Give a Man a Gun Read online

  Copyright & Information

  Give a Man a Gun

  First published in 1953

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1953-2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755135660 9780755135660 Print

  0755138996 9780755138999 Kindle

  0755137337 9780755137336 Epub

  0755152182 9780755152186 Epdf

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.

  Chapter One

  The Chase

  “Has he a gun?” asked West.

  “Not sure, sir,” the sergeant behind him said.

  “Well, be careful.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The voices whispered in the darkness. The two men – West of Scotland Yard and a uniformed sergeant – were together at one end of an alley which ran between two warehouses. High brick walls were on either side, cobbles underfoot. At the far end of the alley, the water of the Thames lapped against wharves, small boats and an oceangoing cargo vessel registered at Rotterdam.

  There should have been a light along there, fastened to a wall bracket. Instead, there was darkness.

  More policemen were going a long way round towards the far end of the alley, hoping to cut off the crook they knew to be near. At this end, coming from the mean streets of the East End towards the docks, were West and his sergeant; Detective Officers in plainclothes were just behind them. The hunted man was in the alley, perhaps armed with a gun.

  West, a yard ahead of the others, put his foot in a puddle. The splash sounded very loud. West stood stock still, and the sergeant bumped into him.

  West went forward again, very cautiously. The lapping waves of the Thames seemed part of the silence. Above, heavy clouds scudded, but there was no wind here. No stars shone. The docks were deserted but for a few night watchmen.

  A killer had come along this lane, and the killer had to be captured.

  West could hear the sergeant’s laboured breathing; fancied that he could hear the movement of two constables behind them. Like the lapping waves, they seemed part of the hush. West’s heart beat fast; the unknown darkness was a frightening thing.

  Dark silence …

  Noise smashed it. A clatter, a crash, then the footsteps of a man running.

  “Careful!” gasped the sergeant.

  West’s torch stabbed its light along the alley. It fell on a man running towards him, only thirty yards away. The glare made the man’s eyes shine as if they were light themselves; it showed his open mouth and pounding legs and swinging arms – and the knife in his right hand. The blade shimmered, like silver.

  “Your torch!” rasped West.

  “Be—”

  “Switch on!”

  The footsteps pounded, the glittering eyes looked baleful, the right hand with the knife in it grew steadier; the man raised it, as if to throw the knife. The sergeant’s torch flashed out. The man was only thirty yards away from West now, and the passage echoed to the thud of his footsteps.

  “Stop there!” West called. “You haven’t a chance. Stop there!”

  The man pounded on.

  “Careful, sir!”

  “It’s all right,” West said, as if there were no urgency.

  He flung his torch. The running man saw the shaking beam, and was bewildered for the moment that mattered. The light shone on the shimmering blade. It was held to cut, not to throw, and the man was only fifteen yards away from West.

  He ducked beneath the torch. It flew over his head and clattered on the cobbles behind him; the light went out, but others flashed on.

  West leapt as he threw the torch, raced forward, and was on the man before he recovered from the moment of surprise. They reeled under the shock of the collision, then West thrust his left arm upwards, groping for the other’s right wrist. He felt a sharp pain across the back of his hand, but gripped the wrist and twisted.

  “Oh!”

  It was a gasp, a squeal of pain. The man’s fingers went dead, and the knife dropped and clattered. West kept his hold on the bony wrist, and felt a knee driving up towards his groin, twisted the wrist and brought another yelp. The knee brushed against West’s leg.

  Then the sergeant and others behind him drew level.

  “Okay, sir,” the sergeant said breathlessly, while torchlight fell on to the pale, youthful face and the thin fingers. The steel of handcuffs glittered; there was a sharp click.

  “That’s got him, sir.”

  “Fine,” said West. “Be careful with that knife; there might be some prints on it apart from his.” He studied the prisoner’s thin, youthful face and quivering lips. “One of you go and pick up my torch, will you? What have you been up to?” he added in the same casual voice to the prisoner. “You’re old enough to know you can’t go round cutting people up.”

  The prisoner didn’t speak; his breathing was harsh and laboured with fear.

  “Come on, talk,” West said. “We won’t eat you. Why did you do it? What had Old Benny done to you?”

  Words came out in a gust.

  “I hate his guts!”

  “And you put a knife in them,” West said. The difficulty was to keep his voice casual, not to let the youth know what he felt; not to let his men realise that he could have smashed the pale face to pulp, because of what the youth had done to an old man. “How did it start? What happened?”

  “You won’t make me talk.”

  West had been hopeful of getting a stat
ement; the voice and manner dimmed hope.

  It was cold. Police cars were gathered in a nearby street, and the officers who had been sent to cut off the fugitive were streaming into the alley, from the far end.

  “Take him away,” West said.

  “Yes, sir—here’s your torch. Bulb’s gone, I’m afraid.”

  West took it. “Thanks.”

  Soon they were in a lighted street, with little houses on one side, and warehouse walls on the other. Headlights from several police cars made the street lamps seem dim. The prisoner was hustled into a car and driven off, still handcuffed. Police from the Divisional Headquarters stood about, waiting for a move from West of the Yard.

  A Yard sergeant, Peel, had been on the wharves. He came hurrying.

  “You all right, sir?”

  “Yes, Jim, thanks. We’ll go and see Old Benny again, I think.” West turned to his car. “You drive.” He flashed a smile to the Divisional men. “I don’t need to tell you chaps what to do. Thanks for everything, and I’m glad we got him so quickly.”

  That was the kind of thing that warmed men in the Divisions to West of the Yard. They hovered about him as he climbed into his car, next to Peel, and watched as he was driven off.

  West lit a cigarette and drew at it, closing his eyes and seeing vivid mental pictures.

  They weren’t nice.

  Old Benny had been badly cut up. He had been a rogue, but in his way an attractive rogue. He had been in prison three times, and until that night could always smile and be amiable with the police, being free from all bitterness. Crime had been his livelihood, the police his natural enemies. At seventy, he had hoped to die out of prison.

  Well, he had.

  His niece had called the police. West was wondering about her. She was a pretty little thing, he knew, but much more bitter than her Uncle Benny had ever been. A dark-haired, bright-eyed rebel, which was a pity. She had known who was with her uncle in his bedroom when he had called out, had dialled 999, and then rushed to the bedroom. But the killer, little more than a boy, had locked the door and escaped through the window.

  It had happened an hour ago.

  Luck, if it were luck, had taken West and Detective Sergeant Peel to the Divisional Headquarters that night, over inquiries about a forgery case. He had forgotten the forgery as soon as he heard of the murder of Old Benny.

  Peel swung the car through the mean, narrow streets dotted with occasional lamps. It was nearly midnight. The East End looked asleep, whether it was or not. Soon they were in the wide Mile End Road, a drab main artery of London, feeding the great mass of the East End.

  Three cars were parked outside Old Benny’s shop. There Benny had dealt in second-hand silverware, cutlery and jewels – anything which could be turned into easy money. Lights streamed out from the shop, a few people hung about the pavement, furtive, curious.

  “There’s Brammer the Courier’s bright boy,” Peel said; “he didn’t lose much time.”

  Brammer was with Old Benny’s niece, just inside the shop. “No, he didn’t lose any time,” remarked West. “Just stand by, Jim, will you?”

  He was brusque, and Peel knew that it was because he was remembering Old Benny’s wounds. He pushed his way through the little crowd, was recognised by a policeman at the door, and admitted with Peel on his heels.

  Tall and hook-nosed, with his heavy-lidded, very bright eyes, Brammer of the Courier curved his lips sardonically. “Hallo, Handsome.”

  “They shouldn’t have let you in,” West said, but forced a smile and looked amiable. “Don’t use anything until we’ve had a minute together, there’s a friend.” He turned to Ruth Linder.

  Hostility showed in her eyes, but was less marked than usual because shock was also there. She hadn’t lost her colour. She wasn’t just a pretty little thing, she was a beauty. Her hair had the dark gloss of a raven’s wing, and she had that perfect complexion, slightly sallow, which some Jews and most Spaniards and Italians have when they are young. She was half Jewish.

  “I shouldn’t talk much to the Press, Miss Linder.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Come with me, will you?”

  West turned, and the girl followed. He knew that she was glowering at his back. It was not a good feeling. He was aware of no reason why she should hate the police, but the hatred was there, and it would make her a difficult witness.

  The parlour, at the back of the shop, was crowded with police.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” West said to Ruth Linder, and led the way again.

  The staircase was narrow, the carpeted boards creaked. There were only two rooms on the next floor – a sitting room on the right, the old man’s bedroom on the left. Lights were on in both.

  West knew that the police-surgeon and others would be with Old Benny, and didn’t want to interfere with them. He just put his nose inside the room, and said: “I’m back.”

  “Okay,” said a man who was bending over the bed.

  West could see red stains on the sheet; there was even a red splash on the wall. It was a small room.

  “Let’s go to the other room,” West said to the girl.

  Her bedroom, he knew, was on the floor above. The room they entered now was a combination of stock room, office and sitting room. A big, old roll-top desk was in one corner, with a bright light shining above it. Shelves round the walls were littered with oddments from books to silver plate, trays of cheap jewellery to odd pieces of china. Easy chairs were in front of a fireplace.

  “Sit down,” West said.

  “I prefer to stand.”

  Her English was excellent; there was no trace of the lisp her uncle had never been able to cure in himself.

  “Please yourself,” West said. “I’m going to sit.” He dropped into an old saddleback armchair, which he knew that Old Benny had kept for guests. Murderers and thieves as well as policemen sat in that chair over the years.

  “Listen,” West went on; “this is one of the things you can’t blame us for.”

  She didn’t answer. He went on: “You said before that you heard them quarrelling, because—”

  “You just can’t tell the truth, can you?” the girl said, in a taut voice. “It isn’t even your fault; you just can’t get things right. I didn’t say they were quarrelling. I said I heard Neil Harrock shouting at my uncle. Uncle didn’t shout back at him. It takes two to make a quarrel.”

  “All right,” said West. “You heard Neil Harrock complaining that your uncle had cheated him—hadn’t paid good value for the jewels that Harrock had stolen. Is that right?”

  “It can’t do my Uncle any harm now,” Ruth Linder said. “Yes.”

  “You knew all about the deal they made, didn’t you?”

  “Not until I heard Harrock shouting.”

  West said slowly: “All right, I’ll pretend to believe that you didn’t know it. Listen to me, Ruth. Your uncle had a kink which turned him into a criminal. He was a generous, likeable man, but he was always frightened of the police because—”

  Her lips twisted.

  “Don’t be a fool,” she sneered. “The police couldn’t frighten him, any more than they can me. They hounded him, but he was always fooling them. Don’t kid yourself.”

  West took out cigarettes. She ignored the packet he held out. He lit up, watching her all the time. She tried to hold the sneer, but it wasn’t easy because she was genuinely stricken with grief. She was very lovely, and she might go far – but there was some quality in her which would lead to ruin if she were not very careful.

  “Ruth,” West said, “you’ve had a bad shock. I’m sorry. I don’t want to make the situation any worse. But you’ve got to get certain things straight. Your uncle first went to gaol forty-four years ago. It was his own fault. He spent nineteen of those forty-four inside prison. That means he wasted nineteen years. That was his fault, too. Now he’s dead, and you’ll inherit a sizeable fortune. You probably think that by serving his sentences he gave himself the right to the m
oney he made. Certainly you don’t have to have his fortune on your conscience. But be satisfied with the money. Don’t try to run the business, too. Don’t buy and sell stolen goods, Ruth. If you do, you’ll soon learn all about prison.”

  “I know I’ll have to make a statement about Neil Harrock,” Ruth said, “but I don’t have to listen to this drivel.”

  Chapter Two

  The Sentence

  Five weeks later she gave evidence against Neil Harrock at the Old Bailey. She gave it well. She looked superb in a mink coat, a tight little black hat, and with diamonds scintillating on her hands. The one thing that she lacked was vitality; she seemed empty.

  West listened to her, worriedly.

  He could not understand the underlying cause of her bitterness, and it made him wonder whether he was hearing the truth. Nothing in the investigation suggested that he wasn’t. Harrock, a youngster of twenty-two, had said practically nothing, but his fingerprints had been at the house and on the knife, together with blood from the same group as the murdered man’s.

  Undoubtedly, Harrock had killed Old Benny.

  All the pleading, all the tears of a distracted mother, all the distress of a shocked father, couldn’t alter that fact.

  West was glad that the parents weren’t in court.

  It would be a quick trial, and he doubted whether it would be held over even until the following day. Apart from the police, Ruth Linder was the chief witness. Harrock had practically no defence.

  He had been terrified and almost hysterical on the night of his capture, but was calmer now. It was possible to feel the stirring of admiration for him. Well-dressed, nice-looking, he showed no sign of fear. The Prosecution had to prove that he had stolen jewels from the shop where he worked; and did so, without trouble. The jewels had been found at Old Benny’s. The case built up remorselessly, and the youth hardly flickered an eyelid.

  When Ruth Linder was giving evidence, Harrock watched her closely, and showed no sign of resentment. Now and again he seemed to smile at her. It was almost as if he saw her beauty rather than heard her husky voice condemning him, damning him to the gallows.