An Apostle of Gloom

by John Creasey

  “Of course it is,” said Roger.

  “Why waste his time?” Wray demanded. They reached an empty table, Wray fetched his coffee to it and Tamperly brought the remains of a plate of roast beef and vegetables. A buxom woman came up with a bowl of soup for Roger, greeted him with a wide smile and told him there was a steak pudding, if he’d like it.

  “You told me—” Tamperly began, indignantly.

  “They’re kept for the popular customers,” Wray grinned.

  Roger said: “I know you two would like to cut each other’s throats, but if you could bury the axe for half an hour the time night come when you’ll be rewarded. Will you take fifty-fifty on anything that is thrown up in this job?”

  “Yes,” said Wray, promptly.

  “He’ll try to get sixty, but I’ll play ball,” said Tamperly, with his engaging grin. “What’s gone wrong, Handsome? I thought you were Chatworth’s white-headed boy.”

  “So did I,” admitted Roger. “I’m being framed, but that will resolve itself. What I’m interested in now are two things – do either of you know anything about a man named Masher Malone with a gang in the East End?”

  “By cripes!” exclaimed Wray. “He was questioned today about Joe Leech’s murder.”

  “Lessing was at Joe’s. I wondered if it was the same job,” Tamperly said.

  “Did you know anything about Malone before today?” Roger asked, patiently.

  Both men had heard of Malone but, like Roger, they had not regarded him as anyone out of the ordinary. In their opinion, he would have his fling but one day would go too far and be put inside. Afterwards, he might gather the remnants of his gang together again but in all likelihood someone else would have taken over from him and he would fade into the background, considering himself betrayed. A big shot in his own imagination, he would look back longingly to the ‘big days’ of the London gangs.

  “See if you can find out more about him, will you?” Roger asked. “Then there’s a man named Pickerell.” He gave them Pickerell’s address and the fact that he had worked for the Society of European Relief. At that, Tamperly’s grin widened and he said:

  “You wouldn’t want us to go into the work of the Society, would you? How like you, Handsome! You don’t ask for the thing you want most!”

  “I haven’t got to it yet, because I don’t know what it is,” Roger said, “and in any case I don’t think the Society is connected with it. I think it’s Pickerell only. He’s a paid servant.”

  “Oh, yeah?” said Tamperly, sceptically.

  “Please yourself,” Roger shrugged, “but if you want to help me, concentrate on Malone and Pickerell.”

  “Nothing else?” asked Wray.

  “Not now,” said Roger. “I—”

  He broke off, looking across at the door, which had opened to admit an all too familiar figure. It was Sergeant Martin, long jawed and thin-lipped. Roger’s heart leapt and he looked about him quickly, subconsciously thinking of getting away and fearful lest Martin had instructions to detain him. Martin, however, simply looked about the room and went to a corner table, where he called for scrambled egg and beer.

  “What a stomach!” Wray said. “But he’s on your tail. Nasty feeling, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know a worse,” admitted Roger. “I want to shake him off.”

  Wray and Tamperly exchanged glances.

  Five minutes later – it was exactly a quarter to eight – Roger left the room hurriedly. Before he reached the door he saw Martin get to his feet. He slammed the door behind him and hurried along a narrow passage towards the street.

  Upstairs, Tamperly and Wray went for the door at the same time as Martin. Tamperly knocked against the man and apologised profusely. Martin snapped at him angrily and was half-way out when Wray, already outside, swung round with a muttered imprecation and cannoned into the sergeant, who staggered back into Tamperly.

  Wray’s expression was one of bewildered apology.

  “Sorry,” he said, “I’ve forgotten my hat. Are you all right, Tiny?”

  “You’ll be sorry for this!” Martin growled. He recovered his breath and hurried past them, and the two reporters grinned at each other.

  Roger was already in a bus heading for the West End, where taxis would probably be easier to come by. He looked out of the window and made certain that Martin had not been allowed to follow him. Wray and Tamperly would back him up in spite of their rivalry. He smiled and sat back until he reached Haymarket. He preferred to make the journey by taxi, for he might want to leave Bonnock House in a hurry and he had no idea how far it was from the nearest station.

  He found a taxi, then kept it waiting while he telephoned his home. The voice of Morgan’s man answered him promptly. There had been three telephone calls, two from Scotland Yard and one from a lady who had asked for Mrs. West and said she was her cousin. The taxi driver had not called.

  Roger frowned when he returned to the taxi, surprised that his cabby had been out for so long. It was possible that the cabby had called when the house had been empty and, if he acted true to type, had probably decided that it was wasting time to keep on telephoning.

  Roger sat back and smoked on the way to Hampstead.

  It was already dusk and when at last the cabby found Bonnock House one or two uncurtained windows in the big block of fiats looked very bright in the gloom. He saw Sam by the drive but did not speak to him. Sam patted his pocket. One flat on the top floor of the house was lit up, a beacon of light which could be seen for miles around. For the rest, the house was a massive edifice of concrete and looked ugly and forbidding in the half-light. There was a drive-in and ample space for a taxi to park but Roger sent his man, liberally paid, to the end of the narrow street – which was on the edge of the common – then went on foot to the house.

  Number 11 was on the first floor.

  The flats were expensive. The passage was carpeted, the lighting was concealed and the decorations were in keeping with the general atmosphere. All the doors were painted black, the walls were of cream mottled paper which showed up clearly in the lighting immediately above it.

  He rang the bell at Number 11.

  He would not have been surprised had no one answered; he still found it difficult to believe in Mrs. Sylvester Cartier. But he had hardly taken his finger off the bell push when the door opened and a maid stood in front of him, small, neat, faded-looking – and reminding him, for some reason he could not really understand, of Mr. Pickerell.

  “Is Mrs. Cartier in?” Roger asked. “My name is West.”

  “Yes, sir, she is expecting you,” said the maid.

  She stepped aside and, when Roger entered, closed the door. It might have been accidental but it seemed to Roger to close with a decided snap. He glanced sharply at the maid but she was walking sedately towards one of the back doors at the far end of the entrance hall. She tapped on it and entered. That door, also, closed with a decided snap.

  “I’m being a fool!” Roger muttered.

  He meant that he was being foolish to let himself think that there was anything even remotely sinister about the closing of the doors and the manner of the maid but he found himself giving the comment a different meaning. Was he being a fool to come in here, on his own? Would Sam be a sufficient safeguard? It was nearly half past eight and Janet was not to call the Yard until ten o’clock.

  An hour and a half suddenly appeared a very long time.

  The maid came out.

  “Mrs. Cartier will see you now, sir,” she said.

  “Mrs. Cartier,” reflected Roger. A well-trained maid would have said ‘Madam’. He looked at the little woman sharply but her face was quite expressionless and he told himself again that it was folly to think that the resemblance to Pickerell was anything other than fanciful. Yet he drew a deep breath as he stepped into the
room beyond; he would not have been surprised to come face to face with Pickerell.

  Then his fears and forebodings faded.

  Mrs. Cartier rose from an easy chair in a room which set off her tall figure, perfectly gowned in black and gold, to perfection. The room was pale blue, the luxurious curtains maroon, the furniture Louis Quinze and the carpet thick and muffling his footsteps. Roger took the extended hand, resisting an absurd temptation to bow over it, then looked into the smiling face of the woman.

  “I’m so glad you came,” said Mrs. Cartier. “I have so much to tell you, Inspector. But first – have you forgiven me for playing that trick on you and pretending to wish to see your wife?”

  Chapter 15

  MRS. CARTIER IS HELPFUL

  “No,” said Roger.

  He smiled but there was an edge to it and he saw the surprise which sprang to the woman’s face. He imagined that she hoped the dignified room and her nearness and beauty would make him ill at ease, but he felt suddenly very sure of himself.

  She said: “I—I beg your pardon?”

  “Mrs. Cartier, we haven’t time to fence,” Roger said. “I haven’t forgiven you for coming to me this morning with a half-story. I might easily have been murdered; a friend of mine was badly wounded. Had you told me what to expect and been as frank then as I hope you will be now, that might have been avoided.” He eyed her steadily, seeing the bewilderment in her lambent eyes. He thought that she was as shocked by his attitude as Malone had been by Tennant’s unexpected versatility.

  “I understand,” said Mrs. Cartier slowly. “So, you are not grateful. Inspector?”

  “I am, very,” Roger said.

  “Yet you say—”

  Roger smiled. “I hope I’ve made it clear that I expect you to tell me a great deal more than you have yet done. A great deal is at stake – but I think you know that.”

  “You mean your reputation, Inspector?” asked Mrs. Cartier, her voice very soft and her smile faintly mocking.

  Roger looked at her steadily.

  “I don’t think that remark was worthy of you,” he said; “if it was, I’m a disappointed man.”

  “Indeed?” she said, coldly.

  He was afraid that he had been too blunt. Yet as he watched her expressive face and tried to judge what was going on behind her creamy forehead, he knew that he had adopted the right attitude. He had not come here to fence or to match his wits against the woman. He wanted information which he thought she could give him – and, if she refused, he wanted to frighten her into thinking better of it. She was beautiful and wealthy, and in consequence probably had an exalted idea of her importance; he had to bring her down to earth, if it were possible.

  Then she threw back her head and laughed; her slender throat was flawless, her teeth very even and white.

  “Come,” she said, putting a hand on the settee, “sit down, Inspector! I shall like you; I thought from the first that I would.” She lifted a delicately carved wooden cigarette box from a table at her side and flicked a lighter into flame for him, but she did not smoke herself. There was a small ashtray on the arm of the settee, kept in position by weights. She was still smiling, but there was a more sober expression in her eyes and she no longer gave the impression that she was hoping to influence him by her beauty.

  Then she startled him.

  “I can help you, Inspector, if you will help me.”

  Roger raised an eyebrow.

  “So it’s conditional?”

  “It must be,” she said. “First, I want you to understand what has happened. My Society – and although you may not believe it, I have its interests very much at heart – has been used to conceal criminal activities, Inspector. I discovered that a little over a week ago. You can understand how shocked I was and how anxious to adjust the situation?”

  Roger did not speak.

  “I gave it a great deal of thought,” she continued, slowly. “I must explain that I went to the office without advising Pickerell that I would be there. He was talking with the girl receptionist – so charming, don’t you think?”

  “I hardly noticed her,” Roger lied, easily.

  “Indeed?” She could not have said more clearly that she did not believe him; it had been a mistake to lie, but the need for keeping relevant facts to himself until he could merge them into a clear-cut case had become an obsession. “Then you must believe me, Inspector; Lois Randall is a most charming girl!” Mrs. Cartier went on. “She speaks several languages, which has made her invaluable, and her manner with those who come seeking help is admirable. I should not like you to think badly of her.”

  “Why should I?” demanded Roger.

  “Because, you see, she had been going to your bank and calling herself your wife and making things so uncomfortable for you,” said Mrs. Cartier, softly.

  Half prepared for what was coming, Roger was able to look as if the news was unexpected. He jumped to his feet and stared down at his companion, his eyes glittering and one hand clenched. He stayed like that until she said, smilingly: “Please, Inspector, do not be so upset! She has done all this against her will. You should be pleased to know the truth, so that you can convince your friends at Scotland Yard of it. Don’t you think so?”

  Roger said: “If this is true—”

  “Oh, it is quite true and I think I could find the—what is the word?—evidence, yes, evidence to prove it. The police are so particular about evidence, are they not? Please sit down, Inspector, and listen to what I have to say to you.”

  Stiffly, Roger sat down, tapping the ash from his cigarette and regarding the woman warily.

  “I discovered this because I visited the office unexpectedly and heard them talking,” said Mrs. Cartier. “Pickerell, the secretary with whom you appear to have had a difference of opinion”—she smiled her secretive smile—”and Lois Randall. She was being sent to the bank and she protested. He threatened her with some disclosure and, after a while, she agreed to go. I hurried out of the office and met her in the passage, Inspector. Believe me, I have rarely seen anyone so agitated. She was muttering to herself and when she saw me she did what I believe is called ‘fell through the floor’. I, of course, pretended that I knew nothing of what had happened. I was shocked because I had heard it said, clearly, that the visit to the bank was intended to jeopardise your position. I only knew you as a name, then, but I knew also that you worked at Scotland Yard and I realised the gravity of the situation for you.”

  “Yes?” Roger said, expressionlessly.

  “I wondered how best I could warn you,” said Mrs. Cartier, “and I decided not to telephone you or call to see you. I made inquiries among my friends and discovered that your wife is very active in voluntary war work. That gave me an excuse to call. I was so glad that you were there yourself, but I had planned to arouse the suspicions of one or the other of you – suspicions which would take you to Welbeck Street. I hope”—she was insistent—”that you believe me.”

  Roger said: “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Is it my imagination, or are you being just a little difficult?” asked Mrs. Cartier.

  “It’s something of a shock,” Roger told her.

  “Of course, how foolish I am!” She leaned forward and rested a hand on his arm; her long fingers were cool and soft. “I must try to tell you everything very quickly. I knew from what I had heard that Pickerell was interested in other things than the Society. I considered the wisdom of dismissing him but doubted whether that would be wholly satisfactory. I wondered how I could help the girl and saw no way, but I believed that if you once discovered what was happening, you would be able to solve the problems for me.”

  “Did you?” Roger inquired, politely incredulous.

  She drew her hand away and frowned.

  “Why do you disbelieve me, Inspector?” Her voice was sharp
and her expression angry.

  Very gently, Roger said: “All this happened a week ago, Mrs. Cartier. Had it been two days ago I could have understood the delay, but you appear to have given Pickerell ample time to make his arrangements. Why did you conceal it for so long – and,” he added, even more gently, “how did you learn that I was already in trouble at Scotland Yard? You’ve implied that you did know.”

  “But yes, of course,” said Mrs. Cartier, her voice softer again. “I am sorry – I am not used to dealing with those whose whole life is spent in seeing the flaws in the statements of others! I will answer your second question first. I have friends, one of them on the newspaper, the Echo. I get a great deal of publicity for my Society through my friend and I asked her if she could find information for me. She brought it to me yesterday – she told me that you were under suspicion and had been suspended. It was at dinner last night,” continued Mrs. Cartier, “and I believed her, naturally. She had obtained her information”—she frowned in concentration—”from a man, a reporter, named Wray.”

  Roger smiled more freely.

  “I know Wray, who knew about it.”

  “As for the other, Inspector,” Mrs. Cartier shrugged her shoulders, “it was clear to me that this had been going on for several months. It did not occur to me that there was any great urgency. I wished to make sure that I did nothing which should jeopardise the activities of the Society. I gave the matter a great deal of thought and, as I could not discuss it with my friends, took a long time in reaching a decision. That is the whole truth and I ask you, please, to believe it.”

  “I see,” said Roger. It sounded reasonable and certainly plausible, and he was more inclined to believe it than if she had accounted for the delay by some fantastic story. He was almost convinced that she was wholly sincere and it was not difficult to believe that she was. “I do believe you, Mrs. Cartier.”

  She eyed him without speaking for some seconds and then smiled with evident satisfaction.