‘Well, look here,’ went on Temple, ‘meet me at the Medusa Club in twenty minutes … better get Reed if possible. No, I can’t explain now.’
He slammed down the receiver and turned to Steve.
‘Paul, what is it?’
‘I must go back to the Club right away,’ he told her. ‘That was a faked raid. I’ve got an awful feeling that something’s happened …’
‘I’ll come with you,’ offered Steve.
He regarded her dubiously for a moment.
‘I hardly like to take you in case …’
‘With half Scotland Yard there – and me an ex-reporter?’ she laughed.
‘All right, then come on, darling. Don’t wait up, Pryce.’
‘Very good, sir,’ murmured Pryce, holding the outer door open for them.
They ran across the landing to the lift.
‘It’s at the bottom,’ announced Steve. ‘Somebody must have used it since we arrived.’
‘Damn them!’ growled Temple, vigorously pressing the button, with no result. ‘They must have left the gate open. It won’t work!’
‘Oh lord!’ groaned Steve. ‘What a waste of time! Come on, we’ll have to walk down …’
Temple suddenly clutched her arm. ‘Listen!’
Up the lift-well came the echo of the sharp snap of closing gates.
‘H’m, they’ve thought better of it,’ commented Temple, pressing the button once more.
The lift came whining towards them.
‘I wonder who closed that gate,’ pondered Temple, as the top of the lift came into sight. Before it jerked to a stop, Steve screamed in sheer horror.
A squat form in evening dress lay huddled in the bottom of the lift.
‘My God! It’s Tony Rivoli!’ cried Temple.
A slim-looking knife had been plunged into the little Italian’s back, and a dark stain was already spreading slowly over his tail-coat.
Steve turned away as Temple opened the gates.
‘There’s something written on his shirt-front,’ he said. Entering the lift, he bent over the inert form, and read the crudely scrawled message:
He interfered, Mr. Temple!
The Front Page Men.
CHAPTER XVII
The First Circle
Inspector Hunter was beginning to wonder whether his knowledge of London’s underworld was quite as comprehensive as he had imagined. He had boasted at one time that he could put his hand on any man whose record was held by the Yard within twenty-four hours. But Lucky Gibson had eluded him for over a week. Furthermore, none of Lucky’s former associates could offer any clue to his whereabouts. Of course, some of them were lying, but there were others who would have been only too ready to betray Lucky if there happened to be a chance of a reward.
Hunter had frequented every disreputable haunt known to him, including several which had only opened during the past few weeks, and were likely to vanish in a like period. Their proprietors were ne’er-do-wells, whom Hunter had met before, usually when they were running some other establishment of a similar nature. They did not exactly welcome him with open arms, but they were quite pleasant to this ex-Oxford graduate, for they knew that he was not interested in any point concerning the licensing regulations. He was merely looking for somebody. Besides, some of them were Oxford men themselves!
It was hardly encouraging to have to return to the Yard every morning, encounter Sir Graham’s keen look of inquiry, and report that there was nothing doing. It depressed Hunter more than a little. Moreover, he was suffering from splitting headaches, which left him in the throes of depression.
He could feel one of these headaches hovering over him one night after a particularly exhausting day in the less savoury purlieus of Limehouse. He had walked back, thinking the fresh air might drive away the headache, and on reaching his favourite coffee-stall on the Embankment, he decided that a cup of coffee might also help in this battle with migraine.
The proprietor, Bert Styler, was quite a friend of Hunter’s, since the latter had been able to help him on a small problem concerning his pitch, and had been of some assistance in smoothing out the matter with the authorities. Bert was a typical chirpy Cockney, in the middle thirties. He usually looked on the bright side of life, and this trait was just as much a part of him as the wart on one side of his nose.
With sleeves rolled up, he was vigorously wiping cups and plates, to the accompaniment of unceasing clatter. Fortunately the crockery was extremely substantial and withstood Bert’s rough handling. Hunter often wondered if those plates would break if they were dropped on the floor. Bert turned and grinned cheekily at the detective.
‘Hallo, guv’nor! You look a bit down in the dumps. What’s up now? Somebody pinched the ’Ouses of Parliament?’
Hunter leaned against the garishly lighted stall and felt rather better. He was the only customer. The steam from the coffee-urn strayed towards him. It smelt tempting. He leaned his elbows on the counter.
‘I’m looking for a man named Lucky Gibson,’ he announced rather wearily. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen him by any chance?’
‘Never even ’eard of the cove,’ replied Bert, anticipating Hunter’s order, and pushing a cup of coffee towards him. ‘I don’t get many crooks ’ere, you know. ’Course they ’as to eat and drink just like you an’ me, but they seems to ’ave the money to go to the posh places these days. Mind yer, I gets a card-sharper and a pickpocket or two now and then, when trade ain’t bin too good wiv ’em. Then there’s Steeple Bill – they tell me ’e does a bit o’ cat-burglin’ now and then.’
‘Oh?’ queried Hunter, with a little more interest. ‘What’s he doing now?’
‘Six months,’ answered Bert, evenly. ‘They copped ’im last time ’e was out on the tiles. Mind you, ’e ’adn’t actually broken in anywhere, but it looks a bit suspicious when they find you ’angin’ on to somebody’s spouting just after midnight. ’E told ’em that ’e was mendin’ the roof, but ’e couldn’t find nobody to back ’im up. Lost me a good customer for six months that did.’
Hunter stirred his coffee, reflectively.
‘Supposing you wanted to get away from the police, Bert,’ he murmured, ‘where would you hide yourself?’
‘South America,’ replied Bert without a moment’s hesitation. ‘That’s one thing about this job, guv’nor; it gives me time to read Edgar Wallace!’
Hunter laughed for the first time that day.
‘But supposing it wasn’t possible for you to go abroad, Bert – what then?’
‘Then,’ replied Bert, thoughtfully, polishing his copper urn, ‘the game would be up. The blinkin’ police are everywhere these days. There’ll soon be more police than soldiers. What with these courtesy cops and—’
But Hunter interrupted him. He had enjoyed the doubtful pleasure of listening to Bert’s harangues on the subject of courtesy cops on many other occasions.
‘It’s funny, Bert, but I feel hungry for the first time since breakfast.’
‘I thought there was something the matter with yer,’ said Bert with visible concern. ‘You didn’t ought to go missin’ yer grub like that, guv’nor. Now if you could see the hinside of your stomach at this minute—’
‘God forbid!’ shuddered the detective.
‘’Ere, what about a nice sausage roll?’ pursued Bert.
‘I don’t think they agree with me,’ smiled Hunter.
‘Then what about that night you ate fourteen of ’em right off the reel? Fourteen! Coo, I’ll never forget that night. What with the crowd round the old stall – it might ’ave been a blinkin’ circus. That was the best advert I ever ’ad. I suppose you ain’t feelin’ that way tonight?’
Hunter shook his head.
‘I might manage one, or even two,’ he replied. ‘But fourteen … I wonder I’m alive to tell the tale.’
‘There’s nothin’ in them rolls that would ’urt a new-born babe,’ protested Bert, indignantly.
Hunter bit into his roll and sh
ook his head reproachfully.
‘This wasn’t baked today, Bert – or even yesterday.’
‘Maybe not, guv’nor,’ Bert cheerfully agreed. ‘But that’s all the better for yer digestion.’
Hunter nodded thoughtfully and helped himself to mustard. ‘You’re very quiet here tonight,’ he added.
‘Yes,’ said Bert, ‘I don’t mind admittin’ I’m glad to see yer, guv’nor. It’s a bit lonely ’ere at this time o’ night, and what wiv these Front Page Men knockin’ off everybody – by the way, guv’nor, what are you doin’ about these ’ere Front Page Men?’
Hunter’s face clouded again. ‘If I even started to tell you, Bert,’ he answered wearily, ‘I’d be here till the tide turned. How’s business with you these days? Is Mayfair still crazy about coffee-stalls – or have they tired of the novelty of eating with the down-and-outs?’
‘Don’t talk to me about business,’ grumbled Bert, dumping a pile of saucers on a shelf, and quite pleased to change the conversation to a topic which gave him more scope for argument. ‘The coffee-stall profession is simply going to the dogs.’ He flung a handful of spoons into a drawer. ‘It’s these ’ere milk bars that’s gone and done us in,’ he announced fiercely. ‘Sprung up like blinkin’ mushrooms they ’ave, wiv all these blokes in the City backin’ ’em. O’ course they don’t get what you might call the “class”, but who does? If they comes ’ere, all they wants is a cup o’ coffee. Strewth! You got to sell a lot o’ cups o’ coffee before you can save enough to retire on.’
‘Oh, so you are thinking of retiring?’ asked Hunter.
Bert placed his elbows on the counter and gazed dreamily across the river. ‘As soon as I’ve made a few hundred quid,’ he murmured, ‘I’m givin’ this old wagon of mine a real good-night kiss.’
‘And then what?’ Hunter teased him. ‘I expect you’ll blue it all on some second-rate nag in the two-twenty.’
Bert shook his head, firmly.
‘Oh no, guv’nor. Not me. I’m off the ’orses good and proper. Me and the missus ’ave got our eye on a nice little pub out Rotherhithe way.’
‘Rotherhithe!’ repeated Hunter under his breath. Rotherhithe … The Glass Bowl … why hadn’t he thought of it before? That was where Temple had met that poor devil Chubby Wilson, and Lucky Gibson too, for that matter. Hunter pulled his felt hat forward and signalled vigorously to a passing taxi. He was a hundred yards away before he remembered that he had not paid for his roll and coffee.
Bert wagged his head sorrowfully as he gazed at the disappearing vehicle. ‘’E’ll be joinin’ the courtesy cops next,’ he cogitated gloomily.
Hunter dismissed the taxi nearly a quarter of a mile from his objective and threaded his way down the narrow streets leading to the river, which seemed particularly dismal and uninviting. Though he was wearing an old mackintosh, and a none-too-smart hat, he was well dressed compared with most of the men he encountered, and was eyed suspiciously on that account. The doleful creak of the signboard announced that he had reached the Glass Bowl. The electric lights shone yellowly through the dirty windows, and gusts of music came from the bar.
The florid Mrs. Taylor gave him a suspicious glare as he came in. She had never seen him before, and, in view of her past experiences, immediately concluded that he was connected with the police.
The detective sauntered over to the bar and ordered a small whisky and soda. Mrs. Taylor grimly poured out the minimum quantity of whisky, pushed it across to him, and did not offer to help him to soda.
‘Is that clock right?’ asked Hunter, at length.
‘Ten minutes fast,’ she replied, never taking her eyes off him.
‘I wonder where he could have got to,’ murmured Hunter, adopting the attitude of a man who is obviously irritated by the turn of events. This was too much for Mrs. Taylor’s curiosity.
‘Expecting somebody?’ she asked, wiping the counter with a wet cloth, but eying him carefully as she did so.
‘Yes. I arranged to meet a pal of mine here. Maybe he’s looked in and didn’t care to wait.’
‘Would I know him?’ demanded Mrs. Taylor cautiously. ‘Is he one of our regular customers?’
‘Yes, I believe so. A little fellow – name of Gibson – Lucky Gibson.’
Hunter thought he saw Mrs. Taylor’s mouth tighten the merest fraction. But her voice was quite unperturbed.
‘Never ’eard of the name,’ she replied, casually. ‘We got a feller who comes in ’ere named Bridson. But he ain’t exactly lucky. Perhaps you’d better ask the Reverend over yonder, ’e might know the man,’ she added. Without further ado, she beckoned to a man in clerical dress, who had just come in.
‘Mr. ’Argreaves, there’s a gent ’ere lookin’ for somebody named Gibson,’ she called out in a voice that could be heard all over the bar. Several men looked up suspiciously, and one or two slunk out at the first opportunity, when they thought their exit would go unnoticed. The Reverend Hargreaves came forward with some reluctance.
‘Gibson, did you say, Mrs. Taylor?’ He shook his head in deep deliberation.
‘Yes, sir. I thought as ’ow ’e might be one of your flock, in a manner o’ speaking.’
Again Hargreaves shook his head. ‘No, I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid I cannot help you. And if you will excuse me, Mrs. Taylor, I must run along now. My evening service starts in just five minutes. Good night, everyone.’
Hunter drank his whisky and ordered another.
Then he turned to question Mrs. Taylor again, but she was gone, and a very forbidding-looking barman stood behind the counter In vain, he tried to get into conversation with other habitues of the bar-room. He even strolled into the tap-room, to see if Mrs. Taylor was there, but the place was deserted. Eventually he had to give it up as a bad job, and soon after half past eight he left and caught a bus back to the West End. Once more he was feeling depressed. The whisky had not been of particularly good quality, and seemed likely to bring on his headache. Then there was the prospect of facing Sir Graham again in the morning. Mac would be inclined to look down his nose too.
He jumped off the bus in the Strand, and was making for his flat near the Adelphi when a small sports car suddenly drew in to the kerb beside him. He only had a back view of the driver until he came level with the car. Then he recognised her.
‘Why, Sue! This is a surprise!’ he cried in delighted tones.
The girl at the wheel looked up at him and grinned. A multicoloured silk scarf could not hide entirely her attractive chestnut curls.
Hunter’s acquaintance with Sue Marlow dated back to his Varsity days, when he had often joined in the triumphant procession accorded the principals of the D’Oyly Carte Company back to their hotel after the show. Sue had been a small-part player in the company, and seeing her come out of the stage-door one night when the leads were borne off in triumph, Hunter felt sorry for her. As a matter of fact, Sue was feeling more than a little sorry for herself at that moment. So she did not require much persuading to accompany this personable young man to supper. After that, Hunter always looked forward to her visits, which usually numbered two or three a year, generally in musical comedies. Her parts grew less and less insignificant, and Hunter occasionally visited her in London, when she was appearing in the West End. Lately she had grown tired of musical comedy, and had been trying to make good in various spineless comedies on tour.
‘I’ve been trying to get you on the phone all day long,’ she told him. ‘Are you busy or something?’
‘Out on a job,’ explained Hunter briefly, climbing into the tiny car, which rather cramped his longish legs.
‘I even telephoned you at Scotland Yard. They put me on to three different offices,’ smiled Sue, letting in the clutch. ‘Everybody was terribly polite till I came to a Scotsman, he sounded just like somebody out of a play.’
‘That would be Mac,’ grinned Hunter. ‘He’s all right when you get to know him.’
‘I don’t think I particularly want to, thank you all t
he same. One Scotland Yard man is quite enough in my young life.’
‘I thought you were on tour somewhere,’ remarked Hunter, as the car was held up in a considerable traffic block.
‘I’m always on tour somewhere just lately,’ Sue sighed. ‘And this one dried up beautifully. The leading man got temperamental, the backers went bust, and the play even bored the author. Have you ever been stranded at Hanley?’
‘Never,’ replied Hunter, firmly.
‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ she murmured, taking a lipstick from her bag and proceeding to use it to the edification of the passengers of buses on either side.
‘Isn’t it in the Potteries somewhere?’
‘I really couldn’t tell you, darling. I only know the digs are dreadful and there’s a sort of gloom hanging over everything. Still, perhaps that was just through being stranded,’ she added, in generosity to Hanley.
‘This car doesn’t look as if you were particularly hard up,’ said Hunter.
‘Oh no. The Hanley business was over a month ago. Since then, I’ve broken into films up here. Had some pretty good jobs too. And, of course, this car was secondhand, through a friend of mine.’
This was Sue’s strong point. She had a friend in practically every trade and profession, and never dreamed of paying cost price for anything of any value. Hunter often teased her about it, but she always paid him back in his own coin. ‘You’re jealous,’ she would retort. ‘Nobody loves a policeman.’
At last the traffic block moved on twenty yards, then came to another standstill.
‘You look pretty stunning, I must say,’ commented Hunter in admiration, as he noticed she wore an attractive evening dress under her light coat. ‘Why all this gala atmosphere?’
‘I got so depressed hanging around doing nothing. This is the first free day I’ve had since I started filming. I spent the morning going round the agents, and that’s enough to depress anybody. Even a policeman. Or don’t policemen get depressed?’
‘This particular policeman has been very much down in the mouth right up to the moment he set eyes on you,’ replied Hunter.
Paul Temple 3-Book Collection Page 36
