Give a Man a Gun

by John Creasey

  It was difficult to guess what the man thought. He looked at her with his hooded eyes half-closed, and with his lips parted slightly. His teeth just showed. It came to Roger that few men would ever look more evil. Give Brammer a pair of horns, and he could be the Devil himself.

  “No,” he said, “I don’t. Don’t let her fool you, Handsome. She always hated the police because of her parents, and it’s turned her mind. She’s clever. It wouldn’t matter what game she started, she would go a long way in it. The trouble is, she’s turned bad. A bad woman is ten times worse than a bad man, or don’t you need telling that?”

  Roger was watching Ruth.

  He had another odd impression; that if he wanted to put ‘goodness’ on the stage, he could dress her in a white robe, and – no, the word wasn’t goodness, it was ‘purity’. She looked guileless, too; but all this amused her too much – or appeared to. If she were as guileless and as good as she wanted to make out, she would be horrified.

  She enjoyed accusing Brammer.

  She turned to Roger.

  “Now you just have to take your choice, Chief Inspector.”

  Roger said: “Why do you two hate each other as much as you do?”

  Neither of them spoke.

  “Bram,” Roger went on, “I had a ’phone call, supposed to be from you, saying that you had something to show me. As a result, I was held up outside the Courier office. Did you telephone?”

  “No.” Brammer’s eyes opened a shade more as he turned to Roger.

  “You disappeared, the same time as I did. What were you doing just before you were picked up?”

  “I was trying to find proof that Ruth is behind all this killing, supplying the weapons, encouraging the kids, buying the stuff they steal.”

  “And you didn’t get it,” Ruth mocked.

  “There’s time,” said Brammer.

  “Ruth,” Roger said mildly, and tried to make sure that he could see both their faces at the same time, to judge the reactions, “how long were you in love with Bram, and why did you break things off?”

  She looked astounded.

  Bram made an odd little noise in the back of his throat, and grinned. He looked grotesquely satyrish as he shrugged his coat into position, then moved across to her.

  “We can’t keep any secrets from the police, you see,” he said. “Why don’t you tell him?”

  He turned away, and went out. He didn’t slam the door, but closed it very gently. But the outer door slammed. The girl stood and watched the closed door as if she could think only of Brammer and hardly realised that Roger was present. All expression had died from her face. She looked beautiful – and empty. She had seemed like that once before.

  Roger didn’t speak.

  Ruth turned to him at last. Her face was still without expression – a husk of beauty. She looked him up and down. There was no suggestion of bitterness. It seemed to Roger that she was much older than she had been at the time of her uncle’s murder.

  “Why did you want to see me?” he asked at last.

  “I wanted to tell you that it’s Brammer,” she said.

  “The police are unreasonable people,” Roger told her. “They need proof before they can take any action.”

  “Watch his girl-friend, Pauline Weston,” Ruth said.” She has a lot of money, seldom does any work, is supposed to be an analytical chemist. She has a lot of young boyfriends, too, including Charles Mortimer. I’m not sure that Mortimer didn’t fool both of us.”

  Roger didn’t speak, just watched Ruth, hearing sounds in the hall. The door opened, and a youthful-looking man appeared – dark-haired, handsome in a dashing way; immaculately dressed.

  The girl’s expression changed; all the radiance came back as she greeted the newcomer.

  “Hallo, darling! I didn’t expect you so soon. Do you know Chief Inspector West? Inspector—this is Sir Neville Hann-Gorlay.”

  They murmured ‘how-do’s’, but Roger didn’t stay long – although long enough to feel sure that Hann-Gorlay was in love with Ruth. The man worshipped her.

  Brammer had said that Ruth would do everything she could to hurt Pauline Weston; her suggestion that Roger would find Pauline worth watching, could mean that he was right.

  Pauline Weston leapt into the limelight within a few hours.

  Peel had discovered that she had run a red Morris Minor, but that it had just been re-cellulosed and was now black. It could have been the car which Roger had seen before being knocked out.

  At both front and rear there were marks showing that different, probably false, number-plates had been used.

  “Now we’ve got the Weston girl,” Peel said warmly. “And it wouldn’t surprise anyone if she leads to Brammer. Going to question and hold her?”

  “Not yet,” Roger said. “We’ll watch her—have two men tailing her all the time. They must be armed. We’ll find out who else she mixes with and where she goes. We’ll also find out where she was on the morning that I was shanghaied, too.”

  “Right,” said Peel, and went off to make the arrangements.

  Roger found himself thinking of Ruth Linder’s lovely face, her radiance, and her love for Hann-Gorlay. Why had she implicated Brammer? Why should she think that Brammer’s girlfriend might be involved?

  How much did Ruth know?

  Pauline Weston saw Charles Mortimer most days, as well as several other youths in his circle. She saw Brammer as often as ever. Twice she was seen with small, dapper, middle-aged Rodney Matthewson. Matthewson became more and more prominent in organising the Citizens’ League meetings and his name was continually in the public eye. So far the League had done nothing to which the police could take exception, although each meeting was watched and closely reported on. Leaders like Matthewson and Hann-Gorlay were screened; and came through the tests easily.

  Pauline was taking some part in the League’s activities, possibly so as to help Brammer. It gave her an excuse to be at his office a great deal. This office had become a sort of unofficial HQ of the League, which had the Courier’s fullest support.

  Pauline was still calm, poised, mature – and did nothing which gave Roger any excuse to take action. She used her newly painted car freely; so did Mortimer and two other youths. Inquiries at her garage showed that she often lent the car; and that Prescott had been known to drive it. Roger made sure that Mortimer had an alibi for the Fleet Street kidnapping, and still held off Pauline.

  Was she in the crime wave? Or was Ruth?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mass Meeting

  For a week there was a period of uneasy calm. Several coshing attacks were made in different parts of the country, mostly in London. A policeman was attacked by two youths in Croydon, and left battered and unconscious but not seriously injured; the youths were found. There were no more letters, but silence brought no marked easing of the tension at the Yard or at the Divisions. Plans for double patrols in certain districts were put in hand, but most of the attacks had been made in supposedly ‘safe’ districts, not in the notoriously bad areas.

  Citizens’ League branches had caught on, and were being formed in dozens of London districts, all pledged to work for an armed police force, doubled strength, and violent punishment for cases of proved violence.

  Members of Parliament were flooded with letters from constituents, many prominent people gave their names to the League, several retired judges gave it active support. Matthewson and Hann-Gorlay found themselves public figures. With help from all the newspapers, the Movement became gigantic almost overnight.

  None of this helped Roger or the Yard to track down the killer youths. None of it eased the present tension among the police.

  Nothing that. Pauline Weston did gave the police any grounds for suspecting that she knew more than she should. Except Mortimer, the Yard found no connection between any of her friends and Ruth Linder’s. She seemed to get friendlier with him than ever, but was still as friendly with Brammer.

  Roger was driving along Fleet Stre
et when he saw them, three days after Ruth had named Pauline. A traffic block held him up. He pulled into the kerb and got out. Then he saw another man was with them – small, dapper, middle-aged.

  All three stopped.

  “You don’t know Mr Rodney Matthewson, do you?” Brammer asked Roger. “Chief Inspector West, Rodney—”

  Roger liked the lawyer’s manner and firm handclasp; and the humour which lurked in his eyes.

  “Now what are you plotting?” Roger demanded.

  “We’re really going to get you fellows looked after,” Brammer said. “Arms and—”

  “Did it ever occur to you that we might not want to carry guns?” Roger’s voice sharpened at once.

  Matthewson murmured: “But if we get this recruiting campaign and double your forces, as well as harsher punishment for the criminals, won’t you be grateful?”

  Roger said: “The gibbet didn’t stop highway robbery—didn’t anyone ever tell you that?”

  “For a policeman,” Matthewson observed, “you are remarkably humanitarian. However, I cannot believe that many of your colleagues would oppose sterner punishment. Be honest—would they?”

  “No,” Roger said grudgingly. “Not many.” He thought of Sloan.

  “That’s what I like about Mr West,” said Pauline; “you can believe anything that he says.”

  She looked lovelier, Roger thought – but she still wasn’t a beauty. Yet there was something right about her being with Brammer – nothing right about her seeing so much of Mortimer. He wasn’t sure that Mortimer wasn’t one of the desperadoes.

  He wasn’t sure of anything.

  “Don’t pay him too many compliments,” Brammer said. “And let’s answer his question—we’re plotting the biggest demonstration yet, Handsome. In the Albert Hall …”

  Two days later the Courier carried an editorial in support of a large advertisement, which read:

  Anti ‘Terror’ Campaign

  MASS MEETING

  in

  ALBERT HALL

  Chairman: Rodney Matthewson, Esq.

  Speakers: Sir Neville Hann-Gorlay, MP.

  Percival Smythe, OBE, MP.

  Tuesday … at 7.30 pm.

  Following the meetings in Chiswick, Golders Green, Wimbledon, Tottenham and other London Boroughs, the Courier and the Campaign Committee have hired London’s famous Albert Hall for a mass meeting which will demand:

  ARMS FOR THE POLICE

  A NATION-WIDE RECRUITING CAMPAIGN

  PUNISHMENT TO FIT THE CRIMES

  This Wave of Brutality Must Be Crushed

  Roger himself went to a meeting in Hammersmith; Matthewson was the ideal Chairman, Hann-Gorlay a brilliant speaker. The audience of over a thousand people was wildly enthusiastic.

  Other newspapers carried the Albert Hall advertisement; if they could be believed, applications for tickets passed the half-million mark within three days.

  Roger telephoned Brammer.

  “I want three tickets for the meeting, Bram.”

  “I saw you at the Hammersmith show the other night,” Brammer said. “Hann-Gorlay’s good, isn’t he? And our Chairman isn’t so bad, either. But don’t let Ruth’s friendship with Hann-Gorlay fool you.” Roger could imagine Brammer’s grin. “She’s bad.” Brammer paused. “Sure, I’ll send the tickets. You’ll have quite a time.”

  “I’ll tell you someone else who’ll have quite a time—hat’s the uniformed branch,” Roger said. “We’ll have to draft hundreds of extra police and hundreds of special constables to look after the meeting. They can only do it by taking men off the beat. If there’s an outbreak of crime that night, you’ll have yourselves to blame.”

  “One night won’t make any difference,” Brammer said. “If we can knock some sense into the heads of the Home Office, it’ll be worth it.”

  Roger drafted plain-clothes men into the Hall for the night, and others in the streets. Everyone at the Yard felt uneasy, without being able to say why.

  It was a fine, clear night.

  According to reports which came from uniformed branches, the crowds heading towards the Albert Hall were thick by half past four – for the meeting due to start at seven-thirty! By six o’clock the crowds were vast. Mounted police, standing by, moved in to help control. Smaller open-air meetings quickly sprang up in Kensington Gardens, near the Albert Memorial. The pavements about the circular walls of the Albert Hall itself were jammed with people, some with tickets, some without.

  Ambulances were called to deal with fainting women and some who were injured in the crush.

  Beyond the Albert Hall area every available policeman in London was on duty in the streets. The possibility that the lull in the attacks would come to an abrupt end that night was in the minds of many besides Roger.

  At seven he arrived at the Hall with Sloan and Chat-worth. Peel was in another part of the Hall. Chatworth had to force his way through the crowd, both inside and out. He went ahead like a burly bull terrier, as if defying Roger and Sloan to make his path easier for him.

  It took them nearly half an hour to reach their seats. These were opposite the platform, where a single row of empty seats and a table were ready for the chairman and the speakers.

  There was hubbub in the enormous, circular Hall. There seemed no room to squeeze in another man. A great mass of faces, reaching almost as high as the roof, was turned towards the platform. Men seemed to outnumber women by three or four to one; and the men were youngish.

  Chatworth pulled at a small cigar and glared about him. Roger sat back, feeling much more on edge than he let himself look. He was glad his gun was in his pocket.

  A little file of men and women came on to the platform. Matthewson came first, almost bald, very confident; the crowd jumped to its feet and began to cheer. The roar of applause as the speakers filed on filled the great dome as with thunder. It didn’t stop when they sat down.

  Chatworth just glowered about him. Roger watched – and didn’t like much of what he saw. There was something here which went very deep. It was a note of anger – passionate anger, rage. These people were out for blood. This wasn’t just a mass meeting, to protest; it went much further. “I wouldn’t like this mob to get out of control,” Sloan whispered.

  Chatworth growled: “What’s that?”

  “Nothing, sir.” Chatworth glared.

  Roger was watching, as the roar of applause began to fade. Four men and two women were on the platform. Matthewson was in the chair. Next to him, on his right, was Neville Hann-Gorlay. The spotlight was already on him; he looked impressively handsome, immaculately dressed. Ruth Linder sat next to him.

  Sloan nudged Roger.

  “See her?”

  “Yes. That’s the first time she’s come into the open with him,” Roger said.

  “Who’s the chairman?” Chatworth demanded. He knew quite well.

  “Rodney Matthewson, chairman of the Citizens’ League,” Roger told him. “He’s good.”

  “They’re five minutes late,” Chatworth snapped.

  Almost on his words, Matthewson stood up, to another roar of applause. He stopped it with a smile, and a self-deprecatory wave of his hands. As it died down, all but a few lights went out. The spotlight was on the Chairman.

  “Theatrical nonsense,” growled Chatworth.

  Two or three people near him glowered, one man moved as if to touch his shoulder. Chatworth took no notice, but watched Matthewson.

  As soon as he began to speak, the little man became more impressive. He had a deep, pleasant voice, and didn’t make the mistake of being too solemn. He was very glad to see so many people present, sorry only that so many others hadn’t been able to get in. It showed a proper understanding of the gravity of the situation, and he hoped that it would impress those in authority, and make them understand how the people felt. That was, if those in authority realised that there were such things as people …

  He said that with a little quirk of a smile. It was easy, almost cheap – but it won th
e crowd.

  “All the newspapers which have sponsored this meeting—and I may say will sponsor many others” – he had to pause for a roar of applause – “deserve our warm gratitude. I shall not name any one of them, as each is now giving unstinted support. I shall remind you during the meeting that there are handbills available in the foyers and in the exit lobbies, and I suggest that each of you takes enough home to distribute, say, in his or her street. We should be able to cover the whole of London that way—and even leave a few to spare for those gentlemen at the Home Office—”

  The laughter which followed wasn’t really of amusement. It had an ugly ring. A note was slipped into Roger’s hand. He opened it, and read:

  Pauline Weston is in the Hall

  He passed the note to Sloan, who nodded. Chatworth noticed nothing, was intent on the Chairman. Roger kept looking at the Yard men, recognising a few of them near at hand. Brammer was at the Press table, in front of the speakers.

  Uniformed police or special constables were at all the doorways.

  “It is our intention,” Matthewson was saying, “to seek the strongest possible support for this campaign to wipe out the wave of terror in this great city—in this great country. But I will not trespass on the time or the subject of my friend Sir Neville Hann-Gorlay, Member of Parliament for …”

  His last words were drowned in the roar of cheering.

  Hann-Gorlay stood up with an air. He glanced down at Ruth, and she smiled up at him. Anyone who saw her face, caught as it was in the circle of the spotlight, must have been struck by her beauty. It was almost as if Hann-Gorlay depended on her for support.

  Hann-Gorlay stepped forward.

  There was a quality of magic in his voice and his manner. Here was an orator who could sway tens of thousands. His words were simple and effective, and in a few seconds it was obvious that he held complete mastery. The words were comparatively unimportant; the nuance that he gave them, the subtle emphasis, breathed life into them all.

  “… And let us not forget those who suffer from these brutal attacks. It is one thing to be charitable, to forgive those who sin, to treat these devils as if they were invalids to be pitied. It is another to forget the plight of a woman robbed of her man – a child robbed of the guidance and the sanctuary of a father …