by John Creasey
He was choking.
God! He must stop; he was choking to death, he just could not breathe. He couldn’t breathe any air, it was all thick, clinging dust, parching his throat and tongue, filling his windpipe. He simply could not breathe. He was still coughing, and retching at the same time, but his eyes were streaming with tears of pain, his chest hurt, his throat hurt.
The rolling movement stopped.
He tried to hold his breath, but could not. He fought to stifle the coughing a little and succeeded, but he did not stop altogether. The pressure at his mouth and nose and eyes, as well as the pressure on his body and his chest, were all too great to bear. If he didn’t get free soon, he would be suffocated to death.
Like the babies in their cots.
Chapter Nine
Hide and Seek
The blonde was standing by the entrance to the room, mouth agape, eyes rounded as if with horror. The humpbacked man was rolling the carpet over at one end, another man was rolling it in the middle, where it was a little bulkier.
“Wh—what are you doing, Mr Corrissey?” the girl gasped. “You’ll suffocate him to death. He—he won’t be able to breathe.”
“He—he’ll be all right,” the hunchback said breathlessly. “I had to give Mr Cartwright a chance to escape. Don’t you worry.”
“You’ve got to let that man out of there,” the girl exclaimed.
The hunchback stood back from the carpet. His assistant was standing and staring at him, as if expecting to be told what to do. The girl’s breathing had become very harsh. Roy Cartwright had gone, and she had not seen where. There was silence all about them, except in this big room.
“You’ve got to let him out!” the girl screamed.
“Don’t you worry, Miss Osborn,” the hunchback said. He had sharp features and a thin face, and his head was held a little on one side; his chin was thrust forward, and pointed. “We’re hiding him for an hour or two, that’s all.” He pushed his hand through bushy hair, and then stepped towards her, quite casually.
Something in his manner scared her. She sprang back, and turned round. Her spike heels bent over, and she staggered. Corrissey leapt at her. She knew that he was near and that she could not escape him, and she screamed again. He snatched a small carpet from a shelf and flung it over her. It dropped in front of her face and fell over her head, muffling the scream. She swayed, and tried to turn round. Corrissey reached her and flung his great arms round her, holding the carpet tight about her body, his thick, muscly arms encircling her completely. The other man came hurrying.
“Take her feet, Bert,” Corrissey gasped.
The man bent down and lifted her feet off the ground. They carried her between them, like a sack, the man with the humped back obviously finding it awkward.
“Where—where we going to take her?” the other man demanded.
“Stockroom.”
“But—”
“Get a move on!”
They carried the girl past the rolled carpet on the floor. There was no movement in it, as there had been. They went out, leaving the room empty. Except for their movements there was still no sound. They went awkwardly along a narrow passage, and Bert kicked open a door marked: Private. It was dark beyond.
“Put on a light,” Corrissey ordered.
“Just—just a minute.”
“Why don’t you get a move on? We won’t have long.”
The second man let the girl’s legs go with one arm, and groped for the switch. Lights went on in a small room, with many cubicles round the walls; rather like a wine cellar. Each bin was filled with pieces of carpet, pieces of wool, tools, tape, stores of all kinds. They went at the double. The girl was writhing and twisting, but hardly a sound was coming from the carpet. They turned a corner at the end of the lane between the bins, and Bert said gaspingly: “She’ll be suffocated.”
“You should worry about her.”
“She didn’t—”
“She saw what happened, didn’t she?”
“Joe, listen! You can’t—”
“I’m not going to put her away, but we’ve got to make sure she won’t open her mouth too soon,” said Corrissey. He held the girl’s head and shoulders against his chest. “Let her go.”
The other man lowered the girl’s feet to the floor. Joe pushed her, so that she was standing on her own two feet, without support. She swayed. He stopped her from falling, supported her with one hand, and then flipped off the rug. The strength in his arms was astonishing, and the heavy rug was handled as if it were a sheet.
The blonde’s hair was all mussed up and sticking out at both sides. She was covered in dust, over her hair, her face, her black suit. Her eyes were flickering, her mouth was wide open as she breathed in; each breath seemed to make her shudder.
“Get me some of that tape,” Corrissey ordered.
Bert moved quickly enough now, and came back with a ball of backing tape, two inches wide. Corrissey twisted some round the girl’s face, so that she couldn’t call out, and now she heaved for breath, for she could only breathe through her nostrils. The bigger man looked scared. Corrissey cut off a length of tape, and twisted it round her wrists dexterously, as he sometimes tied rolled carpets and rugs. She swayed against him. “Hold her, can’t you?” he said viciously. “Don’t let her fall while I do her ankles.” He bent down. In thirty seconds her ankles were tied, and she looked like a mummy not yet swathed. Now he lifted her over his shoulder, and carried her along the end passage. At a bin filled with webbing, he stopped, and said: “Take some of those rolls out.” He waited, glancing over his shoulder, while the man obeyed, then hoisted the girl in. The bin was too shallow for her to lie at full length, but he pushed her so that her knees were bent and she was doubled up. “Stack those rolls round her,” he ordered, “and then come back.”
“Joe, you know I’ve always had a soft spot for her, I don’t want—”
“Bert, do what I tell you!” Corrissey swung round and sped towards the door, making very little noise. He stepped out of the storeroom into the passage. There was no sound except of his movements. He reached the big room where Gibson was rolled up in the carpet, went straight to that carpet and kicked at it until it was flat against a wall. Then he rolled up carpet after carpet from the pile on which Gibson had been standing, working with furious energy. Each one he rolled against the wall, so that the one where Gibson lay helplessly was hidden by a little pyramid of rolled carpets. He drew back, wiping his wet forehead with his arm, and stood taking in deep breaths.
He heard footsteps; and voices.
Then Bert came out of the storeroom.
“Fixed it?”
“No one can see her, but she can’t stay there long. That’s definite.”
“She won’t. You needn’t worry, Bert,” Corrissey said placatingly. “Keep your mouth shut if anyone comes and asks questions. Leave the talking to me.”
“You bet I will,” Bert muttered. He had a broad, round face, and rather dull eyes, which seemed frightened and resentful. There was something of the look of a cretin about him, but his body was upright and strong, and his rolled sleeves showed that the muscles of his arms were almost as strong as the hump-backed man’s. There had been many times when Bert’s look of imbecility had fooled the police completely; and if he did what he was told, it would again.
A man and a woman came hurrying, and one of the store’s salesmen was just behind them. The man was tall, thin-faced and angry-looking; the woman, in her thirties, had an anxious and yet kindly look.
“Has anyone been through here in the past five minutes?” the thin-faced man demanded.
Corrissey said: “There was a man, five or six minutes ago, sir.”
“Where did he go?”
“He went back, sir.”
“If he’d gone back, we should have seen him,” the thin-faced man said, and he took a card out of his pocket and thrust it into Corrissey’s face. “I’m from Scotland Yard. The man I’m looking for is Inspector Gibso
n.” Then he flashed: “Have you seen Mr Roy Cartwright today?”
“No, sir,” Corrissey lied, smoothly.
“I’m sorry, Inspector Evans,” said the salesman, “but I do assure you that anyone could have left here and taken any one of several turnings. That’s what will have happened to your colleague. It is a very elaborate system of salons, and—”
“Mind if I look?” asked Evans.
“You must please yourself, sir,” the salesman said, “but—”
“If you find anyone down here, I’ll put five pounds into your hands,” said Corrissey. He spoke quietly and vehemently and with such apparent conviction that the salesman smiled, and Bert nodded and looked vacant. Evans and the woman with him seemed to hesitate, before Evans said: “We’ll look, all the same.” He swung round on Bert. “Have you seen Mr Cartwright?”
“Mr who, sir?” Bert looked startled.
“Cartwright.”
“I dunno know anyone of that name.”
“You know, Bert, the young Boss,” Corrissey said, as if reasoning with a child, and Bert’s eyes lit up.
“Oh. Mr Roy. No—no, sir, not today I haven’t seen him.”
“Did you see a tall man?”
“Y—y—y—yes, sir, like Joe says,” Bert answered. “He went back the way he came.”
There was nothing brilliant about Detective Inspector Evans and he was not, in fact, as sharp as he looked. His thin features and rather bright eyes, as well as his manner, gave the impression that he knew much more than he did, and he used this fact skilfully. He was one of the really thorough and painstaking men at the Yard, and one day would become a superintendent by sheer doggedness and determination, and because he knew every rule in the book.
He was not convinced that Gibson had come here and gone back. They had last seen him ten minutes or so ago, and he had gone one way, the policewoman had gone the other. Neither of them had seen Gibson, but they had met at the passage leading to this section of the underground storerooms.
Two years ago there had been a great deal of carpet stealing, especially Persian and Indian carpets of great value. Three warehouses up and down the country had dealt in these stolen goods, but it had been difficult to identify each carpet and rug. Evans had worked for nearly twelve months before he had found the warehouse he was looking for. Carpets had been unloaded at the docks, loaded into delivery vans, which had switched destination; a simple method which might have gone on for years.
The one thing that Evans had discovered during that case was the high repute of Maddison Brothers. No one had a word to say against them, and there had not been the slightest hint that the firm had been involved.
He also knew these storerooms and salesrooms; they had been searched several times. And as far as he knew, none of the staff or the management had lied to him.
Margaret Webb, the policewoman, had stood aside during all this, but when he went forward she followed him and watched the two warehousemen. Neither of them showed any expression, and the blankness on the face of the bigger man was almost imbecilic. Evans went to the rolled-up carpets immediately, and stood looking down at them. Some were thick and some were thin, as if they were of different sizes. All were rolled up so that they were absolutely even at each end, one or two were a little uneven. He kicked at the top ones with the heel of his right foot, but made little or no impression; they hardly moved.
“Like me to unroll them?” inquired Corrissey, and there was no doubt of the sarcasm in his voice.
“I might do,” Evans said; he was always a man it was easy to rile. “Isn’t the storeroom along here?”
“Yes, sir,” the salesman said, and he was glaring at Corrissey. “If you would like to examine it, you are very welcome.”
“If it’s all the same to you, Inspector, me and my mate will get on with our work,” said Corrissey. “We’ve got a dozen more carpets to roll and move down to dispatch in the next hour. We’ve lost enough time as it is.”
“I’ve no intention of stopping you from working,” Evans said tartly.
He led the way to the storeroom. The salesman followed, and Maggie Webb glanced round at the warehousemen. The foolish-looking one was staring after them, the sharp-faced and sharp witted Corrissey was already bending down over the corner of the pile of carpets.
“Get a move on, Bert,” he ordered.
“Okay, okay, I’m working, aren’t I?” Bert asked, and he was almost sullen.
They began to roll carpets.
Evans went into the storeroom. The bins were all too shallow to hide a man, and he did not look into any of them, only along the passages. He sent Maggie one way, while he went the other; again they met near the door, and the uneasy salesman.
“There really isn’t anywhere else he can be,” the salesman said. “I do assure you that you must have missed him.”
Evans grunted.
But there was nothing more he could do, and he went back to the room where the hunchback and his assistant were rolling and tying carpets. The hunchback was intent on his work; the other man kept looking round, but there was no reason at all why the policeman should suspect anything but curiosity.
The party of three disappeared.
Corrissey stopped working, and wiped his forehead again; for the first time he looked nervous. Bert was trembling, and looking at the pile of carpets.
“What are you going to do with him?”
“He’s going to stay there where he is until the heat’s off,” Corrissey answered. “The police are searching all the vans when they get round the corner, but they won’t keep that up for long now. As soon as they stop, we’ll get this load to the docks. I can lay it on.”
“Joe—”
“Bert, you don’t have to string along,” said the humpbacked man, “but if you know which side your bread’s buttered, you will. I know what I’m doing.”
Bert said in a mild voice: “Okay, Joe, but Miss Osborn will be all right now, won’t she?”
“You leave her to me. I’ll see that nothing happens to her,” Corrissey said. “It’s all laid on, Bert. You just keep your mouth shut and do what you’re told, and you’ll be set up for life. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“That’s the boy,” Corrissey said, and clapped the other on the shoulder. He treated Bert much as a man might treat a backward child. “Now how about knocking off for a draw?”
Bert’s eyes lit up.
Corrissey took out a packet of cigarettes, proffered them, and then lit up for them both. He sat on a corner of the pile of carpets, looking at the rolled-up carpets, where there was no sign of movement or of life.
Chapter Ten
Puzzle
Roger looked up as Evans entered his office, waved to a chair, and then went on speaking into the telephone to AS Division. There was no news yet of the missing Lee child, and the father hadn’t yet been traced. Ledbetter was trying to force the pace at the Yard, and Roger did not blame him.
“We won’t miss a trick,” he assured the Divisional man. “I’ll come over as soon as I’ve got through the chores here.”
“Looking for Cartwright?”
“That’s the main chore.”
“Well, I hope you soon get him,” Ledbetter said, and forebore to add that it was a pity that the man had ever been allowed to go free. Roger rang off. Evans was sitting on the edge of his chair, as always; he was a nervous type when dealing with superiors, a little too anxious to impress.
“Well, Evans, what’ve you got?” asked Roger. He did not need telling that in fact Evans and Gibson had drawn a blank; Gibson would have sent word otherwise.
“As far as I could judge there was no sign of Cartwright at the Maddison warehouse,” Evans answered, with great deliberation, “but a peculiar thing happened, sir.”
“How peculiar?”
“Gibson left before I had an opportunity of reporting to him.”
The difficult thing was to conceal a smile. Gibson might look ponderous compared with this man,
but in fact could move twice as fast.
“Was he on to something?”
“I simply don’t know,” Evans admitted, and made it obvious that he felt slighted; he would probably have behaved differently if he had known that Gibson had recommended him to this job. “We combed the salesrooms and the warehouse through, and then Police Officer Webb and I lost him.”
“Lost?”
“I could have sworn he would be in the end storeroom, where the Axminsters and Wiltons are kept,” Evans said. “He wasn’t there, though. I made quite sure, just in case anything had happened to him.”
“What would?” demanded Roger. This was so unexpected that it was difficult to grasp quickly.
Evans said: “I know it doesn’t make much sense, but I can’t understand how we missed him. Still, he wasn’t there. A chap at the door said that he left before us. Can’t understand it,” Evans went on. “Have you heard from him?”
“Not yet,” Roger said. “He’ll turn up with some news soon.”
“We might have been more successful if he had kept me informed,” Evans said, and thus betrayed his real frame of mind: he was sore.
“Did he give you any idea at all where he was going?”
“None at all.”
“Positive that Cartwright’s not at the warehouse?”
“If he were ever there, he got word that we were on the premises and pushed off,” Evans said.
“He wasn’t picked up,” Roger remarked uneasily. He had been wrong to let Cartwright go in the first place; no one would blame him, but the fact remained. Had he also been wrong not to get a search warrant for the warehouse? He tried to be rational. This report was puzzling, but hardly sensational. It looked as if Gibson had gone off on a line that he didn’t want Evans to follow. As soon as he had news worth reporting, he would telephone. But was that really being rational? Could anything have happened to Gibson?
“What would you do if you had your own way?” he asked, and realised that he was really passing the buck. One wrong decision had got under his skin, and he mustn’t let it remain.
