Chapter Ten
The man seated in the taxi, drawn up at the kerb within sight of the entrance to Wellington Mansions, lit a cigarette from the stub of the one he had just finished, threw the stub out of the window, and huddled back in his seat with a grunt of utter boredom.
Mr. Sullivan was fed up. For two hours he had been watching the flats from various parts of the street in the hope that the girl he was waiting for would come out. But so far he hadn’t caught a glimpse of her. To add to the dreariness of his vigil, it had started to rain.
It had been the same on the previous night. After a long and unprofitable time spent in watching the flats he had had the doubtful satisfaction of seeing the girl leave in the company of two men and drive off in a taxi.
He had followed them to the Silver Shoe and had decided to call it a day. It wasn’t much use waiting. They would all come home together and there wouldn’t be any chance of getting the girl alone.
It looked as if he was going to draw another blank. He swore softly. Didn’t the girl ever go out on her own? He had to make his report to the Big Man on the following day and he already had one failure to his credit which disturbed him quite a lot.
He had sent Al Davis to pick up William Sutton from the prison and that enterprising gunman had telephoned to say that William Sutton had been released four days previously.
Mister Big must have muddled the date somehow, but that didn’t make Sullivan feel any the less uneasy. He would get the full force of the other’s temper.
If this could be diluted by getting hold of the girl, he could face the interview on the following night with much greater confidence. But if he had to report that a failure too . . .
He caught his breath suddenly and leaning forward pulled back the sliding window to the driver’s seat.
“There she is!” he said excitedly to the man in the driving seat. “That girl in the pink raincoat who has just come out. She’s looking for a taxi, too! Jump to it, man!”
He slid the window back and pressed back into his corner as the cab moved forward and approached the girl who had just come out of the flats and was standing undecidedly on the edge of the pavement looking about.
“Taxi, miss?” called the driver as the cab swerved towards her.
“Yes—take me to Victoria Station,” she said and got in. The cab started with a jerk, and then she saw the man crouching in the corner and opened her lips to give a cry of alarm. But Sullivan was prepared. The needle of the syringe he held in his hand stabbed into her arm. She tried to struggle but the drug took effect almost at once and she suddenly went limp.
Sullivan put her down on the seat and slid back the window.
“She’s off!” he said. “You can drive to Upper Thames Street.”
The taxi swung into a side street, turned into another, and headed for the city. It was that blank period between the theatre crowds going in and coming out when the traffic is least congested, and they made good progress. Less than half an hour after they had left Victoria Street, the cab pulled up at the entrance to a narrow alley in Upper Thames Street.
Sullivan got out quickly, looked round to assure himself that the place was deserted, and lifted out the girl. The cab drove off immediately and he carried the girl into the dark mouth of the alleyway.
Carrying his burden easily, Sullivan walked rapidly along the narrow passage—which was only a space between the high walls of two warehouses—until he came to a wooden door at the end. Putting the girl down for a moment he searched in his pocket, found a key, and unlocked the door. Pushing it open, he picked up the girl, entered, and closed the door behind him.
The darkness was intense but he fumbled along the wall until he found a light switch. A glimmer of yellow light came on in a dirty bulb above his head. He was in a passage that ended in another door. Unlocking this, too, he found himself in a large room that was apparently part of the lower floor of the warehouse. A rough partition a few feet higher than his head divided it from the rest of the building.
Sullivan put the girl down, wiped the perspiration from his face, and went back through the passage and relocked the outer door. Coming back he looked at his watch and went over to a small cupboard. He opened it disclosing a telephone.
Lifting the receiver he listened. There was a click and a voice said: “Yes. Who is that?”
“Sullivan,” answered Sullivan. “I’ve got the girl.”
“Good!” said the metallic voice at the other end of the private line. “I’ll come at once.”
Sullivan hung up the receiver and shut the cupboard. Lighting a cigarette he sat down on an empty packing case and waited.
He waited for quite a while and then he heard the sound of a key grating in the lock of the outer door. The inner door opened and a man came in. He was dressed in a soiled raincoat and large, dark glasses covered his eyes. Round his throat he wore a scarf that was pulled up over the lower part of his face. A cloth cap was pulled down so that it nearly met the glasses. His face was completely concealed and his hands were covered with leather gloves.
He stood for a moment just inside the door, and then he came further into the room.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Over there against the wall,” said Sullivan.
The newcomer took a torch from his pocket and moved over to the unconscious girl, propped up against the wall. Her head had fallen forward on her breast.
Mister Big pressed the button of the torch and focused the bright light on her head and shoulders, raising her head with his free hand.
Sullivan heard the hiss of his breath and the oath that followed.
“What’s the matter?” he began.
“Matter?” snarled the other furiously. “Why, you blasted fool, you’ve got the wrong girl!”
Chapter Eleven
“What’s the matter, miss?”
The voice penetrated into Eileen Barnard’s dazed brain and she stirred uneasily.
“Are you feeling ill, miss?” said the voice.
She opened her eyes. Her head ached violently and a cold wind blew in her face. She put up her hand to ward off the bright light that hurt her eyes, and discovered that she was sitting somewhere in the open air and that a man was bending over her shining a lantern in her face.
“Where—where am I?” she whispered hoarsely. “What—what happened?”
“You’re in Hyde Park,” said the constable. “I’d like to know what you’re doing here.”
He shifted the light from her eyes and she looked round, grateful for the cool darkness.
“How did you get here. What’s the matter with you?” asked the man suspiciously. “You haven’t been drinking . . .”
“Of course, I haven’t!” said Eileen indignantly.
“Well, what are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” she declared truthfully. “I don’t remember what happened after I got into that taxi in Victoria Street.”
Her voice cracked and she shivered.
“Got in a taxi in Victoria Street, did you?” said the policeman. “When was this?”
“About half past seven,” she began, and he interrupted with an exclamation.”
“It’s after midnight now,” he said. The suspicion deepened in his voice. “Where did you go in this taxi?”
“I didn’t go anywhere, not that I know,” she replied. “I was going to Victoria Station to get a train home. There was a man in the cab already. He stuck something into my arm and that’s all I remember.”
The constable cleared his throat. He surveyed the pretty, fair-haired girl in the pink raincoat and shook his head dubiously.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
Eileen gave her name and her address.
“You’d better come along with me to the station,” said the constable. “This wants looking into . . .”
“If you’ll get in touch with my friends,” said Eileen, “they will be able to tell you that I left their flat in Wellington
Mansions . . .”
“Wellington Mansions?” repeated the constable. “That’s where the murders was committed . . .”
Eileen started to nod her head but the movement brought such a stab of pain through her brain that she cried out.
“You come along with me, miss,” said the policeman. “Can you walk?”
“I’ll try,” she answered.
She struggled to her feet, but her knees gave way and she would have fallen if the constable had not supported her. She stood clinging to him, her head swimming. It was only the result of her first sudden movement. In a little while the dizziness passed off and she felt better.
How she got there she was never quite certain but at last she found herself in a warm room drinking hot coffee, and telling her story to an inspector who questioned her closely about her adventure of the night.
The drug was still in her system and soon she began to feel queer again. She must have lost consciousness for the next thing she knew she was in a narrow bed with a nurse bending over her and two men standing at the foot.
One was a stout man with sleepy-looking eyes; the other lean and ungainly with a shock of the reddest hair she had ever seen.
“She’s had a long sleep,” said the nurse. “I think she’ll be all right. How do you feel, Miss Barnard?”
“I feel fine,” said Eileen. She certainly felt very much better. Her head was clear, and the light no longer hurt her eyes.
“This is an extraordinary experience of yours,” remarked Mr. Budd gently. “I’m a police officer an’ this is a friend of mine, Mr. Dugan. I’d like to know more about this adventure of yours.”
Eileen smiled.
“I can’t tell you any more than I told the police last night,” she said. She repeated her story.
“I suppose,” remarked Mr. Budd, when she had finished, “you haven’t any idea where this place is you was taken too?”
“Not the faintest. I don’t remember anything after the man in the taxi stuck the needle in my arm.”
“You weren’t robbed?”
She shook her head.
“I hadn’t anything worth taking. Only a pound note and some silver in my bag. That was beside me when I woke up on that seat in Hyde Park.”
“You picked up the taxi in Victoria Street?”
Again she nodded.
“I’d just left Wellington Mansions,” she explained. “I’d been to the Stayners . . .” She caught sight of the pink raincoat on a chair. “Oh, that’s Margaret’s coat. I must let her have it back.”
“You were wearing Miss Stayner’s raincoat?” It was the red-haired man who spoke and into his grey eyes shot a gleam of interest. “Of course, you must be the friend who was supposed to have phoned her the other night?”
“That’s right,” she said.
“I begin to see a gleam of light,” murmured Mr. Budd softly and his tired eyes opened very wide for a fraction of a minute. “In fact the illumination is becomin’ dazzlin’. You were mistaken for Margaret Stayner.”
Colin nodded.
“Seems fairly obvious,” he agreed.
Eileen looked from one to the other.
“Mistook me for Margaret? Why should anyone want to kidnap Margaret?”
“I’d like to know that,” said Mr. Budd. “But it appears that they do. I think that the accident she had on the way was the luckiest thing that could have happened—for her!” He scratched his fat chin. “I don’t think she’d ever have reached you.”
“I was sure there was a lot behind that telephone message,” said Colin.
“But how does it link up with Mister Big?” grunted the stout superintendent. “Oh, well. Never mind now. I think we should let Miss Barnard have a good rest. Don’t you go worryin’ about anythin’. We got in touch with your home an’ your father is on his way to take you back. I’m sorry we had to disturb you. I’d like to see you again later, but I won’t disturb you any longer now.”
Colin said goodbye to the girl and they left the hospital together. Mr. Budd was going back to Scotland Yard, and Colin persuaded him, much against his will, to walk part of the way.
“Pretty girl, isn’t she?” remarked the reporter.
“Who?” asked Mr. Budd absently.
“Eileen Barnard, of course.”
“I didn’t notice,” said the superintendent.
Colin snorted.
“You’re not human! She’s the prettiest girl I’ve seen for a long time.”
“I didn’t know you were a judge,” said Mr. Budd. They walked along for a while in silence. Then Colin said:
“I should put a man on to watch Margaret Stayner, if I were you.”
“Do’ye know, I was just thinkin’ the same,” remarked Mr. Budd.
“Great minds think alike,” grinned Colin.
Mr. Budd sighed.
“You might’ve thought of somethin’ more original,” he said. “I’m not walkin’ any further. I’m catchin’ the next bus on the corner.”
He walked to the bus stop and waited for a bus that would set him down in Whitehall. A man hurrying along the pavement bumped into him, apologised, and hurried on. The stout superintendent thought nothing of the incident at the time. Later he was to remember it.
His bus came along and he climbed inside. During the short journey he thought about the case he was engaged on. He had experienced a number of difficult cases before but this was really a snorter!
There was nothing tangible to get hold of. Mister Big remained a myth, but a myth who gave tangible evidence of his existence. The murder of Jameson and the taxi-driver were only incidents. And that was the difficulty. There was no sign of any coherent plan. Nothing but a series of apparently isolated incidents that seemed to have no connection.
He had not got very far with his thinking when he reached his destination, got off the bus, and entered the Yard by the Whitehall entrance.
There were a number of reports waiting on his desk and he settled down to read and initial them. This took him nearly two hours. When he had finished he leaned back in his chair with a sigh of relief. He hated paper work which took up too much valuable time and was getting worse. The country was getting swamped with bureaucrats and civil servants, he reflected. People who could’ve been engaged in productive effort instead of drawing salaries for doing very little. That was getting worse too. More nationalisation meant more of these drones. Look at the railways, they’d made a profit under private enterprise; provided a service that was certainly infinitely better than the present one. And that cost the country millions. Quite ridiculous! An Alice in Wonderland way to go about things. And it wasn’t confined to the railways.
Mr. Budd took out one of his thin, black cigars. He sniffed it appreciatively. Cutting off the end, he produced his lighter, and was in the act of pressing the spring when the thing slipped from his fingers.
The accident saved his life! As the lighter touched the floor there was a blinding flash and a shattering explosion! The desk was lifted and hurled against Mr. Budd, throwing him backwards on the floor!
Dazed, but otherwise unhurt, Mr. Budd picked himself up and examined the state of the damage. Of the lighter nothing was visible. Where the thing had fallen was a jagged hole in the floor. It was the desk which had saved him. If he had been holding the lighter . . .
Mr. Budd compressed his lips. He understood why the man had bumped against him at the bus stop. He had substituted the lighters. A clever ‘dip’ could have done it with ease. The lighter had been charged with a high explosive and detonated by pressing the spring. Mister Big had made his first attempt!
Chapter Twelve
The sound of the explosion brought startled men to the wrecked office and they listened in consternation to Mr. Budd’s explanation.
“Good God!” ejaculated a grey-haired inspector. “You might have been killed!”
“I think that was the intention,” said Mr. Budd. “I take a lot of killin’.” He looked round the office and shook his head. “
I shall have to find some temporary quarters while this is bein’ repaired,” he said.
He was fixed up with a room further along the corridor whose occupant was away on leave. He moved in with his belongings and had barely done so when a note was brought to him. It was enclosed in a cheap envelope and he knew who it came from before he ripped it open and took out the contents.
He read the scrawled letter three times, and pursed his lips. He laid it down on his writing-table. He sat rubbing his chin thoughtfully for some time and then he pulled the telephone towards him and spoke to the switchboard.
“Get me the Post-Bulletin,” he said, and waited.
In a few seconds he was connected to that enterprising newspaper and, after some delay, succeeded in getting hold of Colin Dugan.
“I’ve just had a note from Gabby Smith,” he said. “I don’t suppose you know who that is but he’s a little grass. He’s often supplied us with information and is pretty reliable. He says he’s found Mister Big’s headquarters. Thought you might be interested.”
Colin was interested and said so.
“I’ll come along at once,” he said.
“Do,” said the stout superintendent. “I’ve somethin’ else that’ll interest you, too!”
He pushed the telephone away, and lit a cigar. But this time he used a match! His superiors would probably have had ideas about this collaboration with a newspaper man, but Mr. Budd had a great respect for Colin Dugan’s intelligence. They had worked together before with good results. He was completely trustworthy: would print nothing without Mr. Budd’s sanction and could be taken into the superintendent’s confidence.
He arrived twenty minutes later and was surprised to find Mr. Budd had moved from his old office.
“Why the new digs?” he demanded flinging his hat on the chair.
Mr. Budd told him.
“Phew! That was a narrow escape,” exclaimed Colin. “You could have been badly injured.”
“An’ there would’ve been rejoicin’ in the Big Man’s camp. As it is there’ll be a wailin’ an’ gnashin’ of teeth.” Mr. Budd picked up the dirty note from in front of him and gave it to Colin. “Look at this,” he said.
Mister Big Page 6
