An Apostle of Gloom Page 7

  ‘Bott’ seemed to echo. Her voice was husky, the sun glistened on her white teeth. She walked up the little path – the small drive was on the other side of the garden – and the chauffeur stood at attention by the gate. As she disappeared from Roger’s sight, the front-door bell rang.

  “Now what?” exclaimed Roger.

  Before he went into the hall he smoothed his hair down and straightened his tie. When he opened the door he was smiling, but the radiant loveliness of his visitor had a breath-taking quality.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Is Mrs. West in, please?” asked the woman.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Roger, “but I’m her husband.”

  The woman said: “You are Chief Inspector West?” When he nodded she smiled, not widely but with a hint of surprise, perhaps admiring surprise. Roger felt vague on the point; he only knew that he was looking at a really beautiful woman, whose poise was as admirable as her make-up was superb.

  “Yes,” he repeated. “Will you come in?”

  She hesitated and then said: “I really wanted to see Mrs. West, but—”

  When he stepped aside, she entered the hall and, at his invitation went into the lounge, every movement considered and graceful. Disarmed at first, Roger grew wary as she loosened the fur and smiled upon him and sat down in Janet’s chair. “Will you please tell her that I called?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Roger. “Whom shall I say?”

  “Mrs. Cartier,” said the woman and took a card from her bag. “Mr. West, I wonder if you will give me your support?” The appeal was warm and personal. She expected to get her own way, and one could see that she used her beauty as a weapon, probably finding that it rarely failed to serve her purpose. Her eyes were brown and limpid, framed by long dark lashes. She spoke without an accent but with a precision often noticeable in foreigners; and her voice was charming. “It is such a good cause,” she added, “and I was told that Mrs. West would probably be very valuable to us.”

  “Us?” queried Roger, who had not looked at her card.

  “Yes, to the Society,” said Mrs. Cartier.

  Roger glanced at the card, which was engraved: ‘Mrs. Sylvester Cartier, President, the Society of European Relief, Welbeck Street, W.1. He had heard of the Society, which, when it had first been formed, had been visited by Yard officials to make sure of its bona fides. He remembered that it was registered as a War Charity and that its patrons included some of the most distinguished names in Who’s Who, although its activities were, as yet, strictly limited.

  Janet worked for several welfare societies, and he assumed that Mrs. Cartier had obtained her name from one of them and was canvassing for support. And yet he frowned as he looked at her, for he could not help feeling that her visit on this particular morning was a remarkable coincidence. He remembered that Janet had said that they would be reading sinister qualities in the most innocent matters; this was probably an example.

  “How can my wife help you?” he asked.

  “Her enthusiasm and organising ability are so well known,” said Mrs. Sylvester Cartier. “I have been told that she is quite exceptional. You know of our Charity, of course?”

  “I’ve heard of it,” admitted Roger.

  “Then you will help to persuade her?”

  Roger said: “I think I should know more of what you want her to do, Mrs. Cartier.”

  “But that is so difficult to explain,” she said, “there is a great deal of work. Our Society will make great efforts to assist the professional classes of the European nations, Mr. West. So many organisations cater for the ordinary people, but the professional classes – I am sure you will agree – need help just as badly, they must be rehabilitated”—she pronounced that word carefully, as if she had rehearsed frequently and yet was not really sure of it—”and enabled to contribute towards the great work of reconstruction in their own countries. I will not weary you with details, but, please – do ask her to consider my appeal for her services most sympathetically. I am always at the office in the afternoon, between two and four o’clock.” She rose quickly and smiled as she extended her gloved hand. “I won’t keep you longer, Mr. West, thank you so much. Good-bye!”

  “Good-bye,” said Roger, faintly.

  Janet would have accused him of being in a daze as he saw her out and watched her get into the car. The chauffeur tucked the rug about her, closed the door and went round to his seat. The car, a Daimler, purred off and revealed the Yard man on the other side of the road.

  “Well, well,” said Roger, “I wonder what Janet will say?”

  It was a little after eleven o’clock and he did not expect Janet back until after twelve. He leaned back in his easy chair, his eyes closed, and tried to concentrate on his immediate problem, but Mrs. Sylvester Cartier had left behind a subtle perfume and, from time to time, he saw her face in his mind’s eye. He rebuked himself but it persisted until he grew really absorbed in more urgent problems.

  The payments to the Mid-Union Bank had started in mid-January. From that time – perhaps a few weeks before – someone had decided to try to destroy his reputation and, at best, to get him drummed out of the Yard. He had dismissed the possibility that it was revenge, but there must be some reason and he could imagine only that, about four months earlier, he had made some discovery which, if he followed it up, would have startling results. He wished that Janet or Mark were here so that he could talk with them; his mind needed the stimulus of argument.

  “Some unwitting discovery,” he mused, “something which made me more dangerous than a policeman would normally be – oh, Lord, it’s incredible!”

  But there was no other reasonable theory and he began to recall his activities in December. He had finished off three minor cases of burglary, one of forgery, with Eddie Day’s help, one sordid murder case, and he had made some inquiries into aliens living in England and whose activities were suspect in some quarters. Aliens – and he remembered the cases clearly – who had succeeded in proving their good behaviour. Aliens—

  He sat up abruptly. Aliens and the Society of European Relief! What a fool he had been not to see that connection before. Mrs. Cartier might be English by marriage but she had almost certainly been born an alien. Others connected with the Society might be as well, one of his inquiries might have touched upon the Society.

  In a mood of excitement he began to trace back again, trying to remember every visit he had made, every name which had been suspect. ‘Cartier’ was not among them, yet even that held a French ring.

  Yet would the woman have come and risked setting up such a train of thought? If the mystery concerned the Society, she would surely realise that it might start him thinking, and she might even know of his plight.

  Alternating between scepticism and optimism, he went to the writing-desk and began to make out a list of names, stopping only when his memory failed him. He grew so absorbed that even when Janet had not returned by one o’clock, he did not pause to wonder why she was so late. Nor did he wonder what progress Mark was making.

  Chapter 7

  THE FEARS OF JOE LEECH

  A noticeable figure in that squalid part of London, Mr. Lessing strode along the Street of Ninety-Nine Bridges, not far from London Bridge. He seemed unaware of the dirt, the smells from small shops and markets, the grime which floated from the river and the spectral outlines of burned-out warehouses. Now and again he passed rows of hovels, some of them with the doors and windows open, most of them tightly closed and looking forlorn. Tugs hooted mournfully on the river. Covered gangways connecting one warehouse with another crossed the narrow street at intervals. Quays and locks, crossed by revolving bridges, were passed with depressing frequency. Now and again, he looked over the side of a bridge and saw the green slime on water, undisturbed for many months, where the devastation of the raids had made repair work useless. Ye
t there was a great hustle of activities, many voices were raised, horses and lorries passed along the cobbles in what seemed an endless stream.

  Mark walked on, as if oblivious of it all.

  Many people believed that he was as disdainful as he appeared; that, Mark declared, was a canard; at heart he was a simple soul, as much at home in the East End as in the West End. His fastidiousness of dress made that seem improbable and few East-Enders would have trusted him without knowing him. One or two did so, knowing him well, but Joe Leech was only slightly acquainted with him.

  Mark reached Rose Street, a narrow turning off the Street of Ninety-Nine Bridges. Its houses were squat and ugly, but, halfway along it, were two larger buildings – one a school, the other a public house. The latter, called for some incalculable reason the ‘Saucy Sue’, was a grey-faced, grim-looking Victorian edifice with its windows boarded up, for the glass had gone in the raids. In that small area of the East End, however, there had been comparatively little damage.

  Joe Leech owned the Saucy Sue.

  He did not work in the bar, although he did the buying and handled all the business with the breweries. He had a manager, a bald-headed, lantern-jawed individual named Clay, whose face was exactly the colour of clay and whose features had a trick of immobility which made them appear fashioned out of the same material. Clay was reputed to be the most saturnine man in the East End of London and it was said that he was the only man who had worked for Joe Leech for more than six months.

  The Saucy Sue was not open to the public when Mark reached it, just after ten o’clock, but the front door was open and a young girl, with bright fair hair, was scrubbing the doorsteps. She had a sack tied about her waist and when she moved the pail of dirty, soapy water, she had to get laboriously to her knees in order to lift it. Mark saw her struggling with it from some distance along the street and scowled; he had strong views on child labour.

  When he drew nearer he saw that she was older than he had thought, but painfully thin. He stopped and, when she grew aware of his shadow, she looked up and brushed the hair back from her eyes. She had a smudge of dirt on the side of her nose but the rest of her face was scrubbed clean and looked rosy. Her round bright eyes regarded him curiously, but with hostility.

  “Hallo,” said Mark.

  “Watcher want?” demanded the girl, pertly.

  “Is Mr. Leech in?”

  “Dunno,” she said.

  “Oh, come,” protested Mark, “you know if—”

  “I said I dunno an’ I means I dunno,” said the girl, “and it ain’t no use arsting me, mister. If yer wants ter know anyfink, wot’s the matter wiv’ going inside?” She pointed towards the open door and then dipped her work-grimed hand into the water. Mark, a little disgruntled after having been full of sympathy for the child, shrugged his shoulders and stepped over the threshold of the pub.

  A man appeared from behind the bar. He was polishing glasses and behind him the brasses of the taps and the little faucets at the end of the wine and spirit bottles glistened in spite of the gloomy interior. The floor was freshly strewn with sawdust.

  “Watcher want Mr. Leech for?” demanded the saturnine Clay.

  “Is he in?” asked Mark.

  “You ain’t answered me question.”

  “I don’t propose to,” said Mark, sharply. “I want to see Leech.

  If you’re a wise man, you’ll tell him so and be quick about it.” For the girl he had some sympathy, but for Clay he had none. The man regarded him with dull eyes and shrugged his sloping shoulders.

  “Can’t see Mr. Leech wivvaht a good reason.”

  “I have a good reason,” Mark insisted.

  “If yer ‘ave, wot is it?”

  Mark put his head on one side and regarded Clay in thoughtful silence for a long time. The harsh, monotonous sound of scrubbing came from another room. Clay continued to stare, but finally admitted defeat, opening his lips but closing them again before he demanded grudgingly:

  “’S’yer nime?”

  “Lessing,” Mark said. “Mark Lessing.”

  “An’ you’ve got business wiv’ Mr. Leech?”

  “Now there’s no need to go into that again,” said Mark, impatiently. “I want to see him on important business and I haven’t any time to waste.”

  “Ar,” said Clay, and then shrugged. “Wait a minnit.” He turned and walked stiffly to a closed door and pushed through it. Outside, feminine voices were raised, and he grinned when he heard a woman say: “Got a torf ter see yer, duck?”

  “Wot, me see ‘im?’ demanded the girl with the pail. “Not on yer life, watcher tike me for?”

  “’Oo’s ‘e want?” another woman demanded.

  “Ole Nick,” declared Lizzie, and refused to go further into the question. The older woman tried to persuade her but she went on silently with her work. Mark lit a cigarette, frowned when Clay did not return after five minutes, then heard more footsteps on the pavement. A quavering voice, that of an old man, demanded: “You open yet, Lizzie?”

  “Gam kiss yerself!” snapped Lizzie. “’S’use o’ worritting me ev’ry morning, we ain’t open an’ you know it an’ you won’t git a drink until twelve o’clock. Git aht’ve my way, I’m busy!”

  “Now, Lizzie,” remonstrated the man with the quavering voice, “I was only arsting a civil question wot wants a civil answer.” He lowered his voice but twice in the course of the next sentence it squeaked. “Seen the Masher arahnd?”

  “No, I ain’t!”

  “If I could see Joe I could tell ‘im a thing or two,” declared the ancient, “if ‘e knew what I knew he wouldn’t mind lettin’ me ‘ave one now an’ agen.” Mark imagined him nodding his head sagely, and heard Lizzie’s unprintable retort, followed by the shuffling footsteps of the old man. He stepped to the door. Ten yards along the street the man was walking slowly, sliding his feet along the pavement. The heels of his boots were worn down to the uppers, his trousers were ragged and patches were coming away from the stitches. His shirt – he wore no coat – was filthy. He wore a pair of braces and the back tongues were pinned to the top of his trousers; he was muttering audibly to himself. He turned into a little house twenty yards farther on, and Mark was watching him thoughtfully when he was startled by Clay’s voice, behind him.

  “’E ain’t in,” Clay said. “’S’no use.”

  Mark said: “Are you quite sure, Clay?”

  “I said so, didn’t I?”

  “Strangely enough I don’t believe you,” said Mark, smiling. “Which room is he in?” He took two half-crowns from his pocket and held them on the palm of his hand.

  “’E ain’t in,” snarled Clay, “if yer was to offer me a fiver I couldn’t tell yer where ‘e is. ‘E ain’t in – you clear aht!”

  One of the remarkable things about Joe Leech was the fact that normally he made himself available to any caller. A good purveyor of inside information had to be catholic in his friends, and Mark knew his reputation. As well as being the owner of the Saucy Sue and a bookmaker, he was a ‘commission agent’. He handled all manner of strange commodities and took commission on an astonishing variety of transactions. The only times when he was unapproachable were during periods when he had squealed to the police and vengeful toughs were out for his blood. His philosophy of life was that anger burned out, and if one kept out of the way for a few days trouble would blow over. Then Joe Leech, short, plump, and gaudily dressed, would decorate the drab streets again.

  “You lie much too easily,” said Mark, scornfully, “I’m going to see Leech.” He pushed past the man and reached the door. Clay uttered an obscene oath and jumped towards him, but Mark slipped through the doorway and hurried up the narrow wooden stairs comfortably ahead of the stiff-moving manager. The house smelt of beer and decaying vegetables. There was a narrow landing with three closed doors an
d he wondered which of them was Joe Leech’s.

  “... murder yer!” Clay was bellowing.

  Mark opened one door; the room beyond was a bedroom, the bed unmade. He closed it and opened a second door as Clay climbed laboriously to the top of the stairs. Why he did not attempt violence Mark hardly knew, but he stopped at the landing, breathing vengeance, as Mark looked into a long, narrow room. It was a parlour crowded with cheap modern furniture and with wallpaper so gaudy that it was an offence to the eye.

  Sitting at a table at the far end of the room was Joe Leech, a vision in puce pyjamas, with tousled hair, blood-shot eyes and sagging cheeks. There were two curious things about Joe; the visible one was his small, cupid’s mouth, soft and womanish; the audible one his pure tenor voice, not childish yet certainly not manly. He was proud of being self-educated and affected a horror of the Cockney accent; his was a neutral one and usually he managed most of his aspirates.

  Mark left the door open and stepped towards the man, who had a table-drawer open, pushed against his stomach, and his right hand hidden inside the drawer.

  “Why, Joe!” exclaimed Mark. “What’s all the to-do about? I only want a word with you.” He smiled amiably and Joe snatched his hand from the drawer and slammed it to; it caught at one side and gave Mark the opportunity of seeing an automatic lying there. Then Joe slammed it home and demanded shrilly: “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “Don’t say you don’t recognise me,” protested Mark. “We’ve met before, Joe. What’s frightening you?”

  Joe gulped. “I—I—I’m not frightened, don’t say I’m frightened, I’m not!”

  “I thought I recognised all the symptoms,” Mark said.

  “If yer don’t sling yer ‘ook, mister, yer won’t reckernise yer own dial,” growled Clay, from behind him. The manager was approaching with a poker gripped in his right hand, his stiff movements holding a menace which made Mark back hastily to the wall. “Clear aht, will yer?”

  “Tell him to go away, Joe,” said Mark, sharply.