An Apostle of Gloom (10 page)

“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.”

 

 

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.

“Stand over by the window, Mr. West,” said Pickerell.

‘' I hope you realise that you're committing a criminal offence,'' Roger said, sharply.

The man smiled. “Am I? Perhaps not the first, and I know how far I can go.” The thought seemed to amuse him, for his full lips curved. “And you are no longer a policeman with authority, Mr. West; I have heard of your discomfiture.”

“Oh,” said Roger, and softly: “You learned very quickly, didn't you?”

“It doesn't do to lose time,” said Pickerell. “We won't waste any now, either. Let me sum up the situation. You think that by exerting enough pressure you can get Miss Randall to clear you of suspicions of paying money into your account at the Mid-Union Bank. You think that by so doing you can regain your position at Scotland Yard and use the forces of law and order to attack
me.
Think again, Mr. West!”

Roger said nothing; the girl stood by the desk, her troubled eyes narrowed and looking at Roger intently. She drummed the fingers of her right hand on the corner, making the diamond ring scintillate.

“Think again,” repeated Pickerell, softly. “Miss Randall was the actual messenger, yes, but someone gave her the money. She might be persuaded to say that it was you – in fact I think I can rely on her to do that. Can't I, Lois?”

The girl said nothing.

“Can't I?” insisted Pickerell, sternly. “After all, my dear, you have so much at stake. Nothing will happen to you, although West obviously thinks that you are in some danger. You would be, if you could go free and say what you liked, but I know you will obey instructions now, as you have in the past.
Won't
you?” His voice grew silky.

“I—” began the girl, and then turned away, exclaiming:

“Damn you, yes!”

Pickerell smiled. “You see, West? If you tell your friends what you have discovered, or pretend to do any such thing, when Lois is questioned she will tell them exactly what they want to know. You will be charged then – I hardly know how you have succeeded in remaining free for so long – but if you want to retain that freedom, be discreet about this little conversation. Do you understand?”

Roger leaned back against the wall, not speaking.

“I see that you do,” said Pickerell. “Now, West, there is another question and I insist on an answer. If you refuse one I shall arrange for Miss Randall to tell her story whatever you do. You are in a most unfortunate position, aren't you? Now – how did you come to find this address?”

Roger said: “You were traced here.”

“Yes, yes, but how?”

“Your foolish habit of slipping messages into coat pockets betrayed you,” said Roger. “The taxi-driver was traced and all the offices here and in the adjoining buildings were searched. Your voice is unmistakable.”

“Now don't lie to me,” said Pickerell; “you didn't hear my voice until after you had identified Lois.”

“I tried that gambit with all girls on the premises who might have passed for my wife,” Roger said, plausibly. “Pickerell, there is a powerful organisation at the Yard and you won't get away with this. Your gun won't help you, if you use it you will simply make the position worse for yourself.”

“Perhaps,” said Pickerell, “but you are not a fool, West, you will not take the risk of Lois committing perjury since you will suffer so much in consequence. Are you sure that is the way you discovered this office?”

“Yes,” lied Roger, shortly.

“I see.” The man seemed relieved. “Now, will you be sensible and go away? I suggest a long holiday in the country. You need not be too conscientious and—” he paused before going on as if delighted with a new idea, “and I think I can assure you that when I have finished my work you will have nothing to worry about. You need not be afraid, the truth can be told afterwards and you will be back at your desk without a stain on your character. Take the wise course, I beg you.”

Roger said: “You've made one mistake, Pickerell.”

“Bluff will not—”

“It's nothing to do with bluff,” said Roger. “You've assumed that I heard your conversation with Miss Randall. I didn't, but someone else did. My evidence might not carry but the evidence of two people will and when Miss Randall realises that her evidence will be rebutted she'll see that the only way out is to tell the truth.”

The man's face was expressionless.

“You are lying, West.”

“Please yourself,” said Roger, shrugging, and raised his voice. “Pep, are you there? Be careful, he's armed.”

“I've rung the Yard, Handsome,” came Pep's voice, “they won't be long.”

The girl gasped. Pickerell looked towards the door and tightened his lips – Roger stepped hastily to one side, thinking he was going to shoot.

Pickerell thought better of it. He backed to his desk and, keeping the gun trained on Roger, the girl and the door – all in line with one another – pulled open a drawer and took out some papers. He felt inside the drawer as if to make sure that it was empty, then stuffed the papers into his pocket.

That done, he took out a box of matches.

Roger guessed what he intended to do but the threat of the gun kept him still. Clumsily, with one hand, Pickerell broke two matches before one ignited. He held it to the corner of a paper on the desk and, when that was burning, to others. Smoke and flames rose up and began to spread.

“You fool!” Roger cried. You'll—”

“Stay where you are!” snapped Pickerell. He moved towards a door leading to the passage as the flames took a firmer hold. The smell of burning grew strong. A ring of flames ran along the cable of the telephone and a draught from the open window sent two pieces of burning paper sliding along the desk, where they caught others; the desk and its contents were soon ablaze and the smoke was beginning to make Roger cough. The girl turned towards the window but Pickerell did not pay her any attention. Step by step, he reached the passage door, took a key from his pocket, inserted and turned it.

“Pep!” Roger exclaimed, moving forward, “he's—”

Pickerell stretched out a leg and kicked a chair, standing near the wall, in Roger's path. Then he pulled the door open and stepped swiftly into the passage. Morgan's voice was raised and Pickerell fired; the gun was not silenced and the shot echoed about the passage, followed by a sharp exclamation from Morgan. Roger jumped over the chair and reached the passage in time to see Pep leaning against the wall, with one leg off the ground, and Pickerell disappearing down the stairs. He ran past Pep and would have had a chance of reaching the man but for the opening of the ‘Enquiries' door and the sudden appearance of Lois Randall. She got in his way, blocking his path by accident or design. He pushed past her, roughly, and sped on, calling: “Put that fire out!”

He knew that the opportunity was lost. He could not see the other man and, when he reached the street, there was no sign of him. The stocky cabby was lounging against his taxi, wide-eyed and staring towards the Piccadilly end of the street.

“Some people!” he was saying. “Swore at me just because I said—”

“Did he get a cab?” Roger snapped.

“Yerse, ‘arf way up the road, Guv'nor.”

“You didn't hear where he directed the driver?”

“Nar what do you think I am?” demanded the cabby, with a vast, triumphant grin, “a radio-location expert?”

Roger said: “One day you'll learn when to be funny. Telephone Scotland Yard from the nearest call-box, ask for Inspector Cornish and tell him that West—have you got that, West?”

“Yerse,” said the cabby, visibly impressed.

“... says that he should send men to this address quickly,” Roger said. He turned and hurried upstairs, wondering whether he was too late to stop the fire from spreading. He had been forced to attempt too many things at once. There was no sign of the girl but Pep Morgan was disappearing into the end office, from which smoke was billowing in great choking gusts. Roger hurried after him, to find him wincing as he dragged himself towards the desk, the top of which was all ablaze. He picked up a heavy ledger with one hand and began to beat at the desk.

“All right, Pep,” said Roger, “I'll get the stirrup pump.”

He was surprised to see no one else on that floor and, as he reached the beds and the fire-fighting apparatus, he called out for help. Someone had smelt the fire and was on the landing below; he hurried up. He was a middle-aged man, followed by two girls and an old lady; all of them sized up the situation quickly and took their places, obviously thoroughly trained in fire-fighting. A cloak-room, near the outer office of the Society, was handy for water and within five minutes the stirrup-pump was hissing and spraying the desk, while the two girls were going round the office, beating out little fires started by the burning paper which had blown off the desk.

Pep was sitting on a chair against the wall, perspiring freely and with his right leg stuck out in front of him. Roger turned to help him but Pep shook his head and pointed to the other door. Roger nodded and went into the room where Lois had been working. He ran through the papers on her desk, picking up an address book and a telephone index. He pushed them into his coat but made reasonably sure there was nothing else there of interest until, opening a small account book, he saw that the pages were headed with copper-plate handwriting, admirably executed in black drawing ink. The entries were not all the same, some being in a neat hand which he imagined to be the girl's, but others, in drawing ink, had exactly the same characteristics as the letter from *K'.

“So I don't need to look much farther for him,” he said, then laughed shortly. “Don't I? I wonder if—”

He looked through the address book, found the name ‘Pickerell' and an address in Lambeth. He picked up the telephone and dialled the Yard, asking for Chatworth. He was told that the A.C. was not in. He knew that Eddie Day would shrink from taking any action without Chatworth's express wishes; Cornish was the only man on whom he might be able to rely for assistance. He made sure that Cornish had left, then, accepting the inevitable, he asked for Abbott.

The Superintendent's voice sounded frigid.

“What is it, West?”

“I have the name and address of a man named Pickerell,” Roger said, knowing that whatever else Abbott did he would take the message correctly. “He has admitted arranging for the payment of the money into my account. Pickerell has just left his office and might have gone to his home, at 81 Bligh Street, Lambeth. That's all.”

He rang down, giving Abbott no chance to ask irritating questions and hoping that he had forced an issue. Then he heard men approaching and was relieved to see Cornish passing the open door. He called out and Cornish hurried towards him.

“Much excitement,” smiled Roger, “but I'm afraid the bird's flown, Corny.”

“Flown?” Cornish's voice rose in disappointment.

“I've just phoned Abbott and told him where he might be, so you'd better stay here,” Roger said. “Abbott will probably resent it if you usurp his authority.”

“I don't give a snap of the fingers for Abbott!” said Cornish roundly. “Do you think—”

Roger persuaded him, without too much trouble, to stay at the office of the Society. The fire, and Roger's and Morgan's evidence, were enough to justify Cornish making a search, although Roger kept the address book and telephone list tucked under his coat. Eventually, Roger found that the two girls of the fire-fighting party had given Pep Morgan first aid; a bullet had entered the fleshy part of his thigh. They had unceremoniously removed his trousers and, judging from the bright hue of his face, greatly embarrassed him. The wound was bandaged well, however, and when an ambulance arrived with a doctor in attendance the latter declared the work excellent and said it would keep Pep going until he reached hospital.

Roger saw the little private detective off.

“Got everything you want, Handsome?” Morgan whispered hoarsely as he was being lifted on a stretcher into the ambulance.

“Everything,” Roger assured him, “and I'll look in before the day's out, Pep.”

“Don't you worry about me, you look after yourself,” said Morgan. “Oh, there is
one
thing, Handsome – if you wouldn't mind telling my wife. Don't want some idiot putting the wind up her, it's nothing much.”

“I'll go straight from here,” Roger promised.

Pep said ‘Ta!' fervently and then the doors were closed on him.

Roger felt a strange independence in his freedom from the obligation to go immediately to the Yard and report – and he was appreciative of Cornish's ‘forgetfulness' in not telling him to stay long enough to make a full statement.

He found the cabby waiting nearby. The truculence of the man remained, although he appeared to regard Roger with more respect.

“Anywhere else, Guv'nor?” he asked, and then added carelessly: “Your pal copped it, didn't he?”

Roger smiled. “Oh, that was nothing to what will probably happen.”

“Wot, see-riously?” Truculence was lost in amazement.