Hang The Little Man

by John Creasey

  JOHN CREASEY

  Hang The Little Man

  Copyright Note

  This e-book was revised by papachanjo. I only adjusted the formatting and corrected some errors.

  I am trying to create at least an ample collection of all the John Creasey books which are in the excess of 500 novels. Having read and possess just a meager 10 of his books does not qualify me to be a fan but the 10 I read were enough for me to rake up some effort to scan and create these e-books.

  If you happen to have any John Creasey book and would like to add to the free online collection which I’m hoping to bring together, you can do the following:

  Scan the book in greyscale

  Save as djvu - use the free DJVU SOLO software to compress the images

  Send it to my e-mail: papachanjo@rocketmail.com

  I’ll do the rest and will add a note of credit in the finished document.

  from back cover

  When an outbreak of small-shop robberies culminates in vicious murder, Superintendent West becomes convinced that an organised gang is at work—one whose leaders will stop at nothing in order to safeguard themselves.

  Can he convince his superiors, and intervene effectively before more lives are lost?

  Can he restrain a man intent on revenge, whose wife and unborn child have perished at the hands of the killers?

  More violence is to follow, and West himself is to run grave risk before the amazing truth is revealed

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Note

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  I

  EMPTY SHOP

  MABEL STONE put the electric iron down on its end, brushed back some damp hair from her forehead, and went slowly to the open window which overlooked the little back yard, the empty cartons standing by for collection when the next wholesalers’ delivery was made, the high brick wall, the narrow gateway which had no gate. Beyond the wall and the service passage behind it were the drab, smog-blackened houses of Brittle Street, each three storeys high, each with a slate roof, nearly all in need of painting.

  Mrs. Klein’s window box, nearly opposite this window, was the one bright spot, aflame with scarlet geraniums; that fat old German woman had a genius with flowers. Mabel did not think beyond that, but at the back of her mind she knew that Mrs. Klein had a genius for other things, too; for breaking down the enmity and hostility of her neighbours during the early days of the second world war, for instance. Mabel had been a child then, but she could remember the wailing of sirens and the frantic rush to the air raid shelters. Even more vividly she remembered one night when the whole neighbourhood had gathered outside Mrs. Klein’s, shouting, shaking fists, going wild with rage because someone said that she had shown a light to the German aeroplanes which had come to bomb London. Mrs Klein, like her husband, had been naturalised some time before the war began. She had lived down all the hatred, and now people liked her, and did many little kindnesses for her. She was in her seventies, had been widowed for over ten years, and everyone loved the colourful window boxes she had at the back as well as the front. She was sitting there at her open window, thinking about goodness know what, and her sharp old eyes must have caught a movement at Mabel Stone’s window, for she waved.

  Mabel, leaning out, waved back.

  She wished it wasn’t so hot, she wished Jim was back, she almost wished she wasn’t going to have the baby. Although it was certain now, she could still hardly believe it; nine married-but-childless years had led her and Jim to believe they were going to be barren. She brushed the damp hair out of her eyes again, and began to smile, because it was ludicrous to wish the baby wasn’t on the way; they were going to be so happy, so very, very happy.

  It was the heat.

  A stifling anticyclone had crept towards the British Isles a week ago, and was hovering over them; apart from one or two thunderstorms up and down the country, there had been blazing sun, fierce heat, and humid air which made movement an effort, and her body sticky. The only clean, clear thing in sight was the sky, so vivid a blue. A faint odour of wood smoke came from a garden some distance off, where garden clippings were being burned; that would be old Scrymegour— the man with the name she had never been able to pronounce, and still could not spell, although the Scrymegours had been customers here for at least forty years, since her parents had opened the shop. It was the only home she had ever known, and she had never consciously wanted a different one.

  Jim was almost the only man she had ever known, certainly the only one she had known in passion and with love. Yet when she had first met him, she had been nervous of him, with his cultured voice and his superior manners. There had been some mystery, perhaps even tragedy in his life, although he had never said so; had simply told her that his father had died, leaving his mother and him penniless. Both had had to work; he had been selling wholesale groceries—and had called here.

  Mabel could recall the glow in his eyes to this day; how he had stared at her.

  He was out with the afternoon deliveries, and should be back by half past five; closing time. It was now just after five o’clock. The heat kept casual customers away, a lot of shopping was done by telephone these days anyhow, and no one had been in the shop for at least a quarter of an hour. Thursday was the dead, dull day of the week. Tomorrow the people from the near neighbourhood would come in, starting in the morning with the children bringing their mothers’ orders on the way to school.

  With the baby, of course, they would have to have more help, and in a way that wouldn’t be a bad thing. Thursday was the only day she spent here on her own; they had a girl assistant for the rest of the week, but she wouldn’t be any use on her own. Jim had to be out much of the time, collecting orders from further afield, and delivering; but they could afford help. If Jim had a fault, it was being too tight with money. He had a dread of growing old without having plenty of capital by him; perhaps a legacy of his father’s tragedy.

  In a way, Mabel thought that he was more happy about the baby even than she; he certainly intended to skimp nothing that was needed for mother and child. Bless him! How she wished he would step in now.

  She heard the shop door bell ring, faintly.

  She waited for the louder, clanging note which should follow that first sound, but it did not come.

  She stood up quickly, forgetting the heat and the recent habit of clumsiness, for she was suddenly angry. The bell would only ring on a muted note if someone was stopping it from ringing—and she was almost sure who it was. Some of the older, taller children of the neighbourhood, the little devils, would sometimes sneak in, stretch over the counter for chocolate bars or wrapped sweets, and try to creep out without being noticed. She knew at least two whom she would soon have to report to their parents; but experience had taught Mabel Stone that parents were often angry about their children being “accused”.

  Mabel took two quick steps towards the half-closed door which led into the shop. The door should be wide open, but it always swung a little, and she had forgotten to prop it back. She heard a movement, and at the same time, realised that she mustn’t let the sneak thieves know she was approaching; she wanted to see who it was, but if they had the slightest warning they would run off before she could be sure. So she tip-toed towards the door. There were faint, furtive mo
vements in the shop. She came within sight of the rows of canned fruit on the crowded shelves; every inch of space was used in this little gold-mine.

  Mabel saw a slim figure, of a boy or a man wearing a dark jacket; but he wasn’t simply stretching over the counter for easy-come chocolate and sweets, he was behind the counter, at the till. She heard a faint sliding noise, as the drawer opened, and realised that he had managed to stop the till bell from ringing, too. Her heart began to beat fast. The telephone was just inside the shop, so that they could answer it from the living-room when they were closed, and the possibility of dialling 999 sprang into her mind. It hovered. She stepped a little further into the shop itself, and saw the thief at the till, with his back towards her. He wasn’t very tall, but was much more than a schoolboy. She saw him bring his hand from the till and thrust it into his pocket, and saw the crumpled pound and ten shilling notes. She could not stop herself from exclaiming :

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  At the first sound, he spun round, turning his small, lean, leathery face towards her. His thin lips were parted. She did not like the look of him. There was something vicious about his appearance; his very expression frightened her. Her lips began to quiver, and now she had to make herself say:

  “P-put that money back.”

  She was close to the telephone, and moved her right hand towards it, but she was really too frightened to know what she was doing. The man was only a few feet away from her, glaring but unmoving. She lifted the telephone, and heard the faint ting! of the bell. As it came, she saw the man’s right hand move swiftly. He snatched a tin of golden syrup from a pyramid on the counter, and with a movement so quick that she did not realise what he was going to do, he hurled the tin at her.

  She felt a wild spasm of fear and thrust her hands up, to protect her face; but she was just too late. The heavy tin smashed into her right cheek. The pain was so awful that she could not even scream. Pain and terror drove away all thought of everything else, and tears of pain almost blinded her, but she caught a sight of the man leaping towards her. He was holding something else in his right hand, high above his head.

  “No!” she gasped. “No!”

  But he brought another tin down upon her head.

  Jim Stone was whistling as he came away from Mrs. Jackson’s, in Brittle Street, for hers was the last delivery of the day. He had been up to old Mrs. Klein already, and she had told him that his wife had been sitting at the living-room window. In her heavily accented voice, Mrs. Klein had asked:

  “How iss she, Mr. Stone! She will be all right with the baby?”

  “She’s fine,” Jim had assured her. “But it won’t be for another three months yet.”

  “T’ree months, such a long time, such a short time.” Mrs. Klein had a face so criss-crossed with lines that it looked like a mummy’s, and her little eyes were bright and buried. “You look after her, Mr. Stone, your wife is a good, nice woman.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Jim had said, and laughed, and put the carton of groceries down in Mrs. Klein’s kitchen. He noticed the small bar of chocolate which Mabel had pushed into the side; that was a habit of Mabel’s with old customers and people of whom she was fond. If Mabel had a fault, it was being too free with money; and her parents had been the same. But who was he to grumble?

  Mrs. Jackson was a middle-aged woman who had recently broken her leg, hence the delivery so close to the shop. He had no time for the big, flabby woman, and was glad that she hadn’t wanted to talk. Now, whistling, he got into the Ford delivery van, with the wording on the sides reading:

  M. & J. Stone Grocers—Provisions.

  Personal Service

  painted in white on a red background. The van was immaculate inside and out; he and Mabel had cherished it as if it were a private car.

  He switched on the engine, let in the clutch and eased the car into gear, then drove briskly but cautiously towards the corner. As he reached it, stopping to look both ways with extreme caution, he saw a man appear from the corner of Kemp Road—his road. This man glanced up and down, and then turned in the other direction and hurried away. This was peculiar, because only children hurried in heat like this. No one else was in sight, as it was a dead hour in the late afternoon, and Jim had time to watch the hurrying man, to see the way he looked over his shoulder as if he were afraid of being followed.

  “Bit of an odd customer,” he decided, and at once slowed down for his own corner, forgetting the man. He turned into Kemp Road, whistling again. His shop was on the far side. In the bright sunlight, the red of the fascia board looked dazzling, and the white lettering, in the same style as that on the van, stood out clearly. The door was closed and the blind down, just as the blind of the large window facing the street was down, to keep the shop cool in the slanting rays of the sun.

  As Stone turned the corner of Middleton Street, a side turning off Kemp Road, he saw that the usual sign, reading Open by day, had been turned round, so that the Closed notice showed. At once he was full of alarm. Mabel couldn’t be feeling well or she wouldn’t have closed the shop; it was the heat, she had been complaining about it for days—Oh, gosh, Mabel was all right, wasn’t she?

  Instead of slowing down and turning into the service passage cautiously, Stone jammed on the brakes and jumped down; turning the van into the yard was a real work of art, and needed time. He saw no one as he ran along the passage, and was only subconsciously aware of the splash of red at Mrs. Klein’s front window box. He swung round through the gateway—the gate had been removed so that the van could be taken in and out—and rushed to the back door. It was closed. The window was wide open, though, and he looked through into the small back room, with its two armchairs, the television set, a radio, some wooden chairs. He saw the ironing board in position and the iron standing on end, with a pile of folded clothes, looking fresh and brightly clean, at one end.

  “She’s overdone it, of course, in spite of all I’ve said to her,” Jim said sotto voce, as he thrust open the back door. “Mabel! Are you all right?” he called, and fully expected an answer.

  He didn’t get one.

  It did not occur to him to go into the shop first. The fact that Mabel had put the Closed sign in position seemed to mean that she wasn’t there; the door had swung to, anyhow. Another doorway from the small room led to the stairs, and he raced up these, elbows brushing the walls on either side, and called with increasing anxiety:

  “Mabel, are you all right? Mabel!”

  There was still no answer; and the bedroom was empty. Stone stood looking at the double bed, with the pale pink bedspread, the matching basket-weave chair and bedside table, feeling a little stupid. She must have gone out, then; but why should she? He had never known her to close the shop before. He ought to have taken it easier; there was probably a note downstairs, explaining everything. He glanced into the small spare room, soon to be the nursery, into the bathroom and the store room where stocks of dry goods were kept; if he could get an extra 1 per cent discount for taking quantity, he liked to cram the goods into stock. Prices were going up, up, up all the time.

  He went more slowly down the stairs, calling “Mabel!” half-heartedly when he entered the living-room. There was no note anywhere, and he stepped towards the shop door and opened it. As he did so, he trod on something slippery, regained his balance, and glanced down. He saw a red smear on the polished linoleum. It looked rather as if Mabel had upset something—probably tomato sauce. Perhaps she had an accident in the shop, stretching up to get something off a high shelf. She mustn’t take risks like that.

  He pulled open the door, and saw her lying between the crowded shelves and the counter.

  II

  SUPERINTENDENT WEST

  ROGER WEST was in his office at New Scotland Yard overlooking the Embankment a little before six-thirty that evening. He was alone, his coat was off, his collar undone, his forehead shiny with sweat. The two windows were open as wide as they could be, but there was no hint of a br
eeze even off the Thames, which looked like a sheet of glass. Traffic noises sounded loud and urgent, as if every driver was suffering from frustration, and patience was wearing thin in unfamiliar heat.

  West was signing letters. The night staff would make sure that they were taken in time to catch the night’s post, and five minutes should see him away from here. He wasn’t quite sure whether to look forward to the evening or not. The lawns at his Chelsea home needed cutting, his wife would try to keep him up to a promise to do them tonight, and he would try to persuade her that such exercise was too strenuous. At any other time he would have given the job to his two teenage sons, but they were away on some school camp or other, in North Wales, and wouldn’t be back until Sunday.

  One of the two telephones on his desk rang.

  He looked at it, without enthusiasm; this could be just a formality, or could be one of the exasperating major jobs which occasionally came at this kind of awkward hour. What he would like would be some kind of a riverside inquiry, out at Richmond or Twickenham, say. He grinned, and lifted the receiver.

  “West speaking.”

  “Mrs. West is on the line, sir.”

  He thought at once: “Trouble with the boys,” and momentarily held his breath. Then he said: “Put her through,” and told himself that he was being absurd; why shouldn’t Janet ring now? But it was an odd time for her to call, for she would be expecting him home any minute. Perhaps she wanted to hurry him.

  “Roger, dear,” Janet greeted, and immediately his fears faded; her tone was sufficiently ingratiating to tell him that this was a request call.

  “Janet, darling,” he cooed.

  Janet laughed.

  “Do I sound as obvious as that?”

  “Yes, dear, just as obvious as that.”

  “The trouble with you is that you’re too clever by half,” protested Janet, but she was still laughing. “Are you coming straight home?”