Dead Letter Day (Detective Johnny Inch series Book 3)

by J F Straker

  It was Chipper’s turn to cry out. Bent double in agony, he ceased to be an immediate threat. Johnny scrambled to his feet, delivered a swinging blow to Chipper’s head that sent the man sprawling, and started across the room. Lester barred his way. Confident in his skill as a boxer, Johnny aimed an almost contemptuous blow at his chin, and was surprised when the blow was parried. Before he could recover, Lester had closed with him in a bear-like hug, pinioning his arms. Desperate in his frenzy to get to the girl, to deal positively and lethally with her tormentor, Johnny tried every trick he knew to break free. But Lester was strong; not much taller than Johnny, but broad and muscular. As the two men struggled in their hostile embrace, each striving to throw the other, Johnny caught sight of Stan. Stan had left the girl and was coming towards them, clutching the broken chair arm. Aware of what was about to happen, the sweat pouring off him from exertion and the heat of the room, Johnny made a last desperate effort to escape. Then the chair arm descended on his head, and he lost consciousness.

  8

  His return to reality was gradual. His first awareness was of an inability to move his hands and arms, but this was immediately lost in the spasms of pain that rocketed through his head. He kept his eyes shut because to open them required effort, and he was not yet ready for effort. Someone was doing something to his legs, but he was too dazed, too numb with pain, to care. It did not even matter that he was no longer on his pile of newspaper, that the floor and the wall were hard and unfriendly. Without the wall at his back he would have collapsed.

  It was Lester’s voice that reminded him where he was, of what had happened. ‘For Christ’s sake get a move on,’ Lester said. ‘We’ve wasted too much time on the punk already.’

  ‘O.K., O.K.,’ Stan said. ‘I’m nearly through.’

  Cord bit sharply into Johnny’s sore ankle. There was pressure on his legs, restraining movement. Cautiously he opened his eyes, blinking at the light, to be met by the sight of Stan’s back. Stan half sat, half knelt astride his legs, putting the final knot to the cord that bound Johnny’s feet together. Johnny tried to unseat the man by raising his knees, but his strength was inadequate. Stan bounced them down hard, digging his heels into Johnny’s thighs for good measure.

  ‘Keep still, you bastard,’ he said.

  Johnny kept still. Out of the corner of an eye he saw that the left shoulder of his jacket was stained with blood; there was blood in his ear, he could feel it trickling slowly down his cheek. He was still so bemused that it was not until he tried to raise his hand to probe the wound in his head that he realized his wrists had been tied behind his back.

  Stan got up, aiming a kick at Johnny’s legs. Johnny was already so saturated with pain that he scarcely felt it. He looked across at Polly. She was still in the chair, her head bowed, the long blonde hair obscuring her face. He could not tell if she were crying, but the occasional twitch of her shoulders suggested that she was.

  ‘Do we have another go at the girl?’ Stan asked. He sounded eager.

  Lester shrugged. ‘Either she’s tougher than she looks, or she doesn’t know the bloody answers.’

  ‘She knows, all right. She must. She read the letter, didn’t she?’

  Footsteps clacked on the steps outside, light and sharp, like a woman’s high heels. Lester hesitated, then moved to the door and went out. But he did not close the door behind him, and Johnny strained his ears to listen, praying that the interruption might bring relief but doubtful that the relief could be more than temporary. He could hear the voices without distinguishing the words, and gradually it dawned on him that he had heard the woman’s voice before: a squeaky voice, as if her throat needed oiling, and with the suspicion of a lisp. He remembered, too, where he had heard it. But was there anything to be gained from that recollection? It told him where they were — or he thought it did. But how could that knowledge facilitate escape?

  The voices ceased, the heels clicked away. Lester returned and stood looking pensively at Polly, fingering his moustache. Johnny guessed he was considering what further persuasion to apply, and knew that somehow he had to shift attention from the girl to himself. All he had was the knowledge the woman’s voice had given him. It was only a minor card and unlikely to win a trick, no matter how skilfully he played it. But at least it would provide distraction of a sort.

  ‘You’ve ballsed it up, Lester,’ he said. His voice was a croak, and he cleared his throat. ‘You’ve frigged about so much you’ve lost your chance. I told my office that if I hadn’t returned or rung in by three o’clock they were to contact the police. It can’t be far off three now.’

  Stan looked at his watch. Lester grinned. ‘And what made you think you might need the law?’

  ‘Just a precaution. It was always on the cards that you might decide to tail us, that things might get rough.’

  The grin expanded to a laugh. ‘You scare me. You really do.’

  ‘That’s something to be thankful for,’ Johnny said.

  ‘And no doubt you told them where to find you, eh?’

  ‘Correct,’ Johnny said. ‘The Corner Club. That’s where we are, isn’t it?’

  Stan swore. Chipper looked uneasily at Lester. Lester said sharply, ‘And what makes you think that?’

  ‘Jill Porter. I recognized her voice. It’s unmistakable, wouldn’t you say?’

  Lester considered him, heavy brows knit in a frown. ‘All right,’ he said eventually, ‘so you know where you are. But you damned well couldn’t have known in advance.’

  ‘Just a hunch,’ Johnny said. ‘I get them occasionally.’ To add colour to his fabrication he tried to look at his watch, and was reminded that his wrists were tied. ‘What’s the time now, eh?’

  Lester ignored him. ‘Do you think he’s bluffing?’ Stan asked.

  ‘Probably,’ Lester said. ‘But we’ll check. Keep an eye on them while I ring his office.’

  ‘If you’re proposing to cancel the message, forget it,’ Johnny said. ‘They won’t accept it. Not from you.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Lester said grimly.

  With a nod to the others he left the room. What would he conclude, Johnny wondered, when he received no reply to his telephone call? And a reply was unlikely. Nicodemus and Jasmine would long since have gone home, for the office closed at one on a Saturday unless something hot was cooking. Would he recognize the bluff? Johnny wished he knew the time, but doubted if Chipper or Stan would oblige him. If it were after three it was just possible that doubt might stir in Lester’s mind. Had the police been contacted already? he might wonder. Were they out looking for him? Was that why the call went unanswered? It was a slender thread on which to hang hope, but it was something. And Johnny badly needed something.

  He had closed his eyes again — light seemed to aggravate the pain in his head but a cry from Polly forced them open. A cigarette dangling from his lips, Stan stood beside her, his hands at her neck. As Johnny watched, he gripped the collar of her coat, open because of the missing buttons, and wrenched it down over her shoulders.

  ‘Leave her alone, you bastard!’ Johnny shouted.

  Stan disregarded him. ‘Pass me some of that cord,’ he told Chipper. ‘She’ll have to be trussed before we leave. May as well get on with it.’

  Without comment, Chipper handed him the cord. Stan pushed her body forward and tied her hands behind her back. She neither struggled nor protested. There were no audible tears, and the way she was sitting Johnny couldn’t see her face. But the sight of her limp body, the knowledge of what she had suffered and was still suffering, filled him with an angry pity. It had seemed to him that since they had been in the cellar his own body had become solely a receptacle for pain and humiliation, but he would have welcomed more of both could it have spared her. And he would gladly — and literally — have murdered the brutal Stan.

  Stan moved round the chair and knelt to tie her feet. Then he leaned back on his haunches and surveyed her. Under the woollen coat she wore a white cardigan, buttoned down
the front. He got up slowly, lit a fresh cigarette from the stub of the old, and ran the tips of his fingers over the exposed part of her chest. Polly shrank from his touch, but suffered it in silence.

  ‘Leave her alone, damn you!’ Johnny shouted. He looked at Chipper, who had settled himself near the door on a couple of tattered cushions. ‘Stop him, can’t you? Tell him to leave her alone.’

  Chipper shrugged and closed his eyes. Stan turned to leer at Johnny, the leer made more repulsive by his swollen lip. ‘Your bird, is she?’ he said. His right hand reached for the vee of her cardigan. ‘O.K. with you if I take a butcher’s?’

  ‘You — you —’ The words stuck in his throat. Cord bit deep into ankles and wrists as he fought to be free. His rage was so intense that he no longer felt pain. ‘God damn you, you filthy bastard! Don’t touch her!’

  Stan laughed. Slowly, almost lovingly, he undid the buttons and pulled the cardigan open. She wore no bra. While Johnny shouted curses and threats, the tears starting in his eyes at his own impotence, Stan caressed the firm, round breasts. Gradually the caresses grew more violent. He began to squeeze and pinch, tugging at the nipples until she cried out in agony. When she tried to shrink back in the chair he tugged them harder, so that she was forced to lean towards him to lessen the pain. Then he released her, slapped her face, and pushed her away.

  He took the cigarette from his mouth. ‘Let’s see if this will make you talk, darling,’ he said.

  ‘Christ!’ Johnny groaned. ‘Oh, Christ!’

  Very slowly, inch by inch, Stan moved the lighted end of the cigarette towards her left breast. Shrunk back in the chair, Polly watched it, her eyes distended in fear. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘Please! Oh, please!’

  Stan ignored her. The heat from his cigarette was searing the nipple when footsteps came hurrying down the steps. Stan hesitated, then put the cigarette in his mouth and moved away. Sack-like, Polly collapsed, her body jerking spasmodically.

  Lester came in. ‘What the hell’s all the noise about?’ he demanded. He saw Polly’s open cardigan, and nodded. ‘Couldn’t keep your hands off her, eh, Stan?’

  ‘I was trying to make her talk,’ Stan said.

  ‘Waste of time. She doesn’t know anything.’ He looked at Johnny. ‘I’ve got news for you, punk. The girl in your office says there’s a letter for you from Slade. Arrived this morning; been half-way round the country, she says. She’s been trying to contact you. Funny she didn’t try the club, seeing as that’s where you said to look.’

  Johnny was too exhausted, mentally and physically, to care. ‘I’m going to swing for that bastard Stan,’ he said bitterly. ‘The moment I’m free I’m going to wring his filthy neck. And that’s a promise.’

  ‘Sure,’ Lester said. ‘You do that. O.K., Stan?’

  ‘When he’s free,’ Stan said, grinning. ‘But this letter — did the girl say what was in it?’

  No, Lester said. He had told her that Mr Inch was busy on an investigation for Miss Frazer, and had asked him to phone in to ascertain if there were any messages. He would collect the letter on Mr Inch’s behalf, he had told her. But the girl had refused. It was marked ‘Personal’ she said, and she would hand it over to no-one but Mr Inch.

  ‘Stupid bitch!’ Stan said. ‘So what do we do now? We want that letter, don’t we? I mean, it could be important.’

  ‘Very important,’ Lester agreed. ‘But not to worry. I explained that Mr Inch wouldn’t be able to get to the office this afternoon. If she couldn’t trust me with the letter, I said, perhaps she had better give it him herself. Yes, she said, but where is he?’ Lester grinned. ‘I said I’d show her. I’m meeting her in twenty minutes.’

  Stan gaped at him. ‘You mean you’re bringing her here? Jesus! What’ll we do with her after?’

  ‘Tie her up with the others.’

  Lester left a few minutes later. This time he took Stan with him — perhaps to keep him away from the girl — and Chipper settled back on his cushions and appeared to doze. With the threat of violence temporarily suspended Johnny tried to relax. But as the anger that had sustained him became dormant he was made more conscious of his body. The pain in his head came flooding back, causing him to wince with each agonizing throb. His throat was hoarse from shouting, his cheeks were damp and sticky; he became aware that wrists and ankles had been chafed raw, that his whole body was stiff and sore. Cramp threatened his right calf, and he eased himself into a new position, ignoring the pain of movement. He knew that, bound as he was, cramp could drive him crazy.

  It was some time before he could bring himself to look at Polly. She was leaning forward, twisting and turning her body in an endeavour to jerk the cardigan over her exposed breasts. He watched her for a while. There was no sensuality in his regard. Only pity, and a certain embarrassment. Presently she desisted and slumped wearily back in the chair, panting from the heat and the exertion. The blonde hair formed a screen for her face, but he felt that she was looking at him, that she expected him to say something. But what? What could he say that was adequate to the circumstances?

  ‘Polly, I —’ He swallowed. ‘Christ, but I’m sorry! That filthy pig! Did he actually burn you?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was faint. ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s all my fault.’ The firm white breasts, coral tipped, formed a focus for his eyes. ‘I should never have dragged you into this.’

  ‘You didn’t drag me. It was my decision.’ She threw back her hair with a toss of the head. Tears and perspiration had ruined her make-up, her face was lined and drawn. ‘Your head, Johnny. It looks terrible from here. Does it hurt much?’

  ‘A bit,’ he admitted.

  ‘You need a doctor. You must have lost a lot of blood. Still —’ She sniffed. ‘What do you think will happen? What will they do with us?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ he said.

  He could make several guesses, and none was encouraging. It might depend on what Slade had put in his letter. If this was the missing letter of the four posted by the vicar, Johnny could understand its late delivery. Slade would have addressed it to the Yard — it was the only address Slade had known — and the Yard would have forwarded it to his previous lodgings. There had been complications there — Mrs Sansom, his landlady, had developed an amorous interest in her lodger — and Johnny had left without telling her his new address. She would have readdressed it care of his mother in Sussex, and from his mother it would have gone to Penbury House. But what had prompted Slade to write? His list of acquaintances would have shrunk during his years in prison. Had he chosen Johnny to be the co-ordinator of his plan, for the simple reason that Johnny had visited him in hospital and he could think of no-one else? In that case the letter would be a disappointment to Lester and his pals. They needed no co-ordinator. They already had all the available information.

  But, disappointment or not, what were their plans for Polly and himself? That was Johnny’s main concern now; recovery of the bullion had become of minor importance. The men must know that this was no longer a private struggle, that once their prisoners were free the police would move in, and that if arrested they could be charged with just about every crime in the calendar, murder included. So what did they do with Polly and himself? Keep them under lock and key? Impracticable, surely. With no exact indication where to dig it might take weeks, perhaps months, to locate and dispose of the bullion. Even after that the problem remained; free their prisoners, and they would be in constant danger of arrest. Unless they skipped the country. But suppose it didn’t suit them to skip? What then? As Johnny saw it, they had only one alternative, and it was an alternative that was frightening to contemplate. But for men who, by Lester’s own admission, had already killed twice, it could not be discounted.

  Polly said nervously, ‘I’m thirsty. May I have some water, please?’

  Chipper still lounged on the cushions, slumped against the wall, his eyes closed and his long legs spr
ead in a wide vee. He was between the stove and the door, and his face glistened with sweat. He had taken no apparent interest in their brief conversation, and Johnny had wondered if he were asleep. But he wasn’t asleep. Without opening his eyes he said, ‘The door’s locked. You’ll have to wait till they get back.’

  Johnny considered trying to bribe the man, and immediately dismissed the idea. What could he offer that might compensate for a third share of thirty thousand plus? He gave Polly a brief and what was intended as an encouraging smile and, embarrassed by her nudity, looked across at the motionless Cooke. Cooke, presumably, was to suffer the same fate as themselves, although in his present condition it obviously did not concern him. Jasmine too, poor kid; she was about to be added to the list. Well, so much for loyalty. What other office dogsbody would have stayed so long after hours to ensure that her boss got a letter she thought might be important?

  He was surprised to find himself almost as much distressed for Jasmine as he was for Polly. This was Polly’s business, but it wasn’t Jasmine’s; she was being bundled into it willy nilly. He was still thinking about Jasmine when the men returned. He heard them on the steps, and then the door was unlocked and Jasmine was thrust into the room with such force that she bounced rather than ran. Lester and Stan followed. Neither man’s face reflected the angry disappointment Johnny had expected to see. Lester was actually smiling.

  Jasmine came to a quivering halt in front of Polly. For a brief moment the two girls stared at each other. Then, obviously shocked and embarrassed by Polly’s exposed bosom, Jasmine turned her attention to Johnny. She said tearfully, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Inch, really I am. But I thought — I mean, he said you’d asked him — Goodness! Your poor head! It’s bleeding.’