by John Creasey
Why had she gone?
First the man and then the woman had thrown the same question at her, the man roughly, the woman in a whining, pleading tone; and in a way she liked the woman less and feared her more than Rikker, a thickset, powerful man, wearing a heavy sailor’s sweater of navy blue, who needed a shave. All the time she had lived in the two rooms upstairs he had needed one; occasionally he rasped thick, horny fingers over the grey stubble, and on his breath lay the strong dour of whisky.
How often … What… Why?
At first her mind had been paralyzed by fear and she told them the simple truth, time and time again. She had telephoned the police six or seven times, she couldn’t be sure how many. She had told them that Michael had disappeared, and that she was sure that something had happened to him. And she had telephoned them because she was certain that Michael wouldn’t just have walked out on her; he had been too much in love.
And he had.
She could picture him now, with thick, fair hair which curled a little and the smile in his eyes and his rather snubbed nose and his gentle hands.
How often?
What?
Why?
“I’ve told you!” she burst out at last. “I keep telling you; why do you want to know?”
They hadn’t told her.
They had left her tied to the chair and gone out, letting the heavy wooden door swing to behind them, and with the unshaded electric lamp just above and just in front of her eyes, so that it hurt to look at it, and she could never escape from the glare.
At first she hadn’t been able to forget the questions. It was as if her mind had received an image - as the eye received the image of the filament of the electric lamp - and, even when the questions had stopped, she had echoed them. Fear had been her dominant emotion then, and in a way it still was, but then she had not known the root causes of her fear; now she did.
They had killed Michael.
They would kill her.
There was no way of being absolutely sure, but she felt sure. They were frightened too; they had been frightened of what she might have told the police, and she had told them nothing - nothing. She had not dreamed that the Rikkers knew, anything about Michael’s disappearance. He had left for his office one day, and for weeks afterward she had lived on the memory of the way he had promised that before long he would get her out of these two furnished rooms into a real home of their own. It had been a blissful day, but …
He had not come home.
She had been out that afternoon, visiting her mother, who lived in Horley Street, Fulham, not far. She had not reached Lassiter Street until seven o’clock, and had quite expected Michael to be home, but - she had never seen him again.
She had telephoned his office, and been told that he had left at the usual time; that was all.
He hadn’t gone back to the office, either.
When the Rikkers had told her that she must leave the two rooms, she had been alarmed because Michael wouldn’t know at once where to get in touch with her. She had gone to stay with her mother, who knew what had happened. And she had got a job. Life had gone on, drably, emptily, and once a week she called at 11 Lassiter Street to see if there were any letters, or if Michael had come back. The Rikkers knew her new address, but she had sensed they had no liking for her, and she hadn’t trusted them to forward letters or any messages. She had been right not to; several times she had found letters addressed to Michael. Nothing much but …
All of these things went through her mind while she was alone in the cold, bare, almost soundproof cellar.
The cold bit into her.
Now and again she began a shivering fit which she could not control. Her feet were so cold that they ached, her fingers so cold that she felt as if they would snap if anyone bent them. The ropes round her arms and body, and over her thighs, made all movement difficult except that of her head. Once or twice, she had fancied that she heard a sound, but nothing had followed it.
Now she sat terrified. Yet she was falling into a kind of stupor - the bright light, the lamp filament, the shiny glass pear shape of the lamp, the thick walls, the cold, the aching, the images of questions - how often, what, why?
Now and again her head drooped with exhaustion, but each time she woke in panic and moved her head about wildly, to wake herself up, for there was the great fear in her - that if she went to sleep she might not wake again.
Upstairs, in a small back room, with a kitchen table and an electric stove, two old saddleback chairs and several wooden chairs, a big deal dresser and some prints taken from the tops of tradesmen’s calendars, the Rikkers sat and drank - Rikker whisky, his wife gin. Looking at them and forgetting the white and black of the big stove, it was easy to imagine that a hundred years had passed this room by. This might be a thieves’ kitchen drawn by Boz and peopled by Dickens. Rikker, barrel-like and massive with a flat head and a low forehead, his wife small and flat breasted, with greasy grey hair.
In a corner was a big, new television set. It had not been there when Netta and Michael Penn had lived in the two rooms above.
In a cupboard beneath the dresser were seven bottles of whisky; single half-bottles had been the rule before the Penns had “left.”
The Rikkers had not said a great deal, and the television had been on most of the evening although they had not taken much notice of it; the noise was in the background that was all.
Every now and again, Mrs. Rikker had said:
“What are you going to do with her?”
Rikker hadn’t once answered.
Then, halfway through the evening, there had come a sharp knock at the front door, making Rikker jump to his feet, sending his wife cringing in alarm. The knock had been repeated. Rikker had told his wife to stay in the kitchen, with the door closed, and had gone out. His wife would probably have collapsed, but Rikker had answered the detective’s questions gruffly but civilly enough. Yes, Penn had left months ago, Mrs. Penn weeks ago. Why? She couldn’t pay her rent. Did he know why Penn had left her? Usual reasons, Rikker supposed; he got fed up. Had he seen Penn since he had left? No.
No, no, no, no.
After the man had gone, apparently satisfied, Rikker had returned to the kitchen and poured himself too much whisky and tossed it down.
“Who - who was it, Rikky?”
“Never you mind.”
“Rikky, who was it?”
“Shut your trap!”
“Rikky, was it - was it the police?”
He’d swallowed more whisky. She had stood on the other side of the table, out of hand’s reach if he should move to strike her, but with her eyes wide open and rounded, and her thin lips parted to show unnaturally even, white teeth; a young woman’s teeth in an old woman’s face.
“Rikky! Was it a copper?”
“I told you to shut your bloody trap.”
“I want to know who it was. Was it a copper? What did he want, what …”
“I told you to shut your trap.” Rikker hissed, and he leaned forward and struck at her, but she dodged and he missed. “So a copper came and asked some questions. So what? He came to ask if she still lived here, and I told him she didn’t, we hadn’t seen her for weeks. That was nearly the truth, wasn’t it? What difference does it make?”
The woman’s face looked much, much older.
“Why - why do you think the copper came, Rikky?”
“She called the cops, didn’t she?”
“Do you - do you think she said anything …”
“I told you before, she didn’t know anything, so how could she tell the cops anything? She was just worried because Penn didn’t come back, that’s all. If she’d kept her nose out of my business …” Rikker broke off, as if even he realized that the remark was the ultimate absurdity.
There had been a long silence. Then:
“What - what are you going to do with her?” Mrs. Rikker asked hoarsely.
“The same as we did with him, what do you think we’re going to do?”
Rikker rasped. “But I’m not taking no chances. I’m going to make sure the cops don’t comeback before I get the job done.”
There had been another long silence, and then:
“She - she ain’t done us any harm, Rikky, do you think …”
“If she gets the police looking for Penn she’ll get us. caught on a murder rap, that’s how much harm she can do. Now shut your gob, you always talk to much.”
Silence.
“Rikky.”
Silence.
“Rikky, do you think the police will come again?”
“What I think is I’ve had enough from you tonight, I’m going out for a walk,” Rikker said roughly. He stood up, finished the whisky in his glass, and then went out, taking a thick topcoat off a peg behind the door. His wife first watched and then went after him, but he didn’t look round.
Then, the fog had been at its thickest.
Rikker had met a neighbour, coming home from the pub, and the neighbour had told him that the police were after someone in a big way; a man in the pub had been held up at a station, someone else in a bus on Westminster Bridge. Something about a baby. And something about a girl.
“Rikky,” his wife had muttered when he had got back, “when are you going to do it?”
“I’ll take my time.”
“How - are you …”
“I’m going to do what I did the last time,” Rikker said. “I’m going to knock her over the head, see, so she won’t feel anything. Then I’m going to brick her up in the wall, the same as I did him. Any more questions?”
“You - you won’t hurt her, will you?”
Then he had struck her across the face before she could dodge, grabbed her shoulders and shaken her until her teeth rattled and her head bobbled up and down. When his rage had subsided, he had pushed her away and she had slumped back on the sofa, half crying. He had poured himself another drink, then gone to the cellar door.
Gideon passed within a hundred yards of the house, and drove with his new-found sense of quiet satisfaction toward the East End and the gangs. This led him through the deserted city, its dark buildings tall against the sky, the Bank of England squat and forbidding on its corner, the Stock Exchange looking as if the Greeks had built it there.
Along Throgmorton Street, two cars were parked, with their side lights on, and in the building by them a light shone out at the third floor.
“Fog’s practically gone,” Gideon said to himself, and drove on, thinking that someone else was working late.
In the room from which the light shone out above Throgmorton Street, two men were sitting. Both were young-middle-aged. One was portly and pale, the other slim and hardy looking, carrying the tan of long hours in the sun; this made his grey eyes seem very bright and gave him a handsomeness which made the other man look nondescript. Both were well dressed and- prosperous looking. They sat in an office with panelled walls, near a large polished desk with a swivel chair behind it. For some time they had been sitting in large armchairs, whisky decanter and soda siphon on a small table between them, and papers spread out on the floor all around them.
It was very quiet.
A car passed in the street, making a purring note; the bright-eyed man didn’t notice it, but the other looked up sharply.
The bright-eyed man said, “Not nervous, George, are you?”
“Nervous? Me? Don’t be silly, Paul. I never was the nervous type.” George Warren gave a quick grin and picked up his glass a little too quickly. “If I’ve got anything to be nervous about, it’s you.”
“I don’t get you,” Paul Devereaux said easily.
Warren’s smile became too quick and bright.
“Forget it, I only meant that I’ll be down the drain if I don’t get a hundred thousand out of this, and you’re the strength of the deal. That’s all I’ve got to be nervous about. I’ve done my part.” He picked up some thick documents and rustled them as if they were massive five-pound notes. “Share certificates in uranium ore found in the Lombo district of East Africa, where we have exclusive mineral rights and cheap labour. The uranium’s there, too; any test will show it.” He gave a quick little teetering laugh. “After all, you put it there! No doubt you planted it well, is there, Paul?”
“I planted it so that no one could dream that it didn’t belong,” Devereaux said. His bright eyes flashed, but he still looked a little wary. “In a day or two we’ll get the prospector’s report with everything confirmed, then we’ll go to town with the new company.”
“That’s what I mean by my share,” said Warren. .”I’ve been doing a little discreet whispering already - hinting that something big is coming out of Warren and Company in the near future. Whisper it, though; don’t let a good thing pass on to the other chaps, you know. I’ve had a dozen discreet inquiries to deal with already. If I’d cared to I could have collected the hundred thousand before issuing the shares. That’s how high the integrity of Warren and Company stands!” He rubbed his hands together. “If that prospecting report is fully substantiated, we’ll offer the shares for private sale, without any publicity. And everyone concerned will think he’s on a bargain! I’ll warn them that it will be five years before they see any big returns, too.”
“Sounds like a cakewalk,” said Devereaux, and poured himself another drink. “There’s one little thing you won’t forget, isn’t there?”
“What’s that?
“You owe me ten thousand pounds and expenses.”
“My dear chap, you’ll have it within forty-eight hours of the new issue being offered!” said Warren. “That’s a first charge.” He seemed to have overcome his nervousness, and had a little colour in his plump cheeks. “What are you going to do after this?’
Devereaux grinned.
“I’m going to be a playboy for six months, and make as many girls as I can provided they don’t want me to run to mink. After that - well, I’ll probably go exploring again!” He stood up and went to the window, saying. “It’s time we went, George. Belinda will be wondering where you are.”
“She can wonder,” George Warren said abruptly. “If it wasn’t for Belinda I wouldn’t have got so heavily into debt, but …” He shrugged a gloomy thought off. “I’ve brought five years-reprieve, anyhow, and anything can happen in that time. Why, there might even be uranium in the Lombo district!”
“George, what was worrying you just now?’ asked Devereaux quietly.
After a pause, Warren said abruptly, “I was wondering what Belinda would do if this was ever found out. She’d rob anybody if she could, but if there was any risk of being put in jail …”
“The worst that can happen is that the uranium doesn’t pan out so well. It won’t be the first hush-hush proposition that fell flat,” said Devereaux. “You’ll only collect from the get-rich-quick boys, anyhow.”
Warren nodded and they began to tidy up the office.
12 East End
Gideon received a radio message as he neared Aldgate, telling him that Hemmingway and Lemaitre were in a street near the gymnasium where one of the gangs had gathered. He knew the place slightly - as he knew nearly everything which had the remotest association with London’s crime. The gymnasium had once been a genuine part of dockland, giving stevedores, sailors and the local inhabitants a place to show their paces, have a turn with the gloves, the rope or the wall bars. The then owners had made a grave mistake by arranging to get a license, and, soon after beer and spirits became available in the bar, the quality of the patrons began to fall, although some old habitués had continued to come in order to drink at prices slightly below that of nearby public houses.
Then the Wide boys had moved in.
The gymnasium had several advantages for a gang. It was on the ground floor of an old warehouse, plenty large enough for a crowd to meet, and the Wide boys had nearly fifty associate members. It offered, through the ring and the fixtures, a meeting place which was ostensibly a physical-training club, so that no one could object to it, not even the police. Altho
ugh officially it was illegal to sell beer after eleven o’clock’ at night, there was nothing against keeping the club open all night, if the members wanted it. A piano had been brought in, there were half a dozen amateur musicians including a surprisingly good drummer in the club and, as the warehouse was not in a residential district, music and dancing often went on for most of the night.
Not a hundred yards from the gymnasium was the old Dockside Club. This had a similar history, except that it had been a youth club for the thousands of young people who grew up in the sprawling mass of tiny, crowded airless streets which led off the docks. It had existed for years, sometimes flourishing, more often than not just surviving, until the Melky gang had taken it over.
They had done so quite legally, for the Melky gang was remarkable because most of its members were very young. Even Melky, the absolute boss, was only twenty-two - although he had been married five years and had three children by a sexy little Italian girl who was said to be the brains behind him. The members of the gang had joined the club at a time when it had been run jointly by a Church of England and a nonconformist church; within six months the church influence had vanished completely, but all the club facilities remained. There were indoor games, a movie projector and screen, a television room, even an arts and crafts room, but there was no license for liquor.
Although the law was broken, frequently in both establishments, and although occasionally members of the rival gangs would clash and there would be a bloodied nose or two, the general behaviour of the gangs in London was reasonably good. Certainly there was no plausible excuse for the police to close down either of the places. Melky’s gang worked the race-courses within easy reach south of London, and the Wide boys went northwest. They both worked the crowds - picking pockets, stealing winnings, snatching hand-bags - and the usual protection method was adopted; one or two of the “boys” worked while half a dozen stood by to make sure that if there was trouble the others could get away. Occasionally a member of the gang was picked up for being in possession of stolen goods, but, if one was sent inside, his wife or family was looked after by the gang.