An Apostle of Gloom Read online

  “Yes?” asked Roger.

  “He hasn’t been to his home since yesterday morning,” Cornish said.

  “Hasn’t he, by Jove!”

  “No.” Cornish dismissed the subject and went on: “I’ve been with Smith of AZ Division most of the day, Roger, trying to find Malone and Pickerell. I thought you ought to know that we haven’t had any luck. Malone’s reputation is worse than I thought it was. Er—I should keep my eyes open, if I were you.”

  “I’ve just about sized him up,” Roger said.

  “I thought you would have done! How are things?”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t grumble,” Roger said.

  Cornish rang off and Roger returned to the lounge, which was virtually reserved for them after ten o’clock at night. He stood in front of the fireplace with his hands deep in his trousers pockets. Mark contemplated him with a frown of concentration on his forehead. Janet had gone to bed and Tennant was pretending to be immersed in an evening paper.

  Roger looked at him, frowning, then shrugged.

  “Do you feel tired?” he asked.

  “Who me?” Tennant dropped the paper and jumped up. “Great Scott, no!”

  “Who, me?” asked Mark, forlornly.

  “Both of you,” said Roger. “I think we’d better keep an eye on Oliphant’s house. Do you know where it is, Mark?”

  “Yes, he’s in Cheyne Walk, just round the corner from a flat I used to have,” said Mark, promptly. “Any instructions?”

  “Just keep a lonely vigil,” Roger said with a grin.

  Both of the others seemed glad of the opportunity, but when they had gone Roger wondered whether it were wise. Abbott had been generous when he had asked to be allowed to handle Oliphant, but it might have been better to have put Yard men to watch him. Roger’s objection to that was that Oliphant would probably recognise a Yard man at sight and thereby realise that he was under suspicion. It was not time to scare him.

  Roger went to bed; Janet, now that Lois had gone, was less on edge and she looked very tired and spoke sleepily from the pillows.

  “Back home tomorrow,” she said; “we needn’t stay here now, darling, need we?”

  “No,” said Roger, in some surprise; he had not thought of that. He smiled to himself, but he was a long time getting to sleep. The problems weighed heavily on him, questions confronted him on all sides. No matter where he looked he saw reason for suspicion and disquiet; most of all, the uncertainty about the real nature of the crime worried him.

  He went to sleep at last.

  A maid brought tea at eight o’clock. The sun shone through the net curtains at the window and made even the grey slate roofs of adjoining buildings look bright and cheerful. Downstairs, the B.B.C. announcer reading the news had cheerful things to say.

  Janet was fresh-eyed as she sat up in bed, but when she got up she felt dizzy and sat down again abruptly. Startled, Roger said: “Are you all right?”

  “Er—yes,” said Janet. “I—” she hesitated. She was smiling, although she looked pale, the change in her since she had got out of bed was astonishing. Roger stared at her, puzzled. “Darling,” she said in an unsteady voice, “sometimes you’re as blind as a bat!”

  “Oh,” said Roger, blankly, “am I?”

  “Yes,” Janet said and added quickly: “I’ve suspected it for some time but I wanted to be really sure, darling. I was sure on my birthday and I was going to tell you after we’d seen Arsenic and Old Lace. But I couldn’t worry you after Abbott came.”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Roger, completely mystified.

  Janet’s eyes were very soft. “Darling,” she said, “doesn’t morning sickness mean anything to you?”

  “Morning—” he began, and then his expression altered, he stared incredulously, started to speak but stopped, tongue-tied. He moved forward and looked down at her as she stared at him, smiling. He gasped: “No! No, darling, not—””Well,” said Janet, “it’s two years since we were married, or had you forgotten?” She laughed. “What shall we call him, if it’s a boy?”

  Roger felt like a man in a dream.

  He should have realised it for several days past, or at least suspected it. Everything which had puzzled him was explained, her excitability and quick changes of mood, the ease of her tears, her occasional moments of acerbity.

  His first reaction was of delight tinged with anxieties about the little luxuries that he would not be able to provide because of the war. A more urgent matter was the possibility that in his amazement he had made her think that he was lukewarm about it. Had he been sufficiently enthusiastic? Or had he depressed her?

  He had left her to do the packing while he went on to open the house, to get the car out and to get in touch with Mark before going to the Yard. He had only vaguely outlined his own programme and he hardly gave a thought to Malone and Oliphant. His mind could not grapple with those problems as well as digest Janet’s news. He travelled by taxi and now and again caught himself grinning inanely; when he did so he closed his mouth firmly. Once, when he lit a cigarette, he began to grin so widely that it dropped from his lips. He smothered an exclamation of annoyance, then surrendered himself for five minutes in an orgy of self-congratulation. Only when they were passing the Chelsea Town Hall did he pull himself together.

  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 l
ight.

  “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?”

  Chapter 21

  TENNANT LOSES HIS TEMPER

  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 th
e 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.