by John Creasey
“Roger West,” Roger said.
“If it’s the Yard, tell them no,” whispered Janet.
“Yes, speaking,” said Roger; and then Janet saw his expression change, and could tell that this was a job which really affected him. “Where?” he asked, and slipped a pencil out of a drawer on the telephone table and began to write. “Yes, I’ve got it. How is she . . .? Yes, of course. . . . Yes, I’ll ring him.” He rang off, studied the address, and said in an aside to Janet: “Do you know that shop at the corner of Ashley and Kebble Streets—Marsh’s?”
“I know there’s one there,” Janet said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in it, but I think it’s where a woman was badly injured in a car accident, and her husband died. Something like that. She was crippled, too.”
“And now she’s at death’s door,” Roger said.
“A—shop robbery?”
Roger was dialling Dan Appleby’s number; and he nodded.
Janet said, in a husky voice: “Somehow it never seems real when you read about it in the papers, but when it happens so
near at hand—” She broke off, as Richard appeared at one
door and Scoopy at the other, both intensely interested.
“Got a nasty job, Dad?” inquired Richard.
“There’s been a shop robbery in Chelsea, and the woman is badly hurt,” Janet said. “Don’t worry your father, now.” She got up, and each of them came in and took something off the table and went into the kitchen. Roger was talking. “It’s a shop in Ashley Street, or—”
“Marsh’s?” exclaimed Scoopy.
“Yes.”
“Not old Ma Marsh,” Richard said, in a shocked voice. “Why, that’s where—” he broke off.
“A lot of us go there for our tuck. It’s not far from the school, and—well, one of the sons used to be at the Comprehensive School,” said Scoop. “Good Lord. What swine these chaps are.”
They heard the telephone ting, as Roger finished. Janet said: “Stay here,” and went to the door. They watched her as she disappeared, and heard her say:
“Are you going, darling?”
“Must do.”
“I expect you’ll be late,” Janet said. “At least you’ve had supper.”
“Dad!” called Richard. “Shall I go and open the garage door?”
IX
CERTAINTY
“THE game old duck,” said Dan Appleby. “So she sprayed him with a good corrosive.” He was standing near the place from which Mrs. Marsh had thrown the bottle, and watching the Divisional and the Yard men at work. “What have you done, Handsome?”
“Alerted all London for a man splashed with the acid,” Roger said. “It shouldn’t be long before we pick him up. I’ve told all hospitals, all doctors are being telephoned, and unless he finds a doctor who’ll patch him up without saying anything, we should have news within an hour. From what I’ve been able to see of the amount that came out of the bottle, he must be in a bad way.”
“Full bottle, broken,” said Appleby. “Shattered, in fact.” He looked down at the thick brown glass, the bottom of the bottle, which had only an inch of dark brown liquid in it. His gaze travelled round to the shelves and to the floor. “You’ll be doing me out of a job, soon,” he said. “Not much on the floor, not much on the shelves—he must have been smothered with the stuff.” He stepped over some broken glass, and looked at a spot on a shelf at about chest level. “See that lot?”
“Looks to me as if he defended himself with a bottle at about face level,” Roger reasoned. “That’s the place you would try to protect. The acid went over him but a good heavy splash reached there.” He pointed to the spot which Dan Appleby was already contemplating.
“Looks to me as if it went fairly straight,” said Appleby. “See that dent in the tin of Golden Syrup? Fancy coming across that stuff again. Where the rounded edge of the bottle struck the tin, no scratch or jag marks, just a dent. How’s the injured woman?”
“They think she’ll pull through,” Roger said. “Will you let me know what you think, when you’ve seen her?”
“Right away,” promised Appleby. “And let me know when you’ve found the chap.”
That night Adam Gantry was paying for all the viciousness, all the devilry, all the sadism, which was in his nature, for not only was the back of his right hand a terrible mass of acid burns, but his right cheek had a big blistering burn in it, which seemed to be eating right through to the other side, to his mouth. There were also spots of burning all over his face and wrists, a smear on his forehead, and a tiny spot which was excruciatingly painful in the corner of his left eye.
He staggered out of the Marsh shop, mouth wide open, taking in great gulps of air. His one good eye was all right, and he saw that the street was empty. He turned the corner. His motor-scooter was parked where he had left it, the light still on. He staggered towards it, sat astride, and started the engine; it ticked over at once. He did not think consciously about the danger of driving in his condition, all he realised was that he had to get away from the spot, and had to get a doctor. There was one, Carmody, who worked for the gang; if he could only reach Carmody he would be all right.
He swerved round the corner. A motorist’s horn blared at him. He reached the main road and turned into it more cautiously. He must get over the river, drive to Lambeth, then on to the Old Kent Road, where Carmody lived. All he could think about was the pain and the doctor. Carmody, Carmody, Carmody.
Wind bit at the burns on his face, and his whole head seemed to be afire. He did not think he could get as far as Carmody’s place. Then—then he must have help. What did you do with acid burns? He had used nearly every kind of weapon, every kind of brutality, but not acid. What did one do for acid? He turned right and then left, and found himself on the Embankment. The shadowy figure of a policeman loomed up, and he slowed down a little, gasping, trying to be sure that he did not attract the man’s attention. He passed. What did one do for acid?
He saw a telephone kiosk, its light on, not far away; at a corner. There was little traffic. Gasping in his agony, he stopped the machine and propped it up against the kerb, then staggered towards the telephone booth. He pulled it open, and stepped inside. He put his left hand, the uninjured hand, to his trousers pocket, and had to move the coat aside; as he touched his coat the tip of his forefinger began to burn. He snatched it away, realising that there was acid on his coat. He was sobbing. He managed to drag out four coppers, got them into the slot, and with the middle finger of his right hand dialled the number he knew, the contact number for serious trouble: Whitechapel 84312. Once his finger slipped, and he was terrified in case he should have to do it all over again, but he heard the ringing sound.
A man said: “This is Fats.”
“Fats,” Gantry gasped. “Fats, I—I’m burned bad. Acid. I gotta see Carmody. I’m burned bad. It’s awful, God, it’s awful. I—”
“I’ll get Carmody for you,” the man at the other end of the telephone said quickly and crisply. “Where are you?”
“Chelsea—Embankment. Fats, it’s awful.”
“Yes, but where?”
Cars were passing, there were a few lights on the other side of the river, a boy and a girl walked by, arm-in-arm. Through the kiosk windows on his left Gantry saw a red sign: The Tug.
“Adam, are you there?” demanded the man named Fats sharply.
“There’s—a pub. The Tug,” Gantry muttered. “Just along—just along from here.”
“Okay, Adam,” Fats said. “You go to that pub. I know it. There’s a parking yard, just behind it. You go and wait there, get behind a car. I won’t be long.”
“You—you won’t—be, will you?” Gantry muttered. “My face is awful. Awful.”
“See if you can find some water in the parking place, and rinse your face. That’ll help,” advised Fats. “Don’t rub it, just rinse it.”
“O—okay, Fats. You won’t be long, will—will you?”
“I’ll see that Carmody gets th
ere nearly as soon as you do,” promised Fats.
Gantry hung up; even that was an effort. He moved out of the kiosk, missed a step, and saw the red sign, The Tug, between the dark-leafed branches of some trees. He swayed. A couple approaching gave him a wide berth, but he did not realise that they thought he was drunk. He saw the pub across a narrow road, near an intersection where several roads met. He drew himself upright as the breeze tortured his cheeks and his hand; the fingertip was burning terribly. He reached the kerb, crossed it, and saw three people come out of the pub, two of them laughing. They walked off, without noticing him. He saw the entrance to the car park, and staggered towards it; if anyone saw him, they took no notice.
He crossed the road and went into the car park, which was lit by a single low wattage lamp, where moths and insects flew in fluttering panic. A dozen cars were in here—and he saw a water tap in a corner, with a hose snaking from it. He could not get there fast enough. His face, his hands, his body now seemed afire. He hardly remembered what had happened. He bent over the tap, wrenched the hose off, turned the tap full on and held his hands beneath it, cupping them. He splashed water over his face and neck, and it brought a blessed coolness which lasted for a few seconds, so wonderful that he could hardly realise that the pain had been so bad. He kept on splashing. Hands, arms, face, neck—if he could only keep the coolness of the water on them he would be all right. He had to.
The water splashed and squirted over his trousers and his shoes. He turned the tap down a little, but pain surged back. He couldn’t keep on splashing, he just couldn’t. He couldn’t keep on his feet, either. He felt his knees buckle, sat down heavily, and discovered that it was easier this way. His head ached less. If he could he under that tap—that was it, if he could lie under that tap, let it run all over him like a shower, it would bring relief all the time, and he would not need to move. He lowered himself to one side, then on to his back, and his back didn’t hurt. He hitched himself forward so that the water splashed on to his chin, and he raised his hands so that it sprayed them, too.
He was still in pain, but it was no longer agony, and soon Dr. Carmody would come. There would be no trouble, then. Carmody. Fats wouldn’t keep him waiting for long. Fats was a good sort, Fats was. Fats, Carmody. Fats, Carmody.
He saw movement and heard footsteps, opened his eyes but could not see at first because there was such a blur of water in them. Then a man appeared as a misty figure, kneeling down beside him.
“Doc,” he muttered. “That you, Doc?”
“It’s okay, Adam,” said the man named Fats. He was the fattish man who had frightened Ruth Endicott. “You don’t have anything more to worry about. Tell me where it hurts.” He bent closer, and there was a click of sound, but Adam Gantry did not realise that it was the click of a flick-knife, and he did not see the shimmering blade.
“My face,” he muttered. “That eye. My face—”
“Okay, Adam,” Fats said. “Forget it now.”
Gantry felt a sudden sharp searing pain in his breast, near the heart. He did not know what had happened, he did not know that the man he had thought would rescue him had murdered him.
Roger was at Marsh’s shop when a man came in from the street, a plain-clothes constable from the Division, young enough to show his excitement. He was thin and lanky, and anything but a “typical” policeman.
It was a little before half past ten. Roger had finished all he could do here, and Appleby had been gone for an hour. The other Marshes had been brought back from the cinema where they had gone for the evening, and were shocked and horrified. Now and again Marsh would say: “It’s not safe to be in a shop alone—it’s not safe. No one cares about the little man, these days, either. The big shops are all right, but the little man . . .”
Roger said to the Detective Constable: “What’s making you so happy, Owen?”
“Just had a flash from the Yard, sir, over the radio,” the Detective Constable said eagerly. “They’ve found a man with his face badly burnt, proper mess according to the reports. And that’s not all.” He did not have the sense to see that Roger was already annoyed by his manner. “Stabbed to death, too.”
He broke off, half grinning.
Roger said roughly: “And that’s funny? Where is he?”
“I didn’t wait to hear—”
“Well go and find out!” roared Roger. “Don’t come to me again with half a story!” He watched the man swing round and hurry out, glared, and muttered: “God knows what we’re getting in the C.I.D. these days.” One of the Yard’s Fingerprint men shook his head with mock dismay and a Chelsea Divisional Inspector said: “Go a bit easy with Cyril Owen, Mr. West, will you?”
“Why?” asked Roger.
“He’s as keen as they come,” the D.I. said. “We don’t get many like him these days, and he ought to go a long way. He knows London inside out—he’s spent his holidays cycling all over the city ever since he was at school. Be a pity to smack him down too hard, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Roger said: “I’m glad to know.” He leaned against a counter, hand touching some packets of breakfast cereal, thinking that this must be the final evidence he needed; if the man who had attacked Mrs. Marsh had been murdered to stop him from talking, then there was no longer any doubt about an organised campaign. All his superiors would have to concede its certainty, now, and he would surely get the job of investigating.
It was a hell of a job, too.
Marsh, a small, grey-haired, mild-looking man was saying from the doorway:
“It just isn’t safe anywhere these days; they ought to do something about it. What with one thing and another, the little man’s finished. That’s the truth of it, no one cares about the little man.”
Roger fought back the impulse to say: “We’ll find this devil.” There was a lot to do, and talk wouldn’t help to get it done. Poor little Violet Marsh, legless but so brave, and close to death again; and this little grey-haired man with a mild-mannered wife who said little but was so scared—as was every shop keeper whoever had to be alone in his shop.
How could they all be protected?
In spite of the big chain stores, there were tens of thousands of little men, up and down the country, thousands in London alone—people who preferred their independence to a safe job and steady money.
The Divisional Detective Constable came back, this time frowning as if with bad news, punctilious in the way he drew up before Roger, and obviously worried.
“Well?” Roger asked mildly.
“The body was found in the parking place of a public house, The Tug, in Quay Street near the Chelsea Embankment, sir. The Division has already taken over, much to the annoyance of a dozen people who have their cars there.”
“We want them questioned, and then we’ll send ‘em home.” Roger looked round again, and went on to the Divisional Detective Inspector who would be in charge: “If anything else crops up here, let me know at the Tug.”
“O.K., Mr. West,” the Divisional man said, and Roger went to the door. The Divisional Constable opened it smartly. They stepped outside, and the man stepped briskly to Roger’s car and opened the door.
“Get in on the other side,” Roger ordered. “Been in the C.I.D. for long?”
“Five days, sir.”
“Well, it didn’t take you long to learn that when you talk to a Detective Superintendent you don’t have to find death funny.”
“It won’t happen again, sir.” When Roger didn’t comment, but started the engine, Owen ventured to continue: “Very ugly business, isn’t it?”
“It’s going to mean a lot of overtime before it’s finished,” Roger said. “You’d better warn your girl friend.”
There were no distinguishing marks on the dead man’s clothes, but there was a curious fatty odour about his coat sleeves, and Roger thought, vaguely, of bacon fat. He couldn’t identify it for certain, but was vindicated next day. Among the oddments in the pocket, caught in a hole in the lining, was a little
shell—a winkle shell. No one saw any significance in that.
Identification was made by a little old woman, dry-eyed, leathery-skinned, who claimed that this was her son, and claimed also that she did not know anything about his spare-time movements, only that he had a temporary job as a bacon hand at a Cockell shop nearby. A “Cockell” shop was becoming a byword, for Cockell’s was a chain of supermarkets opening new stores all over London.
Roger went to see the shop manager. Everything from packaged goods to bacon and milk was sold, and it was a self-service establishment, with the goods displayed for easy handling, and three girl cashiers sitting by their adding machines near the exit. The manager, an elderly man named Pearson, led Roger past dozens of customers who were selecting goods and dropping them into their little baskets.
“Gantry,” he said, when they were in his office. “Sit down, Superintendent, do. Gantry—well, I didn’t want to employ him. I didn’t trust him, as a matter of fact. I knew him in the days when I owned this shop. Couldn’t rely on him not to help himself out of the till, but—well, it’s not so easy to fiddle the money in these stores, that’s one advantage since we were taken over. Everything’s so ruthlessly efficient, the little man doesn’t get a chance.”
He was echoing Marsh’s words, and Roger murmured sympathetic understanding.
“And I will say this, Gantry was a good judge of bacon, and a good bacon cutter, although it was the devil’s own job to make him wear his white coat. I took him on against my better judgement. We’re very short-handed, and it’s not easy to turn a man down. But Gantry—well, what a way to end up.”
“After robbing a little grocery shop,” Roger remarked.
“I always suspected that he took stuff off my shelves,” the manager said. “If he did, he must have known where to dispose of it, Mr. West. But as for who he sold to—I just don’t know. If I’d followed my nose, I’d have fired him weeks ago, but—well, it’s no use pretending, you must have staff. I do hope the woman he attacked will recover.”
“The one good thing is that Mrs. Marsh will get over it,” Appleby told Roger, the following evening. “Don’t know what her mental outlook will be like, but physically she’ll recover. Persuaded the Commander that this is organised yet?”
