Give a Man a Gun

by John Creasey

  Roger put thought of Brammer from his mind, and went out.

  Jackson wasn’t outside the shop, although he certainly should have been. The Divisional man hadn’t seen anyone answering his description. Roger told himself that Jackson had probably lost the trail and done the sensible thing – gone back to Willington Place.

  Charles Mortimer would undoubtedly be trailed back to his flat – which should have been searched by now. “Need us here any longer?” Roger was asked by Divisional men. “No, I don’t think so, thanks.” He went straight back to the Yard, then sent a man to see if

  Jackson were outside Ruth Linder’s flat. He was on edge about Jackson; and he was by no means sure that there was any good reason for that. His nerves weren’t as steady as they should be.

  He went to see Gillick, the Yard’s expert on precious stones. Within five minutes Gillick was able to tell him that they’d no record of a brooch like the one he’d taken from Pauline Weston on the stolen list.

  “Just a little mistake of yours, Handsome—we all make ’em!”

  “That’s right,” said Roger.

  He slipped the brooch back into his pocket, deciding to return it himself. It had been a mare’s nest, and yet he still had that uneasy feeling that he had been deliberately fooled.

  The volte face of Ruth Linder worried him most.

  Too many things, like Gillick’s remark, reminded him of the girl.

  He went back to his office, and made a kind of table of events in which she had been concerned. It started with the hanging of her father and the suicide of her mother; reason enough to cause bitterness. It was the kind of thing which might easily give rise to a neurosis – might bury hatred and bitterness deep into a mind, and warp it.

  Until Old Benny’s death, her manner had suggested that bitterness was warping her mind.

  Her manner at the time of her uncle’s death had certainly borne that out.

  Then she had begun to change. It had first shown when she had left the shop in Sol’s hands and moved to the luxury apartment. There had been a succession of young boyfriends, all of the stamp of Prescott and Mortimer, but no one had seemed to stake any claim on her.

  Soon afterwards, Roger had seen her with Hann-Gorlay and others – moving in a completely different society. She carried it off well. She would be a hit in any social gathering. She had poise, intelligence, wit and beauty – but all the bitterness seemed to have gone. There was nothing to connect her with the attacks on the police and the so-called terror campaign, except the fact that she had these many youthful boyfriends and had known Prescott.

  Now she was selling jewellery very cheap to the lads.

  She was making plenty of wealthy friends, too. Was it just that she had changed, and had become a social climber?

  Uneasily, Roger felt that it wasn’t.

  Why had she gone to the shop to meet Mortimer? It would have been easier for her to wait at Willington Place. He should have asked Mortimer that. He’d been too much off his guard, because of the change in her.

  He wished he had some news of Jackson.

  The telephone bell rang.

  “West speaking.”

  “Sergeant Hall here, sir. I’m speaking from a kiosk near Willington Place. Detective Officer Jackson isn’t here.”

  “Sure?”

  “Quite sure, sir.”

  “Hang around for an hour, then report again,” said Roger.

  He put the receiver down, found himself lighting a cigarette mechanically, and then grabbed the receiver again.

  “Give me Sloan … Hallo, Bill, listen. Jackson followed me but didn’t turn up in the Mile End Road, and he’s missing. Have all Squad and patrol cars and stations notified, will you, for a general lookout for him?”

  “Yes. Funny business, isn’t it?”

  “Funny’s one word,” Roger growled.

  When Hall reported again, there was still no news of Jackson, although Ruth had returned to her flat. No word came in from the patrols or Divisions. It added to the tension; it would add a lot more when the news got round the Yard. It would be easy to overdo the anxiety though. There might have been an accident, Jackson might be in hospital.

  With this on his mind, Roger went to see Pauline Weston, taking the brooch.

  She was on her own, calm, perfectly poised, apparently ready to be quite frank. She had known Prescott and Charles Mortimer for several months, but not really well. She had not bought anything from either of them until this brooch. She didn’t know any of Mortimer’s other acquaintances.

  “How long have you known Mr Brammer?” Roger asked.

  “For several weeks,” she said, and her eyes gleamed. “He told me you would probably want to know. We have a lot in common.”

  “Such as?”

  “Wanting to stop this banditry.”

  “You keep out of it,” Roger warned her grimly.

  He left the flat thoughtfully. The girl had made an impression on him; she was right for Brammer, had a maturity greater than her yes. He wasn’t quite as sure about her flat chest, now; she had quite a nice little figure; clean lines.

  He called the Yard on the radio-telephone. There was no news of Jackson. The tall, dark-haired, clean-limbed youngster had been following Roger – and had just vanished.

  Jackson still hadn’t turned up that night.

  Nothing had been found at Charles Mortimer’s flat; the whole scheme was a failure.

  When he left the Yard, at half past seven, Roger found himself on edge, half-fearful of news of another attack on a policeman. None came; but he knew that there were others as much on edge.

  He wasn’t in the right mood for going home. Janet would soon discern just how he was feeling, and that wouldn’t help either of them. He drove to AJ, the nearest Divisional Headquarters, and talked to the Superintendent.

  “Any of your fellows feeling a strain, Josh?”

  “Well, that’s putting it a bit high,” he was told. “But they’ll be glad when all this has blown over.” The Superintendent was a large, fat, comfortable and comforting man. “As I say to ’em, who could possibly have any reason for putting our backs up? It just doesn’t make sense.”

  It made sense that he had to reason with his men.

  Roger drove to another Division and found the same atmosphere; edginess and anger rather than tension. There was another thing, too – determination to get the thing over as quickly as possible.

  He made his last call at the nearest Division to Bell Street. Sergeant Arnold, whose son was at school with Martin and Richard, was stationed here.

  The Superintendent, Christie, was a lean, brisk, confident man.

  “No doubt it’s getting under the skin of some of the chaps,” he said. “I’ve arranged for them to patrol in two’s in certain parts of the Division. Wise precaution, I think.”

  Roger didn’t challenge it; or say that it was obviously a concession to fears that Superintendent Christie wouldn’t voice.

  When Roger got home, Janet was tired, didn’t seem inclined to talk much and didn’t mention the subject which he was sure was on top of her mind.

  He lay awake for some time, hoping that the telephone would bring news of Jackson. He wasn’t disturbed. In the morning Janet seemed brighter, the boys were boisterous, and Roger promised to take them to school in the car. He was about to leave when the telephone bell rang.

  “Hallo?”

  “Christie here,” the man at the other end of the line said. “Can you look in on your way to the Yard this morning?”

  “Yes,” said Roger, “in twenty minutes or so.”

  He wondered why; it was an unusual request and almost certainly arose out of the call last night.

  The boys squeezed on to the front seat, and the nearer they got to the school the more frequently they waved to envious friends. Neither of them seemed to notice that he was much more preoccupied than usual.

  It was only five minutes’ drive to the police station from the school.

 
Christie jumped up from his desk as Roger entered his room.

  “Don’t know whether you’ve had any others of these,” he said jerkily. “Sergeant Arnold got this this morning.” He handed Roger a letter – a single sheet of white paper.

  ‘Letter’ was a courtesy word for it. There was a single line of typing, no address, no signature – just the one sentence:

  LIFE ISN’T VERY SAFE THESE DAYS, IS IT?

  “Have you heard of others?” Christie demanded.

  “No,” said Roger, very slowly. “Not yet. Where’s Arnold?”

  “On his way up—I told him to come as soon as you were announced.” Christie glanced at the door; and there was a heavy tap at it. “Come in.”

  Arnold was a plumpish, middle-aged sergeant, the stolid old-fashioned type.

  “’Morning, sir.” He touched his helmet.

  “Hallo, Sergeant,” Roger said. “Has your youngster gone to have his usual scrap with mine this morning?”

  Arnold grinned, pleased.

  “Young rips, they are!”

  “Yes. What time did this come?” Roger asked.

  “Morning post, sir,” said Arnold, and the grin faded. “I don’t mind telling you, I was glad I got it first, and the missus didn’t see it. There was another letter too, so she didn’t smell a rat.”

  “Had anything like it before?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Any special reason why you should have had it? You haven’t been attacked or threatened in any way, have you?”

  “Everything’s been normal, sir,” Arnold said – “that is, as far as anything is normal, these days. Want more flogging, that’s my belief; we’re too soft with the swine these days.”

  “A lot of people agree with you,” Roger temporised. “I’ll take this—thanks.” He waited until the sergeant had gone, then asked Christie: “No prints, I suppose?”

  “One set—same prints as on the other envelope he had this morning. He had the sense to bring both along, for testing. So we can say that the only prints on that were the postman’s.” Christie sat back in his chair, and looked very bleak. “I’m beginning to think there is something in this idea of a terror campaign.”

  Roger shrugged. “So’s Arnold,” he said.

  He drove too fast on the way to the Yard, left his car at the foot of the steps, and hurried up into the Criminal Investigation Department Building. Everything was normal – fool, why shouldn’t everything be normal?

  He strode into his own office.

  Three other Chief Inspectors were there, including Eddie Day, the Yard’s forgery expert. Eddie was a middle-aged man with a growing paunch, prominent teeth and weak-looking eyes. He had a fish-like appearance and would have looked at home behind a fishmonger’s slab or a butcher’s block.

  “Hallo, Handsome!” He had some difficulty with his aspirates, and when he achieved them it was always with faint emphasis. “What d’you make of this turn-up?”

  The other CIs were looking across at Roger.

  “What one? Have they found Jackson?”

  “No—don’t say you haven’t ’eard,” breathed Eddie, excitement driving the hard-won aspirate flying. “Why, most’ve the Divisions ’ave ’ad threatening letters. There’s dozens of reports.”

  “All saying the same thing,” broke in another CI. “Life isn’t very safe these days, is it?”

  Roger stood very still.

  The telephone on his desk rang.

  “Bet that’s Chatworth; been after you for the last twenty minutes,” Eddie brayed. “Shall I answer—”

  Roger moved to his desk.

  “No, thanks.” He lifted the receiver. “West speaking.”

  “There’s a gentleman on the line for you sir,” said the operator, “but he won’t give his name. Will you speak to him?”

  “Yes.”

  “One moment, please … You’re through, sir.”

  “Chief Inspector West speaking,” Roger said.

  A man laughed; the sound wasn’t very loud, but it was very clear. Then the man said: “Life isn’t very safe these days, is it, West?”

  The line went dead.

  Chapter Ten

  Campaign

  Roger put down the receiver slowly. The others stared at him. He lit a cigarette, as Eddie Day burst out: “What’s up, ’Andsome? What was that?”

  “They use the telephone as well as the post,” Roger said, and forced his voice to sound relaxed. “Did you say the Old Man’s been after me?”

  “Yelling ’is ’ead off, I told” – Eddie drew a deep breath – “I told him I’d let you know as soon as you came in. You’re to go straight to his hoffice. Oh, ter ’ell with ruddy aitches!”

  Roger found himself smiling.

  “You’re all right, Eddie.” He sat at his desk and called Sloan. “Bill, how many of these letters have been reported?”

  “Seventeen,” Sloan said promptly. “We’ve heard from thirteen divisions where they’ve had one each—always a sergeant, by the way—and from four departments here—Records, Fingerprints, Information and Civil branch. All uniformed, too, no plain-clothes men.”

  “Have you got the letters?”

  “Chatworth sent for them.”

  “Right, thanks,” said Roger. “Jackson?”

  “Not a word.”

  Roger said: “Was he married?”

  “No. Roger, who hates like this?”

  Roger didn’t essay an answer, but rang off.

  Eddie Day fidgeted because Roger was keeping the Assistant Commissioner waiting …

  Chatworth was grave, and not in one of his ranting moods. It was a bad situation, and now there was no argument at all about what was happening. And: “If we could find a reason, Roger, I’d be happier. I can’t see any sense in it.”

  “No one can yet,” Roger said.

  He fingered the envelopes – seventeen in all, each with the letter inside. A report with them said briefly:

  No fingerprints on letters, those on envelopes probably postmen’s.

  Paper all the same make, a thin bond, sold in practically every Woolworth’s and cheap store in the country.

  Each has a City, EC3, postmark.

  “Not much in these, either,” Roger growled. “Going to let the newspapers have this, sir?”

  “What do you think?”

  “It would be a mistake not to. If they discovered we were hiding—”

  The telephone bell rang.

  Chatworth lifted it, grunted, grunted again and said: “Wait a minute,” and handed the receiver across to Roger. “It’s Sloan.”

  Sloan wouldn’t interrupt him in this office, unless this mattered.

  “Hallo, Bill?”

  “There’s a squeak about Jackson,” Sloan said eagerly. “Either that or a trick, Roger. We’ve had a letter by post, saying we’ll find him at a house in Hammersmith.”

  “Let’s get there,” Roger breathed. “Don’t lose a minute.”

  They found Jackson.

  He had been shot through the head with a .32 automatic.

  The Courier had the biggest and blackest headlines, on the front page; and the front page was given over to the story completely.

  TERROR CAMPAIGN GROWS

  OPEN THREAT TO POLICE

  ANOTHER YARD MAN SLAUGHTERED

  The story itself was hardly worth reading. There was the usual “We must arm the police” demand, and a list of prominent public men and women who supported the move – and the Citizens’ League – and a smaller list of those who opposed it.

  Every newspaper had the story of the letters to the policemen. Every Division in the London area and a number in the Home Counties had had one, but no Division had received more than one.

  Roger glanced at the telephone when it rang – and felt the momentary qualm, and: “What is it this time?” Eddie Day and the other CI in the office paused in their work and looked up.

  “West speaking.”

  “Spare me a few minutes, Handsome, will you?
” It was Brammer. “I’m at the Yard.”

  “Yes,” said Roger. He didn’t want to see the Courier man in the office, with Eddie Day listening in. “I’ll come down.”

  He went down and took Brammer to a waiting room.

  The newspaper investigator hadn’t shaved, and his stubble was more grey than his hair. His eyes were red-rimmed and looked glassy, his hooked nose had never seemed more prominent. He dropped into an armchair. It became hard to see him as Pauline Weston’s mate.

  “Glad you give your guests comfort! Off the record, are you any nearer finding out who’s behind all this?”

  “No.”

  “Listen,” Brammer said; “I may be wrong, I may be crazy, but I still think it’s Ruth Linder. I know she’s leading a gay life these days, but I think she’s behind it. She still hates. No one else could have been sure that Jackson was a Yard man, could they?”

  “Let’s say she could have known,” Roger said.

  “There’s a man who might give you what you want,” Brammer said. “That’s Sol Klein. I think if you scared him enough, he’d talk. Work on him, Roger.”

  “I was hoping you’d have something more than a guess,” Roger said.

  “Listen,” said Brammer earnestly. He lit a cigarette, looking at Roger through the flame. “She’s got all these boyfriends. They sell jewellery at cut prices for her. That doesn’t make sense in itself, but it’s true. They’re the same type as Harrock and Prescott—they could become killers, even if they’re not. The important thing is that they’ll do almost anything that Ruth asks them to. I think she’s fencing on a much bigger scale than her uncle ever did, and that she’s laughing her head off because you can’t prove it. She’s just making a fool of you. She’s even dangling Hann-Gorlay on a piece of string, because of this Citizens’ League business. She—”

  “Six months ago—” began Roger.

  “I told you, I know she’s happier,” Brammer said heavily. “I know she’s changed; but why not? She’s having the time of her life. You’re fooled; all the police are getting worked up. She must know that. Why, in several Divisions they don’t patrol in ones any longer; they go about in pairs! Everything Ruth ever wanted she’s getting. Why shouldn’t she feel on top of the world?”