Liquid Death And Other Stories

by John Russell Fearn

  Finding no other information, he had to content himself until mid-morning radio and television news bulletins—but no reference at all was made to Maudie Vincent, doubtless because she was not important enough in the general scheme of things. Nor was there any news in the early evening bulletins, either.

  Disgusted and vaguely uncertain, in spite of himself, 'Mopes' settled down for an evening watching television and listening to the radio but, towards seven-thirty, his hermitage was interrupted by the arrival of the Chief. Grim-faced, he came slowly into the room, drawing off his gloves.

  "Well, what s the explanation?" he asked coldly, as 'Mopes' struggled from the chesterfield and began to straighten his tie.

  "Explanation, Chief? Oh, you mean I've got the television too loud again…"

  "I mean the snake-bite which laid out Maudie Vincent. And put that damned thing off!"

  'Mopes' obeyed, sweating a little. There was a diabolical expression on the Chief's face that made him wish his hand were holding a loaded gun.

  "Maudie Vincent?" 'Mopes' enquired vaguely. "Did you say snake-bite? I—I don't get it. Was she one of those I finished off the other night, like you told me?"

  The Chief sat down. "I'll give you sixty seconds, 'Mopes'. Why did you dare to 'snake-bite' that woman without my orders? Why did you leave a false sovereign where everybody could see it?"

  "False sovereign? I ain't seen nothing in the papers about a false sovereign…" 'Mopes' narrowed his eyes.

  "You have only one paper here: I see nearly all of them in my capacity. One states distinctly that a false sovereign was left on the counter of the tobacco shop. What did you do it for, 'Mopes'?"

  'Mopes' breathed hard, staring at the .38 that had now appeared in the Chief's hand. He knew that if he did not speak, his number was definitely up.

  "I went for fags," he blurted out. "I had to. Only place I could think of. You didn't let me have any in the grocery order—else the feller didn't send 'em. Anyway, I chose Maudie Vincent 'cos I useta know her long ago. I went disguised an' I didn't mean to snake-bite her. She recognized me in spite of everything, an' to save things, I let her have it. I had to get out quick 'cos of a customer, an' I musta left the sovereign on the counter."

  "Why didn't you use your own money?"

  "I had none. I used it up the other night."

  The gun lowered and finally disappeared. "All right. I believe that, 'Mopes', because you're too dumb to invent so consecutive a story on the spur of the moment. I'm not going to do anything to you, because as far as I can tell, the police have not got anything out of the business. Plenty of suspicion, but nothing definite. What I am going to do is warn you."

  "'Bout what?"

  "Something may be attempted. You left your fingerprints in that shop, and the police will know they're yours. They will also know that if they can grab you, you can give everything away. So, to preserve yourself, and the rest of us, ignore any attempt that may be made to contact you. Understand?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "All right. And don't try anything funny again, or I'll finish you for good. And don't think, either, that you're invaluable to me. A day will come when I won't need you any more and, when it does, I'll remember that you took far too much on your own shoulders."

  Without saying any more the Chief departed. 'Mopes' grimaced, spat into the glowing fire and then resumed his sprawl on the chesterfield. But his mind very soon reverted to the Chief's last words.

  "A day'll come, will it?" 'Mopes muttered. "We'll damned well see about that! If he can spring something on me just whenever he feels like it, I can also spring something on 'im—an' I will. Just give me the chance, that's all."

  He got up again, switched on the television, and left it on until midnight. Then he ate as large a supper as he could find and went to bed. Next morning, the newspaper had a front page statement to the effect that Maudie Vincent, victim number five to succumb to a mysterious rattlesnake, had died. The police had no reason to suspect foul play, though they were puzzled by the spurious sovereign. Nothing about him, nothing about his notebook having been found. He grinned widely to himself.

  "So long, Maudie!" he exclaimed, raising his coffee cup. "Happy landings…"

  For him, the matter of Maudie Vincent was literally dead and done with. He browsed through the news of the latest assaults and robberies, surveyed the pictures of a new batch of debutantes, and then looked at the 'Deaths' to see if anybody he knew had kicked the bucket. It was this survey that automatically led him to the 'Personal' column, immediately below. And it was the word 'mope' that caught his eye.

  "'Why mope about looking for your pocketbook?'" he repeated slowly. "'I'm worth dating up, too. Young, pretty and willing. If you want me and the notebook, contact…"

  He stopped eating and read the advertisement right through again. Notebook? Mope? Was somebody trying to contact him without giving anything away? It took him a long time to realize that this was the general idea. It could only mean that another customer had found his notebook, or somehow got hold of it. Maybe that explained why the police had not mentioned it.

  "Hellfire!" 'Mopes' ejaculated finally, as at last he worked things out. "I do believe it is meant for me! Who's she say she is? Young, pretty and willing… Mmm—could be me all right. She musta read that blasted notebook to know about the dating up. Whoever she is, she's smart, or she wouldn't ha' put in an ad. like that! Just about my measure, I'd say."

  'Mopes' swallowed some more coffee before he was pervaded with the final conviction that the ad. did apply to him. There drifted across his mind a memory of the Chief's warning: and, just as quickly, he discarded it. Here was a young, pretty woman—if she was to be believed—and she had somehow found the notebook and wanted to hand it back. It certainly couldn't be Maudie, because she was dead.

  "Okay—what have I gotta lose?" 'Mopes' murmured. "Only thing is to figure out how to get in touch without givin' anythin' away."

  The Chief had not trusted him with a telephone in the house. His first impulse was to dash out there and then to a phone box; then he checked himself. He had never appeared outside by day for any length of time, except in the car and, since the phone box was only a hundred yards down the road, there was no sense in getting out the car for that—or was there? Then 'Mopes' remembered something else, and cursed. He had no money. Only those blasted spurious sovereigns, until he received his next wage packet.

  "Reverse the charge, you dope!" he told himself; then he shook his head. That wouldn't do, either. The operator would want his name. No reason why he must give his own name, though. Finally, he made his decision. He would use the car and phone immediately. This was urgent.

  Accordingly, ten minutes later—disguised with his dark glasses as usual—he had reached the telephone booth, asked for the number given in the paper, and given his name as Johnson, so the charge could be reversed. At length, there floated to him a sweetly feminine voice.

  "Hello? I'm allowing you to reverse the charge because I think I know why you have rung up."

  "It's about the advertisement," 'Mopes' said, picturing the delectable vision at the other end of the wire.

  "So I thought. What did the operator say your name is? Mr. Johnson?"

  "That's it, Miss. Bobby Johnson. What do I do to pick up the notebook?"

  "Well, now… I'd better think about that. It's rather important, isn't it? Do you know where I found it?"

  "I—I c'n guess," 'Mopes' answered uneasily.

  "I found it in Maudie Vincent's Tobacco Shop. Just how I found it, I'll tell you later. It could do you an awful lot of harm if the police got it, couldn't it?"

  "Mebbe."

  "Tell you what you do," Gwenda Blanc said, after an interval. "Ring me back here in ten minutes and, by then, I'll have thought out some arrangement."

  "Can't you fix something now?" 'Mopes' demanded. "I've precious little time to spare."

  "I know, but we want things to be absolutely safe, don't we? I'm taking a risk, and
so are you. I must work out some kind of plan. Ring me back—ten minutes from now."

  "Can I reverse the charge—? I'm short of change."

  "Certainly, if you wish. 'Bye for now."

  The line clicked and 'Mopes' put down the phone. He was not sure whether he liked the set-up or not. Still, nothing had been done so far that could give him away. It was the ten minutes wait he didn't feel comfortable about. Anything could happen in that time. Okay—if it did, he'd be ready for it. So he remained in the phone box, the car just within sight, and kept his eyes open for anything unusual.

  Meantime, Gwen was speaking to Dawson at the Yard. It did not take her above a few seconds to give the details. "So—what do I do now?" she asked.

  "Ask him to your flat," Dawson replied promptly. "By every means you know, get him to talk. That's the main thing."

  "You'll be around somewhere, won't you?" Gwenda asked anxiously. "I'm panicky of having a gorilla like that locked up with me."

  "We'll certainly keep watch," Dawson answered, "but we're not going to make any actual arrest until 'Mopes' has told everything he knows. For us to make him talk—since we're limited in this country as to how far we can go in that direction—may be difficult, but you can do it if you play the game right. Once we have all the information we want, we'll be busy. That drawing room of yours is wired up, by the way, and your entire conversation will be recorded by an operator in a room two blocks away. Good luck, and keep us posted. We'll know how you're fixed, by the operator being in constant touch with us here. Fix your appointment for seven tonight, if you can."

  She rang off and, in the drawing room of her temporary flat, looked about her in surprise, wondering where the microphone might be. She even looked right at it, but was not aware of it, since it comprised the rosette in the ceiling, from which depended the electric light flex. Then the phone was ringing again and 'Mopes' was at the other end.

  "Johnson 'ere," he said briefly. "Made up your mind, sweetheart?"

  "Yes, Mr. Johnson—I've made up my mind. You be here tonight at seven o'clock, and you shall have your notebook. Maybe we'll have a little chat, too, eh? You sound the rugged type of man that I admire."

  'Mopes' metaphorically preened himself. "That will suit me fine, Miss—er—what's the name, by the way?"

  "Gwenda Blane. I'm an artist's model. The address is eleven, Caradoc Mansions, Kensington. Two floors up you'll find me."

  "I'll be lookin' forward to it," 'Mopes' promised, and rang off.

  For the rest of the day, he was preparing himself for the evening, titivating his appearance for one thing—which was about as useful as painting an old car ready for the scrap-heap—and removing marks from his clothing with a bottle of solvent. He once or twice had the presentiment that he was walking into a trap and, if so, was prepared to shoot his way out of it with the automatic he carried in a shoulder holster. On the other hand, the whole thing might be genuine, and he had no intention of missing an evening with an artist's model for anybody. And if the Chief came… ? Well—er—oh, to Hades with the Chief!

  Promptly at six-fifteen, as darkness was fast closing in, 'Mopes' set off in the car. He drove as far as a garage on the west side of the city and finished the journey on foot. He had no intention of giving any coppers the chance of noting the car, taking its number, and then trailing him back to the mansion.

  So, exactly at seven, he knocked on the door of Flat 11 in the Caradoc Mansions edifice, and almost immediately the girl herself opened it. 'Mopes' gave a gulp and adjusted his tinted glasses. He had been prepared for a girl worth looking at, but hardly for the feminine pulchritude that stood just within the softly lighted, scented drawing room.

  "Mr. Johnson?" she asked softly.

  "Yep—I'm Johnson." 'Mopes' clumsily pulled off his hat. He was glad the tinted glasses disguised the fact that he was staring hard at Gwenda. Anyway, he just couldn't help it. She was wearing a 'lo-and-behold' evening gown of cherry taffeta, so low, indeed, off the shoulder that even 'Mopes' was surprised. Her shoulders and arms, softly rounded, were matt white, and her definitely pretty face was exquisitely made up. Crowning it all was the honey-colored hair, gently controlled by a golden clasp.

  "Well, come in," she invited, smiling. "I don't suppose, judging from your notebook, that you're the kind of man who believes in ethics. Like us being alone here, for instance?"

  'Mopes' got one look from those blue eyes and did not waste any more time. He followed the bare-backed, curvacious Gwenda into the room and closed the door behind him. He tossed down his hat and then removed his tinted glasses.

  "Why, I do believe you're… 'Mopes' McCall!" the girl said slowly, staring at him. "I never thought of that possibility."

  "Does it matter?" he asked curtly.

  "Not a bit. Might make things more exciting, in fact. I've often wondered what it might be like to come face to face with a killer."

  Gwenda settled herself on the chesterfield, her arm laid along its back.

  "Okay, if you want to be blunt about it," 'Mopes' growled. "What about me notebook? Let me have that, an' I'll be on my way."

  "So soon?" Gwenda looked surprised. "But surely you have time to talk? Time for a drink?"

  "Well, I…"

  Without giving him time to answer, Gwenda got up again and swept, with a faint rustling sound, to a cocktail cabinet. After a moment or two, she returned to his side with drinks in her hands.

  "Now, Mr. McCall—sit down and make yourself comfortable. I want to talk to you."

  "Oh, y'do?" 'Mopes' sat on the chesterfield, since she indicated it; then, with a waft of perfume, she reclined beside him.

  "To us," she said, raising her drink.

  'Mopes' swallowed his drink at a gulp and then sat looking at her, trying to decide what was the matter with him. Normally, he dealt with women exactly as he chose, yet now he was side by side with one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen, he didn't know what to do about it. She was literally throwing herself at him, and he wasn't sure of himself.

  "You're not at all what I expected," she said, taking his empty glass and setting it down with her own on the occasional table. "A ruthless killer, an escaped convict, a man responsible for faked sovereigns—and you sit there like a little boy waiting for Sunday School to start."

  "How'd you know all about me?" he snapped.

  "The newspapers, of course. That face of yours has been pretty well advertised, believe me. But don't think I've any ideas about turning you over to the police…"

  "You'd better not try!"

  "Supposing I did? What would you do?"

  "Blot you out, same as 'appened to Maudie Vincent." Gwenda's eyebrows rose. "Maudie Vincent? But I thought the papers said she died of a snake-bite wound. didn't they?"

  "Mebbe she did." 'Mopes' compressed his thick lips, realizing he had already said too much. To his relief, Gwenda did not pursue the problem of Maudie, but she still asked very awkward questions, just the same.

  "Wouldn't you rather turn yourself in, Mr. McCall, than keep dodging, the police? Don't you find it tough going?"

  "Nope. I'm well cared for."

  "Then you've got a wife—or friends?"

  "I'm not sayin'—but I know what I'm doin'. Now look, baby—let's get to business. Where's my pocket-book?"

  "No hurry," Gwenda said lazily, sprawling back on the chesterfield. "It isn't often I have a man of your type to talk to, and I mean to take advantage of it. What are you so jumpy about? You're quite safe here."

  "I'm not so sure about that. I don't feel safe when I'm not on me home ground. Now, if you wus at my place, where I'm stayin', it'd be different. I've always said the place needs a woman in it to brighten it up."

  "Whereabouts is it?"

  "Out in the country. Safer than here." 'Mopes hesitated and then plunged. "I could take you straight to it in me car. Then, if it's fun you want, we could really have it."

  Gwenda smiled wryly. "I'm not that crazy, Mr. McCall—at least, not at the
moment. Maybe, if I need a tough boy friend, I'll call on you some time. What's the address?"

  "Never mind. The only way you'll ever get to my place is for me to take you. Now get that notebook, will you, and let me get outa here."

  "Aren't you interested in knowing how I found it?"

  "Not particularly—but you can tell me, if it makes you any happier."

  "I walked into Maudie's shop just as a deck-hand was coming out. I went in for cigarettes and, to my surprise, this chap told me to keep an eye on the body while he phoned the police. I looked around and saw Maudie on the floor, and your notebook near her. I picked it up and read parts of it, then I decided I'd keep it instead of handing it over to the police."

  "Why?" 'Mopes' demanded suspiciously. "What made you so keen on protectin' me?"

  "I didn't know it was you. Could have been anybody. I rather fancied meeting the man who'd written some of the stuff in that book."

  "Uh-huh. Well, I'll take it, if you don't mind."

  Gwenda sighed. "All right. Sure you won't have another drink?"

  "Nope. Just give me the book and I'll blow."

  Gwenda gave it up. It was no use trying any more, as far as she could see. 'Mopes' was completely ill at ease and nothing of her devising could overcome that. Rising, she went to the bureau, withdrew the notebook from it, and came across with it.

  "Don't I get anything for saving you?" she asked.

  "Not here you don't!" 'Mopes' snatched it from her. "I keep on telling you, baby, I'm not comfortable away from me home ground. Mebbe you'll change your mind and come out to my place? You'll be safe enough."

  "That," Gwenda murmured, "is a matter of opinion. Just the same, I'll give it some thought. The boys I know are pretty boring."

  "Then make up your mind quick. The car's waitin', and…"

  "I'm not coming on the spur of the moment, Mr. McCall. I want to think it out first. You can ring me tomorrow if you like, and I'll see how I feel by then."

  "Okay." 'Mopes' pig eyes gleamed momentarily. "You an' me could have one hell of a time… I'll ring tomorrow mornin'. 'Bye for now."