An Apostle of Gloom (20 page)

It would be easier to make a detour and drive along the Embankment where he expected to find either Tennant or Mark – Cheyne Walk, where Oliphant had a small, charming, modern house, ran on to the Embankment. He gave instructions to the driver and then, sitting with his legs crossed on one of the tip-up seats and staring moodily about him, he saw young Tennant. He wondered what had possessed him to give a job which required an expert to Lois's
fiancé,
and he was relieved that Mark must be somewhere in the offing.

Tennant started when his shadow loomed over him and looked more cheerful when he saw who it was. Roger had left the taxi a few yards farther along.

“Oh, it's you, is it?” said the tousled young man. “I thought it was another policeman – I've been asked what I'm doing here twice already!”

Roger smiled and Tennant went on: “What are
you
so pleased about?”

“Oh, I'm not pleased,” said Roger, hastily. “Where's Mark?”

“He's at the other end of the street,” Tennant said.

“Has anything happened?”

“No – no one's gone in or out of the place.”

“They will,” said Roger, firmly, then added: “It's a tiresome business, I know, but don't get impatient. This is what you worried me for, after all!”

“I didn't think a policeman's job was so dull!”

“Dull?” queried Roger. “I wonder? Not such high pressure as an unarmed combat drill room, I suppose, but don't forget Mr. Malone! Tell Mark I'll have you both relieved at half past ten, will you? And then perhaps you'll come to my house and sleep there?”

“Well – if it's all right with you, it wouldn't be a bad idea,” said Tennant, looking a little sheepish.

More subdued, Roger returned to his taxi, but his good spirits gradually gained the ascendency. Nothing could go wrong on such a morning. It was a day, in fact, when the whole business would probably resolve itself and he could settle down to routine, the comfortable job of oiling the machine of the law. Big cases were all right up to a point, but there could be too much of a good thing.

Near Cheyne Walk, he saw a man who was vaguely familiar but he thought little of him.

He paid off the cabby outside his house and hurried along the path, whistling to himself. He opened the front door, stepped through and closed it, then frowned, because the house was in darkness. Then he remembered Morgan's man – he had probably blacked out before he had left the night before. He groped for the hall switch and pressed it down; still there was no light.

“Confound it, the bulb's gone!” said Roger. He went forward a step and put his hand inside the lounge door, pressing that switch down. This time the light made him narrow his eyes, and blinded him with its glare. Then his features stiffened and he stared about him in growing stupefaction.

Nothing
was in order.

Against the wall, the piano was taken in pieces, gaping open, every string broken and hanging loose. The carpet was slashed across and left in little strips. An armchair had not only been ripped open but the wooden framework had been chopped to pieces. Everything breakable was broken, everything tearable was torn, pictures were down, the wall-paper was covered with great daubs of red paint. It was a scene of such devastation that he could not at first realise its significance.

Then Malone spoke from behind him.

“How do you like it, copper? And what do you know?”

 

 

Roger stared at the man.

Malone wore a suit of blue that was bordering on heliotrope, his Marcel waves were dressed with great precision and the grease from his hair made his forehead glisten. He stood with his hands in his pockets and the winged shoulders of his coat were so wide that they nearly touched the door posts on either side. His thin red lips were set in a sneer which he doubtless considered intimidating.

Roger saw all that vaguely.

Far more vivid in his mind's eye was Janet – a composite picture of her gaiety that morning, her joy, the happiness with which she looked forward to coming home, and an imaginary picture of her when she saw the chaos in the lounge. He wondered whether the other rooms had been wrecked; Malone had probably made a thorough job of it.

“Keeping your mouth shut won't help you,” said Malone.

A wave of cold anger passed through Roger, visible in his expression. The sneer faded from Malone's face and was replaced by a wary look – the pinched expression at Roger's white lips and nostrils caused that.

“Listen—” began Malone.

Roger said: “Malone, I charge you with causing wilful bodily harm to a number of persons, with conspiring to defraud, with theft and looting. I arrest you in the name of the law and anything you say may be used in evidence. Do you hear me?”

Malone said: “You're crazy!”

“You're under arrest,” Roger said, “anything you do now will be an attempt to resist arrest. I don't know whether we can get you for murder, Malone, but even if we can't, be very careful. Next to murder, violence from now on will be the most serious charge on the calendar.”

“You're off your nut,” Malone said, his wary expression even more evident. “You can't do a thing, West, and I want—”

“You poor fool!” said Roger, scathingly. “You really think you can get away with it? Every policeman in this country is after you and you haven't a chance, you haven't even a hope of keeping away from them for the rest of the day. Whatever you do will only make it worse for yourself. If you submit now and make a statement, you might get lenient treatment. It's your only real hope.”

“Shut your trap!” snapped Malone, “I didn't come here to listen to tall words from you, West. I came—”

“I'm not interested in why you came,” said Roger. “I've told you the truth and if you like to play the fool, that's up to you. I don't know how many men you've got with you—”

“I brought plenty,” Malone said, his eyes narrowed until they looked like shining slits. “Quit the spieling, West. No one can touch me, I'm too fly. How much do you know?”

“Just as much as everyone at the Yard knows,” Roger said, to discourage Malone from thinking that if he were silenced the danger was past. “We'll be moving later in the day.”

Malone said thinly: “West, I reckon your wife will be coming here soon. Once before, I took her away to warn you what would happen if you stuck your head out too far. Now it's coming. If you don't talk, I'll deal with her different.” He kept his hands in his pockets, where Roger suspected that he had a knife, perhaps a gun. Mention of Janet brought a revival of the cold fury; it made him tremble from head to foot and he had to fight against throwing himself at the gangster – the one fatal thing to do. “You saw me deal with that Cartier dame,” Malone continued, “that was nothing to what I'll do to your wife. Open up, West, what do you know?”

“Why Cox killed his wife,” said Roger, drawing a bow at venture, “and—”

Malone moved.

His trick of ending immobility in a sudden cyclonic movement succeeded in taking Roger by surprise. He backed away but caught his foot against a part of the broken chair and staggered against the mantelpiece. Malone struck him with the flat of his hand. It did not account for the sharp, stinging pain in Roger's cheek nor the warm trickle of blood. He saw the man's hand in front of him, a razor blade held between the middle and index fingers. He knew that Malone would gladly batter him as he had the room; yet he was less afraid than angry.

“That's just a little idea of what's coming to you,” Malon said, thinly. “Did the Randall dame talk?”

“She didn't need to,” said Roger.

“That's a lie. Did she talk?”

Roger said: “I've warned you, Malone, and you'll get worse after this. If you've got any sense, go away.”

Malone sneered. “Talk! I've heard busies before. Talk, that's about all they can do. If you caught me you couldn't keep me.” He raised his arm threateningly. By a sleight of hand he moved the blade so that it was held between the tips of his fingers. He made a sweeping movement and the blade passed within an inch of Roger's eyes. For the first time Roger felt only fear, a dread of what would have happened had the man let it touch his eyes.

“I'll give you two minutes,” Malone said, “to—”

He broke off abruptly. From outside there came a shrill whistle, similar to the one that Roger had heard at Mrs. Cartier's flat and that Mark had heard in the Saucy Sue. Malone stiffened and half turned his head. Roger kicked at him, aiming for his groin. He caught the man's thigh and Malone lost his balance, just as two of the gang came into the room.

They ignored him as Malone, recovering his balance, said: “Who is it?”

“Lessing,” a rat-faced man said, “and the yob with the curly hair.”

Malone's eyes narrowed. “Tennant, huh? I've been wanting to talk with that guy. How far away?”

“The end of the street,” said the rat-faced man.

“Walking?”

“Yeah.”

Roger wondered: ‘What's brought them?' Then, in a panic, he thought that they must not come in the way he had, although he heard the front door close as if Malone believed that it would be safe to play the same trick twice. He did not look at Roger but one of his companions stayed close to him; he had a knuckle-duster in his hand, an ugly, spiked weapon which would tear a man's face to pieces.

“Don't even squeak,” Malone flung at Roger, savagely.

Footsteps sounded on the pavement and then the gravel drive. There was a pause and a heavy knock at the front door. Malone did not move except to put out a hand towards the light switch as if he were going to plunge the room in darkness. If he did—

The man with the knuckle-duster moved swiftly, caught Roger's right wrist, and twisted his arm behind his back. Whoever was outside knocked again; then Mark called: “Anyone at home?” There was a pause, then a key scraped in the lock – Mark had a key to the house.

Malone flicked his finger; the light went out.

“What the—” began Mark, as if startled by the darkness.

Actually it was broken by light streaming in from the open front door. “Roger!” Mark called. “Are you in?”

The pressure at Roger's wrist increased and he felt the scraping of the knuckle-duster on his cheeks. The veins swelled up in his neck and on his forehead, his breathing was heavy. He knew exactly what would happen if he called out. Damn it, he must call! He opened his lips—

Malone switched on the light. Mark gasped. Roger saw two men standing in the hall and guessed that one of them was showing a gun. Malone stepped into the hall with the sliding, swaggering gait which characterised him.

“Come right in, Lessing,” he said; “you're welcome.” He grinned, mirthlessly. “Where's Tennant?”

“I—” began Mark.

“Here's
Tennant!” a man said – it was Tennant himself.

There was a flurry of movement and a shadow which loomed in the hall. It happened so suddenly that Roger felt his captor relax. He took the opportunity and wrenched his wrist away, back-heeled and caught the man's shin. Two men crashed down in the hall, carried to the floor by Bill Tennant, who had leapt past Mark and sailed through the air. He did not fall as the two men went down but landed on his feet, crouching, and looked at Malone and the other man. Malone held a knife in his hand now, not satisfied with the razor blades. There was a split second of silence, a hush while the two men weighed each other up. Malone was crouching low, and Tennant standing upright with his hands a little way in front of him. The men on the floor began to move, recovering from their shock.

Roger took a step forward.

Tennant jumped, feet foremost. His heels landed on Malone's stomach, and Malone's hand, holding the knife, swept round aimlessly. There was a squelching sound as Tennant's feet sank into him and he fell backward, cracking his head against the floor. The man whom Roger had kicked drew back his fist with the knuckle-duster ready, but Tennant came on, keeping his balance by some miracle. He gripped the wrist which held the knuckleduster, and Malone's man gasped and was thrown against the wall with a thud which shook the house. Malone, scrambling to his feet and with fight left in him, was shouting for help; but no one came.

Tennant turned on him and laughed into his face.

“This is what you hand out, Malone,” he said. He struck the man with great power, and Malone toppled backwards. “That,” Tennant said, “is for Lois, and what about some for Mrs. Cartier?” He bent down and yanked Malone to his feet.

There were men's voices, heavy footsteps and the sound of scuffling in the kitchen. Dazedly, Roger wondered who else had come. Mark was standing just in sight, with a gun in his hand; the two men whom Tennant had first attacked were backing towards the stairs. A familiar voice called: “Is West all right, Lessing?” It was Cornish.

“Yes,” Mark called.

“Mister
Malone,” said Tennant, softly, “I never did like you.” The man was helpless, hardly able to stand on his feet, but Tennant lifted him by the waist and flung him against the wall. There was a glitter in his eyes and his lips were curled back; unless he were stopped he would do murder.

Then Cornish and two or three plain-clothes men came in with a rush. Tennant drew back, dropping his hands. Roger could not look at Cornish, only at Tennant, to see the way he relaxed, the sudden fading of the glitter in his eyes, and the half-ashamed smile which suddenly curved his lips.

“It looks as if I lost my temper,” he said, naively.

“Temper!” gasped Cornish.

Roger drew a deep breath. “Look here, what brought you?” he demanded; he wanted to understand, everything had happened too quickly for him. “How did you know—”

Mark turned, smiling. Police had taken over the two men he had been covering. He sauntered into the room, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

“Malone sent one of his men to see Oliphant,” he said. “I recognised him from the Saucy Sue and we had a little talk with him on the Embankment – Tennant didn't take long to make him open his mouth! He said Malone was waiting here for you or Janet, so I phoned the Yard – and here ends one lesson!”

“You see, it was simple,” said Tennant, sheepishly. He looked into Malone's face – the man was barely conscious. “I hope I haven't killed him,” he said. “I've been giving lessons for two years and as I haven't met a Hun yet, I thought Malone would do for some real practice!” He put his hands into his pockets and then, for the first time, seemed to notice the chaos of the room. “By George!” he exclaimed. “What a mess!” Then his eyes widened and he stared at Roger.” What have you done to your face?''

Roger fingered his slashed cheek, surprised to find the blood on his fingers. He shrugged. “I'd better wash it off,” he said, and went to the bathroom.

It was all too confusing for him to understand, the speed of events had been too great for him; but as he dabbed at his cheek which kept bleeding, and while Mark began to dress the cut, things began to take on a proper perspective. ‘Simple' was the operative word. He remembered seeing the vaguely familiar man near the Embankment and remembered that he had been at the Cartier's flat, but for once, Mark had had the better memory for faces. By sending Mark and Tennant to Oliphant he had done the right thing, after all. No one at the Yard would have recognised the messenger.

“Feeling better?” Mark asked, when sticking plaster was in position over a strip of lint.

“Er—I'm all right,” Roger said. “So we've got Malone.”

Mark ignored the platitude.

“And
most of his men,” he said, “but – what utter swine! I—what's the matter? Roger, what—”

“The other rooms!” snapped Roger.

Two minutes later, he had been in every room in the house and felt better, for only the lounge had been touched. He even found himself wondering whether it would be possible to make Janet come in the back way so that she would not get the full force of the shock that the lounge would be bound to give her. He looked at Mark, and explained what had suddenly occupied him; at that moment a Black Maria drew up outside. There was a crowd of people waiting and staring, a few dots at the heels of the crowd, some schoolboys and two or three uniformed men. Only the dogs gave voice as the men of Masher Malone's party were taken to the police van, handcuffed together in twos. Malone, only just able to stagger, went last. Two plain-clothes men climbed in, the driver started the engine and the van moved off.

“Well?” Mark said to Roger and Cornish, who had remained behind. “What now?”

“Any more for any more?” grinned Tennant.

“You've had enough for one day,” Mark assured him severely; “don't ever take a dislike to me, will you?”

“That depends,” grinned Tennant. “Well, what
are
you going to do next, Roger?”

“Who did you leave to watch Oliphant?” Roger demanded.

“Now come off it,” said Mark; “we had our work cut out to rescue you from a dreadful fate, we had to take a chance somewhere.” Mark looked tired but his spirit was willing, for he said: “Shall we go back there?”