An Apostle of Gloom

by John Creasey

  Chapter 2

  A POLICEMAN UNDER A SHADOW

  “It is not a pleasant task for me to present this warrant and I think you should stop pretending that you know nothing about it,” said Abbott, with an obvious effort.

  “I tell you—” began Roger.

  “Hallo, Jan!” cried a voice from the hall and Roger recognised the deep tones of Mark Lessing. Abbott was so surprised that he looked towards the door and Mark continued in a booming voice: “How’s the little birthday party going?” He stopped, there was a muffled gasp and then, in a rather weak voice, Janet said: “Mark, you ass!”

  “Now what is a kiss between friends on a birthday?” demanded Lessing. “Especially on the twenty-first – it is your twenty-first, isn’t it?” In different circumstances Roger would have welcomed the wide smile he knew to be on his friend’s often sober countenance and the gaiety in the clear brown eyes. “Besides, I’ve brought you a present, a piece of Seèvres.” He went on talking, but his voice was muffled. At last Janet was forced to raise hers, but that too was indistinct; obviously she had taken Mark into the lounge.

  Abbott pinched his nostrils. “Well, West?” he said.

  Roger eyed him levelly and thanked the fates for sending Mark Lessing so opportunely. A few moments before he would have answered angrily and that would only have worsened the situation; Mark had given him time to realise that he would be wise to adopt a reasoning attitude. There was some absurd mistake, but it could be rectified and, rather than antagonise the Superintendent, he should try to create a good impression.

  So he smiled and spoke steadily.

  “I haven’t anything to say about it, Abbott, except that I’m completely at a loss – seriously,” he added with a smile intended to be friendly but which became set when Abbott continued to stare at him, showing no sign of relaxing his cold hostility. “You must have some reason for getting a warrant sworn for me, but—”

  “You must know the reason,” said Abbott.

  Roger fancied that there was a slight easing of his manner, the faint emphasis on the ‘must’ implied a query. He was about to follow it up when there came from the lounge an astonishing sound – astonishing because of the quiet which had reigned until then. It was the deep, throbbing bass notes of the piano, and then it developed into Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C sharp minor, played to get the utmost volume of sound and reverberating through the little house and probably audible half-way along the street. Hardly had it started than Mark began to sing, more loudly than harmoniously; a suspicion entered Roger’s mind that Mark was drunk. Yet he was an abstemious man as a rule, a fair judge of wine who rarely touched beer or spirits.

  “Is that din necessary?” Abbott demanded, irritably.

  “Is any of this necessary?” demanded Roger, somewhat tartly. “I thought I was going to have a day off, and I ought to leave soon, I’m taking my wife to a show, as I told you. Are you serious about executing this warrant?”

  “Of course I am serious,” said Abbott, “and I shall require you to—”

  “Why did you get it?” demanded Roger.

  He had to raise his voice to make himself heard for Mark had the bit properly between his teeth. Now and again he crashed a wrong note and he was playing so heavily that the piano frame was quivering and groaning. At odd intervals his singing grew audible and introduced a note of absurdity which exasperated Roger and yet seemed to relieve the tension about him.

  “If you will stop that noise,” said Abbott, “I can tell you.” He stepped to the door and, no matter how reluctantly, Roger had to go with him. When it was open, the whole house seemed to be in uproar, and he thought that he heard a bump upstairs.

  Then he pushed open the lounge door.

  Janet was by the mantelpiece, doubled-up with laughter – and that was hardly surprising, for Mark was playing with idiotic abandon. As he crashed his hands on the keys he shook his head and his dark hair fell over his forehead; after each note he raised his hand high into the air, flexing his wrist. His pale face was flushed and his eyes were aglow with the ‘inspiration’ of his playing. He was no longer singing.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Roger demanded, striding across the room and putting a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “Stop it, you ass!” He pulled, but Mark continued, turning his head and shaking it vigorously. Boom! went the C sharp and then Mark played a run superbly. Boom! went the A, then G sharp, then C again.

  “West, I insist that you stop this nonsense!” cried Abbott.

  Boom! went Mark, and then he took his hands from the keys and swung round on the piano stool, flinging his hair out of his eyes and glaring into Abbott’s face. Roger had never seen him look so toweringly angry; his earlier fear of Mark’s sobriety strengthened.

  “Nonsense?” Mark barked at Abbott. “Who are you, sir? What do you mean by calling my playing nonsense? If you have no appreciation of good music, if your ignorance is so abysmal, I advise you, most emphatically, not to declare it to the world. Nonsense indeed! Is this what you would term a thing which has no meaning?” He swung round to the piano again, raised his hands and then began to play Liszt’s “Liebestraume”.

  Abbott stared at him, tight-lipped. Roger, at first irritated by Janet’s laughter – she was still struggling with it – looked at her with a frown and then saw an expression in her eyes which gave him his first inkling that she knew why Mark was playing the fool and told him that it was not a question of inebriation. She began to laugh again as if she were unable to stop, and Abbott looked about him desperately; Roger thought he formed the word ‘madhouse.’ He did shout loudly enough to be heard above the playing: “Stop him, West!”

  Roger tried, but only half-heartedly. There was a question in his mind, caused first by Janet’s expression, then by the realisation that if Mark were making this din deliberately, it could only be as a distraction. But from what did he want to distract attention? He remembered, suddenly, imagining that he had heard a bump upstairs. His confusion grew worse but he began to make a good show of losing his temper, until Mark desisted at last and rose, disdainfully, from the piano. He brushed his hair back from his forehead and straightened his tie – and then he jumped, as if horrified.

  By no means handsome, he was a distinguished-looking man with a high forehead, an indubitably Roman nose and a pointed chin; his lips were shapely and his complexion so good that it was almost feminine. About him there was an air, normally, of arrogance.

  Just then his whole expression was of horror.

  “My sainted Cousin Lot!” he exclaimed. “Abbott! Why the dickens didn’t someone tell me? I say, Abbott, I am sorry, I’d no idea it was you.” He continued to stare into the Superintendent’s eyes while uttering abject apologies. Since he was not a policeman they were rather excessive; on the other hand, he was known at the Yard as a friend of Handsome West’s who dabbled in crime and, when not fully occupied by the Ministry of Information, where he worked, wrote crime case-books and treatises; he was not widely known but was respected for his analytical precision and his inventiveness. “You know, Abbott,” he went on in the same shocked tones, “I was absolutely carried away, I’ve been working rather hard and I just felt like getting on that piano and letting myself go. Something powerful in the way of urges, I suppose. And,” he added irrelevantly, “it’s Janet’s birthday. I remembered it this afternoon and came rushing over to apologise for not having wished her many happy returns and all that. If times were normal,” he added, catching a glimpse of the tea-table, “there would be an iced cake! Ah, me, what times they were when we could feed, and for coupons and points there was no need! I say, Jan, could you rustle up a cup of tea and a biscuit?”

  “Of course,” said Janet, smiling so sweetly upon Abbott that had Roger not already suspected that she knew what was behind Mark’s astonishing performance, he would have done so then. “Won’t you stay to tea, S
uperintendent?”

  Abbott had listened to Mark’s protestations of regret with a face gradually resuming its stony aspect. Now he turned to Janet and, to do him justice, he appeared ill at ease. Roger contributed to his embarrassment by offering him a cigarette.

  “Don’t get worried, Abbott,” he said, “all this will work itself out, you know. Why don’t you have a cup of tea and talk about it?”

  “Hallo, what’s this?” demanded Mark. “Sticky business on the criminal stakes? Famous member of the Big Five flummoxed, Handsome West called in to get his nose on the trail?” Mark beamed about him.

  “You’re not going to take Roger away!” Janet said swiftly, and Abbott had the grace to cough in confusion.

  Roger put him out of his misery.

  “Not in the usual way, Jan, anyhow.” He smiled as if he were beginning to see the funny side of the situation. “I don’t know what’s gone wrong, but he’s turned up with a search-warrant – I must be credited with having broken open a till.”

  “What?” gasped Mark.

  “What?” cried Janet.

  Roger thought that they put in just a shade more emphasis than was needed for true realism, although he might have gained that impression because he felt so sure that there was something afoot between them; he had not yet grappled with the problem of what it might be.

  Abbott appeared to think their amazement understandable and sincere; he coughed again.

  “You can’t be serious!” exclaimed Janet.

  “I am afraid I am, Mrs. West,” said Abbott, “and I really must not waste any more time.” He shot a quick, almost furtive glance at Roger and went on: “Information has been lodged to the effect that you received, today, a sum of money as a bribe. West, in consideration of withholding official action when you knew that such action was demanded.”

  Roger stared at him, blankly.

  “Now, come, let’s be serious,” said Mark, “a joke is a joke and I like one with any man, but this—”

  “It is not a joking matter,” Abbott assured him, coldly, “it is quite serious and, but for the circumstances, I would not have made the statement in this room. However, you appear to wish your wife to know, West, so that is your responsibility.”

  Janet stepped to Roger’s side and asked, clearly: “Is he sane, Roger?”

  Roger smiled, thinly. “Yes, he has a warrant, but it’s coming to something when he adopts this method instead of tackling me at the Yard. I suppose he could have come while I was out instead of while I’m here, but apparently that’s the extent of the consideration I can expect.” He seemed faintly amused. “It’s all so fantastic that it’s not worth getting worked up about. It explains why Martin was dogging me, too,” he added, looking at Janet, “he’s probably been making sure I didn’t pass the swag on to anyone else!”

  Abbott regarded him coldly.

  “I can see nothing amusing in the situation, West.”

  “I suppose not,” said Roger, dryly. “Hadn’t you better start searching? You’ll want to begin on us, but that doesn’t include my wife.” He grew more aloof and Abbott obviously felt on dangerous ground, for he said stiffly: “If it is necessary to search Mrs. West – and I hope it will not be – I hardly need tell you the proper measures will be taken. Will you be good enough to call in Martin and the others?”

  “Others?” ejaculated Roger.

  “There are two detective-officers with him,” Abbott said.

  Roger nodded curtly, went to the front door and called the sergeant and his men, then returned to the front room. One of the men waited in the lounge. He was an old officer whom West looked at in bewilderment, for his presence brought the truth home to him more forcibly. It was a severe jolt to think that a man who called him ‘sir’ and took his instructions should now be watching to make sure that he destroyed no evidence and was not able to leave the room.

  Had he cared to make a fuss, he could have insisted on more formality; there was no point in doing so, however, for it would serve only to increase Abbott’s suspicions. It was evident that the Superintendent seriously believed the allegations to be true, but even more disturbing was the fact that Abbott had the approval – in fact, the instructions – of the Assistant Commissioner.

  Mark began to protest when Abbott left the room, but grew tongue-tied. Janet sat rigidly in an easy chair and looked out into the murky evening. The small clock on the mantelpiece showed that it had turned half past four – but Roger had forgotten Arsenic and Old Lace. He heard the heavy movements of the men upstairs and thought how often he had been on exactly the same quest.

  He had searched with a thoroughness which had brought the tension of the people waiting in another part of the house to breaking point. He had worked with a grim determination to find some evidence of complicity in crime and to break his victim’s resistance. After the search, provided it proved successful, were the arrest, the charge, the magistrate’s court, the gradual collection and piecing together of evidence, the final day of the trial, often absurdly short in view of the weary preparations which had preceded it. The jury, the judge, the sentence – and prison.

  Only vaguely did he think of Mark’s peculiar behaviour and Janet’s warning glance. He could not really grasp what was happening. Abbott, instead of being the Apostle of Gloom, became the Apostle of Doom, because – the Superintendent would not have come here, and Chatworth would not have signed the warrant, had they not been reasonably certain that they would find evidence that he had accepted bribes.

  He lit a cigarette and stared at Janet. Her lips curved in a faint smile but she was as much on edge as he. Mark seemed the calmest of them all. There was irony in the fact that the day had begun so well, the delight of getting home early, the preparations for the theatre, and now—this.

  The men were still moving about upstairs and time was flying – it was a quarter past five. Every minute worsened the suspense.

  Janet turned restlessly towards the window.

  “How much longer will they be?”

  “Not long,” Roger said.

  Mark broke in, smiling reassuringly.

  “After all, no news is good news, if they’d found the alleged evidence they would have come down shouting huzzahs by now.” His good spirits were irritating, yet it was rare that he got on Roger’s nerves. There was a reason for his confidence, some secret he had confided to Janet but which Roger could not guess – except vaguely, and then only by drawing a conclusion that he wanted to dismiss as absurd.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  The three of them turned towards the door and only the plainclothes man seemed indifferent. All of the search party appeared to be coming and Roger, feeling a curious mixture of relief and tension, stared at the door handle. Someone spoke in a muffled voice but the handle did not turn. The front door opened and footsteps scraped on the narrow gravel path.

  Roger muttered a sharp imprecation, stepped towards the door and opened it. Abbott was standing at the foot of the stairs and he regarded Roger without expression.

  “Well?” snapped Roger.

  “I want you to believe that I’m really sorry about this,” Abbott said. His lips moved automatically and he looked incapable of feeling. He glanced towards the open door, and Roger, following his gaze, saw a woman approaching with Sergeant Martin. He recognised the newcomer as a tall, round-faced, jovial policewoman, one of the few female detectives at the Yard. Her purpose was only too apparent. He turned back to Abbott and spoke in a low-pitched, angry voice.

  “I won’t forget this afternoon’s work, Abbott.”

  “I’m sorry,” Abbott repeated monotonously. “Will you explain to your wife?”

  Roger said: “Yes,” sharply, and turned on his heel. He caught Janet’s eye as he returned to the room; she gave him the impression that she had heard Abbott’s remarks and wa
s half-prepared for what was coming.

  “They want to search you,” Roger said. “They’ve a woman outside, so they’re not breaking any regulations.” His voice was harsh with repressed anger, for this was the final insult, the crowning indignity. He really felt like going on the rampage, only restraining himself because he knew that it would make matters worse.

  The woman officer stood on the threshold, smiling as if it were the best joke in the world – she was the only member of the police who seemed unaffected by the situation. Roger stared when she winked at him before going upstairs with Janet to the main bedroom. Abbott entered the lounge and stared at Roger.

  “All right,” Roger said, “get on with it,” and allowed himself to be searched, standing rigid, neither helping nor impeding Tiny Martin, whose every movement seemed to be reluctant. The contents of his pockets were set out in neat array on a corner of the tea-table, next to the muffins which were now cold and unappetising, with congealed margarine smeared on them. The fire had nearly gone out and Mark, suddenly waking out of a reverie, began to stoke it, putting on a few knobs of coal and two logs and then blowing gently with the bellows.

  Tiny Martin finished and Roger looked at Abbott. “Well, are you satisfied?” he demanded. The fire was blazing and warming his back – he had not realised, before, how cold he felt.

  “There’s nothing here,” Abbott said, and then took some brown paper and oddments of string from his pocket. “What was in this, West?”

  Roger stared. “I don’t know.”

  “It is addressed to you and it’s registered,” Abbott said. “What was in it?”

  Roger stretched out a hand and took the paper. It was familiar but nothing clicked in his mind at first. It was of good quality, with a typewritten address on a plain label. The postmark was blurred but, after some seconds of close scrutiny, he saw that it was franked December, although he could not distinguish the date. His face cleared and he handed it back, knowing both what had been in it when it had reached him and why Abbott had found it upstairs.