Give a Man a Gun

by John Creasey

  “All right, soon,” Roger said. “Mortimer, why did you burgle Miss Linder’s place?”

  Mortimer didn’t answer.

  “Keeping quiet won’t help you,” Roger said. “You’re in bad trouble. You took part in an armed burglary, and as you carried a gun, you’ll get almost as much punishment as if you’d fired the shots yourself. If Hann-Gorlay dies, you’ll be up on a hanging charge, as accessory. The one way to ease things for yourself is to talk.”

  Mortimer looked defiant. The scratches and weals showed up clearly on his cheek, the only streaks of colour against his pallor.

  “Why burgle Ruth Linder’s place?” Roger repeated. “She’s a friend of yours, isn’t she? She’s sold you jewellery at bargain prices. Why turn against her?”

  Mortimer didn’t speak.

  “Handsome, we don’t want trouble with that wrist,” the police-surgeon said. “You know what will happen if he complains that he wasn’t looked after properly.”

  “I’d look after him,” Roger growled. “Where will you take him?”

  “St Thomas’s. Where Hann-Gorlay’s gone.”

  “I shouldn’t think they’ll have to keep Mortimer in,” Roger said. “As soon as possible, we’ll have him at the Yard.”

  He detailed two men to go with Mortimer.

  Gedd, who had actually shot Hann-Gorlay, was a different type. He couldn’t be more than nineteen or twenty, either. He was plump and curly-haired, and rosy-cheeked. His blue eyes were bright and falsely candid, and he didn’t seem even mildly resentful or remorseful.

  He was smoking a cigarette, and standing nonchalantly against the wall, handcuffed to a hefty plain-clothes man. He listened to the talk between Roger and the police-surgeon with a half grin – and the grin was still on his face when Roger turned to him.

  “What’s funny?” Roger demanded. “The thought of hanging?”

  Gedd said: “Who cares?”

  Roger said softly: “God knows why she should, but your mother, for one. Perhaps your father, too. It’s bad luck when they get swine like you for a child, but they feel just as deeply about it.”

  Gedd sneered.

  “That gooey crap—forget it.”

  “So you’re tough.”

  “They don’t grow any tougher.”

  “Why did you burgle Miss Linder’s flat?”

  “Doesn’t she wear jools?”

  “Do you know her?”

  “If I know her, what about it?”

  “Do you?”

  “She can dance,” Gedd sneered. “She can afford to lose some of her sparklers, too. This’ll teach her to go around with that lap-dog with a title.”

  “Were you waiting there to shoot him?”

  “Why don’t you stop asking me questions?” Gedd demanded, and yawned. It wasn’t a natural yawn, it was meant to be insulting. “You make me tired.”

  “I’ll do something else with you before I’ve finished,” Roger said, and looked up at a CID man. “Take him to the Yard. Don’t give him an armchair or any more cigarettes.”

  Gedd drew smoke from the cigarette in his mouth, and blew it into Roger’s face. Roger clenched his fists as he spun round. Gedd laughed, jeeringly. The detective jerked him away and took him out; another detective joined them as they reached the door.

  A uniformed policeman on duty said: “There’s a lot of them like that these days, sir—can’t do anything with them. Callous beasts, that’s all they are—they kill for the sake of killing. I’ve never known anything like it in my twenty-five years with the Force.”

  “I can believe it,” Roger growled.

  He walked upstairs, wanting to take his time. The attitude of the prisoner and the remark of the constable seemed to start a new train of thought. But was it so new? Hadn’t he been talking about it with Chatworth? There was an ugly, dangerous spirit abroad. Too many youths like Gedd took exactly the same, defiant attitude. That was one explanation of the present crime wave. It wasn’t just a matter of organised gangs; there was a callous, murderous spirit in the air.

  What had happened to young Mortimer? He had turned on Ruth once before, apparently believing that she had sold him a stolen brooch. He had appeared almost virtuous, certainly pretended innocence of trafficking in stolen gems. Yet now he stalked with a gun. Had he fooled Roger when they had first met?

  Why had he turned on Ruth?

  There must be answers to the questions – answers which could be found independently of Mortimer and Gedd. Neither was likely to give the police the slightest help. Certainly they wouldn’t do so willingly; they might unwittingly.

  Roger turned into the passage leading to Ruth’s flat.

  He saw men photographing the blood on the carpet – blood from Hann-Gorlay’s throat-wound. He remembered the way Ruth had knelt over him, her moaning words, her vicious attack. The words mattered.

  ‘Oh, to let this happen to you.’

  He would tackle her about that now.

  He turned into the entrance hall.

  Sloan came hurrying – and Sloan had news that really counted. His voice was tense with excitement.

  “Come and see what we’ve found,” he said.

  He led the way into the drawing room. It was still in a state of hopeless confusion – in fact, was worse than before, because the corners of the carpet were rolled up, and in two corners, floorboards had been raised.

  Jewels were spread about on the floor in one corner.

  “All stolen stuff,” Sloan said. “We’ve caught her with the goods, Roger.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Arrest

  Roger picked up several of the pieces of jewellery. He recognised two as having been stolen in recent raids – in one, a policeman had been wounded.

  “That’s probably what the brutes came for,” Sloan said. “They knew she had the stuff, and thought that it would be an easy picking.”

  “Could be,” Roger agreed. “Where is she?”

  “In her bedroom.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “We mustn’t leave her alone,” Roger said, sharply. “Don’t take any chance with her.” He strode towards the door of the bedroom. “After the way she flew at Mortimer, I’d give her full marks for doing anything crazy, such as cutting her own throat.”

  “If she thought Hann-Gorlay was dead she might do that,” Sloan said, “but she won’t otherwise.”

  Roger didn’t feel assured.

  The door wasn’t locked; yet he had half expected Ruth to lock herself in. She was sitting by the dressing table, still dressed for out of doors, with a mink wrap round her shoulders, looking at her reflection. The chaotic state of the bedroom didn’t seem to worry her at all. Her face was blank – it had that empty look about it.

  She glanced round, but didn’t smile or show any sign that she recognised them.

  Roger went towards her, and then pulled up a chair. Sloan stood watching and listening. Roger proffered cigarettes, and she refused.

  “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Do as you wish.”

  “Thanks.” He lit up. “You knew Mortimer, of course—how well did you know Gedd?”

  “Gedd? Was he—”

  “He shot Hann-Gorlay.”

  There was a spark of interest, of anger in her eyes again.

  “I thought Mortimer—”

  “He was just on guard.”

  “Gedd is” – she caught her breath – “a little swine.”

  “Yes. How long have you known him?”

  “Three or four months.”

  “How did you come to meet him?”

  “Mortimer brought him along to a party.”

  “Just to a party?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why should they burgle this flat?”

  “They knew there would be something worth taking here, I suppose,” she said. “Must I answer—”

  “Yes. Do you know of any special reason?”

  “No.”

  �
��What is the relationship between you and all of these young men, Miss Linder?”

  “They’re friends of mine. I have girlfriends as well. They’re just” – she shrugged, looking very very tired – “they’re just friends of mine. I can’t help it if some of them are—” She didn’t finish.

  “Criminals?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Are you sure you don’t know what they came here for?” Roger asked.

  “I’ve told you what I think.”

  “I’ll tell you what I know” Roger said. “Come with me, please.”

  Until then she hadn’t really been interested. Now she was – and she looked puzzled. Roger reminded himself that she might be an expert at fooling him, at a form of acting – that of pretending to be innocent – ‘pure’.

  She got up and followed him, and Sloan brought up the rear.

  Several more pieces of jewellery had been found under the floorboards, and the plain-clothes man working there was on his knees.

  He picked up a diamond pendant.

  “That’s from the Ling Hotel job in Kensington, sir—no doubt about that.”

  “Thanks,” said Roger, and looked at Ruth.

  She stood quite still.

  For the first time since Hann-Gorlay had been taken away, she seemed to be shaken – shocked – out of herself. She was tense. Her eyes were rounded, and she stared at the jewellery as if at fearful things. Her lips parted, as if she were going to speak; but she closed them again.

  She darted a quick glance at Roger.

  “Is that what they came for?” Roger demanded.

  “I—” She began in a cracked voice, and then stopped.

  “Is it?”

  “I didn’t—I didn’t know that was there.” She gulped as she finished. Her expression told him plainly that she knew that she wasn’t likely to be believed. “I just didn’t know—”

  She broke off. The glow in her eyes was almost one of appeal; in that moment Roger could believe that she was begging him to believe her story.

  The glow faded.

  Her eyes went cold, empty, vacant. After a moment she closed them, as if she wanted to shut out a vision; then she moved towards a chair. As she dropped into it, she was trembling.

  “Very convincing,” Roger sneered. “There’s a small fortune in stolen stuff there, Ruth—all stolen by young brutes like Mortimer and Gedd. Stolen by killers. I always warned you what would happen if you went on with your uncle’s game.”

  She stayed mute.

  Roger said: “You’ve had a hell of a shock tonight. I don’t want to make things worse for you than they are.” He made himself speak more quietly. “Can you give any explanation about these jewels?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Can you?”

  She opened her eyes. They had changed again. The anger and the emptiness had gone. She had looked like this when he had seen her at the shop in the Mile End Road; when she had shown the depths of her bitterness towards and her hatred of the police.

  “I did not know they were there,” she said, carefully.

  Roger said: “That doesn’t help.” He became very formal. “You know I’ve no alternative but to charge you, Miss Linder, don’t you?”

  She said nothing.

  “It’s my duty to charge you with being in the possession of certain items of jewellery, knowing them to be stolen,” Roger went on, “and I have to warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence.”

  She said slowly, vehemently: “I always knew the police would frame me, sooner or later.”

  They were taking her along the passage when the lift gates opened, and Brammer and Pauline Weston came out.

  Brammer raised one hand, as if astounded – and then stared at Ruth. He didn’t smile and he didn’t gloat. Pauline closed her eyes. There wasn’t any doubt that she knew Ruth. Seeing her, Roger’s thoughts flashed back to the fact that her car might have been used in his kidnapping; that Mortimer was a friend of hers, she was well in with these youths – who might be members of a gang.

  Might be? Couldn’t he be sure, now?

  Ruth said: “And Brammer helped to frame me, West. He’s responsible for all this. Even if you put me in gaol the trouble will go on. He—”

  “So they’ve caught you,” Brammer said heavily.

  “Bram—” began Pauline Weston. She was close to him, and took his hand. She wore a black suit and a fur cape and a silly little black hat. She looked about nineteen – an innocent nineteen. “Come away.”

  “It’s all right, my sweet, I’m not going to tell her how glad I am,” Brammer said. “Any use asking the charge, Handsome?”

  “You can find out later, at the Yard,” Roger said stiffly.

  They went into the lift, with the girl between them. Pauline Weston stood just by Brammer’s side, on the landing. She gave Roger a queer impression, that she would like to help, that she understood something of what Ruth Linder felt.

  The lift carried them below the landing; Brammer’s and Pauline’s legs and feet disappeared. Pauline had lovely legs—

  Ruth Linder didn’t speak on her way to Cannon Row, where she was to be held for the night. Once they were inside the grey, forbidding-looking police station which was beneath the shadow of the Yard she broke the silence. She seemed to do so with an effort—as if there were just one thing stronger than her hatred of the police.

  “Will you find out how Nev—how Hann-Gorlay is?”

  “Yes,” Roger promised.

  A woman police officer took Ruth into a room for searching. Roger went along to the duty sergeant’s desk, put a call in to the hospital where Hann-Gorlay had been taken, and chatted to the sergeant while waiting for the call to come through.

  Then: “This is Scotland Yard—inquiring after Sir Neville Hann-Gorlay, please.”

  “Just one moment, sir; I’ll put you through to the house-surgeon.”

  Roger waited another two or three minutes before the doctor came on the line. He was brief. Hann-Gorlay was unconscious, and likely to be for some time. The bullet hadn’t struck any vital part, and had missed the carotid artery by half an inch. It would be surprising if he didn’t pull through.

  “Good,” said Roger briskly. “Thanks.”

  He gave Ruth the report as soon as she had been searched and was ready for a cell – quite well furnished, just an ordinary room with bars in place of one wall. The girl’s eyes brightened for a moment, and the bitterness, the hatred was dimmed.

  “Thank you,” she said stiffly.

  Then she turned away.

  Gedd and Mortimer wouldn’t say anything more. Roger made a hurried visit to their flat – they shared a small one in Bayswater. A few oddments of stolen goods were found this time, and a -32 automatic as well as thirty-one rounds of ammunition. It would be morning before their recent movements and their friends could be traced. Tomorrow would be a hell of a day.

  Roger reached home soon after four o’clock, didn’t disturb Janet – and wasn’t disturbed by Janet or the boys when they got up. He woke just after ten. He was alone in the room, and could hear someone singing out in the street; the singing stopped. A vacuum began to drone somewhere downstairs. He smiled faintly.

  It wasn’t long before Janet put her head round the door.

  “What’s the pandemonium about?” demanded Roger. “Must we spring-clean on the only hour I have in bed?”

  She made a mom at him, moved across, and kissed him lightly on the forehead, then straightened up. He wouldn’t let her go, but pulled her down and kissed her passionately.

  There were a few brief, precious moments, before she pulled herself free.

  “How’s the Public Hero—thirsty?”

  “Not to say hungry. Who made me a hero?”

  “Brammer—and most of the newspapers. They say that you stopped panic at the Albert Hall by having so many men on duty there. There’s nothing but the Albert Hall shooting and the—the robberies on the front page. And your photograph.”


  “Buttering by Brammer,” murmured Roger. “They haven’t run the story of Ruth Linder’s arrest yet, I suppose?” He grinned.

  Janet’s eyes sparkled, eagerly.

  “Have you got her?”

  Roger told her what had happened at Willington Place. The story of the second attack on Hann-Gorlay would be in the early editions of the evening papers – which would soon be on the London streets. Before long he would be wanted to answer questions at the Yard.

  Ruth was to be charged at Great Marlborough Street at noon; he would ask for an eight-day remand. He could go straight to the Police Court from here, then on to the Yard.

  Janet said slowly: “You aren’t exactly overjoyed, are you?”

  “What about?”

  “Arresting Ruth Linder.”

  “Aren’t I?” asked Roger, and grinned again. “Green get in your eyes again?”

  “Are you?”

  Roger said: “Yes and no. I can’t see why she should be crazy enough to keep the stolen stuff in that flat. She’s always known that we were watching her, that we believed she was up to the fencing game. So she knew that if she made the slightest slip, the flat would be searched. Which means she was deliberately asking for trouble. Would she do that?”

  After a pause, Janet said: “And what?”

  Roger grinned again.

  “She looked so innocent!” he said. “Start getting breakfast, sweetheart; I’ll nip through a shave.”

  Before shaving, he telephoned the hospital. Hann-Gorlay had had a comfortable night, and was in no danger. He ’phoned the Yard, too. Nothing else had happened – except that the prisoner who had been caught early in the evening and had fallen off a roof had come round. He hadn’t talked. He’d had a pistol, but there was nothing at his flat to help the police.

  The policeman watching Pauline Weston had nothing to report.

  Roger was worried about his attitude to the girl; to the fact that she popped up so often, with Brammer. She had a foot in both camps; was a friend of desperadoes. She could be Brammer’s liaison with the young crooks, if Brammer were involved.

  Roger ate sausages and bubble-and-squeak, read the newspapers and spared an occasional word for Janet, who busied herself about the kitchen. When there was a knock at the front door, she went to open it. She was soon back.