by John Creasey
She was thinking of them that night, when the Toff again visited the East End, but not as he had been during the day. It is unlikely that she would have recognized him, but she would have noticed the new boards across a door panel of the pub which attracted his custom.
And for him she would have been afraid.
Chapter Four
Developments in a Fog
Jake Benson wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, banged his glass down, and winked at Charlie Wray, the owner of the Blue Dog in Wapping. Benson was short and thick-set, but lopsided. He drooped a little on the right, while the right side of his face was lower than the left, giving him a particularly villainous expression and a perpetual grin.
“O.K., Charlie boy! Now I’m orf to do a job o’ work; but I’ll be seeing yer.”
“Don’t forgit to do it proper; and use a knife—it’s quiet,” wheezed Charlie Wray.
Obviously he thought he had cracked a joke of the first quality, for he cackled and was still wheezing with merriment when Benson reached the swing-doors. Charlie was a vast man – as Anthea knew – twenty stone if he was a pound, a quivering jelly of a fellow whose bland face deceived some people into thinking he was the soul of benevolence. A man who looked fully into his little brown eyes would have been disabused very quickly, for Charlie Wray, although superficially honest – which meant that he had never been caught in any crime by the police – certainly was not a nice man.
Nor was Jake Benson.
They were two of a kind, dissimilar though they were in appearance. Benson’s face was tanned a deep mahogany, and his skin was like hide; Wray’s was white and dimply, and usually streaked with sweat. Benson’s crimes had been committed, for the most part, on the high seas, and he, too, had succeeded in creating what a defending solicitor would have called an unblemished reputation.
This job for “Mr. Brown” would mar it if he were foolish enough to make a mistake.
As Benson opened the door another man reached it. Whether he had not seen Benson, or whether he was deliberately trying to get out of the pub first, no one knew, but it remained a fact that they collided. The stranger – a stranger to the Blue Dog, although a denizen of Wapping, if his soiled clothes and muffler and peaked cap were tokens – drew back a pace, muttering an apology.
“I’m sorry, mister …”
“I should ruddy well think you are!” snarled Benson, whose toes had suffered. “Git aht of my way before I bash yer face in.”
He caught the man by the shoulder, sent him reeling back into the Blue Dog, and without another glance at him went out into the night. For a moment his footsteps echoed back into the pub, then faded out. The half-dozen loungers remaining there regarded the offender with some curiosity.
He was standing a couple of yards from the door, looking at it fixedly, with his shoulders hunched and his fists clenched. No one could see his face clearly, for his peaked cap was pulled low over his eyes, a habit by no means uncommon.
“Come on, buddy!” called Charlie Wray, in his oiliest voice. “Don’t you be worrying erbaht Jake. ’E never meant nothing – take it from me. ’Ave one on the ’ouse.”
It was a gesture that surprised the regular patrons of the Blue Dog, for Charlie was notoriously mean. But it did not impress the stranger, who snarled something unprintable under his breath, and barged out of the pub.
The fog outside grew thicker as Benson neared the river, and his footsteps were muffled; suddenly they stopped altogether. He was at the entrance of a narrow cul-de-sac that led to the warehouses facing the river, and he knew that no one was likely to be passing.
His actions then might have interested any policeman – or, for that matter, any citizen – for he took off his heavy boots. He put them with some care against the wall and padded on, making no sound at all. His feet were hardened by years of standing on ships’ decks and frequent soaking in brine.
No light broke the darkness; occasionally the muffled wail of a ship’s siren disturbed the stillness of the night. Here the fog was even thicker, and Benson’s grin was twisted more than usual, for this was just what he wanted. No ships at the wharves could be loaded in the pea-souper, and the occasional watchman, who might have noticed him, would be blinded by the fog.
It was a perfect night for murder.
Only a man who knew the district like the palm of his hand could have gone on with so little hesitation. Apart from the quietness of his movements, the crook was making no attempt to conceal himself; he did not listen for approaching footsteps, and once when a man passed him he made no effort to move out of the way.
Not once did he appear to realize that the man he had struck at the Blue Dog had followed him, for that man’s feet were shod as carefully as Benson’s, if with greater comfort, for he wore rubber soles. At no point was there more than twenty yards separating them, and if Benson blessed the fog, so did his pursuer.
They were nearing the river. The lapping of the water against the sides of small boats and against the wharf walls came clearly. The creaking of ropes and hawsers murmured through the silence, but nothing could be seen through the all-enveloping fog.
Benson went slowly and more furtively as he neared the edge of the wharf. He took a small torch from his pocket, and the pencil of light stabbed through the gloom. It curled eerily in and out until it lit on a stanchion; Benson moved across to it and sat down, making the perch as comfortable as possible. A match scratched against the side of a box and flared up as Benson lighted a small cigar, the end of which glowed red a few inches from his nose, but without illuminating his features.
The man who had followed him could see the glow, but nothing else. He waited motionless, and for all the noise he made he might not have been there.
Ten minutes passed, and at last Benson stirred, taking a quick turn across the wharf. He was listening acutely now for an expected sound, and he shone the light of his torch on his watch to see that it was twenty minutes past nine. The man he was to meet was five minutes late.
“Blast ’im,” Benson muttered aloud. “I’ll teach the swab to keep me waitin’.”
A moment later he chuckled, an unpleasant sound that fell on the ears of the watcher. The chuckle lasted for several seconds, for Benson was a specialist at appreciating his own jokes. He would teach his man, all right, and …
Heels sounded on the flagstones abruptly.
Benson stood up again as the approaching footsteps grew nearer, and another pencil of light stabbed a few yards through the fog. Benson raised his voice cautiously, turning towards the light.
“That you, Sidey?”
“That’s me.” The torch went out, and the silent listener repeated the name to himself several times, to make sure he did not forget it, while Sidey went on: “What a perishing blurry night to bring me out, Benson.”
“Shut yer trap!” growled Benson. “You’ll have a dozen blinkin’ dicks along here in a minute.”
“What a hope, on a night like this!” The man named Sidey gave a hoarse gasp of merriment, and the sound came ghostily through the darkness. “Well, I’ve come to collect. Where’s the cash?”
“I’ve got it,” grunted Benson. “Come ’ere.”
They were close enough to see each other now, although Benson was holding something in his right hand which the other man did not see. He was expecting payment for services rendered, and despite the filthy night he was looking forward to a holiday on the strength of it.
A long holiday …
Benson’s left hand stretched out suddenly, and gripped the other’s arm. There was something frightening in the steel-like grip, and the man tried to draw back, his voice rising in alarm, but Benson’s grip was too powerful.
“What the hell are you doin’?”
“Shut up, you fool!” snarled Benson. “Listen, Sidey, you tried to be clever once too
often, see? You won’t do it again. You’re gettin’ yours – and it’s comin’ now!”
There was time only for a half-scream to come from the man’s lips; it stopped suddenly, ending in a choking, sickening gurgle. There was a sudden, shivering pain at his neck that lasted for a split second, and then, as Benson withdrew his support, the man’s body slumped down to the ground.
The silent watcher, who could see no more than vague shapes in the fog, went taut; and then, as he realized that he could do nothing, he relaxed and continued waiting.
“An’ that’s what you’ve collected.” Benson muttered the words under his breath as he knelt down, to make sure the man was dead. Then he took a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped the handle of the knife to clean it of prints. He dropped the weapon on the man’s body, and, less than a minute after the murder, turned away and moved silently into the darkness.
For a few minutes something akin to panic filled him but as he put distance between himself and the body his confidence returned. By the time he reached the cul-de-sac where he had left his boots, he was prepared to do the same thing again, provided “Mr. Brown” paid as well.
And then he had a shock, and the panic returned a hundredfold. It was frightening, unreasoning, making him feel cold and clammy, and yet hot.
For his boots were gone.
He made sure, searching along the wall and shivering all the time, and then he turned and almost ran in the direction of the Blue Dog. The man who had shadowed him followed, and Benson’s fear would have turned to undiluted terror had he seen the expression on the man’s face.
Charlie Wray was in the private room on top of the public bar when Benson returned. A single glance at the seaman’s face told him of trouble, and he half-rose out of the chair into which his gross body was squeezed.
“What have you bin doin’?”
“Git me a drink!” gasped Benson.
He dropped into a seat, and his hands were trembling. Charlie’s eyes narrowed as he waddled across to a cupboard. In a few seconds Benson was gulping a neat whisky, and the spirit revived his courage, even making him think he had acted like a fool. Charlie Wray listened to his story, a derisive smile on his lips.
“So because some nit pinched the boots he fell over,” he said acidly, “you get the blasted heebies! That ain’t the kind o’ show we want from you, Benson, and the sooner you know it, the better. We want nerve, see?”
Benson finished a second tot of whisky, and glared ill-temperedly into Charlie’s eyes, Dutch courage gathering within him.
“I can do my part with anyone. Sidey’s gone, see, clean as a whistle. Don’t you come any of that wif me, Charlie!”
“I won’t start it,” said the fat pubkeeper, with emphasis on the “I”. “But someone else might.”
“Who’s goin’ ter tell him?” Benson looked murderous.
“Nar then!” said Charlie, bland in a moment. “I’m not, an’ you know it. But someone else might a’ seen you rush in, Jake, and you never know who’s working fer the Boss. Still, it’s a foggy night, and yer luck’s in. Forgit it, son, forgit it.”
As he finished speaking he reached for the telephone near him. Benson, breathing more easily, was now inclined to be bellicose. He glared at Charlie as the latter said wheezily into the mike: “Mr. Brown, please.”
The man at the other end of the wire said: “Speaking.”
Benson knew him only as Brown, but Charhe Wray knew him as a Mr. Leopold Kohn, and had often worked for the man in the past. Charlie, in fact, was a go-between, who took no direct part in any crimes; he was too valuable as a giver-and-taker of vital messages, a hider of men and contraband, to be laid open to police action.
Kohn’s voice was cold.
“What is it tonight, Wray?”
“Benson’s in, sir. The job’s O.K.”
“No trouble at all?”
“Not so’s I know, sir.’ Charlie winked at Benson as he spoke, and omitted to mention the matter of the lost boots.
Kohn grunted: “Good. Tell Benson to report to me at Highgate at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, and tell him to be on time.”
“Ten o’clock tomorrer, sir, on the pip. Right, Mr. Brown. That’s O.K.”
The man at the other end rang off without the formality of a goodbye, but Charlie’s face was wreathed in smiles, as if all was right with the world.
“There y’are, Jake. You’ll report and collect the dough tomorrer, easy as kiss me. I—Wot the hell!”
He broke off as a sound came at the door – or what seemed at the door. Benson heard it, too, but Benson was slower to move than Charlie Wray. The pubkeeper shifted his great bulk like lightning, and had the door open in a trice.
The landing outside was well lighted, but he saw nothing, and he turned back a moment later, muttering to himself, while below stairs, just out of sight, a stranger stood motionless.
“Could ’a swore I heard somethin’. It must ’a bin you putting the wind up me, Jake. Well, that’s O.K., then, all hunky-dorey.”
“I’ll doss here tonight,” said Benson.
“Welcome as the flowers, Jake, my word on it. I’d better be going downstairs, or they’ll be givin’ free drinks.”
A free drink at the Blue Dog was certainly a rarity, and Benson laughed appreciatively, while Charlie eased himself down the stairs and into the bar. The only thing he saw worth noticing was that the man against whom Benson had banged earlier in the evening had come back for another drink. But the stranger was as surly and morose as he had been before, and his eyes – which Charlie might have recognized – were still covered by the peak of his cap. Charlie did not try to encourage him in conversation, but he might have done had he known that the surly one could have laid his hands on Benson’s boots.
“So Sidey’s gone,” said Irma, known as Curtis, but whose real name was Cardew. “Why?”
Mr. Leopold Kohn, sitting at a large desk with the light shining down on his almost bald pate, nodded and smiled – unpleasantly. After a fashion, he was a handsome, even a distinguished-looking man, and dressed immaculately. So was his companion, although the unrelieved black of her dress would have struck some people as an affectation rather than mourning. None the less, it suited her.
There was a pantherish beauty about Irma that the sombre lack of colour did nothing to destroy, and the close-fitting lines of her gown seemed to emphasize the almost animal perfection of her figure. Her eyes, lips, and cheeks held colour, however, the former blue but cold, lips which were naturally well-shaped, outlined in scarlet, cheeks rouged enough, but not too much.
“Yes, he’s gone,” said Kohn. “Sidey knew just a little too much, my dear. Among other things, he knew that Martin had been working for us on the old man’s accounts.” Kohn smiled mirthlessly. “And on the strength of that, Sidey asked for more money, threatening to discuss his knowledge elsewhere if he didn’t get it.”
“You’re a callous devil,” said Irma slowly.
“There are times,” said Kohn, with that same mirthless smile, “when I would not call you kind, my dear, although at other times perhaps you are. However, I am also careful. Benson, who so obligingly expunged Sidey for us, knows me only as Mr. Brown.”
Irma’s eyes were narrowed.
“I’ve never had much faith in disguises,” she said, “but yours is good, I will say that. How do you manage it?”
“By being simple.” Kohn shrugged his shoulders, but was obviously pleased. “Tinted glasses, cheek pads to fatten my face, different clothes, and a padded stomach—nothing more, my dear. But we were talking about Sidey. He was killed by a sixpenny bread-knife, wiped clear of fingerprints, and the Fates even sent a fog to help us. He is a known crook, and the police will put it down to a thieves’ quarrel, and assume that there is not much chance of finding their man. I do not make any mistak
es, Irma, and you can take it from me that Sidey had to go.”
Irma shrugged gleaming white shoulders which her black dress emphasized, made even more seductive. She looked almost bored by the quick but pedantic voice of the speaker.
“All right. But be careful, Leo.”
“My dear, I was born and bred to affairs like this, and I …”
He broke off, for the woman interrupted him. There was a concentrated fury in her voice that astonished him, a cold savagery in her eyes which seemed to come without any cause.
“So was I—and so was Bram. And he died.”
“Of course,” said Kohn. “Of course, my dear, forgive me.”
He looked as uncomfortable as he was ever likely to, for the death of Irma Cardew’s brother had become what he privately called a bee in her bonnet. For his part, he was glad for several reasons that Bram Cardew had been killed. He was glad, too, that Irma now called herself Curtis; it seemed so much safer.
In a dozen world capitals, and over many years, Leopold Kohn and Bram Cardew had specialized in crimes out of the ordinary. It had mattered little what they were, provided the stakes were high. Cardew, who had always worked with his sister, had shown Kohn a clean pair of heels on several occasions, and Kohn had resented it, without showing his resentment.
It was before Kohn came to this country that the Cardews, as a team, met their Waterloo. In an affair that concerned the carrying of arms and ammunition to a foreign power, they found Rollison on their trail. Rollison, known so colloquially as the Toff, had followed it relentlessly until Bram Cardew was killed and his sister stood trial for murder; for it was the Toff’s way to succeed and, as he would say bitterly, the law’s job to turn success bitter, since Irma was acquitted on lack of evidence, at the prompting of that now deceased judge.
