by John Creasey
“You thought you could make a few thousand on the side,” Shell said, but there was no venom in her voice. “Now listen to me, Fats. Endicott was far too dangerous, and Gantry made a hash of the Marsh raid. They both had to die. I got Endicott to do a little private work for me, before he died. The only risk after that was Ruth Endicott. She’s been alive long enough to have talked to the grocer or the policeman. Go and find out exactly what she’s said to them. I don’t care how you do it—just find out.”
“Right away,” Fats said. “She’ll tell us all right, but”—he moistened his lips—”we had a bit more trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“We were watched and followed from Brasher’s Row,” said Fats, and saw the alarm and anger spring to the woman’s eyes. He went on hastily: “But we were covered all right. There was a woman on a motor-scooter, a woman cop. One of our boys at the Whitechapel shop saw her snooping around the place some time ago, and she—”
“What happened to her?” Shell interrupted.
“The—the boys put her away. She couldn’t have had time to send a message to anyone, but—it means we’ve killed a woman cop. You ought to know.”
“Yes,” said Shell, very softly. “I certainly ought to know.” She gave the impression that she would like to strike the man. There was another long silence before she went on: “How do you know this woman police officer was alone?”
“The boys said—” began Fats.
Then the telephone bell rang on the big, leather-topped desk. Fats started. Shell looked at it, then stretched out her hand, as if to make sure that nothing was going to shake her out of her habitual calm. She lifted the receiver and said:
“This is Mrs. Llewellyn Cockell.”
“So it’s Mrs. Cockell,” a man said harshly. “Where’s Slessor?”
“He isn’t here.”
“He’d better be.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Shell said quietly. “He isn’t here, but I can speak for him. Who are you?”
The man said roughly: “My name’s Orde, otherwise known as Owen. Detective Constable Owen of New Scotland Yard.” There was a fractional pause before the speaker’s voice rose higher; Shell clenched the telephone so tightly that her knuckles went white. “Is Ruth Endicott all right?”
Shell waved her left hand towards another telephone, and Fats reached across and picked it up. As he did so, slowly and deliberately, so as not to make a noise, the caller went on:
“I tell you if you’ve hurt that girl—”
“Mr. Owen,” interrupted Shell, “I really don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Find out from Slessor,” Owen said. “One word from me and you and your mob will be rounded up, you won’t have a chance to escape. But if Ruth—”
“I don’t think we have anything to discuss,” said Shell, “but if you really think this woman Ruth is at my home, why don’t you come and see for yourself?”
Owen said: “Don’t make any mistake. I can get you and all your men. If it wasn’t for Ruth Endicott—”
He left the sentence in mid-air.
“Why don’t you come and see me?” suggested the woman, smoothly. “Shall we say in half an hour? Where are you?”
“I’m at Loughton Post Office,” Owen said. “I’ll be at your place in ten minutes. And listen. I’ll be back here with Ruth within the hour, or nothing will save you.” He rang off.
XXII
DEAL
FATS put down his telephone slowly. Shell put hers down heavily, and stared at the man. For the first time emotion showed in the woman’s face; there was pallor at her lips. Her make-up showed more vividly; so did the wrinkles at her eyes. She began to breathe shallowly, and when she spoke her lips hardly moved.
“What do you know about Owen?”
“He—he took the job at Walsh’s,” Fats said.
“What else?”
“He—he looked a funny guy, dressed up in—in plus-fours, tartan socks, brogue shoes—”
“I’m not asking about his sartorial habits. Did you watch him closely?”
“Yes, of course.”
“How often did he see Ruth Endicott?”
“Nearly—nearly every day. That’s what first made me wonder about him. He was a pushover for her.”
“Do you think he is in love with her?”
Fats said: “He—well, he spent a night there.”
“A man has been known to spend a night with a woman without being in love with her. Has he any money?”
“He didn’t seem to have much.”
“Do you know anything about him as a policeman?”
Fats’ tongue appeared for a split second, then disappeared.
“No.”
“How did he behave with Ruth Endicott?”
“He—he drooled over her,” said Fats. “I tell you he was a pushover.”
“He wasn’t the only man interested in a widow with a pile of money tucked away,” said Shell. There was now some colour in her cheeks; the look in her eyes was less baleful. “She is the type who could make a man do anything to sleep with her.”
Shell rubbed her hands together softly, making a faint sound; she did not look away from Fats. “We haven’t any time to find out more about him. How many policemen can you buy?”
Fats said: “Here and there you can buy one.”
“Is Owen the kind to sell himself?”
Fats didn’t speak.
“You heard what Owen said. What would you do?”
“I—I would—I suppose I would—” Fats broke off.
“Don’t tell me you’re out of ideas.”
“I’d look around, check if there are any police cars nearby, and find out if—if there’s a cordon round the house.”
“How long will that take you?”
“Shouldn’t take long.”
“Send Rawson,” ordered Shell, and motioned to the door.
Fats hurried across to the hall, and went out, calling: “Raw-son!” in a high-pitched voice.
Shell stood up, and went to the window overlooking the lovely garden: the roses still in profusion, a bed of dahlias unbelievably beautiful in colour. Some small bushes, long since bright with flower, grew in a slanting bank which covered one side of the air raid shelter, hiding it from here. She rested one hand on her hip, stared at the bushes and the close-cut grass bank. She was standing like that when Fats came in.
“He’s checking,” he said, huskily.
“When this man Owen gets here, bring him straight in,” said Shell. “I’ll talk to him myself. You keep quiet. If he is followed, let me know by raising your right forefinger to your chin. Like this.”
Fats nodded.
“If Rawson finds out that we’re being watched, raise your left finger to your chin in the same way.”
“I know,” Fats said. “I know.”
“Have you hurt the Endicott girl?”
“I haven’t marked her.”
“If I want her here, I’ll tell you,” said Shell.
“Sure, Shell.”
“And, Fats,” went on Shell, very softly, “I paid you a lot of money to make sure that a thing like this couldn’t happen. It wouldn’t have happened if you’d killed the Endicott woman when I told you to. Don’t argue with me anymore.”
“You’re the Boss,” Fats said.
“Remember it. Now go and make sure that we can send messages round to the shops if we need to. We may have to send an alert.”
“I’ll have the operator standing by.”
“See to it,” Shell said.
Fats went out, and Shell turned round from the window and went to the desk. She sat down, picked up a pencil, and began to draw faces in profile. A clock on the mantelpiece was ticking away, clearly, loudly, and outside there was the hum of a car engine. She didn’t look about.
In a room at the back of this house was a small control room for telephoning all the Cockell branches, and a teletype which had a direct line to them all. Shell
knew that Fats would make sure that all routine business was cleared, that all the shops were told to stand by to receive a message. In every case, the Assistant Manager would take it.
She heard a motor-cycle engine roaring, and now her head jerked up. It sounded much louder, and seemed to have turned into the drive. She pressed her pencil against the paper, so that the point snapped. The engine of the motor-cycle stopped, and the silence seemed intense. For a few seconds nothing happened; then she heard footsteps in the hall, so the front door bell had rung. She pushed her chair back and stood up again.
Voices sounded in the hall.
“Mrs. Cockell will see you,” Fats said.
“You bet she’ll see me,” said another man in a clear, half-cultured voice; not quite a full Cockney, but not affected. The door opened, Fats appeared for a moment and said: “Here’s the man Owen,” and Owen strode into the room. He was wearing gingery plus-fours and bright tartan socks. His hair was dishevelled. There were dried tears on his cheeks and in the corners of his eyes, from the fast motor-cycle ride. He came striding towards the desk.
“Where’s Ruth Endicott?”
“Mr. Owen—” Shell began.
“Don’t let’s waste any words or any time,” Owen ordered. “I know she’s here. I followed the Austin. My job was to follow her wherever she went. Your blind idiots didn’t know that. Where is she?”
“She seems important to you,” Shell said, speaking very smoothly.
“She’s important enough,” Owen said. “She’s a darned sight more important to you.”
“Really, Mr. Owen—”
“Really, Madame Cockell,” said Owen, putting hands on the desk, and leaning closer to the woman behind it. “I’m a cop. Understand that? I’m a cop. I’m working on the Shop Robberies. I know everything that’s happened, and I’m on the inside. If you don’t hand Ruth over, you won’t see another night out of prison.”
Fats stirred, just behind Owen, but did not speak.
“And supposing this Ruth were here, supposing—?”
“Don’t try to fool me,” said Owen. “I saw her come in. I followed that car. The driver might not have seen me, but I followed it. I have to report to West of the Yard at five o’clock. It has to be by five, that’s zero hour. If I don’t, he’ll move in at five to find me. If I report, he might hold off for an hour, to give me a chance of breaking in by myself.”
Shell said, slowly, tensely: “I don’t know what you mean by moving in or holding off.”
“Don’t you?” jeered Owen. “That’s what I’m here to tell you. West knows all about the Cockell shops, and where your bloody murderers work, and where the cigarettes and where the money goes—in Cockell’s shops. It’s the easiest distribution racket in the business. West has uncovered all that and he’s planning to watch each shop, and to hold the key men when they leave. Anyone who can’t produce an alibi for last Monday afternoon between four and six o’clock will be under suspicion, and some of them will crack. You’re through—but I’m the only one who knows where you are. You can’t stop West picking up the killers, but you can save yourself—if you’ve got any sense.”
“Try and make yourself clearer.”
“If I walk out of this place with Ruth Endicott, I’ll forget I came here.” Owen stood back, now, sneering. “If I don’t, West will get a message which I left for him. I can pick it up myself, or he’ll pick it up—and don’t ask me where it is, because nothing would make me talk, Cockleshell. I’ll do a deal —Ruth in return for keeping my mouth shut about this place.”
“If I arranged this, how could I be sure that you would keep your word?” demanded Shell.
“Listen to me,” said Owen, “I’m a copper. I’m on the Yard’s pay-roll—getting the miserly fifteen quid a week they expect a Detective Constable to live on. But it’s a job. And I can pick up a lot on the side. I know my way about. I know how to wink at strip-tease houses and whore-shops and gambling hells. There’s a lot I can do to pick up the dough on the side, and I could pass on a lot of information to people like you. But if I took Ruth out and ran to West—what would happen to me?”
The woman said: “Very soon you would get your throat cut.”
“That’s how I see it, too,” Owen said, and he moistened his lips. “I wouldn’t survive another month. And I’m booked for a long life. Number One’s the important thing to me, with Ruth Endicott running close. If I get out with her, West can sing for you. When you’ve settled down again—well, we can work together, can’t we? It would be a mutual benefit society. But don’t make any mistake, I’ve planned it so that if I don’t get away with the girl, West will know about this place, and you’ll be on the run.”
Owen stopped, and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. Shell looked at Fats, who made no move to touch his chin.
“For a person with a big reputation,” Owen said, “you take a long time to make up your mind.”
Very slowly, Shell said: “I’ve made up my mind, Owen. I don’t trust you. I never trust a policeman unless I know it’s safe. But I’ll make you an offer.”
“I’ve told you my terms.”
“That’s right. You’ve made yourself very clear. Now I’ll make myself clear. You can leave here, but keep away from West; tell him nothing. I’ll send any unreliable men from the shops, so that West won’t be able to make them talk. If he stays away from here, you can have the woman in the morning. You simply have to prove to me you haven’t lied. You can go free, and do what you like. If you tell West about this place, you’ll have your throat cut before the month is out. If we’re raided this evening or during the night, the Endicott woman will have hers cut.”
She paused.
“You can take your choice, Owen. It’s up to you. I can use a man on the inside at the Yard. It would be worth five thousand a year, and pickings—wouldn’t it, Fats?”
She paused. Fats cleared his throat and said: “It certainly would.”
“So take it or leave it,” Shell said; and quite suddenly she laughed. It had a pleasant tinkling sound. “All my shop raiders will leave Cockell’s stores by half past four, so West will be too late to pick up anyone who can talk. And if West or any more police come near here, I shall get plenty of warning. I’ll go down to the air raid shelter and I’ll take pleasure in personally cutting Ruth Endicott’s throat. Then my assistants and I will use a way of escape that neither you nor West will think of. You haven’t a chance if you’re lying, Owen. But if you play fair with me, you’ll be all right and so will the girl.”
Owen heard the woman’s suave voice, and took in the words, but for the moment did not take in all their significance. Only one thing really seemed important. West had given him an hour. That was all the time he had to save Ruth’s life.
He did not give his own a thought.
He heard Shell say, in the same suave way: “All right, Fats. Owen can go.”
XXIII
RAID
APPLEBY slapped his straw boater on the side of his head at a deliberately rakish angle, and looked at Roger, who was at the wheel of his car, pulled up at a corner not far from the main road to Epping Forest. The radio reports kept coming in, and he could pick out some of the messages clearly. Roger was staring straight ahead of him, at a glade in the forest; his hands were firm on the wheel.
“Don’t take it so hard, Handsome,” Appleby said. “Men have d-d-died in the way of duty before. You ought to b-b-be more objective. I think I’m disappointed in you.”
Roger said wryly:
“So now you hate me, too.”
Appleby looked startled. “Eh?” Then he grinned. “Oh— my wife hated you. I remember. No, Handsome, b-b-but you take this too hard. Of course I’m sorry for the poor k-k-kid, but she isn’t sorry for herself. That’s one of the things it’s easy to forget—the d-d-dead don’t grieve.”
“Maybe not,” said Roger, and put a cigarette to his lips, flicked a lighter, and blew smoke out of the open window. “Bella Dawson may be one
of many, but there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop it happening. I could have kept Owen and this Endicott girl out of danger.”
“Now get rid of this ‘I’ve sent ‘em to their death’ complex,” urged Appleby. “Every serving officer who ever sent a patrol out on duty would feel that, if there was any reason in it. Forget it, Handsome.”
Roger sent smoke curling towards the window.
Appleby went on: “I’ll tell you one thing. I’ve discovered the difference between me and a detective, and you’ve done the teaching.”
“Someone had to,” Roger said.
Appleby chuckled.
“All right, all right, I suppose I asked for that. But it’s a fact. I don’t mind admitting that I have long since l-l-laboured under an illusion. I thought I was the c-c-c-clever one, and you chaps were limping along in the rear. The way some of your senior officers slap their flat feet over clues is b-b-beyond words. A lot of coppers destroy twice as many clues as they find. But there’s more to detecting and police work than seeing the injuries and making deductions from them,” went on Appleby, and now he sounded really earnest. “Take this j-j-job. The police organisation is unbelievable. The knowledge of people and places, the split-second timing, all that kind of operational activity shakes me. I couldn’t begin to handle it, but you’re on top of the situation all the time. Every one of those shops watched, a cordon round Forest Ley so cleverly done that no one would know it existed—this is the real stuff of police work. I’ve never seen it demonstrated so perfectly before. Object lesson, in fact.”
Roger said: “It will be, if it works.”
“Your big mistake,” said Appleby, “and it’s probably your heaviest cross in life. You judge only by results. Most unscientific. You should judge a man by the results he gets measured against his ability to get results.”
“Should I?” asked Roger, and shifted his position. “Dan, there’s a missing piece to this puzzle. There nearly always is. It’s the answer to a question I asked early on—and haven’t been able to answer yet. Why was Mabel Stone murdered? Why was the man who went into her shop ready to kill? That answer’s around somewhere.”