Hang The Little Man

by John Creasey

  Bella wheeled the machine close to the policeman, and without getting off she said:

  “Take this note and telephone it to Scotland Yard, will you? To Mr. West or Miss Winstanley. Better do it through the Information Room.”

  She handed the surprised constable the written message and drove off, approaching Brasher’s Row from yet another direction. As she drew near it, she saw the Austin car drawn up close to the corner; beyond it, a woman was walking. She recognised Mrs. Endicott, who disappeared into the White-chapel Road just beyond a builder’s yard where stores of sand, gravel, cement and timber were kept. As she vanished, the two men got out of the Austin car and walked into Brasher’s Row.

  Three minutes later, Bella Dawson saw them go into number 37; she wasn’t sure, but believed that they used a key. She went back and took up a position just inside the builder’s yard.

  She could see number 37, and be sure when anyone came out. Her excitement and anxiety had reached its height, and as she had sent a message to the Yard, the obvious thing was to wait and see what happened next.

  The plump man who had driven the car before came out of Mrs. Endicott’s place, walked to the car, and drove it back into Brasher’s Row. Bella had an impression that everything he did was carefully calculated; like the shop robberies. Now and again she left her hiding place and looked up and down the several streets, half expecting to see plain-clothes men, but no one came, and she felt no sense of urgency. It would probably be wiser for the Yard to have these men followed, not tackled when they were here. The builder’s yard was a godsend.

  She bobbed down behind the brieze block fence when she saw Ruth Endicott coming along, waited until the woman had turned the corner into Brasher’s Row, went to the corner and watched her go indoors.

  She was going to have a shock.

  Bella said uneasily: “I don’t know whether I ought to leave her or not. She might be in bad trouble.”

  The policewoman was out of her depth, partly because of her awareness of the first failure. Quite suddenly she decided that she must not leave the Endicott woman alone any longer. The men involved in this case were ruthless killers. If they murdered Ruth Endicott, it would be on her, Bella Dawson’s, conscience for a long time. She made up her mind what to do; tell the first man or woman who came along to telephone the police for urgent help, and then go to Number 37.

  She stepped out of the entrance of the builder’s yard, and saw a man coming from the Whitechapel Road; she didn’t greatly like the look of him, but he would have to do. She didn’t need to give him a message; all he had to do was make sure that the Division sent men round to 37 Brasher’s Row.

  “Will you please—?” she began.

  It was something in the man’s eyes which warned her of impending trouble, and on that instant she was ready for it— but she wasn’t ready for the man who came vaulting over the builder’s yard wall behind her. She snatched at her whistle, tucked inside the waistband of her tight pants, but before she could get it out, the man behind hooked her legs from under her and the man in front struck her on the side of the head with a piece of iron bar. The side of the helmet saved her, but she felt herself picked up, one man carrying her arms, the other her ankles, sensed that she was being taken deep into the yard. She tried to cry out for help, but her throat seemed to close on itself. She felt herself being swung to and fro, as if she were the third person in an acrobatic trio. One man holding her ankles, the other her wrists, they swung her higher and higher.

  Her breath seemed to be trapped in her throat. She was gasping, fighting, choking for breath. There was nothing she could do to stop this or to save herself. She had the awful fear that at any moment they would let her go, and send her crashing on to the ground or against the wall.

  She heard a man say: “On three.”

  “Okay.”

  No, no, no!

  “One,” the first man said, and now she felt herself being swung even higher, and it seemed as if the men were making the final effort to hurl her as far as they could.

  “Two.”

  The pressure was agonising at her throat, her head was whirling, her ears throbbing. She just heard:

  “Three!”

  Then they let her go. She felt the relaxation of the pressure at her wrists and ankles, felt herself sailing through the air, dreaded the thought of crashing into brick or cement, so that her whole body would be crushed. Then she thudded against something which hurt, and yet did not crush or break her. She didn’t know what it was until something small and gritty got into her mouth, and she realised that they had flung her against a heap of sand. She lay spread-eagled, head stabbing with pain, ears throbbing, heart pounding, body twitching spasmodically.

  Then she felt a single heavy blow on the back of her neck, and lost consciousness.

  She did not know what followed; did not know that the two men were shovelling the sand, and burying her in it.

  The police constable who had taken the message from the motor-cyclist wasn’t altogether surprised, for he knew there was a lot of plain-clothes activity in the neighbourhood. But he soon had other problems. Two private cars and a lorry, all driven by impatient drivers, got into a tangle. Two front wings and some headlamps were smashed, and the accident put the traffic into a greater tangle than ever. The constable spent fifteen minutes helping to sort it out, but took the first opportunity to go to his nearest police box and telephone the Division.

  “All right, Cartwright,” said the sergeant he talked to. “I’ll pass it on. It’s for Superintendent West or that woman Winstanley, you say?”

  “That’s what the girl on the scooter said, sir.”

  “Right. Now, what’s the message?” The police constable read the message slowly and with great deliberation:

  Message from D. S. Dawson, C.I.D. S.Yrd. Reason to believe grocer Simpson corner Brasher’s Row and Liberty Street is James Stone of Clapham. Also reason to believe two men very interested in Endicott widow. Do not recognise either men but one is the type involved in shop raids. Earlier today I saw both men in Cockell’s Stores, White-chapel Road, in assistants’ white jackets. They were last seen in dark blue 1959 Austin Cambridge saloon registration number 21JB35.

  Roger West was not in his office when the message arrived, and his sergeant had been sent out on an urgent job. Chief Inspector Winstanley was having a late lunch. The Inspector in charge of the Information Room pondered on the best thing to do; he knew West too well to do nothing, but was anxious not to take precipitate action.

  “I know what I’ll do,” he decided, and wrote out an instruction, then handed it to one of the teletype operators. It read:

  Watch for and report position of dark blue Austin Cambridge 1959 model. Registration number 21JB35.

  XX

  S.O.S.

  ROGER came into his office a little after three o’clock, eased his collar and loosened his tie, and looked across at the sergeant’s deserted desk. Holidays meant a lot of dislocation at the Yard and the concentration on the Shop Robberies job had not helped. He sat at his own desk, dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief which looked grubby, and thought fleetingly that if Janet knew he had come without a clean one, she would read him the riot act. “Reading the riot act” reminded him of the woman sergeant, Dawson, and he grinned. Ethel Winstanley had told him that her Bella was spending most of her off-duty time in the Brasher’s Row area, and if she discovered the truth about Stone alias Simpson she would probably regard it as a triumph.

  Then he saw her message; the third one on the pile. He read it once, and then more thoroughly. Before he had finished, he lifted a telephone and asked for Information.

  “Who took the message from Bella Dawson?” he demanded.

  “It came through Charlie Baker’s uniformed boys,” Information told him.

  “Any news of that Austin?”

  “Eight or nine reports in, so far. It’s been going East, last seen on the borders of Epping Forest.”

  “Who’s in it?�
�

  Information said: “Half a mo’.”

  Roger waited, skimming through some of the other messages. There had been no more reports of shop burglaries, and nothing else to help trace the stolen goods. The total cash loot was higher than he had anticipated, nearly nine thousand pounds. The cigarette losses came to a little under four thousand; it was big business as well as big crime. He began to feel impatient, when Information came on again.

  “Four reports say there were two men and a girl, the other reports don’t mention the occupants, just the car. There’s a report just coming over the teletype, skipper. Like to hold on?”

  “Yes,” said Roger. He thought: “Two men and a girl.” There was an obvious possibility that the girl was Ruth Endicott, but that was wild guessing.

  He saw the time of the first message from Bella Dawson— twelve-forty-five. Why hadn’t she reported again? That was over two hours ago. He lifted up another telephone, said: “Get me Mr. Baker of Whitechapel,” and sat with a receiver at each ear.

  “You there?” Excitement quickened the Information man’s voice when he spoke again.

  “What is it?”

  “That car’s been traced to a house called Forest Ley, the home of the late Llewellyn Cockell,” Information said. “Cockell’s widow owns it, and a man named Slessor lives there.”

  Roger said: “Good God!”

  “My sentiments exactly! An Epping copper saw it turning into the drive, no doubt about it. According to this he telephoned his station within five minutes of seeing it, and the car’s still there.”

  “Right,” said Roger. “It might mean a lot or it might be a false scent, but we’ll assume that it means business. Have Forest Ley covered—better have the whole approach area cordoned off, and station a few plain-clothes men within easy reach of the house. But don’t take any other action yet, and don’t let anything happen to make Slessor think we’re interested.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll want a report before I leave here, too, say in ten minutes, and reports all the way to Epping.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going there?”

  “Just concentrate on those reports,” Roger ordered. He rang off and hoped that Charlie Baker would not come on too soon; he needed time to think. Cockell’s stores were all over London and Southern England, all on supermarket lines, like the one in the Whitechapel Road. Mrs. Stone managed the hostel where many of the London staff lived.

  Mrs. Stone-Charlie Baker’s Cockney voice sounded in his ear, and Roger wrenched his thoughts off Mrs. Stone.

  “Charlie, has Bella Dawson reported again?”

  Baker didn’t answer.

  “You there, Charlie?” Roger demanded sharply. He was in no mood to be patient.

  Baker said: “Yes, I’m here. Had a hell of a kick in the pants, Handsome. No, she hasn’t reported. Won’t ever report again, either.”

  Roger felt his heart begin to beat very fast.

  “Now what’s happened?”

  “Her body was found only ten minutes ago, buried in sand at a builder’s yard. A lorry driver went to pick up a load of sand, and found her. She’d been knocked on the head. Our divisional surgeon’s with her now.”

  Roger didn’t speak; he knew exactly how Baker had felt when he had first come on the line.

  Baker said painfully: “Done anything about that dark blue Austin?”

  “Yes, we’ve traced it,” Roger answered. “To Slessor, the chain-store man. Send round to Ruth Endicott’s place, and check there—break in if you have to—on the ground that we believe the woman might have been injured. Better pick up the man Stone, and see what he can tell us. Have Mrs. Stone watched, at her hostel. I’ll be at Brasher’s Row in about half an hour—on my way out to Epping.”

  “Right,” Baker said.

  Roger rang off, paused for a moment, lifted the telephone again, and put in a call to the cycle shop at Whitechapel Road. It was a long time coming through. He called the Commander on the other line, and reported briefly; as he rang off, a woman came on the first telephone.

  “It’s Walsh’s Cycles, here.”

  “I’m sorry to worry you,” Roger said, “but I need to speak to Mr. Orde, urgently. Is he there, please?”

  “Well, yes, he’s in the workshop,” the woman said. “But—”

  “I wonder if you’ll give him a message,” said Roger, for time began to worry him. “Ask him if he’ll meet me, my name is West, at 37 Brasher’s Row in about twenty minutes time.”

  “But—but he’s working on a rush repair. He—”

  “I’m Superintendent West of New Scotland Yard, Mrs. Walsh, and need to talk to Orde urgently.”

  “All right, sir,” the woman capitulated. “I’ll tell him.”

  “Thanks very much,” Roger said. He stood up, fastened his collar, snatched his hat off a stand, and went out. He put his head round the door of the nearest sergeants’ room, and said: “Will someone let Information and the Commander know that I’m going to Brasher’s Row, and then out to Epping? We’re interested in a house called Forest Ley.”

  A chorus of “Yes, sirs,” came after him.

  He hurried down into the yard, took his car, and swung out on to the Embankment, his box beside him, his mood as black as it could be. Despite the news about Slessor, of Cockell’s, he could not concentrate on that angle, but kept seeing mind pictures of Bella Dawson, with her clear skin and snub nose, and the twinkle that had seemed to lurk in her eyes. The girl couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or six, and she was smart or she wouldn’t have reached sergeant’s rank.

  Roger flicked on his telephone.

  “Send a message to Dr. Appleby for me,” he told Information. “If he can examine the body at the builder’s yard at Whitechapel Road, I’ll be grateful.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “Thanks,” Roger grunted. He rang off, and concentrated on driving. It was one of those afternoons when traffic was fairly clear, and when traffic lights seemed to work especially for him. He went via Tower Hill, not the Bank, and once in Aldgate, he saw two of Cockell’s stores, with the clear lettering, the big display windows, the wire baskets, the cashiers at their little counters.

  Then he thought, almost absurdly: “Cockleshells all in a row.” The line from the old nursery rhyme seemed to strike with painful force. Cockell—Cockle shells. Shells, shells, shells!

  He was approaching the junction of Whitechapel Road and Mile End Road when his radio picked up:

  “Calling Superintendent West—calling Superintendent West. Over.”

  “West here,” Roger said. “West answering. Over.”

  “Information calling, sir. The cordon has been put round Forest Ley, and the Austin car is still in the drive of the house. Mrs. Cockell is said to be out of the country. Mrs. Stone is not in her office or in her apartment. No one has gone in or come out of Forest Ley since our last report, and all approaches to it are now closed. Are we to hold anyone coming out?”

  Roger said: “Yes.”

  “Are we to raid the house itself, sir?”

  Roger said: “I’ll call you. There’s another urgent surveillance job. If necessary ask Commander Hardy to arrange to transfer men from the other London Divisions. We want every one of Cockell’s stores watched.”

  Information made a choking sound.

  “And the Cockell hostel, not just Mrs. Stone,” Roger said. “Don’t raid any places, just watch, especially for men who answer the descriptions of the shop raiders.”

  “Right.”

  “If Mr. Hardy has any misgivings, ask him to call me at Whitechapel,” Roger went on. “Anything else for me?”

  “Dr. Appleby is on his way to Whitechapel, Mr. West.”

  “Thanks,” Roger said. He rang off, and turned the next corner.

  Just ahead was an ambulance, several police cars, a cordon of police across the road, and a crowd of at least fifty people. Policemen cleared a path for him and he went into the builder’s yard. The girl was ly
ing on her side, in a strangely relaxed attitude, as if she were asleep. In the tight-fitting blue jeans and the green linen blouse, she looked very small and very young. Someone had wiped her nose, eyes and mouth, but the sand still clung to her hair, ears and neck. A police surgeon was examining her wrists. Divisional men were bending over footprints in the yard, and others were examining the gate posts. The lorry driver who had found the body was standing by his tip-up lorry in a corner, still looking pale. Charlie Baker came massively across to Roger, pushing his hat to the back of his head, his round face burned almost to a mahogany colour, his fringe of curly hair making him even more like a painting of a saint without his beard.

  Roger said: “How about the Endicott widow?”

  “Gone off,” said Baker.

  “Anyone see her go?”

  “A neighbour saw her leave with two men, who drove off in a car. That blue Austin Cambridge, for certain,” said Baker. “I’ve talked to Stone. He says he tried to find out some information about her husband, and she flared up and gave him marching orders. He’s still at his shop. Want to see him?”

  Roger was looking over the heads of the crowd towards two men who came hurrying; one of them was young Owen, alias Orde, bare-headed, eyes glinting, chin thrust forward.

  “Not yet,” Roger said. “If Mrs. Endicott didn’t work with these people, she’s been kidnapped.” It was strange to find the word come out so dispassionately. “In any case, we want her in a hurry.”

  “If she’s alive,” said Baker.

  Roger looked down at the slight, still body of Detective Sergeant Dawson, as Owen came pushing his way into the yard. A Divisional man said: “Don’t tread on that footprint!” Another muttered: “Mind your big feet.” Anxiety made Owen look almost distinguished as he drew up, but he waited for Roger to speak.

  “Mrs. Endicott’s been taken away,” Roger said. “We know where she is.”