much bigger than she had ever seen in a private house. It seemed to be a mass of books, shelves, glass and dark furniture. As in the hall, the floor was of wood, with skin rugs on it. In one corner, sideways to her, was a large flat-topped desk, with a huge globe by the side of it; sitting at the desk was the grey-haired, distinguished-looking man whom she had seen before.
Almost at once, the passage door opened, and a woman came in. She was well-dressed and well made-up, with a quality which Ruth recognised and could never hope to equal.
The man said:
“Hallo, Shell. I’m very glad you’ve got here.”
“It’s time I came,” the woman said. “This could be very dangerous indeed. Has the Endicott woman talked?”
“No, but—”
“Does she know what the shells are for?”
“According to Fats, she didn’t know a thing about them, or anything that Endicott did. She—”
“Andrew, I think it’s time I took over,” the woman said. “She was married to a man who got too clever and greedy. He did all right, he got a thousand for fixing Mabel Stone, and then he decided to find out who I was, and why a small sea-shell was used as a code.” She was almost sneering. “We agreed that Endicott knew far too much. Remember?”
“Shell, I know—”
“You forget that I thought of that. I planned it all, and simply left it for you to carry out,” the woman went on. “Now you ask me to believe that Endicott didn’t even tell his wife how he made so much.”
“Shell, Fats said—”
“I told Fats to kill the woman, but he left her alive hoping to get his hands on her money—the money her husband had blackmailed out of you and me. If he had killed the woman, as I told him—”
“Shell, we have to face the situation as it is, not as we would like it to be.”
“And I’ll face it my way,” Shell said. “You’d better go and pack, in case of emergency. Send Fats to me.”
The man hesitated, then went out. The woman went to the desk and sat down. Ruth pushed the door open a little wider, and ventured through, her thoughts racing with the wild hope of getting across to the passage door without being noticed. Her heart was thumping so painfully that she felt sure the woman must hear it, but she kept on writing.
In the huge fireplace, with seats on either side of it, were big, brass fire irons. Ruth was nearer them than the desk. She tiptoed towards them, looked round, then bent down and picked up the poker. It was very heavy, and she nearly dropped it. She recovered, but it quivered in her hands. The woman did not look up, but there were sounds in the next room, and suddenly Fats’ voice came through the door behind Ruth.
“What the hell!”
Shell glanced up, startled—and saw Ruth. For a split second, she was too astonished to speak. Ruth stood with the poker in her hands, half-way between the fireplace and the door. There were hurried footsteps in the morning room, and the door was thrust open.
“She’s gone—” the fat man exclaimed, and then he saw Ruth.
“Don’t come near me,” Ruth said shrilly. “Don’t come near me. I’ll bash your brains out if you do.”
She backed towards the passage door. Both the others were in front of her; the only danger was that the fat man would run across the morning room and into the passage that way. She took another step backward. She saw that Shell’s right hand was out of sight, and felt a sudden fear; that she was getting a gun.
“Don’t—don’t get up, don’t move!”
She took another step nearer the door. The others seemed transfixed, and she couldn’t really understand it. She was within three or four steps of the door, now, and tried to remember how far away this room was from the front door. It couldn’t be far. She was gasping as if she had run a long way. It couldn’t be far, it-
The door opened. Slessor appeared in the doorway, and stood watching her. She raised the poker and jumped towards him, swinging the head of the poker down, but Slessor dodged, and the metal banged and boomed against the door. She heard Fats say: “The bitch!” She flung herself at Slessor, but he simply put out his right hand and fended her off, pushing her so violently that she went reeling back into Fats’ arms.
Fats grabbed her wrist and began to twist.
“That’s enough, Fats,” said Shell from the desk. “Just take her out and try to reason with her. She might be more useful than you think.”
Fats eased his grip on Ruth’s wrist.
“Don’t kill me,” she begged. “I—I heard what you said you were going to do, don’t kill me.”
“What happens to you will depend on what you tell us,” said Shell briskly. She stood up from the desk, looking distinguished and even benevolent, certainly not brutal or vicious like the men. “Give her a cup of tea and let her think things over for half an hour.”
“But I don’t know anything! I don’t know—” Ruth began in terror.
“Come on, Ruthie,” urged Fats, and he tightened his grip on her arm again. This time the other woman did and said nothing to stop him. Ruth was half led, half pushed out of the room and into the hall, along the hall and through a doorway at the far end, which led to a narrow passage, and, she saw, to part of the garden. Old raincoats and hats, umbrellas and walking sticks
were near this door, and a row of wooden pegs, half of them empty. Slessor opened this door, and Fats urged Ruth forward. This was a side of the garden. She could see the smooth green lawn, a bed of flowers—and the earthwork which was built around an old air raid shelter. The entrance to the shelter was dark and narrow.
“No!” she gasped. “No, I—”
Fats moved closer, thrust his left arm round her mouth and choked the words, and then pushed her towards the air raid shelter entrance. She stumbled at the top step and would have fallen had he not saved her. He flicked on a light, and the darkness of the staircase was brightened by a yellow glow. The steps looked as if they were often used. There was a turn in them.
“Please don’t make me—” she began.
“Stop yapping,” said Fats, and pushed her down to the turn in the stairs, then down another short flight; there was a door at the foot, standing wide open. Light beckoned, beyond. He gave her another push, and she staggered through the doorway. Instead of coming after her, he grabbed the handle, and pulled the door to. She heard it close with a heavy thud, and she was alone in a small room, no more than six feet square, with plain bare walls, a wooden bench, a chair, some oddments she didn’t recognise. She stood staring at the door for what seemed a long time; then the light went out.
She was in pitch darkness.
“No!” she screamed. “No, let me out, let me out!”
She flung herself at the door and began to beat upon it with her clenched fists, but there was only a solid, thumping sound. The door did not yield at all, and there was not a crack of light.
“Let me out, let me out!” she cried.
There was only the echo, mocking her.
The woman called Shell looked up from her desk, half an hour later, when Fats came in. She studied the man closely, without speaking. Fats stood quite still, and at attention. Slessor wasn’t there. It seemed a long time before Shell said:
“You see what a fool you were not to kill her when you had the chance.”
“Well, I thought—” Fats began.