by John Creasey
He tapped at the door of an office which was marked: J. K. BRAMMER – PRIVATE, then opened it and stepped inside. Brammer’s secretary, a skinny girl with a lean, sallow face and an air of permanent surprise, told him that Brammer was out.
“But Mr Matthewson is here, sir.”
“I’ll see him,” Roger said.
Rodney Matthewson was at a desk in Brammer’s office. He took off his pince-nez, and stood up.
“Why, Mr West. I’m working on some plans for our next meetings. I hope you’ll be glad; things are going extremely well.” When Roger didn’t answer, Matthewson went on: “How are you?”
“Worried,” Roger said. This wasn’t the time to talk about the League or tell Matthewson what he thought of inciting desperadoes to greater violence. Matthewson, Hann-Gorlay, Brammer – all of them would disagree with that, anyway. “I want to see Brammer, urgently.”
“He left only an hour or so ago,” Matthewson told him. “He said that Pauline was anxious to see him.” Matthew son had a troubled look. “I know he’s been worried about some of her friends, Mr West, but I can’t believe that Pauline—”
He broke off.
“I hope you’re right,” Roger said gruffly. “If Brammer comes in, ask him to call me, will you?”
“Immediately, Mr West.”
“Thanks.”
Roger went out. The worried face of the solicitor was in his mind’s eye. Had Matthewson seen the possibility that Brammer was involved?
Downstairs, Roger telephoned the Yard from a call box in the main office downstairs. Sloan told him that Brammer hadn’t been reported from Willington Place or anywhere else connected with the affair. Ruth had spent an hour at the hospital with Hann-Gorlay, and was back at her flat.
“Put a call out for Brammer,” Roger said. “Don’t have him brought in—we just want to know where he is.”
“Okay.”
“Anything else turned up there?” Roger asked.
Sloan chuckled.
“Chatworth’s like a dog with two tails. We’ve pulled in seventeen youngsters known to handle guns, as well as Micky Lamb and Rickett. Chatworth thinks that we’re really getting to the end of it. He’s sent a special chit to the Back Room Inspector—when the Press come round, he wants them to spread these ‘achievements of the Yard’ far and wide.” Sloan chuckled again. “And is he pleased with Roger West!”
His voice had lost that echo of censure, too.
“Well, who’s complaining?” Roger asked.
He rang off, and went into the street. One of the Yard men strolled past him.
“Watch and follow Brammer’s secretary,” West said out of the corner of his mouth, and the other gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Roger got into the car.
He ought to be feeling as cheerful as Chatworth. It was the first time since the wave of violence had started that the police could show really big results. He didn’t doubt that every policeman, from the lowliest copper on the beat up to Chatworth, was feeling as if the long run of failure was near its end.
Ought he to feel the same?
Whatever he ought to feel, he felt depressed, almost dejected. Was it Ruth or was it Pauline and Brammer? How far did the campaign go, as a campaign? By now the newspapers had carried the story of the morning arrests, and news would have spread fast through the East End and wherever the youths foregathered. News went that way.
There had been reprisals against Hann-Gorlay at the Albert Hall.
Would there be more?
Rodney Matthewson usually reached his Surbiton home about seven o’clock in the evening. He caught the same train each evening, unless he were going to a special meeting.
He had none to attend that night.
He lived near the station, and although he sometimes went home by taxi, it was a clear, crisp night, and he decided to walk. Soon after he turned off the High Street, one of the local policemen recognised him. They were near Matthewson’s house, and they walked together. They agreed about the weather and the ‘bad business’ of armed violence.
“How’s your campaign going, sir?” the constable asked.
“Very well, I think, very well.” Matthewson glanced up at a heavy face. “What do you think about being armed, Smith?”
“It’s not for me to say, sir.”
“Very tactful of you,” smiled Matthewson. “You’re wise.”
They reached his gate.
The policeman saw nothing, but Matthewson stopped suddenly, and caught his breath.
“Constable, who—”
He saw a dark figure, and leapt to one side. The figure, of a youth, came from Matthewson’s front garden.
He fired three shots.
The policeman made an odd, choking sound.
Matthewson fell to the ground, but wasn’t hurt. The echo of the shots was still in his ears when a car turned into the street, and the gunman turned and raced towards a motorcycle. He had disappeared before Matthewson got to his feet.
The constable was dead.
Ralph Kenworthy, a Citizens’ League man of whom Matthewson and Hann-Gorlay had great hopes, always used his car to drive from his home in Hampstead, for his business took him about London a great deal, and a car was still the quickest and the cheapest means of transport. As he turned into his drive, the gates of which stood open, he was thinking that he must have a word with Matthewson on the telephone. That could come after dinner. He saw the light on in the front room. Mary, his wife, would be putting out the whisky and soda.
The garage doors were also standing open.
He drove the car straight in, then got out slowly, closed the garage doors and turned the key in the padlock.
He heard a slight sound behind him, but before he could turn, a smashing blow descended on the back of his head.
He groaned and fell.
Another blow fell – another and another.
He didn’t see the front door open, light stream out, or his wife run, screaming. He didn’t see the two youths who had attacked him rush at his wife, knock her down, kick her viciously – and run off only when neighbours rushed out, disturbed by her screams.
Roger was at Bell Street, with Janet, and the boys were doing their homework, when the report about Matthewson came through. He had hardly rung off before he was called again and told about Kenworthy, who wasn’t dead, but was in a pitiful state.
“I’m sorry, folk,” he said; “I’ll have to go to the Yard.”
Janet was too affected by his expression to protest. If she hadn’t reminded him, he would have forgotten to say goodnight to the boys. The boys stared …
Roger watched the shadowy doorways of Bell Street; and cars parked just round the corner in King’s Road, and his nerves were as taut as they had ever been again. Once in the main road, he drove fast; he was at the Yard in less than fifteen minutes.
Three more reports of attacks on officials of the Citizens’ League had come in.
Within an hour, all but three of the branches were affected. There were three murders; the others were coshings and beatings-up, most of them resulting in grave injuries.
Sloan, who had also rushed back to the Yard, said grimly: “Brammer and Pauline Weston are missing, and Ruth hasn’t stirred from her flat since she went to see Hann-Gorlay.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Raid
The news of the outrages burst upon London through the newspapers next morning, and spread like a fire through the city of millions. Before, the people had been shocked and shaken. Now, they were outraged and angry. There had been anger at the Albert Hall, at meetings everywhere – the kind of anger which had turned two ordinary, decent little men into would-be killers of the youth who had shot at Hann-Gorlay. This was worse.
The Courier filled its front page with the story.
Here was a challenge which had to be taken up quickly. The successes that the Yard had had were almost wiped out in the public mind. Those leaders of the Citizens’ League who had escaped, an
d others who quickly replaced them, called for a single devastating attack against the criminals. By mid-day meetings were taking place at Hyde Park and Tower Hill and in many of the other parks and open spaces, not often used for soap-box orators; and there was only one subject.
At Parliament Square a meeting of several thousand people held up the traffic, and an elderly, white-haired man with a golden voice called for a monster petition to Parliament – carrying the signatures of millions.
“And what do we do?” Sloan asked, as he went back to the Yard after looking at the surging crowd. “Send a call out for Brammer, watch Ruth Linder, hunt for Pauline Weston. This is organization with a capital O. It’s a terror campaign, with one big mind behind it.”
“All right,” said Roger. “But Lamb doesn’t know Rickett, Rickett doesn’t know Lamb. Each had a gang of sorts, but the two gangs didn’t work together. The only connecting factor is this mysterious woman blackmailer. We can’t prove that it’s Ruth—or that it’s Pauline. The fact that Brammer went to see Pauline and disappeared could point to her, but it’s only a pointer. We can’t blame anyone for getting sore at us.”
“When you stop to think,” Sloan said, “we can’t blame anyone for this Vigilante idea, either. There were fourteen attacks last night. If we had guns—all of us, I mean—”
“Let’s try to keep calm about it.” Constraint returned between Roger and Sloan. “Where’s the map?” Roger spread a big map of London over the desk. “We picked up Lamb in Chelsea and Rickett in Bethnal Green. If we divide London into areas of eight, that leaves six. I think there are at least six more of these swine holding the arsenals—six more Lambs or Ricketts. They may be organised—they may be operating for this same mysterious woman. They’re buying stuff from these kid gangsters. They’ve got a kind of dynamite to play with—imagine Rickett or Lamb dishing out guns to their customers, with a casual: ‘Why not have a go at So-and-so tonight—at Matthewson, for instance, or Redley? Or a copper?’ That’s the way it could be done.”
Sloan said: “You still mean it’s inspired rather than directed.”
“Yes, Bill. Oh, there’s a gang. The gang that kidnapped me, that sent the letter threats, other things—these crimes are not the work of one London-wide network.”
“I hope you’re right,” Sloan said.
“The vital thing is to pick Brammer and Pauline up soon,” Roger went on.
“Every copper in London’s on the look-out for them,” Sloan said exasperatedly. “I—”
The telephone bell rang.
It was Peel.
“We’ve got Pauline Weston,” he said. “We’ve got her where she can’t get away, anyhow. In …”
It was a house standing in its own grounds in Wimbledon, used as a Youth Club. Lights blazed from the windows, and shone on grass lawns, on shrubs and drives. The police were still at the walls and at the gates. Two uniformed men who had started to go in had been shot, but not seriously injured.
Peel told Roger and Sloan this as they got out of Roger’s car. From the crowd which had gathered and being held back by uniformed police, people called out: “There’s West.”
“Who else is inside?” West demanded.
“I can’t be sure,” said Peel. “I had a radio message that Pauline Weston had turned up here. A constable on the beat saw and recognised her. He’s watched this house for the past day or two; it’s used as a club by youngsters—Randall used to come.”
Roger nodded approval and understanding.
“Pauline drove in, a kid opened the door, and Pauline went straight in,” Peel said. “Her car’s just outside the front door now. The constable sent for help at once. Two of our chaps went up to the house, another stayed at the gates. They were shot at.”
“What’s happened since?”
Roger lit a cigarette, cupping his hands round the match to prevent the light from showing too clearly.
“Not much,” Peel said. “The house is completely surrounded now; they can’t get out.”
“And Pauline went there willingly—freely, anyhow?”
“There’s no doubt at all about that,” Peel said.
“Any word of Brammer?”
“No.”
Roger hesitated, drew at his cigarette, and then said slowly: “I’d better go and talk to them.”
“It’s not so simple as that,” Sloan protested. “We need an armoured car. That’ll get us up to the door. There’s no need to ask for trouble.”
Roger didn’t speak.
“Don’t keep making a ruddy hero out of yourself!” Sloan burst out.
Roger spun round. Anger surged; he had never felt like this with Sloan before. He could have knocked him down. Peel opened his mouth to speak again, and closed it like a trap. Sloan realised what he had set off, and began to speak: “You know what I mean, I don’t want you killed.”
It was halting, uncertain.
A car turned into the street, the horn suddenly blaring out. It was an excuse for Roger to look away from Sloan. As he moved, he realised that he was far too edgy, his nerves were red raw.
The car had stopped abruptly. Police hurried towards it, and the crowd surged away. Apparently on police orders, the headlights were switched out. Soon the driver and the passengers were visible beneath a street lamp.
Ruth Linder and Sol Klein were here.
As soon as he recognised Ruth, Roger hurried forward. Another car turned into the street; the Yard men watching Ruth had arrived.
She was getting out of the car.
“Fancy meeting you,” Roger said bitingly. “Come to see some friends?”
“What’s happening here?” She was aloof, almost indifferent to him, and tried to look beyond the gates of the house.
“We’ve trapped some gunmen in there.”
Ruth didn’t speak.
She still didn’t speak, but Sol Klein had reached them. He looked flabby, bright-eyed and nervous, and his lips were working.
“Ruth, we shouldn’t have come; I told you we shouldn’t have come, Ruth.” He was clutching her arm. “We must get away from here; it’s silly to stay.” He made that more like “thilly” than usual, he was so jittery.
“Why did you come?” Roger demanded roughly.
Sol raised his hands, rolled his eyes and looked as if appealing to the heavens for the right words.
“It was a telephone call,” he said thickly. “Pauline Weston promised to give Ruth proof that those jewels had been planted at her flat. Such a story! I told her not to come, I begged her not to.”
“So Pauline said that?” Roger sneered at Ruth.
She flashed her lovely eyes at him.
“I told you from the beginning that she and Brammer were behind this, didn’t I?”
“If you thought that, why did you fall for this?”
Ruth said bitterly: “Unless I can prove that someone else planted those jewels at my flat, I shall spend the next few years in gaol. That’s how my uncle began—he was framed. If I ever went to prison, you’d never let me have any peace afterwards. You police are—”
“Ruth, don’t, Ruth, keep quiet!” Sol begged. “That talk won’t do any good; it just won’t do any good.”
Ruth set her lips, tightly.
“We’ll talk later,” Roger said, and went back to his car. Peel and Sloan were by his side. “Bill,” he added, and his voice was very calm, with no hint of anger, “I think this set-up stinks. Send for that armoured car, get it up as quickly as you can.”
He opened the door of his own car and climbed in.
“What are you going to do?” Sloan demanded.
“I’m going to get inside that house. I don’t think we’ve time to wait.”
“You’re an obstinate, thick-skinned idiot,” growled Sloan in a voice which didn’t carry. “I’ll come with you.”
“You stay here,” Roger said. “That’s an order.”
“Let me—” began Peel.
“Give me ten minutes at least, then come if you thi
nk you should,” Roger said.
He started the engine.
Silence fell upon the crowd as they realised what he was going to do. He didn’t waste time. He kept on the sidelights, but didn’t use the headlamps; that would have given the men at the house a split second of extra warning.
He rammed his foot on the accelerator and raced towards the house: he was half way along the drive when a bullet shattered the windscreen. He flinched, but wasn’t touched. He switched on the headlights, could just see the little black Morris, swerved past it and crashed into the wall of the house. He was ready for that, and took the shock of the crash, then thrust a door open and jumped out.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Brammer
Brammer lay on the floor of an upstairs room at the house. His wrists were tied behind his back. The door was open, and every now and again a youth looked in.
Sometimes Pauline Weston came, but she never stayed long and was never alone.
Youths walked about upstairs and down. Brammer could hear them talking; now and again there was an outburst of laughter. There was something false and strained about the attitude of the youths – a desperation which told that they knew they hadn’t a chance now.
One of them came in, short, sallow, cigarette sticking out of his mouth, a gun in his hand. Another, taller youth joined him.
Brammer said savagely: “What the hell are you going to do?”
“Like to know, wouldn’t you?” The short youth moved across and kicked him. It could have been a much more vicious kick; as it was, he seemed to enjoy doing it. “You’ll find out.”
Pauline came in again. She wore a tailored grey suit, was smoking, and looked completely self-possessed. Brammer’s eyes seemed tormented whenever he saw her.
The youth laughed, and moved back, then sauntered towards the door.
The taller youth said: “Like to know what we’re going to do, Brammer?”
Brammer didn’t speak.
“Because I’ll enjoy telling you,” the youth sneered. “We’re going to shoot you. It’s going to be suicide, see. We’re going to fix you good and proper. If you’d care to know why, I’ll tell you. It’s because you’ve worked up this campaign against us. We’re going to make you taste what it’s like.”
