Hang The Little Man

by John Creasey

  He broke off, as he heard his name called clearly. He flicked on his radio and said: “West speaking—over.” There was a pause, before Information said:

  “Fourteen men have left Cockell shops, sir. Seven have been traced to the hostel at Lambeth run by Mrs. Stone. Five other assistants are heading in the Lambeth direction.”

  Roger said very slowly: “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. All instructions still stand—don’t stop anyone going in, but if any of the men come out, hold them. Make sure that our men aren’t likely to be identified.”

  “We’ve taken care of that.”

  “Good,” said Roger. “Good.” He flicked off, and pushed his hat to the back of his head, so far that it fell off on to the seat beside him. He tossed his cigarette out of the window. There was more alertness in his manner as he sat up. “Well, we look as if we’ve got them on the run.”

  He was smiling very tautly.

  Appleby said: “Don’t look so damned smug. What was that about Mrs. Stone running a hostel?”

  “Jim Stone’s mother,” said Roger, very softly. “Jim Stone’s mother. It’s beginning to make sense. I think I can see the answer to that question, Dan.”

  “Then pass it on!”

  Roger said: “Oh, not yet. The learned pathologist needs a few more lessons in assessing and interpreting apparently irrevelant and non-medical facts.” He was very tense. “Jim Stone, a strapping, well-educated, intelligent man who had no time for his mother, who in turn had none for his wife. You deduced a lot from Mabel Stone’s body and her blood, but there was one thing you heard about but didn’t interpret. Her background. Very humble, and near-Cockney, making a queer marriage—Public school and a poor part of London. Dan—”

  “You smooth Smart Alec,” Appleby protested. “Wait a minute. I’m getting the wavelength.”

  “After I’d tuned you in,” said Roger. “But what does it matter who tuned you in? Cockell died two years or so ago, leaving his widow the sole beneficiary—not his son. Why not?” When Appleby didn’t answer, Roger went on: “Supposing he was Mrs. Stone’s son by a first marriage.”

  Appleby breathed: “Damn it, this isn’t deduction, this is sheer guess work.”

  “Reasonable deduction,” Roger insisted. “Very reasonable deduction indeed.” He flicked on the radio again, called Information, and went on: “I want Jim Stone alias Simpson taken to Forest Ley as soon as I can. I’ll be at the by-road where I arranged to see Owen. Make it snappy.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  “Thanks,” said Roger. He flicked off, moved his hand from the radio to the ignition key, switched on the engine, then let in the clutch. “Want to come any further?”

  “Try leaving me behind,” said Appleby. “There’ll come a time when I’ll have to,” Roger said, “and I don’t mean maybe. When I say you stop here, that’s where you stop—I can take chances with myself and my own men but not with Home Office pathologists.”

  “I’ll be good,” promised Appleby. “What’s your next move?”

  “To close in on Forest Ley,” Roger said. “We can’t be sure what—”

  He broke off as a motor-cyclist swung round the corner, engine roaring; the man seemed to lean too far over to one side, and likely to crash, but he straightened up. Appleby said: “What’s this?” in a tone of sharp alarm, as if he feared an attack by one of the shop raiders. The motor-cycle hurtled closer, and as it drew level with the car the rider flicked something towards it. Appleby cried: “Look out!” and ducked. A small box fell into Roger’s lap. The motor-cycle roared past, and Roger sat grinning at the pathologist.

  “You need training,” he said. “You need to judge these things by their potential, not by success or failure.” He held a match box in his hand. “A present from young Owen,” he went on, and there was deep satisfaction in his voice. “Yes, that was Owen.” He opened the match box, and inside were some pebbles and a folded note. As he smoothed this out, Appleby leaned over to see it—a red-faced Appleby. The note read:

  Woman named Shell (Cockleshell) at the house. One man at least upstairs. She nearly fell for my spiel—she’s come three-quarters of the way. She, Slessor and several men are at Forest Ley. Give me five minutes’ start—R.E. is in the air raid shelter at F.L. and I’d like to get her out.

  Appleby said slowly: “A woman.”

  “Owen’s good,” Roger said.

  “Another thing you chaps need is cold courage,” said Appleby heavily.

  “Nothing cold about Owen,” said Roger, and he flicked on his radio again. “West calling all cars and patrols concentrated in the Epping Forest area. West calling . . .” he repeated the call, and then went on: “In five minutes from now move in on suspect’s house. Remember suspect is not alone and is likely to be armed. Allow a motor-cyclist on a red Indian machine to enter drive of Forest Ley without hindrance.”

  “You see what I mean?” said Appleby. “It’s a matter of timing. Seriously think it will all be over in half an hour?”

  “We’ll either have Shell and Slessor, or they’ll have fooled us,” Roger said. He beckoned to a plain-clothes man who was in the guise of a window cleaner. “When the man Simpson or Stone comes, have him brought to Forest Ley at once, will you?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man promised.

  Cyril Owen tossed the message in the match box through the window of West’s car, and opened the throttle so that his machine surged forward. He turned another corner, leaning over as if he were racing, and then straightened up on a main road. He was quite sure that now Shell would know what was happening, and he was equally sure that Shell meant exactly what she had said about Ruth. Time was of vital importance. Owen raced the machine along towards Forest Ley.

  Not far away from the house, a telephone wire was being serviced. Further along, a postman was delivering letters. Within reach were telegraph “boys”, electricity repair men, and private motorists, none of them noticeable, all ready to move in at a signal. Owen slowed the machine down, and approached Forest Ley more cautiously. No one was at the front gate. When he turned in, he saw that the Austin was already at the front door, moved from the spot where he had seen it before.

  Fats was coming out of the door, bustling.

  He stopped at the sight of Owen, and Owen heard him call out: “There’s Owen!” Owen had a moment of dread, that he was too late, that the other woman had finished what she had threatened to do with Ruth; there was only one way to find out. He gave the accelerator all he could. The motor-cycle raced along the drive, over the grass, then between the garage and the house itself, towards the air raid shelter.

  He saw Shell on the back lawn, framed with crimson ramblers. At the roar of the motor-cycle engine, she spun round like a dancer. Owen saw the gun in her hand, and knew exactly what she intended to do.

  Fats came running forward. Slessor appeared behind Shell. The first bullet came with a sharp report, cracking into the mudguard.

  In the darkness of the air raid shelter, Ruth Endicott was sitting against the wall, her legs stretched out, her body chilled with terror.

  She was over the panic-stricken fear of the darkness, but was still terribly afraid. Little creaking noises were nearby, scaring her. She kept hearing rustling sounds, as if there were rats down here; and she was listening all the time for footsteps, for the threatened return of Fats and the other man with him. She had lost all count of time; it might have been an hour, it might have been three or four since she had been thrown in there. She knew that it was a small place, that there was another door at the far end, and that the air was fresh; that was all.

  Now and again, a picture of Cy formed itself in her mind, with all that he had come to mean. She kept telling herself that he couldn’t have made love to her simply to make her talk, but she was afraid that it was true.

  She was utterly helpless.

  When Fats started to question her, she would not be able to tell him what he wanted to know. No one would believe her when she said she knew no
thing—and Fats would try to make her change her mind.

  Her wrist and her arm still ached from the twisting which he had given them.

  It was so dark—so frightening—so terrifying.

  Then she heard the sound of a motor-cycle. She did not know how near it was, although it seemed to be coming nearer. One moment there had been absolute silence which seemed likely to go on for ever, then suddenly the staccato beat of the engine. Itwas getting louder. She thought that she heard a man cry out, but could not be sure. The roar now seemed to fill the little air raid shelter, there were quivering sounds which got deeper and deeper. She heard a loud report, of something like a backfire; and suddenly realised that it was a shot. The noise was absolutely deafening. It seemed as if the machine were going to crash into the shelter itself.

  She heard a rending, thunderous crash, the loudest sound she had ever heard, and there were other sounds, as of falling stones or bricks. Then came more shots, and at last, Cy’s voice:

  “Ruth, are you all right? Ruth!”

  “Cy!” she screamed. “Cy, I’m in here! Cy, are you there? Are you thereP”

  He said: “Keep quiet and don’t worry. Don’t worry at all. I’ll keep ‘em away from you.”

  “Cy, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine. I—”

  Then his voice broke off, and she heard another sharp report, undoubtedly a shot; and she heard him exclaim, as if in pain.

  XXIV

  SACRIFICE

  “All right,” Roger said into the radio telephone. “Move in now.” He flicked the mouthpiece off, and concentrated on his driving, startling Appleby by the way he took the next corner. “Owen’s got in there. Now we’ve got to get him out.” He swung round another corner, and a motor-cyclist who looked like a post office telegraph “boy” called out:

  “Follow me!”

  Appleby was nursing his straw hat.

  “How f-f-far is it?” he demanded. “Time enough to k-k-kill me?”

  “Just hold tight,” Roger said. He felt both excitement and satisfaction, and did not realise that Appleby was staring at him, seeing that excitement in his eyes, knowing that the thing Roger West really thrived on was positive action; if there was a fight, he hated not to be able to be in it, and at moments like this would rather have had Owen’s rank than his own.

  The motor-cyclist “boy” turned a corner; when they swung round, Roger saw other cars and vans drawn up across the road, blocking the approach to and all escape from Forest Ley.

  Roger pulled up at the side of the road, got out, and spoke as Appleby started to follow.

  “You stay here. Your job comes later.” He began to run towards the drive of Forest Ley, and a man caught up with him. “How are things? Owen all right?”

  “I shouldn’t think he stands a chance,” the man said. “He’s crashed his machine at the entrance to the air raid shelter. Three men are trying to get there. They—”

  The crack of a shot came clearly.

  Roger turned into the drive, and saw several plain-clothes policemen by the side of the house, one man on top of the garage. As he reached the nearest man, the man on the roof warned:

  “Careful, super!”

  Roger called up: “What’s the position?”

  “There are two men with revolvers at the air raid shelter. Whenever we show our noses they shoot. Can’t tell you what’s going on below them. I’ve got some tear gas here. If I could throw a shell into the mouth of the shelter it might do some good. Angle’s a bit awkward, though.”

  Roger said: “Yes.” He pushed his way towards the corner of the house. As he reached it, a shot barked and a bullet chipped pieces off the brick. The man on the roof of the garage said:

  “I warned you, sir.”

  Roger called: “You over there! It’s a waste of time. We’ve got all your men, and you can’t get away.”

  No one answered, no-one fired. There was a shuffling sound, as if a long way off; Roger believed that it was coming from the shelter itself.

  “Other end of the garden covered?” he demanded.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the approaches to all neighbours’ houses, both sides in both roads?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” said Roger. “Hand me down oneof those gas shells.”

  “But, Mr. West—”

  “Hand one down,” said Roger. “Don’t throw the damned thing.” He watched the top of the air raid shelter closely, saw only the dark approach to the steps leading down, and could not be sure whether anyone was still there or not; but he was sure of one thing. Young Owen was there with the Endicott girl, and they had to be rescued.

  If they were alive.

  He looked back towards the front of the house, and saw men moving about; then one man appeared at the gate, thrusting ahead of the others.

  This was the bearded Simpson, alias Stone, alias—whom?

  The man came towards him, and Roger waited, grim-faced. A hammering sound came from the air raid shelter, as if a door were being battered down.

  “Is your mother Mrs. Cockell, sometimes known as Mrs. Stone?”

  Stone answered gruffly:

  “Yes.” After a pause, he went on: “She used her original married name—my father’s name.”

  “Listen, Stone,” Roger said, “there’s a police officer and the woman Endicott, down in that air raid shelter. Your mother is shooting at anyone who goes near. Can she escape through the other end of the shelter?”

  Stone said: “Not if you’ve surrounded the house behind this.”

  “She thinks she can get out, then,” Roger said. “She’ll probably kill the prisoners on her way. Would she kill you?”

  “I’ll find out,” Stone said in a hard voice.

  He went towards the entrance to the air raid shelter, calling in a clear voice:

  “Mother, you’ve got to give yourself up. You and Slessor and everyone there. You’ve got to give yourself up.”

  Then, after a pause, he called again:

  “Mother, this is Jim. You’ve got to give yourself up.”

  He was half-way to the air raid shelter when the woman appeared, as if she had to make sure that the approaching man was her son. As her head showed above the steps, Roger ran forward from a standing start, and hurled the tear gas shell over Stone’s head, and into the entrance of the air raid shelter.

  Ruth heard only odd little sounds after the first shot, and she kept crying Cy’s name, but he did not answer, and there were no more sounds of footsteps. She pressed against the locked door, longing for word from him, but everything was silent, and his voice stilled.

  Then other voices broke the quiet, footsteps sounded; and the woman Shell asked clearly:

  “Is he dead?”

  “Can’t be alive after that lot.” That was Fats. “But he’s blocking the entrance, and we can’t get in.”

  “Can’t you clear the wreckage away?”

  “We’ll need ten minutes,” said the second man; it was the handsome Slessor. “The police will be here if we don’t keep them off.”

  “Only one of us can work down here,” said the woman. “You move the machine and get that door open. Slessor and I will keep the police off.”

  Ruth pressed against the door, eyes tightly closed, hating what she had learned. At first the sounds outside meant nothing to her, but soon she understood what was happening. One man, Fats, was moving aside the wreckage so that he could open the door. So they needed to come into the air raid shelter to escape from the police. Once they saw her they would kill her; terror drove away all other emotion. She stood away from the door. She heard the metallic sounds of the wreckage being moved, and once Shell came near and asked:

  “How much longer?”

  “Nearly through,” Fats said.

  Ruth stood in the darkness, until suddenly the light went on —the blessed light, she would have thought only a short while ago. It showed the bare cement walls, the oddments abou
t the shelter, the far doorway; and she realised that the other door was the way of escape for these people. They would kill her for the sake of killing, she had no doubt about that.

  She heard a different sound, a sharp click; and a moment later she heard the door begin to open. Suddenly, wildly, she turned round, snatched up a chair, and smashed the lights; and darkness fell in here. She heard Fats exclaim. She saw a faint light filter in, but it was still very dark. She heard the man breathing, then heard the creak of the door as it opened, and saw the shape of Fats, vague and shadowy. She brought the chair down on his head and shoulders, heard him cry out, and then heard men’s voices, and shouting.

  Fats was lying in a heap in the doorway.

  A man called: “Mrs. Endicott, are you there?”

  She began to cry.

  Roger forced his way past the tear gas cloud, through the wreckage of the motor-cycle and over a man’s huddled body. Other police were following him. Already Shell, a dark man, and Slessor, had been taken prisoner, and Stone had gone back to the road. Roger shone a torch round the cellar, and saw Ruth Endicott’s bowed figure close to the wall. He went towards her, put his arms round her, and heard her saying to herself: “He’s dead, he’s dead.”

  Appleby said: “He’s not dead yet, Handsome. If we can get him to hospital qu-qu-quickly, and send for MacKenzie, he’ll stand a chance. He didn’t do himself any good c-c-crash-ing the machine here, and he got a bullet in his head, but— well, I’ve told you.”

  Appleby was looking pale.

  “We’ll fix it,” Roger said, and turned to Ruth Endicott, who was standing looking at Owen’s unconscious figure. “You heard that—he’s got a chance.” He raised a hand to some local men, and saw an ambulance already on its way into the drive. It would still be touch and go.

  Roger began to give orders.

  He finished his inspection of the air raid shelter an hour later. The second door wasn’t a normal second exit, but led to another deeper shelter at a lower level, and to a tunnel which ran beneath the garden of the house behind Forest Ley. There had been good reason for Mrs. Cockell to believe that she had a chance to escape; she might have done, but for her son and Owen. It would do no harm to let Ruth Endicott believe that her own desperate attack on Fats had made quite sure that the others were captured.