by John Creasey
“Keep at it. I’ll contact Brighton,” Roger said. He went downstairs, to find Cope writing busily.
“Got something, Handsome,” he volunteered. “Stevens was at the Old Mast Hotel, Brighton, until late last night. Been staying there two or three days, with a woman. They cleared out during the night. No one knows where they went. Not much doubt Stevens was tipped off, is there?”
“Looks like it,” agreed Roger, concealing his disappointment. “The docks ought to be combed, and we want a list of all ships which are due to sail anytime this week. I think I’ll go over to the docks myself.”
“Hope it’s not a waste of time,” said Cope, gloomily.
As the day went by, with dozens of reports that Stevens had been seen in the past few weeks, the hopes of a quick arrest faded. No reports came of the association of Stevens with any youth who answered the description of the driver of the Covent Garden van, but there were stories that Stevens had been seen with Marriott and Dorris several times. That association was gradually pieced together, dossiers grew and grew, until they knew practically all there was to know about Stevens, and the woman, Conway. There were odd rumours that a youth named Gool had been seen with Stevens occasionally, but according to one or two witnesses, Gool had signed on as a deck-hand on a cargo vessel which had left for the Far East a week ago. Certainly he had told his landlady he was going, and had left a case of clothes in her keeping.
On the Tuesday, every newspaper in the country carried pictures of Stevens and Joyce Conway.
On the Thursday, even Roger was beginning to believe that they had managed to get out of the country, like Gool.
On that Thursday morning, Steve said to Joyce: “I’ve got to go out today, sweetie—got something to attend to. I’ll be back by two o’clock, and we’ll be off on the afternoon tide. As soon as we’re at sea you can go up on deck by day as well as by night. Okay?”
“I’m all right, Steve,” Joyce said in a subdued voice. “I don’t care what happens so long as we’re together. You—you will come back, won’t you?”
“I’ll come back,” Steve assured her.
He went off in a van which he said Alec Gool had fixed, and Joyce watched him through the porthole of the cabin she snared with him.
She wondered if he was going to do a “job”.
She could not desert him, could not betray him, but day by day she wondered whether it was true that she didn’t care what happened provided they were together.
Chapter Nineteen
Big Raid
At Linstone’s, the Thursday morning was much like any other. The wages were on their way from the bank, the Wages Office was all prepared to split the money up into the small lots due in each wage packet. Security arrangements were perhaps a little tighter than usual because Soames had been worried by the fact that Stevens, once in the Trade Stores here, was now known to have taken part in a wages, snatch. Soames himself was at the gate house, waiting for the armoured van. From the moment it came through the gates with that money – nearly fifteen thousand pounds – it was his responsibility until the workers carried it off, that afternoon or the next morning, according to what shift they were on.
The van was due at a quarter past eleven today; the time of arrival always varied, to make sure that no one could check it too closely.
A small, plain van turned off the Great West Road towards the gatehouse, at five past eleven. It was close enough to the vital time for Soames to take special note of it. The driver wore a cap pulled low over his eyes, and that was enough to make Soames manoeuvre to get a closer look at him – the cap over the eyes was an old disguise. So Soames took a lot more time than usual checking the order which the driver had brought from a shop in Stepney. The driver had a moustache and he was fuller in the face than Stevens – but cheek-pads could make a fat face. He felt sure who this was, although he would not have recognised him had he not been on the look out.
He showed no sign of recognition or alarm.
“Okay,” he said. “Take you half-an-hour to pick up that lot.”
“’Bout that,” said Stevens.
“Keep over to the right up at the loading bay,” ordered Soames.
“Okay, guv’nor.”
Soames let him drive up, and waited until the van was reversing into the loading bay before stepping inside the gatehouse. Another security man on duty saw the way his eyes were glistening, and asked eagerly:
“What’s up, Bert?”
“Stop anything else that comes in—nd stop the money van,” Soames said. “I won’t be two jiffs.” He picked up the telephone, dialled Whitehall 1212 and banged his clenched fist on a desk while he listened to the brrr-brrrr. Suddenly, a girl said: “Scotland Yard.”
“Superintendent West—quick. For Mr Soames of Linstone’s.”
“Hold on, please,” the girl said, and seemed to keep him waiting for a long time.
Roger was talking to Campbell, on one telephone, when his other phone rang just before ten past eleven that morning. He lifted the receiver of the second telephone without speaking into it, pressed it against his coat lapel, finished with Campbell, who was worrying about the Watford job, and then asked: “Who wants me?”
“There’s a Mr Soames of Linstone’s on the line.”
Roger wondered: What does Soames want? He had no presentiment of an emergency, this was the last way he had expected the case to break.
“Put him through,” he said.
“Mr West,” said Soames, obviously fighting to keep his voice steady, “that man Stevens is here, in a plain van.” Even before the sentence was uttered, Roger felt a rush of excitement, and Cope stared across. “He’s up at the loading bay,” Soames went on. “The money’s due here in a few minutes.”
“Keep that armoured van back until I get there,” urged Roger. “I’ll send plainclothes men from the Division and put a cordon round the factory. Don’t start anything until I’m with you.”
“I’ll do what I can,” said Soames. “That armoured van’s on the way, though.”
“Stop it, even if you have to hold it in a side street,” ordered Roger. “I’ll see you.” He banged down the receiver and looked across at Cope. “We want a cordon round Linstone’s on the Great West Road, quick. Stevens is there. Then we want road blocks on the Great West Road, ready to go into action if there’s any need. Also fix guards at the railway siding behind Linstone’s. Every possible way out has to be closed, and we’ve got twenty minutes.”
“I’ll fix it,” Cope promised; already he had a telephone at his ear.
Over the counter in the Trade Stores, Stevens said:
“When’s it due?”
“Between now and half past,” Alec Gool whispered. He was making up the order for the plain van. “You got the t.g. all ready?”
“What do you take me for?”
“As soon as the van arrives, you go to the door.” A man drew near. “How many wing mirrors is it?”
“Six. Trying to teach me my job?”
Alec said nothing, but went to get the wing mirrors.
“He’s still inside the Trade Stores,” Soames told Roger. Roger was outside the gatehouse, and the security chief of Linstone’s was by the side of the car. “The wages van is pulled up in the Blundell Yard, that was the best I could do.” The Blundell Tyre Company was next to Linstone’s, and a six foot wall separated the grounds of the two factories.
“There’s a cordon round the place,” Roger said, “and road blocks ready to go into action at a moment’s notice. Divisional chaps reported to you yet?”
“They’re all ready.”
“Have the cordon close in on the loading bay,” Roger ordered. “Starting now.”
“Right, Mr West.”
Soames moved to the gatehouse, to telephone. Roger leaned back in his seat. His driver start
ed the car, and drove slowly up the incline. The plain van was still in the loading bay but there was no sign of anyone near it, no sign that Stevens knew of any cause for alarm. Two detective inspectors were with Roger. They were opening the door as it drew to a standstill.
“Remember he’s a killer,” Roger said. “And remember he may have someone with him inside the warehouse. Dick, you come in with me.”
“Right,” a youthful detective said.
Roger got out of the car, and looked about. Plainclothes men were behind parked cars at corners, down on the drive between here and the gatehouse. He saw two lorries draw up, one each side of the Great West Road, each ready to swing across and block the way at a moment’s notice. He did not think there was anything left undone. He moistened his lips, reminding himself that in here was Charley Blake’s killer, the man who had stabbed with such vicious suddenness, a man of swift reactions and swift reflexes who was absolutely ruthless.
Roger pushed open the door of the warehouse, knowing that two other Yard men were at the far door. Dick followed him. There were three customers at the counter, including Stevens. Roger recognised Stevens at a glance; in front of the man was a tall pile of boxes and cartons, with the goods he was supposed to be collecting.
Roger went briskly up to him.
“I’m West of the Yard,” he announced. “We won’t have any trouble, Stevens. Just put up your hands—”
Stevens’s right hand flashed to his pocket. Roger leapt at him. Dick rounded Roger and grabbed Stevens from the other side. The other customers hardly realised what was happening.
Roger saw something glisten in Stevens’s hand, but it wasn’t a knife – it was glass. Tear gas. Roger struck the man’s hand aside, and the glass phial dropped to the floor, instead of bursting in his face and blinding him. Stevens, his face livid, tried to knee him in the groin, but Dick was already holding his other arm up in a hammer lock, and the surprise was complete. Stevens hadn’t a chance.
Then a tear gas phial tossed from the other side of the counter broke against Roger’s face. On the instant the gas stung his eyes, his nostrils and his mouth. His hold on Stevens slackened. He heard Dick cry out. He drove his clenched right fist into Stevens’s defenceless stomach, and through the mists of gas and the tears as his eyes smarted, he saw the killer’s face twist in agony.
“Get the doors and windows open!” Roger shouted. “And keep everybody inside.” He had Stevens now, but there was still the man who had tossed the tear-gas phial from the other side of the counter, the last of the four Covent Garden killers.
Chapter Twenty
The Fourth Killer
There was one hope of getting out, Gool knew.
At the back of the trade warehouse was a cloakroom and lavatory, with an entrance from outside as well as from inside. He had studied it carefully, and had worked out what he would do if anything went wrong. Now, as the tear gas exploded into West’s face, as Stevens struggled desperately, Gool moved away from the counter. One of the other warehousemen said:
“What’s going on?”
“Got to get the security boys, quick,” Gool said. “It’s a hold-up.”
“Gawd.”
Gool pushed past, and rushed into the cloakroom.
“There’s a wages hold-up,” he announced breathlessly to two men inside. “Got to get the cops.” He went out quickly, but did not hurry once he was outside. He saw two big men whom he knew were factory security men at the corner. “There’s a hold-up,” he shouted. “Wages snatch! In here.” He held open the door and the two men came running. “I’ll tell the gatehouse,” he bellowed, as they went into the cloakroom.
Still not really hurrying, and wearing his brown smock, he walked down towards the gatehouse. Soames was now on his way up to the loading bay. Divisional police were moving up from the gatehouse, and it was now obvious that the raid had been anticipated, that the place was alive with plainclothes men.
“He told that Conway bitch and she’s squealed,” Gool said savagely to himself. Inwardly, he was seething with hatred and with frustration, he longed to hit out at someone, to make them suffer; but outwardly he was an ordinary, amiable youngster, looking rather excited and trying not to show it. “The bitch, wait till I get to her.”
Between here and the Blundell Tyre Factory was the six foot wall, but there were gates in it, because there was considerable business between the two companies. Packers and warehousemen at the Trade Stores had keys, to get through; and Gool had one in his pocket.
He just had to keep his nerve.
He had to get to the ship and the woman who had betrayed them.
He hated her.
He went up to one of the Security men, actually one of the gatehouse keepers getting old for his job.
“There’s some trouble up at the Trade Stores,” he said to the old man. “Dunno what it is. I’ve got to get across to Blundell’s for a couple of 5.45 by 15’s.” He showed an order which he had, made out on the Blundell Tyre Company. “Okay?”
The gatehouse telephone bell rang.
“Better wait a minute,” said the Security man. “I’ll see what this is.” He went inside the little gatehouse.
Gool lit a cigarette, and stood looking up at the main building, where there was now a lot of activity. He saw men coming out, their hands at their eyes, one of them staggering as if he couldn’t control his legs. Then he saw Steve Stevens, handcuffed to one of the detectives. He spoke to a plainclothes man near him:
“Looks as if they’ve got someone.”
“They’ve got someone all right.” The plainclothes man was watching the scene intently. “Where are you going?”
“Get some tyres, from next door. But I’m in no hurry – just right for a drag.” He drew deeply at the cigarette. After a moment or two, the gatehouse keeper came out again. “No one’s to leave the factory premises,” he said. “Those tyres will have to wait.”
“Suits me,” said Gool. He leaned against the wall of the gatehouse, pulling steadily at the cigarette. The gatekeeper and the two plainclothes men didn’t worry about him, he looked and sounded so innocuous. After a few minutes, he strolled round to the other side of the gatehouse, close to the wall with Blundell’s. The gates were all closed and locked.
Gool walked up to the nearest, unlocked it, and stepped through calmly. Had he run, had he shown the slightest sign of being in a hurry, he would have been stopped. As it was, he went to the back of the factory, in full view of a lot of people, When he got to the back, he slipped off his brown smock; he was wearing a pullover underneath. He went to the big motor-cycle park, picked out a machine for which he had an ignition key, and drove openly down the drive of the tyre factory. At that gatehouse he thrust out a slip of paper, ostensibly a pass-out, and was hurtling into the Great West Road before the gatekeeper realised that he had been fooled.
The Blundell man had no idea what was happening at Linstone’s. This was simply a breach of the regulations. He would find out who that young whipper-snapper was, and report him.
It was one o’clock.
Joyce sat in the little cabin, listening to someone talking on the radio, and knitting: knitting was the only way she had to pass the time. She had never known the hours drag so much as they had today. The crew had shore-leave, except a few on maintenance duty, but these seldom came up near the cabin, which Steve had arranged for her. It was usually the first mate’s, she had been told. She kept looking at her watch and wondering if by chance Steve would be back any earlier than he had said. When she let herself think about it, and there was so much time for thinking, she knew that he was almost certainly committing some crime. She did not know for certain what he had done in the past, but everything pointed to the Covent Garden wages snatch – to cold blooded murder. She kept shutting out the vision of a man dying.
She heard a sound on the qua
yside, and jumped up.
Through the porthole, she saw a motor-cycle drawn up close to the ship. The front and the rider were hidden from her. Could Steve have come back on it? She turned towards the mirror fastened to the wall, her heart beginning to beat fast as it did whenever she believed that Steve was coming. In a queer way, since the realisation of trouble that had happened more often – there was a kind of sickening excitement which she had not known in the calmer days at the pub and at her home.
She put on powder and ran her comb through her hair. She heard footsteps in the gangway approaching the cabin, and for the first time she frowned; they weren’t Steve’s. Perhaps one of the ship’s boys was coming to clean the cabin next door.
She heard the footsteps stop, and saw the latch of this door move; was it Steve? She turned with her back to the mirror as the door opened wide, and Alec Gool stepped in. Suddenly, awfully, she was in terror. He moved so swiftly, closing the door behind him. From the moment that he caught sight of her, he stared. He reminded her of Steve in those awful seconds at Brighton. His eyes seemed to be alight. He leaned against the door for a moment, and she saw how his breast heaved. “So he told you, and you squealed,” he said. She drew a deep breath. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know,” Alec said, thinly. “The police got him. They were ready for us. You must have tipped them off.” “Steve? They can’t have got Steve!” “They got him, and you know it. You stayed here in case he got away, so you would be waiting for him,” Alec Gool said savagely. “They got him, and they saved the pay load we were going to snatch. He deserves what happened to him for telling you—”
“He didn’t tell me! He—you’re lying to me! The police haven’t got him. They can’t—”
