Give a Man a Gun

by John Creasey

  “Shall we talk about this again tomorrow?” Roger asked Chatworth.

  Chatworth said: “No, finish it now; I’ll come downstairs with you.” Three of them hurried out, leaving Peel in solitary possession of the office. “Go on, Roger.”

  “I’ve been checking all the stolen stuff we found at Prescott’s place. It comes from two robberies only. We’ve picked up other odds and ends of stuff which we know some of these violent robbers took. There are indications that all the rest was sold through various channels.” They were at the lift, and Sloan pressed the bell push for it. “In other words, the crimes appear to be isolated, not organised—different fences are used, the kind of crime is varied. Looked at as a whole, I’d say that it isn’t all of a piece. There’s probably a small group, or gang, setting examples, but not every young swine with a gun or cosh is in it. There’s nothing I’d like better than to hang it all round one person’s neck, but I can’t. It’s much too big. Young desperadoes have simply become infected.”

  The lift arrived; they stepped in.

  “A small gang, setting an example?” Chatworth echoed. “Inspirational, so to speak.”

  “That’s it, sir. The man Harrock, who killed Uncle Benny, had done one or two jobs with violence—we know that now.” Roger was earnest. “Prescott on his own did a good job on that Putney Bank. There weren’t any signs that he had anyone else with him. Most of the other jobs are the same—individual jobs. It’s true that Prescott had nitroglycerine with him, and that most of them use .32 guns, but—”

  They jolted to a standstill, and stepped out.

  “What’s on your mind?” Chatworth demanded.

  “It just hasn’t got the smack of organised gang warfare with a central headquarters. I’ve been over this until I know it backwards,” Roger went on as they hurried down the steps towards his car. “If it weren’t for the .32’s and the newspaper campaign story, no one would have thought about an organised gang or a campaign until those threatening notes were posted. The crimes came first; then someone who hates our guts cashed in, began to work up the temperature. It could be a group of youths with more imagination than most. It could be—” he broke off.

  Chatworth said: “Well, don’t overdo it. Or you, Sloan. We haven’t got our strength doubled yet. Still got that gun, Roger?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep it. Good night.”

  “Good night, sir,” they said in chorus.

  Roger swung the car out of the Yard, on to the Embankment, and then towards Parliament Square. The night was very dark. There was no car or taxi, no traffic at all, in all the wide, spacious breadth of Whitehall; London might have been a ghost city.

  There were a few taxis and private cars near Piccadilly Circus – one or two cyclists, too, but the road leading to Willington Place was deserted. Roger pulled up at the end of the street, and they climbed out. The shadowy figure of a waiting policeman came towards him.

  “Are we late?” Roger asked.

  “They’re not back yet,” the man said.

  “Any trouble?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Good,” said Roger.

  He got out of the car, and Sloan followed him. The two watching detectives moved back into the darkness. There was no sound for fully ten minutes. Then a car engine sounded, and headlights showed. The light grew brighter, then the car swung round the corner.

  Standing in a doorway, Roger and Sloan weren’t touched by the white brilliance.

  The car turned in at the drive of Willington Court. It stopped abruptly – too abruptly. The headlights were switched off – then nothing happened. A porter appeared from the main entrance of the block of flats, and quickly backed away again.

  “What is this?” Sloan growled.

  “Necking, probably,” Roger said. “Let’s go and see what mood they’re in.”

  He led the way. No one in the doorway or in the car appeared to notice them. Only the car’s sidelights were on. As he drew nearer, Roger could just make out the shape of the two people in the car – man and woman, their heads very close together. Nearer still, and he could see that they were kissing. Their faces showed up against the light of the block of flats.

  Roger passed the front of the car; so did Sloan, but they weren’t noticed.

  Sloan was grinning when they reached the doorway.

  “I wonder how long they’ll keep this up.”

  He glanced about him, and nodded to the night porter, who approached slowly, perhaps nervously.

  “It’s all right,” Roger said. “Police. I want to see Miss Linder.”

  “She’s just arrived, sir.”

  “So I noticed!”

  Roger lit a cigarette. The luxurious entrance hall was pleasantly warm. He strolled across to an armchair and sat down; Sloan stayed near the entrance, watching the car, although he could hardly make out the two people in it.

  With the policeman on duty outside, and Sloan watching, nothing could go wrong. Roger found himself wondering whether there had ever been any real justification for thinking that Ruth and Hann-Gorlay would be shot at when they reached here. There had been a risk, that was obvious – but he had felt convinced that there would be another attack on Hann-Gorlay.

  The chair was comfortable. For a reason he couldn’t fully understand, Roger felt more relaxed than he had for some time. He found himself thinking of Janet. Then he began to wonder if the kissing and cuddling in the car suggested that wedding bells were in the offing. In spite of his knowledge of her stream of boyfriends, it was difficult to think of Ruth Linder as promiscuous, even mildly so. She wasn’t his idea of a coquette; or a cocotte. That was why he had always felt sure that the parade of her youthful boyfriends was due to buying and selling stolen goods, not to light-hearted lovemaking.

  Was he wrong about that?

  Had she simply wanted a different dancing partner every night? Was she at heart a coquette? Some women thrived on the adoration of boys younger than themselves.

  Hann-Gorlay wasn’t younger than Ruth. He was probably four or five years older.

  “They’re breaking the clinch.” Sloan grinned across at Roger.

  The car door opened and slammed. The porter hurried out. There were voices – Hann-Gorlay’s loudest. He came in with his arm round Ruth’s waist, with the porter a discreet distance behind them. Their faces were very close together, and Ruth was flushed, her glossy black hair was untidy; she looked young, beautiful and starry-eyed. Had it been anyone else, anyone he met casually, Roger would have felt quite sure that these two were helplessly in love – in the stage of obsession with each other and with love.

  The porter slipped past them, and opened the lift doors.

  “Darling,” Ruth said, “don’t come up. You’ve so much to do in the morning.”

  “Of course I’ll come up,” said Hann-Gorlay.

  They passed Roger and Sloan, without glancing towards them. Roger was by Sloan’s side, and whispered: “We’ll wait. Let ’em get upstairs—unless they spot us first.”

  “Okay.”

  Hann-Gorlay and Ruth stepped into the lift; the porter followed and closed the door.

  One of the watching detectives appeared.

  “All quiet out here, sir.”

  “Good,” said Roger. “Let’s try the stairs, Bill.”

  They went briskly up the stairs, and reached the landing as the lift started to go down again. Just a few yards along the passage, Hann-Gorlay and Ruth were in each other’s arms.

  Sloan whispered: “Let’s get out of here.”

  He was still grinning, but looked a little sheepish. Roger knew what he felt like – as if he were both eavesdropper and Peeping Tom at the same time.

  The couple moved on slowly.

  “Give me your key,” Hann-Gorlay said.

  “All right, darling. But you’re not coming in tonight. In the first place, I don’t trust you” – she paused, and they laughed together, as if that were the greatest joke in the world –
“and in the second place, you must be up early. I shall be busy, too.”

  She handed him her key.

  “I’ll be good, and go home,” Hann-Gorlay promised. “Oh, my darling, it’s so good to be with you. Whenever I’m anywhere else it just seems like a waste of time.”

  He opened the door, and thrust it open.

  “Goodnight, my sweet.”

  They kissed again, then Hann-Gorlay put a hand inside the door, to switch on the light.

  A shot barked.

  It cut across the quiet so viciously that it was like a flash of lightning in a pitch-black night. It petrified all four of them – until a second came, and Hann-Gorlay began to crumple up.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Capture

  Between the first and the second shots, Roger moved. Sloan was only a split-second behind him.

  Hann-Gorlay was on the floor, Ruth on her knees by his side, shocked, her mouth open, when Roger pushed past her and into the flat. It was in darkness.

  “Careful, Roger!” Sloan roared.

  Roger saw a light in a room beyond and a man against it. The door slammed, shutting the light out. He rushed towards the door, calling: “Put on the light, Bill.”

  The light came on.

  Roger turned the handle of the door, and thrust his shoulder against the panels, but it was locked. He could hear sounds inside the room. He drew back, then launched himself against the door; it didn’t budge.

  “Both together,” Sloan said, “and—”

  “Wait a minute! Go downstairs, tell our chaps to watch the windows. What side is this?”

  Sloan moved towards the door.

  “The porter will know.”

  “Hurry, and don’t forget his gun.”

  Sloan didn’t speak.

  The girl on her knees beside Hann-Gorlay was speaking, but Roger didn’t catch the words, didn’t know whether she was talking to the injured man, herself or to him. He backed away, watching the closed door. The gunman might plan to get out through the window; or might burst the door open as he tried to force his way out.

  Roger heard the girl vaguely. He could shoot the lock off the door and get in; but he wanted to give Sloan time to get downstairs and have the street watched.

  Sloan would soon be back.

  “Neville, speak to me, speak to me.” So Ruth was talking to Hann-Gorlay. There was anguish in her voice. “Neville, you mustn’t die, you mustn’t die.”

  With half of his mind, Roger realised what the girl was really saying – that Hann-Gorlay was unconscious, and looked badly injured. He ought to see what he could do; but had to watch that door.

  “Oh, to let this happen to you,” Ruth said piteously, “to let it happen to you.”

  Roger glanced at her sharply.

  That might mean a lot more than it appeared to – seemed to imply that she could have stopped it.

  She was holding something against Hann-Gorlay’s neck; and there was blood on her hand.

  If Roger hadn’t glanced towards her, he wouldn’t have seen the foot.

  Someone else was in the passage, close to the door. Ruth could only see her lover, had no time or thought for anyone else; but the polished toe of a black shoe was there.

  Roger pressed against the wall.

  He heard no sound from the room behind the locked door; there was no sound anywhere but Ruth’s voice, sunk to a whisper now; Roger couldn’t understand what she was saying. He drew out his gun.

  The man approaching drew nearer; the barrel of an automatic showed, then the tip of the man’s nose, a hand, the other foot.

  The man’s face appeared, and he looked round the open door – and his gun-hand came into full sight. Roger fired at it. The bullet struck the wrist, bringing a sudden, agonised gasp. The gun dropped.

  Roger leapt, as Ruth turned her head abruptly.

  The gunman backed swiftly against the wall. He was young, dark-haired, well dressed. He was Charles Mortimer, Pauline Weston’s friend, the youth who had bought her a brooch at bargain price—from Ruth; and who often borrowed Pauline’s car.

  Roger said: “Come in here, Mortimer.”

  He covered the man with his gun, but still had to be wary, in case the other man came out of the room. The only sound was of laboured breathing. Ruth still held a handkerchief padded against Hann-Gorlay’s neck, while she stared at Mortimer.

  Roger had time only for a glimpse of her – yet the impression of livid hatred for the youth went very deep.

  Then he heard footsteps, and Sloan’s voice.

  “Okay, Roger, we’ve got—”

  Sloan stopped. He must have turned the corner, and seen the prisoner. Mortimer glanced towards him, licked his lips, then moved, crouching, as if he still hoped to get away.

  “Keep still,” Roger ordered. “Okay, Bill. Come and pick his gun up.”

  Sloan appeared, and obeyed. Mortimer crouched against the wall, watching Roger’s gun. For the first time, Roger realised that the gun had really captured Mortimer; had perhaps saved his, Roger’s, life. He’d used it without thinking.

  This wasn’t the time to think about that.

  “Do you say you’ve caught the other chap?” he asked Sloan.

  “He was shinning down the drainpipe, and jumped right into our arms,” Sloan said. “Not exactly a wasted evening. You all right?”

  “Yes. Make sure that Mortimer hasn’t another gun.”

  Roger waited until Sloan ran over Mortimer’s pockets. The youth, no more than twenty, was holding his right arm up, clasping the wounded wrist to stop the bleeding. Months ago, Prescott had done something like that after being injured at the bank.

  “You take him downstairs,” Roger said. “I’ll ’phone for a doctor. Patrol cars here yet?”

  “One.”

  “Good.”

  Roger went to Ruth. She was still on her knees, still holding the pad, but it had slipped a little. Hann-Gorlay had been shot just beneath the chin. It was an ugly wound, the kind which might kill very quickly. The man looked pale as death; might be dead already.

  “Miss Linder!” Roger barked.

  She looked round at him, startled.

  “I’ll take over from you. Telephone for a doctor.” He actually had to take her arms and pull her up. Then he dropped down on to one knee, folding a handkerchief into a pad to press against the wound, which started oozing blood again. “Hurry!” he snapped at Ruth.

  She moved.

  He was startled that she went so quickly – and Sloan was taken off his guard.

  She simply flung herself at Charles Mortimer.

  Her clenched fists beat against the youth’s face and breast. He backed away desperately, trying to fend her off with his free hand. Blood from the wound in his wrist spattered her dress, even spotted her face.

  Sloan dragged her off.

  She looked as if rage had turned her cheeks to white heat; and her eyes burned.

  “You fix the doctor, Bill,” Roger said.

  Ruth Linder didn’t try to attack Mortimer again. She let Sloan put her into a chair, and stayed there. Then Sloan took Mortimer’s arm, and started to hustle him towards the stairs and the head of the lift. Before he had gone far, men arrived from below – police from a second patrol car. There were plenty of men for everything.

  Roger stayed with Hann-Gorlay, staunching the flow of blood until a doctor arrived.

  All this time Ruth Linder sat in the chair, staring straight ahead of her. She did not seem to know what she was looking at. Her eyes still burned, and her cheeks had that same glow, almost of white heat.

  Hann-Gorlay was already being taken downstairs on a stretcher, and an ambulance was waiting. Charles Mortimer was in the hall with the other prisoner, a youth named Gedd. Both were handcuffed.

  Sloan was back upstairs with Roger.

  Roger had forced open the locked door; they had complete freedom of the flat. It had been ransacked. Drawers were turned upside down and their contents scattered, pictures had been pushed
to one side, cushions and upholstery ripped open. Cut glass from the dressing table was smashed. The place hadn’t just been burgled – it looked as if someone who hated Ruth had come in here to smash everything to pieces.

  “I’d rather act on your guess than my reason,” Sloan said, as he checked the damage. “I wonder what she’ll think of it.”

  “She doesn’t seem capable of thinking about anything or anyone but Hann-Gorlay,” Roger said slowly.

  He went into the entrance hall of the flat.

  The girl still sat there.

  He crossed to her and looked down. She moved her head for the first time since Sloan had pushed her into the chair. Something of the fire had faded from her eyes – they were smouldering, but at least as much with hurt as with rage. She looked as if she could burst into bitter tears.

  “Is he—dead?”

  “No,” Roger said, brusquely. “From what the police surgeon said, he’ll probably pull through.”

  “Are you—” she caught her breath. “Are you sure?”

  “There’s a good chance.”

  “Where is he? I must go to him. Where—” She jumped up, shrill, eager.

  “Take it easy,” Roger said, and took her arm. “I should sit down again, Ruth. Bill, get her a drink, will you? And then have one of the boys put on a kettle and make her some tea. Hann-Gorlay’s on his way to hospital, Ruth; you won’t be able to see him tonight. I’ll keep you informed about his condition.” He was still brusque, but with a sort of rough kindliness. “I have to know what’s missing from the flat.”

  In fact, he wanted to give her something to do.

  “As if that matters,” she said.

  “It matters a lot.”

  She shrugged.

  Sloan brought her a whisky-and-soda, and she sipped it. One of the patrolmen made tea. Roger was anxious to talk to Mortimer and Gedd, but didn’t want to leave the girl for long. He left Sloan to talk to her and make a note of what she said, then hurried downstairs.

  The police-surgeon had patched up Mortimer’s wrist; no one had done anything about the scratches on his cheeks, caused by Ruth’s nails. His arm was in a homemade sling, and as Roger went towards him, the police-surgeon said: “Better get him to hospital, Handsome.”