Give a Man a Gun

by John Creasey

  “Will you see Brammer?” she asked, “or shall I tell him you’re too busy?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Remand

  Brammer looked very tall and gaunt – and as if he hadn’t had any sleep at all. He was drawing at a cigarette which dropped from the corner of his mouth, and he seemed to move his body with an effort as he stirred to get out of an armchair.

  “Sit back,” Roger said.

  He went to the cupboard where he kept his whisky and took out a bottle, poured a nip and handed it to the tall man.

  “Teaching me bad habits?” Brammer said, and tossed it down. “Thanks.”

  “Why no sleep?” asked Roger. “Excited because we’ve held Ruth Linder?”

  “She really had the stuff at her flat, didn’t she?”

  “We didn’t plant it there,” Roger said, dryly.

  Brammer licked his lips, as if to get the very last taste of the whisky. He took the cigarette out, and gave a twisted grin. His eyes looked very heavy; left in the chair alone for five minutes, he would probably fall asleep.

  “For the first time, I’m beginning to doubt whether she’s behind it.”

  From Brammer, that was sensational.

  “Why?”

  “It makes her out to be a fool,” Brammer said. “She couldn’t be fool enough to keep stolen stuff in her flat—hot stuff, at that.”

  Roger didn’t speak.

  “You must have seen that, too,” said Brammer. “I don’t get it. It looks as if someone’s trying to frame her. You wouldn’t think that I’d try anything like that, would you?”

  “Wouldn’t I?”

  Brammer grinned.

  “I wish I knew what goes on in that thing you call a mind, Handsome.”

  “Nothing much,” Roger said. “Nothing you’d approve of. You helped to start this Citizens’ League and Vigilante talk. You may have good intentions, but you’re taking us to hell. Is Ruth all you came to see me about?”

  “No.”

  “What else?”

  “I’ve a guilty conscience.”

  “Forget all the old stuff.”

  Brammer didn’t look amused. In fact looked as if he didn’t like what he was about to say. He lit a fresh cigarette, and took his time lighting it. Then: “Pauline’s a nice girl. Why are you following her around so much?”

  Roger said easily: “Among other things, Ruth Linder named her, said that she thought that she was worth watching. She didn’t explain why she thought so.”

  “Oh,” said Brammer. His smile became a little easier. “So Ruth was smacking at me, too. You must have had quite a job trying to decide who was lying. Pauline has a black Morris Minor.”

  “Show me a man or woman who owns a red one.”

  Surely Brammer knew that Pauline’s had been painted.

  “It was red—until the day after you were kidnapped,” Brammer said. “It’s one of those things I didn’t find out until I discovered that your men were watching Pauline. I thought of Pauline’s red Morris, and discovered what had happened to it. We know she’s a friend of Charles Mortimer, don’t we? She’s a chemist, too, and probably has access to morphia and a hypo.”

  “I’ll go and have another chat with her soon.” Roger picked up the receiver, but didn’t dial Whitehall 1312. “Why give me all this? Don’t you love her any more?”

  “You may not believe it, but I want you to put all the swine in this business behind bars,” Brammer said. “Everyone, without exception and without mercy.” His voice and his eyes were very hard. “Let me tell you something, Handsome. I was once in love with Ruth. I thought she was sent straight from heaven for me. I didn’t care a damn about her Uncle Benny. She was all right. Then I came to the conclusion that she wasn’t. It wouldn’t help you to know why – it wouldn’t convince you. It did me. We forgot all about being in love.

  “We broke things off a year ago.”

  “Now I’m just a man with two arms, two legs, two eyes—just a man. I met Pauline, and she’s quite something. I met her through Charles Mortimer.” He paused, then went on very slowly: “It hurt like hell when I lost Ruth. Losing Pauline would hurt more. But if she’s in this, she stands with the rest.”

  Roger said: “When you start a crusade, you really start it, don’t you?”

  He rang the Yard.

  Sloan was already at his office.

  “I’m going straight to Great Marlborough Street,” Roger told him. “Then I’m going to see Pauline Weston. Have another man put on her tail, will you?”

  “Right,” said Sloan. “I hope the beak will remand Ruth in custody. Are you hopeful?”

  “Not very,” Roger said.

  Brammer agreed that he ought to be in bed, but insisted on going to the police court. There had been a long list that morning, and Ruth didn’t come into the dock until twenty past twelve.

  Roger gave formal evidence of arrest, and asked for an eight-day remand in custody.

  “On behalf of Miss Linder,” said a suave-voiced man who rose up from the solicitors’ benches, “I would like to apply for bail, your worship, in any reasonable recognizances. My client is quite innocent, of course, and it would be a grievous wrong if she were compelled to undergo the indignity of prison—”

  “Thank you, Mr Scott,” interrupted the magistrate, and looked at Roger. “Are there any particular reasons why you want the remand to be in custody, Chief Inspector?”

  “Yes, your worship. The jewellery found in the possession of the accused is jewellery stolen with violence. We feel that the fullest inquiries can only be made if the accused is in custody.”

  In the public gallery, plump, bright-eyed Sol Klein was fidgeting, and looking as if he would jump up from his seat and speak before long.

  The magistrate looked at Ruth. She was pale-faced, and standing quite still. Probably every man in the court was affected by her beauty – and by the blankness in her eyes.

  Roger had an uneasy feeling that she might take drugs.

  He felt edgy.

  “Your worship,” said the suave-voiced solicitor smoothly, “the police are already prejudicing the circumstances. My client has never stood in dock before, she has a most reputable past, and it is not customary for the police to apply for remand in custody on such a charge as this.”

  That was always the trouble, Roger knew. Precedent. The magistrate probably knew that she ought to be kept in jail for the eight days – but how could he justify it? There were cases where the police could make out a case that was unarguable. Here, they couldn’t.

  “Have you anything to say?” the magistrate asked Ruth.

  “No, sir.” Her voice was very low. “Except that I know nothing about these jewels.”

  The magistrate tapped the bench with his gavel.

  “Very well! I will remand the accused for eight days against two sureties of a thousand pounds each.”

  He shot a glance at Roger, almost as if in apology, then looked at the suave-voiced solicitor.

  “You are very good, your worship,” the man said; “I will gladly find two such sureties …”

  Too many things wanted doing at once.

  Roger talked to Pauline, about Mortimer. He was just an acquaintance, she said. Why had she been so free lending other people her car? It did no harm, as far as she knew. Hadn’t she guessed that Mortimer was a crook? No – why should she?

  “Has Brammer used the car much?” Roger asked.

  “Bram can hardly fold himself up to get inside!”

  Roger asked more about her friendship with Mortimer, but couldn’t get any further.

  He questioned Gedd and Mortimer again, without result.

  The youth who had been injured in the fall from the roof was frightened, willing to talk, almost eager to confess – the first glimmer of hope.

  He and two other youths had been aping desperadoes for some time; one of the others had a gun. The prisoner swore that he hadn’t, swore also that he had always been against carrying arms.

&nbs
p; He gave the names of his cronies.

  Both had disappeared from ordinary suburban homes. Startled, distressed and frightened mothers were even more worried after the visit from the police. A search of the homes showed a few stolen oddments of little value, and one pair of knuckle-dusters and a cosh.

  Roger put calls out for both youths.

  Ruth Linder was taken to her flat by her solicitor. Sol Klein had been at the flat with his wife, putting everything in apple-pie order. Two policemen watched the flats.

  Hann-Gorlay recovered consciousness during the night, but was still too ill to be questioned; there was little to ask him at this juncture. Roger toyed with the idea that he and Ruth were involved together, but the deeper he probed, the more he convinced himself that Hann-Gorlay was too wealthy to be a reasonable suspect.

  It had always been easy to conjure up mind-pictures of Ruth. It was as easy to recall the way she and Hann-Gorlay had behaved the previous night. There couldn’t be any serious doubt that they were desperately, hopelessly in love. That seemed to be the only thing that brought them together. If Ruth were concerned with the robberies and the violence against the police, would she go with the man who was leading a campaign against them?

  She might—

  But could she show so convincingly that she was in love with the man, if in fact she were fooling him?

  Sloan and Roger were in Roger’s office when the door opened and Chatworth made one of his rare visits. He preferred his men to visit him.

  It was half past three.

  Both men stood up. Chatworth waved them back to their chairs, dropped into one himself.

  “Expect this Linder woman to jump bail, Roger?”

  “I’ve an open mind.”

  “What would it profit her, if she did?”

  Roger shrugged. “She might hope to get overseas safely. I’ve checked, and can’t trace that she has any contacts abroad. She’s never kept in touch with relatives anywhere, as far as I’ve been able to find out. But even if she tries to jump bail, I think we’ll hold her all right.” He smiled faintly. “If she tries, she’ll be telling the world that she’s guilty – that’s the most likely deterrent.”

  “Sure about this charge?”

  Roger said: “We can prove she had stolen goods in her possession, and I don’t think any jury would believe that she didn’t know about it. We can prove that several of her boyfriends also had stolen goods. We can show that she was a friend of Mortimer and Gedd, and even if they won’t give evidence against her—Mortimer might, if he thinks Queen’s Evidence would help him—I think we can persuade the jury that she’s as guilty as hell.”

  “D’you think she is?” rumbled Chatworth.

  “I haven’t any reason to think that she isn’t.”

  Chatworth grunted.

  “Well, you know what you’re doing. Made a close study of the newspapers today?” His grin was almost ferocious. “Apart from the congratulations which they shower on you, what do you think of them?”

  “They’re going to have this Citizens’ League built up into a gigantic Vigilante organization before we know where we are,” said Roger. “If they start carrying arms. I think we’re going to run right into trouble. We could stop them using guns, but not cudgels.”

  “Has this fellow caught at the Albert Hall said anything?”

  “Not a word, yet. I can’t find that he’s a member of a big gang. He has one or two friends; they’ve pulled off a job or two and picked up guns. They’re like the rest of ’em—desperadoes without any moral values at all, just boys gone bad. But they are not all members of any big organization. I—” the telephone bell rang. “Excuse me, sir.” He lifted the receiver. “Hallo?”

  He listened – and his eyes glinted, his whole face lit up.

  “Fine!” he exclaimed. “I’ll be right over.” He jumped up. “Randall says he’ll talk—that’s the Albert Hall gunman. I’m going over to him right away.”

  “Where is he?”

  “St Thomas’s,” Roger said. “We’ve almost taken control of the hospital!”

  Randall still looked very pale and shaken. His neck was badly bruised, and he moved it with difficulty. Words seemed to be painful to utter, too.

  “Why did you shoot at Hann-Gorlay?” Roger asked mildly, as he sat by the side of the bed in a small ward.

  Sloan was with him, open notebook in his hand.

  “It’s all very well for rich swine like that to shout the odds,” Randall said. “He’s got everything. Why shouldn’t others have some of it? I just—I just hated his guts.”

  There was a peculiar bitterness in his voice; it was as if he were still able to justify himself.

  “Have you used a gun before?”

  “I’ve carried one several times, but haven’t had to use it,” Randall said. He licked his lips. “But I would have, if anyone had got in my way. I might as well tell you the truth—I don’t need telling that lying won’t do me any good now.” He gave a twisted grin. “I still wish I’d killed him.”

  “Well, you didn’t, so you won’t hang for that job,” Roger said, briskly. “Where did you get the gun from?”

  “Listen, West. Talking will make things easier for me, won’t it? If I turn Queen’s Evidence—”

  “It’ll make things easier,” Roger said. “Where did you get the gun?”

  “I got it from Roy Prescott, weeks ago,” Randall said. “I wouldn’t squeal, only he’s dead. He—he got guns from a man named Lamb. Told me about it one day when he was sozzled. Micky Lamb, in Chelsea …”

  The news was like an eruption.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Micky Lamb

  Micky Lamb ran a small second-hand shop in a side street off the King’s Road, Chelsea, not far from the Chelsea Town Hall. It was an excellent residential neighbourhood, all the houses were solid, and Micky Lamb, whose name was on the fascia board above the shop, had a good-class business. He even sold objets d’art, pictures and jewellery, although he touched little of any great value.

  The police knew him well as a trader with a good reputation.

  Roger knew all that within ten minutes of being back at the Yard. He had telephoned the Chelsea station for a report.

  “Going to pick Lamb up right away?” Sloan asked hopefully.

  “Not yet,” Roger said. “We’ll see what visitors he has. We should get some odds and ends about what he’s been doing, soon—and from now on we’ll watch him as closely as we’ll watch Ruth. See if we can find a connection between Ruth and Lamb, too.” He talked jerkily, his thoughts outrunning his words. “Just sit back and have him watched.”

  Sloan said: “The thing I don’t like is that it’s a man we’d never heard of before.”

  Roger shrugged.

  “What about Pauline Weston?” Sloan asked. “Still holding back from her?”

  “For a bit longer.”

  Sloan said: “I hope nothing crazy happens in the next day or two.” He obviously wasn’t pleased.

  “Such as?”

  “Another outbreak of attacks on the uniformed chaps.”

  “We just have to hold our breath,” Roger said. “Although I can use a bit of time. I’m going to see whether Gedd or Mortimer or that chap who fell off the roof, I can never remember his name—”

  “Harris.”

  “That’s right—whether any of them have heard of Micky Lamb.”

  “All right,” Sloan said. “But Roger …” He stood up, no longer looking boyish, but very grim and mature. “I’m usually with you all the way. I’m not so sure that I am, this time. You’re letting Lamb and Pauline Weston ride—and they may be planning another vicious attack.”

  Roger said slowly: “We’re not seeing eye-to-eye over this job, Bill, but it will come right.”

  Gedd and Mortimer swore that they had never heard of Micky Lamb. Roger believed they were lying. The prisoner Harris started off by saying the same thing, then broke down.

  He had got his gun from Micky Lamb.r />
  Ruth Linder did not appear to have had any business with the Chelsea second-hand dealer. Brammer swore that he hadn’t met or heard of Lamb. It was Peel, probing as thoroughly as ever, who discovered from a Chelsea policeman that occasionally Lamb had visits from a girl driving a red Morris Minor.

  Roger saw Pauline at her flat. She wore a two-piece suit of cherry red, and a white blouse. She looked fresh and calm – that calmness, a kind of serenity, was the most remarkable thing about her.

  “I’ve been to Lamb’s shop because I’ve bought a few oddments from him—that cigarette box, for instance.” She pointed to a carved wooden box, probably East African. “That’s all.”

  “Did you ever sell him stolen jewels?”

  “I’ve never had any,” she said.

  “Do you object to having your flat searched?”

  “Not at all.”

  “That’s fine,” said Roger.

  He and Peel went through the flat thoroughly, and found nothing that helped. The girl seemed indifferent, remained courteous, and saw them out.

  Reports from the Chelsea Police, and from Peel, made a pretty clear picture. Many of Micky Lamb’s customers were young fellows. That fact had been noticed before, although the local police had thought nothing of it. Young men got married – young men bought presents. Why not? But when the full reports were in, it was obvious that the proportion of young men who called on Micky Lamb was surprising.

  Some called on him after dark; he lived with his wife in a flat above his shop.

  On the second day after Randall had named Micky Lamb, more youths than usual called at the shop. Peel reported every one who called – and each was followed when he left. Some arrived on foot, some on motorcycle, two or three in cars. There were nine, altogether. Each of them lived in southwest London. Every movement they made was watched for the rest of the day.

  As dusk fell, Roger and Sloan pulled up in a car outside a cafe in Kensington where one of the youths was having a meal. This one was named Hargreaves. The two Yard men went in. Hargreaves was sitting alone at a table. He was well dressed, twenty or twenty-one, with a thin, nasty-looking mouth. He glanced up at the newcomers, and then went on with his meal.