An Apostle of Gloom

by John Creasey

  “Pep,” said Roger, in high good humour, “you missed a vision this morning. A Daimler pulled up outside my house and out she stepped.”

  “Who did?”

  “The vision!”

  “Now be sensible,” protested Morgan.

  “Oh, I am being! She was beauty itself and there was money oozing from her. She came, she said, to solicit Janet’s help for the Society of European Relief, and she was very winsome about it. Also,” he added, offhandedly, “the offices of the Society are in Welbeck Street.”

  Morgan looked at him sharply.

  “So I wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t find many interesting things here,” said Roger, cheerfully. “We’ve plenty to go on, Pep, almost too much in some ways, although with you and Mark to help we’ll get through. How do you like working for an ex- policeman?”

  “Now don’t talk like that,” remonstrated Morgan. “What are you going to do?”

  “You take the next house, I’ll take the one beyond it,” Roger said. “See if you can find the name of the Society of European Relief on one of the boards.” He smiled as Pep went up four steps leading to an open door and whistled to himself as he viewed the next-door house. It had been taken over as offices but none of the name-boards mentioned the Society. To refresh his memory, he looked at Mrs. Sylvester Cartier’s card: Welbeck Street was right but there was no number. Pep passed him, shaking his head. They were opposite the island and the cabby had pulled up on the other side of the road.

  The next house was a blank also, but when Roger walked down the steps he saw Morgan standing on the porch next door, waving to him and smiling excitedly. Roger joined him quickly.

  “Got it!” exclaimed Morgan. “You’ll make quite a detective when you grow up, Handsome!” He led the way into a darkened hall-way and pointed to the notice board, which had the names of four different firms or institutions; on the third floor – the top – was the Society of European Relief. “But there’s no lift,” Morgan said.

  “I couldn’t ask you to walk up all those stairs,” Roger said. “Stay down here and keep your eyes open, Pep, will you?”

  “Now, listen—”

  “You can’t have all the jam,” Roger told him. He made for the stairs, going up the first two flights two at a time but then proceeding more calmly. Pep shook a fist at him but did not attempt to follow.

  The landings were darkened but windows were open and allowed some light in. From the offices on the second floor came a clatter of typewriters and from one room the strains of a radio; it sounded like the B.B.C. Orchestra. Roger went, still sedately, to the next floor. A typewriter was clattering and one door was ajar. It was marked ‘Enquiries’ and had the name of the society underneath. Roger stepped in. Behind a wooden partition he could hear a typewriter going at high speed and reflected that the Society had at least one expert typist. He pressed a bell in the counter and started at the loud, harsh ring. The typewriter stopped at the first sound, a chair was pushed back and a girl rounded the partition.

  She was pretty; she wore a white blouse and a dark skirt; her hair was dark, like Janet’s, and she was about Janet’s height. She appeared very self-possessed and smiled pleasantly. On her right hand was a solitaire diamond ring, large enough to be noticeable.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you?” Roger liked her voice.

  “I think you probably can,” he said.

  He admitted only an outside possibility that this was the girl who had visited the bank as Janet. He was prepared to find that, perhaps in some obscure way, the Society was connected with the major mystery, and the fact that someone had been taken for Janet was well to the forefront of his mind. When he saw the girl he wondered how soon he could arrange for the cashier at the Mid-Union Bank to see her, for at first sight there was a passing resemblance.

  Yet it was not easy to imagine that she had played a part in so tortuous a plot; there was an openness about her face which he found refreshing – she had something of Janet’s direct, attractive manner.

  As he considered her she stared at him with growing bewilderment and before he spoke she asked with a touch of impatience: “What is it you want, please?”

  Roger smiled charmingly. “I wonder if you would take £250 in notes to the Mid-Union Bank and put it into my account? My name is West.”

  He knew at once that he had scored a hit; it made him feel light-headed. She backed away, her eyes narrowed, and he thought she groped behind her as if for help. As he gave his name, her lips – red but not heavily made up – parted slightly and her breathing grew agitated.

  “What—what are you talking about?” she said, thinly.

  “Don’t tell me that I have to say it again,” said Roger. After all, you’ve done it often enough to know how easy it is, haven’t you?”

  “You’re talking nonsense!”

  “Am I?” asked Roger. “I wonder how long you’ll continue to think so? But look here, I’m not an ogre—”

  “If you have any business to discuss, please state what it is,” said the girl, stiffly. She stood a foot away from the counter with her hands clenched by her sides; the ring glittered like fire. She was badly frightened, but she tried hard not to show it and her voice was steady. “I haven’t time to waste.”

  “You know,” said Roger, “the cashier will be able to identify you.”

  “I have no idea what you mean,” she said. “Please go away.”

  “What, so soon?” asked Roger. “I’ve only just—”

  A door, behind the partition, began to open; he could see the top of it. Someone moved towards the reception office and a middle-aged man appeared, his kind face looking faintly puzzled. He had grey hair and a gentle voice.

  “Lois, my dear,” he said, “I thought you were going to—oh!” He broke off at sight of Roger. “I beg your pardon, I did not know you were engaged. Can we help you, sir?”

  He wore thick-lensed glasses which hid his eyes but did not conceal his involuntary start when he saw Roger and obviously recognised him. He hid his feelings better than the girl. He had come out because he had heard part of the conversation, that was certain; he had probably heard the buzzer and been determined not to let the girl face an interrogation on her own.

  He smiled gently and blandly and peered short-sightedly into Roger’s eyes.

  Roger beamed widely. “Can I give you a lift?” he asked “I’m going as far as Scotland Yard.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “Do you know, I think you are both being wilfully obtuse,” Roger said, wonderingly, “but you’ll have to change your attitude.”

  The man drew himself up to his full height, which was no more than medium; his sloping shoulders did nothing to make him impressive, nor did his well-worn suit of drab grey.

  “I dislike your threatening manner, sir!”

  “No threats,” Roger said, “just a little jogging of your memory. Last night—”

  “I was at home all last night,” declared the man sharply, giving sufficient emphasis to the ‘all’ to make it clear that, although he knew what Roger meant, he was confident of his alibi. “Lois, has this person been threatening you?”

  The girl said, hesitatingly: “He—he seems to think he knows me.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “No, I—”

  “You will both know me in future,” Roger said, “and I’ll know you, so it cuts both ways.” He smiled widely, stood for a moment surveying them, and then turned and left the little office. The door, which was fitted with a vacuum-type doorstep, closed behind him with a gentle hiss.

  He was no longer smiling. He had bungled a golden opportunity, and allowed himself to be carried away by a bright idea, in a way which would have disgraced a raw sergeant. He should have made a tentative inquiry and then engineered an opportunity for the ban
k cashier to see the girl; now, he had warned them of their danger, had virtually invited them to get away.

  He made another mistake, too; he should have brought Morgan up with him, the little man should now be waiting outside the door, ready to slip inside and listen in to the conversation in the inner office. He reached the head of the stairs, then stopped – for Morgan was smiling at him from half-way up the stairs!

  “You were away so long—” the private detective began,”I thought—”

  “Hush!” warned Roger, and beckoned him. Morgan drew level and Roger went on: “Try to get inside the office, the first on the right, and hear what’s being said next door, Pep. They won’t hear you go in if you’re careful.”

  “Okay,” said Morgan, hurrying past him.

  Rather easier in his mind, Roger went to the first landing and stood by the banisters, lighting a cigarette. He was really angry with himself. He had been wrong to come here, Mark should have handled this part of the inquiry. He admitted ruefully that from the moment when the idea of the Welbeck Street association had first entered his head he had been carried away by it and, on finding that he had scored a hit, had let himself act rashly.

  He heard someone coming up the stairs.

  He thought at once of Mrs. Sylvester Cartier and, looking round hastily, saw a door, marked ‘Enquiries,’ of another suite; he slipped inside. Keeping the door open an inch or two, he looked out, but as the newcomer drew nearer he felt sure that he had been wrong. Mrs. Cartier would walk with a brisk step and her heels would tap sharply on the bare wooden boards. This walker came slowly.

  It was a man, whose careworn face was lined with the marks of great suffering. His sad eyes and the dejected droop of his shoulders startled Roger. He watched the man walking wearily towards the next flight of stairs and then realised that the newcomer would almost certainly discover Pep at his spying.

  An exclamation behind him told him that he had been seen and he stepped swiftly out of the office, closing the door. He hurried after the haggard man who, he had no doubt, was an alien coming to appeal for assistance from the Society.

  “Excuse me, sir.” He kept his voice low, making the other turn in surprise on the landing. He jumped, too – Roger had seen refugees from Europe who started violently at the most trivial surprise.

  “Y-yes, sir?” The man’s accent was strong.

  “I thought I would save you wasting a journey,” Roger said; “there is no one upstairs – I have just been trying to get in myself.”

  Sad, disappointed eyes regarded him, making him ashamed of the lie.

  “T’ank you, sir, t’ank you so mooch.” The man ran his fingers through his sparse hair. “I vill vait, I t’ink, I ‘ave come for an app—appointment.” He looked along the bare passage and, at the far end, Roger saw some camp-beds, for the fire-watchers. “I weel sit down, please.”

  “Oh, by all means!” said Roger, “and I’ll wait with you.”

  The beds were at the far end of the passage, away from the doors; a stirrup-pump and fire-guard helmets were also in the corner. He thought he heard a mutter of conversation but could not be sure. The old fellow shuffled along beside him, clearly dejected. Roger offered him a cigarette but he refused it, saying that he had not smoked for a long time. He sat on the edge of one of the beds, staring blankly at the wall. Some great unimaginable tragedy weighed heavily upon him – he had the resigned look of a man who knows that nothing good can come to him, that he will, at best, have to make a choice between two evils.

  Roger received no encouragement when he tried to start a conversation. A quarter of an hour passed, and he began to wonder whether anything had happened to Pep. He grew alarmed and excused himself and moved towards the doors. One opened and Pep came out on tip-toe. He hurried along the passage but faltered when he saw Roger, who shook his head. Pep took his meaning and hurried down the stairs.

  “Well, that’s surprising!” exclaimed Roger. “No one answered when I knocked.”

  “It ees—your turn,” the old man said, in a tone of infinite patience.

  “I’m in no hurry,” said Roger, “you go along.”

  “You—you weel not mind?” The man was startled but when Roger reassured him he walked more briskly towards the end of the passage and disappeared into the office. Once he had gone,

  Roger hurried in Morgan’s wake. The private detective was standing on the pavement, near the taxi, and the cabby was speaking bitterly to him of the lack of consideration displayed by some people. He stood to attention when Roger arrived and asked sarcastically: “Any more waiting, sir?”

  “No,” said Roger, briefly; “back to Bell Street.” He looked at Morgan. “Unless—”

  “Bell Street’s all right for me,” said Morgan, and when they were sitting together in the cab he shot a sideways glance at Roger, full of meaning, and breathed: “Handsome, have we found something!”

  Roger said: “What?”

  “That was the girl who paid in the cash and you’ve scared the wits out of her,” said Morgan. “The old man did most of the talking, but I couldn’t hear all of it. He tried to pacify her at first but didn’t have much luck. But”—Morgan’s little eyes were rounded with concern—”he put the fear of death into her then, Handsome!”

  “Well, well!” said Roger, softly.

  “When she kept on saying that she couldn’t do any more, he changed his tune, told her she knew what he could do to her if she didn’t behave herself and ordered her to go back to her work. I came out then, I didn’t think she’d be long after me.”

  “No-o,” said Roger. “Pep, we ought to have waited. I can’t do anything right. We’ll have to follow her.”

  Morgan grinned. “I’ve got her address! Her handbag was on her desk, so I had a look inside it. I think I’ve got his private address, too – she called him Pickerell; you couldn’t mistake a name like that, could you? I found a ‘Pickerell’ in an address book on her desk and made a note of it. Her name’s Randall.”

  Sitting back at ease and copying the addresses in his notebook, Roger said: “You’re teaching me my job, Pep!”

  “Yes, perhaps!” said Morgan, heavily. “Handsome, what have we struck? I didn’t catch a glimpse of the girl but I don’t mind telling you I felt sorry for her, she sounded kind of helpless.”

  “I know what you mean,” Roger said.

  “Well, as we know who paid the money in – it lets you out,” said Morgan, “but they know you know and that makes it awkward, doesn’t it? Then, why did that vision you talked about tell you to go there? I know she didn’t actually tell you, but she went pretty near it, didn’t she?”

  “She did,” admitted Roger, frowning. “And—Pep, we’re crazy!” He leaned forward and rapped on the glass partition, opening it as the cabby automatically applied his brakes. “Get back to Welbeck Street!” Roger snapped, startling the man so much that he was unable to find a comment.

  “What—” began Morgan.

  “The girl can give evidence,” Roger said, “and she’s close to breaking-point; Pickerell knows it. I wouldn’t like to be responsible for what will happen to her if we leave her with him for long.”

  “By cripes!” gasped Morgan. “You think—”

  “He knows that if I bring Yard men along and question her persistently enough the place will be closed down, the whole racket might be broken open,” Roger said. “He’ll see that she’s the weak link, and—” he broke off, not needing to explain further, and sat on the edge of the seat, tight-lipped, furious with himself.

  The cabby obeyed orders with a vengeance; they reached Welbeck Street in a few minutes; he pulled up with a jerk outside the house where the Society had its office, and looked round with an expression which said: ‘Does that satisfy you?’ but Roger was already getting out. He ran up the steps and disappeared up the stairs. As he neared the
top landing he heard voices, including that of the girl. Breathing hard, he turned the corner and saw the old fellow who had gone in ahead of him. There was a brighter expression on the careworn face and he smiled at Roger, not widely but with some gaiety.

  The door was closing.

  Roger opened it and made so much noise that the girl, who could hardly have sat down after seeing the old man off, came round the partition.

  Her face dropped. He could see the signs of strain in her eyes and knew that Morgan had been right, that she was afraid. Yet something in Roger’s expression seemed to affect her and she did not cry out.

  Roger spoke quietly: “Don’t take risks, Miss Randall; get out while the going’s good.”

  She gulped, then said: “I—I don’t understand you.”

  Roger said: “You do, you’re as frightened as you can be. I heard the conversation and—”

  “Did you?” asked the man named Pickerell. He was at the partition, his face still looked gentle and his eyes were half hidden by his glasses, but nothing hid the automatic in his right hand. “You are very impetuous, Mr. West, aren’t you? I think it’s time that we reached an understanding. Go into my office, Lois. Mr. West, don’t do anything foolish, I am quite capable of shooting you. Just follow Miss Randall.”

  Chapter 10

  THE MISTAKE OF MR. PICKERELL

  Disobeying a desperate man with a gun was not Roger’s conception of good sense. He obeyed, without looking behind him, but hoping that Pep had followed closely enough to have overheard the last remark. If he had, the private detective had made no sound.

  The inner office was large and barely furnished, with a threadbare carpet – which Roger noticed because the girl caught her foot in some loose threads and nearly fell. The windows were covered with wire-netting, the distemper on the walls was flaking and some of the ceiling plaster had fallen down. By one window, in a corner, was a huge desk littered with papers, many of them clipped together. It had the appearance of a room where much work was done.