by John Creasey
Tiger straightened up, and put a hand to his mouth. He took it away, and stared dazedly at the blood.
“Why,” he muttered, “I’ll tear ’im apart. I’ll tear ’im into little pieces and feed ’im to the dogs.”
Ross murmured: “You started it.”
Tiger gulped and blinked, and turned towards him. The tawny eyes were bloodshot, but that wasn’t the worst. Ross had seen hatred and evil in men’s eyes, but none more naked nor more livid than his. Tiger was more animal than human. He drew in a shuddering breath, and clenched his fists, and his voice seemed to come from a long way off.
“I told you to clear aht, mister. You ’eard me.”
“But I want a little talk, Tiger.”
Tiger licked his lips, which were bleeding more freely now, and his rage didn’t fade. He lashed out suddenly in a two-fisted attack, but Ross backed, grabbed one of the wrists and twisted. Tiger opened his mouth and gave a startled squeal; he stopped moving, for his arm was forced into a position from which he knew he couldn’t escape without breaking bones. Ross stood beaming at him.
The spectators gasped.
Ross let Tiger go, backed, and closed the door with his foot. Then he went to the chair where the clergyman had been sitting, and took out cigarettes.
“Smoke?”
Tiger didn’t speak, and Ross lit a cigarette.
“Sit down, Tiger, and be yourself, or you’ll really run into trouble.”
Tiger gulped, moved round the desk, trod in the pool of ink and did not notice it. He reached his chair and dropped down. The rage had faded into bewilderment, making his eyes looked dazed; his mouth still gaped. He took a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and began to dab at his lips.
“I shouldn’t try any funny business with the parson,” Ross said. “He has a lot of friends you wouldn’t know about. But I didn’t come to talk about him or the Mission, Tiger. Who paid you to send Cary to open my safe?”
“Cary,” sighed Tiger, and closed his eyes. “S’welp me, I must be dreaming.”
“You’re awake,” said Ross. “You sent Cary to my flat — who paid you?”
Tiger didn’t answer, but stopped dabbing at his lips and looked more wary. The buffing sound started up again outside. Ross tapped the ash from his cigarette into an over-full tin lid which served as an ash-tray.
“Open up, Tiger, or you’ll really get hurt. This is a murder rap. I’m not interested in seeing you swing, but I want to see the other man dangle. Who was it?” He leaned forward and lifted the telephone, the only modern thing in the office. “The Yard number is Whitehall 1212, isn’t it? Better tell me, before I call them, Tiger.”
He began to dial.
14
SAMMY BRAY
TIGER watched Ross’s finger in the dialling holes, and when he had reached the first 1, stretched out an unsteady hand and touched Ross’s wrist. There was no venom in his eyes or his movement, he looked shaken out of his wits. Ross paused.
“Who paid you, Tiger?”
“Just put that telephone dahn, mister, we’ll ’ave a little chat,” said Tiger.
Ross put the receiver down.
“Thanks,” said Tiger, and wiped his forehead. “You — you Ross?”
“That’s right.”
“And you caught Cary?”
“That’s right.”
“And” — Tiger drew his breath — “and he squealed.”
“That’s right,” said Ross. “The same way as you’ll squeal and for the same reason, because I put on the pressure. Like to see a Yard man come in? Like to be up before the beak in the morning for assaulting that parson? I think I could make sure you were inside for six months, and while you were away the police would have a good look round here and some of your other spots. It will pay you to talk and then take it easy.”
Ross stubbed out his cigarette, but didn’t look away from Tiger’s eyes.
Tiger said: “Sure, sure, Mister. I don’t want any more days like this.”
He hesitated, as if exhausted — then leapt out of his chair and smashed a blow at Ross with a spanner he’d taken from the floor.
He missed.
Ross hit him twice on the point, hammer blows which knocked him silly. Tiger slid back into his chair, and Ross went round to the front of the desk and pulled open several drawers, running quickly through the contents, with Tiger’s stertorous breathing giving unmusical accompaniment.
He found a note-book, with some names and telephone numbers, and one was Sammy Bray’s. In another book were notes of payments made to different people, and there were two recent entries, reading:
“Cary — £10.”
“Cary — £15.”
Tiger was beginning to take notice again.
“Like some more, or are you going to talk?” asked Ross. “Why send Cary to my flat?”
“I — I never,” Tiger muttered. “ ’E did a job for a man I know. ’E just said ’e wanted a guy to do a job, Cary’s aht of work, I wanted to ’elp ’im.”
“Very touching,” said Ross. “Who’s the man?”
“He calls hisself ——”
“I don’t want to know what he calls himself, I want to know who he is.” Ross leaned forward. “Tiger, I can smash you up, break your garage and your racket, and make sure you see the inside of a jail for a long time. And I might be able to make you swing. This is a murder rap, remember I told you so. Whom did Cary do that job for?”
“ ’E calls hisself Kelly,” said Tiger, in a sighing voice, “but ‘is name’s Bray, Sammy Bray.”
“That had better be true,” Ross said.
He stood up swiftly, and before Tiger could speak again, was at the door. He touched his forehead in a mock salute, and went out. The mechanics and the youth were all staring at the door, and looked away quickly as Ross strode out. Ross walked towards the big garage doors, but didn’t go far. He swung round and went back, without a sound, reached the office door and turned the handle, pulling so that he could just see inside.
Tiger sat back in his chair, a hand at his lips, staring blankly at the opposite wall; his hand was nowhere near the telephone.
The battling cleric was sitting at the wheel of the sports car, just along the road. He grinned at Ross, who drove his own car across and got out. They met outside the Mission. The clergyman was dabbing at his knuckles with a handkerchief which was snow white where it wasn’t stained red. Outside, he looked not only tall and powerful, but also very young.
“Sorry about that,” he said.
“Sorry! It couldn’t have been better, you softened Tiger up, and I got what I wanted.”
“What did you want?”
“Oh, this and that. You pack a nice punch.”
“I haven’t let myself go like that for a couple of years,” said the other. “My name’s Abbott. Tiger’s been a nuisance ever since I came here, he tries to stop the youngsters from coming to my club. The row had to blow up, sooner or later, but I doubt if I used the right methods this time.”
“I don’t,” said Ross. “If he gives you any more trouble, just say ‘Ross’ to him, and I think he’ll be angelic.”
“What’s your magic?” asked Abbott.
Ross grinned.
“He thinks he may have done something which could get him hanged.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me,” said Abbott. “Look here, cheek and all that, but you don’t know Tiger or this district, do you?”
“No.”
“I’ve only been here a few months, but that’s long enough to know that Tiger can be dangerous. I can’t understand why the police leave him alone. He’s probably smart, and beat the rap every time, but — he’s dangerous. Don’t take anything for granted with him.”
“I don’t think he’ll give us much trouble,” said Ross. “If you run into any with him, give me a ring, will you?” He handed Abbott his card. “And thanks for softening him up.”
“Pleasure,” said Abbott. “I live two doors along, Number Fourteen.”
“No manse or vicarage?”
“It was blitzed, and anyhow, I’m better placed living among them than in a palace. Anything I can do for you?”
“Not now,” said Ross, “but there may be.”
They shook hands, and Abbott watched him drive off.
He entered his flat more cautiously, but this time there was nothing in the way of surprises. He went to the telephone and reported to Craigie, who hadn’t yet any reports about Bray, Dolly Leeming, or Barnard; they agreed that it looked as if Barnard was out, Bray was the only man they need worry about. Perry had reported that Cary had gone to his own flat; the police knew that he often did odd jobs for Tiger.
“Tiger may have tipped Bray off,” Ross said, thoughtfully.
“I doubt it. If Tiger cracked like that, he’s probably washed his hands of the job. That’s how he works, and how he keeps clear of the police,” Craigie said. “He’s known to be as bad as they come but has a nice build-up of legitimate business, and usually has an alibi or a sound legal excuse. As now — he’ll stick to the story that he put a job in Cary’s way and didn’t know what the job was. He’ll probably have two or three eye-witnesses to prove it, too. Tiger is a nasty piece of work, but not really dangerous — he scares too easily, and he’d sell his own wife if it would keep him out of jail.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Ross. “So he’s married.”
Craigie laughed.
“Does it matter?”
“I don’t know, yet. I’ll tell you what I do know, Gordon.”
“Yes?”
“If Bray has to use men of Tiger’s type, he’s not so good as he seemed to be.”
“Don’t take that for granted,” said Craigie. “He may have wanted to switch the attention away from himself to Tiger — he wouldn’t know that Tiger would crack so easily.
He might not want to use his own men for a job like the attack on you and the flat raids. Bray isn’t the man who spoke to you on the telephone, is he?”
“No, I’d recognise the voice.”
“It’s the man behind Bray we’re after,” Craigie said.
Ross nodded, as if the other could see him, said: “All right, I’ll go and see Bray this evening,” and rang off.
He sat back in an easy chair, and pondered. He wanted Mae back and Alice back, but that was no longer the main objective. They were being used in the effort to get hold of Conway — and also in the effort to stop him from working on the case, and presumably the reason he was wanted off duty was that he could trace Bray.
Could there be any other reason?
He couldn’t think of one.
Half an hour later, Craigie telephoned with the latest information about Bray; and they made their plans.
Dolly Leeming was in a gay mood when she left her tiny flat, near Shepherd’s Market, to go to Bray’s. She had reason to be gay, for her fortunes had changed remarkably since Bray had become serious and started to talk of marriage.
A man walked up to her.
“Mind coming with me?” he asked, and showed a Special Branch card.
Sammy Bray looked a happy man.
There were many reasons why he should be happy, for he was known to be wealthy; as gardeners sometimes have green fingers, so Bray’s were touched with gold. He had only to finger a project to make a small fortune out of it. He had genius, too, in that he managed to make the most of his money in legal ways which kept the eager grasp of the Treasury off it. He did not, as far as anyone knew, commit any crime, or even side-track the Commissioners of Inland Revenue. He succeeded because of his bland ‘honesty’ and the fact that he always had an answer for everything.
Another reason was the fact that he had many friends. True, most of these were fair-weather friends, but it did not greatly matter, because for Sammy Bray the barometer was always set fair, so he could rely on keeping his friends.
There was, moreover, another quality in him, which most people saw quickly; he had a genuine geniality. He had a ready if bluff wit and a kindly temperament; he was, in fact, soft-hearted. While not remarkably free with his money, he seldom failed to respond to a plea for help from a deserving friend or acquaintance. People from charwomen to porters, peers of the realm, and unlucky actors and actresses had reason to bless Sammy Bray for his generosity. He made a rule never to lend money; loans, he was fond of saying, simply cut friendship. So, he gave. Consequently, many people in quite influential places, and who had the ear of important people, had reason to be grateful to him. They did not hesitate to perform any service they could for Sammy. He had never been known to ask for too much; rather, for too little.
Basking in the sunlight of many friends and reclining on the downy upholstery of a great deal of money, Sammy added to his happiness by falling in love.
He did this in the easy, genial way one would expect of him; he was not passionate or demanding, but as pleased with romance as a schoolgirl with her first calf-love, although nothing like so intense. In Dolly Leeming he had found a ‘girl’ who answered practically every one of his requirements. She wasn’t bad looking, and she had a nice figure — a little cushiony, but Sammy was plump himself, and was fond of curves. She had little in the way of a mind, although she had a native wit and intelligence which enabled them to see many things in the same way, and to laugh at the same things. Dolly was not malicious, and she also had a kind heart. Those who knew them well said that it was an excellent match and, knowing Sammy, were sure that it would not be long before invitations to the wedding were sent out. It was likely to be a slap-up wedding.
Sammy had a luxurious flat in London, near Park Lane, and a ‘little cottage’ in Surrey, where he kept a staff of four servants and two gardeners, whether he was in residence or not. He gave many parties at the Surrey house, which was Welcome Hall to practically anyone who had any excuse to go there for a free meal, free drinks, and whirl of gaiety which at no time exceeded the limits of decency. Sammy could be risqué and daring, but was never obscene.
He was not known to have any strong political leanings or any serious thought of politics or world affairs. He looked after Number One, and let all the other numbers look after themselves, within the limits of his generosity.
These were all the things that were generally known about him; and these were summarised in the report which Gordon Craigie had gathered, at short notice, and which Ross received before he set out to pay his call on Sammy Bray. There was nothing at all in the report to suggest that Bray was known to be an associate of Willy Tiger.
A small point was cleared up; Cary had gone out, early that morning, with his brother-in-law, with whom he shared a flat. They often worked together.
Sammy Bray also had offices in the Strand — small but palatial. He was not a producer, just a financier; there were many who said that if Sammy Bray were on to a new thing, it was worth a fortune to be on his back while he went into it. There were countless visitors to his office and his London flat, and all of them brought little odds and ends of financial news from all parts of the globe. He was, in his way, a kind of financial Gordon Craigie. How wealthy he was was anyone’s guess. In spite of everything that was known about him, he was not regarded as a modern Croesus, partly because he did not make a god of money. He was the Happy Warrior of finance.
On that afternoon, he sat alone in his palatial office, drinking tea from an exquisite Sèvres cup which stood on an exquisite silver tray, itself standing on a superb walnut desk. The walnut panelling of the walls had a soft lustre, the lighting was all concealed, and there was little to suggest the financial magnate — except the hush and the obvious wealth of the man who owned the offices.
He was smiling delightedly.
His round face was pink, rather than red, he had grey eyes which twinkled a lot, a baby mouth, and nothing much in the way of a chin. The best tailor in London cut his clothes, and the best bootmaker in London made his shoes; he had small, neat feet. His taste in shirts and ties was discreet, there was nothing showy abo
ut him.
He was in a good mood because, even as he sipped tea and afterwards munched cream cakes and confiserie which could be obtained in only three places in London, he was looking at a little note which Dolly had written to him; Dolly had a habit of writing little billets doux so that he received one when he did not expect to — and that pleased the simple part of his mind. He finished his tea, smoothed back his hair — what little he had was silky and light brown, turning grey discreetly and almost imperceptibly — and rang the bell for his second secretary, who was middle-aged and frighteningly efficient.
“Are there any more letters to sign, Miss Webb?”
“No.” She picked up the tray. “Have you finished?”
“Thank you — thank you, yes. Then I think I will go home, there isn’t likely to be anything else, is there?”
“I don’t think so,” said Miss Webb, whose hatchet face would have alarmed anyone who did not know her. “There’s this.”
She put a note on the desk, and whisked out.
It was a small note in a sealed envelope, and there was only Sammy’s name on the envelope. His smile faded, and he looked older. He frowned as he picked it up, and then slit the envelope open with a silver paper-knife.
There was a single fold of note-paper inside, and a few lines of writing; there was no address and no signature.
“Ross saw Tiger this afternoon. I don’t trust Tiger as far as I can see him.”
Sammy pursed his lips, and turned them into a little pink rosebud, screwed the note up and lit a corner of it, from a lighter. He held it until the flames threatened his fingers, then dropped it into an ash-tray and watched it burn until it was just a screw of charred paper. He put this into the waste-paper basket, where it broke into a hundred tiny pieces. He was still frowning — and it was not until he left his office and was visible to the girls and men in the outer offices, that the smile returned; no one would have said that he was in any way worried.
His black Daimler and his navy-blue-uniformed chauffeur were waiting for him outside.
“Home, sir?” asked the chauffeur.
