An Apostle of Gloom

by John Creasey

  Joe darted a sidelong glance towards him, gulped again, and licked his lips. He stood up and rounded the table, putting a hand on Clay’s arm.

  “’S’all right, s’all right, Clay, I recognise Mr. Lessing now.” He smiled weakly. “I didn’t know who it was at first, if I’d known it was Mr. Lessing I’d have told you to show him up right away. You know I would, Mr. Lessing, don’t you?”

  “I would have been surprised if you hadn’t,” said Mark, smiling widely. “Shut the door behind you, Clay.” He waited until the door was closed, choosing to ignore Joe’s furtive movement towards a small cupboard, the opening of it and the clink of glass on glass. Joe’s head jerked backwards as he poured a drink down his throat. Then he turned, a glass in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other; on his face was a sickly grin.

  “’Ave – have a drink, Mr. Lessing? I was up all night, so it’s just a nightcap for me. I was going to ‘ave—have forty winks just before you come. No peace for the wicked, is there?”

  Mark eyed him sardonically.

  “None at all, Joe,” he said, “no peace for the wicked at all.” He saw the bloodshot eyes widen and Joe’s Adam’s apple move convulsively. Then Joe grinned, painfully.

  “You will ‘ave”—this time he omitted the correction—”your little joke, Mr. Lessing, won’t you? ‘Ow’s the Inspector – Handsome West? He was with you the last time you come here, wasn’t he? I always said that you got a square deal from Mr. West and that goes for you, too. Some dicks—”

  “Look here, Joe,” said Mark, “you know why I’ve come and we’re only wasting time. You got some information about West – or you thought you did. Where did it come from?”

  “What, me!” Joe’s voice rose to a shrill falsetto. “Why, I wouldn’t let a friend down, Mr. Lessing, you ought to know I wouldn’t. Ha-ha-ha!” His voice cracked half-way through the laugh and he glanced towards the whisky bottle, giving Mark the impression that he would like to pour the lot down his throat. “I like that, Mr. Lessing! Why, what’s happened to the Inspector? Nothing gone wrong, I ‘ope—hope.”

  “Talk quickly, Joe,” said Mark gently.

  “Why, I can’t tell you a thing, Mr. Lessing! If someone has been spreading lies about Mr. West, it wasn’t me. I don’t spend time like that, I’m not a squealer. Listen to me, Mr. Lessing, I might be able to help you!” He raised the bottle high in a grand gesture. “What about that?” he demanded. “That’s an idea, isn’t it?”

  “No,” said Mark. “Who gave you information about him?”

  Joe licked his lips.

  “I tell you I don’t know what—”

  “Look here, Joe,” said Mark, reasoningly, “you’re frightened of your own shadow. The Masher will be—”

  He dropped the word ‘Masher’ into the conversation simply because he had heard the old ancient outside use it and had wondered what it implied. But even he was astonished at its effect on Leech, who dropped heavily into his chair, his hands shaking, his leg knocking against the table. He raised the bottle to his lips and gulped; a trickle of whisky escaped them and ran down his chin, soaking into the neck of his pyjamas. When he put the bottle down he almost knocked it over.

  “So the Masher frightens you,” murmured Mark.

  “You—you don’t understand,” muttered Leech, “you don’t understand, Mr. Lessing! There’s a fella they call the Masher, ‘e thinks I welshed him, says he’s coming after me.” His colour was grey and his grin positively nauseating. “’E’ll learn the truth one o’ these days and then it’ll be all right. Mr. Lessing, if I was some people I’d ask the police for protection, that’s what I would do, but I wouldn’t sink so low, I couldn’t! That’s me, that’s Joe Leech. I—I’ve got a ‘eadache this morning and the Masher tried to beat me up last night and made me nervous, that’s all; don’t you start thinking I’ve done anything wrong.”

  “I know what you’ve done,” said Mark, “and if the Masher is who I think he is, you’ll get more than a beating up.” He shrugged. “I might be able to help, but not unless—”

  “’Ow’d you know the Masher?” gasped Joe Leech.

  “I’m very interested in you and your friends and your enemies,” Mark assured him. He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. Leech did not smoke. “What name does he go by to you?”

  Leech’s little eyes narrowed.

  “You sure you know him, Mr. Lessing?”

  Mark laughed, ridiculing any doubts. “I know him well enough to have him put inside, Joe, and if he were inside he couldn’t do you any harm, could he?”

  Leech rose unsteadily from his chair, rounded the table and approached Mark. When he was a yard away the stench of whisky was nauseating. He stretched out a podgy hand and gripped Mark’s coat, peering up into Mark’s eyes.

  “Mr. Lessing, you wouldn’t lie to me,” he said, hoarsely, “you wouldn’t play such a trick on a man in my condition, would you? Look at me! Look at me hand!” He held out one hand and it shook violently. “I don’t mind admitting I’m scared stiff, Mr. Lessing, but if you can put Malone inside I’d do anyfink for you, I would truly.”

  “Where did you get the information about West?” demanded Mark. “I’ll look after Malone if you tell me that.”

  “I—I’d have to look up some records. I didn’t get it direct,” said Leech, backing away and narrowing his eyes craftily; “it would take me two or three days, Mr. Lessing. If you could put Malone away—”

  “I will, when you’ve said your piece,” said Mark.

  “Now, listen, Mr. Lessing—”

  From the street, floating clearly through the open window, there came the shrill blast of a whistle, not full enough for a police call. It broke the quiet outside and cut across Leech’s words. He swung round and rushed to the table, pulled open the drawer and snatched up the automatic. His fingers were shaking so much that Mark stepped hastily to one side.

  “That’s him!” gasped Leech. “That’s the Masher, he—”

  There was a scurry of footsteps in the street. A woman cried out in alarm, someone swore, someone else laughed unpleasantly. A clattering sound followed and the swish of water and then a thud and a volley of oaths suggesting that someone had kicked over Lizzie’s bucket. A heavy bang on the bar door was followed by several others and footsteps sounded on the stairs, slow and deliberate – the approach of Clay.

  “Save me!” gasped Leech. “Don’t let them come in, don’t let them come in!”

  Downstairs, a door crashed open and footsteps clattered in the bar. A single loud crack, the breaking of a bottle, was followed by a pandemonium of breaking glass and strident, jeering laughter. Clay burst in, his grey face a sea of perspiration. He closed the door and shot home the bolt but before he reached Leech someone was hammering on the door. The uproar continued downstairs; judging from the sounds, bottles were being flung into the street.

  “Open up, Joe,” a man said, and Mark was surprised by the clearness with which the voice sounded above the din. “You’ll only make it worse for yourself if you don’t.”

  “Keep—keep them out!” gasped Joe. “Don’t let them come in.” He pointed the gun towards the door and his finger was unsteady on the trigger. After a pause a heavy blow splintered two of the door panels, the sharp point of a pick showed; it was wrenched away, then used again. By levering the pick, a hole was made. A hand poked through and groped about for the bolt.

  Leech fired at the hand.

  He missed by a foot; the bullet struck the wall on the side of the door but the hand was not withdrawn. The steadiness with which its owner sought for the bolt was an object lesson. Mark stepped swiftly to Leech and pushed his arm aside.

  “Do you want to be charged with murder?” he snapped.

  “Leave me alone!” Still holding the gun, Leech jumped away from him and fired again. He scored a gl
ancing hit and blood welled on the man’s finger but the bolt was pulled back and the door flung open. A man strode in, small, neat and flashily dressed. His dark, wavy hair was glistening with brilliantine, his narrow-featured face, handsome after a fashion, was twisted contemptuously. For an appreciable time he stood looking at Leech, who held the gun in trembling fingers but did not fire again. He looked too frightened to take any action, his teeth were knocking together like castanets.

  “So you thought you’d keep me out,” the newcomer said, harshly. His voice was cold and metallic. He strode across the room, a swagger in every step, the padded shoulders of his suit swaying. Clay reared up against the wall and stared at him, terrified. Leech drew in a shuddering breath and levelled the gun but the newcomer brushed it away contemptuously, as he held up his hand, from which the blood was streaming. “That’s something else I owe you, Leech.” He struck the bookmaker across the face and the blood from his wounded finger splashed into Leech’s eyes and dripped on his pyjama jacket.

  The pandemonium downstairs was increasing. A crowd had gathered outside and Mark thought there were several brawls in progress; the police would surely arrive before very long. He stepped towards the newcomer, whom he assumed to be ‘Masher’ Malone, and said calmly: “Do you have to do this?”

  Malone tinned and looked at him, dark eyes smouldering.

  “Who’re you?” he demanded.

  “Not a friend of Joe’s,” said Lessing, “and—”

  “It’s a lie, it’s a lie!” screeched Joe. “He said he could put you inside, Masher; he said he knew you and could put you inside! That’s what he said!” He pointed a quivering finger at Mark, who grew suddenly aware of the menace in Malone’s smouldering eyes. He knew that, true to his nature, Leech had seen a chance of buying safety with information. The snide went on shouting until Malone shot out a hand and struck him across the lips. Although he still held the gun, Leech made no attempt to use it. He backed against the wall, gasping and slobbering.

  “Is that true?” Malone demanded.

  “Do you often believe him?” countered Mark.

  “Don’t try to be funny.” Malone suddenly shot out his hand. Apparently he expected Mark to be as hypnotised as Leech; certainly he did not expect Mark’s quick evasive action, nor the clenched fist which knocked his hand aside. He did not change his expression, nor did he strike out again.

  “Listen to me,” said Mark, feeling anxious, “I came to see Leech on private business. He was frightened out of his wits by you. I told him I could put you inside to make him give me some information. Take it or leave it.” He spoke with praiseworthy nonchalance.

  Leech moaned: “It’s a lie, Masher, he come to ask me about you, wanted to know more about you, said he could—”

  From the landing there came a sharp report. Mark heard it and turned his head. He thought he saw a movement by the door but could not be sure; he did hear a man running down the stairs until the sound of his progress was drowned by the new outburst of noise below. He looked round – and there was Leech sliding down the wall, eyes wide open and terrified, hands clutching at his chest. He was breathing convulsively.

  The Masher asked: “Who did that?” but stood sneering at the bookmaker as he slid to the floor and began to gasp for breath.

  Chaper 8

  ANXIETY FOR ROGER

  Mark was fascinated by the sneering grin on Malone’s face. He felt quite sure that the man had arranged the shooting so that he could not become deeply involved, the cynical question was a form of protection. Mark turned away from him and went down on his knees beside Leech, pillowing the man’s head in his arm, and said, reassuringly: “It’s all right, Joe. Clay, fetch a doctor and send someone here with some water and a towel.” He opened the front of Leech’s jacket, tightening his lips when he saw the little hole, oozing blood, just above the heart; he doubted whether a doctor would save the man’s life. Malone stood leering, not speaking until Lizzie came in. She flounced past him, carrying an enamel pail of water and a towel. Mark glanced up in time to see Malone pull her hair. She jerked her head away, deposited the pail and towel and went out, making a wide detour to avoid the flash crook. At the door, she turned and put her tongue out, then disappeared.

  Joe was muttering incoherently, but Mark had no hope that the words were about Roger. He stopped the bleeding by folding the towel and holding it over the wound but he felt helpless and out of his depth. He caught Malone’s eye and the over-dressed man grinned at him. It was quieter downstairs but a shrill voice called: “Police!” The Masher made no attempt to get away but pushed his hands into his pockets and watched Leech’s distorted face with cold sardonic interest. The plump body grew convulsed, Leech began to struggle and tried to shout – only to relax, gasping for breath before becoming very still. His eyes closed – opened again – and became fixed, with the fear reflected in them.

  “He’s croaked,” said Malone. “Listen, you, there isn’t much I don’t know about Leech, and I’ll sell what you want to know – at a price. Just ask for Masher Malone, you’ll find me.” He walked across the room and went out, without glancing behind him, as a stentorian voice bellowed up the stairs: “Leech! You up there, Leech?”

  Clay, who was nearer the door, called stiffly: “He’s been shot.”

  “Cripes!” exclaimed the man with the stentorian voice and he hurried up the stairs; Mark was not surprised to see his uniform as he entered. “So Joe’s got it,” the man said and looked curiously at Mark, as out of place there as a peacock in a poultry run. “Malone, don’t you go,” he called.

  “I should worry,” came Malone’s voice.

  “How’d it happen?” the policeman asked, taking it so calmly, that Mark knew he was not even mildly surprised. “Was it Malone?”

  “Malone was in here when the shot came from the door,” Mark said. “He didn’t fire it.”

  “And doesn’t know who did fire it, copper,” Malone said from the door. “I came to ask Leech some questions but before the louse could answer, someone who didn’t like him got busy. Show me the guy and I’ll handle him for you.”

  Mark could imagine the man’s leering smile, looked towards the door and felt, as he imagined the policeman felt, that he was completely out of his depth. Other policemen arrived and statements were taken and, while Mark was making his, an ambulance and two police cars drew up, finger-print and camera men disgorged upon the Saucy Sue.

  It was an hour before Mark was given permission to leave. None of the Divisional men recognised him or his name, to his satisfaction, for he did not want this affair associated with Roger until the latter had heard about it. He was glad, too, that the situation was taken out of his hands.

  Clay spoke slowly when questioned, every word seemed an effort. Several times he looked towards the grotesque body of his master. Mark wondered what queer twist of loyalty had bound Clay to the bookmaker. Mark asked no questions and kept himself in the background; consequently he knew nothing of the extensive inquiries, although, when he reached the bar, he saw three plainclothes sergeants talking to three members of the pub’s staff, who had recently arrived.

  The broken glass had been swept to either side of the bar so as to make a path. The floor was swimming in beer and spirits and the stench was overpowering. The shelves were wrecked but one empty bottle stood untouched near the end of the bar – it seemed to be the only whole one left. The beer-taps had been opened and kept open, otherwise so much beer could not have escaped. Mark, faintly nauseated and more amazed, held his breath as he hurried across the room, crunching glass underfoot, and reached the clear air of the street. Rose Street, that morning, was a place of beauty compared with the interior of the inn.

  A large excited crowd had gathered and half a dozen policemen kept the gangway clear. At the front of the crowd was the old man, still in shirt and trousers and worn boots, chattering to himself. Mark looke
d at him narrowly, decided that it was not the time to ask him questions, and stalked off. Loud hoots of derision followed him.

  He did not go to the river but towards Mile End Road and, near Aldgate Station, he found a taxi. He went straight to Chelsea and when the cab drew up outside the Wests’ house he saw Roger’s face at the window. Roger disappeared and came hurrying along the path as Mark paid off his cabby.

  Mark turned and then missed a step, he was so startled by the expression on Roger’s face.

  “What—?” he began.

  “Have you seen Janet?” Roger demanded. He was pale, his eyes were hard and glittering.

  “No,” Mark said.

  Roger drew a deep breath. “I hope she’d decided to come and give you a hand,” he said. “She should have been here about twelve. It’s half past one now and there’s no sign of her.”

  “Have you done anything?” They reached the lounge and Mark sat on the arm of an easy chair as he spoke. Roger stood in front of the empty fireplace.

  “I’ve told Pep and phoned Cornish,” he said. “Janet left Cornish at half past eleven and as far as he knew she was coming straight back here.” He ran his hand over his head and went on, heavily: “Mark, last night you suggested that they might be trying to get at Janet as well as me. What made you think so? Was it anything more than the fact that she was supposed to have made those payments?”

  “No-o,” Mark said, slowly, “it was a passing idea, I don’t think I meant it seriously. Confound it, nothing could have happened to Janet!”

  “Couldn’t it?” growled Roger.

  Mark said: “No, and she’ll turn up – she’s probably had a brainwave and gone to try to solve the mystery herself!” He smiled reassuringly and stood up. “It’s not two hours yet, old man, you’re worrying yourself over nothing. Did Pep have anything else to say?”

  Roger pursed his lips and stared at his friend, his eyes filled with shadows. The ticking of the mantelpiece clock seemed loud, the sound of people passing in the street was very noticeable. They did not speak for fully three minutes, then Roger moved, snapping his fingers, and said abruptly: “You’re right, I’m being a fool! What did you say?”